║▌║▌║ 𝐈ς𝓨 ║▌║▌ ║

There are times when he's so tired he can barely lift the cigarette to his mouth. So many "Becks, the barrel of my shotgun is bent", "Becks, I can't read this laundry tag", "Becks, I swear I didn't slash the rum barrel", or "Becks, was it up or down to unfurl the sails?" from the crew that the poor man can't take it anymore.

And on those days, when just a sliver of sun is left on the horizon and you settle onto his lap and start telling him your things, he sometimes zones out.

His fingers tangle and untangle, lazy, in the strands falling down your back, and his tired grey eyes settle on that favorite spot of his, behind your ear, four fingers down.

"Becks?"

His eyes come back to yours.

"Sorry, doll, you were saying..."

The second you start talking again his eyes fall to your upper lip, then slowly drift back to that spot on your neck. He's giving you his attention. All of it, really... just not to a word you're saying.

"Becks, are you even listening?"

"Forgive me, love, rough day."

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Pairing: Figarland Shamrock x Reader

Tags: angst, hurt/comfort, husband/wife, established relationship

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“You stupid, idiotic bastard!”

Vitriol bubbled in your stomach, pushing up against your diaphragm. It dissolved upwards into your lungs, traveling through your larynx, burning your tongue as your words were spat out of your mouth. “God, I hope the earth reclaims me so I never have to see your pathetic face ever again!” 

Decorum was no longer an option. Decorum held no merit against a woman’s fury; a fury that can’t be ignited by only one strike of a match. No, no. The ire that was consuming you was a fireball that had been stoked and prodded repetitively. How much longer would you have to play the part of a patient, well-behaved woman? The mask of the all-forgiving wife? The negligence, the priority of his duty… You were far too romantic for missed promises of time spent together. Quite frankly, you were too in love for a life caged in a lonely marriage.

The stomping of your stride against the manor’s carpet felt like earthquakes. You meant what you said, you truly did wish for the earth to open up and swallow you whole. The heavy and crushing embrace of rock and soil would at least mean you were being held. The alternative was cold sheets and lonely nights pining for the warmth of vows that had long been lost to the past. 

Shamrock followed after you, feeling like a kicked puppy. His gait matched your own; an indignant trampling of his boots, language coming from the back of his throat like a rattlesnake's hiss. “You knew what I was when you married me,” he berated. “All of this anger, and for what? When I am called to be somewhere, I must be there.” 

You scoffed. You didn’t even bother a glance in his direction as you wrapped your cloak around yourself, busting the manor doors open with an agitated push. “But when you are here… Yes, when you’re here, you’re just a shell of a man. Empty. I have better conversations with the portraits on the walls.” The bitterness in your tone stung, and Shamrock’s brow twitched, the corners of his mouth drooping into a sulk.

“Of course, the portraits on the walls. Tell me, do they speak back to you? Read to you? Do they touch you?” 

“None of it, but it’s still more than what you do.”

The man faltered in his step as the acerbic bite of your tone caused his heart to beat with guilt. Oh, how his heart was throbbing. His brows narrowed, mouth turned up in a sneer. “Stop walking away from me.” 

A sardonic chuckle escaped you. “No.” The air outside the manor was humid, and as you fled from your husband, the thundering rain soaked you in a chill that seeped down to your bones. Honestly, you felt miserable, and a bit dramatic in the moment. Perhaps you could’ve just holed up in a different room in the manor, rather than to have charged out in the pouring rain, but that wouldn’t have satisfied your fire.

You heard the splash of puddles as Shamrock chased after you, and he was honing in fast. He grabbed your wrist, grip tight and unforgiving, as he pulled you backwards towards him. “Let me go,” you barked, “I am not a dog to be handled.” 

“No, you are not,” he retorted. “You are my wife, and I will not have you acting so foolishly in a moment of passion.” What dense words he just told you, you thought to yourself. Your eyes met his. Formidable feelings flickered behind the gazes of both husband and wife. “Foolish? It’s as if the jester is calling his reflection a clown.” 

Shamrock breathed a low, grumbling sound. His agitation was palpable. “What do you want from me, hmm?” He pulled you flush to him, peering down at you, rivulets from his hair falling onto you. “What does my wife need? Do you want my attention? My touch?” 

You said nothing, tears prickling your eyes as you became choked up in frustration. Shamrock didn’t like your silence; his fingers tangled in your wet hair, tugging on the strands to make you look up at him. “Use your words. Tell me, love.” 

“I want my husband.” You were careful to annunciate and emphasize each word. “I want him to love me without me begging for affection.” The knight’s heart throbbed painfully once again, his own indignation shattering at your vulnerability. He placed a gloved hand on your cheek, and used his thumb to wipe some moisture from your eye. “I do love you,” he whispered. “I love you even when you curse my name and run out into the rain.” 

mdni

Shamrock x reader drabble

Warnings: it's just smut all the way down.

Mary Geoise does not hold space for lovers. There are gods and worshipers. Masters and slaves. You wonder what that makes your relationship with Figarland Shamrock.

My lil deranged babygirl