#SLATE MARINE

[grrl-beetle]

Yeezy Slide

[stoneartbyskl4]

Best Interior Design with Marine Black Slate Tiles

Elevate your interiors with the sleek elegance of Marine Black Slate Tiles. These natural stone tiles offer a striking, deep black finish that adds sophistication and modern appeal to any space. Ideal for flooring, wall cladding, or countertops, they bring a bold yet timeless touch to both residential and commercial projects.

[howdoesone]

How does one flirt while wearing a snorkel mask without coming off as too aquatic?

Flirting is an art form that transcends environments, whether you’re in a coffee shop, a party, or even underwater. Yes, you read that right—underwater. Wearing a snorkel mask might seem like an odd scenario for flirting, but with the rise of adventurous and unique dating experiences, you might find yourself needing to master the skill of underwater charm. So, how does one flirt while wearing a…

[reasonsforhope]

"For years, California was slated to undertake the world’s largest dam removal project in order to free the Klamath River to flow as it had done for thousands of years.

Now, as the project nears completion, imagery is percolating out of Klamath showing the waterway’s dramatic transformation, and they are breathtaking to behold.

Pictured: Klamath River flows freely, after Copco-2 dam was removed in California.

Incredibly, the project has been nearly completed on schedule and under budget, and recently concluded with the removal of two dams, Iron Gate and Copco 1. Small “cofferdams” which helped divert water for the main dams’ construction, still need to be removed.

The river, along which salmon and trout had migrated and bred for centuries, can flow freely between Lake Ewauna in Klamath Falls, Oregon, to the Pacific Ocean for the first time since the dams were constructed between 1903 and 1962.

“This is a monumental achievement—not just for the Klamath River but for our entire state, nation, and planet,” Governor Gavin Newsom said in a statement. “By taking down these outdated dams, we are giving salmon and other species a chance to thrive once again, while also restoring an essential lifeline for tribal communities who have long depended on the health of the river.”

“We had a really incredible moment to share with tribes as we watched the final cofferdams be broken,” Ren Brownell, Klamath River Renewal Corp. public information officer, told SFGATE. “So we’ve officially returned the river to its historic channel at all the dam sites. But the work continues.”

Pictured: Iron Gate Dam, before and after.

“The dams that have divided the basin are now gone and the river is free,” Frankie Myers, vice chairman of the Yurok Tribe, said in a tribal news release from late August. “Our sacred duty to our children, our ancestors, and for ourselves, is to take care of the river, and today’s events represent a fulfillment of that obligation.”

The Yurok Tribe has lived along the Klamath River forever, and it was they who led the decades-long campaign to dismantle the dams.

At first the water was turbid, brown, murky, and filled with dead algae—discharges from riverside sediment deposits and reservoir drainage. However, Brownell said the water quality will improve over a short time span as the river normalizes.

“I think in September, we may have some Chinook salmon and steelhead moseying upstream and checking things out for the first time in over 60 years,” said Bob Pagliuco, a marine habitat resource specialist at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration in July.

Pictured: JC Boyle Dam, before and after.

“Based on what I’ve seen and what I know these fish can do, I think they will start occupying these habitats immediately. There won’t be any great numbers at first, but within several generations—10 to 15 years—new populations will be established.”

Ironically, a news release from the NOAA states that the simplification of the Klamath River by way of the dams actually made it harder for salmon and steelhead to survive and adapt to climate change.

“When you simplify the habitat as we did with the dams, salmon can’t express the full range of their life-history diversity,” said NOAA Research Fisheries Biologist Tommy Williams.

“The Klamath watershed is very prone to disturbance. The environment throughout the historical range of Pacific salmon and steelhead is very dynamic. We have fires, floods, earthquakes, you name it. These fish not only deal with it well, it’s required for their survival by allowing the expression of the full range of their diversity. It challenges them. Through this, they develop this capacity to deal with environmental changes.”

-via Good News Network, October 9, 2024

[the-whispers-of-death]

i want to lay grim reaper Stone on my chest and pet his hair you don't understand

Grim Reaper!Stone deserves to be coddled and I stand behind that.

Also he deserves to change his name from Bharat Junior to Vikram.

I'm convinced that the Marine Corps lowkey pushed Grim Reaper!Stone into changing his name from his dead name to Bharat Junior after his gender reassignment surgery, because like I understand that Grim Reaper!Stone thinks he's just a weapon and so he accepts the Marine Corps making him be exactly like his father, but also why did he make his new legal name Bharat Junior.

[hautecouturehues]

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🐚⚓️🫧List of Random Things For Your Dark Coastal Settings | For Writers🐚⚓️🫧

Since you all loved the list of random things for Dark Academia, here’s a list of items, things, sights etc.. you might find in a Dark Coastal setting.

The Cliffside 🌊

Jagged slate-gray rocks jutting out from the churning sea

Swaths of wild, windblown grasses and mosses clinging to the cliffs

Crumbling stone ruins half-hidden in the fog

The eerie cries of seabirds circling overhead

Gnarled, salt-weathered driftwood scattered across the shoreline

The Cove 🐚

A small pebbly beach tucked into a sheltered inlet

Seaweed-covered tide pools teeming with mysterious marine life

Centuries-old fishing nets and lobster traps hung to dry

Weathered wooden rowboats moored at a rickety dock

The salty, briny scent of the sea lingering in the air

The Lighthouse 🗼

A tall, round stone tower with a flickering lantern on top

Faded nautical charts and weather-beaten log books inside

An antique brass telescope trained on the horizon

The heavy thump of the lighthouse bell in the distance

Coils of fraying rope and a tarnished brass spyglass on the windowsill

The Shipwreck 🛥️

The rusted, half-submerged hull of an ancient sailing vessel

Tangled knots of kelp and barnacles clinging to the metal

Fragments of shattered wood and twisted metal debris

The eerie, echoing creaks and groans of the wreckage in the waves

Fragments of weathered, sun-bleached bones glinting in the murky depths

The Coastal Cottage 🏠

A small, weathered wooden house with peeling paint

Tattered sheer curtains fluttering in the salty sea breeze

Shelves lined with antique glass bottles and driftwood sculptures

A wood-burning stove with a teapot whistling softly

The distant sound of foghorns cutting through the mist

The Shipwreck Cove 🚢

Jutting black cliffs, their bases strewn with the bones of broken ships

Seaweed-covered ribs of an old shipwreck, barnacles clinging to the wood

Rusted metal and shattered glass glittering in the crashing waves

Cawing of crows circling overhead, their shadows flickering on the rocks

The hollow, echoing sound of the wind whistling through the caves

The Seaside Cemetery 🪦

Rows of crumbling tombstones covered in moss and lichen

Twisted, windblown trees casting long, ominous shadows

The faint scent of night-blooming jasmine on the breeze

A rusted wrought-iron gate creaking open to the path

Fog rolling in, obscuring the distant sound of the surf

[ruewritesoccasionally]

Welcome to the Neighbourhood | Terry Richmond

pairings: neighbour!terry richmond x neighbour!black reader

warnings: smut 18+, fluff, slow burn (if you squint), slightly rough/dom!terry - lmk if you think i missed anything else

summary: ready to put shelby springs behind him, terry ventures to start afresh - new job and new neighbourhood but the last thing he was expecting was to have an attractive neighbour waltz in and send his head spinning

word count: 5.4K

Shelby Springs had taken everything from him—his peace, his purpose, his faith in people. But Terrance Richmond wasn’t a man to let the past define him. He had to rebuild, brick by brick, until there was nothing left of the anger, pain, or memories that weighed him down. Once he’d made his peace, routine became his salvation. If there was one thing Terry wasn’t, it was idle.

Standing at 6’2, with muscles that didn’t come from sitting still, he carried himself with the discipline of a former Marine. He threw himself into rebuilding his life with the same focus, which is why the executive protection job posting felt like fate. It was an opportunity to start over. A new job, a new city—it wasn’t nature like he was used to, but he wasn’t about to say no to a clean slate.

The last of the moving boxes sat stacked on his driveway, waiting to be carried inside. As Terry hoisted one of the heavier ones, headlights flashed across his yard, catching his attention. His eyes followed the movements of a woman stepping out of a car, her keys in hand. If his hands hadn’t instinctively tightened around the box, the fine China inside would’ve been in pieces on the pavement.

Damn. She was... striking. The kind of striking that rooted a man to the spot and left his thoughts a tangled mess.

The pantsuit she wore clung to her figure in all the right ways, while soft curls framed her face like a work of art. Then she smiled, and he was done for.

She approached with a confident stride, her voice soft but laced with a teasing edge that only added to her allure. “Hey,” she said, flashing him an easy smile—the kind that could charm just about anyone. “Looks like they finally found someone to take the place. Congrats. I’m in a rush right now, but I get off work at 6. I’ll swing by to properly introduce myself—if that’s cool with you?”

Terry fumbled between a nod and a simple word of agreement, finally managing a quick, “Yeah, sounds good,” before she turned and climbed into her car.

She waved as she drove off, a soft giggle escaping her lips.

She knew she had a wicked flirt game, and today’s outfit choice was clearly the right one. As she headed to the office, an unusually good mood accompanied her. She couldn’t help but think about her new neighbour—broad shoulders, brooding eyes, and a quiet intensity that lingered even in their brief interaction.

Her curiosity burned through the day like a steady flame. Who was he? What was his story? And most importantly, would he be sticking around?

Terry tried to shake her out of his head as he tackled the last of the boxes. But it was no use. Her voice, her smile—they’d already sunk into his mind, leaving him restless and curious. 6 o’clock couldn’t come fast enough.

The sun was just beginning to set, casting a golden hue over the neighbourhood, when YN pulled into her driveway, a sense of anticipation bubbling in her chest. Work had been exhausting, but the thought of properly meeting her new neighbour had been the highlight of her day. She stepped into her house, kicked off her heels, and immediately headed for the shower. The warm water was a welcome relief, washing away the day's tension and leaving her feeling refreshed.

Dressed in something comfortable yet flattering—because first impressions mattered, even if she wasn’t technically trying—YN made her way into the kitchen. Cooking was a distraction, a way to channel her nerves into something productive. She whipped up a quick but hearty meal, pairing it with some baked goods she’d had stashed away. It was a neighbourly gesture, sure, but she’d also seen him. And let’s just say that the mysterious, rugged man across the street had piqued her curiosity.

Balancing the food containers carefully in her hands, YN walked across to his house. The porch light was on, a warm glow illuminating the otherwise quiet street. She knocked twice, stepping back as she waited.

Inside, Terry had been pacing his living room for the past fifteen minutes, glancing at the clock and then the front door as if he could will someone to show up. He’d told himself it was silly, but the memory of their brief interaction that morning had stayed with him all day. She was charming, poised, and stunning, and the idea of seeing her again had stirred something in him he couldn’t quite name.

When the knock finally came, he opened the door to find her standing there, her smile lighting up the dimming evening. His expression softening into something she could only describe as relief. His eyes flicked down to the food in her hands, then back up to her face, his lips twitching as though he were fighting the urge to smile.

For a split second, neither of them spoke, just taking each other in. Then, at the same time, they both blurted out their names.

"Terrance Richmond." "YN."

The words collided, and they both paused before bursting into laughter.

"No, you go," she said, waving a hand for him to continue.

He shook his head with a small, amused smile. "No, you first. I insist."

She gave in, introducing herself again, this time with a little less fluster. “Sorry about the rush this morning. I was running late for work. I figured I’d make it up to you by bringing some dinner—just thought I’d save you the trouble of cooking or ordering in tonight.”

Terry raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised but not ungrateful. “That’s... really kind of you. Thank you.” He stepped aside, gesturing for her to come in.

YN wasn’t sure what she’d expected—half-packed boxes or chaos, maybe—but his house was already well put together. Everything had its place, and the space looked cosy, even lived-in.

“You’ve been busy,” she remarked, glancing around.

Terry followed her gaze, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, I couldn’t keep still. Needed to get everything done.”

The motion of his hand raised the hem of his shirt just enough to reveal a sliver of his abdomen, and her breath hitched involuntarily at the sight. He was... sculpted, to say the least. She tried to keep her expression neutral, but the deep heat rising in her cheeks betrayed her.

Terry noticed—of course, he noticed. His lips quirked into a subtle smirk, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “You okay over there?” he teased, his voice dipping lower.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Totally fine,” she stammered, mentally cursing herself. Way to keep it together, YN.

“Kitchen’s this way,” he said, leading her further inside.

In the kitchen, she set the food down on the counter while Terry rummaged through a cabinet for plates and cutlery.

“Wine or whiskey?” he asked, holding up a tumbler in one hand and a wine glass in the other.

She tilted her head, eyeing him playfully. “You strike me as the rough-around-the-edges whiskey type. But I could be wrong.”

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “And you strike me as the sophisticated wine type. Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

She laughed softly, choosing the wine glass. “Maybe just a little bit of both,” she said, holding up her glass in a mock toast.

Dinner passed with ease, the conversation flowing effortlessly between them. She learned about his time in the Marines, his decision to move to the city, and his plans to settle into a new routine. In turn, he listened intently as she spoke about her work as a lawyer and the challenges that came with it.

“Why executive protection?” she asked, genuinely curious.

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze dropping to his glass. “It seemed like the right move. I needed something to focus on, something to ground me after...I guess I wanted to keep helping people… just without all the…” He gestured vaguely, his voice trailing off.

She nodded, understanding the weight of what he wasn’t saying. “That makes sense. You’re a protector. It suits you.”

Instead, she smiled softly, changing the subject to something lighter. “Well, I think the neighbourhood gossip will be all over you in no time. New guy, good-looking, and clearly handy with a moving box? You’re prime material.”

Terry chuckled, shaking his head. “And here I thought I’d be flying under the radar.”

“Not a chance,” she teased, raising her glass.

The evening passed in a blur of laughter and easy conversation, the initial awkwardness fading into a comfortable rhythm. By the time the food was gone and the wine bottle nearly empty, she realised how late it had gotten.

“I should let you get some rest,” she said, standing and gathering her things.

Terry walked her to the door, his presence warm and steady beside her. “Thanks for coming over. And for dinner. You didn’t have to, but... it means a lot.”

She smiled, the sincerity in his voice catching her off guard. “It’s my turn to host next time,” she said, stepping out onto the porch.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he replied, leaning casually against the doorframe.

As she walked back to her house, she felt his eyes on her, and when she reached her front door, she turned to find him still standing there, waiting. She gave him a small wave before stepping inside, and only then did he close his door.

Back in her kitchen, she leaned against the counter, her thoughts lingering on Terrance Richmond—the man who’d somehow managed to make an ordinary evening feel anything but.

It had been two months of playful banter, stolen moments, and a rhythm they’d fallen into so effortlessly it felt like second nature. Their evenings were a mix of wholesome exploration and daring escapades—her showing him the city from her unique perspective. Quiet cafés tucked into alleys, her favourite jazz bar that always felt alive no matter the hour, daring rooftop views that made her heart race as much as his lingering glances. Terry soaked it all in, learning her through the places she loved.

And then there were the nights. Nights when she’d invite him into her world, sharing wine and laughter, their knees brushing under the table, their gazes holding just a beat too long. Nights when he’d introduce her to the simplicities he cherished: an old movie, a game of cards, or just sitting on his porch with whiskey and comfortable silence. The friendship that brewed between them was comforting, but the undercurrent of something more was undeniable.

He didn’t mind bending the rules, like ignoring speed limits to race home just to catch her as she pulled into her driveway. There was something magnetic about the sight of her at the end of a long day. The way she’d stride out of her car, hair loosened from its bun, buttons of her blouse slightly undone, her lips still stained with that red lipstick that drove him wild. It was like she carried the day’s fire with her, igniting something in him without even trying. He’d lean against his porch, offering her a nightcap with that low, smooth voice of his, and she’d grin, the tension of her day easing away.

She had never been more grateful that Terry’s job required him to wear a suit. Seeing him waiting for her in all his tall, broad-shouldered glory, tie loosened, dark stormy eyes carrying a story from the day, was a sight she never grew tired of. Her eyes would linger, tracing the outline of his strong frame and sharp jawline. Even the way he held himself—calm, composed—was intoxicating. Their usual routine of “Hey, stranger. Fancy seeing you here,” never got old, but there was something different about today.

She parked her car with noticeably less energy, the weight of her day evident in the slight slump of her shoulders. Terry caught it immediately. He leaned against his porch, the usual playful smirk tugging at his lips, but it faded when she approached.

“Hey, stranger,” he said softly, his voice warm but cautious.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she replied, but her tone lacked its usual spark. Her eyes flickered to his, and though her lips curved into a faint smile, it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You okay?” he asked, taking a step closer.

She exhaled, shaking her head lightly. “Rough day. I don’t think I’m up for anything tonight.”

He nodded, though disappointment briefly flickered across his features. “I get it. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Thanks, Terry,” she said, her voice soft as she turned toward her door.

He watched her retreat into her house, resisting the urge to follow. Respecting her space was the right thing to do, but it didn’t stop the lingering ache in his chest. Something felt off, and it wasn’t just her mood—it was the absence of her presence.

Back in his house, Terry tried to distract himself. He pushed through an intense workout in his home gym, the rhythm of his heart pounding in his ears as he lifted, punched, and ran his frustration away. But no amount of sweat could shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.

Showered and changed into a snug grey T-shirt and sweatpants, he found himself pacing his living room. The hours stretched, and the silence grew unbearable. It was stupid—he felt like barely knew her but they had spent so much time together that being apart for the one night felt wrong, and the thought of her being upset made him restless. Finally, he grabbed a bottle of wine and decided to check on her. If nothing else, she deserved someone to talk to.

Terry knocked twice, the bottle balanced in his hand. The sound of footsteps reached him, and when the door swung open, he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

She stood there, framed by the warm glow of her house, wrapped in a silk negligee the colour of deep mauve. The fabric flowed from her shoulders, clinging to her curves in a way that made his breath hitch. It accentuated the fullness of her breasts, the gentle dip of her waist, and the teasing slit that revealed her smooth, toned thigh. Her dark skin shimmered against the luxurious fabric, and her loose hair framed her face like a crown.

He stared, momentarily dumbfounded. “I, uh...” His usual composure failed him.

Her lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement breaking through the tiredness in her eyes. “Terry,” she said softly, “are you okay?”

He cleared his throat, forcing his gaze to meet hers. “I just... I wanted to check on you. You seemed off earlier.”

Her expression softened, her fingers brushing against the doorframe. “I’m okay. Just needed some time to breathe.”

He held up the bottle. “I figured you might still need that nightcap. But if this is a bad time—”

She stepped aside, a small but genuine smile tugging at her lips. “It’s not.”

He walked in, acutely aware of how close their bodies brushed as he passed her. The faint scent of her perfume—warm, sensual, with a hint of spice—wrapped around him, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

As she closed the door, she turned to face him, her head tilted slightly. “Thanks for checking on me. Most people wouldn’t bother.”

He set the bottle on the counter, turning to face her with a small shrug. “I’m not most people.”

Her smile widened, the tension of her day beginning to unravel. “No, you’re not.”

And there it was again—that spark, that unspoken pull between them. The air felt heavier, charged with something they both knew they couldn’t ignore much longer.

The room was cloaked in a heady tension that neither of them could escape. She leaned against the counter, her fingers brushing absentmindedly against the cool marble surface as she watched him pour the wine. His tall, commanding frame moved with an easy grace that was almost hypnotic, the tight grey T-shirt clinging to his broad chest and shoulders, highlighting every muscle. His stormy blue-grey eyes caught the light for a fleeting second as he glanced up, and they seemed to darken when they met hers.

"Rough day, huh?" His voice was deep, smooth, and rich, yet there was an edge to it, like he was holding something back.

"Yeah," she murmured, her gaze lingering on the way his big hands gripped the bottle. Those hands. She tried to focus on what he was saying, but her mind betrayed her, wandering to how they might feel against her skin, firm yet gentle, exploring every inch of her.

"You don’t talk about work much," he said, leaning casually against the opposite counter, though there was nothing casual about the way his eyes roamed her figure. His gaze lingered on the curve of her waist, the silk of her negligee clinging to her full breasts and cascading down to her thick thighs. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but his focus never wavered.

"Work’s work," she replied, her voice quieter than she intended. The usual playfulness in her tone was replaced with something softer, more vulnerable. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, but she wasn’t sure if it was from his smouldering gaze or the thoughts racing through her mind.

"That’s fair," he said, his lips curling into a faint smirk, though his voice had dropped an octave. He took a sip of his wine, his sharp jaw flexing slightly as he tilted his head back. She could barely breathe.

The air between them felt thick, electric. Every glance, every subtle movement was charged with an intensity that neither of them could ignore. She wanted to say something, anything, but her eyes kept drifting to his lips, full and smooth, and how easily they curved into that devastatingly charming smile. She wondered what they’d feel like against hers, how they’d taste.

"You seem... distracted," he teased, his voice low and husky.

She huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head. "Says the man who hasn’t stopped staring."

"You’re hard not to stare at," he admitted, his tone serious now.

Her heart skipped a beat, and her fingers tightened around the glass in her hand. "You’re not so bad yourself," she said, her voice steady despite the wild thrum in her chest.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was suffocating in the best way. The kind of silence that demanded action, that begged for release.

And then it happened.

He set his glass down with a soft clink and took a step toward her, closing the distance between them. "You don’t know what you do to me," he murmured, his voice rough, raw with restraint. "Seeing you every morning, looking so damn fine, so put together... And then at night, when you come to mine, when you let your guard down and laugh like the world hasn’t put you through hell that day... I’m here, losing my mind over you, woman."

Her breath hitched, her wide eyes searching his stormy gaze. His words were like gasoline to the fire already burning inside her. "Terry..." she started, but the words caught in her throat.

"No," he cut her off gently, his big hands cupping her face, his thumbs brushing along her jaw. "Let me say this. From the first day I saw you, I knew you were gonna ruin me. And you have. I can’t think straight when you’re around, and when you’re not..." He trailed off, his gaze dropping to her lips.

She felt her chest tighten, her own thoughts spinning out of control. "I’ve liked you since day one," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

His lips quirked into a soft, almost disbelieving smile. "Yeah?"

She nodded, her cheeks warm. "Yeah."

That was all he needed to hear.

His lips crashed against hers, and everything else melted away. His hands slid down to her waist, pulling her closer until her soft curves were pressed firmly against his muscular frame. She moaned softly into the kiss, her hands exploring the expanse of his chest, feeling the hard planes beneath the fabric of his shirt.

"Terry," she gasped as his lips trailed to her neck, his warm breath sending shivers down her spine.

"You’re perfect," he murmured against her skin, his hands roaming over her thick thighs, her generous hips, memorising every part of her. "So damn perfect."

Her fingers tangled in his short, dark hair as he lifted her effortlessly onto the counter, his lips returning to hers with a fervour that left her breathless. The silk of her negligee rode up, baring more of her dark, supple skin to his touch.

"You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this," he rasped, his stormy eyes locking with hers as his hand slid up her thigh.

"Show me," she whispered, her voice dripping with desire.

And he did. The tension that had been building for months finally erupted, their movements urgent yet unhurried, savouring every touch, every kiss, every moment. It was the turning page they’d both been waiting for, the start of something they both knew would change everything.

The moment between them burned hotter as they moved upstairs, their lips locked in a fiery kiss that only deepened with each step. Breathless moans filled the spaces where their mouths parted, the sound mingling with the faint creak of the stairs. Terry’s strong arms tightened around her, lifting her effortlessly. Her thighs instinctively clasped around his waist, holding on to him as if her life depended on it. Her fingers found their way under his t-shirt, her fingertips brushing against the hard ridges of his back muscles, revelling in the sheer strength he carried so easily.

His grip on her waist was firm, his large hands branding her as his own, sending a thrilling pulse through her body that promised to linger long after tonight. His touch roamed with purpose, tracing the swell of her thighs and the curve of her hips. When his palm landed on her ass with a sharp slap, followed by a teasing squeeze, she gasped into his mouth, her body arching into him. Terry let out a deep, gravelly chuckle, the sound dripping with satisfaction, as if her every reaction was fuel to the fire raging within him.

With his lips trailing down her jaw, then returning to claim her mouth, he blindly led them toward her bedroom. His back pressed against the door as he maneuvered it open, never breaking their heated connection. Once inside, Terry seated himself at the edge of her bed, pulling her closer onto his lap. She straddled him, her negligee riding higher, teasing them both. Her nails running over his short, dark hair, dragging them just enough to make him groan deeply, the sound vibrating between them. His large hands explored her curves freely now, roaming the softness of her body like a man starved.

As their lips crashed together again, Terry’s control snapped. With an effortless move, he flipped her onto her back, his strength leaving her breathless. The sudden shift made her gasp, her hair splaying out across the sheets as she looked up at him. His body hovered above hers, broad and muscular, his chest rising and falling as he stared down at her. The look on his face—raw, unfiltered desire—sent a thrill through her core. His eyes darkened with lust, his brows knit together in a mixture of longing and determination.

“Terry...” she whispered, her voice trembling under the weight of the moment, her body humming with anticipation.

He lowered himself, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of her collarbone before moving to her ear. His voice, deep and husky, made her shiver. “You don’t know what you do to me, YN,” he repeated. “Not being able to touch you like this.”

Her breath hitched, his confession sending waves of heat coursing through her body. Her hands gripped his biceps, feeling the tension coiled in him, the restraint he had fought for so long finally slipping. "Terry," she whispered again, her voice soft yet laced with her own need.

“You’re perfect, you know that?” he rasped, his gaze trailing over her. “Every damn curve... your thighs, your hips... these gorgeous lips I can’t stop thinking about. You’re driving me insane, YN.”

She grew needier, her dark skin glowing under the low light of the room. Her hands roamed across his back, her nails lightly grazing his skin as she pulled him closer, their bodies pressed together. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word sent sparks flying between them, a tangible current neither could resist.

“Show what you’ve been wanting to do to me”, she breathlessly said.

That was all the permission Terry needed, he lowered his body down hers stopping at her thighs and slowly pusher lingerie up body signalling for her to raise arms so he could undress her. Eyes taking in every detail and she almost shied under his lustful gaze, but he quietened thoughts as he dipped his head down and his mouth parted to envelope the nipple that called for his attention. He bit, licked, sucked and swirled, teasing that bud and showing the other one the same love – “this is what you were hiding me, angel?” His voice, so many decibels lower she almost didn’t recognise it.

“Out of words already, baby? Don’t worry, I’ve got something that’ll bring that voice back”

YN watched as his hands travelled and worked down her body, lighting a trail of fire in their wake. They moved with such expertise, like he had time to study what made her wet – either that or she was just entirely ready for him. Her panties did nothing to disguise her puffy lips or the slickness that dampened the front, she would’ve been embarrassed if she wasn’t so turned on but this was a long time coming.

Terry's lips worked their way down her body, slow and purposeful, leaving a searing trail of anticipation in their wake. When he reached the apex of her thighs, he spread her legs wider, his firm grip sending shivers through her. His stormy eyes flicked up to meet hers, a silent yet urgent question. She responded by gripping the back of his head, guiding him exactly where she needed him most.

He hungrily obeyed, his tongue moving with an aggressive precision that mirrored her unspoken desire. Every stroke was deliberate, every flick of his tongue a testament to his singular focus on her pleasure. His large hands slid up her thighs, his grip firm and grounding as her body trembled beneath him.

Her nails grazed the smooth skin at the back of his head, her soft cries urging him on, and he fed on every sound she made like it was a reward. The way she arched into him, her breathless gasps and whispered curses, only drove him further. He was relentless, addicted to the way she tasted, the way her body writhed under his control.

“Terry…” she moaned, her voice breaking as he increased the pressure, his tongue and lips working in perfect rhythm. He felt her thighs quake against his shoulders, her body teetering on the edge.

“Come on, YN,” he murmured against her, the vibration of his voice sending her spiraling. “I want to feel it. Let go for me.”

With a cry that echoed through the room, she shattered, her release coursing through her like a wave. Terry didn’t stop, prolonging her pleasure, tasting every part of her as though he couldn’t get enough. And as he finally pulled back, his lips glistening, he looked up at her with a dark, satisfied smirk.

Terry’s gaze was locked on her, dark and burning with intensity. She was already bare before him, her body glowing in the low light, every curve and line drawing him in like a man possessed. He knelt on the bed, his knees framing hers, and his hand traced the side of her thigh, firm and deliberate.

“I don’t know how I kept control this whole time,” he muttered, his voice laced with restrained desire. Grabbing her wrist, he guided her hand to the thick length straining against the fabric of his sweatpants. Her eyes widened, and her breath hitched as her fingers instinctively wrapped around him. His jaw clenched at the contact, a low groan slipping from his lips.

“I’m ready to put this where it belongs,” he growled, his voice rough, primal. He stood, his movements deliberate as he tugged off his sweatpants and boxers in one swift motion. When he stood before her, completely bare, her mouth went dry, her pulse racing. His body was a perfect balance of strength and masculinity—toned, powerful, and overwhelming in every sense of the word.

She couldn’t stop the breathless moan of his name. “Terry…” she whimpered, her voice a mix of pleading and desperation.

She reached for him, her nails grazing over the hard ridges of his abs, earning a sharp hiss as he captured her wrist again. His other hand gripped her hip, pulling her toward him as he rolled his body against hers, letting her feel every inch of his arousal pressing into her. She gasped, the friction igniting something primal in her.

“Are you ready to take all of me?” his voice sending shivers down her spine.

Before she could respond, he flipped her onto her stomach with ease, his hands tugging her hips back toward him. A surprised gasp escaped her, quickly replaced by a low moan as his lips found the sensitive spot behind her ear, his teeth grazing her skin. One hand pressed into the small of her back, pinning her in place, while the other slid up her thigh, rough and demanding.

She lifted her head slightly, her eyes catching the mirror across the room. The sight of their bodies intertwining—the dominance in his stance, the way her body responded to his every touch—made her breath hitch. Her body trembled beneath him, overwhelmed by the heat and tension building between them.

But just as his fingers trailed higher, grazing her most sensitive spot, he stilled. His lips brushed against the shell of her ear, and his tone softened, though the intensity remained.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding. “I need to hear it, YN.”

Her body writhed beneath him, every nerve alight with need. “I want this… and you. I need it, T. Please,” she pleaded, her voice desperate, her core weeping and throbbing for him.

That was all he needed. In one smooth, deliberate motion, he thrust into her, filling her completely. She cried out, her fingers clutching the sheets as her body adjusted to the overwhelming sensation. He didn’t give her a moment to recover, his movements relentless and precise, each thrust stealing the breath from her lungs.

“Look at you,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. “Taking me so perfectly. You were made for me, weren’t you?”

Her head lolled to the side, her cries and moans echoing in the room. She could barely form a coherent response, her mind clouded with nothing but him. Instead, she let her body speak for her, meeting his movements with equal fervour, the sound of their bodies colliding only heightening the intensity.

As her body tightened around him, the pressure building to an unbearable peak, he slowed. His hand slid around to cup her face, turning her head so he could kiss her. It wasn’t rough like before—it was slow, deep, and tender, a kiss that felt like a promise. Her body trembled, her moan muffled against his lips as her release overtook her, crashing over her in waves.

He followed soon after, a guttural groan escaping him as he buried himself deeper, his grip on her waist tightening. For a moment, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of their laboured breaths and the faint rustle of the sheets.

Finally, he collapsed beside her, pulling her into his arms. His lips pressed against her forehead, the tenderness in the gesture a stark contrast to the passion they’d just shared.

“You okay?” he asked softly, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face.

She nodded, her cheek pressed against his chest as her breathing slowly steadied. “More than okay,” she murmured, a small, satisfied smile tugging at her lips.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Good,” he said, his voice low but warm. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

The promise lingered in the air, and she couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and carefree as she nestled closer to him, feeling completely and utterly content.

comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

and take a shot for every time i mentioned 'stormy' or 'eyes' loooool

[revasserium]

chapter one: a shadow of the past

roronoa zoro; 3,225 words; angst and fluff, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, mostly enemies in this chapter, tragic!backstory, flashbacks, slightly canon divergent, baroqueworks!reader, no "y/n"

summary: in which zoro will always find you, even if you don't want to be found

a/n: not much to say here other than enjoy! :)

< to the table of contents

It would be months before he sees you again, months before he runs across the typeset of your codename, on a wanted poster with an obscene amount of Berry tacked underneath — more, he thinks, dully, than the last time he’d seen it.

MS. DOUBLE-NINES — WANTED — 90,000,000 BERRY.

“Agent from Baroque Works… seems like a bad lot,” Sanji says, frowning as he squints at the poster, smoke curling from between his teeth.

“Yeah, dunno about that,” Zoro reaches out to rip the poster from the wall, crumpling it in his fist.

“There a story you wanna tell us, moss-head?” Sanji asks, slating Zoro a long glance.

Zoro scoffs, “Barely,” but at a hard look from Nami, he relents, rolling his eyes, “they sent someone called Mr. 7 to recruit me a while back.”

“And…?” Nami asks, probing as the three of them turn back towards the bustling street market, Usopp and Luffy already halfway down the street, chattering about lunch.

“And nothin’. I took care of him.” Zoro makes to toss the crumpled poster onto the ground but he pauses, glancing down at his hands, “the Marines still owe me his bounty though.”

Sanji laughs, even as Nami scoffs.

“Well, let’s try to stay out of their way till we get out of here,” Nami says, eyes caught on the poster in Zoro’s hands, “at least in the Grand Line, there’ll be bigger fish for them to fry.”

Zoro wets his lips, staring down at your disfigured face before tossing it aside.

“If you say so.”

— — —

You have the most delicate hands — nimble fingers and soft, marshmallow palms. You’d cradle the miniscule wooden knife just so, slipping the dulled edge along the tops of the homemade wagashi, making marks in perfect intervals until the cake resembled a flower, just so.

“Okay, now who wants a piece?” you’d ask, giggling as the boys all scrambled over themselves, raising their hands and hooting like monkeys.

Zoro always held back, feigning disinterest, even though his mouth would water just the same.

“Here, a piece for you too,” you’d say, after giving everyone their due share. Behind you, the other boys would always be squabbling for an extra slice, fighting over the crumbles left on the thin rice paper packaging.

“Don’t want it,” he’d say, looking anywhere but at the tantalizing slice of wagashi, the soft lotus-paste insides nearly translucent, the pastel mochi exterior the perfect amount of sticky and sweet.

His mouth goes dry as you hold it up in front of him, cupped in your palms like just-found treasure.

“Everyone else got a piece,” you say, as if that’s reason enough for him to forgo his abstinence.

He swallows.

“Don’t move.”

His eyes flicker open to the shape of you, crouching by his hammock, a knife held to his throat. Outside, the night is thick and moonless, the seawater lapping softly at the sides of the ship.

Zoro huffs out a breath, “Or what?”

He blinks, the afterimages of the dream still solid behind his eyelids.

“Not sure yet, but I’d bet you wouldn’t like the answer, either way,” you say, your voice barely more than a hiss as you shift the blade from one hand to another and he feels the sharp edge of it skim along his skin.

You’re careful not to break any skin as you pull back, ever so slightly, allowing him to sit up.

“What’dyou want?” he asks, moving slow, fingers inching towards his swords, propped by the hammock’s side.

“Nothing too much,” you answer, “just a free ride off this island. And the next time you dock, you’ll never see me again.”

Zoro scoffs, “That a promise?”

Even in the dark, your grin slants crescent-moon sharp. Zoro blinks again, his mind fighting to reconcile the image of you as a child over the shadow hunched over him now, holding a knife to his throat.

“Something like that,” you say, your eyes flickering down to where his fingers are inches from his swords. Zoro sighs, tugging his hand back.

“Fine — but one condition,” he says.

You hike an eyebrow, “From where I’m sitting, you’re not exactly in the position to be making demands.”

Zoro smirks, folding his arms across his chest and stretching out on his hammock.

“And from where I’m sitting — we’re one alarm away from my entire crew wakin’ up. And… they might not be as good as you one on one but… all together?” he shrugs, “I mean, you do the math.”

Your lips curl into a contemptuous snarl, but you don’t fight him on it. Instead, you pull the knife away, tucking it into your belt.

“Fine. What’s your condition?”

Zoro peers at you from a half-lidded eye, “Tell me what happened to you.”

You puff out a laugh, leaning back against a wooden barrel, propping your arm on your knee.

“It’s kind of a long story.”

Zoro motions towards the darkened window, “We’ve got a lotta time.”

You turn your head away, “Maybe tomorrow,” you say, your voice low and fractured.

Zoro frowns, “You made a promise.”

You cast him a faint, woeful smile, “Yeah, but I never told you when I’d tell you the story.”

— — —

The next morning, you awaken to a wide-eyed stare from a boy who couldn’t have been much older than you, grinning ear to ear.

“Hi!”

“W-what the —”

You scramble backwards before realizing that your back is already pressed against the wall.

“Oh! Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you up!” the boy leans back, still grinning, propping both his hands on his hips as he stares down at you. Behind him, you can see the shape of Zoro, leaning by the door, swords at his side, a smirk on his face.

“What the hell’s going on here?” you ask, shooting him a dirty look, “you made a promise,” you spit the word back in his face.

Zoro shrugs, “Yeah, but I never said your free ride would be a secret.”

Your eyes narrow into slits as the boy standing over you claps a fist to his palm, turning towards Zoro.

“Oh! I remember now — we saw her on one of the wanted posters! You’re uhm — Ms… Ninety-Nine?”

You wince, sighing as you push yourself up and dust off your trousers, “Miss Double-Nines, but… close enough.”

Zoro snickers.

“I’m Monkey D. Luffy, and I’m the Captain of this ship! But… I gotta say, your name is way cooler. Did you get to pick it yourself? Or did someone at Bara-Rock Works give it to you?”

You fight down the twitch threatening your left eye as your gaze slingshots to Zoro and back to Luffy again.

“Uhm — someone… assigned it to me. And it’s Baroque Works.”

“Right! Yeah — that one!” Luffy smiles, seemingly unbothered by the implications of you being a member of a known criminal organization.

“Breakfast! C’mon — before it goes cold!” a voice calls down the hallway and a moment later, a blond-haired man in an all black suit peeks his head around the doorframe.

“Ah, our special guest is awake — so what about it, Ms. Double-Nines? Any requests for breakfast? I could do a few eggs, sunny side up, with a side of toast and some freshly made tangerine-butter. Or, we’ve still got some batter left over from the blueberry pancakes yesterday. Take your pick.”

You blink at the man with one shoulder propped against the doorframe, the other supporting a half-done cigarette, bringing it to his mouth for a casual puff.

Zoro lets out an annoyed grunt, “What blueberry pancakes? You gave me left-over potato mush for breakfast yesterday.”

The blonde turns to Zoro with a vindictive smirk, “You really think I’d waste the good stuff on someone with the palette of a forest slug?”

“Oh! I want the eggs! And can you make the sausages you made the other day, Sanji? Those were the best!” Luffy bounces out of the room with a bright smile as Sanji chuckles, shaking his head.

“Yeah, but you’ll have to wait a bit for those!” he calls down the hallway after Luffy’s rapidly retreating form.

You glance from Zoro to Sanji and back again, your stomach a mess of knots, your heart skidding strangely inside your chest.

Sanji slates you a helpless look and a lopsided smile, “C’mon then — can’t miss breakfast. Most important meal of the day!”

Introductions, as they are, take the better part of the morning. Though by noon, you’re still unsure if you’d stepped into some strange alternate universe where you’d miraculously escaped the dark tangles of your past, and into some idyllic, sun-lit story full of great friends and endless adventures.

“Mm, that’s a pretty name, but I still think Ms. Ninety-Nine is cooler,” Luffy says, when you finally tell them your name — the one that had been yours for your whole life before you’d been forced to become someone — no, something else.

“It’s Ms. Double — nevermind,” you sigh, shaking your head, feeling an incredulous laugh bubble out of your chest.

“So… you trying to leave Baroque Works?” Sanji asks, casually adjusting his fishing lines as Nami pours over a hand-drawn map of the East Blue, a pair of tiny glasses perched on her nose. Of all the members of the Strawhat Crew, she’d been the least overtly welcoming, staying quiet and keeping her distance.

And, judging by hardness that lies just on the other edge of her smile, you can’t blame her. She knows a liar when she sees one; you do too.

“Something like that,” you say, glancing away.

Zoro lounges against the main mast, his eyes closed.

“So! You must be a really good fighter!” Luffy says, tugging on his own fishing lines till Sanji nudges him away.

“I —” your voice catches and you look away, “I’m alright.”

“I heard that only the best fighters in Baroque Works get codenames with numbers,” Nami says without looking up, her tone casual. Her hand is steady as she traces a long line through the center of the map.

“It’s… a bit more complicated than that,” you say, your fingers twisting in your lap.

“Complicated how?” Nami asks, finally looking up, her gaze bright and hard and unrelenting.

You lick your lips, shrugging, “It’s just… you don’t have to be a great fighter to be… useful.”

And something about the way you say that makes everyone stiffen. By the main mast, Zoro shifts, peering open an eye to stare at you. But before he can say anything, Luffy jumps up, pulling hard at his fishing rod.

“Look! I think I caught something!”

That night, when they drop anchor, the ocean is still, and the summer air is almost too sweet. Luffy proposes a toast, to a new friend, he says, and Sanji has never turned down a toast to a pretty girl. Even Nami, who had been cautious all day, lured by the sweet tangerine wine and the tantalizing summer air, flashes you a small grin as she raises her glass.

You manage to choke down the wine passed the scream curdling at the back of your throat.

And then later, when the Millions come calling, no one notices the way you slip away, pulling all the fire towards you until you’re too far to be saved.

“Stay back!” you call, even as one of the Millions hauls you onto the deck of a smaller ship by the hair.

“Gum-Gum —“

“Wait,” Zoro places a hand on Luffy’s arm.

“Huh?”

Zoro frowns, pointing to a spot of white on the railings. Luffy stares down at it for a second before Sanji peers over his shoulder, reaching out to dab at the smear of white powder.

“It’s… rice flour.”

In the kitchen, they find a tray with a series of tiny wagashi mochi’s, simply made, but each perfectly shaped and dusted with a fine powder of sweet rice flour.

There’s a hastily scribbled note that just says — Thank you. I’m sorry.

— — —

It takes them the better part of a two weeks to track you down.

And when they do, it’s to an island of sand and trees and not much else.

“What… is this place?” Nami asks as they all hop onto the bleak little stretch of beach.

“It’s a holding ground,” a voice answers, rich and feminine. They all look up to see a tall figure, arms crossed, a cowboy hat perched atop her head. Her hair looks like it’s been cut with a slide-rule. She makes no move to attack, but Zoro still finds his thumb ticking at the hilt of his sword.

Beside him, Sanji looks conflicted at the thought of fighting such a beautiful woman.

“Miss All Sunday,” Nami says, her bo staff clicking clicking into place as she takes half a step forward.

The woman allows herself a grin, dipping the brim of her hat.

“Ara… if it isn’t the Cat Burglar.”

Nami scoffs, “Let’s cut the song and dance — we’re looking for a friend of ours. You might know her — goes by Miss Double-Nines, I think.”

“Friend?” Miss All Sunday lets the word simmer in the air between them, blithely checking her nails before pinning them all with a hard look, “we at Baroque Works aren’t known for making friends outside the organization.”

“Yeah well, maybe our friend���s just different!” offers Luffy, grinning widely, his chest puffed out.

Miss All Sunday regards them for a moment more before shrugging and slipping into the shadows of the giant tree she’d been leaning against. Zoro and Nami share a look before stepping forward to follow her, Luffy, Sanji, and Usopp half a step behind them.

The forest is a twist of ancient trees, their canopy high and thick enough to completely blot out the sun. Beneath the preternatural dark, the woods are spine-chillingly quiet. There’s no rustle of leaves, no hush of wings or skitter of claws. Nothing moves, save for their slinking guide and their own, weapon-laden bodies.

No one dares to speak; even Luffy keeps quiet, his mouth set in a straight line, his eyes tracking the lithe form of Miss All Sunday as she leads them through the undulating terrain.

“Ah… you’re in luck,” Miss All Sunday says, her voice a silken whisper as she stops in front of a massive tree, it’s roots as thick as the Merry’s main mast, it’s trunk so wide it’s impossible to see around. Miss All Sunday adjusts her hat, sweeping her hand through the air much as a hostess would when presenting a prize, “she’s awake.”

It’s you, or at least the shape of you, caught in the massive tangle of tree roots, your arms held to your sides, your body half-swallowed by the trunk of the tree itself. Your lashes flutter open at the sound of Miss All Sunday’s voice, and when your gaze finally lands on them, it goes wide —

“W-what —”

“We’ve come to rescue you!” Luffy says, grinning even as he revs up his arm.

The cigarette dangling from Sanji’s lips falls he leans back to inspect the grotesque sight before him.

It’s Nami who catches Zoro with an arm around the waist, tugging him back to relative difficulty. It’s only then that Zoro realizes how hard he’s breathing, how there’s red seeping like spilt blood into the edges of his vision.

“I — I told you not to follow me!” you say, your voice cracking over the words, your skin nearly translucent as it strains over your ribs.

Zoro ticks his tongue against his teeth, “Yeah well — we never said we’d listen.”

You drop your head, your throat bobbing around a mirthless laugh.

Everyone jumps at the sound of clapping, loud and slow and measured. A moment later, a man in a fur-lined coat with a thick set of stitches across his face steps out from behind the massive tree, a cigar caught between his teeth, a steely glint to his eyes.

“Well done, well done — if it isn’t the infamous Strawhat Pirates,” the man says, crossing his arms and taking a long puff of the cigar.

Luffy takes a step forward, “We are just here for our friend!”

“Your friend?” the man says, an eerie smile splitting his lips as he takes the cigar between two fingers and glances towards you, “you didn’t tell me you’d made new friends, Miss Double Nines?”

You wince at his words, twisting your head as he blows a stream of smoke at your face.

Zoro jerks forward, only to be caught again — this time by Sanji and Nami both.

“Ah, but this is wonderful! We should give your new friends a proper welcome, no?” the man opens his palms, laughing heartily before the forest around them shudders. And then, everything beneath them turns to sand.

It is not a long fight, and Zoro only remembers it in faint flashes — the base rumble of the earth shifting beneath them, the sky-splitting crack of tree trunks as the forest around them roils and breaks. Through it all, he remembers the sound of your voice, calling out something before it’s muffled by a pair of too-large hands —

And it isn’t till he finds himself standing on the thin stretch of beach with the rest of his crew that his mind returns to him, jarred and unsettled, but lucid.

The man with stitches across his face grins, your body caught beneath his arm like a rag doll. He laughs as he tosses you down onto the sand at this feet.

Both Zoro and Sanji charge forward, only to stop in their steps as the man cocks a gun and levels it at the back of your head. He grins, tilting his head.

“Go on,” he says, “she’s right there, isn’t she?”

Sanji crouches down, his eyes narrowed. Zoro’s jaw clenches as he adjusts his hold on his swords.

You shake your head, your hair a dark spill around your shoulders, peppered with sand as you push yourself up onto hands and knees, your gaze imploring as you look up at them.

“Don’t.”

Zoro feels something inside him snap at the broken register of your voice.

He charges forward just as the man reaches down to grab a fistful of your hair and tug you backwards, pressing the muzzle of the pistol to the side of your head.

“Let her go, and I might let you live,” he snarls between gritted teeth.

The man grins, savage and unbothered, shaking you like a marionette on tender strings. You let out a soft groan as he digs the gun further into your temple.

“Ah… I’m not sure I like being threatened on my own turf,” the man says, his voice soft as he trails the gun along your face down to your throat before pressing it the soft spot just beneath your chin. Your eyes squeeze shut.

“Wait —!” Zoro’s voice cracks like a gunshot over the word, desperation wriggling it’s way up his throat till it’s spilling out of his mouth.

The man’s eyes go dark at the sound, his mouth splits wide on a savage grin as he trails the gun back up to your temple, caressing the trigger with almost lethargic ease, clicks down the safety — and shoots.

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[madschiavelique]

A Crown Of Ink : Chapter 13 - Five of Swords

summary : your first day spent in Demacia doesn't bring out the best of you.

content warnings : angst. like pull out the tissues angst. no comfort. also some flirting shit? oh and tension. a good meal overall i hope

word count : 8,2k

author's note : okay so i'm trying to survive classes and i tried writing this baby during the week while on the metro. it's quite a pain in the heart but hey dw it'll get better i promise.

proofread the pretty boy @oneoftheextras

masterlist．．discord ．．playlist．．my ko-fi

The short journey to your place of residence prepared for the students had been deeply unbearable.

Demacians seemed to have a majority of water-related transport. You weren't really surprised, given that Demacia was known for its beaches and its inextricable links with the water that surrounded it for trade and tourism.

However, after that rather short night in a bed that wasn't very pleasant, you would have liked to have had a moment to settle down and enjoy a brief trip in a transport to observe the landscapes.

But walking was unavoidable. A horde of suitcase rollers were catching up on the white flagstones of the streets of the great city of Demacia. 

It was almost impossible to imagine the city as anything other than sunny. Its great white walls seemed incorruptibly pure, the sun bathing the sides of the citadel in resplendent light, while its blue slate domes gleamed in the sunlight like fish scales. 

You expected the city to have a cold atmosphere, an overly wise and tense staticity brought about by the strictness for which it was famous. But the markets were full of colour, crates full of exotic goods with colour combinations you only thought possible on paintings, rich fabrics and tourist attractions of all kinds bundling up in certain streets.

It was a city that combined the marine fluidity of its airs and waters with the formidable stability of its rocks and swords. It was almost impossible not to find a guard at every turn, to the point where it was almost more oppressive than reassuring. The sight of so many passers-by crossing the streets and their safety, however, softened the sensation.

And although you couldn't wait to take a shower and relax, the desire to wander the streets of this new place grew with every step you took. What a thrill it is to explore.

All this could have been superb, of course, if it hadn't been for a single factor that splashed mud all over this first immersion: Fiora.

Clinging to Viktor like a mussel to its rock, she had never stopped monopolising him and imposing her continuity. She pulled Viktor's suitcase like she was pulling a bin bag, pressing herself against him and laughing much more than necessary at every little interjection he made, often punctuating it with "What an interesting thing to say" or "Vikkie you're so funny!"

Vikkie, the nickname made your skin crawl with embarrassment. But what probably bothered you most was the fact that Viktor didn't do anything in particular to stop it. Was he just being polite? Or did he genuinely enjoy her company?

"Yes, she's always like that," Garen finally added with a sigh, his eyes visibly attentive to where yours were resting.

You sighed. "How long have you been handling her?"

He chuckled. "I think we're about to hit the second year in a row of a dreadfully thorny situation."

"Two years," you huffed, imagining what it would have been like if you and Viktor had carried on with that litter of stupid nemeses for so long.

"Yes ma'am," Garen nodded, himself seeming slightly surprised by this realisation.

"And has it always been like this?" 

"It gets worse when new things arrive and she wants said new things," he informed. "She needs to have her hands on the new, shiny toy."

"Is she a princess?" you questioned.

"Akin," Garen's gaze rested tiredly on Fiora's figure, raising his eyebrows, "she is the heir to one of the biggest families of Demacia."

"Damn," you whispered. "And she bites, I take it?"

"She is a fierce duellist, best one around here," grimaced Garen. "I wouldn't advise making any waves or tormenting her, she has a tendency to start useless gossip behind your back."

You nodded, taking in the information Garen had so graciously given you. "Crowns have strange effects on the heads they adorn."

He nodded, obviously finding your words accurate.

It didn't take you long to arrive at a building of at least six storeys, seemingly the same length as the point separating Zaun from Piltover and as wide as the length of The Young Prince. 

What had struck you so far was the geometry of the city. All the architecture of its streets was millimetre-perfect, everything mirroring each other almost impossibly perfectly like a surface on clear water. Arches of white stone criss-crossed in the air, no pillar was odd, and even the clothes of the residents were surgically symmetrical. It was almost disconcerting.

"The Hôtel Félixérie has graciously approved your accommodation as part of your stay," informed Madame Diane, turning to the group of students. "We'll leave you to drop off your belongings and take a moment to relax and get to know your room-mates a little better."

You'd imagined that the dormitories would be paired up again, and you'd probably expected the Piltover students to be with each other once more. However, Diane interrupted this train of thought.

"For fairly obvious reasons, the rooms will not be mixed. If your duos involve sex and gender differences, we will assign you to different rooms."

Their restrictions were totally acceptable, however, if the little gears in your brain weren't wrong, a terrible revelation took over.

You would have to share your room with Fiora.

You turned towards her, the latter already looking at you like a vermin to be eradicated, or the most useless thing this earth could have borne.

"Come forward, so we can allocate your rooms and take it into consideration."

So the group of students moved towards the teachers, your quartet staying back, Garen following to collect your room numbers. You reached Fiora, who was about your height, if perhaps a little shorter - which didn't stop her looking down on you for anything in the world.

So you watched her stature, her arm still firmly wrapped around Viktor.

You chuckled, observing the situation. "Are you going to sleep with him like he's your teddy bear? Or are you big enough to sleep without one."

Viktor turned to you, half surprised and half grateful. She arched an eyebrow at you, blowing out a laugh from her nose. "Scared of a child?"

"I'm not as spoiled of a kid as you," you replied.

"What is the ugly little thing saying?" she questioned.

"She's saying that you've got looks, and money," you remarked, "one of them is bound to run out."

She gave you a petty little smile. "Guess I'm rich in all cases. I still have twice more than you own."

"And twice more to lose," you pointed out, frowning, "and I don't lose."

She giggled, her upper lip rising in frustration. "So confident."

Your eyes looked her up and down, two thin slits under your eyebrows. "So ignorant."

"Viktor?" inquired Garen to cut short this obviously mindless discussion once he'd come back. "We're sharing the same room, do you need help with your belongings?"

The Zaunite's suitcase was still in Fiora's hand. She said nothing, ignoring you as she straightened her chin and let go of Viktor's arm as well as his luggage, exchanging a glance with Garen who seemed impassive to her attitude.

Viktor exchanged glances with you and then Garen. "No need," he confirmed politely.

"Alright," smiled Garen, turning to your little group, "we're all on the ground floor. Room 020 for Viktor and me, room 021 for you two,’ he explained as he handed you your keys, Fiora not even unlocking her arms from her chest to take the ones Garen was handing her.

"As if I was to share my room with someone like you," Fiora almost choked out.

"At least something we agree on," you breathed before pulling your suitcase towards the building.

You had only one thing on your mind: taking a shower and putting on clean clothes. Demacia had a warmer climate than Piltover, and although the sun wasn't high in the sky, the air was already hot, and your walk to the hotel didn't help the feeling.

The interior of the hotel was charming, managing to bring warmth to its ambience despite its cold bluish tones. It didn't take you long to find your room, shoving the key into the lock more hastily than you would have liked.

You pulled your suitcase onto a tiled floor with hexagonal stones alternating royal blue and creamy white, two thick beds next to each other already making you regret coming here just from the perspective of who would take the second one. You placed your suitcase on the side of the bed you'd settled on taking, removing your coat, which was already far too warm for your back and shoulders.

There was a knock at the door, and you turned to see Garen, his stature taking up almost all the light in the corridor in the silhouette of the door.

"Got the word from Madame Lolanthe," he began, "the Piltover students get a one hour break in their rooms before we come back to get you ready for the Academy visit."

"Okay," you nodded, getting rid of your scarf, "thank you for telling me."

"No problem," he smiled, leaning against the doorway, "You hold up to her well."

"Hold up to her?" you repeated, almost confused.

"That talk about the looks, and the money," he noted, "I know who's words I'll repeat whenever she gets on my nerves again."

You smiled. "One will buy you sympathy, the other will buy you the rest. Unfortunate that with her great wealth she can't buy me," you sighed, folding your scarf to lay it on the corner of your bed. "She doesn't seem to like it very much."

He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. "That's because she's never had someone come on her territory and impose themselves so easily."

You arched an eyebrow, a small sneer tugging at the corner of your lips. "I'm imposing?"

He chuckled. "To her? She won't ever admit it, but you're terrifying."

"And to you?" you questioned, "Am I any threat to the sublime of a Demacian student like you?"

He considered you for a moment. "That remains to be seen."

You smiled at him one more time, placing your suitcase on your bed to open it. 

"Don't worry, I'm not going to engage in verbal fencing with you. So far at least you've given me no reason to do so," you explained as you took out your toiletries.

"I shall do everything in my power for it to remain as such," he confirmed, placing his hand on his chest solemnly and bowing his head slightly. "I'll leave you to your rest, see you in an hour."

"See you in an hour," you repeated simply as he disappeared from the doorway. 

He reminded you of Jayce, but wiser, more chivalrous than naive, more observant than questioning.

So you finally grabbed some new clothes and headed for the second room in your bedroom, which was undoubtedly the bathroom. Were you all so stinky that the Demacians urged you to shower at all costs? It would have been funny, an unnecessary rivalry in a programme that encouraged the exact opposite.

The bathroom was an elegant composition of blue, white and pearly grey mosaics. Two wash basins carved from rough white stone stood next to each other in front of a large oval horizontal mirror. In the corner to your left was the toilet, and in the corner to your right was the ivory-white bathtub.

You were almost tempted to pick up your suitcase and put it in the bathroom with you while you showered, just to make sure that the bratty Fiora didn't come poking around in it or doing anything stupid.

After all, in your belongings was an object that could potentially get you into a lot of trouble here if it were found: your tarot deck.

Demacia's little worry in this instance was a deep-seated aversion to magic and all that surrounds it. Who wouldn't be when the history of its people was rooted in magical wars and the terror that ensued? Petricite, the material from which their protection came from the trees of their forests, was undoubtedly in abundance in the walls surrounding you. It was almost oppressive, as if the air were less breathable, more contained than ever in a box.

You stripped off your clothes and slipped under the water, which must also have been filtered specifically for petricite. It seemed almost dry, leaving an unpleasantly light sensation on your skin as you soaped yourself up almost furiously.

Your thoughts returned to your Tarot deck. You just hoped that the energies wouldn't affect it, and that you wouldn't be caught red-handed. You would have to be discreet about this activity, however naive, to avoid any lightning strikes.

You took your time to prepare yourself. You put on some simple clothes for the rest of the day, something comfortable enough to move around in and not suffer from the heat, and rearranged your suitcase, making sure you looked perfectly presentable.

You left your room after slipping your suitcase under your bed, knocking on the door of your comrade to whom you hadn't been able to speak since you set foot on Demacian soil.

"Come in," answered the familiar accent behind the door.

You turned the handle, opening the door to find Viktor sitting on one of the two beds. He seemed to be busy placing a particular mechanism on his bad leg, a strap running from his lower thigh to the sole of his shoe. He was bent over, arranging a sort of screw-on part on the side of his knee.

The system seemed to be complex, an orthopaedic support made of metal and leather for better stability, no doubt, in the same way that corsets were worn for scoliosis.

You'd never seen him wear it before.

"Is it in preparation for the walk we're about to go on?" you questioned.

He sighed heavily, rearranging a belt against his thigh and trying to smooth the creases in his trousers under the pressure. "Mademoiselle Laurent's brisk walk doesn't seem to have been very kind," he raised his amber gaze to yours, "I fear the upcoming days might be more difficult than what I expected."

You sighed, taking a step forward into the bedroom. "Yeah," you nodded, "not sure how I will handle the whole Fiora thing... At least Garen's nice so far."

His eyes moved from yours to his thigh again, tightening another bolt. "Mhm."

"You guys got cool rooms!" Jayce's voice made you turn towards him, coming from the other end of the corridor, poking his head through the doorways. "Ours is all..." he grimaced, his eyes crinkling as his upper lip lifted to the side, "green."

"Got something against the green of nature, Talis?" you remarked, arching an eyebrow.

"Absolutely not!" he snapped, raising his hands in the air to clear his throat. "It's just that ours is... ugly."

"Do you miss the gold of Piltover already?"

"A bit."

"Have the Kirammans changed you so much? Unless... has Mel got you used to luxury?"

"I-" he almost choked, but before he could pull himself together and resume his sentence, he frowned, mouth open. His eyes flicked to a point in the void before turning to Viktor, with whom he exchanged a glance. "Do you think what she thinks?"

Viktor breathed in, holding his breath for a moment before shrugging his shoulders and sighing in agreement. Jayce looked like he'd been punched in the stomach.

"Am I... a high-class hooker?"

You grinned, putting your hand on his shoulder and patting it. "I think there are worse realisations in life than this."

"True, but... how do you know for sure."

"It's not a wildly complex diagnosis," Viktor remarked as he grabbed his cane and straightened up. "First the bottles of champagne with more than one zero."

"Then the petits fours," you pointed out.

"And the new shirts piling up in the dressing room..." Viktor continued.

"Fine!" stopped Jayce. ‘Fine, I see your point,’ he straightened up, trying to puff out his chest as he pretended to deconstruct the image you'd given him, sighing in vain as he watched you with plaintive eyes, "this is so bad isn't it?"

"It's the end of the world," you grinned.

Viktor shook his head, playing disappointment. "What happened to my work partner?"

"Hey!" squeaked Jayce.

Viktor turned to you. "Did you know he leaves the apartments three nights out of four to go see Mel?"

"What?" Your mouth opened in a terrible mock shock as you put your hand to your chest comically, "that's heartbreaking."

"I know," sighed Viktor dramatically, "I end up starring at the pile of his new shirts in the corner while I kill myself on work."

"Jayce," you huffed, "how could you?"

"Stop this! You two!" begged Jayce.

You finally smiled and gave up the act. "Relax, gold suits you anyway."

"You guys are the worst," grumbled Jayce as you and Viktor exchanged playful glances.

You headed out of the hotel, meeting up with Sky who instantly came over to you.

"That Fiora's already got you in her sights," she muttered.

You sighed, looking around as if to see if she was spying on you, but if she was, she wasn't within earshot. "I know, it's like I'm attracting them all like a magnet. Let's hope it doesn't last any longer than that, otherwise this trip may quickly be robbed of its holiday quality."

When the rest hour came to an end, Madame Diane finally showed up again an exact hour as the time she had left you. Their organisation was finely measured, timed and unforgivable.

Fiora couldn't help but regain her position as the cling-on next to Viktor.

"Pulled out your fanciest shoes for me?" she giggled as her eyes roamed Viktor's aid.

He sighed, "If I have to keep up with you, this is more than needed."

She gave you a dark look, though it was different from the one she'd previously thrown at you so far. There was a sort of flash of malice, an unpleasant aspect of that of a chess player with a sick and evil strategy.

You took no further notice as the walk to the Demacian Academy began.

You passed various buildings, Diane telling you a few little facts about the history of the streets and specific places. Jayce made comments here and there.

"How do they build such edifices?" he asked, amazed by the city's architecture and its intricacies.

"By piling stones on top of each other," you replied, Garen smiling beside you, your eyes witnessing Viktor's cheekbones rising at your remark from your view of his back.

You finally reached the Demacia Academy. Its campus formed a pile of wings of buildings of varying sizes and architecture. 

"Each study environment," as Madame Diane pointed out as you walked through the Academy's gardens, "is separated into its own buildings. We are privileged and proud to be able to welcome all kinds of cultures and knowledge within our walls. Humanities, Engineering, Art, all forms of wisdom are welcomed without any hierarchy."

Your eyes roamed over the bluish domed roofs, wondering if from the inside these same tiles covered all the light or if their material was transparent like sunglasses.

"A single point joins the students who wish it," she raised her long index finger in the air, pointing to the sky as if the almighty sky bequeathed to her every truth about the globe.

Garen pressed his palm against your shoulder, your eyes resting on it as he whispered into your ear.

"See over there?" the index finger of his hand on your shoulder, seemingly engulfing you by its size, pointed in a direction you followed.

"Mhm?" you hummed, observing a flat area that wasn't concreted over and seemed to be covered in a long, black, loose carpet.

"That's the training area," his warm breath brushed against your ear, "me and Fiora meet there every morning."

"We want our students to stay healthy and to help each other," Diane recited aloud.

Garen huffed, continuing to murmur. "If you'd like to see her lose eventually, this is where the show's at."

"Lose?" you repeated in a whisper, your eyes drifting to Fiora next to Viktor, who just seemed to have turned his head away.

"Mhm," said Garen before straightening up and letting go of your shoulder, "I've heard that it's something you don't do."

You smiled, a little laughy breath escaping from your lungs. 

"Thus, we have a training area dedicated to this," Diane continued, "our students can go there whenever they like, it's a free field. Now, if you don't mind, we're going to continue..."

But you could barely register another sentence at the moment, your eyebrows furrowing as you began to move forward with the rest of the group. 

One thought remained in your mind, however. Something that had struck you suddenly, something that surprised you more than you would have thought: not a shiver had been born under Garen's breath on your skin.

It was strange, not a single hair standing on end, no heat rising to your cheeks. Nothing. 

It was only when the memory of Viktor's breath hit the back of your neck that it began to heat up.

You tried to pull yourself together, to ignore this information, and to ignore the warm sensation in your stomach as your eyes found Viktor's combed brown locks.

It's probably nothing,’ you tried to convince yourself.

The rest of the day passed pleasantly, exploring the library and some of the historic sites on campus. You had eaten in a charming restaurant near the hotel, while the Demacian students returned to their cafeterias and afternoon classes and Heimerdinger gave you a lesson on Demacia. He had preferred to postpone his lessons on Demacia to save them for the trip, for a better immersion and to truly submerge you in his lessons.

Fiora was glued to Viktor like a leech, as if when he let go of her arm he was going to fall face first onto the pavement. She kept sending you these petty little smiles, and you kept giving her a deeply neutral expression.

The night came earlier than expected, and you dreaded the idea of having to share this room, which was supposed to be so pure and perfect, with an oddball like her.

You were already strangely regretting the night you'd spent with Viktor. Admittedly, you hadn't always had the best of times when you were forced into close proximity, but that didn't detract from the fact that you had common ground and mutual respect.

Up until now, Fiora hadn't earned your respect.

And to your surprise, as the hours passed and you read in bed, she never came.

Many thoughts raced through your mind, tirelessly changing subjects and possibilities.

Was she with Viktor? you wondered.

No, Garen and Viktor went to bed together.

So where is the viper? Perhaps it's in its burrow, at home in who knows which grand Demacian mansion, in a bed with silk sheets and canopied curtains. Madame's sleep must not be damaged or altered in any way.

And that breath on your skin, that hadn't done anything to you? Why did it?

Sleep overtook you quickly though, overpowering your fiery spirit, Demacia's jet lag catching up with you faster than you thought possible.

When you awoke, it was early enough in the morning that the horizon was still a gradation of night leading towards the bright pearl of the sun. Your eyes found Fiora's bed empty and perfectly tucked in just as you had found it.

You took advantage of the fact that the city was still a little asleep to get out your tarot deck. You knocked on both sides, hoping to release whatever energy the petricite could have brought.

You performed your usual little ritual, and the card of the day turned out to be the five of swords. The little booklet provided you with the following information: 

Cruelty. Think about your actions and words. False accusations. Cowardice. Inflated ego at the expense of others. Taking advantage of others.

This is a warning card that reminds you of the power of your words and actions. An argument has ended and there is a winner, a loser, and a mediator. Who do you identify with on this card? Which character represents you at this precise moment? If you don't recognise yourself in this card, who or what does it remind you of? What lessons can you learn from this image?

You were sighing, an argument? It was probably because of yesterday with Fiora, because of what you had to learn from it.

So you got ready for the day, looking forward to meeting Garen on that famous training area. You had discussed the time at which him and the pretentious one would meet, deciding to join them a little later to let them do their training but above all to go there with a small group of students who intended to visit more of the university with their Demacian duos.

The days were to be split in two. In the morning, the Demacian students would be in class, while the Piltovian students would have their history lessons with Heimerdinger. The afternoons would be devoted to visiting Demacia, its monuments, museums and so on.

So you went to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. There you met Viktor and Jayce, sharing their table. You helped yourself to the buffet in this luxury self-service restaurant before coming over to them.

"Good morning," greeted Viktor, sipping his coffee as his eyes were riveted on what appeared to be the local newspaper.

"Morning," you replied as you sat down at their table.

"You know," Jayce began with his mouth full, "I'm not usually a fan of switching foods but," he twitched his nose as he chewed energetically, "I gotta hand it to them, it's really good."

"You would eat flowers if they were edible," you remarked before bringing your own breakfast to your lips, nodding at the taste, though.

"Ah ha! See?" Jayce remarked at your expression.

You shrugged. "Not bad."

Actually, what you were chewing was delicious, but it wasn't hard to reach that level given your diet of mostly simple pasta and stir-fry in your flat.

"Come on," Jayce tried, turning to Viktor, "their coffee's good too."

The questioned man abandoned his reading of the newspaper, taking in hand a pastry covered in icing sugar. "I'll admit that it's not bad."

"Not bad?" you remarked, arching an eyebrow. "Better than mine?"

He chuckled. "Not possible."

You nodded. "Huh, I guess I'll just have to check for myself," you remarked, pressing your palm against the table as you prepared to get up and help yourself to the drink area.

"You can just drink from mine," suggested Viktor.

The pressure of your weight on your palm eased, turning your head towards him. "From yours?"

He watched you for a moment, then picked up his cup and placed it in front of you. "I don't know if I'll be able to finish it in one go," his back found the back of the seat, "so, we can share."

You considered the mug for a moment, observing the ring of foam that had dried and marked the inside of the cup, waiting to be drunk. It seemed sweet, like what Viktor used to drink.

You curled your fingers around its handle, the round, slightly flattened cup feeling pleasantly heavy in your hand. You brought it to your lips, blowing gently on its contents and noticing the previous mark of the sip Viktor had taken.

Your glance met his, moving from your mouth to your eyes, your lips resting where his had been moments before, before you took a sip without your gaze ever leaving each other's. 

His jaw seemed to tense for a moment as your tongue passed over your lower lip to catch the last few drops of coffee before placing the cup back on the table.

You nodded, raising your eyebrows. "Not bad."

Viktor's amber eyes had a strange blackness in them, pierced by a dark glint you couldn't make out that brought more warmth to your cheeks and neck than the coffee.

"I told you!" Jayce exclaimed, bringing you back to reality almost brutally.

What was going on? Why was the air suddenly so thick and tense?

Your eyes lowered to your breakfast, taking a small bite as you returned to Viktor gently through your eyelashes. His gaze was still on you, his long, slender fingers wrapping around the waist of the cup and bringing it to his mouth.

His eyes lit up with a strange satisfaction as your lips parted and his came to rest where yours had been only seconds ago. 

Your heart leapt in your chest as you engulfed your entire meal in one mouthful, preferring to find an excuse like this to the suffocation you were beginning to feel from the pounding of your heart against your ribs, which were suddenly too narrow to contain it.

Viktor looked at you, as surprised as he was amused by the suddenness of this behaviour.

"You look nervous," Jayce pointed out, "are you alright?"

You met his gaze, your eyes drifting over Viktor's for a moment as you swallowed your mouthful with difficulty. Quick, an excuse, or something.

"I'm going to try and train with the Demacian students," you explained.

Jayce's eyebrows rose, Viktor's frowned.

"You're about to try and train with them?" the taller one repeated, wiping the crumbs from his sweet tooth with the back of his hand, "the same students that have a training area and some of the best fighters in all Runeterra?"

You stuffed your mouth with another part of your breakfast, trying to take some strength for what would await. "Yes."

Breakfast continued simply until you finally decided to go to the Academy campus. The sun was higher in the sky, already warm as you made your way to the training ground.

A group of students were occupying various parts of the large area, a variety of wooden weapons clashing against each other in a waltz of energetic movements and grunts.

The small group of Piltovian students approached this area, some coming to meet up with their duet mates, others standing back to observe the scene.

You finally caught sight of Garen, busy at the moment against a mannequin, his stature seeming even more imposing that way. Dressed in a navy blue t-shirt with sweat stains on the collar and back, baggy black trousers and combat boots, he looked perfectly military.

When he met your eyes, he smiled at you, indicating with his fingers that you should come closer. You pointed your index finger at yourself, exchanging glances with Jayce and then Viktor.

"Don't look at me," the latter pointed out, "if I've got any place on this field it's as a training dummy."

You shrugged. "I'm sure you'd make an amazing fencer with your cane," you said before stepping forward when Garen came your way.

You reached him on the pitch, the feel of the ground softer and smoother than you would have thought. No doubt to reduce the damage of falls, which were bound to be numerous around here.

"Good morning," Garen greeted you when you reached him.

"Good morning," you pressed your lips into a thin line. "I think by coming here I've voluntarily signed my death warrant."

"I'm sure you'll do just fine," he confirmed in a soft laugh, starting to move forward.

"Fiora isn't here?" you questioned, anxiously.

"She went ahead to get herself some water, she'll be back soon," he explained.

"Hope she takes her time," you sighed, "I'd like to... try training."

He turned to you in surprise. "Try training?"

"Mhm," you confirmed, "gotta get the full experience of this trip, I guess?"

He chuckled, nodding finally. "Alright, what would you like to try?"

"What's on the menu for bruises and sore muscles today?" 

"Hmm," he glanced at the few remaining wooden weapons, "let us try with a staff."

Your eyes followed his gaze, settling on one of the weapon bearers. A row of quarterstaffs was there, waiting to be retrieved. 

Fighting with wands, the joke was almost ridiculously simple if you thought back to the five of wands.

He picked one up, throwing it at you as you caught it in the air.

"Good reflexes," he remarked as he took one in turn, "it's going to be needed." He twirled the staff in his hand with ease, positioning himself in front of you. "Show me what you know."

You had distant memories of using a staff, of parrying, of attacking, even if you weren't an expert and wasn’t sure about your capacity on bringing them back to life.

You had to get it into your head that you weren't there to win, but to learn, to take in new information and rediscover what it meant to learn through interest rather than obligation.

You described a swing in the air, the wood hissing as Garen easily parried the blow, coming into your game. All he had to do was push a little harder against you so that the pressure made you tilt your balance and he took advantage of it to try a blow that you still managed to parry before stepping back and almost losing your balance.

"You're smaller than me, and probably faster," commented Garen, "use it to your advantage."

"How am I supposed to do that?" you questioned, tightening your grip around your staff in the hope that your muscle memory would do the job.

Garen repositioned himself, smiling slightly. "Surprise me."

You chuckled, tapping the tip of your stick on the ground twice before repositioning yourself, bending your knees and tensing your shoulders.

You trotted towards him a little, raising your staff in the air before deviating and giving a kick with your foot on his at the last moment to shift the balance. His grip was firmer on it than you thought, but the blow was enough to divert his attention to the gesture and you drove your stick into his foot, causing him to grunt as you tried to go around him to hit the back of his knees.

Realising your trick though, he changed his stance, pivoting towards you and swinging an arc through the air that you stepped back from in time, dodging his next blow by placing your palm on his staff to squeeze it and pull it towards you to bring him down.

But his weight of muscle won out over yours, so he used your initial idea to his advantage by pulling you towards him until your back was against his chest and he was holding his staff under your chin.

You felt his warm chest under the fabric of his T-shirt, his chest expanding and sinking against you as you felt the wood of his staff push your chin up until your eyes met his. He huffed, cracking a smile.

"You did good," he breathed, cracking a smile before the grip on your chin eased and he released you.

You took a step forward, turning to face him. "Just good?"

"Not satisfied with good?" he pointed out.

"No," you chuckled as you grabbed your staff with both hands, ready to attack again.

He smiled, changing position again. "Then do better, Piltie girl."

"Would you look at that?"

Your eyes rolled heavenward as you recognised this insufferable voice and turned to Fiora.

She was wearing a uniform similar to that of Garen. A dark plum turtleneck t-shirt with short sleeves, trousers less wide than Garen's, and perfectly polished boots.

She was equipped with her most mocking smile. "How did you end up here?"

You shrugged, letting one hand fall away from the staff before your arm dropped to your side. "I thought I'd come here for a holiday camp, but too bad the activities and organisers aren't great."

She giggled, her eyebrows arching as she turned to the remaining staff to pick one up. Some students stopped practising, observing the scene. Fiora undoubtedly had her own little reputation which she maintained proudly, and to see someone standing up to her must have been a novelty for many.

"Let's see what you're made of," she said, putting herself on guard against you.

You sighed. "I don't want to fight you," you remarked as you moved towards the receptacle to lay down your weapon.

But she prevented you from doing so by sending it flying further away from a single hit. You glared at her.

Her smile was evil, her eyebrows low over vicious eyes. "You're gonna have to pick it up if you want to put it back there."

"Fiora," Garen warned, "stop."

"It's fine," you assured him, watching Fiora's face change between satisfaction and impatience.

You knew she was trying to push you, to build up your frustration to get a reaction out of you. You didn't want to give her the pleasure.

You breathed a sigh, walking over to the staff on the ground before picking it up. But as you turned, you barely had time to reflexively place the staff in front of your face as a parry.

Fiora had just tried to attack you, and violently at that.

"Fight," she insisted as you took a step backwards. "Don't they teach you how to fight in Piltover?"

You huffed, trying to get round her as she circled after you like a predator around its prey. "Guess we swapped war for intellect," you pointed out, feeling more in the mood for a verbal joust than a physical one, "I can see how the lack of it is visibly affecting you."

Fiora frowned, pointing the end of her staff at you. "What did you just say?"

You smiled, getting caught up in the game. "Do I have to repeat it for you? Or break it down into digestible pieces for your little brain?"

She grunted before drawing rapid attacks in the air that you managed to parry and avoid until you crossed the wood and found yourselves close. 

"You are so lacking in intelligence that neither education nor experience has helped you to fill this gap in your nature," you taught her.

She punched you in the stomach before hitting you in the thigh with her staff, forcing you to your knees. You felt the tip of her staff under your chin, firm and raw as she looked down at you.

"Look at who's kneeling before me," she sneered as she exchanged smiles with the surrounding students.

You didn't let her get to you though. "Simply tying my shoes, your majesty."

The nickname seemed to irritate her in a less visible way than the others, but you could still make out the little muscle near her eye tense up.

She offered a simple blow of her nose in laughter, leaving you on the ground as her stick dislodged itself from your chin.

She then turned to her audience, rounding on you. ‘What a fierce little thing she is, isn't she?’ she quizzed.

You turned towards her, straightening up as you frowned.

"By your words I believe you called me ignorant, so I did a bit of digging." She wore a smile that was about to cause some serious errors. "You will be surprised to learn that," she turned to you with a wicked smile, "she's an orphan."

Your lips parted as your chest began to tighten in anger, the other students around you all glaring at you like a freak show.

"No one ever wanted her," Fiora went on as if she were presenting a tragic two-bit story, "until she got taken in by pity."

You wanted to rip her tongue out. How could she know? How dare she put it out there for everyone to see?

She hovered around you, addressing her audience to paint a pitiful picture. 

"Got a failure? Get another for half the price!" She sneered as she described dramatic gestures of demonstration, calming down on the theatrical though as she turned back to you, eyes half-closed with pretense and pointing at you with her staff. "So now," she resumed, tone condescending, "she tries to remove that tag off herself by being first everywhere!" She turned to the other pupils as if they were little children learning a lesson. 

Your knuckles had turned white from squeezing your fists so tight, your breathing quickening as your anger built.

She turned to face you. "As if that was going to change her nature."

"That's enough!" Garen growled as he approached her.

"What's wrong? I am simply stating facts," Fiora pointed out falsely, innocently.

Their conversation faded from your mind, however, as your frustration rose inside you. 

Who was it? Who was it that could have given her this information?

There were only three people who knew about this matter. Only three. Jayce, Sky...

And Viktor.

Viktor, who had spent his time in Fiora's company, who was always glued to his arm, who had had to give in to the fatigue and frustration of her questions by answering her about you while she was scheming against you.

There was only him.

Your body seemed to you like a suit of armour in a garden of white statues of purity, where the ruby-red roses of anger were allowed to overtake the metal covering your rage.

Clad in armour. 

Ready.

"You said you wanted to fight?" 

Your voice echoed through the air louder than you could have imagined, but loud enough that all heads turned towards you. Fiora smiled, having finally achieved her goal.

"You've changed your mind?"

"Yes." Your tone was firm, rigid.

"That is most delightful to hear," Fiora smiled, turning to her audience and raising her arms before regaining your gaze, "I'll even do you the honour of choosing your weapon."

"No weapons."

Your whole body tensed, your fingers twitching as your muscles seemed to prepare themselves for what was about to happen.

Fiora raised her eyebrows. "Fists? How barbaric.’

"Scared your fancy manicure can't handle it?"

It was asking everything in your power not to let your voice explode in the air, to remain calm and articulate.

All the same, Fiora seemed fascinated by your determination to continue to stand up to her, to refuse to give up, to abandon in the face of her.

"Careful Fiora," shouted one of the students, "I've heard she's a witch."

Had she finally infiltrated your room? Looked through your things while you were asleep? Or had she managed to hear about Selene and had already started to do her viper's work of spreading rumours? Either way, she was already on to you.

"Glad to know we're on the right territory to get rid of this kind of waste," smiled Fiora.

"You can't beat me," you put the staff back in its receptacle, moving away again to get ready, "only one person gets to have that honour."

Your eyes landed on Viktor, who was watching the scene with furrowed brows.

You readied your breath, stopping your heart from getting too big in your chest as your legs prepared to hold your balance.

"So eager," Fiora sighed with a stupid grin, stepping forward to place her staff, "I didn't know you would-"

But as soon as the staff was placed, your knuckles made hard contact with her cheek, sending her to the ground.

A wave of shocked murmurs took over the crowd as you stood, eyes lowered on Fiora as she leaned back to straighten herself on the floor, her perfectly smooth fringes slightly dishevelled revealing her wide eyes as she brought her palm to her cheek still warm from the blow.

"Get up," your voice was cold, trying to remain unwavering while your fist trembled. "You said you wanted a fight, so," your lips were full of rage, "fight."

Fiora snarled, springing to her feet and running at you with the breath of a bull seeing red. She tried to land a blow on your face to return the favour, but you dodged it and punched her in the stomach, her curling up as you grabbed her hair and she started screaming.

"You fucking bitch!" she cried.

She slapped you on the shoulder and you let go, throat rocky with wrath. "Yell at me again and I'll give you a proper reason to scream."

There was a dangerous growl in your voice, a grinding of a gear powering an old machine that was starting up again.

She came back at you, landing a blow on your leg in the hope of making you kneel again, but she was only marginally successful. She hit you in the jaw, causing you to back away slightly, before delivering a second blow to the cheekbone.

You didn't give her the honour of adding a third strike, offering her a violent punch in the throat that took her backwards as you took a slight leap and slammed your hand hard into her face, her grabbing your clothes and dragging you backwards as she fell.

Sitting on her abdomen, your two knees blocked her arms as you gained free reign over her guard.

You hit her once, twice, thrice, her cheek beginning to swell. Your blows increased in intensity, the tension in your fist not stopping you even if the bones in your hand broke.

"Stop this!" 

Two thick arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you out with difficulty as you struggled in vain.

Garen pulled you away from the body of Fiora, who had turned to spit a cloud of bloody spray onto the floor. Your eyes never let go of her, as if you were obsessed with your real aim of seeing her admit defeat.

"You," you snapped at her, regaining some calmness though, "you're the one that started spreading gossip about me behind my back aren't you?"

Fiora turned to you, breathless. "What?" Her voice was hoarse from your blow.

"Don't make me repeat myself," you threatened, fully aware that you hadn't hit any of her eardrums and that she could understand you perfectly well.

She breathed heavily. "Why does it matter?"

You approached slightly, fists still clenched as you watched her on the floor, pathetic.

"Just wanted to make sure you knew your place."

Fiora shook off the hands of the students who had just tried to help her off ofto the floor, her furious eyes finding you as she struggled to get to her feet.

You realised the extent of the damage your fury, your uncontrollable anger, had done. Fiora's face was red, one of her eyelids bulging as blood poured from her nose, joining the red on her lips and gums.

You could have gone on, made things worse. Who knows how far you could have gone? What irreversible damage you could have caused? What life you could have taken in your own anger?

The realisation hit you like an anvil.

Your eyes roamed the crowd, the faces of the frightened students.

I... I did this? you thought.

I made them look at me with... fear?

Your eyes found Fiora still on the ground, grunting in pain and coughing.

Monster.

That's all you were. A being incapable of overcoming the violence that had nourished her, of abandoning the bosom of this bitter mother who had cuddled her so much and made her grow.

Your gaze wandered over the rest of the pupils, until it met his.

Viktor's face was shocked.

No, please...

His lips were parted and his eyes wide as you felt your hands impossibly sticky with the hot blood they had spilled.

Please, don't look at me like that... Your heart was trembling. 

Not you.

You had to get out of here.

Hands clasped to your sides, you strode across the pitch, the few students even two metres away from you moving away as you passed.

I made them like this. Although this thought might have given some people a feeling of pride and power, you couldn't help but feel covered in a terrible shame.

You couldn't meet anyone's eyes as you made your way to the nearest water source, away from any eyes.

You turned the crank on a fountain to turn it on, your breath quickening with anxiety.

I have to get this off me.

You ran your hands frantically under the water, rubbing the reddened skin of your knuckles and trying to get rid of the blood that was already starting to dry.

You returned to the handle as the water subsided, your hand coming into contact with the blood you'd left behind when you turned it the first time.

You make everything dirty. Everywhere you go there will be blood if you go on.

You swallowed a sob as you tried to clean the crank and your hands again.

But nothing would wash the feeling away. Nothing could extinguish the fire still burning in your fingertips. Nothing could make you forget the warm, slimy sensation of the pain you'd committed, of the violence at the edge of your skin.

It's what you're made of.

You sat against the wall, banging both wet fists against your skull as if that would stop those thoughts from ruling your mind.

And he'd seen you. He saw you like this. Your violence coming to life before his eyes, reflected in an indecipherable Iris.

You put your head between your knees, tried to take a deep breath before you got up, your legs weak and trembling as you made your way back to the hotel.

Stupid, stupid crown.

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taglist : @doctorho @6selkie @yunloyal @kryscent @hypocritic-trash-baby @kapitankarate @a-lovers-card @ababanerb @lolixsstuff @forget-me-not-my-dear @smolanchovy @shugar0cone0alt @harrys--ferret-blog @suuummerrr @stillinracooncity @noxturnalmoth @dlbitch @cloufire @csolya @kathyholdsagrudge @furblrwurblr @potatointhedirt @atrocioushaircut @ren-ni @schrodingersraven @urmommt @enoojnij @stilinskisensation @emlovesya @soupsaurus @luvreadingfics @the-valars-sapphire @solbringer @adorabluesposts @pxszels @nerolovesseongjiyuk @cyberwears @cryptidcut @seohaepeachyun @danielsbackupglasses @2hiigh2cry @16novvs @cicadastoner @patchs-curiosity-corneriosity-corner @w41k3r-94290 @minniiv @roku907 @lumilarity @peachy-writings @disturbyn @ddandelionfluff @holymotherfxrkingshirtballs @notyuralycat @glenn-slayer @k07ume @hexb0nes @ravngers @fushirika @glenn-slayer @watergirl13girl @graveyardtrain @theuclid

[draconic-desire]

your yan!neuvi series got me on a chokehold !! I feel so bad for darling but it got me thinking, would neuvillette ever allow them to i dont know, go visit mondt to look at their parents’ grave (?).

Neuvillette meets his (dead) in-laws edition 😂

Ok this idea is simultaneously kinda funny but also makes me cry a bit because I totally think Neuvillette would have ensured your family’s wellbeing in your absence. Despite his flaws, he still maintains his overwhelming sense of duty and justice.

Yandere Neuvillette x Reader

(A Dance with the Dragon Interlude)

Talking about your life four centuries ago has become a bit of a taboo in the household you share with Neuvillette.

Mostly, it only serves to incite an argument, one you are always predestined to lose. The other times, it only reminds you of painful memories. So, you’ve learned to bite your tongue, to keep your past held tightly to your heart. Neuvillette doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, you believe he might prefer if your history were to be wiped from your mind completely, leaving a blank slate for him to carve his essence into.

Which is why you’re so shocked when, on a particularly storming evening, the Chief Justice himself requests, “Tell me about what your parents were like.”

Jolting, you nearly drop the book in your hands. He’s not looking at you—usually, having his gaze on you translates to irritation, concern, or lust. When he’s looking away from you, as he is now, irises trained on the waves battering the cliffs below your home, you know that means he is instead thinking, pondering.

But thinking about what? Your eyes narrow, and your heart accelerates. What is he getting at?

A hand clenches around your heart when you try to picture your mother and father in your head—and fail. Four hundred years without a visit or simple image…of course their features have faded over time. But you’ll never forget the warmth, the knowledge that they loved you until the end and supported your lifelong wish of pursuing marine biology, even when it took you away from them.

You only shake your head. “I don’t want to talk about that, Neuvillette.”

He turns to you, now, eyes filled with calculation. A judge presiding over his court. “I had no parents. I simply…came to exist. Born of the water, the waves, the sea foam, and bestowed with this primordial power.” He glances down at his gloved hand, palm squeezing into a fist. “So the idea of parents is…foreign to me. Though I have a sense of the kind of ceaseless, unconditional love that defines a family.” You know he’s talking about his feelings for you, and your tattoo burns. “Experiencing a loss of that magnitude would be incomprehensible.”

For the life of you, you cannot figure out his endgame here. Why acknowledge your loss? Why equate his adoration and obsession with you for parental love? Your eyes burn, your breath quickens, you feel the tattoo pulse with energy as you—

“Do you ever wonder about how they lived the rest of their lives?”

Yes. No. Everyday. Somehow, you find your voice, a quiet thing filled with warning. Your skin feels so hot, like your veins are laced with lightning. “And how would you know anything about that?”

Neuvillette’s sharp eyes cut to your frame. “I…made sure that they were fully provided for. They lived happy lives, believing you to be living out your dreams in Fontaine. They are now buried together, in the cathedral cemetery overlooking the Brightcrown Mountains.”

Your breath hitches, and that power in your blood begins to settle. Their favorite place. The Brightcrown Mountains, where your father proposed to your mother. The Favonius Cathedral, where they were married. And the cemetery behind the church, where your grandparents had been entombed, too.

Something falls onto your lap. It’s only when you touch your hands to your face that you realize you’re crying. Neuvillette watches you with concern, one hand raised and poised to reach out to you, but he keeps his distance as he lets you process.

You release a shaky sigh. Was it true? Did they pass with no fear for your safety, in ignorant bliss of your extended life? The thought, although morbid in some ways, actually brings you a sense of peace. Your parents never had to endure the loss of you in the same way you had for them.

You swallow thickly, your voice hoarse with emotion. “Can we…visit them?”

That sets Neuvillette’s back ramrod straight as he blinks. You’ve only been out of the house a handful of times, and he was the one to bring this topic to light, but to venture out of Fontaine entirely? His protective and possessive instincts flare immediately, screaming at him to shut this idea down, to grab you and sink his teeth into your neck, dominant, claiming. But as his silver eyes flick across your face, taking in your tears, the tremble in your hands, the pit of mixed despair and relief in your eyes, he relents.

Slowly, he blinks, taking in a deep breath. You’re expecting an excuse, a verbal slap on this wrist disguised as concern for your safety. Which is why, for the second time tonight, you’re stunned when Neuvillette, rising to his feet, extends his hand. “I’ll take you there.”

~*~

The trip is easy, thanks to the Hydro Dragon’s teleportation abilities. The two of you arrive at the large square in front of the cathedral, the statue of Barbados towering above you. Briefly, you wonder what the Archon of Freedom thinks about your situation, or if he even deigns to care.

Not much has changed about Mondstadt in four hundred years. The streets still possess an older feel, cobblestone streets and stone walls surrounding the city. After seeing the drastic change in Fontaine, the fact envelopes you in a sense of comfort, knowing that at least one aspect of the world has aged alongside you, long-lived but unchanged.

It’s long grown dark, and the heavy downpour persists. Neither of you brought an umbrella as you ascend the stairs and wrap around to the cemetery behind the church. The rain, however, seems to dissolve into your skin rather than chilling you or soaking your clothes, no doubt another consequence of Neuvillette’s magic coursing through your veins.

The Hydro Dragon leads you to a small plot towards the back. Two tombstones are erected side by side, and you fall to your knees as you read: (Mother’s name) and (Father’s name) (L/n). Lives entwined to their last breath, they soar high above the clouds.

You hear a rustle of fabric, and soon Neuvillette has joined you, kneeling by your side. He raises his arm, and tendrils of blue light pool from his palm, forming the shape of beautiful flowers. They surround the graves, a sea of blues to celebrate your loved ones.

The two of you sit there for what could have been minutes or hours. All you know is that this is the most at peace you’ve felt in four hundred years.

[fanaticsnail]

My offer will stand

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 1,800+

Synopsis: After being reprimanded by your boss for another mismanaged and hierarchical transgression transfer, you found an unlikely hand offering you comfort in the hallway behind your superior officer's door.

Themes: Mihawk x marine!reader, no gendered terms used, fluff, hand kissing, hurt / comfort, crappy boss, degradation and insults (crappy boss), affirmation and praise, flirtations, hat tilting.

Notes: @since-im-already-here said she was having a bad day. I told her to give me a blorbo and give me 40 minutes before bed. Have some fluff, sis. Enjoy the warlord.

It had finally broken you.

That welled dam you chose to keep behind the concrete slate of your resolve had began to crack the moment that cruel reprimand fled from your superior’s lips. It wasn't your fault, it was never your fault, yet you had become the scapegoat for all of the administration mistakes run by the marine’s International Charter Navigational Cooperation.

You had made the map, certainly. Each line and crease was of your making, as was the devotion you spend coursing over each calligraphed etch. But one misplaced line drawn by your supervisor was enough to tip the Vice Admiral over their edge.

Leaving the room after a cruel rage was imposed onto you, and clicking the door closed behind you, you placed your back on the wooden pane while you sucked a heavy breath through your nose and clenched your eyes tightly shut. You could still hear their voice ricocheting around in your mind and ringing in your ears.

“You can't do anything right.”

“You're a disgrace to call yourself a marine.”

“I should have you stripped of your awards and writing addresses in the mail room.”

“The only thing keeping you here is the fact your direct supervisor begged me not to discharge you from service.”

“The next mistake will be your last, marine.”

Exhaling, you internally chastised yourself by the way your lashline began to flood with the overwhelming emotion. Your breath felt more like a quivering sob than a relinquishment of air, and you hated yourself for this weakness. You were a marine, a hardened and trained soldier who devoted your life to your trained craft.

And this was the moment that broke you.

At the first tear, you sprung your eyes alert, checking first the hallway to ensure the coast was clear before another fled over your water line. There was no whimper, no sob, no sound other than your breath inhaling and exhaling as steadily as you could while you attempted to calm yourself down and ground yourself to the area around you.

The surrounds was a corridor with slate tiles, grout beginning to crack and fade into the floor and ruin the foundations. The windows were thick with ill-maintained cleanliness due to the heights of the marine tower and lack of volunteers for high-rise scaling. The lights illuminating the corridor was buzzing with an electrical fizz you had trained yourself to zone out.

The rhythmic clicking of leather boots and high heels rung on the floor to indicate the approach of a group of people you had not anticipated come to this side of the tower at present.

Seven warlords began to pass you. In your state of dishevelment, you stood your ground and looked straight ahead with an unmoving expression. None paid you any mind as you were simply a marine in usual uniform, and you chose to not let them see how hard your boss broke you by controlling your breathing and maintaining your stature.

As the last of the seven warlords moved past you, you noticed a clearing of a throat and a wave of something frilly and pale before your eyes. This small motion broke you out of your transfixed stature and you turned your head up to gaze upon a sight you had never anticipated.

“Dry your eyes, marine,” the powerful warlord of Kuraigana informed you curtly, “It would be unbecoming should any of the others have spotted your present state. Especially the feather-clad Donquixote.” You bat your lashes up at the world's greatest swordsman as you were shell shocked in your stupor.

Rolling his eyes and clicking his tongue, he simply stepped closer to you and immediately placed his hands on your shoulders and brushed off the white and blue panels of your uniform jacket. After your shoulders, he drew his hands down and straightened your tie, and began to shift down to your brass buttons to face them upright.

“Before you open and close your mouth in a bid to question why I'm doing this,” he spoke with a soft and sassy remark, “And believe me, I can already hear questions of: ‘You're a former marine hunter, why care about the way I look right now?’ and I would implore you to drop it and permit me to continue fix your attire to that more suitable of a marine.” He continued his fussing until he drew the frilled handkerchief up to your face.

Starting at your chin, he swiped at the few tears that spilled from your lashes up to collect the fresh few pooling on your eyes. His attention to detail wasn't lost on you. The flicker of his brow, the piercing gaze from his honeyed hue, the way his lips parted in concentration as he ensured your tear-blotched skin had returned to the way it should be was all causing you to truly delve into your mind of swirling questions hidden beneath your flickering eyes.

“I can see the question lingering in your eyes, marine,” he chastised you with a small smirk drawing up beneath his manicured upper lip. “And I explicitly informed you to halt them.”

“I had assumed you had fixed my attire to that more suitable of a marine,” you quipped in return as a small swell of bravery pulsated in your veins, “Which would indicate an opportunity to ask you why in the hells you're touching me like this right now.”

Mihawk’s eyes widened slightly, and his smirk remained drawn over his features as he almost released what sounded like a huffed laugh. He removed the handkerchief from your face and offered the monogrammed material out for a second time to you.

“Touche,” he tipped his feathered hat to you as you took the material from his hands into your own. You felt the brush of his cool fingertips meeting your own, the moment of time halting in a frozen standstill. The look he gave to you was almost soft in comparison to the hardened swordsman of great renown you knew him to be. His eyes held a gentle tease to them, knowing the next time you parted your lips would be with that same predictable question.

“Why are you so focussed on helping me, lord Dracule Mihawk?” you asked him plainly, “There is no reason for you to interact with someone like me. I'm nobody, just a lowly marine while you are one of the greater warlords of this era of piracy.”

“Because, my dear,” he stepped in closer to your proximity, his lips dropping closer to yours, “You're not just any ‘lowly marine', are you?” His hands clasped around yours, softly cradling the flesh of your digits beneath his own. He slowly rose your knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your hand while his eyes maintained contact with your own.

“What you are is so much more than that,” he whispered intimately, holding onto each syllable as if he was afraid to let them go, "Allow me to elaborate."

“You are one of the greatest map makers of our generation,” he emphasised, pressing another kiss to your knuckles and smoothing over your skin.

“Everything you do, you do to the finest of minute and miniscule details that most could miss,” he continued, tracing his lips over to your wristband and placing a kiss gently on the seam of your uniform jacket, “And the marines are lucky to have you.”

Mihawk drew that hand behind his neck before finding the other and cradling it within his own.

“The only thing keeping you here is your own valour, honor and creed you bound yourself to when you took the vow to be a marine,” he emphasised by drawing up your hand to his lips, “Not some hierarchical leverage another assumes they hold over you.” He placed the other hand behind his neck to join the other behind him. Leaning down he emphasised his final words by almost placing them against your lips by contact with his own.

“And the next time they make the mistake of blaming you for another's misdeeds,” he tilted his head and almost caused you to close your eyes and lean into his embrace, “The monogram on the handkerchief holds my signate, and location to my keep in Kuraigana.” At the simple taste of his breath on yours, the whisper of a soft tingle of his beard dusting your skin, his contact was broken from you by a hasty step backwards.

“Should they do something as petty as speak ill of anything you do in future, or blame you for another's misdeed again,” the swordsman continued with a soft flicker of mischief in his eyes, “I have always wanted to place a true artist on my payroll.” He reached up to the broad brim on his hat and tipped it toward you. “As a warlord, I hold diplomatic immunity, which extends to my staff, as a promise of my contract to the marines. You would be taken care of, should you leave them for me.”

“Lord Dracule Mihawk,” your silence was broken as a warm flush began to flood your ears at his words as they sunk in. Mihawk’s smile ticked slightly at the corners before it fled his face and held the memory within the shadow of his moustache.

“My offer will stand indefinitely,” Mihawk nodded before turning on his feet towards the room where the warlords had disappeared within, “You would do well to remember that should you find yourself wanting more than a life of being reprimanded for something you simply did not do. Treat my word as my bounds.”

“I trust your word, Lord Dracule,” you nodded after him. He simply nodded his head and allowed his lengthy embroidered coat to flow dramatically at his heels as he disappeared down the corridor into the meeting room.

While you believed this to be the moment that had finally broken you as a marine, the sword wielding warlord offered you the kintsugi repair to bring beauty and promise from your fractured loyalty. You expected a reprimand from your boss to be all that became of you in this moment, not a promise of new beginnings on the shores of Kuraigana.

The question then remains as to whether you wait for another reprimand from your superior, a discharge from service and a severance package to follow. Or, do you leave with the dark-haired warlord as he returns from the meeting space with your higher ups and the others. In your heart, you knew which was the more honorable choice to make.

But what honor remained for you to hold onto after such mistreatment from your superiors?

Looking down onto the monogrammed material, you thumbed over the embroidery with a soft smile on your features. Your destiny awaited you, and you would claim that path under the cover of darkness: sailing on a coffin-shaped boat under the protection of the Lord of Kuraigana, one of the seven warlords of the sea, and the current title holder of the world's greatest swordsman to serve him as his artist and chronicler in his high keep.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @ane5e

[weepingtalecowboy]

Fanfic prompt: wind has the ability to see ghosts right

What if the ghosts were using him to tell people things they are incapable of saying anymore and want to move on or whatever

But it is just all the chain's ghosts telling him cryptic threats and wind relaying them word for word in the worst possible times

Like it is just time sleeping together with Malon having a good restful sleep

When he wakes up walks into the bathroom and then he just sees a something written on his face

“He told me he wants his face back or there will be consequences”

And then he freaks out badly because that sounds familiar

Time didn’t even have the time to understand what just happened to him and if it was a weird hallucination but that man was having the anxiety of his life

Or

Legend finding a note in his bag (he freaks out how someone even managed to put one in there despite the protective charms)

And it just says “It wasn’t your fault that he (never) woke up”

(Marin and legend's Uncle)

And it just gives him horrible anxiety

Or

Wild finding a note on his slate that says “you won’t survive as long as you continue like this”

(Mipha was just particularly annoyed at him that day)

Wild took it as a threat

Or

four got a single word

“Shadow”

Then decided that he is probably cursed

And it just wouldn’t stop because wind is just doing what the ghosts want

The escalation happens when he either slips up and gets caught or if Twilight figures him out because he also can see ghosts

[ikkaku-of-heart]

Ikkaku knew she was tempting fate, coming to this opulent party, hosted by a mysterious Lord Draven who had only met her once yet insisted on her attendance. The engineer was no fool; this was clearly some kind of setup, especially since the invitation made it clear she wasn't getting a plus-one. Frankly, she'd been tempted to toss the invitation out and forget she'd ever met the nobleman, but something had changed her mind.

The Creator Turtle whispered in her ear that she needed to go. A unicorn was imprisoned, and His Light Keeper must set her free.

So, despite her better judgment, Ikkaku had dressed up in a beautiful black and yellow gown she used only for occasions like these. The full skirts held many hidden pockets she hid gadgets and useful items in, and she ensured she had several pieces of silver on hand to use in a pinch. If the Creator Turtle was involved, then she wasn't dealing with mere humans, and silver was the best defense against the eldritch horrors she might have to face.

So far, the party had been going well, though Ikkaku could tell the people she'd been coaxed into dancing with weren't what they seemed to be. She'd learned to look for the signs - skin too cold, chests too still, eyes too predatory. There were monsters here, but still she smiled and did her best to play the part of a woman none the wiser.

Then Ikkaku found herself dancing with a pale - and rather familiar - beauty in a white, feathered dress, and while she still didn't feel quite human, she knew she wasn't like the others. Oddly, she didn't seem as trapped at she'd been led to believe. Sure, the dress felt symbolic, but Ikkaku didn't see any chains, collars, or shackles that would imply Thea was the unicorn. Yet the concerned warning solidified her hunch that she'd found her target.

"Had the feeling tonight's ball wasn't going to live up to any Cinderella fantasy," Ikkaku replied, squeezing her hand back. "But neither of us are getting devoured tonight. I'm here to get you out. Can you run in that dress? I figure we can make a break for it if I cause a big enough distraction."

( a starter for @ikkaku-of-heart )

The chamber is immense and opulent beyond words, lavish and luxurious from the marble of its floor and pillars to the gilded lined draperies and gleaming ensorcelled lights casting a faux warm glow in shivering haloes. There are men and women in equally expensive finery from the corners of the vast world, gowns and suits to robes and sheer wrappings that was far from the notion of modest.

Music flows in currents throughout and many twirl and sway to its rhythm, couples exchanged at the cresting notes of a melody's zenith. Rarely the same partner twice - which is how the alabaster draped Amalthea finds herself in the hands of Ikkaku for the next rotation of steps. Her gown is lush with silky white feathers and pearls, but then stained with deep, bloodied crimson from around her throat and down over the swell of her chest. Rubies and scarlet threads creating the illusion of a torn, dripping wound that spilled vitae down her front in a beautifully macabre display.

She is equally as pale against the sanguine; lucid flesh and snowlit hair coiled and piled upon her head in an elaborate up do. Her eyes are huge and like the moonless midnight sky, framed by thick frosted lashes. Her red-rose painted lips part to speak; "You arent like the others," quiet as a butterfly's speech, still somehow heard over the throng, "death is in every false breath here, you will be devoured." The warning is emphasized by the squeeze of her hand; she could not see another innocent soul trapped as she was.

[hey-august]

March Madness Event - Winner (NSFW | Buggy X Marine!GN!Reader)

Woah woah woah, this story concludes the March Madness event!

(In case you missed it, throughout the month of March I posted polls pitting kinks against kinks. The ones that lost in the polls received short stories involving a bit of failure. The kink that won at the end of the month was slated to receive a proper story. And that's where we are now!)

I'll be honest, I did not expect this to be the winner. Then again, I should have seen it coming with how it took off in every poll it was in.

Thank you all for participating! Voting, reading, commenting, liking, reblogging - everything!!

I hope you enjoyed this event and that you enjoy this story. 🩷

Description: As a Marine, you're responsible for safely escorting the captured prisoner, Buggy the Clown. Things don't go according to plan and while the prisoner remains captured, not all of him ends up behind bars...

Teeny tiny teaser: "This fucker needed to know the effect his dumbass decision had on others."

Word count: ~3.4k (I don't remember the last time I wrote a one-shot this long 🥴)

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, buggy x GN!reader, marine!reader, no use of Y/N, insertion sex, bit of degradation, cockwarming (not solely intimate, but there is some eventually), misuse of devil fruit powers

“I can fuck you harder if you uncuff me,” he said through gritted teeth. “C’mon, tell me you don’t want that.” 

The teasing remark was hissed behind your ear, sending a shiver through your body. Your weak fucking body, nearly wiped of all self-restraint. A thin thread of rationality kept you tethered to a sense of preservation, but the constant pounding threatened to snap that hold.

You were responsible for locking up the prisoner - a duty you’ve fulfilled many times without issue. Over the years, your strength and cleverness helped you climb the ranks of Marines, yet this was the first time you failed to complete this responsibility. Well, you haven’t failed yet, but the more the thread frays, the more your legs shake, the more his heavy grunts fill your ears…

Your shaky hands gripped the seastone cuffed wrists wrapped around your body. Although the pirate couldn’t grip your hips the way either of you wanted, he was able to pull your body towards his as he relentlessly slammed himself in you. 

Of all the captured criminals you ever escorted, it was the goddamn clown that broke you. The pathetic clown with a face of smeared paint. Left behind by his crew. A captain who was visibly crestfallen when none of the Marines appeared impressed by his presence.

Despite his circumstances, the prisoner - Buggy the Clown - lived up to his namesake. Nearly every comment out of his mouth was a joke, often at the expense of anyone around him. The lack of laughter after each quip should add to embarrassment and pity for the clown, but you found yourself enjoying the amusement he was clearly creating for himself. It was…endearing.

As his sole escort below deck, his attention quickly turned towards you and the warm fluttery feeling you had moved lower in your body. Silence only protected you for so long before your face was too red to ignore, giving the clown encouragement to continue. Changing tactics, Buggy started spouting cheesy and overused pickup lines. Each remark said with unabashed enthusiasm added to the heat on your face.

“If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put ‘U’ and ‘I’ together.” “I’d like to report a crime. My breath was stolen.” “That Marine uniform doesn’t look so bad on you. But it would look better on the floor.”

Those comments were so stupid and worked so well. A few hissed retorts and threats of punishment were disarmed with a charming smile. You had no chance of winning whatever this game was. Secretly, you weren’t sure you wanted to win. There was something alluring about this pirate who tried to hide behind jokes and laughter that you wanted more of.

Arousal easily increases in potency when mixed with other feelings. For you, it was unexpected affection and the lure of degeneracy. For Buggy, you assumed it was the fear and anxiety that comes with imprisonment. Each concoction was perfectly portioned and all it took were choice words, overly-familiar touches, and curious glances for the poison to take effect.

Alone in the room, it only took seconds to pull your pants low enough to grant Buggy access. You leaned forwards, steadying yourself against the wall, while he grabbed the lower hem of your top. His thrusts were erratic and sloppy as he tried to find a decent pace. There was barely enough time for this moment of guilty indulgence and you both wanted as much from it as possible.

Bringing his bound hands overhead, Buggy pulled you close to his chest until you were wrapped in his hold. With his hands closer to your hips, he was able to move both of your bodies at a quick tempo. He was rewarded with a whine that escaped your heavy breathing.

“S’that how you like it? Hard and rough? I didn’t expect you to be so fucking filthy. Do all your prisoners get welcomed like this?”

Fuck. Why did his voice sound so good? And why did it sound better saying such degrading shit?

You shook your head and leaned into his touch, wanting to feel more. “Sh-shut up. Don’t you ever stop talking?”

“You d-don’t want that,” Buggy groaned. “I can feel your body squeeze when I talk. You like it.” His teasing was met with a delicious whimper.

Every word from his mouth had your head spinning. You wanted so much more. You wanted to taste his voice, to feel his mouth against yours, to feel his lips on your skin, but he wore that stupid face paint. You wanted his touch everywhere, for his hands to roam your body, for him to hold you tighter, but he needed to keep the cuffs on. Buggy was a Devil Fruit user. He was dangerous. And he was breaking you down.

Almost as if he could read your mind, Buggy started describing all the ways he wanted to screw you. How good you are at taking him. He wants to hear how good he makes you feel. Lost in the haze of lust, you barely remembered pulling out the key you wore on a chain and had tucked under your clothes. Your palm ached from how tightly you gripped the key while fighting against the horny instincts crowding your body.

You were so close, so achingly close. Maybe if you timed it right, it would be okay. You could minimize the danger. That makes sense, right? It could work. The wisp of rational thought faded away so softly that you didn’t miss its absence.

“Please,” was all you could get out as you unlocked the cuffs and let them fall to the floor.

It was like you released a feral animal with that decision. You didn’t realize just how much the seastone had sapped from Buggy until you felt his bruising grip as he brutally slammed his hips into yours. Even his cock seemed to get harder as it was bullied deeper in your body. He struggled to stay quiet, grunting like a wild boar as he rut into you.

You were on the edge of the precipice, ready to throw yourself over the ledge, when a horrible sound yanked you back to solid ground. A piercing siren sound filled the ship, signaling the top of the hour and a change in duties. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. You needed to finish your job before anyone found out what you were doing. Who you were doing.

In a panic, you elbowed the pirate and spun around. “They’re gonna catch us,” you said with wide-eyes.

With all his blood below the belt, Buggy was already caught off-guard by the loud noise. Your rapid change from a whimpering needy thing who needed to be railed, to a Marine who wanted to follow the rules was a lot for the pirate to follow after losing the trail of his own orgasm. All he could do was struggle to pull up his pants as you shoved him into the jail cell and locked him in. Thoughts slowly returned to his head and weakness seeped back into his body as he watched you fix up your uniform before freezing.

“What the fuck did you do?” The question started as a shout before you restrained the rest of your temper.

“I wanted to make sure you come back for me,” Buggy responded with a wink. “Besides, we didn’t get to finish. I figured you could keep it warm for me until the encore.” He reached down and grabbed the crotch of his pants, which was baggier than it should be.

“Are you fucking ser-” The rhetoric question was stopped by the throbbing in your body. 

Between your body fully accepting the rough fuck and the whirlwind of anxiety about being caught, you didn’t notice that Buggy left you with a piece of himself. Of all the things he could have done with his Devil Fruit powers in that moment, rather than doing something, anything, that could help him escape, the clown chose to part from his dick. What a fucking joke.

---

It was a sunny day with just enough of a breeze to keep the sails full and to blow away excess heat from the sun. The gentle wind helped dry the perspiration on your skin as you crossed the deck, towards the meeting room. While the air carried away some of the physical evidence, your body still burned and you chose to believe the unrelenting heat was shame. Punctual attendance was critical on the ship and you couldn’t even spare a few minutes to evict the pirate’s privates without risking a penalty.

With each step, you felt the fullness between your legs and the stretch from his girth. You couldn’t remember what it meant to walk normally. Every movement was over thought and analyzed. What felt normal made your core feel too tight against the intrusion. Longer strides had you worry that he might slip out. While it seemed unlikely (all of this was unlikely already), you worried about losing this bit of Buggy. There would be no reasonable way to explain a lone penis anywhere on the ship.

As hard as you tried to be upset with Buggy’s stupid horny decision, your body was still flooded with hormones that drowned logic and only allowed obscene thoughts to float. You were deep in a fucked up situation and you were enjoying it.

You arrived just in time for the meeting to start. It was a daily check-in where attendees would recite numbers and metrics that meant nothing to you. It was important and wholly unnecessary. The returning sheen of sweat and lingering redness on your face could be excused as the hustle needed to arrive on time and not the throbbing you felt inside. 

Settling into one of the open chairs, you couldn’t find a position that was remotely comfortable. There was minimal padding on the wood chairs and the backrests were at an awkward height that provided no support. Leaning too far one way pushed Buggy further inside and you just barely concealed the discovering gasp as a deep breath. 

Crossing your legs was a terrible idea, as it only added to the unforgiving pressure. The sensation attacked you both, as you felt the confined cock flex in its warm prison. You quickly uncrossed your legs, glad no one could see how they shook under the table.

Wicked voices began whispering to you, talking over the droning presentation at the head of the table. You couldn’t find any reprieve from what you were feeling. The only thing that made you feel better was giving in. You could afford to let your mind drift, this meeting was only to make others feel important. You had your own feelings to deal with.

Your mind wandered down to where those feelings radiated from. To the frustrating ache between your legs. Buggy was a good length, on the longer end of average, but his thickness was far more than average. Thankfully he got you so riled up earlier and all you had to suffer through was a burn that he quickly fucked away. Your body had grown accustomed to the wideness, but being held open for so long was different. Even through the uniform, you felt exposed. With each twitch from your hole as it fruitlessly tried to find some give against the occupant, you fell apart a little more. 

You shifted in the chair again, cautiously rolling your hips with the movement. Just once. And then again, under the guise of trying to get comfortable. Fuck, that did feel good. Your body shifted against Buggy’s member just right. You tensed against him, chasing that sensation, and receiving a heavy throb in response.

Your name broke through the fog you willingly got lost in. Your eyes snapped to the man standing at the head of the table.

“Is there something more important than going over these reports?” 

Maybe your movements weren’t as subtle as you thought.

“No, Sir. Just trying to get comfortable. I apologize for the distraction.” You spoke loudly, overriding the quiver hiding in your throat. 

Buggy was reacting to the jolt of tension that ran through our body. Clenched fists pressed into your knees and your toes curled in the little space available in your boots as you rode out his movement. It was incredibly frustrating and absolutely embarrassing. So why did it feel so fucking good?

---

The rest of the meeting ended without further incident. At least, as far as any of the attendees cared. For you, every action and reaction from either of your linked bodies felt like a whole new event to survive. You offered a tight lipped smile to everyone as they left the room, preferring a small audience when you attempted to use your weak legs. Luckily, horniness and adrenaline held you up and supported you out of the room.

The infirmary was a few doors down and it was around the time the doctor took a break. If you were lucky, the room would be empty and you could put an end to this. The luck was debatable when you opened the door to two pale faces. One belonged to the Marine who was on guard duty and the other belonged to the prisoner being guarded. A prisoner who offered you a small smile that matched the one painted on his face.

The guard started babbling when you entered the room. “H-he doesn’t look good, r-right? I brought him h-here, but they’re all on break. I’m wor-worried he’s gonna upch- upchu-ugh, pu- v- vom-”

“Get sick?”

The guard nodded with pursed lips, struggling to hold back the hiccups and sympathetic heaves that wracked their body. “Doesn’t seem ser-serious enough to call the med-ugh medics b-back.”

You looked at Buggy, trying to assess what was going on. Was this a ploy or was he actually ill? Were you going to get sick? 

“It doesn’t look that serious. I can stay with him. Why don’t you go lie down?” Your offer was accepted before you even finished speaking. 

The infirmary door closed, leaving you and Buggy in an awkward silence. He sat in a chair, hunched over, still giving you a weak smile.

“Are you okay? Is it bad?” You asked, concerned that his flashy self seemed to be affected. Crouching down, you brought yourself closer to his level.

“Bad,” he repeated hoarsely, leaning towards you. 

His trajectory would bring his painted forehead to the white shoulder of your uniform, so you intercepted. Pressing your head against his, you waited for Buggy to continue. 

“N-need you. Made a bad decision, need you, please.” One of his cuffed hands pawed at the empty space where his dick should be. 

With his strength and stamina taken away during imprisonment, Buggy’s self-inflicted secondary imprisonment was too much. He could feel everything - how your body continued to struggle around him, how warm you were inside, how you reacted to his involuntary cries and demands for more. It felt so fucking good, so deliriously wonderful, and downright torturous.

There was no end in sight, though. There had to be a reason you kept him inside, so even if Buggy could come, it would be followed with overstimulation that could go for who knows how long. Not to mention how upset you would probably be if you were unexpectedly full of his hot cum. 

Buggy whimpered at the thought. At imagining you full and plugged. Of his jizz dripping out and collecting in your underwear. Of you being an absolute fucking mess under your prim and pristine uniform, because of him.

“Please,” he whined again.

You pulled away and locked the door. “We don’t have a lot of time. Again.”

Buggy bit his lip as you held out your hand to help him up and blubbered what sounded like, “thank you.”

You understood how he felt. So insatiable that nothing mattered more than giving into these desperate needs that aggressively grew out of desire. Giving up on everything but chasing the high, you uncuffed Buggy and undid your pants. 

This fucker needed to know the effect his dumbass decision had on others. You shoved his hand down your pants, letting him feel how wildly aroused you were. How much of a mess he made.

His groan was laced with delight and pain at the knowledge. His touch was everywhere, committing all of the evidence of your lust to memory. As his hand crept further, it came in contact with his base and his body jolted at the touch. This was too much.

Yanking his hand out of your pants, Buggy rushed to unbuckle his and expose where his member belonged. Following his lead, you pulled your pants down and turned around. Wary about wasting precious time, Buggy pressed his hips against yours and shuddered when his cock returned to its rightful place. It felt as if his senses increased a hundredfold now that it was back.

“M’close,” he warned, struggling to set a reliable pace. 

Honestly, he was about to explode when his hand was down your pants. But he needed this. He needed to feel you moving on his cock. To feel your body react against him. To feel you explode.

As if reading his thoughts, you grabbed his hand and pushed it down. You didn’t need much. This entire time, you didn’t need much, apparently. Just his attention on you was enough to pull you off the trail you were on. And that’s what he gave you - his enthusiastic attention. 

His hand moved fervently, following the cues your body gave. The touches that had your breaths teeter on moans, pressure that had your body clench his, sensations that increased the tension in your core.

“Uh-haah, uh-huh, just like that. K-keep going, g-gonna… You’re gonna make me c-” You were cut off as the feeling ripped through your body, sharp and electric. The words in your mouth were wiped away as you fell to the indescribable surge.

Buggy huffed as he struggled to fuck through your orgasm. Your unsaid words rung through his head - he was responsible for this. You were shaking beneath him because of what he did. Your sweet sighs of relief were for him.

“Wh-where-” Buggy could hardly stutter a question he should have asked earlier.

“Finish what you started,” you said, leaning into his touch once again.

Feeling your body melt against his, accepting his thick cock so easily, pulling him deeper - that was more than enough.

“F-fucking shit,” Buggy hissed as he came. 

The climax was nearly painful as he shot stream after stream inside your body. Feeling like the release would never end, the pirate clung to you and whimpered with each pulse. Eventually, he ran out. His hold released with a shaky sigh.

Buggy struggled with words to fill the next moment. Something about how this felt good. Maybe a thanks? But before he could decide, yet another loud sound interrupted the moment. A sound that was accompanied by a lurch that threw the pirate back. An explosion. Then came the alarms. The ship was under attack by pirates. You both rushed to fix yourselves up.

“I-I think that’s for me,” Buggy said.

You looked at him incredulously. Was this all a fucking trick?

“I want you to come with me.”

His request kept you silent. This didn’t make sense.

“I didn’t think they were coming. I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. But it was fun - well, I had fun. I think you did too. We can keep having fun, unless you want to keep living this stuffy life.” Buggy spoke quickly. 

His explanation was rushed, but you could see a hint of honesty among the turmoil.

Buggy held his hand out for you to grab.

---

Life on a pirate ship was different, but also similar to life with the Marines. Useless meetings couldn’t be avoided and petty drama existed everywhere. But the spirit and passion that came with piracy was unbelievably vast. Joys flew high, parties raged hard, drinks always flowed, treasure was celebrated.

And on Buggy’s ship, there was always more. More life, more color, more light. Dumb jokes, death defying stunts, fantastic skills, and stupid decisions that managed to work out in the end.

One of your favorite things about life aboard the ship were the quiet afternoons you spent with the captain. Afternoons that were spent laying in the shared bed, your body nestled against his. Afternoons full of stories and musings. Afternoons dedicated to the two of you, which you spent slotted together in warmth and intimacy.

[604to647]

The Rockford Portfolio

Detective Tim Rockford x fem!reader

Series Summary: A non-linear collection of fluffy (and sometimes a little smutty) one-shots about a gruff detective and a snap-happy reader 📸.

Marine Attraction (written for Jamie’s Ocean Challenge)

When a stakeout at the aquarium does not go as planned, Detective Tim Rockford must interview all the aquarium visitors, including you.

Husband Material

You come home drunk after a fun night out and Tim takes care of you.

Skittles

You catch Detective Tim Rockford in a compromising position.

Into the Night (Drabble)*

You wake to Tim leaving for work.

Paperwork

You keep Detective Tim Rockford company while he finishes up his paperwork.

Moodboard by @saradika Thank you!! 🥹

Third Time’s the Charm

After two failed attempts, Tim finally takes you on a first date.

At First Light*

Detective Rockford returns to you in the morning. (Follow-up to Into the Night)

Macarons

Tim thinks you're mad at him.

Hold On

You wear Detective Tim Rockford's leather holster.

Until Noon*

You make Tim go back to bed. (Can follow At First Light)

Commissioned art by @kittyoperas Thank you!! 🥹

*can be read together for a mini “Sleepy Trilogy”

Dance for Me (Mootboards and Minifics Celebration)

You and your friends go to a strip club for a fun girls’ night where, unbeknownst to you, Detective Rockford is undercover.

Sniffles

You’re sick and you don’t want to give Tim your germs.

Red Herring (Jamie’s Halloween Writing Challenge)

You make Detective Rockford a Halloween costume.

Tiny Tim (Christmas Special)

Tim takes you to the precinct Christmas party.

Detective, It’s Cold Outside (companion Christmas carol)

Training Days (Dear-uary Challenge) new!

Detective Rockford leaves for a weeklong tactical training course and you miss him something fierce.

Spin-off AU (not part of the main collection above): The Detective and The Agent (Merge Mansion x The Mentalist crossover)

A/N: The only story that was written “in order” is the first, which inspired the series; it’s our meet cute and where reader’s nickname is revealed 😊 Where there is a photography element in the stories, the related photos in the moodboard are taken by yours truly; which is why the series title pic above includes two pics of me taking pictures 🤭 but reader is written as a physical blank slate (to the best of my ability 💕) - she’s not me, she’s you, boo 😘

Photography aesthetic dividers by @saradika-graphics 🙏🏻