#minimal bangles | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pedgito · 7 months ago

Text

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑 | Marcus Acacius x f!reader

summary | A female gladiator plucked from the arena by the most powerful general in Rome, convinced to serve under his command. You learn that his taste for blood might not be so different from your own.

author's note | the horny demons strike again. this has a little plot, thanks to the beautiful minds of @ovaryacted and @kedsandtubesocks who deal with my crazy so generously.

content warning | 18+ mdni, set pre-gladiator ii, description of war & mistreatment of women in roman society, female gladiator, dark-ish!acacius, reader has minimal backstory, but is revealed to be nameless (uses monikers given to her: medusa, fury, minerva), fighting, m*rder, blood tw, gore tw, sa warning (i have it annotated further below with content, but nothing graphic) acacius covered in someone elses blood as he fucks you, copious smut, biting as a little treat

word count — 8k

“How much?” Acacius inquires, tapping his finger against the iron bars holding you prisoner, staring back at the men. The ginger twins and a man—no, a general. Dressed in a toga of thick material, embroidered with intricate designs, gold bangles at his wrist, a telltale sign of high honor.

“Oh, she is…” The older one, Geta, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he shakes his head, “priceless—quite the fighter, too.”

“Does she have a name?”

Geta smirks to himself, “They call her Medusa. She favors beheading, it seems.” Geta waggles a finger through the bars and smirks, nose scrunching as he addresses you, “Correct?”

You ignore him, responding with a stare—much like your given moniker; if looks could kill.

“She’s bested them all,” Caracalla boasts from beside his brother, Dundus fiddling with his hair from where she was perched on his shoulder, “even our lion that we’ve had since kids.”

“It was a stupid idea, your fault,” Geta retorts, “but—again, she’s not for sale.”

“I’ll conquer India within the next few nightfalls, a handful of new gladiators fresh for the choosing, for your entertainment—how does that sound?”

Greedy as they were and entirely too incompetent, Caracalla agrees before his brother can open his mouth.

“Will you bring her back to visit?” Caracalla inquires with an underlying excitement—the poor brother was nothing but a dunce, erratic and impulsive, but all too easy to manipulate. “The others may miss her.”

“Indeed,” Another swift but convincing lie, Caracalla and Acacius shake hands on the deal before Geta can retort, fuming with rage as he stomps away.

He’d taken a liking to your fighting style despite his distaste for the arena. Strategic and skilled, brute strength and a drive that was built around pure survival but somehow all while maintaining the perfect amount of gracefulness that men did not. Constant calculation, finesse, it was like an art.

He’s gone through several guards over his rule, some from sacrifice but others out of pure ignorance. He needed a strong base, malleable but resistant. He could shape you into a leader, he thinks. He knows.

Your hard stare is like ice as the keys jingle into the lock, a defining click a resounding echo of freedom and General Acacius extends his palm.

A gesture of freedom, a new life, trepidation fills you despite your yearn for a way out of this prison. Here it was, served up on a platter covered in intricate facets of white and gold, stubble brushing his cheeks and soft brown eyes offering kindness.

This was not a man of sheer violence, not the tales they tell about him—this was a man of trouble, conflict, and an instinct to protect himself. And he’d chosen you.

Your hands slips into his, a similar roughness to match his own and scars that Acacius knew well enough of—you were a true fighter, a warrior.

The two boys—calling the men would be too easy, they often acted like spoiled children, were already off to their own chambers, and Acacius had only dropped his hard facade slightly, still under the watchful eye of Rome’s guards, he led you onto your new life.

“I cannot accept,” You argue, as respectful as you could manage, hands crossed firmly over your front, near your waist as you spoke to General Acacius in his private office at home, a place few have stepped foot into, but yet somehow, again, you were given a free pass.

“Are you refusing my order?” Acacius counters, there’s pillowyness to his tone, almost taunting.

“Sir—er, General,” It was all new to you, formalities, structure, rules, “I…am a woman.”

“I am not blind,” Acacius squints his eyes slightly, before leaning back in the creaky chair, “my men—they will not question my choices. They listen, they do their duties. They need strong leadership. Gladiator, I believe you can bestow that upon them.”

“I am a stranger to you, you know nothing of me,” You tell him, a full truth, “General, I fear you may have made the wrong decision, I am not what you think I—”

Silently, Acacius fingers curl around the handle to a drawer hidden behind his desk, pulling out a sharp knife with a handle carved of bone, twisting it in his grip before he’s rearing his arm back, throwing it in your direction.

It zips by with force, the tip of the knife snagging and burying itself deep into the wall behind you, your head whipping to the side to follow it, the sharp blade barely missing the skin of your ear.

Quick reflexes. You turn back to a smirking Acacius.

“I am positive, had I thrown that between your eyes you would have caught it without overthinking the consequences—most of my men would do the same,” Acacius lectures, standing with his brutish frame and walking toward the wall, the soft flow of a breeze kissing at your fists.

“Though, I have another proposition,” Acacius says lightly, twisting the knife in his hand, the pointing spinning against his fingertip as he circles around you, “—attack me.”

“Sir,” You argue, “that surely defeats the purpose of—”

His fist balls up tight and aims for your side. Acacius sees it, the anticipation as you block his hand. He chuckles underneath his breath, “Please, continue,” He teases, twisting out of your grip to pull another punch that you block with ease—he was going easy, you think.

Natural reaction takes hold and his test quickly turns into a full-out brawl, twisting and slipping underneath his grip until you have him pinned against a nearby wall, teeth bared with his forearm pressed against his throat, struggling to grip his free arm.

The real test is here, as Acacius bares the knife near your neck, an immediate reaction to protect yourself rather than go for the kill shot, knowing that anyone of normal skill would be too full of bloodlust to think of anything other than killing you. Protection and defense came first, taking the small nick of a cut to your own forearm before you’re knocking the knife out of his hand and wrestling him to the ground with a swift kick to his leg, rendering him helpless.

“Indeed, you are exactly what I think you are,” Acacius says with finality, “I want you to lead my personal guard. Whatever it is I must do to obtain that, my lady I will do—riches, bribery—”

You push away from him with a heavy exhale, standing and adjusting your clothes, brushing your hair away from your face, “No need, I will do it.”

Acacius rolls to his back, hand extending once more.

This time, it is you offering the help as he uses the leverage to rise to his feet before speaking to you with a triumphant tone.

“Commander,” He grins, “let us plan.”

–

He often asks of your lineage, your home. But, there is nothing to offer. A long conquered piece of land now under the rule of Rome and a home that was never a home. An orphan you had always been, nameless, taking greedily whatever name was bestowed upon you.

In the arena it was Medusa, the tale of a vicious woman with god-like power. Caracalla had told you of the story, the boys having taken a liking to you in different ways. Geta was fiendish, hungry, often seeking you out for his own pleasure to which you wouldn’t deny. Couldn’t. He could be rough, but he wasn’t.

He seemed lonely, the poor boy.

Carcalla was only searching for a friend despite his unruly, chaotic nature. When he wasn’t ruling with tyranny over Rome, terrorizing the townspeople, he was telling you stories.

Other times it was only she. Or her. Or just girl. The girl.

You were only what people assumed of you, expected you to be.

“Medusa, ay?” A greasy looking man confirms, one of the six men who were to be under your command, “The gladiator?”

“You will respect her,” General Acacius had warned them, “or an apology will be your dying breath.”

It had struck most of them with fear. Most of them.

And for many nights, countless, it seems—the transition of leadership was smooth. You had an unyielding grip on them, awaiting direction, following your orders. It was the kind of rush most would only dream of, and as a woman, it was an unforeseen privilege.

“They address you as Medusa, too,” Acacius notes during a roundtable session as the other men wander off for dinner, “do you wish for them to address you differently?”

“I have no name, General,” You admit, “I am whatever I must be. If they think of me as so, that is what I am. Though, I would love to turn a few of them into stone, given I was granted her powers.”

“I believe you could manage that feat without them,” Acacius jokes, “—but, nameless? Even at birth?”

“I know nothing of my birth parents. They told me I was found wrapped in cloth under the bridge that led into the town your army eventually turned to rubble,” A bittersweet feeling, speaking unusually out of term, facing him with the facts, “though, it does not matter. I enjoy the fear they have of me, keeps wandering hands at bay.”

Such an enigma, Acacius eyes you curiously. It was the most you’ve opened up to him since retrieving you from your cell, and even then, still forcing him to face the consequences of war.

The guilt followed him at every waking moment.

“Do you need anything further of me, General?” You ask politely, “You have spoiled my appetite as of late and your men are greedy with the stew.”

“You are dismissed,” He speaks distantly, turning over the thick, coarse paper with a drawn out map of the territory they were to invade soon, a lingering well wish leaving his lips, “sleep well, commander.”

Unfortunately, you’ve turned to sleeping with a knife under your bedroll—with a lingering ache of betrayal, you weren’t allowing yourself to lower your guard.

The attacks do not start at night. Rather during the day, when the General is off and away, scouting ahead further when half of his army while the other half sticks at camp, keeping claim.

That is when the insults come, the disbelief, the mockery.

Most of his men settled with the idea, having accepted your position even if it displeased them.

But, there was one. Like a bull—hardheaded and stocky, fists and arms like clubs, testosterone radiating from his body in crashing waves. He wants you to fear him, submit to him.

You feel it. You see it. And you’ve been through it before, other large and brutish gladiators thinking with their muscles rather than their brains. It wouldn’t take long for them to meet their demise, but this one was…different.

He approaches you with a smile than anyone could see right through, a finger brushing your cheek as he pushes a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning in to brush his lips against the shell of it.

“They are hungry,” He drips of vicious intention, “—I say, you give us a show. Entertain us, Medusa.”

Your eyes snap to him, staring him down.

“Pitiful Acacius isn’t here to save you,” He warns, “though, I have reason to believe he is as weak as most men—spread your legs and he’ll be begging for a taste, too.”

“I will gut you where you stand,” You warn, reaching for the thick machete at your waist, “you’re like a pig. Brainless and greedy for whatever you can get. Touch me, I dare you.”

The rest of the men are relatively quiet, but they do not stop him. Smirks and half-smiles hidden behind their cups, lounging on a log near their tents, enjoying the entertainment.

It was nightfall, the fire crackling between you and them, a towering presence at your backside.

And as he dares to, his hand slides up your waist.

Without hesitation you flip the weapon in your grip, grabbing at his wrist and slicing at his arm—a featherlight touch, it was merrily a glorified papercut, but his eyes widened in shock.

“Let us see how well you touch without fingers,” You threaten, flipping the machete until it is pointing in his face, death grip on the handle if he dared to take it, taunting him with the sharp end of your blade, “hands?”

That deep, rumbling sound of hooves approaches through the darkness, everyone slowly falling back into their paces as you welcome back your General with a forced smile.

Acacius hands off the reins to another rider, taking scope of the situation that seemed to be defusing in front of him, but still—he notices. His eyes trade glances between you both before he nods at you to follow him.

Speaking under his breath, “The others have coined you as fury,” He laughs softly at the pseudonym, “little fury, they tell me. Like the Furies. I cannot say I disagree with them. Has he been pestering you long?”

Your brow furrows at the reference, lost on your ill-informed mind.

“Long enough,” You answer honestly, “though, he was bestowed a parting gift this time.”

You raise your blade, his blood still painting the weapon.

He raises the curtain to his tent, allowing you to enter before him.

“Do you know nothing of the Furies?”

“I was not privy to bedtime tales, General.”

He nods, thoughtful as his lips pull together in a thin line, slowly removing his armor as he sits, directing for you to take a seat opposite of him, a few feet away on a decaying stump.

“Goddesses,” He states simply, “of vengeance, striking the wicked down. You have…fire, deep within you. Do not let them put it out, it is your weapon.”

You nod obediently, feeling the humidity stick to your skin, clothes glued to your body as you sit in the uncomfortable heat. There was no world in which you felt safe enough to strip down, quell your body of this unbearable summer weather. You would rather suffer, thick garb covering your body.

Acacius tilts his head, but does not comment.

“I require your protection tomorrow, we must scout an additional day and I fear danger is imminent—relay this to them,” He instructs, “and my lady, if you fear they will visit you at night, that they might strike when you’re vulnerable, you are welcome here.”

He already anticipates your response—he knows, but the gesture was an offer. A kindness.

“If they try, you will be searching for new men by sunrise, General.”

Acacius smirks in amusement, nodding to your words.

“It would not be difficult to replace them,” He notes, “though, little fury, you are irreplaceable.”

General Acacius wasn’t an easy man to protect, but you managed. Over the few weeks that you had taken point within his guard it has leant you plenty of opportunities to prove your worth, slaughtering opposing soldiers like cattle for the glory of Rome, his booming voice pronouncing vie victis as the dead are laid rest under fire and smoke.

But, conflict comes when you are faced with a decision as the camp was raided under complete, utter darkness. It was your shift to guard the General, perched outside of his tent with constant, roaming eyes. Eventually, you drift. It was peaceful, nature taking hold and pulling you under, awoken to the sound of blood curdling screams, the ground painted with the innards of both Acacius’ men and the others.

You were forced with a choice—defend the camp, something Acacius would have told you to do in a moment of desperation, a self-sacrificing man himself. Ironic, given your position, that you even think otherwise. Of course, your feet pull you toward him, whipping the flowing fabric of his tent door back.

There was a knife at his neck, a man towering over him. He’d snuck past—taken advantage of your exhaustion and your mistake was putting the General’s life at risk, his face stoic as he pushed back against the blade with his palm.

Without thinking, you rush toward the man, pulling back at his collar to plunge the knife pointed at Acacius into his own throat, a silent death through the notch of his neck, the blood flowing out like a river, tossing the lifeless man to the side before you’re reaching for your General.

“Do not worry,” He assures you as he rises, still groggy from sleep, “go—protect our camp.”

“But, General,” You plead, not realizing that your hand was grasping on his own, or that he had initiated the touch as a gentle push, a confirmation that he was truly alright, “it is my fault.”

His eyes peer behind you and to the man lying lifeless on the floor, blood pooling around his body.

“Though, it seems you have done your duty,” Acacius comments, head turned down as he stares at the body before his eyes peer up at you under his dark lashes, pensive, “now—kill them.”

You had lost a hundred or so men, nothing to the army of five thousand, but any loss was felt within General Acacius’ army—men of honor, with families or not, deserved a proper farewell.

Covered in the blood of many, some of your friends and some of strangers, hair matted and reeking of death, you approach General Acacius who was sending off a group of men to begin digging the mass grave to dispose of the bodies.

Your body ached, bruised and nicked from battle—you had killed at least five hundred men alone. Pure rage and fury, not a memory of it as you approached him now, a blank stare void of emotion that concerns Acacius, his hand reaching for your wrist as you begin to pass him, heading for your own tent to collapse in exhaustion.

“You did well,” He notes, catching your gaze as he turns his head to infiltrate your line of sight, “wash off before you turn in, you…reek. There’s a river beyond the bend—clean, warm.”

You nod despite only paying half-attention to his words, walking mindlessly toward the river before you are faced with the unfortunate crowd of men, undressed to their natural state, avoiding the watchful eyes and preying gazes, stripping your armor off down near the empty end of the river, pulling at your tangled hair, pulling off each remaining piece of clothing despite your body’s protest, screaming for relief.

It wasn’t unfamiliar, the looks—you bathed alongside all the men under the arena without a thought, knowing most of them were vying for freedom and wouldn’t dare risk it by allowing their cocks to work overtime, forgetting rational thought.

But, to them, you were a trophy. Someone—something, to be conquered.

The thin, flimsy undergarments come off last, stepping into the water and sinking down slowly. The blood washes away as you scrub, back turned as you dip your head into the water before committing entirely, plugging your nose as you dip underneath the water, finding peace in the silence.

“I had my doubts, Medusa,” A voice bellows from behind as you rise, your eyes peeling open with a quickly growing annoyance, “of you being a true woman, but—”

“Careful,” One of the men warned, a stable boy, “she will run to the general.”

It was the same man from many nights ago, big and brutish, always looking for a fight, even with the other men. He hadn’t learned his lesson, clearly.

“Acacius is busy,” He retorts, “so—what say you give us the show you owe us?”

You stand frozen in place, staring daggers at the man who seems only more amused as the anger in you builds, permeates.

(sa themes below: noncon touching, reader is naked in front of several men)

“Get out of the water,” He demands, “unless you prefer I come get you.”

You survey your choices, knowing that staying in the water wasn’t a safe option. They can and will wait you out. Your eyes track toward your clothes, further away than you had left them. Your eyes track the scar on his forearm and you smirk, teething peeking out behind your lips, “How beautiful,” You tell him, his eyes slowly following your own, “quite the scar, is it not? Fancy another?”

You spot the knife sheathed in his leather belt, taking your chances despite the vulnerability that remains with your naked frame on full display as you retreat from the water, he nods with confidence as you approach, a faint whistle in the distance that you’ve heard before. The oaf seems to ignore it, though. His large hand comes to your breast in an instant, body dripping wet and a sickness churning in your gut as the sticks of torch and fire approach amongst the murmuring crowd of men, less than subtle about the rowdiness that was ensuing.

He pulls you into his body with a greedy hunger as his opposite hands gropes at your backside, following the curve of your ass as your hand snakes toward the blade, but the voice that rips through the crowd is enough to wake the dead, silence falling over the area in an instant.

“Remove your hand,” Acacius voice travels, the same booming voice he uses to declare victory over a new territory, “or I will remove it myself.”

“General,” The man addressed in a drunkish manner, inviting, “she was offering—Medusa, tell him.”

Your silence is expected, his hand wandering toward your other breast, biting hard enough at the inside of your cheek that it draws blood—Acacius sees your hand wrapping around the blade and speaks again, approaches closer as the mud sticks to his boots, “I will tell you once more. Remove it.”

The man eyes you with disdain, dropping his hands away as you relinquish your hold of his weapon, allowing the breath caught in your chest to escape, but it doesn’t stop the touch that follows, taunting with its intention as his palm curls around the back of your head, tilting your head to the side as he squeezes, “I forget—you are the General’s property after all.”

(end of sa themes)

“Take him,” He orders the other lingering guards, men who’ve never shown you anything other than respect—they value their lives and limbs, as any sane person would, “and start the fire.”

Acacius looks around at the lingering eyes, “I suggest all of you return to camp. Now.”

That was all it took, most of them scrambling for their own clothes and armor as they retreated like scurrying mice or dogs with their tail between their legs, leaving you under Acacius' careful gaze. He reaches down to fetch you dirtied clothes, looking them over with disgust.

He removes the black cape around his shoulders without a word, opening it as an offering. Desperate to cover yourself, you slip your arms in the sleeves with his help, his eyes wandering no further than your face as you turn to him, tucking the cape around yourself. He reaches for the hood, pulling it down.

“Come,” He demands, “I would like you to witness.”

–

The screams are audible as you approach camp, a few feet behind Acacius as he rounds the fire and separates the crowd to create a path, approaching the man bound at his feet, one arm roped at his side and secured away, leaving him to fight the men that held him down.

“General, gen—general, I am sorry,” He pleads, “she—you do not understand, she taunts. She is poison, not a leader,” He continues, despite Acacius lack of response, making a motion with his hand to remove the man’s weapon and hand it to him, pulling it from it’s leather cover and examining the blade, he makes a soft sound to himself, “Acacius—you have known me for years. Do not let this woman trick you.”

“Gag him,” He ignores his pleading, leaning down to grip the hand of the man bound below, “your humility is amusing, but your greed is what is costing you. She has shown you mercy, but I will not.”

The cut isn’t a clean slice, either. It takes several swings before the limb detaches, blood spurting out of the appendage as the man screams in pain, dragged helplessly toward the fire before they’re cauterizing the wound—your body unreactive as you watch but silently stewing with frustration.

He had spared the man, sure. But, making a show of it? A mockery?

“Commander, with me,” General Acacius demands, waiting for you to snap back into reality, your eyes meeting his face, blood covering his armor and hands, somehow avoidant of most of the mess.

When you are alone, you don’t hold back.

“I would have handled him,” You tell him, “killed him myself.”

“This is not the arena, we do not go around slaughtering our men without reason,” Acacius retorts, “he will be demoted and replaced and be a reminder to the others that you—”

“I do not need you defending my honor, General.”

“Men will not change, this—society, it does not cater to your safety. To them, women are nothing but vanity and pleasure—”

“And property,” You remark, “lest you forget how you obtained me, General.”

Acacius approaches you near the table at the center of his tent, only a foot away as he removes his armor plate, pulling it over his head, “Had I not, you would have paid for your own freedom eventually. I needed a leader—strong, smart, powerful.”

“By punishing that man, you are sending the message that I need my battles fought for me,” You argue, “and as if these men did not already think I was the General’s plaything, what will they think now?”

Acacius sighs through his nose, pulling at the fabric of his tunic that bares his chest, “I believe they will behave,” He tells you, “because you will not be as kind when you take their heads. He was an example and a pain in my ass for years, he deserved more than that.”

“And what will they think of me now? I am naked under this cloak, your cloak. I must walk the path back to my tent surrounded by men deprived of the things your bestial minds crave.”

Acacius chuckles to himself, “I have been thinking,” He begins, “that you deserve a new name. Something indicative of all that you are. Some of the men award each other with monikers of war. Medusa seems to have become more of a taunt, in light of recent events.”

He unties the leather bands at his wrist, eyeing you with a mischievous gaze as he keeps you waiting, “Have you heard the tale of Minerva, my lady?”

It isn’t a surprise, but you shake your head.

“A goddess of many things—strategy, warfare, victory, and justice…but mostly importantly, wisdom. I have seen the way you command the battlefield, it is not lost on me.”

“You have…many stories, General.”

“My mother told me one every night as she tucked me, it seems they have stuck with me.”

Tell me more, the words linger in the back of your throat.

“I am barely standing, General. I must retire for the night.”

“Indeed,” He agrees, shamelessly stripping down to his undergarments to walk toward the clean bowl of water and wash away the drying blood, “and Minerva,” the name is completely foreign, but you respond with a hum, “your position is yours alone. You have earned it. Do not let them tell you otherwise.”

Like Medusa, the name sticks.

And thankfully, you were a few weeks away from a much-earned break from war, returning to Rome as a free woman for the first time, having finally fallen into a comfortable rhythm with the rest of his personal guards—a mutual respect that had been missing, men waiting for your command.

Long nights of planning spent in Acacius tent, surrounded by the other guards until they filter out one by one, growing curiosity and questions lead to many hours of conversation that you, for many months, had been deprived of in the arena.

“You did promise my return,” You remind him, “they will be expecting you to keep that.”

“They are young, fickle men,” Acacius berates with amusement, “I am sure they have moved on.”

“Do you fear them? The emperors?”

“They are spoiled brats,” Acacius responds, an answer in itself.

“They would visit me often,” You admit, “Caracalla seemed to be—it seems the syphilis in his loins was truly affecting his brains, often he would not even make sense. Or he would come to me, complaining of his brother.”

“You had built quite the rapor,” Acacius notes with a smile, sipping at the broth from his stew as he invites you to sit on his fancy, expensive bed cot. Much nicer than your own, cushioned and wrapped in velvet, “What of Geta?”

“He liked my breasts,” You begin bluntly, “and my—”

“He forced himself upon you?”

“I was property of Rome, Acacius,” You didn’t often say his name in such a relaxed way, blaming it on the full belly and exhaustion, “therefore I was his. I have suffered much worse than a lonely man searching for comfort.”

Acacius seems thoughtful, pensive as he stirs at his quickly diminishing stew. He does catch your lingering gaze on his face after a while, mesmerized by the scar underneath his eye, he encourages you.

“Ask, if you are so curious, my lady,” He places his bowl to the side, empty.

“Your scar,” You nod, pressing your finger in a mirroring way under your eye, “is there a story?”

“Nothing to be told with boast,” He chuckles, “a wound of battle, is all. Like many of the scars on my body,” He tells you, raising his naked forearm to display the various scars, noting the few that paint his clavicle, “and you, Minerva?”

It seems to have become a particular quirk of his, a lilt to his voice as he calls you by your given name—the others have become accustomed to it, too. But, with Acacius, it felt special. Treasured.

You raise your eyebrows at his question, quietly unlacing your top to pull it down your shoulder, sliding a hand over your breast to respect the dynamic between you both—him being your general and you, his subordinate. His eyes squint as he examines the jagged and staggered scar on the side of your breasts—not quite faded, healed but relatively fresh.

“He is a biter,” You warn him with amusement, “Geta.”

Only one scar, given by one of the emperors, somehow untouched from real battle. It was miraculous. You readjust your top, feeling the heat from your neck rise to your face at what you had just willingly offered over to Acacius. Unfortunately, he had a way of lowering your guard.

With that talk, it seemed like a true breakthrough in your partnership with Acacius.

He always allowed you to speak for yourself, never overstepping the boundary you had argued with him over, leading the charge with an iron fist and handling the younger, fresh faced soldiers who just seemed…lost.

It was hard to ignore the lingering glances over time, often during meetings as you spoke, not a look of attention but rather…ravishing. Hungry, but in a subdued manner. You weren’t sure where the lines had blurred, but they had.

Possibly somewhere within the long nights of conversation or the lingering touches that shouldn’t have been as charged as they were, handing over a piece of armor or blade and his calloused fingertips would circle your wrist, pause, before his brain would catch up to his actions.

“Go on,” He encourages after a final night of victory and triumph, many of the men howling and singing tunes around the fire, drinking from their cups and enjoying the pleasures of alcohol and comradery, “you are missing the fun,” He was unnaturally quiet, subdued to his quarters, leaning against the outside of his tent as he watched with amusement but subtle dismay.

A younger man approaches with his hand extended, a gleeful expression on his face, “Minerva, please—come, you must enjoy the party, too.”

The general gives you an expectant look as you let the young man lead you away, curling his fingers around your own and pulling you with vigor, cheering loudly to blend in with the energy of the men despite how you worry about the man several feet away, your eyes tracking his disappearing figure as he slips into his tent, eventually pulled away by another man, one of the guardsmen who adored you, asking for a dance.

You agree hesitantly as the crowd roars louder, eyes searching for the exact reason as you see a few men leading a line of women into camp, little clothing to allow them modesty, a less than subtle shushing come from the men as they lead them deeper into camp, and the fear in you tells you to run to the General.

“It is not what you think,” The young man tells you, “they are dancers—no harm will—”

You bypass him, straight toward the men leading the path, stopping them cold.

“They are not here against their will, my lady.” He assures you, though, that could be argued.

“Minerva, Acacius has made it clear that harming women, you—is far worse a crime than anything else. Truly, it is not what you believe it to be.”

“I am telling the General, informing him of their presence,” You admit, “so I suggest you and the rest of the cattle be on your best behavior?”

They both give crisp, curt nods.

As you make the direct line for Acacius’ tent, you are ignorant to his silent plea for privacy at the tied rope, intertwined with gold fabric, pushing apart the fabric doors without much of a thought, reality hitting you as you catch a glimpse of his naked frame, patting down his body with a clean cloth as he washed himself, other hand curved around his cock as he stretched his neck up and back, the water splashing as he dipped the towel into the basin, only aware of your present when you make a small, unrecognizable sound as a result of your own stupidity.

“I—General,” Your eyes widen as they take on a mind of their own, straight down the valley of his chest as he turns to you, quickly spinning on your heels, “I should have—I apologize, uh, the men…they are—”

“I was informed,” He assures, “and they have been warned, I assure you.”

“Yes, hm—um,” It was the only time Acacius had seen you flustered

“I assumed the rope was a clear message,” Acacius teases, “but—it is not your fault. I should have informed you of their…antics.”

He pulls the tight, fabric shorts over his hips, clearing his throat, peering over your shoulder you breathe a sigh of relief, “General, I would like to apologize for—” You swallow, watching as he turned barefoot on his heels, the fabric of the immodest undergarments curving around the stretch of his cock, half-hard under the fabric and the outline of thick head pushing against the linen.

You don’t realize how long you’re staring until he’s approaching with a tap of his finger on the underside of your chin, “There is no need for that,” He assures you, your nose scrunching up in confusion at the sudden touch, feeling the subtle shift as he reaches behind you for the clothes folded on the table at your backside, “surely you must return to the party,” He encourages, “celebrate a well-earned victory.”

“Why?” You counter, “When you will not.”

“Minerva,” He warns.

“You are distracted,” You note, watching as Acacius now avoids your gaze, “it is worrying me.”

He cannot admit the reason why. That it may be you.

“Acacius,” You call his name, hoping that will break through to him.

“Leave me,” He asks, rather than demanding, “I need to rest.”

It was a lie, but you do not fight him on it.

–

Silence blankets the camp in the early morning hours—the witching hours, as you’ve come to know them. Sleeping securely in your tent, bedroll tucked under your head as you drift. Unaware of the creeping men planning your untimely demise, assuring that the entire camp was asleep before they strike, arms and legs rendered useless as the third shoves a piece of cloth into your mouth and ties it around the back of your head, screams muffled behind the fabric, stripped of your weapons. Helpless, they think.

During the struggle, one of them grows frustrated, banging the hard rock against your skull and plunging you back into darkness.

When you come to, you are unclear of where you are, but it was outside, arms above your head against the thick limb, feet bound tight as well, a sting and a string of wetness running down the side of your face as your blurry vision becomes clear.

“Little Minerva,” the voice begins mockingly, all too familiar to your ears, “he has named you—you must feel special, ay?”

He kneels in front of you, the one hand he has left curling around the forearm of what was left of his other appendage, “And you expect to return back to Rome as a free woman,” He laughs, snorts wetly through his nose, “I assure you that will not happen. Rather, you will be a dead one.”

The other two lingering figures join in on the laughter.

“How did you say it?” He taunts, “I will gut you where you stand?”

“It took three of you to capture me,” You retort, “your confidence is lacking sorely.”

He clears the back of his throat, rearing up a ball of saliva in his mouth before he’s spitting at you.

“I will slaughter all of you with my hands,” You promise, “untie me, unless you are fearful.”

Driven by ego, it doesn’t take much for him to agree.

But, as he had underestimated you the first time, and the second, he would regret the third.

The two men come at you first, enough tussling and your teeth ripping into the ear of one of them, searching blindly for a thick, heavy and sharp edge branch that would handle the weight of piercing through skin and muscle, finding the right weapon at the perfect moment—the attacker rearing back as the other approached, driving the make-shift stake through his chest as the other tackled you to the ground, a poor miscalculation on his part as you get your legs around his neck, arms pinned at an painful, awkward ankle until his neck snaps from the force, the ox-like man awaiting in the shadows like a coward, blood spilling from your mouth as you scream.

The heavy hooves approach like roaring thunder and the instant your attacker catches on, his attempts to flee are ruined by the barricade of men at all angles, General Acacius at the head of the charge, a rageful expression on his face. Feral unlike you have ever seen.

He jumps off of his horse, ordering the men to capture the surviving man once again, looking around at the lifeless bodies beside you, assuring his men he would handle you and the mess, demanding they return to camp at once.

You look around aimlessly, blood staining your face as Acacius struggles to capture your attention, eventually resorting to a strong, demanding hold on your face, cradling your head with his hands.

“Are you wounded?” He asks, then notices the trail of blood from your scalp, pushing away the hair to reveal with gash from the rock they had attacked you with, grimacing as he runs his finger over the wound in worry.

Suddenly, you are stricken with a need, “Give me your sword,” You tell him, eyes flicking up to meet his own, “I need your sword.” His movements are too slow, still concerned with you that you reach for the weapon yourself.

Pulling away, you approach one of the dead men with the sword, swinging it up over your head and down with force, beheading him in one go, before switching to the other man, less finesse as you swing—again and again, until there is nothing but a pool of blood, bone, and brain—Acacius steps in eventually, tossing the sword away as he holds you arms in his fierce grip, letting the screams rip from your chest as he sways with you, eventually falling to your knees in exhaustion. He uses his bare hands to wipe the blood away from your neck, your face, feeling the soft shake of your body as you sob in silence, overcome with an emotion you so rarely let surface.

–

The public execution follows the next morning, everyone rousing from their tents to the loud, blaring horn from the ship just off shore—Acacius had assisted you back to camp on his horse, slumped against his back as you rode until the trampling finally stopped, sliding off the horse and into Acacius’ arms as he led you inside his tent.

He didn’t sleep the entire night, watching over you instead—he rarely blinked, staring off into nothingness as he tried to keep the vicious rage at bay, by morning, he was itching.

“You may stay,” He tells you, “your head—I cleaned it while you slept.”

You shove his hand away as he attempts to help you sit, slowly dressing yourself, eventually putting together the fact that Acacius had undressed and bathed you at some point throughout the night, not a speck of blood or spit remaining.

“Are you ordering me to stay?”

Acacius shakes his head, his hand still hovering close by.

“Then I will attend.”

He doesn’t argue against it and there is, despite your weariness to admit, a relief of your chest as Acacius rears back his blade, silencing the final scream the man lets out, pleading for his life. The blood sprays over his face, a strong grimace at the sheer strength it takes to behead the man, but the general manages it with one strike of his blade.

His speech follows, a deep and unsettling warning to all of his men. A final one.

Men, wide-eyed with fear, agree without resistance before he sends them off to ready the ship for departure and a meal before they begin their long trek back to Rome—he is less than gentle as he grabs your wrist without warning and pulls you alongside him, back to his tent.

–

He ties the rope with a stiff tug, before turning to you, stumbling on your feet as pull off his cape, having offered it to you for a second time, assuring that dressing in your usually armor wasn’t needed today, not as you began your travels, a flowing dress tied at your shoulder and waist that you were used to wearing during the showings back in Rome, parading you around like a prize.

“Acacius, perhaps you should sit,” You suggest, watching his hands curl into fists at his sides before he’s spinning on his heels and toward you, cradling your face like he had the night prior, but even this close, it felt like he was trying to keep you at a distance, “—I am sorry, if I did something—”

“I crave you,” Acacius admits, “you must know.”

Your lips part, gearing up the courage to speak, but falling short.

“Nights I have spent,” He breathes, shaking his head, the curls tickling your forehead as they meet, “thinking—wondering—”

“Acacius, why now?” You question him, “As we are homebound, back to your wife. Surely, she would have my head.”

Acacius shakes his head with a soft, but fond laugh.

“Our marriage is complex,” He explains, “Something I do not care to explain in great detail at this moment, you see—,” His hand curves around the side of your neck, tilting your head up, lips grazing against his own as he speaks, “I had no such intention for things to get like this, but you have proven to make things…difficult, for me,” He breathes out through his mouth, his eyes opening slowly to meet yours, “and I need you, should you have me.”

You could easily deny him, knowing he would back off in an instant. But, like this, clearly driven by adrenaline and instinct, riding the high of such a charged execution, he was craving something deeper than an outlet to release the built up tension.

He craved connection—through little moments of conversation and touches, someone at level-ground, an equal. You were his equal. He’d given you so much since, and you would be lying to yourself if you denied the thoughts that had riddled your mind too.

“I do not much prefer a soft touch,” You finally reply, “or gentle care.”

He silences you with a kiss, bruising and tense as he licks into your mouth, hungrily searching for more areas to taste and devour, licking along the column of your neck as the blood of another smeared into your skin, his fingers working quietly to undo your dress, in turn wrestling with his armor and clothes, nearly ripping the fabric of his shirt from his body as you claw at him.

Wet kisses and clashing tongues fill the silent room, a screeching sound as your back hits the roundtable before he’s lifting from the back of your thighs and scooting you onto the surface, naked and bare as he spreads your thighs apart to move between them, clearly restraining himself as he licks, teeth grazing carefully.

“I enjoy them,” You admit, “Do not hold back, Acacius. They are what I will keep with me, if this be the only time.”

Like a dog cut loose of his chain, his teeth sink into the breasts mirror the mark of the other, hissing as his teeth break through the skin just enough for the subtle trickling of blood to rise to the surface before he’s soothing the wound with his tongue, staring up at you through a half-lidded gaze, prowling for more. He dips lower, falling to his knees as he pulls you toward the end of the table, ass hanging near the edge as his teeth sink into your thigh, near the swell of your cunt as you moan, fingers digging into sweaty, matted curls.

“Acacius,” You plead breathily, “I want your mouth.”

Where—it did not matter. But, Acacius fulfills that need as he licks a broad strip through your cunt, nose buried in the coarse curls, still smelling of the fresh soap he had bathed you in, taking delicate care as he washed your body, letting you slump into him, soaking him in the process.

“Yes, that—” You respond airily, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue dips inside of you, swirling your slick around on his tongue and sucking harshly at your clit, staring up at you daringly from his position beneath you, unwavering, “oh, gods above…”

Acacius chuckles below you,the sound vibrating against your cunt as your moans increase rapidly, thick fingers dipping inside your pulsating core, “This high—it feels like—”

He rises to press a kiss against your stomach, climbing, tongue licking over your belly button and between your breasts, “—like…” He encourages, “come on, my lady, do not sell out on me now,”

“Like a battle high,” You admit with a faint laugh, “though, different, but….”

He understands, driven by unbridled need, uncapped adrenaline.

“Well, vae victis,” He taunts, “now—come here,” He squeezes at your hips and pulls you to him, his cock stiff, throbbing between your legs before he is twisting and spinning you around, feet planting against the ground as he bends you over, fisting himself tight as he rubs his thick cock head between your folds, watching as your wetness coats him, sinking into your fluttering hole with little resistance, a sweet cacophony of noises releasing from your throat as you grip onto nothing, hand curling into a fist as you moan, open-mouthed and shameless.

“Harder,” You beg, forcing the word out between thrusts, blunt fingernails clawing at your hips, attempting to pull you in closer despite your proximity, as if he could consume and even that wouldn’t be enough, “Acacius, please.”

It was like instinct, his hand sliding up the back of your thigh to lift your leg up, pinning it up—up, until you feel the ache in your sore muscles as he holds you in place with a fist between the bend of your knee, heaving breaths at your neck as he fucks you into the hard surface of the table.

It was a pain you would feel in your bones, that would carry with you into the morning, marks that would last for longer, a remnant of this moment, the mess of blood smearing on your own skin as he melts against you, forehead resting against your shoulder as his gaze follows the movement of his hips, slow but powered thrusts that drilled into you, clawing at his skin to leave your own bruises. The hand that brushes against your core is your ultimate demise, feeling breathless as your orgasm pulls you under, muffled sobs into your fist as you bite down, fearful that it might draw attention. Though, Acacius seems preoccupied, still.

His hand seeks your neck, digging in as he pulled you up, “To your knees,” He demands softly, your body moving out a memory, dropping to the floor—though, the sight is much more tantalizing, Acacius fisting his cock tight, feral as he teeth were bared, like a man fresh from the slaughter, he comes with a deep and guttural groan, your tongue sliding against the underside of his bulbous head, thick spurts coating your tongue, his body shaking as you pull away, swallowing all that he had offered with a steady, locked gaze. He assists you upright, steadying you.

“For a man who has such a distaste for unnecessary violence, you wear it well,” It wasn’t a compliment, rather an observation, his eyes tracking your naked frame, fingertips tracing the curves of your body in admiration.

“You are quite inspiring, Minerva,” He admits, gathering your thick dress and helping you redress in silence, tying the material around your body, “not everyone deserves mercy.”

Your smile is rare, but it is beautiful. And he wasn’t a man for such dramatics.

But, it could bring him to his knees, he thinks.

#general acacius #marcus acacius #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x y/n #general acacius x reader #general acacius x you #gladiator ii #gladiator ii fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #my writing

1K notes · View notes

marzipanandminutiae · 10 months ago

Text

Pour one out for women who lived through at least part of the Victorian and Edwardian eras and then had to wear 1920s clothing because keeping relatively current was an aspect of respectability

Like yeah sure, some found it fun and dived in with gusto. Some had not enjoyed the previous decades and liked this one. Good for them

But imagine having lived with AND liked actually supportive corsets, and elegant lines that acknowledged things like Breasts and Hips, and beautiful decoration, and hairstyles where you could learn one go-to and do it every day with minimal professional help (unless you were rich)

And then being told “oh sorry now you have to look like a barrel unless you want to bind your breasts and develop an eating disorder. we call this a corset still but it is basically proto-Spanx. Please have the head of a Lego minifig, hair-wise; you’ll have to pay for regular hairdresser visits if you want the MOST socially celebrated iteration thereof. Here is a plastic geometric bangle; have fun”

(Obviously that’s highly subjective and non-comprehensive but it WAS a huge switch to almost the opposite of what came before the late 1910s-ish. And if you happened to prefer that Before…)

God I would start Murdering

#fashion history #historical fashion #dress history #I found a photo of the woman for wh #my new place was built #it’s from the 20s when she was like 50 #and I can’t even IMAGINE her in a lovely satin wedding gown c. 1895 #so deeply unflattering on this poor woman

703 notes · View notes

literaryvein-reblogs · 7 days ago

Text

Dressing your Character for Summer

Summer can be a hard season to dress for, but there are a few reliable ways to dress for sweltering heat and humidity.

Fashion Tips for Styling Summer Outfits

Wear light-colored clothing. Choose light colors and white dresses and button-down shirts, which reflect, rather than absorb, the sun's rays.

Opt for sleeveless or loose sleeves. When it comes to summer clothes, the goal is to have as much airflow as possible. You don't have to go fully strapless, but consider sleeveless camis and off-shoulder or puff-sleeve blouses. Short-sleeve button-ups are another good option.

Stay away from tight clothing. Loose-fitting clothing is your best bet for staying cool in the summer. Go for cropped, wide-leg pants, loose shirts, oversize blouses, and dresses and skirts with room to breathe.

Upgrade your athleisure. Technical fabrics are typically moisture-wicking, but they’re also tight, which isn’t always great for summer. If you're a fan of athleisure, swap your usual black leggings and sweatshirt for colorful bike shorts and tank tops or short-sleeve crop tops.

Choose breathable fabrics. It may not matter during the rest of the year, but you’ll definitely notice the difference between breathable fabrics and fabrics that trap moisture during the summer. Synthetics usually aren’t breathable, so check clothing labels to make sure your clothes are 100 percent linen, cotton, or silk. If you want to play with texture, try eyelet and seersucker.

Ditch jeans. Denim is one of the heaviest fabrics. If you wear stretch jeans or skinny jeans, you may find them too warm for your summer style. Look for lightweight cotton or linen pants instead. If you must wear denim, opt for wide-leg jeans, which still allow for some air circulation.

Rely on dresses. Dresses aren’t just for special occasions. A comfy summer dress is an easy option for days when you don’t know what to wear. Summer is the perfect time to bring out your minidresses, rompers, and miniskirts, but it’s okay to go longer, too. For a boho summer look, opt for a sleeveless maxi dress or long skirt. A tie-front dress can give you a little extra air circulation.

Wear leather sandals. Flip-flops are great for going to the beach, but to dress up your look, opt for strappy sandals or espadrilles, which still let your toes breathe. Leather sandals come in comfortable options that will look more stylish than the standard foam flip-flops.

Minimize accessories. Lots of dangling necklaces or bangles can stick to your skin in the heat. Choose one statement accessory, like hoop earrings.

How to Dress for Work in Summer

You still need to look professional at the office during the summertime, while prioritizing clothing that keeps you cool.

Stick to light colors. Workwear typically comes in dark colors like black and navy. For summer, try light colors instead: a white linen blazer, seersucker suit, or light blue button-up shirt.

Dress in layers. If your office has air conditioning, layering will be a big part of your summer fashion vibe. A cotton cardigan is a great option for those days when you need to go from a hot train to a cold office.

Try a one-piece garment. Separates can get very warm in the summer. Instead, try a work-appropriate one-piece, like a jumpsuit or wrap dress.

Wear closed-toe shoes. Even if flip-flops are your go-to outside the office, you should still wear closed-toe shoes in the office. Try loafers or flats with moisture-wicking no-show socks.

How to Dress for the Beach in Summer

Summer is the season for going to the beach, and there are a few things to consider when choosing what to wear.

Buy your swimsuit early. Swimwear can be one of the hardest clothing items to shop for, so give yourself plenty of time to browse. Choose something comfortable that you can actually swim in.

You don’t need to buy a dedicated beach cover-up. Unless you’re totally in love with your beach cover-up, you can repurpose other items of clothing to cover your swimsuit. An oversize white button-up shirt is a great beach cover-up that can double as a mini shirtdress. A lightweight dress is another great option, or pair a bikini top with a skirt.

Protect your skin. Keep sunscreen and a hat in your beach tote so you're always prepared. Choose a sun hat that you actually like, so you won’t be tempted to leave it at home.

Wear materials other than denim. Tight denim cutoffs might be a cute beach look, but soaking wet, sandy denim shorts are uncomfortable. Opt for something more breathable, like Bermuda shorts.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#summer #fashion #writing notes #character development #writeblr #writing reference #writers on tumblr #literature #dark academia #spilled ink #writing prompt #creative writing #character building #writing inspiration #light academia #writing ideas #hans andersen brendekilde #writing resources

75 notes · View notes

femmefatalevibe · 2 years ago

Text

Femme Fatale Guide: Spring Wardrobe Essentials

Staple Tees & Tanks:

**Purchase in Modal, Pima cotton, linen, silk, or Tencel fabric**

Fitted scoop neck tank

Fitted high-neck tank top

Structured, relaxed fit crewneck tee

Fitted scoop neck/crewneck tee

Halterneck tee/mockneck tee

Contour tank/tee bodysuits

Blouses/Shirting:

Linen button-down (can be long/short-sleeve or a tank variety)

Silk button-down (can be a long/short-sleeve or a tank variety)

Relaxed fit silky tank

Relaxed fit silky cami top

Sweetheart neck tube top

Any other desired silk shell top/t-shirts/camis (for layering)

Sculpt knit top(s)

Self-tie wrap blouse

Halter-style silk blouse

Bottoms:

Black straight-leg jeans

Black bootcut/flared jeans

Black straight/bootcut trousers

Wide-leg trousers (I love a solid black, black pinstripe, and black with lace-up detail selection)

Split hem trousers

Black linen trousers

Stretch jersey pants (straight-leg, bootcut, and/or flared)

Black satin midi skirt

Leather skirt (mini or midi)

Tailored shorts (Tencel ones are great for various climates/weather that drastically in temperature/humidity throughout the day)

Leather shorts

Tailored black linen shorts

Dresses/Jumpsuits:

Slip dress (midi-length for every day; mini for hotter days/nights out)

Linen button-down dress (for work/modest dressing)

Linen tank dress (for layering/hotter days)

Little black dress (shift dress/A-line cuts are great)

Minimal black jumpsuit ("LBJ")

Black linen or silk jumpsuit

Blazer dress/jumpsuit

Long-sleeve playsuit/romper

Tuxedo jumpsuit/playsuit

Jackets/Outerwear:

Well-tailored black blazer

Well-tailored black vest

Leather moto jacket

Black trench coat

Tailored longline sleeveless blazer/vest

Neutral-toned racer jacket

Structured utility jacket

Satin coat/trench/blazer (great over transitional nighttime looks)

Footwear:

Black loafers

Square-toe/pointed-toe flats

Slingback/mary-jane flats/casual kitten heels

Short black lace-up boots

Sleek low to mid-calf black square/pointed-toe boot

Western-inspired boot

Minimalist white sneakers

Black pointed-toe pumps

Sleek mules/cut-out flats

Slingblack pointed-toe wedges

Rain boots

Accessories:

White/black ankle & crew socks

High-waisted shapewear shorts

Chunky/small chain necklaces & bracelets

Simple pendant necklace(s)

Pearl necklace

Simple diamond studs

Crystal drop earrings

Minimalist bangles

Stackable rings

A sleek, minimalist black tote (can fit a laptop for work/travel)

Black shoulder bag

Small black bag (top handle, crossbody, etc.)

Statement bag/evening bag

Silk/decorative scarf

Sleek neutral sunglasses that suit your face shape

Lingerie/Loungewear:

Seamless bra/underwear

Lace bra/underwear

Matching pullover cotton sweatshirt/sweatpants

Tencel, Modal, or cotton top/lounge pants set

Luxurious pajama set (Long sleeve/pants + short-sleeve/tank + shorts, depending on the climate – silk, Tencel, cashmere, etc.)

A to-die-for piece of lingerie like a lace slip/silk teddy

Silk or cozy robe

Open-back slippers

412 notes · View notes

queenmuzz · 6 months ago

Text

Ballrooms and Bloodlines: Chapter I

A steamy story set post Veilguard

Read HERE on Ao3

It’s not what she’s used to. She’s used to wearing rugged leather, chain mail, her shield and greathammer. Not tonight. She wields and wears neither. She’s used to having her hair in a rough, practical ponytail. Not tonight.

She’s used to going barefaced, no need for accentuation of features that get obscured by dirt and grime. Not tonight.

She’s used to wearing minimal jewelry, and aside from one item, is for battle scenarios, with enchantments for necrotic damage, or defense against demons. Not tonight.

Tonight, she is draped in bangles, rings, necklaces, all generously borrowed from her Ingellvar ‘ancestors’. As much as she finds it distasteful to loot from their crypts, she knows that the long extinct noble family is more than happy to lend their grave gold to the hero that bears their name.

Tonight, Myrna gently brushes the eye shadow on her eyelids, blending the shades together, before tutting at her to remain still as she applies eyeliner. How women and men are able to point a sharpened implement straight at their eyes without flinching is beyond her. Still, there are few people she would trust more than Myrna to do such an intimate and delicate thing.

Tonight, Vorgoth rumbles contentedly as it braids her silver hair, working on what will probably be one a set of twenty or more separate tiny braids, all entwining together , resembling a string of pearls adorning her head.

Tonight she is wearing a full length dress made of the finest Nevarran velvet dark green, almost black, with the accents of lilac in the bodice. The amount of times she’s worn a formal dress in her lifetime can be counted on a skeleton’s hand. With two fingers removed.

Each of these times, they had been an ill fitting dress, borrowed by an old watcher, several seasons out of fashion and she’d removed them at the first opportunity she had. This one is the latest in Nevarran fashion, fitted perfectly to her stature, and hugs every curve. And for once, this dress is not borrowed, it is her very own to keep.

For tonight, she is no longer Watcher Ingellvar, disgraced Cryptguard.

She is Lady Ingellvar, Slayer of Gods.

Well, that’s the name on the ball invitation.

A ball given in HER honour.

It still surprises her that she, a foundling with no name, is the star attraction at this gala. Although, at this point, she ought to know better. She has spent the past three years walking the length and breadth of Thedas, traveled to the Fade, fought battles that only take place in legends. And come face to face with the most dangerous entities that have ever existed. That people wish to celebrate their champion, especially when she comes from their own soil.

Of course, she would be the first to say that she wasn’t alone. That she had the best of the best at her side. People with far more experience than her at practically everything. All she happens to have is the skill to bring said people together. Somehow that makes her something Varric called her all the way back, a ‘Leader.’ A person that people can look up to.

“IT IS FINISHED.” Vorgoth rumbles with apparent satisfaction as it floats back a bit, and Mryna gives a final brush of blush.

She sees herself in the mirror, almost completely unrecognizable. She shimmers in green, gold, and silver

“Are you ready?” Myrna asks, doing her best to keep her voice settled “They are waiting for you.”

“HE IS WAITING.” Vorgoth adds.

She nods, swallowing all her doubts as she makes her way to the door, followed by the two people she is the closest she’s had to parents.

The double doors open revealing a figure. He stands there, looking resplendent in his formal Mourn Watcher garb, glittering epaulettes on his deep green and burgundy uniform. He looks the definition of dignified. Aside from the waves of anxiety that he’s exuding, the way he quickly hides his hands behind his back, trying to look stately, but not quite quick enough to hide the way they tremble. She sees his eyes widen as he takes her in, the sharp intake of breath, the way he wets his lips, and her heart thumps painfully. Even if the worst should come to pass and she makes a complete fool of herself, seeing him looking at her with such adoration will have made it all worth it.

He straightens his back, takes one hand from behind his back, now still and under control, and takes her hand. He bows low, and kisses it. Ever the gentleman.

“You look… he struggles to find the right word, glances at the two people behind her, “stunning, my dear.” It’s not the word he’s looking for, and she knows it. Whatever word he wanted to use is not for a gentleman to say, especially in front of a lady’s parents.

“Shall we?” He offers her his arm and she hooks hers with his as the four of them make their way to the hustle and bustle of the ballroom.

-----

It seems that the entire Mourn Watch has shown up, as well as the cream of the Nevarran nobility. There’s even a few Tevinter nobles, several Antivans, even a very out of his depth Orlesian, who keeps nervously looking at the undead servants offering hor'dourves on golden platters. The only conspicuous absence is King Markus, but no doubt he’s far too busy to attend.

Besides, there’s more than enough people to make up for one reclusive Royal. There’s elderly men who are wheeled about by their skeletal servants, enjoying one of their last social events before they too will join their ancestors in the crypts. There’s a gaggle of small children, most of them utterly entranced and entertained by the magic show Manfred is performing for them. She idly muses on how well he works with children, his happy hisses as the children cheer as he juggles fireballs. He only pauses his show to wave at them when he notices them.

But a good chunk of the party goers are young, attractive, and most importantly, unmarried men and women, all circling her like vultures. She involuntarily moves closer to Emmrich, who notices her discomfort and squeezes her arm reassuringly.

“May I have the honour of having the first dance?”

If she had her way, she would have ALL her dances with him, she muses as they dance, his one hand chastely at her waist, the other entwined in hers, guiding her around the ballroom floor, as the band played a traditional Nevarran waltz. (Sadly one of the few things that the undead couldn’t do was wind instruments). He’s delicate with her, his touch barely noticable as they move to and fro with the other dancers. It feels so out of place, almost a regression to when he first started courting her. Fade knows that he has been much LESS gentle with her lately, not that she’s been complaining. But she knows she must appear… ‘Available’. In high society, you can make so many more connection if you have the potential for a marriage alliance. It feels dirty, leading all these people on, having no intention of even considering a union with any of their relatives, but that's how the upper crust works. It's not unique to Nevarra, sadly.

“You dance so well,” he murmurs in the shell of ear, causing a shiver of pleasure to run down her spine, driving away the shame at her deception.

“Well, I had a good teacher,” she tells him, “an incredibly patient and kind teacher,” and she can see a flush appear in his cheeks. This is not idle flattery, as she has spent the last few weeks having her feet being taught to follow a set pattern, instead of reacting on the fly. It was a hard thing to learn, until he had come up with the idea to treat it like a battle, that when her his left foot moves forward, her right foot should move backwards and to the left. There’s a fine line between offense and defense, and she learns to recognize the signs when the roles should reverse.

“It didn’t hurt that he is incredibly handsome as well,” and she senses, much to her satisfaction, a tiny little hitch in his step, and his blush deepens.

The song draws to an end, and he gracefully leads her off the floor. She’s aware that a silent crowd follows her, all eager for a sample of her attention.

“My dearest, as much as I would love to keep you to myself for the entire night, they are here for you. It’s time…”

She stiffens, as this is the one thing she had feared about this event. It is one thing to command a fire breathing Adari, a possessed assassin, a Tevinter detective, a magical dwarf, a Warden who has killed an archdemon and lived, a savant in ancient elvish technology, (and an incredibly charming necromancer) to kill Gods. It’s quite another to be the star attraction in a ballroom, where everyone wants her attention, even for a brief second.

Still, she swallows her fear, pastes a polite smile on her face, and goes to greet her followers.

She starts out easy, picking out a tall lanky teenage boy who seems awed by her mere presence as her next dance. He stumbles over his words as he tries to play the gentleman and take the lead on the ballroom, before she gently smiles at him, and lets him relinquish control, and then leads him across the ballroom, round and round again. He attempts to talk to her, stammering out questions about her adventures. It’s adorable how he’s transfixed by her, not love precisely, but she knows he will go to his grave, many, MANY, years later (she hopes) with this moment etched into his bones.

By the time the song ends The poor boy is as red as the tomato sauce Lucanis canned for her as a gift before they last parted company. She places a chaste kiss on his cheek, and he practically flees the room, overwhelmed by his feelings.

The next dance is elderly matriarch, who starts out deceptively easy to dance with. That is, until the woman reveals she has several sons of marriageable age.

“My eldest, Edwin, runs a tailoring business! He’s high in demand by both the living and the dead, you MUST come see his work the next time you’re out…”

“That sounds nice”

“And there’s my boy Lothar. Shame he couldn’t make it, busy supplying masonry to Minrathous rebuilding efforts. He also hosts the best soirées!

“Lovely”

“And my youngest, Cyril! He’s part of your Mourn Watch! No doubt you’ve been acquainted with him. He’s such a gentleman! You two would definitely get along!”

“I’m… sure we would.”

The song is mercifully shorter than the previous one, and she’s thankful she can disentangle herself before the woman starts arranging invitations for her to visit her manor when her sons are in town.

She takes a quick break from dancing, sipping a drink, making small talk with guests, thanking them for coming, all while she makes her way slowly towards Emmrich, who is in a conversation with Vorgoth. She needs to get to him before the next song starts, she needs to take her on the ballroom once more.

He sees her approach, and she loves the way his eyes light up, the way he apologises to the entity that he really must be going, and makes his way towards her. They’re about to embrace…

“Lady Zea Ingellvar!”

An iron voice rings out, sharp and demanding, but coated in a thin layer of gold plate, to make it sound palatable and pretty. Emmrich’s brows furrow as he looks towards the intruder, and she follows his gaze.

It’s a young man, around her age, his wavy rose gold hair perfectly combed. He wears the Mourn Watch uniform, but unlike Emmrich’s, it’s garishly decorated in an assortment of medals, relics, and other gold flimflammery from long dead relatives. Whoever dressed him seems to think quantity is more important than quality. Still, he has a presence that cannot be ignored.

“I don’t think we’ve been acquainted,” he holds out his hand, palm up, and she places her hand in his as he gives his a kiss. It’s not gentle, like Emmrich’s, it’s more possessive, as if he’s entitled to her hand, “Lord Heinrich Karppinen, heir to the Duchy of Cumberland.” She can’t help but wince at his emphasis on his title, like he clings to it like grave gold. “May I have the next dance?”

She can’t help but see Emmrich stiffen and bite his lip out of the corner of her eye, but he makes no move to voice his disapproval. She weighs her options. To spurn a ducal heir, even casually and with good reason, is not something that is done lightly. Strangely, she’s intrigued by this challenge. Perhaps she could humour him, allow him to think he has a chance to receive her grace.

She gives a quick glance at Emmrich, nodding curtly, and he backs up, accepting her decision, despite not liking it at all. She allows the young man to escort her to the ballroom floor, proud of his latest ‘catch’, and not afraid to show his accomplishment off.

“You’ve become quite the talk of Nevarra, Lady Ingellvar,” Lord Karppinen says as he smoothly guides her across the floor. “It’s been quite a few years since we had one of our people reach such a renowned status.”

“Yes, it’s strange to be compared to Cassandra Pentaghast, even if it’s a high honour.” She does not feel worthy enough to be associated with that woman that Varric liked to talk about, who wrote romance novels specifically for her enjoyment.

The name seems to irritate the young man, as he does his best to suppress a grimace. “Pentaghast!” He says, the P sounding like he wants to spit out a wad of mucus. “She was the Right Hand of the Divine, Founder of the New Inquisition, and what does she do with that power? Goes off and marries a Dwarf. A DWARF! Doesn’t even protest when the Inquisitor disbands her organization. All that power… gone…. And she ruins her family name.”

Insulting Lady Cassandra, a risky move. Zea thinks. She already doesn’t like the man, but out of necessity, she pastes a smile on her face as they continue their dance.

“You, on the other hand, have single-handedly accomplished so much more than her.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, I didn’t do it alone.” She honestly argues, “I had many friends and allies. I had one of the best Antivan Crows, a brave Grey Warden, (it’s still hard to keep her emotions in check whenever she thinks of Davrin), and of course” She takes a glance at the gentleman across the room and her heart seizes as she sees him watching her, “the eminent Professor Emmrich Volkarin.”

That name brings out a face of outright disgust.

“Volkarin… a man who doesn’t know his station in life, deems himself as far too important to be bound by it. Plays at being a noble, despite being nothing but a commoner. In fact worse… a butcher’s son .” It’s the way he says those last few words, the way his voice drips with disdain, as if Emmrich’s father was vermin that repulses. She frowns, and she catches Emmrich’s face from across the ballroom, seeing how concerned he looks. He must know something is going on. But she tries to remain diplomatic.

“Honestly, I find that to be very noble, to take on such a lowly profession to support your family. To suffer the social stigma, to bear it willingly for the ones you love, is there not honour in that?” It is the truth. She has never had the pleasure of meeting Rupert Volkarin in life, but she knows that he must have been a good man, someone his son emulates to this very day.

Lord Karppinen scoffs, “You are very naive to think like that, Lady Ingellvar.”

“I am not,” she argues back. “Don’t forget, I am an orphan. A foundling. I claim no title nor lineage. I am no better than that butcher you disparage.” From the corner of her eye, she sees Emmrich now acting agitated, with Myrna placing a supportive hand on his arm. The situation is getting out of control, and Emmrich may do something he will regret if he sees that she is being upset by this arrogant noble.

“You are much different.” He responds, his voice now returning back to its honeyed state. An attempt to ingratiate himself to her. “You are a founder, a once in an Age person who has the potential to start their own dynasty. But…” his voice dips deeper, “In order for a dynasty to take root, it must also be grafted with other trees, not with the weeds that wither and die miserable short lives. It would be beneficial to join roots those with the pedigree of us nobility. We are the ones who have fought dragons, after all.” He’s trying to woo her, to bring her glory and accomplishments over to his household. But he has no idea how much it has backfired on him.

There it is …she sees it now, his weakness. In a battleground this is the moment that she would find the chink in their armour, a flaw in their fighting technique. Nobles and their everlasting love for dragon hunting. A butcher who carves up meat to feed starving bellies may be considered sacrilegious, but a noble’s taste for killing majestic creatures merely to decorate their halls with is apparently considered virtuous.

“Are you?” she asks sweetly, a true smile now creeping into her face. “Tell me, Lord Karppinen, how many dragons have you killed?”

The man sputters… looks shocked that she would ask such a question, but she continues. “How many generations has it been since a Karppinen has slain a dragon? Your father? Your Grandsire? Your Great Grandsire?”

“This hardly matters…” he protests, but she has him with his back against the wall. Now her warrior mind tells her to put her shield away, and bring out the metaphorical greathammer.

“Because Emmrich Volkarin has personally helped me hunt…” she makes an exaggerated act of calculation, “One… two… three… four… five? Possibly more, since one of the archdemons had multiple heads… but he has taken down AT LEAST five dragons. Who is the more noble now?”

He loses his sense of speech and she grins, as she is now the one to lead him across the ballroom floor. Emmerich seems to have calmed down, reading the situation as not as dire as he thought, but there is a perplexed look on his face.

“Emmrich Volkarin has helped me personally dispatch not only those dragons, but also two ancient elvish gods. He has broken into one of the most secure prisons ever created, and,” she thinks back to the conversation between Emmrich and Solas in Minrathous on that dark final day, “he has earned the respect of the Dread Wolf himself.”

At any other time, she might feel sorry for the man, the way he splutters and stammers, but today, she feels no mercy. In fact, she feels like she ought to pay him back for his slander of her beloved. She pulls him in for the kill, and whispers in his ear.

“Let me tell you a secret, my little ducal prince, you might think you wish to claim me as your own, but I carry the child of the wisest man in all of Thedas in my womb.”

He stiffens, and their dance comes to a complete halt, causing a disturbance as other dancers have to make last minute swerves to avoid crashing into them.

Lord Karppinen has gone a deadly shade of pale, or green, but perhaps the veilfire lighting is to blame as he releases her immediatly, as if she is infected with the Blight. His lips are moving, but no sound comes out. He looks like one of those freshly caught fish she had seen in Docktown, gasping and suffocating in an environment it did not belong in. Except this time, she feels no sorrow, no sympathy.

And with that, without a word, he turns around and storms away from her…

And goes straight for Emmrich.

Oh. Crap.

#dragon age the veilguard #veilguard spoilers #emmrich x rook #emmrich volkarin #emmrook #First Chapter is completely safe for work #my writing

45 notes · View notes

magixfairyix · 2 months ago

Note

What is Iorda's style? What does she like to wear?

Your ask gave me an excuse to make a mood-board >:)

SO!

Iorda very much prefers loose-armed sweaters, considering the scars she got from the ritual Almah put her through. She does not like feeling the scars against her clothing. She will only really wear crop tops if she's going out to a bar or if she's trying to look really nice.

She moves between leggings and long skirts, but she'll choose the long skirt unless the leggings are the most comfortable and least bothersome possible. Sometimes she thinks the long skirts make her look old af tho (especially since she teaches at CT), but then she sees Darcy panicking (because Iorda do be pretty) and then thinks, "okay, I think I'm fine."

She really likes necklaces with large pendants/charms, especially since her outfits are usually very plain (sweater, skirt, DONE). Witchy vibes since Iorda no longer despises herself for being a witch, and now she gets to be comfortable in her own skin. She will also layer her necklaces, 'cause again, she's fixing her minimalistic outfit with jewelry. Iorda do be tired as fuck and she doesn't really want to layer clothing too much.

She also likes thick bracelets that fit around her entire wrist (not bangles, smth else. Bracer bracelets? I swear I knew this 15 seconds ago) just because of the feeling of them. She also likes charm bracelets. Not a big fan of earrings much, and she'll just wear black studs.

Iorda prefers to just use eyeshadow, some minimal eyeliner, and mascara sometimes. Mainly browns, with some purple. Also with a lot of glitter. Sort of whimsi-goth vibes with her makeup.

Also, fuck styling hair for her. Lose all day.

Once again, she is tierd as hell.

I went way too much in depth for this...

#asks #THANK YOU FOR THE ASK LIKE THIS WAS FUN <3 #winx club #winx club oc #Iorda

23 notes · View notes

kookie-doughs · 2 years ago

Text

Daddy Cupid

Modern!Various One Piece Men X Reader

-When your father grows weary of your single life, he takes it upon himself to play matchmaker. With him knowing the entire city, he embarks on a mission to find you the perfect match.

Chapter 3: Cupid's Aim

The morning arrives, and you find yourself grumbling, knowing that your date is just around the corner. The thought of yet another attempt by your father to play matchmaker has you feeling less than enthusiastic about the day ahead.

As you check your phone, you find messages from various people. Shanks sends you a congratulations for your date, Smoker and Buggy both wish you good luck, and your dad sends you a reminder. You sigh and reluctantly get out of bed. Your date is in just three hours, so you decide to start getting ready, mentally preparing yourself for what lies ahead.

For your date, you decide to go with a cute and casual look that's both comfortable and stylish. You choose a knee-length, floral-print sundress with a cinched waist that flatters your figure. Pair it with a light denim jacket for a touch of warmth if needed.

To complete the look, slip on some white sneakers for comfort during your date. Keep your accessories minimal with a delicate necklace and a few bangle bracelets. Finish it off with a crossbody bag for practicality, and you're ready to go with a charming and effortless outfit.

After spending a bit more time on your makeup than you anticipated, you finally finish getting ready, and you're satisfied with the way you look. With your cute outfit and makeup in place, you're now good to go for your date, feeling confident and prepared for whatever the day may bring.

Feeling better about the day and your appearance, you step out of your apartment with confidence. However, your confidence is short-lived as you accidentally bump into someone in the hallway. You look up to see that it's Perona.

"Ah! Sorry, miss!" she apologize.

You waves off her apology with a smile. "It's fine, sweetie, but you really shouldn't run in the halls."

She explain hurriedly, "I need to get to Zoro, miss. Sorry, but my dad will kill me if I'm late!"

You nods understandingly, and you continue on your way, hoping to avoid any further delays on this already eventful day. You ran to get on the elevator.

You quickly press the hold button on the elevator as someone calls out to hold it. To your surprise, it's Mihawk who steps inside.

"Thanks for holding," he acknowledges.

You smile at him. "No problem."

"By the way, have you seen the kids anywhere? They ran off after taking my wallet."

You can't help but hold back a laugh as you remember the incident. "Ah, so that's why they were in such a hurry. I think they took the stairs," you inform him, sharing a knowing look about the mischievous kids.

You take a moment to check your phone, hoping to see if your date has sent you any messages. However, you roll your eyes in annoyance when you realize he hasn't.

Mihawk notices your formal attire and makes an observation, "You're dressed formally today. I'll assume it's another date arranged by your father?"

You respond with a sarcastic laugh, "Yeah, it's so tiring. But alas, he always wins." You motion at your dress, highlighting the fact that you're once again going along with your father's matchmaking schemes.

Mihawk offers a supportive smile and says, "Well, let's hope you dressed nicely for something worth your while this time."

As the elevator doors open, he steps out, and you follow suit. After exchanging your goodbyes, you continue on with your day, hoping that this date arranged by your father will at least be an interesting one.

You arrive at the coffee shop, and Law, who is manning the cashier, greets you with a smirk. He takes note of your attire and can't resist making a comment.

"Your date hasn't come in yet," he remarks teasingly.

You roll your eyes and reply, "Shut up."

Law leans in conspiratorially, "Is it my uncle? I saw him getting ready this morning."

You groan in exasperation, saying, "I will literally jump off a cliff."

Law chuckles and decides, "Well, I'm not taking your order until your date comes, so go and take your spot."

With a sigh, you follow Law's instructions and head to your designated spot, prepared to wait for your date's arrival.

As you wait for your date, you occupy yourself by scrolling through your phone. You take note of various posts, ranging from your friends' daily updates to adorable pictures of other people's kids. You even stumble upon a post from your ex-boyfriend, which brings back some memories and mixed feelings.

"How come he doesn't have to go through these stupid dates..."

Law calls you over after a few minutes, and you walk over to him. He points in the direction of a man seated at a table. You observe the man, noting his tall and slim yet muscular build, arched eyebrows, and a close-shaved goatee. His shoulder-length wavy black hair gives him a distinct appearance. He's dressed in a two-piece black suit with the sleeves casually rolled up, wearing black leather shoes, and a white tie and handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket.

You stare at the man, unsure whether he's your date or not. You slowly approach him and tap his shoulder.

As the man lifts his head and his eyes lock with yours, he stares at you intently. You start to feel a bit nervous under his gaze and let out a nervous laugh.

"Are you waiting for someone? Perhaps a date?" you ask, breaking the silence.

He shakes his head, face slowly turning red as he cleared his throat. "N-No, I am not. Sorry, I just..."

You chuckle, "I see. Well, sorry for bothering you. I thought you were my date with how you're dressed."

The man keeps his eyes fixed on you, seemingly mesmerized, and takes a deep breath before asking, "May I get your name?"

You chuckle softly at his admiration and reply, "Of course, it's-"

Your conversation with the man is interrupted when you hear your phone chime. You look at the notification.

Seeing it was a text from your date you rolled your eyes.

You shoot a "K" reply and grumbled. Looking down on your outfit and get up you frowned.

"Uhm..." The man got your attention. "I'm Rob Lucci."

"Y/N." You offer your hand and he takes it. "Sorry, I'm really upset right now..."

"Why? Did something happen?"

"My date ditched me." You raise your hand and Law understood.

Frustrated by the events, you decide to take a seat at Lucci's table. You vent your frustration by posting about how your date ditched you on social media, making sure to hide the post from your dad's friends to avoid any further meddling in your love life.

Previous | Masterlist

Hey guyssss!! This is the end of these parts you need to go to the masterlist and select which route you want to go to!

Obviously they're not all going to be written at once I'll write them one at a time and uploads will come every monday. I'm not gonna post chapter for marco and a chapter for that and for that guy every monday only one chapter the character varies with whoever I felt like writing </3 i hope you'll understand its to keep myself from dropping this story

I'll write whoever I want to write first I'm not going to follow the arrangement on the masterlist >< unless you request a character to come first

I hope youll enjoy this story thank you for your support!

-kookiedoughs

Taglist?

@nykie-love-anime @gayer-than-the-gayest-gay @angstylittleb1tch @valen-yamyam16 @melodyidk @anicega @littlegreekgirl1 @rebeccawinters

160 notes · View notes

partially-controlled-chaos · 2 months ago

Text

WIP Wednesday Weekend

Reposting because I was having issues with the tags last night so I apologize for the double tagging.

Thank you @gingervitus for the tag! I'm late and I'm very sorry but I do love a WIP tag.

Switching it up a little bit for this WIP Weekend by not posting something related to my many Lucanis fics, but instead posting the new piece I'm working on for (I guess technically its an AU but I hate calling it that) an Emmrook Nevarran Masquerade Ball fic that I haven't named yet. I was inspired by this lovely post from @kekulen . And there is a plot outside of it just being a masquerade ball, but I'm still hammering out the details.

It's all I've thought about for days and I've finally started working on it so I wanted to share this for the WIP Weekend. I'm also still working on my Lucanis fics, so I haven't forgotten about them, but this brain rot has me in an absolute chokehold. So here's about 1000 words of the newest WIP I've added to the family. As with all my WIPs, I haven't proofread it in the slightest and is liable to change before the final posting.

Rook sipped lightly at the champagne flute in hand, gently swaying to the sudden swell of violin music and she took in the sights around her. Couples danced gracefully and with minimal effort across the polished tiles of the dance floor in front of her, almost floating as they swirled by her in pairs. The sound of shoes tapping against the floor was drowned about by the melodic tune that emanated from the back of the room. Green veilfire flickered in wall sconces around the room, casting an almost eerily glow to the atmosphere. The light caught the crystals hanging from the chandelier just right so they twinkled against the darkened ceiling and against the floor. Patrons wove in and out of these little speckles of light as they danced, the movements almost hypnotic.

She glanced around at the guests in the room, taking note of anyone who may be of interest. As expected, everyone wore a mask so she had to be reliant on remembering what people looked like from their outfits and hair. Many of the men were in suits or formal teaching robes, women were dressed head to toe in fine velvet or silk and littered with golden jewelry. Some were tall, some were frumpy, but all were impeccably dressed for the event. However, one particular man caught her attention.

From across the room near a skeleton that was serving a drink stronger than champagne, Rook caught the glimpse of a man that seemed to stand out from the rest. He was tall and lean, cutting quite a nice figure against the other patrons he was standing next to. His hair was short and immaculately styled atop his head, mostly silver with a few streaks of black poking through. He wore a mask that covered the upper portion of his face and, like most all of the other guests, the mask was in the image of a skull. Like Rook’s mask, his was golden, polished, and secured to his face with a silk ribbon tied neatly at the back of his head. His cheeks were clean shaven, although his upper lip held a rather small, but well groomed, mustache.

He wore a series of richly dyed robes that clung to his lithe body nicely, synched at the waist and were a wonderful mix of deep greens and rich purples that were synonymous with high ranking members of The Mourn Watch. The man wore a cape that was draped over one shoulder, pinned to his robes at the top with a golden brooch in the shape of a beetle and long enough to descend down the length of his body. His boots stopped at his knees and were adorned with golden accents and were perfectly shiny against the light of the ballroom.

The mysterious man sipped at a glass of whiskey as he talked with other Watchers, his long fingers curled around the glass comfortably. His arms and hands were also adorned in golden jewelry and precious gemstones. Each finger held at least one ring and Rook’s eyes had almost crossed as she tried counting the rumble of bangles that hung from his forearms and wrists. His other hand was by his side, lightly clutching at a walking stick that Rook was certain was more for looks than anything else. The head of the walking stick was an ivory skull with rather large emerald gemstones resting in the eye sockets. Even from a distance, Rook could sense the dormant magic that was house within the walking stick.

Rook realized much too late that she had been staring at the man when he turned and caught her eye with his. He offered a soft smile and a light nod. She returned the gesture, giving a slight curtsey before returning to her drink. To her surprised and secret delight, the man she’d been staring at placed his half sipped whiskey glass on the tray of a passing skeleton and began walking towards her, weaving through the crowd at a calmed pace.

The end of his walking stick tapped firmly against the stones at their feet as he walked, his stride long and steady. From under her mask, Rook could feel the apples of his cheeks begin to flush and develop a slight heat. Her heart beat wildly in her chest as he came within arms reach and she could only hope that he wouldn’t notice the sudden thrumming of the vein in her neck. The man was much taller in person, nearly a head and shoulders above her, and was even more attractive when standing so close. He was older, but still incredibly handsome from what she could see around the mask. A few fine lines had settled around his eyes, which peeked out from the sockets in his masquerade mask, and had distinct smile lines around his mouth. She took a quiet sniff of his cologne, which smelled of incense and something woodsy with a faint hint of aftershave.

“Good evening.” He said finally, his voice was rich and soothing. A bit deep, yet not forced.

“Good evening.” She mirrored, hoping the smile that spread across her lips seemed genuine and didn’t reveal just how nervous she was.

“May I?” He asked as he extended his hand to Rook, his palm facing upwards with the anticipation that should would accept. Rook swallowed thickly before offering a slight smile and a quick nod. She turned befall to set her champagne flute on the banquet table behind her and placed her hand on the outstretched fingers before her.

The mysterious man gave a gentle smile as she accepted his offer, giving a single nod before gripping his cane below the head of the skull and lifting the stick from the ground. With a quick wave of his hand, the glimmering walking stick crackled from view and the man wasted no time in leading Rook towards the dance floor. He

#emmrich volkarin #Emmrook #rook datv #emmrich x f!rook #mourn watcher rook #datv #dragon age the veilguard

8 notes · View notes

desifemininewoman · 11 months ago

Text

Guide to be like the desi coquette: Katrina Kaif stylez

Okay, Katrina Kaif in early 2000s is my personal inspiration. That's the persona I wanted to be in my first year of college - a perfect blend of girly feminine and elegance.

MAKEUP

Okay so, I feel like her whole aura is very desi coquette. Very feminine, very soft look. Almost angelic sometimes.

Main focus is on her lips or cheeks. Over all, the makeup is very minimal.

Start with a little foundation/bb cream/ tinted sunscreen, whatever you prefer.

The eyemakeuyp is also very minimal. Apply a very, very thin layer of eyeliner. Barely visible. There are two ways to do that. Just apply the eyeliner on your upper water line. Or take a thin eyeliner and apply it very close to your lashes. No wings at all. Finish with using eyelash curler or mascara.

Blush, blush, blush. Make sure it's a pink blush and not the red one though.

Ofcourse the lipgloss. It's what ties the whole look together. But before that, apply nude aur pink shade of lipstick/lip tint/lip balm.

Other than that, maintain a healthy, glowy skin. Keep your eyebrows on sleek. And that's it!

CLOTHING

Mostly, summery clothes. Floral, printed, flowy clothes.

Colorful- yellow, pink, blue etc.

Can be skirts, thin strap tops, blouses, shorts, etc.

This is the time to experiment with different color combinations with different sort of clothings. Like wearing a skirt as top, etc.

Just make sure, the outfit overall looks girly.

ACCESORIES

Okay, so this aesthetic is very minimal. So, the accessories are very strategic too.

The jwellery is very minimal- mostly dainty earrings. Mostly diamonds but somewhat matching earrings can work too.

All the other accessories compliments the outfit. Chunky headbands, rubberbands, sandals, multiple bangles, etc- all these match the color of the outfit.

Her hair too is mostly in ponytails or left open, with front hairs always framing her face.

PERSONALITY

I have said it before, it's the aura that makes the aesthetic the most. You can dress up like whoever you want but if you don't have the manners, it's not the same.

Katrina's early 2000's aesthetic is still famous because of what it represented- youth and girly femininity. She appeared a bit childlike with her clothing and her aura.

She was always soft, feminine. Always smiling and laughing.

Just looking at her in the movies like ajab prem ki ghazab kahani and welcome, makes you want to have fun, be childish.

She always moves gracefully, dances freely.

So to ace that personaility, you gotta be cheerful, girly, almost childlike.

And that's it!

#desi #desiblr #desi tumblr #desi feminine #desi girl #desi femininity #desi academia #desi tag #level up #feminine #it girl #desi it girl #katrina kaif #desifemininewoman #fashion tips

25 notes · View notes

heliopauseentertainments · 1 year ago

Text

Solar Flare

Now a complete 92k word novel. Continuity: IDW1

Rating: Teen

Relationship: Megatron/Rodimus, one-sided Starscream/Rodimus, Megatron & Starscream, background relationships

Major Characters: Megatron, Rodimus, Starscream, Zeta Prime, Ratchet

Warnings: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of VIolence, Blood & Gore, Serious Injuries, Weddings, Suggestive Themes, Horror Elements (I.E. Horror of the Divine), Reincarnation, Ambiguous Relationships, One-Sided Relationships. Please see AO3 entry for full applicable tags. AU: Canon Divergence, Gods/goddesses, Early War

Summary: "To destroy a corrupt system, we must first destroy its gods, starting with this one." In which Megatron makes a mistake by sparing Rodimus, the Prime of the Sun.

Crossposting: AO3 | Dreamwidth

Note: inspired by this art piece on Tumblr.

1st chapter under cut; the full length is on AO3.

"To destroy a corrupt system, we must first destroy its gods, starting with this one."

Megatron, at first, had been so sure of his words as he pointed at the red and yellow mech across the hall, bedecked in jewelry and silk.

The ornate metal doors that had blocked off the throne room laid crumpled on the polished marble floor under his feet, a testament to the temple’s weakness against real resistance.

In his initial planning, after storming the Temple of the Sun in Nyon, he had thought killing a false god would be the easy part. Especially since this Prime did not have a Lord Protector, no zealous paladin dedicated to defending his worthless spark, Megatron had assumed that there would simply be one less obstacle to his goal.

The defenses had been minimal. Pathetic guards ran screaming for their lives after the mundane frontal assault on the main reinforced doors. There had been no point in giving chase, so Megatron had ordered his soldiers to let them flee. Better to have terrified survivors tell the tale, whereas dead mechs couldn’t spread word of change.

If the other Primal temples were built like this one with pitiful security, their job would be a lot simpler. Megatron doubted that would be the case, but he had also doubted this push would have gone so smoothly.

Now he watched as Primal acolytes pulled on the Prime’s arms and hands, trying in vain to tug him to safety, wherever that might be found, far away from the armed intruders.

The Prime shook them off with an undignified curse before marching unhindered towards Megatron, whom he’d fixed with a glare. Not one of anger, no, one of being inconvenienced.

“What are you doing in my house? You’re freaking out my dudes!”

What.

Megatron wasn’t often taken aback, but it appeared today had yet more surprises in store for him than a suspiciously easy siege.

He had just blasted through reinforced doors with his mechs, neutralized several guards with nary a fatality, and kicked down the door to the sacred throne room where the Prime was expected to waste away his days in luxury and splendor. Yet this… this garish half-pint approached him, fine brocades and bangles swaying with the motion, with neither fear nor hesitation.

Megatron hadn’t been prepared for this.

He had been prepared for the pampered brat cowering on the beautiful, shining marble, begging for his miserable, privileged life. He had been prepared to mercilessly terminate that wastrel with a fusion cannon blast, right through the spark and through that stupid Matrix.

Just as soon as Megatron tired of the sniveling, of course.

Consternation on his face, he powered down his cannon with a soft whir as it was lowered to his side.

“Excuse me?”

The Prime planted his hands on his hips, the bejeweled and festooned fins of his spoiler tilted upward in bold defiance.

"You heard me, bolt brain."

Now that wasn't a very godly thing to say at all. What were they teaching these high-caste deadbeats these days? Insults like that were what Megatron would have expected from an overcharged cadet at a seedy spaceport, not the alleged reincarnation of Solus Prime.

For all the supposed elegance and grace of a Prime, especially the Prime of the Sun, this was a smart-mouthed little punk.

This wasn't remotely what had been expected.

Megatron scowled down at the mech who dared call himself a god.

With a wave of his arm, some of his lollygagging soldiers dispatched towards the back of the throne room to seize fleeing acolytes.

"Don't you realize what's happening here?" Megatron asked, staring right back into the defiant, burning blue gaze. "Are you really that brave or are you just foolish?"

"Oh, yeah, I know what's happening.”

Megatron sincerely doubted that, but better to hear what nonsense this unknowingly condemned moron could come up with. Maybe it would be amusing.

“You're being a total spike right now, bursting in unannounced and trashing my house like one of those medical academy parties they show on the holonet. Wreck your own house!"

Not nearly as amusing as Megatron had hoped.

What in the damned hell was this punk talking about?

No wonder this one had no Lord Protector. Who would tolerate this? Shooting him now would do the world a favor. Making a political statement at this point would be a bonus.

"Didn't your caretakers teach you any manners? Rude." Well, Terminus had tried but…. That was hardly the point. The sheer impertinence of this idiot who had no idea he was about to have a hole put through his spark at point-blank range by a fusion cannon.

"I'm about to kill you and you're upset by my lack of aristocratic manners?"

Manners hadn’t really mattered much where he came from, the predominantly manual-class and disposable-class underground city of Tarn, in the various mines where he’d labored in dangerous conditions for ages, or in the black-market pop-up gladiatorial arenas of Kaon. He had never had use for such niceties and this punk was upset that he wasn’t holding out his little finger while seizing the Primal temple.

Ridiculous.

What next? Did he expect Megatron to use a napkin when painting the floor with the Prime’s slowly dimming lifeblood?

Despite the situation and his rapidly approaching final moment, the Prime relaxed slightly, seeming to consider the contradiction now that it had been pointed out, rubbing his chin all the while.

"I suppose when you put it like that, but only a Prime can kill a Prime so like do whatever—Hey! Wait!"

The hand rubbing his chin abandoned its work to point squarely at Megatron's nose.

"I know you! You're that lunatic that got Kaon blown to slag!"

That was it; they were done here. He had tired of this highborn simpleton’s antics.

“Enough!” Megatron bellowed, smacking that accusing point away with the back of his hand. “I don’t have time for your inane blathering!”

“Hey, rude—“

“Seize him!”

Mechs surged forth, several making grabs for the Prime’s limbs.

The Prime struggled, swearing as he strove to free himself of unwelcome hands. He kicked and punched, denting plate. More than a few titanium teeth from Decepticon mouths pinged against the floor after being knocked out.

Flatline would be rather busy later patching up these morons, Megatron thought, intrigued by just how much of a fight this pampered fool was putting up.

The struggle went on until the soldiers managed to immobilize the Prime’s limbs, removing any space for him to get in another good swing.

"Might I suggest something?" A high-pitched voice piped up behind Megatron’s back, persuasively smooth with all the owner’s public speaking practice despite the underlying tinny screech.

"You may not, but you'll do it regardless of my permission, so out with it, Starscream. Let’s get your suggestion over with."

Starscream stalked closer and began to circle the restrained Prime, as though inspecting a new, expensive purchase. His thrusters clicked haughtily against the smooth floor with every step.

"Rather than immediately dispatch this 'god,' why not simply keep him prisoner?"

"What purpose would that possibly serve?" What a waste of precious fuel and man-hours that could be better allocated elsewhere. Why take on the unnecessary responsibility of babysitting?

"Well, would not a new mech simply be chosen as a puppet to take their place? A supposed reincarnation plucked from a hot spot like a shining miracle in the dark night. The Senate and their drooling lackeys will rally around the divine newspark, stir up the people's faith, and so on and so forth. Keep him alive and that little problem just solves itself, doesn't it?"

Starscream had always had an optic for political nuance, even if Megatron often discarded it in the name of idealogical stringency. He generally felt his time was better spent not playing those games. Direct action tended to suit his purposes far better.

“What of the Matrix?” Megatron asked, gesturing with his thumb at the Prime’s chest. Each Prime had one, bestowed upon them by the priesthood that served their predecessor. Relics passed down between supposed incarnations, a symbol of divinity. Turning that worthless relic into a profane trophy of scrap that would almost as profoundly undermine the blind faith of the populace as actually murdering one of their so-called “gods.”

Megatron tapped his finger against his chin in thought.

“Would not destroying the Matrix render the point moot?” A new god couldn’t be reformatted without it, right? At least, not as far as he knew. The whole thing was rustwash anyway, but that was the official narrative.

Starscream scoffed, waving a hand flippantly at the very idea as he continued to circle the immobilized Prime. His wings fluttered with interest, a behavior Megatron had seen his second-in -command perform on several occasions when he wanted something.

Something about this useless creature had caught Starscream’s attention. That would need to be ironed out later.

“Please. They probably keep a bunch of them in the basement or in a bunker somewhere or something. You break one, someone steals a backup and claims it’s the real thing, safely defended from our destructive irreverence. You get accused of having destroyed a fake one for publicity and the whole ‘message’ you want to send crumbles in shame. You know how it is with these ‘relics.’ A shanix a dozen. Best keep this one as ‘proof’ for now.”

A broad, knowing grin stretched across Starscream’s face, shining with implication.

“And, after all, you can only have the fun of killing him once.”

He hated that Starscream had a point—several, in fact. Telling the seeker so, however, would just cause more problems—the overinflated ego sort—down the line.

Megatron would settle for a simple acknowledgment as he leaned down to get a better look at this bedighted speedster.

The Prime was practically encrusted with jewels and precious metals in the form of ornate jewelry, brocaded mesh draped luxuriously over the fins of his spoiler. Feet planted firmly on the ground, the Prime glared defiantly back up at his captor. In any other situation, Megatron would have thought him a beauty to behold, but now the red mech was just a symbol of resources squandered on mere opulence.

The sight disgusted him or… it should have.

“Very well, Starscream.”

Megatron heaved a tired sigh.

“I haven’t decided what his fate will be just yet,” he said, straightening back up. “Lock him up somewhere. I don’t care where. It doesn’t matter. Just get him out of my sight.”

A few of his mechs hesitated, the ones holding the arms and shoulders of acolytes, as though they weren’t sure what to do with their prisoners. Megatron sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stood back up. Did he have to spell out everything for these idiots?

“The cultists too! Just go!”

Finally.

The throne room was at peace without that Prime spitting and screaming, now that the brat had been hauled off somewhere in the temple complex, preferably kept under lock and guard.

With the quiet, Megatron could finally get a look around, take stock of the damage and what exactly they had just conquered. This place held many, many valuable resources that they could utilize, either directly or by fencing the goods. Furthermore, he’d gotten it all for the low price of a few explosives, a couple of boot-licking lives, and inadvertent custody a very rude little “god.”

He would figure out what to do with that brat later.

Megatron took a long and slow ventilation before approaching the now abandoned, golden throne at the far end of the room. It glittered in the warm yellow-orange light from the lamps. An impression of the sun was embossed into the high back of the throne and again, smaller, on the arms and seat. It was almost too small, hardly having room for the treads on his back. It was made for more regal frames than his own, intended for heavy industrial work below ground.

The soldiers that still lingered in the room, along with his few lieutenants that had accompanied him, watched in silence.

“We will reinforce the Temple of the Sun, make it an impregnable fortress,” he said, sitting and relaxing into the Primal throne. He supposedly “desecrated” it merely by touch, let alone smearing it with spilled energon and oil from fighting his way through the temple. A shame some of that shed fuel didn’t belong to the previous occupant of this glorified chair.

No matter. It belonged to him now.

From here, it was a short step to de facto controlling the city of Nyon and its weak council.

“With a little work, it’ll make a fine base.” The first, in fact, unless one counted the ruins of Kaon, the last city he and his forces held, he thought, caressing one of the cushioned arms of the throne. After Senate forces bombed the city from the surface of Cybertron, the revolutionaries were forced underground.

Megatron gestured for his lieutenants to approach.

Starscream strode forward, an impatient twitch to his wings and several complaints no doubt already at the tip of his tongue. He still looked smug from his earlier “victory” in changing Megatron’s plans. In stark contrast, Soundwave, ever the professional, simply walked and waited in inscrutable silence for his orders.

"Now, as you know, the Senate is de facto independent, even if they nominally operate under the First Prime in Iacon. They serve no gods but themselves,” Megatron began, “we need to work quickly to fortify our position here. We have some time because they need to calculate the political risk of assaulting Nyon."

They could make good use of this place if they were quick, before the Senate could retaliate for the revolutionaries’ transgressions against the gods. Nyon, however, had one beautiful advantage that Kaon did not: a Primal temple. Even they would hesitate to simply annihilate a sacred location, no matter who held it. Not because they believed, but because the face they would lose with the public would be incalculable.

Megatron smirked, getting comfortable in the stolen throne. Just sitting here was daring the Senate to do something self-destructive and drastic. It was perfect.

Starscream opened his mouth, probably to object, but before he could get words out, he was cut off by a finger pointed in his direction.

“Organize the fortification efforts and recall Shockwave to our new position. Soundwave—“ The blue mech straightened up further to show he was giving his leader his undivided attention. “Round up and contain the remainder of the priesthood. We’re moving in. Once you’ve done that, turn your attention to following the newsfeeds. I want to know the nanoklik Iacon thinks about making a move.”

With a nod, the Soundwave turned on his heel to carry out the command.

Now he just needed to figure out what to do with the blasted Prime of the Sun. Throttling him was unfortunately off the table, for today at least.

Starscream loudly cleared his vocalizer, apparently having something else to say before getting on with his duties.

“What is it now, Starscream?”

“Well, if I may, I have a potential solution to your little Prime problem,” he started, still beaming. It was as though he had guessed Megatron’s thoughts.

“One that could legitimize our position here.”

“I’m listening.” Begrudgingly, but he would hear Starscream out. Might as well.

Megatron narrowed his optics but said nothing as he leaned his face on a raised fist. The seeker took that as permission to continue, a slippery grin stretching across the smooth metal of his face.

“What do you think of the title of Lord Protector? ‘Lord Megatron’ has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

#fic #chapter fic #fic solar flare #maccadam #idw1 #megarod #megatron #rodimus #starscream

40 notes · View notes