#jintaka stuff

Set at the end of the Street of Silk, not far from houses of greater renown, the brothel was the perfect place for those who sought discretion yet would spare no expense in the pursuit of pleasure. It had not been long established, yet the array of women, beautiful and compliant, left it with little to envy in the offerings of older brothels. 

You had been the latest acquisition, three moon-turns past. Laden with the debts of your late father, with an elder brother you had heard little of to see them paid, you were fair enough, young enough, and willing enough to serve as passing sport for any man with coin in his purse. It had been years since you’d lost your maidenhood, taken by your uncle’s squire in a struggle that ended with you bent beneath the bridge that spanned the road to your father’s house. Too fair to resist, he had said when it was done. The coupling had been painful, yet it taught you the cruel truths of the world, and hardened you for what was to come.

The men who came to claim your father’s debt were fearsome, swift to impatience. So you had taken to the streets, earning your bread and honing the arts of love and pleasure to fetch a higher price. But the streets were perilous, and when that woman of the Street of Silk found you and offered a place in her brothel, you had not hesitated. It would allow you to keep paying down the debt without risking your life in the alleyways, albeit slowly, for the mistress claimed the lion’s share. For you? Only crumbs, though sweetened with the promise of her protection.

The mistress ran her business impeccably. The house’s patronage followed a pattern that allowed her to arrange the rooms, be they private chambers or shared spaces veiled in fine silks. In the same way, it allowed her to rotate the girls and set her prices according to the night’s demand.

The first to come were most often sailors, soldiers, and men who had set coin aside for the chance to spend a night between the many treasures the brothel had to offer. For such clients, the beer and wine poured was of middling quality, yet they might choose whichever girl they fancied, so long as she was not one of the mistress’s protected doves. Later would come the lesser lords, the sons of middling houses, or newly made knights, who might be served finer wines. These would often take more than one girl to make up for their pride, so long as the price could be met.

Last of all, in the deep hours of the night, perhaps for the discretion that darkness bestowed, came knights of high rank, men burdened by vows of chastity, and even lords of great houses, these last resting until the break of dawn to spare themselves the wrath of their wives. For such as these, the finest Dornish brandies were poured, fruits brought from the Summer Islands laid out upon silver trays, and the most pleasurable and beautiful women were offered as yet another exotic delicacy.

With such clientele, the takings were more than enough for the mistress to keep recruiting fresh blossoms of beauty, as well as to hang tapestries that lent the house an air of refinement. As a certain brothel keeper from a nearby establishment was fond of saying, “Whores make better investments than ships. They seldom sink, even when boarded by pirates.” 

That night was already well advanced. The first tide of sailors had already arrived, loud and in number, and many of the rooms and girls were already engaged. It was one of those nights when Madame seemed well pleased with both the attendance and the profitability of her business.

You had not yet been assigned a client and were enjoying, along with six other women, some chatting and giggling that drowned out the melody of a half-drunk lute player. Your half opened gauze gown bared your breasts as you leaned forward while another woman lined your eyes with kohl. She was young, with a sweet voice and an eastern accent, and had taken you in as both friend and confidante to help you learn the house’s rules. Bless her for it, though you still lacked the cunning of the others.

As the front door bell announced the arrival of new clients, some girls hurried to spy on the men who entered. The mistress had told them a thousand times not to be nosy and to wait for her to make the assignments, but the women always allowed themselves this little mischief. Since your friend was still giving small touches to your eyes, neither of you noticed that the other girls had vanished, until seconds later you saw them rush back into the main hall, breasts bouncing beneath their gowns as they tried to hide behind curtains.

“It’s just one, but he’s hideous!” one of them cried. “Tall as a tower and frightening…”

“He’s a monster! I pity the poor girl who has to take care of him!” whispered another.

Your friend stood immediately and gripped your wrist to help you hide, but you were not fast enough. Madame entered the common room, brow furrowed at the sight of the women scattering, already taking note of the reprimands she would deliver later. Then her gaze settled on your retreating back and hardened further.

“You,” she said dryly and you froze mid-escape. “Upstairs. The room with the big bed. And see that the lock holds this time. He wants privacy.”

Though the rooms were usually prepared in advance, Madame always kept the clients lingering a few minutes to give the girls time to settle in. A pitcher of wine -which you suspected was among the watered down ones- had already been brought up by one of the apprentices. You blew away whatever dust might have gathered on the cup that accompanied it, set a small cushion to shield the rather battered wall from an ebony headboard as large as the bed it framed, and were lighting a stick of incense when your friend arrived to help you.

“Have you seen him?” you followed her with your eyes.

“…yes,” she avoided your gaze as she fluffed a pillow.

“... and?”

She didn’t answer.

“Is he that horrible?”

The woman crouched by one of the bed’s legs to check its sturdiness. 

“Well,” she said, “he is… tall, indeed. And drunk…” She knew all your expressions well, and moved swiftly to reassure you. “I heard he just won the Hand’s tourney." 

You sank onto the mattress. A knight. The victor of festivities you never have even heard off. Were you meant to feel honored to lie with him? You laughed in bitterness and covered your face with both hands.

“Listen…” the woman sat beside you and pulled your hands away from your eyes, holding them for a moment as she looked at you with a small smile. “The mistress has made him pay twice for the inconveniences.”

“What? What inconveniences?”

She pinched your cheeks to bring some color to them, pondering something for a moment. But whatever she’d been about to say, she decided to spare you. 

“You’ll manage. You’ve handled worse men,” she lied.

As you opened your mouth again to voice your doubts, you heard Madame’s voice as she climbed the stairs. 

“I picked one who won’t flinch. Steady hands and a soft tongue. Both ready for a man who knows what he wants...”

“Scream if he gets too rough,” your friend cupped your face and waited for your nod before slipping quickly out of the room.

Madame always instructed the girls to receive clients with enough light for them to see what they were paying for, so you busied yourself with a set of candles bright enough to illuminate half of Westeros. When the door opened, you didn’t see the man duck his head as he entered, but the wood that always groaned under a big pair of boots nearly splintered.

“Welcome, sir,” you said, wick in hand and without turning to him.

A metallic clang that you guessed was his armor against the door preceded a slurred, “bugger me…” 

Your friend had been right: he was drunk. What she hadn’t told you was that his mood was even worse than his balance.

“Congratulations on winning the tournament, sir.” You forced yourself to speak, with a politeness so rehearsed that you might have been taken for a lady. 

“Spare me your niceties, woman,” was his dry reply.

You didn’t often see the cream of society, but the sheer rudeness of this man made you snort. “Yes, sir.”

He grunted, showing no care to conceal his annoyance, then poured himself a glass of wine as he muttered, “too many cursed candles. Leave but one.”

You didn’t like being nearly blind with a man you hadn’t even glimpsed yet, but the client commanded, and as the mistress had warned, he wanted privacy. When only a single flame remained burning, you prepared to turn around.

“No. Keep your back to me.” 

Your brow furrowed. 

“Very good, sir.” 

There was something about the man every time you gave him that title. You could almost feel him bristle and you didn't understand why.

“Take off your gown.” 

His voice made your skin crawl. You obeyed, feeling his gaze sink in your shoulders like sharp teeth as you shed the gauzy fabric. Beneath it, you wore only sheer stockings that reached mid-thigh. No corset or smallclothes to cover your feminine parts. Believing that he demanded full compliance, you bent down to remove them.

“Leave them,” he rasped, and you released the ties at once. He wasn’t the first man you’d encountered with… peculiar tastes.

Behind you, you heard the man shedding his metal shell. He grunted when some piece resisted. You had seen knights disarm themselves many times, and they usually needed help with certain pieces, but you wouldn’t offer unless asked. He didn’t. From the time he was taking, he must be fully armored, yet it wouldn’t be a problem; the room had space enough for two, sometimes three men, to leave their belongings.

You didn’t hear him approach. Large fingers as thick as tanned leather landed on your hips, kneading your flesh upward until they groped your bare breasts. Your client panted as he pawed the most tender parts of your body, and you indulged him when those hands that could strangle a bear guided you toward the bed, one broad palm pressing between your shoulders until yours met the mattress.

“Up. On hands and knees,” his breath was thick and fruity with the scent of wine.

You climbed onto the bed, and immediately noticed him fumbling with what remained of his garments. One hand clamped onto your hips again as he guided your ass backward toward him. You bowed your head, and caught a glimpse of the only thing you could: the bulk of his frontal thighs behind you, strong and covered in hair, adjusting clumsily to your smaller height. Several curses later, he growled and shoved a pair of cushions beneath your knees so you were lifted as he wanted. It was rude and forceful, and you swallowed the urge to turn around and slap him.

With one rough hand still at your hip, his other spread your ass cheeks, prying your southern lips open in an impatient and far from gentle check. A heartbeat later, it was gone, and you could easily imagine where. What pressed against your womanhood next was daunting in both hardness and size, like the rounded head of some great drawbar from the gates of King’s Landing, if iron could pulse with the warmth of living flesh. 

He pushed forward, blunt and graceless, trying to force his way through sheer stubbornness alone. Though he was right about the path and the place, you could tell he was not used to such closeness. His attempts were ill-aimed, shifting from one angle to the next as though brute insistence might win what precision could not. For all his effort, he scarcely managed to breach you more than the width of a fingertip.

“Stay still or I’ll make you,” he grumbled.

“I haven’t moved an inch,” you said in your defense. It was true.

The man growled with frustration behind you. What had he expected? He was built like a warhorse, and you’d been given no time to prepare. His manhood would break you, you were sure of that. You could feel your body tense and recoil instinctively, denying him like an inexperienced maiden. He pressed again, harsher this time, and his fingers clawed at your hips as he angled your ass up and back towards his center. Then with one last forceful shove that drove the air from your lungs, your body finally yielded. The sudden bite of pain drew a pained groan from you. 

He stilled. 

You closed your eyes, bracing for the reprimand you knew as coming. Another client might have lost patience, demanding the obedience he had paid a high price for, yet to your astonishment, he said nothing. He just pressed the heel of his hand to your groin, just over the artery where your blood was racing, and sighed.

“Calm down, girl. I won't hurt you,” he said, voice hoarse but warmer now.

You could barely breathe. You should have run faster to hide in the hall. You wished your last client had been at least a third as large as this one. That way you would have been properly stretched. But neither the young man who came with his father to lose his virginity before his wedding, nor the father himself as he, in his words, reminded you how a man fucks, were even half as thick as this one.

"Breathe… and stop shaking." 

Were you trembling? You were so frightened you hadn’t even noticed, so focused on grounding yourself on the pillow beneath you. You felt his other hand move to your inner thigh, brushing it in soft pats through the stockings. It was gentle, in truth, though to you it felt more like he was petting a skittish mare.

You allowed yourself an abundant intake of air. Your flanks inflated and deflated with it while his legs remained firm behind you, like two columns holding the weight of a looming fortress you were not allowed to see. Aside from the small pats of his hand, his body remained completely still. You silently thanked him for that. From the next room came a rhythmic pounding against a wall, and then moans from a couple clearly enjoying their time more than you. The filthy sounds made your client’s cock twitch and you hissed, though in truth it served as good practice to help you adjust to his body. 

He shifted his hand so that it was now his thumb that checked your pulse. “Come now,” his wine soured breathing hit behind you, his hardness throbbing in agony and less patient than his master.

You swallowed, and wanting to give yourself a little more time, lifted your head and looked to your side with no particular purpose, toward a window which offered only darkness. There you found his reflection, blurred yet clear enough to let you see he was truly a sturdy and towering man, with long hair that seemed more abundant on one side, and hungered eyes that did not tear away from your ass. His image should have terrified you, yet there was something vulnerable in him that drew you close to what you would have called empathy. 

When his manhood complained again, straining to release even a little of its aching tension, your pulse no longer pounded in your throat. The man seemed to sense it too, for his thumb left your groin as he breathed, “that’s it,” behind you.

His movements were slow at first. Not for your sake, but to give himself time to adjust to the overwhelming pleasure your warmth granted him. No man wanted to blow his load too soon, least of all when the whore had been so expensive. You had never felt so stuffed. Even though he gave you time, the drag of his massive cock as it sheathed and unsheathed stretched the skin around your lower lips, tightening you as no man ever had before.

His hands found a hard grip on your hips. Your breaths turned heavy and uneven, his from the effort of driving into you, yours from the strain of taking him. You glanced at his reflection again. His broad shoulders were taut, his head tipped back slightly. You could not see his face, but the way he fought down his moans told you his jaw was locked tight.

His stones, girthy and heavy, bounced rhythmically against your slit, making the honey pour from it more abundantly. You remembered that time you witnessed the neighbor’s bull mounting your uncle’s cow. It was savage. He wasn’t purebred, and when your uncle tried to tie him, he almost destroyed the stable. You were just a little girl and your mother quickly covered your eyes, but those dark sacks, swaying and overflowing with seed, were etched into your memory forever. Now you were that poor cow, you thought, and it almost made you laugh. 

His pace quickened. The slapping sweetly reached that spot which made women go wild and which so few men ever bothered to explore. Not everything in your duty as a whore had to be suffering and pain, so you indulged yourself in a little pleasure. Trying to be as discreet as you could, you greedily lifted your hips to him. He noticed, both hands clamped to your waist as he muttered a curse, then with a lumbering grunt, he pressed you harder against him. He was not a talkative man amd that was for the best. You could not stand those who leaned over you and whispered stale-breath nonsense. Promises of getting you out of there and of giving you a decent life. Some even told you they loved you, smiling crookedly as they helped you bob your head between their legs.

His hips met your ass harder as he drove deeper inside you. You could feel him everywhere, in your cunt, opening his way through your stomach, you could almost feel his headcock, big as a fist slamming against your windpipe. One rough hand ran up quickly to your breasts, grabbing one in a rough handful. Your perky nipple was caught between two thick fingers that squeezed it almost by accident. You moaned.

“Stop that,” he said in a broken snarl. “No mummer’s farce. W-we both know you’re not enjoying this.”

You bit your tongue. For a moment, you thought of telling him you were not pretending, but you refused to feed his ego. You dropped your head and nodded instead, not certain if he saw you or not. Though loving sounds had been coming from the next room without pause, it was yours that drove him wild. His response was to pound into you with all he had. He fucked you as if he hated you; as if he hated the damned place. And above all, he fucked you as if he hated himself. You wondered what had happened to him in the tourney, or in his life, but the rage, the pain as he thrusted his cock as deep as he could made your heart ache more than your cunt.

Stiffing your own sounds was difficult, yet you managed as decently as you could considering the immense stimulation the man provided. What you could not stop was your insides from fluttering around him, claiming his seed like the greedy little whore you were. It was as though your bodies understood one another better than you ever could through words. How contradictory, all the girls fleeing his company, looking at you with pity and worry and there you were, two tears welling up in your waterline as the bastard dragged you to the very edge of pleasure.

Your fists gripped the mattress to brace against his more vigorous thrusts. His hand roamed round your body, furiously, halting between your shoulders and shoving you down the mattress while he kept your ass up. He wanted submission. With another man you would have resisted, despite the direct instructions of your employer, and you even tried, tensing your arms against his impressive strength.

“Down,” he commanded, pressing harder.

The way he said it licked down your back well enough that you shivered, and you obeyed, ass unwittingly slopping up to meet him. His hips rutted into you and your body answered again with a firm clench around his length. He groaned with lust. He was reaching that point where there was not turning back. The hand between your shoulderblades remained firm as steel. His other one stuffed itself into your stockings, tearing the delicate garment on its way down and dwarfing your thigh as he fisted the plush flesh.  

“Ah~” 

His legs jerked, taut abdomen contracting and rrelaxing as he panted hard. What came next was something you knew all too well. A pained, rough groan, followed by a thick warmth spilling inside you. His uneven, jagged nails dug into your thigh, scratching until they drew blood. The bastard did not stop until his balls felt light and empty.

He released his hold, no longer keeping you pressed against the mattress. Your breathing was as ragged as his; your brow slick with sweat. When at last you gathered yourself, you lifted your gaze ahead. The cushion he had set between the headboard and the wall had fallen. The paint was more flaked than before. Your client shifted behind you, likewise struggling to catch his breath as he pulled himself out. His absence almost drew a pathetic whine from you. He leaned forward, clumsy hands rolling down your ruined stockings and fingers pausing to acknowledge each mark on your skin. He clicked his tongue as though reprimanding himself.

“Took me well,” his voice was hoarse beyond anything you had ever known. The praise, blunt though it was, might have touched you had you not heard him stumble backward a moment later.

Having learned well the lesson of granting him privacy, you did not turn around while he armed himself again. It did not take long. He likely fastened only the pieces strictly necessary. Another sign of how little he wished to be there. For the first time, you thought the reason might be shame. 

When the door opened, you sat upon the bed, hoping for at least a glimpse of the man who had nearly split you in two. You caught only the lower third of an immense longsword disappearing through the doorway.

Your friend did not take long to come in. Rushing to attend to you with a set of clean clothes in one hand and a tray bearing a teapot in the other. She set it upon the bedside table, and knelt before you.

“Are you hurt?” she held your chin and tilted your head from side to side, inspecting your cheeks, your neck, and moving down to study your breasts and sides.

You shook your head, still dazed. She sighed in relief, then spread your legs to continue her assessment, and frowned when she reached your thighs.

“Drink” she gestured toward the teapot.

You swallowed the honeyed infusion while she cleaned the mess between your legs, a task that took her a little longer than usual. When you set the empty glass on the small table, she rose on her feet and refilled it to the brim.

“He is a big man, love,” she said as you looked at her with one eyebrow arched.

You forced yourself to drink it when Madame appeared at the door, radiant and pleased with herself, just like after a profitable venture had been concluded. She did not bother to enter, but watched you from outside with a satisfied smile.

“Well done, girl,” you heard her while your friend placed a third glass into your hands. “He will come back.”

...................................................................

"Please let me cease to exist", starring x Drake, Paulie

“What?!” His eyes nearly pop out of their sockets, and the wildest flush spreads all the way from his earlobes to the bridge of his nose. “No, no, no, no-” he'd shake his hands but they're full, “we do not have time for this.”

You pout, glancing back at the store, which he's grateful for, because he knows damn well his face is on fire.

“Ooooh, pleaaase…”

“But-”

“Pleaaase.” You look at him again, bright, pleading eyes framed by unfairly pretty lashes.

Don't look at her. Don't-

“I-I, uh… alright,” he sighs, “... alright.”

You practically bounce down the last two steps of the escalator and march straight into the den of sin, instantly distracted by dreamy lace teddies and aisles full of bralettes and corsets that are less about covering and more about showing off.

“Look!” You grab a pair of panties so sheer they’re practically just a suggestion." What do you think?" You turn around, but he's not behind you. A quick scan of the store and there he is, right by the entrance, frozen like stepping one foot inside is somehow illegal. Red as a tomato, and still holding all the bags like an absolute idiot.

"Over here!" You wave both arms dramatically until he spots you.

Reluctantly, he walks in like a man marching toward his doom, and trails behind you through aisles of wonderbras while very pointedly studying the floor tiles and the ceiling lights like he’s about to write a thorough thesis on both. In a desperate attempt at appearing normal, he picks up something that looks, at first glance, completely harmless. A small, innocent little packet, while you stand beside him in quiet awe, admiring the sheerness of something he absolutely refuses to look at. He brings the little packet up to his face and freezes.

Nipple covers.

He drops them like they burned him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, did you see him?! Do you think now he is a pervert?!! 

"I think I'll get this one," you say, holding up a pair of thigh-highs that leave very little to the imagination, "but I'm torn between this one and this one… which do you think would look better on me?"

He stutters. He actively refuses to look at the bras you're waving directly in his face, until, in what he would personally describe as a profound act of selfless sacrifice, he looks. Really looks. At the prettiest bras he has ever had the misfortune of seeing in his entire life.

"You'd look good in either…" he says, doomed.

"Would I??" 

Fuck.

He rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, I mean… statistically, you have good… proportions. F-for clothes. Obviously."

Proportions? He said proportions? Really? Out loud? To your face? FUUUUCK. He is, without a single shadow of a doubt, the biggest idiot to have ever walked this earth, and the fact that his brain is conjuring non stop a very vivid, detailed and very unwelcome image of you in both of them

IS

NOT

HELPING.

"Okay, I think I'll go with the red one!"

Pweh! He exhales, the exit suddenly feeling very, very close.

“And now…” you grab him by the arm loaded with bags, “let’s go check out the thong section!!”

"Could not care less", starring Zoro, Law, Rob Lucci

"Can we stop in?!" you turn to him, "Please, please, please!!!!! Just to browse, I swear!!"

"The others are waiting for us…" he says, completely unbothered.

"But, but-  just one minute, I promise! Literally grab one thing and go!"

He shrugs like the bags he's carrying weigh nothing.

"If it makes you happy…"

You bounce into the store while he follows behind, shifting the bags from one hand to the one already holding the container so he can lift his phone and check for wifi. He gets one bar. Maybe. But it's enough, so while you squeal like a maniac over pieces he doesn't even glance at, he scrolls through videos of sword training techniques (zoro) - extreme surgical procedures (Law) - how to clean up a crime scene / pidgeons doing random things (Rob Lucci). The algorithm knows him well.

"What do you think of this one?!" You hold up a high-precision red lace push-up bra.

"Useless," he says, glancing at it exactly long enough to deliver the verdict before going back to his screen.

You huff. "What about these two? Which one do you think would look better on me?" You hold up a pair of thongs so scandalously thin they could genuinely double as lens wipes.

"Stretch them."

"What?"

"Stretch them. See how far they go."

You do.

"The one on the right."

You study the thong.

"But... why?"

"Looks more durable."

You stare at him and he simply raises his eyebrow.

"If you're spending the money, might as well get one that lasts, no?" he speaks flatly, as if you were talking about hardware.

This guy is unbelievable, you mutter as you disappear into the lace bodysuits and matching sets section. He says something about the wifi not reaching from there and vanishes from your sight. You assume he's probably stepped outside and is waiting for you but when you go to pay, you find him at the register, purchasing the most unsexy thing in the entire store: a pair of sober, anti-moisture, brand name sports socks.

"Totally fine. Internally wailing", starring Ace, Heat, Kid, Killer, Smoker, Kaku, Katakuri

"Can we stop in?!" you turn to him, "Please, please, please!!!!! Just to browse, I swear!!"

"Absolutely not." ("No fucking way" In Kid/Smoker's case)

"Ooooh please, please-"

"We don't have time for this, the frozen stuff, remember?" He shakes one of the bags.

"But it'll only take a second, I swear! Please, have you even seen the window?"

He looks at the display and immediately frowns. "God," ("Fuck" in Kid's case) he would pinch the bridge of his nose if he had a free hand. He does not have a free hand. "Fiiiine. But be quick."

He has not finished the sentence before you're already inside, touching everything within arm's reach.

"Look at this!! Hahaha!! And this!! And THIS!!!"

He follows you through the aisles like a bodyguard, except for the bags of plums and whole grain bread. The place itself isn't particularly scandalous to him, there are a couple of things that are almost funny, if he's being hones, but being here, of all places, with you specifically, makes the whole thing inexplicably mortifying.

You don't stop. Bra after bra after bra, pulled off the rack and held up for inspection: bralettes, push-ups, balconettes, all of them predictably laced with the kind of delicate detail that is going to make someone very, very happy someday. He can't explain it, but the thought makes him disproportionately annoyed.

"What about this one?" you say, this time holding it up against your chest so he can actually weigh in.

And that's the last straw.

"Hmm, not bad," he says, like an idiot (or "looks like shit" in Kid's case, and "adequate" in Smoker's), "I'm going to go look at the briefs section."

Briefs section.

He said briefs.

In an erotic lingerie store.

What a loser. But it's better than trailing behind you like a lost soul watching you pick out things for whoever the hell is lucky enough to see them.

You carry on unbothered, and by the time you've got three or four thongs in your hands (if the strings you're holding can even be called thongs) you find him staring at a 2 for 3 deal on boxers. Black. Basic.

"Ooooh, sexy," you say, doing a little dance and finger-gunning at him.

It's a joke.

He knows it's a joke.

But the blush is visible from the electronics store across the mall.

"Look! The lights are flickering!", starring Shanks, Ussop, Franky

"Can we stop in?!" you turn to him, "Please, please, please!!!!! Just to browse, I swear!!"

"Oh, sweetheart, the neon lights are blinking, OF COURSE we're going in!!" he beams with his eyes locked on the store, practically pushing past you to get down the last few steps of the escalator.

"W-wait!"

And he goes in before you. He absolutely goes in before you. Dropping the bags at the door because oh boy, he is going to need his hands free. Is there anything valuable in those bags? Will they be left completely unattended? Well. Priorities!!

"Look at THIS!!" he yells, grabbing the tackiest pair of underwear you have ever seen in your life. "HAHAHAHA, oh?!!! And THIS??" he shrieks like a hyperactive child, making a beeline for the men's thong section with the energy of someone entering a theme park.

You shake your head at this hopeless, irredeemable case of manchild behavior and make your way toward the full sets (bra, slip and thigh-highs) in search of something actually worth taking home.

"HAHAHAHA, LOOOOK!!"

You jump as he holds a thong with an elephant trunk thong over himself, laughing like it's the funniest thing he's ever seen in his entire life.

"The-trunk!! Get it?!!"

"Yes, I get it…" you roll your eyes and turn back to your things.

"No, wait, wait, there is another one! look!!" He pulls out another one shaped like a firefighter's hose and does a full hip rotation. "Where's the fiiiiiire, ma'aaam?"

That one gets you. It's stupid. So stupid you end up laughing like another idiot, and before you know it you're browsing the most unsexy prints you've ever seen in your life, and leave with a pair of panties with an angry cat face on them, a thong with an actual little holster for cigarettes for Beckman (Shanks' case) / a bra where the cups read "break" and "fast" with a cutlery print for Sanji (Usopp and Franky's case - the last one picks out something actually beautiful for Robin when he thinks you are not looking).

"Asked for this assignment", starring Beckman, Rayleigh, Marco, Izou, Mihawk

Can we stop in?!" you turn to him,  "Please, please, please!!!!! Just to browse, I swear!!"

The smirk he gives you spoils the answer before he even opens his mouth.

"Of course, darlin'."

He'd clocked the store before you had, and if you hadn't brought it up he would have found some excuse to go in anyway… or come back later on his own just to treat himself to the view. The owner smiles at him when he politely asks if he can leave the bags at the counter so he has more freedom to, as he puts it, admire the collection. Then he goes looking for you where he already knows you'll be: the bras and tops section.

You pick one up, look at it and put it back. Then you pick up another while he does the same, every now and then glancing at yours and humming his approval. He seems to know what he's looking at so why not ask?

"What do you think of this one?" You hold out a strapless, sea-colored lace bralette. He takes it like you've handed him a piece of art, turning it over carefully and running his thumb along the delicate fabric. (Rayleigh/Marco adjusts his glasses to get a better look.)

"It's exquisite. May I?" He gestures, waiting for you to nod before holding it up against you, very, very gently.

"You look radiant…" he says.

You flush, just a little.

"Do I?"

"Of course you do, sweetheart. But… if you'll allow me…" he says, returning the bralette to its hanger.

"What?"

"I think a body as attractive as yours can afford to go a little more… libertine," he says, picking up a red total exposure open cup bra (Beckman/Rayleigh) / a black strappy harness bra (Mihawk) / a combination of delicate, nearly sheer Japanese silk (Izou/Marco) and holding it up against your chest.

"Look at you… good god, you're a beauty…"

"Oh I don't know, maybe it's too much?"

"Too much? Nothing is too much for you, sweetheart. Your body is a treasure and it deserves a worthy wrapping."

You giggle and flush even more, but he can see you're still hesitating.

"Why don't you…" he glances over at the fitting rooms, "try it on and I'll give you a more… empirical opinion?"

"Oh!" you say, cheeks fully pink. "Okay!"

And off you go, practically skipping, while he follows behind entirely in his element (Beckman has never been happier in his life. And he's not even allowed to smoke.)

............................................

Taglist: @fanaticsnail@armiliadawn@pandora-writes-one-piece@i-am-vita@eustasscapitankid@nocturnalrorobin@daydreamer-in-training@alwayssassydreamer <3 @fromathelastoveritaserum@binksbrewcrew @mapachito @akagami-no-laney

For x Drake <3 @thetempleofthemasaigoddess @igiuls @thecraftywriter @wontknowbetter

You growl in anger when your back hits the wall. You send furious kicks aiming to his balls as you shout for backup to your crewmates, but your voice is silenced by the pressure or his forearm/weapon against your throat, pinning your squirming, furious little body against the cold bricks.

No way I am losing this, you think as you spit to his face and he dodges it with a smug grin, your ego wounded by the difference in strength between you and who is supposed to be mere prey. And so, you do the only thing available to win this battle. Using the proximity of his face to yours, you almost snap your neck as you lean forward and plant an open mouthed kiss to his no longer grinning lips. 

Beckman, Shanks, Hongo, Thatch, Rayleigh, Marco, Killer, Izou, Wire

“Tsk”

His weapon/forearm keeps pinning your body with the exact same strength as before, an even smugger smile twisting his mouth as he asses you up and down and licks his lips with one of his eyebrow arched in amusement.

"If you wanted it so bad, sweetheart you only had to ask."

The plan backfires. You are the one flustered. You lose.

MIhawk, Rob Lucci, Zoro, Smoker, Aokiji

His weapon/forearm presses even harder against your neck until you whimper, the most hardened eyes you've ever seen glaring down at you until you are forced to lower your gaze and miss the way one vein on his temple threatens to burst.

"My, my, where is our professionalism?"

Though you are convinced otherwise, to him you are even. A tie.

Law, x Drake, Ace, Ussop, Heat, Kid

His forearm/weapon loses its strength, then trembles pathetically as he tries to press further, failing and releasing you as he stumbles back two or three steps. Both his hands fly up to cover his mouth and his eyes blown wide open while a furious flush spreads from his neck all the way to his ears.

"W-what?!"

You win. 😎

All the men will strongly remember you later, at night in their beds, their hands can't helping but slip inside their pants as they imagine how soft and wet your lips felt...

...all except Benn Beckman, who does not need to imagine it because of course he has managed to have you all railed on his bed, sweating and pitifully moaning his name with one hand fisting his sheets and the other pulling at his silver hair until you don't remember which crew you belonged to anymore.

Dancing at the feast after the tourney. Seated in the stands with a frown among the other ladies. Taking a pause with your maids to smell the flowers that open their petals at dawn… It matters not how, or when, or where, but he is enthralled with you, and when he is thus, he can be persuasive.

Most persuasive.

Even if every attempt at approach is met by glares, or by your delicate hand rising in a dismissive gesture, it spurs him on far more than any sultry glance ever could. What is a man who does not enjoy a good, challenging hunt? So he insists, and persists. Again and again he comes. All toothy smiles and guffaws and ridiculous jests while he dances to display his tireless stamina. And when, in a small crack of your will -a woman has her weaknesses too- you show the slightest interest, he does not hesitate and takes his chance to fully charm you.

Successfully.

If you thought, at times with some pity, that he was a hungry man, it is only because you had not yet seen him in bed. The man is ravenous. There is not an inch of you he does not claim for himself, not a patch of skin he does not worship with his lips. He speaks to you with a sordid boldness no man has ever dared, and those filthy words scandalize you as much as they set your -until that moment untouched- womanhood aflutter.

The experience is most pleasurable though, both for you and for him. So you repeat. Again and again. In his tent. In his chambers. One day and despite your protests, in a stable. He beds you more than newlyweds do. More passionate than a man with a forbidden lover. With more hunger than a a spent warrior surrounded by whores. All of it in the strictest secrecy, of course, for you are a highborn lady. Unwed, but not precisely his. You are meant to wed the husband your lord father has chosen for you before the year is done. Even so, some squires whisper that their lord lately rides a certain mare more oft than his own horse... Lyonel is well aware of those whispers, and does nothing to silence them. That way other men would think twice before attempting to court you. You have no notion of it, else you would be screaming in fury, swearing by the old gods and the new that he would never have you again.

He calls it foolishness and makes light of it, yet you take your intimacy to heart, and drink down all the castle’s stores of moon tea trying to grant your body some reprieve from the seed of such an insatiable man. He always mocks you, stretching out upon his bed, still naked and wearing that foolish smirk that always makes you want to curse him. He does not stop you, though… he knows nature is on his side, and so he simply waits.

The morning he sees you pale, refusing your breakfast from a maid, he knows.

The way you shove his hand away in disgust, mastering a retch as he himself offers you a handful of berries, confirms it.

"Ha!"

You need not say a word, only look at him, anger blazing in your eyes while he drags his hands through those perfect grey curls and laughs loud and long before you. The blow you strike him with nearly tears that stupid earring from his ear.

"Fucking hells, woman," he still laughs like a madman, bringing a hand to his reddened cheek. "We should wed! As soon as-"

Another slap lands. This time on the other side.

"Beautiful". He rotates his jaw, then mockingly sticks out his tongue and winks at you. "The gods have gifted me the most splendid woman…"

You reach for his face again. This time he seizes your wrist in time. Despite your struggles, his lips find your knuckles and press the most unfairly soft kiss on them.

"For fucks sake, marry me, silly. Can't you see my heart is yours?"

You tell him the only word you can manage in that moment. "No."

"Such a stubborn, untamed doe..."

He bites your lips more than kisses them.

You kiss him back.

By the end of the week, you are carrying a ring with his banner, a wedding contract to be sent to your father, and a Baratheon babe within you.

..........................................

You barely had time to brace your hands against the mattress. Your chin sank into the silk pillow as a rough hand seized your hair, shoving you mercilessly down against the bed.

“Sandor, he didn’t touch me!” you cried, voice muffled by the fine sheets. Above you, the towering form of the King's shield loomed large over your helpless body.

“He laid hands on your waist,” he growled, and his knees sank deep into the mattress on either side of your bare thighs.

“He was taking my measurements!”  You twisted and kicked backward as his free hand pushed your skirts higher. All to no avail, for his arm snaked around your middle and hauled you up so that your knees were left dangling in the air.

The motion only stoked your fury. You tried to drive your heels into him, as if you could hope to harm one of the deadliest men in the Seven Kingdoms, but the dark figure pinned you more firmly to the four-post bed and let out a mocking, cruel laugh.

“Let’s settle this like we always do, woman. By bloody fucking.”

That was your bond with Sandor Clegane.

Raw, primal, and savage. A connection forged not in silk or songs, but in need and flesh. 

In a court full of schemers, Sandor had become your loyal fighting dog. A strong and steadfast ally who, far beyond conventions and traditional forms of courtship, sought pleasure in the shadows of your chamber whenever his duties afforded him a respite. No honeyed words, no pleasantries to soften the edge, what existed between you neither of you had yet named, it simply burned.

But for all that he was fierce and deadly, he was just as damned insecure when it came to you. The man hated himself more than anything else in the world, and that festering self-loathing convinced him that he was unworthy of your attentions. You had lain together more times than you could count, yet every time he walked away from your door, the shadow of the thought that it might have been the last time he held you in his arms, tormented him.

Ironically, that self-contempt never drove him to step back and set you free.

Gods, no.

You were the best thing that had ever happened to him in all his wretched life, and the fear of losing you terrified him more than burning in the fires of the Seven Hells. For all of that, he had become fiercely possessive and aggressively hostile toward any man who dared to come near you.

Of course, you were well aware of it. You had confronted him about it on several occasions, but instead of the situation improving, it had only worsened. And there were many men now with broken ribs and noses, all for nothing more than offering their hand to help you down from a carriage.

That very afternoon, the court’s new tailor had come to your chambers to take your measurements for a new gown. Hours later, word reached you that the poor man had been found beaten in an alleyway. Three molars was he seen to spit out.

It was intolerable.

When Sandor came to your room later that evening, you raised your voice before he even stepped past the threshold. You would not endure another outburst of savage jealousy, no matter if he was the king’s dog.

The argument was fierce. One more among the countless ones you'd already had over the same matter. Gruff and scornful, he did not yield to your shouting, flinging back every reproach with twice the venom. Both of you said things you regretted the moment they left your mouths, and then, in an attempt to end the quarrel and set things right, Sandor resorted to what always worked for you both. He lifted your body mid-sentence, cutting you off in the roughest way and tossing you unceremoniously onto the bed.

You both enjoyed the fantasy of the helpless maiden being forced by a warrior. Every time, Sandor would ravage you with the fury of a charging beast, claiming every inch of you while the intense pleasure drowned your reproaches in gasps and moans.

But tonight, you weren’t having it.

As you kept fighting and begging him to release you, the hand gripping your head released you to shift behind your back. The metallic clinking you knew all too well told you he was unbuckling his belt. You kicked harder, striking his thigh. The attack only earned you another coarse laugh and a harsher grip on your hips.

“That’s it, woman,” came his vicious voice from above, “give me an excuse to get rough.”

Furious and with a fire rising uncontrollably in your chest, you braced your hands on the mattress, screaming and shoving hard to twist beneath him. So much rage must have poured from your throat that the man, startled, eased his weight for you to turn onto your back. You pushed up onto your elbows, and your hand shot upward in a wide arc aimed at his scarred cheek. The man caught your wrist with the swiftness of a wolfhound, stopping you just an inch from his face.

Something shattered between you.

You both were breathing hard from the surge of adrenaline. Your lips parted and trembled. In his eyes burned a storm of fury and endless sorrow in equal measure. He released your wrist roughly and tilted his burned chin upward.

“Go on. Slap me if that’s what you want,” he whispered hoarsely, offering you that terrible, ruined face.

You stared at him with a glacial glare, but the words you spoke next were colder still.

“Get out. If you cannot master yourself… if you cannot set aside your pride over this, then do not come back to me,” you said, heart thundering against your ribs as though the Smith himself were trying to shatter your ribcage from within.

Sandor’s dark eyes dimmed in an instant. He gave you the emptiest, deadest look as he straightened up. The space that opened between your body and his burned like a wound. He didn’t speak another word, only fastened his belt in silence, bowed his head, and turned toward the door with heavy, miserable steps.

The sound of the iron bolt slamming shut made you flinch, though that wasn’t why your hands were shaking.

-*-

An entire sennight passed without either of you speaking again. He didn’t come looking for you. And you spent your days surrounded by your ladies-in-waiting, distracting yourself as best you could with the tasks of daily life - reading, chatting, or embroidering. 

You would lie if you said you didn’t miss him terribly. Every morning, you woke to find your bed empty and cold, and the aching pain in your guts only grew with each passing day. 

Often, when you found yourself in the Great Hall and King Joffrey honored you all with his presence, your eyes would drift toward the space behind the throne. For just a few seconds, they would linger on the threatening shadow that always stood there - alert and vigilant. Yet you would barely catch a glimpse of his worn chestplate before your gaze quickly withdrew, fearing you would meet his eyes. 

Before you even realized, the week had turned to two. The court was immersed in preparations for King Joffrey’s name day. Banquets, royal hunts, tournaments... Everyone spoke eagerly about it, for an event of such caliber was always cause for joy and merriment. 

The ladies whispered among themselves at the imminent arrival of the handsome knights who would ride in the jousts. Most attention was on the Tyrell and Tarly houses, though some lesser houses like the Swyfts, Leffords, and Westerlings also drew interest. Such a display of beauty, wealth, and power left hardly anyone indifferent.

You, however, paid no mind to the ladies' gossip. Nor did you care in the slightest about the upcoming events. Dismissing your ladies-in-waiting, you spent most of your time in solitude, wandering quietly through the blooming gardens around the Red Keep.

Your mind wandered time and time again to Sandor Clegane. You missed his gravelly voice, the scent of metal, earth, and sweat after a day in the training yard. You missed his presence, feared by all, but comforting to you. You couldn’t understand how a man who had told you he was willing to lay down his life for you couldn’t set aside his pride if you asked him. Perhaps there were different kinds of courage? Perhaps you weren’t important enough to him?

Your thoughts caught in your throat as you fiddled with the peas on your silver plate. You didn’t even know why you had come to lunch in the Great Hall that day. Your stomach struggled to accept the food, and the frantic hustle and bustle of the servants, carrying banners of the houses for the next day’s tournament, was irritating. With a long sigh, you placed your ivory-handled fork on the table and made to rise.

A beautiful white rose greeted you as you stood, held by delicate hands that extended it gracefully before your eyes.

"For you, milady, if I may be so bold,” the bearer of the rose spoke. “I saw you admiring the flowers earlier in the gardens, and though none could compare to your beauty, perhaps this one might help soften the sadness in your eyes."

Your gaze focused on the young man. He was lovely as a maid, with a crown of chestnut curls and eyes like molten gold. The knight of flowers, you thought. Of course, the guests had already arrived for the festivities, and you had hardly noticed. He would likely be competing in the joust tomorrow.

“Thank you, Ser,” you said, taking the flower and smiling politely at him. He offered you a radiant smile of his own, full of perfect white teeth.

“Ser Loras Tyrell, at your service, my lady,” he said in a pleasant voice, then gently brought your hand to his lips.

Your smile seemed to please him, as he offered you his arm with an elegant movement that made his cloak flutter.

“It’s a splendid day. Will you walk with me? I promise to be an entertaining companion and keep you safe from... any possible bee stings we may chance upon in the garden."

His boldness, combined with his light sense of humor, made you laugh. It was a discreet laugh, but sincere and spontaneous. You realized then that you hadn’t laughed in a long time. After a brief moment of thought, you concluded that you could use some flattery from this man who seemed more than willing to make you smile and delight your ears.

“Of course,” you answered, taking his arm.

Loras Tyrell kept his promise to be a pleasant and courteous escort. He was everything Sandor Clegane despised. A man who set himself upon a pedestal, the very picture of all the virtues enshrined in the noble code of chivalry. In little more than an hour, he had boasted of his valor and piety more times than you cared to count. 

You had long since ceased to be a girl who believed in such fool’s tales of gallant knights. Sandor had seen to that. And far were you from being the swooning, starry-eyed damsel the famed Knight of the Flowers had taken you for.

But truth be told, you were enjoying yourself, and his knowledge of the different types of flowers that adorned the garden was quite impressive. You were both watching with interest the way the fruits of the trees had ripened, when the childish voice of King Joffrey came from behind you.

“Ah, Ser Loras, I see you are enjoying… the flowers of the court.”

“Your Grace,” you immediately turned and curtsied, lowering your eyes to the floor. The boy was vile and cruel, but for some reason, he seemed to take a liking to you. Who knew for how long.

He prompted you to lift your face. Behind him, his guard dog loomed like an imposing, dangerous black shadow. You didn’t look at him directly, but you felt his eyes first settle on Loras’s arm around yours, then on the white rose you held in your hand. The king’s fingers, laden with gold rings, gently brushed your chin. 

“And what better flower than my lady. Beautifully bloomed, but still not watered.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” Ser Loras replied, his caramel-colored eyes gazing at you.

Fortunately, you were an expert in the art of subtlety. But by the gods, it was hard to maintain your composure and not scoff at his words. Out of habit, your eyes searched for a hint of complicity in Sandor’s gaze. He would usually return your glance with a nearly imperceptible twitch or a roll of his eyes. 

But today, your gaze did nothing to change the unreadable face he wore. His eyes were fixed on a point behind you, and his mask of indifference felt like a thousand wasp stings to your already shattered heart.

The conversation between the two men continued, talking about the weather and the joust the following day. After an exchange of compliments, the king made his desire to continue his walk known. Ser Loras made a small bow and secured his arm around yours. You lowered your head as the little Lannister held your hand to kiss it.

The small royal procession resumed its march, and so did the metallic clinking of Sandor’s armor with every step. He stood more than a head taller than your escort as he passed by your side. His white cloak brushed your hip in passing, but his gaze remained fixed ahead, his brow set in a deep frown. On another occasion, he might have slipped a gauntleted hand over your skirt without anyone noticing. Impossible to do so now, with his fist tense and closed around the hilt of his sword.

Your walk with Ser Loras lasted little longer. Your guts were twisted into the world's tightest, ugliest knot, but you could not tell him so. The setting sun on the horizon provided the perfect excuse to retire to your chambers. Even so, he insisted on accompanying you.

Once in your room, your mind spun around the way Sandor had ignored you in the gardens. You collapsed onto the bed, still dressed and with your shoes on, and covered your face with your hands. 

Was it over? Was this how your encounters would end? 

You were angry with him for being unable to contain his possessive impulses. What were these terrible jealousies born of? Hadn't you shown him, time and time again, by dishonoring your name and risking your reputation, that you had no affections for anyone else? 

Affections, you thought. When had he ever shown you affection? Desire, yes. Lust and passion, too. But affection? Your body shuddered at the thought. It was true that The Hound was not a man of sweet words. But still, you longed for him to verbally express his feelings for you.

If he had any. 

Nothing would please you more than to hear from his lips what every lady dreamed of hearing from her chosen knight. A bitter and sad laugh escaped your chest. You were ashamed of longing for those words, but most of all, you knew he would never utter them in his life.

Your eyes wandered across your room until they landed on the upper frame of the door. You remembered your first kiss. The way you had stood on your toes in the hallway, tugging at his gorget to pull him down to you. He had pressed his lips to yours with inexperienced fervor as you stumbled blindly into your chambers, so enthralled that he forgot to duck upon entering and struck his forehead against the frame.

That night, you had been equals. 

For you, it was the first time you had a man between your thighs, his body starving for warmth as it entered yours, pressing into your maidenhead with a wildness you had never known before.

And for him? It was the first time he kissed, and was kissed in return. The first time he held a woman in his arms, chests bumping against one another as you looked him in the eyes - unafraid, and with no coin to be counted afterward.

Uncontrollable sobs shook your chest. You pulled your knees up to your chest, hugging them tightly in search of some comfort.

It never came. You slept poorly, on a pillow soaked with bitter, hot tears.

-*-

The next morning, the sound of hurried footsteps interrupted the little sleep you had managed to grasp. Heavy curtains were drawn apart, and the sudden, bothersome light that poured through the window fell cruelly upon your reddened eyelids.

“My lady, we must make haste. In less than two hours you are expected in the stands,” urged the sharp yet pleasant voice of your handmaid.

You let out a groan most unbefitting of a lady as the woman helped you sit up in bed. Without saying a word about why you had passed the night fully clothed, she unlaced your shoes and prompted another maid to bring a porcelain basin filled with cold water. At the far end of your chamber, two girls pulled your new dress from the wardrobe and brushed it with haste.

“My lady, your face looks weary. Are you unwell?” the same woman asked, frowning as she patted your cheeks with a damp cloth.

You shook your head, though you should have said yes, had you remembered your duties for the day.

“Thank the gods,” she added as she refreshed your neck and shoulders. “It would be a shame if you could not attend the tourney.” 

Your eyes widened at once. 

The tourney.

“Oh no.” You stared at her with round, tearful eyes. “No... I don’t want to go…” 

"You must go, my lady," she said, helping you to your feet. "The king expects you in the noble stands. The entire royal family is counting on your presence… and the lords." 

A short gasp escaped your lips as she stripped you down, leaving you as bare as on your name day. Behind you, the other girls whispered to one another about how handsome the knights might be. You cared for none of it. All you wanted was to return to your bed and weep.

While you put on fresh smallclothes, your handmaid held up two dresses, one in each hand. You shook your head, refusing to cooperate, but before you realized it, she had tossed them both on the bed and was pulling a tight corset over your head. You grasped one of the bedposts and let her lace the strings, too exhausted to protest.

“My lady, many knights will look at you today…” she tried to lift your spirits as she cinched the garment around your waist.

You exhaled, dry and mocking. You had not the slightest interest in any knight watching you. The maid mistook your contempt for mere doubt, and as she chose the more elegant of the two dresses you had dismissed, she went on, hopeful. 

“Perhaps one of them might even fight for you.”

You barely heard her. Your arms and legs had gone weak as the beautiful velvet gown slipped over your skin. 

Once fully clothed, you let your weight fall onto the chair before your vanity. Someone had left a silver tray with grapes and a honey-scented tea on it. As your handmaid undid the messy braid from the day before, you picked a grape and bit into it. Its juice burst across your tongue, far too sweet for the sadness that lingered within you. When the maid finished a hairstyle that highlighted your beauty and grace, she leaned slightly toward you and smiled at you through the mirror.

"The whole court is talking about how Ser Loras Tyrell was enchanted by you while you walked the gardens yesterday."

You sighed. The memory of your garden stroll brought with it a far more bitter one. Sandor Clegane, standing behind the king and ignoring you. The woman must have mistaken again your frailty for love’s weakness, for she carried on.

“He is a handsome man. All the ladies of the court envy you.”

“They’ve nothing to envy,” you said in a somber tone. The last thing you needed was all the women of the court against you.

Your handmaid smiled again, then held up a lovely pearl necklace between her fingers as she looked at you through the mirror. You shook your head, and she frowned when she saw you reach for a simple silk ribbon instead, tying it around your neck as an ornament. It was not the choice she would have made for such a dress, but given your mood, she let it be.

“You look radiant," she said in a last attempt to draw a smile from you. "They say Ser Loras always rides with a white rose tied to his lance. I’m certain he’ll ask for your favor and offer it to you.”

Her effort failed, for you froze.

Gods help you if the man were foolish enough to do such a thing.

-*-

No matter how quickly your maids worked, you were among the last ladies to arrive at the festivities. The master of ceremonies had already begun announcing the tournament. The knights who would face each other had been called, and their titles declared.

The noble stands teemed with color and silk, each house proud in its finery. Ladies whispered behind lace fans while their lords murmured wagers on the tilt below. It was crowded with spectators from all corners of the realm, and the seat you usually occupied had already been taken by another lady. As soon as she saw you, she rose and offered you your chair, but you motioned for her to stay, taking a seat lower down with a poorer view. 

More discreet, you thought. Much better.

Once settled, your gaze drifted to the royal stand, where the king and queen offered you a slight nod of acknowledgment. You did the same, with an elegant but brief curtsy. 

It did not escape your notice that Sandor Clegane was not behind the lions. Instead, two members of the Kingsguard stood on either side of the king. You found it odd that, on such an important and crowded day, the royal family had dispensed with their dog’s services. The king had many enemies, and many of them were fool enough to try to harm him even in broad daylight.

Then your gaze swept over the muddy jousting field. The earth had been compressed, but the rain had left the ground soft and unstable, unfavorable for heavier horses. Squires and stableboys ran from side to side adjusting saddles, sharpening lances, or preparing ornate armors. 

You leaned back in your seat with disinterest. The rasping, scornful voice of the Hound could almost be heard in your head, mocking the false fanfare of the knights and the fevered glances the perfumed ladies cast upon them. The man had infected you with his distaste for such a circus, though the little girl inside you still sometimes dreamed of romance.

Only sometimes, and always in embarrassment, for he was right. They were cunts, the lot of them, with coin and nothing better to do.

With little enthusiasm, you watched as several knights took the field. The stands roared with fervor when Ser Jaime Lannister unhorsed Lord Bryce Caron in a single tilt. You merely sighed under your breath and offered a brief, courteous clap. Then came Ser Balon Swann, Lord Renly, and Lord Beric Dondarrion, all of them as effective and victorious as they were boring to you.

The entrance of an elegant, grey mare, led by a young squire, confirmed that the next participant would be the Knight of the Flowers. The ladies in the stands gasped, and a great ovation arose from the spectators as Loras Tyrell, in his silver armor adorned with sapphires and black vines, appeared before the crowd. A white rose was indeed tied to his lance. You immediately lowered your eyes.

By the Seven, may he not see me and approach. 

Your eyes were still fixed on the ground when you heard a familiar neigh and the sound of heavy horse hooves sinking into the mud.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Stranger. 

The applause of the stands dwindled, and you immediately raised your head to look at Sandor Clegane, guiding his enormous, ill-tempered stallion across the tiltyard.

“Do not worry, my lady,” said a nearby lord. “Ser Loras is skilled with a lance and will defend himself.”

You barely heard him, so focused you were on the black steed and its rider. He wore the same battered, blackened armor as always. Unlike his opponent, he did not look at the crowd. His gaze was fixed on his nervous mount, which whinnied and resisted. 

You looked at the horse with a tightness in your chest. You knew him well. When you crossed paths with Sandor in the stables, the sullen animal would nudge you gently with its muzzle. Sandor often jested about this, reprimanding him for stealing all your attention. The black destrier was as strong and stubborn as they came, and the jousts made him nervous. That was why Sandor rarely participated in them. And that was why he was patting the beast affectionately as they were met with boos and jeers from the stands. 

Your blood boiled in your veins. Normally, no one would dare boo Sandor Clegane. But in tournaments, there were always favorites, and the anonymity of the stands gave rise to such things. In any case, as much as it enraged you, Sandor was used to not having the favor of the crowd. And he couldn’t give less of a damn.

Once he managed to calm Stranger down, he placed his dreadful, dog’s helmet on, put a foot in the stirrup, and mounted upon the warhorse in search of a lance. Meanwhile, Ser Loras Tyrell was helped into the saddle by his squire, more concerned with the mud staining his gleaming armor. Then, the Knight of Flowers spurred his mare into a slow trot, and wherever he rode, was met with applause.

From the other side, the Hound had already chosen any available lance to compete and was rotating his right shoulder to warm up. He then leaned forward in his saddle, whispered something to the horse and tightened the reins to urge it into a gallop across the tiltyard. 

“Whoa!” he bellowed, and the horse’s hooves sank into the mud as its rider brought it to a halt before the noble stands. The ladies gasped and squealed. The lords hissed. You watched the scene with wide eyes, unable to understand.

Sandor Clegane seemed confused. He looked this way and that at the crowd, angrily raising the visor of his helmet to get a better view. The horse, sensing its rider’s confusion, snorted nervously. Sandor yanked the reins to one side and urged the animal forward a few paces along the stands, his eyes still fixed on the crowd. Some women looked away as he passed directly before them, but he kept searching.

Searching.

Then you understood. He was looking for the place where you always sat. The spot that, due to your tardiness, was now occupied by another lady. 

In an almost involuntary act of compassion, you leaned forward and rested your arms on the wooden railing, making yourself stand out in the crowd. And just then, Sandor Clegane’s dark eyes fixed on you.

“Hyah!” he bellowed, and Stranger seemed to recognize you as well, for it trotted cheerfully up to stand right in front of you. 

The women around you held their breath as Sandor’s gloved hand reached for his helmet and yanked it upward, freeing himself from it before you. You felt your blood pulse strongly through your veins. The entire crowd fell silent as the man gazed at you wordlessly, with a seriousness that surpassed his usual sullen expression. His black eyes were locked onto yours like two dark prayers. Still, you could see the devotion behind the darkness. A devotion he had never failed to hold since the first time moment your paths crossed.

“Hey, dog!” you heard the impatient voice of the king shout from the royal stand, “your place is on the other side!”

At this, some in the crowd laughed. Yet Sandor did not avert his gaze from you, nor did you from him. Stranger took a step forward without any command from its rider, and in that moment, the man raised his voice, speaking before the entire kingdom the words he never thought he would say in all his miserable life.

“I ask for the lady’s favor!”

The crowd fell silent once more. The request was more a roar than a spoken plea, likely an attempt to impose his will over his own embarrassment. Your bewilderment kept your body from reacting, not even a breath of air entered your lungs.

Sandor’s deep eyes stared at you with intensity, waiting for your answer. His face was serious, but the unscarred side of his face betrayed a sadness. The soft chuckles returned to the stands, and you realized that your inaction was making a fool of him.

You snapped back to yourself. With a force that nearly made you jump from your seat, you stood up and said in the loudest, clearest voice you could muster.

“You have it, Sandor Clegane. May honor and victory ride with your lance.”

The last words came out somewhat hoarsely. No knight had ever asked for your favor, and you’d never rehearsed the scene. You didn’t know if your words had been the right ones, but what mattered was showing your support to him. And the way the harsh lines of his face softened made you think you had done it right.

Your lips trembled with emotion before curling into a beautiful smile. His eyes lit up at that, and the unburned corner of his mouth twitched upward into the grimace he often made when he saw something that pleased him. 

You thought that with that exchange, the man would turn Stranger and the tournament would begin. But he didn’t move. He stayed rooted in the sand, staring at you. Around you, whispers began to rise again in the stands. You looked at the people, confused, and Sandor’s voice made you focus your eyes back on him.

“The token, my lady…” he said softly, his brow quirked with slight amusement.

Oh! How could you be so foolish! You had to give him something! Stricken with the nervousness of feeling all eyes on you, your mind seemed too clouded to think clearly. 

You weren’t wearing jewelry, nor a veil. You weren’t wearing gloves, nor had you made a flower crown... Your hands fumbled clumsily over the sleeves of your dress, searching for a handkerchief, but finding nothing. Then they climbed up to your neck and, trembling, untied the simple silk ribbon you had chosen that morning. 

Sandor removed his leather glove and raised his hand to meet yours as you held onto the railing. Were it not dulled by blows, his spaulder might have nearly gleamed with the movement. He closed his hand around yours, and his thick thumb briefly caressed your knuckles. Your heart seemed to leap out of your mouth. The roughness of his hand felt incredibly sweet against your skin after so many days without his touch. The gesture was inappropriately intimate for such a moment, and even the horse seemed to notice, for from the royal stand they watched the animal wag its tail and bring its rider even closer to you.

“Dog!” the king called out with a mocking tone, “Your beast seems to be in love with the lady!”

Sandor grunted, making himself heard over the laughter that echoed through the stands.

“Aye!” He growled, then you heard his voice again, a rough whisper meant for your ears alone. “He loves her. Deeply… and more than his own damn pride.”

The warmth that spilled far beyond your chest made your heart swell, and you laughed, breathless and lowering your head to hide the flush that bloomed across your cheeks. In his eyes burned a desperate question he could not bring himself to ask, but the glimmer in your eyes when you looked up again, put an end to his torment. 

Reconciliation. 

You were granting him leave to come to you that night. 

Sandor drew his hand away from yours and carefully tucked the ribbon into a slit of his vambrace. Then, he dipped his head to you, and after you nodded, kicked his horse into a gallop to take his place upon the tiltyard.

-*-

Ser Loras proved to be a swift and skilled opponent on horseback, but Sandor Clegane won the tournament that day. 

How could he not, with you by his side? 

But that night, amidst tears and caresses and embraces in your chamber, he won something far more important than applause or a purse of coins. For as he made a commitment of restraint, he earned your forgiveness and your trust. He earned the delight of your smile, and the warmth of your laughter. And kissing you almost as a knight of old would, he earned the beats of your heart, sealing his bond to you with a promise of loyalty and eternal love.

...............

Thanks for reading! <3

You bit the inside of your cheek to hold back the tears. It was all so beautiful. The flowers, the garlands, the music. Everything you had always rejected. 

Sitting in your chair next to your partner, you watched as the groom nervously recited his vows while the bride gazed up at him with adoring eyes. Your eyes swept over the guests. They all looked radiant. Some were smiling, others were sighing.

As soon as the heartfelt words were spoken, a couple of little girls wearing flower crowns approached the engaged couple with a small cushion holding the wedding rings. One of them tripped on the carpet. Everyone laughed warmly. You clasped your hands together in your lap and held them tightly. 

The bride beamed as her almost-husband slid the wedding ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly. As he leaned forward to kiss her, you burst into tears while the guests applauded and cheered.

"Are you crying, darling?" You felt your partner's warm hand cover yours.

You didn’t answer.

He just smiled and sighed.

How many times had he tested the waters with you about marriage? And how many times had you dismissed it, calling it just a piece of paper, an unnecessary formality, something cheesy?

The rest of the evening was a blur of joy. You were either dancing, eating or laughing. Sometimes all three at once.

By the time you returned to your hotel, your feet ached from the heels, but your heart glowed. You sat on the bed while your lover stared at you.

Shanks

“So…” he grinned and stepped closer, “did you like the wedding?”

“Yeah…” you stared at the floor.

“...But?” He ducked his head into your angle of vision, smiling mischievously.

“No but,” you pushed his head to the side.

“Ouch! What do you mean, no but? Didn't you say weddings were a cheesy thing for people with no creativity?”

“Yeah… well…” You slipped off your heels. “I liked this one.”

He laughed, “Oh yeah. You did like it. I even saw you cry!”

“Shanks, you're an idiot!"’ you threw one of your heels at him, “Shut up!”

He dodged it and crouched down, leaning on your knees.

“Oh no, I'm not shutting up until you say it.” 

“Say what?” you blinked at him innocently. 

A couple of seconds passed, but Shanks always ended up winning the silence contests.

“FINE!!!" You finally snorted "I-I want to get married, okay?! HAPPY?!”

“YES!!!!” He threw his arms in the air triumphantly, beaming and moving around the room in a ridiculous victory dance. “I knew it! I knew it! I WON!”

You rolled your eyes, already regretting everything you’d just said.

Beckman

“Doll...” he knelt in front of you, placing his hands on your thighs, ”why did you cry at the wedding?”

He knew. Of course he did. He knew you like the back of his hand.

“I just... “ you trailed off, avoiding his gaze. “It was a nice ceremony, wasn't it?“

“Yes,“ his fingers brushed your chin, making you raise your gaze, “But I thought you didn't like these kinds of events.“

You sighed, locking your pupils with his, “Yeah… that's what I thought.“ He smiled warmly at you and your heart swell. 

"Well," he rose to his feet. Your eyes went wide as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, elegant box. "If you ever change your mind…" 

"Becks..." your voice broke, "that box...?”

“Yes.”

Your eyes filled with tears. “H-have you always carried it with you?”

He gave you another smile and replied in his raspy voice. "Yes darling, just in case... You know I've always wanted to…”

You barely let him finish the sentence. You just ran to him and jumped into his arms.

Mihawk

“My dear, are you unwell?” he took off his feathered hat and fixed his amber eyes on you.

“No, my love, why?' you replied, removing the silver earrings he had offered you.

“I saw you crying at the ceremony.”

You sighed and stood up to help him remove his tie. 

“It's nothing, it's just... everyone was so happy that I... I had second thoughts…”

“Thoughts?” he took your hands in his, “What thoughts?”

“Oh nothing,” you played it down, “things like... weddings and… promises.” 

Your lover's eyes glowed. “My love... it's possible that… are you reconsidering?”

You nodded and his lips curved upwards in a blissful smile.

“Will you let me court you?” he said, soon returning to his usual serious self.

“Court me, Mihawk? When it's been years since we…”

“Shh,” he silenced you, running his fingers gently over your lips. Then he lifted your hand and placed a small kiss on it. “I'm going to find another room to spend the night."

“What?” you laughed, “Mihawk, what…”

“If we're going to do this, let's do it properly my dear," he rested his forehead against yours for a moment, then turned on his heel and disappeared.

You looked down at your freshly kissed hand, and a smile played in your lips as you imagined a ring on it.

..............................