#Luxurious hand salt scrub

[keyssaltscrub]

Pamper Your Hands with Luxurious Salt Scrubs

In our fast-paced lives, our hands often bear the brunt of daily tasks, exposing them to harsh elements and frequent washing. As a result, they can become dry, rough, and in need of some pampering. Enter the world of luxurious salt scrubs for hands—an indulgent solution designed to revitalize and restore your skin, leaving it feeling soft, smooth, and deeply nourished.

The Benefits of Salt Scrubs

Salt scrubs are celebrated for their exfoliating properties, which help to slough off dead skin cells and promote cell renewal. This process not only reveals fresher, more vibrant skin but also enhances the absorption of moisturizers and treatments that follow. Here’s why luxurious salt scrubs for hands are the ideal choice:

Exfoliation and Renewal: Salt crystals gently polish the skin, removing dead cells and unclogging pores. This exfoliation helps to prevent rough patches and promotes a smoother texture, giving your hands a youthful, radiant glow.

Mineral Richness: Many salt scrubs use sea salt or Himalayan salt, both of which are rich in essential minerals like magnesium, calcium, and potassium. These minerals are known for their hydrating and soothing properties, helping to replenish and rejuvenate the skin.

Detoxification: The natural salts in these scrubs can aid in drawing out impurities from the skin, providing a detoxifying effect. This can be particularly beneficial for hands exposed to pollutants and chemicals.

Improved Circulation: The massaging action of applying a salt scrub not only exfoliates but also stimulates blood flow. Improved circulation can enhance the overall health and appearance of your hands, making them look more vibrant and youthful.

Choosing the Right Luxurious Salt Scrub

When selecting a luxurious salt scrub for your hands, consider the following factors to ensure you’re getting the most indulgent experience:

Ingredients: Look for scrubs that incorporate high-quality, natural ingredients. Essential oils like lavender, rosemary, or eucalyptus can add therapeutic benefits and a delightful fragrance to your hand care routine.

Texture: The texture of the scrub should be fine enough to provide gentle exfoliation without being too abrasive. A well-balanced scrub will effectively remove dead skin without causing irritation.

Moisturizing Properties: Opt for scrubs that include moisturizing agents like shea butter, coconut oil, or jojoba oil. These ingredients help to hydrate the skin and lock in moisture, ensuring your hands stay soft and smooth after exfoliation.

Scent: A luxurious salt scrub should not only be effective but also enjoyable to use. Choose a scent that appeals to your senses and enhances your relaxation routine, making hand care a soothing ritual.

How to Use Luxurious Salt Scrubs for Hands

Incorporating a salt scrub into your hand care routine is simple and enjoyable. Follow these steps for the best results:

Prep Your Hands: Start with clean, damp hands. You can either wash them with warm water or soak them briefly to soften the skin.

Apply the Scrub: Take a small amount of the salt scrub and gently massage it into your hands using circular motions. Focus on areas that feel rough or dry, but avoid scrubbing too hard to prevent irritation.

Rinse and Pat Dry: Rinse your hands thoroughly with warm water to remove the scrub. Pat them dry with a soft towel.

Moisturize: After exfoliating, apply a rich hand cream or lotion to lock in moisture and keep your hands hydrated throughout the day.

By investing in high-quality salt scrubs and incorporating them into your regimen, you can enjoy the benefits of exfoliation, hydration, and rejuvenation. Embracing luxurious salt scrubs for your hands can transform your hand care routine into a spa-like experience. Pamper your hands with the luxury they deserve and revel in the softness and smoothness that follows. Your hands will thank you for the extra love and care, and you'll enjoy the confidence that comes with beautifully maintained skin.

[viennakarma]

After you

Fernando Alonso x reader

Summary: There's a life before becoming Fernando's sugar baby and there's a life after becoming his sugar baby.

Word count: 2.7k

Tags: Smut, female reader, +18, sex (p in v), unprotected sex, established relationship, sugar baby x sugar daddy, Dom!Nando, little breath play (choking), spanking, face slap, a bit of dirty talking, degradation, overuse of pet names (bc it's spanish duh!), big age gap (reader is early 20s, in college), everything implicitly consensual, not beta read

Note: i'd like to start by saying you nando fuckers were right and these 3 fernando media (see above) changed my life forever, thank you. gentle reminder that english is not my first language (so please bear any mistake), I'm also considering taking requests for F1 drabbles and oneshots, would anyone be interested?

Find me on Twitter!

As soon as you enter the flat, you take off your overcoat and leave it behind the door. You go to your room, but you stop when you see several gift boxes laying on the floor beside the bed, which you recognize the brands, Tiffany, La Perla, Chanel, among others. But you feel exhausted from college finals and you leave the boxes behind and head straight for the bathroom.

Eight months ago, when you lived in a tiny dorm on campus, working two shifts beyond university to pay for your studies, all these brands used to be a distant luxury you would never afford on your own.

But there was a life before becoming Fernando Alonso's sugar baby; and another one after all that.

Now you have a nice, comfortable, luxurious apartment close to campus, your university is fully paid for months in advance, and you don't have to use the dorm's communal bathroom. It sometimes feels like a dream and you think you're going to wake up back in that moment much earlier.

You fill the bathtub and take off your clothes, looking in the mirror, you see two hickey marks near your breasts. Fernando was mindful not to leave marks in visible places. You step into the tub and allow yourself to be enveloped by the scented salts and bubble soap. You rub yourself slowly, pushing away all the tiredness and stress of the entire day, using the shower gel that Fernando liked on you.

After scrubbing yourself down, you step out of the shower wrapped in a fluffy robe. You dry your hair with the dryer, and head back to the bedroom.

On top of the gifts there is a note that you missed before.

“To my girl, I know you worked really hard to do well on your finals. Enjoy your gifts. See you tonight, cariño. - Fernando"

You open Tiffany’s blue box first, it's the smallest one. Contains a pair of star-shaped diamond earrings, and a silver necklace with a matching pendant. You smile when you realize that it's been eight months and he already knows your taste for clothes and accessories. The second box you open is a Coco de Mer, a lingerie brand. With two pairs of lingerie inside, both in lace, one black, with stockings and garter belt and the other red, transparent with ribbons that cross the abdomen.

Getting out of bed, you pull on the black one, adjust the stocking on the garter belt and hang the robe in the bathroom again, staring at your reflection in the mirror, barely registering the messy young misfit you were just months ago.

The other boxes mostly contain clothes and accessories. Pants, skirts, dresses, handbags, wallets and backpacks. After taking a look at everything, you take the pieces to the closet and leave them on the chair to arrange later.

Then you hear the sound of the front door opening and you know it's Fernando. You lay down on the bed and wait for him. Lying on your stomach with your butt in the air, you look at Fernando when he enters. He's not wearing his team shirt, he's just wearing a white shirt and denim pants. He stares at your body, but your eyes settle on a box in his hand, he puts the box, his phone and wallet on the bedside table. He smiles, moving closer and bending over to leave a gentle bite on your ass. His masculine scent envelops you and you feel the urge to rip his clothes off and push him on the bed, and ride his cock until the sun comes up tomorrow.

“Hi, bebé,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss your temple, “How were the exams?” he asks as he sits on the king size bed, his back against the headboard. He pats his own thigh, and you quickly crawl up, onto his lap sitting facing him. You hope he feels your underwear wet with anticipation.

“Thermodynamics was easy, but Quantum Physics, not so much,” you say, as he opens the box that you know as one of Belgian chocolates, your favorite.

“You’ve studied so hard for both, so I think you'll do well,” he says, pulling out a chocolate with almonds from the box. With his other hand, he grips your hip.

He brings the chocolate up to your mouth and you take a bite, wiggling in his lap as the chocolate melts in your mouth.

“You did so well on your test last week,” he compliments, and his gentle tone turns you on even more. You feel his fingers making way inside the lace of your panties and you hold on to his shoulders, keeping your balance and granting more access to you.

He takes another chocolate from the box and takes a bite of it as his fingers find your pussy. Fernando rubs his index and middle fingers, spreading your wetness. You melt into his arms and place your hand on the back of his neck. He gives you the second piece of chocolate at the same time as his fingers penetrate you. You're so wet, his fingers slide easily inside, massaging your pussy calmly, oh so calmly that you roll your hips into his fingers, trying to make him go faster.

“Quiet, princesa,” he commands, and you stop the hip movement. He shoves the fingers that were holding the chocolate into your mouth, and you suck hard until his fingers are clean.

His other hand, the one inside your panties, you feel keeping the maddening slow pace, completely ignoring the need for relief in your clit. You slide a hand down your belly to bring it to your clit, but he takes your hand away and cups your chin, a possessive look in his brown-almost-green eyes.

“Did I say you could touch yourself?" he asks brusquely, and you just stare at him. “Eh? Did I?”

“No,” you reply huskily, knowing he can feel you getting even wetter at his firm tone. He slaps your cheek, and your pussy throbs around his fingers, you can see in his eyes that he feels it. And he absolutely loves it.

“No, what?” he says, a smug smirk on his face.

“No, sir.” you say and he strokes the cheek he slapped. Fernando takes your chin and pulls your lips to his. He kisses you obscenely, with lips and tongue and his face inching up against yours.

“I know your week has been pretty stressful, then behave yourself so you can get your reward, okay?” he says in a gentle tone, finally picking up the speed of his fingers and pushing the palm of his hand against your swollen clit. You whimper, holding a moan in your throat and the urge to move your hips to keep pace with him and come faster, but you hold back.

Then Fernando's phone rings, interrupting the two of you. He lets the phone ring, and you groan when his other hand grips your hip tightly, squeezing your ass. The phone stops ringing, but then it rings again.

“No, Nando, please… Don't answer it, Papi” you whimper, already feeling his fingers stop stimulating you. He grabs your hips and places you to the side, back on the bed.

“So needy, bebé,” he mutters, biting softly on your chin before getting up, “I need to pick this call, babygirl. Won’t be long, yeah?” He grumbles, taking the phone from the nightstand. you watch as Fernando answers, muttering “Alonso speaking,” as he leaves the room.

Frustrated, you lie back on the mattress and stare at the ceiling, knowing he's probably going to take longer than he said he would. He always took long calls about his team, or his car, or whatever. It's almost involuntary as your hands slide down your abdomen and you rub your thighs together to get some friction. With your hands, you gently pinch your nipples through the lace of your bra, feeling a hypersensitive moan escape your lips. You slide your hands and press your clit over the wet panties, just looking for some relief while he doesn’t come back.

The need for release is stronger than you are as you slide your hand inside your panties, circling your clit with pressure, gasping.

At that moment, Fernando re-enters the room, and you quickly remove your hand. But the furious look on his face tells you he already caught you red handed. Heart racing, you watch as he clicks his tongue in a reproving gesture. He walks into the closet and returns with a pair of leather cuffs.

“I thought I made myself clear…” he murmurs, yanking hard on your wrists to get you to your feet, “You only touch yourself with my permission.”

You swallow hard when he cups your face and then slaps you across the face. You bite your bottom lip, smiling. He takes your wrists and secures them with the restraints, behind your back. Fernando slaps you again, and you feel the wetness pool in your panties.

“You love it, don't you?” He smirked with another slap. “Being treated like the slut you are. My slut. Knees on the floor,” he commands, his tone doesn't leave space for anything other than obedience.

His firm touch on the back of your neck compels you down until your knees meet the floor. You feel your mouth water as he starts struggling with his own belt, undoing the buttons on his pants just enough to pull his cock out. You immediately wet your lips and open your mouth, expecting to feel him on your tongue.

He shoves his cock into your mouth all at once, almost reaching your throat, and you have to control your gagging, eyes immediately watering.

“Open wide, babygirl” he gasps, taking control of slowly sliding into your mouth. He massages your face, as if to relax your jaw further. “Yes, just like that” he moans softly as he touches your throat.

He holds your head, keeping you still as the only movement is in  his hips, his cock fucking your mouth. As you adjust to the volume of him moving in and out of your mouth, he picks up speed and you feel saliva wetting his entire length and running down the side of your mouth, dripping to your chin.

“Want me to fuck you, huh?” he asks but doesn't release you from his cock so you're able to answer. “Want to cum, bebé?”

He doesn’t let you go, nor does he take his cock out of your mouth. So you just hum around him, the vibration of your voice making him let out a groan.

“I don't know…” He pretends to think a little, his hips stuttering. “You disobeyed me, didn't you? I don't think you've earned your reward yet.”

He pulls his cock away from your mouth, and you watch a trail of saliva break from the distance. You close your mouth, taking the opportunity to relax your jaw.

“¿Cuál es tu color? (what's your color?)” he asks, his voice going immediately tender, looking down on you.

“Verde. (green)”

“Up you go” Fernando points to the bed as he removes the belt from the cases of his pants, and you quickly get to your feet and throw yourself face down on the mattress, your arms still pinned behind you. “On all fours” He commands and you obey, the top of your head pressed into the pillow and your ass in the air.

You feel his fingers gently rub up and down on your hips, and then he finally removes your panties. Not an instant later, you feel the belt snap on your ass, stinging.

“What did you do wrong, princesa?” he asks, then hits you with the belt once again, making you shiver.

“I touched myrself without-” you cut yourself off with a mewl when you feel the crackle of the burning leather belt again, “-Without your-” Two consecutive hits make you whimper against the pillow, but you keep going, because you know that if you stop, he will start your punishment again, “-Without your permission" you complete, panting loudly. He hits you three more times and you feel like you could come with just one touch on your clit.

“Without your permission, who?” And two more cracks of the leather against your asscheeks. The frustration of wanting to come is so great that you feel your abdomen trembling.

“Without your permission, sir!” you almost scream, desperate. So thirsty for his touch you know you’re dripping with desire and ruining the sheets.

“I don't know…” He says, as if he's thinking out loud as his hands caress your buttocks, “Do you think you deserve to come?"

“Yes please! Nando please! I want it so bad, papi…” you don't feel ashamed to beg, when your body so badly needs relief, something only he can give you.

You feel him move behind you, and a second later, his cock fills you in one movement, making you scream his name into the pillow.

“Oh, always perfect for me…” He groans, pulling out only to slam back in again. His hands secure the restraint on your wrists, your hands manage to touch his forearm and you sink your nails into his skin for balance.

Your eyes roll in your head, pleasure consuming you like flames as his hips keep pounding into you, and you feel grateful for his demanding exercises routine from motorsports, because it makes his stamina last so long. You feel hypersensitive, like you can feel the friction in every molecule in your body, the pleasure in your pussy and he just keeps going, Fernando’s groaning louder by the second.

You feel when the orgasm approaches, that tingling in your body and your pussy contracting desperately. But then he stops, withdrawing his cock. You whimper in desperation, the orgasm slipping away again.

“Fernando, please! Please, I need you…” you scream as he plunges into you, so deep he takes your breath away for an instant. One of his hands grips your hips and the other travels up your spine until it closes around the back of your neck.

Then he circles his hand around your neck and pulls you up until you're on your knees, your hips pressed against his as he thrusts harder, making your tits bounce with the movement. The only thing separating his chest from your back is the grip on your wrists between your bodies.

“Please, Nando! I’m so close- can- can I cum?”

“Go on, you can cum. I want to feel it,” he orders, squeezing your throat, obstructing your breathing slightly. It’s his accented voice that pushes you off the cliff, the orgasm finally seizing you so hard you see stars in your vision, shivering as he holds you firmly up.

Your orgasm soon makes him come too, his groan in your ear as his hips push against you, slowing down as he fills you up.

When Fernando lets go of your neck, you fall limp on the bed, face first against the pillows. You feel his fingers release you from the restraints, and your arms fall to your sides. Fernando holds your wrists, massaging lightly. He kisses your shoulder softly and you smile lazily, all worn out, the way he likes you the most.

“Are you ok, princesa?” you hear him as you close your eyes.

“Yes, cariño. Never been better.” You murmur.

You keep your eyes closed as he wipes between your legs, and you feel as he rubs the soothing ointment onto your buttocks, then he uses a makeup wiper to clean your face. Fernando considers aftercare as important as sex, and you can't deny that you love the part of being lovingly pampered by him right after being fucked senseless.

Finally, he turns off the lights, pulls back the covers and lies beside you, your naked body being fully embraced by him. You get goosebumps when he nuzzles your neck, his beard tickling and making you giggle.

“I missed you a lot, mi cielo” He mutters against your skin.

“I missed you too, Nando. I loved seeing you so happy with that podium,” you say, pulling his hand up and kissing his knuckles.

“Thank you, maybe next time you should go cheer for me,” he kisses your collarbone.

“I’ll think about it, yeah?” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair, “maybe after finals.”

“I'm sure you'll get high scores on your tests, bebé” he whispers, and you feel a rush of joy at making him proud.

[milkcanned]

night in with the one piece girls

ft. nami, nico robin, boa hancock, nefertari vivi, tashigi, & perona

a.n: lol this is my debut. enjoy.

cat burglar nami

• first of all, you had to beg nami for a night in rather than a night out in the first place

• she loves to go out shopping with you

• but, on this night in, best believe you are being pampered.

• she makes the two of you various tangerine snacks for the night. tarts, dipping sauce, a cocktail, you name it.

• laying your head on her lap as she doodles away at a new map she's making

• or, resting your head on her shoulder to watch the delicate ink lines indicating the landscape of the island she's mapping.

• settling on the floor for a massage, which she is an absolute top tier masseuse.

• feeling her hands glide across your back, working into your tense muscles and easing away that low pain.

• her complaining that you're "doing it wrong" when it's your turn to massage her, when really she's just trying to hide that she's ticklish.

• setting up a bath together with her homemade tangerine body wash and soaps, it smells just like her

• her accidentally getting soap in your eyes and giggling while washing it out

• "whoops, sorry." she sticks out her tongue and gives you a wink

• cuddling with her in bed, tangled in each other's arms. her breath against your neck and that warm smell of tangerine

nico robin

• a cozy night in with robin is not a rarity in your relationship

• in fact, it's quite often the two of you relax in the comfort of home

• firstly, book marathon.

• just reading beside each other, enjoying one another's presence. maybe her head's in your lap, maybe you're squished close in an arm chair together

• a debrief on the books you've both read is a must.

• deep, meaningful talks about life, the universe, stupid things. the two of you could go on to each other about the terrors of life and not even lose sleep over it. and don't even think about doing this while high.

• "if a dog and a cat's upper body were sewn to together, how do you think it would expel waste?" ... "good question, robin. well,"

• sometimes you both flip through those "who would win" nature magazines and place your bets

• "the hippopotamus would definitely beat the rhino! they're quite vicious, you know."

• scaring your fellow crewmates by hiding under the hammock (you) and grabbing usopp's arms

• robin, of course, made hands to grab the remaining legs

• giggling and running back to robin as usopp screams in horror

• settling into bed as she makes arms to rub comforting circles into your back, arms, and legs.

• drifting off to sleep as the smell of book pages and lavender lull you

boa hancock

• a night in with hancock is actually much more common than expected.

• rarely does she ever leave the palace with you to favor a night on amazon lily's markets

• her pampering may be on par with nami's. she's an empress after all, and you're her consort.

• the two of you first take a luxurious bath with all kinds of bath salts, creams, scrubs, and shampoos.

• her products are strictly lily scented, it smells so much like her

• her long fingers gently working into your hair to fully cleanse and nourish it, whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

• getting out of the bath to be dressed in a beautiful draping bathrobe, and being escorted to her room.

• trays of all of your favorite foods laid across the table in front of a loveseat

• the both of you taking turns feeding each other fruits, giggling like schoolgirls when juice runs down the other's lip

• "my! i think you have something on your face!" she chuckles and blushes, reaching out a hand to swipe at your lip

• having a couple's massage in the palace, hands entwined as you both relax parallel to each other

• climbing onto her lap as she lounges on her snake, salome. she's so warm and smells so sickly sweet of lilies and honey.

• drifting off to sleep in each other's arms, with salome loosely coiled around the two of you like a weighted blanket

nefertari vivi

• as much as vivi loves having a night out in alabasta's markets, a palace date suffices

• you better believe you're getting the princess treatment by the princess herself!!

• doing each other's hair in her room with karoo softly snoring on the bed

• feeling her silky smooth blue locks between your fingers as you style her hair

• being caught giggling and gossiping by igaram when he enters the room to drop off a tray of assorted fruits and snacks

• going out to the palace garden to watch the pigeons and doves as vivi tells you about her journeys with the strawhats

• a beautiful dove landing on your lap as she finished up her story, cooing as you scratch behind it's head

• "hey, this one looks like you."

• trying on her beautiful gowns, and her spinning you in the mirror to look

• heading out to the palace's pool to swim with the spot-billed duck troops

• splashing vivi, which results in you getting splashed tenfold

• drying off in robes as the two of you get ready for bed

• drifting off to sleep with her arms around you, karoo snoring softly at the foot of the bed

tashigi

• a night in is usually what the two of you get up to, considering there isn't much to do on marine bases

• smoker has no problem letting her take the night off

• heading to the marine mess hall to grab some coffees and pastries

• her letting you grab a sip of her hot coffee, and getting concerned when you flinch back

• "s'way too hot, tashigi!" ... "oh, oops!"

• letting her rant to you about swords and katanas, her flipping through a sword magazine and showing the ones she has circled in red marker

• sparring each other with wooden sticks, which she beats you at, landing you on your back

• tashigi then promptly falling clumsily right on top of you, glasses slipping off of her nose

• you pushing her glasses back up and giggling, which earns you a pouty and completely red in the face tashigi

• helping her clean her collection of blades, some of which were confiscated from pirates deemed unworthy of holding a sword

• "wow so this one belonged to someone from baroque works?" .. "yup!" she beams, blushing

• settling into bed with her as she takes off her glasses to sleep

•cradling her head against your chest as you both drift off to slumber

[tadpolesonalgae]

Moon Cycle

Dark!Rhysand x reader

a/n: this goes along with desk pet and play-mate 🧡💛

warnings: menstruation, mentions of non-con, references to play-mate, fluff (kind of?), hurt/comfort?

word count: 2,501

——————————————————————————————————————————————

You wake to waves of heat rolling off your skin in wet waves, feeling damp and hyper-sensitive to temperature.

A single shift of your body, and you can feel the slickness between your thighs, far too spread out to be the results of his occasional midnight trips. You swallow thickly, heart thumping heavily as the first aches blossom through the right side of your abdomen, legs bending at the knees in attempts to relieve tension, but to little relief.

Gritting your teeth, trying to calm your pulse, you push back the blanket, keeping it as far from your legs as possible, hoping to keep the carnage to a minimum. Even in the dark the bloody patches are clear to see, eyes already well-adjusted to pick out the dry stains on the previously fluffy fur. Fear dilutes your scent, and as quietly as possible you attempt to roll from the floor bed, pulling the already-bloody blanket close should more begin to drip down your thighs.

Thankfully the blood hasn’t yet passed your knees, but now you’re upright you can feel things shifting, a wave of heat and nausea suctioning the strength from your muscles. On wobbly feet you tiptoe from the bed chambers, praying to the Mother you don’t wake him, fearing for your life as prey does near its hunter—a beast raised to kill.

You manage to make it to the large washroom, immediately dropping the blanket in favour of the roll beside the latrine, hastily tearing a sizeable few sheets away to fold up and place between your legs, temporarily buying you time to clean the murder scene on your inner thighs. Easing in a breath, you pull off the shorts, heading over to the basin, never having been more grateful for the instant water, turning on the cold tap as you attempt to rub the stains free.

Minutes later and you’re still scrubbing, aware of the blanket at your back that’s still caked in blood, so you push it into the empty bath, running cold water as silently as possible in the hopes of beginning to loosen the grip of the blood while you deal with the shorts. After a while you realise it’s the best it’s going to get, ringing the now off-white cotton over the side of the basin, refocusing to your thighs.

Fatigue weighs heavily on your body, eyes wishing to close but adrenaline keeps you awake and alert, moving through the familiar motions of removing more of the latrine roll and dampening it under cold water, dabbing at the dried stains, dislodging the grip it has on your skin. Aches become more prominent, a fresh wave of heat sweeping through you and you want to cry—but there’s no time for that. Instead you continue working on rubbing your skin clean, easing away the dark redness that’s blotchy and stubborn to move.

At last you’re free, and you turn to the blanket, having been left to soak for a while. You try layering roll over the stains in attempt to absorb the colour, but it seems firmly lodged in, and you don’t want to rub it which will result in pushing the stains deeper, only spreading them. You glance around the bathroom, finding twisted gratitude for Rhys’ luxurious taste. It’s not perfect, but it’s worth a try.

You reach for the powdered bath salts, drying your hands before tapping out some of the fine dust over the afflicted area, hoping it will do the trick. Your pulse kicks up, and you find yourself searching for something to do instead of anxiously waiting. You’ll have to find something to put on your lower half, but he rarely lets you know where clothing is kept—it’s rare enough you’re even allowed night robes since he sees no point in hiding your body.

Panic thrums beneath your skin, and you briefly consider a trip down to the kitchen where there must be vinegar, and if you’re lucky, something else acidic, like a lemon or two. But then you would risk waking him, and the thought of him finding out the mess you’ve made is—

“I knew you’d pretty in blood,” a sultry voice drawls from the doorway.

You spin around weakly, hands dropping between your thighs so he won’t be able to see the roll you’ve neatly folded up. His violet eyes flick about the bathroom with analytical care, cataloguing the displacement of various items. A fresh ache blooms in your thighs, and you find your back hunching, having to support yourself on the basin, fear making you sick.

His attention settles on you, and you feel like hot coals are being pressed to your bare flesh, trembling beneath his cold gaze. Soft, sensual lips part, about to speak, and the terror slices deeper, making you stumble, loosing your grip on the marble. The world spins, and you brace for the racket of pain that will undoubtedly burst through your spine and skull, yet the impact never comes.

He hisses, powerful arms wrapped around your body, holding you securely flush to his chest. Your muscles lock at the proximity, able to feel his gaze boring into your cheek, but your eyes are squeezed shut, lips parted as bubbles of pressure push up from your abdomen, glistening along your hip. Rhys stiffens, hearing the shallow breaths, aware of how little you’re resisting his touch, how greatly you’re struggling to even stand on your own.

You flutter in and out, lower stomach throbbing and it’s all you can do to keep your feet on the floor, unable to fully support yourself, remaining in his intrusive hold.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He asks lowly, grip tight on your shoulder, able to scent your fear. Enjoying it a little more than usual.

“I didn’t know it was happening tonight or I would have prepared better,” you mumble snappily, legs trembling as you force yourself to stand, one palm settling over the pain, the other braced against the basin. Rhys chuckles lowly, pressing himself flush against your bare back, arms wrapping snuggly around your waist, fingers grazing the soft skin of your stomach. “Where do you think you’re going?” He muses, tracing feather-light patterns over your abdomen.

“I need…I need to clean the pallet,” you mutter, unable to raise your attention from the floor, palm still attempting to soothing the cramping.

Rhys hums nonchalantly, but you could hear the wicked grin on his lover’s mouth from the next room over, discomfort zipping across your skin, squirming beneath his touch, only a thin layer of cotton between you—likely the thinnest he could have made. “But you’ve woken me up now,” he reminds, hot lips brushing the shell of your ear, and you shiver with disgust.

You’re prepared to plead for disuse for the rest of the night, but he’s raising you into his arms, easily sweeping you off your feet and you struggle weakly. “Rhys, I can’t,” you whisper sharply, hands locked over the broad width of his shoulders, bare and hot beneath your fingertips. “You can’t— You’ll tear me apart,” you plead quietly, stiffening when violet flicks to you.

He carries you over to his bed, setting you down, pallet having vanished and he pulls away. “I don’t think I will,” he replies, smiling faintly in the now candle-lit room, and you’re thankful he hasn’t turned to the faelights. “You’re far too valuable to be wrecked in a single night,” he drawls, bringing your knuckles to his cruelly soft mouth. You hiss at him weakly, hardly able to pull away—as if that’s something you’re normally capable of.

But then he’s turning away, humming a deep, rich tune from his chest, turning to a chest of drawers and pulling something out: a new pair of shorts. Skimpier than the last, but you can’t be picky here. What it takes you a moment to notice is the linen lining the crotch, thick padding that will be suitable for your first night. His sensual lips stretch in a feline grin, “you didn’t think I was going to fuck you while you were bleeding did you, little lamb?”

Humiliation flushes your body, shame sitting thick at the back of your throat and you duck your head, unable to fight on two fronts with your body trying to tear you apart. He laughs lowly, dropping the shorts onto your stomach, watching as you try to wriggle into them with as much dignity as possible. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’d done something so immoral,” you manage to reply, though your voice lacks its usual venom, tender from embarrassment. He hums, the sound settling low in your stomach as he walks to the other side of the bed.

While his back is turned, you reach down to remove the latrine roll sheets you’d folded up. But they vanish from your fingers.

“And I can assure you it won’t be the last,” he muses silkily, settling close to your side, moving with that lethal silence again, cat-soft paws carrying him like a ghost. You flinch from his proximity, huddling deeper into your clothes in attempts to hide from his overwhelming presence. “I wasn’t doubting you,” you whisper hoarsely, causing his smile to widen by a fraction, eyes gleaming with hunger and you quickly look away, disinclined to tempt the beast before you.

“Finally starting to get a hang of it,” he murmurs, settling on his back, pulling the covers up over the two of you, and you initially stiffen from the touch of his sheets, imbued with his scent. So crisp and clean.

You turn on your side, anxious to be as far from him as possible, confused by the curve-ball he’s thrown tonight. A few moments later the candles extinguish, and you flinch as he rolls to his side, arms wrapping around your waist almost delicately, dragging you back to be tucked into his body. You don’t dare ask what he’s doing, fear already present in your bloodstream before he’s nosing at your throat.

Shock zaps through you when he drags the tip of his tongue across the skin, teeth nipping softly soon after, and you shudder. Despite him suggesting he wouldn’t touch you tonight, a deep sense of unease crawls below your flesh, wriggling and squirming like worms in mud. You flinch when his palm flattens over your stomach, the tremors becoming more pronounced, knowing the intensity of pain he could inflict at any second. Yet heat warms your abdomen, sinking into you with soothing grace, instantly easing the pressure contained beneath your skin.

“I can’t have my favourite thing suffering, now can I?” He muses quietly beside your ear, nipping lightly at the lobe. “What sort of High Lord would that make me if I didn’t take care of my subjects? Is there anything else you want?” You tremble in his arms, confused and afraid, unsure whether you can take him at face value tonight—he hadn’t seemed angry despite the blood staining the no-doubt expensive bedding. Maybe he just doesn’t care.

“What are you playing at?” You breathe weakly, aches slightly soothed from the heat of the water bottle, thighs pressing together, curling closer to your stomach, his palm keeping the heat pressed against your skin. “I’m capable of not playing with you, lamb,” he says, lips curving into a smirk as they brush the side of your throat, making your toes curl. “As much as I’m against it.”

“You’re disgusting,” you hiss, pathetically trying to wriggle from his hold, making him hum approvingly. “We both know you love it,” he croons, kissing up your neck. “Love being my perfect little toy.” Mortification burns across your skin, wild heat fluttering through your flesh at the reminder of the crude things he’d manipulated you into saying. “That was under duress,” you whisper, flushing intensely, “it means nothing.”

“It means nothing?” He hums, able to hear the mirth in his voice, free hand gliding up your sternum to brush his fingers over your collar bones. “Then why are you so embarrassed?”

“You’re being crass,” you hiss, shaky hands trying to push his away from your abdomen—you can hold the water bottle by yourself. “Am I?” He grins, and you flinch when his fingers interleaf with your own, trapped in his grip even as you try to pull away. “I could be much worse, if it would help distract you.”

“Stop it,” you say, wriggling uncomfortably. “I want you to leave me alone.”

“That’s cruel,” he remarks casually, teeth grazing sensitive skin. “I was hoping you’d ask for something nicer. No warm milk? Heated blanket?” You seethe, shifting enough to shoot him with a heated glare. “That’s vile.”

He pauses, blinking once as your eyes lock, before his features fill with barely suppressed laughter. Disgust squirms beneath your flesh at his lightheartedness. “You’re a fucking psycho,” you mutter, making to turn your back on him again, but his hand skates higher, forearm pressing between your breasts as he grips your jaw, forcing your to face him, fingers biting into your cheeks. “You’re the one whose mind was in the gutter. I was offering genuine help,” he drawls atop your mouth, able to feel as you suck in a sharp inhale at his sudden proximity. Embarrassment flushes your skin as you realise your mistake, eyes widening marginally.

“Of course,” he murmurs, sensuous lips curving in a suggestive tilt. “If you’d like that…” Violet seems to gleam with wicked delight at the shock on your features, quick to scrunch with forced disgust. “You’re an unloveable monster, Rhys.”

“I know,” he whispers, before pressing his mouth to your own, hot and wet. His admission is washed away as his tongue dips in, velvet soft as it strokes against your own.

You hiss as arousal blossoms unfairly in your abdomen, clashing with the glistening aches that are plucking across your thighs and stomach, pulling away from him forcefully, breathing heavily as you curl tighter, desperate to alleviate the pain.

“You know,” he murmurs close to your ear, “we could try something else.” You stiffen as his fingers tease the band of your shorts, lightly snapping it against your hip, careful to avoid the source of your pain. A strangled whimper breaks from your lungs, squeezing your eyes shut, hands clutching his crisp and clean sheets tight, preparing for him to inflict his cruelty.

Yet to your surprise he’s quiet, skin prickling as his attention brushes over your cheek. Then he hums softly, hand drawing away as he settles at your back, the bare heat of his chest warming you, body draped over your own, pulling you closer so you’re tucked against the powerful lines of him. Allowing you time to rest.

You remain tense, conditioned to expect violation, but his hands remain still, the only movement being his thumbs, oscillating in slow, smooth motions.

“Relax,” he murmurs, nosing at the crown of your head. “Rest for tonight.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644

rhys taglist: @azrielshadows1nger

[eveningepiphany]

pirates gold | H.S series, part two

[part one]

[series masterlist]

summary: challengers are arising as life on the ship continues. not only that, but all kinds of tension is building between you and harry. good and bad... and something that feels forbidden to even entertain in your minds eye.

warnings: swearing, tension, fluff, sexual mentions, talks of violence, harry being so so fine, mentions of kidnapping, one bed trope.

a/n: i cannot believe how long this took me to write, I’m praying I can do part three in half the time. thank you for your patience my loves<3

———

There are plenty of moments you are left wondering how in control of your life you actually are.

If you truly have any power at all— because sometimes it feels like everything is spinning relentlessly out of your grasp.

Well, especially under your current circumstances. Since your last 4 days have been spent as someone else’s prisoner.

Which, you couldn’t have predicted would lead you into the bathroom of your own captor and being left to bathe with his own personal collection of things.

Being in there was a shock enough as it is because… of course you’d noticed how well-groomed he appeared. But to see that he actually had things like soap and hair wash…

Another stereotype you presumed, was that pirates were horrendous when it came to maintaining a sense of personal hygiene. But it was another thing you were evidently incorrect about when it came to Harry. And seemingly the rest of his crew as well.

As you washed off in the shower, scrubbing away the collected dirt, dust and sweat off of your body, you felt almost like a new person.

It felt inexplicably good to use soap again, which is a luxury you took for granted much too often back home. But finally getting rid of all the residue on your skin was an amazing feeling. Including washing away the salt from your ocean dip a few days ago. Which was stuck in the crevices and creases of your skin, like it was slowly dehydrating you from the outside in.

So you took probably longer than you should in his shower… but it didn’t seem as time ticked on that he was in his room or at the bathroom door.

Not even when you eventually stepped out from the water, drying yourself off with a rag-like towel. Looking at yourself in the mirror, taking in your frame, and how the skin under your eyes is a tad less sunken in after a long shower.

Maybe it was from stress, or lack of sleep. But either way, you rubbed your fingers underneath them. Attempting to smooth out the remaining darkness there, as if that would work.

Settling on the fact what was left of them was only temporary, you decide to just get into the clothes Harry had given you. Pretending it doesn’t weird you out as you slide his black shirt over your body.

It was far from tight on you, and the fabric probably could’ve swallowed you up as it clung to you. And as you pulled the soft pants up, they were equally as big.

You gazed in the mirror again, looking at how his clothes fit you. Struggling to envision him in such simplistic clothing.

Suddenly, his body filling out the once baggy pants and shirt is taking up the confines of your mind. They certainly would fit him properly. And likely hug the muscle built on his chest... you have to swat the mental image away, before it conjures into something more.

So immediately, you jump to distract yourself. Eyes roaming around the bathroom until they lock onto the cabinet beneath the bathroom bench.

Your hands don't hesitate, coming to the cupboards to open them, pulling the handles so they unlatch.

It’s sadly sparse inside. Almost entirely empty despite a few miscellaneous items. A hair comb, a dagger sheath and a… sewing kit? You frown at the sewing kit, unable to imagine him doing anything as delicate and time consuming as hand sewing.

However, he does wear intricate outfits. He seemingly prizes them, actually. So, it seems fitting that if wear and tear got to them, he'd be keen to fix them. That's the conclusion you're going to go with anyway.

But regardless, in the small wooden confines, there is nothing you can steal for your own benefit. You think of shutting it, but in the silence something urges you to open the small plastic box anyways.

You drop onto your knees, sliding the container to the edge of the shelving, and hooking your fingers into the latches and pulling the lid upwards.

There are several little threading needles— even clothing pins— placed among regular cotton thread in an array of colours. But there’s also multiple wads of fishing line, which immediately makes you wonder why it's in there. Trying to pinpoint what kind of clothing needs fishing line as a stitching.

You’re about to pull it out, but conveniently, there’s a rattle outside of the door. One that indicates someone is coming into his quarters. You hold back a frustrated sigh, suddenly wishing you had of taken a shorter shower.

Your body kicks into quick movement, hurrying to click his sewing box shut and put it back where it was in the first place. Pushing hard on the latches that now suddenly don’t want to cooperate with your haste.

It’s silent outside of the footsteps that trail to the bathroom door, making you wince as the latch on the cupboard echoes a tiny clack as it’s shut.

The feet stop at the door, and your breath is held from where you’re kneeling. Not sure if you’re hoping for Harry or not.

“Y/N?” His voice calls with a rap on the door, “y’decent?”

“I—“ you slowly rise from the floor, cringing at the creak of the boards beneath your feet as you stand.

“Yea… yep.”

The lock jingles and the door swings open, revealing Harry— who looks no different to how he did almost an hour ago. Black blouse, black pants. Nothing had changed.

You feel suddenly vulnerable standing in his clothes in front of him, and you have to force yourself not to wring your hands at the bottom of his long shirt.

“Mm, nice to see you actually showered, ‘stead of tryin’ to break out.” He comments, nonchalantly stepping in through the door. Eyes scanning you in his clothes.

As he steps closer, the only difference you notice is the red bruising around his knuckles, on the hand hung down by his waist.

“Oh, I tried.” You mused, attempting to push confidence in your tone— adverting your gaze away from his bruised hand.

He hums, still staring at your frame, “To no avail, I see.”

“I suppose not.” You remarked, to which he shrugs. His body language is casual, but you’re still unconvinced that everything is normal.

Now you're staring at him, trying to decipher what the fuck is happening right now. Given the fact nothing about this seems planned.

“But I am confused...” You prompt, and to it, he cocks an eyebrow.

He steps forward, “Go on.”

“What exactly have you done in the last hour?” It comes from your mouth as an accusation. One that draws out a rash laugh from him pink mouth.

“Why is it you assume I’ve done something?” He's awfully close to you now, and it highlights the features on his face. Ones you're desperately trying to pay no attention to. But it's much harder to ignore the fall of his hair over green eyes when its up close.

“Because that just seems the most likely.” You stated. Walking to brush past him—shoulder passing his chest with a light touch— the bathroom feeling far too cramped for the two of you. And the air around you had suddenly gone hot with tension on your end.

You make your way out into his quarters, making use of your need for distance, and deciding to inspect the room while you could.

Harry turns on his heel, watching as you now suddenly walk around his bedroom like it was your birth right. Hands trailing over frames on the wall, and picking up random objects he’d strewn on the floor.

He sighs at this, part of him wanting to stop you from snooping around his place, but he’s also undeniably curious at your mannerisms while looking around. The way your eyebrows pull down into a frown as you pick up an array of things. Including odd ones, like a bag of dried out barnacles, and whetstones block he uses to sharpen his blades with.

“I bought ya up here t’shower. Because unlike many, I have a hygiene standard, darlin’.” He says, and you turn from where you were touching the cover of his unmade bed. Fingertips noting the softness of it. He sleeps here… your brain announces as though it’s unfathomable to imagine him at rest in his own bed. Which was tucked into the corner of the all-wood room, three circular windows running beside its edge.

Looking at his hand again, finally getting the courage to bring it up.

“And your knuckles are swelling up. All bruised. They weren’t like that earlier.”

He smirks, completely bypassing your question, “looking at my hands, ay? Didn’t pick you to be that kind of girl.”

You sneer at his stupid tease, irritated at his arrogance.

“Just seemed all rather impromptu, and now you’re back here with bruised up fists that you didn’t have earlier.” You challenge, after walking slowly away from his bed.

“You don’t stop until you get an answer y’like. Is that right, princess?” He scoffs.

But he knows you’re brilliant at reading someone, tragically so. And it’s obvious you’re not as stupid as he wishes. Because he watches as your eyes narrow, clear that you know he’s dodging your questions for a reason.

“And you don’t give answers unless it suits you best, I take, captain?”

To that, he chuckles, and decides to prove you right, walking over to grab your wrist with the unscathed hand.

“M’clothes are a bit big on you…” he comments, partially using it as an excuse to drag his eyes down your body again. Completely changing the subject.

“Tomorrow, we’re pulling into port, we’ll buy some stuff that actually fits you.” Despite being the one to decide this, there's a pang of disappointment in his chest at you getting out of his oversized clothes. He ignores it. The hand that's becoming all too familiar to your wrist is leading you out of his quarters, and your eyes dart to take in the room a final time. Hoping to commit it to memory.

“That’s a bit doting. Are you going to take me with you, or is that a far fetched wish?” You drawl, already figuring you’ll be locked away while they roam about. Buying you clothes while you sit prisoner.

You should probably just be grateful for the fact he is willing to spend gold on you, given the circumstances. But who would you be kidding if you tried to portray that right now. ‘Thanks for buying me clothes while I sat locked up in your jail cell!’ He would audibly cackle if you said that.

He chuckles at your bitter sounding tone, “I’d bet you’d be rather upset if we went into town without you.”

You scowl at him, having to bite your tongue as to not say anything rash, choosing not to respond at all.

He’s taken you outside of his room, and locked his door with the small ring of keys he keeps on him. Beginning a slow walk along the corridors of the ship, seemingly in no hurry at all. He pulls your arm to rest firmly between his elbow and ribcage as you stroll the halls, as though you’re on some kind of leisurely walk.

To your silent annoyance, he rolls his eyes with amusement, knowing you'll hold quite the grudge if he doesn't take you out when the ships docks at Sintir. “I’ll think about it, dove.”

The two of you walk in quiet for a minute. Clacking of shoes against decking echoes through the hallways below deck. You get lost in thought, until his voice quickly coaxes you out it.

“We’re stopping for two nights.” He suddenly clarifies for you, “After we buy you some suitable clothes, maybe you can come into town after dark.”

You’re skeptical of his offer, given that it’s not a guarantee. But you’re desperate to just get off this ship for a bit. Not even in an attempt to escape, you know that wouldn’t work even if you tried. Purely to be on land again, and around people who aren’t felons at sea.

So you soften your frown a bit, going quiet for a few moments. You decide to try the hopeless approach, no matter how weak your faith is in it. But maybe you'll get some pity from the man beside you, “I miss the towns, and being on solid earth, that’s all. It's all I've ever known.”

You were already embarrassed at how the helpless tone sounded on your voice. Maybe because is wasn't genuine, but either way, internally you gagged a little.

He laughs abruptly at your words, almost shocked that you attempted to persuade him with that.

“No need to pull the damsel in distress card.” He’d shook his head, smiling wide with humor at your expense, “My decision is impartial to a poor attempt at manipulation.”

“It’s not manipulation!” You turn to snap at him, dropping the meek mannerisms just as quickly as you put them on.

“Oh but it is, darling.” He bumps your shoulder with his own, turning a corner that reveals another set of stairs, “y’bad as any other pirate. Outside of the shitty lying.”

You shake your head, huffing out air from your nose as he leads you up them. The annoying thing is that he's right. However you still fight to prove your point.

“Can you blame me? I just want to go into a town and do something normal. Have a little stability amongst this shit show!” Your grumble made him chuckle, as it seemed to always do. Like as if he could not take a word you say seriously, even if he tried.

“I suppose I can’t fault you for it.” He hums, pushing a hatch open after unlinking your arms. He went through it first so he could help you up. Hands steadying you once your feet come in contact with the floor. Because suddenly, you’re on the bow of the ship. The afternoon sun out and warm on your skin as the waves are calmly lapping over themselves.

You momentarily forget that you’re pissed off with him. All you can focus on is the fresh air and golden sun.

His eyes take in your deep inhalation, and the way you look so relieved to be outside. Understandable given the fact you spent 2 days locked in a tiny room.

A feeling he can’t name stirs in his chest. And the voice in the back of his head is suddenly encouraging taking you into Sintir while the ships docked there.

“It’s… nice out.” You exhale, your gaze veering to him momentarily as you speak. His green eyes are locked onto yours, and you quickly make to slide your attention back out on the blue water.

Which is easy to look at, since it doesn’t technically end. Just melts into the equally blue horizon where the sky meets the sea.

“It almost always is, up this far north.” He nods, pushing the sudden emotion away. “It won’t stay that way once we leave the port. There’s a storm well in due this week.”

You mentally file away that you’re up north, but a part of you gets anxious with the idea of being out while there’s a storm.

On land, you always enjoyed them. They brought a sense of serenity to you. The thunder and rain sometimes came so loud in Kelna it drowned out everything going on in your life. Temporarily, of course, however it was nice while it lasted. But on water was a different story. You’d heard they’re rocky rides, treacherous even. That ships often enter a storm, and don't come out the other side.

“Don’t look s’worried.” He comments at your suddenly terrified energy, he places a palm on your back to usher you forwards.

“Just that I really don’t want to die out here.” You sigh, not denying the fear since it’s clearly that obvious.

You walk willingly wherever he’s decided to take you, sharing a short wave to the man up by the ships wheel. He had messy head of hair, one that you imagined when it was windy, would blow all over the place.

“Have faith in us, Y/N. We’ve weathered many storms jus’ fine.”

“Oi, H,” the scruffy pirate you just waved at calls down to his captain, as he tracks down the stairs with you. Going from the steering deck to the main deck.

Harry tilts his head over his shoulder, pausing on the stairs where you both stand, indicating he’s listening with a nod. You briefly trail your eyes over his side profile. The curve of his nose, and the cut of his jaw.

But his crewmate barely gets a couple words out before he’s interrupted shortly after, “How did ya go wi—“

“Fine, Liam.” Abruptly, Harry cuts in. Not rudely, but curtly.

The man on the wheel, who now has a name to you— Liam— alternates his gaze between the two of you suddenly. Like he’s dawning upon why he just got interrupted.

“Ah, I see.” He nods, quickly busying himself with what he was doing beforehand.

Harry continues walking you down a set off stairs, back down to main deck.

“I’m going to assume that was about earlier, and has something to do with why you dragged me out of my cell.” You say, attempting indifference.

“You’d assume right.” He nods, but you wait for him to say something more— which he doesn’t.

You sigh in frustration, “I'll also take that's why I'm still up here, and not locked back up."

You're trying to gauge yet again how much of his actions are kindness, and how much of them are out of an attempt to gain something.

"Not why you're out here, 'm tryna give ya a bit of sun." He brings you to a stop at the far left of the main deck, smirking as he talks, "I've got to patch up a old sail, incase we need it. No better place to do it but out here."

He pays no mind to you as he kneels down to a storage unit a few feet away from you in the floor, unlatching it, and hauling out a huge canvas sail it. The sheet crinkles as he carries it out, and dumps it on the wooden deck.

You frown, wondering if he's the only one on the ship who can do any sort of needlework... because it seems like the only reasonable option as to why he's doing it himself. So you ask, "Why exactly are you doing it?"

He laughs, striding back over to pull a much larger sewing kit from the bottom of the storage space, and also sheet of spare canvas.

"You are filled with clichés of us, darling. What is makin' y'ask that?" He chucks the kit and extra fabric down, following to sit shortly after.

You're still standing as you try to conjure up an answer that doesn't sound unbelievably stupid. But he is cross-legged, pulling the damaged side of the sail over his muscular thighs.

"Because..." You pause, still unsure how to phrase it as you stare at him. You're looking at his side profile again, and it's lit by the overhead sun.

He glances your way, essentially looking up at you from where he's positioned on the floor. He finishes your sentence for you, "'Cause I'm a captain? And why would I do something productive for myself and my crew when I could make someone below me do it?"

"Well... basically."

"You're going t’find out very quickly the dynamic between me ‘n my crew." he pulls open the sewing box, filled with larger needles, and thick thread.

"I may be their Captain, but we’re all like brothers. I see them as that, not as my workers. They are my team, and we help out whenever and wherever we can." He states, sounding completely sincere, "And, I'm the only one that can actually hand sew things, so here we are."

"Here we are..." you parrot quietly, almost finding it endearing the way he talks about his crew mates.

Delicately, he’s threading up a needle and starting to take it through the sail and its new panel, lined up over the relatively large tear. His hands are steady, hair fallen over his eyes as he concentrated on starting the stitch. You stare at the dark bruising over his knuckles, and you swear that wasn’t as deep a shade earlier.

Without thought, you slowly sink to the ground, back resting against the side of the boat, not waiting long before you start to ask him more questions.

“Whatever happened to put that large of a hole in your sail?” You’d quizzed.

He knew it wouldn’t take long before you started to pry him with more of your wonders, “A cannonball.”

Your face can’t hide the shock, because of how casually he answered you. Your lips were parted in surprise at his response when he glanced over to you. A smirk over his mouth, popping a dimple on his cheek.

“Jus’ a run in with another ship.” He mused, “They tore a hole in our sail, and we tore a hole into the side of their boat.”

You almost sputter a laugh, of course he has to brag about not having lost that altercation.

“I hope you have a winning streak under your belt.” You shake your head, smiling a little.

“Why? Because I’m carryin’ such precious cargo.” Alluding to you with a charming cadence to his voice.

You’re stretched out in the sun as he watches you, and you almost look happy. If he didn’t know any better. But maybe you are a little. Circumstantially, you’re probably far from it. But in this moment, you look calm in a way he hasn’t seen before.

“Obviously. And all this would be for nothing if I go down with your ship and you don’t get your gold.”

“Tragic really, after putting up with y’through all this. Including jumpin' off m'own ship.” He teases.

“It’s been like, 5 days. I cant have been that annoying outside of the jumping thing.” You can’t tell if you’re offended at his jabs like you should be. You wish you fully were, but the banter is almost pleasing to have with him. It gives you something to laugh at. And also gives you an excuse to be insolent with him.

“Mm, if only y’knew…” he sighs in faux exhaustion, a tiny laugh escaping through his façade.

The way the ship cruised through the waves was inexplicably calming to experience up here. With the sun and the warm around surrounding you.

His hands were weaving the needle through the material, it’s mesmerising to watch. He’s definitely skilled at it, since it has hardly taken him long to get one side sewed on.

“You look quite content over there.” He comments, not looking up from where he was.

The observation stuns you a little, because of how true it was.

“I… it’s hard not to be after being in a tiny wooden room for 2 days straight.” You answer, but it doesn’t feel like the only reason why.

“Y'know,” he begins, “I excepted someone like you to have the worst set of sea sickness, and to be constantly terrified, but you've seemingly proved me wrong.”

“Have you underestimated me?”

“Possibly.” He remarks. And you don’t answer him again.

You're struck with the realisation that you actually don’t hate being above deck. Or really on the ship— outside of the reasons to why you’re on it. You think you might have underestimated yourself.

Like a reel of film, your mind flashes through images of a life like this. Outside of the damn cell at the bottom of the boat.

One where you spend your days free on the water. Both free in regards to your imprisonment here— but also from your life and looming responsibilities at home.

You envision yourself suddenly in the most pirate-like attire, standing up on those huge masts like they do in fictions sold at the bookstore— the odd one that would romanticise the life of piracy instead of completely defacing it.

It hits you like a slap in the face. One that stings and burns on the side of your cheek, lingering for days after it initially impacted.

You have to forcibly squeeze your eyes closed, because there is no room to have feelings like that in your already muddled brain.

Harry speaks up from where you forgot he was sitting, “What exactly is Kelna like?”

“Prison.” You blurt, hand almost coming to slap over your own mouth in surprise.

Your head is in disarray, and that somehow slipped its way out. Because all the sudden, you realise you almost felt more trapped in your own home than you honestly do here.

You tried to escape this ship out of fear that you would be killed— or sent somewhere worse— but when that element is removed from the equation, you’re certain anything is better than Kelna.

“Im kidding—“ you hurriedly spew out, but his head is turned to frown at you, “it’s nice… it’s great. Very lovely people and we have… yea. It’s great.”

Of course, you love your family. Some of them. Your younger brother and older brother, your younger sister. But outside of your siblings, there were few people to love.

“Sound like y’trying to convince yourself more than me.”

You guess you kind of were in a sense. And a part of you wanted to just say how much you never wanted to go back, if that were an option. You only ever told your older brother Poe about how desperate you were to get away from the court. One person. One soul out of this whole world of them knows.

Only Poe knows how terrified you were that Misha— Kelna's infamous prophet— would come to the podium to speak the most misconstrued riddle, that supposedly announced you were to take the crown. Your own stomach churns at the concept.

But revealing that to Harry felt like giving away a vulnerable piece of yourself. He doesn't deserve to be the second person you entrust with something so pressing for you. Which you remind yourself that you swore not to lay an ounce of trust in this man’s hands. That your impartialness to a separate life here is due to your life at home. And that freedom on this ship is unlikely.

“I’m not…” you breathe out in defeat. Trying desperately to steer clear of the subject, because its easy to drag you into a pit of ever-welling anxiety.

However, he can sense your complete shift in energy. This is your first time really talking about home. And it seems like you have more than bitterness to it. He expected a whimsical answer. One that showed your longing for return, or that you even valued part of being in a court. But he got nothing of the sorts.

It slips from his soft mouth before he can stop it, “Are you not safe at home?”

He’s completely disregarded his sewing venture, and has turned to look right at you. His features have softened, and he looks genuinely a little concerned. But you brush it off for deceit. Of course he would want to know something like that. Want to pick away at your seams until all the sudden you're unraveling in the palm of his hands, tearing your whole village down with it.

“Yes!” You jump to clear that up. Secondly feeling like he's almost babying you.

“Probably safer there than I am here.” You bark, but it’s hardly true if you really think about it. Attempts on a royals life are always a threat, and it’s happened to your family members before. Which transcends into a whole other story, equally as painful for you as anything else at home.

His brows pull into a frown. He realises he’s struck something sensitive here. The topic seems to make you recoil completely. Your body language has changed, just like that. Straight from relaxed to on edge.

“I feel like there's a pretty equal risk." He provides, picking back up the threaded needle. Seeing what more he can coax out of you.

"I—" you cut yourself off.

"I am fine." Your tone is conclusive.

"Is that why you always sneak out of your royal residence in the middle of the night?" He pushes, a sarcastic lilt to his deep voice.

"That isn't any of your business!" You groan, "I'm not asking why it is you're a felon at sea, or your tragic past life that's lead you here, am I?"

"But you probably wonder..." he smirks, impartial to your jab.

"I don't, you ass!" You state defiantly.

"I'm just trying to gauge how much you actually like your homeland."

You scoff in disbelief, "Oh, piss off. You just want something to hold over me."

It's clear to him something much deeper is going on than what he initially thought. But its also evident that you are far from interested in talking about it now. So, he files away what information and suspicion he had, and finally allows the subject to change.

"Whatever princess... y'getting mouthy, and I've gathered that usually doesn't end well for either of us." he rolls his eyes in amusement, "You'll have to to tell me what kind of clothes you like, so I know what I'm in for."

"It only doesn't end well because you're so goddamn pushy." You huff.

"This is why you ended up locked in a cell for two days." his tone is airy, considering the topic, "Also, best of y'to recall I'm the one who decides whether or not ya coming off the ship tomorrow."

You hold back your bitter quip at his reminder, but not the deep sigh from your lungs. You feel stressed. Overwhelmed even. Which is the only good thing about your tiny room below deck, its stable. You know what you get down there. Yourself, and no personal questions that leave you reeling.

He finishes his double stitch in silence. Thinking of you, and wondering what exactly your perception of your home life is. In a long answer— not the short and guarded ones he's currently receiving.

You sit, still in the sun, but feeling significantly more riled up than earlier. That's when Harry stands from his work, and your eyes dart to the patch that's now one with the sail. Intricately sewed in place, with a clearly detail-oriented eye.

"An' she's done." He nods proudly, talking to himself as he picks the complete task up from where it was spread on the deck. Carrying it back into where it came from— along with the closed sewing kit. Laying it folded in the floor compartment and latching it closed.

His hands brush themselves off along his black pants. They admittedly fit him perfectly. Nipped in at his sculpted waist, and outlining his likely firm thighs.

His green eyes slanted down to you, as if he could feel your own gaze burning into his tanned skin. He smirks, a dimple popping out on his cheek as he looked at you.

He was trouble.

He looked at you like you were a game to be played. A challenge to be conquered. And somehow you met him right at that very level. You wanted to prove something to him— and the thing is, you don't even know what.

Its not something you can reverse, or take back. It's already long started, the second you pushed back from his demands when you first met.

His legs that you were just studying stride over to where you sit. He towers over you, examining you with a silent and smug smile.

"A corset, perhaps?" He proclaimed without context, and your face twists in confusion.

"Although, I've heard they are very hard to get on and off a woman." It clicks in your brain he's currently talking about you. Imagining you in the likes of a corset.

It's like he was pondering it aloud just for his own sick enjoyment, because he keeps going as your expression quickly bleeds into a scowl.

"And, there is no doubt in my mind you'd drive your own elbow into my stomach before you let me help lace you into a corset. Or out of it." His voice has dropped an octave, and his chocolatey hair has fallen over his forehead again. For such a heinous topic, he has the face of an angel. Maybe a fallen one... but an angel nonetheless.

"You would be correct." You confirm, "And I spend enough time in corsets at home. God forbid I wear one when theres no need for it."

He suddenly juts a hand out for you to take, which you stare at for an awfully long time, analysing the dark marks over his knuckles. Eventually settling to let him help you stand. It pulls you up effortlessly despite its visibly injury, and you feel the rough parts of his large hand as it cups yours.

"Espcially if im going to be laying around in a cell, whats the point in that?"

He still has grip on your hand, "Oh, dove, y'not going back down there for a little bit."

Your gaze narrows immediately. And you ask the first question and only question that makes sense in your mind.

"Who else is down there?"

"Someone who deserves to be left in the room with the cuff holders on the wall. Attached to them."

Your stomach sinks a little, recalling him saying thats sectioned off for people who have done truly bad things. Seems like it would explain his battered up knuckles perfectly.

But with the closest thing you’ve gotten to an answer all day, you’re quick to mentally move onto what the effects you the most.

"Where am i gonna..."

He says with a completely unfazed expression, "With me."

“With you?”

“That’s what I said, no?” He raises his brows, “unless you’d rather be down there with him. Who we’d then certainly have to kill once he knows you’re here.”

“Christ.” A wave of shock rocks through you at his vulgar wording, “can you put me nowhere else?”

“No.” He states, starting to walk with your hand gripped in his, “it’s just for the night. Don’t worry s’much.”

“Don’t worry? You just told me you would have to kill a man if I chose to stay away from you.”

You’re glaring at him as he holds open a door for you— one that leads to another kitchen room— despite you’re bitter look, he’s unbothered entirely.

“Let’s get you something to eat. Allow ya to process the fact you’re stuck with me for a night.”

———

Your night was significantly different to all the others you’d had on the ship this past week.

The evening had come on relatively quick. You’d sat above deck after he fed you some fruit, and watched the sun set as his crew gathered to share a pint.

You observed their dynamics, and the way a few men got themselves silly on one too many beers. Stumbling all over the deck.

Harry stayed closer to sober though—a bit tipsy, but nothing drastic— and as evening bleed into night, many of the boys had turned in for bed around midnight.

His blonde crew mate had shouted out for you to come down and have a pint, but you laughed it off. His drunken plea seeming far out of line considering the circumstances.

Not long after most of them had left, Harry came up to where you sat. You were perched atop a step on the stairs, and you know he’d been watching you. Making sure— as you stayed a fair distance away— that you didn’t disappear.

His hand had gestured out to you again as he had apparently come to collect you. You stood without it’s help, and he snorted a bitter laugh.

“You're infuriating, you know? Unbelievably so. And I feel it all the way in my stomach.” The lilt in his voice is intoxicating. He sounds like he disdains you, yet is addicted to the feeling all at the same time.

He’s standing the step below yours, and once you had fully straightened out, you were slightly above him. It almost gave you an added boost of confidence, “Right in here?”

Your hand reached out to breach the minimal distance, brushing your pointer and middle finger against where the skin of his stomach is.

His hand grabbed around your wrist, staring at you— he pressed your palm flat against his chest— you could feel the warmth of his skin beneath the sheer black blouse he was still in.

His bruised knuckles are pressed over yours. The dark spots a mosaic of blacks and blues— you wonder how bad it would hurt if you pressed down on them. Just out of spite, of course.

“Right there.” He affirmed.

“Too bad you have to room with me tonight.” You sigh in mock sympathy.

He looks like he’s about to say something else, when he bites his tongue and does his usual thing— tugging you along wherever he plans to go.

His leftover mates say goodnight as he walks past— all of them regarding you as well, surprisingly.

You’re lead to his quarters as you’d suspected, and you’re now faced with the situation of how this is going to all pan out.

Once inside the dark room, he lights a wall candle with a match— that he pulled from god knows where— casting the space in a golden glow.

He is quick to then shed the black material that’s covering his chest over himself without hesitation. Your gaze skates along the muscled skin of his back. Littered in black ink and scars that immediately piqued your curiosity. Ones that you undeniably want to trace over, and enquire how exactly they got there. Which feels like an odd thought to be entertaining considering how much you push to hate him.

His hands unlatch his belt, still adorning all its weapons. And he walks to the foot of his bed, laying it atop the cover.

“Would I be correct to assume I’m taking the floor?” You put forward, and his head turns over his shoulder.

“That one’s up t’you. Unless you’re that desperate to get away from me.” He drawls, the alcohol making him a tad drowsy now that the buzz has worn off.

A part of you begs to be stubborn. To say no. But the other half of you in rioting to lay down on a mattress for the first time in almost a week. Because you couldn’t physically sleep another night on the hard wooden floor.

You breathe outward, walking over in silence as you climb beneath his sheets without warrant.

He tries to ignores it, but a small smile breaks out over his lips before he can stop it. So he turns swiftly around, unzipping his black pants and shedding them off his long legs.

“What exactly are you doing?” You shrilly ask, palms ready to shield your eyes if he decides to strip the only remaining fabric below his laurel-adorning hips.

“You’re not sleeping naked next to me.” Certainty riddles your tone, and there is no way you’ll budge on it.

But to your statement he laughs, “M’not naked.”

“Not far off it either.” You murmur, observing as he walks over to the candle he not long lit and blows it out.

The room falls into darkness, all you can hear are the plodding of his feet on the wood floor.

Once he’s next to the bed, you hear his voice, “You’re on my side, by the way. S’budge up.”

You scoot over without words, and feel the mattress sink as his weight comes onto it.

“Better than the floor, no?” He asks quietly, and you can feel the heat radiating from his body.

“Undecided.” You whisper. “Comfier I suppose.”

His breath is quiet and consistent as you both fall quiet. You’re certain he falls asleep before you, because you’re awake for a while. Staring at the ceiling wondering how you got here yet again.

But eventually, the tiredness you’ve been feeling for the last couple days catches up on you, and it lulls you into a deep sleep. Unbroken from any uncomfortable surfaces or loud noises. Just peace.

Peace until you stir for the first time in the morning.

When soft light is shining through the circular windows, and you realise how truly warm you are. All the edges of your consciousness are blurred and hazy with your sleep induced state. You nestle into what you thought was the mattress, but register somewhere in your head that your body is pressed against someone.

And after that, it’s confirmed when they move. A slight roll, and a warm heavy arm that drapes over your waist, tugging you closer.

Your eyes dart open, and are met with the sideways view of a swallow on a collarbone. It stops you dead in your tracks. Because slowly you realise your plastered to someone's side. Harry's side. Legs thrown over his hips, head nestled into his neck.

You're frozen for a moment. Because he smells so nice. But alarm bells are sounding in your head. Too close to the enemy, they riot.

The rigidness of your body stirs him again, rolling him further into you. Legs intertwined, and the bridge of your nose bumping against the curve of his throat. Now he's truly swallowing up all your senses. His scent is genuinely intoxicating. Salty, just as you'd imagine a pirate would smell— of the ocean and all that lies beneath it. But it has a woodsy tone to it, deep and masculine. One you wonder how he just naturally carries.

His tattoos are gorgeous up close, chest chiseled and dusted with soft dark hairs. You use the finger that’s between your body and his to brush gently over the butterfly on his stomach. Tracing the details, despite how wrong it feels. In your moments of timid admiration, you don’t realise his eyes have opened. Green and glazed over with sleep, it takes him a solid minute to register what he's watching you do.

An intake of breathe, and his gravelly voice pressed out the only thing he can even think of saying, “g’morning.”

Physically, you flinch. Startled at his sudden consciousness. Finger withdrawing from its tender movements, your heart pounding.

“I— hello.” You whisper, unsure how long he’s been awake.

He stretches, which in turn scoots his body down the bed, leaving you face to face with him. A pink tongue juts out over his lips— wetting them.

“I should’ve established a no-cuddle policy.” You state, eyes wandering the plains of his face.

To this, his morning voice rumbles a laugh, “are you trying to blame me for this? ‘Cause you’re on m’side, touching up my chest, dove.”

You turn your head over your shoulder, glancing to the gap from where you originally feel asleep and where you are now. Red flushed over your face, It does look incriminating on your end.

A guilty sigh falls from your lips before you purse them together. Not having an explanation for how you ended up like this.

“S’okay.” His voice was so deep, and it sunk into your ears. Almost drawing a shiver out of you. It was attractive.

You can’t tell if that observation is coming only from the fact you have just spent a night curled into his chest. But it’s all you can think about.

“Didn’t mean to.” You say, the closest you were coming to an apology.

“Mmm, I bet.” He murmurs, his hand leaving from where it was on your waist and going to comb through his hair.

Perfectly tousled from sleep, he brushed through it with his fingers. You take the opportunity now that his hand has left your waist, to sit up, averting your eyes from the way his touch glides through his soft hair.

You look out the window, and immediately you’re shocked. You see land. Not even that far away.

“Oh.”

“What?”

“There’s land…”

“Ah,” he also props himself up with his elbows, “so there is.”

“Best we get ready.” He shrugs his bare shoulders, and you quickly jolt your head this way.

We?

He’s far from shy as he threw the covers off himself, with the daylight streaming through the windows, his whole body was on display.

You wondered if he realised the kind of body he had on him. Because undeniably, seeing him in just boxers makes your throat bob.

“Do you say we because you intend on taking me off the ship?” You ask, a silent plea behind your words.

“Tonight.” He states, glances back to see the palpable excitement spread over your face.

You rush out of bed, a sudden burst of energy at his confirmation. He is shocked as suddenly your arms collide with his bare waist.

“Thank you. Thank you.” You really are grateful, and you’re so desperate to get off this boat for a bit.

His lips part in surprise, “that’s… y’welcome?”

You hold him longer than you should, a part of you a little ashamed at your lack of self discipline. Because you should be able to contain yourself. You eventually pull yourself from him, smiling in a way he hasn’t seen before.

“We’re probably gonna dock in… 20 minutes? We’ll be gone for most of the day. I’ll come back and get you at evening.”

It sounded like a long time to wait. But you are sure you could do it. So you nod, enthusiastically.

You go and sit yourself on the edge of his bed, wondering where you’re going to end up— what the town will be like, where you’ll go— all while watching Harry go through his closet for an outfit.

It reminded you almost of how a royal would dress, particularly about what came out and what would go with what.

He stands with his back to you, still just in boxers. He has a nice ass.

You mentally scold yourself, yet unable to look away from him as he pulls a maroon pair of pants over his hips. They’re left unzipped as he gets a off-white linen shirt to tuck into them. However the shirt was left almost entirely unbuttoned. And his cross necklace sits between his pecs that are on full display.

He belts his weaponry around his waist, taking it off the wall from where they were hung. Odd of him to leave them so in the open, when you could’ve stabbed him in the night while he slept.

“Are you leaving me in here?” You ask, watching as he collects a few last minute things from around his room.

“S’long as you don’t trash the place.”

You think about teasing him, but decide not to risk it. You piss him off, then you’ll likely get put somewhere without anything to snoop around. And also miss out on getting off the ship tonight.

So you just nod. And at that, he’s satisfied.

“Well, m’off then. Don’t do anything stupid, Princess.” He raises his brows, face serious until it breaks into a small smile.

“I won’t.” You lie, because how are you meant to guarantee that.

He walks out, and obviously locks you in. You wait an hour, until you’ve been docked for a while before you start to dig around his room.

Not forgetting to take some time looking out the window to figure out where the hell you are in the world. Nothing was geographically giving it away, but once you saw a small fishing cart on the pier, you read Sintir fishery.

Sintir is so far away from your homeland, you let out an audible gasp when you read it. There’s no fucking way, you’d thought.

But as you walk away from the window, you register that it has technically been a week since you’d been taken.

You ponder it as you start to go through his things. You feel like some kind of home invader. Rummaging through a trunk under his bed, raiding draws, and flicking through his racks of clothes. Digging into pockets as though you were waiting to happen upon something of value.

It turned out to be the smartest places you looked, because in a thick raincoat, you fucking found it.

A key. One he has to have forgotten about, since there’s no way in the world he’s left you in here without being certain there’s no way to get out.

You ran to the door of his room, and held your breath as the sharp metal got pushed into the lock by your eager hands.

You turned it, jostling it a bit. And it clicked.

Quietly, you reach for the handle, gently pulling it down and breathing out as the door unlatches.

There’s no time to wait as you slink outside. Clicking it shut, and slowly trying to recall your way back down to the chambers.

Every noise has you on edge, and you’re terrified to get caught. Waiting to turn a corner and one of his crew mates to be there, catching you in the act. But it’s not enough to stop you. You may have made a few wrong turns, but you end up in a hallway that jogs your memory.

You make your way down the stairs to the cells, unable to keep your footsteps entirely quiet. It’s without warning you realise the space down there is in fact still occupied by someone… just like you’d initially feared.

You’re met with a guttural groan, and suddenly your anxiety nearly triples. It’s masculine— and when you reach the bottom of the stairs, still out of view from the cell door— you can confirm it when the voice echoes out from the dim room.

“Let me out, you… you fuckin’ bastards.” Whoever it is sounds exhausted, like they’ve been teetering on the edges of life or death for hours.

When you don’t reply he lets out a wet and chesty cough as he continues, “I don’t care about tha’ whore no more! The princess means nothing to me.”

Your heart is racing at the mention of yourself, and the man sounds like he’s dying. It’s certain in your mind now this man’s face was probably what caused the bruising on Harrys fist.

A heavy bang comes from his cell, sounding like metal cuffs being slammed against a wall.

His speech turns to slur as you slowly back yourself back up the stairs. Curiosity always kills the cat, you think. And you wished you’d stayed in Harry’s room.

“Or jus’ kill me already!” He begs, tone shaking with exhausted rage, “already beat me to a pulp after I called that royal a good f’nothing slut. S’cmon!”

That was your cue to leave, and as you break off into a near run down the halls, you’re shaking the whole time.

Yet somehow, despite what anyone would’ve expected, you made it back to Captains quarters without a single run in. Not a soul knows you found a key.

You slide down the relocked door once you’re inside, and pant with not only the physical exertion, but the anxiety you just put yourself under.

It takes a fair while before you can move again, but your hands skate along the floorboards beneath you, tracing the wood grains to calm down.

Rising, you go back to his closet to put the small key back exactly where you found it. Not taking chances in trying to harbour it for yourself.

The room is deafeningly quiet, it forces your mind to hear the likely dying man’s words on repeat. And wonder if Harry really punched the man because he called you a slut…

The only person that knows is him.

He only knows that the second that sack of shit opened his mouth and said the only thing you’d be good for is ‘a quick fuck and some gold’ he absolutely lost it.

He only knows the feeling of pure, red-hot anger that took over him until he slammed the side of his fist into the slimy man’s face. More than once. He’s not sure how many times, until it was bloody, and until his knuckles already had a bruise festering below the skin— darkening by the minute.

And god, can he not stop thinking about how it made him feel. It was all consuming. It solidified that you were not going back down into the cells. He would rather have you in his own bed than within a 5 metre radius of that scum.

So as he walks through the town, splitting off from his crew to go by you clothes, he realises that you’re making more of an impression on him than he thought.

And while he piles up half a wardrobe for you, not even worrying about how much it’ll all add up to, he clocks just how… infatuated he’s possibly become with you.

Just how he’s suddenly ended up in this position. Where he hates you, yet wants to protect you— and even sometimes dote on you.

God— It’s dangerous.

That feeling that lingers when he thinks about you. Both a good and a bad one.

You were dangerous for him… and he’s still trying to decide how much, and in what way. But the biggest thing, is he’s worried for when he finds out.

Whether it’s going to be when you stab him in the back— either metaphorically or physically— or when you trace your delicate touch over his bare chest, so gently his mental resolve cracks along with the walls guarding his heart.

His conclusion as he checks out with a plethora of clothes for you, you’re either going to kill him, or he’s going to end up killing for you.

Oh, and that he’s certain he wants to kiss you. But that’s a whole other thing he has to mentally unpack.

———

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i really hope you guys enjoyed this part since i have rewrote it and reread it that many times i seriously have no idea if it’s any good HAHA

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Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six

TW: violence, choking, mentions of bdsm, abuse of authority, cops, unfair power dynamics, harassment, body fluids and drug use mentions, mentions of harm/accidents

For California, it’s a bit chilly out this morning. The sun is getting a lazy late start, just beginning to yawn golden orange and fiery yellow over the horizon. Julian’s hair in that light is the high shine of fashion magazine model locs, and you’re, as usual, opening your mouth before you think. “What shampoo and conditioner do you use?”

He seems thoroughly amused. “Honestly? You’re going to be mad about it.” 

“Try me,” you prod, slipping inside his little sports car that smells like lemon air freshener and coffee. 

He seems a little cramped in the seat, knees bent up and head almost touching the ceiling, and you wonder if he actually even tried to get into this thing before buying it. 

“It’s a rental,” he explains.

“Did you get into an accident?”

“A truck hit mine while it was parked.” 

“How are you so calm about that? I’d punch someone.” 

He looks over at you with a sculpted, raised brow. “I just cannot imagine you hurting a fly, y/n.” 

“Flies are innocent, truck drivers are free game.” 

He gives you a big laugh that strokes the flame of your ego. “You’re hilarious. I use men’s body wash.” 

“What?” Okay, he’s right, you are a little mad. You use shampoo and conditioner that are specifically supposed to soften your hair, but the poof on your head absolutely pales in comparison to his soft, beautiful mane that gets the luxury of … what? Old spice? Axe body wash? 

“I told you,” he sings, turning on the engine. 

Genetics is a bitch. 

He takes you to a fancy little French inspired coffee shop cuddled into the center of an outlet mall with salt lamps and big ferns and comfy chairs. You settle into a nook closests to the sunned windows so Julian can keep an eye on his rental, which is understandable. No part of LA is good to have a Porsche in, but especially not the inner city. 

“This is delicious,” you tell him through a mouthful of warm croissant, covering your lips in embarrassment when you realize that your table manners are less than adequately prepared for a date with a doctor. 

“They have the best coffee,” he agrees, taking a sip of his steaming latte. 

You don’t have time to stop your brain from comparing Julian to a certain cop you know who prefers his coffee black and bitter, or at least that’s what he told you when he saw you drinking your vanilla cream cold foam at the nurse’s station. 

Julian is talking, you think, and you’re only half listening while you remember how Tom had snatched that drink right out of your hands and held it up in the air. 

“Give it back!” You hissed, reaching up on tiptoes while he laughed at the pathetic rescue attempt. 

“Careful, honey, don’t hurt yourself for this pathetic excuse of caffeine. What is it anyway? Is there even coffee in here?” 

After he walked away with his discharge paperwork, your coworkers were understandably curious about the tall, puckish cop who fucked with you any chance he got. 

Miguel watched his ass move the whole way down the hallway and out the glass exit doors while literally clutching the rosary under his scrub shirt as if a devil had just walked by, then looked over at you. “What a man.”

“Are you alright?” Julian asks, bringing you back to the present conversation with a hand over your forearm. He does seem concerned, and it makes you feel like a piece of shit. This guy is a gentleman and here you are on a date with him fantasizing about the brute that is Tom Ludlow. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You wave away his concern. “Tell me about you, Julian. What do you do for fun? Doctor-by-night, Violin-player-by-morning? 

He chuckles. “Nothing that cultured. I like riding motorcycles.”

“Really?” You ask, genuinely surprised and trying to imagine Julian in a gang of bikers with cracked leather skull and snake jackets. 

“I love them.” He nods. “I have three that I take for long rides along the coast. You get lost in it, the wind and salt and sand. The rumble of the engine under you.”

“I’ve never been on one,” you tell him, “and I’m honestly surprised you ride them after what we see in the ER. Don’t you remember that guy that had his calf hanging on by a tendon? Or that woman who had half her face missing?” 

“Yes, I do. But I go the speed limit and wear the proper gear. And I like the thrill.” 

It’s not just the casual t-shirt and worn jeans or the way the light halos his thick silk nest of hair or the roguish grin that makes you see Julian in an entirely new way, now. “You’re wild, Dr. Mercer.”

He licks spilled cream at the ridge of his coffee cup, rubs at the skin of your forearm with his fingers, and winks. You wonder what he would look like between your legs doing the same thing, except with your fingers gripping that luscious hair. 

“You should let me take you for a ride, sometime,” he suggests, and for a minute you forget you’re talking about motorcycles. 

“Oh, I don’t know, Julian.”

“C’mon.” He nudges your knee under the table and relaxes back into his seat, now reminding you too much of someone else you know. Same height, same hair color, same facial structure. 

Fuck. Really? 

“Good boyfriends take their girlfriends on long, romantic motorcycle rides.” 

“But you’re not my boyfriend.”

His smile droops a little bit and it makes you feel bad for being so illiterately ignorant. Well, you feel bad until he opens his mouth. “I am, though.”

He paints it playful, but it sounds a little bit pushy-bossy, even. “I don’t know about that, either, Julian.”

He tries a different angle. “You know, believe it or not, most women would consider me quite the catch.” 

You hope your face doesn’t betray the little bit of ick you get from him saying something so egotistical. “I don’t doubt it, and you deserve someone that can give you what you’re looking for.” 

“You think you can’t give me what I’m looking for?” He leans across the table in sudden intensity, and you balk at the notion. 

“No, I honestly don’t.”

“Why?”

You start to say something, but he cuts you off. “And, I really mean why? Why can’t you give me what I’m looking for? Enlighten me.” 

“I’m not-I have too much baggage.” You unconsciously lean away from his swelling intensity. 

“That’s a little vague.” He frowns. 

“I’m not normal, Julian. You seem like you would like normal women.” You cringe at the childish sentiment, but truly have no idea how to get the point across except for basically telling him that you’re a freak with a bad past and worse coping mechanisms. You eat slices of bread for dinner and drink out of the milk carton. Julian probably irons his shirts. This will not work. 

“You’re assuming I’m normal?”

“Yes. I guess I am.” You lean back and cross your arms over your chest. 

“Well, I’m not. In fact, I’ll prove it to you.” He takes out his wallet, pulls a laminated card from it, and slides it over the table to you. 

“What..” It’s a little red card framed in black with big bold letters on the front advertising a BDSM club in the heart of downtown Venice. “What is this?” 

“BDSM is bondage, domination-“

“I know what that is,” you interrupt. “I just meant.. You go here?”

“I do.” He nods and takes a drink. “I occasionally engage in scenes.”

You decide that you should coat your suddenly very dry mouth and drink a big gulp of your coffee. “Like with a dominatrix?”

He laughs at you, puts his head in his hand and shakes his head. “No. I prefer to be the dominant one.” 

You look at-really, really look at this man for the first time and honestly cannot imagine him taking that role. 

He must see the confusion on your face, because his laughter grows. “That’s the usual reaction I get.”

Curiosity killed the cat. Curiosity killed the-you know what, fuck it. 

“So, what do you do at the club?” 

“A typical play scene, you mean?” How in the hell he can be so casual and relaxed about this you’re not sure. Because you can already feel the cold sweat breaking along your shoulders and neck. 

“I guess? Yeah.”

“Well, ideally the woman is tied up in some fashion, and of course there’s a safe word, negotiated limits. Perhaps a punishment scenario with pain play. Are you okay?” 

He looks at your table-clutching, white knuckled hands, searches your face, giving you a genuine concerned expression that makes you wonder what actually is going on with you right now. You feel like you're on a tightrope over a ravine of crocodiles and Julian’s on the other end lazily sawing at the rope with dull scissors.

“I’m fine,” you say breathily, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about all that.”

His gentle smile is nothing less than kind, though maybe also, a little disappointed. “I get that a lot too.”

“Is that…the only way you enjoy sex?” you ask quietly, leery of the blue-haired old lady just two tables away.

“No,” he seems happy to tell you. “Though it is…the way I enjoy sex most.”

You blink, digesting this with understandable trepidation. He’s basically telling you that it would be impossible to be in a relationship with him without dipping into this eventually. And you…? 

Are definitely intrigued, and you’re not really sure why.

“You said you have baggage,” Julien probes cautiously. You can feel him looking at you, but you’re not quite up to eye contact with him yet. You fix your gaze out the window. “Well, I do too. I haven’t had a perfect life. No one does, and I’m not interested in a perfect girlfriend. I like you, y/n.”

You feel your breath go out in an audible whoosh. It actually makes him smile-you feel it like rays of the sun. How can this man be so warm, and yet have such a dark side?

Well, maybe it’s not a dark side, you reason. Maybe it’s just…a thing he likes, and between consenting adults, what’s the harm?

“So…” You can’t help but think about how odd this is, discussing this in this coffee shop filled with mild-mannered caffeine addicts. What you really want to ask, is what happened to him that makes him like this kind of sexual play, but you know it would be too far, and you damn well don’t feel like talking about your own fucked up past. But there is something you do feel you have a right to know. “Is this something you want to do to me?” 

Again, he fixes you with that bad boy smirk that gives you chills and utterly ruins your panties. “Since the moment you stood up to me over that patient,” he admits. And maybe that should alarm you, that he wants to tie you up and hurt you for being defiant about something that deserved defiance. It does alarm you, but… It also… It sounds a little thrilling. “In fact-“

Julian and the rest of the world and even your own thoughts disappear when you meet a pair of familiar, sun tinted eyes out the window of the coffee shop. He’s grinning-when is he not grinning at you like he knows what it does to your helpless insides?-and licking his fingers, tearing off a yellow parking ticket to slap it under the windshield of Julian’s rental.

“Uh, Julian-“ 

“Just let me finish,” Julian insists. His bossy tone irritates you, but Tom brightens the mood by making a jerking off motion towards the doctor, and then winking at you. 

You can’t help but laugh. It’s honestly involuntary, the loud wheeze that tears from your chest and makes Julian look outside to see the yellow ticket shining under his wiper as Ludlow’s ass saunters away. 

You’re not sure what Julian’s plan is when he storms outside to catch Ludlow by the arm, but you’re definitely following ten strides behind to prevent his untimely death. 

“I’m parked legally.” His voice is a menacing growl instead of the smooth honey you’re used to, and yeah, maybe now you can see a little bit of that Dominant Persona he was talking about. 

“Not after 9AM,” Tom says, unbothered by Julian’s anger, still grinning like an idiot. 

“It’s eight-thirty,” Julian argues, tugging on Tom’s sleeve-that earns him a bent back arm and even the appearance of handcuffs. 

“Tom, stop it, fucking really?” 

“Sorry, honey, your boyfriend’s going to jail.” 

“For what?!” You and Julian both demand at once. 

“Putting his pristine fucking hands on what’s mine.” Tom tugs Julian up on his toes and clicks one handcuff into place. 

You hope he means his uniform, but you have a feeling he doesn’t. 

“That’s way too tight and you know it,” Julian grunts. 

“What, someone likes to dish it out but can’t take it? Don’t be a bitch,” Tom muses, grabbing Julian’s other arm and twisting it-not gently-behind his back. 

“Tom, you fucking dickhead.” 

He looks at you as he’s putting the other cuff on your date. “Oh, I’ll deal with you later.” His grin looks more like a snarl at this point, and you think that Julian could probably take some pretty good Dom pointers from Tom, because your heart is galloping and your clit is pulsing despite the absolute absurdity of the situation. Also-it's a miracle-your sassing mouth has snapped shut. 

After Officer Ludlow practically throws Dr. Mercer into the back of his Charger, slamming the door, he turns to you with a smirk and his thumb in his belt. Goddammit, if that fucking look doesn’t go straight to your lady parts.

“Tom…you cannot do this.” 

A tow truck has pulled up, and is in process of impounding the sweet little Porsche.

He steps up to you in those big black boots that make him a mile tall.

“You’d be surprised what I can and cannot do, sweetheart.”

“Please.” You hate how desperate you know you sound. 

He taps his chin. “Well, I do like the sound of that. But it would be a lot more convincing if you got on your knees and said it.”

“You asshole,” you seethe, even as you can feel the moisture pooling between your legs.

“That kinda language definitely isn’t going to get Doctor Bitch Boy out of my car.”

“What the fuck do you want then?” You know it was a stupid question the moment it flies from your mouth. He’s going to reply with something filthy, and demeaning, and-

“Have dinner with me.”

You’re going to need another tow truck just to get your jaw up off the ground. 

“You’re going to get in trouble for this,” you say. “This isn’t harassing a lowly broke-ass nurse. He is going to sue the shit out of you.”

Tom just snorts at that, unimpressed. “Did you know your friend likes to hang out at a BDSM club in Venice Beach? Whips and chains and shit? Bet this asshole has mommy issues from here to Pasadena. Come on, y/n, you don’t need that in your life.”

It almost sounds like he’s…worried about you?

Officer Ludlow has no idea how badly he’s misjudged you, now that he’s pissed you off. “Maybe I like it,” you snipe back, stretching up so you’re almost in his face. “Fact is, it’s none of your fucking business.”

Ludlow just narrows his eyes down at you, those dark orbs glinting like sharp obsidian. “Well, sorry, guess he’s not tying you up tonight, baby. He’s gotta cool down in the tank.”

He makes to go, but you reach out, not grabbing him, per se, but just touching his chest. He freezes, and you can practically feel him vibrating beneath your hand. With excitement, because he fucking lives for being an asshole, or…you hate to think you know the real answer.

His mitt of a hand covers yours, holding it just above his heart.

“Tom….” Caught up in this tension between you, you’re not even sure what you’re asking now. 

You expect him to say something dirty, or snide, but instead you swear that just for a moment, his gaze softens as he looks down at you. “Dinner?” he asks again, with a note of hope in his voice that is almost endearing, if he wasn’t being such a class A jerk.

“I can’t.”

His demeanor changes in less than a second, drawing up to his full height, his shoulders squared. He flicks down his sunglasses that were on his head, so you can no longer even see his eyes. His voice changes, drops an octave, something. The authority in it makes you shudder inside. “Wave to Dr. Bitch Boy, y/n, we’re going for a little ride.”

Before you can grab him, or do anything, really, Tom is behind the wheel, speeding off with a very pissed off Julian in the back seat.

Your heart drops to your feet as you are left standing there alone on the sidewalk without a ride, and completely at a loss as to what to do.

***

“I’m going to fucking sue you,” Julian grits, kicking the back of Tom’s seat for good measure. 

“Yeah, yeah, with your doctor money,” Tom grumbles, taking a big swig of coffee with one hand and steering recklessly with the other because it’s fun to watch that skinny fuck bounce around helplessly in the seat. 

“I’m not getting booked tonight, Officer Ludlow. I’m calling my fucking lawyer.”

“Sorry, Doctor Bitch, your Lawyer’s busy until tomorrow afternoon, didn’t you hear?”

“You son of a-“

Tom gasses the car over a big pothole and it sends Julian flying into the opposite door. It’s a sight he could almost get off to.

Julian, big goose egg swelling up on his temple, gets yanked out of the squad car and tossed on the shit smeared, needle peppered streets of South Central. “They probably need you here more than the hospital, Doctor. Have fun–”

“Wait! Fuck. I’m still cuffed for fuck’s sake!” Tom gives the little guy credit for being able to get up on his feet so fast with his hands behind his back and a probable minor concussion. “You can’t leave me here.”

Tom pauses with his hand on the lip of the hot car door, but only to memorize the sight of a sweat-stained, wild eyed, trembling distinguished doctor about to get his shit wrecked on the mean LA Streets. He’s guessing Julian’s never visited much outside of Hollywood, Venice, and Santa Monica, and the cute little horrified expression on his face is testament to that. 

Tom taps the hood of his car. “See ya, Doc.” 

“You know,” Julian says, “this isn’t going to stop me from seeing her, Tom.” 

Well, if he wants a fight. 

Tom slams the charger door, whips off his belt, backs Julian up until he falls on his ass into a steaming puddle of unknown origin, and loops the leather around his neck. 

He tugs him up by the belt, onto his toes, eliminating that fraction of height difference just so he can see the whites of this prick’s eyes. 

He doubles the wrap of the belt in his fist, and Julian sputters something unintelligible through a thick choke. 

“What’s wrong? Thought you liked this shit?” Tom pretends to wait for an answer that he prevents. “Oh, that’s right, you like being the one doing the choking. That gets your dick wet, huh? Beating on women?” 

He wants nothing more than to choke this fucker unconscious and leave him on the streets for the hepatitis rats to chew on his toes, and, fuck it, if he ends up passing out by the time Tom’s done saying his peace, then so be it. 

“You can see her all you want, asshole. Take her on as many dates as you like. But if I see one fuckin’ bruise on her-one red mark on that pretty skin-I’m gonna make the rest of your short life very fucking unpleasant. Comprende?” 

[semiweirdshipper]

Killers' with a reader during bath time. Non-binary reader.

Warnings: Nudity. Non-sexual romance. Implied kissing and touching.

...

Jason

Most of the time Jason hates baths or anything to do with water. But if you're in it with him? Then he can compromise.

He always sits up straight and still in the warm tub, his mask off and body bare before you, completely vulnerable. He doesn't like to move because the water scares him, so he settles for watching you as you go about creating bubbles and adding scented oils to the tub. It's pleasant and he enjoys it.

Jason likes to touch you for reassurance that you won't let him drown. A hand on your shoulder, knee, arm or waist; he just likes knowing that you're there for him. Some times he might even pull you into his lap and just hold you for a while, bask in your safe and loving presence.

He loves it when you wash him. During bath time, Jason gives you all the wheels while he sits back and watches. When you use the soft, suddy loofah to scrub his body, it's utter bliss and makes him feel good. Your praise is an added bonus too, making him gladly submit his body in any way you wanted.

He gets transfixed on your bath products. Is that a glitter bath bomb? Whoa. Colored bath beads? Can you use purple? He loves purple. Seeing the water turn purple and glittery will have his adorable eyes going wide in awe. Just look at the water, (y/n), it's magical. You're amazing.

He's a good boy and he'll want to return the favor by washing you. His big hands will scrub every inch of you, making sure that you're nice and clean. Seeing your blissed out expression when he scrubs your back and head makes him happy. He's glad you're enjoying yourself.

The best way to end is by holding you close for a while, feeling your body pressed against his as he held you in his arms. With you around, Jason loved the water.

Wesker

Wesker's preference when it comes to baths is strictly to lay back, submerge himself into the hot water and relax. After a long day at work, relaxing is all he wants to do.

Most of the time Wesker lays back and watches you in your place between his legs as you pour in muscle relaxing Epsom salt and night-time bubble bath. So considerate. You were always thinking about his well-being, and he loved it.

He enjoys listening to you as you blab about your day- shows you had watched, things you had cleaned, ideas you had hatched, ect... Your innocence is a refreshment to him and it makes him feel a type of happiness that his job just can't mimic.

When it comes to you washing your own body, Wesker absolutely loved to watch. Seeing your wet body move around as you covered it with glistening suds was beyond enamoring to him. Some times he would even ask you to stand up and wash yourself, give him the full view so that he could admire every inch of you.

He's not really one to care for childish bath products but he does get a kick out of how much you enjoy them. Seeing you get excited over a new box of assorted bath bombs- which he totally didn't order for you by the way!- he just adores how excited you get. And that same excitement transfers to the bath whenever you happily go to try out your new water toys.

Bath massages. Oh, there's nothing better. Feeling your wet hands press against his tense, sore muscles was utter ecstacy. Expect lots of groans because he was a very knotted up man, and he tends to make loud noises when you work out those knots with your expert, caring hands. God, you had no idea how much he loved you.

To settle the end, Wesker likes to pull your body on top of his and have you lay against him for a while. Submerged wet cuddles? Yes please.

Frank

Oh God... Frank is an absolute child when it comes to the bathtub. Because he was deprived of such innocent luxuries throughout his childhood years, he can't help but to enjoy the opportunity to have fun in the bathtub with you.

Expect everything that was Satan's equivalent of a bathroom mess nightmare pack. Bath bombs, water guns, water crayons, colored bath beads, bubble bath. Everything! He had it all- it's actually kind of cute going to the store with him because he always wanted to check out the bath stuff. Don't tease him though or he'll get frumpy.

Frank loves playing games, so get out those fucking water crayons, baby. If you weren't ever scared of him before, then you should be now, because you are his human canvas. Come on, scoot closer, he wants to draw a heart on your cheek- news flash! It's actually a miniature penis. Let's not forget a colored beard to match!

You can't escape him.

Ever heard of bathtub roulette? Of course you have. It's where you fill the gun with soapy water, play a game of tic-tac-toe, and whoever loses gets a shot of soapy water in the face. Ouch if your eyes get hit.

Despite his childishness, Frank does love relaxing and holding you close. Your legs intertwined as he held your face and kissed your lips? Oh, he could do it for hours, even after the water was freezing cold. You're his gorgeous, beloved angel, and he was never letting you go.

Ending a bath with Frank is less romantic than you probably want to believe because there's a lot of cleaning up to do. And yes, he is childish enough to run away naked so that he doesn't have to take responsibility. Lucky you.

Michael

Talk about a statue. During bath time, this man is a brick wall. Like always, he sits at his end of the tub with that very neutral, monotonous look on his face.

Michael isn't against baths. Not at all. In fact he finds them very interesting and fun- except for that time he accidentally ate a "bath treat". Yeah, he knew it was a miniature bar of soap, but why in the hell was it shaped exactly like a gummy bear!?

He finds himself fixated on whatever you're doing. Michael and you have a deep understanding of each other, and he appreciates how you show and explain to him what all kinds of new products you had bought. A double loofah with a rainbow handle? Cute. Colored foam soap? Expect a beard.

Michael loves, loves, loves his rubber ducky collection. Every time he takes a bath with you, he carefully sets each of his duckies in the water one at a time. He may not show it, but every time you gifted him a new rubber ducky, he mentally flies over the roof.

And he feels the same kind of excitement with surprise bath bombs that have little toys hidden inside. Those were his favorite. So far he had some sharks, some dinosaurs, a pearl ring, and a bunny. It was just so fun watching the bath bombs dissolve and reveal an adorable item from all the magical colors within.

He gets frumpy when you try to wash yourself. Michael is very protective and caring of you and he likes to take care of you himself, and that means scrubbing and washing your body. You can't deny... It feels really, really nice.

Seeing your relaxed, sleepy face is the perfect end to a perfect bath for him.

Jeffrey

Lazy. Completely and utterly lazy. Depending on the day, baths with Jeffrey could either be very lively or very boring.

Prepare to find yourself squished between his legs at the front of the tub by the faucet, because Jeffrey practically prides himself in taking up most of the space. He chuckles a lot, teasing you and squeezing you between his legs, tickling you with his toes. He loves it when you get all frustrated and defensive, and yet you're still helplessly squished/trapped.

He thinks it's cute when you get on your knees and lean against his belly, your faces closer together so that you can talk, hold hands and caress each other's faces. Your so damn adorable, he could just eat you up.

One of his favorite things, though, is when you slather yourself up with oil. Oh yes. There's nothing Jeffrey loves more than seeing your gorgeous body glistening smooth and slippery. He enjoyed sitting back, licking his lips while watching you languidly touch yourself. It drove him mad.

After enjoying the show you put on, Jeffrey would sit up and touch you himself, squeezing and rubbing different parts of your body for as long as he pleased. Remember, he's obsessed with soft things, and when your body is oiled up it becomes prominent that he worshipped you for hours.

Some times Jeffrey's insecurities got to him, however, and he would refuse taking a bath with you. It took lots of lovin, gentle coaxing and praise, but you always won him over with your caring words and amazing acceptance. How could he ever ask for anyone better?

Ending a bath with Jeffrey usually involved lots of loving touches and cuddles, for you are his and he is yours.

Herman

The ultimate God of baths? Look no further than Herman Carter.

This man is unbelievably romantic and will have you wait in your bedroom until he has the perfect set-up created. Like a king/queen walking the red carpet, you would be presented with everything abundantly cheesy and romantic.

Dim lights, scented candles, freakin rose petals- all of it you would follow until you arrived at the bathroom where Herman lay beautifully naked and submerged in the bubbly tub, waiting for you.

Herman smiles at you and beckons you closer, enjoying the sight of you getting undressed right before his eyes. You're clumsiness while getting into the tub with him amuses him and fills him with fondness and joy. He loves spoiling you like this.

During bath time, Herman loves pulling you close and cradling you against him, his lips kissing whatever happened to be in reach- your lips, your face, the back of your neck, or your shoulders. He loved worshipping your body for every second that it was touching him.

Lots and lots of touching. Herman treats your body like it's made out of gold. Constantly he touches you, fondles you and massages you. Praise drips from his lips as he pulls you back against him and rubs his big, calloused hands up and down your chest. You're so beautiful, (y/n), and you're his.

Herman loves taking baths with you because it gives him the opportunity to be intimate under a new light. He got to spoil you, wash you, worship your body and make you feel good. Your happiness was all he needed to make himself happy.

Even though he doesn't want the bath to end, when it does, Herman rinses you off, helps you out and dries you off. Oh, don't think that just because the bath is over he still doesn't have a lot left to give.

[curatedbyondrea]

Luxury DIY At-Home Spa Treatments

Here are some DIY spa treatment ideas to pamper yourself at home without breaking the bank:

Sugar Scrubs for Silky Skin:

Invigorating Citrus Scrub: Combine brown sugar with olive oil, lemon zest, and a few drops of lemon essential oil for a refreshing and uplifting experience.

Calming Coconut Coffee Scrub: Mix together coconut oil, brown sugar, and ground coffee for an exfoliating scrub that leaves your skin feeling smooth and invigorated.

Nourishing Face Masks:

Hydrating Honey Oat Mask: Mash together ripe avocado, honey, and oatmeal for a mask that deeply hydrates and soothes dry skin.

Brightening Yogurt Mask: Combine plain yogurt, lemon juice, and a touch of honey for a mask that helps brighten and even out your skin tone.

Relaxing Bath Rituals:

Stress-Relief Lavender Bath: Add Epsom salts, dried lavender flowers, and a few drops of lavender essential oil to your bath for a calming and stress-relieving soak.

Muscle-Soothing Bath with Essential Oils: Draw a warm bath and add Epsom salts, a carrier oil (like almond oil or jojoba oil), and a few drops of muscle-relaxing essential oils like peppermint or rosemary.

Bonus Tips:

Set the mood with calming music and flickering candles.

Light aromatherapy diffusers with relaxing scents like lavender, chamomile, or sandalwood.

Make yourself a cup of herbal tea to sip on during your treatment.

Don't forget to pamper your nails with a DIY manicure or pedicure.

Remember, these are just a few ideas to get you started. With a little creativity, you can create a luxurious and relaxing spa experience at home using ingredients you might already have on hand. Enjoy your DIY spa day! Want to dive more into this topic? Watch How to bring *luxury* into your life while on a budget

[theredofoctober]

MANNA— CHAPTER THREE: TOAST

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic: TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, mild Daddy kink (it'll all make sense).

This chapter is chronologically the third in the series

Keep reading after the cut

Daybreak: you come to in a spare room in Hannibal Lecter's house, as dark about you as a bloody inner mouth; pain decants itself between your thighs, and you remember what was done to you, in the punishing night.

You rise on your knees and scream in despair at your violation, at your abandonment, at your misfortune in falling tail-side of a coin flip, condemning you to the treacherous care of two men engaged in the pretence that there is some benevolent end to this.

Yet it occurs to you, from the sylphs of memory, that perhaps only one of the pair is pretending: Will Graham, still so glued to the principles of society that he put up a hero’s protest against the rape. He had shaken like a rib-kicked dog after fucking you, face-down, on this very rock of a mattress, while Hannibal’s firm hands guided you onto his colleague’s cock, so gentle, so deathly that your cunt still throbs sickly at the thought of them.

Their beauty, their talent, so fabulously cruel, arranging your suffering to their aesthetic approval—

Dr Lecter didn’t accept you for inpatient care to better you, but to ruin, and make worse all the dun and violet horrors of your tortured mind. You are a jewel in the hand of a god of death to be held captive; you must serve to survive, or else perish for your pride like the girls in all the recent headlines, never to be found till you are roaches and dust.

Will and Hannibal will not have you starve to death, but they might well be your decay in another fashion, now that you are the bruised and buckle-kneed prey to their hunter dreams. You hate the devil-horse drag in your stomach as you think of their hands on you, making a doe of you in their degradation.

You scrub the bedsheet between your thighs, choking at the dirt-salt scent of the stain the endeavour leaves behind. Standing up, you feel strain and bruising in every limb; you stagger about, taking inventory of the studiously bare surfaces, locked drawers, a barred window, an en-suite bathroom with its absence of a razor. There is a toothbrush and paste, expensive soaps, which you are obviously expected to use.

The sight of them reminds you that you are here on an indefinite stay, that according to your loved ones—and likely to the law—you are precisely where you need to be. No one will guess at your abuse, beguiled by the beautiful sham of the prestigious doctor and his accolades. They will think you fortunate, to have been accepted at such a discount, for your family is not rich, and had, in fact, been overjoyed by Hannibal’s gracious reception of their plea to see you.

They’ll want you to do well, here, to strengthen, to thrive, but how can you, when the doctor and his friend will fuck you for your failings, and dope you into drunken insensibility, should you protest?

You cling to the sink and cry until you heave, clammy and juddering in a fit of abject despair. Then, with slow, weary resignation, you wash, scarcely wanting to touch yourself, to feel where you are most hurt.

You return to the bedroom, noticing immediately a set of clothes laid out on the quilt. Cold touches the back of your neck as you realise that Dr Lecter must have put them there, likely heard you sobbing through the door.

How smug he must be, to have provoked you into so amusing a reaction.

Fear strikes a sort of sense in you, and you dress quickly, hating how soft and luxurious the garments feel upon your skin. You crave your own clothes, the comfort of the known, of routine. Yet as you try the bedroom door and let yourself cautiously out into the chill hallway beyond you’ve made the decision to go along with Dr Lecter’s treatment until an opportunity to escape comes to you, which you know it must, being that he is not God, and cannot watch you in perpetuity.

The house is, of course, quite beautiful, grand, and dark, and full of art, magnificent and elaborate; you are intimidated by Dr Lecter’s commitment to beauty, and wonder at your place within it. You feel cheap and inelegant, cumbersome as you blunder from room to room in search of your keeper. He did not take you in for your beauty, you think, with a grim and bitter certainty, unless it is the breaking of your mind beneath his ministrations that is lovely to him.

The sound of an instrument winds through the house, sinisterly pretty, like something played in the court of Marie Antoinette. From the quality of the noise you discern that it is a recording; you had noticed a harpsichord in Hannibal’s office, and wonder if this is a piece he himself has composed to make elegant even the sonic elements of his home.

As you descend the staircase, one shaking hand squeezing the bannister, the music ceases, and Dr Lecter emerges from a doorway, artfully casual with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The expanse of skin revealed to you feels intimate, and as you remember the inferno of your flesh beneath those very arms, you retreat into the shadows of the stairway

He is lower than the devil, this man, yet possesses all of his cunning, and more.

“I am glad to see you this morning,” he says, pleasantly. “I was unsure if you would leave your room. It can be daunting, venturing into an unfamiliar place.”

You don’t answer, can think of nothing to say; it is like making conversation with a puma, more inclined to claw out the garnet hollows of your throat than entertain the vapidity of words.

Hannibal studies you, taking in your appearance in your borrowed clothes with noted pleasure.

“I have made breakfast,” he announces. “French toast: brioche, nutmeg, cinnamon, topped in caramelised sugar. Such simple sweetness is a necessary counter to so bitter a night spent under my roof. A shame that your first evening here was not as welcoming as it should have been.”

You find yourself repulsed by his manners, a taunting pretence of civility. This is a man who knows what he is, and carries himself with pride and comfort in that being; his abuse would be easier to bear had he been coarse, and mad.

“I’m not hungry,” you whisper.

A lie: you are always starving, a walking ache, thinking of little from daylight to darkness but the sustenance you cannot allow yourself, gluttony in the slightest morsel.

Hannibal looks at you with pity, and yet a cold and knowing pleasure, also.

“You must eat, little one,” he says. “Your health is my responsibility, and I am required to see that you fuel your survival, by whatever means I deem appropriate. If neither reason nor encouragement will bring down the battlements you have built around yourself, then I am not opposed to alternative methods of siege.”

You remember the feeding tube shown to you on the previous night, and sag against the bannisters, felled by the impossibility of your situation.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please, let me go home. Why are you doing this?”

Hannibal moves towards the stairs and extends his arm to you, meaning to help you down, as though you would ever accept his assistance. His calm is a slaughterhouse silence, the echo of the chamber when all the killing is done, and it lies empty but for the recollection of screams.

"I'm willing to answer any questions you have for me," he says, congenially. "If you will do something for me, in return."

You step past him, avoiding his arm.

“I don’t trust you,” you say, softly. “What do you want me to do?”

The answer is a penumbra in his eyes.

"For each question I address, you must finish a mouthful of the meal I have set out for you. Finish the plate, and I will allow you a phone call home, to let your parents know that you are settled. It will be supervised, of course."

Suppressed, he means, a hand poised to snatch the receiver, should you speak ill of him and his trembling brute of a colleague. Yet you see that consent to Dr Lecter’s will is the currency that will buy you consolation, in this house, so you nod slowly, coughing down a lump in your throat.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll try.”

Hannibal smiles, the rictus of some corpse-eating entity.

“That is all I ask of you.”

Some minutes later, seated at a table in a room the blue of some under-sea cavern, opposite the man who aided in your assault, you think how pathetic it is that your greatest ordeal of the past day is neither your kidnapping, nor the attack, but the food oozing butter as though from some golden wound before you.

You cannot count the calories, which are surely around the seven-hundred mark, cannot imagine the fat and the filth contained on that slippery plate, an indulgence you haven’t allowed yourself in years.

“Can’t I have something else?” you plead. “This is too much. I can’t eat this.”

“I suspect that you would find an equal challenge in anything I put before you,” says Hannibal, though not unkindly. “I believe in setting a precedent for what difficulties you may expect, under my care, not only to take note of your strengths for study, but to enhance your understanding of your circumstances. Hunger is the power with which you have averted combat with every assailant of the mind. It is time you went to war, little one, and what better place to begin than at my table?”

The toast smells divine, this you cannot deny; you have heard, vaguely, of Dr Lecter’s mastery of the kitchen, one of many facts clumsily reeled off to you by your parents to assure you of his character and esteem. You know that if you allow yourself to eat there will be as much pleasure as agony in every bite; you percieve, suddenly, the parallels between eating this meal, and having been fucked, ingenious, insidious.

“I can’t eat it,” you say again, rather desperately. “You don’t get it. I can’t just... eat, like other people. I didn't choose to be this way.”

Hannibal looks at you with an expression so close to sympathy that you find yourself confused, unable to reconcile the care in his eyes with his sure evil.

“It's not your fault,” he says. “This mechanism is a friendly fire whose direction you cannot change. Nevertheless, you have no choice but to proceed against it. You may discover a certain liberty in having no other option afforded you.”

A tear rolls from your left eye, fracturing like a bead of glass on the tabletop. Hannibal utters your name so gently that you find yourself hardening against him, reaching for the fork out of spite alone, for all that your illness screams at the act.

You cut a slither of toast and look at it balefully, considering how much exercise and restriction will atone for the sin of swallowing. But eat it you do, ashamed of how delicious that sole piece is, how your stomach roars for the rest of it.

Dr Lecter watches you with the faintest and most odious smile upon his lips.

“I must congratulate you,” he says. “The greatest obstacle before you was to begin, and you have conquered it admirably.”

His praise makes it difficult to swallow. The urge to spit the bread back onto the plate is restrained only by what knowledge you may purchase, if you acquiesce.

“Are you a real doctor?” you ask, your voice small, difficult, coarse with tears.

“I am,” says Dr Lecter, plainly. “I assume that your implication is that my profession is a guise for my unconventional curiosities. In that case, I would argue that all workers are tainted by the passions that drive them. Would you discredit the teacher for the selfish pride he feels in imparting knowledge upon an ignorant pupil?”

“I heard you talking to that man,” you say, pointedly ignoring the metaphor. “Your friend, Will? I know this isn’t just about treating me. What you did to me— you enjoyed it, both of you, and... and you’d do it again. How is assaulting me supposed to help me?”

Hannibal raises a delicate little coffee cup, ingesting its dark aroma before he drinks.

“If you wish me to respond, then you must eat.”

With a pained little shudder, you force down another mouthful, chewing it so many times that its texture is pulp as it goes down.

“There,” you rasp. “Answer me.”

A disgruntled gleam passes the man’s gaze, fading so swiftly that it might have only been a reflection from the windowpane.

“From consulting your records, and having spoken to you myself, I perceive your stubborn absence of response to sensitivity,” says Dr Lecter. “You rebel against it, interpreting any benevolent aid as its opposite. Under pressure— fear, anger, violence—you perform well, however. You submit to change in order to survive. Therefore, it is these methods that will most effectively control your disorder, and I see no shame in resorting to that which will foster the greater good.”

So many words, you think, with so very little honesty behind them.

“There’s some other reason,” you insist. “I know there is. Will Graham— why did you make him do it? Why does he have to be part of this?”

You saw off another piece of toast, suppressing a moan at the spill of salty butter across your tongue. Hannibal observes, knowing, without expressing it aloud, how much you love his cooking, so expert as to be a thing of art.

“I am as dedicated to Will’s growth as I am to yours,” says Dr Lecter. “There is a mutual benefit in his involvement in your care. He lacks confidence in his identity, and certain skills; I aim to coax it out of him.”

“You mean, make him messed up,” you snipe, cutting aggressive slivers from your toast. “Just like you. Like you’re doing to me.”

Your flared sense of injustice stifles the pain of having to eat, the agitation of it.

“Why me, out of all your patients? I’m not special.”

“On the contrary, your particular ailment intrigues me,” says Hannibal, pouring himself another measure of coffee. “As individuals, you and I are at direct opposition. I intend to foster an enthusiasm for eating in you that is akin to mine. The complexity of doing so possesses an allure in the frontiers that we both must cross.”

Your jaw pounds from the effort of mastication; you’ve long forgotten how it feels to eat so much.

“Will you let me go home when you’re... finished with me?” you ask, without much hope.

Dr Lecter’s face betrays little of his inner mind, so controlled as to be a pleasant blank.

“Once you are fully recovered, you will be free to leave at will. Until then, I must withhold your liberty.”

You eat, tortured by the repetition, and by the growing pain in your abdomen, unused to being filled.

“Who else knows what you’ve done to me?” you ask. “And what you’re planning to do?”

“Beyond this room, only Will is aware of my most unorthodox practices,” Hannibal replies. “Those unaccustomed to experimentation may find it distasteful, even disturbing.”

You push your plate across the table with a screech of porcelain.

“I find it disturbing,” you say. “You’re really just going to hold me prisoner?”

“Finish your breakfast, or I cannot give you my reply.”

“I can’t,” you say. “I feel sick.”

The French toast, cooling in its basin of fat, suddenly revolts you, and you wish that you were in the habit of purging, to bring up the sodden bread you’ve ingested.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” says Dr Lecter. “In that case, I am afraid you will not be permitted to speak to your parents.”

With an air of disappointment, he rises, coming behind you to take away your plate. Your dominant hand clenches your fork, and you wait for the man to lean down, offering you an angle to pierce his throat. You’ve never killed before, are unsure if you’d have it in you to drive home the slaughtering blow.

As it stands, you will never know.

Dr Lecter’s hand closes over your tensed arm, bringing it up against your windpipe, choking you with the pressure of your own wrist upon you. His body is a prison bar at your back; he holds you securely, and without any particular violence, as though doing nothing more unusual than shaking your hand.

“You did not yet strike,” says Hannibal, as you hack and cough for air. “So your punishment for considering my murder will be mild. You will sit in a corner and face the wall until I leave for my first appointment at the office. After this, you will return to your room, where you will stay until I come home. If you must behave like an unreasonable child, then I will respond, likewise.”

Fear makes you almost insensible as Hannibal’s lips draw close to your cheek.

“I am aware of your habit to regress, in such dire moments," he murmurs. "I heard the name that passed your lips, when Will withdrew from you—"

Daddy, you'd called him, in your hopeless vulnerability.

"—Your loved ones failed you, at some vital point, in your youth. We will not.”

He releases you, and in the adrenaline fog of regaining your breath you realise, with a flush of horror, that you are no longer hungry.

What else will be taken from you, child as you are in the ravenous dark of this house?

[macbethsymphony]

The Swordsman and the Blacksmith | Chapter 23

Roronoa Zoro x Reader

Chapter wc: 2.5k

Chapter rating: SFW

Content/Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Fem!Reader, Enemies to lovers, SLOW slow burn, Eventual smut

Summary: Your skills as a blacksmith have made you desirable to both the government and pirates. You know you have to leave this island if you want to escape your fate, but that doesn't make the choice of leaving any easier. Roronoa Zoro is intrigued by your skills as a blacksmith. Your work is like nothing he's ever seen before. Unfortunately, you're hot-headed and he's rude and you both definitely hate each other.

Chapters [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12][13][14][15][16][17][18][19][20][21][22]

Masterlist

Slowly crossposting from AO3

Chapter 23: The Storm

As you extinguished the fires of your forge, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction mixing with the deep exhaustion plaguing your muscles. This marked the end of a relentless cycle, a ceaseless endeavor of reforging and improving the damaged parts of the Thousand Sunny. With each swing of the hammer and every molten weld, you had poured your sweat and determination into the task. Now, as the final embers flickered and died, you knew that you had done all you could for the repairs. What remained would have to rest in Franky's capable hands.

Leaving the warmth of the forge behind, you stepped out into the cool, humid air, raindrops cascading down from the darkened sky above. You’d actually always thought you liked rain, with its soothing patter and calm atmosphere, but this incessant deluge had begun to wear on your nerves. The constant dampness seeped into your clothes, clinging to you like an unwelcome companion, making it all harder to scrub the ashes from your skin. You didn’t pretend that your hair was ever that well kept, but now your locks rebelled in unruly tangles, a testament to the relentless onslaught of moisture. Oh, how you missed dry socks, a distant luxury you could only dream of amidst the sodden landscape.

With a heavy sigh, you cast a weary glance towards the sky, the dark clouds serving as a somber reminder of the unending challenges that still lay ahead. The rain had become a hindrance, impeding yours and Franky’s progress in repairing the ship. You constantly had to move tarp after tarp, erect tent after tent and still, you battled the puddling water. Yet, despite the frustrations and setbacks, you pressed on, the crew driven by a determination to set out to sea once again.

With a swift motion, you swept aside the heavy waxed canvas of the tent before you, revealing Franky and Usopp diligently at work within.

“Oh! Firecracker!” The enthusiastic voice of the cyborg greeted you as you let the bag in your hands fall to the floor with a clang. “Is that the last of it?”

“Damn right it is,” you replied proudly, a surge of satisfaction coursing through you.

Usopp rummaged through the bag, examining the contents with keen interest. “Impressive,” he remarked, holding up a piece of black metal between his fingers. “I can’t believe how quickly you work. We would have been stuck here for months without you.”

A blush crept up your cheeks, accompanied by a bashful smile at the unexpected praise. “Just doing my part,” you chuckled, unable to hide the warmth in your tone.

Franky stood up, his massive hand reaching out to ruffle your hair affectionately. “You’ve done more than just help, Firecracker. You've been a lifesaver,” he declared, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. “Take a breather. You've earned it.”

You snorted, a wry smile playing on your lips as you rolled your shoulder, attempting to alleviate the tension knotted in your back. "I wish," you sighed, the weariness evident in your tone, "but I still have a stubborn swordsman to assist."

As you spoke, a gust of wind blew through the open tent flap, carrying with it the sound of crashing waves and the faint scent of salt in the air. You glanced out at the turbulent sea, your gaze traveling to the shore where you could almost see the outline of the swordsman’s silhouette meditating over Yokubari. Even from afar, you could sense the occasional shifts in the sword’s behavior.

Franky and Usopp exchanged a knowing look before turning their attention back to you. "You'll need all the help you can get with that one," Franky remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Usopp nodded in agreement. "Yeah, Zoro can be a handful when he sets his mind to something."

You chuckled, a mix of exasperation and fondness coloring your tone. "Tell me about it," you replied, shaking your head. "But he's determined, I'll give him that."

With a resigned sigh, you straightened up, the ache in your muscles a constant reminder of the physical toll the past two weeks had taken on you. But despite the fatigue, you knew there was still work to be done, repairs to complete, and a stubborn swordsman to assist.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” you called back, arm holding the flap of the tent open.

As you stepped out, you observed Zoro from a distance, a sense of unease gnawing at your insides. You watched the swordsman grapple with Yokubari’s sheathed form with developing apprehension. If you were honest, he surpassed your expectations, demonstrating remarkable proficiency with the sword, yet his relentless pursuit of mastery bordered on obsession, an obsession that sent a chill through your veins.

It took everything in you to stop yourself from taking your sword back. Despite your reservations, you knew you had to trust him. He had exhibited a similar fervor with Shiawase and Uragiri, reveling in the precarious edge of danger. It was a trait that both intrigued and unsettled you, a constant battle between admiration and concern. But you couldn’t help but worry that he might not emerge victorious from this fight, for history had proved Yokubari untamed by hands other than its creator.

You crossed the gangplank, your boots sinking into the wet sand as you approached him. The two of you had devoted every morning and evening to this endeavor since arriving on the island. His diligence was commendable, tirelessly training from dawn till dusk to grasp at the sword’s essence.

Although, at first you had had to intervene occasionally, prying the sword out of his hands, he’d eventually figured out where to draw the line when handling the steel. Your gaze met his and with a content smile, now that you were in his vicinity, he finally unsheathed Yokubari. You observed as he worked with the blade’s haki, trying to understand its unsteady rhythm, sync with it.

“Any progress?” you asked as he wrestled with a sudden surge of haki emanating from the sword.

You watched as he grappled for control. He was close. You bet he’d get it before you’d set sail again. As it became too much, he quickly let go, the steel sinking in the sand.

“It’s stubborn,” he grunted as he bent down to retrieve the blade.

You hummed in consideration as you witnessed the obstinate waves radiating from the black metal, its satisfaction in the command it exerted over the swordsman. “That would be an understatement,” you answered with a chuckle, your gaze moving back to him. “But you’re lucky, it seems to like you, swordsman. Care to tell me which part you’re struggling with today?”

“It’s like trying to reason with a wild animal,” he observed through gritted teeth, the waltz between the sword’s will and his own starting again.

Your heart sank at his words, recollections of the sword’s creation passing your mind. A wild animal… you supposed you hadn’t that far away from one in that time. You felt your nose prickle slightly as tears threatened to flood your eyes for a sliver of a moment. For an instant you hovered on the edge of memories you didn’t want to address, the menace of an ocean of feelings with no shore in sight.

Shit.

The exhaustion was really starting to get to you.

You scrunched your nose, trying to make the feeling disappear. You suppressed a heavy sigh, forcing a smile, masking the turmoil churning within. “That’s a… surprisingly good comparison.”

Zoro’s gaze flickered to you, sensing the weariness in your tone, but Yokubari quickly demanded his attention again with a sudden and powerful surge of haki, drawing his own out in a battle of wills.

You analyzed the conflict happening between the steel and the swordsman with keen eyes, trying to see how you could help him.

“You don’t have to reason with it, you know, Yokubari will always do what it wants,” you observed the complex waltz of haki before you. “You wouldn’t try to reason with the sea, instead you ride the waves, work with it the best you can.”

Your hand reached towards the blade slowly, extending your own haki to the mix, a third party to the battle raging on. The swordsman’s gaze widened slightly as he watched the way the black tendrils emanating from your hands rode out the waves, played with them, eventually made them submit and retract.

As your fingertips brushed against the steel, a shiver of reaction ran through Zoro. With a definite flinch, he pulled the sword back, his motion carrying a hint of possessiveness. Your breath caught in your throat at his response, your heart seemed to stop, then all you could hear was its terrified pulse. You hesitated, afraid to lift your gaze, fearful of what you might find reflected in his eye.

As you met his gaze, a wave of panic hit your senses, your muscles tensed. You knew that look in his eye. You’d seen it mirrored in the eyes of lesser men. Maddened men. Dead men. It sent a cold sensation in the pit of your stomach, your blood freezing in your veins.

“Give it back,” you demanded suddenly, your voice feeling distant, a hiss through clenched teeth.

“What?” He scowled, something akin to greed passing his stare. His hand inched away ever so slightly at the demand, his reaction a confirmation of your fears.

“I said give it back,” you took a step closer, panic in your eyes, the snarl twisting your mouth uncompromising. You opened and closed your hands in a futile attempt to rein in the trembling plaguing them.

“No,” he matched your step, back straight as he towered over you. His grip tightened around the handle of the sword, an unmistakable possessive gesture.

It was a gesture that struck a chord of familiarity within you, one that stirred discomfort in the depths of your being. Almost involuntarily, you superimposed the image of your mentor onto the swordsman’s stance, a haunting resemblance that wrenched your heart painfully. You sucked in a sharp breath, attempting to fend off the encroaching wave of panic threatening to overwhelm you.

Your jaw clenched, the grinding of teeth an audible testament to the turmoil raging within you. So, this was how it was going to be. The instinct to fight surged within you, overpowering any semblance of restraint. The audacity of his refusal fueled an inferno of anger, coursing through your veins like molten metal, consuming every ounce of judgement in its path.

"Give me back my fucking sword, swordsman," you spat, the words laced with venom.

A derisive scoff escaped his lips, his arrogance infuriatingly palpable. “I’m this close to figuring it out, witch. You’re not taking it back now.”

Your nostrils flared, the urge to throttle him almost overwhelming. "You think you're invincible don’t you, pirate hunter?" you seethed, your voice rising with each word. "But you're not. You're just a fool trying to wield a weapon you clearly don't deserve. Face it, you’re too fucking weak for Yokubari. So. Give. It. Back."

As soon as the words left your mouth, you knew you’d messed up, but rationality had long fallen victim to the glacial frigidity of your fears. His eye flashed dangerously, the air crackling with the intensity of the brewing storm between you. "I'm not too fucking weak," he growled, his grip on the sword tightening further, the wood creaking. “You’re the one in the way of me figuring it out.”

There were ghosts that passed your eyes for a moment, sorrow, rage. “You’re a damn fool Roronoa Zoro,” your voice was thick, the snarl on your lips bitter. “Thinking you can tame Yokubari like that. It’ll devour you whole before you even realize it.”

His gaze narrowed at your words, his jaw set in defiance. "I don't need your warnings, witch," he retorted, his tone laced with stubborn determination.

Your fists clenched at your sides, nails digging into your palms as frustration boiled within you. "You're playing with fire, Swordsman," you warned one last time.

He crouched low, his eye ablaze. "I'll master Yokubari on my own terms, whether you approve or not. Stop getting in my way.”

Before restraint could rein in your reaction, your hand surged forward, aiming for his face. But he intercepted it with lightning reflexes, his grip clamping around your wrist painfully, thwarting the blow.

 "You're being a real fucking cunt, swordsman," you snapped, frustration lacing your tone. Without hesitation, your foot followed, connecting solidly with his shin, eliciting a sharp hiss of pain from him.

 His hold slackened, allowing you to back away. "Damn it," he muttered, the pain evident in his voice.

You weighed your options quickly, wondered if you could be fast enough to retrieve Yokubari from his iron grasp. But the possessiveness in his gaze froze you in place.

"You want to figure it out alone? Fine." Your words hung heavy in the air, dripping with condescension. With a quick turn on your heels, you strode away, each step purposeful, yet laden with unresolved tension. "Just don't come crying to me when you lose yourself along the way!" Your voice echoed across the ship as you ascended the gangplank with determined stomps. "I just hope you fall on Yokubari and die before you go mad. For both our fucking sake."

Crossing the deck, you made your way back to where Franky and Usopp were diligently working. With a forceful motion, you pushed open the flap of the tent, your gaze ablaze with rage as it met the two men hard at work.

"Franky," your tone was terse, cutting through the air like a blade. "You don’t need me anymore, right?" you asked, your words tinged with a sense of urgency.

He responded with a small huh of confusion. "Nah, Firecracker, Usopp and I will be fine. Why?" His brow furrowed in curiosity.

You didn’t offer a reply, a determined 'good' slipping past your lips as you turned away, your resolve palpable.

"Nami," you shouted, her name loud in the damp air. "I’ll be in town for a while. Come get me if you need anything."

The navigator popped her head out of her study, a puzzled expression crossing her features. "Sure thing, (y/n)," she called back, concern lacing her tone. "Is everything alright?"

You grunted in response, striding purposefully towards the women’s quarters. "Fucking fantastic," you yelled, the frustration evident in your voice as you slammed the door shut behind you.

You swiftly packed a bag, hastily gathering what you deemed necessary before emerging once more, the weight of your decision settling heavily on your shoulders.

As you made your way back down the gangplank, you sensed the curious gazes of your crewmates following you, their concerned whispers touched your ears like the distant murmur of waves against the shore. You passed the swordsman, still engrossed in his relentless battle with Yokubari. When you saw him look at you in the periphery of your vision, you flipped him off, before finally reaching the small path that led to the quiet town nestled not too far away.

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Masterlist

[bonezone44]

Quick and Dirty (18+)

Ezra x afab!Reader

Word Count: 2,1k

Secret Santa Prompt for @gasolinerainbowpuddles : Ezra discovers they have a foot fetish and wants to explore it with you.

Tags: feet, frottage, tiny mention of past anal, f-masturbation, toeing the line of ball-torture maybe??

Reader pet names: starlette, mama

Ezra pet names: little boy, baby

@@@@@@

The room you rented on the station was small, but quiet. The walls were a warm yellow and the bedspread was the color of pale jute. It was soft, too, and more luxurious than you had experienced in years. But you could afford it–you and Ezra had just finished a prosperous contract on the Green and the bonuses you gained (through less than honest means) had filled your pockets heavy.

You were feeling victorious. Like you owned the whole wide universe and all the riches within. And with a loyal, beguiling man by your side.

////

He had approached you in the early weeks on Bakhroma's moon, offering his guidance on harvesting aurelac, and you allowed it. Allowed him to speak to you on a private radio channel, to hover close and guide your hand through the thick layers of your enviro-suits. Allowed him to condescend and cradle your ego as if you were brand new to womanhood in the big, bad Fringe.

It made his expression of shock all the more amusing when you harvested a gem on your own in 13 seconds flat.

“What? Was it supposed to be harder?” You asked with a wry grin.

His wide eyes and gaping maw shifted when he caught the glint of your teeth holding tight to your bottom lip.

“Well well well,” he drawled, his mouth twisting into a grin of his own. “A little trickster, are we?”

“I wasn't tricking you.” You chuckled, unmoving, boring your eyes so deep into his, you were practically groping his soul. “I liked your little game. I didn't mind playing along.”

He lowered his voice. “I know a few more if you're interested.” He tilted his head, appraising you. “Perhaps you and I can amuse ourselves in a more private location once the day's tasks have been completed.”

“Perhaps,” you mused.

The rest of your time spent on the Green that was not dedicated to harvesting or recovery, was spent making love and fucking dirty in a dimly lit shared tent. Your enviro-suits half-on, half-off. Your sweaty skins sliding against one another. Mouths devouring the salt of your natures.

////

The shower of your room was simple. And while you would have found more rest and relaxation in the deep waters of a bathtub, you were pleased by the accommodation. It was satisfying to watch the weeks of dirt and grime and work get washed down the small round metal drain. You scrubbed every inch of your skin raw, as if it would birth your body anew.

It worked well enough. You exited the shower feeling bright and shiny, eager to apply lotion to your tender shell.

***

Ezra sat in the window sill, gazing out at the bustling station below. His jumpsuit was unzipped and tied around his waist by the sleeves, exposing the long-sleeved white undershirt hanging loose and ill-fitting on his form. In his hand was a canister of sweet wine that he emptied slowly, sip by sip as you showered.

A new thought had occurred to him. A new spark of inspiration created by your presence–your magnetism. He hadn't considered it before. He'd had plenty of partners in his time, but none that could read him quite like you could. And here in this shared space, for the first time he can remember, his mind was not preoccupied by the next job, the next journey. He was satisfied for once to rest–and without the dread of the vacation's end creeping in the back of his mind.

No. Instead, his mind was busy thinking and obsessing over you. Over your body. And the way it made him itch and burn and ache for your touch.

A new thought sprang to mind when you two first stepped into the room and you began to immediately undress. He had seen your body before, but watching you remove your jumpsuit, untie and unravel the laces that criss-crossed up the center of your boots, unsheath your feet from long thick socks that protected you from chafe and blister--it all caused a hypnotic trance.

You retreated to the shower unaware. But Ezra was never one to keep his thoughts to himself for very long.

When you returned to the room, he made his move.

He left his wine behind on the windowsill as you plopped onto the bed, situating yourself right in the middle. You reached over and grabbed a small tub of cream from the nightstand.

Ezra lowered his knees on the end of the bed, his weight sinking down into the mattress. “Starlette?”

“Hmm?” You answered, rubbing the thick lotion into your arms and shoulders. It smelled faintly of flowers.

“You have honored me greatly these past few weeks.” He hummed. Eyed you up and down. “Sharing your divine form with a mere mortal such as myself.”

You threw your head back with laughter. “What do you want, Ezra?” You massaged the lotion into your elbows. “I'm too tired for you to put anything in my ass tonight.”

He released a breathy chuckle, eyes locked on your lower half as your hands moved to your breasts. “A knuckle would not exhaust you–” he stopped himself. Shook his head. “--not that that is what I am seeking to explore with you in this moment.”

You rolled your eyes. “Then what?” You grinned. “What praytell has you looking like a little puppy dog begging for scraps?”

Ezra bit his lip. One eyebrow arched high into his forehead. He took a deep breath causing the hem of his shirt to ride up and expose his belly, a brief line of hair. He reached forward. “I have yet to fully appreciate–” The long fingers of his left hand trailed down your shin. “--all parts of your angelic physique.” He laid his warm palm on your forefoot, fingers wrapping around your instep. His thumb rubbed circles on your ankle.

“What… what do you mean?”

He glanced up to find your mouth agape, eyelids heavy. Your hands frozen on your outstretched thigh. Lines of cream around the edges of your fingers.

Ezra pursed his lips. “While you were taking your time cleansing yourself of any and all filth.” He released your foot, fingertips tracing along your toes. “I was out here, sinking into the very depths of the gutters as I imagined what it would feel like to slide my cock against these beautiful feet.”

“Ezra,” his name released from your lungs like a plea. You stretched and curled your toes against his touch, causing him to grunt. Causing his hips to thrust forward into nothing.

“Would that please you as well?” He asked with a smile, brows high, making lines in his forehead.

“I think it would,” you whispered.

“Immaculate,” he whispered back.

***

He crouched down on his hands. His eyes locked with yours as he gripped your left foot. He trailed soft, lingering kisses with his pouting lips down the top of it and across your toes. His tongue slipped between the big and second toe from underneath, flicking as if his mouth was on your cunt.

You gasped and twitched.

Ezra grinned and sucked your second toe into his mouth. Then he sucked your third toe in along with it.

“Kevva's grace,” you moaned. Your hands returned to your breasts. Cupping and squeezing them in your palms.

Ezra placed a chaste kiss on the tip of your big toe. “As soon as I worry that I am asking you to indulge me, I discover that I am, in fact, indulging you.”

“Congratulations,” you quipped. You unfolded your right leg, splaying your toes and offering your other foot for Ezra to enjoy. You squeezed your thighs together to alleviate the growing ache between your legs.

Warmth spread through your chest as Ezra rubbed his cheek against the bottom of your right foot, like a cat spreading his scent. He licked up the arch with the flat of his tongue, before delving the tip of it into the little gaps between each toe. Sucking one of your little piggies into his mouth whenever he so felt the desire to.

Your feet were turning into a sloppy mess. And after all that time scrubbing them in the shower, too.

You had to lean back on one of your hands to keep yourself upright. The lotion long forgotten. Your breasts needn't any more attention, either. Watching Ezra worship your feet with his drooling mouth and reddening lips was enough. He made you feel like a goddess. Made you wanna give up the whole wide universe to take care of his every need. You brought your fingers between your legs, unsurprised by the pooling slick.

“Fuck, Ezra,” you groaned as you used two fingers to spread your wetness through your folds. “You're a dirty little boy, aren't you?”

“I'm terrible, mama.” He locked eyes with you and smiled mischievously. He massaged the ball of your right foot with his thumb. “Is mama gonna let her dirty little boy fuck these pretty feet?”

“Yeah,” you moaned and fell on your back, freeing your legs to move as he pleased. “Fuck my feet, baby boy.”

***

Ezra leaned up with a groan, his brain focused solely on sexual pleasure. “Mama's so good to her little boy.” He inched forward on his knees. He grabbed your right foot again and pressed it against the aching bulge trapped beneath his jumpsuit. “Little boy can't be without his mama. Can't come without mama.” He whimpered with his lips pursed and flicked his hips in small tight bursts. The knowledge that it was nothing more than the arch of your foot providing the pressure made his cheeks burn. Made his hardness harder. “Shitshitshit,” he cursed through gritted teeth. His eyes screwed shut. He focused on nothing but the growing fire through his body. Teasing himself. Pushing his limits. He groaned. “Mama, please.”

“Take that cock out, baby boy,” you said, your own hips curling to fuck your own fingers.

“Thank you, mama. Thank you,” he huffed out. He groaned and swiftly tugged his jumpsuit down further–

“Just the cock.”

“Fuck,” Ezra groaned, leaving his balls trapped against the tight knot of his sleeves. “Mama, please,” he begged again with his lips pursed and his brows tight.

He held his cock tight at the base.

“Just this foot,” you said, loving to deny him a little. You pressed your right foot forward, damp with his saliva, and spread his pre-come around with your big toe.

He gasped. “Oh, fuck,” Ezra groaned again. “Mama’s so mean. Mama's mean.” He chewed his lips, his eyes glazed over and staring at you.

You scoffed. “Mama's giving her dirty little boy just what he needs.” Your own eyes were barely open. Your fingers sliding around your clit.

“Lemme have it, mama.” Ezra’s face had gone red. Sweat lined his temples. “Please.”

“Then take it, baby boy,” you laughed through panting breaths. “I’m not stopping you.”

With his free hand, he grabbed your foot and held it tight against his thick cock. He thrusted and grinded against your arch and big toe.

“Mmm… mmm…” He whimpered. “Wanna come on these pretty little toes, mama.” He bit hard into his bottom lip.

“Oh yeah?” Your face burned. You could feel the heat rising within yourself.

“Oh shit yeah,” he slurred.

“Go ahead, baby boy.” You splayed your toes again. “Make a big ol’ mess for mama. Come on. Come on.”

His hips stuttered and he gasped. His eyes rolled back in his head as his come spurted upward. It covered your toes and the top of your foot.

“Mama's dirty little boy made a mess. Made a big mess!” You groaned loud with your orgasm, fingers working your clit fast after seeing his spend slide down your foot.

Kevva's grace! You might just be in love with this man. He was right. Every time he pleaded for you to indulge him, he woke up some new spark of sexual fervor inside of your brain. Sending your psyche spiraling. Sending your heart into free fall. Shit, you barely recognized yourself. No other man had ever crawled so deep inside of your skin, found a safe place to nestle, found a tender hearth to call home.

Ezra fell forward onto the bed, reaching haphazardly to free his balls from their confines. “I worship you, starlette.”

You giggled. “I know, baby. I know.”

@@@@@@

[keyssaltscrub]

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[giggly-squiggily]

Okay I saw that requests (limited) were open and after I saw your prompts given to me, Omg I can’t get the look of Maxie getting pedicures out of my head! That’s so cute! But considering how ticklish his feet and toes are~ hehehe 🤭 I need to see that. Archie’s taking pictures and everything!

(I can’t quite blame him though, I accidentally kicked my pedicurist on my prom day as she was scrubbing my feet. That was not ideal, poor girl 😭)

(Also I’ll be doing BOTH of your prompts in the very near future! You can be sure of that! They’re both ADORABLE. Thank you for sending them both in! Love you!) -@magma-queen

Ahh, Queenie!!! It's always a treasure to see you! :D Maxie getting pedicures is canon, no one can tell me otherwise aiejajkejakrlejr And absolutely- you KNOW Archie's getting all the photos! I've gotcha covered, friend!

(OH SH- ajrjearjkejkrj It happens! I've never gotten a pedi myself- I hate my feet being touched; gives me the ick personally- but I can only imagine how tickly they are akjeajkrjkeajrk

AHH I'm so excited! Take your time of course and write when you feel up to it! There's never any rush or pressure :3)

CW: Feet tickles

Cloud 9 (Taglist Peeps):

@thatbigbisexual29 @gladdygirl18 @cupcake-spice13 @sarahmaystock5578 @rachi-roo

Maxie, despite what anyone will tell you, did not have luxurious taste. He simply enjoyed parts of his life with an additional flair, that’s all.

Self care just happened to be one of those areas.

“Enjoyed your bath, princess?” Archie grinned from their shared bed, watching his husband return, toweling his hair. Dressed in a silk robe and matching slippers, combined with the fact Maxie had his baths by candle light and filled with all sorts of fancy bath products, it wasn’t too far off of a description.

That didn’t save him from earning a towel to the face though.

“Hush. You’d enjoy baths too if you bother taking one.” The redhead sat down with a small grin, already knowing what was coming. Seconds later, he was pulled into big arms, his sides pressed into and giggles rolling over his tongue.

“Oi, who are you calling a smelly sailor! I take plenty of baths!” Archie defended, pausing his words but not his fingers. “I bathe everyday with that good smelling body wash you keep in there! Feel me- I’m soft!”

“I nehehhehever shahahahaid you stihihihink!” Maxie laughed out, twisting in Archie’s arms and catching his hands. “I just mean you’d like baths too if you put more effort into them. Light some candles, throw some bath salts in, things like that.”

“Eh. I’ll stick to showers. I’m already sitting in salted water all day when I’m out to sea.” The sailor grinned before pulling Maxie into his arms, breathing in his freshly applied cologne. “One of us is gotta be the prima. I’ll leave that to you.”

“And just who are you calling a prima?” Maxie huffed, trying to glare. His gaze only met chest as Archie pulled him against his heartbeat, laughing softly. “I’ll have you know I’m just as rough and tough as you.”

“Dearie, you get those peddy things.”

“Pedicures. So? I like to look my best.” Maxie fumed some, pulling his slippered feet further together subconsciously. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing love. I only jest.” Archie leaned down and kissed him, an unspoken apology passing between them. “I just find it cute, how much you enjoy these things.”

“Again, you’d probably enjoy them too if you went and got one done.”

Instead of a playful retort, Archie seemed to think. Humming to himself, he ran a hand along Maxie’s back as he considered. “These boots do take a toll on the ol’ dogs…”

“And it’s relaxing. Plus they give you champagne.”

“I’m in.” At the mention of booze, Archie seemed to perk up like a puppy. Maxie laughed, hugging his husband close.

“Alright, alright. I’ll plan a date.”

~~~

Right off the bat, Archie was uncomfortable.

The salon was nothing like he was used too- everything shiny and smelly, bright colorful walls and chairs for miles to see. Pokemon and their trainers alike walked too and from, giggling amongst themselves as the techs painted their fingers and toes with color. Looking at the chairs for the peddy-things; he had a sneaking suspicion he wasn’t gonna fit such narrow seats.

“Is this your first time? No worries, sir. Our techs are the best in the Hoenn region! We’ll make you feel right at home!” The young woman greeting them was very nice, one of the few things keeping Archie from leaving on the spot. The other was Maxie’s comforting hand on his lower back, centering him and reminding him he wasn’t alone in these strange new waters. “Follow me, we’ll take you to our couple’s suite.”

“Couple’s what?” Archie asked, raising a brow at Maxie, who blushed some.

“I figured you’d want your first time to be just us- hush, don’t look at me like that.” Maxie shoved him lightly when Archie grinned, cheeks hot.

The “room” they were led to was a small private area cut off from the rest of the clients, separated by a half wall and containing two salon chairs. Waiting for them were two more techs standing by. Near their feet, an Espeon and an Umbreon lay.

“We like to provide our guests the comfort of eeveelutions if desired.” The younger tech explained, their Espeon rubbing against their leg as it woke. “Would either of you gentlemen be interested?”

Archie looked at the alignment of tools waiting for him, something like dread curling in his gut. “Sure, why not?” Beside him, Maxie squeezed his arm.

~~~

“Well, blow me down…”

Turns out the pedicure wasn’t as torturous as he imagined. If anything, Archie had never felt more relaxed in his life.

With an Umbreon curled in his lap, he sat back with a lazy grin as the tech worked away at his feet, melting away his aches with each scrub and polish. The seat was unfortunately a tad too small for him, but the heater in the back warming his spine made up for it tenfold.

That and…

“Aheheha! Ahehahahahhahahaha! I’m sohohohrry! I’m so sohohohorry!” Maxie was a giggling goon nearby, the Espeon in his lap purring away as his tech went about her task. “It tihihihickles!”

“Pfft, and here I thought you’d be used to it by now!” Archie laughed, moreso at his husband than anything. “Is he always this ticklish coming around?”

“Everytime.” Maxie’s regular tech-Inko he learned, grinned at him, eyes crinkling. “It’s always a pleasure having him though. He’s very giggly, but he doesn’t kick too often.”

“Wish I could say the same at home.” Archie laughed along with her, blowing a kiss at his husband. “Hehe, hang on, lemme get a video!”

“Doohohohn’t you dahhahare! Ahehahahah, Ahahahrchie!” Maxie tried to cover his face as the sailor whipped out his rotom phone, searching for the record button. Unfortunately for him, Espeon decided this was the perfect time to wake up and climb his chest, purring in his face and nuzzling his chin. “Ah! AHehahha, Ehehehespeon pleahhahhase!”

“Smile!” Archie cooed, giving up on videoing and taking a picture the second Maxie’s hands came down. A few more snapped and he finally had his perfect picture. “I’m gonna use this as my wallpaper…as soon as I figure out how.”

“Ahehahahhahsk for hehehehlp lahahhater-ahh dohoohohn’t seheheht it uhuuuhhp!” Maxie gave up fighting, sinking some in his seat as he carried on laughing through his appointment, hiding his face in Espeon’s fur as his ears burned red. Archie fell in love with him all over again.

~~~

“Well, that was rather nice. I see why you like going here.” Archie felt like his feet were made of air. Gone were year old calluses and in return toes painted a bright ocean blue. He debated on getting red but decided to stick with good ol’ team Aqua. He loved his husband, but he needed to represent.

“It was, and it’s a lovely place. Sorry they didn’t have any champagne today though.” Maxie walked beside him, hand in hand as they strolled along the boardwalk towards home. “I know that’s what you were coming for.”

“At first, yes. But after that cute sight I saw today, I got my fill.” Archie snickered, earning an eye roll and blush from his husband. “Thanks for taking me with you, Maxie. It was fun.”

“Heh. It really was.” Maxie paused some when they walked past a crepe stand, his stomach growling. “Say…”

“I got it.” Archie was already pulling out his wallet. “Chocolate Banana?”

“You know me so well.” The redhead laughed, making Archie’s heart do a hundred little flips.

Yep. Definitely making this an annual tradition going forward.

Thanks for reading!

[thedomesticanthropologist]

3+ hour bathing routine?!?!?!? What tf do you smell like??? pure soap?!? Every single flower at once??!?!??!? Distilled water?!?!

((Oh. You asked for it. Prepare to RECEIVE ))

Morning Meditation and Cleansing (1 hour):

-Collect fresh hand towels and walk to the natural spring in the center of the garden. Strip down to smallclothes/pants, wash briefly in the cold, natural waters.

-Begin the day from then on with a meditation session amidst the lush garden, different from trancing. This is to strengthen and organize the mind.

-Perform a yoga routine to stretch his muscles and improve flexibility.

Hair Care Ritual (1 hour):

-Gather fresh herbs and flowers from his garden known for their nourishing properties, such as lavender, rosemary, and chamomile.

-Brew a concoction of herbal tea and let it cool to room temperature. Use a combination of previously dried herbs as well as fresh because they have different effects and properties.

-Wash his hair with the herbal tea mixture, gently massaging his scalp to stimulate blood flow and promote hair growth!

-Apply a homemade hair mask made from a blend of oils, and honey to nourish and hydrate his locks.

-Rinse thoroughly with clean water and allow his hair to air dry in the warm Feywild sunlight, ensuring it remains soft and shiny.

Skincare and Body Care (1 hour):

-Prepare a luxurious bath infused with fragrant flower petals, soothing essential oils, and natural salts.

-Cleanse his skin with a gentle homemade soap crafted from botanical ingredients like aloe vera, calendula, and oatmeal- or other combinations depending on the day and his mood.

-Exfoliate his body using a homemade sugar or salt scrub to slough away dead skin cells and reveal radiant, smooth skin.

-Apply a nourishing body oil or lotion made from oils, plant based butters, and vitamin E to moisturize and protect his skin.

-Perform a face care routine seperate from his body care as it requires different ingredients and methods!

-Trim and file his nails, push back cuticles, apply mineral oils to strength the nail bed, remove any dirt of dead skin, ensuring they are clean and well-groomed.

Throughout the routine, Sivvus takes his time!

[notchainedtotrauma]

This is a music video analysis of Why Don't You Love Me sung by Beyoncé Knowles-Carter (written by Solange) and directed by Melina Matsoukas. It's exclusive to my Iced Green Tea patrons (5$) and Raspberry Lemonade patrons. Basically, it's a discussion on how the visuals play around the idea of a Black woman transmogrified as the luxurious and neurotic cinematic white woman of the 1960s, while allowing the threat of a real, actualized Black womanhood through.

Beyoncé Knowles-Carter, act I

Beyoncé Knowles-Carter, act i

Screenshot from Lemonade

The photographs and screenshot above best visually describe the music video analysis. Here are some excerpts to whet you appetite:

 Beyoncé simultaneously inhabits and manipulates the personae of the despairing bourgeois wife, trapped in a loveless marriage, sunken into martini glasses and mascara tears. Cigarette in hand, carefully composed hairdo threatening to unravel, following a personal choreography of collapse yet high heeled, bejeweled, and even a pearly, trailing tear, can barely upturn her meticulous make up.

and

Beyoncé employs, performs, and produces a tangle of iconographies in which the Black woman, previously unvisible, penetrates and brims space, focus, and reveries. Melina Matsoukas, the director, plays around the grainy texture and the announcer's voice (read as white) of the 60s, anticipating a 60s housewives aesthetic, in which the commodified imagery of the ravished white 60s housewife would be replaced by her Black feminine counterpart.

and

Beyoncé is knowingly and theatrically acting out an alluring vision of the housewife, hot pants and kitchen playfulness, scrubbing an already clean windowpane in a one piece suit while frowning at the camera. She waters the plants with twee joy, even as interrupted by a shot of her furiously dishwashing, twirls around, sets a bucolic atmosphere, that's quickly interrupted by the vision of a dominatrix Beyoncé. The shot interrupts the fantasy, or the distorted recognition of the housewife imagings, and even the makings of the chorus girl, to exhale an undisguised, hypnotic sexuality.

[pure-ablution]

Products I use for soft hands and feet

Soaps and soaks

The only soap I’ll use on my hands is Savon de Marseille, and I like this soap in particular for its gentle nature and vanilla scent. I don’t soak my hands at all, because it messes with my manicure, and I avoid getting my hands wet for any length of time—I wear gloves to shower and wash the dishes.

I’m harsher on my feet, and I use a mixture of diluted liquid castille soap and Hibiscrub to wash them at the end of each day. Once a week, I soak them for 20 minutes in a solution of 1 part Listerine Original and 1 part white vinegar to 4 parts hot water, and add quite a lot of Dead Sea salt. This softens everything and keeps my feet completely clean and free of any nasty fungi or bacteria.

Scrubs and exfoliants

I’m gentle on my hands, and until recently, I didn’t exfoliate them very often at all. A friend gave me a tub of the stupidly expensive Sucre de Gommage from Dior’s ‘Prestige’ line, and I don’t use scrubs on my face, so it was repurposed for my hands. It’s so gently effective, and exfoliates my hands so well. I use it every night, and it’s so good, that I’m almost tempted to buy another—I’m searching for a good replacement, so please send me a message if anyone knows of something similar. Other than this, once a month I use a very small amount of the Ordinary’s 30% AHA + 2% BHA peel on my knuckles and any other areas of my hands that are prone to dryness.

I exfoliate my feet very rigorously, because I walk and dance a lot, and I don’t want callouses. I use the 7% Glycolic Acid toner from the Ordinary every other night, the stronger 30% peel once a month, the treatment from Mr Pumice once a week, and a peeling mask every 3 months to chemically exfoliate—and I use the St Ives scrub, sefid-ab and kiseh, and a foot planing tool to physically keep hard skin at bay.

Cuticle care

These are just the products I use to keep my cuticles soft and hydrated, not those I use to remove them. I like the Onsen serum for morning and night, because it’s so light and hydrating and it soaks in so well. I use the stick balm from Sally Hansen on my hands’ cuticles throughout the day, since it’s portable and not messy, but I use the oil from Cuccio on my feet and on my hands at night. I seal everything in at night with Dior’s Crème Abricot—it’s expensive, but I haven’t found anything else that works so well, and it’s a small luxury for me.

Oils, masks and creams

Back home, I used to use oil from sheep’s tail on my hands and feet, but it’s difficult to find over here, and I’ve discovered that emu oil works just as well, if not slightly better. I use the oil to massage my hands and feet, and by the end, it’s completely soaked in. Urea is such a powerful ingredient for exfoliation, moisturising, and hydration, and this gel-oil serum contains 40% for strong effects. I apply a small amount to my feet, and then follow it up with my favourite foot cream. For my hands, I use the Vanilla 28 cream from Kayali throughout the day, and Yuskin at night—Yuskin (AKA Yu-Be Skin in America) has a 40% glycerine content for maximum hydration and softness, and it’s the best hand cream I’ve found. Then, every 2 weeks, I use the Norwegian Cica masks for hands and feet from Neutrogena, for additional hydration and moisture.

Occlusive treatments

It’s important to lock everything in after a long routine, and at the end of every night, I like using Flexitol balm with 25% urea on my feet, and pure lanolin on my hands. I cover up with cotton socks and gloves, and let everything soak in whilst I’m sleeping. I love using paraffin wax in a heated bath at the end of a long, cold day—it warms me up from the inside out, and really helps boost my skin’s moisture levels. In the winter, I wear special silicone gel socks around the house and sometimes even beneath my tights when I go out, just to keep my feet soft, warm, and constantly moisturised throughout the day.