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deicidis · 2 years

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I Have Trembled My Way Deep

Morpheus x Naiad!Reader

Summary: The God of Dreams assists you in escaping Poseidon's obsession.

status: Completed One-shot

wordcount: 15.9k

warnings: Implied non-con (not Morpheus), slow burn ish?

18+ only, your media consumption is your own responsibilities. Warnings have been given. Do not proceed if these matters upset you.

I have trembled my way deep into surrender

I have stretched my aching body across the world

I have stood at the threshold of your wonder

Bid me enter, Lord, allow me to unfold

—

You remember

that it was a game for Poseidon. A sport. Something to fill his spare time in his eternal life. For you? Your ruin.

The god of the sea appeared one day, at a beautiful dusk, where you had lain in your lake and watched Astraeus paint the sky. He declared his love so casually, smiling wide with his sharp teeth. Claimed he fell at the moment when you had visited the shore of his domain, and offered you a place to sit amongst his many mistresses of court.

But you never met him, and you were put off by his leery eyes on your skin. You heard the way he loves, cruel and unnatural and impetuous. He‘d confirmed the rumour himself when he seized you by the arms then forcefully attempted to take you to the sea after you refused. But your nails were sharp, and it had sunk into his cheek. You recognize the disbelief written all over his face, that a lesser being dared lay his hands on him. Then he grinned as he saw the blue blood running from the wound. Your stomach coiled in fear as you ran, but he ripped a lock of your hair first, then he’d let you go. Because he likes toying with his food.

In fear, you came to your mother for help in any way she could. To look into the future. But your mother only gave her tears and a sole advice; run far from here, if all else fails invoke the name of dream god, Morpheus. Pray to him and he shall ease your suffering.

Of course she would not risk an open war with the Pantheon and the death of her other children for you. She was not as young, as short-tempered as you remembered. This fact left bruises on your heart, even though you understood.

What good does a dream do, mother? You asked incredulously.

Everything, my sweet. She answered.

It was an absurd notion. Since when does a god give their kindness so easily without expecting something in return? But your mother had never given you false counsel before, so you kept her advice close to your heart.

You kissed her cheek and kissed her hands, then gave her your tears. She, in turn, steadied your hands that trembled in anger and sorrow. Kissed your forehead for a very long time as she held you close you almost couldn’t breathe. Her tears overflowing, her rivers and streams are hissing.

This felt like the tragedies you used to watch when you went into the city with your sisters.

Go. I will buy you time. Remember, call upon his name should all else fails.

It was a heartache to leave your Lake, your friends, and your sisters without so much as a farewell. Always moving during the night, sleeping during the day between the ravines, under the river, inside dark caves. Your cheeks are always raw, streaked with tears. Your heart never rests from beating in wariness. There was never a moment of respite. You ran until your feet hurt, your soles blistered. Your mind was a beehive, its queen in fear that infects the colony.

For every single day that passed, your resentment brewed towards the pantheons. They surely watched this misery caused by their blood. The Olympians were silent, the Olympians let it all happen.

Only sleep was the moment of peace to be had. It didn't come easily at first; you were always startled awake by the smallest sound, the snapping of a twig.The splash of a fish. Sprinted from your hiding spot at every little noise. You almost grew mad from the lack of sleep, the dark under your eyes increased by the day. So you swallowed your pride and you finally prayed to the god of dreams to give you a swift fall. A sweet dream where you are home among your sisters and friends free from your tormentor. He never fails to grant you one. Your mother was always right, you admitted bitterly.

You tried to prolong his blessings, but you had nothing to offer except feathers from some birds, little carvings you whittled with your small knife, ripe fruits you picked from the tree, your thanks and prayer every time you wake. For you are always awake at the right time. Strangely refreshed and fulfilled. Never a second too late for Poseidon to sink his teeth into your skin.

You thought Poseidon would grow weary of his chase. But a day turned into weeks, into months. A year turns into three, then four. And five. You weaved between cities and forests, found love but had to leave them, hiding in other Nymphs' habitats, betrayed by some. Somehow, you are always at the right time to move. Knew when something wasn’t right, when the air started to brine with salt. Mostly your dreams inspired your caution. And you thank your benevolent god for his omens.

But fleeing alone is not enough. Though your calves are stronger, your lungs endured, you were exhausted beyond what your heart could take. You want Poseidon to stop, to rot where he stood.

You want him to suffer and tremble just as much as you did, you want to plunge your pocket knife into his eyes and see his blue blood in his cracked open skull leaking into the ground.

So was the reason why you sat at the edge of a river bank and watched the twilight sky instead of running when you could sense that he was growing closer and closer. You were ready to end it all, and you will let it end on your terms, fresh water always feels like home. Let it be fresh water the last thing you see. Not one formed with salt.

"I know you’re here, little Nymph." His rancid voice bellowed out in the distance, Your resolve crumbled by the second. The knife you held to your throat trembled as your tears warmed your cheeks, and you feared it would be etched like a mark. Your body shivered instantly as you closed your eyes. Despite having nothing to lose, despite convincing yourself that meeting Thanatos is a better choice, there is a part of you that still clings to life and its abundance of delight to be found. Mother to be seen again. Sisters to hold once more. You realised you were never ready to toss the Obol in your pocket for Charon. So you dreamt of a better future as you did one last desperate attempt. You prayed to your God.

"My benevolent god, lord Morpheus, if you could hear me, I beg of you. Help me. Take me far where he couldn’t find me and you will always have my service." you whispered. It was a foolish attempt. Poseidon would’ve found you to the edge of the living world. Moreover you were no one, minor spirit of no import. No Olympian nor a daughter of one. Why should a god such as Dream meddle in your affairs? Still, the god of dreams was a salve to your burden, more than any other gods. Perhaps the only god.

"Your prayer is heard." Your eyes jolted open at a voice that was not Poseidon’s. You snapped your head to find the Dream God beside you, behind you, but he was nowhere to be found. Your heart palpated twice as fast. The hairs on your neck stretched upwards.

"Return from whence you came." He continued, and your body instinctively leaned into the water, finding the river had turned as black as the night, as still as one.

"Reach into me, and you shall hide no more." Once more, Dream God’s deep and quiet voice enticed and you paused, digesting his words that felt too good to be true. You turned to see how close your oppressor was and you could see the outline of his form between the trees. Your heartbeat was a hummingbird trapped in your ribcage, you felt like vomiting all over the water. There might be a greater sacrifice to be made by exchanging with Dream god.

But you would give Dream god your limb for that opportunity.

So you took a deep breath, steeled yourself, and plunged into the cold, dark water. Then unfastened the Peplos around your skin weighing you down. You swam deeper, deeper and deeper. It was a Sisyphean effort. There is no direction, no life could be sensed, no surface to return to, only a bottomless river. Your arms ached from carving the water in the endless dark, there was no way of knowing where it is above or below. Like swimming into the bowels of the earth where there is only Kronos, waiting for you with his primaeval emptiness.

It was hours. The darkness was suffocating and you were terrified beyond your mind, afraid of making an irreversible mistake.

Then, a speck of light can be seen. Pale blue, glimmering like a star.

You swam into it, almost in a frenzy, desperate for something tangible. It expanded as you swam, blinding and comforting, and when your body had passed its threshold, you had fallen wet onto the earth that was not from whence you came, but the homeland of a god.

—

You lay flat on your chest on the wooden plank of a bridge that stretched into the far distance, its foundation stood in the middle of blackened water. Your body limped, bare, devoid of energy. Your arms pulsated with shooting ache. But all of that was eclipsed by your silent wonder, for you are greeted with a night sky sprawling with billions of star clusters, its light shining pale blue layered with an iridescent sheen.

Is this where Dream God resides? So close to the stars and the very heavens.

As you drank all the splendour of Dream god’s domain, the dots in your field of vision expanded, until you realised it was not dust, but figures coming your way.

When they had reached where you laid, you met a beautiful pointy-eared woman, with black and white clothes you had never seen before. Behind her, a figure with unruly black hair wore a black chiton draped over one of his pale shoulders and the other fastened under his arm.

He bears that otherworldly beauty that seems to be reserved only for Primordial gods. A paradox of youth and antiquity.

"Here, let me help you." The woman said as she helped you to sit, she had taken a black fabric from the figure’s pale hand, which you swore was not there mere seconds ago, then wrapped you with it. The fabric was so warm. You sighed, melted into the cloth.

"It’s alright, you’re safe now. He can’t follow you anymore, the wretched beast." she said, mumbling the last part. Her eyes bore an irreplaceable warmth and kindness. As if she had known of your misfortune and suffering, familiar with it.

While he watched you silently with his bright eyes. His gaze was sharp and rigid.

As you clutched the blanket over you, he stepped closer, and you gazed upon him.

"(y/n), daughter of Nemea, blood of Potamoi, for as long as you are in the Dreaming none shall harm you and none shall enter my realm with the intention of one." he declared to you, his voice dark and low. But you think he mostly declared it to his realm, binding his words into the Dreaming.

And his words bind you.

Words that made you safe and secure. You felt it in your lungs, the air tasted light in the back of your tongue. You felt it in your blood, hummed gently and numbed your fingertips, all encompassing.

Your eyes stung and your lips trembled. It was a relief like no other and you could not contain your tears, murked by bone-deep exhaustion, 5 years of anguish and unchanneled rage. At the same time, you felt like sleeping for the rest of your life, never to wake to wash away this engraved weariness. You sobbed so hard, madly. You must have looked pitiful in their eyes. But you reckoned they won’t care what you looked like anyway.

—

The first week, you asked Lucienne where you should put the offerings for the God of Dreams. Wreaths of sweet-smelling flowers to scent his chamber and your best carving of Acanthus were in the basket you weaved. Lucienne informed you that Dream God desires no more offerings. You frowned at that. You admit that your offerings were modest, but you had always given him your best. Did he always detest your craft? Although you did not pry. You would only follow what he bid you, as his faithful servant.

In your spare time, you visit other dreams and nightmares, assist Lucienne with her books, and in exchange, she teaches you to read and write in a variety of other languages. She was pleasantly surprised by your new-found talent in linguistics. You absorbed everything remarkably fast.

Then you read. So many cultures with so many religions and gods you had learned, to find that Dream god and his family are beings older than the Olympians, even the Primordials. Consorting themselves not only to the gods of Hellas, but all over the world, was biting into a forbidden fruit.

Your entire life you thought the gods of Hellas were the only true gods. And it has left you in some form of existential dread.

Moreover, walking in the Dreaming and taking everything around you made you heave occasionally. Its infinite and ever-changing nature spins your head. But you are a highly adaptable being, and you adapted quickly, for survival's sake.

The Dream god was seldom seen, the first year of your stay your few glimpses of him were scarce, the number of times you see him when you were helping Lucienne in the library can

practically be counted with your fingers. The quiet flutter of his Chiton swept the floor. Often he didn’t even realise you were there, you didn’t make yourself be seen either.

When he saw you, you considered exchanging pleasantries, but you seemed to clam up whenever you mustered the courage. In truth, you wanted to be invisible. You wanted him to forget your existence so you could always be at the brunt of his indifference. You don’t know if he is as volatile as the other gods of Hellas, and should his wrath descend upon the Dreaming, let him forget that you exist.

So you stayed silent and arranged the books as he read quietly on one of the many intricate wooden chairs placed at the long table. You scattered all over the library except where he sat. When you truly needed to work where he resided, you waited as long as you could before he departed. Or silently arranged the books. You’d bow your head to him before leaving. He acknowledged you with a flick of his gaze.

—

It’s hard to keep track of time in the Dreaming when there is new splendour to be found every day. Like the Sirens you befriended in the frozen sea, the desert Golems you met on the barren wasteland, flora and fauna that do not exist in the waking world, or how one of Dreaming’s many meadows is filled with herbs grown from babies’ first tears. Not to mention Fiddler’s Green, where mirth is eternal and beauty is in its core nature.

Yet the dull ache inside you persisted. Stubborn and sore. There is no splendour in the Dreaming as comforting as your home. Your Lake.

A Naiad neglecting their habitat is not a Naiad. Do not ever forsake all-mother Gaea’s gift . Your mother used to remind you when you were but a tadpole of a water spirit.

When you closed your eyes, you could still feel its connection in the Waking World.Tranquil, one bank shaded by a great Willow tree, its tendrils leaning over the water, protecting your domain. Vast and wedged deep in the forest.

But you adapted, for survival’s sake.

So you trudged to the Dreaming’s many forests, trying to find a pattern in nature that resembles your Lake, even just a little. After days of searching, you found it in a clearing with a willow tree, taller and grander than yours back home.

You couldn't tell which was your luck or the kindness of the Dreaming. You were grateful all the same. When you touched its coarse bark, you breathed in deep. It reminded you too much of what was. Then you watch over the clearing for days, waiting for it to change at the necessity of the Dreaming, but it never did.

So you laid there to sleep under its overreaching branches every night. In a week, you had moved in completely there to live. Carved many woods from the branches that would fall whenever you wanted them to fall. Slept under the glimmering pale blue stars.

Like a blink, your second year passed.

You stretched like a cat on the grass after you had just woken up. The pink trickled in the sky, and soon the bright pale blue would follow. The Dreaming was pleasantly cold at that hour, and one of your favourite things is to watch Fenghuangs flying past the sky. They too like to stretch their wings when the sun is coming.

But your morning was interrupted by the stir of the wind, and you noticed the branches of the Willow slouching by inches. You did not know then that they were anticipating the coming of the Dream God, who had apparated silently into the clearing.

You stood abruptly—almost knocking yourself—and approached him, then bowed your head.

"My lord." You greeted him. Your heartbeat paced a little faster.

He regarded you with his bright, cold eyes. His black chiton swept the dewy grass.

"Is there anything I could do for you, my lord?"

"The question is, is there anything I could do for you ?" His voice was sharp.

"My lord?"

"Your mother reminded me to fulfil my end of the bargain. Have I not done that?"

"Bargain?" you still can’t understand his meaning.

"The bargain we made on the spring equinox. Of my Dream." he sounded somewhat impatient. Irritation laced the edge of his voice.

"My lord, I'm afraid I don't follow." you almost stuttered out your answer. Utterly lost. Your mother? Bargain? His Dream? You look at Dream God as if he grew a second head. Which is not that impossible in the Dreaming, you remembered.

For a moment, silence has passed as he scrutinised you. In that span of time you dug your nail into your thumb. And you focused on the bridge of his nose instead of his eyes because you couldn’t stand the pressure of his gaze.

"Do you know why you’re here, (y/n)?"

"Because of your kindness, my lord." you answer with a thought you used to have before he approached you with this business. Now, you’re not entirely sure.

Since when does a god give their kindness so easily without expecting something in return?

He sighed quietly. Closed his eyes for a second.

"Your mother did not tell you."

"If there was something to be said, she couldn’t. We- I was running out of time." There was a sharp prick in your chest. Your body remembered the fear of that day. You steadied your breath.

"Would you kindly tell me what it is, my lord?" you pressed further.

He ambled then stood beside you, his eyes swept around the clearing. You followed his line of vision.

"It was centuries ago, a rogue Dream had found their way into your family’s domain. Made themself a part of one. Fell in love with one her blood. By now you must have learned that the waking world is no place to inhabit for Dreams or Nightmares." he said, and you latch on to his every word.

"Nemea claimed that I could never have Basalt back without her blessing."

"She bound them." you murmured. Recognise your mother’s magic all too well.

"If I forcefully transport them into the Dreaming, Basalt would cease to exist if she didn’t sever the ties." he continued.

He had made her sound uncharacteristically cruel to you. She was not as young, as short-tempered. You reminded yourself.

"What did she want, lord? What did she bargain for?"

"Aid for her kin, should one ask for it. I granted her a life for a life. A Dream for a Naiad. Whatever aid they prayed for."

How convenient. You thought.

"She is a seer, lord." there is something bitter at the back of your tongue. Has the Dreaming always been exactly where you belong? Until when?

"Thank you, Dream Lord, For telling me. I would never know otherwise."

He pursed his shapely lips, the edge twitched slightly.

"I had assumed you inherited her abilities. That you passed your words once you settled here."

Blood rose to your face. Not for a lack of trying, the Dreaming is, thankfully, impregnable. But you have always been the runt of the litter, not entirely talented in magic or sorcery. The best you could do was cultivate your domain to the best of your abilities and heal injuries of the body. Nothing more, nothing less.

"No lord. Her talent did not pass to me."

His reply was silent acknowledgement, then his eyes travelled around the clearing, finding some of your carvings resting on the tree.

"What are you doing here?" he rasped.

"Oh this-this is where i sleep."

He looked at you with a slight pinch of his eyebrows.

"The city’s room is extraordinary my lord but-i feel closer to home in the open air." you continued.

Only silence follows, and you wait for him to depart.

But he lifted his hand instead, his fingers clawed and the Dreaming gave a subliminal sigh.

The wind that tasted familiar beckoned to you. At the same time, the clearing that was small, filled with only grass and a single tree, had turned into a perfect replica of your home. From every blade of grass, the Willow that stretched over the side of the Lake and its hanging leaves gently brushed the clear water, to the patches of Hellebore and Crocus around the bank, the water lilies dotting the water’s surface. Your heart squeezed at the sight.

"My subjects should feel at home in my realm." he claimed.

"Thank you, my lord." You said, barely able to contain the tears brimming in your eyes.

He only stared at you with an expression you could not recognise. Then left, leaving traces of sand behind.

You took off your ivory Peplos with a roaring sense of urgency. Then you ran, jumped into the water that caused a tall splash, swam and glided all over the Lake until your arms ached.

—

When you met Dream God in the library again, you didn’t hesitate to greet him. You don’t know how much he would tolerate you, but you found it quite liberating to know you didn’t have to cautiously tiptoe around him, relying on his kindness alone. Surely a simple greeting wouldn’t hurt.

Sometimes he approached you. You have become an efficient staff in the library, able to memorise all sorts of books from your new found love of reading, and Lucienne referred to your good work. Perhaps you spoke to him more than the last 2 years combined. After all, the number of times can be counted with your fingers.

And now,

The sun has set, the hush descends upon the Dreaming. You chew on Saffron from the many Crocus dotted around the lake as you sit bare on the shore. Day by day you wonder what your mother saw in the tendrils of your many futures. Tears have found their way burning your eyes. An underlying fear of the Moirae almost chokes you. The Fates spun, measured, and cut, pushed you into the Dreaming, pushed Eros to strike Poseidon with his arrows, and it was all too much for you to bear. You almost die because of it.

What could possibly be the fates weaved for your imminent future, you hope that it is an easy one. Your tears land on your thigh as you decide to whittle into dusk. You manage to convince yourself that this is a temporary solution, a temporary home. You will count the days until you can return.

—

Abel had invited you for cheese and sweets, and you had invited Lucienne to come with you. It was a Herculean effort to convince her because the royal librarian never seemed to take a day off for herself. But she finally relented because she couldn’t stand hearing your incessant whining about how much you would be heartbroken if she didn’t come.

What Abel didn’t mention was that he had wine, and all three of you drank the jugs empty, an ice breaker of some sort that made for an absolutely wonderful time with the two of them. You exchanged stories between the alcohol and laughed until you gasped for air. Moreover, you had never eaten such foreign delicacies before and you were pleasantly surprised by the explosions of flavour melting in your mouth.

"You must let me teach you! Let’s do it weekly so we can spend more time with each other!" Abel had kindly offered.

"I’d love to." was your answer, you’re genuinely excited to learn.

When you say your goodbyes to Abel and wave to Cain, it is already night. Even in your drunken state, the sight of the stars tumbling down at intervals astounds you. Falling towards the mountains, the forest, one finding its way in Abel and Cain’s residence. You notice dark grey clouds hanging around the moon. The Dreaming temperature is plunging cold and it mists your breath. There’s a lot of things that you can’t make sense of in the Dreaming and most of the time you ignore it, you’re positive you’d go mad if you try to keep up with each and every event. But these stars, on this particular day, feel menacing, ominous. As if it could scourge the Dreaming into ruin.

You wonder why at this exact time of the year this keeps happening. So you asked Lucienne.

"At this time of the year the lord will be in his chamber the entire day, mourning the day Maenads tore apart his child."

"No... Orpheus was his son?"

"He was." Lucienne said, staring into the sky.

"I can't-can’t imagine his pain."

"Nor i. One of these days reminds you that the Dream Lord is not unfeeling."

"Who can be unfeeling when you lose a child in such a way." You murmured.

Your train of thought screeches to a halt when you hear Abel screamed from inside the greenhouse. When you try to make sure he’s alright, Lucienne blocks your way. And explains that it is a very normal thing for Abel to scream.

The Dreaming belongs to hers and you always trust her words. Thus, you reluctantly choose to go home at her bidding.

"Can you walk?" Lucienne’s endearing concern warms you.

"Ha! Can I walk?"

Can i?

"Can you?"

"It’s very hard for me to get drunk." Lucienne clarifies.

"That’s… luck and a curse." You chuckle, and she gives you her sweet smile.

As it turns out, one has found their way in the shallow water of your lake. Drifting on the surface of the water. Pulsating with raw power, angry. Bright and beautiful. The tranquillity of your dwelling shattered by its motion.

And it pulls you, a clarity between your overlapping visions. Causes you to descend carefully into the water to collect them.

"Leave it." His dark, rigid voice stops you in your tracks. Dream God appears silently.

"Apologies lord." your speech almost slurs as you retract your hand and take a step back, rippling the water. You can barely see the outline of his form, but his eyes glimmer bright in the dark.

Like cats. You mused.

He does not acknowledge you, merely brushes past to wade in and gather the stars. Then disappear in a blink.

You fall to the shore and retch violently on the earth. Then, to rid of the bitter aftertaste of the vomit left on your tongue, you pick some Crocus and chew on some Saffrons.

The Dreaming has taken you in completely. Quieten your anger and despair, lulled you into complacency. Despite time refusing to blunt the edge of your bouts of melancholy, you don’t cry as much. The Dreaming turns time a little faster. Keeps you dancing to its tune until you are too tired to think. Sways you into your 13th year with ease.

You have waited long enough, and you muster enough courage to ask for news of the waking world, if it’s possible at all to return. Whether your tormentor’s dark shadow looming over your consciousness wanes and forgets.

You ask Lucienne if she has any information pertaining. But her mouth holds a shadow of a frown as she pulls you to sit beside her on the palace steps. Both of you just finished with your work.

"Lord Morpheus does keep an eye on the Olympian, and he bade me to watch over this situation’s development. He even tried to... inspire him away. But the Olympians are powerful. And your hair would make it so easy once you step into the waking world. I'm afraid not yet my friend."

You nod. Swallows thickly.

"Just a little longer." she whispers as she enfolds your hand gently in hers. You closed your eyes before she could see your tears, and held her fingers tight. You don’t know what you would do without her.

Just a little longer.

For every decade you set yourself up for disappointment. For every decade you ask Lucienne. And her answer is always the same.

I’m afraid not yet.

Just a little longer, my friend.

By the fifth decade, you stopped asking altogether. You no longer have the stomach to face those four simple words.

You choose to wait for as long as you could.

On a bright sunny afternoon, under the Willow, you are whittling the likeness of a rabbit you met at the bridge leading to the palace. Frida, she had introduced herself. The bunny with a perpetual childlike soul and voice. Whenever and wherever you think about her, a smile will find its way to you, a precious little grey furball tumbling about the Dreaming. So you’re trying your best to capture her likeness. So absorbed by your craft you don’t even realise the coming of Dream god.

"My Lord." You stand as you dust off your Peplos from wood shavings. The other holding tight to your Frida.

"Anything you need my lord?" you offer.

"Your mother pleaded that I deliver her message."

Pleaded. her longing represented in those 3 syllables and it pierces you.

"What is the message?" your voice almost whispers. Quickly you find your chest getting tighter and you dig your nail into the unfinished carving.

"That she begs forgiveness for her lack of action in the waking world."

You can’t exactly pinpoint when your tears were falling. Your mother is not an intense occurrence like it was for the first years of your stay. Shortly, Poseidon’s cruel visage wormed his way into your head and your heart feels heavier, faster. Breathing is becoming harder. With a violence your state of mind is thrown into those years. Your legs become as limp as the days you ran through the years of evading the Olympian and you lean against the oak tree, sliding down. Gasping for air. The last time this terror occurred was 419 days ago. You remember because you counted them.

The terror persists even for decades.

The dream god paces to your side, kneeling before you and clutching your free hand tightly in his.

"He can’t follow you anymore. Never as long as you're in the Dreaming." he said calmly. Kindly.

You swallow thickly, breath stutters in and out. Your tears leaking down your chin as you focus on the way his tight grasp steadily anchors you down, it’s strange because he is the very Dream and you had expected his hands to feel hazy and washed, merely a blur. A memory of a dying Magpie in your arms when you were a child.

But his hands are as vivid as your tears, as warm as your breath. Flesh–like as your own.

He holds your hand until you feel too tired to feel anything, until you unclench your jaws and steady your breath.

"Thankyou, for delivering her words." something passes on Dream God’s face.

"The guilt torments her."

"You’ve seen it?" formed her dreams too?

He gives you a nod.

Silence hangs in the air as you gently remove your hand from his. Not quite uneasy, not quite comfortable either.

Dream God flicks his gaze to the carving on your other hand.

"Who’s that supposed to be?"

"Frida, my lord."

"May I see?" You hand him the almost finished carving. Frida's imprint can be seen on your palm, indenting your skin, almost bleeding. You didn’t realise that your grip had been iron tight.

You notice that he observed your injured skin for a moment, then to Frida.

"You have a way with your hands." he murmurs.

So why did you turn it away?

"My lord? Can I ask you something... callous?"

"Ask, then." his eyes still on the miniature.

"Why do you reject my offerings?"

He ruminates on the carving, runs his thumb on the wood, then returns his gaze back to you.

"You are not here because of your devotion, but a pact from a very long time ago. There is no need for it"

"But I would still like to give you offerings." You confess. In truth, you feel the need to do something for him. He let you stay in his Dreaming, made you a perfect home. Never forced you into labour or harmful endeavours, even if he could. You almost feel like a parasite, gorging yourself on the Dreaming’s splendour and refuge.

"You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to." he replies quietly.

"What makes you think I don't want to, lord?"

He contemplates for a moment.

"Know that none of my subjects have any obligation for that."

He returns Frida back to your palm, then stands as he bids his farewell. Before he leaves, you plead for a favour.

"Please tell her… tell her I love her. Tell her I understand."

You try to be as silent as possible as you walk to the throne room, holding a recently carved statue close to your chest. You placed the wood carving at the front of his doors on top of freshly weaved flowers, hoping he would accept the likeness of beautiful Jessamy.

You don’t know if it’s an offering or a way of saying thankyou for his help amidst your bouts of terror. You hope he can see that it’s both.

"I suppose you are the one who made little Jessamy."

You almost drop the book in your hand as you swallow your scream. Sometimes the Dream god is silent to a fault.

"Yes, my lord. Do you like it?" your heartbeat races.

"It is beautiful." He said appreciatively. You let out an imperceptible sigh. The mere thought of his displeasure towards something that came from your craft—practically an extension of your being—would eat you alive.

"Do you need anything, my lord?" You offer him a smile you’re trying to contain.

"No, it’s fine." He says as he settles into his usual reading seat. You continue to busy yourself with shelving the rest of the books.

—

Once every couple of weeks, you whittle and weave more for the dream god. Most of the time he would show up the next day at the library. He would remark on your carving here and there, but he always comes to read on the long table, occasionally asking you to bring him the books he needs, or the many ledgers dusting on the shelves.

At one point, when his eyes are no longer on the book in his hand, lost in his thoughts as he sits on the long table, he ropes you into a conversation.

"How did you learn how to carve?" he asks out of the blue and it stuns you. He never asked anything about you before.

"Oh, well, one of my sisters taught me."

You realise he’s expecting you to continue.

"She’s much much older than me, wiser too. Photine is a delight." You explain. Thumbing the edge of a leather-bound book in your hand. A sharp tug at your heart has you breathing in deep.

"The Naiad with the brown hair." he follows, and you nod.

"I guess you know of her dreams too."

"Including you, once." He notes.

Oh, well, in that case...

"My Lord, what was the inspiration for giving me a dream where I was getting chased by a giant mango with serpent legs?"

He huffs a small laugh. An unfamiliar sight. The first time you’ve seen him and it almost feels odd. Like looking at a featherless bird you guess. A strangely beautiful featherless bird.

"My nightmares are imaginative creatures, but it wasn’t me who made it so."

"I see." you nod. Appreciating his candour.

You didn’t hear the dream god enter the library, but you’re getting better at noticing his presence. You can feel him nearer and nearer, his magic shifts the air wherever he is. Light and rife with something indescribable. It has a burning wood scent to it, which reminds you of a ceremonial pyre humans usually throw for your great cousin in her domain.

Your work is finished, but you are so used to seeing Dream God after your offering that you find yourself waiting for him. Passing the time by watching the glory of the Dreaming through one of the many window panes. Almost lost in its beauty and restlessness.

"Your craftsmanship is very beautiful too." You profess to him, who stands behind you, following your line of vision.

"Aeons of practice." He answers, his voice light and low.

"Do you see it as I do, your own creation? Or do you notice every little mistake you’ve made?"

He tilts his head slightly, digesting your words.

"The Dreaming is what I am, all of its flaws and beauty. But my dreams and nightmares are the progeny I wrought that can only be reared instead of control. They breathe into their own life. There is a marvel at the way they flourish to become their purpose."

Him and his boundless abilities, it’s hard to digest that he would even look in your direction, a thought you contemplate many times over. You inhale deep of that smell of embers, swirling pleasantly in your lungs.

"Why do you help me?" As you turned to face him, the words left your tongue before you could fully process them.

"Because it is a pact." He tips his head down at you.

"But you could just-ignore my pleas and she would never know, she could do nothing."

"And risk the fury of one of the first Naiades? Mother of the whole Pegaeae in southern Hellas?" His lips tugged upward. "There is no need for conflict, is there? It is a good-natured wish, and I am a being of my words."

You blink, did he just humour you? 53 years in the Dreaming and you barely scratch the full capabilities of Dream God. You know, not even your mother’s full wrath from the death of her hundred daughters would rival a speck of dust of his power.

"She knows what I am. Knew the extent of my abilities. Your mother is a clever Naiad. A capable seer in her own right."

"I don’t understand, why did you even bargain with her in the first place?"

He goes silent for a moment. "Maybe I was intrigued to see where the pact would go."

"I never thought that anthropomorphic beings could get bored." You deduced.

A moment of silence passes over him.

"Perhaps." was his only answer.

You close your eyes. Trying to recall the face of your mother but it was so long ago, you almost forgot what she looked like.

"How is she, Dream Lord? What dreams does she have?"

"She dreams of nursing her heart from the pain of losing you. Even in the waking world, she did only that."

"Is my mother in the Dreaming, lord?" you ask Dream God the next time you see him. Sitting at his usual seat.

"She is." His voice is careful, a brush inquisitive.

"Where is she?" you press further.

"Her dreams are turmoil over you and memories of her days as a sorcerer and a warrior. Or nightmares, precisely. This part of the Dreaming is a much calmer place. You won’t find her here."

"The edge of the Dreaming then? The part with the rusty black gates?"

"Yes."

A silence crawls its way. Concocting hundreds of scenarios for you to see your mother.

"I-can i-"

"No. The only thing you will find there is pain and suffering. Not who your mother really is. You will only harm yourself." his low voice warns you.

You nod.

"I understand."

You did not try to find your mother, but a kind Nightmare with dark rounded glasses informs you where Photine’s dream usually takes place. On the construct of Athens, in the heart of the city, toiling away in a workshop with her many carvings and chisels under the supervision of the masters.

"It’s the one with the blue door. You won’t miss it." he smiles a charming smile that almost puts you under some sort of spell. But the more you observe his smile, the more you realise it is more akin to a grin.

"Thank you, you don’t know how much this means to me." you return his smile.

"Don’t worry about it. It’s my pleasure, really ."

It takes days of walking and navigating through the Dreaming’s ever changing state. You have to pass the hanging gardens of Babylon and swim across the frozen sea. But you are determined to see her again, and the Sirens of the frozen sea have kindly accompanied you on your journey. Some of them even confess that they’re bored to tears in the barren region of ice and have nothing better to do.

When you finally reach the city, and find the woodworkers' workshop, the blue door is ajar. The sight of her long brown curls is enough to mist your eyes, tremble your lips. Suppresses your breath.

She is carving .

Always her biggest dream to become the very best. Some men and women are pointing at the statue she is sculpting, guiding her. Advising her to do better, she absorbs it all without so much as a complaint.

There’s a thin layer of iridescent sheen before the door, almost passing your notice. And the realisation of it makes you nervous. Somehow you know that it serves as a threshold. For what, you don’t exactly know, except your intuition is screaming you shouldn’t disturb its peace.

Your longing trumps your common sense.

"Photine." you call once you are inside the building. The men and women wouldn’t stop speaking, but Photine dropped her chisel onto the floor. Then turn to face you.

She reaches for your face, holding you between her palms, as if sampling you to see how much of you is real. Drinking in all your features. You struggle to hold back your tears. But Photine fails to do so. Her tears are leaking down her chin. Then her wail is the next thing that comes. Followed by her stuttering sobs. You try to contain her in your arms as her hands are holding on to you.

For a moment you think it was just a shock of seeing you after so long, and you try to tell her that you are safe and you will always be here. But her crying never ceases, even as you try to comfort her. The advice from the men and women becomes a little too loud, merging with Photine’s lament, her hold becoming a vice-like grip. Bruising. Everything leaps in magnitudes until all becomes too much, louder, deafening, spins you and the room is tipping over like the statue she carved minutes ago. Crashing to the ground and splinters into ashes.

A gust of wind swirls into the room, and before you know a vortex of sand swallows you whole.

You land on the shore of your Lake, on your knees as you cough your lungs out. Your throat feels scratchy, parched and painful. You drown your face and drink until you can hear the sloshing of water in your stomach. Then you lay on the shore, on your back, and found the crescent moon already hanging in the sky. A stubborn pulse slithers toward your eye,

You count the days until you can return to the waking world. You hope the end of the path will come soon.

You cried yourself to sleep that night. Didn’t even manage to slip into the water.

The coming of the dream god can be sensed. By the leaves, by the pattern of the wind, that approaching smell of embers, you know what he is coming for. So you offer the dream lord to sit beside you to enjoy the cool breeze of twilight, to watch the setting sun of the Dreaming. He surprises you when he silently sits next to you, and rests his forearm on his knees.

The dark purple had swallowed the blue in the sky and you watched silently. The Cicadas wheeze somewhere deep in the forest.

You don’t know what to say, except apologise for your insolence.

"There is an order of things even in the Dreaming." he reprimands kindly.

"I think… I think I turned her dream into a nightmare." you murmur.

"The Dreaming is a volatile place, you are not a Dream nor a Nightmare, and you went into a dream unstable."

You nodded. That doesn’t make any sense, yet it does. His dreams and nightmares are the purpose, the order of it, and you went past the threshold without so much as a permission. Disturbing procession. Oh, you hope they don’t hate you for it.

"I just miss her…" Your voice merely whispers, more to yourself than to him. There’s an annoying pulse on the right side of your temples, and you close your eyes.

"Am I to be banished, lord?" you ask the inevitable.

"I understand your affliction. It was a mistake that I'm sure you will not repeat."

You nod because he is right. That is a feat you will not repeat again. You have no intention of being a ghost that would terrorize your family.

The dream lord does not leave for a little while, but enjoys the cool breeze beside you in comfortable silence as he leans his other hand behind him. Both of you are lost in your own thoughts.

The twilight seems to go on forever. It seems the Dream God has willed it so.

The pain you will always carry. But this time, the ache in your heart ebbs away just a little more, and you feel a little less restless as the wind takes your worries away.

—

When you look at your reflection in the water, you wonder why you have not gained a wrinkle for the past two centuries. It’s true that Naiades live extremely long lives, direct descendants of Thetis and Okeanos are immortal due to the blood of their predecessors, whose blood is intimate to human devotion and beliefs. But your blood has been sorely diluted. A distant relative.

A minor spirit of no import.

You expect your appearance to change by this time.

You asked Dream God about this once you stepped foot in the library. A habit of some sort, seeing him there once every few days, his presence no longer hinges on your offerings. And you appreciate the comforting routine. In the way he comes almost weekly and takes place in his usual seat, in the scratching sound of the quill made from your hand filling in Lucienne’s ledger drifting between you. How easy he is to talk to once you know how to navigate his moods. Even his silence is an essential part of it.

But this time is one of many where you plague him with incessant questions.

"The Dreaming exists in between the universe. Every organism here is bound to a standstill. Time makes an exception for me."

"How is that even possible?" You couldn’t fill the gap between his words and your brain. Your quill lay forgotten on the long table.

"Because I have willed it so. Father Time has agreed." He turns a page of the book on the wooden surface, his eyes never straying from the written words.

"Father Time? Is... is that your father?"

"Correct."

The idea makes your head spin. The Endless are the children of Time himself? Observing the Dream God powers, that is proper.

"Is that the reason why in the Dreaming feels much faster and yet simultaneously slower?"

"Yes. Just like sleep feels brief and a dream lasts an eternity."

"Then I will never age as long as I am the dreaming lord?"

"As long as you’re here." he echoes.

You don’t know how to feel about your new found youthful immortality. You don’t even know how long you could stay in the Dreaming. When exactly is it safe for you to return? Does Poseidon even remember you? Would he pursue you still, from his unfulfilled demented inclination? Or you’re just one of many items long forgotten in his growing list of unfortunate victims.

You willed yourself to ask one more thing. Irrespective of how unprepared you are for the answer.

"Do you know if I can return to the waking world now?"

You see the way his hand shifts slightly on the arm chair, he lifts his gaze to you.

"No, (y/n). It is unfortunate that it’s still not." a trace of sympathy tinges his voice.

Your brows knitted together. Your nails dig into your sweaty palm.

"What, after all these years? Centuries later, he is still... still that? " you whisper. Needles stung the back of your eyes.

"In a way, you are the unattainable myth. You disappear in front of his very eyes, and seer after seer, oracle after oracle, he cannot locate you. Even the lock of your hair is ineffective. It is an obsession for him at this point, and as cruel as this sounds, it is a treasure hunt for him." A slight frown works his mouth. A hint of revulsion in the way he speaks of the ruler of the sea.

You grit your teeth until your temples ache. Your nose flares in anger as you try to calm your breath.

The dream lord scrutinises you with his sharp eyes.

"Thank you for telling me." you nod and finish your work as fast as you can. Then excuse yourself to return to your lake. Where you drown yourself to cool your burning face, your rage consumes you in bondage.

The Dream god’s revelation haunts you. Plagues you from falling into sleep. You twist and turn inside the water, rubbing your eyes. Biting your nails. And in the end, you return to the surface. Drape your Peplos and make your way into the forest. Weaving between the trees in the night. The grass damp beneath the droplets of your wet feet.

There’s that helplessness again. Your fate slipping away from your grasp as you feel the unbearable resentment simmering, threatening to spill. A dull shooting pain creeps in behind the back of your eye, seeping into your temple. You think you know where the pain comes from, that all the seconds and the minutes and the years of waiting feel pointless and small. That your centuries are nothing compared to the gods' eternal boredom. The end of the line has always been inconceivable. A myth you recite and recite and recite in pretence of a prayer.

That truth has always resided in your head, inside your skull. Becoming an infection that would never kill but torment. The unscratchable itch.

When is it going to end? When is it going to fucking end?

If there is a purpose behind all this, you don’t want it. You would spit on Moirae’s faces if you could. Carve out Poseidon’s heart if he has one.

Fine, fine . You will become a myth. You will make sure he will never find you again for the rest of his wretched eternal life.

The next time you find Dream God in the library, you ask him how long you are permitted to stay in the Dreaming.

The dream lord studies you with his sharp eyes. There is an underlying suspicion within you that he understands your meaning, knows what you are about to do.

"However long you want it to be, even for eternity." he answers.

The baby lamb with eyes as pale as the sky bleats gently in your arms. Walking through one of the Dreaming’s many meadows, you’re heading to the brother’s greenhouse. A basket slung on your elbow has been filled with figs you have gathered and you can’t wait to dip it in honey and enjoy them with Lucienne, Abel, Cain and Mervyn this evening, along with your favourite berry pie and tea in the midst of your weekly game of Senet.

When you reach the stony gates of the brother’s residence, you can see a familiar Chiton and pale shoulders, Dream God is conversing with Abel and Cain. Mervyn is already there too. Leaning against Abel’s greenhouse a good few paces from the other three. Puffing on his cigars, waiting for Dream God to leave so you all could start the game.

When the baby lamb bleats once more, Dream God turns in your direction.

"Good afternoon, lovely to see you all here." you greet them.

The turnip head smiles, waves at you and the brothers greet you back.

"(y/n)" there’s amusement in Dream God’s smile when he sees the lamb in your arms.

"What do you have there?" he asks.

"Oh, I think she’s lost. I couldn’t find her mother around. Do you know where she is?"

His smile widens, and you should’ve known that was not a good sign.

"That, is not a lamb, (y/n)"

"What-"

A scream leapt from your lungs as the lamb jerks and turns into a changeling in a flash at the flick of Dream god’s fingers, scurrying away into Abel’s House of Secrets. The little thing has a boar for a head and a baby for a body. Thankfully, your basket still dangles safe on your elbow.

"What just happened?" you ask, bewildered, heartbeat racing fast. You saw Mervin cackling with his hands on his knees while Cain wheezed his laugh. Only Abel asks if you’re alright, but even his mouth curls upwards.

And then there's the Dream God, chuckling lightly. You stare at him with widened eyes, incredulously, as you realise he is enjoying this.

"Oh, well, I'm glad that was amusing to you, lord." you feign annoyance.

He merely gives you a pretty smirk that makes you roll your eyes in defeat, but you can’t help your own smile too.

"Are you staying, lord?" you say as you hand Abel the basket.

"No. My affair has concluded."

"Abel and Cain are hosting a lunch. Would you care to join us? Lucienne will come too."

Abel stares at you approvingly, but Cain and Mervyn, well, their eyes are bulging out of their sockets, if Mervyn had one at least. They’re just begging for you to retract your question.

Dream God ponders for a moment, stares at you, and there is a consideration behind his thoughtfulness. Until he sees your friends turn still as stone, blanching, anticipating his answer, that he makes his decision.

"I have matters to attend to." Then he walks away, disappearing in a vortex of sand.

"Goodness (y/n) if you do that again you’re not coming to the next game." Cain hisses at you.

"Oh come on Cain, it was harmless."

"Yeah, I'm sure Lord Morpheus would be a wonderful guest." Abel, who sees the bright spot in everything, defends you.

"Kid, we all know he’d ruin the mood." Mervin chimes between his puffs.

Disappointment crawls its way at your friend’s reaction. Perhaps because you wanted Dream God to say yes and enjoy the wine that would make you drunk as the third round of the Senet begins. Or when the jugs of wine are empty the game would be long forgotten and everyone would try to outdo each other with the funniest stories. Sometimes the most dramatic, or the scariest.

It pains you that there’s a barrier between him and his own subjects, formed by each partisan through centuries of detachment from one another. Not all of his subjects could come to him on a daily basis and talk his ear off and annoy him with trifling questions, you realise.

Reasons within reasons. Most of all you just want to spend more time with the Dream God.

"Would you like to join me for lunch tomorrow afternoon, lord? Under my Willow. There’d be honeyed Figs and Berry Pie and Olive relish." you ask in the library. It was really spur of the moment question. One that’s been brewed by your constant prognostications, strings of what ifs.

A slight crease forms between his eyebrows.

"There will be only me, no one else." you add, still remembering how he immediately withdrew when he noticed your friends’ reaction. Your palms grow moist from anxiousness.

He was silent still, returning to the book in his hand.

Oh gods, i’ve embarrassed myself… oh gods-

"I will be there." he rasps. His throat bobbed slightly as his eyes never left his book. You almost sigh in relief, smiling widely. Your delight overflowing.

It’s too awkward. This is the part you didn’t think through. You don’t exactly know what to say to him, and he seems to be at a loss for words himself. Sitting under the Willow and the food spread out on the grass, you don’t know how to start the conversation as you offer him the honeyed figs. You know some things about the Dream God, but watching him chew and swallow is something so surreal. Like a turtle out of its shell.

Determined not to ruin this event, you opt to say whatever comes to your head first.

"To be honest I didn't know that the Endless ate at all." You almost stutter over your words.

"There is hunger, but we won’t die without eating."

"Does it get painful?"

"Not exactly."

"How long did you go without eating?"

He contemplates for a moment. "A year."

"Gods, you must’ve been busy."

"In a way. It was a time of war. Food is the last thing on my mind."

shit.

"I'm... sorry."

"It was a long time ago."

"Well-I never know what to do without food. Naiades require very little sustenance as long as our habitat is healthy and humanity tends to us with their beliefs, but I get hungry all the time." you ramble as you stuff your mouth full of honeyed figs.

It has always been that way between humans and your kind. You feed on their beliefs, bask in your power with it, and in return you would protect Great Mother Gaia’s gift for them.

"Then it is a good thing the crocus around here is never ending." he remarks.

"The best part is that it blooms every single day! I nearly forgot to thank you for that, I get to eat all the Saffrons in the world. Well, I probably already did."

There’s an easy smile creeping its way into the lord’s mouth again. How you adore his unencumbered countenance as he is now. His usual cloud over his brow and the thin line of his mouth dissolving with the cool, gentle wind gliding along the areas of your lake.

After that, the conversation goes as well as you could’ve hoped for. Better even. He lulls you with stories of his time in the waking world, of other gods and even their dreams, visions of all the creatures that dream. Their subconscious hopes and beliefs, innovations and endless imagination.

"Even some of my Dreams and Nightmares are inspired by them."

"Is this a secret lord?"

"Don’t jeopardise my integrity." He smirks.

"Never." you press your fingers to your mouth. Biting a smile.

And you tell him the stories of your languid days as a Naiad. The way humans would find their way into your lake if you permitted it, for comfort with various injuries. How you’d grant their prayers with Hornworts and water lilies to soothe their ailing.

"You’re a healer?" he asks.

"Only for the body. If one consumes something from my habitat, then it will mend their wounds."

"Was it a gift from your mother?"

"No. But I learned it from her. You’d be surprised by the number of injured people wandering in the woods."

He hums in understanding.

"You’re a healer too, you know." you add and he only answers with a quirk of his brow.

"When it’s hopeless, all creatures that dream, well, dream. Of better things. You’re a balm for all living beings' pain. I’m grateful you’re here for all of us. I'm glad you exist." It was a sentence less eloquent than something you've strung together inside your head. But you appreciate the simplicity of what came out of your mouth, and a smile forms on your lips for him.

But you must have said something wrong, because there is a pinch between his brow and his lips are pursed thin. His gaze sharp, staring into your eyes. You’re afraid it might bore holes into your skull.

Your smile falters.

He stands just as you are going to inquire as to whether anything is wrong, avoiding your eyes, then walks a good few paces away from you as he disappears in a vortex of sand.

You were hoping you would find him at the library as usual the next week. But his absence is sorely felt when you wait for hours, almost the whole day, and he doesn’t appear. You ask Lucienne where he could be and she informs you that he is in the Waking World.

"For how long?"

Lucienne looks at you from behind her glasses, leans back as she clasps her hands on her desk.

"I don’t know. Lord Morpheus doesn’t make it a habit of telling me how long he is leaving."

"Right, of course." you nod. Biting your lip.

"Want me to pass a message once he’s back?"

"No! It's fine. Thank you, Lucie. Is there any work I could do?"

She hands you a ledger, then you scurry away before she can ask more questions, avoiding her inquisitive gaze.

You wait until next week. Then the next week, and then the next. He is nowhere to be found. You don’t want to flatter yourself and think you’re somewhat important for him to purposely avoid you. But it feels that way. You want to apologise for whatever offence you have caused but how can you do so when you can’t even find the traces of his sand.

Have you been too forward? Have you misread the situation before? Have you misread him?

"You’re out of the loop, kid. Come on. It’s your turn." The Turnip’s cigar plumes.

"Oh, sorry Merv." you took your pawn and placed it on one of many squares of the Senet.

"You behaved like this too at the last game. Getting sick of us?" Cain continues as he examines the board.

"She is sick for someone else." Lucienne quips, hiding her cheeky smile behind her cup. Nothing gets to pass Lucienne in the Dreaming and you know she noticed your growing agitation by the Dream God’s absence. It was only a matter of time before your friend’s confrontation.

"Don’t even start, Lucie."

"Now hold on a minute. (Y/n), what’s this about?" Merv chimes in, curious, suddenly intrigued.

"It’s nothing!"

"You know you can trust us, If you’re in trouble, we will help, (y/n)." Abel chirps.

"To an extent." Cain mumbles.

"Thank you very much, my dear friends. But I am not in trouble."

"Aren’t you?" Lucienne retorts. Her curiosity seeps through her teasing smile.

"Alright, maybe a little."

"Come on, kid. Spit it out"

You sigh loudly. Rest your hands on the round table for a moment. Then you start to recount the event. Pouring your concern amidst the blue smoke and yellow candles.

There’s a knowing look shared between your friends, when you whip your head to Lucienne, she avoids your eyes.

Oh no…

"What is it? What?"

"Eer… he’ll return. Just give him time." Mervyn scratches his Turnip cheek. Cain busies himself with the board and for the first time in a long while, Abel is silent, watching his own pawn.

"Oh no. I’ve done something awful, haven't i. Oh gods, he’s going to banish me!" you almost wailed.

"I can assure you it’s not that. If he wanted to banish you, you wouldn’t still be here." Lucienne laughs and chastises at the same time. Despite her smile, you know her enough to know that she despises the idea of you leaving the Dreaming unwillingly.

"You know, like I said, just give the big man’s time, kid. It’s fine. It’s not that. You’ll be fine. Now, are we gonna finish this or what?"

Abel suddenly slumps backwards and falls into the ground. Mervyn heaves a loud sigh and Lucienne only stares at Cain vacantly as he drops the knife in his hand.

"Last week, didn’t you promise you wouldn’t kill Abel in our next session?" you remind Cain pointedly.

"He took my place! I was about to take the second row!"

"That’s because it’s his turn, Cain." Lucienne retorts.

—

Enjoying the colourful Fenhuangs in the morning sky, you sit on the shore of your Lake, chewing on Saffron mindlessly, squeezing the purple flower in your hands as you memorise its velvet-like texture.

Like a deer wary of the faintest sounds, you feel it when a gust of wind comes your way and the hanging leaves dip gently into the water, the coming of Dream God.

Your heartbeat races, you feel like throwing up, but you take a few deep breaths, stand and grasp your Peplos hanging on the branch to drape it on your body.

It’s impossible to calm your pulse when the swirl of sand exhales Dream god into apparition. His black Chiton flutters gently in the whirlwind of sand. His comely face does not sport the furrow of his brow, or the thin sharp line on his shapely lips like the last time you saw him.

"My lord." you greet him and bow your head.

"(y/n)."

"Are you well, lord? I-i haven’t seen you in a while."

Steady. Don’t rush the apology just yet. You remind yourself.

"Yes I am." he replied courteously.

"I’m happy to hear that." You try not to reveal the panic that is practically strangling your chest by smiling.

Then he opens his mouth. Oh dear. Here it comes. You're going to get flogged.

"My apologies for leaving so abruptly, per our last conversation."

Oh. What?

There’s hesitation when he’s about to speak again.

"I…" he trails off, mulling over his next words. You feel your brows scrunching together, your mouth part just a slightest, as if you could taste his answer on the edge of your tongue.

You what?! You feel like screaming and shaking him by the shoulders when his eyes flicker to your mouth, back to your eyes, suspending his answer.

"There are matters that need to be tended to."

Goodnes. Is that it?

You nod along his words, unable to conceal your relief as you lean against the Willow. It seems your legs have forgotten their function.

Abruptly Dream God rushes towards you.

"Are you alright?" he asks with a worry. His hands are hanging midair, unsure where to place them.

But all you could do is laugh. At your folly and irrational augury. It seems to bewilder him all the more.

"(y/n)?"

"Forgive me, lord. I’ve been, oh I don't know. Foolish." You manage to say between your giggles.

"In what way?"

"I thought, I thought I said something wrong. And angered you, and then you’d banished me."

He blinks. Then grab your shoulders as his eyes latch wide onto yours.

"That is foolish." he admonishes, as if it is completely unthinkable for him to do so. You could only laugh more, placing your hand on top of his. Once your restlessness subsides you just realise how much you miss his presence in the Dreaming. The library. Next to you.

And that easy smile again makes its way to his mouth. His low and light chuckle follows not too long.

"Then, perhaps we should continue where we left off. Dust off the misunderstanding."

You sigh a smile.

"I’d love to, my lord."

That morning, he conjured Honeyed figs, Berry pies, Olive relish and many more. You talk and laugh and share silence into the evening. He willed the twilight to pass a little longer as you shared ripe peaches you sliced in half.

When a few weeks have passed, he seeks to do the same thing. You seek to do the same thing when a few weeks after that have passed.

—

You decide to take in the Dreaming completely. And it has taken you. Coddles and loves you, soothes your heartache and pain. You begin to call it home, in return, it mends your longing for the waking world. Changing your life at a steady, comforting pace.

The need to return to the waking world dissipates by degrees as the days passed, days you passed with your dear friends, your dear Dream god. Your dearest Dreaming.

—

Your smile is wide as you see Dream God approaching your home. But quickly falls when you notice that he does not return it with his usual smile of greeting, but rather with a pinch of his brow.

"Dream lord." You greeted him. Heart beating loudly. Something’s not right.

"Sit with me." He said.

You sat under the ever-expanding Willow. He sits on the opposite side of you.

"There is no easy way to say this, but your mother has passed, (y/n)."

It takes you a couple heartbeats to properly digest his words. You have almost forgotten what your mother looked like, but you think of her and your sisters often. And the love you bear for her, as she does for you, is still strangely familiar, burrowing under your heart.

"How?"

"In her sleep."

You sigh. Relieved. It has been more than 1100 years since the last time you saw her, and you thank those who protected her so she could die a natural death.

But her death was unexpected. You always expect your mother to be immortal. She may not be a direct descendant of Okeanos and Thetis, but she shared their blood more than her daughters.

That could only mean…

"The humans have forgotten her, don’t they?"

"The waking world changes fast." Dream God concurs.

You nodded. Your tears blur your vision as you clear your throat.

"Was she alone?"

"Her daughters are with her when it happened."

"Did she dream?" You asked with a broken voice.

"Yes."

"What did she dream about?" Your tears fall one by one. Your chest grows heavier.

"She dreamt of a different death. Holding Poseidon’s head in her hand, her sword in the other." Sobs leave your mouth. Your head feels a little dizzy, lighter. You grip the grass on the earth, feel as if you could faint and fall into the ground, but Dream God is inching closer to you, cradles your face delicately in his silken hands, then wipes your tears with his thumbs. Anchoring you down.

—

The dead must die forever. The dead are dead are dead are dead are dead. Returning to the pool of Atoms.

There’s a cruel thought, a line from one of many plays you watched with Photine in the city. It is a terrible reminder that grief and love are so closely interlinked. Vast and merciless and divorcing . You feel so small in the face of it.

You were hoping you could see her one day. You don’t know if you’re mourning the hope of seeing your mother once more or your mother herself. Both. You never thought it was possible to feel this much grief over someone you haven’t met in millenia.

After the news of her passing, days are spent under the Lake. Watching the sun raze down the moon in their routine as their light ripples on the water’s surface. You need to be in the water. Feel safest in it, closer to your kin. The generations of embrace of your mother and sisters are beholden in this very element of nature. It swallows your tears, takes it all and disperses it to embody your sorrow. It holds you there so peacefully for weeks that you forsake touching the surface.

Sometimes you feel the presence of the Dream God, but you don’t move a muscle to greet him. And he doesn’t disturb you in your fragile state as you contemplate your malady. He simply comes to see if you exist, then quietly departs.

On the 20th day, Lucienne stops by in the afternoon, calling you out, stirring the peace of the Lake. You begrudgingly rise and trudge to where she is, feel the water purposefully weighing you down as you sloppily lift your feet step by step. Begging you to come back with its droplets clinging to your skin.

Though you can’t lie to yourself, it’s good to see her warm smile and the slight pinch of her eyebrows.

"Haven’t seen you in a while."

You nod as you drape your Peplos over your unclothed body. Eyeing the basket in her hands that wafts a sweet smell, your stomach growls loudly.

"I know you haven’t eaten in weeks, so i won’t leave until you finish this loaf and tea Abel has so kindly made for you."

You smile for the first time in weeks. She did not mention your mother, and you are grateful for it. So you sit beside her under the great Willow tree.

It’s happening again. The dark in the sky, the unnatural stillness in the forest. The greyish clouds hanging over the sun. Even your Lake looks a little bleak, a little too tranquil. The lily pads wilted by inches.

The rain of stars would be in a matter of hours.

"I’m afraid we won’t see him until tomorrow." Lucienne says, as if reading your thoughts.

"Do you miss him?" She asks. Your lips are tight. You do. You do miss him.

"He misses you. Don’t know what to do with himself in the evening. He’s fussy when he can’t spend time with you and makes my job a little tedious instead." There’s a knowing smile on Lucienne’s mouth.

"Sorry Lucie." you mumble, and Lucienne drapes her arm over your shoulders.

"It’s alright, (y/n)." she assures with her gentle voice. Before you know it you’re crying again. This time in her arms, and she wordlessly let you clings to her coat and warm presence.

Once your tears have dried, she helps you clean the streak of tears and snot with a napkin. Then hands you the rest of the unfinished bread.

"I’m not joking when I said I’m not going to leave until you finish this loaf." Lucienne reminds and a laugh bubbles from you. You notice the relief written on Lucienne’s smile.

You don’t know what to make of it as you continue to chew on the sweet bread. You Know Dream God enjoys your company, but you didn’t know that it's at a point where he is capable of missing you. Especially one such as him, who could have any company he wants, one that is far more interesting than you. What does that say about you in his life?

Hopefully a friend. You mull over.

On that dusk, when Lucienne had left, when the waters of your lake reflected an even deeper grey from the sky, the first starfall landed on the shallow part of your water. You glide into it, then gather them in your hand, and it burns you, scalding and brandishing your skin with jagged edges. You quickly dip it inside the lake, cooling the diamond-like object with sharp points, clutch tight in your hand. You teeth clench from the burning pain. Searing through your flesh.

Why are you holding on to it? Why does it tastes so familiar?

In an instant, Dream God arrives on your domain, you are not at all surprised by his sudden presence. You felt it in the wind, the imperceptible stir of your Willow.

He looks tired. The edge of his Chiton seems to melt into his shadow that grows darker. The corners of his mouth are a little steeper. Eyes hooded with melancholy.

He strides towards you, waist deep in the water as he takes your wrist that clenches his star.

"Open it." he demands harshly.

You unfold your shaking palm and the star glows in anger, his eyes digest the burning skin on your hand. His brows stitch together.

"Look at what you’ve done." He scolds you as he takes his star from your burnt skin, hangs it back in the sky. Then his fingers hover over your wound, his fingers quiver slightly.

You don’t miss the hollow in his eyes. His youthful face emanates aeons of history and an antique lifespan he usually conceals. He looks… drained and exhausted.

Dream God has given so much to you, even by pact doesn’t lessen his actions and kindness. Seeing him like this is somewhat heartbreaking. Dispiriting.

You don’t know how his pain truly feels, you reckon it is much more painful than your experience of losing your mother, a natural progression of life, unlike the premature loss of one's child. But grief is grief. Perhaps there’s no need to measure it in order to understand its purpose. So you take his hand. Despite his confusion, he doesn’t raise his concern. You are leading him into the only comfort you know how to give him, trudging with him hand in hand until both of you are completely submerged in the water. Until your feet touch the earthy floor.

He seems to glow pale blue, hair as dark as the night, gently dancing in the water. He looks the part of a perfect Naiad, who could easily lure any man into his own demise with his bright eyes. Eyes that are always on you, when you tilt your head, when you remove the lush Hornwort from his face. Your unbrandished hand tight around him as you mused the frown on his mouth.

It’s true the water connects you to your mother and your sisters, but he created your Lake and its water.

He does not need words to say how distinctly sick he is at the desolation growing by the year on this particular day for you feel its destruction in the very water inside your lungs, infecting your bloodstream. How suffocating that looming shadow of despair thriving on this day, for he is every blade of grass and the very wine you imbibed, the very Hornwort you pushed a moment ago.

And he realises, you can feel it—see it in his eyes--that you know . In which he grasps your insides with all you consume, all you inhale to taste how much you are familiar with his grief by mourning your own.

You put a thousand wishes of consolation into one simple gesture. You slither your hands under his arms and wrap around his chest because you are not good with words.

You try to hold him just like how he consoles you under the Willow, and hope that it reflects his kindness even just a fraction.

Take the serenity you’ve given me and savour it for yourself.

You’re not entirely sure if it’s a pure altruistic reason for your Dream God, perhaps one of them is selfish. That you need someone to anchor you down before you slip away in madness. To prevent feeling alone in your sorrow under the surface of your Lake. His Lake.

But the water and the dreaming tremble imperceptibly. It’s hard to pay it mind when the Dream God circles his arms around yours, envelopes your back and buries his eyes on your shoulder in return. His fingers cling to your skin, almost desperate.

You and Dream god stay that way until your eyes fall heavy, your head droops on the hollow of his neck, until you are as still as the water surrounding you, as he does. His arms are a sense of comfort you haven’t truly felt in your long life.

When you woke up, it was dusk. Dream God is nowhere to be found, but the sky is greeting you with his dusk in a periwinkle shade.

—

For living almost 1900th years in the Dreaming, you learned one more language that no one can really teach you except for you and Dream God himself.

You can read Dream God as easily now, as he reads you. But that knowledge comes with the same cost he has paid to you, as you paid him, by baring your psyches to one another.

A mutual trade of need to be by each other's side. You choose to take meaning when he comes to you requesting for a stroll in the Dreaming’s many meadows, the bright sun would purposefully land soft on your skin. To his presence under your willow, passing away the day together with an evening meal that consists of fruits, pies, and laughter, current delicacies of the Waking World he would conjure. To the way he consoles you with his embrace when tears gather in your eyes at the thought of your mother.

He takes equal meaning when you remain in the library, waiting until the late hours for him to return when his responsibilities keep him long and away from the Dreaming. When you pass the plate of figs with drizzled honey for him and lick the excess sweetener remaining on your finger. When your presence can be felt beside him, lost in the volumes of books devouring the secrets of the universe, as he is lost in his own process of shaping Dreams and Nightmares.

And when the rain of stars comes, at the end of the day you trail beside him to collect his falling stars. The little jewels no longer scalds your skin. But the Dream God always mournfully apologises for the one that has, now merely jagged scars on your palm. To which you take his face between your hands and assure him you love the shapes it has left on you.

For each and every moment both of you have learned inches by inches. Accumulating language by centuries of communion.

It is a peaceful coexistence you and him affectionately clings to.

—

"I should like to think that we’re past titles, (y/n)."

Dream God demands as he’s helping you cinch the golden brooches on your shoulders to hold your Peplos together. One of his many gifts he had kindly bestowed upon you. Your hair still damp from the Lake, your skin barely dries because he conjures the afternoon meal before you even rose from the water. Impatient as ever.

"And what does that mean, Dream God?" you turn to him once he cinched all of the golden jewellery.

"That you should no longer address me as such."

You don’t understand why you are perplexed by the notion. You have become his friend, as he yours. It is only natural to call each other by names.

…that was partly a lie. You think you understand.

Perhaps, in a sense, some part of you silently worships him. For all your notions involving gods, you quietly revere the comforting hands that were on your shoulders a moment ago. And you uncover devotion when his skin touches yours, attain unyielding faith when you gaze into his eyes. In each and every title is in lieu of a prayer.

For you to call his name is somewhat akin to heresy, changing your carefully crafted divine custom, one that you’re unsure you’re ready for.

It places you on the same pedestal as him. You understand that he demands for this very thing. To be on the narrow and tall pedestal with him.

You sigh heavily as you try to cover your face, but he takes your wrists, gently pushes them down. His thumb lovingly runs over the scars on your palm. A flare of devotion stirs.

"Morpheus." He demands once more. His bright beguiling eyes search for yours, but you avoid them by focusing on the pooling darkness on the edge of his black Chiton.

"It feels wrong my-"

"Morpheus." he urges firmly. Lean down to find your eyes.

You bite the inside of your lip, The last time you spoke of his name was millennia ago. Aeons.

And you brace yourself for what feels like a blasphemy.

"Morpheus." you finally muster. The name is strange on your tongue and you swallow, swallow the name too.

A satisfied smile graces his lips.

"Morpheus." you repeat. Familiarising yourself with it. A rush of exhilaration spurs. His smile grows wider.

"Morpheus." Once more and a giggle slips from your mouth. His name tastes light and new and familiar.

The act did not take but gave you everything, no matter how unprepared you are for things to change within you, between him, you always found yourself embracing the uncertain future wherever he resides.

"Yes, (y/n)?" he answers and you laugh heartily. He follows. Dark and low and mirthful. Tickles and burns your skin and shoots arrows at your stomach.

—

The waking world has abandoned your former life. Morpheus explains that in your kind and your gods are no more than grand mythologies to lull children to sleep, for men to study. Other religions have replaced old beliefs, old deities and old ways of worship. Mankind does not believe the ancient ones anymore, and some creatures went extinct; the only legacy for your species.

Now, mankind cultivates their own nature, ravaging it themselves.

The news of your sisters’ death came one by one as the world discarded them. The death of Photine strikes you with overwhelming violence.

Devoid of power and human faith, she was forgotten, limped into obscurity and caved in on herself, met Death in her very own water.

The dead must die forever. The dead are dead are dead are dead are dead. Returning to the pool of Atoms.

You feel the ripples of the water, Morpheus wading to where you float in the shallow part of your Lake.

"Will I die like them?" you question, to him who blocks the sun, but mostly to yourself. Your tears trace the sides of your temples. Your sorrow is his too, you can see it in his glistening eyes. He takes your hand and enveloped tightly, almost desperate.

"No. I will not let that happen. My faith will always sustain you." He gently caresses your forehead, and kisses you there, featherlike and gentle, as if you could break from all your agony by the daintiest pressure.

—

Morpheus stands at a crossroad he plucked from the dream of a man longing to see his former lover on the street where they first met. The crescent moon and the decaying fields of Wheat came from a farmer asleep at her porch on witching hour, her rake in her hand long forgotten as she dreamt of ploughing her fields. Content with the life she had wrought of her own.

Yet it was not enough, the fates would always require more. His surrender and acceptance was found in the last night of a starved circus Lion, dreaming of her faraway home, for tomorrow she would meet his sister, Death.

And the iron sword in his coat, a symbol of righteous indignation, the boon, was a little harder to find. But one pierced through a monstrous serpent. It was found on the hand of a man fighting in the name of Jesus Christ. He was accused of murder in his smalltown home.

All is set and complete.

He steels himself by recalling his treasured one, his heart and friend, his darling Naiad's face, then sends gentle wind for her in the Dreaming.

And now he invokes their name.

"I, Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, hereby summon the Fates."

A thunder strikes the air.

"The three who are one."

The wheat surrounding droops lower.

"The one who is three."

The black chiffon of theirs dances in the wind.

"The Hecateae."

The Fates stand before him, and he bows his head as customary.

"Morpheus, my, what a lovely surprise." the mother greets.

"Is it really such a surprise, sister-self?" the maiden taunts.

"It is only a matter of when." the crone scorns.

"Is this a social call, Dream king?"

"Unfortunately not, my ladies."

"Of course it’s not. We know what he wants." the crone spat.

"Think again Morpheus, there is no turning back. Are you sure about this, Dove?" the mother cautions kindly, ever attentive.

"I do." Morpheus says with stubborn conviction as he pulls the sword from his star–sewn coat, and the Fates unclench their jaws to swallow it whole.

"You will bind her to your fate just like that?" the maiden questions with her mischievous smile, she expects no answer from him.

"The Dream king has always been selfish." the crone sneers.

"three questions, one answer, love." the mother croons.

He clenches his fist, braces himself.

"My first question, the tool I need, where is it?"

"In the heart of Tartarus, where Chronos once fell." the maiden responds.

"My second question, will the deed be possible to enact?"

"Yes, but first you will toil for a long time, and after." the mother croons.

He nods, unflinching.

"My last question, the scale of the change. How much?"

The fates glare at him in a way they never did before. As if they too, revealing his answer, are passing the threshold that can’t be returned.

"An upheaval of the highest order. But nothing you and her could not overcome." For once, the crone's voice is faintly tinged with favor. If it meant something, he chose not to see it.

—

"Does my Lake still exist?" you question Morpheus as you sit beside him under the Willow, both of you leaning against the tree after you share ripe Peaches you cut in half. His black Chiton pools at the grass. Now watching the twilight sky of the Dreaming that stretches for hours.

"Fortunately, yes. Humans do not dare to venture in that part of the forest. A curse is said to surround it.

Your lips tugged upwards as you turned towards his profile. "Curse, or a nightmare?"

"Both, perhaps." a sly smile forms his lips.

A breeze and silence are blowing your way. You swallow thickly before asking the next question, one that has not been asked for millenia.

"And... and him?"

He straightens his body towards you.

"He’s wandering helplessly at the bottom of the sea. The sea belongs to humanity now, his power has abated. Most remember him only as a vessel for their own stories."

You don’t know what to say. Your hatred overshadows your relief that borne a spite for the olympian. You take joy in this news. And you hope that he will suffer more from something that is beyond his power to contain.

"He no longer has the ability to hurt you. I made sure of that." he claims with a conviction that leaves no room for any doubt to bloom within you.

"I really miss the waking world." was all you could say after quite some time, smothering the grass in your hand.

Morpheus gently takes your hand in his.

"Do you want to visit the Waking World?" he offers.

You missed a second.

"I don’t… I don't know if I can." It's been so long. Too long. The Dreaming has become a part of you so thoroughly. You become apprehensive at the prospect of leaving it, even for a temporary moment. Would the earth of the Waking World even feel the same in your hands? The air and its water?

Morpheus senses your agitation. He tips your chin to look upon him.

"I will come with you if you wish. Just think it over."

Your nod. Comforted by his bright, kind eyes. You watch the last traces of light in the horizon.

"Tomorrow I must return Corinthian back to the Dreaming. When I return–should you wish it–just tell me, I shall take you to the waking world. There is much I want you to see." he offers.

You are reminded once more of his kindness. Of his endless thoughtfulness for you. When you look upon his comely face, has it always been like this? Has your heart been filled and overflowing with so much love that has moved past the threshold of friendship? Since when did you have this urge to press your lips against his? Wondering what kind of divine blessing resides there.

You can’t help but caress his cheek and lean towards his lips, in which he captures yours so readily. As if he had been waiting for this moment for a long, arduous time.

Yes, you can see everything so clear then, the fog and the ache and every uncertainty clears away, the small pieces pulling together at the centre of the universe to create a larger picture, to make sense in your erratic fate. That you are merely borrowed parts that needed to be returned, from the drops of the rain, from the dirt of the earth, from the rays of the sky and the water in the lake. Here wherever he is, the centre of your universe, your future slowly and kindly enough to unravel before your eyes, returning home under his heart, returning home to him.

Morpheus pulls away reluctantly, and your eyes flutter open at the loss of his lips.

He caresses your jaw. You feel his perpetual love and devotion pulsing through his fingertips, tracing your skin. His eyes drink in your features fondly, consuming you whole. You desire nothing more than to be consumed over and over again.

"Do you want me to kill him?" Morpheus rasps.

The Dreaming turns still. Holding its breath in anticipation, awaiting your response.

Morpheus finds the answer in your eyes. Feel it in your lungs. And he nods in understanding as he kisses you once more.

#morpheus x reader #sandman x reader #dream x reader #the sandman #this one is the longest thig i #i've ever written adbodawbobfaafw

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thegoldencontracts · 2 months

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Schrodinger's Horror

Summary: You ask your octopus boyfriend to watch a horror movie with you. What happens next?

He accepts, and he's so smug about it.

Doesn't react to jumpscares, probably predicted them beforehand

The first movie you watch is some alien horror, and he is so unfazed that you can't believe it. He had to be pretending to keep up his sly business persona.

Nope. He's not acting. He's seen predators that look way weirder under the sea.

Will absolutely tease you for being scared. He's highly amused by your reactions, thinks they're adorable.

At the end of it all, though, he'll probably offer to let you sleep with him for the night - since you so clearly need comfort.

This same things happens with other movies are well, whether it's Psychological horror, or Slasher, or folk.

Azul is clearly great with horror, right?

He sucks with any sort of viral/parasitic horror. It scares him so much.

Absolutely tries to act like he isn't scared, even if he is. Refuses to admit it no matter what you do.

If/When he does realize it's futile to try and act tough, you can expect him to be clingy.

Probably has a death grip on your arm the entire time, maybe even your whole body if you're close enough.

Afterwards, he will make you sleep with him.

Prime moment to give a taste of his own medicine. He gets so flustered about it.

"Y-You ought to sleep with me tonight," Azul said, clearly trying to sound like his usual, composed self. It didn't work, though. Not when he was clinging to you like a koala.

As much as you wanted to indulge him, you wanted revenge for all the times he'd teased you more.

"Why?" You asked. "I didn't really pay enough attention to be scared by this one, and you're never scared. After all, it's merely a poorly budgeted films isn't it? Being scared would be rather illogical."

Azul's face flushed further as you threw his words back at him with those last two sentences. He looked torn. After a while, he finally spoke.

"I- find myself illogically frightened." He said. "As you and I tend to sleep together whenever you are frightened by such films, I oblige you to return the favor. Please."

He really was desperate, wasn't he? You had to admit this was pretty adorable. You should watch those creepy parasite horrors more often, since it meant getting to see Azul like this.

"How could I possibly resist that logic?" You said. Though, unable to resist throwing his words back at him just one more time, you added. "Or that adorably frightened face?"

"S-Shut up!"

"Karma is a cruel mistress, Azul. A cruel mistress indeed."

#azul ashengrotto #azul x reader #fluff #twst x reader #azul x you #reader is gender neutral

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cherryjuicegf · 1 year

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"You've been crying."

Jaskier laughs as Geralt sits beside him on the pebbles and raises his eyebrows, not looking at him still. "Now you can tell the salt of tears from that of the sea too?"

A light hum. "Always could."

A red ray escapes the setting sun and hits the waves, making the tears in his eyes melt as they mirror it. He sniffles and wipes at the trails his previous crying had pathed on his cheeks, and puts on a brave smile. Not really a smile. A curve of lips, at least, because Geralt is here now, the warmth of his body resembling a lit hearth, and it's a kind of comfort. Always has been.

Except. Geralt is staring at him.

Geralt is waiting.

And it's nothing, it really is. Jaskier likes to convince himself it is trivial, because how else could he mend a broken heart, if not with lies. The truth just seems too far out of reach.

But maybe now he is tired. And maybe in another time he wouldn't talk about it, he would only smile wider but now Geralt's stare is so gentle, and his eyes so safe like the sun on a spring's day.

"I feel like I've been missing, you know," he says at last and looks at him straight, soft, because Geralt really does know. "On love. And it's been too long."

What Geralt doesn't know, perhaps, is the way his heart clenches inside his chest and curls on itself like a child punished in the corner. So he frowns. "You? Jaskier, you can have anyone you want. I've seen you." Then, a smile, almost fond. "You fall in love with everyone."

Everyone, everyone. Anyone. Anyone there is. Anyone who looks like maybe, maybe, they will stay, or he is just too careless at this point that he tries anyway. A heart that never has too much. He knows they won't stay. And he knows the one who will stays for a different reason. So, so close.

He smiles, bittersweet, and lowers his look. "Yes, indeed. Everyone." Everyone, she sent a letter today. Never to meet again, never to be seen. Jaskier shakes his head. "And me? Who of all them has fallen in love with me, Geralt?" As if to answer his question, a seabird cries along. The sea, too, a cruel mistress. His voice quivers. "I feel like a desperate dog chasing love, while running from it all the same."

With the corner of his eye he sees Geralt parting his lips and a fake hope blooms in his chest, fading at once when he holds back, and stays silent. And he can only bask in the imagined possibility of what he intended to say.

The tears are done with him now. Only numbness remains.

Eventually, Geralt speaks. "If it is any helpful, no one has ever been in love with me either." The lightness in his voice sounds exactly like the pained strings mending Jaskier’s heart.

But oh, what a foolish man. Jaskier can't help but smile and turn at him, and for a bit he remembers that lonely as it is, he can't stop loving. "Well, that's just not true. I'm in love with you."

As though he doesn't know, as though it's not as simple as it was uttered, Geralt flinches. Jaskier chuckles and averts his gaze again, a little happier than before. Love, it is simple. It's what he does.

Just not something that happens to him.

"Well, then," he hears after some moments, "that makes us even."

He laughs before he thinks. "It does?" And then.

His head spins at once, eyes wide as they meet Geralt's, almost afraid. No, not afraid. Unbelieving. It's been so long, you see. But Geralt only rolls his eyes, oh so fondly, and before Jaskier manages to splutter any words sweet lips are on his, and a hand holding his nape. And it's not like other times. Not like everyone else. It's certain and terrifying and deep like a promise, like two stray roots finding each other through the earth and keeping their living hearts bound forever. Like what he has been craving for so long he forgot he may one day have it. Like Geralt.

And then, as though to seal it, this promise, Geralt pulls back and looks at him like he always does and Jaskier wonders, wonders how this that he never caught stands right here, catching itself. Geralt smiles, voice soft as a feather. "I'm in love with you, Jaskier." And that's it. Simple as that.

His eyes are burning again and Jaskier can only nod, and smile back. And it's almost funny, almost tender how love happens to be so close, so close he can taste its kiss without even trying, just for once.

Just for once, how love happens to him.

#pots and pans i think love is something that happens to other people by michael gray sobbing weeping #the witcher #geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #chrysa writes #i'm as surprised as you are friends #fic recs #fluff #anyway how about this. loving the unloved

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roguerambles · 1 year

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Secrets in the Garden

God of War - Kratos x Female!Reader

Warnings - 18+ Only. The Olympians being dicks, because they really take the cake in GOWverse.

So, I finally started God of War (2018) I know I’m so behind haha. I watched a playthrough years ago but never did one myself until now, and I haven’t played the original games in years. But it’s reawoken my love for Kratos, the angry disaster man.

I definitely plan on getting to Norse Era!Kratos, but for now I wanted to give Greek Era!Kratos a little attention. There’s a general lack of Kratos thirst and this must be remedied--

You hated the Gardens of Atlantis.

You had adored them once. You were a lesser goddess of the seas, not meant as a figure of influence in the games of power among the Olympians and their lot. When you were appointed as a handmaiden to Amphitrite upon her marriage to Poseidon, you had delighted in living in the King of the Seas domain, blown away by the majesty and splendour of the city. But the gardens were special, filled with flowers and coral, specimens only found in the deepest corners of the oceans that even the gods had never seen.

Amphitrite was a gentle enough mistress, but Poseidon seemed to find your enthusiasm charming, and patiently indulged your many questions on the contents of his garden. You had been embarrassed and somewhat pleased that a god of his status took the time to chat with his wife’s handmaiden. You sat with him at feasts and walked with him in the mornings, and he entertained you with tales of his exploits during the Great War and the antics of his siblings on Olympus. Soon you saw more of him than of his wife.

You do not know if it was naivety or foolishness or some trick of Aphrodite, but you saw nothing wrong with your relationship with the King. Even as he began showering you with gifts, murmuring compliments in your ear, his hand on your hip during walks, Amphitrite’s bright smile turning nervous and brittle, all you saw was your mistress’s husband being pleasant.

Your morning walks in those lovely gardens became evening trysts, the flowers and vines seeming to shift and move to become obscuring curtains, the coral turning soft and plush as any bed, the waters that flowed noisily through the gardens swallowing the sounds of you coupling with your lady’s husband. Even then you were oblivious, your mind focused solely on pleasure, everything else seeming distant and unimportant.

Poseidon moved your chambers closer to his, dressed you in jewels and transparent silks, spending his nights in your bed, murmuring he’d never slept so sweetly as he did in your embrace. All the while, Amphitrite said nothing. All the while, you saw nothing wrong, as though you walked some hazy, pleasant dream.

The spell did not break until the day Poseidon placed his wife’s crown on your head, the day he swore before Zeus and declared you his Queen, reality crashing over you like a cruel, cold wave, but by then it was far, far too late. Hera scoffed and drank from her chalice, Ares and Hermes laughed and laughed, Persephone looked at you with some mix of scorn and pity. Aphrodite smirked at you from behind her hand, her handmaidens giggling at her sides.

No one spoke of Amphitrite.

The Gardens you had once adored were a bitter place now, but it was the only place in Atlantis you were mostly left on your own. You wished you could reclaim the way you had felt about them, find some way to make them feel yours once more. But it was impossible.

Poseidon was on Olympus for some meeting with Zeus and Hades. There had been upheaval among the Olympians since the fall of Ares, but whether that was what he was there for, you could not say. The King of the Seas seldom saw fit to tell you anything that was not some empty compliment, or a pretext to summon you to his bed. You chose to simply enjoy his absence as best you could.

“…Your Grace.”

You glanced up. One of your handmaidens had entered the garden, her expression tight, her hands clenched anxiously in front of her.

“Yes?” You doubted Poseidon had returned already – his meetings with his brothers were long and loud, and he usually returned in a foul temper that shook the walls of the palace.

“It…” She peered at you nervously, glancing quickly over her shoulder as though expecting something to come running up behind her. “Lord Kratos is here!”

What?

You glanced up at her, startled. You had met the newly crowned God of War only a handful of times since his ascension. You knew him better by reputation, rumours whispered in the halls of Olympus. He had slain Ares in revenge for the murders of his wife and daughter, tricked into using his own hands for the deed. He was a fearsome warrior, a brutal killer, soaked in blood and ashes. His name was spoken in hushed whispers, on Olympus and Atlantis both.

“…send him here.”

She cringed nervously, but obeyed, and scurried away. You tried to think what Kratos could want, and you waited, toying with the helm of your dress. The doors quickly opened once more, and you looked up to see Lord Kratos enter the Gardens.

He was a striking man, in every sense of the word. Tall and muscled, his body a perfect sculpture of a Spartan warrior. His expression was cold and severe, his eyes sharp and piercing. You could understand why many trembled in his shadow, but you could also understand the salacious whispers. The Gods were as alluring as they were powerful, and nobody could deny Kratos was a powerful man.

Kratos said nothing as he approached, his frown deepening the closer he got. You cleared your throat, and forced a polite smile onto your face. “Greetings, Lord Kratos. Welcome to Atlantis—"

“I have business with Poseidon.”

You sighed, lowering you head slightly. At least you did not have to dwell on pleasantries. “He is not here.”

The Spartan looked even more displeased. “Poseidon sent word I was to meet him here.”

You had no idea what Kratos and your husband could possibly have to talk about. Poseidon had precious little good to say about Kratos, and you found it difficult to imagine him being summoned for a visit. “He is on Olympus, as far as I am aware.”

Kratos’s glare would have killed Medusa herself where she stood. “I am in no mood for games.” His tone was accusatory, and it made you bristle, somewhat indignantly.

“Nor am I.” You snapped back, crossing your arms tightly across your chest. “Perhaps you misunderstood the message.”

Kratos looked vaguely insulted at the thought of making such a basic error. “I did not.”

“Then perhaps Poseidon simply wanted to waste your time.” It was a petty move even by Poseidon’s standards, but you put little past him. “You would need to ask him.”

Kratos’s expression darkened, and while you were certain it probably should have unnerved you, you found yourself admiring the Spartan’s profile in the light, his strong nose and sharply defined collarbones, the mountainous broadness of his shoulders.

“—I require the Shell.”

“What?” You were shook out of your thoughts by Kratos’s voice. He frowned at you, and you felt your face flush, startled at the turn of your thoughts. “Apologies, I…the Shell?”

“Poseidon’s Conch Shell.” Kratos repeated, his fingers flexing impatiently around his Blades – you noticed the movement rippled upwards, drawing attention to the strong swell of his biceps. “I require it.”

“…why?”

Kratos did not answer. He simply stared at you, frown firmly in place. You found yourself staring at the fullness of his lips, and by the Fates, you were blushing.

“Poseidon likely carries it with him.” You cleared your throat, reluctantly tearing your eyes away from him. “You will need to go to him. Or wait until he returns.”

Kratos muttered something under his breath, his expression thunderous. You glanced at the fountain in the Gardens centre, vaguely noticing the secluded spots Poseidon used to hide you in around it. You cringed thinking of those days, but Kratos’s presence at your back seemed to spark something. You found yourself picturing those warm, secluded spaces, the God of War between your thighs—

Fates—

“Are you even listening?”

You were torn roughly from your fantasies by Kratos’s booming voice. You turned to him dazedly, feeling yourself flush once more under his intense gaze. “I’m sorry, I….”

“I have no time for this.” He snapped, and turned abruptly, clearly to leave. Your eyes landed on his broad back, the exquisite musculature shifting with every movement, and in an instant your mind was made up.

“Lord Kratos, wait.”

Kratos paused, casting an impatient glare over his shoulder.

“Poseidon will return eventually.” Hopefully not for a long time. You rose from your seat, tilting your head upwards slightly. “You are welcome to wait with me until he does.”

“I have no time for—” Kratos began, his voice harsh, and you grasped the buckle of your cloak, tugging it open and letting it fall around your feet, leaving your bare body exposed.

Kratos’s voice halted, and you could not help but be pleased at the genuine surprise on his face, his eyebrows shooting upwards in a way that was almost comical.

You smiled, lifting a hand to play with your necklace, a spark of excitement flaring within you as Kratos’s eyes followed your movement, trailing slowly over your body. “Make time.”

For a moment, Kratos was still as stone. Then you caught it, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, the smallest crack in his perpetually severe expression. He turned fully and began striding back towards you, purpose in his gaze, and heat flared tight in your belly as he closed in on you.

“Wait—” You held up a hand, glancing quickly around. Kratos paused, his gaze firmly on you, and you barely resisted the impulse to throw caution to the wind and have him take you right there. “Follow me.”

Your handmaiden had not returned, nor had any other servants, but you did not want interruptions. You stepped away from the fountain, heading deeper into the gardens, Kratos’s slow footfalls at your back. You felt his eyes burning on, trailing flames over your form, and a shiver of anticipation ran down your spine.

You ducked into a small natural alcove, coral and vines and blooms sprawling inside. You exhaled, and the Garden sprung to life around you.

The vines tangled together behind Kratos as he approached, closing you both in the space together. He was so close now, the power radiating from his broad, muscled frame almost tangible. You wanted to reach out, to run your hands over his shoulders, down his chest and toned abdomen, sculpted to perfection, like a statue come to life. Perhaps it showed in your face, as that small smirk tugged at Kratos’s lips again, and you felt your face grow hot.

“You are still dressed.” You found your voice, lifting your chin high, keeping your gaze level with Kratos’s own.

“I am.” Kratos replied, simply, his eyes slipping from yours to trail slowly over your naked form. Your arms stuttered at your sides, reflectively moving to cover yourself, but you forced them still, nervous excitement beginning to crackle in your veins.

“Take it off.” You tried to sound as commanding as possible. You were a Queen, after all. “All of it.”

Kratos looked faintly amused. It was an odd expression for the God of War, but you found you rather liked the way it shaped his face. He did as you bid him, moving with an almost casual air, his armoured pauldron falling to the ground with a dull thud, his gauntlets slipping from his hands and dropping on top with a noisy clank. Kratos did not wear many layers to begin with, but you found your throat turning dry as his strong, nimble fingers began undoing his belt—

Sweet blessed Eros—

Kratos kicked his belt aside, his body now as bare as your own. His eyes met yours, his smirk more pronounced, and he stood tall and still, like a soldier for inspection.

“Do I please you?”

There was an undeniable note of smugness in the Spartan’s voice, clearly enjoying your reaction. You felt your face flush again, but found yourself unable to tear your eyes away from the way Kratos’s body moved, the way he towered over you.

Broad shoulders leading down to thick, powerful arms, large hands that could break a man in half, strong, toned thighs, and wide chest, full pectorals your fingers itched to roam over. Muscles rippled with every movement, flexing and contracting in perfect harmony. His lips, normally a harsh line, looked full and inviting, and you found yourself wondering how they would taste on yours.

You licked your lips, forcing your gaze back to Kratos’s eyes. There was a growing heat in them, one that grew as they ran over your form, the sight igniting a spark of heat deep in your belly. Kratos possessed a brutish, almost cruel beauty, but it was beauty nonetheless.

“I don’t know.” You spoke finally. You lifted a hand, slowly, cautiously, until your fingers lightly brushed the toned planes of his abdomen. He inhaled a sharp, quiet breath, his gaze growing hotter as your palm softly slid upwards. “Will you?”

Kratos made a deep, rumbling noise. It took you a moment to register it was a laugh. His large – large – hand suddenly grasped you waist, yanking you hard against his chest. You gasped, your hands splayed against his chest, the heat of his skin fierce enough to burn. Something hot and hard and big pressed against your hip, and fire began to spill in your gut as you looked up to meet Krato’s burning gaze.

“Yes.” He answered, his voice a low, rough promise.

The back of your knees bumped into the soft coral, Krato’s warm, rough palm sliding from your waist to your thigh as you fell backwards. His hips slid between your thighs, his other hand stroking up your side, guiding you into place. You gasped and arched, the solid, heated muscle of his body suddenly so close sending a pulse of anticipation through you.

“Kratos—” His name tumbled from your lips as a gasp, his large, powerful body between your thighs scattering your thoughts in a sharp burst of flame. Kratos made a deep, pleased noise in his chest, leaning down to press his lips against the racing pulse point of your neck. His teeth nipped at your skin, making you gasp and arch against him, your hands grasping his shoulders.

“Hmmmm…” Kratos’s body shook slightly. You realised after a few seconds he was laughing. You flushed, digging your nails into the flesh of his shoulders. He hissed slightly, a flash of naked lust painting his face, and you wrapped your legs tight around his waist, pushing with all your might until he rolled onto his back, you perched on top of him.

He let you, undoubtedly, from the way his eyes darkened deliciously at the sight of you on top of him told you, the way his hands roamed up your sides, coming to cup your breasts, his thumb teasing your nipple. A soft moan escaped you, his touch igniting your skin. He growled, leaning upwards, his mouth pressing hot, opened mouth kisses against your chest, and you whined, bucking on top of him.

His hand slid over your waist, and you felt his arousal, inches away from your centre. Kratos groaned, his hips angling, your fingers digging into your flesh—

“Kratos.” You reached down to brush your fingers against the sharp edge of his jaw. He startled, eyes snapping to yours, and for a moment you thought he might pull away. “I want to watch.” The words tumbled out, the pad of your thumb brushing against the fullness of his lip. “I want to watch your face.”

Kratos stared at you, frozen, his hips stilling. His grip tightened, almost painfully, but he remain still, something blazing in his eyes. You feared you crossed some sort of line, but before you could find words, his large hands were sliding over your hips, guiding you downwards, his hot flesh meeting your slick centre.

A gasp spilled from your lips, your back arched, your entire body quivering at the jolt of sensation. Kratos growled under his breath, his abdomen flexing and contracting, his gaze firmly on yours with the intensity of fire. Your hands grasped at his shoulders, nails digging into thick muscle, and Kratos snapped his hips upwards, filling you so fully and suddenly you cried out, bucking in his grip.

Merciful fucking Eros—

“Hold.” Kratos hissed through gritted teeth, hands, rough and large and strong, gripped your thighs, holding them at either side of his waist. His breathing quickened, the powerful muscle of his arms tight and flexing. You ran your hands down his chest and up again, fire spilling deep in your belly at the feeling of his body so close but closer you wanted him closer.

“Kratos.” You gasped his name, arching your hips, needing him to move, needing him deeper. “Kratos, please—” You caught the faintest flutter in his eyelids, the slightest bucking of his hip in response to yours, a groan sounding from somewhere deep in his chest. The cracks in his control made your blood boil deliciously, your hands grabbing his shoulders, squeezing as you pushed further against him. “Kratos—!”

“Hold.” He spoke louder and more firmly, pulling you roughly against him. His palm touched your face, firm yet surprisingly gentle as his gaze met yours. You startled, staring at him, his gaze locked on yours.

“…hold.” He spoke again, his thumb flickering against your cheekbone, the faintest caress. He said nothing else, but pulled you upwards, holding you so you were face to face, your chest flush with his.

Warmth flooded your cheeks, and other places, and You breathed out, nodding shakily, hands gripping his wide shoulders. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, his hips began to move, and a gasp fell from your lips as fire burned deep, every movement making your nerves sing.

“Kratos…!”

He growled under his breath, lips parting, his hands gripping your thighs as he rolled his hips, once, twice, over and over, each thrust sending lightning searing through your body. Heat, blazing white hot heat bloomed low in your belly, tendrils licking rapidly upwards making you writhe and cry out. “Kratos…! Kratos—!”

Kratos hissed, his back going rigid, his hips stuttering to a brief halt, before his hands grabbed your waist, pulling you roughly down, hips snapping up and down, fast and brutal, a deep, guttural roar spilling from his lips as pleasure began to overwhelm him. The delicious v of his hips shifting with every thrust, the muscles of his abdomen clenching with every movement. The sight and sensations made your stomach clench, and something burst within you, spilling flames everywhere.

“Kratos—!” Your voice rose to a shout, the world burning a sweet, blissful red, everything blurring to a haze has until all you could feel was Kratos’s body against yours. You threw your head back, a wordless scream of intense pleasure spilling from your lips as your climax crashed over you.

Kratos roared, his face buried between your breasts, his mouth hot against your skin, his hips bucking wildly until his own release hit, sending you both tumbling over the edge together.

You and Kratos made love for hours.

The rumours surrounding the God of War stamina had not exaggerated, and you were certain had it not been for your own divine nature you would have been utterly exhausted. Kratos was as determined a lover as he was a warrior, his sole focus seeming to be bringing you to pleasure, with an intensity that threatened to burn you from within.

You eventually collapsed into sweaty tangle of limbs, bodies aching and breathless, your head on Kratos’s chest, his heart thumping rapidly under your ear. His fingers trailed idly up and down your back, so idly you were not certain he was aware he was doing it. He said nothing as he stared up at the canopy, and you said nothing back, not wanting to break the strange, almost peaceful spell you both seemed to have fallen under.

“When will Poseidon return?” Kratos asked after a while, eyes still upwards. You sighed, and aimlessly trailed a fingertip up and down his abdomen, drawing nothings on his skin.

“I do not know. Days, maybe.”

“Hmmm.”

Kratos said nothing else. He rolled on top of you, lightning in his touch, his hips sliding between your thighs, and you both sank into each other once more.

Poseidon would return, days later, as you predicted.

He was surprised to find Kratos in his palace, in his Queen’s gardens, sipping ambrosia while you chatted pleasantly at him about the history of Atlantis. Kratos did not seem to be contributing much to the conversation, but he nodded along patiently, and Poseidon swears he almost catches a hint of a smile on the bloodthirsty Spartan’s face.

Poseidon had expected Kratos to leave, and eyes you suspiciously as he entered the Gardens. You smiled brightly and informed him Kratos had been waiting oh so patiently for him to return. He needed his Conch Shell.

Poseidon kept his shell in some temple or another, and bid Kratos should go there. The God of War simply nodded, and turned to leave the palace without a word to the King of the Seas. As he did, your eye met his, and you caught the faintest hint of a smirk, meant for you.

You returned to the Gardens, which felt a little more like yours once more.

#god of war #kratos #kratos x reader #kratos x female reader #god of war greek era #god of war kratos #god of war x reader #god of war fanfic #god of war fanfiction #gow x reader #god of war kratos x reader

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ltwilliammowett · 2 months

Text

Le naufragé, by Ambroise Louis Garneray (1783–1857)

#naval art #shipwrecked #waves #the sea is a cruel mistress #19th century #age of sail

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player-tag · 5 months

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[cross-posted onto ao3]

It wasn’t like Izzy was going to stay dead.

Who the fuck do these fucking stupid half-assed pirates think they are? Burying him? He was their unicorn, for God’s sake, they said so themselves. They gave him a leg! They ruined Stede’s stupid figurehead so he could walk normally, and he hadn’t cried—he hadn’t—but he’d thought they were okay now.

So why in the good sea’s name was he buried? And buried in dirt, instead of being tossed into the sea like a true pirate? If they were trying to kill him by premature burial, the least they could do was bury him right.

Those incompetent bitches. He was going to kill them, as soon as he got the dirt and insects out of his mouth. They tasted disgusting.

He’d been clawing at the dirt above him for a while now (maybe hours, maybe minutes, you can’t expect him to know when he was trying to preserve oxygen and not die, and plus it didn’t really matter because he was going to get out). Finally, after his fingers had had the skin scratched off of them, and after his nails had turned brown, full of fucking dirt, he saw a patch of light.

The sun! Oh, the glorious sun, he was so happy to see it, for once.

He began trying to sit up, and did so with ease despite being buried for however long. He had core strength, that’s why. Unlike those idiots back on the Revenge, he actually trained his body, and made it fit enough to survive whatever the Cruel Mistress called the Sea threw at him, whether it be storms or fights, cannonballs or, now, he supposes, being buried alive. They hadn’t even pressed the dirt down, which meant it wasn’t dense enough, and he could get easier than you’d want from a grave.

Though, he supposes they didn’t expect him to rise from the dead. Or maybe they wanted to make it easier? He wouldn’t know. All of them were idiots.

The first thing that makes it out of the grave is his hand: it sticks up completely, as if reaching for the sky and the sun, wanting to grab it, and for some reason Izzy imagines an undead creature doing it, and he imagines how Roach or Frenchie would call it something idiotic, like… he doesn’t know, ‘zimzam’, or something of the sort? Izzy doesn’t know, he's not like them.

(Though maybe he wishes he was.)

He grabs whatever is near the grave, and pulls himself up, up,up. Until his head bursts out of the dirt and he can open his eyes and actually see, observe the almost barren island around him, with a rundown looking house—more like a shabby, run-down shed, really, in the near distance. He watches as the sky clears and becomes blue, and as the sun shines on his face, and doesn't that feel nice? He appreciates some of Bonnet’s enthusiasm for life in that spare moment.

Which is obviously completely ruined when he turns around and sees his unicorn leg, which had been turned into a cross.

“I’m fucking Jewish,” he says, exasperated, and most certainly done. Of course they wouldn’t know that about him. The crew of the Revenge could barely remember his last name, and he’d never told them he was Jewish anyways, and of course Ed wouldn’t remember, that bitch.

He’s crawling out of that grave, and then he’s pulling apart the ropes on the grave marker, freeing his leg from that symbol. It takes a second to readjust the leg: it’s difficult when he’d been buried for however long, and his arms ache from disuse.

He’s completely out of the grave now, though, so that’s a plus. He’s sitting on the grass, and he’s close to the sea, and it’s nice and quiet and serene, and he thinks he could get used to this. Maybe he won’t have to see Ed or Stede or any of those others anyways (but maybe he still wishes he could see them, he really does).

The peace, obviously, doesn’t last.

“Izzy?” And it's so soft, so concerned, so, so, achingly longing. “You bitch,” he says, turning around, and seeing, ten feet away, Stede and Ed standing there, watching him, dressed completely unlike themselves (what have they gotten themselves into, this time?).

“You bitches,” he modifies and, glaring, he says, “I’m Jewish.”

#ofmd #ofmd s2 #ofmd s2 spoilers #our flag means death #ofmd fanfic #ofmd drabble #izzy hands #ofmd izzy #stede bonnet #edward teach

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fishnets-fingers · 1 year

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Out by the Docks

“Did you um- have you… touched yourself more to the thought of me?” She asks him quietly.

“What do you think, hmm?” He responds with a smile. He had come on his stomach and hands an embarrassing amount of times replaying that night. It was pathetic how much she had him in a chokehold.

“I would like to kiss you,” she says, scooting forward to slot her knees between his. “Would you like that too?”

He nods, tongue licking his lips in anticipation as his heart kicks up again. The butterflies start flapping about in his tummy as she leans in with puckered lips.

“I said that I’d like to kiss you not that you could,” he explains when she looks at him with furrowed brows. “You gotta ask me nicely, if you want me to kiss you,” he teases, kissing the tip of her nose.

“You want me to beg?” She scoffs.

PAIRING - spy!harry x princess!y/n

a/n - the long awaited part two to forbidden hours. it was initially supposed to be a small blurb that somehow became twice as long. thank you for waiting and i hope you like this part as much as i do. if you have any requests or ideas for the next part, let me know. as always, like and reblog. feed back is not only appreciated but much welcome. happy reading!

Word Count - 6.2k (not proofread)

MASTERPOST

.....

பரிசோதி. Examine. Harry runs a check of his catamaran for the fourth time in the past hour. Sailing was something he grew up doing and that did not mean he took it nonchalantly. It was not an easy task in the slightest; if one was not cognizant and five steps ahead of every single aspect of it, the sea would consume them. In a lot of ways it was an intricately woven tapestry of mastering the control of being at the mercy of the ocean. Two completely opposing beliefs somehow meshing together - like acrobats swinging from one side to another, it might seem like they are at the mercy of gravity and the ropes beneath them but they spend their lives mastering and learning how to taunt the inevitable forces without succumbing to it.

“The sea is a cruel mistress, Harry,” his father would often bark at him when he got one of the knots wrong. Which would then result with him doing a plethora of knots over the next few days until his father was convinced he could hold his own with the crew. He looks around, one more time, for good measure. His oars were greased up, the fabric of the sail - albeit dirty - was without tears, he had more ropes than necessary, a smaller set of paddles in case he’d lost it, food to hold him over, and a can of water.

Late, he sighs, sitting in his boat that was bobbing along with the lazy waves. The sun was over his head shining radiantly casting small shadows. It was past noon and no one had come to hand him the message from Princess Y/N. Did she forget? Can’t be. Maybe the stupid guard is lost, besides, the docks were vast. He reaches into his bag grabbing a fistful of puffed rice and throws it in the water, making the fish - that were previously eating the algae from the sides of his boat - flounder up and nibble on the white flakes. He looks over at their streamlined moist bodies flipping over others as they ravenously eat the floating white specs and his hands absentmindedly tightens the knot that was anchoring his boat to the side of the docks.

“Took you long enough. Have you no regard for people’s time,” he grumbles, as a shadow blocks the beam out light illuminating the iridescent scales of the fish.

“That’s no way to speak to the Princess,” she replies, with a hint of mirth in her tone. He whips his head around to find Y/N towering over him on the wooden dock.

“I apologise, your highness. I did not know it was you,” his cheeks tinge with pink as he vaults over to the wooden structure.

Y/N did not look like a member of the royal family today. There were no silks or expensive jewelry adorning her body, her hair was not done up high with flowers. It didn’t make her any less captivating in the slightest with her raven hair slicked back in a low bun, a red cotton saree with the long end twisted around her waist to make a belt to keep the top half of the saree intact since she was not wearing a blouse, and a small black dot in between her eyebrows. She had clasped an oxidised silver ornament around her neck and a small ring around her septum. She looked like she’s spent her whole life here out by the docks rather than the giant mansions with sprawling gardens.

“You - um - look-” Harry starts.

“I’m in disguise, Mr. Styles.” She answers, pulling out a blank parchment paper and hands it over to him. “I apologise for being late. I had stopped by the bazaar.”

“The bazaar, Princess Y/N,” he repeats, looking over her shoulder to find it empty.

“Having guards following me sort of defeats the purpose of the disguise, Harry.” She catches on as his eyes scan behind her.

“Of course.” He looks at the parchment in his hands turning it around. “It’s blank.”

“It is.”

“I thought I needed to sail to Lanka to deliver a message, ma’am,” he mumbles, looking down at the sheet of yellowed pulp running his thumb over to feel for any creases or indentations.

“Ma’am,” Y/N snorts out. “Really? You’re calling me a ma’am after what happened the other night,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief.

“It’s protocol,” he tells her blankly.

“Was it also protocol to crowd me against my desk in the middle of the night?” She arches her brow, enjoying the way his face flushes with colour. “The message is intended for the recipient’s eyes only. Karthi will know what to do.”

He nods, folding the paper and slotting it into a small zipped pocket of his dhoti pants. “I should set sail soon,” he informs her, making his way into his vessel. “Looks like a storm’s heading this way.”

“How can you tell, Mr. Styles,” she asks, stepping forward to look over at the horizon to find rain laden grey clouds but is instead met with tiny fluffy cotton akin ones dotting the powdery blue skies.

“I can smell it. There was a ring around the moon last night and red skies at dawn. It probably won’t break ground until a few days.”

“Very impressive,” she praises, looking down at him. “Here, I bought you some food for your travel,” she shifts through her linen bag that was draped over her shoulder. She pulls out a box of rambutan and some partially cooked spiced lentils.

“Thank you, Princess.” He stashes it next to his metal box of food supply. “Do you come to town often in your disguise?”

“Not very-” she is interrupted by the sound of people marching and a loud whistle followed by a booming voice asking the soldiers to fall in a single file. “That’s the admiral,” she whispers, eyes bulging out of her head. “Fuck. If he catches me I’m so dead.”

“Hop on,” Harry tells her.

“What?!?” She whisper shouts at him. “I have to head back.”

“I’ll take you to the palace. I know a way - right behind your garden. Get in,” Harry offers, coming over to the side and holding onto the side of the dock.

Y/N balks, looking down at his rickety catamaran. The structure looked like it was going to wither away in a few days - calling it old would be an insult at this point. Prehistoric was more so the right word. The ropes were frayed and seemed used. She is pretty sure the thing was built before she was born. No way in hell, she shakes her head.

“Princess,” he urges, as the sounds of footfall grow closer and closer.

“I’ll walk back. Maybe I can slip past them,” she tells him.

“It sounds like twenty men, how are you going to slip past all of them,” he shakes his head. “You’ll only be dragging me down with you.”

“I’ve slipped in and out of the castle loads of times,” she reasons.

“There’s only one way out of here, unless you fancy swimming,” Harry points out. “Y/N,” he insists, holding out one of his hands. She lets out a sigh and grips his palm as she climbs into the bobbing catamaran. Once she gets situated, Harry grips onto the oars and starts speedily rowing from the dock, away from the bay.

Harry looks over her every so often at Y/N as he steadily paddles his boat away. She was curled into herself, looking very unsure with her hands wrapped around her arms as she looked back at the disappearing docks. When the vessel bobs due to a sudden current she pales, gripping onto the wooden plank of her seat firmly, eyes never drifting back to the pier. He’s never seen her like that, and he certainly did not peg her to experience trepidation, uncertainty, and fret. The memory of the first time he met her was etched into the deep recesses of his brain.

It was eight months since he’d seen her for the first time. He had quickly become fast friends with the Crown Prince - her older brother - who had invited him to train within the palace grounds. He made his way into the halls of the building in wonder of tall ceilings and intricately carved woodwork and artwork and was led to the sparring arena. Vikram was waiting for him sans armour - he believed that having armour on while practice lets one have a certain air of nonchalance with the training thereby removing the stakes. His moves and close combat skills were immediately applauded by the members there with the Princes - Vikram and Karthi - asking a guard to take him to the stables, so he could pick his own horse and learn how to ride. That’s when Y/N walked into the arena, dressed immaculately in a cream silk saree and a colourful pashmina wrapped around her shoulders. There was no jewelry on her body other than a pearl choker and her hair was pulled back into a loose braid. There were four other handmaidens following her, who’d stopped at their tracks by the opened double doors as they giggled at the sweat laden covered men.

“What?” She stalked forward and snapped at her brothers.

“Good day to you too, little girl,” Vikram mocks.

“I have far more important things to do than entertain you, Vikram.”

“Don’t get snippy with me because I pulled you out of philosophy class -”

“A class you should be attending,” Karthi notes, throwing his arm around his sister’s shoulder. “One word to the Queen Mother and you won’t see the outside of the library for the next month,” the two giggle together.

“Books don’t teach you anything, combat does. Anyway don’t go ganging up on me,” Vikram raises his hands in submission. “I just called you to meet my new friend,” he cocks his head to the side. “Y/N meet Harry Edwards Styles.”

Harry feels her gaze pierce right through him, her eyes roamed up and down his body. Being scrutinised made him straighten his back upright - mostly in a way to show off his stature. After a few moments her hickory eyes finally settled at his jade orbs. “Mr. Styles,” she greets him with a polite smile. “You must be the sea merchant who’d bought the crates of berry seeds.”

“Your highness,” he bows. “The sea merchant is my father.”

“Ah, makes sense. You seem awfully young to master navigating the treacherous waters of the Pacific.”

“Thank you, Princess,” he mutters, cheeks heating up at her calling him young.

“That was hardly a compliment, Mr. Styles. I was simply noting your lack of experience,” she lifts up her chin, keeping it parallel to the floor. “I understand from what my brothers have told me you plan on riding to battle with Vikram.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“As noble as your intentions are, how are we to know your allegiance lies with the flag of Chozhamandalam? You landed here seven- eight months ago, am I wrong? I don’t doubt that you’ve seen many kingdoms in your father’s quests, why are you choosing to devote your life to mine? Why not the Crown of England, the land of you and your forefathers?”

“Y/N,” Vikram states firmly. “You are insulting my friend by insinuating things.”

“I’m not insinuating anything, Vikarm. I’m simply doing the grunt work for you like always,” she bites back.

“Stop th-”

“Well she’s not wrong to ask this, brother. Especially after what happened the last time,” Karthi notes.

“You two never stop throwing what happened ten years ago in my face every single time,” Vikram gets frustrated.

“Your highnesses,” Harry interrupts their squabble. The princess staggered him in a lot of ways, she just met him but it seemed that she had some sort of an upper hand with him and it didn’t stem from her lineage. She seemed to know a lot about him from growing up in different parts of the world to the seeds his father’s crew arrived with. Surely royalty had no business knowing inventory of all the consignments at the ports; he’s sure they had people for that. His accent once thick and pronounced - resembling the dialect of his mother’s village - had now got muddled up spending time with his father’s crew men and it’s settled into a transatlantic hybrid; is that how she pegged him to be English?

Unlike most women he’s met, Princess Y/N looks directly at him - through him in a manner of speaking - holding eye contact until their exchanges come to a halt. It felt as if she was giving you her utmost attention at all times, but it was also unnerving because Harry felt like she was also playing a game of chess. Slotting individuals in their designated squares after she thoroughly sized someone up. She was still breathtaking as the day he first laid eyes on her but seeing her up close with her gaze trained on him, made him gulp down the nerves that made him feel like she was a step above him, as he spoke, “I understand the need for Princess Y/N to ask me those questions… If I may,” he looks at her brothers flanking her sides for approval.

“Please do, Mr. Styles.” She motions with her hand for him to continue.

“You are right, Princess Y/N, I have spent very little time in your dynasty as compared to everyone in this room but it does not take away my love for the people. You see, I have seen many places sailing with my father but almost all of them considered me a passerby - especially countries where people looked different to me. I have seen people treat people like sewage based on the colour of their skin, the faith they practice, or the wealth they’ve inherited. The first day I came to these shores, unloading heavy crates at the port, an old woman - who was walking off with a basket of fish - came up to the crew and noticed that we looked worn out and offered up some of the fresh catch so we could cook and eat. The captain denied it, but she insisted we must eat and somehow managed to have my father and the crew over to her house. She cooked for us. A woman who we did not know up until that day, invited strangers into her house and made us a hearty meal. So, to answer your question, my allegiance lies with the people, not a flag.”

“Satisfied?” Vikram smirks, taunting Y/N by bumping his shoulder on hers.

“And as for England, I haven’t been there in forever. I don’t have any ties that bind me other than it being the country my mother resided in.”

“Seems like you have your way with words, Mr. Styles,” she smiles up at him. Harry can’t help the way satisfaction brews in his chest in response to her smile.

“Oh, Y/N, Harry is good with swords, too,” Karthi tells her.

“That so?” She arches her brow. “Now that is something I need to witness,” she says, walking over and picking one of the swords that was mounted on the wall.

She unsheathes it, swishing it once to get a sense of its weight, before stepping into the circle. “I like a good challenge. Hope you deliver,” she tells him.

“I don’t quite understand,” he says, looking around the room for signs that it was an elaborate plan, only to be met with none. “Princess Y/N, I’m not going to fight you,” he steps back.

“Why not?” She arches her brows, pulling off the pashmina that was wrapped around herself and tossing it onto the readily waiting hands of a scurrying handmaiden.

“Because women do not fight, ma’am,” he mumbles, and both Princes snicker at his response.

“Do not? Or not allowed to.” She challenges him.

“It is not what I mean-”

“Do you dare disobey my orders?” Y/N cuts him off. “Now fight. Don’t let up easy because you think women can’t hold their own. If you do, I’ll make you disappear without a trace.”

He nods, squaring his shoulders and hoisting up his own sword. Far be it for him to disobey the Princess Royal. He’ll give her the fight she was asking for.

He advances first, much to his surprise. He expected her to charge at him but she gilded around the periphery matching his moves, unwilling to attack. She swivels his sword to the side and from then their duel mimicked a dance They moved harmoniously, almost like each move was choreographed, both matching each other moves, the sharp end of the blades kissing each other only to be redirected elsewhere. He can’t help but get distracted by the way her supple skin feels when she brushes past him, and the way her scent niggles his heart. He wonders if she feels it too, but no cues that signaled him. They were synchronized - strike for strike, manoeuvre for manoeuvre, a sharp turn for a turn. But when Harry notices, her eyes darting to his feet, he figures out her next move and backs away when she advances forward trying to trip his feet with her own as her sword swivels around. It happens seamlessly, Harry twists around to trap her arm that’s clutching the sword and lunges forward to press the tip of his scimitar to her side of her throat.

He expects her to look up at him with surprise and even a hint of admiration - both looks he was no stranger to from women - but there was no sense of defeat in her face. Instead, her eyes glinted at him as her lips tugged up in a smug smile. His brows knit in confusion and he follows her eyes, feeling a pointy object push against his sternum - harder this time. Y/N’s holding up a small shiv, which she tugged from its sheath tucked against her waist, angled directly for his heart.

“A stalemate,” she informs him.

“How?” He asks, suddenly very aware that he’s got her pressed against him in front of a dozen people. She looks even more beautiful up close, with a bead of sweat running down her temple, her honeyed skin flushed from exertion, her full cheeks, flecks of gold in her eyes under the sunlight, a tiny crescent shaped birthmark on the corner of her chin, lips like a flower petal.

He’s almost reluctant to let her get away from his grasp when she steps backward, immediately missing her warmth on him. A soldier collects the sword from her, before she tucks her shiv away in its holder. She explains, while draping her pashmina the handmaiden scurried over to give, “You got cocky. You thought you figured out my next move and thereby acted in a manner that made your vision tunnel to the sword in my hand. While you celebrated your victory before your sword even touched my throat, you failed to realise that I had a shiv pointed at your heart.”

Her loud exhale of relief snaps him out of his reverie, her shoulder relaxes a smidge but Harry notices that she’s still tightly wound. Her arms are crossed protectively around herself with her knees towards her chest. She should look out of place in the catamaran he’d bought a few months ago at a bargain - bear boned structure unlike the things she was used to - but she didn’t. Almost like the wooden plank in front of him was made for her. She didn’t look out of place, just a tad nervous. “We’re in the clear,” she declares, once the pier completely disappears from view as he rows over to another bay nearby. It was rocky and jagged, lined with palm and coconut trees, dense with shrubbery sprouting all over the sand with an odd dollop of violet flowers breaking the monotony of green.

“Told you I knew a place,” he smirks. “Besides,” he remarks, leaning backward to get more movement with his row as he navigates away from the rocks and towards the shore. “It’s the least I could do. Disguising yourself and coming all the way to the docks to give me food and bid me farewell.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Y/N scoffs. “I didn’t sneak out of the palace for you.”

“Why do I find that hard to believe?”

“Stop being so cocky,” she admonishes him as her eyes fall on the way the muscles on his arm flex and bulge as he moves the oars. The veins on his hands looked delicious with the way he gripped the oars as he tugs and pulls back as he moves.

“Can’t help it, Princess.” He chuckles. “Especially with you drooling over my arms.”

Y/N feels the heat scorch her cheeks from his comment, immediately tearing her eyes away. “Shut up, Harry.”

“How was your trip to the capital? Did you confront your Uncle?” He inquires, asking her about the incident that led him to break into her chamber.

“Busy. The capital is never not busy. Dad’s sick,” she adds the last part quietly.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” There has been a hushed talk among the people about the King’s decline in health. Stories of people coming down from the far East and embedding needles in his flesh, and letting leeches draw impure blood spread like wildfire.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. People contract illnesses all the time. I’m sure it will pass.” She turns to the shores, eyes scanning to see if there are people around and Harry does the same, even if he knows that this area of the bay is always deserted. “I didn’t talk to my Uncle,” she answers.

“Why not? Won’t it be best to put a stop to it right now?”

“Why would I let him know that I know what he’s plotting?” She shrugs. “It’s not about putting a stop to it, it’s how you do it. I didn’t talk to him. I asked to meet with the governors instead. Told them it was time we start looking for brides for the future King. With Dad’s health, we must be prepared for Vikaram’s coronation and it would not be a good look, if he did not have a queen by his side at age of twenty five.”

“That helps how?”

“Easy. While they were busy squabbling over what kingdom to approach for talks of courtships, with fear brewing in their chest about the possibility of the Dynasty having added support from another kingdom. I’d simply said that I do not wish that and I would much rather prefer that the Crown Prince marry a Chola woman of nobility - one that knows our ways and our people. I’d pointed out that many of the governors - especially the ones who were meeting with my Uncle - themselves have daughters who were fit to be the future queen,” she smiles, satisfied with herself.

“Smart. There’s no way they’re going to support your Uncle now. Pitting swindling tax money and being the power that comes with being father of a future queen. Why would they not want to be the in-law of the Crown?”

“Exactly. You seed the idea of climbing up the ladder, and they are putty. There’s nothing more seductive than power. My Uncle’s support ought to dwindle.”

She is a good politician and the thought makes his chest swell in pride. Harry will never understand royal life. He covets the glitz and glamour that comes with hitting the genetic lottery but the more he spent time with the heirs the more he learnt that it was all exhausting mind games, endless duties to fulfil along with conducting yourself the way people deemed fit. It must suck. Uncle who doted on you growing up is the same one that's planning to overthrow you all this time, he thinks. He pulls the oars in when he feels the boat make contact with the sand bed, jolting the two in the wooden structure.

Y/N lurches forward from the sudden movement, hands coming to grip his forearms to brace herself. “Sorry,” she mumbles, straightening up and squaring off her shoulders.

“Are you sure you didn’t come all the way to the docks to not see me, Princess?” He teases.

“You think highly of yourself, Harry,” she laughs, reaching in her linen bag and shifting through it.

“How could I not? Besides look at where you got me,” he gestures to the scenery around them. It was just the two of them on his catamaran by the shore, the sun shining high up in the sky, and a cool breeze makes it way to them making the leaves and branches of the trees dance in its rhythm. Awfully convenient, he wonders as they bask in the solitude of the crashing waves and the screech of birds.

“I got you?” She scoffs, raising her eyebrows. “If I recall correctly, it was you who pulled me into your boat. So, who got who alone?”

A right menace, he shakes his head. “Why are you here then, Y/N?” He hopes it’s to continue where they’d left off that night, his body pressed up unbelievably close to her. He doesn’t miss sparing a glance - when she tucks a stray stand of hair behind her ear, inadvertently moving the fabric of her saree exposing the soft skin of her belly rising and falling as she breathes. Even without all the fanfare around her appearance, she never looked less gorgeous.

She opens her palm, revealing a few brown candies wrapped in thin butter paper. A candy he knew all too well. It was popular in the port town. Sweet tamarind candy. “For these,” she admits. “My family thinks I should not be eating peasant treats. So, whenever I come to town to check on how the people are doing and how the children are responding with the school’s curriculum, I make sure to buy this in bulk from the market and stash it in my room.”

“You do it often?”

“Not as often as I like,” she admits, stuffing them back in her bag.

“Didn’t peg you as a sneak. Why not come to check on the people as the princess?”

“Because people don’t talk to me. They talk to the Princess. The crown. If they know I’m coming, they don’t see me, they see the ostentatious display of wealth and put on the best version of themselves. I want my people to talk to me, unfiltered as possible.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t been caught,” Harry claims. “It’s not the best disguise, Y/N. I can see right through it.”

“That’s because you actually bother to look at me. You’d be surprised how little people actually look into my eyes. People don’t pay attention to people they don't care about, especially ones that are from a lower caste and don’t draw too much attention to themselves. You’d be surprised how many people bumped into me today without so much as an apology.” She laughs, the tinkling sound cutting right through the monotonous sound of waves carding against the shore. “Besides, I’ve got my lady-in-waiting covering for me and my guards are standing outside the door, thinking I’ve taken to the bed,” she shrugs.

“Next time let me know.” The words tumble out of Harry’s mouth before his brain can comprehend. “Can’t have people bumping into you.”

A smile blooms across her face. “I’ll survive. Thanks for the offer though,” she replies, pursing her lips together in an attempt to refrain from telling him how cute he looked.

“You know,” Harry starts, taking one of her hands in both of his. “I was kinda hoping you came here and demand that you continue where we left off,” he confesses, green eyes flicking up at hers to gauge her reaction.

Y/N can’t help but reel at the sensation of his slightly calloused thumb drawing circles on the back of her hand. “What if I did?”

“I think I would like that very much.” Harry gives her a shy smile. “Was kinda beating myself up for not kissing you that night.”

“I didn’t know you liked me. Much less in a sexual manner-”

“I think it’s more than lust, Y/N,” he confesses, bringing her hand up and brushing his lips against her knuckles.

“Did you um- have you… touched yourself more to the thought of me?” She asks him quietly, hoping that he did not bed other women in town after that night.

“What do you think, hmm?” He responds with a smile. He had come on his stomach and hands an embarrassing amount of times replaying that night. It was pathetic how much she had him in a chokehold.

“I would like to kiss you,” she says, scooting forward to slot her knees between his. “Would you like that too?”

He nods, tongue licking his lips in anticipation as his heart kicks up again. The butterflies start flapping about in his tummy as she leans in with puckered lips. He backs up in the very last second when his lips were an inch away from hers, making her headbutt him in the process.

“You want me to beg?” She scoffs.

“Not necessarily but it won’t hurt to throw a please in there,” he mutters against the flamed skin of her cheek as he trails wet kisses up to the corner of her eye.

Her breath washes over him as she sighs, “Fine. Just this once though, don’t get used to it. Kiss me, pl-”

He cuts her off, smearing his lips with hers. Her lips were softer than he could have dreamt. His hands immediately move to cup her cheeks, tilting her head, so their noses weren’t smushed. He holds her delicately, like she was made of the finest crystal. Their eyes flutter close as their body relaxes into each other, lips moving in sync like they were destined to do this. Her palms slowly creep up his chest, resting firmly at the crook of his neck, grinning at the way she pulls a pleasured hum from him. Kissing someone never felt this right to Harry. They do it once, one more time, and another time before their lungs force them apart to pull in air. He leans in to peck her swollen lips again, silently thanking the ocean for bringing him to her.

Harry was right, he doesn’t think he had it in him to stop now that he had a taste. He reaches forward, wrapping a strong arm around the small of her back, while the other cradles her bum, pulling her onto his lap eliciting a quiet gasp from her. Y/N doesn’t waste time connecting their lips again. Only this time, Harry swipes his tongue across her bottom lip - seeking permission. His hands grip her in place at her ribs, resting right below her breasts. She opens up for him willingly and he wiggles his tongue into her mouth, licking hers hesitantly. She moans into his mouth, fingernails pressing crescents on the defined muscles of his back. He grunts out, feeling the heat pool from his chest and making its way south to his throbbing cock. They slot together perfectly, Y/N can’t help but grind down to help relieve the pressure building up in her tummy.

“Do you like it?” He pulls back checking in, talking against her lips as they pant against each other.

“Very much,” she answers, fluttering her eyes open as her forehead rests against his. “Am I satisfactory in this kissing ordeal?”

Harry lets out a boyish laugh, the one that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle and the dimples in his cheek deepen. “You are heavenly, Princess.”

Y/N gives him a satisfactory smile. “You have a scar here,” she notes as her eyes focus on the small cut under his left eyebrow.

“Got it from a fishing hook when I was nine,” he tells her. They’d been on this ship for a month now and Harry was getting restless, so he’d convinced one of the crew men to teach him to throw a line. Instead of waiting for the instructions, he simply grabbed the pole and whipped it around, resulting in a gash and his father incessantly yelling at him for being careless.

Her fingers feather over the mark, ghosting over the skin. Her touch was so gentle that Harry wondered if she was afraid that blood might ooze out if she put any pressure. He goes to tease her but she beats him to it, pressing her lips to the scar. She lingers breathing in his scent - a musky woody one underlying the smell of the salty sea.

Y/N’s gesture makes his breath hitch, a lump forming in his throat. The delicate nature of her action, knocked the wind out from his solar plexus. He didn’t realise he craved tenderness until now, there was no one to kiss his boo boos on the boat. He barely registered the pain back when the fish hook tore through his flesh, instead he was apologising to his father telling him that he’ll be better while pressing a muslin cloth to the wound. No one has been this tender with me. “Y/N,” he breathes out as a single tear rolls from his eye, “Thank you.”

She doesn’t understand why Harry’s crying as he thanks her but she gives him a comforting smile thumbing away the tear as he sniffles. He kisses her again, slipping his tongue into her mouth as they both sigh in satisfaction. That’s how they stay for the next hour, tangled together as desire simmers in their nerve endings. Lips caressing each other, as their tongue prods and rolls around in each other's mouth. Harry’s hands rests on her hips, fingers finding the skin of her stomach rubbing circles into them as Y/N tests Harry by making him moan as she tugs on the curls at the nape of his neck. The catamaran lazily bobs in the water not wanting to disrupt the two, like the ocean understood that they were going to part with each other soon. But the sky had other plans, a distant rumble of thunder jolting them apart, reminding them of reality. Y/N shuffles back to her seat despite his grumbled protests, reaching in her bag to hand him some copper coins, “For your trouble,” she explains.

“You’re paying me for kissing you?” He chuckles.

“No! It’s for rowing me here from the docks.”

“I didn’t do it for the money.”

“I know but I insist,” she states firmly.

He examines the coins in his palm and laughs. “I don’t understand how you haven’t been recognized in the markets. These are the shiniest copper coins I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he comments.

Harry’s right. The Princess had no use for copper coins, she only used gold. The coppers denominated smaller values of money and had no place among royalty. She usually goes out of her way to request some from the mint in the capital, telling her father that she needs them to throw into wells when she makes wishes. Y/N thinks wishes were lame and if her father knew her any better, he’d catch on to the fact that she had been using the coppers to visit the markets. People rarely had brand new coins because it dulled and discoloured from use. No would have so many on them at once.

Their farewell was brief. Harry helps her to the shore, telling her how to sneak back into her castle. She interrupts him when he lets her know that there's a spot - one that’s covered in vines and deceptive to the untrained eye - low in the stone back wall of the butterfly garden of her grounds, telling him that she was the one who designed it to aid in her sneaking out. He pulls her in a long tight hug, breathing in her floral scent as he mumbled goodbyes against the column of her throat he was busy trailing kisses on. It wasn’t lost on Harry that Y/N was trying to sneak some of the candy she’d purchased into his pockets.

“Show this to the soldiers,” she pulls out her golden ring, which bore the sigil of her family. “You won’t need to sneak in. Tell them I sent you and show them the ring, they’ll take you to Karthi.”

He nods, slipping the ring on his pinky, before kissing her with reckless abandon as his hands move down her back, grabbing a fistful of her bum and squeezing it. Y/N laughs, poking his side before getting on her toes again, to plant a kiss on his cheek. He wades into the waves, pushing the boat further out into the open water.

“Be careful, Harry,” she calls out from the shore when he hops on the boat. “You know with the storm and all. Don’t want you getting lost in the middle of the ocean,” she jokes weakly but even from far Harry could tell that her eyes were full of concern.

“Promise,” his voice rings out with sincerity. “Got someone to come home to now, haven’t I, Princess?” He teases one last time, giving her a wave.

#harry syles #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles x reader #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #harry styles x y/n #harry styles y/n #harry styles yn #harry styles x you #spy!harry #princess!reader #princess!y/n #fishnets-fingers #COME SAY HI #please leave tags if you reblog #out by the docks

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