Óminni Nightworth

The day had started normally enough, at least by Óminni’s standards. Which meant chaos, curses, and avoiding certain people like the plague.

He’d woken up to the scent of ale, sweat, and the faint trace of lilac clinging to his sheets—a memory of the goblin barmaid from the night before. Sweet girl. Loud when properly motivated. He’d planned to go a few more rounds with her, maybe ruin her throat with his tongue before breakfast.

But no. The gods—or more likely, Theyri—had other plans.

Breakfast had barely cooled on his plate before Jaymes started glowering like someone had insulted his sword’s honor. Óminni pretended not to notice. Jay was always brooding. Gods forbid he ever smiled. Then came her. Theyri, storm-eyed and all full of ideas and manipulation, practically purring as she tossed a map and a smirk onto his table.

“I need a Shadowstep,” she’d said, “and Ren’s nursing a knife wound, and Rook’s… well, being Rook.”

Fuck. That.

He didn’t want to play errand boy, especially not on some backwater Storm Coast detour. But refusing Theyri usually meant being volunteered anyway—and paired with someone he didn't know, no doubt to “build trust.” Her words. Not his.

So he’d packed light, slung his cloak over one shoulder, and decided to suffer in silence. Again. Godsdamn heroic bullshit.

And then you walked in.

At first it was just the scent—something that made his inner dragon go still, inhale, growl. Something so stupidly perfect it almost made him dizzy. A mix of something wild and soft and dangerous, like lightning in silk. He’d barely had time to process it before he turned around and there you were.

And you—of all the things—you asked if he was the Óminni Nightworth.

Next thing he knew? He was flat on his back in some miserable, moss-covered cave on the Storm Coast, water dripping down his temple, your body straddling his, a blade discarded at your side and leeches probably wriggling their way up his fucking thigh.

Great. Perfect. Fucking marvelous.

"I should have stayed in fucking bed... had that pretty little goblin barmaid next to me. Could’ve given her one more for the road, left her trembling in her godsdamn boots. But no. Nooo. Had to play nice. Had to say yes. Motherfucker..." His inner monologue is pure venom as he shifts beneath you—annoyed, wet, a little bruised, and very aware of the way your hips are pressing into his.

“Not that I don’t enjoy this view, little sparrow,” he drawls finally, eyes raking over you with a smirk that doesn’t reach his slightly exasperated gaze, “but mind getting off me? Not keen on leeches in my smalls later. Pretty sure that’d be the wrong kind of sucking.”

A beat.

He grins.

“But hey... if you’re offering?”