#figarland garling x reader

[gav-san]

The Figarland Retention Strategy: Epilogue (2/2)

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Garling Figarland x Reader, 18+++++++++++ Based on this: prompt Length 19K+

Hey, this one is, uh, spicier than usual. Adults only plz.

Previous

Saint Halverne’s reception had been, by any reasonable measure, a social obligation, and you had attended it as such, with the dutiful resignation of a saintess who has learned that formal events are simply the tax one pays for being married to someone important. But then there had been the wine, which was very good, followed by a kiss that was considerably better than that. And then Garling, spending the better part of the evening close enough that his arm brushed yours each time he turned to speak, his voice low and private against your ear, as though the two of you were sharing something at the center of a very crowded room that was only for you.

Martha had drifted off at some point to more demanding company, leaving the two of you like an island, still and separate from the current of the party around you. You weren’t totally drunk. This was something else.

This was desire, and it had been making itself known all evening with the rhythm of a tide. If Garling had aimed to torment you, he may well have achieved it.

Every time Garling murmured something into your hair, your pulse spiked clean through your thighs. A warmth had settled into your limbs and pooled low in your belly, insistent and sluggish. When his mouth came close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath at the corner of your lips, something electric moved through you that had nothing to do with proximity and everything to do with want. You kept your expression neutral with some effort. You held your wine glass. You nodded at things.

Garling, for his part, had misread your silence entirely. You could see it happening in real time: his attention turning careful when you stopped offering commentary, the slight adjustment in his posture that meant he was preparing for consequences. He thought he had overstepped and was already building his defense.

He had no idea that you had spent the last hour like a creature gone very still in tall grass, watching, waiting, and planning to pounce.

By the time the evening ended, a warm sensation had settled over you like hot water pouring during a shower. Not dizziness, exactly. More like the tide coming in by degrees, each small wave retreating just far enough that you noticed when the next one arrived. You were aware, in a distant academic way, that the wine deserved some of the credit. You were also aware that Garling’s hand had rested at the small of your back for approximately forty minutes, and that this may have been a contributing factor.

The carriage ride home was slow and warm and slightly unbearable. You watched the city pass in the dark beyond the window and tried to remember what your reservations were. Nothing came to mind.

The carriage ride home was not helping.

Garling sat across from you, very upright, with the expression that he was fairly certain he had done something wrong and was carefully calculating the extent of it. You had seen this before, how his cool demeanor went watchful and precise when he expected consequences, like a general revising his position before the other side had even fired. Whatever he imagined he’d done at the reception, he clearly believed he was about to be punished for it in full.

You looked at him. He looked at you. You said nothing.

This seemed to deepen his concern considerably.

But that warmth that had taken root in you at the reception had not gone anywhere. It sat in your chest and your belly and the inside of your wrists, patient and unhelpful, and every sway of the carriage that shifted you fractionally closer to him did nothing to improve matters. You watched the city pass in the dark beyond the window and tried to look like a woman composing her grievances rather than a woman composing herself.

He helped you out of the carriage, through the Figarland Estate, and walked you to your door with the solicitousness of a soldier picking his way through a minefield. Like any sudden movements might detonate your fury. Once there, he gently brushed your face, but thinking you wished to continue your cold shoulder, he reached past you to turn the door handle. This bent from his considerable height, as well as allowed him to press his lips to your temple (which seemed like it was a risk worth taking, as it was tradition by this point).

That was when you felt it. The line of his bearded jaw at close range, slightly rough with the end of a long evening, tipped toward you, briefly unguarded. Underneath was his refined throat, and his masculine scent permeated your senses like a drug.

Your decision-making, by this point, had been shipwrecked.

You turned your head and caught his mouth with yours before he could straighten.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t natural. But it mostly worked, and the hunger that had been sitting in your chest all evening roared to life as if you had finally, after a very long search, stumbled onto the right meal.

For one suspended moment, he went very still, that single breath of recalibration, then something gave way in him.

 He kissed you back with an intensity that knocked the air cleanly out of your chest, one hand finding the door frame on instinct, the other catching your waist. You felt the warmth that had been pooling in you all evening rush upward through your ribs all at once. His grip tightened when you swayed into him, your knees having quietly staged a resignation somewhere in the last ten seconds.

The hand at your waist was not on the door frame.

You noticed this distantly, in the part of your mind that was still capable of noticing things, which was not a large part. His grip had shifted without your registering when, no longer steadying but exploring, moving against the fabric of your dress with a greedy exploring that made your breath catch. Your neckline was modest by Celestial Dragon standards, but there was a sliver of chest above it, and his fingers found the edge of that territory with practiced, eager intensity.

Not that you saw any of it.

Garling’s mouth was hot and certain and tasted of the same wine you’d been sharing all evening. A heady taste, and when he tilted his head, and his jaw scraped against your skin, something sparked down through your throat and into your sternum and kept going. You had one hand twisted into his cape without any memory of putting it there, while the other had found the back of his neck, mussing his blonde hair. You did not remember doing that either, but he didn’t seem all that bothered by it.

The world had narrowed to the heat of him, the solid wall of his chest against yours, the low, unsteady pull gathering in your belly that wanted and wanted and wanted without any clear sense of what it was asking for, only that there was more. You intended to find it, your small mutters of more, more, more translating through tongue and spit.

He broke the kiss only to eagerly press his mouth to the curve of your throat, down and down, slower and slower until he was sucking red marks into the swell of your chest, tugging more skin free. Switching between nipping and biting, he worked to free a nipple, eagerly biting the freed skin into his mouth. 

And such great pleasure compounded and built, rising you into utterly new depths. Garling, for his part, seemed to surrender entirely, and you followed suit, legs parting wantonly and without thought, letting him pull you onto his thigh. 

The hand on your waist migrated to rest under the curve of your rear, tugging you forward and holding you up so he could simultaneously arch you over and slowly grind you over him. And while his long coat was of fine, thick material, it didn’t entirely conceal the long, hard rod between his thighs. Especially when the said jacket folded up, giving your thigh full access to measure considerable length hidden only by his pants, a touch of wetness there.

And still, that pleasure grew. 

More and more and more, and you were lost in it, drowning pleasantly, the reception and the carriage ride and every careful evening at your bedroom door collapsing into this single point of warmth and want and the smell of him and the scrape of his jaw and his fingers pulling down the edge of your neckline and finish the job—

Garling tore himself back.

Not stepped. Tore. 

He crossed to the far wall in two strides and put his back against it, one hand pressed flat to the plaster, legs planted apart, and he stood there and breathed. His chest rose and fell with an effort that matched yours, and his eyes, when he finally raised them to you, were dark and not entirely composed.

You became aware, slowly, of the state of yourself. Your hand rose to your throat, which was marked and warm and covered in him. The neckline of your dress had lost the argument it had been making all evening. You were gasping in a way that was not going to be easy to explain to anyone who might have ventured the halls.

You placed a hand over your mouth, touching the bruised skin, reveling in the delight still lingering.

Garling’s fingers flexed against the wall as he watched you like the apex predator he was.

You watched his jaw tighten. Watched him take one slow breath, then another, reconstructing himself from the outside in the way only Garling could, piece by deliberate piece, while his fingers pressed and curled and pressed again against the plaster like it was the only thing giving him clarity.

Then he smiled.

Slow, and wicked, and with rather too many teeth in it for a man who had just been clutching your waist like a lifeline.

“How much,” he said, “did you drink tonight, my love?”

The warmth in your chest curdled very slightly into indignation, which was at least easier to stand upright in. “I’m not drunk enough to not know what I’m doing.”

You folded your arms. This had the unintended effect of drawing his gaze somewhere it had been making inroads all evening, and he turned his eyes firmly to the ceiling with the air of a man making a significant personal sacrifice.

“You may not be entirely drunk,” he said, to the ceiling, in the voice he used for things he had already decided. “But I’m not going to bed my wife for the first time unless she is entirely cognizant. I am too prideful to accept anything less than perfect consent.”

The ceiling, to its credit, said nothing. You had plenty of words, many of them vulgar, but the most effective was the small whimper that escaped you upon the realization that you were not going to be ruined tonight.

“Garling.” You took half a step forward. He made a sound like a man in genuine pain.

“Go inside, my drunken wife.”

“I am not—”

“Go inside,” he said, with great feeling, “and lock the door. Because if you don’t, I will do something both of us will regret.” A beat. “I need a clear head for this. To be careful with you. I am not, at present, in any condition to be careful.”

The warmth in your chest dampened by several degrees, and your eyes, traitorously, filled. Not from sadness, exactly. From want, and the sudden enforced distance between you and the thing you wanted, which was close enough to the same feeling to be embarrassing.

Garling looked at your face, and something in him relented. He pushed off the wall and crossed back to you, his forehead coming down to rest against yours, one large hand curved against your jaw, and you could feel the restraint costing him in the slow, deliberate way he was breathing.

“Please—” Your hand found his lapel, fingers curling into it.

“My love.” His voice came out rougher than its usual register, stripped of something, and he closed his eyes. “Not tonight.”

You didn’t move. Your legs had not confirmed they were prepared to take instructions.

His thumb pressed once, briefly, against your jaw before his hand fell away, and the absence of it registered as an almost physical loss. He straightened, putting a careful inch of air between you, and looked at you with an expression you had never seen on him before and could not entirely name, though some part of you recognized it anyway.

“Go inside,” he said, quieter. “Shamrock is coming. I doubt you want him witnessing this.”

True to his word, footsteps sounded from somewhere down the corridor. Too dizzy and too warm and in no condition whatsoever to manage a small child, you finally went inside.

Unfortunately, tonight you remained a virgin.

The door closed behind you. You locked it, as instructed, and stood in the dark with your back against it and your heart making a considerable amount of noise, and thought that patience was a virtue neither of you was going to survive much longer.

Through the wood, you heard the low murmur of Garling’s voice, and then Shamrock’s, and Garling telling him to leave you be, that tomorrow he could have you all day.

You went to bed and collapsed into it face-first.

The next day, Garling received the cold shoulder.

It was not entirely due to anger, though you found anger the considerably easier thing to explain, including to yourself. Anger was clean and justified and required no further examination. The alternative required admitting that you had spent a portion of the night awake in a state of wanting that had no respectable outlet, and that the sight of him at the breakfast table, looking entirely composed. At the same time, you felt like a wrung-out cloth was doing nothing to improve matters. The hangover didn’t help matters.

So, anger it was.

You were perfectly civil. You passed him the salt when he needed it. You answered direct questions with complete sentences. You simply did all of this with the air of a woman who had no particular feelings about the man she was doing it for, which was so thoroughly untrue that you suspected even the housemaids could see through it.

This suspicion was not helped by the fact that you could, in your peripheral vision, observe two of them very carefully, not looking at each other.

Perhaps it was also not helped by the fruit tower. You had arrived at the table first and arranged it with some deliberation in the center, then seated yourself beside Shamrock on the far end, positioning the whole elaborate structure between yourself and your husband like a battlement. It was a very tall tower. Someone had stacked a pineapple on top, and you were not going to rule out that Hessa had done it on purpose, because when you glanced at her, she was examining a flower arrangement with the serenity of a woman thinking about absolutely nothing.

Garling had sat down across from you, taken one look at the fruit fortifications, and reached for the coffee pot without comment. This was, somehow, worse.

He hadn’t even pouted when he’d found you had woken early enough to deny him the walk from your door to breakfast. You had simply appeared at the breakfast table already dressed, already seated, already beyond reach of whatever the morning might have otherwise offered. A preemptive maneuver. He had registered it, you could tell, in the slight pause before he pulled out his chair, and had said nothing at all, which was its own kind of audacious.

You were not about to replay the previous night’s incident in the full light of day while still feeling more pent-up than a tea kettle. And if avoiding his morning greeting had also meant avoiding his mouth, well, that was his fault entirely. You were only a modest governess. A woman of simple habits and no particular passions. A woman who had identified her weaknesses and avoided them like cavities, which was the only sensible policy, and you would not be taking questions.

Shamrock, beside you, was eating his toast with the focused attention of a child who had read a room correctly and decided his continued neutrality was the wisest available position.

“Darling.”

Garling rose, having finished eating, and moved to your end of the table with unhurried confidence. The kind of ego that had simply decided the fruit tower was not a permanent obstacle. He adjusted his position until you had no choice but to look at him.

“Would you be opposed to visiting me for lunch today?” He paused, just briefly. “I find myself missing you fiercely.”

“I am opposed.” You said it so quickly that a maid nearly dropped her plate. “I’m afraid I’m otherwise occupied.”

Garling had half a second of alarm before composing himself again. “Oh?” A flash of white teeth. “And what has you occupied?”

“My sister.”

“Martha? But she isn’t—” He stopped.

“Isn’t what?”

“Nothing.” He said it easily, the way a man says nothing when he means something he has decided not to share. “I only thought she mentioned she had plans this week. I must have misremembered.”

You looked at him. He looked back at you with an expression of complete openness, which meant he was lying, or editing, or both, and you had no way to prove it without admitting you had invented Martha entirely, which you were not going to do.

“She was able to rearrange,” you said.

“Wonderful. Give her my warmest regards.”

He held your gaze for a moment, and then, with the air of a man who had won something without technically having played, he let it go.

“You look lovely this morning, incidentally.”

“I slept poorly."

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He said it with genuine feeling, which was the problem. The warmth was entirely unaffected and had no business landing the way it did. “You still look lovely. My door is open to you whenever you find yourself at liberty. Today or otherwise.”

You had braced, privately, for retaliation and for some quiet reference to the previous night, deployed with surgical precision and that particular smile. It did not come. He simply looked at you with that composed, patient attention, as though he had all the time in the world and was entirely content to spend some of it here, waiting for you to come around, which you were not going to do.

He was calm. He was mature. He was a shining example of chivalric patience, and he knew it, and he was deploying it like a weapon. There was absolutely nothing you could do about this that would not make you look like the unreasonable party. You could not be angry at a man for being kind to you. You had checked. There was no mechanism for it.

He didn’t appear to require an answer. He adjusted his cuffs, glanced at Shamrock, said something quiet and fond to him that you didn’t catch, and left.

You picked up your tea, praying the hangover away.

Behind you, Hessa had been reorganizing the sideboard for some time now, moving items in order to have something to look at that was not you. A maid to her left had developed a sudden and pressing interest in the window latch. Another had simply ceased to exist as a social presence, which was an impressive feat for someone standing four feet away.

“Not a word,” you said.

“Of course,” said Hessa, to a tureen.

You drank your tea.

Patience as a virtue, you had concluded, was a fiction invented by the elite to placate everyone else into quiet submission. The truly patient man was not virtuous. He was simply waiting you out. He had a longer horizon than you did, and he was comfortable with it, and this was arguably the most irritating thing about him, which was saying something given the competition.

When Garling had gone, Shamrock looked up from his breakfast, considered you for a moment with those unsettlingly perceptive eyes, and raised one small, brow.

“Are his kisses that bad?”

The maid by the window made a sound that she converted, with admirable speed, into a cough.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” you said, fingers to your forehead.

“You’re avoiding Father.”

“I am doing no such thing.”

“You got up before sunrise so you wouldn’t have to walk with him. And you told him you were visiting Auntie M, but Auntie M is enormous and in a terrible mood after balls, and she told you last week she didn’t want any visitors until after the baby comes. I was there.”

A brief pause.

“Women need support in trying times.”

Shamrock looked at you with an expression inherited wholesale from a specific parent: the raised brow, the quality of waiting. “You’re really mad at Father.”

You picked up your tea. “This is one of those personal, private things, Shamrock.”

“So the kiss was really bad.” He said it plainly, the way children say things they have simply concluded. “I thought Father would be better at it. He’s very old.”

He returned to his breakfast with the air of someone who had made his point and was content to let it settle. You watched him cut his toast into quarters, methodically, and thought that seven was frankly too young to be this perceptive, and that someone ought to have flagged it as a concern during the hiring process. You were, in fact, the someone. You had not flagged it. This was on you.

Behind you, Hessa had stopped pretending to reorganize anything. She was simply standing.

“The kiss wasn’t bad,” you said finally, with great dignity. “That’s not the issue.”

Shamrock said nothing. He had learned this from his father too: the particular weaponization of silence, the willingness to simply wait while the other person kept talking.

“It was a perfectly acceptable kiss.”

He ate his toast skeptically.

“Several acceptable kisses.” You were frowning now. You didn’t know why you were defending Garling. You hadn’t even liked him this morning. You still didn’t, technically, like him.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Shamrock said. “I already know Father did something right and then messed it up somehow. He was in a very good mood this morning. He woke me up early, and we did two hours of sword drills, and he was humming.”

The image of Garling humming at six in the morning over sword drills did something complicated to your chest that you were absolutely not going to examine at the breakfast table, or anywhere else, on this particular day.

One of the maids drifted toward the door on some urgent, invented errand. The other had developed a consuming interest in her own apron.

“It’s a shame he got it wrong,” Shamrock continued, cutting his second piece of toast with precision. “How am I supposed to get a sibling if he keeps messing up? I could talk to him. I have ideas.”

“Finish your toast,” you said. “And do not speak to your Father about our private life. Under any circumstances. That is a direct instruction.”

Shamrock finished his toast.

Then he looked up at you one more time with those steady, ancient eyes, and said, very simply, “Don’t be too upset, Mother. I need a sibling soon, or we’ll be too far apart in age to play.”

You looked at your tea, which had gone cold. You looked at the window. You performed a rapid mental survey of the building’s roof access and whether you had any prior commitments that might plausibly require your presence up there.

Hessa cleared her throat softly.

“More tea?”

“Please. And perhaps a dash of something stronger.”​​​​​​​

Martha lived twenty minutes away and was, as Shamrock had accurately said, enormous. She also looked less than pleased to see you, so quickly after the ball. A ball she probably shouldn’t have insisted on attending in her state.

She was horizontal on a chaise with her feet elevated, a cold compress on her forehead, and the expression of a woman who had agreed to receive you only because turning you away required more energy than she currently had available. Her husband Daveed had let you in with a warm smile and the slightly shellshocked air of a man eight months into a siege he hadn’t fully anticipated.

“You look terrible,” Martha said, by way of greeting. “Hungover still?”

“And you look like—” The rudeness of it made her raise a brow. You were almost never sharp first thing in the morning. “—Sorry. Good morning.”

“It isn’t, particularly, but sit down. Daveed, she needs tea. She has the face.”

“I don’t have a face,” you said, sitting.

“You have the face you get when something has happened, and you’ve spent the night convincing yourself it happened differently than it did.” She shifted, grimaced, shifted again. “So, did Garling’s kiss at the ball upset you that much? If so, my advice is to get over it.”

“I am NOT upset over being kissed—” You stopped. Collected yourself. “That is not what this is about.”

“No?”

Martha’s expression shifted into something more interested. She reached up and removed the compress from her forehead, which meant she intended to give you her full attention, which meant she had already decided this was going to be worth it. “Did something more happen?” she said. “When you got home?”

You were quiet for a moment.

“There was. We—” You stopped.

Martha waited. She had always been better at waiting than you, which was deeply unfair given that she was two years older and had no particular claim to the moral high ground on any subject you could name.

“I kissed him,” you said. “After we got home.”

“And?”

“And then there was more kissing. And I may have.” You picked up the tea Daveed had set down beside you, needing something to do with your hands. “I may have had rather a lot of pent-up energy at the ball, and the kissing may have. Escalated.”

Martha’s eyes narrowed. Her grin widened. “Do continue.”

“I was perfectly willing,” you said, with some dignity. “I was the one who. I was very willing. Enthusiastically so, in fact, which is neither here nor there, the point is that it wasn’t—” You stopped. “He stopped it. Said he didn’t want to hurt me. That I was drunk.”

Martha stared at you for a moment. Then something shifted in her expression, softer and more surprised. “I mean. That’s actually rather lovely of him. So what’s the problem?”

You gritted your teeth.

“The problem, Martha, is that we finally got to the main event, and—” You stopped. Started again. “He saw me. And then he stopped.”

Martha blinked. “And?”

“And that’s it. That’s the problem. He saw me, and he stopped.”

A silence. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked. Outside, a cart passed over cobblestones.

“You think,” Martha said slowly, “that he stopped because he saw you and didn’t like what he saw?”

“I think it is a reasonable conclusion.”

Martha stared at you with an expression you hadn’t seen on her since you were seventeen and had announced a similarly ill-reasoned theory about why a boy at a garden party hadn’t asked you to dance. It was the expression of a woman summoning patience from a reserve she hadn’t expected to need this early in the morning.

“But that shouldn’t even be—it’s not as though the man hasn’t seen—” She stopped.

Went very still.

The compress slid slightly sideways on her forehead. She didn’t fix it.

Looked at you with new eyes.

“No,” she said.

You looked at the window. The curtains were a pale yellow. You focused on them with great attention.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

You said nothing.

“You’re not telling me I’m wrong.”

Daveed, who had been hovering near the doorway with the tea things and the politely averted gaze of a good husband, had gone quite still. The teacup he’d been drying was no longer being dried. His eyes had cut slowly across the room to you. He was no longer looking at the wall. He was not even pretending to.

“This cannot be,” Martha said. She pressed both hands flat against her enormous stomach as though she needed something to hold onto. “You have been married for months.”

“Martha.”

“He is Garling Figarland.”

“I’m aware of who I married.”

“Are you telling me,” she said, her voice dropping to the register she reserved for matters of genuine, world-altering gravity, “that you have been living in that man’s house, in that man’s marriage, and you have not—” She stopped herself. Looked at you. Looked at Daveed. Looked back at you. The clock kept ticking. “You’re still a—”

“We have a complicated situation,” you said, with enormous dignity, and took a sip of tea that had gone lukewarm while you weren’t paying attention.

Martha made a sound that was not quite a word.

“No. You cannot possibly—are you still a virgin? You’re married to Garling Figarland, the alleged god of sexual prowess, and you are still a virgin?”

“Not that it is any of your business, but—”

“You’ve been married for months—”

“Martha—”

“Is he an actual saint? Has he been canonized? Should we be notifying someone?”

Daveed set the teapot down very carefully on the nearest surface, which happened to be a decorative side table not entirely designed for teapots. The ceramic met the wood with a soft, final clink. He did not appear to notice. He was staring at you with the expression of a man who had wandered into a conversation well above his anticipated involvement and was now rooted to the floor, eyes slightly wide, the dishcloth in his hands completely forgotten.

“The Supreme Commander of the Holy Knights,” Martha said, mostly to herself, gazing at the middle distance as though reading something written on the air. “Living like a monk in his own house. With his own wife.” She turned to Daveed. The compress slid off her forehead entirely and landed on the cushion beside her. Neither of them moved to retrieve it.

Daveed appeared to be doing rapid calculations. “Can you imagine,” he said, his voice pitched low with the reverence of a man delivering news of cosmic significance, “how absolutely furious Veria would be if she knew?” He turned away from you, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. His shoulders moved. “All those years. All that. And he married a woman who has him waiting like a—” He could not finish. He faced the wall and composed himself with visible effort.

“My dear, dear sister,” Martha said, shaking her head slowly, something warm and wondering in her voice now beneath the disbelief. “This changes everything. Do you understand that this changes everything?” She pointed at you, finger crossing the parlor with great purpose. “And then last night you finally, finally—but you were drunk—and he—” She stopped. Her expression moved rapidly through several phases, like a woman reading a letter that keeps getting more surprising. Then it settled into something certain. “Oh. Oh, he stopped because he didn’t want it to be like that.”

“Or because he saw me and didn’t—”

“If you finish that sentence,” Martha said, “I will tell Mother.”

You gasped. “That is not a proportionate—”

“Your extremely patient, generous, apparently saintly husband stopped,” Martha said, each word placed down like something heavy and deliberate, “because he cared about you. Because he wanted you present for it. Because you matter to him and he didn’t want your first time together to be while you were three glasses past sensible and he was responsible for the consequences in the morning.”

You blinked at her.

“He cared about you,” she said again, slower, in case it needed a second pass.

The clock ticked. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed. The pale yellow curtains shifted slightly in a draft from the window you hadn’t noticed was cracked.

You opened your mouth.

“He is apparently,” Martha continued, before you could use it, “against all available evidence and reputation, a genuinely decent man who wanted you sober and present and actually there the first time he seduces you. And instead of recognizing this, you have come to my house before ten in the morning, still wound up like a watch spring, to complain that he doesn’t find you attractive.”

She exhaled slowly through her nose.

From the corner of the room, Daveed made a very small sound.

“Something to add?” you said, between your teeth.

“No,” he said. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He was looking at a fixed point on the wall with the intense personal focus of a man who had decided that particular patch of plaster was the most interesting thing in the room and intended to keep believing that.

“Go ahead, Daveed,” Martha said pleasantly. “It’ll be better if she hears it from you.”

A pause. Daveed appeared to conduct a brief internal negotiation.

“I think,” he said, still to the wall, with the careful diction of a man choosing each word the way you choose footing on ice, “and I could be wrong. But I think that the man in question would be genuinely horrified to know that the wife he loves, the one he obtained through what I can only describe as an impressive campaign of dubious maneuvering because he apparently desperately wanted her, had concluded that he stopped because he didn’t find her attractive.” Another pause. “In my opinion.”

The room was very quiet.

“No one asked your opinion,” you said.

“You’re right.” He collected the teapot from the side table with the efficient relief of a man who had said his piece and located the exit simultaneously. “I’ll get more tea.”

He left. His footsteps retreated down the hall at a pace that was not quite hurrying.

Martha watched him go, then turned back to you with the expression of a woman who had made her point and was now simply waiting for it to land.

“Listen to me,” she said. “I was at that ball. I watched him kiss you in front of everyone he knows. I watched his face when he did it.” She let that sit in the air between you for a moment, where it occupied considerable space. “A man who doesn’t like what he sees does not look like that.”

You could feel your face doing something you didn’t care for. “He made me feel so ashamed.”

“I know.” Her voice lost some of its edge. “But you were nervous. He kissed you in front of half of Mary Geoise, and you didn’t know what to do with that, so you found a solution in a wine glass. And the wine gave you what the kissing had already started. And he was nervous too, because you’d been cool with him all evening, and he was drinking as well, and when it came to it, he was the more functional of the two of you.” She looked at you steadily. “That is not rejection. That is the opposite of rejection, delivered with more self-restraint than most men alive are capable of, and given the reputation, I can only imagine what it cost him.”

There was a long silence.

“I don’t know how to want him without feeling so scared,” you said.

Martha was quiet for a moment. “I know that too.”

“I was cold to him this morning.”

“I heard about the fruit tower.”

“The—who told you?”

“Shamrock. Our gossip is his primary form of entertainment.” She shifted, pressing a hand to her side with a grimace. “So. Go to the spa. Use some of that infinite money you have and get your head on straight. And then, for the love of everything, talk to the man. He was decent about this when he didn’t have to be.”

You picked up your tea. Put it down. “I want to jump off a roof.”

“You can’t use mine. Too low. You’d only twist an ankle.”

Daveed reappeared in the doorway holding a plate of biscuits, took one look at your expression, and set them down beside you without comment. He had the instincts of a man who had learned when food was the only safe offering.

“Daveed,” Martha said, without opening her eyes. “Apologize to me.”

“For what, love?”

“For not being Garling Figarland. We’ve just been told the man has waited over a year to bed his own wife. You never do such edgeplay with me.”

“That long? What are we, savages?” He winked. “How about I show you my sword later?” You made a face.

“Please do.” She waved a hand. “Compress first. I need a moment.”

“You’re my wife,” he said, with comfortable certainty. “You’re about to have my child. And Saint Figarland would drive you mad. He’s not nearly gossipy enough for you.”

“He could learn.” But she was smiling, and when he leaned down, she caught his hand, and he pressed a kiss to her knuckles with the ease of long habit before disappearing back down the hall.

You watched this and felt something very small and very inconvenient turn over in your chest.

“Go,” Martha said. “Spa. Husband. In that order.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ Stop making me jealous.”

Daveed kindly walked you to the door to show you out.

The spa was quiet at this hour, which was the only reason you had come. And you had used the back entrance, as Garling likes to keep his personal doings private, and paid well for it to stay that way.

The Figarlands had a standing account there, one of the many luxuries that had arrived with the marriage and which you had visited exactly once before, but as staff on an errand. The difficulty with being able to afford the best was that the spa was also full of people who could afford the best, and Celestial Dragons talked, and you were in no condition to be talked at. You had arrived early enough to avoid the bulk of them and given very clear instructions to keep it that way. The woman at the front had looked at your face and not argued.

The all-female attendants took your robe, administered the full shower and scrub with the brisk efficiency of women who had seen everything and were professionally unimpressed by all of it, and then deposited you in a warm room that smelled of eucalyptus and left you largely in peace in a giant robe. Which was the most you had asked of anyone today, and the first time you had received it.

You lay down on the heated stone and stared at the ceiling. It didn’t reveal any secrets, but it did help the throbbing behind your eyes, so you were prepared to call it useful.

You were doing this because Martha had told you to. Also, because the sort of woman Garling Figarland ought to have married went to spas and took mornings for herself and did not spend them constructing fortifications out of seasonal fruit. You were going to be that woman today. You were going to lie here in the warm, scented quiet and feel entirely at ease, and then you were going to go home composed and reasonable and not at all like someone who had spent the night wrung out over her own husband.

The stone was very warm. The ceiling was very unhelpful.

You sighed. Looked like you’d be doing this yourself.

Begrudgingly, you accepted the obvious. Martha had probably been right, though she had been very pregnant and extremely inconvenient about it.

Garling had been right not to let you seduce him drunk. You could see that now, in the eucalyptus-scented quiet, 

If he had taken the easy route, something would have broken. You would have woken up and known that he had let it happen because it was available rather than because it mattered. That he had taken an easy win while you were too far gone to weigh it properly. The thought sat badly, like something swallowed wrong. It would have been the end of whatever fragile, unexamined thing had been growing in the months since the wedding, and he had apparently understood that, even drunk, even in the dark, even when you had been, by all accounts, quite enthusiastic about the alternative.

Which was, when you lay it out plainly on a warm stone in a quiet room, rather a lot to take in.

It had never been about you not having desire. That was the part you hadn’t said to Martha. You had wanted him for long enough that the wanting had become chronic, something you worked around the way you work around furniture placed in an inconvenient spot. You had simply learned the shape of the room without it.

The problem with Garling was that he was not a man you could want lightly. He was the best, and he knew it, and wanting him properly meant admitting that, which meant admitting rather a lot of other things in sequence, like a row of small doors each opening onto a larger room than the last.

Because if you let yourself have this properly, you would not be able to stop. And if you could not stop, and he left, or grew tired, or looked at you one morning with the eyes of a man regretting a decision he’d made in haste, you would be ruined by it. Not in the social sense. In the other sense. The permanent one.

You had married him under circumstances that were not, in the strictest interpretation, entirely voluntary. You had been furious about this for a reasonable period of time. But somewhere in the months since, the fury had done what fury does when it is not fed, which was to slowly and inconveniently become something else entirely. Something that sat in your chest during breakfast. Something that had made five glasses of wine feel like a reasonable solution to a problem that had been building for months.

The question was not whether you wanted him. You had been resolved on that question for some time, whether you had admitted it or not. The question was whether you were brave enough to stop building walls out of fruit and cold shoulders and let the thing happen that was, by now, fairly clearly going to happen regardless.

You pressed your face into the warm stone.

It did not offer counsel. It was, however, very soothing, and you were prepared to take what you could get.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You exhaled.

All right, you thought. All right.

You were still frightened. You expected you would continue to be frightened for some time. But you were going to go home and talk to your husband like a person, as Martha had suggested, without a fruit tower or any of the other arrangements you had been hiding behind.

You were also, you noted, still lying on a warm stone in an otherwise empty room, which was not nothing. Martha had been right about the spa, too, even if you were not going to tell her that. She had enough material already.

Garling could wait another forty minutes. He was patient. It was, at this particular moment, his most useful quality.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You had assumed, after the spa, you would meander a bit. You preferred walking alone, which drove Hessa quietly mad and the Figarland household maids somewhat less quietly so, but Mary Geoise was the safest city in the world, and you were married to the reason why. No one was going to trouble you.

The irony was that no one was particularly going to notice you either. Only lesser Dragons walked, as well as slaves and servants, and so even people who had met you formally tended to do a small double-take when they passed you on foot, as though the brain refused to process a Saintess at street level without a second attempt. You found this restful. You could think.

You had been looking forward to it. The post-spa quiet, the warm, loose feeling in your shoulders, the fresh air, an afternoon of nobody requiring anything of you before you had to go home and be brave.

As soon as you stepped out of the treatment room into the private changing area, a Figarland maid appeared in the doorway with the body language of someone who had been standing outside it for several minutes, working up to knocking. Her face had the particular quality of a person who had recently experienced something they didn’t have the vocabulary for.

“Saintess.” She dipped her head. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, I really am, but—” she cleared her throat, “There’s—”

You furrowed your brow. 

“…The Master is here.”

You froze, one hand on your robe, stalling. “Pardon?”

“The… uh, Master Figarland. He’s here.”

“He’s here?” 

The maid bowed low.

“Outside, ma’am. He’s…He’s in the corridor. Just outside.”

You turned around fully. “He’s in the women’s side of the spa?”

“Yes, Saintess.” She looked genuinely pained. “He arrived about twenty minutes ago. The staff didn’t feel they could ask him to leave, given who he is, but they also couldn’t very well let him through, given where he is, so he’s simply been. Standing there. In the corridor. He has been there for some time now, and several guests have walked past him, and we aren’t entirely sure what your correct protocol is because there isn’t one, as it turns out, for this specific situation.” She took a small breath. “It seems he’s taken the day off.”

You stared at her.

“He took the day off,” you said. “The Supreme Commander of the Holy Knights.”

“Yes, Saintess.”

“And came here.”

“Yes, Saintess.”

“To the spa.”

“He’s been very gracious about it,” she said, with the desperate optimism of a woman trying to locate a bright side. “He told the front desk he found himself unable to focus without the goodwill of his wife and asked if there was somewhere he could wait. They said there wasn’t, not exactly, and he said that was perfectly all right and found the corridor himself.” A pause. “Several guests have commented.”

“I’m sure they did,” you said darkly.

“The waiting room was quite full at the time, ma’am. Some of them recognized him—” She hesitated, and you gave her a look. “—All of them recognized him.”

You sat down on the dressing bench. You stood back up. You picked up your comb and put it down without using it. You looked at the door, then at the mirror, then at the door.

“Those women are going to tell everyone,” you said.

“I expect by lunch, Saintess,” she agreed, with sympathy that did not quite conceal the rest of what was written on her face, which was that she had already told two people herself and felt the information was simply too large to contain.

You pressed your fingers to your temple. The eucalyptus was doing absolutely nothing for you now.

“Tell him I’ll be out shortly.”

“Of course, Saintess.” She turned to go, then paused at the door with the reluctant air of someone delivering a final piece of news they had been saving. “He also said to let you know there’s no rush whatsoever and to take all the time you need.” Another pause. “He said it quite graciously.”

Of course, he had.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ 

You turned back to the mirror. Your reflection looked composed. Your reflection was lying. You pressed your hands flat against the dressing table and breathed in through your nose, eucalyptus and warm cedar, the last of the morning’s careful equilibrium.

You had been going to do this on your own terms. You had a whole plan. It had involved more walking, some additional thinking, possibly a light lunch, and then, eventually, at a time of your choosing, a mature and reasonable conversation with your husband.

Garling, apparently, had different scheduling preferences. 

“I will kill him.”

A perfectly corseted set of breasts was, in the right circumstances, something very close to a miracle.

Consider a man contemplating a significant life change, perhaps a man named Garling Figarland. A man who'd inadvertently fallen in love with his governess, but who also rightfully had many, many reservations about this development.

Among his many concerns was this: first, she was his son's governess. Second, he wasn’t really a man who got married, and third, the first two didn’t matter, but the last point did.

That being, perhaps the least dignified reason, but no less real: Garling didn’t know whether he was capable of leashing a libido as ferocious as his own. And whether inflicting that power upon a single soul for the remainder of his natural life was wise, fair, or even survivable for both parties involved.

And whether that libido would cooperate at all, given the woman in question.

Because the said woman dressed head to toe in modest, slightly baggy apparel. Governess apparel, taken to the extreme, which meant he must have loved you considerably, to be at this point—because he hated the clothes. They gave him nothing. Not a collarbone, not a wrist, not so much as a suggestion of a waist. The most he had ever been offered was a brief, accidental flash of ankle, and Garling was not the sort of man who could be reliably sustained by ankles.

He had considered this a safeguard. Garling was capable of loving a woman and still recognizing that no force on earth, celestial mandate included, would compel him to marry her if he felt nothing below the neck. The status quo that ensured this remained stable was kept in alignment by your frumpy uniform.

And he was glad for the arrangement. It protected everyone.

Then your mother had gotten hold of you before the ball.

Your dress itself was not extraordinary. It was perfectly ordinary, in point of fact. What was not ordinary was the amount of you it chose to display, and what that display confirmed about the silhouette that had been quietly existing beneath seasons’ worth of serviceable wool.

Garling had survived years of your modesty intact. Collected, even. Rather proud of himself, if he was honest. He respected you to the point that he hadn’t once imagined you naked.

One look.

That was it. That was all it took.

He very nearly didn’t survive the ballroom, because that quickly changed.

His first glance wasn’t even your chest. He almost didn’t recognize you at all. He’d caught movement from his vantage in the shadow of an exit, registered unfamiliar bare skin, and done a double take before his brain had fully caught up with his eyes. The back of your dress rested just below your shoulder blades, exposing the smooth line of your neck and the soft curve of your shoulders, and he stood there for a moment simply staring, which was not behavior he was accustomed to from himself.

You were lovely, though someone had taken extensive liberties with your hair and makeup. 

He could tell from the stiff way you moved, and the rigid architecture of your spine, that you were deeply uncomfortable. It was that detail, oddly, that gave him enough presence of mind to shake himself loose. You were surrounded by insects who preened and leered and were making no effort to conceal their hopes to see down your dress. 

You needed rescuing. 

He could be useful. He had a function here.

He intervened just as one of the room’s many determined gnats grew brave enough to approach rather than simply orbit you at a respectful, longing distance.

Could he blame the men? Sincerely?

No. He could not.

Because when you turned to tolerate a fellow, Garling caught his first full view, and discovered, with something that felt uncomfortably close to religious revelation, that he was perhaps a man of faith after all.

The altar, in this metaphor, was your corseted chest, framed in rose silk. 

He was going to have a very serious conversation with your mother. To thank her, or to arrange your immediate entry into a nunnery, depending entirely on how the next several minutes went.

He also couldn’t fault you for your lack of gratitude at his intervention. It was plain you had gone to some effort to placate her, endured the dress and the hair and whatever else the process had entailed, and the reward for your suffering was a ballroom full of men trying their best to undress you with their eyes. 

You had looked, when he’d materialized at your elbow, like you’d see death. Not encouraging, but he supposed it wasn’t always pleasant to see one’s boss when you specifically asked for time off.

For his own part, the rest of the evening required considerable management. He saved you, let you be upset, marked his territory, got one look down your dress, and was persuaded to commit to monogamy. He was so gratified by the sight, he failed to have a lick of common sense or manners, entirely forgetting that he would have to flirt very obviously if you were to understand his intentions. 

And when it concluded, he made a detour.

The personal ministrations he required, in the privacy of his own company, were somewhat embarrassingly decisive. By the end of them, he was a man entirely resolved. He was on a path, he understood, with no meaningful exit. He had made his peace with this.

But the breasts, he reflected, in the calm that followed, were genuinely exceptional. He also found, in that same calm, that he had no interest in seeing another pair. This was new information. He filed it accordingly.

It was for that exact reason he let the gossip run rampant. 

By the next morning, his last mistress had graciously withdrawn before he’d had to cut the metaphorical cord. She had always been perceptive, and as it was, they hadn’t slept together in nearly a month.

He then composed a letter to your father. Measured, cordial, carefully worded. He wrote three drafts, which was three more than he had written for anything in recent memory, including military dispatches with actual stakes. 

The substance of the final version was this: That he, Garling Figarland, was not only exceptionally pleased with you, their youngest daughter, as his son's governess, but that he and his son had grown very attached to you personally. To put it plainly, he found you delightful, and he wished to pursue a marriage forthwith. But so as not to overwhelm you. That said, the covenant was also to be quietly drawn up between your parents and him, because you were shy. Mostly, it would be of considerable personal assistance if the family could quietly refrain from entertaining other suitors in the meantime. He would gladly cover any costs and requested no dowry or addendums. Instead, for their trouble, he would ensure them a monthly stipend, ensure their business, and protect their family.

Your father’s reply arrived within the day.

It was not what he would call a warm correspondence. It demanded to know, in the blunt register of a man who had spent decades dealing with nonsense, who exactly was impersonating the Supreme Commander of the Holy Knights, how they had obtained official stationery, and what they hoped to gain by it, because he had written to the man precisely four times in his life and both conversations had concerned tariffs.

There was a postscript. It said, ‘The nerve was impressive, he’d give them that.’

Garling arranged an in-person meeting.

Your mother, upon opening the drawing room door, went the color of old parchment and appeared to briefly lose command of her knees. She recovered with admirable speed, and by the time he had settled into a chair, she had executed a complete reversal of bearing, producing tea, a plate of biscuits, and a warmth that suggested she had just discovered an unlimited source of clout.

When she understood the precise reason for his visit, she nearly offered you up on the tea tray as well. Garling felt this was perhaps excessive, but appreciated the spirit.

The engagement was approved, the permissions signed, and the relevant documents produced with a speed that suggested your mother had been maintaining a small amount of hope for some time and had the paperwork somewhere to hand. He supposed your sister had quietly stepped in to arrange some details, and he had become friendly with her, and she proved to be an excellent tool to nudge you in the right direction. That was a limit to your obstinacy, and he had to peel it away. 

All that remained was your signature.

That was resolved shortly as well, though not without cost. He regretted, in retrospect, that obtaining it had required such a disruption to your comfort in his home. A foundation had been quietly building between you, and he would have preferred to continue constructing it at his own pace, in his own house, with you inside it where he could monitor progress directly.

But there was a kind of strategy in giving ground. He let you take your space. He let you return to your family, and he let you sit alone with whatever it was you were feeling, which Shamrock reliably reported was considerable. You had left, apparently, because you felt partial to him and found the proximity compromising.

He tried very hard not to be smug about this. He mostly succeeded.

The time you spent at home, he considered the engagement period in all but your awareness of it. He sent Shamrock over like his personal sleeper agent and reaped the benefits. Shamrock, to his credit, required no instruction. He simply went, and was charming, and dismantled your professional composure one visit at a time with the focused dedication of a child who wanted something and had identified the most efficient path to getting it.

Garling might have let it continue longer, just to ensure your compliant agreement. The arrangement suited him well enough. He genuinely missed you, but found that ensuring your family’s comfort, settling certain quiet financial arrangements, and overseeing the reordering of his mansion for your eventual arrival made for a satisfying way to spend the interim. He was a man who liked a project. This was several projects at once, with a prize that would provide decades of enjoyment and pleasure.

But then you began to notice things. Small things. The kind of small things that, assembled together, formed a picture a woman of your particular intelligence was not going to be able to unsee.

At that point, he decided, it was better he take the lead. Gently. With care. He would guide you himself to the discovery that you were, in fact, already his, and had been for some time, and that the only outstanding item was your paperwork, which was already signed, so really there was nothing left to discuss.

Surely you’d agree.

And if he was enjoying himself, who could reasonably blame him?

By the time you actually knew, he’d already moved your books into his library, alphabetized them into his own collection, and had the head housekeeper begin addressing you by your future title to smooth the transition. Then he quietly arranged for your preferred meals to be stocked in the kitchens on a standing order.

He had, perhaps, been slightly overconfident about the smoothness of the transition.

Your shock departed quickly. Your anger stayed. The next month was not nearly as enjoyable as the preceding ones. The mansion felt considerably more lonely without you in it, which was an observation he kept to himself because he was not going to say that out loud to anyone. Shamrock served as his intelligence on the ground, reporting back with the solemn reliability of a very small, very invested general. It helped that the consistent intelligence he sent was that you were not impervious. You were simply furious. There was, apparently, a meaningful difference, and he was expected to appreciate it.

He conceded the point. Privately.

In the meantime, he began establishing, with increasing visibility, that he was unavailable. Mostly, this was subtle. Declined invitations to women. Brief, closed appearances at functions he could not reasonably avoid. Then an audacious widow at a diplomatic supper decided that his current domestic situation represented an opening, and made her position known with an initiative he had to admire on a purely technical level.

He left her untouched, unencouraged, and in tears, which he did not feel particularly guilty about.

But he would not have it happen again. More importantly, he would not have you hear of it through whatever channel that sort of news traveled, and draw the wrong conclusions while you were already disposed toward drawing wrong conclusions about him.

He arranged, with surgical precision, for his marriage certificate to pass through the hands of four secretaries known, collectively, to have never kept a confidence in their professional lives. It was the most efficiently he had ever deployed paperwork.

Your return home was prompt.

It was not, however, the gracious return he had been anticipating. You came back with your spine straight and your jaw set and a quality of dignity that he found, inconveniently, even more attractive than the dress. What he gained was not access to your bed but access to the next stage of a puzzle he had not fully mapped, which was beginning to be a pattern with you that he could not decide whether he found irritating or compelling.

Both, probably.

Because somewhere between your uneasy composure and a certain clause in the contract, it became apparent to him. 

You were a virgin. 

He had suspected it, but to have it confirmed outright was different. He sat with this information for a moment. Then he sat with it for considerably longer than he was accustomed to sitting with anything.

This changed things.

Not his intentions. His intentions were the same as they had always been and were not up for revision. He was going to have you, he was going to keep you, and the sequence of events between now and that outcome was largely a matter of logistics. That part was settled.

The complication was the nuance of logistics.

He rarely slept with virgins, but this was not squeamishness; rather, it was risk management. In his experience, which was extensive and well-documented in his own memory if nowhere else, virgins cried. Not always during, but reliably after, and sometimes before, and occasionally at intervals with no clear cause for up to a week following. They became emotional in ways that required management. They attached, swiftly and completely, to whoever had been present for the occasion, with an indiscriminate devotion that had very little to do with the actual merit of the man involved.

He had watched perfectly sensible women rearrange their entire inner lives around men who did not deserve the square footage. It was a reliable phenomenon, and a tedious one, and he had spent years observing it with the detached curiosity of a man who had never been subject to sentiment himself. When he was younger, he dabbled a few times with some of the more disposable women, but quickly he moved on.

He was not, to be clear, worried about this with you. Not because you wouldn't become attached or feel obliged. He actually wanted you to rearrange your inner life around him. Enthusiastically, and at length. He had no ambivalence on that point whatsoever.

What he did not want was for you to do it badly, or have regrets, or be unwilling. He wanted you to arrive at him clearly. Annoyed, if necessary, but with both eyes open and functioning, the way you approached everything else in your life (including him, including your own feelings, which you were currently in the process of examining with the reluctant thoroughness of someone auditing accounts they had hoped not to find).

He wanted to be wanted by you, specifically.

Which meant patience. Care. A degree of restraint he was going to find genuinely, personally inconvenient, and which he was already finding inconvenient, and you had barely agreed to be in the same room as him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

There was also the secondary concern, which he was less comfortable examining but examined anyway, because he was not a man who benefited from self-deception.

He was an experienced lover. This was not arrogance. It was simply a fact, the way his height was a fact, or his record in the field. He knew what he was doing. He had never had complaints. He had, on occasion, had the opposite of complaints, expressed with a sincerity that left no room for misinterpretation.

But he had never particularly cared, before, what happened in the aftermath. Whether a woman left satisfied or merely finished had been, practically speaking, her own business.

The thought of you finding it unpleasant stopped him cold.

The thought of you enduring it and deciding it was a marital duty to be discharged efficiently and then moved past. Looking past him afterward with that stone-cold composure he hated, and asking if he required anything else before retiring.

He didn’t know what he’d do with that. It was an outcome he had no prepared response for, and the lack of a prepared response was deeply uncomfortable. Because you were the prize, and it was entirely possible if he didn’t perfectly navigate this.

A silver lining, he supposed, was that he would not have to kill anyone, which simplified things considerably. He didn’t think he could let anyone who caused this much jealousy live.

But the situation called for something he had never previously been required to apply to this particular area of his life.

Patience.

He was going to take his time. He was going to be restrained. He was going to check every relevant box, in the correct order, with appropriate attention to detail. When the time finally came, you were going to be so thoroughly convinced, so completely and specifically his, that the only thing you’d be capable of afterward was lying there reconsidering every life choice that had delayed the inevitability of this, and deciding you needed him again immediately.

He found that prospect, on reflection, highly motivating. He was very much looking forward to it. He was also very glad no one could see his face as he considered it all, locked away in his office.

And so he worked. Methodically. Months of it. The careful dance between proximity and patience, of letting you come to conclusions in your own time while making absolutely certain only the right conclusions were available to you. He did not rush. He did not press. He was, by any reasonable external measure, a model of restrained and gentlemanly conduct, and he was quietly insufferable about it in the privacy of his own head.

And then, after all of it, you had looked at him with that self-righteous tilt of your chin. The one he had learned to read very well by then, the one you wore when you had lost an argument with yourself and were experiencing the loss as a personal affront. You had the presence of a woman who had arrived at a conclusion against her will and intended to make it everyone else’s problem.

Then you demanded he kiss you. Right on the lips. As though the specificity were necessary. As though he might otherwise have attempted your elbow.

 But he hadn’t obliged.

Because he had come this far on patience alone, which was, he remained convinced, either a personal record or a minor miracle, and he was not going to spend that currency carelessly. If he could outlast his own libido for the better part of a year (which required divine intervention to explain and he intended to take up with the relevant parties at the earliest opportunity), then he could outlast this too.

More importantly, you had asked. You had asked, which meant you wanted, which meant you were going to have to sit with that wanting long enough to stop pretending it wasn’t there.

He needed you to come to terms with the energy between you both, without any remaining doubts, else this marriage would sink faster than a pirate ship at Sabaody.

And when you were finally, properly his, with no ambiguity left on either side, the experience was going to be genuinely extraordinary. The months of restraint were going to feel, in retrospect, entirely worth it.

He was a man of faith, it turned out. Who could have predicted it?

The altar remained the same. He was, however, now considerably more motivated to pray at it.

May the Great One bless his path. He had waited long enough. He was an impatient man by nature and by practice. But he had applied patience with what he felt was considerable grace and restraint, and he had been rewarded last night with the knowledge that his wife was, in fact, enthusiastically willing, which was all the intelligence he had required to move forward.

The only remaining obstacle between himself and pure marital bliss was his own chivalry.

He had no one to blame for this but himself. He had made the decision, and it had been the correct decision, and he stood by it fully, and it had cost him an extraordinary amount, and he was not going to think about that.

He was going to think about the next step instead.

Specifically: rearranging his schedule to take the next week largely away from Mary Geoise, somewhere quiet, somewhere his wife could not build fruit fortresses or find reasons to be busy, somewhere with a great deal of uninterrupted time and no Hessa appearing at inconvenient moments with institutional opinions.

Did the Five Elders highly look upon this? Not particularly. Supreme Commanders didn’t leave the city as a rule. They were the buffer between the Celestial Dragons and the upper brass, the fixed point around which a great deal of sensitive machinery turned.

Did he care?

He considered this for approximately one second.

No. They couldn’t replace him with Sommers. They couldn’t replace him with anyone, and they knew it, and he knew it, and the Five Elders knew it, and if they wanted to have that conversation, he was available after his honeymoon.

He adjusted his cuffs and continued to wait for his wife.

A wait rewarded shortly thereafter, as you came through the women’s section door at a pace that suggested the maid had delivered her message with the surrounding detail fully intact. You looked warm and clean and furious in the particular way you got furious when you were also embarrassed, which he had come to recognize as one of your more charming expressions. You located him in the corridor, crossed it in four steps, took his arm with both hands, and marched him toward the exit with the focused efficiency of a woman removing a hazard from a public space.

He went because he was cooperative by nature when cooperation suited him, and because your hands were on his arm.

The carriage door had barely closed behind you both before you turned on him. Hessa had redone your wardrobe with considerable taste, and he registered this fact with the calm appreciation of a man whose confidence had just received a small, entirely welcome contribution.

“What are you doing here, Garling?”

“Waiting for you,” he said, as though this were self-evident, which he felt it was.

“You were standing in the corridor of a spa.”

“There was nowhere to sit.”

“You are the Supreme Commander of the Holy Knights.”

“I’m aware.”

“People saw you.”

“Several,” he agreed pleasantly. “They were very quiet about it.”

You stared at him with an expression that cycled through several things before landing on something that was trying very hard to remain outraged and was losing ground at a visible rate. “You told the front desk you couldn’t work without my goodwill.”

“It’s true.”

“Garling.”

“It was the most accurate explanation available.” He looked at you with the complete attention he always gave you, as though you were the most interesting thing in whatever room you happened to share. “I left this morning knowing you were upset with me. I found I couldn’t do a single useful thing with that knowledge. So I came to find you instead.”

The carriage moved. Outside, Mary Geoise continued its morning entirely unaware that its Supreme Commander had spent twenty minutes in a spa corridor and considered it time well spent.

You looked at him for a long moment.

“You are,” you said finally, with great feeling, “being very unreasonable.”

“Yes,” he said. “Have you eaten? The seafood at the Red Port is considerably better than its reputation suggests, provided it’s fresh.”

You should have been furious. It was outrageous, by any reasonable measure, that he had publicly cornered you outside a women’s spa to ensure you had lunch. It was audacious and excessive and entirely characteristic, and you had a great many things still to say to him, several of which were important.

“You ass.”

“If I had told you I was going to come find you,” he said, with the terrible reasonableness of a man making an airtight argument, “what would you have done?”

You opened your mouth.

You closed it.

You thought about what you would have done. The documented version of yourself, the one who had been almost somewhere for four months, who had been getting there by inches, who had a whole careful internal system for managing the getting there.

“I would have been more ready,” you said.

“Would you have?”

“Maybe.”

“Or would you have been in your head about it? Worried, and panicked, and looking for a reason to be busy?”

The carriage was very quiet.

“Perhaps,” you said, after a moment.

“Just like the kiss,” he said. “If I had told you beforehand, you would have been somewhere else entirely. Preparing yourself. Bracing.” He looked at you steadily. “Instead of actually being there.”

Instead of the overexposed whiteness and the hand in his lapel, and the room going somewhere distant and irrelevant. Instead of here.

“That’s very…something,” you started.

“Calculating?” he suggested.

“I was going to say presumptuous.”

“Am I wrong?”

“You assumed I would—”

“I assumed nothing.” He looked at you directly, without apology. “I watched you light up yesterday, and I made a decision. This morning, when I saw how hurt you were, I made another.” A pause. “I don’t debate the things that matter most to me. I act on them.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

You must have been in love, because instead of saying anything, you let him draw you onto his lap, tucked your face into his collarbone, and decided that the things you still had to say could survive another ten minutes.

For most of the ride, you both sat in companionable silence, which was rather amazing for the amount of stress you previously had about seeing him. You had not expected the silence to be comfortable. You had braced, somewhere in the back of your mind, for him to say something. He said nothing. He simply kept his arm around you and watched the city pass outside the window, and let you breathe.

It was, you thought, very like him. 

Outside, the city moved past in pale morning light, the white buildings of Mary Geoise catching the sun the way they always did, indifferent and luminous. You could see the top of the Red Port beginning to appear between rooftops, the glint of water beyond.

“Garling,” you said, into his collarbone.

“Mm.” He didn’t look directly at you, which was enormously helpful.

“I—” you rallied your courage. “I owe you an apology. About this morning and last night.”

He stiffened slightly, his hand brushing through a curl of your hair. “That’s unnecessary.”

“It isn’t.” You stopped. “I was being immature and difficult.”

He was quiet for a moment. Outside, a gull crossed the window.

“You were scared,” he said, without edges. “I alarmed you. I thought giving you a kiss when you didn’t expect it would help you avoid overthinking it. I let my ego overrule your comfort and started something private that you had no ability to direct. It pushed you to drink.” A pause. “You had every right to be upset.”

You lifted your head enough to look at him, which was a tactical error, because he was looking back at you with that expression, the steady, unguarded one he didn’t seem to know he had.

“I was drinking,” you said. “But I knew what I was doing. I don’t regret it.”

His eyes crinkled, and something at the corner of his mouth moved briefly. “I’m glad to hear it.”

You put your face back into his collarbone before your own expression could do anything you’d regret.

He pressed his face to your hair and took a slow breath.

“In that case,” he said, after a moment, with the particular quality of a man raising a subject he has been patient about for some time, “I should mention that the seafood at the Red Port is, at this hour, not especially worth recommending.”

You stilled. “But—you said it was excellent.”

“I said it was tolerable when fresh.” A pause. “And that may have been generous.”

You pulled back to look at him. His arm tightened around your middle without apparent effort, keeping you precisely where you were. His expression was composed. Pleasantly so. The expression of a man who had said something mild and was waiting to see what you did with it.

“Then where are we going?” you said.

He looked out the window. “The port. Your boat was shipped out of Ennis Lobby two weeks ago. She’s just arrived.”

You stared at the side of his face. The elegant line of it. The absolute tranquility.

“My ship,” you said. “Here.”

“I had planned to surprise you in a few weeks, once the painting was finished,” he said, with the calm of a man who had been holding this card for some time and had chosen his moment with care. “But I thought you might prefer to choose her colors yourself. And her name.” He glanced down at you then with that steady, unguarded look that did things to your chest you had not permitted it to do. “And, if you’re open to it, to spend the night aboard. Together. Without the house. Without Shamrock.”

A pause, delicate as anything.

“Without interruption,” he finished.

The blood rushed to your head.

You became very aware of the arm around your waist. The warmth of him. The fact that you were on his lap in a moving carriage, being taken to a boat he had commissioned for you, and were being asked, very elegantly, with approximately three weeks of planning behind the question, whether you would like to spend the night alone with your husband.

“Garling,” you said, “was this—?”

“I planned the boat some time ago,” he said mildly. “The rest came together this morning, upon realizing that the thing I am most unable to tolerate is my wife being upset with me.” The arm around your waist was immovable, comfortable, and absolutely deliberate. “Hopefully, you’ll be somewhat less so by tonight. A week-long honeymoon is considerably more pleasant when the bed isn’t contested.”

“Honeymoon,” you said.

“Mm.”

“You’ve planned a honeymoon. On my ship.” You asked, trying to hide your delight.

“I planned several things,” he said, with the serenity of a man who had been three moves ahead since breakfast and saw no reason to pretend otherwise. “The honeymoon required the most coordination. We’ll need to leave tonight to reach the farther islands in a reasonable time, but the crew is ready.” A pause. “Hessa had your things packed before you’d reached the end of the street this morning.”

You stared at him.

“What about—”

“With your parents. He’s been given the run of the house and will be fine.” Garling said, sardonically, “Shamrock is perfectly capable of entertaining himself for a week. Thrilled, even. Now, my dear, is this enough to placate you?” He asked, mouth quirked. 

The carriage rolled on. Outside, the glint of the port was closer now, the smell of salt beginning to reach you even through the window. 

“You are mad,” you said, “Out of your mind, mad as a hatter.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Do you have a name in mind?“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Hessa was many things, but shy was not one of them.

She had held her position in Garling's household long enough to understand exactly what that position was worth, and she had no intention of squandering it. Garling respected her because she was correct with a frequency that made her presence feel less like service and more like infrastructure. She filled the gaps where you wavered, not out of doubt, but because a gap left open long enough became a problem, and Hessa had no patience for problems she could see coming.

That trajectory had recently expanded to include your personal life. Only slightly. A few careful touches, because Hessa was not a meddler. She simply recognized a problem the same way she recognized a drafty window, and felt an equivalent compulsion to address it.

She had benefited greatly from Garling’s newfound restraint, and she would be the first to say so. The years prior had involved a quantity of shooing she did not care to revisit. Women who lingered past their welcome, women who mistook a single evening for an arrangement, women who wept in hallways that were not theirs to weep in. It had been exhausting. Undignified, for everyone involved.

A wife was the best or the worst thing to happen to a large house. Hessa had seen it go both ways. A poor match, and the staff spent years navigating the wreckage of two people who had no business sharing a name. A good one, and the house ran itself, or near enough. Authority distributed properly, nobody overextending into territory that wasn’t theirs, the man of the house freed to be terrible at whatever he was terrible at in the world outside, because someone competent was handling everything within it.

Men like Garling wanted that. They didn’t always know they wanted it, but they did. They wanted a wife who took the house in hand and left them to their work, who was capable enough that they could defer to her without feeling diminished by it. Slightly bossy was how Hessa would have phrased it, if pressed, and then immediately declined to be pressed further.

You would be exceptional at it. She was certain of that.

The problem was that you didn’t know that. She knew that your modesty was not a calculated performance, not some long patience designed to snag a man worth snagging, though the fact that it had worked was saying something she did not intend to examine too closely. You were not being coy. You were genuinely, stubbornly, completely convinced that you were average, and had built an entire self around that conviction, the way people built houses on floodplains and then seemed surprised when it rained.

And Garling wanted to wait. To take his time, let you simmer until you broke first, convinced that patience was the same thing as strategy. To let you discover yourself and then him.

Hessa did not share the conviction.

You were not some mythical Kuja princess, crafted to specification, flawless in the way of things assembled to impress. You were a flawless emerald. Uncut. A little rough at the edges. The kind of thing someone with no eye for value walked past without stopping, and someone with a great deal of it did not. A perfect complement to Garling’s red, and the house would be better for it.

It would be a shame, she thought, to let you go on believing otherwise.

If Garling could simply get on with things, get you comfortable, confident, round with his children, and the particular ease that came from being genuinely wanted, you would take to this house as you had always belonged in it. Which, in Hessa’s estimation, you had.

But he was not moving at a pace that would resolve the situation before she lost patience entirely.

Which was why, when she conducted a thorough inventory of your wardrobe that morning, Hessa discovered, to her great professional regret, that all but the most scanty nightgowns appeared to have gone to the laundry. All of them. Simultaneously. On the same day.

She could not imagine how.

And so only the most exiguous remained to be packed. You did have the blue babydoll, at least. A pretty thing. Covered everything that strictly needed covering, and the sheer silk robe went over it nicely, and really, what more did a person need? It was, Hessa had noted with the clinical detachment of a woman doing inventory, particularly flattering through the bodice. She had observed Saint Figarland’s attention drift in that approximate direction on more than one occasion since Hessa had quietly suggested the lower necklines. She was a professional. She noticed things.

Of course, aboard your new ship, watching the crew prepare for departure, you hadn’t thought to check what had been packed.

You thought to check now.

You looked at the open trunk. You looked at its contents. You looked at the open trunk again, in case you had somehow misread it the first time.

You had not misread it.

“Hessa,” you hissed, to no one, since Hessa was twenty minutes away on dry land and therefore entirely safe, which you suspected she had also planned.

You lifted the blue babydoll by one thin strap and held it up in the lamplight of the cabin.

Outside, you could hear the small crew casting off. The ship moved, very gently, beneath your feet. You were, you realized, already at sea.

“Very daring of her, no?”

You jumped, dropping the offensive garment as Garling materialized behind you with the silence of a man who had spent decades moving without being heard and had never seen a reason to stop.

“Don’t look!” You kicked the babydoll sideways with your foot, which accomplished nothing. “It wasn’t—I didn’t pack this, I didn’t know she’d—”

He leaned over your shoulder and took a long, slow look into the open trunk.

The cabin was very quiet.

You watched his face. He had the expression of a man conducting a calm and thorough assessment, which was somehow worse than any other expression he could have produced.

“Mm,” he said.

“I’ll be speaking to Hessa when we return,” you said, head steaming with great dignity, from approximately four inches away from his chest.

“Will you,” he said, in a tone that suggested he found this unlikely.

“She has overstepped.”

“Considerably,” he agreed, and the corners of his eyes were doing the thing, the crinkle, the one that meant he was enjoying himself enormously and had decided not to hide it. He straightened, and his hand came to rest at the small of your back with the ease of a man who had been waiting for an excuse and had just been given a very good one. “Fortunately,” he said, “she has a week.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“A week,” you repeated.

“Seven nights,” he said helpfully.

“I’m aware of how long a week is.”

“Then you’ll appreciate that there’s no particular urgency.” His hand hadn’t moved from the small of your back. “We could have dinner first. The cook is excellent. The sunset from the bow is supposed to be remarkable at this latitude.” He said it with the pleasant tone of a man describing a nature documentary. “I thought you might enjoy it.”

You looked at him. He looked back at you with that open, patient expression, the one that had been dismantling your defenses by inches for the better part of a year.

“And after dinner,” he continued, in precisely the same tone, “you could change.”

You followed his gaze to the trunk. To its contents. Back to your husband.

“It’s a warm evening,” he said. “And we’re at sea. Very private.” A pause. “Hessa has excellent taste.”

“Hessa has lost her mind.”

“Hessa,” he said, “has done us both a considerable service.” He reached past you, retrieved the blue babydoll from where it had fallen, and held it out between two fingers with the composure of a man handing over a perfectly ordinary garment. His expression was pleasant and entirely unapologetic. “What do you think? Do you still have courage? Or do you need more time?”

You stared at him. He was baiting you. He knew precisely what he was doing and was doing it anyway, which was, you had come to understand, simply how he operated when he wanted something, and you were ready enough to accept it too.

“I’ll behave,” he said. The crinkle was back at the corner of his eye. “Mostly.”

He wouldn’t.

You took the babydoll from his hand.

He said nothing. He had the expression of a man exercising tremendous restraint and finding it only slightly difficult, which was its own kind of answer.

“Out,” you said.

He went, with the grace of a man who had already won and knew it, pulling the cabin door shut behind him without being asked.

You looked at the garment in your hands. You looked at the closed door. You looked at the warm lamplight and the small porthole beyond which the open sea had spread itself wide and dark and entirely indifferent to your predicament.

Fine.

You put it on. Under your dress, because you were not, whatever Hessa seemed to believe, a woman who simply appeared at dinner in a babydoll. The silk settled against your skin, warm and slight, and you pulled your dress back over it and looked at yourself in the small cabin mirror and thought: well. All right. It was not nothing.

You were on a ship. Your ship, as it turned out, was still an extraordinary thing to have become true. You were sailing the Grand Line on a honeymoon that had been planned in secret for what appeared to be quite some time.

You were anxious. You expected you would remain anxious for some portion of the evening.

You were also, underneath the anxiety and the dress and the frankly inadequate nightwear, fairly certain you were in love with your husband, which was, you supposed, the right direction for things to be going.

You opened the cabin door and went to find him.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The rest of the evening drifted into orderly fashion.

Dinner was excellent, though notably not seafood, which you did not comment on. Garling showed you the ship with the quiet pride of a man who had commissioned something he was pleased with and wanted you to be pleased with it too, which you were, though you were careful not to be too immediately obvious about it. The cabin was beautiful. The deck was beautiful. The little galley was immaculate. The two-man crew did their jobs with the focused professionalism of people who had been very clearly instructed not to exist unless necessary, and were committed to the brief.

At some point, between dinner and the wine and the remarkable sunset he had promised you, which delivered entirely on its reputation, you forgot to be anxious.

Probably around the time you were sitting between his knees on the bow with his coat around your shoulders and his chin resting on the top of your head, watching the last of the light go out of the sky in long bands of red and gold over the water. The Grand Line stretched out ahead of you in every direction, vast and dark and quietly extraordinary, and the ship moved through it with an easy roll. Garling was warm at your back, and it occurred to you, distantly, that you had not thought about fruit towers or spa corridors or any of the morning’s considerable drama in at least two hours.

“She needs a name,” he said, into your hair.

You looked out at the water. The first stars were beginning to appear at the edge of the sky.

“I’m thinking,” you said, “perhaps the Fine Print.”

His arms tightened around you, his laughter more felt than heard, a warmth through his chest against your back.

“In dedication to a certain document?”

“I can’t have your misdeeds forgotten so easily.” You retorted. “I still get mad over it.”

“Good,” he said. “Get as mad as you like. Just don’t leave me.”

You went quiet.

It was not a dramatic thing, the way he said it. As though it were the most reasonable request in the world, and he saw no reason to dress it up.

The water moved beneath you, easy and dark.

“Careful,” you said, eventually. “I have a ship now. You’ll have to catch me if you upset me again.”

His chin dropped back to the top of your head. “I would,” he said. “I’d travel seas to find you. You know I would.”

You did know.

That was, you thought, more or less the whole problem, and also the whole solution, and you were done pretending otherwise.

“Fine Print,” he said, after a moment. “She suits it. And you.” A pause, warm. “A beautiful ship for my beautiful wife.”

You meant to say something dry about that. You had something ready. It was quite good, actually.

But you made the tactical error of looking up to deliver it, and Garling caught your face in his hand, tilting it toward his with the patience of a man who had been waiting all evening and had decided, quietly, that the evening was sufficiently advanced.

He kissed you slowly. Deliberately. With none of the urgency of the night at the ball, and all of the intention.

The stars came out, one by one, over the Grand Line.

You forgot what you’d meant to say entirely.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

It was one of those kisses that rearranged the synapses in your brain. One that stole something and made the world after it different, because it made you realize you hadn’t known much about the world before it.

You had been kissed by this man before, a couple of times. One time, so good, at a ball in front of everyone he knew, and you had had five glasses of wine about it afterward, which you had at the time considered a reasonable response. You understood now that the wine had been a completely inadequate solution to a problem you hadn’t correctly identified, which was that Garling Figarland kissed you like you were something he had waited a long time for and intended to take his time with now that he had you. No quantity of wine was going to help you metabolize that.

The Grand Line spread out around you in every direction, vast and indifferent and extraordinarily dark in the night, and the Fine Print moved through it with a slow, easy roll.

Garling’s hand was warm against your face, and when he finally pulled back, it was only slightly, enough to look at you, checking, the way he always checked, quietly and without making a production of it. To see if you were all right. To see if you were still there.

You stared back at him, breathing a little unsteadily, lips swollen, the stars doing something very unhelpful in your peripheral vision.

You were still frightened. You expected you would continue to be frightened for some time. But you were also hungry, in a way that had been building for months and had no interest in being managed any further, and a kiss, even that kiss, was not going to be sufficient.

“Inside,” you said. “Please.”

Something in his expression shifted. Settled into something certain and warm and entirely without triumph, which was, you thought, exactly right. Exactly him.

“Yes,” he said.

He helped you up with one hand, steady, and then he did something that you felt in the back of your throat: he let you lead. Followed you across the deck and down to the cabin door, and when you pushed it open and stepped inside and turned back to look at him, he was standing just outside the threshold with his hand on the doorframe.

Waiting.

Giving you the door. Giving you the choice. The same way he had given you the name of the ship and the colors and every other thing he had arranged so carefully and then placed in your hands without condition.

You looked at him standing there in the dark with the Grand Line behind him and the lamplight catching the side of his face, and you thought: You absolute menace.

And it was only then, as he locked the door behind him, that Garling let himself give in. Let his hands raise to his collar and slowly undo the buttons there. 

His hands rose to his collar.

One after another, each golden button was released from its prison and was freed from its place. Carefully, as he did everything, each golden button released one after another with the same calm efficiency he brought to most things, which you were finding increasingly difficult to be composed about. The cloak came away. The coat followed. 

Both fit him with the precision of things made specifically for him, and when they were gone, there was no suggestion of padding or structured boning beneath. His figure was simply his figure: wide shoulders, the clean descent of them into a chest that had no business being as distracting as it was, biceps thick with the kind of muscle that came from actual use rather than ornament, all of it barely contained by a thin undershirt that was doing its job poorly.

He looked, you thought, like something carved for a temple and then implausibly animated.

Then he raised one hand to his hair, and the tall elaborate arrangement of it came loose, and gold fell down his back in a wave, and you stood in the lamplight of your cabin on your ship on the Grand Line and stared at the husband you had accidentally acquired.

He looked at you looking at him, his toothy grin showing, which was unfair given the circumstances. Then his hand slid to his belt, and with his coat and cloak already cast away, it wasn’t particularly difficult to observe the entire anatomy of him, including the more private portions.

You had been correct, you noted distantly, to be frightened.

“Have you ever seen a naked man before?”

“In books,” you squeaked.

“Books,” he repeated.

“Your books, thank you.” You were looking at the porthole. The porthole was very interesting. “And some classical sculpture. Marble. Which is.” You stopped. “A different medium.”

The corner of his mouth moved. “Come here.”

“I can see perfectly well from here.”

“Some things,” he said, “are better understood up close.”

“Looking is fine. The lighting in this cabin is excellent. Whoever commissioned it has very good taste.”

“Come here.” The same tone. The same patience. His voice dropped, unhurried as everything else about him. “I have wanted you for a very long time. Let me show you how much.”

His hand moved to his belt buckle.

You turned away.

The wall was very close. You were examining it with great personal intensity. It was a well-constructed wall. Excellent joinery. Whoever had built this ship had really committed to the craft, and you were extremely grateful to them right now.

“Are you,” Garling said, from behind you, with the careful neutrality of a man trying very hard not to laugh, “looking at the wall.”

“I’m admiring the woodwork.”

“The woodwork.”

“It’s very fine.”

A pause.

Then his hands settled on your shoulders, warm and certain, and he turned you around and tipped your face up, and looked at you with that expression, the unguarded one, except that now he was also smiling, properly, in a way that was extremely difficult to focus on.

Because he was entirely naked, the long press of him against you yielded no secrets. His desire was obvious and unavoidable and warm against your clothed belly, and you became very aware all at once of the significant difference between classical marble sculpture and the living article.

“Be with me,” he said softly. “I ache for you.”

Your heart did something completely unreasonable. The rest of you was not far behind.

“I don’t deserve to be with you,” you said, burning up as his hands glided to your waist, slow and deliberate. “You’re. You’re you, and I’m just—”

“Mine,” he said. Simply. As though that settled the taxonomy entirely.

“Garling.”

“You have been mine,” he said, “since before you knew it. Since before I had any right to say so.” His eyes were warm, his voice quiet, his hands drawing you closer with the patience of a man who had waited a long time and intended to be thorough about what came next. “I think, the moment you walked through my door, something in me knew. Something that refused to be reasonable about it.” A pause. “There is no deserving between us. There is only what we both want.”

You looked at him. The lamplight. The gold of his hair lay loose around his shoulders. The expression on his face that you had been trying not to look at directly for months because of precisely what it did to you, which was this, which was standing in a cabin on the Grand Line with your composure entirely gone and nothing left to hide behind.

“I’m still frightened,” you said.

“I know.” He drew you closer, slowly. “Let me take care of that.”

The kiss continued, but different now, deeper, his hands finally beginning to work with the same deliberate patience he brought to everything except that patience, here, was its own particular torture. Once he had you pliant against him, his fingers found the ties of your dress, loosening them one by one while his mouth stayed at yours.

The dress came away. By the time it did, you weren’t thinking much about anything.

He walked you back against the wall of the cabin and set his mouth to your throat, and you stopped thinking entirely. Hot and deliberate, the press of his lips, the drag of them, working circles into your skin that drew sounds from you that you had no particular intention of making. One hand steadied you against the wall. The other finished its work. It was better than the night of the ball, considerably better, because this time the wine wasn’t thinking for you and you were entirely present for every detail of what he was doing, which was extensive.

He pulled back to look at you in the babydoll and made a sound low in his throat, something involuntary, his hands tightening at your waist.

Then his fingers found the laces.

They fell away. You grew shy at the reveal, instinctive, your chin dipping, and he caught it with one hand and tipped your face back up with the quiet insistence of a man who intended to look and was not going to be discouraged about it.

He went very still as he properly admired your chest. 

His eyes moved over you in the warm lamplight with an attention that was almost unbearable in its thoroughness, like he was taking inventory of something he had been waiting a long time to properly see. Then his hand rose, deliberate and certain, and he touched you, and you made a sound you hadn’t anticipated, and he smiled, slow and satisfied.

“How perfect you are,” he said quietly. “My love.”

He was, it turned out, exactly as good at this as his reputation suggested.

Better, actually.

Which you were not going to tell him, on the grounds that he already knew and did not require the confirmation. The expression on his face as he looked at you said it plainly enough anyway, all that careful composure finally set aside, replaced by something open and certain and entirely focused on you. You had no defenses left to manage it with.

You found, to your considerable surprise, that you didn’t need any.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Even when he explored lower, using his mouth, which was beyond the scope of anything you had previously imagined on the subject, there was no more shame. He took his time, let off once in a while so you could breathe, and did not let you off until you were thoroughly, comprehensively undone.

Not until you sat flush in his lap, cheeks stinging, head tucked into the broad warmth of his bare shoulder. Loose wisps of his hair brushed your chest. One of his hands was tangled in yours, the other moving in slow circles at your back.

“You’re doing very well,” he said pleasantly. “Considerably better than the first attempt.”

“You’re bruising my cervix,” you said, into his shoulder. “You absolute brute. Could you not have a slightly smaller—”

“Is that a complaint?”

“It is absolutely not a compliment.”

You could feel his smirk against your temple.

“How inconsiderate of me. Next life I’ll arrange for a smaller coc—”

You smacked his arm. He laughed, openly and fully, in a way you had never heard from him, and the movement rolled your hips together, and you yelped, a shudder moving clean through you, the angle finding something that made your toes curl, and your breath snag entirely.

“There,” you managed, very quietly. “I think—”

He stilled. His hand tightened at your back.

“Yes,” he said, low and attentive. “I felt you.” A pause, careful and certain. “Is this all right?“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Yes,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He moved with the same patience he brought to everything, which in this context was its own particular form of exquisite torment, deliberate and thorough and entirely focused on you, adjusting when you made sounds that indicated adjustment was warranted, which you made freely and without the shame you might have expected, because there was no room left for shame. There was only this. The warm cabin, the slow rock of the ship beneath you, his hands sure and certain and everywhere.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

You did.

That was, you decided afterward, what undid you entirely. Not the angle or the pace or the considerable expertise, though all of those were relevant factors. It was the look. He was watching you with that expression, open and unguarded and certain, like you were exactly where he had always intended you to be, and he intended to remember every detail of it.

You came apart rather thoroughly.

He followed shortly after, his composure finally, completely gone, his face pressed into your hair, your name in his mouth like something he had been waiting to say properly for a very long time.

You lay there until your breathing slowed and the ceiling stopped moving, which took longer than it should have. His thumb traced along your spine. The lamp guttered softly.

“Was that,” you said, carefully, “representative of the week ahead?”

His chest rose. Fell.

“More or less,” he said. “But rather, consider it a lifestyle change.

You absorbed this.

“I’ll need you to know that I am still angry about the contract. Considerably less, but still.”

He laughed, that unguarded laugh that you were rapidly concluding was one of your favorite sounds in the known world, and pulled you closer. You let him, and outside the Fine Print carried you both through the dark water of the Grand Line toward no particular destination and every possible one.

Life in the Figarland Estate was generally a peaceful one.

Seven-year-old Shamrock Figarland had ensured it would be, after all.

He was not, strictly speaking, supposed to know about the honeymoon. He had known about it anyway, because Hessa had consulted Martha, and Martha was constitutionally incapable of keeping anything interesting to herself, and Shamrock had been in the next room. He had contributed one suggestion to the laundry situation, which Hessa had implemented without acknowledging that she had implemented it, which was how they generally operated.

He felt good about his involvement.

He had wanted a sibling for as long as he could remember, with the particular want of a child who had lost one and knew the shape of the empty space it left. And then the governess had arrived, and Shamrock had watched her for approximately one week and decided: yes. Her. She was funny and warm, and she read to him without being asked, and she looked at his father sometimes when she thought no one was watching, with an expression that meant everything was going to be fine.

So he had done what needed doing. Made himself agreeable. Tugged on the right threads. Let things unfold as they were clearly going to unfold anyway, just perhaps a little faster.

He was not sorry.

His father hummed now. Not where he thought anyone could hear, but Shamrock had excellent hearing and had caught it four times since the sailing trip. He didn’t particularly care about his father’s feelings as a subject of study, but he cared very much about the results.

His mother had come back from the trip with warm color in her face and her hand in his father’s when they came through the door, which she dropped immediately upon seeing Shamrock, then picked back up when she thought he wasn’t looking. He had run at her, and she had caught him and held on for a long time, her face in his hair, and he had decided that was the best thing that had happened in his whole life.

The estate was different now in small ways that added together into one large one. His mother’s things had migrated from her quarters to his father’s. His father came to breakfast before his correspondence, always with her. There was considerably less fruit in the center of the table and considerably more conversation, and sometimes in the evenings when Shamrock was meant to be asleep, he could hear them in the sitting room, his father’s low voice and his mother’s quicker one. Occasionally, his laugh, the real one, the one that meant he had forgotten to be careful.

He found this very satisfactory.

“You look very pleased with yourself, little lord,” said Hessa, appearing behind him in the garden doorway.

“I am a Figarland,” said Shamrock. “I am always pleased with myself.”

“Your father says the same thing.”

“Father is usually right,” said Shamrock. “So am I.”

Hessa made a sound that was not quite a laugh and went back inside.

Shamrock looked out at the garden, at the warm afternoon light on the stone, and listened to his mother’s voice somewhere inside the house, asking his father something, and his father’s answer, unhurried and low.

Six months, he decided. Maybe less, if his father was as motivated as he appeared to be.

He was going to be an excellent older brother. He had already given it considerable thought.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

[cerberus-bites]

Holy Knights ( + Shanks ) with a pregnant s/o ✨

[ Fem!Reader x Holy Knights / Shanks ]

tags: pregnancy, domestic fluff, breeding, birth, consensual, typical unhinged Celestial behavior

[ Shamrock Figarland ] ☘️

• Shamrock is perplexed at the news of your pregnancy, when you had began to feel sick a few days ago he had immediately called for a doctor but it took a while before they revealed that his darling was carrying an heir. He's speechless at first, overwhelmed by a strong feeling of affection he can not describe, he hugs you tightly and let's you know how proud he is that you’re continuing his bloodline.

• During the first weeks of your pregnancy Shamrock demands for you to stay inside and only allows a few short walks in the garden because the doctors insisted you needed fresh air.

"I'm pregnant, not deathly sick, Shamrock," you gently remind him, but your words fall on deaf ears, when the knight begins to sense danger he grows far too overprotective and can not be told off.

"You’re carrying my child, I can not let you take any risks. You will stay inside, an open window is safer than you running around … what if you pinched your finger on a rose thorn? What if another man saw your belly and decided to take you away from me?" Shamrock tells you, holding your wrists with just one hand.

"If your desire to step outside is so strong, wait for me to be home and I will hold your hand," he adds in a gentler voice when he notices the distress in your eyes.

• Although Shamrock is clueless about the ins and outs of a pregnancy due to the Figarland family always having been pretty small and split apart ( partially thanks to Garling's attitude towards his relatives ), he demands the doctor to explain every little detail to him. He must know exactly how to ease your pain and protect his unborn child.

• Garling isn’t too fond of his son's desire to be so deeply involved in what he considers to be women's business. Naturally, as the grandfather, he will do everything in his power to ensure your safety, but if you come to him for comfort or gentle words he will severely disappoint you.

"Go and bother the nurses with your sensitivities, I have no time for your bickering," he brushes you off as he returns to working at his desk, "Your womanly instincts should take care of it, lie down and rest."

• Shamrock will carry you around when you’re having a hard day, no matter if you need to be taken down the stairs or around the garden or even the city.

• When your odd cravings begin to settle in, Shamrock listens attentively to your every wish and runs off to fetch all those exotic fruits and strange meats he's never heard of before. Sometimes these hunts last the whole day, at night he returns successfully only to realize his darling is already hungry for the next thing.

It's a never ending cycle, but not once do you hear him complain.

• Shamrock refuses to throw a huge party for your pregnancy announcement since he deems it far too stressful and exhausting for his wife. All relevant nobles will be informed by a letter.

The only exception are the other knights who personally know you.

• All attempts from Shamrock to stop Sommers visiting will be in vain, unlike the Figarlands the Shepherd family is pretty big and well connected, so it's tradition to gift mothers jewelry for themselves and everything they could possibly need for their baby.

"It's my duty to spoil her, not yours," Shamrock snaps at the older knight but is met with a short laugh and a dismissive wave of Sommer's hand.

"Put those claws back, Shams, I'm not spoiling your wife, just keeping up with traditions. And your flower isn’t complaining now, is she?" He asks with a raised brow.

"Not at all," you say with a smile and happily unwrap your presents.

Shamrock sighs deeply. "I will let it slide, but only because I don’t wish to shed blood in front of her."

• Shamrock has an insatiable libido just like his father, but he becomes unusually gentle with you in bed once he can feel your belly grow. His thrusts are slow and there will be more kisses throughout than before, soft whispers to remind you that you’re his everything and plenty of foreplay so you may never bleed.

• During the birth, Shamrock disobeys tradition and insists on staying by your side, he holds your hand and allows you to squeeze it as hard as you need to.

"I'm so proud of you, you’re so strong," he assures you, caressing your sweaty face and wiping away your tears. "I'm eternally grateful to you for bearing my child, darling."

His voice is monotone as ever, but you can tell by how deeply he furrows his brows that he cares for you.

He will be the first to hold your newborn, shoving the nurses aside so he can place the screaming bundle on your chest.

Shamrock looks down on the blood in his hands and smiles.

"I love you," he sighs and sits down at the bedside to watch over you and the child.

[ Figarland Garling ] 🌙

• Garling's highest priority when taking you as his bride and gifting you the Figarland name was to breed you and he had been very vocal about that.

"It's your duty as my wife to bear me a worthy heir, or two … perhaps three or even four," he tells you with great enthusiasm, though there’s something sinister in his eyes when he caresses your belly and fantasizes about how many children could fit inside you. "We have the wealth and enough slaves to care for as many heirs as we desire, let's make an entire army, my dear."

• So naturally, it doesn’t take long before the daily pregnancy tests he performs on you turn out to be positive. And soon after, Garling lets all of Marie Geoise know that his wife is pregnant with the strongest future knight the holy land has seen. He spends the next few days flaunting you around like a trophy as you wear a dress that perfectly accentuates your pregnant belly which is barely visible at that point, but your husband refuses to let you take it off.

Thankfully Garling is the one who talks while you’re hooked to his arm, idly sipping on your juice poured into a wine glass and praying for the gatherings to be over so you can return to your bed and rest.

• The changes your body goes through in such a short time drive the blond knight feral with desire. He can not keep his hands off you.

In the morning Garling wakes you up by checking how much your womb has grown, growling into your ear when he's pleased with your progress. It rarely ends at a bit of fondling, he will allow you to remain lying on your side while he lifts up your leg and slides inside of you to warm his cock.

The knight is well aware of his length and how easily he could push you too far and hurt you, so while he will insist on receiving his pleasure from no one but his wife, he slows his thrusts just enough that you don’t scream.

When you’re in your last trimester there will be days where you can hardly move, Garling takes your wrist and guides your hand around his cock so you may jerk him off and let him cover your swollen tits with his cum.

• He has always been easily aroused by the sight of you, a weakness only you’re aware of, but since your chest has grown and you barely fit into your dresses anymore, Garling hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

One morning you stand in front of the mirror to look at yourself, your body feels different like it’s no longer your own. Sometimes you fear you will never recover from all the physical changes.

"Who dares to make you frown, darling? I will have them nailed to the cross," he asks as he enters the bedroom.

Garling hugs you from behind, hands reaching for your belly, he rests his chin on your shoulder and gazes at your reflection.

"I'm afraid you will have to punish me then," you reply with a weak chuckle. "I feel so ugly lately."

Garling clicks his tongue and grabs your chin with a bit of force.

"Never call yourself something so disgraceful again," he insists, "You’re only growing more beautiful by the day, I couldn’t be more proud to call you mine."

You feel your cheeks heat up at that, he notices the blush on your face and kisses you softly.

"I should have a portrait commissioned of us so we may never forget how magnificent you looked."

• Said and done, Garling stands behind you as you sit in a comfortable arm chair and pose for the artist who works tirelessly to finish his painting before dinner. Once it's done, it hangs above the fireplace of the mansion and part of you can almost understand why your husband still considers you worthy to be gazed upon like treasure.

• While Garling takes care of his orders away from the house, all servants of the Figarland family cater to your every whim and bend to your will. They will provide you with freshly cooked meals, massages, medicine and entertainment - all to keep their mistress happy even through the pain. Because they know what cruel fate awaits them should Garling ever find you weeping in bed when he comes home.

• Due to the blond knight caring deeply for the old ways, he only accompanies you to the door before he allows the doctors and nurses to help you give birth to his heir. He remains outside, waiting restlessly, pacing the hallway up and down as he hopes you will soon be in his arms with a healthy child in your lap.

Eventually he grows impatient, but he fights the urge to kick the door down just long enough for the doctor to bring him the good news that you gave birth to a little baby girl.

Garling enters, you pull the child closer to your chest, part of you fears that he will be disappointed with the lack of a male heir … but the stoic knight doesn’t even think of scolding you once.

"Let me see her," he orders and you obey.

Garling caresses her small and reddened face with his finger.

"Perfect," he murmurs and you finally allow yourself to relax.

[ Red-Haired Shanks ]🍶

• Overcome by morning sickness Shanks immediately carries you to the ship doctor Hongo after you threw up all over the bed.

"Didn’t expect ya to get sea sick after spending so much time on board," he chuckles and puts you down on the bed while Hongo fetches everything he needs to perform a check up on you.

It takes a while before Hongo runs out of options and asks you to pee in a small cup, you’re mildly confused but desperate for an answer, so you obey.

"Captain," Hongo speaks up, face buried in the palm of his hand, "She's not sea sick …"

"What else could it be?" Shanks asks and pulls you close to his chest.

"Our girl is pregnant … with your child, I assume," he confesses.

"What?!" You both blurt out in unison.

As shocked as you are, there’s no debate that you will keep the child, planned or not, Shanks has never been against starting his own family, even if the open sea is dangerous for a baby.

"Do you think we can do this …? Raise a child while we’re sailing?" You dare to question once you’re alone on deck.

Shanks takes a sip from his sake cup and hums thoughtfully, looking out at the calm sea.

"Well, I was raised on a ship by the Roger pirates, and I turned out great!" He laughs.

• Shanks shares the good news with everyone else during dinner, the crew congratulates you both ecstatically and offers their help should you need anything. It's not just empty words either, you don’t need to move a finger while your crew mates bring you your food, drinks and napkins.

You sit in Shanks' lap, part of you is scared of how your life will change as a parent, but knowing that you have the world's strongest pirate by your side eases some of that anxiety.

"I hope our little one will be just as pretty and smart as you, love," he whispers and pulls you in for a kiss.

The crew applauds and hollers in approval.

• During your pregnancy there’s good and bad days. On the good ones you accompany your man on every island you stop at, on the bad ones however … sometimes you can not bring yourself to leave the comfort of your bed. Every muscle aches and your skull feels like it’s being hammered open, it's days like these that leave you feeling like this was a mistake.

Never for long, since Shanks makes sure to return to you before it gets dark so he can surprise you with treasures he found ( stole ) and local foods.

"What's wrong, doll? Bad day?" The Captain purrs lowly and climbs into bed with you, he strokes over your thigh until you slowly spread your legs for him.

"I think the baby's starting to kick," you mumble and rub your face against the pillow in a hopeless attempt to forget about the pain.

Shanks scoffs softly and his hand wanders from between your thighs to your belly, right where your womb is, he pauses and waits until he feels something move.

"Damn, you’re right …," he breathes out, hardly able to comprehend that the tiny worm growing inside you is his son or daughter. It touches him so deeply that he sheds a tear.

"Shanks …," you whisper back at him, your lips quivering from all the emotions pouring over inside of you.

"I never thought I was gonna be a dad," he sobs and you open your arms to let him lie on your chest. "You'll be the greatest mother, I just know it."

• In your second trimester other pirate crews have become aware of the fact that Red-Haired's girl is carrying his child, what others may see as a reason to celebrate, is nothing more than a weakness for them to exploit.

Attacks on the ship become more frequent, foolish bandits who think they can kidnap you and earn a pretty ransom from the Yonko, but not a single man who steps on deck without permission leaves alive.

Shanks becomes more protective than ever before, sometimes he scares you with how aggressive he can be.

"I'm only doing this to keep you safe, nothing else matters," he tells you and wipes the blood off Gryphon’s blade. " … what are you looking at, love?"

"There’s … blood on your face," you point out quietly.

"Don’t you worry, that’s not mine."

• When you give birth you will be taken care of by Hongo and Shanks, Beckman is also there to help with anything, if needed. He remains calm even when the younger men are losing their nerves trying to relieve your pain and assist you through the process. You can hold both Shanks' and Benn's hand if you wish, they will take turns telling you that everything will be alright.

"Deep breaths, you’re almost there," Hongo encourages you, he’s careful with touching you, only when he sees that your little one is almost free does he reach out to hold its head.

"I- I can’t fucking do this anymore … God," you groan, squeezing down hard on Shanks' hand.

"You got this, baby. You’re the toughest woman I've ever met, be strong for me one more time and-," Shanks' words are cut off by your scream.

"FUCK!" You yell … and shortly after there's another tiny voice crying in the room.

Hongo gently carries your little boy and places him in your arms, you let out a deep sigh of relief.

Through your teary eyes you see that Shanks is just as touched as you are.

"Thank you," he whispers and kisses your forehead before all three of you cuddle up on the bed, Hongo and Benn leave, quietly closing the door behind them.

[ Gunko ] 🏹

• Since Gunko is unable to impregnate you herself but you both wish to have a family together, she steps before the Great One and requests for you to be bred by someone worthy.

"Very well, you’ve always been my most loyal subject, your … human shall be blessed with a child," Imu-sama declares, her voice booming through the chamber of flowers.

You bow deeply and trust Gunko to have made the right choice, she's never been anything but reliable, why wouldn’t you leave your fate in her capable hands?

• Gunko holds your hand while a knight, who's neither allowed to place his hands on your body nor speak with you, breeds you under the watchful gaze of Lord Imu. To say the process is awkward would be an understatement, yet you keep your eyes fixated on your beloved and prevail - you would do anything for her, no matter how embarrassing it might be.

It doesn’t take long before the knight finishes inside you and steps away, leaving the chamber quietly as if he has never been there in the first place.

Gunko pulls you into her arms and kisses you passionately like never before.

"Now we can finally start our own family, I have been waiting for this moment," she confesses as she fixes the collar of your dress.

• Her knightly duties often get in the way of Gunko staying by your side to take care of you once you’re pregnant from the ritual. However, there is never a reason to fret, the Manmayer family welcomed you with open arms after your wedding, Gunko's relatives are more than happy to look out for you when she's gone.

Whenever she does return and happens to find you out and about instead of resting, be prepared for a scolding and an arrow wrapped around your neck like a collar to drag you right back to bed.

"And what do you think you’re doing out here? Look at you, you can hardly walk straight," Gunko complains and shakes her head, tugging on the improvised leash to take you straight to the bedroom. "I knew the guards would be too soft with you, I should have never left."

"You know how stubborn I am," you tell her while entering the bedroom right behind Gunko.

She narrows her eyes at you, the arrow disappears from your neck but you don’t feel any less trapped than before. The knight circles you once before pushing you down onto the bed, you let out a short squeal in surprise.

"Stubborn pets must be reminded of their place, I can not tolerate you stepping out of line, especially not when you’re carrying our child," Gunko proclaims, her voice dropping a few octaves until every word of her's sounds like a thinly veiled threat. "Spread your legs."

"And what if I refuse?" You tease her, crossing your legs instead just to see what would happen.

"You are very fortunate to continue my lineage," she sighs and snaps her fingers.

A dozen arrow-like bandages appear from underneath the bed and grab your wrists and ankles, tying them down to keep all your limbs spread apart. They’re tight enough to render you immobile, but not too restrictive so they cause you no harm, Gunko is a strict lover, not an unfair one.

"All mine," the knight murmurs to herself as she joins you in bed, her red eye glowing suspiciously bright as she gazes on your chest which has begun to grow heavier and your womb. "My precious pet."

• Gunko doesn’t care much for big celebrations, but the Manmayer clan does, so they hold a banquet to celebrate your pregnancy. The details of how it came to be are never spoken of again, in everyone's eyes the baby you will hold in your arms soon is Gunko's.

• You and Gunko decorate the baby's room together just a few weeks before you are due, she carries everything heavy for you and allows you to arrange the furniture as you please. She has never had an eye for such domestic things, but when you’re done, she walks through the room in awe.

Gunko stops at the empty crib and stares at the mobile hanging above it decorated with the symbol of the hoofed dragon and tiny stars, all in the color of the Manmayer family crest.

• Soon after you’ve given birth, which Gunko spent sitting by your side and commanding the nurses around to ensure you were properly cared for, your wife insists that the baby must be presented to Lord Imu and baptized in the flower chamber.

Your hands shake as you lower your son into the shallow bath, it's hard not to shudder in the presence of the otherworldly being cloaked in black, but Gunko stands right behind you and guides your hands.

"Your son shall be protected under mu's name from this moment on to the day he gives his life back to mu as a sacrifice," the Lord speaks ominously and touches the baby's forehead, it's a wonder he does not scream or flinch away, it's almost as if he finds comfort in Lord Imu.

You can see how proud Gunko is, how deeply she bows and how eager she is to take back your baptized child, his small white blouse drenched in the most purest of waters.

"Thank you, my Lord," she says before you turn to leave.

A strange feeling twists your gut. You always knew any child you will bear for Gunko will grow up to serve as a knight under Lord Imu, but as soon as the water ran over your baby's head, there was suddenly a finality to that unimaginable future.

"Do you doubt me?" Gunko asks as if she can read your thoughts, perhaps she can.

"Never," you profess and hold your little boy tighter, "I would trust you with my life."

Gunko smiles under the mask.

"Good."

[ Shepherd Sommers ] 🥀

• All of Marie Geoise was left in shock and awe when they heard that Saint Sommers of all people had chosen a woman and proclaimed she would remain his only wife until death would tear you both apart. Some doubted his loyalty, others congratulated you on marrying such a prestigious man, but most held only pity for the girl who would be bound to a dragon crueler than any other.

While it can't be denied that Sommers is a sadist who shows his foes no mercy, he is a different man at home with you. He can be sweet, caring … even gentle if he tries to be. So one night you sit with him at the fireplace, he plays idly with your hair and complains about his superiors.

"And old Garling can't control his boys, one red-haired little demon was bad enough, but his lost son … that stray is a ticking time bomb. He's an awful father," Sommers laughs dryly and you chuckle along, but he is too sharp to ignore your hesitation, "Or perhaps you disagree, rose?"

"I think the twins are just two very lively boys, I wouldn’t mind if ours turned out to be just like them," you say and rub your head against his chest, how fortunate that he's wearing his dressing gown instead of his uniform.

Sommers sighs and pats your back. "So you want to torment this old man with a couple of brats?"

You sit up straight, before you can speak up, he places his thumb on your bottom lip and you eagerly open your mouth like you have been trained to do.

"Hush, I already know you desire to become a mother, and as your husband I have to fulfill your wishes," he purrs and slips his finger inside, pressing down on your tongue until you understand his silent command and wrap your lips around his thumb. "You will have your children, my sweet rose. I can not waste a body so perfectly sculpted for breeding just for the sake of my sanity."

You hum in delight and kiss his thumb before pulling your head back and letting it slip out.

"Thank you, sir," you whisper and straddle his lap with your thighs. "Then why wait?"

"You greedy little thing," Sommers laughs and adjusts his crotch. "Very well, I'm not getting any younger."

• It takes a few months of trying before Sommers proudly tells House Shepherd they’re expecting a new heir to the family name. While the knight takes care of arranging the festivities to welcome the child, something he greatly enjoys, you’re free from all responsibilities and spent most of your days in the rose garden just outside the manor.

• The Shepherd family is perhaps the largest in all of the holy city, known for their wives bearing at least a dozen children each. Sommers has been somewhat of an exception to that tradition, he believes love wasn’t something to be trapped and held captive, it was a strong, yet fleeting emotion that burns just as strong as pain does. But when you came along, his entire perspective changed, he had never felt such violent desire to own and claim.

His many siblings, uncles and aunts, great cousins and even Saint Ju Peter Shepherd himself, will be there to shower you with gifts for the baby and wish you the best of luck as a new mother.

Your own family remains in the shadows, they have doubted your choice from the beginning and now that you’re growing heavier by the day, they no longer write you letters.

"You do not need the approval of those small minded prudes, my family is now yours too," Sommers assures you, carrying you around the hallways in his arms, he rarely lets you down if he can help it.

"They warned me about you, said you'd ruin me and bring shame to our lineage," you confess and feel his hold on you tighten.

"I'm a bad man, my sweet rose, they were right to warn you," he admits and places you down on the bed.

There is a mirror hanging above you on the ceiling, you gaze at your own reflection as vines with dark thorns on them sprout from beneath the mattress and spread across the bed.

"I have taken more lives than roses have bloomed in my garden, by all means you shouldn’t love me," Sommers scoffs, placing one knee on the side of the bed, the mattress creaks under his weight and you feel his thorns gently gracing your flesh without pricking it.

"And yet I do," you hum, spreading your legs and placing your hands right where your womb is. "Perhaps that makes me just as bad as you."

Your husband traps you underneath him, he's so much taller than you and with the thorns holding you down, there truly is no escape.

"I will be gentle, we don’t want to hurt our little rosebud," Sommers tells you and you can not help but chuckle.

"Rosebud? Is that what we’re calling our baby?"

Sommers shrugs and places his hand under your chin.

"It's rather fitting, no? You know I have a weakness for such poetry."

You playfully bite his finger and pull the leather glove off his hand.

"Enough poetry," you say with a wink and the older knight immediately understands.

Nothing helps you to forget about your agonizing back pain and the ache in your muscles quite as good as being loved by him.

• When you’re in pain, Sommers will always offer to spread your legs and go down on you. All those years of sleeping around at brothels, hunts and with the wives of many fellow knights have taught him well how to properly eat a woman out. He's a fiend with his tongue, you can hardly remember you’re pregnant at all when he cares for you with such vigor.

• Shortly before your due date, Sommers arranges a photoshoot to have your beauty captured. You stand naked on an ivory pedestal, your hair is styled to his liking and you’re surrounded by thorns and roses framing your body like a portrait.

"Magnificent," Sommers comments under his breath as he watches the photographers very closely … the man does not know he will be killed after so none may share the memory of having seen you so vulnerable.

You turn to show off your belly more, your little one kicks as they’re excited to be brought upon this world. Sommers whistles in approval and you smile, just then the light of the camera flashes.

• Sommers lets you rest your head against his chest when you give birth, he requested for you to be sitting in a warm bath to lessen the pain, he sits just outside the tub and massages you if needed. The only one who's allowed in the room with you is a single nurse, Sommers can not bear to have another man's eyes on you.

He wipes the sweat from your forehead and tucks your hair behind your ears as you try to breathe through every contraction without passing out.

"Just a little longer, sweetheart, I wouldn’t have taken your hand if you weren’t a fighter," Sommers speaks to you, doing his best to keep you sane.

After a torture worse than all Sommers has done to you in the dungeons, a great relief follows when the nurse pulls your child from the water, which turns a deep crimson red, and wraps it in a warm towel before handing it to you.

You’re too weak to hold it alone, so Sommers places his larger hand under yours and keeps the child safely on your chest. The tiny bundle screams loud enough to tear through both of your eardrums.

"Hello little rosebud," he greets the wailing child in an unusually sweet voice, one he only uses with you and his nephews, "She has strong lungs, that’s for sure."

You chuckle weakly.

[ Killingham ] 🐉💭

• Killingham has no need to ask you wether you'd like to have a child with him or not, because he has seen it in your dreams long before you two were married. And his desire to see you full and heavy with his heirs has only grown since then, not out of obligation to satisfy his mother's wishes, but purely because he would do anything to make you smile.

• Nap time has always been a high priority in the Rimoshifu household, but during your pregnancy Killingham takes even greater care to drag you into bed or lie down with you whenever his busy schedules allows.

When you’re out in the forest far away from the city to have a picnic together, Killingham sees how heavy your eyes are and shifts into his centaur form to offer you his large body to rest on. His black coat is soft, his body heat quite comfortable and just warm enough to lull you into a deep slumber.

He stays alert and keeps his eyes open, covering you with his long, golden tail so the sun doesn’t burn your skin when it peeks through the trees.

For a short moment Killingham closes his eyes to look inside your dreams, only to find you sitting in a field of flowers with two little girls who run up to the knight when they spot him. They hug his front hooves and giggle with delight, feeling a bit perplexed, Killingham stares at you.

"Killi? I wasn’t expecting you here," you say and slowly stand up to greet him, but he's quick to scoop up both of the girls and bring them back to you.

"It's alright, stay," he assures you, "I see you’re already imagining what our life will be like soon. You always did have a blooming fantasy."

"Does it bother you?" You question him hesitantly.

"No, no, not at all, dearest!" Killingham lies down and allows the girls to climb all over him, he's careful not to trample any flowers with his hooves. Even though this is all just a dream, the laughter of his daughters feels all too real, it moves something deep inside of him. "I promised you at that altar I would make all your dreams come true, this will be no exception."

Killingham opens his eyes and carries your unconscious body back home so you can enjoy the rest of your dream unbothered.

• All it takes is for your doctor to briefly mention that you might need a few more calories later on in your pregnancy and Killingham interprets this as a sign to start feeding you extra portions for breakfast, lunch and dinner … and second and third breakfast.

"Isn’t that a bit … much?" You wonder as you watch the servants fill the table with a whole buffet just for you.

"Of course not, silly! You’re eating for two now," he announces happily and claps his hands together.

Instead of arguing with your concerned husband, you pick and choose from all the different dishes and once you’re full, Killingham makes you sit in his lap so he can hand feed you a few more piece of cake, just to be sure.

"Just one more bite," Killingham pouts and presses the crumb of chocolate cake against your lips. "For me?"

You sigh and open your mouth so your overly concerned husband can feed you, finally he seems satisfied and spares you from another dessert. There is no doubt left in you that your child will inherit the sweet tooth of his father.

• Killingham reserves an entire wing in your mansion just for the baby, the new heir will require all the space for the toys his father will buy and make for them. There is already a small collection of gifts waiting in a drawer for their time to shine. A unicorn plush sits in the empty crib, lying there in quiet anticipation of the child who will soon hold it dear.

"What if our child will find my zoan form scary?" Killingham wonders as he holds the unicorn, it's much fluffier, the coat white and innocent, he can not compare to the untainted appeal of a plush toy.

You walk up to the crib and take his hand, he squeezes it as if you’re the one who needs the emotional support.

"They will grow up seeing their father like this every day, if anything, seeing your long neck and mane will bring them comfort …," you reach up to caress his face, "You will be their safe haven just like you are mine."

A faint blush appears on Killingham's face and he carefully places the unicorn plush back in the crib.

• The birth turns out to be over much quicker than you or your worried husband expected. After Killingham rushes you into the bedroom which had been prepared a few days ago to accommodate you during your labor and after. Candles of your favorite scent stand at the side, two nurses who you have known for years assist you and do their best to stop Killingham from interfering with the procedure.

"Is the pain too much? Tell me, dearest, I can always knock you out-" He suggests, almost pleading to help you, but you pull yourself together and give him a gentle pat.

"I wish to be awake for when it happens," you decide and Killingham reluctantly accepts.

Two hours pass, then you can finally hold the little one that will complete your family. Killingham is overjoyed, he shifts from his human shape into a dragon and to his surprise the baby doesn’t cry, no, it ceases its tantrum and babbles quietly as if nothing happened.

"See …? Not scared at all," you tell him breathlessly.

Killingham looks upon the child, when it smiles he's forced to clutch his chest-

"Look at those teeth!" Killingham notes proudly and shows off his fangs to his newborn.

You tilt your head in confusion. "I don’t think she has teeth yet."

"Oh dearest, I can clearly tell they will grow as strong as mine, sharp like razors and hard as steel!" He says with the lack of care of a man who’s never done a favor for anyone.

Your breasts will suffer the consequences of your actions, you just know it.

————————————————————————

Thank you for reading! Apologies for the absence, unfortunately sometimes life does get in the way of curling up on the couch and writing fics until I pass out.

[oatsy-ooo]

@gav-san

The reluctant wife club: Figarland edition

[spark-canon-spark]

☆Flowers Pt 5☆

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Characters Included - Monkey D. Dragon, Boa Hancock, Buggy The Clown, Figarland Shamrock, Figarland Garling,

X gn! Reader,

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|| Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Previous || Current || Next || Part 7 || Part 8 ||

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Monkey D. Dragon:

Peonies.

Peonies are flowers that are connected to the first love that some people have. Heather there is a small bouquet that is left next to your nightstand whilst Dragon works long nights or you see Dragon pull part of his cape aside to unveil more peonies that he hand delivers to you when he gets a break. There is a small supply run that Betty now goes on in order to gather peonies from a specific island.

You would always receive white and coral coloured peonies.

Dragon worked a lot, the man was burdened by guilt that was just reinforced with determination. Dragon constantly pushed for the freedom of others but he often stripped himself of freedom.

Dragon is a good man and a haunted one at that. You would walk over to his desk and place the white and coral peonies between you as you pulled up a chair to sit next to him. Promptly, you take half of the stack of new intelligence documents that had come through thanks to Koala and Sabo’s recent excursion in Dressrosa. You make sure to organise them by date, just to make sure that it’s easier for him to sort through.

“I know you feel bad, but you have to stop giving me white flowers, you don’t need to apologise, i knew what i was getting into when i got with you Dragon”

Dragon pauses and looks up from his work and turns his head towards you with tired eyes.

“I know, but expectations are often different from reality my love. I’m away more than even i expect-“

You cut him off quickly by moving the peonies to his hand and entwine your fingers together.

“Shut up Dragon, i love you enough no matter how often you have to leave or work, we’re revolutionaries. And at that, you need rest, you cannot keep this together if you are falling asleep at your desk, come to bed”.

“…alright”

Peonies are flowers that symbolise first love, passionate love, accomplishment, good fortune and they are flowers that are used for the celebration of achievements. White peonies are often given in apology when someone feels shame, whilst coral peonies symbolise strong relationships, happiness and success.

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Boa Hancock:

Snakes head fritillary (the first flower picture) and Ranunculus (the second flower picture - the light pink rose like flower).

It was an ancient ritual, one that had almost been wiped out when the snake empress and her sisters had been hunted and branded by those false, greed driven ‘gods’.

Flowers that were given to the amazonian woman’s person of interest would represent both a shard of the amazonian’s past and what the Amazonian felt that the person they were interested in represented.

As Boa was interested in you? She gad moved towards where the old trail grounds were and had picked those two sets of flowers. The Amazon Lily empress had spent hours carefully organising the flowers into an ornate bouquet for you, making sure that it was perfect. The empress herself had carefully cut off a section of the bottom of her skirt to show that a part of her was now woven with you and woven into the promise she was going to make to stay by your side.

The empresses clothes were extremely important in Amazon Lily culture, a fully preserved snake skin was very hard to find completely in tact in the forests on the island. Each part of the snake skin was woven with silk from the local silk worm minks who lived in the Alka Trees.

“Snakes head fritillary.”

Boa says as she shows the outer flowers of the bouquet.

“A flower that gives recognition to my past. They symbolise melancholy, sorrow and deep mourning. I place these in my bouquet to you in order to honour my fallen sisters and bare my soul to you, even the wounded parts”

Boa speaks as her gold snake earrings glint in the sun, jingling softly as she steps forward ad places the bouquet in your hands.

“And on the inside? Are Ranunculus. A flower that symbolises charm, attraction and radiant beauty, all things that encompass you. The lakes bloomed plenty this year and i take this as a great sign for us, my flower”

Boa smiles as the ceremony continuous around you both as you are crowned the empresses partner.

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Buggy The Clown:

Morning Glory.

Did Buggy laugh for a good like ten minutes when he saw the name of the flower? Absolutley, of course he fucking did. He laughed until he wheezed before snatching a few of the flowers.

Originally, Buggy did have the plan of leaving the flowers that share their name with an innuendo on the corpses of rival crews that Buggy had defeated as an extra fuck you.

Until he gets with you, every now and then Buggy will blame it on Cabbaji and make you believe that the acrobat had ordered a shipment of morning glory by mistake.

Buggy will still leave them by crews he had defeated, but he had started to shove some of the flowers into your hands, you had said once that they were your favourite... and then Buggy had stuttered some excuse and left.

"Here! Their clogging up storage, do something with them!"

Buggy has never read a book about flowers or their meaning in his life, and he probably never would.

"Tch there, I saw you looking at them. As your great captain I have the generosity to bestow some upon you or whatever!"

Buggy grins, splitting off his hand from his body and using it to deliver flowers to that empty vase across the room. The same vase that you had stolen from a market to hold the first set of morning glory flowers that Buggy had gotten you.

Morning Glory serves as a reminder of the fleeting nature of life and encourages individuals to embrace love and affection in their daily lives. The flower symbolises tenderness, and tenacity, prodding individuals to pursue their dreams with endless persistence.

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Figarland Shamrock:

Pansy.

Shamrock didnt need to concern himself with customs that commoners took part in ehilst trying to romance others. The gifting of flowers hsd never made much sense to him. It was unnecessarily dirty, to touch the plants that existed in the tainted soil of those islands on the blue sea below Marijoa.

Why dirty your hands when someone else could pick flowers for you?

If you wanted something or someone then you either bought it or you forcefully took it yourself. That was the way of the holy knights and celestial dragons.

And yet.

Here he was in the private manicured gardens of the Figarland estate...picking fucking flowers. Shamrocks skin crawled at the soil under his nails, and whilst he felt the overwhelming need to wash this mortal filth from his hands? He keeps picking them until he gets a bundle. Tying them together with a thick red silk ribbon.

"Here, they've been growing well from the gardeners tending to them, ive saved most of the roots if you do wish to keep them in your room. Im sure I can get a maid to help make a hanging basket."

Pansies are flowers that are heavily connected to the planet Saturn. Youd think that in the Figarland estate the flowers would all be red, right?

But no.

The pansies that Shamrock had ordered to be grown were specifically blue and purple pansies. There was only one useful thing that bastard Sommers had ever said with his filthy mouth...and that was about the meaning of pansies, he had probably talked about other meanings of different flowers, but pansies had stuck with Shamrock.

Blue pansies represent loyalty, devotion and truthfulness. Purple pansies represent royalty and beauty. Overall? Pansies are strongly connected to discipline and responsibility.

Throughout Shamrocks life, he had served the Abyss order, the holy knights and Imu-sama. And now?

Now Shamrock had found himself devoted to you. Not just duty, not just following orders, no. Devotion. Pure devotion. Not just from responsibility or discipline, no, this time it was from choice.

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Figarland Garling:

Moonflower.

It had been years since that day. The day that the world had changed forever, the day that power tilted in the World Governments favour and had destroyed upcoming threats against the gods of this world.

Years since Garling had started to quietly leave those flowers by your family's house in Marijoa.

Those exact flowers that had bloomed in blood of that crumbling island... Moonflowers.

Moonflowers. They emerge and glow under moonlight typically. The flowers are known to bloom under nightfall, during the time that Garlings blade carved through hunting trophies on islands.

Even the curve of the petals of the moonflower reminded you of the supreme commander of the holy knights. Garling and his stupid fucking hair that you had started to place those very same flowers in.

"Do you really get so much enjoyment out of these humiliation rituals that you decide to put me through?"

Garling would complain. You could never show affection outside of these walls, his image needed to be maintained after all and a singular breach could cost you both everything. Comrade or not, the holy knights could tarnish someone, even if it was one of their own.

Moonflowers symbolise mystery, secret love, romantic devotion that hides from the worlds prying eyes and they are flowers that provide hope during dark times.

Ironic, as Garling and the celestial dragon stronghold that you find yourself in are the cause of the darkness that plague this world.

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2026 by Spark-Canon-Spark. Any and all works cannot be used, edited or republished without the creators permission!

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[all-eye]

High Value Target

Part 1: The Hunt

(Yandere!St.Figarland Garling X F!Reader)

[A/n: First of all, english isn’t my first language, sorry if there is any mistake. Also it's my first work ever posted, be nice please.

Second, the Yandere!Garling portrayal has been heavily inspired by the lovely work of @everlasting-rainfall , you should check their blog if you'd like, minors do not interact with their tumblr!

Third, this is a dead-dove fic. Read at your own risks]

I HAVE NEVER, AND WILL NEVER CONDONE THE ACTIONS OF ANY CELESTIAL DRAGON!!

Dialogues:

• Common language spoken in OP

• Local language spoken on this one island

TRIGGER WARNINGS:

Not Spoiler Free (until chap 1096), Death, Genocide, Mass Suicide, Racism/Colonialism, Slavery, Cultural Erasure, Celestial Dragons being Celestial Dragons, Celestial Dragons National "Hunt a Native" Event, Implied Rape/Noncon, Non-sexual Nudity, Stalking, Yandere Creepiness, Female!Reader, Tattoed!Reader

DEAD DOVE/DO NOT EAT

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

(Three years before the God Valley Incident, somewhere in the New World)

You were a gift to the Temple, even before you could start to remember your parents faces. You learnt how to fight at the same time your learnt how to walk. The other gifted children were your brothers and sisters, and alongside them you grew up, learning how to detect your enemy's Voice and how to make your weapon and your fists as hard as diamonds. You learnt how to attack, and how to defend.

When you became an adult, you received your tattoos, your steel trident along with a new name. One which would give you strength and resilience.

You were part of the Priests of the War God. Elite of the Nation and Protector of the Island.

But those sea people... those wretched, greasy and filthy invaders... those so-called Gods. They didn't use any of those titles.

So, what did they call you?

A Super Rare Rabbit.

When they arrived, surrounded your island with their ships and made their announcement, you didn’t understand at first. You weren't really skilled in that area, you had troubles understanding their language. And when you finally got it, you still didn’t believe it. I mean, who could? It was... surreal, absurd.

You finally understood when the first shot was fired.

Mayhem was unleashed upon your people. Screaming children everywhere, families running frantically. The sound of detonations and misery. The smell of blood, powder and death.

Along with your siblings, you tried to do your duty as best as you could. Striking some of these invaders, but mostly helping your fellow citizens to flee and hide in the mountains.

This was all too sudden. You had to retreat, take a grasp on the situation, and come up with a plan.

There was also a small group of foreigners who were used as targets. Apparently, slaves. Only by taking your time to discuss with them, with the help of someone who spoke their language, did you truly comprehend the Horror of your situation.

A Hunt. These demons were planning to exterminate all of you, but wanted to have fun with it.

If you survived for 3 weeks you would be released? As if! Who could believe that?! As the slaves said, no one ever survived these fucked up games!

They would kill you all and steal your Land.

That is, only the lucky ones would be shot. You’ve heard some accounts. And you wanted to bash your skull against a rock to forget them.The things surviving civilians witnessed during the first attack. The horrendous fate that awaited many women and even some pretty young men who were left behind.

As you tried to calm down the citizens, your higher-ups were pondering their options. They could clearly sense it, most of the sea people didn't know anything about combat. However, their weaponry was way more advanced than yours. Not only that, but a tremendous number of their battleships surrounded the island, leaving no way out.

To make matters worse, there was also that one thing, that you could sense too. They counted about ten of these people, whose Voices were so dreadful they shook them to their core.

In this instance, what could they do? Their options were scarce, if not inexistent. You could feel their unease seeping through the camp, slowly making its way into everyone's mind. Once they were done deliberating, you were all gathered to hear their final decision.

You shared a glance with some of your brothers. You didn’t voice your opinion, but frankly, you didn’t need to. Most of them were having similar thoughts.

One thing was clear: you would all die. There was no need to lie to yourself. Either hunted for sports like animals, or reduced to slavery.

But still, something needed to be done. You couldn't just... wait for the sea-people to come and play their stupid games. No warrior could ever endure such humiliation. No civilian deserved to end up a hunting trophy. You needed to act quick, before any of them could reach this hideout.

So, the higher-ups finally spoke. From the beginning, there was only one true option. And even if you thought you were ready to hear that, you still felt like the ground was opening under your feet and swallowing you whole. It was so unfair... how could you tell that to the civilians? Look them in the eyes and tell them you couldn't protect them? That your vows meant nothing?

But still... all these people... the women, the children, the elderly... and those who just could not defend themselves... they finally understood. After all, they were still part of a prideful nation. If they could find a way to avoid this game, they would do it.

And then, it started.

People hugging their loved ones before throwing themselves off cliffs.

Mothers holding their children before making them eat the seeds of the Last-Kiss Fruit.

And those who picked up the poisoned corpses and threw them into water sources, slowly infecting the Land, destroying everything before the invaders could seize it.

At the end, only a few people remained.

The War Priests of the West, dutiful and well-trained. The Masked Mountain Warriors, as stealthy as deadly. The Archers of the Eastern Coast, whose bloodlust was unmatched in the whole Land. Some foreign slaves and other natives joined you as well. Every men and women who were ready to kill and be killed.

These people wanted a good Hunt, didn't they? Well, the only good hunt is one where both parties are in danger. You would show them. Strike fear into their hearts. A last time before your culture vanished, they would understand how your kind celebrated Death.

Most of them, the portly ones wearing glass bubbles on their heads, they were quite easy to catch. Some were even dumb enough to get themselves eaten by mountain beasts. And those who weren't, they would end up lost in the forest, stumbling across rows and rows of decaying bodies, before getting stabbed by ambushed warriors and hung from the trees, with their remains displayed in the most gruesome way.

However, as days went by, these people ventured less and less inland. Now, only their most powerful fighters dared to step a foot into the forest, those whose strength was so great they could wipe out a dozen of your warriors in a single blow. It was all madness.

You managed to escape them so far, but still, your numbers were quickly dwindling.

For how long had this been going on? You'd say... maybe... nine to thirteen days. You weren't really sure anymore. For now, the moon was full, shining high in the sky, you were sitting alone in a clearing hidden behind a row of trees, and frankly, you were just trying to get some rest.

As shitty as this situation was, you could say, today was a good day. A great day, actually. One of these former slaves had told you those fighters were called "Holy Knights". And just this morning, your fellow War Priests managed to ambush one of them.

You were there when it happened. You saw the true power of these so-called "knights", which could only be described as demonic. Something unholy and unheard of, that needed every ounce of your combined forces to manage to destroy it. Most of your remaining siblings died today, leaving you as one of their last ones standing. But still, you weren't going to cry just yet, because at the end of the day, this haughty arrogant scummy awful disgusting horrendous- knight met his well-deserved fate.

His head detached from his body, attached to an arrow and hurled towards your enemy position for everyone to see.

It was the one thing that made you smile, the one thing that made you almost giddy.

They were warned, not even their best warriors were safe. Your civilization may die out eventually (it was already a zombie at that point), but you weren't just going to vanish quietly, playing by their stupid rules.

You were still planning to clash with some other knights, but for now, you were just going to get some rest.

Soon, you could fully rest.

It would all end soon enough.

Garling was seething. How did that happen? How did this scum manage to get himself killed?! By half-naked peasants, nonetheless! Sure, he was one of their weakest, but still, what a disgrace for their Order! He almost wanted to crush this fool's skull under his boot.

Breath in... Breath out...

This humiliating inconvenience put aside, he could say, he was pleasantly surprised by that turn of event.

Honestly, he didn't expect these natives to go this far. Most of the regular Rabbits killed themselves during the first two days, leaving only Rare and Super Rare ones. What was initially a funny contest between Nobles was now a much more difficult competition between Knights only.

Well, he wouldn't complain: as long as there was a worthy challenge, he was willing to play.

But still, what were they thinking? If they were capable of thoughts, that is... Why bother fighting back if they were all doomed anyway? What was their purpose? Did they even have one?

Foolish, but still, quite entertaining.

For now, the moon was full, shining high in the sky, he was walking through the woods when he heard some noise.

How unfair, you were thinking... No matter what horrors were happening down there, the moon and stars were as beautiful as ever. Besides, at the altitude you were at, the stench of corpses barely reached you.

You suddenly had this urge. You weren't sure why... maybe because the night was just so beautiful. It didn't really make sense, but maybe... you just needed to let it all out.

You stood up, your feet stomping rhythmically on the grass. Your hips began to sway. Your chest filled with air. Your arms rose. Your head tilted back as the words of that old hymn came out of your mouth.

"...He is the One Mighty Dancer under whose graceful dancing feet, the heads of all the arrogant Lords of the Bloody Cliff get crushed...."

You giggled slightly. How fitting.

As you were singing and dancing to your heart's content, the man hidden behind the trees had his eyes glued to you.

Of course Garling recognized you. Large pants, bare chest, upper body covered in tattoos... you were one of their Priestesses. A Super Rare Rabbit.

With the light of the moon, he could see you almost as well as in broad daylight. He've seen you several times before: you weren't one of their strongest, but for sure you were a slick one. So far, you've been one of the rare ones who managed to escape him.

His eyes roamed all over your body: from your bare feet to your raised hands, from your heaving breasts to your pert nipples, from your wet cheeks to your eyes closed in bliss.

He'd seen countless slave dancers, far more graceful than you. He'd heard countless slave singers, far more melodious than you. And yet, he had to admit, there was something truly enticing, something he couldn't put his finger on, about the wild way you swayed and moved.

Whatever, no matter how alluring it was, you were still a primitive... how shameless of you... to flaunt your attributes like that, without a care in the world.

He assumed you were unaware of his presence, however, a part of him liked to imagine that you were deliberately putting on a show just for him.

And suddenly, the music stopped. With your back to him, you stood as still as a statue, half your limbs still in the air. You didn’t even spare a glance his way before grabbing your discarded trident and disappearing into the woods.

He chuckled, almost disappointed by this abrupt end. He almost wanted to go after you right away, but hey, it couldn't hurt to give you a little head start, right?

Frankly, he was tired of scurrying through the dense forest at night. And after all... he still had that one issue inside his pants he needed to take care of. As he continued to stare at the spot where you had disappeared, one of his hands rested on his growing bulge while the other gripped the hilt of his sword.

Don't worry, dear Rabbit... he would catch you soon enough.

You ran frantically, trying to put as much distance as possible between you and him. You didn't even have to look back. Just by feeling his terrifying presence, you recognized him.

"I remember you... Gaa'Laaaan.... or maybe Gaa'Liiiiiiin.... or whatever it is, whatever your name must mean in your worthless language... Son of a rotten spider's corpse, how dare you spy on me with those nasty eyes of yours?! I'll have your head, if not I'll claw your eyes out, if not I'll gnaw on your bones, if not..."

And so on and so on.

The thing was... you still wanted to fight them, but not him. Not right now. Not just yet. Damn... just by feeling his stare on your back, you were already shaking from head to toe and struggling to breathe... Since the beginning, if you were to count each one of your siblings, you'd say he was the one who killed most of them. For some reason he'd been the one who targeted your Order the most, and each of your encounters with him had been more terrifying than the last.

So you ran and ran until dawn.

After this one encounter, two whole days passed. You weren't sure if you were the last one standing, but you didn’t run into anyone. That is, until that fateful moment where once again, you felt his eyes on your back. For sure he was a dedicated man, you could give him that. You steadied your breathing, trying to keep your fingers from shaking, while you remembered the words of your late teacher:

"Come on, get up! You won't be able to do anything if you can't stay steady on your own two feet! Now you better listen... it's a very strong power that defends you like an invisible armor, and can also be used offensively. You need to be aware of it, to feel it going through your blood... Now breathe... Can you feel it yet? You have to allow this power in your body to flow to your fist, and then your weapon. Once it's done, this thing that covers you will become even stronger, it will enter your enemy's body and destroy it from the inside!"

You glanced back at him, gripping you trident tightly as you took up a fighting stance.

"It's been going on for too long already, don't you think? Come on, 《'Ga'Lan' 'Ga'Lin'》. Fight me."

Good grief... In all honesty, you had no expectation of defeating him- his level was clearly superior anyway, but to the point where you couldn't even do him any harm, not even a single wound... what a humiliation!

There you were, nearly beaten to death, but not quite dead yet. You lay on the ground, both your ankles broken, your beloved trident a few feet away and his lanky figure hovering over you.

Now you could clearly see him. You saw his gaze linger on your face, then move down your wounded body to finally rest on your breasts.

Oh. That’s right. You almost forgot that one detail about foreign men. Honestly, what was their problem? Were they suckling babies? Why would they be that much bothered by a woman's torso?

And more importantly, why was he taking so long to finish you off?!

He sheated his sword, removed his gloves. What was he thinking? Perhaps... even though your bloody form was far from attractive right now, you were still a woman... If he didn't want to end you just yet, maybe he wanted to... you felt your throat tighten. Maybe, just maybe, if you were lucky, you would lose counsciousness before he could put his hands on you.

He knelt down, brought his face close to yours. Too close, the tip of his weird hairdo almost tickling your cheek. You heard him talk to you.

What a joke... You were bleeding badly, on the verge of fainting, did he seriously think you would use your last two functioning brain cells to try and understand what he was saying?!

How dared he... that filthy maggot... that disgusting creature... who did he think he was?! He had no rights! No right to be this pretty, no right to look at you with such tender eyes, no right to speak to you with such a soft voice, no right to stroke your cheek as if he weren't the one who brought Doom to your island!!

It wasn't right. Things needed to end, quickly. You couldn't stay brave for very long. There was only so much you could take.

Were you in better condition, you would have bitten his fingers off. Instead, you gathered all the fluids in your mouth and spat a bloody one on his too-perfect face.

" YOU WENCH ! "

He slapped you and then stood up. You hoped he would finally draw his sword but instead he went back to his weird duck-like steed, seemingly looking for something. It was only when he came back to you, a smirk on his face, that you could see what he was holding in his hands.

A chain.

Now you understood.

He didn't want to end you.

He wanted to keep you.

"No... No way... Stop it! STAY AWAY FROM ME YOU SICK BASTARD!!!"

At that moment, whatever was left of your dignity and self-control left your body. Blood was pounding in your temples. Tears streamed freely down your cheeks. Tiny whimpers and ugly sobs were coming out of your mouth. All your limbs were shaking as you tried to wriggle out of his grasp. To no avail. In the blink of an eye, you were thrown over his steed, secured tightly by the chain.

"P-Please... I'm begging you, just kill me..."

It was all too much. Your throat felt raw. Your vision started to get blurry. The last thing you remembered before you passed out, was his hand in your hair, as he looked down at you with that sickening smile of his.

"Don't worry my dear... Even if I spare one Rabbit, I still win the game."

-> Part 2

[momo-kageyama]

You are the sunset

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Anime: One Piece.

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Figarland Garling x R.femele.

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She, an ordinary woman from a distant island, calm, mesmerizing, of rare beauty and free soul.

He, Garling Figarland - young, cold, powerful, Supreme Commander of the Knights of God, heir to the gods.

When he saw her for the first time, it was like a curse: she smiled... and he was never the same again.

Obsessed, he bought her as a slave and turned her into his consort, trying to act as a husband - but always oscillating between desire, domination and madness.

She is the only link that makes his world collapse inside.

He is the golden cell from which she may never escape.

—————————————————————————

"The Look that Broke the Blade"

—Sulférria Island - 38 years before the present

The mission had been simple. One of the Heavenly Dragons had felt "offended" by the cold reception of the residents of the small coastal island. Direct order from the top: "Eliminate the risk factor. Intimate. Make it remember." It was not necessary to exterminate everyone - but it was not forbidden either.

Garling Figarland, still young, wore the crimson mantle of the Knights of God with a cold and authoritarian elegance. His golden eyes ran through the village like a blade about to be unsheathed. With a straight posture, a neutral expression, and his hand resting on the fist of the sword, he cut the air with his presence.

The target was killed in silence. A blow. Without words. No witnesses.

He was supposed to come back. It was.

But then, he saw... you.

He walked between humble tents, touching fabrics with his fingers, observing ripe fruits with a soft and... impossible look.

His hair, long and straight, fell like red silk under the sunlight. His eyes - were not afraid. They were a calm abyss of sapphire who faced the world with a mesmerizing neutrality.

Garling couldn't move.

The war stopped inside him.

He, who had already executed nobles, kings and pirates with the same coldness that you cut a bread. He, who thought love was weakness. What emotion was something of ordinary men.

Now... he caught himself watching how the breeze moved his hair. How you stopmed to look at the sea. How your eyes seemed to never see anyone - and yet see everything.

She didn't notice him. Not as the others noticed.

You just looked back for a second, as if you felt something strange. His eyes crossed his - an empty, neutral, but firm look. And then... you just deviated and kept walking.

For Garling... that was a deeper cut than any sword.

—————

—After the Mission

Back on the official ship, the Knights next to him looked at each other. Garling was different. He didn't speak. I didn't give orders. He sat motionless, his fingers touching the handle of the sword lightly, as if he were calculating something that not even he himself understood.

"Report, sir?"

He didn't answer.

For days, he didn't talk to anyone. He avoided the nobles. He ignored secondary orders.

In his quarters, where the luxury of the Tenryūbitos was standard, Garling was silent, observing the records of the island - civil archives, historical, profiles of inhabitants.

And then, in the midst of a routine paperwork...

Your name.

Your face.

A painting made by a local artist - sold at the fair where you walked.

His profile drawn in charcoal, with his serene and distant look.

Garling bought the painting. And burned the artist.

Days have become weeks.

He spent the nights looking at the drawing. Remembering the exact moment when his eyes met.

He didn't understand - and that infuriated him.

"She didn't look at me with fear."

"She didn't bow."

"She... didn't see me as God. Why?"

That wasn't love. Still. It was possession.

It was a desire for control disguised as fascination.

And Garling, the most stoic of knights, began to build a silent sanctuary around his image.

—————

Garling returned to the island days later, alone, without a higher order.

He wore ordinary clothes. He hid the sword.

You were in the same place. Shopping, distracted. He didn't notice the tall man, with perfect features and golden hair, standing next to a barrel of wine.

But he noticed his every move. The way your fingers touched the flowers, how you looked at the sea, how you didn't smile - but you didn't hide either.

Garling approached. Stopped behind you. You didn't say it. He just breathed.

And you turned around lightly. A quick look.

Neutral. Blue.

As before.

He didn't say anything. But at that moment, he decided:

"You will be mine. Even if the world needs to burn."

—————————————————————————

—Two years have passed.

Garling never forgot.

Even when he promoted executions, coordinated extermination campaigns, presided over imperial meetings... his mind always returned to that day. Those neutral eyes. That woman who dared to exist outside her sphere.

She disappeared. It just... disappeared.

Cut information. Scraped records. No clue from the woman who, with a single look, made him vacillate between desire and anger.

For a while, he thought it was divine punishment.

But the name "Figarland" did not accept loss.

The pressure fell like the hammer of justice:

Garling should get married.

The elders of the Figarland Family decided that it was time for the Supreme Commander to generate a successor. There were options. Daughters of nobles, candidates for advantageous political alliances.

But Garling wasn't interested in any.

"Why would I raise an heir... with any woman?"

"Why would I subject myself to dividing blood with something... disposable?"

In his mind, you were still the only acceptable name. The only face he saw in his dreams.

So he chose another route.

"Bring Sabaody's catalogs."

—————

—The Final Batch - Grand Finale

Sabaody's Humana Auction House was known for its luxurious and violent underground events.

That night, the auditorium was in reverent silence. It was the annual auction of the "Special Lots" - rare, exotic slaves, handpicked for the Tenryūbito.

Then, the curtain opened.

You entered. Handcuffed in heavenly silver. With the body covered by thin and transparent veils that enhanced its shape without delivering anything. The audience caught the air.

It was you.

The red hair, longer now. The most vivid tanned skin. Your eyes... the same.

Neutral. Empty.

Calm. As if you weren't even afraid there.

Garling felt his chest tighten. A euphoric fury.

You still existed. Still intact.

The auctioneer announced:

"Final Lot. Initial evaluation: 750 million. Proven fertility. Unparalleled beauty. Lifetime sales available."

"Does anyone give more?"

There was a moment of hesitation. A nobleman from Wano raised his hand.

But even before opening his mouth, Garling's voice echoed cold and cutting:

"One billion."

The living room froze.

The hammer wasn't even necessary.

No one would dare to try to compete with the Supreme Commander of the Knights of God. The room fell sill like an open tomb. The sale was sealed.

Garling approached the stage.

You didn't react. He just looked up.

Neutral. Calm.

But... there was a second. A single moment when his breathing faltered.

Maybe for recognizing the face.

Or maybe because I knew... that this man wasn't like the others.

He smiled. Small. Contained. Almost human.

"You shouldn't have run away."

"But now... you won't run away anymore."

You were taken to a private wing of the Figarland Palace.

No chains. No cell.

A luxurious, quiet room, guarded day and night.

But what held you the most... was Garling's constant attention.

He showed up at irregular times. Sometimes in the morning, with silence and tea. Sometimes in the middle of the night, just to watch your sleep.

He didn't touch you.

Not yet.

But he watched you as a collector in front of his rarest piece.

"You'll get used to it."

"There is no need to fight."

"Now... you're mine."

He treated her like a flower rooted in the center of a battlefield.

Everyone around feared touching her.

But he, Garling, was cultivating her to be the mother of the perfect successor.

Not by requirement. But out of desperation.

—————————————————————————

You didn't remember exactly the moment your life ended - and a new one began.

The Figarland Palace was too quiet. Too high. Too cold. The walls were made of white marble with golden stained glass and rubies in the frames. Inside, the sound of his steps was the only echo allowed - all the others were controlled.

The bed, gigantic.

The curtains, heavy.

The bathtub, carved in jade.

The dresses, hand-sewn with heavenly silk.

You were stuck in luxury. A luxury made to numb you.

But the most suffocating... it was him.

Garling wouldn't let soldiers enter the master bedroom.

You were "too delicate for useless interactions," he said.

Only silent maids served you - and even they, afraid to look up.

And every night... he came.

He never hit.

The door just opened, slowly.

Garling came in with his dark gala uniform. The golden hair always neat, the impeccable posture, as if it were ready for a divine judgment. And maybe it was.

He didn't talk much.

I walked to you.

He sat in front of him, in silence.

Sometimes, he left something on the marble table:

• A necklace made with sea stones from your home island.

• A blank page diary with your name engraved in gold.

• An old book with poetry about freedom - with the last page torn off.

Other times, he just... watched you.

"Are you eating?"

"Are you sleeping enough?"

"Do you dream of me?"

His voice was low. Shallow.

Almost gentle.

But always loaded with the shadow of an ultimatum.

——————

The first time he touched you

It wasn't carnal.

It was a simple gesture - he held your hand.

It was after you asked - with the same neutrality as always:

"Why did you bring me here?"

Garling didn't answer at the time. He looked at his hand for a few seconds. He leaned her on her lips. He took a deep breath.

And then he said:

"Because the world is ugly. Cold. Impure.

But you...

You are the exception.

And pure things... must be protected.

Or they are destroyed."

—————

The routine

The days were identical.

But you noticed nuances:

- When Garling appeared earlier, it was because something in the world was taking him out of control.

- When he disappeared for days, he came back even more obsessed.

- And when you dared to ignore him, he left marks: locked doors, replaced created, removed mirrors.

It was as if the palace was his body.

And you, a vital organ.

"You are my wife, even if no one has heard the vows.

You are the mother of my blood, even if you haven't been touched yet.

You are the soul I kept... even if you hate me for that."

He didn't want love. I wanted presence.

I wanted you where your eyes could reach.

I wanted your eyes... just for him.

—————

One night, Garling arrived in absolute silence.

No boots. Without cover. No sword.

I wore white.

In hand, a ring: lunar gold with a blue stone like your eyes.

"As of today, she is no longer a prisoner.

It's a consort. A future mother. A soul united to mine."

He knelt down. Yes, the Supreme Knight.

The golden eyes for the first time... unstable. Almost human. Almost sick.

"Accept. Or I'll make the world bleed until you accept."

The palace suffocated you.

But his look... was still the same.

Neutral. Calm down.

And that was what made Garling crazy the most.

The idea that, even captivating, you were not yet completely his.

But he would have you.

For good.

Or by the weight of all the power that the name Figarland could crush on the world.

—————————————————————————

- Shine That He Never Forgot

The day was clear at the top of the Figarland Palace. The breeze crossed the stone arches, packing the curtains and caressing the silent gardens. You shouldn't be there alone.

But you were.

It was hot. The golden light of the late afternoon dyed everything with a soft tone. You stretched out the freshly washed sheets on the suspended tine the east wing, your face slightly sweaty, your red hair stuck in a loose bun. She wore a simple dress, made of white cotton - not the luxurious ones, sewn to measure. This was yours, chosen by you.

And, for the first time in a long time, you smiled.

Laugh alone, calm.

With his eyes closed, head slightly thrown back, as if the air tasted like childhood.

And then... the bird landed.

A small bird, blue like the sky that reflected in his eyes. She landed on his shoulder with the audacity of the innocents. He teaked a strand of your hair as if playing.

You laughed even more - the clean, sweet, lively laugh.

He extended his finger and she went up. You turned slowly, with her on top, as if they danced together.

One moment. A pure breath in the middle of the golden prison.

That's exactly when Garling arrived.

He stopped.

In the middle of the corridor, his steps ceased as if the floor had disappeared.

He came back earlier than expected. The mission had been simple: execute a traitor who dared to traffic Government weapons for revolutionaries. The body was still fresh on the ship.

He hadn't planned to come back so soon.

But something pushed him. A chest discomfort.

Do you miss me?

He didn't know the name.

And then he saw you.

You.

With the hair loose again, the golden skin of the sun.

The eyes shining like sapphires on fire.

Laughing.

Let go.

With a bird on the finger.

Dressed in white, like a mirage.

Garling felt his stomach turn.

The throat tightens.

An emotion so absurd that he even leaned against the wall so as not to weaken in front of it.

You didn't notice his presence right away. She continued dancing alone, smiling as if she were free. As if I were happy.

And he... he hated that.

He loved that.

When you realize

You turned around, still with a smile on your face.

And saw him.

Stood under the shadow of the stone arch. The dark cover still stained with dust and blood. The golden eyes fixed on you, without a wink. The bird flew, scared. But you... still smiled.

"You came back earlier..."

His voice sounded almost sweet. Almost intimate. Almost... alive.

Garling didn't answer right away.

He just approached. Step by step. Until it stops right in front of you.

The sheets flyed behind, like curtains on a stage.

The breeze carried the smell of soap and flower.

And he, for a moment, just looked at you.

As if you saw something sacred.

Something that shouldn't be touched - but that he would play anyway.

Murmur

"Don't laur like that... when I'm not looking."

You blinked. He was serious. More than usual.

Almost... offended?

"This image... this sound.

It's not fair that I missed it."

And then, without asking permission, he leaned his forehead against yours.

Hot. Tremble.

It was the first time he trembled.

"You smiled.

And I wasn't there."

He didn't do anything more than that.

He just touched you with his face. He took a deep breath. It stayed there.

But that night, he had a painting made.

He had a garden rebuilt the way it was on his native island.

And he had the east wing sealed: only you could go there.

Because that was the day you smiled at the sun.

And he swore:

"Next time, you'll smile at me. Just for me."

—————————————————————————

That night, the palace seemed even quieter. The east wing, where you stretched sheets earlier, was now surrounded by crystal lanterns and invisible guards. You noticed this - the sudden care, the local flower arrangement, the lighter air.

It was as if that place was a gift... or an altar.

When the sun disappeared, you knew it would come.

And he came.

Garling appeared in silence, as always. But this time... without the heavy cover.

She wore black linen casual clothes, open on her chest. The wet hair, still wet from bathing. His smell was not of blood or metal - but of amber and earth.

I carried something in my hands. A simple wrapping, covered by an embroidered fabric.

"Sit with me."

You hesitated. But his tone was different.

Less command. More... desire disguised as calm.

Sat down.

He unwrapped the fabric on the marble table under the moonlight. It was a simple dish: baked bread, cut fruits, small sweets. Handmade.

"I asked the kitchen to make it according to the recipes of your island. I used the right ingredients. I Studied."

He looked at you, seriously.

"Can you smile again... now?"

———

You ate together. For the first time.

Garling didn't eat much - he observed.

Every bite of yours was examined. Every sound, every deviation of gaze.

He was trying to... learn. Decipher. Reproduce what you saw that morning.

"It was the first time I saw this in you."

"I laugh. Light."

"I need this to happen more often."

You raised your eyes.

Calm down. Neutral.

But something in his eyes showed that he understood: he was trying to please.

Not like a lover.

Like a predator trying to look harmless.

————

After the meal, Garling got up. He went to you.

He stopped behind your chair.

He leaned slowly.

His breath touched the back of his neck. The heat of his body... very close.

"Do you like to be touched?"

The question was soft, but loaded with something darker.

"Or do you smile only when no one can see?"

Your skin got goosebumps.

He noticed.

"This is also a kind of answer."

He slid his fingers over his shoulder, up to his arm. It didn't tighten. He just touched.

"If you smile at me again... I'll give you whatever you want."

"A new ward just yours. A secret garden. A night without guards. Or... freedom from some doors."

Pause.

"But if you kiss me... I'll give you the world."

You turned around slowly. They stood face to face.

His gaze, fixed on you. The rigid body - as if holding its own impulse.

"Garling..."

His voice didn't tremble. It was serene. But he caught the air.

You didn't say anything else.

And the silence was worse than any answer.

Unexpected gesture

He reached out his hand.

He offered something: an old necklace with a moon pendant, simple, with his name engraved on the back.

Something intimate. Something he had forged to see in you.

"I'll deserve your smile."

"Even if it takes a hundred lives."

He walked away.

But before leaving, he turned around and said, lower:

"If you smile at the sky again... smile at me too."

"Or I'll make the sky fall."

This was the first attempt at emotional seduction.

Subtle. Cold. But intensely needy.

Garling doesn't know how to love - he only knows how to possess. But now he wants to be accepted.

—————————————————————————

It was night. The stars over the Figarland Palace seemed closer, as if watching - immovable, mute, accomplices.

You were called for a "special dinner" - no longer in the common room, but on a private balcony at the top, where the wind was cold and the sounds of the earth seemed very distant. Everything was prepared: soft torches, petals on the table, rare wine from Mariejois, and... him.

Garling

He wore black and gold, perfectly groomed hair, well-trimmed beard and golden eyes fixed on you as if every detail of yours had been designed just for him. There was something new in his eyes: calm... and something else. A calm hunger. A desire disguised as worship.

"You came."

The voice was low. Almost sweet.

You sat down without saying much. I was used to your games. But that night... it was different.

He served the wine for you.

And this time, he drank too.

"It's safe." - he said, as if guessing his thought.

"But it will warm you up... inside."

You drank. The taste was soft, sweet, warm. After two drinks, his body began to relax. The light got softer. The sound of the sea in the distance seemed to pack everything.

"You know I'm not interested in political alliances."

"The only woman I want... is you."

He got up and came to you. He pulled his chair gently. His fingers slid down his shoulders. He leaned his lips against the curve of her neck, without kissing.

"I could have forced you from the beginning."

"But I don't want to take it."

"I want you to surrender yourself."

————

The Red Room

He guided you to a new wing of the palace. You've never been there.

The golden doors opened to a room heated by candles. The perfume in the air was sweet and woody. The floor covered by soft carpets. The bed, round, wrapped in white veils.

Garling turned to you and, without saying a word, began to undo the buttons themselves. One by one.

With my eyes fixed on you.

You felt the wine warming your skin. The weak legs. Accelerated breathing. But the mind is still firm.

He stopped in front of you - with his chest exposed, his body impeccable, his expression neutral. Only the eyes... loaded with contained intensity.

"You can go out. Still."

"But if it stays... it will be mine. In full. Forever."

You didn't move.

Your silence... was your choice.

Garling approached slowly. The fingers touched his arms. He pulled the fabric from his shoulders calmly, exposing his skin with reverence. As if it took petals from a rare flower.

"I dreamed of this moment so many times..."

"Every part of you. Every sound. Every gesture.

But nothing compares to what you are... now."

He laid you on the bed as if placing an offering on an altar.

And there, under the veil of the night and the heat of the wine, Garling Figarland gave himself to what he feared most:

The idea of not having you completely.

The First Time

It was slow.

There was no rush, no brutality.

His mouth ran through his skin in silence. The lips met their most sensitive points with military precision.

He didn't speak - but his eyes said it all.

"You're perfect."

"Don't you dare to belong to anyone else."

"Every sigh of yours... is mine."

You felt his body on yours - hot, strong, dominant - but contained. He wanted you to react. I wanted to see something more than neutrality. I wanted... to see you give in.

And when his hand squeezed his back, even if by reflex, even if only to hold on...

Garling moaned low. Almost like a wounded animal.

As if that gesture... meant salvation.

—————

—Later

Hours later, you were lying between the red and white sheets. The exhausted body. The skin is still shaking.

Garling was by your side. Naked, covered only by part of the sheet, watching you as if watching a sacred secret.

"That was the only time I got you drunk."

"Next time... I want you to want me sober."

He kissed her forehead, then closed his eyes.

He slept with his body glued to his own - as if he had won a war.

And deep down... maybe I really had.

—————————————————————————

You woke up with the soft light coming in through the white linen curtains. The bed still carried the perfume from the previous night - amber, sweat, wine... and him.

Garling was no longer lying next to him. But the space where he slept remained slightly warm. And at the next table, there was something curious:

A covered plate, a bouquet of blue flowers... and a note.

" Wake up whenever you want. The whole palace today is yours.

You belong to me.

And, as your reward, today I belong to you."

- G.

There was also... a ring.

Simple, dark gold, with a blue stone.

The symbol of the Figarland union.

—————

—The morning

You went to the shower - and found the bathtub already ready. Hot water, floating petals, scented oils.

The maids were standing outside. Silent. Scared. But now... they tilted their heads when they saw you, as if something had changed.

You were... official consort.

And the palace knew that.

—————

Garling was waiting for you in the inner garden. He was sitting in the shade, wearing light clothes, his hair loose, a book closed on his lap. When he saw you, his golden eyes shone with something strange.

Pride.

Contained fame.

Sick worship.

He got up. He walked to you.

Stopped a step forward.

"Did you sleep well?"

"I felt your absence even before I woke up."

He leaned over and touched his chin.

He gently raised his face.

And, for the first time, he smiled. A true smile - but slightly... insane.

"You have no idea how beautiful it is, now that it's really mine."

——————

During the day, Garling did everything not to act like a gentleman.

– He had lunch with you on the balcony, without soldiers.

- He walked next to you through the corridors as if they were the same.

- He told you things... about him. Things I've never told anyone.

"My father raised me like a blade.

But you...

You turned me into something I don't understand.

And that weakens me.

But I want this poison."

"You are the poison that I accept to die taking."

He tried to make you laugh.

He tried to read ancient poetry aloud.

He tried to take his hand gently - but his hands were cold, too big, like those of someone who never knew how to touch without destroying.

—————

You were in the painting salon. You looked at the pictures. He stopped in front of one: a portrait of you. Painted by him.

You didn't know.

His face was exactly like that morning when he had smiled at the bird.

You turned around, in silence.

And Garling... lost control for a moment.

"I can't stop seeing you.

Not even when I close my eyes.

Not even when I sleep.

Not even when I kill."

He held your arms. It didn't hurt... yet. But his gaze was dark, dense.

"Don't leave me alone.

Don't smile at anyone else.

Not even to heaven.

Not even for the flowers.

Just for me."

—————

—At the end of the day

He took you to the room.

Not to repeat the night before.

But to lie down with you, as if they were an ordinary couple.

He lay behind you, wrapped your body with his, and said - with his warm breath on his neck:

"If I could... I would lock the time in this room."

"But since I can't... I'm going to lock the world outside."

"You're my wife now.

And all this empire... it's just to make sure you keep smiling.

Here.

With me.

Forever."

—————————————————————————

[strawberry-spritz]

Abusive relationship, but Garling deserves it anyways ♡

---

You were pissed off, having a mission from Imu go so horribly despite you doing everything you could.

You mercilessly struck Garling’s back with a kick and sent him on all fours like the dog he was, he was getting older and weaker after all, and you were as young as ever~

Sitting on your favourite couch, you let your feet rest on Garling’s back, not even giving him a chance to get up from the kick.

“Do you know what–!” He began and turned his head towards you before you shoved your right foot in his mouth, forcing a choked voice from him (which made you internally grin).

“Cerberus acts better than you! God, you’re a worthless piece of–” You took your foot out and struck his neck, his body collapsing with the force of your kick. And you weren’t even wearing your signature heels you fought in! How pathetic!

You sensed a younger thing coming around from behind you.

“Shamrock..?” You asked sweetly, turning your head to him, he couldn’t see the state his father was in due to the broad couch.

He looked sleepy and innocent, holding onto a teddy bear that you bought for him specifically, the next day right after Garling ordered he not get any more ‘childish’ gifts… Because he was a damn child!

“I heard… some stuff.”

“It’s nothing to worry about, baby.” The heel of your foot digged into Garling’s back, making him hiss in pain.

“Okay.. Can you… sing me to sleep..?”

“Of course! Give me a minute and I’ll be there.”

“You’re the best!” The boy beamed and ran back.

You stood up angrily and grabbed Garling’s hair, forcing his mouth to bite the nearest table, before pushing hard with your hand and taking a step back, only to kick his skull against the table as a warning, you could hear him choking as the porcelain dug beyond his teeth.

“You disgrace your bloodline, your son will never be the soldier you wish him to be with the way you act.” You took his hair in your hand and pulled back to slam him against the table, probably getting him a concussion. “Wild dog.” You spat on him.

“Make us hot cocoa, your son’s restless, I’m helping him sleep.”

You didn’t bother checking back on him before making your way to your son’s bedroom.

---

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

🏴‍☠️ A Conservatory of Butterflies Series

Interconnected stories set in the same timeline/universe, order doesn't really matter if you came for a specific character, but it is advised to read top to bottom for continunity (once everything is up)

🏴‍☠️ Where Butterflies Are Kept - Nerona Imu

🏴‍☠️ Fleeting Wings Grow Idle Homes - Figarland Garling

🏴‍☠️ Under the Canopy of Flowers - Figarland Shamrock

Last Edit: Apr. 23rd, 2026

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