Could You Write Something Fun About Reid Dating A Master/PhD Student And Everyone Is Like “how Could

Why do hippos look like the epitome of the word 'blub'

naomi osaka's US open r1 outfit!

Fawn Princess~ Tokugawa Ieyasu x Reader

Summary: Having reached a certain age, Ieyasu, as a Lord, is pressured into taking a wife. He absolutely despises the duties of nobles, though he begrudgingly has to accept. Little does he know, he was going to meet a woman like no other; A woman so special, that you had to be born under a lucky star to have the privilege of meeting her.

“Lord Tokugawa, the Princesses have arrived.” Ieyasu’s most trusted servant came by to his study, meekly announcing him that the beautiful young maidens have all came at his castle. “Make sure they are comfortable and all the pleasantries. I don’t feel like coming yet.” the man grumbled, not even bothering to raise his eyes up from his medicine study.

Without another word, the servant exited the study and went to do everything as instructed. He was old and weary, but he was the one to know Lord Tokugawa since he was young - A little anti-social and introverted, and perhaps his social skills would be in need of a little honeying, but his heart was golden, and in the right place - After all, an innocent baby fawn would never stay around so willingly around an evil man, yes?

Ieyasu was never truly interested in women, and he despised his duty as a noble; having to marry, to continue to bloodline lineage and so on - He didn’t have time for all this! Medicine was ever developing at such a rapid pace, how was he supposed to keep up with it, if all he is supposed to do is to exchange meaningless pleasantries with mindless, shallow women?

It wasn’t necessarily that he blamed the maidens, it wasn’t as though they had any say in it. In fact, Ieyasu felt pity for them, like he pitied caged animals. They had no free will of their own, and if they dared rebel or stray away from the path already dictated to them, they were reprimanded, or worse, punished, to the point of receiving corporeal scoldings. It was cruel, the fate of a woman, and he never did wish to be a lady - Petite, slender, frail and forced to do nothing more than to be a beauty and please her lord husband, seducing him into sleeping with them and creating heirs.

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–And when my hands are bloodied—

Oh darling, would you stay?

Paul Atreides x Reader

Summary: There are always greater hands at play when you dance with Kings and noblemen. The greater hands usually belong to women.

Warning(s): Sorta dark story, I think. Talks of Sexual abuse, cheating, eventual murder, pregnancy and eventual descriptive childbirth. Mediocre Smut that includes: Soft Dom!Paul, fingering, teasing, grinding.

Notes: King Paul :) Queen Reader :) Part one! This is 9k words, vaguely based on GOT, like vibes okay, mentions of dragons n shit. Also look, I know my records with part twos but I couldn't post this fic all at once, my doc was slowing down 😭

Tart. There's a cheer from somewhere deep in the hall, a jostle of movement at his side as his father joins the group of merry men singing. Leto stands from his seat, rousing another cheer and a loud laugh from his mother.

Paul is surrounded by joy— drowning it and all he can think about is how tart his wine is. How the meat on his plate is too red and bleeds when poked. He glances at his father and Leto sways to the tune and the sweet voices of the bards. They're barely heard over the shout of others joining in and the words are lost to him but his father shouts them with the joy of a young child; Téir abhaile riú, téir abhaile riú!

Jessica is mid-laugh when Leto grabs her hands and pulls her from her chair. Her face flashes and a splash of surprise and embarrassment is all Paul can catch before his father pulls her to the ballroom floor with the mass of dancing bodies. Paul watches after them for a moment and he sighs, this life suits them. To be free of responsibilities, titles, and Kingdoms wearing them down. Leto and Jessica Atreides were no longer King and Queen of Caladan, where their soldiers' shouts were as loud as crashing waves and stronger than the tide. They are now King Father and Queen Mother, beloved by all and feared by most– even though they spent most of their days by the seaside with the princess, his sister, simply living.

Long ago, Paul thought he would never envy that lifestyle. Since he was young, he had always desired more— to be more than a future Duke and lord of Caladan. While his home was already gold plated, Paul dreamed of sharing his wealth with the common folk, of having enough sway to do so without having others look down their noses at him. But now that he has it, now that he's King, he sees it's not that easy. It's not all gold and crowns and gatherings so great that floors shake under their weight. There are a lot more assassinations than anyone ever mentioned, a lot more scheming and planning. There's a lot of… nothing as King. His father had left him in a good spot but money didn't grow on trees and it didn't just appear in the coin masters’ pocket. The money came from the common folk, as much as any noble-born tried to deny, it was the truth. Without them fattening the Crowns’ pockets with a large portion of gold from their livestock and crop sales, they'd be nothing.

Paul reaches for his wine, casting a weary glance around the hall. He wonders how much gold this wedding cost King Áed, he wonders how much it set him back on other expenses, and if his people loathed him for it. He takes another sip of his wine and he battles to keep his face untwisted at the taste. Surely, if the common folk knew their gold was being spent on disgusting wine, there'd be a revolt in the streets. He can see it now; Áed Mercer, third of his name and King of Somnus and all its surrounding stars killed on the night of his wedding and his offense? Buying the worst wine ever made for the bragging rights of the price alone.

There's another cheer, louder than before as King Áed leaves his banquet table in the front of the hall to join the dancing folk. He joins hands with one of the bards, a young boy with braided hair and a wobbly smile and the crowd goes wild as he swings the boy about with a hearty laugh. Paul nearly laughs at the sight but his eyes dart around the crowd searching only to go back to the Kings' table.

Paul has been to plenty of weddings since he was crowned King. He has seen brides so filled with joy they could barely sit still, brides so scared— terrified of their future and their arranged husbands, they did nothing but weep. But you are none of that. It's something out of a painting, he thinks, how your skin is a stunning glow under the hundreds of glow orbs and candles, your hair twisted and braided away from your face and cheeks dusted in gold, you sit stock-still, your face set in disinterest as you watch your husband prance about. Your wedding dress is Mercer red. The color of grizzly bears only found deep in the Somnus mountains— he suspects the cuff of fur hanging off your shoulders is made from that very same bear. It is a pretty thing, your cape; a thick neck of red-brown fur that gives way to rich brown wool, and at the ends of it are embroidered images of your houses. Mercer, 'the Bear' and Solasti, 'the Willow'.

He had only caught a glimpse of it during the wedding ceremony and when he did, he had held back a chuckle. The embroidered bear was stuck forever pawing at the roots of the great willow tree. It fits, he supposes. The Mercer house, royal or not, were drunk fools on their best days and tyrants on their worse while the Solasti house was only steps away from the Bene Gesserit. His mother had mentioned them before, how the house of willows was raised to be cutthroat because they were survived by daughters and not sons— how at one point, they were considered a threat to the Bene Gesserit. But then, the war happened. The Atreides became royal and the empire was crushed in the span of two years. How women who were once feared became mocked for their saying.

‘We do not weep.’

Jessica had told Paul to keep an eye out for them. To always be willing to accept them as an ally, a friend to the Atreides name. She had pulled him close after he sat in on a meeting with his father and whispered in his ear; he should never underestimate a noble house— even if they are small, they are still noble. They still have gold and as long as one had gold, one could fund a war.

Paul is so lost in thought, he barely notices the girl until she's right in his face. She's bent at her waist, her eyes planted on the floor and a silver platter balances easily on her open palm. When she sees him jerk in surprise, there's a puff of breath, a smile pulling at her lips but she doesn't laugh. Still, she doesn't look at him, instead, she extends the platter, her braids swinging with the movement, and presents him with a golden chalice, “From the Queen, your Grace.”

Paul blinks only once before his eyes flicker over to you, you're already watching him, meeting his stare head-on whilst holding your chalice. You smile at him, raising your cup and tilting it towards him with a curious look. He shouldn't take it, he thinks. He thinks of the numerous attempts against his father's life, his own life since becoming King— it is easy to poison things, foods, and drinks especially, but there is something about your smile. How bright it is, how it is your first smile of the night, and it's aimed at him. Paul knows better, truly, but…

His fingers wrap around the chalice, bringing it closer to him, he knows it's going to be sour, and tart as all of the others he's drunk tonight. He brings it to his lips, bracing himself and… and…

It is sweet.

“It is a barbaric practice.” Jessica hisses. Her nails are digging into Leto's arm as she watches only the soberest of the noblemen stand and leave the ballroom. They whisper to each other softly, snickering against themselves as they walk to the royal chambers. “Beyond eons old and it should have died out.”

“The Mercers cling to tradition.” Leto mumbles. “You know this Jessica, they pray to Gods they know to be false, they hunt to sacrifice and they take the traditions of old Kings. This is expected.” Leto pauses, looking at Paul and Paul stares back, trying to keep himself steady. The sweet wine has gone to his head, it only took two— almost three cups and it makes him want to stumble about. It takes a lot of might for him to stand still, even more so to keep his face straight under his father's stare. He wants to laugh, he's so tired he wants to cry, what even are they talking about?

Still, somehow, Leto seems to see through his facade, his lip twitching. “You do not have to go and watch. The Mercers understand that not everyone takes kindly to their tradition.”

Jessica shifts in her place, pulling Leto closer to her. She whispers, more to herself than anyone else but they both hear, “She is barely any older than Paul. She's a child and all those men… just watching. It's horrible.

Paul frowns, the only thing his drunk mind processed was his mother calling him a child. He was twenty-one as of last month, she should know that considering she planned his birthday bash. He opens his mouth to point this out but Leto gives him a look and he seals his lips. The former King snorts at this, covering it with a cough when Jessica glares up at him, “Look, you don't have to do it. I wouldn't do it even if I was a King but I know every man in that room is seen as an ally because they do watch. I'm not saying you have to stay the entire time, hell, you could close your eyes. But we are Atreides and we–”

“Can always use more allies.” He groans. Stars above, the glow orbs are bright, one bobs by his head and he swats it and sends it bouncing away from him. “I’ll do it–” Jessica shakes her head and unlatches from Leto, “Mom–”

“I’ll be on the ship.” She says. She gives both of them a look and Paul feels a shiver run down his spine. “Do not take long. You will not watch the whole thing.” She turns with a snap of her cape and matches out of the room.

Leto murmurs a few more words of encouragement to his son, frowning when Paul blinks at him with heavy lids. He knows this is a bad idea, to send his drunk son stumbling through a castle they barely know but he knows it's even worse to let his wife stew in her anger. Leto's dark eyes flicker around the ballroom, landing on one of the servants who stayed behind for the guest who cared more about drink and food than watching a king fuck his wife, and he flags her down. The girl places down her platter of golden cups and walks over easily, blinking at the duo but bowing at the same.

“Yes?”

Leto gives her simple instructions. Guide Paul to royal chambers. He makes it sound better than it was and Paul snickers whenever his father claims he simply needs help because he's never been here before. He knows he's swaying in his spot and he knows this girl— the very same girl who served him his very sweet wine— could see that just fine. Still, she does as asked, looping arms with Paul and pulling him out of the ballroom. They walk in silence for a few long moments, servants pass them and give them curious looks all while Paul tries to focus on putting one foot in front of the other and not look at the alarming amount of stuffed bears the Mercers’ had in their home. But, after what seemed to be the fourth bear forever stuck in a roaring position, he groans.

“I think I despise them.”

The girl blinks, following his gaze as they slow to a momentary stop, “The bears, Your grace?”

Paul narrows his eyes taking in the large black back in all his furry, almost hideous, glory. Whoever stitched it together and mounted it did not care to make it as pretty as the other ones, probably because it wasn't the favored red the house loved so much. “The bears. The traditions. The wine. The Mercers...” The last part slips before he can stop himself and his heart gives a flip as he looks back to the girl, “Forgive me, I do not mean to speak ill of the ones you serve.”

And at this…? The girl giggles. Her lips twitch but they never pull into a full smile , “You do not offend me if that's what you fear, your Grace. Nor will I go off to tell the Mercer lot what you said. I'm of house Solasti, the Queen is my cousin and I'm only here to serve her.”

Paul notices the similarities now that she mentions it, he should have seen it before, you both share the same shade of skin, the same round nose, and brown eyes. This Solasti girl is pretty almost as pretty as you and Paul wonders if she was any older, would she be in your place instead. The thought leaves as fast as it comes, his stomach rolling with an oddly uncomfortable warmth. Paul opens his mouth and blurts before he can stop himself, “Did you– These traditions–”

“I am glad my cousin and I aren't alone in our hate for them.” She says after a moment, watching his face carefully. “She will remember every face in that room tonight, your grace. Memorize every leering gaze. She will make enemies out of them.” She pulls Paul forward, causing him to stumble after her. He tries to will his body to stop and when that doesn't work, he tries to summon the Voice from deep within him. His senses are dulled, buried deep in sticky mud, under gallons of dark water. He has been drugged, he thinks, no wine should be able to do this.

“The w-wine. Did you..?” He murmurs as she swings open a door and drags him inside. She lets him drop against a dusty old red couch and crouches before him, pushing his hair out of his face and shushing him.

“Only a fool would poison the son of a former Bene Gesserit, your grace.” She says. “Solasti wine is sweet but in its’ sweetness is a potentness that could down dragons.”

“Dragons–? They don't…” His lashes flutter rapidly in his fight to keep them open, his words begin to slur. “They don't exist…”

And at this, the Solasti girl only looks sad. “No, I suppose they don't. Not anymore.” His eyes flutter once more and she rises to her feet, giving him one last once over. “Rest well, Your grace. I shall send for one of your guards to retrieve you.”

“But the King–”

“Will not take offense. He drank more Solasti wine than you.” She snickers. “Probably can't differentiate his arm from his cock. Rest, My King. The stars will continue to light your path.”

Paul doesn't see her leave and doesn't hear it either. He's out before she even makes it to the door.

His mother's anger is a horrible thing. Silent and deadly. Days after the wedding, she stews in it despite his and his father's best efforts. He had tried to explain when Duncan came to pull him from that old dusty room but his mouth was thick with cotton, tongue as heavy as lead and every blink felt like his eyes were filled with sand. He hadn't stayed to watch the King fuck his bride, for stars' sake, he didn't even get a glimpse of that. He was gone for an hour, maybe two, and it was enough to seal his fate. He had looked to his father for help and instead was met with a subtle disappointment that made his skin prickle and crawl.

He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts of his parents and their disappointments. He has better things to focus on—like being on Somnus again makes him ache for a familiar face, the sweet wine and he wishes there were fewer bears in the room with him. He eyes the small stuffed brown bear posed to forge through a tipped-over basket of waxed apples as he slowly sips his water. Its eyes are lopsided, one browner than the other and the nose of the taxidermy animal is peeling. Paul doesn't care about bears, alive or dead, all he knows is that they could provide a good winter coat, a nice blanket, and their meat is a delicacy. Paul doesn't care about the bears, he could care even less about the ones scattered about Áed's castle but… but he can't help but think it's a waste. Of space, of life, of furs that could have gone to their common folk.

He takes another sip of water, his lips thinning. He and King Áed are simply different. Paul's main concern was his people, how he couldn't rest until he knew no one under his reign went through the night hungry— he had cut back on castle expenses, and doing this he heard constant complaints from nobles about their taxes being too high but Áed…

The older King descends on him in a flurry of bear fur, gold, and blood red. He's a large man and when he wraps his arms around Paul, he lifts him from the floor with a hearty laugh that leaves him confused. Áed has never been this friendly with him before, sure, there had been moments when Paul had caught him staring at him curiously, his emerald eyes lost in thought but Áed would smile and look away. Kind, almost cold but never friendly. Paul is plopped back to the floor, his water splashing over his front and the floor but he's left blinking as he's greeted with the King's broad smile and your piercing stare. “My friend,” Áed starts, his voice pitched lower but still booming enough to make him flinch. There is a familiar sweet scent that clings to his breath and Paul risks a glance at you. Solasti wine is potent and there's no telling how many the King has drunk today. “I am– we are so glad you accepted the invitation on such short notice. I must admit if not for my lovely lady wife, I would have not invited you to this hunt at all.”

Paul looks at you again, more openly now that Áed has called attention to you, and your brow twitches. Your face is the same as that night— almost bare except for gold that dusts your cheeks and nose, your eyes connect with his and your brows drop, that carefully crafted look of indifference melting over your face once more. “He gives me too much credit.” Paul can barely hide his shiver at the sound of your voice, it is soothing. Your voice is a soft thing, so soft that he has to lean in to hear you over the chatter in your room, “I simply reminded him that you are a friend.” Your voice takes on a careful tone and Paul swallows at the look you give him. “Not all can handle Mercer Traditions, we are glad you were able to do so.”

The Queen is lying for him and the look she gives says many things but he can read one the clearest; go with it. She had opened a door for him, she is making him an ally but why? He remembers the girl's words from that night, of you making an enemy of every face in that room. He takes a glance around the room and he sees it— the men that surround them are the ones he saw snickering and speaking cruelties about you as they went to your room. Paul is the only noble here who has not seen your naked body. He is the only one who did not watch Áed lay claim to what is ‘his.’ He looks back to your expectant eyes and he finds himself rushing to agree, “Of course.” He says, his voice nearly cracking. He clears it, squaring his shoulders as he breaks eye contact to look back at Áed. “It was an honor to be included in something so… so personal to you. It is always eye-opening– being included in new traditions, I mean.”

Áed lets out an absentminded hum and Paul knows it went in one ear and out the other. The king is gone, his eyes glassy and he wobbles just slightly— he has a hand on your shoulder, balancing himself then he looks past Paul brightening. Paul barely turns his head before a young man passes, he's holding a tray of chalices and Áed moves with a quickness to follow him. He leaves but not before patting Paul's arm whilst calling him a ‘good man’. Áed leaves and you stay, only gazing after your husband with a slight frown.

Paul clears his throat, ready to ask why you invited him here but you interrupt him. “A word, your grace?”

Paul tilts his head and you take a step closer to him, your hand pulling the water glass from his hand. He watches, astonished, as you bring the cup to your lips, drinking from the very place where his lips once were. “My husband is called the Boy King.” Water dribbles from the corner of your mouth and you are quick to raise a hand to swipe at it, “Not because he is childish. Not because he has a temper that could rival a child.” You pop the thumb into your mouth and Paul is frozen by the action, swallowing harshly as you pull your thumb from your lips. “He is called the Boy King because… he rather stick his cock in boys than his wife.”

Paul flinches, taking a step away from you. “Pardon?”

“Oh, I think you heard me just fine.”

Paul did hear you, he just didn't expect you to speak so plainly to him. There is something about you, your voice and its breathy whisper saying cock that makes his head blank but— stars above and below— that is not the point. You are watching him again, taking amusement in his visible buffering at the information and he stutters out, “It is just–” His voice cracks and he is loud, loud enough to draw looks from the other men and servants in the room and he takes a step forward to you, his head bowing till he's close to you and his voice a whisper floating over your skin, “I do not… I don't understand why you're telling me this.”

You look at him like he's stupid. “You are a pretty boy, your grace.” Paul's breath leaves him as you lean in closer, your lips brushing his ear, “The King's cock wanders… you wouldn't want it in any uncomfortable places.” You pull back slowly, pressing his glass back into his hands. “If you will excuse me,” You start, louder than you spoke before, “I do not care for Áed’s hunts. I will retire to my chamb–”

But for some reason, Paul can not let you leave. Before the glass truly leaves your hands, his hand encases yours— fingers trapping against the cool, wet glass. “Do you have an issue with that? man and man, does it bother you that much you'd warn me away?” He wants to know what about him gave him away— what is it about him that screamed that he had no true preference between man or woman but he knows better. In a room filled with people, no matter how drunk, he chooses his words carefully.

“I do not care if a man sleeps with another man.” You say slowly, eyeing him coolly before glancing at your touching hands. “I do not care if a woman wants to marry another woman. Love who you love, your grace. Fuck who consents. My issues lie with men who use their position to scare younger ones into getting what they want.”

Paul looks to King Áed, drunkenly hanging off the servant boy that passed only moments before. He is talking to another nobleman but has a vice grip on the boy despite his obvious squirming and discomfort. You follow his gaze and there it is again. Not the indifference that always seemed to be at home on your face but pure, unfiltered annoyance. You shake your hand from Paul's and he watches that indifference come back, he watches you fall into the role of being Queen and you are gone from his side in seconds. He watches as you slide between the boy and Áed, he sees you give the boy a soft look before dismissing him.

Paul sees a Queen, a wife reluctantly doting on her drunk husband— he doesn't see you flinch when Áed bellows: “The hunt starts now!” Paul sees you clap while the men around you cheer and he finds himself copying the movement. Your eyes meet, brown on green and Paul sees you. An ally, a potential friend.

And… he sees you smile, just barely at him. It makes him feel like he's drunk several cups of Solasti wine.

Friendship, Paul finds, comes easy with you. King Áed invites him back to Somnus for several hunts— he gets drunk out of his mind with the other men and then they put on their hunting gear, grab their weapons and disappear into the surrounding mountains for a few days. Paul stops going into the forest when he sees it's pretty much the same thing every time, all the men drink till they can't stand, King Áed convinces a few to disappear into his tent with him and the royal guards do all the hunting. The men pretend they caught whatever deer or bear and they pretend not to see Áed take on lovers other than his wife.

Instead, he stays behind, taking one for the ‘team’ as Áed had joked, and spends his time at your side. At first, you seemed confused by his presence— you had tried many times to shake him off your tail with different tasks and chores, and you had tried to bore him as well. You had begun to read a book out loud– it was in a language he didn't understand and you never changed your tone but he stayed and listened. For someone who planned so heavily to always be a step ahead, Paul doesn't understand why you don't see he's simply in your company because he prefers it. It takes you weeks to see it when you finally do, you talk to him, plainly. Openly.

His favorite pastime is naming all the bears in Mercer Castle and coming up with outlandish stories. There is a bear tucked away in your study, it is a gaudy thing with ratty white fur and faux ruby eyes. It stands taller than you both even as hunched as it is with big yellow teeth bared and crooked. Paul affectionately called it Rhubarb much to your previous annoyance. He'd come into your study, stuff an apple in its mouth and begin to tell you the same old story he came up with weeks ago:

“Rhubarb was brown once. As brown as the bark on a tree, as brown as your house crest.”

You don't look up from your embroidery. If Paul didn't know you by now, he would have thought you weren't listening but you have your tells. Your hand stalls for just a second and the corner of your lip twitches downwards. Paul also knows he's annoying you. You had your limits when it came to him and sometimes, you truly enjoyed the silence and being able to just sit at your desk, his mind never turned off, and his body could never seem to sit still for too long.

Your needle pierces the fabric and you tilt your head forward, baring your neck to him. “I thought you didn't like the bears.”

It takes a moment for him to answer, his gaze greedily taking in the sight of your smooth skin, the curve and dip of your collarbone. Paul didn't thank the Mercer family for a lot of things but he finds himself thanking them for their choice in fashion. The gown itself is that deep, Mercer red and it hangs low on your shoulders, stopping just above your breast where the fabric begins to bunch around a fat sapphire gem. You move, tightening the thread as you do as Paul catches the flash of a thick gold bracelet on your wrist then the thin metal of your wedding ring.

He swallows, looking away. “I don't like the bears that haunt the halls. Rhubarb is hidden away, prettier than the others.”

At this, you look up at the big ugly bear then look back at Paul, your face pinched. “Be serious.”

It's enough to make him laugh. He moves closer to you, away from the bear, tossing an apple from hand to hand as he nears. “Rhubarb was a brown bear. The biggest bear that ever lurked in the woods of Somnus. Then one day, as he went hunting he came across a creature. A small creature with big watery eyes and a short snout, it didn't walk on four legs like he did– no, much to his horror it walked on two!”

Paul makes a show of acting surprised, he catches the apple in one hand and raises himself high and you bite your cheek, snorting as he stumbles. “Rhubarb had never seen a creature so ugly, a creature so small and hairless. The shock of it turned him white.”

“That is not how it works.” You laugh, shaking your head and Paul tuts playfully.

“Is too, your majesty. I would say ask Rhubarb but…” He trails off grinning when you laugh softly. He continues his story with another toss of his apple, “The horrid creature stood before Rhu on its two short legs and exclaimed, ‘I am Lord Finan Mercer and I will be king of these woods–’”

The laugh that leaves you is so genuine and abrupt, it sends Paul stumbling over his words. His eyes widen as you slap a hand over your mouth, giggling into your palm. You try to apologize but it sounds insincere to your own ears. Of course, you've heard the story of how the Mercer house came to be— anyone who stepped foot on Somnus knew the blasted story. Lord Finan, fifth of his name, had killed a ghost bear that preyed on his family's settlement and donned its coat before others who praised him for ‘saving’ them. It had earned them their claim to royalty as well as their house words:

We bare the truth.

The ghost bear's coat had been lost to time and words. No one could tell you if it was white, brown, or the signature Mercer red. Some stories say Finan had turned the bear into a statue and some say he had carved the bear of its meat and left its fur so tattered not even a blanket could be made from it. All anyone knew about the blasted bear was that it was big and as silent as a ghost— it ate anything from cattle, and dogs to little children who wandered too far in the woods.

You shouldn't laugh at Paul's words. What he says could be seen as treason but after spending weeks surrounded by those who worship the dead old king and that stupid ghost bear story, it startles a laugh out of you. You clear your throat, choking back the rest of your giggles, and shake your head, “I’m sorry, My King. That was rude of me but… no ruder than you. Speaking cruelly of a king that houses you, how unbecoming.”

Paul considers you for a moment, his grip tightening around the apple in his hand then— “It can be another one of our secrets then.”

Your embroidery is almost completely forgotten. You look at him, eyes glittering. “Another one, hm? How many secrets is that now, My King? One or two?”

Paul brings the apple to his lips to hide his smile at the use of title and it sends a thrill through him that you watch him bite into it with keen eyes. “I have lost count.”

“Oh?”

“Our first…” He says carefully, slowly as if to give you time to reprimand him for his words. When you don't, he continues with more confidence, “Our first was when you lied for me,” He pretends to think, chewing slowly. “Or maybe it was when you gave me the wine then you had your cousin guide me to that old room.”

You look back to the embroidery in your lap, looking a touch embarrassed. “I believe you had it right the first time.”

Paul is grinning, truly grinning so hard his cheeks ache. He swallows his bite of the apple and takes the last few steps that separate you and kneels before you. Your breath hitches and your fingers clench around the fabric— the needle threatening to stab through your finger. No King other than her own kneels before a Queen. It is a tradition Mercer's hold close, closer than their bear pelts and their rusty reds. If Áed was here, he'd likely throw a fit, he'd likely have Paul banished.

The King before you doesn't seem to know the treason he's truly committing and you can not bring yourself to tell him.

No King but her own should kneel before a Queen.

Áed has never knelt. He barely even bowed his head. It is a power he will never give you over him— wife and heir maker, Queen but never a lover, you will never be allowed to hold your head higher than he holds his. Such is a king's right and yet…

Paul kneels before you, he places his apple somewhere off to the side and gently takes the fabric from your hands before holding them carefully. “I suspect we will have many secrets in our time together.” He grips your hands softly, smiling boyishly, “And… knowing you. I suspect we will have time to talk about it later. If you allow me to continue my story, your grace.”

It almost makes you feel bad for… using him in the way you are. He is so sincere, so sweet. It makes your heart clench oddly. Yet… “Of course, my King.”

You push forward.

“I think you should tailor a suit to fit Rhubarb.”

You blink. Looking over you see Paul standing before the bear, a glass of Solasti wine in hand. He brings it to his lips and lets out a pleased little groan as it goes down. “I missed this wine.”

You roll your eyes out of habit, swallowing your mouthful of wine. You two have been talking and drinking for hours, sharing a single bottle of Solasti wine between the two of you. You drink yours straight, basking in the warmth that floods your body with every sip and Paul has his watered down, drinking slower than you but still somehow drunker. “You say that every time I give it to you.”

“You like to deprive me of it.” He whines turning to face you. “Why can't I drink it like you?” He tilts his cup towards you, “What is that? Your fourth cup? This is still my second and you keep adding water to it every time I take a sip.”

You stare up at him, “Is that why you're standing? So I won't put water in your wine?”

Paul makes a face but doesn't respond, instead choosing to look back at the bear. “He is a royal bear, I believe he needs a royal suit.”

You look blankly at the man, not even the alcohol in your veins can dull your amusement towards him and you smile as you say, “Every bear in this wretched place is royal. Royal or not, he is a bear and it'd be a waste of fabric and money just to make you laugh.”

“Silly girl,” He says, unnoticing of the way you freeze, “I would not be the only one finding humor in it. Would it not make you laugh? Would you not look at the bear and think of me?”

You do not look at him as you shift in your seat, reaching into your desk drawers to pull out a small glass bottle filled with amber liquid. You don't bother pouring the liquor into a cup, you simply pull out the glass cork and take a large swig of it. Solasti liquor is much different from its wine, it is bitter and burning— like swallowing a handful of splinters that taste of smoked chocolate and earth. It's disgusting but it's enough to get you drunk. You force down another gulp of it, hoping you could blame the burn in your chest on it rather than his words and you smack Paul's hand away when he reaches for it curiously. This would put him on his ass in seconds. “I would rather not look in the face of bears and see you. Leave me something else to remember you by.”

Paul hums as if he doesn't hear you, taking another sip of his water-down wine. “Do you remember the first time you spoke to me? You called me a boy.”

You roll your eyes at his avoidance. He has done it a hundred times since he figured out it got on your nerves the most. “Yes, I remember that time well enough. You answered me then.”

He smiles then, his lips stained red and his cheeks rosy. “Command me to answer you and I will.”

Your eyes narrow, you know he is drunk. You both are but his drunkenness makes him bold instead of the mess he was last time. Perhaps it's the watered wine that saves him, that keeps him limber limbed, that makes him bite his lip at you. You, despite yourself, look away first. “You are drunk, Paul. Sit down.”

He doesn't move to sit, he only tilts his head considering. “I could command you.” He says softly, not cruelly, not even to brag. He states a simple truth that almost escaped your mind, “I could command you to do whatever I wanted. To act on all the feelings you hide.”

“You forget yourself.” You reply steadily though your traitorous heart pounds. “You stand in my home, you will not threaten me.”

“It was not a threat, My Queen. It was… it was…” He can not find the words, so he shakes his head frowning. “Before, you called me a boy. A pretty one. But no matter how pretty I am, I am not a boy.”

A snort leaves you, bitter sounding but it matches well with the scowl forming on your lips. “And a bear is a bear no matter its suit. A willow will weep with or without eyes and you, Paul? Are a boy with or without a crow-”

The first thing you register is that you are falling. Your chair is tipped backward by a sudden force. One moment you are sitting upwards, staring at Paul the next your world is slated— twisting, wet, and reeking of alcohol. Your hand had swiped across your desk in surprise sending your precious liquor spilling. The second thing that comes to you is pain, your head is the first thing to hit the floor, just barely cushioned by the pillow attached to your chair. There is a foreign weight crushing you. It is warm and it smells of wet woods and the sea. The third thing you realize is the feeling of Paul's lips on yours. His hands on your cheeks, pulling you closer to him— you gasp, desperate for the air that had so suddenly escaped your lungs and Paul breathes into you. His tongue glides across yours and he tastes of fruit, of grapes, berries, and of salt and blood. He had busted his lip in his frenzy to kiss you and he takes pleasure in the subtle violence.

You want to kiss him back but it is too much. Your chest aches under his weight, your head getting light from all the air he steals and then corrupts between his lips. You push at his chest, once, twice and then he goes easily, pulling away from you to take a deep breath of air and you take a moment to do the same. When you gather enough to make your head steady, you meet his horrified look as he gazes down at you.

“I’m sorry, stars, I'm sorry–” His hand goes to the legs of the unturned chair and he pulls it towards him. Your world is once again shifting as he pulls you upright and a heat shoots through you at his show of strength. He hides what must be a beautiful build under his clothes, muscle, fat, and organs all sculptured to be perfect and you want nothing more than to see him bare. He licks his lips once the legs of your chair hit the ground, blood smearing with the action. He takes your silence as rejection, he takes your pause as shock and it truly crumples his wanting expression. “Your grace–”

It is your turn, you decide, to silence him. With more grace than he did, you lean forward slowly and lick the blood from his lips.

It is a mess from there. Paul moves quickly, he presses his lips fiercely against yours, moaning when you bite on the wound on his lips. His hands drop to your bare ankles and he smiles when it causes a breathless laugh against his lips, he moves his hands– past your bare calves, pinching when you nip at his lips again and then he is at your thighs when he freezes. He pulls away from your lips, his head falling lightly against your chin and you press a kiss to his forehead. He hesitates at the heat he feels, only for a moment then he raises his fingers, swiping curiously when you don't stop him.

You stifle a gasp into his hair and the sound sends his cock tightening in his pants. “You are bare?” He whispers. He swipes at your cunt again, his fingers smearing your growing arousal. He pulls away, his eyebrows raised but his voice is a touch breathless, “You planned this, didn't you? Planned for me to fuck you?”

Your thighs clench around his hand and you rear away just slightly, the scowl on your face wobbling at his words. “You forget yourself, Paul.”

“Aht, aht.” He rolls his wrist and his fingers slip, catching your clit almost painfully. He doesn't pinch but he applies a heavy pressure against you that makes your legs jerk out. “You forget yourself. What happened to you calling me your King? Am I no longer yours when I touch you this way–” He begins to pull away and it's almost shameful how quickly you close your legs to keep him there. He smiles impishly, leaning forward to kiss your clothed knee. “Pretty girl, call me yours and I will touch you.”

You glare down at him, “You are mean when you are drunk.”

“And you are needy.” He traces a lazy circle across your cunt with his thumb. “Call me yours and I'll make you cum with my mouth.”

“Stars, Paul.” You push the grinning King away and he lets you. The thought of oral makes you queasy, you've had sex before obviously but not even Áed has been that close to your pussy. The closest he's ever been was with clumsy fingers and prodded and poked. Too used to grabbing and pulling to ever glide and grind. Oral, the thought of a mouth, Paul's mouth on you makes you unnecessarily nervous and you deflect. You would prefer to be fucked the traditional way, fingered even, now that he has given you a taste of his talents.“You are desperate.”

He only hums looking at you carefully but still, painfully amused. “Only for you.” He begins to stand and your heart drops. You watch as he pushes to his feet— stumbling before catching himself on the corner of your desk then he stretches as if he hadn't just spoken filth to you, as if he hadn't just touched your bare cunt and offered to pleasure you with his mouth.

“What are you doing?” You hiss. “Are you truly going to leave me here like this?”

“I do not ask much of you.” He says, “Call me yours and I will be yours, I will touch you now, later, forever if it's what you wish.”

And you cave. There is a longing in his face, a want so deep it seems to hurt him and it's directed at you. For you. If you could, you would bottle the expression and keep it to yourself forever. You cave and you call to him, “My King.” You allow him this one thing, something you denied even Áed. No King but her own should kneel before a Queen and Paul has done so thrice. It is only right you accept him as yours.

When Paul kisses you this time it is softer, his lips press you into yours with an urgency and he wraps a gentle hand around your neck to pull you closer and onto your feet. He grins when you wrap your arms around him, your hands going to his hair to pull him closer to you— he turns you quickly, pulling away only to knock the rest of the items off your desks then he shimmies off his jacket, and throws it over the remnants of the spilled liquor. Then, he carefully guides you to sit against your desk, he spreads your legs and begins to kneel and you stop him before he can get his knees again. “No, Paul.”

He blinks up at you, truly confused. “No?”

“I don't–” You take a breath, your hands in his, pulling him back up and closer, “I don't want your mouth on me, I want your dick.”

He huffs but doesn't stop when your hands slip from his to the button of his pants. “It would feel good, my Queen.” He shudders when the buttons open and when your warm hands instantly grab his cock. You stroke it curiously and he groans, humping into your hands, “You will take it easier if you allow me to prepare you first.”

“It’d take too long,” You say, stroking him slowly, your fingernail drags across the prominent vein of his length, your finger smearing the precum that leaks from him all over his weeping head. “Forget your honor and fuck me, you make things so complicated.”

Even drunk, he thinks about your comfort first. You hate that you keep comparing the two Kings. Paul is not Áed and he is not Paul. They may look alike but they couldn't be further apart and this much is shown when Paul continues to hesitate with his dick in your hands. You give him a sharp squeeze and it sends his hand flying up to wrap around your neck again warningly. He takes a breath, a long one before he sighs, pressing another kiss to your lips. “Annoying,” He mumbles as he leans away from you, pushing your hand away to shove his pants down. You barely catch sight of his cock before he's leaning forward again, shoving his way between your legs. Your breath catches, and you fully expect him to bully himself in but he doesn't, hidden under the layers of your dress, he guides his member with a careful hand and a pinched face. He rubs the head of his dick against your aching cunt once, twice, and then pulls back just slightly to curse under his breath. He does this twice before you're squirming impatiently.

“Paul–”

“Shut up.” He growls. He jerks his hips forward and his dick glides against your entrance, you spread your legs wider and plant your hands on the desk to brace yourself but he doesn't do it again. “You are unbelievably warm and if I just shove myself in you, I will cum before I get the chance to start.” He squeezes your neck again, reminding you that he still held you there. “Be a good girl and take what I give you, yeah?”

He gives you a very quick yet sweet kiss, his hips rolling against you as he does and he positions his dick lower to catch along your entrance. Paul swallows your moans with pleased hums as he just barely breaches you with each roll, it feels good but not enough, you try to force yourself down on his length to just get it over with but he pulls his hips back every time you do. It is stupid that you are missing the roughness Áed carried at this moment, if it was him, his cock would be in you already but if it was him, it wouldn't feel good at all. Paul pushes himself deeper when he catches you lost in thought and you clench around him with a pained gasp. You wait for him to ease up, to pull back his hips and continue his stupid teasing but he doesn't, his hand falls away from his dick and steadies itself on your bare thigh. “That’s it,” He coos softly, pushing himself deeper. You whimper, your eyes screwing shut but he squeezes your throat. “Nuh-uh, you wanted it and I know you can take it. Take a breath, come on, pretty girl, breathe with me.”

He is bigger than Áed, you hadn't quite accounted for that but he is kind enough not to move as you work yourself through it. He just cooes in your before he lets go of your neck for a moment to lick up the length of it, his hand instead groping your clothed breast. You roll your hips, just slightly and he moans against you. “You feel so good,” He almost moves, almost jerks into you but he stops himself. “Feels so fuckin’ good.” His hand is back under your dress, his fingers against your clit, “Fuck yourself against me.”

His words send you clenching, “What?”

“Take what you need.” He urges, his fingers rub against your clit and he grins when you buck down on him, moaning softly. “Take what you need from me, baby, I want to make you feel good.” He rubs his fingers a little faster but all but pulls back and it forces you to chase the pleasure of his dick. You rut against him, your fingers digging deeper and deeper into the desk and your teeth dig into your bottom lip. He's making you work for your pleasure, no matter how much he urges it along with the help of his fingers and cock, your legs shake under your effort but you take a gasping breath when he pulls his hand back and brings it back down against your cunt. You choke out a sob and he does it again, your legs jerk and nearly crumple from under you and he brings it down harder when you let out a whine of his name. You are positive the desk is the only thing keeping you upright.

“Let me hear you,” He urges, his fingers find the little bundle of nerves between your legs again and he rolls it between his fingers. He sees something on your face and his hips pick up their pace, he fucks into rapidly and your desk creaks and groans at the pace. Your lips part in a breathless moan and he pulls from you completely before shoving himself back inside, bottoming out.

“Fuck,” You gasp. You can't catch your breath and he doesn't let you even try, he's moving so fast— one moment he's humping into you, his fingers on your clit, and the other he's pulling you flush to simply grind. The mix sends your toes curling, “fuck, fuck, fuck wait–” One of your hands leaves the desk to press at his chest, something is clawing at your insides, desperate to get out. It is angry as it is wanting, you can't tell if you want him to stop or to keep going but Paul decides for you and he's pushing back against the desk and fucking into you without abandon. When your eyes slam shut this time he doesn't try to stop you, he's too busy burying his head against your chest to see. “Paul, I'm going to–”

“I know.” He gasps, “I know, I know. Give it to me, give it to me.”

And you do.

Paul doesn't think much of his parents whispering when they join him at breakfast. His mind is elsewhere and it has been for the past four or so weeks.

He hasn't been invited back to Somnus. Not by your command nor Áed. He supposes this isn't…bad. There hasn't been a call for his head or a public slandering but he thinks the silence from your end is the worst. He had fucked you, you fucked him. You had hidden him under your desk when a servant came to check on you and he had fingered you whilst you spoke. Then, you had urged him to go home before Áed and his hunting party came back, your face perfectly blank despite the mess of your hair and dress. He's thought of the night countless times and he still can't figure out what went wrong besides the obvious.

Not that he regrets it. Not in the slightest bit, he thinks that was, is, the best moment of his life.

His parents glance at him for the umpteenth time as they whisper and Paul rolls his eyes in annoyance as he butters his toast. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Leto opens his mouth then closes it, giving his son a curious look then looks to his wife who's watching him with narrowed eyes. “You are quite close with Queen Mercer, aren't you?”

Paul freezes. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing bad,” Leto answers before Jessica can. Paul sees his mother suck her teeth and Leto shoots her a look, “Well, your mother thinks it's bad. We are just confused. You didn't tell us about her condition sooner.”

Paul feels a headache brewing. What condition? You were just fine the last time he saw you. If you had anything contagious and deadly, he would have it so he's sure it's nothing like that unless… unless it's something chronic. His confusion must be clear on his face because Jessica is watching him again, this time her look is different as if she is realizing something.

“You don't know she's pregnant, do you?”

It takes everything in Paul not to choke then and there.

Sometimes I wonder what crack my band teacher is smoking cause imma need some after the bs he puts us through

i lowkey forget that percy's full name is perseus. and like. that name goes so hard. because it just sounds like this mf could kick your ass. like imagine you're a junior in high school and your teacher introduces a new student by the name of 'perseus jackson'. and before you even raise your head to look at the guy. you just know this mf could clock you.

My Favorite

(Image Source: Artist: Inpolariis)

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 5,114

Summary: Sir Crocodile has founded a league of highly trained assassins named "The Choirs" - all coded after the nine choirs of angelic influences. You are his favorite: his prized "Seraphim" who's ferocious brutality is only outmatched by your incredible beauty. Not truly knowing if your affection is all an act to continue being paid a wage in berry, he has not made a move of his own aside from calling upon you to sit on his knee of an evening, and have you utter praises into his ear. It is only when the two other members of the Cross-Guild begin flirting does he find his limit being tested. Will he bend, or will he break?

Themes: Boss!Crocodile x Assassin!Reader, lap princess, Croc is in love with you, begrudgingly in love, mutual pining, “I don’t want to fix him, I want to make him worse”, wealth, Cross-Guild dynamics, partial Buggy x Reader, partial Mihawk x Reader, sign language, afab!reader.

Notes: This fic is dedicated to the wonderful @discordantwritings who wrote a beautiful Benn Beckman fic recently. I had to return the favor with some Cross-Guild content, although it became quickly a Sir Crocodile fic. Based on this prompt, because it has a hold over my very soul.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @feral-artistry @carrotsunshine @cinnbar-bun @writingmysanity @gingernut1314

The broad right hand of the brutish Sir Crocodile massaged his temples beneath his thumb and index finger. He began rotating them in an attempt to rid the swelling migraine caused by the crackled whines pouring from the lips of his clown companion. Barely paying attention to the whinging words strung into messy sentences, his ears pricked and spine tingled at the knowledge there was another presence within the hollow chambers of the Cross-Guild meeting space. 

Bringing his hand away from his temple, his smirk broke the displeased position of his lips, as his eyes rose to meet with the yellow hue of the gaze of the swordsman. Mihawk narrowed his eyes, no longer processing Buggy’s words as he attempted to locate the source responsible for the expression change of the larger gentleman in front of him. 

“-And I wasn’t the one responsible for that screw up, so I shouldn’t be the one paying for it. Really it should go to the one with the most berry. Who was it again? Between the reptile and the hawk, who has the most-.” Buggy’s voice halted as the shadows split to reveal your presence, stalking closer to the largest man in the room with an aura of silent danger. 

Mihawk reached for the hilt of Yoru, ready to strike your approaching silhouette: armored and cloaked in the darkest black to blend within smoke and shadow. Your hood concealed your face, your facial mask shieling all but the intensity of your eyes smeared in darkened war paint. You made no sound; no tap, no whisper as you wordlessly approached Sir Crocodile.

“Returned so soon, my Seraphim,” his voice purred, leaning back in his chair while placing a thick cigar between his teeth, “Did all go according to plan?” You wordlessly bent your knee, bowing your head to the large gentleman to whom you entrusted your implicit loyalty. His smile drew further up his scarred face, the purple hue of his eyes dancing with a dangerous twinkle at your wordless confirmation. 

“Good,” his voice praised you, reaching for his lighter lying atop the table. You rose to your feet, quickly reaching for the golden object, flicking open the lid and igniting the flint to spark its flame. Sir Crocodile leant forward, holding his eyes firmly on yours as your concentration was fixed on the task of lighting the tip of his cigar. 

He narrowed his eyes, noticing a small smear of red atop the darkened warpaint and streaking down your face mask and onto your leather breastplate. He sighed, reaching into his left hand breast pocket and fishing out a silver handkerchief and passed it to you within his index and middle fingers. 

“Is it yours?” he asked, gesturing to the blood congealed and spattered against your uniform. 

“No, sir,” you whispered with no vocal tone depicted within your silence. He hummed in response, narrowing his eyes as he scanned your body further. 

“Are you unharmed and unmarked?” he asked, his left brow raising in question. You stiffened your shoulders, arching your chin within the air and confirmed with a simple utterance of: “Yes, sir.” 

“Very good, my Seraphim,” he complimented further, inhaling a deep lungful of the nicotine laden cigar smoke, exhaling through his nose. Buggy did not know what to make of this interaction, feeling completely and utterly ignored as Mihawk and Sir Crocodile’s eyes and attention remained fixed on your statuesque figure clad in cloak, leather and dark plated armor. 

Leaning forward, Sir Crocodile ushered you to stoop forward to receive the next whisper of a command parting from his lips for your ears alone.

“I have laid out a new uniform for you to wear,” he uttered intimately, reaching up his left hand with his golden hook threatening to touch your shoulder. “See to it you are bathed, perfumed and clad in the ensemble within the hour,” the tip of his hook brushed with the rivets of your shoulder plate, dragging down your bicep to the inner crevice of your elbow, “And I will have you sat as my trophy upon my knee for the evening, my Seraphim.” 

At that final utterance, he withdrew his hook from your arm and focussed once more on your eyes now depicting a darkness within usually withheld for victims beneath your concealed daggers. 

Bowing to your boss, eyes now closed, you rose from your deep and respectful stoop and paid no mind to glance at the other two members of the meeting space. If Sir Crocodile found no reason to introduce you to these men, you did not deem them important enough to care who they were. Silence followed you as you trailed outside of the room, resubmerging yourself within the shadows and hastily making your way to the suite gifted to you by your boss.

“Baroque Works employee, Crocodile?” Mihawk uttered, his eyes fixed on the exit you withdrew from. 

“A thing of the past, Hawk,” His smirk not leaving his face for each deep inhale of his cigar, “I no longer put my faith in an amassment of bounty hunters to get their hands dirty for my berry.” He took the butt of his cigar from his teeth and pushed the ignited end against the glass tray with his thumb. “No, my faith is no longer spread to the many, but to the few.” 

“How many o’ them you got?” Buggy’s nasally voice chimed in, his brow furrowing and lips curling back in an uneasy smile, “Like twenty or thirty?”

“I have nine,” he confessed, eyes now bored with the conversation and lip curling down into an arrogant snarl, “And that one,” he gestured to the door with his chin, “Is my favorite.”

“Why?” Buggy asked, his voice cracking in a small apprehensive whine at the end of his question, “What does that one do that the others don’t?” Sir Crocodile’s lips curled into a darkened grin, his teeth revealed in the light. 

“You will see.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------

After bathing and cleaning yourself of the debris and carnage of the last assignment, you glanced at yourself in your large, ornate mirror. Looking over the new uniform set aside by your boss as it clung to your body, you couldn’t help the pull of a shy smile at the corner of your lips.

Of all of “The Choirs” founded and financed by Sir Crocodile, it was no illusion that you were absolutely and without a doubt his favorite. Your titles held your specialist skills as covert assassins within your roles; each skilled with a unique ability to complete your tasks to the utmost quality. 

Principalitie, Archangel, and Angel were charged with gathering information and relaying it from a great distance. They were to look like civilians; innocent and coy with the ability to blend into a crowd seamlessly. 

The Devil-Fruit users; Dominion, Virtue, and Power, were charged with carrying out tyrannical punishment and wrath without care for the casualties they caused under the utterance of a single command from your hook-handed leader. 

Cherubim and Ophanim, the two of the higher in the chain of command, followed your explicit instruction in covert operations taken either together or separately. They were your trusted confidants, you could even call them your friends if it were not too bold to say so. 

You, his ‘Seraphim’, were silent and embraced by shadows with such flawless success that it was rumored you were born in them. You were lethal with your daggers, your skill with a blade a sight to behold before life was drained from your intended target. The last thing they saw as their breath was claimed by your hand, was the ferocity in your blown pupils and lengthy eyelashes beneath the dark warpaint smeared atop your eyelids. 

Glancing over your features once more, the pale white of the dress held stark contrast to the dark armor you adorned almost an hour prior. While your armor kept all of your features hidden to the world around you, the anonymity shielding you from emphasis on your features; this dress left little to the imagination. 

The deep hook of the backless dress clung low to your hips in an ovular shape, bodice dipping down to above your navel with a thin band of fabric dancing above your cleavage to suture the bust shut with barely any support. The length of the dress halted little below your hip bone on the left-hand side, the right hand side down to the ball of your ankle to allow for the straps of your gold heels to be revealed with each step you took against the floor. 

Your mind begins to wander the longer you stare at yourself in the mirror. This was the most provocative and scandalous item your boss had ever asked you to don. You almost allowed yourself to rush to the conclusion that your boss harbored more than simple favoritism for you, you assumed you were wearing this ensemble to impress a guest with your presence on his lap. 

Silence was nearly impossible with the gold-dipped base of your heeled shoes. Each step you took after exiting your suite echoed in a foreign clack that you were unaccustomed to creating with your foot-falls. 

Immediately upon entering the large celebratory area of Sir Crocodiles casino, you scanned the perimeter of the room for your boss to begin your new role for the night: the princess sitting upon his knee and doting on him with small caresses and whispers of praise within his ear. This was not a role you were exposed to often, but one you did well enough for him to continue asking for you after the first night you played it. 

You would be lying to yourself if you said you did not harbor affection for your boss. Nothing ever transpired between you after you had finished this role for the nights he asked you to fulfill. No brush of lips meeting yours, no writhing while sprawled out beneath him against the green fuzz of the gamblers table. He would bow his head in gratitude to you, his eyes blinking shut out of respect, and dismissing you without a further word. 

Adoration, respect, loyalty, and your wage is what bound you to that man. At each moment he spent with you on his lap, or performing a deadly task for him, your desire grew. You knew, without a semblance of a doubt, that you would cast aside your wage with an instant for the luxury of remaining by his side. You loved him, and it was the only thing that truly frightened you.

After concluding your brief scan of the room, you noticed Sir Crocodile was yet to make an appearance to darken the tables with his brutish figure. However, you smiled upon meeting the eyes of ‘Ophanim’ dressed in a simple waiter's uniform, with her sleeves rolled to her elbows and shaking a steel container filled with ice, syrups and hard liquor. She shot you a wink, gesturing with her chin to wait with her at the bar. 

An honest smile sprung to your lips as you grasped the barstool within your hands, taking a seat atop it and hooking your left knee over your right; the slit of your dress revealing the entirety of your left leg to your thigh. 

Immediately as you began to open your mouth to converse with your fellow “Choir” about her latest mission, your eyes were thrust into an amassment of lengthy cerulean hair. The person seemed to ignore you as their voice informed your friend of his order of a fruit-forward and harsh liquor cocktail with an insane amount of complex ingredients. The products he asked for sounded as if it would split and separate, with the immediate souring of creamy liquid with the acidic elements. 

Grimacing with your lips curled in disgust, the individual turned to meet your disapproving gaze: his eyes widening and breath hitching in his throat. A large, rotund red nose lay central to his features, his dark vest cinching his waist beneath a white shirt and dark trousers. He looked as if he was not comfortable wearing the assortment, as if it was a mask he was given to wear akin to your arrangement set aside by your boss. 

“You are fucking gorgeous,” he stumbled over his words, the syllables falling from his lips quicker than he could silence them within. Immediately your grimace upturned into a smile, forcing a laugh to flee from you at his unbridled compliment. You arched your left brow up, leaning in close to the individual in front of you and tightening his dark tie with your right hand. 

“You are very easy to look at, yourself,” you purred in return, assuming your flirtatious role with ease. You darted your gaze between his two teal eyes, a coy smile now pursing your lips together innocently, “And who might you be, bright eyes?” Your question had his heart swelling, his cheeks filling with a boyish fluster. 

“B-Buggy,” he wheezed, gulping back his words and grunting out a small cough to mask his uneasiness. “Captain Buggy D Clown,” he attempted to meet his elbow atop the bar, missing the polished wood entirely and instead stumbling under the uneven distribution of his weight. As air met his elbow with the heel of his palm capturing his chin, he flew his head down and met it against the wood with a harsh thump. 

Wincing in empathy, you immediately reached forward and claimed his cheeks within your palms and raised him back up to his former stature. You brushed his shoulders, readjusted his collar and checked over the rising swell atop his left temple. 

“Honey, can we get some ice please?” you asked your colleague who attempted to halt her laugh behind her palm, nodding as she retrieved the frosty cubes and placed them within a checkered tea towel. She passed it to you and shook her head, you nodding your thanks at her for the object and immediately reaching for the blunt-force trauma the blue-haired clown brought upon himself. 

“Are you alright Captain Buggy?” You asked him, holding your hand against the towel and pressing it firmly against the rising bruise. He clasped his left hand around your right, leaning into the touch you were providing him and closing his eyes. 

“I like the way your tongue makes my name sound,” he confessed in a breathy gasp. You again found yourself laughing at his words, the melodic ring of your voice stirring something dangerous within the purple hues of Sir Crocodile’s eyes. He continued watching your interaction with Buggy from his place darkening the threshold of the entrance to his casino. 

“What happened, Clown?” A voice called behind him, the curve of a pale shirt clinging to the back of a dark-haired individual you could barely see. Buggy apprehensively turned away from you and lulled his head towards the man with a snarling expression. 

“It’s her fault,” he gestured to you with his thumb, “She was sittin’ on that chair all innocent-like, as if she doesn’t look like walking sex.” 

“Hardly walking if she’s sitting,” the man called over in a bored and disinterested tone, without sparing so much as a glance in your direction. You found him intriguing, but you decided to match his energy and remain aloof to his comments yourself. 

Turning away from the two men beside you, you began moving your hands in a flurry of wordless gestures to your coworker as discreetly as you could.

‘Where is he?” you asked her, watching her hands flicker in response as she continued to attempt to uphold her own persona as bartender.

“Approaching slowly,” she managed to signal to you, before she placed a glass of wine in front of the broody aloof gentleman beside the clown. The corner of his lips ticked at the corner, a whisper of gratitude depicted on his face as he turned to face you with the crystal glass rising upwards. 

The small widening of his honey-coloured eyes told you all you needed to know within his gaze. Your head cocked to the side, your eyes wide and feigning innocence to the best of your abilities. 

“My, my,” he commented, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body from your decorated toes to the follicles of your styled hair, “I do see why you would be the cause for such a stumble.” He expertly brushed the blue-haired man away from you, extending his right hand forward to seek out your own and collecting your four fingers within his grip. 

He raised your hand to his lips, his mustache tickling the knobbed joints of your knuckles before his lips brushed against your flesh. Your eyes turned sultry, not once either of you breaking your eye contact against one another. 

Unable to control the rapidity of the thump within his chest and the dry lump forming in his throat, Sir Crocodile began a stalking approach towards you. How dare they fawn over you. You: his favorite of his Choirs. His angelic muse and harbinger of brutality. 

He knew you would make heads turn with the uniform he laid out for you, but he did not anticipate the primal urge swelling beneath him to pull you into himself and shield you away from their eyes. He wanted you all for himself, in any capacity you were willing to give it to him. He didn’t care that you were paid berry to serve him, it felt real enough for him.

“Dracule Mihawk,” he uttered against your flesh, withdrawing from his stoop and arching his back to puff his barely shielded chest to you, “And you are, my darling?” Before you could answer with your name, you felt a warm graze dancing up your spine. His breath tickled against your skin, tingling your spine beneath his lips as they pressed intent and longing to your flesh. 

On any other occasion, you may have been alarmed by such attention from an individual without seeing their face. The cologne dancing with the whisper of his last cigar floated with each kiss against your skin, informing you exactly who was giving you such a touch. 

He had never offered you this unbridled affection in the past, not allowing himself to give into his craving for you, and you not willing to test your place serving under him. This touch felt natural, his lips continuing to press into you, as you continued to hold your gaze on the eyes of the dark-haired man in front of you. 

Sir Crocodile’s lips found your left shoulder, his purple eyes pulling the swordsman’s attention away from you to meet with your boss as he continued to map his lips up your neck to your jaw. His left forearm circled around your front, the golden hook firmly secured against his wrist collecting your chin beneath the smooth surface. He turned your attention away from Mihawk to look into his eyes through lowered eyelashes. 

He leant forward, drawing your lips against his by the gentle tilt of his hook against your chin. Darting his tongue out to stroke yours, his nose brushed against your own as he circled his jaw to deepen the embrace. Your hands clutched the base of the stool you were sat atop to anchor yourself down for fear of floating to the roof. The hum of his lips in joy had a small moan pull from your lips the longer he was joined against you. 

You felt his right hand brush against your bicep, curling his firm grip around it as he pushed his chest flush with your own with a gentle turn of your body. He pulled away from the kiss, his eyes immediately falling to your rapidly swelling and kiss-bruised lips, slightly smudged paint falling below the perimeter of your bottom lip. Tapping your chin with his hook, your eyes darted from your own gaze against his lips to meet with his purple eyes. 

“My Seraphim,” the rumble of his voice and the small smirk of his lips had your attention hyper fixed and hanging on his every word. You held your gaze firmly affixed to his, watching as he turned away from you and greeted the men in front of you with the nod of his head and the small utterance of their names.

“Mihawk,” the rumble of his voice rubbing within his throat had your spine tingle with anticipation, “Buggy.” He turned back to meet your orbs that had not yet broken from his face, but raked your gaze over his face with half-lidded lashes. Your eyes continued to float in a daze against his lips and flittering back up to meet his gaze. 

He extended his right hand in a gesture for you to take it, you reacting immediately by placing your hand within his larger palm to encircle his digits around it. You allowed him to pull you away from your former position atop the barstool, your heels clicking against the floor as he escorted you to the desired table for the night. Now in the shroud of seclusion, he leaned down and uttered a small apology in your ear. 

“Forgive me,” he began, taking his seat within the plush armchair and patting his left knee with his right. Without hesitation, you gracefully placed yourself atop his thigh with the small flick of your hair, crossing your left knee over your right and arching your back. 

“What sins am I forgiving, sir?” you asked him, feeling the dangerous caress of his hook brushing against your spine and collecting a small portion of your hair within its curvature. Your boss took in a deep breath through his nose, expanding his broad chest beneath his suit jacket. His exhale had a small quake to it, his eyes closing as he basked under your attention.

You reached your hands and began to dance your fingertips against the hem of his collar. Although this was a routine you had practiced with him over man a night on his lap, this touch felt almost forbidden as his brows furrowed. 

“I should not have kissed you like that,” he uttered in a voice below a hushed whisper, “You deserve better than something so public. I desire you-... -for you to be treated as a seraphim I know you to be.” His vocal catch had your attention completely focussed on every word, your body leaning itself further as your hands halted their movement. 

“I am not a seraphim, sir,” your lips were now almost brushing with the shell of his ear, your hypnotic perfume, intoxicating and mesmerizing the larger gentleman the longer your presence remained atop his lap. He angled his head away from you, exposing the side of his neck to reveal the rapidity of his heartbeat displayed against his pulse. 

“And what are you, if not a seraphim,” he whispered darkly, allowing to be disarmed by your presence as he leant into your touch, yet away from the descent of your lips upon his ear. 

“I am your seraphim,” you confessed as your lips grazed against the sensitive flesh of his cheek, his dark hair tickling against your eyes. 

Sir Crocodile was glad he had withdrawn you to a secluded portion of his casino at this moment. He truly did not desire for the other two members of the Cross-Guild to notice how much of a grip you truly had around his heart, but refused to break away from your display of unrestrained physical affection. He knit his brows together, furthering their descent down his face as he processed your words.

“Because I pay you to be,” he uttered, leaning away from your touch and forcing the mask of his arrogance back onto his features. He dropped the hook from your hair, reaching his right hand into his left breast pocket to locate a thick cigar and his golden lighter. Placing the bitten end between his teeth and clamping down on it, he drew the flame up to his lips and attempted to ignite the end. 

“I will return my wage to you,” you uttered quietly after swiping the golden lighter from his hand and reigniting the flame, “I have no need for it when you take care of me so well.” His eyes held an aloof boredom to his expression, refusing to meet with your face as you lit his cigar for him. 

“And if my wealth was taken from me?” He questioned before inhaling the smoke from his cigar, exhaling it away from your face, “If I was to go to prison once more, what then?” Your eyes narrowed, your lip curling up to reveal your displeasure at the question.

“I would claw tooth and nail to free you from your confinement, sir,” you confessed, reaching your left hand forward and collecting his chin beneath your thumb and index finger, turning his jaw for his eyes to meet with yours once more, “And although living in luxury is a welcome experience, I would stand by you regardless.” His eyes depicted his craving for your words to be true, although not believing it yourself. 

He began to open his mouth to speak, silenced by your words cutting through the air like your daggers meeting with the jugular of your foe. 

“You have my loyalty, my blades, and my body at your disposal,” you leant forward further, darting your eyes between focusing on each of his. “Should you order me to jump, I will ask how high. Should you ask me to kneel, I will fall to my knees,” you continued, your grip holding more firmly against his chin, “Should you wordlessly aim your finger at an enemy, I would be a channel of your wrath as I claim their lives for you.” 

Allowing a few moments of thick silence to swell between you, you felt the scrape of his hook trailing itself against your spine, hovering over the soft point of your rib and pressing his point firmly into your flesh. 

“While your words are as beautiful as you are,” he whispered, looking down at the plunging neck of your dress and back up into your eyes, “They are as decorated by the impact of my wealth as your body is in that dress.” You narrowed your eyes at his comment, taking the expression as a challenge. 

Shrugging away from the point of his hook, you rose to your feet between his legs and slowly drew your hands up to the thin straps on your shoulders. You hooked your thumbs beneath the material and began to slowly slip the material over your shoulders and down your biceps. Sir Crocodile’s eyes widened, immediately reaching his right hand and left forearm to halt your hands from revealing more of your flesh to him. 

“What are you doing?” His growl should’ve had your actions stuttering in any other setting, but his rasp had your heart beating in desire in place of fear. 

“I have already informed you that I will be returning my wage to you,” you cocked your head to the side, arching your back towards him and looking down at him under your lustful expression, “Why not start with the dress you claim to despise so much.” The rise of his fluster depicted in his eyes at your words had a smirk drawing up to decorate your lips. 

“What has someone like me done to deserve such devotion from you, my seraphim?” he whispered, his right hand elevating the strap of your left shoulder and securing it firmly in its prior place. You followed suit with your right strap, securing it firmly against your shoulder and leaning further into his welcome embrace. 

He leant his torso closer to you, his broad forearms circling over your own with his fingertips brushing against your skin. You began to open your mouth, confessing your adoration for your boss further upon the tip of your tongue before crudely interrupted by the presence of the blue-haired clown followed behind by the broody gentleman from earlier.

“Are we playin’ cards yet, Croco?” Buggy’s voice hitched as he met with an intimate moment shared between you and Sir Crocodile. Your boss’ hands caressed your skin, pulling you against his torso as he aimed his disapproving gaze over your right shoulder. 

He growled at the interruption, his voice holding more feral animosity than he felt he should. You drew your hand up to claim his cheek in the palm of your right hand, looking down at him with your eyes holding your unspoken answer of lustful adoration at him. His breath hitched as his gaze met with yours, prompting his right hand to grasp the flesh of your back firmer within his spread fingertips. 

“I recall you having barely enough berry to survive the last time we played, Clown,” Mihawk’s aloof tone called from beside him. Neither you nor Sir Crocodile paid either man any mind, too wrapped up in the intimate moment you were sharing holding one another. 

You removed the cigar from Crocodile’s teeth in your left hand, stooping forward and claiming his lips beneath your own. Your nose brushed against his, the kiss as hastily departing in severance of the connection as it did in its descent. He arched his chin up, chasing your retreat with his eyes closed. 

“Shall I get the table ready, sir?” You asked him in a subtle whisper, relishing in the small hum of pleasure falling from the lips of your boss. His eyes split slowly open, remaining half-lidded as he lulled his head on his neck to glance at you. The silver mark splitting his face danced in the illuminance of the soft bar light, his striking features appearing more chiseled under its glow. 

“Please,” he spoke slowly, his tongue darting out and danced as the ‘L’ passed his lips. You raked his hair back over his scalp, replacing the fallen strands in their rightful place, while leaning down once more with a smirk.

“Right away, sir,” you purred at him while returning his cigar to his teeth, watching as he bit the tip with a small snarl. Turning and walking away to collect several items to place atop the green felt for your boss to engage in a game of cards with his two unlikely colleagues, eyes fixed on your back as you exited the secluded area.

“Who is she?” Buggy’s shocked voice cracked out the stuttered question also plaguing Mihawk’s mind. Sir Crocodile relaxed in his chair, inhaling the cigar smoke deeply into his lungs and holding it. Upon it exiting from his lungs, he confessed the place you held within his heart with the utterance of two words.

“My favorite.”

not enough stories go for the lycanthropy-as-menstruation angle tbh. sure I see plenty of "time of the month" jokes but there's so much unexplored potential. scatterbrained werewolf feeling cranky and exhausted for no discernible reason before checking their phone and seeing the "your transformation is in two days" notification like "oohh right. the horrors." werewolf girl losing her whole mind trying to excuse herself from a function so she can go transform but noooo she can't just say that's what she has to do because it's "impolite" or whatever and she has to keep making vague excuses with weird euphemisms. werewolf guy having an awkward conversation with an acquaintance who keeps talking about the divine lycanthropic and the mystic properties of the wolf and moon, and like, he's not going to tell them that their relationship with their own transformations is wrong, but for him it's just this kind of annoying kind of painful thing he needs to deal with sometimes? and it feels weird elevating this basic bodily function of his to something quasi religious?

Aesthetic Dividers for Fics & Masterlists

edit: as of 11/20/23 this will no longer be updated - please go to @saradika-graphics for requests & new resources!

AESTHETIC - CELESTIAL

— Stars & Space | Sun

— Stars & Space | Moon

— Stars & Space | Planets

— Stars & Space | Purple

AESTHETIC - FLORAL

— Bees/Honey/Flowers

— Cherry Blossom / Peach

— Dark Romantic Florals

— Daisies

— Fall Florals

— Cute Flowers

— Pastel Floral

— Pastel Green & Blue Florals / Navy Blue

— Red Poppies

— Roses/Chains / Gothic Roses

— Sunflowers

AESTHETIC - HEARTS

— Black Hearts

— Hearts

— Heartbeat Dividers

— Lilac Hearts

— Pastel Blue Hearts

AESTHETIC - OTHER

— 50’s Neon Diner

— Art Deco (Blue Version)

— Beige Daggers

— Black and Grey

— Black & Red Grunge

— Blue & Yellow Dividers

— Blue & Orange Feathers

— Christmas & Winter

— Citrus

— Cottagecore / Dark Academia

— Cowboy (part ii) (dark) (space)

— Cute Pastel

— Ghostface

— Halloween

— Maroon & Purple

— Mothman

— Ocean | Part ii

— Orange & Green Dividers

— Pale Pink Dividers

— Pink/Coquette

— Pizza/Spaghetti

— Purple, Pink & Blue Dividers

— Rain/Storm

— Ravens/Moons/Roses

— Red/Black Scroll Work

— Red & Yellow Dividers

— Smutty | Pastel

— Taylor Swift (Folklore)

— Vampires

— Warm Grey Dividers

— Werewolves

— Windows/Webcore

FANDOM

— Across the Spider-Verse | Hobie

— Alice in Wonderland

— Boba Fett (Star Wars)

— Clone Trooper/Star Wars

— Fennec Shand

— FNAF

— Lightsabers (Star Wars) / Part 2

— Silmarillion/Tolkien & Lord of the Rings

— Sith-Inspired Dividers (Star Wars)

— Stardew Valley | Part ii

✨(Everything was made in and using Canva - so definitely check that app out if you’re looking to make your own! Here, here, here and here are some tips on using the app / making graphics if you haven’t before!) (and credit is not required but a reblog would be great if you use! 💕) ✨