#just need a sword and a tan

[crustables-aurora]

@comicaurora HAPPY ACE DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! kendal is truly the guy ever and I love him dearly

[sunderwight]

Bingge vs Bingmei but it's a fucked up prince & the pauper style situation.

Su Bingge is the son of Su Xiyan and Tianlang Jun, the emperor of the demonic realms, the tyrant with a harem of hundreds of women and countless enemies.

Luo Binghe is the son of a human washerwoman and an unnamed demon who took a passing fancy to her, who has spent his life struggling to make ends meet and barely escaping death at the hands of anyone who recognizes the signs of his demonic heritage.

Luo Binghe is also a dead ringer for Su Bingge. There are some differences -- Luo Binghe has fluffy, curly hair while Su Bingge's locks are pin-straight. Luo Binghe has a somewhat boxier build, while Su Bingge is slender. Luo Binghe's skin tans in the sunlight while Su Bingge remains eerily pale no matter the elements. But the differences aren't all that noticeable to anyone who isn't looking very closely and can be easily taken care of with wardrobe & styling, and their faces are identical.

The only true issue is that Luo Binghe can't fake a heavenly demon's cultivation, his demonic ancestry is pretty high level but not heavenly demon level. Luckily a rare magical item helps with that. All Su Bingge has to do is infuse it with his blood & qi, and if Luo Binghe does the same and wears it as an amulet, it at least gives Luo Binghe's qi the appearance of Su Bingge's.

So when Luo Binghe is captured and brought to the palace, Su Bingge decides to keep him as a potentially useful body double. This could be really handy for uncovering threats or misleading enemies. The only issue is that Luo Binghe must be trained to conduct himself convincingly as Su Bingge, needs to raise his cultivation level to adequately mimic some of Su Bingge's abilities (or even hold his sword), and also cannot be allowed free access to Bingge's harem (for obvious reasons).

Enter Shen Yuan, a demonic cultivator, historian, cultural expert, and monster enthusiast who is somewhat notorious for his encyclopedic knowledge of Su Bingge's life and character. He's written a couple books on the subject. To keep up appearances, Shen Yuan is brought into the harem under the guise of a new wife, and more or less secluded with Luo Binghe to train him up. This way, if anyone catches them it will simply seem as though Su Bingge is spending time with his latest wife, while also providing Luo Binghe with training, oversight, and someone to help cover for him if he is approached unexpectedly. Luckily Shen Yuan is petite enough that just dressing him as a particularly modest woman works out.

Despite some mortification over the logistics, Shen Yuan takes his job seriously -- at first as a loyal subject of the emperor, but then because he soon realizes that sweet & hardworking Luo Binghe stands very high odds of dying if things go even slightly wrong. Honestly, the poor kid has high odds of dying even if he learns to perfectly imitate the emperor! This is not a safe situation! Shen Yuan himself doesn't have the greatest prospects either -- this is the type of court secret that needs to be kept at all costs, and once Shen Yuan's finished training Luo Binghe, the most logical thing to do would be to permanently ensure his silence.

He knows this story probably ends with him dying on the emperor's command.

But what else can he do, except try his best to loyally accomplish the task given, provide Luo Binghe with all the tools and training possible to survive, and cross his fingers? He's loyal! He would never talk and endanger his student or his emperor by spilling their secrets!

Luo Binghe doesn't think much of the emperor with the same face as him. If anything, he thinks he might despise that man. But this new life of his, in his quiet corner of the palace with Shen Yuan, is maybe the happiest he's ever been. If he could he would block out the world beyond forever, and just live peacefully with Shen Yuan and their lessons and studies, learning to cultivate and cooking meals for just the two of them.

Su Bingge watches in secret as this teacher with the same surname as his own heartless tutor (long dead by his own hand, now) dotes and fusses over his double, and begins to harbor sentiments that are difficult to put a name to.

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Guiding Light✨

Marcus Acacius x fem! reader

A/N: I was immediately inspired to write this after I saw the pictures drop Monday, and I conjured this up in one night. Thank you to @mountainsandmayhem and @joelmillerisapunk for beta reading 🩷

Summary: You watch Marcus avenge himself week after week in the pit of the arena, but how much longer will it take to make you snap? How much longer can you go on watching when he’s the only man you want?

Word Count: 6.2k

Rating: Explicit 18+ only MDNI

Tags: Yearning, a little angst, soft dom! Marcus, feelings, confessions, jealousy, unprotected piv, oral (male/female receiving), fluff, reader’s nickname is Starlight

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

  The arena is drenched in dark crimson colors as the clash of silver armor and jagged swords collide in unison. The audience is obnoxiously loud as their rowdy shouts and chants fill your ringing ears.  

   Thump. Thump. Thump. 

   You can basically feel your heart trying to break free of your insides that pound uncontrollably as you watch Marcus take out another large fighter from his right with only one jab of his shiny sword that catches sunlight and reflects in your wide eyes.

   Come on, Marcus. Win, stay alive!

   You swallow back a trembling whine as you sit on the edge of your seat, fingernails digging into the tough stone as you watch the man you yearn for take another blow to the back. You gasp as you watch Marcus flip the fighter over and finish him off with one slice of his silver sword, barely any sign of pain or fear in his vision that’s focused on taking out every single enemy that stands in his way of freedom.

   You sigh out in relief, fear flooding your veins as your eyes stay glued to every careful move he makes in the arena of death. 

   He stands in the middle of the expansive, gruesome arena, dodging left and right, taking out man after man, completely pulverizing anything and anyone that gets in his way. He’s the best in the game, the most experienced fighter, the champion that never falters, never loses. So why are you a complete mess when he’s in that pit of death?

   You’re not lovers, not exactly. You’re his plaything, the woman he calls to his bedchamber after every battle, every night that suits his needs. He doesn’t care if you’re asleep, doesn’t care if you’re in the middle of other pressing matters, doesn’t give a fuck because you’re his property that he can do whatever he wants with. And you have to admit you find that sort of… hot. You’ll do anything for that man. He can use you all he wants, as long as that means you have him.

   Your pulse thrums in your neck as you watch him completely dominate the arena. The blazing sun rains down on his broad body, leaving him in damp, silver armor, sweat glistening down his tanned skin, greying curls sticking to his forehead, dirt covering every inch of his muscular arms, his sculpted legs, his large hands. 

   You so badly wish you could be every speck of that dirt right now so you could lick up and down every inch of him until you were completely consumed in him, until you could see nothing but him for all eternity, until he melded his own skin with yours as you fused into one. 

   When the crowd chants and the last man falls to his death, the only man left standing is him, General Acacius, the man you’re completely wrapped up in. You have to pull yourself back together as your core burns hot, slick collecting just thinking of what he’ll do to you later tonight. You know he’ll take you, hard. 

   His golden flecked chocolate eyes find yours in the crowd in a heartbeat, a celebratory smirk curling against his plush mouth as darkness and trouble swirl through those beautiful eyes. You know what that means. He’s won you, and he wants you, now.

   When your eyes leave his, you see the emperor’s daughter, Mina, looking over his broad body with those bright blue eyes, her ashy blonde hair flowing down her back, and she’s nearly drooling over his victory, thinking that she can get him with her daddy’s command.

   You flare hot with jealousy at the thought of Marcus and Mina tangling together, their skin caressing over each other’s in his large bed draped with gold sheets that swallow their bodies whole till they’re nothing but shadows dancing in the midst of the night.  

   You see it now. The long walks they take in the gardens, the secret slurs in each other’s ears over dinners with the entire court, an arranged marriage as he fights for her love each time he’s in the arena. 

   It’s only in your head, only a sick mirage your jealous mind has conjured up. He barely glances her way half the time, his heated gaze only locked on you each time you’re in the same vicinity. It’s stupid really, the hate you feel for her because you could never measure up to a rich, beautiful goddess like herself. You don’t come from royalty, barely have a cent to your name, and that is why he could never love you, you think. 

   Mina has it all, and you’re just… you. 

   You swallow the lump in your throat as the audience still shouts and whistles from every direction as Marcus is called out and awarded as the winner of today’s events. You want to stay, but you get up quietly and leave, knowing he’ll want you waiting in his chambers when he’s finished. 

   He’s safe. That’s all that matters. 

   You quickly leave behind the bellowing noise of the arena, trading it for a quiet walk through the rose garden, past the trickles of clear blue fountains, entering into a quiet overlay of towering architecture that’s trimmed in carved stone and marble pathways. A place you could never even dream of setting foot in on a regular basis. You’re just a commoner, not royalty, not wealthy, not anything but his to take. And that will have to be enough. For now. 

   You slip past some guards, heading straight for his bedroom, his sanctuary so to speak. He calls it that because you are what he worships night after night in those sheets, inside those marble walls, against his broad body that makes every vibration buzz through your nerve endings. He is what makes this city even tolerable. 

   You throw the double doors open wide and slam them shut, letting the glow of the sunlight fade through the cascading window overlooking the city. The room smells of spice and aroma, the golden curtains sparkle as the sun kisses the see-through fabric and dips against the silky sheets that are bathed in a majestic golden hue. The king sized bed sits front and center as his grand bathing chambers lay to the right, just inside the hand crafted door that’s threaded with gold.

   This room, this place is exquisite, and you can’t believe the emperor is letting Marcus stay here after their falling out that happened just weeks ago. But the best fighter gets to stay in these living quarters. They get money, a title, a chance at freedom from the arena if they’re lucky. That’s what Marcus is fighting for. To be free from this hellish prison, and you just pray to the gods that no one will take him from you. You’ll surely wither and fade away the moment something goes wrong in those walls of torture and murder because he’s all you know anymore here in Ancient Rome. 

   Before you can delve into anymore feelings, you hear the crash of doors being opened behind you, and then you hear the disposal of swords and shields being tossed in a heap on the floor, then you hear the deep, ragged breaths of the one you’ve been waiting for. Marcus.

   You try to twist around, but strong arms envelop you from behind, and a warm breath blows huskily down the shell of your ear. “Enjoy the show?” he smirks as his meaty hands find the back of your long gown and rip, tugging it free as it falls to the floor around your ankles. 

   Your mouth drops open as warmth blooms in your core, hot and heavy like the room begins to feel. “Marcus! I liked that dress,” you pout.

   He grabs the back of your hair and tugs playfully while one hand snakes around your waist and pulls you flush to his silver armor, making you gasp as he cups your bare breasts and starts kneading them together, like he needs you right this very second and can’t wait any longer to get his experienced fingers on your burning skin. 

   “I’ll buy you another one. Not like I don’t already have one hanging in my closet,” he teases, pinching your pebbling nipples together as a slight moan leaves your lips. 

   “Needy thing, aren’t you?” he chuckles, pulling you closer as one hand slips down and ghosts over the sheer panties, the only thing left on your bare body. 

   “For you, yes,” you whine, stifling a moan as his calloused thumb glides over your clit, sending a shiver down your spine as you fight to keep standing upright. 

   “Greedy thing I see, wanting to come already?” he teases as he tugs his hand away from your slick center and rips your ruined panties in half, leaving you completely bare and absolutely wet with desire and famished for his touch. 

   “Turn around,” he instructs with a bite as he assesses you from head to toe, licking his bottom lip in anticipation the moment he sees how drenched you are for him.

   Your gaze drops over him, still clad in silver armor, his leather wristbands splattered in dried blood, his Caliga boots biting into his toned shins, the leather kissing his muscular thighs. He quickly loses the wristbands and stalks toward you, backing you up till your back is pressed into the corner of the bed, chest heaving as the possibilities swarm your hazy mind.

   “My armor, unthread it,” he demands as his dark brown eyes pierce into yours as sweat glistens across his tanned forehead, dirt still caking his dark skin as he stands fresh from a win of a long day in the arena. “Now,” he growls as he loses his patience while you stand there staring like a lovesick puppy.

   “Yes, sir,” you nod as your fingers get to work unlacing the gold threads of his armor, making sure your movements are swift and cordial, knowing he doesn't like waiting too long to have you. 

   His eyes follow you with every turn, every move, like he’s some kind of wild animal that’s stalking his prey, ready to pounce and devour at any minute. You have to keep your eyes off his as you unfasten his belt, the silver armor falling to the floor as you tug it off his broad body until he’s standing only in the leather material that covers his upper thighs and the boots that shine against his banged up ankles. 

   You stand there a minute and admire the gorgeous fighter that stands in front of you. Tall, extremely handsome, greying curls slicked back with the sweat from the sweltering sun in the arena, dirt etched across sculpted, tanned skin, eyes the color of bright sunlight and charcoal mixed together to make the prettiest honey-glazed eyes you’ve ever seen in your life. This man is like a god, and you’d happily get down on your knees and worship him at his beck and call. 

   His blazing eyes slide down your bare body and end at what’s left on his, nodding for you to finish the job. “Well, don’t just stand there. Finish undressing me,” he bites out with scalding irritation, clearly ready to forget his long day in an arena where hyenas bark at him day after day. He wants a release, and that release is you.

   You quickly tug the leather material down his legs, taking his underwear to the floor as his hard cock stands at attention against his sculpted abs, his coarse, wiry, dark hair trailing down the base of him as you gulp with wide-eyes.

   He’s so big, so thick, so very… god-like. 

   He sits down on the wooden chest that’s sprawled at the end of his bed, spreading his muscular legs wide as he points to his dusty battle boots. “Knees on the ground, Starlight,” he instructs firmly with a gravelly tone that makes you clench your thighs together.

   “Yes. Of course, Marcus.”

   “Sir,” he corrects as you bend down and start to unlatch the straps of his fighting boots, slowly stripping them off as you toss them to the side. 

   You idly sit there on your knees, one arm twisting around the back of his thigh as you spread him wider, almost drooling at the sight of his thick cock dripping precum around the angry red tip. Your mouth parts open, and you lose all train of thought. The only thing you want is to choke on that beautiful cock till he tells you to stop.

   He strips you from your fantasies as he grabs a fistful of your hair, leaning down as he bites out slow, deliberate words. “Are you just going to sit there, or are you going to be a good girl and wrap that pretty little mouth around my cock?” His eyes twinkle with a seductive glare, and his dirty words melt all the way down to your heated core until you can actually feel them around your aching clit.

   “Yes, sir. Wanna be your good girl,” you pant as you lick your bottom lip in anticipation.

   He smirks and sits back as his rough hand guides you forward. “Then get to work,” he growls, tugging you forward with his hand wrapped around your hair until your lips meet his dripping tip.

   You take your tongue and run it flat up the base of him, following along the bulging vein as you lick up the salty precum that gushes around his swollen tip. 

   Gods, he tastes so good, even after a long day in battle without a bath. You actually prefer to go down on him like this when his musk is drenched around the coarse hairs at his base, sweat pooling down his glorious body as you bathe in the aroma of him. Battle and all, this is when you like him most, when he completely takes charge and dominates you around his chambers, instructing you with filthy words and crude actions. This is how you like it. All hot and sweaty and desperate and messy.

   He groans as you take him deeper, hollowing out your cheeks as you fill your throat with his thick cock, gagging around his massive size as he starts to bob his hips, fucking your throat in steady strides as his large fingers wrap around your soft waves. 

   “That’s it, right there, atta fucking girl,” he moans, tipping his head down to yours as he watches you through the black pits that consume his wide eyes.

    “Look at me,” he demands as he pulls you back up to breathe, letting a bead of saliva connect to your plump lips from the tip of him as you suck in a deep breath, feeding your lungs as you look up into eyes that could eat you alive. 

   “There she is, my good little Starlight. Sucking my cock just the way I like it, yeah?” he coos, threading his fingers through your hair and stroking the back of your neck like you’re a well trained dog on a leash just waiting for their master to give you orders.

   “Mhm. You just taste so good, all hot and sweaty,” you purr as your hand slides down the base of his shaft, squeezing his balls as he grunts in pleasure, tightening his grip on your neck as he pushes you back down. 

   “Yeah? Put those pretty lips to action then, gorgeous,” he growls. 

   He takes you to your limits, cock throbbing as you choke and gag around his thick length, drool dousing him as he fucks you hard and deep, taking exactly what he needs after going through hell and back himself in one day.

   You groan, tears licking your eyes as you swallow the salty taste of him, letting him move you at his leisure, making your body do exactly as he pleases. Before you can get another good taste of his deliciousness, he pulls you off and throws you on your back in the silky sheets, watching him grab some of the gold cords from his armor. 

   Your breath escapes you as he crawls over your body, the dirt caking his broad arms as his hungry eyes nearly devour you whole as he carefully binds your wrists to the headboard, stilling your writhing legs as he starts to slowly spread them. 

   Your heart is beating wildly like ocean tides collide with your body, and your core is humming for Marcus to touch you in every single place he can get his filthy hands on you.

   He takes the tips of his fingers and melodically strokes them down your neckline, skating between your peaked breasts, teasing along your inner thighs until you’re a writhing mess beneath him. “Marcus, please,” you beg, nearly panting his name raggedly as you beg for his touch. 

   “Sir,” he corrects sternly as he stares at you with dark eyes in warning.

   “Sir,” you apologize with a meek voice.

   He chuckles and drags his finger higher, teasing around your drenched folds as he hikes one leg over his shoulder, your other folding around his back. 

   “Now, I want you to look up and watch, can you do that?” he asks as you tilt your head and swallow a gasp as you stare into the reflection of you and Marcus in between the sheets that will soon be soaked.

   “Want you to see what belongs to me, what I own,” he growls dominantly as he sinks down to his elbows and breathes in your musk deeply as your pussy shutters at just the feel of his hot breath.

   You groan in waiting, and then his mouth is on you in a flash. He licks a thick stripe up your center as your wrists tug at the golden clasps, your fingernails digging into your skin as you moan in pure ecstasy when his tongue circles meticulously around your puffy clit. 

   “Oh, yeah,” you whine as the feel of his thick fingers curl up inside you, reaching that sweet spongy spot that makes you dizzy every single time.

   He chuckles as he pulls you down further, your bound wrists biting into the cords as he swirls his tongue exceptionally fast, groaning at the taste of you as his messy curls fall against your thighs. You want to reach down and lace your fingers into those beautiful locks, want to hear him groan as your nails dig deep into his scalp as you moan his name around the spacious chambers of his living quarters, but you’ll work with this for now, until he says otherwise. 

   He pulls your bundle of nerves into his warm mouth, sucking and teasing as he looks up from under hooded eyes and stares at you playfully with his pupils expanding into dark pits the more he feasts on you. 

   You buck into his mouth as his fingers plunge in and out of you, creating the most obscene wet noises that reverberate off the marble walls. He releases your buzzing clit with a pop, licking the slick from his lips as he groans at the sweet taste of you.

   “This is exactly what I needed, Starlight. Needed to drink you down, taste the savory flavor of this sweet pussy, needed to drown in you,” he pants as he dives back in, licking and sucking and fucking two thick fingers inside your dripping hole until you start to see black dots flick across your vision.

   “Yes, come for me, Starlight,” he purrs, his gravelly voice melting your insides into warm lava as you snap and let the white hot heat take control.

   You throw your head back into the plush pillow and let your moans fill the room as you clench around his thick fingers and release everything you have to give him.

   “Just like that, Starlight. Fuck, yes,” he growls as he licks you clean, lapping up all the slick until you’re completely spent off the way he just demolished you.

   You feel his broad body climb over yours, carefully untying you from the headboard as your arms fall slack to your sides. You feel as if every wave of ecstasy just crashed into you, the high tides pulling you out to sea as you agreeably follow the darkness. Marcus pulls you out of the lapping waves and carries you back to shore where it’s safe and warm by his side.

   “Come here, Starlight. Just lay back and take the pleasure,” he purrs as he glides his massive cock into your slippery folds, spreading you wide as he starts to rock his hips back and forth, feeding himself inside you as your walls clench up around him. 

   You lay back into the dampening sheets as his body presses you deeper into the mattress, his hands tangled in your hair, your own legs wrapped tight around his broad back as you moan with every stroke of his cock. You feel the pressure inside you coiling tight, feeling as if you’ll come undone again at any second. This is what you love, what you revel in, what you need most in this world. It’s him. 

   You lay sprawled in the damp sheets, bodies tangled together like magnets colliding as you stare up into the wide mirror, the motions of his broad body reflecting in your wide eyes as you take the pleasure again and again.

   “Marcus,” you cry out, pleading for him, begging him not to stop as you watch him take you harder, your nails dragging down his back with every deep thrust he gives you as he kisses the back of your cervix repeatedly. 

   “Yeah, feels good, doesn’t it, Starlight?” he coos against the shell of your ear as he traces his lips up up up until he’s hovering straight over your lips, his mouth teasing as he nips at your bottom lip.

   “Marcus,” you repeat, your heart straining for him to kiss you.

   Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me. It’s all you want, all you need. Like air to fill your lungs, he’s all it takes.

   It takes him less than two seconds to collapse his lips onto yours like he’s as desperate for air as you, like he might die if he doesn’t fill the space between the two of you. You moan into his mouth, tasting salt and sunlight crash against your taste buds as his tongue licks inside your panting mouth. He groans into the kiss, tangling his large tongue with yours as you chase him and let him swallow you down like it’s his last night to live.

    He deepens the kiss, pulling you flush to his chest as he turns you around while still inside you, landing on his back as he laces his fingers through your locks, moaning your name with every lick and every taste he takes from you. It’s like the gods have blessed you, bringing you this man, this mountain of a man that feeds your every need. And gods, you don’t think you will ever get enough of him.

   He disconnects from your swollen lips, resting his sweat covered forehead on yours as he concentrates on his swift strokes inside you, planting his hands firmly on your hips as he takes you for the ride of your life. “Yeah, that’s it, Starlight, You’re almost there, I can feel how much you’re squeezing. Let it out, let me feel it,” he growls through clenched teeth, trying not to fall apart before you do.

   He speeds up his thrusts, filling you fuller than anyone else has before, rutting into you at just the right angle where you can feel him start to uncoil all your tethered connections as your body slackens against his hold on you. 

   One more hard, long thrust and you’re done. “Marcusssss,” you moan, feeling the heat slide down and spill over his entirety as you fall flush into his strong chest. He takes initiative and thrusts deeper, much harder than before, desperate to chase his own release.

   He threads his brows together and groans your name quietly, his lips lingering over the shell of your ear as he takes three more breaths and then spills ropes of hot white cum inside your sticky core. 

   You moan together in ecstasy, bodies entwined as he empties his seed inside you, chests heaving with exhaustion as he carefully pulls out from inside you and collapses on the bed with a thud, your body slack against his as the damp, dirty sheets shift around your naked bodies. 

   After a few seconds of ragged breaths, he pulls your back flush against his sweaty chest and drapes an arm around you, holding you close as you let the sun slowly slip behind dark clouds that paint the sky violet colors.

   “You need a bath,” you giggle as you lace your fingers through his.

   “So do you,” he chuckles, nuzzling into the crook of your neck with a huff. “Just let me lay here a few more minutes. I’m exhausted,” he murmurs as he pulls you as close as humanly possible to his warm chest. You cozy up to him and sigh, relaxing into his warm touch, reveling in this soft moment that seems more rare than nights you get him all to yourself. 

   The room is sweltering, his scent clinging to every part of your body as you bathe in the smell of sweat, dirt, spice, and something that smells a lot just like him. He’s like your very own glass of fine wine, the perfect combination of class and just downright filth. He’s just… perfect. Perfect for you, the only man you truly want. And maybe that’s because you’re in love with him. Maybe that’s why you cling to him as much as you can, afraid he’ll be taken from you at a moment’s notice.

   You can’t lie to yourself, you’re absolutely terrified each time he steps into that arena, knowing the emperor wouldn’t even bat an eyelash if a man slaughtered him to shreds. You fidget against the damp sheets, cringing at the thought of blood filling his lungs, his body parts pulled apart by barbarians as he takes his last breath and slips into the dark abyss. 

   You clamp your eyes shut, thinking of Mina dragging him off to get married, thinking of him choosing another woman over you once he’s offered to cut ties in the arena if he marries someone with a higher title. You tremble at the thought of him leaving you all alone, like you never meant anything to him, like you were just a ragdoll for him to control whenever he wanted, like you don’t mean a damn thing other than knowing you’ll always be there at his command when he wants to blow some steam off from the arena. 

   You fight the uncontrollable tears that lick the backs of your eyes, plead to not break down in front of him, beg the gods to have some mercy on your soul if you were about to lose this man. You can’t lose him; you won’t lose him, unless he walks away and tells you to stay like a helpless dog losing their only person they know will take care of them.

   You can’t stand it, can’t hold in the emotions any longer, so you let them flow, feeling the tears like icy shards spilling down your burning cheeks.

   “Hey, hey, hey. Are you crying?” he asks with alarm in his deep, gravelly voice.

   “No,” you croak out as another tear falls like raindrops on the bed. 

   “Hey now, talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong,” he pushes softly, turning you around till you’re facing his direction, concern laced in his soft brown eyes.

   You stare at him with sad eyes, nervously twisting your fingers in the silky sheets that are now covered in grime and sweat. You can’t tell him you’re scared to lose him, you just… can’t.

   “Starlight, talk to me. Tell me what it is.” His fingertips brush off a falling tear, and you shake your head slowly. 

   “It’s nothing…”

   He cups your chin and tilts your head up to where your eyes are aligned with his, and in those eyes swims the most sincere gaze he’s ever given you in his entire life. “It’s not nothing if it’s making you cry. Now talk to me. I’m right here.”

   His fingertips feel like velvet dragging across your cheek, soft brown eyes weighing into yours as he gives you his full attention. And it’s no use now hiding your feelings; you need to just clear the air and get it off your chest.

   You take a deep breath and focus before you choke your words out. “I’m scared, Marcus.”

   “Scared of what?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows as he hears you out.

   “Of losing you…”

   He sighs and runs his thumb gently down your jawline, stroking it up and down as the soothing feeling seems to settle your nerves. “Oh, Starlight. You’re never going to lose me.”

   You swallow the thick lump in your throat, holding back tears as you shake your head. “I could lose you any day in that arena. The things they put you through, the people you have to kill, the absolute horror you have to go through just to stay alive!” 

   His eyes go wide, but he lets you continue. “I don’t want to watch you die, Marcus! I don’t want them to keep feeding you to the wolves like you’re some kind of mindless entertainment for the city of Rome!”

   He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, slowly opening them back up as he cups the back of your neck. “I know, baby. I know…”

   Baby? That’s new….

   “Just trust me that I know what I’m doing, and that I’ll fight like hell to win my freedom back,” he sighs, his eyes glistening with a look like pain etched in the crevices of those golden brown irises.  

   “What if your freedom meant taking a wife, marrying someone with a title…” you whisper, barely able to lock eyes as he scrunches his forehead together.

   “What?” he asks with lines mapped against his tanned skin, considering your ridiculous question. “What do you mean take a wife with a title?”

   “Someone like Mina,” you murmur quietly.

   “Mina?” he asks with wide eyes.

   “She’s been obsessed with you ever since you first stepped into that arena. The way she looks at you… she could have you with a snap of her fingers if only she asked her father. And Marcus, I don’t want…”

   “Whoa there, slow down. Mina? Where is all this coming from? I have no interest in Mina.”

   You gulp, eyes dropping to the twisted sheets as you feel your heart stutter in your chest. “I overhear her all the time. The way she swoons over you, the way she dreams that one day you’ll notice her in the arena. And then… and what if you want to get married? Not even to her, but to someone with money, a title, someone royal, maybe someone that’ll get you out of here quicker? What if you…”

   You close your eyes tight, afraid you’ve spoken too much, afraid you’ve ruined everything as you lay in a heap with your heart pounding in your chest like a ticking time bomb. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did that, if you saved yourself from the brink of death. But I… I don’t know what I would do if I lost you, too. If you were to choose someone else…”

   You let the tears collect in your eyes, feel them slipping down your face as you try your best not to throw anything else frantic and chaotic into the stormy clouds above Rome. You’ve already said too much, too fast. You weren’t supposed to say anything.

   He lifts his head and stares at you, wordlessly assessing your fragile features as his eyes turn a soft brown, eyebrows knitting together as his eyes become glossy like yours. “Starlight, no. I don’t want Mina, I never did. And I would never ever leave you for someone else, even if it got me out of that pit faster. The only woman I want to see is you. If I haven’t made that clear before, I’m sorry. But… baby, you belong to me. You’re mine.”

   “I’m… yours?” you ask carefully, your tears spilling over the edges uncontrollably as you cling to his chest.

   “Of course you’re mine, Starlight. You’ve been mine since the first day I locked eyes on your beautiful face,” he whispers, curling a lock of hair behind your ear as you breathe in deep, surrounding yourself in the very essence of him as he tells you exactly how he’s felt the whole time this has been going on. “I’ve been yours longer than you know.”

   You whimper out a sigh, threading your fingers through his tousled hair as you stare into starry brown eyes that you’d really like to slip in and stay for all eternity. “Really?” you ask with wonder in your eyes.

   “Really,” he nods. “Do you know why I call you Starlight?”

   “No,” you whisper quietly, shaking your head as a fresh tear streams down your skin. He catches it with his thumb and caresses your cheek gently as his calloused fingers soothe your cloudy thoughts. 

   “Because you’re the brightest thing I see every single time I step into that arena. The only thing that keeps me fighting week after week in that bloodbath is you, so I can get back to you.”

   His answer leaves you completely breathless as you suck in warm air, your body still as you look longingly at the man that starts devastating wildfires in your heart.

   “Me?” you ask in a shaky breath.

   “You,” he nods with a smile. “The very first time I stepped into the arena, the first thing that crossed my vision was your eyes. Those beautiful, sparkling eyes were the only thing I focused on, the only thing that kept me from losing myself on that battlefield was you.”

   You gasp, his deep words taking the breath from your lungs as he confesses about the first time he noticed you, saw you, really, truly saw you. You weren’t invisible to him. You were never invisible. “Marcus…” you say shakily as he strokes your jawline lovingly. “But… I… I’m just a simple woman. I have no titles, no money to my name, no prospects. I’m just… me,” you state slowly.

   He sighs, cupping his hand around the back of your head as his fingers lazily stroke through your strands gently. “I don’t care, Starlight. I don’t care about money or titles or really anything about an important name. What's life of riches and freedom if I can’t have you?” 

   You swear your heart blooms like lush roses in your chest as you hear those words repeat again and again in your mind. He wants you, he wants you.

   “I want you,” he repeats, as if he can hear the sounds of doubt play in your mind like a music box that won’t stop spinning. 

   He cups both sides of your face and looks at you with pure intent in his glossy brown eyes. “I want you every day, every minute, every second, and I burn for you in that arena,” he promises as his lips graze over yours delicately. “I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you sitting in the audience all wide-eyed and beautiful. And I want you even more now that I have you, want you by my side every minute of every day because I can’t stand the thought of losing you. And I’ll fight like hell to earn my freedom back because I love you.”

   He loves you.

   “Marcus, I…” 

   He crashes his lips against yours, a hot, needy, yearning kiss that nearly sends you soaring into the night sky as his lips surge like fire through your very veins. It’s soft like snow, kissing at your eyelashes as you let him pull you flush to his chest, needing to be as close as possible as love burns through your bodies, connecting them together as if this is the very first time you both ache to collide together. 

   “I love you, Marcus,” you whisper against his lips.

   He pulls you on top of his chest and sinks his mouth down on yours, slowly slotting his tongue in your mouth, drawing lazily circles as he drinks you down as you allow him to take all of you. Whatever he wants, whatever he needs from you he has. He tastes like the stars that shimmer in the sky, and you’ll be his entire galaxy, his Starlight that’ll guide him off the battlefield of the arena and back into your arms where he’s safe from harm.

   When he disconnects from your mouth, he stares at you, his soft brown eyes shimmering up at you as he runs his calloused fingers tenderly through your hair. “You’re mine, Starlight.”

   “I’m yours,” you repeat, smiling down at him as he brushes his lips against your forehead, kissing you with love written all over his touch as he pulls you up from the bed. 

   “Come on, my love. Let’s go take a bath,” he says softly as he picks you up and carries you to the bathing chamber, his strong arms cradling you against his warm chest as he places a lasting kiss to your forehead. 

   All your worries are shed, all false pretenses are gone, everything you were mourning over is suddenly lifted off your shoulders as they fly away into the night sky. This man is yours, and he’s never ever planning on letting you go. 

   Starlight shines brighter than any Roman Empire games, and you’re his guiding light back home.

[tetzoro]

☽◯☾ - SWORD AND SHEATH

꒰ synopsis ꒱ : After another slew at sea, you and Zoro have the ship all to yourselves as the crew restocks up on the island. They say that curiosity kills the cat, but what happens when you've tamed the beast?

꒰ content ꒱ : MDNI. zoro roronoa x f!reader ; swordplay, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, mentions of spit, pet names (baby, pretty girl), mentions of squirting, lots of teasing and praise — WC : 5.2k

⭑ 𓂃 ꒰ First Quarter ! ꒱ ― Kinktober Masterlist

Each glide of the polish-infused cloth along the Wado Ichimonji is slow, refined. Zoro was using his practiced hand to do the process he’s done thousands of times with the blade he cherishes most.

It was a form of art — the way the blade would be reborn with the shine it was always meant to have, no longer weighed down by the blood, dirt, and sweat that would so often coat it.

The sun beats down on him as he continues his ritual. Sword maintenance was just as important as training; it was cathartic, another form of meditation that Zoro relied on to center himself, grow stronger, and keep his tools as efficient as he could. 

Wiping away the horrors each weapon has seen makes him feel a little more cleansed himself. Zoro has never been one to shy away from a fight or doing what he needs to do in order to survive, but the process just reminds him that he won the battle; he’s the one who gets to clean his blades and move onto his next enemy — the next step in his dream.

His wandering mind can’t help but drift back to you — his bright star in the night sky, the one that silently guides him along and encourages his every step on his journey, even going as far as lighting the way when the path seems too dark. 

After a few moments of being with you, he too feels the weight of the blood on his hands fade away as soon as you lovingly take them in yours. The tender skin of your palms kissing, the buzz of being grounded by each squeeze you grant him and he finds himself able to begin again.

Seagulls chirp overhead as he works, polishing his blades with intent, his focus unshakeable even though the world around him demands attention. The gentle lull of the waves, the whispering breeze in the air, he was able to tune it all out.

But the moment you came waltzing onto the deck, his ears perked up and his nose scrunched, signaling that he knew you were there and mentally preparing himself for whatever you had planned next. If only he knew.

“What do you want now?” The last word dies in his throat as he takes you in, freezing in place. You only see it because you know him so well, and have studied his face and all of his expressions far and wide. 

The subtle widening of his eye, barely a fraction of a difference but it’s a difference all the same. The stoic mask he so often wears, acting indifferent to things such as clothes, slips away as no one could ever ward off the power of beauty - especially yours.

The facade begins to chip away as a blush spreads across his face, gears turning in his brain to find something to say as you make your way over to him.

Because today, the Sunny was docked at an island for a routine supply run and you were all too quick to volunteer you and Zoro to stay back and watch the ship together. He should've known right then and there that you were up to no good but your syrupy sweet eagerness disarmed him. 

But now you were stalking closer to him, dressed up entirely in his clothes – or at least some of them. Adorned in his notable green robe, his haramaki, and completed with his bandana securely tied around your head. His gaze rakes over your figure, taking in the way you look wearing one of his favorite outfits. Swallowing hard, his adam's apple bobs in anticipation. He can’t help but feel his throat close up and trap all the words he wishes to say behind a wall of surprise.

“What do you think?” You ask, your lips bending in a coy manner. 

A blush blooms across his tanned skin in a slow crawl, blossoming into a darker shade the more you twirl in his robe that very clearly shows you’re not wearing his pants underneath it.

His jaw clenched, unable to form any words as he continues to drink you in. This was the last thing he expected from you today, but he really should’ve known better.

“You’re blushing.” You grin, going to poke his cheek. But his reflexes were too sharp, instantly swatting your hand away before turning his head away from you.

“Am not! Shut up!” He hisses out, the blush only deepening as you call him out. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, woman.”

“Don’t I?” You move to get back in his line of sight, that disarmingly sweet yet taunting smile still resting on your lips. “Just tell me what you think of the outfit, Zo.”

“You’re wearing my clothes.” He points out, stating the obvious. You don’t bother to hide the way you roll your eyes.

“Very astute of you. Did you have to use your Haki to come to that conclusion?” 

Without another word, Zoro throws you over his shoulder, marching back into the ship and straight for the bunks. You squeal, accusing him of being a brute as you lazily pound your fists against his back. 

Zoro slaps your ass with a sadistic grin that you don’t have the pleasure of seeing before he begins to squeeze and knead the plush flesh, unable to move his firm hand away from it.

He makes his way into the cramped room. It wasn’t his favorite place to take you but it was the closest and climbing up the crow's nest would only cause a delay between him and what he desired most.

After closing the heavy wooden door with the back of his boot, he tosses you onto the bed, letting you sprawl out for him while he places his swords to the side – perfectly lined up as always.

“Wearing my clothes around like this…” Zoro trails off as his eye zeroes in on the way the robe slides off of your shoulder, teasingly exposing the sliver of your chest. He can feel his face heat up all over again. “Are you really not wearing anything under this?”

“Well, the pants didn’t fit me and you don’t normally wear a shirt under this.” The impassive manner in which you said that did not hold a candle to the way your eyes were fired up with a diabolical mirth wrapped up with mischief. Always playing the little minx that would find a way to burrow under his skin and make a home there just to torture him. Or so he says.

“You little...” Zoro quickly crawls over you, caging you in under him, elbows digging into the mattress by your head. “You make it so hard for me sometimes.”

“Do I? Let me feel—” You reach toward his pants but his hand encircles your wrist.

“Oi! That’s not what I meant.” he almost hisses out. He took your wrists in his hands and pinned them over your head on the flattened pillow on his bunk.

The thread of control he was clinging onto was no match for the ember of desire you spark in him. One single strike and it would be burnt out, turning into ash and falling right into the palm of your hand. 

“I know.” You giggle. The damn giggle that never fails to cause something within him to flutter, stirring it around until he had no choice but to act on it. 

Surging forward, his lips aggressively capture yours. There’s no room for easing into it, just a clash of teeth knocking together, swirling with a mix of heady groans and needy moans.

But that’s one of his favorite things about kissing you — how you were just unabashed about how messy it would get. Swapping spit through the sheer force of each other's tongues shoving their way into hot, receptive mouths.

The amount of passion and unspoken feelings he’s able to express through this simple act is something he flourishes at, excelling at unraveling you. Gripping your cheeks, he tilts your head back slightly so he can deepen the kiss — as if he was trying to spill the words that stubbornly sat on the tip of his tongue and have it reach the bottom of your heart.

The call for air was growing too difficult to ignore and reluctantly he pulled back, letting the string of saliva snap and drip down your chins. He leans down, kissing the droplet off of your skin, ingesting as much as he possibly can before looking at you.

You look back at him through half-lidded eyes, melting into the bed already from the ferocity of the kiss. His steely eye trails away from your swollen, lust-bitten lips in favor of taking in the way you’re panting under him. Need takes over him as he reaches for your — his — clothes.

Zoro has disrobed himself many times, but he’s never had to take it off of someone else like this. He knows the way it unravels open and leaves his chest all exposed before he fights someone, but this isn’t one of those times.

With a gentleness that only love could bring, he languidly undoes the robe, pulling back a bit so he can see how the green fabric bunches around your sides, your heaving chest now out on display for him.

Peppering a few kisses down your jaw, his tongue trails your neck as he works his way down to your collarbone and your supple chest. Each delicious drag has you squirming under him, whining about him being a tease.

“You’re one to talk.” Zoro gruffs out with a bite of sarcasm, giving your nipple a quick pinch. He relishes in the yelp of his name that you beautifully let out before carefully trailing his slick tongue along your skin. 

The way you mewl as his lips enclose your pert bud only reinforces the primal desire that’s been raging inside of him since you first came out dressed in that damn robe.

After giving your other breast the same treatment, he presses his lips in the middle of your chest and lets it linger so he can inhale one of the sweetest parts of your body — the one that lays closest to your heart.

Zoro presses wet, open-mouthed kisses all along your stomach, moving further down until easily slipping your panties off and tossing them behind him.

Running his fingers along your glistening folds, he holds back a groan at the strings of arousal already clinging to him.

“Already so wet f’me.” His eye was trained at the apex between your thighs, his tongue poking out to lick his bottom lip. “Gonna prep you now.”

Bringing his face closer, he shuts his eye in a hazy bliss as he takes in your scent. The action always made you squirm but he was addicted to every single aspect of your cunt. He could never get enough of your musk, knowing that heaven was only a taste away.

Before you could complain about him taking his time, he dives in.

It wasn't often that Zoro was in a position to praise you relentlessly while his head was normally buried in your heat where you took everything so well for him. 

So, he’s learned to show you his adoration by the precise swirl of his tongue, making out with your clit and giving into every one of your demands. Groaning against your cunt as soon as he got his first taste, never quite getting his fill of it no matter how much he lapped at it.

“Zo – fuck.” The words rush out from your lungs and assimilate into the hazy tension that’s hanging in the sex-filled air. “Feels so good.”

His hands grip your thighs, throwing your legs over his shoulder before moving to grab your ass, digging into the plushness and bringing you impossibly closer as he continues his assault.

“Tastes s’fucking good.” He slurs, the sound presses directly against your clit. Zoro's attention flickered back up to you, dark and stormy eye swirling around with a primal hunger as if he couldn’t ever get enough. “My sweet girl.”

You let out a soft whine as you clutch his hair, guiding him even closer as his tongue slips into your entrance.

He keeps at it, pinching your thigh — a demanding little code he uses when he wants to hear you more. Your saccharine moans, addictingly lewd mewls, and honeyed murmurs of praise.

“Please don’t stop, ah, ‘m getting close!” There was no way Zoro would stop. Not even if he wanted to tease you, not when he was so lost in your taste that all he wanted to do was let you pull him under your current and drown in it.

He vigorously continues to lap at your entrance, attempting to collect every drop of your sweet essence. His nose nudges your clit and he can feel your thighs begin to tremble, locking his head in place. He moves to focus his attention there, the flat of Zoro’s tongue adds more pressure onto the throbbing bud.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your back raises from the mattress when Zoro collects your puffy clit in his mouth, sucking as hard as he can. You choke back a whimper, letting out a noise you’ve hardly ever released before as you claw at his head, humping his face for more.

“Zoro — fuck! Wait, it’s too much!" The words melt into an elongated moan, losing yourself to the drowsy delirium that zoro is spelling out against the bundle of nerves. He gives out a resounding grunt, gripping you tighter in encouragement. 

It’s all you need to let go.

Thank god no one else was on the ship because they might’ve heard the way you cried out his name in ultimate bliss as the taut band within you fully snapped. Zoro didn’t stop, lapping up the slick that gushed from your sweet pussy.

The bottom half of his face glistens in your arousal and he was absolutely drunk off of it as if it was a bottle of the finest sake in the world.

“Keep 'em spread open for me baby, ‘m not done yet,” Zoro said, sitting back on his haunches and taking in your already fucked out expression. “Need you to do that again.”

After sliding off his pants, he grips the base of his cock, giving it a few tentative pumps as his eyes trail back over your body, covered in a sheen of desire. 

If he didn’t crave to be inside of you so badly he would’ve come all over you, making you as messy as possible. His dick twitches at the thought, heat curling in his gut as he imagines you covered in the white of his essence.

“Zoro.” You gasp out, hands digging into the slightly sweaty sheets. The desperation and utter need that coats your husky voice almost does him in. But you’ve had too much control over him today, and he had to gain some of that back.

“Look at you.” Zoro's voice is low, dark and merciless. The deep desire that overtakes him and makes his words more gravely and coarse, sanding over your skin so gratifying it leaves your hips bucking up for more. The sight below him is surely one of his favorites and he plans on drawing it out for as long as he can. “All spread out for me in my bed, still in my clothes.”

Zoro leans forward, lightly tapping his cock against your sticky folds and nudging it through to your entrance, just resting it at your opening, not yet pushing in. His fingers dig deeper into your waist, keeping you in place before you can think about rolling your hips against him, trying to suck him in with all your might. 

“You’re so mean.” A pitiful pout rests on your pretty lips and he almost gives in. Almost. But he knows you so well by now, knows that you’re used to getting exactly what you want and it only makes him want to ruin you more. To put you in a place where all you want is him, all you crave is his touch. And you’re teetering right on the edge, only a simple nudge and you’ll be falling right into his trap. 

“Yeah?” One of his hands returns to his cock, reddened tip angrily staring at you as he starts to pump himself over your mound, spreading his precum all over his length as he preps himself for you. “That’s not going to get you what you want though.”

“Please, Zoro.” You barely breathe out, your need for him so great that it starts to turn painful, the dull ache spreading through your body like a wildfire, screaming out for relief as the flames of desire consume you. You’ve had a taste but you needed more.  The only thing that would satiate you was his cock sliding deep within you. “Please, I'm sorry. Please don’t tease me, come on.”

The whine in your voice has his dick twitching in his hand, ego fueling the blood coursing through his veins. Zoro wasn’t a power-hungry man, he never cared for it in the same way most people did. He liked being strong, he demanded respect, but never wanted to lead — to rule.

But that all changed whenever he’d have you sprawled out beneath him. feeling like the king of the world as one of the most desired women only has eyes for him, begging for his cock, yearning for his love. 

He’d give into you every time, his heart too weak to win against the love he had for you, but he tried to stave it off as much as he could.

“Only if you think you can handle it.” He smirks, tip catching against your clit, your body jolting forward. “See? You’re already so sensitive just from my mouth.”

“Dammit Zoro.” Another mewl that his cock leaps at. Frustration etches across your features, water pooling in your eyes as you continue to paw at him. It’s what he was waiting for — his pretty girl reduced to putty in his hand, ready to be played with. “Please.”

Something possesses him with the plea that pierces his heart — takes over the last cognitive brain cell he has as he lets out an exaggerated spit, the glob landing on his length.

Your breath hitches as he finally pushes himself all the way in, the stretch splitting you open to the point that no noise can come out, finally feeling full of what you’ve been waiting for all day. 

“You turned me into this — fuck — made me like this,.” Zoro swears, his arm wrapping around your back and pulling you flush against him as he feels the way your greedy cunt keeps him snugly in place.

“Are you really complaining about that?” Your voice almost slips into a whine as he pulls back out a little before bullying his way through you as your cunt accommodates his girth — eagerly welcoming him back in. 

“So tight, look at that.” He ignores your snark, opting to fixate on the way you’re swallowing him whole, slack-jawed and practically drooling over the sight. “Made for me.”

You clench at his words which rewards you with one of his sinful grunts, his head bowing slightly as you pulse around his throbbing length.

“Mhm,” You hum, digging your nails into his shoulders, little crescent moons blooming in its place. He lets out a hiss, snapping his hips all the way back in, nudging against your cervix. “Just fuck me already.”

“Always running your mouth off like a damn brat.” He glares down at you but there’s no bite to it — not with the amused crinkles that cradle his eyes with care.

“What’re you gonna do about it?” Famous last words.

But Zoro didn’t do what he usually did; flipping you over and fucking you deep in the mattress until the only thing your mouth can do is sing out his name like a mantra.

His eye held the secrets of unspoken words, a question that he refused to waste his breath on — not when he already knew how to decipher the language of his gaze.

You trust me?

As easy as breathing.

Breathy pants escape his lungs as he keeps a steady pace, looking at you. No matter how many times he’s had you under him, you never fail to weaken him.

“I think it’s time we complete your little ensemble here.” 

“Huh?” Zoro doesn’t answer you as he reaches for the Wado Ichimonji. You shift under him in anticipation.

“Relax, baby. I just want you to hold this for me.”

The heavy hilt lays in your mouth, muffling any of the moans that tried to escape it. Zoro's calloused hand runs along your cheek, down your jaw and chin as he appraises the view before him.

The look in his steely gaze was one you were familiar with but with an edge of possession — pride.

Countless times this treasured weapon has been wielded in his own mouth, fighting to protect himself, but more importantly, his crew. Seeing you laid out under him with a lust-blown look in your eye as tears brim your lashes is something else entirely.

“That's it. Keep holding onto it,” His gaze doesn’t leave yours as he slowly begins to thrust back into you. “Just like that.”

You let out a soft whine that sounded like a muffled version of his name. Compulsion drives him to quicken his pace, moving slow and steady until your body jiggles under the ferocity of each stroke.

“There you are. Keep it there for me and I'll take care of you, alright?” 

True to his word, Zoro keeps pounding into you, his other hand trailing down your body and grabbing every bit of you he can get his hand on before his fingers catch your neglected nub between them.

The way you effortlessly clean his dirty hands, having his sword fit in your mouth like this makes it feel like it’s being cleansed in the most pure form possible. Each rapid rock of his hips has your jaw clenching down against it further, all of your enticing noises are muffled by the intricately woven hilt.

“Fuck, perfect.” The praise spills out of his mouth and pools into your gut. “So fucking perfect.”

The hilt started to slip, threatening to clatter against the floor and finishing all the work he had done on it earlier. 

“Hold it.” He hisses, “Don’t let it fall.”

His hips urgently move faster, thrusting harder into you as you try your best to grip the sword in your mouth. But he knows how strenuous it can be on his teeth and jaw, so his hand slips up to cup yours. 

Once you steady the sword, his hand trails down the sheath but his eye never leaves yours. With a bated breath, he begins to slide the sheath off, watching as your eyes widen in curiosity but make no protest to stop him.

The blade was now out, facing him and gleaming under the rays of light that poured into the room from the tiny window. The sight had his hips stuttering — the element of risk now flirting with his innermost desires. 

You were perfectly safe in his arms, he was the one who should be worried. He knows how sharp those blades are, how a tiny graze could pierce his skin.

Yet the siren call of the silver glint beckons him as it sits so prettily in your mouth — a tantalizing sight. You may be the one under him but he was the one surrendering to your power.

Many more possibilities flashed in his mind, darker desires that had him pressing his chest flush against yours, the Wado Ichimonji only a few inches away from him.

But perhaps another time he could fully indulge in the temptations that swam around in his mind, wondering how far you two could go for each other.

For now, he missed kissing you, missed your lips on his, consuming the very air from his lungs and replacing it with your sweet noises that breathe him back to life. So he bends down further, expertly taking the hilt in his mouth and pulling it from yours.

He gives you a few deep thrusts before he rises up, ready to put the sword aside but your arm stops him.

The look in your eyes mirrors the same desire that licks at his gut, and he knows you two are on the same page — just like always. 

“You want me to keep it out?” Zoro can’t hide the tone of surprise in his voice as he lazily humps against your hips. You give him a shy nod. “Why?”

“It could be fun.” The way you’re looking at him right now is killing him, slowly shredding away all of his worries and pushing him into the pits of temptation. 

“It could be dangerous.”

“But isn’t that exciting?” Zoro swallows hard. It could very well be exciting, showcasing your trust for one another but…

“I don't want to hurt you.” He couldn't live with that, knowing that one of his blades had hurt you in a way you didn’t want. He'd rather slit his stomach open than do that. 

“You wouldn’t but I'll tell you if it does, I promise.” You reach up and caress his cheeks with a tenderness that has him choking for air. “Our safe word can be… sake.”

“Okay.” The unease that previously rested on his shoulders flows down his back and far away from him as he lets out a soft chuckle. “Sake it is, you ready baby?”

After a quick nod, Zoro brings the Wado back between your two joined bodies.

The cool metal kisses your skin as it trails along a precise path with absolutely zero intention to harm. But to have the infamous pirate hunter Zoro hover over you, a dark gaze latched onto the point of his katana to your skin that’s budding with gooseflesh sends a chill down your spine.

It takes everything in you not to arch at the thrill, the simple act could nick your skin and end this before it even begins.

“How's that?” Zoro's voice sounds a million miles away as your blood thrums loudly in your ear. The swordsman lets out a groan as you salaciously clench around him, his fist tightening around the hilt as he continues to glide the metal along your skin. 

“So good,” Your breath hitches as he continues to graze it over your collarbone. “Knew you wouldn’t hurt me, Zo.”

“Never.” He gruffs out, trying to keep his eye open although the fluttering of your walls tempts him to shut them in bliss. He doesn’t know how much longer he can hold out like this.

Trust could be hard to find in this new world, he was lucky to find a crew that he knew would always have his back throughout everything. but this? This was so much more than that.

To be able to have you in the most vulnerable position imaginable with a blade dancing along your skin, and enjoying it not because of the act itself, but because of the trust and respect the two of you have built for each other, growing into something he’d never dream of attaining. 

If he wasn’t careful, he could finish right now as pleasure shoots down his spine, desperately begging to fill you up. But the last thing he’d ever do was leave you ever wanting more. 

Gently putting the blade aside, he ravenously crashes back into you with a new spark of ardor — chest to chest, ferociously driving into your cunt before his lips meet yours once again.

He kissed you and tasted the familiar steel, but mixed with your sweetness that he’d never stop chasing as long any time he’d have to put this blade in his mouth.

“So fuckin’ good.” The words sink into your lips, unable to move away from you for too long. His hips erratically move now, no set rhythm as they chase the high you both desperately seek. Your nails claw into his back and force a guttural groan out of him, wanting nothing more than for you to mark up his whole body. “So fucking good for me.”

Zoro never minded pain, it came with the territory of who he is. But having you inflict it on him was the sweetest sin he’s ever known, his body bursting with pleasure as it threatens to come undone and feed into all of your desires.

“Zo-!” you gasp out, tears brimming with droplets of devotion that he can’t wait to lick up. “‘m close!”

The sweet sound of your cries only fuels him more.

“Go ahead baby, let go.” His gaze is trained on your expressions, soaking them up as it morphs into an unyielding force of pleasure.

As your back arches up into him, he’s quick to flatten his palm there, keeping you flush against him. He can feel every tremor and tremble, each of your nerves and neurons firing off and coursing through your veins.

A wave of ecstasy crashes over your body, freezing each of your limbs in place and threatens to drag you to oblivion. 

“Almost there, just a little longer.” Zoro pumps into you, your cunt clamping down on him to the point he almost has to pull out as you squirt all over his lower half and the already messed up sheets. “That’s it, fuck yes-“

Zoro begins to release in your cunt with a grunt of your name, letting you milk his cock as his body shudders in the eternal bliss you so readily provide him. He pulls out at the last rope of cum, letting it land on your mound before he nudged your clit with his softening cock, ensuring to make a mess all over your pussy.

“Zoro!” your body jolts, fingers gripping his bicep. “‘m sensitive.”

“Then come here baby.” Zoro pulls you into his strong arms, carefully eyeing the blade that was still unsheathed and still set aside. 

Zoro's calloused fingers catch your earlobe, gently massaging it as he inspects it.

“You know, you still need one more piece.” Zoro's gaze is intense as it sets on you. His hands trail down your body, lightly massaging it as he works his way down in a soothing manner.

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“When the others get back, we’re going into town so we can get you your own pair of earrings.” He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Just like me.”

“Really?” The mind fogginess of the shared desire breaks away from the way beams of light emit when you smile at him.

He nods, brushing his lips alongside the temple of your head. Zoro presses his nose into your hair and inhales it.

“Quit sniffing me.” You let out an amused scoff.

“Nah, you just smell so damn good like this.” His lips move to kiss along your face, pressing into your neck before inhaling once again.

“You mean sweaty?”

“Drenched in sweat, arousal and me.” His voice is low in your ear and you crinkle your nose at the strange, but endearing compliment.

“Freak.” You tease, snuggling into him, feeling the way his muscles ripple around you in his strong, unrelenting hold.

“Takes one to know one.” He chuckles, feeling his body start to settle from the intensity of his high, melting into you and the mattress as a nap threatens to take hold. But he just had one more question. “So, if you’re dressed as me, does that mean you can drink sake as well as me?”

“Maybe we should find out.”

tags: @thesunxwentblack @autumnstuffs

[l4dy-bugss]

Princess!reader, who waited so long for her best friend, Sirius, to get back from war. She spent every night picturing him, how he'd look when he came home, if he'd still smell like the same boy she fell asleep against in the orchards..

She was so excited the day she got a letter from him. He was finally coming home. The war was over. He was victorious, and he couldn't wait to see her.

Only, when he came home, he wasn't alone. She didn't realise it at first. Sirius was all she could focus on, the way he swept her up in his arms, his muscles bigger than the last time she'd seen him. She didn't even register where he was taking her until he set her down on the bed.

Innocent and confused, she looked up at him, waiting for him to speak, to tell her all about his travels, the battles he fought.. but he didn't, and then she heard it.

The door closed, but sirius was already inside. When she glanced over, she nearly screamed. A tall, tan, scarred man stood by her door, with mousy brown hair and sword resting on his hip.

That's when sirius finally spoke. He glanced at the man before returning his attention to her.

"This is my friend. We fought together. You don't mind him being here, right?" He smiled, and her stomach flipped. She'd always loved the way he'd grin at her, too pure to notice how it's changed from the sweet, innocent smile he had as a child, to something darker, smirking down at her with something other than merely happiness.

She was nervous. She'd never been around a man like the one who stood by her door, but she trusted sirius. He'd never hurt her. He just spent a year in a foreign country fighting a war for her father, the king.

She couldn't help but feel a strange sensation in her tummy, though. She didn't know this man, even if sirius did. Her father had told her never to be alone with a man, that she always needed someone to supervise, but it was just sirius.. and his friend..

He was so big, and he had a look on his face that the Princess had never seen before. Sirius had gotten bigger, too. She felt how much stronger he'd gotten when he picked her up. His arms had nearly doubled in size, and his chest was firmer.. He wasn't just pretty anymore..

He was manly now, and it made her feel things, things she'd felt once or twice before, but never this strongly..

Part two?? (Pt.2 will contain smut if I write it!!)

[the-honoured]

Red Thread - ( Trafalgar Law x Reader )

Synopsis: You're a crew member of the Heart Pirates and the sole medical apprentice of the Surgeon of Death, Trafalgar D. Law. When he returns one day to the Polar Tang with a terrible wound, it's up to you to stitch him up. In the process of tending to his wounds, you find a red thread binds the two of you, a suture which tethers you in more ways than one.

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: NSFW, AFAB!Reader, Handjob, Cum Eating, Dirty Talk, Brief Mention of Wounds, I Need Trafalgar Law

A/N: After nearly a decade in fandom spaces, this is my very first fanfiction because the Law brainworm has begun to pilot me like a gundam. I hope you enjoy!

⸻ ∔ ⸻

You’re certain that whichever terrible God reigns over the seas is looking down upon you and positively laughing right now.

Your throat goes bone-dry, fingers trembling around the needle and thread held delicately between them as you gaze down at the sight beneath you:

Your captain, leader of the Heart Pirates and an unparalleled doctor, the Surgeon of Death himself, lays atop the operating table— legs splayed, tan skin sheened with sweat, long fingers curled so tightly around your thigh that the skin around his knuckles smooths to bone-white. The fabric of his tank top is torn open down the center, revealing a canvas of perfect skin sliced through by the faultline of a long, incised cut. A sword wound, you deduce. It’s not fatal, but it looks deep and painful, a clean slice running from the linea alba to the external oblique. You prepared it for suturing moments before, just as he had taught you: stabilize the bleed, sterilize with antiseptic solution, wash thoroughly. All that remained was loading the thread through the needle and stitching the wound. 

And yet, you hesitated. It was laughable, really. You had done this a million times before. Captain Trafalgar was nothing if not precise and diligent, and as his medical apprentice, he expected nothing less than surgical perfection from you. For one year you’d studied tirelessly with him, loaded the thread of a needle so many times you were sure you could do it wearing winter gloves and a thick blindfold. You’d spent countless nights tucked so close to his side you could feel his voice pooling in your abdomen, a low and resonant hum beneath your skin, clinging to every word of instruction as he guided your fingers through the different sutures with near-tantalizing grace. 

Those fingers, always so lithe and agile, were now pressed against your thigh like a vice, tight enough it was sure to bruise in the morning. You were certain the memory of their burning heat would last far longer. From beneath you, Captain Trafalgar releases a low, pained moan. Sweat beads along his temples, his brows furrowed tight, his lips pulled in anticipation. 

Your captain was counting on you. A suture as simple as this should be as faultless as breathing for you. Thread the needle, stitch perpendicular to the injury, maintain equal depth and distance from the wound's edge. You hear the deep rumble of his voice instruct you, slow and steady, the same way it always did in your best dreams. The kind of dreams where he was instructing you to do something else.

Oh, gods. He was bleeding and wounded beneath you and all you could think about was his fingers against your thigh.

When you look back up from the wound, you find Captain Trafalgar’s eyes straight on you, burning as deep as bullet-holes. His gaze, storm-grey and dark, cuts through you like a scalpel through wire. It sends a shiver down your spine, countless cold fingers trickling downwards. He must sense the tension within you, detect the trepidation that coils in your gut, because he presses his large palm flat against your thigh and strokes in a near-comforting gesture before he speaks. The feeling of his even skin gliding against yours feels like warm velvet in your veins. Your mouth dries.

“You did- did good,” he grits through his teeth, voice gravel-thick and breathless. “Just have to… close it now. Lift the sk-skin. Loop the needle. Just like– like I taught you.”

You stare at him for a moment, unspeaking, lips gently parted. Then, steadily, you look back down at his abdomen. At the solid cords of muscle beneath sun-tan skin, impossibly taut, rising and falling delicately with each rugged breath from his lungs. Lower, still. At the bead of sweat which rolls down the tight skin beneath his naval, catching on the light dusting of dark hair peeking right above his waistband, a thin, teasing trail that disappears just before it can lead you homeward.

Slowly, your eyes trace the length of his body in reverse, lethargic and longing in their trek, right back up to his face as you meet his eyes. 

He… needed you for this. His sole apprentice. You.

Just like he taught you. 

“I’m going to begin, Captain. Try not to move.” You swallow against the lump in your throat. “It’ll be okay.”

As you fight to keep the shake from your voice, you’re not so sure who those words were meant to soothe more; him, or you. Nonetheless, you loop the suture through the needle, and begin the procedure his perfect hands had guided you through a thousand times before.

⸻

The rest of the crew comes to visit him periodically throughout the night. Bepo was first, a shy poke of white fur-lined ears appearing in the threshold.

“Is he awake yet?” Bepo asks, a thick paw curling timidly around the doorframe of the medical bay.

“Not yet, but his condition is steady. You know him. He’ll sleep it off for a day and be right back on his feet,” you reply, your voice hushed and soft so as not to wake Captain Trafalgar. Even though he says nothing more, Bepo remains planted in the doorway, his small, dark eyes blinking at you. 

“Is something wrong, Bepo?” You tilt your head at him from your seat next to the medical bed Trafalgar lays in. “Are you injured too?”

A small blush dusts the tip of his bear ears pink as he shakes his head wordlessly. You smile to yourself. How cute.

Rising to a stand, you move towards a cabinet at the side of the room, producing a pair of ink-blue gloves from within. Rolling them over your hands, you usher him into the room, lips quirking gently.

“Don’t be jealous, Bepo. Come sit down. I’ll check you anyway.”

Shachi and Penguin come next, entering the medical room just as you finish examining Bepo. Penguin carries a tray of food in one hand, a pair of utensils balanced in the other. Shachi cradles a steaming mug, presenting it to you with a toothy smile. He has to swat Bepo’s hand away when he sniffs the air and smells it’s hot chocolate. The polar bear’s lips curl downwards in a sad expression as he hangs his head in defeat.

“You missed dinner,” Penguin says, putting the plate of food on the bedside table. “I was gonna bring one for Captain, but I thought we should come check if he was still sleeping first.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously at the pair, gingerly sliding the hot chocolate mug towards Bepo. His ears perk up in your peripherals as he takes it from you eagerly.

“You came to see if you could eat Captain Trafalgar’s portion, didn’t you?” You whisper questioningly. Shachi and Penguin slowly turn their necks to look at each other, then back to you. In a split second, they’re hanging their heads in defeat.

“Just his dessert,” Shachi supplies, gazing shamelessly at the floor.

“... And his hot chocolate.” Penguin seems to carry all the guilt between the two.

There’s a distinct lack of surprise in your expression as you shake your head at them, pointing a scolding finger. With Captain Trafalgar out of commission for the moment, you seem to be the only voice of steady reason among the crew, even as you try to keep an amused smile from your lips. 

“I knew it. You wanted to eat mine too, didn’t you?” 

Their silence is incriminating. A small laugh escapes your lips as you shake your head and lean towards the bedside table. Picking it back up, you walk forward and place the tray of food into Shachi’s hands. 

“Take it,” you say, rolling your eyes in feigned generosity, as if you couldn’t be bothered. “I’m not so hungry. I ate earlier anyway.”

Shachi raises his head again to meet your gaze in disbelief, looking for all the world like you had just hung the sun in the sky instead of only proffering your dessert to him. You furrow your brows at him when he doesn’t look away, and quickly begin ushering them out of the medical room.

“Okay, okay. Just thank me and stop being weird. Now go, all of you. Captain needs his beauty sleep.”

As the three of them hastily exit, Bepo leans down and presses his nose to your cheek, a thankful gesture before rushing away with your hot chocolate tucked against his chest like a treasured artifact. You place your teeth between your tongue as you resist the urge to smile, watching the three of them retreat down the halls of the Polar Tang, carrying your stolen food. A trio of satisfied bandits. Idiots.

As you stand in the doorway, accompanied only by the sound of the vital sign monitors beeping their metronome and the feeling of fondness light on your shoulders, a sudden flush creeps over the skin of your back. You feel him before you hear him. Like the way you could sense it was him walking the halls of the Polar Tang just by the distinct timing of his gait, or how you could detect his presence from the other side of a closed door without ever having to look past the threshold, that sixth sense flares to life, and you feel his eyes upon you. They map a heat-trail over your silhouette, from shoulder to mid-back. Lower still. He’s silent. Achingly slow. Savoring the image of you turned away from him like the taste of something rich on his tongue. 

He must know you can feel him looking at you by the way your posture turns stone stiff, breath stuttering in your lungs. 

Still, he doesn’t look away. 

“Captain.” The word comes with little breath behind it, and you hate the way it sounds. You swallow against the dryness in your throat, turning to look at him.

Trafalgar says nothing as he meets your gaze. He’d always been this way towards you; observant, succinct. He never leisured in your presence, never used more words to instruct you than absolutely necessary. There was a time where you’d thought that, perhaps, he never saw you as anything but his crewmate, never regarded you with anything more than that clinical way he had of regarding most things. A member of the team. Nothing more, nothing less. And yet, as you move forwards into the room, slowly closing the door of the medical bay behind you, you find the glance he affords you now is… different. Odd.

You take a step forward.

“You let them take your food,” he intones dryly. His gaze lowers, slowly, from your eyes to your lips.

Another step.

“I wasn’t so hungry, anyways. Shachi wanted it more than me. He looked so happy he could cry.” Your hands clasp behind your back, voice smooth and low. “Wanna tell me how you got wounded out there?”

Another step.

His eyes trace the curve of your jaw, trickling down to your neck. It shoots a tingling heat straight through your pulse, up your spine.

“Maybe you should have let him cry.”

Another.

His eyes land on your collarbone, on the smooth valley of skin that peaks just above your slightly unzipped jumpsuit. You think you see him swallow. 

With one final step, you stand directly over him, the shadow of your silhouette draped atop him by the cut of the overhead lights. Your pelvis rests just at the bedline, and he’s forced to look up at you from his position lying down. You’re so close he can smell the fragrance you apply every morning, that crisp scent that mingles with your body heat to form something distinctly you; the same way it always did in his best dreams. The kind of dreams where his tongue got to know if your taste matched your scent.

“That wasn’t my question, Captain.” Your voice comes in a smooth breath, undercut by something sharper than want but more delicate than desire. Iron wrapped in silk. 

Without thinking, you raise your right hand to his now-bare chest, sliding it across his skin. He’s impossibly warm under your fingers. His body heat seeps languidly through your skin, like putting your hands against a bonfire amidst the winter cold. The muscle beneath is solid, firm, rising and falling like cresting waves as his breathing quickens at your touch. Your fingertips gently trace the dark ink that lines the tan skin of his chest, bronze and beautiful, and you bitterly wish it was your tongue tracing it instead. 

His breathing quickens dangerously, and you hear him huff the words out like they were stuck in his throat. “Marines. Got- got ambushed. Wasn’t thinking.”

“Mmh,” you hum. Your hand descends lower. As if on instinct, Trafalgar spreads his thighs, breath hitching in his throat. His gaze stares down at your hand, tracking it with enraptured acuity. Your fingers splay across his abdomen, down to the tight skin beneath his wound, and you feel a dusting of hair tickle your fingertips as they rest just above his happy trail. Your gaze remains on his expression all the while. His neck is slightly raised to watch the descent of your hands. A thin sheen of sweat coats his temples. His eyes are dark and glazed, his lips parted slightly, stuck between panting, anticipatory breaths and clenching the muscles of his jaw.

“I think I like you better like this, Captain. You’re always so tense. The pain makes you agreeable.”

A low moan cuts through his throat, deep and wanting as you thread the fingers of your other hand through his hair, and god you have to clench your thighs just to keep from capsizing at the blissful heat it sends straight to your lower abdomen. You can tell the involuntary sound embarrasses him as he screws his eyes shut, clenching his fists in the sheets beneath him.

“Not the pain. Just– just you. Always just you.”

The admission comes without much consideration, heat-soaked and thoughtless and steeped in the lust of the moment, but you can’t help the fire it stoaks deep within you. Captain Trafalgar. Your captain. Always so calm and composed, always so attentive in his instructions, always working so hard. He was so tense beneath you right now, the sounds of his ragged, wanton breaths flooding your senses, and all you wanted to do in that moment was to make him feel good. To make him feel the way you did when you thought about him in the middle of the night, fingers tracing restless circles along your clit beneath the sheets as you swallowed your moans. 

“Captain,” you plead breathlessly, easing the tip of your fingers just barely into his waistband. He wrenches his head away from you, turning to the side, lips pulled and muscles taut like he’s trying with every modicum of willpower he possesses to resist you. Like he’s in agony.

“Fuck. Captain, you’re in pain. I-I can help you,” you plead. You grind your palm down into his lower stomach, and his eyes shoot open, a choked sound stuttering from between his lips. “Let me help. I hate to see you like this. I can– I can make you feel good.”

Your thighs grind against each other, a pitiful attempt at alleviating the growing ache in your core. You catch your lower lip between your teeth, biting down so hard you think you taste blood, wrenching your eyes shut from the sight of him panting and shirtless beneath you. This was killing you. You knew he was aching just as much as you were; that he wanted this just as badly. So why was he resisting you? Stings of frustration prick your eyes as you try your hardest to steady your breathing, to quell the wildfire of need that was spreading through your veins. 

Your body goes stone-still as you feel his hand reach down towards you and lay itself atop yours. When you open your eyes, you find him looking at you, his expression pained, his storm-grey eyes boring into you with need so sharp it could cut. 

Suddenly, he speaks your name.

With one word, the fraying, coiled wire of tension between you snaps, that binding red thread of restraint shattering completely.

His voice is low and dark, thunder over gravel, poison and the antidote, a single syllable dripping with all the subdued want that had accumulated over the past year for the two of you. Trafalgar looks you in your in eyes, wrapping his large, dry hand over yours, and wrenches his eyes shut as he groans a single syllable into the open space:

“Please.”

With his hand spread tightly over yours, you pull his waistband and the sheets along his hips downwards before reaching to grab his cock. 

He’s hard and thick beneath your fingers, so rigid you’re sure it hurts. Precum weeps from his slit, glistening against his tan head, coating your intertwined fingers so that they glide down his length with ease. He’s wide and long and impossibly full, just as beautiful as you imagined he’d always be. You wrap your hand fully around him, his own still draped over yours, and squeeze tight, taking a slow, aching drag down his length. His jaw drops, chest stilling, holding his breath tight within his lungs before he screws his eyes shut and lets out a moan so rich and low you feel it in the lining of your stomach.

“Fuck– You’re so– so fucking soft,” he groans, squeezing your joined hands over his cock as he grinds his hips against you.

“Shh,” you coax gently, starting slow strokes up and down his length. Your hands catch on every vein and ridge, and you commit the feeling to memory, the gentle moans that spill from your lips mirroring his. You can’t look away from where the two of your hands are joined, sliding up and down his cock, coated with precum and tightly intertwined. “Relax, Captain. Let me take care of you.”

Suddenly, his hand tightens against yours, and your strokes pick up pace as he drags your palm up and down his length just the way he likes. Just the way he always did when he thought of you in the middle of the night, fisting his cock into his hand miserably and biting back his groans, wishing it were you wrapped around him instead.

“Shit– shit, you’re always so good. Pretty– nngh, pretty girl. Stitching me back up–” The obscene sound of your slick hands jerking him off underscore his words and his breath hitches. “Always– hahh, always doing what I ask.”

You lean downwards, close to his temple, still watching him fuck your hand against his length as you speak in his ear. “It’s for you, Captain. Always for you. Fuck, I’ve been here. Always. You just have to ask.”

His cock throbs in your hand, giving off heat like a furnace, twitching in your wet grasp. The feeling of his skin moving against yours with such delicious friction sends throbs through your clit, and you clench hopelessly against nothing, slick heat soaking your underwear. 

Your skin slaps against his hips with erotic sounds, and his moans pick up, tar-thick and strained, like it was so good it hurt. He’s babbling nonsense now, a long string of curses and your name, and you moan alongside him, wringing your thighs together, begging for relief from the wire wound tight in your abdomen but too preoccupied with the feeling of his cock between your fingers to care. Leaning over the bed and down his body, your mouth hangs over his cock as you release a long line of spit onto it. It coats your joined fingers, and you begin to twist your wrist around him, squeezing tighter, the slick sound of jerking him off growing obscene and sloppy.

The groan that rips from him is long and stuttering, deeper than the gash you’d stitched just hours before, and you can feel how close he is by the way he’s grinding against you erratically, bucking his hips into your fist as he drags your palm up and down him furiously.

“Shit— shitshit, I’m gonna–” The words push through his throat like he’s wrenching them out, but you suddenly feel him tense beneath you, stopping the stutter of his hips and the glide of your hand, and you frown.

“Captain?”

“Fuck, don’t wanna– don’t wanna cum,” he stutters. “Too good. Shit– too good.”

When you try moving your hand against him, his fingers constrict around yours and the muscles of his bicep grow taut, holding you in place so firmly you could have been cast in stone. The haze of the moment seems to dim momentarily, and suddenly, you’re reminded of who your Captain is– of the strength he possessed, of the fact that this moment of vulnerability was rare, of the knowledge that in any other scenario it was him standing over you.

You hate the way the very thought ladles heat into your core.

Gently, you cup your hand over his cheek, your face so close to his you can feel his breaths against your upper lip, looking down at him with lust-hazed eyes

“You’re tired, Captain. You need to rest.” You squeeze his length tightly. Your lips barely ghost over his own as you speak. “Cum for me, please–”

“Law?”

As his name leaves your lips, he suddenly grabs hold of your hand, fucking into your fist rapidly like an animal before he comes undone. 

Thick strands of cum pump onto your fingers as he lets out a final, torturous moan, a sound so low and wanton it resonates through you like plucking the strings of a harp embedded into your core. The head of his cock throbs between your fingers, spilling his release in aching bobs of his length, his shallow, spent breaths fanning against your skin. He cums for so long you’re not so sure it’ll ever end. Trafalgars eyes are hazy and low-lidded as he looks up at you, taking in the sight of your face close to his, staving off the growing temptation of sleep just so he can watch you bring your fingers to your mouth and taste him. He’s salty and rich, and you savor him with care before you speak again.

“All better now?”

Without a word, he collapses atop the bed. 

His bare chest falls and rises with even breaths as his eyes close shut. The beeping of his vital monitor subsides into a gentle lull as you pull the sheets back over his frame. When you stand upright once more, you place your hands on your hips, looking down at your work with a satisfied smile. You were his apprentice, after all, and Trafalgar Law demanded nothing short of surgical perfection from you.

Strange, then, that as you watch him drift into rest, you find an urge embedded into your chest, one who’s foreign shape you’d never dwelled too long on in even your best dreams. The kind of dreams where Law lay contently at your side, and your heart ached at the sight of him with you. All night you had unraveled that red thread of composure, the sole binding which kept you from doing what you truly wanted to with him. What was one more offense?

And so, you lean forward, placing a tender kiss to his cheek. The kind that came after the haze of lust wears off. Brushing the hair from his forehead, he hears you speak one last time before sleep overtakes his senses completely. Those same words, thin and silken as gossamer in the wind, the kind you uttered in his best dreams.

“Goodnight, Law.”

[theninthdoor]

݁˖⚘‧˚ pac || yes or no + short message/clarification ࣪˚࿔

🌷 think of a question you need a Yes/No answer for, take 3 deep breaths, ground yourself, and then pick one of the 8 options below. this PAC should give you a general idea of what the energy surrounding this matter is + what Spirit wants you to know and/or suggest you to do about it. 🌷 take only what resonates and leave the rest! if you feel like the pile you’ve initially picked doesn’t really apply or resonate with you, then don't force it. just really try to use your intuition + your discernment. and you can also, of course, pick more than one pile. 🌷 remember that this is all for entertainment purposes and that free will still exists. don’t feel pressured to do anything you don’t want to or to make a pile/answer fit you situation, alright? 🌷 enjoy, my friends!

Pile 1 || ✧

cards: ace of pentacles, king of swords, Time for a Nap

Your answer, dear Pile 1, is Yes! This might require some more work going forward, and things might not be or go exactly as you have envisioned them up until this point, but the outcome should still be very positive! At the bottom of the deck we have the Eight of Pentacles and the Four of Wands, too, which suggest that your efforts will be rewarded (now or later), for sure, as long as you stay committed to whatever it is that you have in mind. New communication or clarity regarding this matter might be coming towards you soon, as well, so I would be on the lookout for that! At last, Spirit is saying that it's alright for you to relax now. Don't rush; don't fret; don't doubt. Things will work out for the best, as you will surely see. You're going in the right direction (action-wise, thought-wise, or both).

extra messages - don't have to apply; serves as extra confirmation: Cat- names; C- names. Cambridge. UK. Harvard. Planning for college. Light brown hair. Green hair. Tan skin. Howard. H- names. Blue manicure. Red manicure. Ice. Snow. New books. Missing deadlines. Tabi shoes. Blue pajamas. Elf. Elv-. Long essays. Yellow flowers. Craving donuts or croissants. Bears.

Pile 2 || ✧

cards: ace of swords rx, seven of wands rx, Breathe rx

This seems like a No, dear Pile 2… Something about it is making me feel like your/someone's time has passed or other things have now gotten in the way of this, so the road is blocked. We have the Ten of Cups at the bottom of the deck, though, which, to me, is a sign that even if No is not what you were expecting to hear, it will still prove itself to be the best answer you could get. The future holds clarity and resolve. It's not so much that you're being denied whatever it is that you have in mind; it's more so like you're being redirected towards something better altogether. And, I think, the long-run is what you should be thinking of, not the past or the present.

extra messages - don't have to apply; serves as extra confirmation: Burgundy hair. Ginger hair. Ginger cat. Ginger. Spices. A new baby in the family. Younger brother. Losing or breaking an umbrella. Iris. Inez. Ingrid. Slovenia. Slovakia. Sweden. Norway. Royalty. S- names. Monet. Painting. Studying art. A- names. Y- names. Red brick.

Pile 3 || ✧

cards: knight of wands rx, nine of wands, Go The Distance

No for now; More likely in the future. - That is what I heard here. The timing isn't quite right for it to happen or for you to make a decision. Something tells me, too, that if the answer were to be Yes, you'd soon find out that it should've been a No instead. If this were to come to you right now, that is, it's likely that you wouldn't be happy about it, even if you think you would. Now, if you're asking about someone else, I feel like there's some sort of pause there. I see no activity; just silence and/or distraction - like the other person is looking away from this. So, basically: Now is not the time. That is our take away from this.

extra messages - don't have to apply; serves as extra confirmation: Elephant. E- names. Flowers. Garden. Spring allergies. Allergic reactions. Arguments with the mother. Light-colored hair. Throwing a lot of old stuff away, or wanting to. Planning for a tattoo. Saving money. Drawings of trees. Biology. Botany. Lakes. L- names. Lily. Leon-. Land-. Pisces placements. Elev-. Eleventh grade.

Pile 4 || ✧

cards: temperance, the high priestess, Why?

Your answer is Yes. There is some complexity to this issue, though, as the cards are suggesting a need to seek more information. Not only do I think you might need to reflect, by yourself, a little bit about this, but it may also be a case of you needing to talk to others and/or do some research about whatever it is that you're asking about here. If I were to put this energy into a sentence, it would be "Keep moving in this direction, yes, yet cautiously and slowly."; so, even if the answer is positive, you still need to be careful, in order to avoid mistakes and/or misunderstandings. The future just isn't as clear as the present, it seems.

extra messages - don't have to apply; serves as extra confirmation: Listening to Taylor Swift or reading articles about her. Red lipstick. Red manicure. Working at a beauty store. Hairdresser. Fish. Sushi. Fishing. Fire placements; Aries placements, in particular. Andrew. Andre-. Baby blue. Painting walls. Wallpaper. Buying decor or home appliances. The countryside. Get-together with friends. Date night. Plastic surgery. Dolls. Iv-. Hiv-. V- names. Vanya/Vania. W- names.

Pile 5 || ✧

cards: knight of cups, six of wands rx, Chaos and Conflict

Alright… this one is a solid Maybe. There are many pros and cons; many points in favor and many others against. Overall, there are a lot of conflicting energies at play here. If this involves other people, then your energy is not aligned with theirs, so whatever you want and/or expect doesn't reflect their current standing. You're not seeing eye to eye, and you, yourself, don't seem to be seeing things clearly. Within you, too, I think there's a lot of confusion surrounding this situation. You're just being misguided, somehow, either by your mind or your heart. Either way, though, I don't think this is anything too serious or final, and you should, eventually, find your way to the truth. If you asking about a decision you've been pondering on, then the answer is: Wait. As I said before, you are mistaken, somewhere or somehow. This direction you're going in might not be completely wrong - or else the answer would've been a No, I suppose -, but something about this isn't quite right.

extra messages - don't have to apply; serves as extra confirmation: On and off relationships. Friendships ending. Betrayals. Starting new TV shows. Binge watching shows or movies. Film class. Critical essays. Bad grades. Red or orange clothing. New dresses or skirts. Cottage core. A very old pet. Grey fur. G- names. Phillipe/a. Fil-. Trish. T- names. Treasure. S- names.Tr-. Spain. Argentina.

Pile 6 || ✧

cards: death, ace of cups rx, Come To The Edge

Before I even pulled the cards here I heard "your friends are not being helpful" - yet I feel like the message might also apply to acquaintances, coworkers, etc., or anyone or anything you have been relying on a lot as of late, really. I feel you being pushed and pulled; being made to run in circles. Whenever you're close to your goal and/or to the truth, something else or someone else distracts you, and then you're back to the beginning. There's an element of immaturity and carelessness here, both coming from you and from around you, so I would, for sure, keep an eye out for that, too. Besides that, I also feel like you're only seeing what you want to see. There is much more to it, yet you're allowing yourself to be deceived and misled.

So, here, the answer here is not really a Yes, nor it is a No. I think the question, itself, is either pointless or misconstrued, so what you ought to do is take a step back and make sure you're using reason and being realistic. After you do so, then, I believe, you might find the right questions to ask (or realize you shouldn't be bothering with this matter at all).

extra messages - don't have to apply; serves as extra confirmation: Going from PAC to PAC. Angel numbers. Social media lurking. Gossip. Frustration. Libra placements. Sagittarius placements. A- names. D- names. Lace. L-names. M- names. Bows. Coquette. Sis-. Sib-. Vancouver. Sol-. Son-. Kark-. Asia. Indonesia. Philippines. Northeast. Tornado. Mel-. Grains. Pink phone case. Yellow phone case. Small tattoos.

Pile 7 || ✧

cards: the sun, seven of pentacles, Come To The Edge reversed

This feels like a soft Yes, but a Yes nonetheless! I think things are moving in the right direction, as it is, so even if this isn't a clear Yes as of yet, it is likely to become one pretty soon. And, whatever it is that you're seeking, I believe, is likely to either come to you or become available in the near future; so this is like the energy is building up to it or maturing. - and 'Maturing', I think, is really the keyword here, and what you need to reflect upon! You also need to keep moving and to keep bringing positive energy into your life; stagnancy won't do it. Patience is also needed, as well as respect for Divine timing. If there are other people involved here, I feel positive in regard to that/them, too. Everything seems pretty nice, overall, and optimistic.

extra messages - don't have to apply; serves as extra confirmation: Jo- names. Jasper. Buying crystals. Setting up an altar. Al-. Morocco. North Africa. Egypt. Family traditions. The sun. Sisters. Stars. Ancestors. Ancestor work. Baby names. Mother figure. Long dresses/skirts. Wedding. F- names. P- names. K- names. Kan-. Can-. Vials. Ven-. Bracelets. Virgo placements. Capricorn placements. New romantic interest or relationship.

Pile 8 || ✧

cards: eight of wands rx, king of pentacles, Treasure Island

This is not yet a Yes, but might be on it's way to becoming one! It isn't a No, though. It's just kind of a 'meh'… not even a 'maybe'. There's resistance here. Doubts. Questions. Lack of clarity, all around. I think what you are needing right now is time, first and foremost, dear Pile 8. You need time to think; time to make up your mind about some important things; giving others time, too. Instead of focusing too much on what you're inquiring about here and over-saturating your mind and/or the situation, take a break instead. Relax; do some self-care. You need to look at this matter with fresh eyes from now on, or you might miss the most important cues. Because, overall, the energy is positive, yes, but it could still turn into something less favorable if you push it too much or act on impulse rather than reason.

extra messages - don't have to apply; serves as extra confirmation: I accidentally wrote Pile G instead of Pile 8 for whatever reason, so the letter G might be very significant here. Also, you might find some extra messages in Pile 7, as I am feeling like the two are somehow connected. Grandmother's house. Tile floors. Italy. Sweeping leaves off the floor. Gardening. Cats. Baby pets. Vind-. Motorcycles. Old bus. Something inherited from the grandfather or father. Gold jewelry. Fol-. Jewelry on the right hand/arm. -in. 28. 8. 88. 33.

decks used || The Original Rider Waite + Wisdom of The Oracle

(Disclaimer: Based on current energies. All is alleged and for entertainment purposes only. None of the original images are my own - only the edits!)

[azriels-shadowsinger]

Fix You (Azriel x healer!reader)

summary: Azriel falls for the healer and finds new random reasons to see her, but he never let’s her help when he’s truly hurt.

wc: 3.8k

a/n: warnings: mentions injuries and blood

Never in a million years would you have dreamed of such an opportunity presenting itself to you, but after the battle of Velaris, your healing magic became rather well known among the locals. Eventually, word of your abilities reached the high lord, and he requested to meet with you. Now, ten months later, you are learning about tonics, salves, the anatomy of illyrian wings, and so much more to use along side your magic.

“One last thing. Rhysand said that Azriel is requesting assistance. Could you go tend to his injuries before you go home?”

You hide your laugh and agree to go. This is the fifth time this month that Azriel has requested a healer. It would make sense that the spymaster of the night court would need healing after missions, but he never asks for help with that. Most recently, he came by the infirmary to ask you for a cream that will help with sore muscles. Sometimes he asks for healing after training when Cassian roughs him up a bit too much, but even then, its minor injuries. One time he even used Cassian as an excuse, claiming the general needed some medicine for a cold, but later that day Cassian seemed perfectly fine to you.

Your friends think Azriel must have a crush on you and that’s why he always seeks you out, but that’s crazy. And besides, you heard a rumor that he has feelings for the high lady’s sister, Elain. But who could blame him, she's perfect.

You arrive at the House of Wind and head for the shadowsinger’s room. The house was quiet, meaning Cassian and Nesta must be gone. As you walk towards his room, you see a shadow dart across the floor, brushing against your ankle as it flies by and making you giggle. Before you can even knock, Azriel opens his door, apparently alerted by the shadow.

“Good evening. You requested a healer?” He nods and opens the door wider to invite you in and sits on the corner of his bed.

“Cassian accidentally cut me with his sword when we were sparring this morning. The skin has healed, but it’s still hurting. I figured you could use some of that fancy healing magic on it so I’m not slacking at training tomorrow.” He extends his arm, and just like he said, theres a jagged pink scar running up the length of his tan, muscular forearm.

You agree and sit next to him, taking hold of his arm and placing your hand over the scar. A warm sensation spreads from your palm to his arm, and moments later, the raised scar is nothing more than a faint line. You hold on for a few moments longer than necessary, your eyes fixated on his hands. There was something you found so beautiful and alluring about the scars, you didn’t even notice your fingertips slowly trailing towards his hands. As soon as your fingertips brush against the edge of the scarred skin, Azriel jerks his arm away and stands up.

“I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-“ you trail off.

“It’s fine.” He snaps, avoiding your gaze to look at the wall behind you. “Thanks for the help.” His voice is softer now, but you can tell he’s upset. You hesitate, trying to figure out how to resolve this uncomfortable situation, but inevitably, you decide it’s best to leave.

“Happy to help. Have a good night.” You leave quickly, trying to avoid making things more awkward.

The entire way home, you berate yourself for doing something so foolish. One of the first things you learned about healing is to not make your patient more uncomfortable when you heal them. And there you were, touching something that obviously would make him uncomfortable. You don’t know the details about how his hands got so scarred, but with his fae healing, it can’t have been pretty. It reminds you of a patient you had a few years back with similar burns. You were constantly making cream to soothe the residual pain for them. You wonder if Azriel’s hands still hurt from time to time…

———

Azriel’s POV

“Do you plan to injure yourself again during training today, brother?” Cassian teases. “I see yesterday’s cut has healed already. Did a certain healer come by your room last night?”

“Shut up. It doesn’t matter.” I say gruffly and continue eating my breakfast.

“Why won’t you just ask her out?” He speaks with a mouth full of food, earning an annoyed look from Nesta.

“Because there’s no way that someone like her… it doesn’t matter. I’m over her now. Moving on.” I keep my gaze locked on the plate in front of me.

Last night, I tried to work up the courage to say something—anything, really. But when she touched me and I felt that magic run through me, I couldn’t think of anything but how beautiful she looked. I can’t help but remember the feeling of her hands on me, warm and comforting. And then, when she touched my hand, every horrible thought and insecurity ran through my head. How could someone so perfect ever want to be with someone so… damaged?

That’s also why I never seek her out when I return from missions. I don’t want her to see who I really am when I leave Velaris. One look at me with enemy blood on my hands and my own blood on my body, and she will run scared just like everyone else does. I’m just not ready for that rejection yet.

“I don’t believe that for a damn second, Az. You’re just scared. Take a chance, it could work out.” Nesta tries to be supportive, but she doesn’t get it. None of my friends do. I pretend to agree, but only to end the conversation quicker and move on to a new topic. Cassian gives a skeptical look, but moves on to discussing the evening’s plans.

———

Your POV

Two weeks pass, and you haven’t seen or heard from Azriel. It shouldn’t bother you this much, but you can’t help but miss his occasional visits, the way his shadows swirl around your ankles, the sound of his voice, the way he towers over you. Maybe you should find a reason to visit him. After all, he’s spent months coming up with ridiculous reasons to see you, you can do the same, right?

You look around your workstation at the various creams, tonics, and salves, eventually finding some that he would maybe find useful. Heading to the House of Wind, you can’t help but feel a bit nervous.

When you arrive, you see the High Lady’s sister, Nesta, walking through the foyer. “Hello. I was wondering if you could help me find Azriel. I have something for him.” You try to sound confident, but her smirk tells you she sees right through you.

“He’s at the training ring. The Valkyries and I just finished training, so it’s probably just him and Cassian up there.” You thank her and head that way.

When you arrive at the training ring, you are immediately stopped in your tracks by the sight of Azriel and Cassian sparring. You had always known the general had a nice body; you had healed it several times before. But Azriel… you have never seen such a glorious sight. The way the corded muscles of his back ripple when he moves and the way his wings, which were much larger than Cassian’s, were spread wide, you couldn’t help but stare. Eventually, Cassian notices you. He smirked, and then immediately moved to disarm Azriel, nicking him with the tip of the blade.

“What the hell, Cass? Why did you-“ Azriel turns and sees you. He turns back to Cassian, who has a shit eating grin on his face.

“Good thing your favorite healer is here to help.” You can’t help but blush at his words. Did Azriel talk about you to Cassian? “I’ll leave you two to it.” He saunters off, leaving you alone with Azriel. Azriel stands quietly for a moment, just staring at you. You can’t tell what he’s thinking, but the silence is killing you, and it’s taking all of your strength to not stare at the sweat dripping down his muscular body.

“I brought you something. You had mentioned once that you get headaches a lot. I have this tonic that can help with that. I figured I would bring it by.” You awkwardly fumble through your bag for the bottle, handing it to him. He looks at the bottle, then at you, a confused expression on his face. “Did you want me to help with that cut or…” you trail off, unsure of how to proceed.

“Oh, uh, yeah. Thanks. And thanks for the tonic. I’ll be sure to try it next time I get a headache.” He sits on a nearby bench, and you sit next to him. Reaching towards the cut, you realize you need to avoid what happened last time and ask for permission to touch him.

“May I?” He nods, and you place your hand over the small cut on his jaw. You feel his shadows swirling around your hand, almost curious about your actions. Your fingers trail over his sharp jaw line in admiration. “All done.” You stand and step away, waiting to see if he will say anything. You were about to leave, but you apparently can’t leave well enough alone, so you dig through your bag again.

“I have this other stuff you might want.” You find the soothing cream. “I had a patient a few years ago with burns similar to yours. She told me her scars would hurt occasionally, so I would make this cream for her. I don’t know if that happens to you as well, but if you want it, it’s yours.” You reach out to hand him the cream, but he just stares at you.

After a few moments, you awkwardly set it on the bench next to him. “Okay then. I’ll see you around.” You turn to leave, eager to end this train wreck of an interaction. You hurried out so quickly, that you didn’t hear the faint “thank you” coming from Azriel.

———

Several days pass without seeing Azriel. Gods, you were definitely so out of line with the cream. He probably doesn’t like to talk about the scars. You shouldn’t have gone to find him in the first place. He was obviously avoiding you. The bell above the door rings, indicating a patient has entered.

“One moment!” You call from the back of the workstation. When you make your way to the front room, you are surprised to see Azriel.

“What are you doing here?” You ask softly.

“I’m sorry for my rude behavior the other day. I didn’t know how to respond to your kind gesture. No one has ever…” he trails off, setting the empty container of hand cream on the counter. “It helped a lot. I was wondering if you had any more?” Your face lights up, causing him to smile as well.

“Of course! Wait right here, I’ll go grab it.” You rush excitedly to the storeroom. It was always such a wonderful feeling to help a patient feel better, but having been right about this made you feel so happy. You return with three containers of cream. “This one is the same as the one I gave you. This one is infused with lavender. And this one is infused with eucalyptus.” You explain excitedly. He chuckles at your eagerness.

“Thank you. I’ll let you know which smell I like best.” He smiles softly. “And thank you for before. For noticing. No one has ever taken notice like that before. People usually don’t like to even look at my hands, nonetheless, ask about it.” You blush.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you get the burns? It may help me formulate a more customized soothing cream for you in the future if I know how you got them. Only if you’re comfortable sharing.” Azriel sucks in a deep breath and looks at his hands.

“The details are… unpleasant.“ He hesitates. “Oil was poured over my hands and lit on fire. My bro-“ he pauses. “The people who did this ensured that I healed as they burned, so that the scarring was worse. Now I’m stuck with these ugly scars.” You try to hold back the tears in your eyes. How could somebody be so cruel and vicious as to do that to someone? “The pain is usually a sharp ache around my knuckles and fingers, if that helps.” He mutters quietly, avoiding your gaze. You hesitantly reach for his hand. He looks surprised by this, but lets you. You hold his large hand in both of yours and look deep into his eyes.

“I’m very sorry that happened to you. No one deserves such treatment. And your scars are not ugly, they represent what you have overcome.” Azriel blushes. A small shadow glides over your hands as you hold his, pulling a giggle from you. “The shadows are kinda cute.”

Azriel looks at you with surprise again. “Most people are afraid of them.” You watch a shadow weave between your fingers, letting go of Azriel’s hand to play with the shadow.

The two of you talk for a while longer before he eventually leaves. A smile stays on your face for the rest of the evening.

———

A week later.

You’re awoken late in the night by a chilly feeling across your skin. Assuming you forgot to shut your window, you groggily open your eyes to stand, but when you do, you see several shadows swirling around you and your room.

Panic immediately sets in. You have never seen Azriel’s shadows move in such a way, almost frantic. And the shadowsinger himself is nowhere near Velaris, supposedly on a mission, according to what Cassian said days ago. The shadows swirl around you, tugging you to stand. You throw on your coat and follow the shadows, praying to the gods that you don’t find what you think you will.

Upon arrival at the House of Wind, you hear panicked voices and yelling. You rush towards the commotion, finding a bloody mess when you arrive. You run towards Cassian and Nesta, trying to see what’s wrong, but when you look down, you see it.

Azriel. Covered in blood. Several arrows sticking out of his abdomen and wings, reeking of faebane. You immediately crouch and begin to inspect the damage.

“Cauldron, what happened? How long has he been hurt? Where is Madja?” You fire off a string of questions, not bothering to wait for an answer. Azriel groans in pain, barely conscious, with his eyes shut.

“He just winnowed here like this. We don’t know what happened, he pretty much passed out as soon as he got here.” Cassian looks at you nervously. “I tried to pull one of the arrows out, but the wounds won’t heal. The arrows are dipped in faebane.”

“Go get a bucket of water, a washcloth, and bandages.” You order to no one in particular before assessing the best plan for removal. When Nesta returns with the materials, you begin to remove the first arrow from his abdomen. Luckily, it didn’t hit any vital organs. When the arrow finally is removed, Azriel yells in pain.

“I know, I’m sorry. Just stay still and it will be over soon.” You try your best to use a soothing voice, but the shakiness is still evident. You get the second arrow out of his abdomen and begin to clean the wounds, working your healing magic as you go. Cassian and Nesta are standing over you, watching nervously, which only makes you more anxious.

“I got the worst of the injuries handled, he’s going to be fine. I still need to work on his wings, which may take a while and won’t be pretty. You two may want to go for now.” You say, not looking away from Azriel. Cassian and Nesta reluctantly leave, promising to return with the others in a bit.

“This is going to hurt, I’m sorry.” You warn Azriel, who’s still unconscious, while you grip the arrow in his upper left wing and work to remove it. As soon as the arrow moves slightly through his wing, his eyes open wide and he howls in pain. He looks at you, just now noticing that it’s you tending to his injuries, and looks panicked.

“Wh-what… how are you here?” He rasps, wincing as the arrow is fully removed. He tries to sit up, but you force him to remain laying down.

“Your shadows found me. I figured you sent them.”

“No. They’re supposed to find Madja or Feyre if I get badly injured. I don’t know why they went to you.” He says gruffly. You try not to get upset by his words as you begin to stitch and heal the wound. Something about his demeanor is vastly different from how he usually acts, colder even.

"Well, you got me instead. Sorry to disappoint.” You mutter, trying to hide the hurt in your voice. You can tell he wants to say something else, but as soon as you grab ahold of the second arrow, all he can manage is groans and curses.

After you remove the third and final arrow, Azriel speaks. “You’re not supposed to be the one who handles my major injuries.” You can’t hide the pain in your eyes, so you look away to focus on working your healing magic on the final wound and bandaging it.

“I can handle more than basic tonics and minor injuries, you know.” You say quietly, cleaning away some of the blood with a washcloth. You gather the bloodied cloths and arrows, moving quickly to dispose of them.

“I know you can. I just don’t want-“ his words are cut short by the high lord rushing in, immediately requesting a status update. Azriel didn’t need to finish his sentence for you to know what he was about to say. He doesn’t want you here. You turn from Azriel to give Rhysand a full briefing on the injuries and the expected recovery process. After calming a bit, he begins to help Azriel up and to his room.

“It looks like you’re in good hands. I’m going to go update Madja on the situation so she can manage your recovery.” You say softly, avoiding eye contact. Before he can say anything else, you’re gone.

———

You avoid Azriel for a couple weeks. Every time he tries to come to the infirmary, you send another healer to take care of him. You couldn’t help asking Madja how his recovery was progressing, but she refused to tell you, stating that you were perfectly capable of asking him yourself. You know that you aren’t as skilled as Madja in some aspects of being a healer, but you never thought that Azriel would doubt your abilities. You guess that’s why he never asked for your help after missions. Maybe those months of ridiculous requests were just a joke to him, something to laugh about with his friends.

The sun goes down, signaling that it’s time for you to head home. You say goodbye to Madja and leave out the front door.

“Y/n.” You immediately turn toward the voice. Waiting by the door, you find Azriel. You look him up and down, assessing for injuries and observing his healing progress. The scars on his wings are only faint marks now.

“You look like you’re healing well. If you need medical attention, I suggest asking a more skilled healer, like Madja.” You say bitterly, walking past him. He sighs heavily.

“I didn’t mean to upset you that night. You weren’t supposed to see me like that.” He follows behind you, catching up quickly due to his long legs.

"Yes, you made that very clear. You didn’t want me there, you don’t trust me to handle your manor healing. I heard you loud and clear.” You refuse to look at him.

"No, that’s not-“ You turn down a side road suddenly, trying to evade him. “I know you can handle healing my more serious injuries, I just didn’t want you there.” You stop and stare at him, slightly in disbelief at his words. Is he really this cruel, or is he just really this bad at speaking to people? He reads your expression and backtracks.

“No, it’s not that I don’t want you around, I just don’t want you there.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Gods, I’m just making this worse. Can I start over?” You don’t respond, but he takes the fact that you aren’t walking away as a yes.

“I didn’t want you to handle my major injuries because, when I’m focused on my missions, I am a completely different person. I hate who I am outside of this city. I hate what I have to do, but I do it to protect my court and protect my family. When I get back, it sometimes takes me a while to get back to normal. I didn’t want you to see me like that, so I wouldn’t scare you off. It seems I managed to do that anyway, so I guess I was right to stay away.” You finally look at him. Who treated him so poorly to make him think so low of himself?

You take a step closer to him and look into his eyes. “I wasn’t scared of you that night. I was scared that you could’ve died. I was scared of the way you pushed me away. But never of you. I’ve healed fae from all over with horrible histories, grusome wounds, and severe PTSD. You’re job is hard, but you shouldn’t handle that burden alone.”

“You spend enough of your time fixing people, I don’t want to be another person you feel like you need to fix.” He says in a self loathing tone.

“You aren’t broken, Azriel. You don’t need fixing, just support.” You take his hand. “Let me be there for you. Let me be your friend. Please.” He stares at your hand holding his for a few moments.

“What if I don’t want you as my friend?” You frown, and he immediately realizes how that must have come across as you attempt to pull your hand away. He tightens his grip on your hand. “What I mean is, will you go to dinner with me? Like, on a date?” You look at him surprised, blushing hard. “Cmon, y/n. I thought I was pretty obvious that I have feelings for you with my dozens of ridiculous injuries and requests.” He chuckles.

“I would love to get dinner, Azriel.” He gives you a wide smile. The two of you begin to walk side by side down the street. After a few moments of silence, Azriel speaks.

“Now that you’re no longer mad at me, can I have more of that soothing cream? I’ve been out for like a week, but I’ve been too afraid to ask you for more.” You laugh.

“Of course you can.”

Have a great weekend everyone!!

[petew21-blog]

Ready to be the villain?

The actor and character are both adults and of age.

Inbox request:I've always been passionate about the ancient tales of greece and rome mythology. So when I was a teenager and find about Percy jackson I was all in. Since that day I've been dreaming, begging and praying to be able to have this life of quest, adventures and friendship. And don't get me starting on the perfect physique you would get living a life like that. The muscles, the golden tan, the curly lucious thick hair. I would give anything to have a chance at this. Can you help me? Maybe swap me with one of the half blood? I won't disapoint you. Please...

It seems like it's your lucky day. There is someone ready for you to take over their life.

You woke up in the Hermes cabin with many people chatting in the morning. Not sure where you ended up, you decided to go with it and to pretend that you knew what was going on.

After eaves-dropping to some of the conversations you found out that you were now indeed in camp Half-blood a place for young children of the Olympian Gods. Your dream finally came true!

Only after waking you realised that this was your new reality and on top of that, you noticed that your body looked different.

You made your way to the bathroom and locked the door to get to know your new body. You were now in the body of a tall handsome, curly haired, muscular young man with a visible scar on his face.

Later on, you found out that your new name was Luke. You are the 18 year old son of Hermes that stayed in Camp Half-Blood and helped run things. You felt the respect others gave you whenever you passed them.

Your day went on smoothly. Not talking too much to others, your day went on. You managed to practice sword fighting, archery and even riding a horse. Luke's muscles memory was fascinating to you and helped you to maintain the imagine that nothing changed with Luke.

On the next day, you decided to go for a walk around the camp. Expecting nothing of it, you didn't take your sword with you.

While walking through the forest, you heard a quiet, but deep voice calling your new name. You decided to investigate. In front of you appeared the Iris message - a long distance form of communication used. In front of you was a dark figure.

"IS everything ready for my plan?!" the deep voice asked angrily

You waited a bit to respond, overthinking every option you could answer. "I need more time" hoping you could get some information.

"I CHOSE YOU, LUKE, FOR YOU HATRED AGAINST THE GODS. YOU WILL BE THE ONE TO HELP ME BRING THEM DOWN AND BRING THE AGS OF TITANS. DO NOT FAIL ME!!!" the voice screamed at you and after that the Iris message stopped.

You thought about what just happened, but quite soon you realised that the voice, talking to you on the other side was someone more dark. Someone powerful. What scared you was the fact that Luke had intentions of helping this dark figure. Luke was planning on sabottaging the camp.

Luke was helping Cronos...

Now you have a choice to make. Continue what Luke intended and get his revenge for him or become an average member of the Camp Half-blood hoping for a quest that might one day make you famous?

Make your choice, demigod.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Leaving IV

Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader

Summary: Alexia takes you on holiday

The first time Alba and Alexia went on holiday with each other was when Alexia turned eighteen.

Suddenly, she had independence and some adult money to blow on frivolous things so she took Alba to Ibiza with her.

You got left at home because you were still very little and going to the beach and tanning was not something you enjoyed.

Instead, with both of your sisters in Ibiza, Mama took you to the beach near the house and you did fun things like building a sandcastle and eating your weight in ice cream.

Mama made a weekend of it and you were certain you had a much more fun time than Alba and Alexia did. You couldn't imagine laying in the sun and sleeping the day away with fruity drinks could be much fun or, at least when you were younger you couldn't imagine it being fun.

Now though, as a teenager that was also an athlete, you enjoyed you sleep. Naps were an important part of your routine. You came home from school and napped before getting up to go to your training. Then you would come home and nap until dinner.

It was good routine. You liked your routine.

You didn't like having it interrupted at three in the morning by Alba shaking you awake.

You blindly bat a hand at her. "Go away." You roll over onto your front and bury your head in the pillow. "Five more minutes."

"You'd already said that," She says," Come on, get up."

"No."

"If you don't get up now then Alexia will be up with a bucket of water. Then you'll have to get up and change your sheets. Come on, up!"

You groan loudly, muffled by your pillow before forcing yourself up.

The only reason you agreed to going on Alexia and Alba's sister holiday was because you thought you could relax. But, with Alexia in charge, you should have known that would never be the case.

She'd booked the flight for six forty-five leading to this three in the morning wake-up call so you dragged yourself out of your body and changed into some plane comfortable clothing.

It was barely an hour's flight from Barcelona to Mallorca so you've no idea why Alexia insisted on the stupidly early flight.

Either way, you drag your suitcase down the stairs and flip your hood up in an attempt to show your protest at the early morning wake-up call.

Alexia pulls it straight back down.

You flip it up again.

She pulls it down again.

You reach to put it up. Alexia's stern look stops you.

You kick her in the shin.

"You kick like a baby," She says, sticking her tongue out.

"I'm going to bite you."

"Ah," Alba says wistfully, throwing her arms around each of you," Just like old times!"

Alexia grins and ruffles your hair. You pretend to be annoyed.

You manage to have a small nap on her shoulder on the flight over and then get rudely awakened by her shaking you.

The villa is nice though and it's even nicer when you remember Alexia is paying for absolutely everything.

The house has a pool and a shady spot for naps and a big inflatable sword that you're going to use to smack Alba when she annoys you. It's near the beach and is only a ten-minute walk or so into town.

All in all, you're actually quite happy to be on this trip with your older sisters, even though Alba shoves past you to claim the room you wanted as her own.

The sun is nice and hot and you close your eyes for your midday nap as Alba floats around in the pool and Alexia paces around on the phone to her girlfriend.

It's nice and peaceful and sleep comes easy to you.

You don't know how long you've been sleeping by the time Alexia wakes you up by squirting cold sun cream onto your back.

You shriek, flinching away but her strong hands follow you and you can feel her rubbing it in.

"Ale," You whine," I don't need any."

"You do," She insists, working it more furiously into your skin," I got the strongest I can find."

"But then I won't tan!"

"Good. Tanning can cause skin cancer."

"You tan!"

"I don't have delicate baby skin," Alexia says and you turn your head back to look at her in disbelief," Skin cancer is scared of me."

From the sunbed next to you, Alba scoffs. Her face is covered in sun cream that hasn't been rubbed in yet. Clearly, she was Alexia's first victim.

"I don't have delicate baby skin!" You insist.

"Yes, you do." Alexia bats your arms away. "Mama made me promise to make sure you two wore your sun cream which means no tanning oil and no fighting me on it! I'm the oldest. I'm in charge!"

"You can't be in charge of me," Alba says," I'm an adult."

Alexia thinks for a moment before nodding. She prods you in the pack. "You're a baby so I'm in charge of you."

You groan. "This is so unfair!"

"Life's unfair," Alexia says impassively," Now, stay still. I might have missed a spot."

You're pretty sure she dumped the whole bottle on you.

Alexia's a hoverer. She always has been and she always will be.

Her arm is slung around your shoulders as you make your way down the street to find some food. She's insisted on getting you a big floppy hat to protect your face even though she's completely drowned it in sun cream.

"I'm kind of craving seafood," Alba says," Seafood and pasta."

You nod. "I want pasta too."

Alexia nods along. "Pasta sounds good."

"I want dessert as well," You continue.

"That's such a good idea!" Alba agrees quickly," I could kill for some warm cookie dough right now."

You nearly drool at the thought. "With whipped cream."

"And caramel sauce!"

Alba grabs your hand, pulling you out of the security of Alexia's arm and starts sprinting down the street, to where all the restaurants have lined up their menus for the night.

You allow yourself to be dragged, easily keeping pace with her.

You turn to look behind you. "Ale, come on!"

Alexia catches up in record time, grabbing your other hand.

"Seafood, pasta and cookie dough," She laughs," I want dough balls too."

[themastaralex]

the eldest daughters:

I've been in the works of a rhaenyra x f!reader fic for a while now, and it's omegaverse (cross posted on ao3) (my bad guys, accidentally posted it twice lmaoo)

TW: typical targcest between cousins, violence

Summary: Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, a proud and stubborn alpha, is set to marry her omega cousin, you, Princess Alerys Targaryen, in a manner to keep the blood of the dragon pure. You share the blood of the dragon, as well as the fire of it. In the end, however, all depends on if you can both manage to keep the realm out of war; war between kin, and war between dragons.

Chapter 1: The Heir's Tournament

You’d always known you’d end up with Rhaenyra, that much was obvious. You two had grown up practically attached at the hip after Daemon took you from your mother, Rhea Royce. He didn’t like her; ‘his bronze bitch’, as he called her, but still needed to produce some form of a child between them.

So he tried, once. Once is all he needed to do, because she had fallen pregnant soon after, much to both his luck and unluckiness. He didn’t want to do that again, hell, he didn’t want to do it in the first place.

You ended up taking your mother’s slightly tanned complexion and her dark brown hair, but your father’s eyes and streaks of white hair, luckily, which you normally braid back. A light purple, the only other trademark of Valyrian descent. He hated being reminded of the fact that he had had a child with her , but he had to have at least produced a child, but he loved you, in spite of having came from your mother.

Growing up with Rhaenyra in King’s Landing wasn’t bad, if that’s what was thought. It was the best place for you to grow up, on the contrary. You are a princess, not just some normal high-born lord’s daughter. You’re a princess of the realm, a Targaryen. Even if he wanted to, Daemon wouldn’t leave you with Rhea to grow up with her, to not have the luxuries you should- but did- grow up with.

You and Rhaenyra were mischievous kids, to say the least. Truthfully, they called you the ‘twin terrors’. But make no mistake, that didn’t stop you two. While you were indeed a princess of the realm, that didn’t stop you from wanting to pursue sword fighting. Not just because it’s interesting, but because it’d be the one thing you could have that could make your father proud of you.

You had natural skill, quite a prodigy, but not a prodigy in the eyes of every man in that training yard, purely because of their bias and overall thinking. But that’s normal.

By the time Rhaenyra presented as an alpha, most people of the court were surprised. They expected her to be an omega- to be submissive to her alpha, which they assumed would have been you, with your tall and slightly well built physique and your more masculine tendencies. And when you presented as an omega shortly after her, it caused nearly double the surprise that Rhaenyra’s presentation did.

And now, with all the commotion of Aemma and Viserys’ coming child- one that Viserys hopes is a boy, it’s as if the pair of you two have been left to your own devices. Along with Alicent as well, of course. She followed you and Rhaenyra in presenting shortly after yourself- at around 14 as an omega as well.

Regardless of the now stark differences between you and Rhaenyra, it was mostly all still the same since your presentations. Only thing was that guards were set at your doors when either of you went into your heats or ruts, because Rhaenyra is absolutely impulsive, reckless, and would gladly have taken that chance to have you early ahead of your coming wedding. And you would have let her have you.

But oh, yes, your wedding.

Rhaenyra presented at 14 and you a few moons shortly after her, so Viserys thought it would be best to betroth you two, to keep the blood of the dragon pure and what not.

It was the smartest idea to come out of him since him having made and named Rhaenyra.

The Heir’s Tournament is grand, as befit for the coming birth of Viserys’ new child, whom he very much hopes is a boy, and who he and Aemma (mostly Viserys though) have named Baelon in advance of the child’s birth. Although, Rhaenyra claims she wants a sister, and claims she’ll be a girl, even as while she and you were very close as kids, you weren’t sisters neither thought of each other as such, luckily.

By the time Rhaenyra finally arrives at the royal box, Alicent and mostly everyone else has already been seated, and it looks as if she was the last one there, excluding yourself because she’s sure you’re down there getting ready to compete. Despite everything, despite yourself having presented as an omega, Rhaenyra hadn’t witnessed her father or your father say anything to you about quitting and stopping your ‘nonsensical bullshit’ of training and fighting.

She supposes that’s what happens when you’re skilled, regardless of secondary gender, she thinks to herself, as she sits down next to Alicent on her right. The seat on Rhaenyra’s right is empty as well, being the one you’d usually sit in next to her when watching tournaments.

Viserys glances at her, and after recognizing that his daughter is there and accounted for, he stands and speaks, his voice oddly booming for once, “Queen Aemma has begun her labors!” He announces, much to the joy of the crowds and the people in the royal box as they clap and smile at him for a few moments before he sits back down and prepares for the first joust; between a knight of House Tarly and an unnamed knight.

Hooves of horses sound like thunder as the first men collide in a joust, with the unhorsing of the Tarly knight occurring with a sharp crack of the unnamed knight’s lance against his shield, or perhaps against his breastplate- although it’s hard to tell from Rhaenyra’s sightline. The unnamed knight seems to have no real way of differentiating him from a sword on the ground due to his bland and mis-matched armor with no house sigil.

Rhaenyra looks at him with slight interest, seeing as the man managed to unhorse a Tarly squire in one fell thrust of his lance.

“A mystery knight?” She inquires, with Alicent responding next to her, “No. A Cole, of the Stormlands.”

“I’ve never heard of House Cole.” Alicent would slightly shrug at Rhaenyra’s words, as they looked at the other knights, who with their decorated armor and resplendent jewels look every bit the part of wealthy noblemen who have never seen an inch of battle or war.

They spot one in specific, and Rhaenyra has a bit of gossip to share regarding him, so she tilts her body toward Alicent just enough to whisper to her without the possibility of prying ears, “Lord Stokeworth’s daughter is promised to that young squire.”

“Lord Massey’s daughter?” Alicent asks, as Rhaenyra nods and continues, “They’re to be married as soon as he wins his knighthood.” Alicent almost scoffs in amusement, but finishes their little gossip session with an added soft chuckle, “He’d best get on with it. I heard that Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress.”

Rhaenyra almost bursts out laughing at the news, but manages to control it into a small giggle as she leans back into her seat, watching Lord Boremund Baratheon ride over to the royal box, with his house sigil, a proud black and gold stag, etched onto his armor, and banners on his horse. He lifts his lance up toward Rhaenys, prompting her to stand and walk over to him as everyone watches him ask for her favor.

“I would humbly ask for the favor of ‘The Queen Who Never Was’.”

Rhaenys nods her head and indulges him, grabbing a favor and placing it on his lance as she offers him good fortune in the coming joust, even as he almost disregards her comment, “I would gladly take it- if I thought I needed it.”

That comment just rubs Rhaenyra the wrong way, as Otto grumbled something about Viserys possibly having Boremund’s tongue out for that. It rubs Rhaenyra the wrong way personally because despite her father being the king, she felt as if the crown should have been Rhaenys’. She was Aemon’s only living child, and she was still passed over for the crown twice. Once for Baelon, and another time for Viserys.

Over the set of the next few minutes, they just speak amongst each other until the Master of Revels introduces who is one of the main competitors of the event.

“Ser Daemon of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent!”

Daemon, Rhaenyra’s uncle, and soon-to-be father-in-law as well.

The smallfolk in the stands cheer loudly for him as he rides out on his steed, as Daemon is wearing black-scaled armor, with the helm looking like a dragon’s head. The other knights from the lists are lined up- once again minus yourself.

While Daemon trots his horse down the line, scrutinizing and choosing his opponent, Rhaenyra’s thoughts obviously wander to you. You wouldn’t miss a single chance to embarrass your father, especially if it’s in a joust, or even if you get embarrassed yourself, because you’d get to fight Daemon regardless.

“Where is she?” Rhaenyra would mutter to herself, one of her arms moving to rest on the arm rest as one of her thumbs played with the ring on her middle finger. Alicent notices Rhaenyra’s small mutter and her fidgeting with her rings- not that she’s much better because she picks at her nails.

But she notices regardless, and decides to distract her a bit by speaking of who he might choose, “Daemon will surely choose to face one of the great houses. Though he probably doesn’t want to tilt against someone he’s never faced.” She notes, getting Rhaenyra to sit back up a bit as Daemon chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower, Alicent’s older brother and Otto’s eldest son, with aiming his lance toward him.

This makes Alicent slightly frown, as Rhaenyra looks on in contemplation. The one person she wants to see compete in this bloody tournament isn’t even here yet, and it’s maddening, because she knows you’re a damn good warrior. Otto doesn’t even flinch at Daemon’s choosing of opponent, he expected it, if anything.

Daemon and Gwayne line up in their lanes, and charge toward one another. Daemon’s tactic of forcing the other man’s lance to drive into the dirt and throw him off the horse works, and Gwayne lands face first into the ground under him and his steed. Once Daemon wins, he takes a victory lap around, and then rides up to the royal box as he takes off his helm and wows the crowd with his obvious good looks.

Rhaenyra, Alicent, and truthfully, most- if not all- the ladies in the royal box immediately swoon, as Alicent and Rhaenyra go up and walk to him, as they both smile, Rhaenyra’s smile being just a touch more polite than anything else, as is Alicent’s.

“Nicely done, uncle.” Rhaenyra notes with a hint of praise, as Daemon gives her a small nod, acknowledging her words, “Thank you, Princess.” Then Daemon turned his eyes toward Alicent, tilting his lance up toward her, and then asking in an almost smug tone, “I’m fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent. Having your favor would all but assure it.”

At that, Alicent is almost taken aback, even with the blush on her face from the question. But she does as he requests, grabbing a favor and placing it on the lance, as it slides to the base, with Rhaenyra going back to sit down as Alicent offers some final words. “Good luck, my prince.”

Rhaenyra looks almost amused, but she doesn’t want to give away that this genuinely makes her laugh, as Otto glares down at Daemon. Beating his son, then asking his daughter for a favor, as if he’s someone he should cross?

All in all, the hostility between his younger brother and his Hand amuses Viserys to no end.

The tournament rages on, and finally, you make an appearance. You’re up against a member of House Tyrell, a knight of no real consequence. Even his movements on his horse seem sloppy, if anything.

The moment Rhaenyra spots your recognizable dragon armor- the same colors as Daemon’s armor, black and red, as it should be for most Targaryens- the helm, mostly, since it’s reminiscent of your dragon, Aeryx and her horn shape, she grins, finally able to relax and know you’re about to wipe the floor with that Tyrell man. Or maybe a boy, more like it.

“And now, for her first match of the day, Ser Alerys of House Targaryen, daughter of the Prince of the City, is tilting against Ser Heron of House Tyrell!” The smallfolk all cheer and clap at the mention and sight of their prince’s daughter, as the nobles in the royal box clap for both competitors.

Viserys both visibly smiles and looks worried. Not for you, but for Heron Tyrell. If you’re anything like Daemon– and you are, after all, he’s known you since you were a babe– you’re definitely going to either bend the rules a bit, or say ‘fuck all’ and just beat the man half to death. With the way Daemon handled Gwayne in his own match, he doesn’t doubt you were most definitely watching him and are taking pointers from him and his own actions.

Regardless, the smallfolk calm down a bit as you and Heron trot into your respective lanes after your introductions from the Master of Revels, as you watch Rhaenyra and Alicent stand up and walk to the guard-rails of the royal box to watch this joust. They’re your closest friends, and your cousin is set to marry you in a year or so, so it would only make sense for them to want to closely watch you embarrass a Tyrell.

You look up at Rhaenyra and Alicent, giving them a small nod and smile through your helm, with only your eyes and the middle of your lips visible through the small vertical open area of your black iron helm. They smile back at you, with Alicent’s smile being more friendly than Rhaenyra’s small smirk. The girl lives for both hearing drama and causing it.

Once you look back at Heron, it’s as if you can tell he’s nervous from beneath the visor of his helm, because his hand is slightly shaking as he holds his lance and shield. Now, for the lance, it might just be that it’s heavy, so you won’t blame him for that if that’s the case.

After a few more moments of a wait, you both charge toward the other, having a narrow field to aim your lance and hope it strikes true on either his shield or on his breastplate to push him off. Once you both get close, you meet the edge of his shield, but the tip of the lance slides to the side to strike his armored shoulder as he’s pushed almost off his saddle as you both ride down the line to the end to turn back around and go for a second charge if he can sit up. His own lance had missed- sliding off the iron edge of your own shield, which didn’t help him stay on his saddle, as he fell the moment the horse turned to the other side, falling into the mud of the tiltyard and losing the joust.

The crowd loudly applauds at their princess’s win, having all expected her to easily best the Tyrell knight, as Rhaenyra and Alicent stood at the rails the entire time, witnessing the usage of strategy that you used (you just aimed at his shield), and how you made the best of missing his shield.

You ride up to the royal box, removing your helm and holding it in your lap as you look up at them, as if a knight in shining armor.

“Princess Rhaenyra. Lady Alicent.” You greet, giving each one a small nod as a smile rose on your face regardless of who you were looking at– even if it rose mainly due to Rhaenyra. She looks beautiful in that dress, with the red and golds contrasting perfectly with herself. You don’t even have to address them with honorifics, you just want to. Besides, if you want to play as a knight right now, you have to be as courteous as one would be.

“I wouldn’t suppose that I could have your favor for the coming fights, could I, Princess?” 

‘Only you would be so bold as to ask for my favor over such a minor joust, Alerys..’ Rhaenyra thinks to herself, slightly tilting her head and having a small smile on her lips. She keeps eye contact with you, before giving her oral answer, dancing around it a bit before really answering.

“Hmm, I would suppose so, my gallant knight.” She walked over to where the favors are, and grabbed one as her father looked at her with a small neutral look for a moment before letting a small smile come on his lips and give a slight nod to her as if to say, ‘Go ahead.’

It's not like Viserys doesn't want Rhaenyra and you to not have fun neither not show that you are both steadily ready for your coming marriage, and giving you her favor would only reinforce the thoughts of most nobles; loyalty.

Otto side eyes Viserys for a moment, watching as the king gives the go-ahead to Rhaenyra to place the favor of a wreath of red roses on your lance, watching it slide down to the base.

Of course, Otto, being the King's Hand and a.. a friend , agreed with him the moment he suggested Rhaenyra and you be betrothed.

Though, his ambitions are large, large enough to take heavy steps to the crown if need be. Truthfully, he should have pushed to possibly have betrothed Alicent and Rhaenyra. It's not like Alicent isn't pleasant looking and Rhaenyra doesn't have affection for her– she does. But he's not sure as to how he might have taken it, especially since this was likely one of the few things that Viserys and Daemon had agreed on doing for their daughters in a while now.

But he's sure that with a bit of persuasion , or perhaps seduction of sorts from Alicent’s way toward Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra might voice her opinion to want to marry someone other than the obvious choice of her cousin with Targaryen blood..

But Otto quickly gets himself out of his own head and plans, watching as you and Rhaenyra conversed for another few moments, with you claiming brave words of victory.

“When I win this entire tourney, I’ll come up and name you my Queen of Love and Beauty, cousin.” Your words came with a cocky grin, looking up at Rhaenyra, as she just quickly snorted, out of humor if nothing else. Just the name of ‘cousin’ toward one another makes her laugh, as she humored you.

“We’ll see when you win then, won’t we?” Rhaenyra smiled, slightly tilting her head for a moment as she kept eye contact with you for a bit more before you placed your helm back on and rode back toward the boy acting as your squire.

Alicent- who was witnessing the entire flirting session between the two of you, side-eyes Rhaenyra, having a look of something similar to saying, ‘Well, I’m sorry I was here to witness this..’, as they sit back down.

Over the course of the rest of the day, Lord Boremund Baratheon is humbled and promptly knocked off his horse by the previously unnamed knight, the Cole of the Stormlands, who they announce as, ‘Ser Criston Cole’. Now with a complete name to the man, Rhaenyra is partially curious about him, so she waves over for Ser Harrold Westerling, her Kingsguard knight, to ask him about the man.

“What do you know about this Ser Criston Cole, Ser Harrold?” She asked, as he seemed to think about it for a moment, responding back to his princess to the best of what he was told. “I have been asking the same thing, Princess. I’m told Ser Criston is common-born, the son of Lord Blackhaven’s steward. Other than that, and the fact that he has unhorsed both of the Baratheon lads, I could not say.”

They watch as Ser Criston lines back up in the lane as he awaits his next opponent.

The Master of Revels calls out the next opponent, “Ser Criston Cole will now tilt against Ser Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City!”

That catches Rhaenyra’s attention again, seeing as her uncle is about to tilt against this Ser Criston. She thinks Daemon will make quick work of him, and then after that, he would probably joust against you, his own daughter. However, he might have the slightest bit more pity for you, and not be as harsh as he would normally be with any other opponent.

Both Alicent and Rhaenyra’s interest peaked at this match, as they stay seated but watch with careful eyes, as Ser Harrold stood and walked back to his post.

The joust is a quick one, with both of them charging toward one another, as Daemon hits Criston’s breastplate dead on, breaking his lance. Unfortunately, Daemon is the one who is dismounted, with the amount of force he placed into the attack, he’s forced back, falling off his horse and onto his back.

Though, he quickly scrambles back up and signals to his squires to bring him Dark Sister, offering it to him hilt first, as he quickly draws said sword– the Valyrian steel rippling in the light of the afternoon sun.

“Prince Daemon wishes to continue in a melee!” The Master of Revels proclaims, as the crowd cheers and hollers, with Ser Criston dismounting his horse and continuing this match in a melee. While Daemon had a squire to hand him Dark Sister, Criston has no such man, so he runs to grab a morningstar from one of the posts set up with weapons on one side of the tiltyard. But Daemon doesn’t wait, he quickly and angrily slashes at him with Dark Sister, with Criston evading with the speed of a much smaller and agile man.

With his evasion, he turns around and snares Dark Sister with the chain, gripping the blade and quickly pulling it away from Daemon’s grip and into the mud. Daemon is disarmed now, as Criston throws him into the ground, hitting him on the back with his morningstar once, to stun him, as he says, “Yield.”

But in true Daemon fashion, he tries– and fails– to reach for Dark Sister, with Criston kicking away the sword to somewhere else, now standing over Daemon as he holds his morningstar above his head, ready to strike again if he does not yield. The crowds are going absolutely wild, at both Daemon being bested, and Daemon being bested by a relatively unknown knight.

Viserys stands and claps and laughs loudly, as Otto politely claps, but both are appreciating that Daemon has been humbled and bested for once. Criston helps Daemon up out of the mud, as Daemon spits some blood on the ground, angrily.

“Well fought, my prince.” “It was. By one of us.”

After his snarky answer back, Daemon walks away, picking up Dark Sister as he leaves the tiltyard, and perhaps the tourney grounds in total.

Ser Criston remounts his horse and rides to the royal box, looking up at Alicent and Rhaenyra, and due to having already witnessed the earlier match of you versus the Tyrell boy, decides against asking Rhaenyra for her favor, lest he wins and gains your wrath against him. He removes his helm as Alicent and Rhaenyra come up to the rails, watching him for a moment; witnessing his dark hair, dark eyes, and olive-colored skin.

“Gods, he’s Dornish.” Alicent said, almost falling for him right then and there. Of course, Rhaenyra doesn’t exactly feel the same thing. He’s attractive, sure, but he’s not you.

As they witness Criston’s looks for the first time, a maester comes into the royal box and speaks quietly to Otto, who quickly wears a somewhat distressed face, as he whispers to Viserys, who after receiving the news, quickly but quietly makes his way out of the royal box and into the Red Keep with Otto and the maester, where his wife, Queen Aemma, is having birthing problems.

Criston asks for Alicent’s favor, even as she had earlier given one to Daemon, but her eyes do partially light up as she does, because he chose her and not Rhaenyra to ask for a favor.

Afterwards, the tourney takes a more brutal turn, with bones breaking, blood being spilled every which way, and death being something the slightest bit more common right now, as a Corbray knight walks over to the Tarly knight who unhorsed him, and begins to beat him. Their pages and squires rush to pull them off each other, to no avail.

In the next match after getting them out, it’s Ser Criston versus you, still having the favor that Rhaenyra gave you that was on the base of your lance, which is now on the junction of your left arm, of your inner elbow.

“And now, Ser Criston Cole versus Ser Alerys Targaryen!”

You both charge with loud yells, striking true on each other’s shields, shattering one another’s lances, as well as a part of your shield. You rush to throw your broken lance down, grabbing another from your temporary squire’s hand, being careful to grip the inside as Rhaenyra eagerly watches you race down the lane a second time, hoping you knock Criston on his ass, purely because Daemon lost, so you need to win it. For House Targaryen, for your own pride, and for Rhaenyra.

It’s almost a make or break moment, the moment that you aim in and have a set point as to where the tip of the lance will strike. No, not almost , it is a make or break moment.

Even with the sweat rushing down your forehead and almost into your eyes because of the heat and your heavy black armor, you manage a breath before you collide.

It’s over in merely a second as you feel the lance hit him, but you also feel his lance against you– pushing you down as both of you hit each other’s breastplates with all the speed of the racing horses, and your own strength.

And you are both knocked to the ground at the same time, off your horses- disoriented because of the force- as you barely shuffle up onto your feet, regaining your eyesight as you motion your squire to grab your sword, and he quickly hands you your sword, a well-crafted iron sword, whom you dubbed, Stinger. You couldn’t really think of anything better because you were a child when Daemon gave you it.

“And they decide to continue into the melee!”

You witness Ser Criston having stood back up as well, grabbing a morningstar, no doubt about to try the same tactics he used on Daemon, considering he knows who he’s facing; his daughter.

You don’t slash as angrily as Daemon did, more so just gauging your chances and taking shorter slashes, since he has the advantage of wielding a weapon that could easily dent your breastplate if you’re not careful and if he’s harsh with his strikes.

You both go back and forth for a bit trying to know the other’s striking pattern, as you get a bit too eager once you see an opening, going for it as he notices and uses the morningstar to hit your shoulder, denting your armor and forcing you down, almost letting go of your sword, but not quite.

He quickly tries to disarm you by kicking your hand, but you grab some dry dirt from a patch, and throw it in his eyes, in classic Daemon fashion, barely getting up and hitting the morningstar out of his hand as he almost wipes at his eyes, forcing them open, growling angrily. This is when he starts going for hand to hand combat, knowing his morningstar is too far to reach now, and he’s partly blinded.

The crowd gasps, seeing as you pulled a ‘dirty trick’. It’s something that- again- Daemon would do, so they’re not too surprised. 

Both you and Ser Criston continue, with you pushing him back a bit with your sword, trying to kick him down and make him yield, but he stays up. It’s frustrating, and almost makes you irritated, but while your frustration and irritation hits you, your distraction gives him an opening, so he shoves your sword aside with his armguard, and makes sure to hit your helm guard with the metal covering his knuckles, forcing it to hit your nose. And with the strength of his punch, it makes you bleed a bit, as you stagger backwards; disoriented again as your vision failed you and eyes started watering.

He grabbed your collar of your neck armor, and threw you down onto the ground as if you were nothing but a sack of flour, in which you groaned as you hit the mud. He places one foot on your hand wielding your sword, and the other on your breastplate, on top of the Targaryen sigil in the middle.

“Yield.” He said, knowing you’d have to. You literally can’t move with his feet on you.

“I-I.. I yield.” You reluctantly say, and he takes off his feet from you and your body, and moves to give you a hand. He’s a strong fighter, you’ll give him that. But then again, you’re only a 14 year old girl, and you lasted that long and almost bested him. Good try.

You take his hand up, giving him a small nod of thanks, even as the blood rushes down your nose and lips, then down your chin and onto the ground and probably your breastplate.

“Good fight, Ser.” You manage out, as he gives a small nod back, “I say the same to you, my princess.”

The entire fight did rub him the wrong way for a bit, seeing as he was fighting a princess, not a girl specifically. But to be acknowledged by a princess, one that worked to hone her skills to participate in a tourney, is good nonetheless.

You both walk away, to get treated for your wounds, and because Criston pretty much won the entire damn thing already.

And then, not even half an hour later, during a different melee, you join Rhaenyra and Alicent up in the royal box, rubbing at your nose as you sit down in some clean clothes, in a black tunic with red accents and embroidered silver dragons on top of where each breast is.

Rhaenyra looks at you, and feels a bit bad, until she realizes you lost, and totally wasted her favor. “You wasted my favor, oh, gallant knight.” She sarcastically says, and she doesn’t really care about the favor much.

You look at her for a moment, slightly embarrassed and frowning, “Sorry. He got my nose, and my eyes started watering.” You grumble, holding it as you witness the new violence down in the tiltyard, whereas Alicent looks away and Rhaenyra- like you- continues to look.

As the violence reaches a standstill, as in the bodies being dragged away after everything, Otto finally returns, and shares the new news to the small council.

“The Queen lives, but the boy is dead.” He quietly shares, earning a small gasp from some of them. It’s enough to draw attention, from all three girls down in the first row, as well as from possibly Laena and Laenor.

The Queen lives, but the boy is dead.

Aemma survived off of nothing short of a miracle. They sacrificed Baelon’s life for Aemma’s, but she is narrowly surviving.

Viserys chose her, in a rare twist of fate.

[bittersweetcreep]

Bring You Home Chapter 1 Yandere! Batfamily x Wayne Daughter! Oc

Ch.2 Part 1 Ch.2 Part 2 Ch.3 Preview

Bruce, Tim and Damian needed the DNA of a target for one reason or another so a Wayne Enterprises blood drive where they also donate was the perfect cover-up, but when Bruce was going through the DNA samples via batcomputer he came across a DNA that matches both Damian and himself. Pulling up the profile of the DNA match he felt as if everything has faded into static as he came face to face with the photo of his mother, only it wasn't his mother but a 15 year old girl with porcelain skin, unique but familiar ombré blue eyes and black to white ombré hiar that's braided in low pigtails resting upon her shoulders with blunt bangs and long strands of hair framing her face. This girl is his daughter, who, by reading, was also named Martha.

Bruce just sat on his chair staring at his daughter's photo who in all intents and purposes could be his mother's own little mini me, as they have the same unique ombré eyes and the same facial features. Although Martha doesn't have his mother's blonde hair, or at least that's what he thought until he found an older photo of her younger self with the same soft creamy blonde hair as his mother's. Bruce would of bask in the photos of his daughter, Mother's look alike, for much longer [dear god she looks so much like her] if it wasn't for the fact this younger photo was attached to a criminal report of his own daughter being a victim of a stabbing by what it appears to be her two friends sacrificing her to the online character Slender Man. There were many photos of her stab wounds and even a short video from a civilian showing Marth stumbling down the sidewalk covered in her own blood. Reading through the case file and looking at the photos of his daughter's injuries made Bruce realize that he could have lost his daughter and he wouldn't have known. He didn't want to go thought the loss of his love ones being taken away from him again, especially losing Martha now that he knows about her because looking at her photo he sees the mother he lost. It was like he became that little boy again that lost his parents in crime alley but now in his hands was a piece of his mother he thought was forever gone and this time he'll keep her safe forever in his arms.

Hearing the faint sound of footsteps, Bruce turned his head to see Tim and Damian heading towards him. Internally composing himself, Bruce greeted his sons as they came close to the batcomputer. They looked up towards the screen that showed the photo of their sister. "Is this the target, Father?" "No Damian, this is Martha. My daughter and your sister." Curious and intrigued Tim and Damian investigated along side their father but not before reading her case file and looking over the photos no matter how much Bruce tried to prevent them, and let's just say they weren't pleased. While Tim could control himself, Damian didn't have that same sense of control. "Father, don't you dare come in between me and the inferior scums who dare to defile Martha! Who is insane to believe the existence of a fictional character! My god, Father, you saw the stab wounds! They could have killed her!"

While Bruce tried to wrangle his son up and prevent Damian from grabbing his sword to exact revenge for his sister's honor, Tim took a seat at the batcomputer and started to do some investigating himself. He checked if she had any online accounts, which she did. He started with her Instagram, where he found photos of what he assumed was her family, who consisted of a red hair women who's hair is tied up in 3 rose buns with jade green eyes, a half blind man with a jade green eye, honey tan skin and dark brown hair that is pulls back into a ponytail showing off his undercut. Lastly, was a belgian malinois . With a little searching, he quickly discovered their names. The red-haired woman's name is Roseanne Rodriguez, and from her Instagram, it seems she's a popular wedding planner. Then there's Roseanne's Dad and his sister's grandfather Elias Rodriguez, who was a military veteran but is currently deceased. "At least we have that going for us." And how can he forget the precious belgian malinois who's lovingly named Lady. Even though Tim hadn't met Roseanne, he had a feeling she'll be a thorn in their side at some point. But not Lady, she's magnificent.

Tim continued to scroll down, passing by images of Martha and Roseanne doing various things together like a family trip to Gotham's Waterpark and a photo of the girls in a nail salon together. There were also short clips of her sparring in krav maga and muay thai classes, as well as clips of her in fencing lessons and a recent photo of her in Kendo Gear. When Damian saw what was on the screen he put aside his plans for vengeance for now in favor of taking hold of the batcomputer to get a better look at his sister's lessons while ignoring Tim's annoyed protest. Damian looked over the clips of Martha sparring with her opponent, and upon seeing her take them down, he felt a sense of pride. Especially how ruthlessly she did it, too. He also noticed the familiarity way she held her blade in training as if she's been acquainted with it for a long time.

The ravenette also found photos of her dog. Like being dropped off at a doggy daycare, resting in a luxurious dog house with a rubber fish toy in their mouth and when Damian found clips of Martha playing with her belgian malinois in a agility course he got giddy as he imagined all the fun competitions between their companions.

As they scrolled down Martha's Instagram they saw photos of her past and present, they watched how her life played out before their very eyes captivating them but also created a hollow feeling inside of them because they weren't there for any of it. Damian refused to miss out any more of his sister's life, and he knew he wasn't the only one who felt that why. "Father, I demand my sister to come home. She belongs here, it's her birthright!" Tim couldn't have agreed more. "Damian has a point, I mean, stabbed 19 times by who she thought were her friends? Martha would be much safer and happier with us." Bruce's lips turn upward in a smile as he was happy and relieved to hear his boys accepting Martha into the family right away and that they want her home just as much as he does. "Don't worry my sons, we'll bring her home."

[eowynstwin]

imprimatura / muses

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish shows up one day to model for your studio class. He's flirtatious, too attractive for his own good, and more interested in you than you'd ever expect him to be. And his boyfriend Ghost is interested too. - ao3

He arrives early as you’re setting up for your students, in jeans and a tight t-shirt, and the first thing that crosses your mind when you lay eyes on him is Jesus, he’s fit. 

You are no stranger to bodies. Hundreds of them have cycled through your studio, all shapes and sizes and colors; you think you may know every dip, every roll, every hard angle and soft curve that a human body is capable of holding. The mystique of defined muscle has long lost its novelty. Bodies are bodies, and each holds the same value as the next when subject to brush and canvas. It never matters, you teach your students, what a body looks like in the modeling chair. It only matters if they can reproduce it accurately.

Even so, when a body like this walks in, you really can’t help but take notice.

Decadent muscle, fed and worked well, round and full with hydration. It’s impossible to miss, even through his clothes; each group delineated clearly, gracefully, as if sculpted rather than built, and alive with soft, subcutaneous movement. It’s indulgent to look at, the comfortable breadth of his shoulders and chest down to that slight taper of his waist and bulk of his thick thighs. It’s a physique no hard-bodied gym rat could hope to achieve merely with extra time at the racks—a physique that is easily, harmoniously attractive in its makeup of muscle and healthy fat.

The man is also mohawked and suntanned, and his mouth rests at an angle that suggests he often smiles—as if he knows that Michelangelo would have swooned at the sight of him. He comes into your classroom, saunters over to you, and stops precisely two paces away from you.

“Sergeant John MacTavish,” he says, offering his hand. “I understand you’re the instructor?”

He has gorgeous, vivid blue eyes (pthalo and cremnitz, with a touch of hamsa). You blink several times. Fit is still rattling around your skull, and begins knocking against sergeant at the same rolling frequency as his warm Scottish brogue. You realize his hand is still outstretched and quickly take it to shake.

“Yes!” you say. His palm is tough, callused, and not soft in the slightest, but very warm. “Nice to meet you, sergeant.”

He gives a grimace. “John’s fine. Or Soap.”

“Soap?”

“Nickname, y’know.”

Neither of you have released from the handshake. Soap’s grip is firm, the kind of firm that suggests he can squeeze much, much tighter if he needs to. And if the grip isn’t any indication, the broad forearms, dusted soft with dark brown hair, certainly are.

Black lines, a sword and helmet framed in laurels, catch your notice. The ink has the soft edges of having lain in the skin for a few years. You turn his arm to see it more fully. “Oh. Nice tattoo.”

He looks at the ink as if it is entirely new to him, and then gives an easy grin. “Thanks. I’ve got a few more too. Hope they aren’t hard to draw.”

When you loosen your grip on his hand, he releases you immediately. You still feel the squeeze in your bones even as you drop your hand to your side.

“So, then, Soap,” you say, “have you ever modeled before?”

He shakes his head, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his low-slung jeans. It tugs the waistband just a bit, revealing a sliver of warm, tan skin (raw sienna, flesh ochre, naples yellow). “Should have, honestly, with how much it pays.”

“It gets very boring, very fast,” you say. “What do you plan to wear for the breaks?”

“Was I supposed to bring that m’self?”

You are unable to suppress a laugh. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck and going a little sheepish—as if expecting a reprimand. You suppose it’s a valid expectation to have, in his world. You aren’t terribly familiar with the military, but you do know it’s one hell of a stickler for rules.

You also can’t help but admire the appealing pull and stretch of his bicep and deltoid, the flex of his pectoral as he lowers his arm. 

“Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go see if I can find something for you?” you suggest kindly, letting him off the hook.

“Sorry,” he says, pretty blue eyes filled with genuine apology. “I’ll remember nex’ time. Thanks.”

The expression is so hangdog that you almost want to pat his head and noise at him reassuringly, like an actual dog. You press your lips together to hide a smile, and leave the studio.

When you get back from the models’ changing room, you find Soap with one hip against the counter where you’d been organizing your supplies, one knee loose and shoulders set at a relaxed angle. You want to laugh at his easy contrapposto. He’s going to be an excellent model. You can feel it. 

It looks as if he’s moving around the sticks of vine charcoal with one outstretched finger; he pulls his hand guiltily away when you reenter the studio, crossing his arms over his chest as if to hide the evidence of his snooping. It makes his pectorals bunch and round out, gathers the thickness of his biceps up into chiseled, full definition.

You lift one brow at him as you walk over.

“Never could keep my hands to m’self,” he admits, still sheepish.

“It’s alright,” you allow, smiling back. “Do you draw?”

“Used to,” he says. He looks back at the charcoal. “No time, now.”

“Are you deployed often?” you ask, taking the opportunity to look at his face. 

Beauty is cheap in art, but you notice it all the same—appreciate the strong brows, the hard angle of his jaw, the dark stubble of a beard you suspect he can’t keep shaved down, and the long scar that cuts through it across his chin. The light brown of his complexion is speckled with sun exposure, and there are the faintest of creases at the corners of his eyes, which you expect will deepen into genuine, gorgeous crow’s feet as he ages.

He’s not all rugged, though. There is a soft, thick curl to his lashes, which are as dark as strong coffee or expensive chocolate, and an equal decadence to the pink, plush little swell of his bottom lip—which, in the very middle, has the smallest of divots, as if he regularly spends time biting it. 

They’re traits that are far too sweet to belong on an otherwise masculine face, and their effect is such that they turn an objectively average set of features into a shockingly attractive portrait—that suddenly has something fluttering, just a bit, in the roof of your stomach.

He looks at you, and catches your survey. You can see him realize you’d been watching, the knowledge of it blooming in ocean blue eyes like ink dropped onto linen.

“More often than no’,” he answers, showing teeth in a crooked, interested grin. And now he’s looking at you—attention flitting across your face, dropping down your body and jumping back up to meet your gaze. The creases deepen at the corners of his eyes.

The fluttering intensifies. The sudden role reversal has you feeling at once flustered and unmoored. You are never the subject of any perusal—always comfortably the observer.

“Well—” you try, and you’re embarrassed at the low tone of your voice. You clear your throat. “Well, let’s make use of the time we have you, then.”

His smile remains, cocksure and easy. “Let’s.” 

He knows the effect he’s had.

“Anyway,” you say, blinking several times and proffering the sheet you’d retrieved, “none of the other models are your size, so I’m afraid this will have to do.”

He takes it in his hands, which are sun-dark and striking against the clean white linen. “So it’s a toga, then?” he asks.

“Whatever you like. Let’s go over the basics, and then you can undress.”

“Oh, already, aye? Y’move fast, hen,” he drawls, still grinning. “I like it.”

Heat rushes to your face, but you don’t feel embarrassed enough not to laugh. You busy yourself with tapping your charcoal sticks back in place, putting them back in an even row ascending in order of length, and saving yourself from having to look him in the eye. “Ha! We don’t do a lot of foreplay in this studio, I’m afraid.”

“No?” Soap hums, and he steps closer. He’s very warm, enough that you can feel it even with the space between you. You do have to look at him then. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes casting pretty shadows on his cheekbones as he gazes down at you. “That’s a shame. I’m right partial to it.”

Your brows lift, and you will your pulse to remain steady even as you inhale, catching a thread of—cologne? Aftershave? Just plain deodorant?—coming off of him. The scent caresses you, almost beckoning you to lean forward. You swear you can see the thrum of his heartbeat, there in the soft hollows by his Adam’s apple.

You blink. He is your model. “Well—I’ll try to set you up as best I can, anyway. Follow me, please.”

And you turn your back on him, because this is your workplace, and you are at work, and if you don’t get on with things you might do something stupid like actually flirt back.

Soap hadn’t been sure what to expect when he arrived at the art studio. He’s never been to one before, much less one housed in a university—which he has also never been to—and hell, he only ever took one art class in high school.

If pressed, he’d have imagined old brick walls covered in diagram posters, shelves of supplies in all colors, the smell of paint hanging permanently in the air. What he finds instead is modern, clean, and impersonal. Stage lights hang from fixtures in the ceiling, pointing at a platform in the back center of the room. A tight line of easels, all folded up, stand pressed into a far corner, next to a tower of stacked chairs, and waist-high cabinets line half the room against the bare, painted cinder block wall. The linoleum floor looks new.

None of this, however,  has any opportunity to disappoint him. His final unmet expectation, standing across the room and organizing a tray of art supplies, is a very welcome surprise.

You’re bonnie. Like, every point on his wishlist bonnie. Christ, he must’ve done something really good lately, because he can’t imagine just lucking into this. There’s not a hard angle to you, all sweet and soft, but when you meet his gaze during introductions there’s a sharpness to you that skewers him through the chest. You are much smarter than him, he can tell immediately. 

He’s always had a thing for smart women. Soft ones, too.  And if that weren’t enough, you let him flirt shamelessly with you, while checking him out the whole time.

Steaming Jesus.

You direct him to get onto the platform and sit down, still clothed, in an armchair draped in another pristine white sheet. The stage lights are bright overhead, and they highlight free-floating wisps of your hair in gold. 

“You want to ensure that you don’t rest your weight on only one or two points,” you explain. You have a nice voice. Steady, confident—this is your territory, your studio, and in it you are clearly the master. “The main danger is that your arms or legs might fall asleep, and you won’t realize it until you get up, in which case you’ll fall. We can’t touch you, so we can’t save you from that.”

“Y’canna touch me?” Soap repeats.

“Not without your explicit consent,” you say.

He smiles at you, the kind of smile he saves for bright nights at the pub over platoons of shot glasses. “I explicitly consent to you touching me.”

The corners of your mouth tug upward, just a bit, and you look away, clearly bashful. Something in Soap’s chest starts beating a drum. He knows already he’ll ask you to drinks after the class ends tonight.

“I doubt I’d be able to do much,” you say, “you’re a bit more substantial than the usual models.” Your eyes flick down his torso and back up.

“Guess I’ll have to follow your advice, then,” he says.

“You should,” you say, and he looks at your thigh shamelessly as you pat it—even beneath your jeans, he can see the ripple of the impact. “One of the worst-case scenarios is nerve damage.”

“So you have done this before!”

He can’t help it—Soap’s imagination runs wild. Titanic, draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls wild. It’s not exactly polite to imagine a teacher naked while she’s in the middle of giving him directions (and Jesus, what a concept, he might be half-mast already), but Soap has always found that people like it when he’s a little rude.

You drum your fingers. “I have.”

He finally hears the nerve damage part of your instruction. “How, uh—how bad can it get?”

The drumming stops. “For me? It just starts to twinge a bit if I sit on this side very long. So don’t rest your weight all on one hip, yeah?”

Concern assuaged that he had not ignored your genuine pain in order to objectify you, Soap grins. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you say. “Also—even if it doesn’t hurt, Soap, you can stop at any time, okay?”

That has him blinking. “Kinda defeats the purpose, doesnae?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. This is your first time modeling. You don’t know how you’ll feel, sitting here with your clothes off and everyone looking at you. If you need to stop, I want you to stop. I’ll make sure you’re paid anyway, so don’t worry about that.”

You are…so serious about this. The line of your brows is furrowed, imploring, like a little discomfort on his part is a violation of the highest order.

“Sure,” he says, a little dumbstruck and mostly lying. He’d be a rubbish soldier if he tapped out of a little thing like sitting down, but it’s nice that you care.

You purse your lips, nod, and then move onto the task at hand, stepping back and then down off the platform. When you begin to survey him—gaze flitting up and down his body, more pensive than appreciative—he has to resist the urge to flex.

Instead he watches you as you look at him. He especially likes, he decides, the slope of your nose and the smart, serious press of your mouth. You could get him all turned around, he thinks, if you gave it half a try.

Your tits are also great, but that’s by the by.

“Try resting your elbow up a little higher, and twist at the hips a bit,” you instruct, and Soap obeys. “Hm. How would you feel about crossing your ankles?”

You continue like this—nudging him in directions he doesn’t think make all that much of a difference, standing in different positions around the room to check the angles. He half-wishes he could step out of his body and join you, curious as he is about what you’re seeing, what your students will see. He’s not sure he has any clear expectations for how the class will go, but if you’re any indication, it’ll be more fun than he expects.

“Not sure if I’ll remember how to get back into this,” he says, partly to be helpful and partly to get you to talk to him again.

“I’ll help you, don’t worry,” you say. “Okay, I think that’s a good one, you can move now—I’m going to start setting up, the students should be here any minute.”

He stands, and you turn away to collect your supplies, so Soap figures this means it’s time for him to strip. He pulls off his shirt and drapes it over the chair’s arm, unbuttons his pants and shoves them down to his knees.

“Soap!”

He freezes. Then he looks at you. You’re blushing again, deep and saturated, mouth parted in surprise and hand pressed to your chest. He does not miss the quick flick of your gaze down his body; he’s probably violated some rule or another of the studio, but he can’t help but grin.

You’re adorable.

“Gotta happen eventually, right?” he says.

You cover your face with your palm. “I was going to leave the room first!”

“First time someone’s wanted to run away when I’m takin’ my clothes off, I won’t lie—”

“You just come get me when you’re done!” you say hastily as you beeline for the door. “I’ll be right outside!”

Soap chuckles a little when you’re gone, the door slamming mortified behind you, and folds his clothes up behind the armchair he’ll be sitting in. You’re so cute. He can’t wait to sit naked for you for the next three hours.

And he’s definitely asking you out for drinks.

next

[livmightlive]

Rude Four Headcanon

I really like the aus where at the end of Four Swords the colors don’t become one again and they start a found family situation.

So imagine that right- the colors never went back and have spent the last 5 or so years growing into their own people. They get their own hobbies, their own lives, and… their own aesthetics!

Blue gets muscular, Green gets tan, Red dyes his hair, Vio wears heels. I think despite looking identical in features they would eventually start looking a bit different as they grow up.

As just mentioned, Blue has more bulk than the others, maybe he wears his hair shorter. Green spends a lot of his time outside training so he gets tanner than the rest. On the other hand Vio spends most his time indoors so he’s really pale. The heels also make people assume he’s like 5 inches taller than he is. After Red dyes his hair the rest like that idea so they all dye theirs too.

Eventually they all look so different people don’t even think they came from the same person unless they look really close.

When the Four Sword calls again they don’t know what will happen but of course they all go with courage, it’s their unifying shared trait after all.

And they become Link again for the first time in years and…

They have their original hair color and complexion. They’re short and only moderately muscular. Four’s complexion has evened out into something pale-ish (Vio bringing down the curve fr). And…

Their hair had all been so differently done from one another, varying in length and style. Apparently fused together it makes… a fuck ass bob.

Four feels weird being one person again but when he first looks in a mirror he only really has one feeling. He NEEDS scissors stat. Before he can do a thing about it the portal swallows him.

(The other heroes just really think he was into the hero of men. They all respectfully don’t mention the fact they all think that Four is constantly cosplaying. Four dies inside every time he has a chance to get a good look at his hair. It’s so blunt… not even layered. He never gets a chance to fix it.)

(When he reunites with Shadow the shade cry laughs at him until he realizes that whatever Four does reflects onto him. Commence Shadow chasing Four with scissors)

(When Four is finally able to split at some point all of the colors immediately are like: “we didn’t chose the haircut”)

I’m gonna be honest, I never really vibed with Four’s haircut and it’s made me genuinely feel guilty. It’s grown on me over time but it did take some time 💔

[sanjisblackasswife]

Thinking about Riding Zoro.

@noawithlove sorry for the wait <3

CW: Pussy Grinding, Needy!Zoro, Established Relationship, L-Bombs, Zoro has a gold chain on☺️

“Fuck me—-!!”

“I already am silly.”

“Shut—ah~”

It’s funny seeing him like this. Not too long ago you seen him save you from some drunk fools that didn’t know what the word “no” meant.

Your boyfriend Zoro of course was never too far from you so the moment he heard your scream his sword was stomach deep in one of ‘em.

Was killing them necessary?

…Zoro would have said yes, but that’s neither here nor there.

Seeing the duality in him was a treat. He’s always known for his powerful aura, the way he carries himself to becoming the strongest swordman, but tonight.

He’s just a man. A man weak for pussy.

-

“Please…” His breath fanning your ear, his thick calloused fingers digging into your ass to roll your sticky wet slit against his shaft just for SOME friction.

You’ve been teasing him all night to the point you forgot you wanted to actually REWARD him for being so good to you.

“C’mon baby…” You hovered over his wet lips, his breath smelling like your pussy which makes you smirk a little. “Tell me what you want.”

Zoro’s tanned cheeks turning a flusted red, beads of sweat trickle down his forehead and neck, you trail your tounge up it to his ear, his back slightly lifting off the bed with your cold tounge hitting his hot skin.

You and him both knew if he wanted to he could just flip you on your stomach and make you cum at least 2 times within 30 minutes, but he wanted to be good.

He wanted to be your good boy.

“I…” He groans, you didn’t stop the rocking of your hips, you felt more pressure of Zoro’s fingers into the fat of your ass, and honestly you liked the pain.

“I need you…”

That…wasn’t exactly what you EXCEPTED to hear, but damn if only Zoro could feel how turned on that made you, his voice rasped, his breathing getting heavier, you can’t even deny him at this point.

You raise your hips , his eyes immediately dart to the literal drips of precum still connecting you both that causes him to bite his lower lip.

Grabbing his slippery dick you align yourself down on him, sharing a moan together Zoro grabs your neck the second your properly adjust to the painfully blissful bliss he’s giving you and kiss you.

It was almost as if he was telling you “thank you” and “i love you” in that kiss. His tongue wrapping around yours, the way his other hand pulled you closer, you felt his heart beat so quickly under your palm.

“Oh baby…” He whimpered softly thrusting up inside you, you both threw your head back, “Fuck yourself on me..”

The first slam you did on his pelvis already had him on the verge of cumming, but he couldn’t he tried his hardest and damnest to make sure his baby cums before he does.

“Common..” He huffed guiding your body to bounce up and down on him, his confidence grew back so he slowly started to rise on the bed and lean his back on the cold headboard. “That’s it, fuck yes baby just like that.”

He squeezed on your neck a little a breathless chuckle came out feeling you clench down, “you like that?”

You nod, “Mmmhm!~”

Your legs were wrapped around him, you both transitioned to the Lotus position making it even harder for you both not to end the fun so soon.

“Look at me.” Zoro commanded, “Look.”

He forced your chin to look up at him, His eyes were dark, lids were low you almost came from how he looked. His earrings bouncing and making a pretty little song, the way his lips kept latching onto yours it almost made you dizzy when he kept mumbling “I love you.” under your lips

Why did he have to look so attractive sweaty?

Zoro is usually not a fan of making more noise than you, but dammit the way your breast jiggled from each thrust, the way your mouth couldn’t stay closed, the way you pulled his hair when his cock hit just the right place he couldn’t help it.

He grunts and groans against your neck as he bit and kissed on it made you just want to clench harder on him.

You both were so close, but you almost didn’t want it to stop.

The sounds of the headboard, the bed, and the countless moans would cause an…interesting conversation in the morning with the crew but neither of you cared.

Zoro surely didn’t. Your pussy was his best stress relief.

[sunsburns]

Plssss write something wehere reader and virgin Luke fuck

[nsfw 17+]

no need to tell me twice! this is sooo obviously loser!luke coded and i'm glad he's back in my corner. and let's be honest, he wouldn't have a damn clue where to put his hands the entire time...

luke just wants to touch you, all of you. and it makes you smile when you feel his hands trail from your cheeks, your neck, down your shoulders, and once he felt a little braver, he'd grasp at your chest, brows furrowed, and lips parted.

your skin is warm, and the weight of his hands on you has you mewling. you drop your head and look down at him. luke can barely keep his eyes open, but when you bring your hand to his chin, tilting his head up, he tries to look at you.

luke's eyes are glossy, clouded by a lustful haze. his curls stick to his forehead, a thin coat of sweat against his skin while soft, low groans spill from his lips.

you let out a breathless laugh, running your finger through his hair as you roll your hips. "f-fuck..."

he's panting, his hands running from your chest to your waist, then your hips, and shyly creeping near your ass, but not quite there. you kiss his teeth and lick into his mouth, grinning when he tries to follow your lips when you back away the slightest bit.

"c'mon, luke..." you huff, pressing your forehead against his. "i've been doin' all the work, care to help a girl out?"

he's bottomed out, buried inside you as you rock your hips against his. you hold onto his shoulders for support, legs aching, but the pretty sounds that slip from his lips make it all worth it.

it's been ungraceful and clumsy, wet kisses stolen between your movements, each of you moaning against the other's mouth. you wished it could've been a little more coordinated, especially after you spent a couple of days looking for a spot you knew no one else would find you and luke in. a clearing far enough from the camp, but close enough where you could still see the lake, where the grass was softer, and none of the trees had any stranded arrows or carvings from the blade of a sword or a knife.

the sun beat down on the two of you, hot and golden, tanning your skin while luke can barely look at you without becoming flustered.

"what..." he's staring at your lips, "what do i do? what do you want me to do?"

he's trying his best, you'll give him that. it makes you smile against his mouth nonetheless.

"put your hands here," you guide his palms back to your hips, and you give them a squeeze, "and hold tight. i want you to move your hips, baby."

luke nods, a bright red hue on his cheeks when you kiss him again. his hips roll into yours, and a drawled curse falls from his open mouth. luke pulls out, almost completely, enough that you panic and squeeze him tighter with your thighs, but then he pushes back into you, slowly, letting you savour it; he repeats the motion, faster, his curses morphing into sweet mumbles of your name each time he bottoms out. 

you raise your hips the next time he pulls out, meeting in the middle when he fills you back up. his hips slot against yours once more before he pulls away from you so he can suck in a breath and-

"shit. you're so- fuck." he shudders, eyes squeezed shut.

you can hardly breathe, the sun is too hot, and the air is too humid, but luke feels so good, even if each one of his thrusts was so uncoordinated you had to try to roll your hips against him again so he could find a rhythm. it was half-grinding, half-fucking, and a delicious drag of the curve of his cock against your walls. yeah, you could do this forever.

"feels so good, luke." you moan, a little louder than you hoped when luke finally built the courage to grab your ass. "you feel so good. don't stop."

"don't wanna," he can barely get the words out. he's trying to kiss your neck but misses, and his teeth knock against your collarbone, the beads of your camp necklace hitting his nose. his jaw clenches tightly, "fuuuck."

one of his hands slides up the span of your back until it reaches the back of your neck, fingers ghosting below your hairline. you get a good look at him, he's a little bolder now, eyes wider, but brows still furrowed. luke licks his lips and lets them fall into a soft pout, a broken moan escaping him once he realizes you're staring.

"gonna cum, luke?"

he's nodding, his curly hair falling over his eyes as his hips buck at the sound of your voice. "yeah... yeah, yes."

you almost feel bad when you push him by the chest until his back falls onto the blanket. he stares at you, surprised, maybe, face unreadable as you lean down over him and whisper, "you're gonna have to work a little harder for it."