#a whisper of vulnerability in a sea of steel

[fluffylord]

Malcolm Tucker + comfy outfits THE THICK OF IT | S03 EP08

[chibieggplant]

Beneath Steel Exteriors

Idea from @maybe-some-ideas

The crew attempts to coax you and Law into expressing your feelings by trapping you both in a room together. However, they overlook the fact that Law can effortlessly teleport out

Warnings: claustrophobia mentioned/described

The hushed hum of the Polar Tang masked whispers of conspiracy as Shachi orchestrated a scheme among the crew. Their target: the enigmatic bond developing between their stoic Captain and the feisty new addition to their pirate family. You radiated irresistible charm and wit that had inadvertently ensnared Law's curiosity during your shared adventures, your fierce spirit contrasting beautifully with Law's impassive exterior. Yet, Law remained as unfathomable as ever, attempting to conceal any hints of growing affection behind his signature smirk and stoic mask.

Despite his best efforts, however, Law wasn't entirely successful at concealing the subtle changes blooming beneath his composed exterior. The crew of the Polar Tang, seasoned sailors who read people better than they navigated treacherous seas, noticed the slightest deviations in their captain's usual demeanour - lingering soft glances cast in your direction, a faint smile curving his lips at the sound of your laughter, a fierce protectiveness surfacing during perilous encounters and rare moments where he allowed himself to relax around you. These tiny cracks in Law's armour didn't go unnoticed by those close to him.

On the other side of the coin, you had found yourself inexplicably drawn to Law. His rare compliments or words of praise would often make your cheeks flush, you constantly seek out opportunities to assist him in the sickbay drawn by his quiet strength and hidden vulnerability. Slowly but surely, the signs of your shared attraction become impossible to ignore, sending ripples throughout the crew and igniting a spark of anticipation among them.

In the dimly lit corner of the submarine, Shachi, a well-known mastermind of countless successful pranks, summoned his trusted accomplices - Bepo, Penguin, and Ikkaku. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he revealed their latest mission. "Gather round, comrades!" He whispered dramatically, a triumphant grin playing on his lips. "Our captain's poker face may fool the Marines, but not us." The group leaned in closer, intrigued whispers filling the air. "We'll orchestrate a 'supply shortage,' requiring Law and our fiery new crewmate to…" Shachi paused, savouring the anticipation building among his accomplices, "...investigate the matter together in the most secluded place aboard - the supply closet." Laughter filled the air as they shared knowing glances, their expressions reflecting hopefulness and determination.

With their plan set into motion, Law found himself ambushed and pushed into the cramped supply room, his sharp eyes locked onto you as you clumsily followed suit, a flush spreading across your face like wildfire as you stumbled into him. Before either of you could react, the heavy metal door slammed shut behind you, the sound reverberating through the corridor and leaving you both alone in the sudden darkness. Law's hand reached instinctively for the door handle, only to find it locked. "Shachi..." he muttered under his breath.

Locked together in the small, dim space, Law's eyes widened in shock, his body tense as he turned to face you. Your faces were mere inches apart, your breathing synchronized by the enclosed space. The air hung heavy with unspoken tension, a tangible force crackling between you. Law cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to ignore the unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest

Letting out an exasperated sigh, his annoyance evident, he grumbled under his breath,"is this really necessary?" In response, you crossed your arms defiantly, your eyes narrowing into angry slits. "What the hell is their problem?" You retorted indignantly, fully aware of the crew's meddling intentions to engineer a romantic encounter between you and Law.

Law simply shrugged, feigning nonchalance despite a flicker of amusement beneath his stoic exterior. In that moment, realization struck Law, causing his signature smirk to resurface. With a flicker of devilish delight in his eyes, Law activated his Devil Fruit powers, and in the blink of an eye, Law found himself standing outside the supply room. Leaving you confused and alone within the cramped space. "Idiots," he muttered under his breath, already plotting his next move.

Savoring his newfound freedom, Law departed from the ship without a word, eager to clear his head and calm his racing heart, still overwhelmed by the memories of you being so close. As Law slipped away unnoticed, convinced someone would eventually come to your rescue, he decided to take advantage of the incidental solitude.

Unbeknownst to Law, however, most of the crew was preoccupied with a spontaneous game of cards while others diligently tended to their duties. Hours slipped by like sand through an hourglass, each tick of the unseen clock amplifying your escalating emotions trapped alone in the supply closet. Your initial annoyance morphed into simmering anger as the walls seemed to encroach upon you. Panic replaced irritation when your calls for help echoed back empty, the crew's laughter a distant memory. The confines of the closet started to suffocate you, awakening a latent claustrophobia you had hoped to leave buried in the depths of your past. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as your pounding fists weakened against the unrelenting metal door.

Law stepped foot aboard the Polar Tang after several hours spent exploring the nearby island, his mind buzzing with newfound clarity, that is until he was greeted by the sight of his crew in high spirits. Their boisterous laughter fell flat against the backdrop of Law's return. Brows knitting together, Law surveyed the room, noticing your conspicuous absence. He raised an eyebrow, confusion turning into alarm as he demanded, “Where’s y/n?” The revelrous atmosphere dissipated instantly, replaced by awkward silence and guilty glances. Shachi, face reddening, stuttered with feigned innocence, “A-are…are they not with you?” Law’s heart skipped a beat, panic seeping into his veins like poison. He swore under his breath, berating himself for his momentary lapse in judgment, for being so careless, for leaving you alone in that suffocating closet. Without another word he moved swiftly toward the storage room, dread filling his chest as his mind conjured worst-case scenarios of your state after hours confined in that cramped space.

Law's heart pounded frantically against his ribcage as he raced through the dimly lit hallways of the Polar Tang, his mind consumed by a sense of impending doom. Guilt gnawed at his core - a harsh reminder of his negligence in forgetting about your plight. *Dammit, Law! Why did you assume someone else would handle this?* He berated himself mentally. Frantic energy coursed through his body, fueled by his growing concern for your well-being. Reaching the supply closet, blame seared through his veins - a heavy burden he bore solely because of his carelessness. The locked door greeted Law with an unspoken rebuke, a cruel reminder of the time he had wasted. Frantic energy surged through his limbs once again, and Law teleported to the other side with a burst of Devil Fruit power. Instantly, his gaze landed upon you curled up in the corner, his heart sank at the sight compared to your usual vibrant attitude. Your dishevelled hair framed your pale face with the wild tangle of emotions swirling within your clouded eyes. Each shallow gasp echoed in the confined space, a testament to the terror consuming you. Law's anger melted away, immediately replaced by a surge of concern that threatened to overwhelm him entirely. “Y/n,” he called out softly, moving towards you with calculated steps to avoid startling you further. Without hesitation, Law knelt, enveloping your trembling form in his strong, albeit cold embrace. Sincere regret weighed heavily in his voice as he apologized, “It's alright, you’re okay, I've got you.” You met his gaze, recognition gradually returning to your panic-stricken features. Your body relaxed against his touch, tears streaming freely down your flushed cheeks.

As you trembled in his arms, Law felt a wave of protectiveness flood over him, a feeling reserved for only those close to him. His fingers traced soothing circles across your back, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. *I should have never left them alone.* He silently reprimanded himself, guilt gnawing at his conscience. Your shallow breaths gradually evened out, your racing heartbeat synchronizing with Law's. Brushing away a stray lock of hair from your tear-stained face, his fingertips lingering on your soft skin, Law offered a sincere apology. “I'm so sorry, y/n. I didn't… I didn't think,” he admitted, his composed exterior cracking slightly. You sniffled, nodding against his chest, still struggling to speak coherently amidst your heavy breaths. “It's… okay,” you managed to croak out, your hands gripping onto his coat tightly. He continued to comfort you until you breaths became normal again. Finally, pulling back slightly, Law cupped your cheek, studying your face intently. “Are you alright now?” You nodded again, embarrassment now mingling with your residual fear. “Y-yes…” Law hesitated before gently wiping away the remaining tear trails with his thumb in an unexpected tender gesture. "Good," he murmured softly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Law stood up, lifting you effortlessly with him. He could sense the tension still coiled tightly in your frame, your claustrophobia still fresh in your mind. Your fragile state tugged at a hidden thread of tenderness he didn't realize he harbored within himself. You and Law emerged onto the deck of the Polar Tang, where the cool sea breeze greeted you like a welcome reprieve from the suffocating confines of the supply closet. Gently setting you down, Law hesitated before speaking, wrestling internally with his thoughts. "Y/n," he started awkwardly, his gaze momentarily drifting toward the horizon to escape your probing eyes. He felt exposed, vulnerable - feelings foreign to his typically formulated behaviour. "I didn't realize..." Law swallowed hard, gathering his scattered emotions. He turned back to face you, determination replacing his usual indifference. "I've been ignorant to your feelings, and...” He paused, searching for the right words, “…and maybe to mine too,” he admitted, surprising even himself. Your shocked expression only served to heighten Law's nervous energy. Taking another deep breath to steady himself, Law continued hesitantly, "Y/n, I value your presence on this ship more than just... more than just as a crewmate..." His sentence trailed off, leaving you suspended in anticipation. Law's heart hammered against his chest like waves crashing against jagged rocks, mirroring the turbulent ocean stretching out before them. Glancing down at your surprised face, he noticed the faint traces of tears still clinging to your lashes, and his resolve solidified. "I... Y/n," Law began again, his voice quieter this time, "do you... could you possibly..." Law trailed off, his face flushing slightly, struggling to put his complex feelings into words.

Law swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly dry as a desert. *I don't want to ruin our friendship!* He thought hastily, pushing aside the unfamiliar emotions swirling inside him. However, the sincerity shining in your eyes made it impossible to ignore. Steeling his nerves, he forced the words past his lips. “I mean, if you... if you'd like..." Law trailed off lamely, internally kicking himself for sounding so unsure. The silence stretched uncomfortably, broken only by the distant waves crashing against the ship's hull. You stared at him expectantly, your brow furrowed slightly. And even as you fidgeted from one foot to the other, the fabric of your clothes wrinkled and stained from hours of confinement, even in your dishevelled state, Law still believed you were the most beautiful person on earth. He knew you had feelings for him - they were too obvious to ignore. But acknowledging those feelings... It was terrifying. He had built walls around his heart, protecting himself from getting hurt. Letting anyone inside those walls felt like a vulnerability he wasn't sure he could handle. And yet... looking at you now, seeing the hope warring with uncertainty in your eyes... Law couldn't bring himself to push you away. Taking a shaky breath, he reached out tentatively, his hand hovering near yours.

Your eyes followed Law's movements, your breath catching in your throat as he reached out to you. Slowly, you extended your trembling hand, your warmth meeting his cool touch. The connection between you crackled with palpable electricity - the culmination of suppressed emotions finally breaking through both of your carefully constructed walls. Law's heart skipped a beat as you intertwined your fingers with his. Finally finding the courage to meet your gaze, Law spoke sincerely, “Y/n, I…” He faltered, searching for the appropriate words to convey the storm raging in his heart. “I don't understand these feelings myself,” he confessed honestly, "...but I'm certain of one thing: I care for you beyond the bounds of crewmate and Captain." His words hung in the air like delicate glass ornaments, fragile and vulnerable to breakage. Glancing down at your entwined hands, he continued, “If you’re willing to tolerate my idiocy…” A slight smirk played on his lips as he glanced back at you, “then maybe… perhaps we could figure this out together?” He left his confession hanging, leaving the final decision in your trembling hands. His heart pounded anxiously in his chest, feeling exposed but hopeful.

Your eyes widened in surprise at Law's confession, your rapid heartbeats echoing loudly in your ears. As your shock subsided, a warmth bloomed within your chest, dispelling the last remnants of your panic attack. You studied your interlaced fingers, trying to comprehend the situation unfolding before you. Law, the man you admired from afar, confessed feelings for you. Swallowing your disbelief, you looked up at Law, your gaze meeting his intense gaze. “You... really mean it?” You asked softly, afraid that it might just be a cruel joke. Law nodded earnestly, his eyes softening slightly. “Yes,” he confirmed, “I do.” You smiled tentatively, a blush tinting your cheeks. “Then... Then yes,” you finally managed to reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll try to understand these feelings with you.” As your acceptance registered, relief flooded through Law’s system like cool water on scorched earth. With a genuine smile, he pulled you close, embracing you gently. *Maybe opening up isn’t such a bad thing after all.* Law mused, enjoying the warmth radiating off you. Pulling back, he rested his forehead against yours. “Thank you,” he whispered sincerely before pressing a tender kiss to your temple. Your newfound bond seemed to mend the lingering tension in the air. Together, you walked towards the crew, unaware of the curious gazes following you. Law knew you would both have quite the explanation coming your way, but for now, he simply cherished the warmth of your hand in his.

[zorosdimples]

a disgustingly self-indulgent scenario inspired by the past 5 days of my tummy troubles

“i need to invest in a heating pad,” you sigh.

you’re experiencing a nasty bout of stomach pain—rolling cramps punctuated by sharp stabs across your abdomen. chugging water and eating non-irritating foods isn’t working; you’re suffering.

eyes scrunched shut, you attempt to rub calming circles across your belly. kicking your legs as they hang off the edge of the bed, you tilt your head back to spot your boyfriend leaning against the headboard.

if there is one thing in the world roronoa zoro hates, it’s seeing you in pain. he will slice anyone—anything—into pieces to keep you safe. he will dye the sea red and rend the earth in two if that’s what it takes. but he can’t maim, can’t kill, can’t avenge when it’s your own body that’s attacking you.

his face is pulled into a scowl that most would assume is directed at you. but you know better. when you meet his steel eye, you can see care softening the knifelike edges, worry flashing through the iris.

wordlessly, zoro pushes himself off the bed, rounding the corner until he looms above you, palms flat on either side of your head. “don’t need a heating pad when ya got me,” he smirks, cheeks revealing the dimples you adore.

it’s impossible not to roll your eyes, but you quirk a brow, curious to see where this is going. dipping down to brush his chapped lips against your forehead, he whispers, “lemme help.”

zoro rolls your shirt up to your chest, baring everything down to your hips. a vulnerable position like this—showing so much skin—used to make you squirm and cover yourself up beneath the swordsman. but he loves all of you, and you can feel the words on his lips when he presses a kiss to your navel.

his hands are wide and strong and scarred and an extension of his weapons. but when he splays them across your stomach, they are warm and gentle. he doesn’t touch you like you’re made of glass; he touches you like you’re holy.

zoro skims his calloused palms down your ribs and rubs your stomach with the perfect amount of pressure, every so often kneading your plush hips before returning to where he’s needed most.

you don’t (can’t) hold in the whimpers of relief that curl into the air. your boyfriend is diligent and focused. he knows he can’t heal you, but he will soothe you, love you, and cherish you. what more could you ask for?

maybe you don’t need a heating pad, after all.

[chgridlock]

Fine. LN- pt 5.

Part. 4 here: https://www.tumblr.com/chgridlock/751646779786870784/fine-ln-pt-4?source=share

Y/n and Lando were childhood best friends, an inseparable duo who knew each other’s secrets like the back of their hand. But then came F1. Lando transformed into a playboy prince, his name synonymous with champagne showers and a different model on every arm. Models just like y/n, except for her. Disgusted, she distanced herself, the warmth of their friendship replaced by a biting cold. Y/n, chasing her own dreams, blossomed into a sough-after model, gracing the covers of magazines right under Lando’s nose, well, at least that’s what she assumed. In taught, Lando followed her religiously on social media, a secret admirer hidden behind a facade of arrogante.

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, ex best friends, Lando being a dick sometimes.

Lando pulled up in front of your apartment, his heart hammering against his ribs. He’d driven like a man possessed, every red light an eternity, every slow-moving car an obstacle to overcome. The memory of your weak voice on the phone, the rasping breaths, fueled his need to get to you.

He’d considered calling an ambulance, the quickest solution, but the thought of you being poked and prodded by strangers in a sterile emergency room made him scoff. He wanted to be there, holding your hand, offering a familiar face in a sea off worry.

He parked the car, his breath fogging in the cool night air. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself. You might be stubborn, ridiculously stubborn, but he wouldn’t let that stop him. He needed to see you, needed to make sure you were okay.

He marched to your door, he raised his fist and knocked, a loud, insistent rap against the wood. Silence. He waited, counting the seconds that stretched into and agonizing minute. Just as doubt started to creep in, the door creaked open a sliver.

There you stood, hair a mess, face pale except for the angry red flush high on your cheeks. Your eyes, usually sparkling with defiance, were dull and heavy-lidded.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, your voice thick and sluggish. It was a lie, a transparent one, and Lando felt a surge of anger that quickly morphed back into concern.

He took you in, his gaze scanning your entire form. Your once vibrant clothes hung limply off your frame, and despite the boldness in your voice, you couldn’t hide the tremors that run through you. “You don’t look good y/n” he said gently, his soft voice against the harsh reality in front of him.

You swayed slightly extinguished by a wave of fatigue, a hand hovering over your arm. You flinched at the contact, but didn’t pull away.

The air hung heavy between them, thick with the weight of unspoken emotions and your obvious illness. Lando’s gaze was so soft. “…you really don’t care of yourself, do you?” He said, the question laced with exasperation.

You arched an eyebrow, a flicker of confrontation playing across your features. “You care?” The question hung in the air.

Lando coulnd’t lie to himself anymore. He did care. Deeply. He’d spent those two days pushing down the realization, masking it with frustration and annoyance, but seeing you like this -pale, feverish, and undeniably vulnerable- stripped away all his defenses. He gulped, avoiding a definitive response. He just couldn’t bring himself to say the words yet.

“Don’t lie to me,” you countered, your voice raspy but firm. That caugh him off guard. He hadn’t expected such a direct response, and a surge of annoyance bubbled within him. He rolled his eyes, attempting to mask his growing concern with feigned irritation.

“…I didn’t even say anything,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you really that narcissistic to think that I don’t actually care about you or something?”

“Well its been what? 3 years since you stopped worrying about me? And why are you being so stubborn?” You shot back, your voiced laced with a similar frustration. He scowled. You and your damn stubbornness. He was about to unleash a retort when he caught himself. Now wasn’t the time for a petty fight.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to calm down. “…Don’t change the subject,” he said, his voice regaining its firmness. “You have a 40-degree fever and you haven’t even taken anything for it.”

He watched you, his gaze unwavering. “Do you really believe that you’re fine?” He pressed.

You opened your mouth to protest, but a tired groan escaped instead. “Ugh, yes,” you mumbled, collapsing further into the doorway.

Lando’s heart lurched. “Well, you’re wrong,” he declared, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You’re not fine. Not at all. So get your stubborn ass in the car. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“What? No!” You shrieked.

“Y/n,” he countered, his voice now firm as before but gentle, “you have a 40 degree fever…and you’re still refusing to get help for it. You’re so damn stubborn…but no one’s that stubborn to the point of being completely suicidal…”

He sighed. “I’m taking you to the hospital whether you like it or not,” he declared, his resolve hardening. “This is not up for debate either. You’re sick, and you need professional help. Now get moving.”

Lando’s grip on your arm tightened, not out of malice but a desperate need to ensure you wouldn’t crumble beneath your own stubbornness. He steered you towards his car, his pace brisk an his jaw set in a determined line. “You don’t have to this,” you mumbled, your voice weak with protest.

“Yes, I do,” he countered, you could hear his voice with hint of tenderness he couldn’t quite suppress. “I’m not going to leave you here when you’re this sick.”

Seeing the futility of resistance, you let out a defeated sigh and allowed him to guide you towards the passenger seat. Relief washed over Lando as you settled inside. He hopped in behind the wheel, wasting no time as he stated the engine and pulled out of the driveway.

The silence in the car was heavy, the only sound your shallow breaths. He stole glances at you every few seconds, his gaze lingering on the way your eyelids fluttered closed, the ghost of a grimace playing on your lips.

“You don’t have to do this,” you whispered again, your voice weak in a whisper.

“I have to,” he replied without hesitation. He didn’t want to hear another argument, another protest. You were clearly in no state to be making rational decisions.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to lighten the mood. “Have you eaten anything today?” He asked, hoping to distract you.

The question hung in the air, unanswered. You were silent, your body slumped against the seat, your eyes fluttering shut once more.

He sighed, shaking his head before he even spoke. You hadn’t surprised him with the silence. Knowing your stubborn ways, he figured you wouldn’t touched a crumb all day.

“Let me guess,” he started, “you didn’t eat anything today, did you?”

A faint “…no” escaped your lips.

Another sigh, another head shake. “You really don’t care of yourself at all,” he muttered, more to himself than anything. He paused, then added, a hint of suspicion creeping into his tone. “You didn’t drink any water either, did you?”

A long silence stretched between you. Finally, your voice came back, weak but strangely resolute. “You can leave me at the hospital and you can go.”

Lando gritted his teeth. “Shut up,” he growled. He hated how easily your words tempted him, the idea of leaving you simmering beneath the surface. “I’m serious,” you pressed, your voice barely a whisper.

“And im saying shut up, im not leaving a sick girl like you at the hospital by herself.”

Sensing your stubborn gaze on him, he met your eyed defiantly.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he barked. “I’m not leaving, so get that in your damn head, will you?” He clenched his hand on the steering wheel, his jaw tight, then forced himself to relax. “Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath,” your stubbornness is even worse when you’re sick”

A weak title escaped your lips, the sound shaky. You shook your head slightly, the effort seeming to take a monumental amount of energy.

Lando couldn’t help but let put a reluctant chuckle of his own. The sound rumbled deep in his chest, a surprising counterpoint to his earlier frutation. Seeing that flicker of your usual spirit, even dimmed by illness, warmed a place in his chest he hadn’t realized was cold.

“Stop giggling, you’re ill, for Christ’s sake…” he mumbled, his voice gruff but lacking its earlier bite. “You shouldn’t be laughing…”

“It’s your own stubbornness that makes me laugh,” you slurred, a playful glint return to your eyes for a fleeting moment. “So bossy”

“Shut up…” he growled gain playfully, the sound devoid of any real malice. The fierce independent y/n was subdued by illness, replaced by a fragile version that tugged at his heartstrings in a way the old y/n did.

A comfortable silence bottled between you, he stole another glance at you, God, even sick you looked so damn beautiful.

“We’ll be there soon,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual. The words were a promise, a reassurance that he’d be there for you.

“Fine” you muttered.

The hospital loomed ahead. As soon as Lando pulled into the emergency room entrance, he was out of the car in a flash, your arm grasped firmly in his. His movements, were brisk, almost desperate, as i he was on a mission to get you help before you could disappear or change your mind.

Inside, he marched you straight to the reception desk, his jaw set in a determined line. He narrowed his eyes at the recepcionist, his voice clipped when he spoke. “She’s here with a high fever - 40 degrees.”

The receptionist, simply nodded and directed them to wait a moment. Relief washed over Lando as a nurse materialized seemingly out of thin air, ready to usher you both inside.

He cast a worried glance at you as you began to walk, your steps slow and uneven. Your earlier defiance seemed to have evaporated, replaced by a concerning lethargy. He reached out, his grip tightening around your arm to steady you. “You can go, Lando,” you mumbled, your voice weak. Guilt gnawed at you for putting him though all this trouble.

“No, I’m not going anywhere, and that’s final,” he knew better than to trust your weak protests. Left to your own evinces, you’d probably try to downplay your illness and end up back in your apartment, ignoring your body’s pleas.

The wait in the emergency room was agonizingly slow. Every tick of the clock felt like an eternity. Finally, a doctor emerged, a weary smiled on his face. The news was better than Lando had dared to hope for - you were sick, yes, but nothing some medication and rest coulnd't cure.

A wave of relief washed over him, so strong is almost made his legs buckle. He couldn’t help but let out a sigh, the tension draining from his shoulders. Annoyance flickered back up at the edges of his mind, a low simmer directed at your stubborn refusal to take care of yourself.

He turned to you, his voice softer and softer by the time. “I’m not leaving here until you’re fully healed, got it?” He said, his gaze holing a steely glint.

“Lando, I’ll be fine with this ugly-ass medicine,” you slurred, a playful glint returning to you eyes for a fleeting moment. “I’ll just get a cab home.”

He growled, the sound erupting from his chest heavily. “You’re not taking a cab. Stop being stubborn again. Do you really want to end up passed out on some random corner? I’d rather avoid that scenario entirely.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge flickering in your eyes. “Didn’t want me to be sick?” You prodded, a hint of amusement dancing in your voice.

Lando scowled, the memory of his stupid grudge returning to haunt him. “Do I look like I wanted you to get sick?” He countered, his voice laced with exasperation. “Are you just trying to be irritating on purpose?”

“You sad to me ‘I hope you get a cold’” you reminded him, a mischievous grin spreading across your face.

He groaned, burying his face in his hands for a moment. “I only said that because I was pissed,” he mumbled, his voice muffled. “I didn’t mean it! Why te hell would I want you to actually get sick?”

You chucked, the sound weak but genuine. “It’s okay, Norris,” you teased, using his last name with mock seriousness. “We don’t get along with each other, so its normal. I’ll get a cab, don’t worry.”

“No, you won’t get a damn cab, y/n.”

“You’re not the boss of me, Lando,” you countered. But he ignored your protest, his gaze unwavering. “You’re not going anywhere, got it?”

You sighed, the fight seeming to drain from you with each shallow breath. “Fine, then,” you conceded. “Just get me home.”

“No, goddamit, you’re staying at my-…” the words almost escaped his lips, a dangerous truth on the verge of being revealed. He caught himself just in time, the realization hitting him like a ton of bricks.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to calm down. “You’re saying at my place until you get better,” he finally said.

Author’s note: HELLO EVERYONE. ITS RACE WEEK. So part 5 finally posted, not really happy with this one chapter (I really thought It was going to be better T-T) but the next ones holy, they’re going to be good and I hope you prepare to read some nasty ass things (im sorry) ANYWAYS TSYM GUYS FOR READING. LOVE U ALL. ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

Tag list: @persiar9 @mia-rrrs @ssararuffoni @kapsylia @formulaal @sparklysharknerd-blog1 @f1fantasys @landosgirlxoxo @moonclaine @charlesgirl16 @ironmaiden1313 @chezmardybum

[trulybetty]

what have I done

pairing: frankie x f!reader word count: 4,050 warnings: angst, piv, wrap it up folks, there's an established relationship of sorts here so it's already been discussed, reader has no physical descriptions. summary: you finally realise what frankie means to you, but is it too late? ao3: linked

what have I done.

Now wasn’t the time to be self-conscious. 

Clutching your phone in your hand and trying to peer around the crowds of people huddled in line for security you looked desperately for his familiar frame. You didn't have a ticket, the impulse of your decision meant the airport’s barricades were as close as you were going to get.

The security clearance lineup was busy despite the hour. You fought to focus as the crowd swayed and jostled. The sound of luggage wheels clicking on the tiled floor bled into the noise of early morning conversations, some excited for the journey ahead some tired already of the grind of work ahead. Anxious anticipation pulsated through you, urging you to continue searching through the sea of faces as you bounced on the balls of your feet.

You were almost ready to give up, turn on your heel and head home. But with a break in the crowd, so small and so quick, there was no mistaking that glimpse of his silhouette. His broad shoulders, his unruly mop of hair - everything. 

He stood near the security checkpoint, emptying the contents of his pockets into one of the grey plastic trays that he'd plucked from the stack beside him. He appeared calm amidst the chaos that surrounded him.

Yet panic flooded your chest, and heat prickled under your skin. 

It was now or never. 

Steeling yourself you clenched your hands into fists. Your nails dug into the flesh at the heel of your hands. The sting ran up your arms and it gave you a reprieve from the worry of your nerves. 

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. 

Before you could think it over any longer and before the nerves won out and had you walking back to the short-term parking lot. You shouted his name as loud as you could to be heard over the thrum of the airport's buzz. 

Then the world around you fell still. 

Hush swept over the security lineup. There was a shared intake of breath that seemed to take place between you and those around you. Your heart, beating so hard and so fast, it was the only thing you could hear as the thud thud thud pounded in your ears. 

Frankie’s head snapped up, his eyes searching until they locked onto yours. The shock on his face was palpable, mirrored by the surprise of those in line who turned to see the cause of the commotion.

For a moment, you were frozen, the gap between you feeling like an insurmountable distance. Then, impulsively, Frankie stepped out of line, leaving his belongings behind. The security guard called out to him, but he quickly threw back a plea of few words but didn’t hesitate, his focus entirely on you, surprised to see you there.

As he approached, you noticed the uncertainty in his eyes, a vulnerability that you hadn’t seen in him before. It was as if he was bracing himself for rejection, yet couldn’t stop himself from hoping.

When he was finally in front of you, the noise of the airport faded into the background. It was just the two of you.

The moment stretched, suspended in time. People around you resumed their activities, but the two of you remained locked in a silent exchange. You saw the questions in his eyes, the confusion. For he had bared his feelings to you, and in response, you had offered quiet and uncertainty.

“You're here,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

You nodded, struggling to find the words that had seemed so clear earlier that morning. The epiphany of waking up alone, with only the company of Frankie's admission of his feelings for you, a ghost that lingered in the still of the room. The house was quiet, with no familiar sound of the coffee maker or socked feet padding down the hallway - noises that had become a comfort in the past days of his most recent visit. 

You had been caught off guard by his declaration of love.

But you would be lying if you said you hadn't expected it was there. Hiding in plain sight this whole time. Bubbling under the surface, on the tip of his tongue on more than one occasion. Each time you'd suspected he was going to say something, you'd swiftly changed the subject or found a way to leave the room leaving him hanging with unspoken words in a state of confusion. 

But it was easier that way, safer. The occasional fooling around after a few drinks, the sudden bursts of affection that you both indulged in, those were manageable. It was a dance you had become skilled at, the art of keeping things casual, of never allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Those moments were pockets of escape from the realities of your lives, was an arrangement that worked for both of you.

At least you had thought it had.

It seemed that while you were comforting yourself with quiet ignorance of your feelings, Frankie was growing more confident in his feelings for you.

“I–” you started faltering, stumbling awkwardly over your words rethinking everything you had planned to say on the drive to the airport. 

It had been so much easier, formulating the words, reciting the monologue in your head. You'd been piecing together from the moment you'd left your home. But now, standing in front of Frankie it all felt like it wasn't enough.

The weight of your silence hung heavy in the air, and Frankie's hopeful expression began to waver. His eyes flickered with a mix of disappointment and resignation as if he had braced himself for this outcome. You could see the gears turning in his mind, preparing for rejection, the flicker of hurt in his eyes.

But then, something inside you shifted.

The fear of losing him, the realization of your true feelings, it all peaked at that very moment. It was after all what had jolted you out of bed. Caused you to frantically search for some half-decent clothes and your car keys before racing out of the door.

You finally found your voice, though quiet and cracked, “I'm sorry.”

Frankie's face fell, and the small hope that had flickered in his eyes extinguished. He took a step back, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of your apology had physically pushed him away.

“I thought…” he trailed off, his voice barely audible.

You reached out, your hand trembling as you gently touched his arm. “No, Frankie, let me finish,” you pleaded, desperation creeping into your voice. “I'm sorry for not saying anything earlier. I'm sorry for not acknowledging what,” you gestured at the space between the both of you frantically, “this is.”

Frankie's eyes filled with a mix of hope and apprehension. He reached out tentatively, as if afraid you might disappear if he touched you too forcefully. His fingers brushed against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

You sighed, “I'm fucking this up, this all sounded a lot better in my head on the way over here.”

Frankie's lips twitched into a small smile, the vulnerability in his eyes gradually replaced by promise. “It's okay,” he said softly, his voice filled with understanding. “I've been fucking this up too.”

You stared at him, your mind aswirl with both relief and confusion. “What do you mean?” you asked.

Before he could answer you, a voice over the loudspeaker announced the final boarding call for his flight. The moment was interrupted, the reality of the situation setting in. Frankie glanced back towards the security checkpoint, the impatient TSA agents waiting on him, torn.

You took a deep breath, knowing what you had to say. “Go, catch your flight. We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

He looked at you, a myriad of emotions crossing his face. After a moment, he nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Okay. We can figure this out together, right?”

“Sure,” you assured him as you took his hand in yours, giving it a firm squeeze.

He looked down at your joined hands and then with one last lingering look at you, Frankie turned and hurried back to his belongings, rushing through security.

You stood watching long after his head had disappeared out of view. Suddenly the departure of Frankie and the void of not knowing whatever this was now between the two of you. Whatever evolution had taken place in those split seconds had created a void, taking you out of the comfort of what you were and into something unfamiliar, something you felt you'd never get to experience again - something you didn't think you deserved.

Pulling the sleeves of your cardigan down over your hands for comfort, you tucked yourself away from the crowds and the flow of pedestrian traffic that had picked up flooding the security lineup. Your head was spinning, replaying the fleeting conversation. Such a small interaction that carried such a heavy weight that settled on your shoulders and made it harder for you to catch your breath for fear of tears.

As you made it back to your car, dodging the reuniting couples in arrivals, and happy families walking hand in hand back to the parking lot the reality of what had happened started to sink in. It wasn't about casual flings or unspoken feelings anymore. Frankie had revealed his heart to you, and you'd reciprocated, albeit in a clumsy manner.

The drive home didn't help, the journey feeling like it took twice as long. Each passing mile only made the void feel bigger, the hollow of your chest ache more. You'd just figured out what you wanted and now he was gone. The silence of the car, unable to bear the sound of the radio, amplified the cacophony of thoughts running through your mind.

Pulling into your driveway you grabbed your phone from the passenger seat and glanced at the screen.

A text message from Frankie.

Your heart skipped a beat, in conflict with the dread that you felt at the pit of your stomach. You unlocked the phone and read the message. It was short, quintessential Frankie, but held so much promise.

Two weeks.

It was exactly two weeks later when you felt the warmth of his body slip into the bed beside you. Arms around your waist pulling you into an embrace that brought his name to your lips whispered in quiet reverence in the silence of the night. 

Frankie.

The key you had pressed into his hand at the airport, your spare key, he had used it to let himself in at that late hour. Unable to entertain the notion of waiting to see you any later than that very moment. The darkness of the room enveloped you both as Frankie held you tightly, his breath warm against your neck.

For the past two weeks, communication between the two of you had been limited to sporadic phone calls and text messages as you negotiated work schedules and time zones. It was a constant dance of longing and uncertainty, as you both navigated the intricacies of your newfound connection. But now, with Frankie lying next to you, all the doubts and anxieties melted away.

You turned in his arms, burying your face in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent you had missed so desperately.

Frankie kissed your forehead softly, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “I couldn't stay away any longer,” he murmured.

“That's what the key was for,” you responded as you nuzzled yourself into the crook of his neck.

His laughter rumbled through his chest, the sound vibrating against your cheek. “Even without it, I'd still have found a way in, I know where you keep the spare.”

The silence of the room, filled only by your shared breathing was a comfort. His fingers traced circles on your back as a contented sigh escaped your lips as you revelled in the warmth of his embrace. 

“I missed you,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

His grip tightened around you as if trying to convey just how much he had missed you too. 

He dropped a kiss to your shoulder, his stubble grazed at your collarbone and despite the rough feel of it against your skin, you shrugged your shoulder into him to encourage him further. Groaning at the loss of his lips against your skin you looked up and against everything that was you, you pouted.

Another laugh escaped Frankie's lips, he pulled you tight to him, his lips finding yours for the first time since the airport. The night was late, and the room dark, but behind your eyes which fell closed in delight at the touch of his lips to yours, there were floods of colour bursting forth.

It was a moment that was equally suspended in time as it was filled with urgency. The anticipation that had built over the last two let go with the held breath you'd been holding onto since you left him letting way for those unspoken feelings you had spent so long pushing down. Every touch, every kiss was wave after wave pushing out the doubts and fears that had lingered in the depths of your mind.

Looking him in the eyes, you reached up and cupped the side of his face with your hand. He stilled, his arms caging you in on either side of your shoulders. The moonlight that slipped through the gap of the gauzy curtains cast shadows over the room but a slither hit his face and the warmth of his dark brown eyes radiated more than you could put into words. At that moment, you wondered what you had done to deserve something like this, someone like Frankie. 

You traced the outline of his lips with your thumb, savouring the tenderness of the moment. 

You lifted your gaze to meet his, examining his eyes for any hint of uncertainty or reluctance. Yet, all you saw was an abundance of love and unwavering determination. It was evident, without a doubt, that the past two weeks apart had only solidified his beliefs.

As he leaned down to capture your lips, you held your breath in anticipation. You weren't sure what you had done to earn the care and attention of the man above you, 

but you were grateful beyond words. His kiss was gentle yet passionate, a perfect blend of longing and tenderness. It felt like coming home after a long journey, like finding the missing piece of yourself that you never even knew was lost.

Frankie pulled you into a warm embrace, your heart skipped a beat. He smelled the same as always, faintly sweet with a hint of warm spice. His arms wrapped around you pulling him closer to him. Your hand rested on his chest, you could feel his heart racing, as was yours. The warmth of his breath danced across your neck sending shivers down your spine.

Your fingers, without even thinking about it, laced into the curls at the nape of his neck and tugged eliciting a growl from him as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, taking in the scent of your skin. He kissed you there. Softly and slowly before trailing more kisses down to your collarbone.

A moan escaped your lips as he nipped at the sensitive skin. Goosebumps rose on your arms and involuntarily you arched your back to give him more access, inviting him to continue. His hands slid up and down your sides, tracing the contours of your body underneath the thin fabric of the t-shirt you wore.

His kisses moved up your shoulder, to the crook of your neck, and your ear before meeting your lips in a tender but passionate kiss. His lips were soft and demanding all at once making your head spin as he explored yours patiently.

With his mouth on yours, you could taste familiarity on his lips. But it was mixed with something new - something that hadn't existed between the two of you before. It was intoxicating and made you quickly lose yourself in the moment completely. 

He paused for a moment, his breath lingering at your ear as he whispered, “God, I want you more than anything. This is real isn't it,” you heard the waiver in his voice, the disturbance of confidence, the genuine fear that possibly you might have changed your mind, “I don't know if I could be okay if this isn't it.”

You tucked an errant curl behind his ear, you knew he'd be alright without you. That he could go on. But the difference now was that you couldn't imagine going on without him. It wasn't just physical, though the last two weeks had been torturous, you'd missed the way his touch set your skin on fire and his kisses were enough to make you forget everything. It was more than that. It was the way he was able to see through you, through the walls you built up. He got you in a way that no one else before him had.

You inhaled deeply, feeling like you were standing on the edge of a cliff. Your heart raced with anticipation and your body was unsure whether to fight or flee. You were a work in progress, and changing habits overnight was not an option. But what was not in question, was your feelings for the man above you.

“It's real Frankie,” you managed a nod, “it's real,” you whispered as your fingers traced the curve of his shoulder, his bicep and forearm where your fingers found his and entwined together.

“Tell me,” he murmured hoarsely as his forehead dropped to touch yours, “tell me what I can do.”

Something about his request made your heart swell over with love for him again. This was Frankie, he wanted to know, to do, whatever it would take for you to feel safe, loved and at home in his arms. Swallowing you tilted your head so you could get a better look at him. Just enough so you could take in his face basking in the moonlight. His eyes were dark beneath the shadows, traces of darker circles hinting that the last two weeks hadn't been as placid as he'd made them out to be. His eyes and his face were set with serious concern - but his lips, they were turned up in a soft smile as he watched you think.

It was sweet and maybe a little adorable at the same time. It was also taking everything in you not to kiss him again. Instead, you smiled back at him, “I just want you, Frankie, just you. All of you.”

His lips crashed into yours and you felt something start to knit together inside of you. He wasn't going to fix you, you didn't need him to, but something about the acknowledgement of your feelings for him was soothing. His mouth and hands moved with urgency. He rolled onto his side, bringing you with him, his lips never leaving yours. His one hand cupped the side of your face, while the other tugged the t-shirt you slept in up and over your hips.

His fingers greedy, in one swift move he’d pulled your panties aside and sunk his fingers into your already waiting folds and the two of you moaned at the sensation. You at the feel of those calloused fingers working their way to curl and tease you. Him at the feeling of your warmth and receptive sounds you made as he found a rhythm that had the two of you humming with electricity.

“God, you feel good, Frankie,” you breathed out, arching your back again in response to his touch, which pushed his fingers just that bit deeper, just that bit further that had you biting your lip in anticipation of what more was to come.

He wrenched his lips from yours for a moment, only to kiss down along to your collarbone and the hollow of your throat, his nose nudging at your jaw tilting your head up, his breath hot against your skin and despite the warmth that coursed through your belly, you couldn't help but shiver.

“Tell me, baby,” he murmured, his voice raspy as he nipped at your jaw, his teeth sinking softly into your bottom lip, just enough to elicit a satisfying moan at the delightful sting.

You gasped as he drew his fingers out slowly as he continued to tease with a slowed pace that filled you with an ache that left you needing more. Your hips buckled with the need for him to sink his fingers back in, but he was on to your move and pulled away further despite your moaned pleas. 

You watched as his eyes locked onto yours, the hunger evident within them. A shiver ran down your spine again as he slowly traced a path with his fingers down your arm, your side, and over your hip, as he pushed your panties down and off of your legs despite him now pressing you into the mattress. You felt his breath against your skin as he leaned in to whisper, "Are you ready for me?"

Your heart pounded in your chest as you nodded, unable to speak past the lump that formed in your throat in anticipation. His lips met yours in a soft kiss that was in conflict with the want and need that had built up between you. Frankie's name was a soft caress on your lips as he positioned himself between your legs, the warmth of his body enveloping you.

In that moment, you knew that this was something real. Something that felt like it was meant to be. The anticipation of what was to come left you breathless, your heart pounding in your chest as if it couldn't wait any longer. As he sunk into you, that moment of connection you knew it, this was the feeling you'd been pushing aside all those other times. Keeping it to just fast and dirty sex, no feelings, but this? This right here? This was a whole other level of intimacy between the two of you. It was no longer just about the physical need, but the emotional connection that had long been brewing deep between the two of you.

Your breath hitched as his hips found their rhythm, and your hands tangled in his hair, the knot twisting tighter and tighter.

“Frankie,” you moaned, your voice breaking as your climax neared.

His eyes never wavered from yours, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half smile as he picked up the rhythm, the heat and tightness of your body driving him further to the edge.

The way his voice had grown more tender, the way his lips brushed softly against your skin, the way his hands sought to touch and hold you closer with every passing moment. It wasn’t long until his name was a sweet plea on your lips as yours on his as your orgasm crashed over you. His pace didn’t falter and continued in his rhythm until he too found his release. His rhythm faltered for just a moment before he came to a stop, his forehead pressed against yours before he collapsed to the side of you.

Your breaths ragged and hearts pounding in your chests, your thighs pressed together as the aftershocks of your orgasm echoed through your body. He kissed the side of your neck, his breath warm and heavy against your skin.

“You okay?” he murmured, his gravelled voice full of concern.

You nodded, finally finding your voice and replied, “I’m good,” you pressed your lips to his in a slow, lazy kiss.

He smiled against your lips, relief washing over his face. “I was scared I'd fucked this up.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” you murmured, stroking his hair.

The silence was a blanket over the two of you in the quiet of the room. Everything had shifted and yet somehow everything still felt familiar, like coming home. There was no returning to the way things were, the line was crossed. While two weeks ago you weren’t exactly sure you wanted this kind of connection, now you weren’t sure you could ever let him go.

[vilentia]

Unshielded Affection

Steve Rogers x reader

In the heart of Stark Tower, amidst the hum of technology and the occasional clank of Iron Man suits, there you were, a new assistant to Tony Stark. Your presence was a breath of fresh air, a contrast to the rigid mechanics and cold steel that surrounded you. And there he was, Steve Rogers – Captain America himself – with eyes that lingered on you a moment too long, a heart ensnared by your grace.

Steve watched you from afar, his admiration a silent sentinel. In his mind, he had already built a world where you were his and his alone – his girlfriend, his wife, the mother of his children. But for now, he was just a man, albeit a superhuman one, hopelessly entangled in the web of his yearning.

"Good morning, Steve," you greeted him one day, your voice a melody that danced through the air. Polite, ever so kind, yet oblivious to the storm you stirred in him.

"Morning," he replied, his voice a rumble, like distant thunder. "You look... nice today."

You offered a smile, unaware of the depth of his obsession, how he craved to claim you as his own. In his eyes, you were perfection – someone who deserved the world, and he wanted to be the one to give it to you.

But Steve's longing was a shadow that followed him, a whisper in the dark corners of Stark Tower. He imagined conversations, moments where he could confess his feelings, but fear held him back. What if you didn't feel the same? What if he was just another face in the crowd to you?

One evening, as the city lights flickered like distant stars, Steve found you alone in the common area, lost in a book. He approached, heart pounding, a battle raging within him.

"Can I sit here?" he asked, indicating the seat beside you.

"Of course," you replied, your eyes meeting his, a galaxy of kindness within them.

They talked, about everything and nothing – about art, about the world, about dreams. And in those moments, Steve saw glimpses of a future he yearned for, a life where you were his.

But as the clock ticked, reality crept in. Steve knew he couldn't keep you in his world of fantasies. He had to act, to speak his truth.

"(Y/N), I need to tell you something," Steve began, his voice laced with a vulnerability rarely shown. "I... I've been thinking about you a lot. More than I should, perhaps."

You looked at him, a hint of surprise in your eyes, but you didn't speak.

"I want you in my life, more than just as a friend. I want you to be mine, in every way that matters," he confessed, his blue eyes burning with a fervor that matched the intensity of his words.

The air hung heavy between them, a moment stretched into eternity. And in that silence, Steve's heart raced, waiting for your response, for the verdict that would either make or break him.

In the stillness of the room, your eyes remained fixed on Steve, absorbing the raw honesty that lay bare before you. The confession echoed in your heart, a turbulent sea stirred by his words.

"Steve, I..." you began, your voice a hesitant whisper, caught between the realms of surprise and an unspoken desire. "I never thought someone like you could... could feel that way about me."

His gaze never wavered, a testament to the sincerity of his feelings. "You're not just someone, (Y/N). You're everything I never knew I was missing. I see a future with you, a hope for something more than just battles and missions. With you, I see a life."

Your heart fluttered, a bird trapped within a ribcage, yearning for the freedom his words promised. A part of you had always harbored feelings for the heroic Captain, feelings you dared not acknowledge until this moment.

Steve reached out, his hand hesitantly finding yours. The contact was electric, a connection that seemed to transcend the physical realm, bridging two hearts with a silent understanding.

"I want to be there for you, to protect you, to love you," Steve continued, his voice a fervent plea. "But I need to know... do you feel the same?"

The question hung in the air, a challenge to the walls you had built around your heart. The thought of being with Steve, of being the center of his world, was both exhilarating and terrifying. To be loved by him meant stepping into a life far removed from the ordinary – a life filled with dangers, uncertainties, but also unparalleled passion.

In his eyes, you saw the reflection of your own fears and hopes, a mirror to your soul. "Steve, I... I do have feelings for you," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "But it's all so overwhelming. You're not just a man; you're a symbol, a hero."

Steve's grip on your hand tightened, a silent reassurance. "I'm just a man when I'm with you, (Y/N). A man who wants nothing more than to make you happy, to be the reason you smile. I don't want to rush you into anything. I just want you to know how I feel."

The room faded around you, the world outside ceasing to exist. It was just you and Steve, two souls laid bare in the vulnerability of the moment. The decision loomed ahead, a crossroads that would define the path of your heart.

In Steve's eyes, you saw a future filled with love, challenges, and the promise of a life less ordinary. And in that moment, you realized that perhaps the greatest adventure was not in the battles fought outside, but in the journey of the heart.

"Steve, I want to be with you," you said, the words a leap of faith into the unknown. "Let's take this one step at a time, together."

And with those words, a new chapter began – a story of love between a hero and the one who had captured his heart, a tale of two souls navigating the unpredictable waters of life, together.

[luxuriouswaigee]

Twilight Reverie: Muzan gives Kokushibo silent affection

Once upon a time, in a world teeming with the relentless whispers of demons and the fierce cries of demon slayers, there existed two beings whose power and presence ignited fear and awe in all who crossed their paths. Kokushibo, a masterful swordsman with a heart as cold as steel, stood as a solitary figure of strength and prowess. Muzan, the enigmatic leader of the demonic realm, commanded the respect and terror of all who dared to defy him.

On a night when the moon hung low in the sky, casting its silver light upon the earth below, a shadow of sorrow fell upon Kokushibo's usually composed features. His eyes, usually sharp and unyielding, now shimmered with a hint of melancholy, drawing the attention of Muzan, who could not ignore the unspoken turmoil that brewed within his loyal servant.

In a rare display of vulnerability, Muzan delved into Kokushibo's mind, attempting to unravel the labyrinth of emotions that clouded his warrior's heart. Yet, to his astonishment, Kokushibo's thoughts proved to be a tumultuous sea of memories and feelings, a tempest that even Muzan, with his mind-reading abilities, struggled to navigate.

Driven by a mixture of curiosity and concern, Muzan approached Kokushibo beneath the moon's watchful gaze. Wordlessly, he extended a hand towards his stoic companion, a gesture of intimacy and tenderness rarely seen from the demon king himself.

Kokushibo, taken aback by the unexpected gesture of kindness, met Muzan's gaze with a blend of shock and gratitude, his facade of indifference beginning to crumble in the face of such unexpected compassion. In that fleeting moment, as Muzan's touch brushed against his brow, Kokushibo felt a surge of warmth and understanding flood his veins, dispelling the shadows of his inner turmoil.

Muzan, whose reputation as a merciless ruler hung heavy upon his shoulders, found solace in the simple act of offering solace to his steadfast follower. The realization dawned upon him that even the most unyielding warriors bore scars that ran deep, wounds that could only be healed by the gentle hands of empathy and care.

As they sat together, bathed in the moon's silvery glow, the walls of stoicism and hostility between Kokushibo and Muzan began to crumble, revealing the fragile strands of a bond that transcended their roles as adversaries. In the stillness of the night, amidst the chaos and violence that defined their existence, an unspoken understanding bloomed between two beings who shared a history steeped in conflict and a silent bond woven from threads of companionship and solidarity.

I hope you all enjoyed this; I worked hard on it. This story was requested by one of my best friends! I also chose the picture because I found it on Pinterest and thought it was so cute. 💗💗💗

[crystalfliesforteyvat]

Beachside Rendesvous Arataki Itto x Reader

WC: 1,469

NSFW Minors: DNI

Tags: Fem reader, Blowjob, Very slight dom reader if you squint, Itto is a bit of a bottom (I cannot be the only one that sees him this way I make no apologies), also slight face fucking(?)

Notes: In a bit of a writing rut so have some Itto smut! I just wanted to treat him to getting head on the beach. He deserves it. 😌

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm embrace over the tranquil beach of Inazuma. The waves gently whispered secrets to the shore, painting the sky with a palette of fiery oranges and deep purples. You had found a secluded spot, away from the rest of the gang– off enjoying their day elsewhere, the bustling city and the prying eyes of the Inazuman populace. A perfect sanctuary for your rendezvous.

As you knelt before Arataki Itto, the sea breeze tugged at his long white hair, and desire flickered in his red eyes. The air around you was charged with anticipation as you undid the fasteners on his pants and pulled his already-hard cock free. He leaned back, one hand braced against a large rock as he watched you with a mix of hunger and vulnerability.

“Ready?” You asked, looking up at him as a pretty blush stained his cheeks, near the same color as the markings adorning his body. So cute. So handsome. He was always so strong, protective, and playful, and seeing him in this state was special and only for you as you gently gripped him and gave him a slow, teasing stroke with your hand. 

He gulped and nodded, a hand carding through your hair as you hummed appreciatively looking back down at his cock. He was perfectly shaped, thick, and heavy in your hand. It was a sight you never got tired of– him being hard and ready, just for you.

You took him in your mouth, the velvety softness of his skin contrasting with the steel of his arousal. A low groan rumbled from his chest, resonating through his body and into yours. The salt of the ocean air filled your nose, mingling with the musk of his arousal as you began to suck and lick with increasing fervor. Each whimper from his lips was a symphony to your ears, a testament to the power you held over this mighty Oni.

You took what you could into your mouth, one hand stroking the rest of his length while the other found his hip, gripping tight as you encouraged him to move. The sand shifted beneath your knees, but you remained steadfast. Your eyes moved up to lock onto his face, which contorted in pleasure with every stroke of your tongue. Itto's eyes fluttered shut, his head rolling back to expose the strong line of his neck. His breathing grew ragged, a silent plea for more, and you were more than happy to oblige.

With a gentle nudge, you coaxed him to thrust into your mouth. He still hadn’t taken the hint, to your mild annoyance. His body tensed, and the hand in your hair gripped slightly, drawing an inhale through your nose before you moaned around him. His whimpers grew louder, a crescendo of need that filled the space between you. 

You moved your mouth off of him with a pop which earned you a displeased, soft whine as you continued to lazily stroke him with your hand. “I want you to move, Sweetheart. Why aren’t you?” You asked, awaiting his answer.

Archons and Celestia above, he was a mess already. His cheeks were an even deeper shade of red as his chest heaved in pants and his pupils were dilated. Watching him unravel under your touch, his vulnerability laid bare sent a jolt of pleasure down to your core. You shifted your weight a bit, feeling yourself grow wetter seeing him in this state.

“Won’t you…you know…” He trailed off, his blush worsening as his eyes darted to the side and you chuckled. “I don’t want you to choke or anything.”

“Don’t you worry about me, if I couldn’t handle it, I wouldn’t be asking you to do it. I want to feel you move, okay?” 

He nodded and you grinned up at him, giving his head a teasing lick, “Good,” before taking him into your mouth again.

His hips rocked into your mouth slowly and a low, relieved moan sounded from him as his eyes drifted closed. You gagged as he hit the back of your throat. His eyes snapped open, filled with worry as he looked down at you. He began to pull back but you held his hip in place. You relaxed some more and began to bob your head up and down on his cock, telling him he could keep going. He thrusted into your mouth in a steady rhythm, each movement sending a jolt of excitement through your own body. 

The feeling of him stretching your lips was incredibly satisfying, and the sounds of your mouth working him over and his enthusiastic sounds of pleasure filled the quiet night. Itto's grip on your hair tightened the slight sting on your scalp sent a jolt of pleasure straight down to your sopping core. You swirled your tongue around the tip, feeling him pulse in your mouth as he grew closer and closer to climax.

His sounds grew more desperate, his need palpable, making you grateful you chose a place more remote to do this. You could feel his muscles tense, his thighs shaking. You reached up with your free hand to cup his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze as you took him deeper into your throat.

Itto's eyes snapped open, looking down at you with a mix of awe and desperation. "Fuck, I'm gonna... I'm gonna..." He panted, his voice strained with the effort of not finishing too quickly. You knew he was close, so you redoubled your efforts, taking him in faster, sucking harder.

You felt his hand spasm in your hair, his entire body tensing up like a coiled spring about to snap. And then, with a loud groan that drowned out the waves, he came. His hand held you flush against his hips as he shot rope after rope of cum down your throat. You swallowed, the warm, salty taste of him flooding your mouth. He bucked his hips, driving into you once more before he withdrew his softening cock from your mouth, panting and leaning against the rock behind him to keep himself steady. His hand released its grip from your hair, now thoroughly disheveled. 

You sat back on your haunches, a smug smile playing on your lips as you watched him try to regain his composure. His chest was heaving, he had hearts in his half-lidded eyes glazed with pleasure. It was a heady feeling, knowing you had brought this powerful Oni to his proverbial knees. You wiped your mouth, savoring the last of him on your lips as you looked up at him with a coy glint in your eyes.

Itto took a moment, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, the aftershocks of his orgasm still rolling through him. His hand fell to your cheek as he nodded, unable to speak at the moment. You chuckled and pressed your cheek into him, giving a light kiss to his palm.

“Good! I’ll have to take you away from the gang for alone time more often.” 

Itto managed a weak chuckle, his hand dropping from your face to hang at his side. His knees felt wobbly like they might give out at any second. The aftermath of his climax had left him in a state of blissful euphoria and he could feel the sheen of sweat on his skin begin to cool with the coming of night.

He looked at you, the smile still on your lips, and felt his heart swell. You were so beautiful, so fierce, so...his. He stumbled over his words, trying to form a coherent thought amidst the fog of pleasure. "Y-yeah...sounds...good."

You stood, wiping the sand from your knees, getting ready to join him leaning against the rock when he grabbed you by the waist to pick you up and turn you around in one motion, the roughness of the rock digging into your skin as you let out a surprised yelp. He gently pushed your legs apart and pressed his forehead against yours.

“Hold on, hold on!” Some of his playful tone had come back, though his voice was still laced with desire as his lips captured yours in a searing kiss before pulling back to look at you, his hips pressing against yours and you gasped, feeling his cock already beginning to harden again. “It’s your turn now, babe.” His lips trailed down your jaw and the column of your neck. “I want to make you feel good too.”

You sighed and melted into his touch as he began to draw moans and sighs of pleasure from you. He was so so sweet. And good to you. At least the guys and Shinobu would be busy for a while. You had plenty of time to enjoy this wonderful Oni all to yourself.

Let me know if you'd like to be added to a taglist!

[petriquors]

Maple & Steel

samurai!Iwaizumi x fem!reader angst

Pre-Edo Period royalty AU

The kami blessed you with a perfect day in your family’s garden, but you thank them with a restless heart. Seated under your favorite tree, a stunning maple with leaves as red as blood, your mind is anywhere but here.

You’ve read the same sentence in your book a dozen times, but you still can’t remember what it says. Every syllable drowns under the ominous swirl of your thoughts, so, with a sigh, you decide that reading is just as hopeless as you feel.

“What troubles you, my lady?”

When you look up, you see a man whose broad shoulders eclipse the low afternoon sun. The turquoise-and-white kamishimo he wears moves gently with every step, making him look like water flowing calmly over stones. 

On any other day, his presence would soothe you just as much as a walk by the river would. But today, Iwaizumi Hajime, the eldest son of his clan, is the last person you want to see.

The gentle breeze stills. Without it, the summer air hangs heavily around you, and silence buries the garden. 

Iwaizumi inclines his chin in your direction, peering down his nose at you. “Speak.”

“You would command me?” You smile through your threatening tone. You are the daimyo’s daughter, while he’s just a samurai’s son. If your father heard him speak to you that way, swift punishment would be in order.

If only your father knew about the romance you’ve been hiding from him.

You stand up, hiding your face in the shadows of the maple tree. Carefully, you eye Iwaizumi; watching, waiting for him to answer. On most days, he would respond to your coyness in kind, but today is not most days.

Today, a rift as wide as the sea lies between you, and you fear what you might find in his face when you cross the depths.

“Please,” he says gently, “tell me what’s on your mind.”

When Iwaizumi calls, you can’t help but answer. From the moment you met him as children, he’s known your heart well enough to see through lies and half-truths with frightening ease. “I heard your name on the war party roster. You’re going to travel at my father’s side.”

Though it was not a question, he still answers. “Yes.”

Your breath catches in your throat and tears sting your eyes. You knew it was true, but your heart still clenches when you hear it from his lips. “Congratulations.”

Riding with the daimyo is an incredible honor, but his eyes are full of dread. He looks away from you, searching for comforting words he cannot seem to find. “We ride west in the morning.”

“How far? How long?”

“Telling you might put you in danger,” he says.

“With whom?”

The stiffness of his upper lip is all the answer you’ll receive. You know that he’s right. He’s doing his best to protect you from the storm of war that gathers far to the west, but something more slices through your heart with a katana’s precision. 

You leave the maple tree’s shade and step into the sun, placing yourself within arm's reach of Iwaizumi. You watch his hands twitch at his side, see him internally weigh actions and consequences, duty and honor—and then, he seizes you by the hand.

You grip his arm. It’s sturdy, like a tree branch, so you wind your weak, vulnerable roots around him. In seconds, you’re captured in his embrace, planted firmly where your heart knows you belong.

When he grabs your face, neither the cool silk of his kimono nor the warmth of his fingertips can stop your tears. He holds you as gently as he would hold the head of a rose, with a touch so delicate that you barely feel him. You need more, you realize, as your longing overtakes you completely.

“I will not have you become a ghost,” you sob. 

A shaky breath flows from his lips, and you marvel at how well he manages to tame his emotions while yours are a raging ocean.

“I can’t protect you from this pain,” he whispers. You know his heart, too; he takes on your pain as if it’s his own, and counts every ounce of fear you feel as a personal failure.

You can't bear to look at him, so you let your tears soak his sleeve instead. A hum ripples from his chest and reaches your ears, shushing you as gently as a honed warrior possibly can.

With his free hand, he begins to stroke your hair. “Please, don’t cry for me. Sadness doesn’t suit your beauty.”

“But what if—”

“I would kill every cruel thought in your head if I could,” he interrupts. His voice has a sharp edge that makes you believe the threat wholeheartedly. “And then, I’d fill the space with sweet words instead.”

You sniffle. “Iwa—”

“I would write ten thousand songs for you. I would use ink and paper I made myself, so you can feel the patience of my love in every brush stroke. I would string together the words the kami whisper through the trees when I think of you. I would read them to you personally, reciting every word by your bedside until you grow sick of me.”

Finally, a smile tries to return to your face. You bite your lip, nuzzling his chest. “I could never grow sick of you.”

“Good,” he says. “Because I am nothing without your affection. When I ride west, when I raise my sword, I only do so to fight for a better future—one that you deserve.” 

The wind picks up, rustling the maple leaves and billowing through his kamishimo. You tilt your head to look at him, and you find red-rimmed eyes and a sad smile that’s full of love. Your heart beats like a butterfly’s wings.

“Wait for me,” he says

“Come home to me,” you reply.

“I will,” he says. “I promise, my love.”

[letmehavemyfictionalmen]

Stars Collide; Star-Crossed: prologue

Summary: As the dust settles, Din can't shake the weight of an indescribable feeling. A feeling that he's done something he can never make amends for. Little does he know, fate has plans to intervene and an unknown ally is on their way to his aid.

pairing: Din Djarin x afab!Skywalker!reader

warning: 18+ content, Eventual smut, Unprotected sex, Violence, Blood, Age-Gap, Kidnapping, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, a sprinkle of Angst, Idiots in love, Flirting, possessive!Din, powerful!reader, Jedi!reader, Grogu being adorable, Grogu loves his Ma more than his buir.

next

Din Djarin, the Mandalorian, is a man of few words and little emotion. His stoicism is legendary throughout the galaxy, once a shield against the harsh realities of the galaxy, now only serves to amplify the ache within his chest.

A weight on his shoulders that no amount of Beskar can protect him from, a cloak that he cannot remove.

The blinking of the control panel punctuates the stillness, but Din's attention is elsewhere, lost in a sea of self-doubt and regret. His steel resolve is shaken, and he questions the path he has chosen.

Din is engulfed by the blanket of the silence of his ship, surrounded by the hum of machinery and the faint beeping of his instruments. The silence, a constant reminder of his decision, a soothing melody that provides no comfort to his troubled soul.

He tries to push the guilt down, to ignore the haunting memories of the youngling's trusting eyes and outstretched arms, but the ache in his heart persists.

He remembers the soft cooing of the Child, the gentle touch of his tiny hands. But now, all of that is gone. He is alone, and the guilt is suffocating like a relentless predator tearing him apart.

The Child's touch, small and fragile, and wonders if he will ever feel it again. The Child's laughter, pure and joyful, and wonders if he will ever hear it again. The Child's vulnerability, and wonders if he will ever be able to protect him again.

Lost in thought, memories flooded his mind. Images of his own childhood, filled with trauma and pain, collided with the sight of the child's trusting eyes.

For the first time in a long time, Din feels something stir within him. Was it remorse? Regret? He couldn't quite say.

Din takes a deep breath, trying his best to collect his thoughts, failing to do so when his eyes fall on the silver ball from the Razor Crest’s lever.

Din's gaze lingers on the shining orb, his mind tangled in a web of uncertainty and dread. He feels the weight of what-ifs bearing down on his chest like a thousand stones, crushing him with the fear of what the remnants of the Empire could do to the child.

The tendrils of darkness seem to curl around his heart, their icy grip tightening as he envisions the fate that awaits the innocent youngling, the light within him threatened by the shadowy claws of evil

As if in a trance, Din's gloved fingers quiver as they brush against the cold metal of the control panel. The ship's steady hum dwindles into a soft whisper, fading into the background like a distant memory.

In the deafening silence, he is left with only the weight of his determination, heavy as an anchor, pulling him towards a path that will forever change his destiny.

The flicker of the forge that once burned in the armourer’s workshop now blazes in Din’s eyes with unyielding determination.

The Razor Crest is put back to rest as Din Djarin sets out to right the wrongs of his past, and to reclaim the trust that he has lost.

He knows that the road ahead will be fraught with peril, but he also knows that he cannot rest until he has set things right.

The stars overhead the parked ship bear witness to his journey, and the guilt that propels him forward, ever forward, towards a brighter tomorrow.

As the sun sets over the tranquil planet of Ossus, the sky blazes with a palette of warm hues, painting the world in a golden glow. The air is thick with a sense of peace, as if the planet itself were exhaling a long-held breath. Birds soar through the sky, their feathers catching the last rays of light, as they glide effortlessly towards their nests.

The Force flows through the air like a gentle stream, carrying with it a sense of serenity and calm. It is as if the very fabric of the universe is at peace here, allowing the Jedi to draw upon its power with ease.

As the evening settles in, the sounds of nature begin to take center stage. The rustling of leaves in the trees, the chirping of crickets, and the soft babbling of a nearby brook all weave together into a symphony of sound that fills the air.

Peace reigns supreme on Ossus, a sanctuary of serenity amidst the chaos of the galaxy. The Force flows through everything, a life-giving energy that suffuses every rock and tree, every creature that calls this world home. As the sun sets, the beauty of Ossus remains, an eternal reminder of the power and majesty of nature.

As the radiant sun descends below the horizon, casting its last golden rays across the tranquil planet of Ossus, you sit amidst the serenity and beauty of the sunset.

With eyes gently closed and back straight, your visage radiates the expression of eternal peace, enraptured by the flow of the Force that courses through you and everything around you.

Every breath of the cool, refreshing air fills you with a sense of calm and clarity, and the rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds lend a harmonious melody to the symphony of nature around you.

In this moment, you are one with the universe, and the universe is one with you.

Amidst the symphony of the cosmos, enraptured in the cosmic dance, you fail to perceive the mellifluous whispers of a Force spirit, summoning you by name.

As your eyes flutter open, they meet the resplendent sunset, a symphony of colors playing out before you. Slowly turning your head, you notice the rocky ledge beside you, and there, a figure sits, watching you with a soft smile. It's the man who raised you, the one who taught you the ways of the Force, and the one who has been with you through it all.

Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The smile of serenity that graces your father-figure's face transforms into one of pure admiration as you turn to face him. His voice carries your name with a familiar tenderness, evoking the same warmth that used to comfort you in your youth.

“You have grown stronger, one with the force, my Starshine. Sometimes it is hard to believe you are the same whiny little girl who wouldn’t stop asking for blue milk pudding, every night.” Obi-Wan teases, voice laced with amusement, his eyes crinkling with his smile, reminiscing about the past.

You roll your eyes playfully at your mentor, “Well, I was just a child, but I’m all grown up now.”

“Indeed you have, truly, but your penchant for mischief still reminds me of a certain reckless young padawan I once knew. Why did you have to inherit your Anakin’s impetuousness?" Obi-Wan questions, faking exasperation with a gentle smile, his eyes sparkling with fondness.

“Well you always did say that I was the perfect balance of my mother and father. It was to be expected of me. Plus, I was raised by you, what does that say about you, old Ben?” Your lips curl with a playful grin, mischief dancing in their every spin.

Obi-Wan resigns with a soft shake of his head, fully aware that his skill with words cannot surpass your own. For you wield your tongue and language like a saber against your foes, yet like a gentle blade of love to your cherished ones.

As Obi-Wan's fingers graze your cheek, his eyes convey a pride that words cannot articulate. “You have become a force to be reckoned with, my dear Starshine, and it is for this reason that I entrust you with a crucial task.”

Your brows knit together, creating a tapestry of confusion on your face. Tilting your head ever so slightly, you inquire, “What task, Uncle Ben?”

Obi-Wan withdraws his hand from your cheek, his gaze piercing into yours with a solemnity that sends a shiver down your spine. "There is a youngling, Nova. A child who is strong in the Force, like you and I. He needs our help, and I believe, with all my heart, that you are the one who can fulfill this task.”

As the weight of the task settles in your chest, you lean in closer, your eyes narrowing with a fierce determination. "Speak to me, Uncle Ben. Who is this Child that needs rescuing? And who is it that seeks to bring harm to him?" you inquire, your voice carrying a sense of urgency and concern.

Obi-Wan's gaze grows distant, lost in thought. "I do not know all the details, but I know that he is being pursued by the remains of the Empire. I sense a great danger surrounding this child, and it is imperative that we act quickly."

Your heartstrings tighten, a deep ache settling in your chest at the mere thought of a youngling being in danger. Children have always been a weakness of yours that you cannot overcome to this day.

Children make you vulnerable, the sight of them melts you into the mold of maternal instincts. To hear of someone hurting younglings is horrifying to you.

The wounds your father inflicted upon the younglings of the Jedi Temple still fester in your soul, a reminder of the darkness that once consumed him.

With a resolute gaze, you turn to your mentor, the one who has always been your guiding light. "I cannot just stand by and watch the Empire lay their hand on a youngling suffer," you say, your voice firm and unwavering. "Tell me, Uncle Ben, what must I do to help this child?"

A gentle warmth spreads across Obi-Wan's features, a reflection of the pride and fondness he feels for you in his heart, as he is moved by your unwavering determination to lend a hand.

"I knew I could count on you, my Starshine," he says, placing a hand on your shoulder. "The child’s current whereabouts is that of on the planet Nevarro. A bounty hunter has handed the child over to the fallen Empire. You must hurry, little one."

Your chin juts forward, a fire in your eyes that could rival the stars, “The force flows through me, Uncle Ben. I will not let the child be a victim of the Empire. Their safety is my duty, and I will see it done.”

Your unwavering spirit shines through as you pledge to see the mission through to its end. A pledge that echoes through the Force itself.

“I know you won’t fail me.” Obi-Wan utters with a gentle curve of his lips, akin to the graceful bend of a river flowing through a verdant valley.

As his smile warms your heart, you rise from your seat, the last glimmers of daylight slipping beyond the horizon, leaving the night sky adorned with a tapestry of glittering stars.

"Luke's worry for my safety knows no bounds," With a soft laugh, the words escape your lips like a playful breeze, "I must let him know of my plans and whereabouts, before departing."

Obi-Wan's eyes twinkle with mirth as he reminisces about the past, recalling the young, lanky blond boy who doted on you in a brotherly manner endlessly, oblivious to the fact that you were his youngest triplet sister.

A gentle rumble of laughter escapes Obi-Wan's lips, "Yes, Luke always did have a soft spot for you, fighting boys who mocked you like a brother would, even when he didn't know the truth about your connection."

A sense of longing tugs at your heartstrings as memories flood your mind like a torrential river. You hold onto the moment, cherishing the connection you share with your mentor, and feeling the comforting warmth of familiarity.

A gentle breeze blows, rustling the leaves of the trees, and you can almost hear the whispers of the Force echoing around you.

You take a moment to collect your thoughts and emotions, feeling the gravity of the situation at hand. You draw in a deep breath, steeling your resolve for what lies ahead. "I won't let you down, Uncle Ben," You declare with unyielding will.

Obi-Wan nods in approval, a sense of pride emanating from his being. "I have no doubt that you will succeed, my Starshine. May the Force be with you."

You smile wistfully at your mentor, your heart feeling as though it's being pulled in two. This moment between the two of you seems almost too precious to let go of. "May the Force guide us both,"

The spectral image of your beloved mentor fades before you, his voice echoing in your mind. His final words stir a deep longing within you, a desperate yearning for the comfort of his presence once more.

The wispy tendrils of his essence swirl around you, whispering a farewell that lingers long after he has vanished from sight. You stand alone, the cool breeze of the Force brushing against your skin, as you struggle to reconcile the emptiness left in his wake.

You close your eyes, feeling the weight of his absence like a heavy cloak, yet the gentle touch of his guidance still lingers in the very fabric of your being, a reminder of his fatherly love for you and your vow to protect the child at all costs.

As you open your eyes to the starry night sky, a cool breeze brushes against your skin, whispering of the adventure ahead. You take one last look at the ethereal landscape before you, shrouded in the veil of darkness.

It's a moment of serenity, a calm before the storm, and your heart swells with a deep sense of purpose. With unwavering conviction, you turn towards your ship, its metallic frame glinting in the moonlight.

A journey awaits, one that could alter the path of your fate and the destiny of the galaxy. You take a deep breath, ready to embrace the unknown, and begin your ascent towards the stars, leaving the tranquil wilderness behind.

☼ Please note that I do not wish to have my work translated or published on any third party reading websites. I claim the rights to my work.

☼ Where I don’t have any rights to the characters, many ideas and OC are my own creation. Please respect that.

[almightystylus]

A night of comfort with Zoro

Y/N's heart raced as she awoke from a restless sleep, tangled in her bedsheets. The remnants of a vivid nightmare still clung to her thoughts, leaving her breathless and disoriented. She sat up in bed, shivering slightly despite the warmth of the room. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting faint shadows across the walls.

Feeling a mix of relief and vulnerability, Y/N glanced around the room, searching for something to ground her. Her eyes settled on the small table by her bedside, where a soft glow emitted from a small lamp. She reached out and switched it on, bathing the room in a gentle, warm light.

Just then, a knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Startled, she called out, "Who is it?"

"It's me, Zoro," came the muffled response from the other side.

Y/N's heart skipped a beat, and a mixture of emotions swirled within her. Zoro, her friend and confidant, was the last person she wanted to worry. But before she could respond, the door creaked open, and Zoro stepped inside.

His presence was calming, his strong silhouette outlined by the soft light from the lamp. "Hey," he said softly, his voice carrying a mixture of concern and reassurance.

Y/N managed a weak smile. "Hi, Zoro."

His eyes softened as he noticed the unease on her face. "Nightmare again?" he asked, his voice gentle.

She nodded, her throat tight with emotions she couldn't quite express. Zoro moved to sit beside her on the bed, his presence bringing a sense of comfort. Without a word, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a warm embrace.

Y/N leaned into the embrace, letting herself find solace in his strength. His familiar scent, a mixture of steel and the sea, enveloped her, chasing away the remnants of her nightmare. Zoro's fingers brushed softly against her hair, his touch a soothing balm against her anxieties.

"It's okay," he murmured, his lips brushing against her forehead. "I'm here."

Tears welled up in Y/N's eyes, and she fought to keep them at bay. "I know," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

They sat like that for a while, wrapped in each other's embrace, the world outside their haven forgotten. Zoro's presence was a lifeline, grounding Y/N in reality and pushing away the haunting images of her nightmare. She felt safe, cherished, and understood.

"Want to talk about it?" Zoro's voice was a mere whisper, his concern evident.

Y/N hesitated before finally nodding. She recounted the fragments of her nightmare, each word a cathartic release. Zoro listened intently, his gaze unwavering and his support unwavering.

As she finished speaking, Zoro squeezed her gently, his fingers tracing comforting patterns along her arm. "You're safe now," he said softly. "I won't let anything hurt you."

Y/N's heart swelled with gratitude. Zoro's presence was more comforting than she could have imagined. She wiped away her tears and looked up at him, her eyes searching his for any signs of doubt. What she found was a fierce determination and a tenderness that took her breath away.

"Thank you, Zoro," she whispered, her voice filled with emotion.

He smiled, his lips curving in a way that made her heart flutter. "Anytime."

As the night stretched on, Y/N felt her worries melt away, replaced by a profound sense of connection. With Zoro by her side, she knew that no matter how dark the night, she would always find solace in his embrace. And as they sat together, bathed in the soft glow of the lamp, Y/N realized that sometimes, the most powerful comfort could be found in the arms of someone who truly cared.

[kemch122]

Adrian walked along the sand, each step leaving deep imprints behind. His body was monumental, as if sculpted from steel and carved through relentless effort and sacrifice. His massive chest rose and fell with each deep breath, while broad shoulders cast shadows over his bulging biceps. His thighs were like pillars, taut and firm, every muscle perfectly defined. Adrian was obsessed with the pursuit of strength—constantly pushing boundaries, training to the point of exhaustion, striving for a perfection that always seemed just out of reach.

He had come to this beach to rest—though deep down, he knew his mind never truly stopped. He longed to be more than just a body, for his strength to have greater meaning. His muscles were both his pride and his burden. Every flex, every movement, he felt to his very core. And in that moment, he noticed Leo.

Leo was lean, but confident, with eyes that seemed to pierce right through Adrian's massive frame. What began as a fleeting glance lingered until a silent tension filled the space between them. Adrian felt something unfamiliar—the usual certainty in his powerful body giving way to something else entirely.

Slowly, he approached, his steps powerful yet tinged with hesitation. “Wanna take a closer look?” Adrian asked with a mischievous grin, flexing a bicep that bulged like a mountain beneath his skin. His voice was deep, but it carried a hint of vulnerability, a desire for connection.

Leo chuckled, a little nervously, but stepped closer. His fingers grazed Adrian's shoulder, tracing the hard, stone-like muscle beneath. “This is… incredible,” Leo said, his gaze roaming across Adrian's chest and the sculpted abs that appeared etched with precision.

“It’s a lot of work,” Adrian admitted, his voice calm but his eyes betraying him. “Sometimes it feels like it's all I have. The drive to be better. To be stronger.” He stepped even closer, their bodies nearly touching. “But you know what?” he continued, voice softening, “It’s damn lonely too.”

Leo placed his hands on Adrian’s broad back, feeling the hardness and power beneath. “You don’t have to be alone,” he whispered, pressing closer. Adrian, who had lifted countless pounds in his quest to be invincible, suddenly felt the weight of something far sweeter—the weight of connection, of touch, of being seen not just as the strongest, but as a man searching for where he belonged.

Without another word, their lips met. Adrian felt every muscle in his body soften with tension, as though, for a brief moment, he was no longer an unbreakable titan, but simply a man who had found someone who understood him. The sea whispered around them, and the world could vanish—because right then, in Leo’s embrace, Adrian was as strong as he had always wanted to be. But this time, it wasn’t strength to lift weights—it was the strength to be loved.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 56

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 56: Souls tied, intertwined by our pride and guilt

AO3 - Masterlist

Aemond navigated the secret passageways with a practiced ease. The corridors, so narrow and winding, were a maze he knew too well, leading inexorably to Daenera’s chambers. 

The journey, once steeped in a sense of humiliation, felt akin to the scuttling existence of the rats that occasionally darted around his feet. Sometimes, in the quieter moments of this passage, Aemond heard the squeak of their scorn, as if even these creatures found amusement in his furtive ventures. 

Crossing the threshold into her chambers, however, brought a subtle transformation. The humiliation that clung to him like a shroud seemed to dissipate, left behind as if it were a cloak hung beside the door, only to be donned again upon departure. Their relationship had unfolded under the covers of night, a series of encounters stretching long and deep into the hours of darkness, always concluding with the dawn’s first light, signaling a retreat back into the realm of secrecy. 

For many months, Aemond harbored the desire to cast off this cloak of shadows, to bring whatever was between them into the day’s unforgiving light. And now, that some parts of their dalliance had been illuminated he knew how unforgiving and demanding it truly was. 

In Aemond’s breast, his heart beat a wild, chaotic rhythm, as if a caged creature clawed frantically at the walls of its prison. Each pulse sent a sharp, stabbing sensation through his ribs, like the ghost of a blade slipping through the grasp of his bones. The steel seemed to graze the delicate arch of his heart, and with each self-destructive beat, the tip would puncture it. Each throb threatened to lay bare what secrets and vulnerabilities that lay inside. 

It was a wretched feeling, a blend of desperation and longing that shadowed his steps ever since Daenera’s departure. This yearning, once a silent whisper at his heels, had now grown fangs and claws, fiercely provoked by the demands his mother had placed upon him, as though it felt the chains closing in around it. The raw need that drove him forward was no longer a subtle companion but a ravenous beast, gnawing at the very sinews of his being. 

Personal desires are of little importance. Choose, Aemond. It is your duty.

Aemond slipped into her chamber, carefully shitting the hidden door behind him, leaving the clawing of the shadows and the scurrying of rats behind. He moved silently across the room, his gaze searching until it found Daenera resting in her bed, her dark hair spread around her like the waves in a clam sea, her breathing rhythmic and serene in sleep. 

His attention was abruptly caught by Joyce, her face showing the signs of years spent in service, her expression stern and unyielding as she met his gaze. “Don’t wake her. It has been a long journey, and she needs the rest.”

Silently observing, Aemond watched Joyce as she unpacked items from a trunk, removing dress after dress. He leaned against the column, his arms folded across his chest. 

“You don’t like me,” he remarked quietly, breaking the silence. It was almost a challenge. 

“Fenrick doesn’t like you,”Joyce responded, her gaze meeting his directly, unflinching and honest. “I am indifferent. I only care about her.”

Aemond, standing in the dimly lit chamber, the golden rays of afternoon light unable to pierce through the drawn curtains, remained indifferent to the opinions of Daenera’s servants. His focus was elsewhere. 

“You’re treading on dangerous ground,” Joyce murmured, her voice a low, cautionary whisper as she deftly folded a dress, laying it gently atop a layer of protective silk before closing the trunk with a soft thud. She straightened, smoothing the fabric of her own dress with precise, practiced movements. “Both of you are.”

She approached Aemond, stopping at the boundary between the sleeping quarters and the sitting room, her gaze fixed intently upon him. “Perhaps you’re blind to the gravity of this situation, or maybe it’s a deliberate ignorance. But I see it clearly,” she continued, her voice firm. “This world is far more forgiving of men, than of women. You’re both skittering on the edge of a precipice. If you should fall, I implore you, do not leave her to bear the consequences alone.”

Aemond’s response to Joyce’s words was a look of scorn, his lip curling dismissively. “Oh, she will make sure of that.”

Joyce’s gaze sharpened, her eyes narrowing as she challenged his assertion. “And yet, she is the one who will pay the most for it, is it not?”

Aemond exhaled a harsh breath, his frustration evident. “I am already paying for it.”

He felt the weight of Joyce’s scrutinizing gaze as she studied his face, her eyes searching, lips pressed into a thin line. After a moment, her inspection ceased, and she turned away, her footsteps retreating only as far as the door. The soft click of the door closing, followed by the turn of a lock, was a silent testament to her discretion–a secret kept safe, even by those without personal stakes in its outcome. 

Aemond’s gaze settled on Daenera, her features relaxed and unguarded in sleep. He pushed away from the column, his boots thudding softly as they hint the floor, and gently removed his eyepatch. Sliding into bed beside her, he wrapped his arms around her, a sense of solace washing over him as she instinctively nestled closer to his heart. the sound of her contented sigh echoed within him, resonating in the scarred chamber of his heart with a bittersweet symphony. 

As morning light filtered into the room, Aemond awoke to an empty bed, the space beside him cold and devoid of her presence. Rising, he wandered into the sitting room where he found Daenera, her figure silhouetted against the soft glow of dawn. She sat at the table, cradling a cup of tea, its steam curling languidly into the air. Before her lay a piece of bread, torn into small, untouched pieces, as if she had no desire to eat it at all. Her hair was tousled from sleep, her cheeks flushed with the rosy kiss of the morning sun, her eyes, dark and deep, followed his movements as he leaned against the back of the settee. 

As Aemond stood there, observing Daenera, he could feel an unsettling tug at his heart. It was something dark and tempestuous, armed with sharp fangs and cruel claws, a force that had lain dormant beside his heart during her absence. This cruel presence had hungered for her, yearned for her touch, and now it stirred with a life of its own. Feeding this darker impulse seemed far easier than admitting the truth of his feelings – that he had felt her absence as he felt the absence of his eye. He had missed her. The acknowledgement of such vulnerability was anathema to him, a perceived weakness, and yet, it was he who had initiated the ritual, painted her with his blood and claimed her. 

And in his mind, she was his.

The question haunted him: Did she harbor the same deep-seated longing for him? Was his presence as deeply integrated in her being as hers was in his? Countless times, he had lung to the thorny image of her, his hand surrogate for her touch. Each desperate attempt to rid himself of her thorny blossoms only seemed to reinforce it, his mind invariably returning to her, his desire blooming anew with every thought, every memory, every imagined caress. The act of trying to pull her from his soul only seemed to plant her deeper, and as he had spilled his seed, the roots grew deeper. 

The silence that hung between them was fragile, a delicate thread pulled taut, ready to snap. Aemond was the one to venture forth, his voice a bridge across the quiet. “How was Storm’s End?”

She regarded him with a narrowed gaze, one eyebrow arching slightly. “Is that curiosity yours, or does it belong to your mother?”

The question was a dance around the edge of the chasm that lay between their families, a dangerous balance between personal and political–and the question itself held a certain note of expectation. 

Daenera exhaled slowly, setting her tea down with a soft clink. “I managed to preserve the alliance.”

Aemond acknowledged her words with a nonchalant hum, his hand casually reaching to pick a piece of bread from her plate. 

“Borros Baratheon was as expected–full of bluster and pride. He wasn’t pleased to see his brother return in a casket,” she said, pushing her plate towards him, indicating that she was finished with it. “Whatever rumors might have started, I laid them to rest in the crypts, alongside his brother.”

“I imagine you played your part well,” Aemond commented, casually popping the piece of bread into his mouth. 

Daenera gave a noncommittal shrug, her demeanor devoid of any regret for the charade she had been compelled to enact. “Well enough. Yet, despite the performance, the alliance only remains for as long as I am a widow.”

An amused smirk crept across Aemond’s face at her words. “I take it you didn’t mention to him that you have already wed, wife.” 

“No,” Daenera interjected sharply, her tone leaving no room for ambiguity. “And you won’t be doing so either.”

Aemond’s response was a casual shrug, his voice carrying a hint of nonchalance as he mused, “Well, your arrangement with Baratheon only extends as far as his daughters remain unwed. Should I choose to marry one of them, your alliance will fall apart.”

He observed her reaction closely, noting the subtle shift in her expression as her eyebrows drew together, her eyes narrowed, and her lips forming a tight line of incredulousness. “You’re not going to marry one of his daughters.”

Aemond couldn’t help but feel a sense of amusement at her visible irritation. 

“I might,” he retorted teasingly, enjoying the sight of her deepening scowl. “Mother is quite insistent on me finding a suitable wife. She even went as far as collecting a deck of cards with potential brides and their houses.” He pushed off the settee, stepping towards her. “You cannot begrudge me doing my duty as you did yours.”

Aemond closed the distance between then, leaning in and placing one hand on the back of her chair and the other on the table’s smooth surface. His voice dropped to a suggestive whisper. “You could be my mistress–”

The sharp sound of her slap echoed through the room, leaving a stinging imprint on his skin. Aemond’s gaze shifted back to Daenera, drawn to the storm of anger in her eyes, a tempest that threatened to engulf him. Yet, beneath that fury, there was something else in her expression, a profound emotion that seemed to reach out and sink its claws into his heart with an unsettling intensity. 

“I will not be your fucking whore,” Daenera hissed, her voice seething with contempt. The suggestion of her being a mere mistress was an insult, and it was intended as such. 

Aemond’s smugness was palpable as he prodded her further, a sly grin on his face. 

“Are you jealous?” He teased, watching with a sense of triumph as she averted her eyes, a faint blush coloring her cheeks, her breath leaving her in an indignant scoff. “How ironic, to be thought of as the other woman, when I’ve been your secret for months, hidden away while you lay beside your husband.”

His words were laced with a snide, venomous undercurrent, a manifestation of the darker, unspoken part of himself. This inner beast, weaned on a diet of her poison, that had grown teeth and claws, ready to lash out. 

Daenera’s gaze returned to him, her expression almost smirking, yet not quite. There was a sharp edge to her voice, a familiar bite as she retorted, “I won’t allow you to risk my alliance by having you marry one of Baratheon’s daughters.”

Each word was a dance of defiance and provocation, a verbal sparring that laid bare the complexities of this dalliance–this secret marriage. 

His smirk widened, amusement lighting up his features. He thrived on the spark of her anger, one the fiery response he elicited. “Perhaps another house, then?”

her eyes narrowed further, scrutinizing the sly glint in his eye. Undeterred, Aemond continued, “The Tyrells have a daughter on offer. Heard she’s quite the beauty.”

Aemond’s hand left the table, reaching out to gently grasp Daenera’s chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. He watched in amusement as her pupils dilated, blackness swallowing the sea. His thumb delicately traced over her bottom lip, a touch that was both provocative and intimate. 

“I can’t help but wonder,” he mused, his voice a low rumble, “if she’ll be as thorny as you–her kisses laced with the same poison as yours… or perhaps she’ll be gentle, like the petal of a flower, innocent and sweet.”

Daenera’s response was immediate; her hand shot up to clasp his wrist, her nails pressing sharply into his flesh. The expression that unfurled across Daenera’s lips fell somewhere between a smirk and a sneer. “You’ve always liked my thorns. There’s something about getting your hands bloodied that you find appealing. Isn’t that why you grip onto me so tightly?”

With a firm tug, she freed herself from his grasp, drawing attention to the stark pink scar that marred his palm–the reminder of his weakness, and her power. “Your mother commands you to wed, and what can you do but obey? What a loyal dog you are.”

Leaning in, she pressed a kiss to his scarred palm, infusing the act with a blend of tenderness and poison. The sensation sent a searing heat into his veins, the fire pooling in the depths of his being. “Yet, you’ll still want me.”

The veracity of Daenera’s words resonated deep within him, stirring the beast that rested alongside his heart. It began to twist and claw at its cage, fed by desire and frustration. The force of his emotions, roused by her provocations, churned turbulently inside him, as if threatening to break free and lay bare the raw intensity of his longing–how rooted she was within him. 

“Have you missed me?” She asked, her tone laced with feigned innocence, a velvet shroud hiding the slip of a blade. “Did your thoughts wander to me in the dark of night? Did you imagine my touch as you wrapped your hand around your cock?” Her voice was impossibly sweet, teasing as her breath collected on his palm, her big blue eyes peering up at him. “Were you haunted by my absence?”

Each word was a calculated stroke, designed to ensnare and entangle him further in her thorny vines. And not even the seven hells would deter him from her lips. 

Aemond’s sudden advance was abruptly halted by the sharp impact of her palm against his cheek. The sting of the slap resonated through him, a harsh contrast to the tension building within. His fingers instinctively closed around her wrist, gripping it firmly as he ran his tongue over the corner of his lips, savoring the lingering burn. A thrill of excitement surged through him, a primal response to her aggression. 

There was a part of him that relished this pain, the slight edge of hurt she inflicted. It sparked something raw and intense in him, his body responding with a visceral, undeniable desire that made his cock strain within the confines of his trousers. 

In a tone lanced with command and seduction, Daenera ordered, “On your knees.”

Her words were not just a directive; they were an incantation, weaving a spell of dominance and desire that Aemond found himself unable to resist. 

Aemond’s knees met the unyielding chill of the stone floor, the cold seeping through his skin, contrasting with the heat he felt burning in his chest. His hand, which had moments before rested on the back of the chair, now ventured upwards along her thigh, pushing the fabric of her robe and nightgown higher. The warmth of her skin radiated through the thin material, soft and beckoning. His grip on her wrist loosened, both hands now finding purchase on her thighs. 

Daenera’s gaze, a deep and mesmerizing blue that perpetually haunted him, now locked onto his. In her eyes danced a gleam of mischief and power, ignited by his compliance. Her thighs parted slowly, her hands gathering the fabric of her robe, drawing it away in a gesture that was both deliberate and teasing. 

As Aemond’s cheek brushed against her knee, his fingers delved beneath the nightgown, lifting it with a fervor that bordered on desperation. He coaxed her towards the edge of the chair, gently prying her knees further apart to reveal the glistening, slick allure between them. The sight made his mouth water, a visceral longing washing over him, a thirst for her as intense and overwhelming as that of a man who had not seen water for days.

His desire was palpable, a tangible hunger that drove him to seek out the taste of her, to satiate a craving that had become as essential as air. 

“Would you like a taste?” Daenera’s voice was a whisper, smooth as silk, drifting through the charged air between them. Her hand caressed his cheek, the touch tender, seemingly to soothe the sting that still lingered from her slap–to threaten another. 

Aemond felt the confession hovering on the edge of his lips, a desperate, almost embarrassingly vulnerable admission. But instead of speaking, he chose to respond with action. He let his lips brush softly against the tender skin of her inner thigh, inhaling deeply, taking in her heady scent. His kisses traced a path towards her center, where her desire was evident, her arousal glistening. Just as he was about to indulge in the taste he craved, her fingers caught his chin, halting him and turning his face towards hers. 

“I want to hear you say it,” Daenera demanded. Her command was laced with an intoxicating mixture of authority and temptation, an irresistible drawl that left him yearning, salivating at the thought of her sweet cunt. 

“I want it,” Aemond’s voice emerged, raw and fervent, the words rolling off his tongue with a strained intensity. “I want to taste you–let me taste you.”

On Daenera’s lips, a cruel smirk took shape, her eyes holding him a piercing gaze for a lingering moment, as if debating whether to allow him a taste. Them, as if satisfied with his plea, she leaned back in the chair, parting her thighs further to reveal herself to him, her desire evident and inviting. 

Aemond lowered his head, his lips meeting the soft skin at the juncture of her thigh. His hands gently kept her knees parted, the flesh yielding slightly against the firmness of the armrests. He traced his tongue along the seam of her, eyelid fluttering in pleasure at the sweet taste of her arousal, eliciting a soft, breathy moan from her. 

Delving deeper, his tongue explored her, lapping at the well of her arousal. He pressed it flat against her, drawing her pearl into his mouth, swirling around the sensitive nub with a practiced tenderness. He could feel the tremble in her thighs, the quiver of anticipation and pleasure, as a contented sigh escaped her lips, a testament to the depth of her enjoyment. 

Aemond adjusted her position, lifting and hooking her thighs over the armrests, an action that allowed his hands the freedom to roam. He used them to gently spread her, revealing every quivering detail of her, the visual evidence of her need dripping out of her. He returned his mouth to her, his lips and tongue working in fervent unison on her clit, the lewd, wet sounds of his ministration filling the air alongside her moans. 

Her arousal flowed freely, cascading down her, mingling with his saliva as he diligently lapped at her, the intensity of her pleasure increasing with each stroke of his tongue. Delving deeper, he explored her with a hunger, his tongue breaching her, teasing and probing in a rhythm that matched the rising crescendo of her moans.

Her hand found its way into his hair, gripping it as he passionately pleasured her, his movements relentless and driven by the intoxication of her sweetness. He angled his face, allowing his nose to brush against her clit, as he thrust his tongue into her. The heady taste of her, the scent of her, all of it consumed him, leaving him aching with his own unattended desire. His hand reached down, grasping himself through his trousers, a moan vibrating against her as he rutted into his hand. 

Amidst the fervor, Aemond’s mind wandered, haunted by the memory of his longing during her absence. How often had he imagined this very taste, this sensation? How many times had he clutched himself, lost in the fantasy of her, her imagined moans, a ghostly presence in his ears? The reality of her now, under his touch, was both a fulfillment and an amplification of that yearning, a reminder of the depth of his desire. 

Daenera’s moans of encouragement enveloped Aemond, enhancing the fervor with which he was devouring her. Despite the familiarity of their actions, her words ignited a spark of excitement within him, urging him on. 

“You feel so good,” she gasped, the pleasure evident in her voice. “Use your fingers.”

Eager to comply, Aemond’s tongue traced a path from her pulsating center to the sensitive bundle of nerves above, as he carefully slid a finger inside her. The sensation of her warm, slick walls enveloping his finger, drawing him deeper, sent a shiver of pleasure through his body. He moaned, the vibration of his voice adding to the stimulation, coaxing a high-pitched moan from her in response. Her hand in his hair became more forceful, guiding him, her hips moving in rhythm with his motions. 

His own desire was a mounting pressure, his arousal painfully evident against the confines of his trousers. But he pushed his needs aside, gripping himself tightly, focusing intently on her pleasure–introducing a second finger into her, his touch became more deliberate and knowing. His fingers danced within her, seeking the tender spot he knew so well, applying just the right amount of pressure as he continued to lavish his attention on her clit. 

The scrape of her nails against his scalp, the tightening grip on his hair that bordered on painful, was a testament to her escalating pleasure. Her moans were a symphony to his ears, each note spurring him further. Her body responded in kind, her muscles clenching and fluttering around his probing fingers. 

“I–I’m so close,” she whispered, her hips undulating against him, seeking more. “You feel–ngh, feel so–good.”

In response, Aemond added a third finger, feeling her clench tightly around him, her arousal making a wet, slopering, sound with each movement of his hand. He curled his fingers inside her, finding the rhythm that would take her over the edge. Her climax was a crescendo of tension and release, her body quaking, her breath catching in her throat as her inner walls clenched around his fingers in rhythmic spasms. He maintained his rhythm, continuing his movements, prolonging her pressure until she finally relaxed, her grip on his hair loosening in a gesture of surrender and satisfaction. 

Aemond slowly withdrew from his devoted attention to her, his lips leaving her cunt. He casually wiped the remnants of her release from his chin onto her thigh, his fingers, slick and gleaming, tightly gripping her skin. Gradually, he advanced up her body, shifting his knees closer to her, planting fervent kisses along her body. He paused to lavish attention on a hardened nipple, drawing it into his mouth through the sheer fabric of her nightgown, then trailed kisses up the delicate curve of her neck–A sharp hiss escaped him as her hand tangled in his hair, giving him a firm tug that pulled him away. 

“Do you really think I would let you have me when you can’t even admit you missed me?” Her voice was like a rasp against his senses, igniting his desire into a blaze mingled with frustration. 

With a forceful push, she set him aside and stood up. “I want you to beg for it.”

Aemond scoffed, his gaze following her as she moved with a fluid grace towards the bedroom. Her fingers deftly worked the tie at her waist, smoothly drawing it through the hoops before allowing her robe to cascade to the floor in a whisper of fabric. The morning light filtered through the room, casting a soft glow that accentuated the alluring contours of her body beneath the sheer nightgown. 

“Get on the bed,” she commanded, her voice laced with an authoritative edge that resonated in the space between them. 

With a sense of urgency, Aemond rose to his feet, his erection noticeable, straining against his trousers painfully. He crossed the threshold of where her robe lay discarded, his movements marked by a blend of anticipation and caution. He began to shed his own clothes, peeling off his shirt and reaching to untie his trousers. Before he could proceed further, she reiterated her command, her tone firmer this time. “Get on the bed.”

Defiance flickered within his chest as he watched Daenera approach, her movement a predatory stalk. She placed a firm hand on his chest, pressing him backward with a force that contrasted sharply with the playful, sensual smile curving her lips.

Despite the smoldering fire in her eyes, there was an element of teasing in her demeanor. Yielding to her push, Aemond found himself being guided down onto the bed, his back resting against the pillows at the headboard. 

As she straddled him, the heat of her core brushed tantalizingly against the pronounced bulge in his trousers, eliciting an involuntary hitch in his breath. She leaned close, her lips hovering just out of reach, a teasing promise. When he leaned in to close the distance, she instead chose to trace a kiss down his neck, tasting the salt of his skin and the thrum of his pulse. He felt his heart drum rapidly within his chest, felt the throng of it throughout his body. Her hair brushed his skin, a soft contrast to the intensity of her lips. Each time he shifted, seeking friction, she moved with a calculated cruelty, evading his advances. 

His hands instinctively clamped onto her thighs, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, a low hum escaping him as her teeth playfully nibbled at his neck. She then took his hands, guiding them above his head, her kisses along his neck continuing their torturous dance. 

Pulling back, Daenera looked down at him with a triumphant smirk. Aemond intended to lower his arms, to take control, but he suddenly found himself bound to the headboard, wrists wrapped in fine silk that held him firmly in place. 

“Daenera–” 

“I told you,” she interrupted, her thumb brushing against his lower lip, her own lips curled with mischief. “I want you to beg for me.”

“I’m not–” his protest was cut short as she sensually rolled her hips against him, the fabric of his trousers unbearably tight, bending him in a painful arch. His attempt to break free was in vain, his body straining against the silk ties, the sensation of her movement intensifying his need and frustration. 

“I think you’d grow bored of a dainty, delicate flower,” Daenera drawled, her voice laced with amusement. She rolled her hips in a deliberately slow, tantalizing rhythm, drawing stifled moans from Aemond that he would rather have swallowed. He responded instinctively, his hips rolling to meet hers, seeking more of the exquisite friction she provided. Frustration flared within him as he tugged at the silk restraints, only to find them unyielding. A sneer tore loose from his throat. 

“A Baratheon, perhaps–” he retorted bitterly, his words once again cut short by another sharp slap. The impact forced him to blink, his bottom lip caught between his teeth in a futile attempt to suppress the sound that escaped his chest. The amalgamation of pain and pleasure sent a thrilling jolt through him, his arousal intensifying with each stinging caress. 

In these moments with her, Aemond felt himself slipping further into a realm of decadent desire. She was his undoing, leading him down a path of ever-deepening depravity, each encounter fueling his hunger for her.

Daenera’s voice took on a teasing lilt as she responded to his provocation. 

“A Baratheon, you say,” she hummed, her hands tracing a path down his chest while her teeth gently nibbled at the sensitive skin of his throat. 

Aemond’s response was a mix of tension and anticipation. He swallowed hard, his heart pounding fiercely, as if readying for battle. His bottom lip caught between his teeth again, the pressure just shy of drawing blood. 

“Cassandra, you’ll find, possesses her father’s temperamental nature, along with his pride,” Daenera continued, her nails lightly scratching across his skin in a tantalizing torment. “Maris shares these traits, though she lack’s her sister’s looks.”

Aemond’s only response was to close his eyes and tilt his head back against the unforgiving wood of the headboard, his hands balling into tight fists. He desperately wanted to tear loose, to bury himself in her tight cunt and make the both of them forget the talk of marriage and alliances. 

Daenera’s fingers teasingly skimmed the waistline of his trousers, yet refrained from venturing any further. He rolled his hips upward, seeking the mercy of friction but only found empty air and torture. 

“Ellyn, on the other hand, is more pleasing to the eye, but she’s quite uninteresting and you’ll find her dreadfully boring,” Daenera added. “And then there’s Floris, the fairest of the Four Storms. However, she’s young, and perhaps too frivolous for your tastes.”

Her lips disappeared from his neck and cool air swept in, curling over his heated skin as there was nothing but emptiness. She pulled away entirely, her tantalizing touch evaporating from Aemond’s fevered skin. He lay there, his chest heaving with the effort to suppress the humiliating words that threatened to spill from his lips. 

“But naturally, should your mother command it, you must wed,” she stated, a note of mock solemnity in her voice. 

Aemond’s eye fluttered open, keenly observing her as she sat back on his thighs. Her eyes were dark pools, swirling with a tempestuous mix of emotion that he couldn’t quite decipher. 

“So, whom will you choose?” Daenera asked, her voice laced with a charged undercurrent each word a blend of challenge and veiled threat. The question hung between them, a provocation that demanded an answer yet threatened to unravel the delicate balance of their relationship.

“Daenera.” Aemond issued a warning, his voice tinged with a mix of desperation and reprimand. In response, her eyes only narrowed further, an unspoken challenge flaring within them. 

Her fingers began a tantalizing journey up his thighs, her touch bold and teasing. When she grasped the pronounced bulge in his trousers, a sharp hiss escaped him, his hips involuntarily lifting as his head thudded back against the headboard in a mix of pleasure and torment. 

“Do you think any of them would do this to you?” Daenera���s voice hummed with a teasing edge, her hand stroking him in a way that elicited a muffled sound from his throat.

Aemond’s head knocked against the headboard again, a futile attempt to regain some semblance of control over his reactions as his body betrayed him, responding eagerly to her provocations. 

“Tell me what you want, ñuha qēlossās,” she cooed, her voice a seductive whisper weaving a spell around him, compelling him to succumb to her will. My stars.

Aemond bit down on the inside of his cheek, the sharp tang of blood mingling with his ragged breaths. He choked out a strangled sound, barely coherent, his body quivering under her touch. The heat of his fevered skin, the sweat gathering at his nape, and the desperate throb of his arousal all betrayed the depth of his longing, his entire being alight with an insatiable desire. 

“Admit you want me,” Daenera’s voice was filled with dark allure, soft like velvet and filled with a seduction that would have lesser men on their knees. Her hands tugged roughly at his trousers, each movement a tormenting tease that sent waves of pain and pleasure through his aroused body. “Admit that you missed me.”

All Aemond could muster was her name, whispered like a prayer. His voice was laden with longing and reverence. “Daenera.”

“Do you wish to marry the Tyrell girl?” She asked, her movements growing rough, each tug on his trousers sending jolts of excruciating delight through him. Her fingers danced dangerously close, hinting at relief yet denying it. 

His reply was a breathless, “No.”

“And what of Cassandra Baratheon?” She continued with no mercy in her tone. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of his trousers, pulling them down to expose him fully. Her gaze drifted to meet his, a playful yet dangerous glint in her eyes, her lips curled in a cruel smirk. 

“No,” he breathed out again as she peeled his trousers further down, his cock finally released from its confines. It sprung up, slapping against his lower abdomen, the vein on the underside bulging with need, the head red and weeping. 

“And Maris Baratheon?” She inquired, her voice a seductive hum, as she maneuvered his trousers down to his ankles. Her nightgown brushed against his skin, a tantalizing contrast to the heat emanating from his body. Yet, she made no move to touch him, to grasp his throbbing cock that weep with need for her touch. 

“No,” he replied once more, his voice strained with a tense reverberation, bordering on a raspy groan. Her proximity was intoxicating, the promise of her touch hovering just out of reach, leaving him in a state of agonizing anticipation.

Daenera’s voice took on a teasing lilt as she leaned in closer, her flushed cheeks and rose-red lips creating a visage of anticipatory delight. 

“What about Floris?” She inquired, her head tilting inquisitively, her eyes sparking with mischief. 

“She was the one you found pretty, wasn’t she?” Her eyes narrowed dangerously at his answer, and she delivered another sharp slap across his cheek. The sting of it only fueled his arousal, evidenced by a deep groan and the twitching of his cock. Her hand then shifted to caress, soothing the reddened skin with a touch that was as tender as it was tormenting. 

“I might just leave you like this,” she threatened, her other hand pinching the flesh of his thigh, eliciting a jerking response from him at the sharp pain, his cock pulsating with neglect. “I could just walk away, and please myself while you watch.”

Her head tilted again, her eyes flicking towards his erection, then back to his face. “I could leave you like this,” she licked her lips, as if tasting the words, “helplessly aroused and–” she ran a nail along the length of his cock, drawing a strained, ragged sound from him as he sought more contact, his hips bucking forward though his legs were hopelessly pinned beneath her.

“Full,” she finished, tracing her finger through the glistening evidence of his need. With a seductive motion, she brought her finger to her lips, tasting him, her gaze locked with his. 

In response, Aemond lunged forward as much as his bonds would allow, his body twisting in a mix of pain and desperate longing. His expression, a contorted blend of sneer and agony, was etched with intensity. 

“You’re my wife,” he growled, the words a declaration.

A dance of emotion flickered across her features. Her lips briefly curved upwards, then downwards, brows furrowing slightly, before her face finally settled into a twisted smirk. “What do you–”

“YOU!” Aemond cut her off, the sneer on his face morphing into an expression of sheer desperation. “I want you–fuck.”

Aemond’s breath hitched as Daenera’s hand encircled his cock, her grip firm and unyielding. Even without movement, the sensation was so overwhelming he felt on the brink of losing control. His head thudded against the headboard, his breathing ragged and labored as he clenched his teeth, struggling for composure. 

Yet his body betrayed his efforts, hips instinctively rolling, seeking the friction of her hand.

“You want me,” Daenera murmured, her voice a sultry drawl, her thumb tracing the sensitive underside of his cock. “But you’re bound to marry another…”

“Fuck!” Aemond’s expletive was a breathless utterance, his body a tumult of need and frustration. “I don’t want anyone else. I want you–please…”

“What was that, hmm?” Daenera’s tone held a tinge of surprise, though Aemond was far too consumed by her touch, too lost in the sensations radiating from his throbbing cock. 

“Please,” he repeated, his plea steeped in desperation, the rawness of his voice akin to a sinner seeking absolution. It was a cry of mercy, a plea for salvation in the guise of her touch. 

Her hand began to move then, and the sound that escaped him was a choked moan of overwhelming relief. He strained against the silk restraints, his body undulating into her strokes, his head knocking against the headboard as he fought the urge to surrender completely.

“I like it when you beg,” Daenera whispered in his ear, her lips brushing against the rapid pulse in his throat. “And here I thought you were a loyal dog, ready to obey your mother.”

She licked his throat. “I thought of you, while I was away… your hands, your mouth…”

Their lips finally met in a desperate, consuming kiss, a whimper bubbling up from his throat. The thought of her, alone and fantasizing about his touch, his kisses, fueled his ardor. Her tongue danced against his, a symphony of shared desire and longing. Her hand continued its tantalizing movements, her thumb gliding over his vein, drawing a shaky breath from him. 

“Please,” he begged again, hating the vulnerability–the utter desperation in his voice. 

Aemond’s moans reverberated through the room as Daenera’s hand glided once more along his length, his muscles clenching as he felt at the edge of exploding. 

“I want you, ah—ah—mph,” he groaned, each movement of her hand sending waves un unbearable pleasure coursing through him. “I can’t—ah, fuck—ngh.”

Her fingers twisted expertly, enveloping the head of his cock, drawing his hips helplessly towards the tender warmth of her palm. Her touch was an exquisite torment, sweet and maddening in equal measure. He hissed in a mix of agony and desire, his brow furrowed, teeth bared in a primal grimace. “Please, dōna narys. Release me, let me touch you, let me have you, please–”

“Did you miss me?” Daenera’s question was laced with a sweetness that was almost unbearable in its poignancy. 

What more did she want from him? Did she want him to confess the nights spent tossing in restless longing, the days shadowed by the ghost of her absence, every empty glance a reminder of what he yearned for? The gnawing thought of marrying another, fulfilling a duty that paled in comparison to his desire for her? Did she want to know how her thorny vines ensnared his mind, her essence flowing like poison in his veins? Did she want to hear about the beast that raged at the thought of being with anyone but her, and raged more at the thought of her marrying someone else? 

Had he not shown her how utterly and completely she had managed to poison him by cutting into his palm and sharing his blood with her? 

He had missed her. He had missed her like the night sky missed the dawn, felt her absence as acutely as the loss of his eye. But all that managed to escape his lips was a strained, whimper. “Yes.”

Daenera’s grip on him intensified, her hand twisting at the base of his cock, her touch both a promise and a torment. She leaned in close, her lips barely brushing against his, the proximity pushing him precariously to the edge. His mouth fell open as she gripped him firmly, his body taut like a bowstring. Then, abruptly, she released him, her hands moving to hike up her nightgown, revealing the smooth expanse of her thighs. 

She positioned herself over him, her hips lifting to slike her cunt along the length of his cock. Her warmth and wetness left a tantalizing trail on his skin. Aemond’s groan was deep and guttural, his head dropping to rest on her shoulder as she guided him, the head of his cock teasing along her slick entrance. 

In that moment, Aemond’s world narrowed to a single, overwhelming focus: Daenera. Every other thought, every whisper of consciousness, was swept away in the tide of his sensations. His mind was adrift, lost in a sea of her. He was reduced to nothing but moans, incapable of a single coherent thought. 

When she finally sank down onto him, the sound that escaped him was raw and unbridled, caught somewhere between a groan and a gasp. Her enveloping warmth was enough to make him delirious, a sensation that felt almost otherworldly in its intensity. He would endure any torment for moments like this. As she took him in completely, her inner walls clenched and fluttered around him, drawing him deepering into her embrace. 

“Ah-ah, fuck, I’m going to–ngh, please.” His breath came out fast, his words faster, words tumbling one after another incoherently. “Mmh–mmh–mmh.”

“Are you going to fill me with your seed?” Daenera cooed. 

Aemond nodded, unable to assemble anything but broken hums.

His body responded instinctively, hips thrusting forward in a desperate bid for deeper connection. The release, when it came, was overwhelming. Aemond’s moan was a pained whimper of pleasure, his body taut with the intensity as he spilled his seed within her. His cock pulsed, each spasm releasing more seed, as waves of pleasure cascaded through him. 

Aemond was acutely aware of Daenera’s fingers gently brushing the nape of his neck, a touch that grounded him as he lay his head in the crook of her neck, his breathing erratic and heavy. Her fingers then found his hair, gripping and tugging with a force that elicited a sharp his from him. She maneuvered his face up to meet hers, her eyes alight with triumphant smugness that seemed almost divine. 

“You must have really missed me to finish so quickly,” she teased, her tone laced with satisfaction. “But I’m not done with you.”

As she began to move her hips again, Aemond found himself caught in a whirlwind of sensation. He hissed and whimpered, the breath choked out of him, his jaw clenching as he strained against the restraints. Her movements were both torment and rapture, the pain of his heightened sensitivity clashing with the undercurrent of pleasure. Each roll of her hips, the slight withdrawal before she enveloped him once more, was both an agony and a thrill.

“Please– ‘s too much,” Aemond pleaded, his voice a series of desperate whimpers. “Give me, ah… give me a moment.”

Daenera did not seize her movement, she maintained her control, pressing his head against the bed as she continued taking what she wanted from him. Each movement sent shockwaves through him, his cock stiffening against all reason. His pleas became muffled groans, his breaths drawn sharply through gritted teeth. 

Yet, Daenera seemed to revel in the sounds of his distress, her own moans joining in the chorus. As she persisted, Aemond felt an involuntary response, his body reigniting under her touch. 

She took her pleasure from him unapologetically, her determination and desire evident in every movement, every rise and fall of her hips. 

Entirely at Daenera’s mercy, Aemond was a symphony of moans and whimpers, adrift in the exquisite torment of her enveloping warmth. The sensations of her around his sensitive cock blurred any boundaries there were. Her movements deliberate, languidly rolling against him, her stiff nipples visible through the sheer fabric of her nightgown, moving rhythmically with each subtle motion. The urge to bury his face in her chest, to take her tits into his mouth, was overwhelming. 

But instead, Daenera captured his mouth in a fervent kiss, deep and wet, their tongues brushing against one another. His hips began to move instinctively, meeting her slow descent onto him. 

Each of Daenera’s movements was a dance of calculated passion, her hips rolling into him with rhythmic precision. The fluttering and clenching of her inner walls signaled her approach to the precipice. Aemond could feel it nearing, her moans breathed into his mouth as they shared one final, fervent kiss. 

Then, with a deliberate motion, she broke the kiss to release a loud moan, her head falling back, revealing the elegant curve of her neck and the pulsating vein beneath her skin. In that moment, her walls tightened around him, holding him in a vice-like grip, their quivering intensity pushing her over the edge and pulling him along in the torrent of her release. 

Aemond surrendered to the overwhelming sensation of spilling his seed deep within her. A strangled moan escaped him, his head dropping to rest against her chest, his hips instinctively thrusting upwards to meet hers. A sharp hiss whispered from between his clenched teeth, a visceral response to the intensity of the release. 

Daenera’s movements began to slow, her hips still rolling in a gentle, lingering rhythm. As he felt himself being pulled back once more, her lips descended on his, bestowing tender, languid kisses while the aftershocks of her orgasm continued, each residual flutter sending waves of exquisite torture through him. 

She was maddening. Her touch, her taste, her quivering cunt. It was all intoxicating and utterly, completely maddening. 

“Release me,” he implored, his voice raw and raspy with urgency. “Please.”

Daenera’s hand drifted to the silk ties binding his wrists, loosening them. Once Aemond’s wrists were freed, he wasted no time in asserting his desire. He wrapped his arm around Daenera’s waist, pulling her closer as he plunged deeper into her welcoming depths. His lips found the tender skin of her neck, tasting the salty sheen of sweat and feeling the pulsating rhythm of her heartbeat. With a fervent tug, he pulled the neck of her nightgown down, revealing her shoulder and descending to trace kisses along the juncture of her neck, her collarbone, and down her chest. He uncovered one of her tits, taking it eagerly into his mouth, sucking with a raw hunger. 

Daenera’s response was immediate, her fingers gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as a soft moan escaped her lips. 

Aemond felt the haughty intoxication of her moans, smirking as he suckled on her tit. His other hand wandered up her body, finding the other breast and caressing it, reveling in its softness and fullness, heavier than he remembered. 

“Aemond,” Daenera moaned, her touch at the nape of his neck tender, a stark contrast to the intensity they had just gone through. “Ñuha qēlossās, if you continue like this…”

Feeling her hips move again, Aemond was aware of her tightening around him, the sensation overwhelming to the point of delirium. His desire was reignited, unstoppable even in the face of discomfort. His movements started slow but grew in urgency as he felt himself harden once again, every nerve alight with a burning need.

Aemond’s arm encircled her waist once more, thrusting upward before deciding to shift their position. He maneuvered her onto the bed, her body slick and responsive beneath him. His mouth lingered on her breast a moment longer, then traveled up her neck, finally claiming her lips in a fervent kiss. His movements were a blend of passion and a deep, insatiable longing, every thrust a testament to the inexorable pull she had on him. Her cunt clenched around him, her wet heat accommodating his every thrust with a perfect rhythm. 

He set a relentless pace, his hips snapping to hers as he thrust into her, every movement fervent and unyielding. As he fucked her, Daenera’s hand tangled in his hair again, her nails tracing a fiery path down his back. His tore from hers, seeking her neck to nipple at the skin near the juncture of neck and shoulder. 

“Ñuhon,” he growled against her, his fingers finding her clit, stroking it in perfect sync with his relentless pace. “Ñuhon. Mērī ñuhon.

Beneath him, Daenera moaned, her body arching, hips lifting to meet his every thrust. He was buried so deeply within her, it was a wonder how she had not fallen pregnant yet, even in spite of the moontea. 

Sweat clung to Aemond, his hair plastered against his neck, droplets trailing from his brow. The room was filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, and panting breaths. With every thrust, Daenera responded with a soft hum, her walls tightening. 

Her expression was one of unadulterated pleasure, eyes heavy-lidded and shimmering with desire. Pressing harder against her, he elicited a flutter of her eyelids, her hips jerking in response. Her body tightened around him, her spasms wringing him, drawing him closer to the brink. And with a strangled cry escaping her parted lips, she surrendered to the waves of climax, her release coaxing his own. 

Aemond found himself surrendering completely, releasing himself inside of her once again. As he did, a part of him wished that his seed would imbue her with the same festering poison that she had instilled within him.

Spent and breathless, he collapsed onto her, his head coming to rest against her chest, where he could feel the rapid, thunderous beat of her heart against his cheek

In the quiet that followed, they lay together in a tangle of limbs and labored breaths, the intensity of their encounter lingering in the air. The silence stretched between them, a palpable entity, until Daenera finally broke it with a soft yet firm declaration. “If you must marry, do not marry a Baratheon.”Those words resonated deeply within the cut up chamber of his heart. He closed his eye, his blood singing in his ears. One flesh, one heart, one soul. Now and forever.

[kingofech0park]

because i look for you (everywhere i go)

In which Oikawa Tooru is a man on a reconnaissance mission, a reclamation mission, a how-to-find-your-best-friend-you-fell-in-love-with-after-almost-a-year-of-falling-apart mission.

(The link to the fic on a03 is in the title! I know its bad guys I KNOW. It's my first fic in like five years okay and probably one of my first oneshots and definitely my first iwaoi fic but i hope u enjoy!!)

______

“This will never work.”

That’s what he had said, word for word verbatim. He had watched his best friend’s face crumple, the briefest moment of vulnerability before the mask came back up, hard and determined to hide the way his heart was cracking. But Tooru knew him. He knew when Iwaizumi was holding back tears, eyes green and fierce in their resolve. And he hadn’t said anything, kept his eyes cold and stared hard past his best friend’s pained eyes, his gritted teeth.

“Okay, Tooru.” Iwaizumi had said, real quiet, not holding eye contact. Jaw set. “I understand. I won’t push it.”

“Thanks.” Oikawa had said, barely a whisper but somehow so cold. 

His best friend had nodded, one short, curt movement. “No problem, Oikawa.” And then Iwaizumi had stood and walked out swiftly, without a second thought, like a story closed, like an ending set firmly in steel and stone and everything permanent in the world.

He was thinking about it again. Shit.

Tooru glanced down at his fingers, slender and pale and wrapped around his café lagrima, nails that had once been manicured to perfection chewed down to nubs, cuticles red and chapped. His misery was nonsensical. It was a beautiful day; the faint sea breeze drifting into the cafe, sun bright and hot along the white-sand beaches, palm trees swaying in the wind. It was picturesque. His entire life was perfect, a dream; he was the starting setter for the Argentinian National team. He had trained under José Blanco; he was the starting setter of every team he played on; he was going to the Olympics, for god’s sake. But here he was, moping in the vague direction of his coffee. Thinking about… well… goddammit.

“I couldn’t be prouder to have you as a partner. And you’re the absolute best setter.”

I know, Tooru thought miserably. Glared at his fingers that he had been chewing, picking to shreds. His usually perfect setter fingers. Cut it out, he admonished himself, and felt his stomach sink as he realized that was the kind of thing Iwaizumi would say. His brain drifted back to it again– his best friend’s eyes as he told him, a declaration so full of conviction it could almost convince him he was good enough: I couldn’t be prouder to have you as a partner. Iwaizumi’s eyes were so green, so beautiful in his memory– his brows were sharp and dark and slanted down with determination, his cheeks flushed and sore from crying, his mouth screwing into a smile so full of an adoration Oikawa didn’t know how to find on his own. Was sure he could never deserve. 

It had been later that day. His best friend had set his jaw and cupped the setter’s face and told him, voice gruff and hoarse and maybe the littlest bit shy, I love you. And Tooru had kissed him, at first careful and nervous, and then firm, hard, sure– you’re the one I want– I don’t want anyone but you, Hajime, I don’t love anyone like I love you, Hajime– and the rest had been history. Until it wasn’t, and Iwaizumi was pushing past him, walking away, newly single and lost after years of being with his best friend, after a whole life spent loving him. The moment had been the end, a clean break that would surely never heal; one day he had been there, and the next he had not.

It was all Tooru’s fault, anyway. He had been the one to have doubts. He had been the one to tell Iwaizumi it would never work out. That they were too far apart. That Iwaizumi deserved to be loved by someone close, someone who really could. His best friend had really loved him. Had begged him to stay. And Tooru had stuck to his guns, stubborn, hard, until he had forced Iwaizumi to walk away.

Tooru thought about that for a while. The way Iwaizumi had pleaded with him. Reasoned with him. Said I love you ten thousand times like it could change the stupid fact that their relationship didn’t make sense. He stared at his coffee and didn’t drink it. Once the thought had crossed his mind, he couldn’t put it back. Couldn’t quiet it. It was his mistake. He would have to be the one to fix it. Please, god, let this be fixable.

Texting him would be too casual. Calling wouldn’t be enough. Tooru booked a plane ticket to Tokyo.

______

He had forgotten what it would feel like to be in Japan.

Everything had been strange. Foreign, uncanny. When he had shown his Argentinian passport at the airport, because he wasn’t a citizen anymore. Didn’t belong. Speaking Japanese had been uncomfortable on his tongue, random words like mirror or ticket slipping his mind. He felt alien, especially in Tokyo, a city that he’d only been to a few times. But Oikawa pushed through the awkwardness; he was a man on a reconnaissance mission, a reclamation mission, a how-to-find-your-best-friend-you-fell-in-love-with-after-almost-a-year-of-falling-apart mission.

He had gotten his intel from Hinata. Iwaizumi never posted on his Instagram, so Tooru had been forced to call upon the shrimp– who he was much closer to, after Hinata’s beach volleyball training in Brazil– and the spiker had let him know that Iwaizumi was living in Tokyo, having briefly acted as stand-in athletic trainer for the MSBY Black Jackals, and probably was working somewhere else in the area. Tooru had hunted for him on Facebook, too, hoping to find a professional page that would list where he worked– but it had been entirely unspecific, like his best friend had disappeared off the face of the earth. He had also asked Hanamaki, who had been entirely unhelpful and kept pressing as to why he was looking for Iwaizumi, anyway, until Tooru hung up.

Oikawa wandered around Tokyo and let the memories float around in his mind. His Iwa-chan had always loved agedashi tofu. He wondered if he still did. He remembered them, learning volleyball together, fighting together in middle school, at the Inter-High later, always striving, believing in one another. He remembered secret kisses and touches shared through the last of that senior year summer– long hours spent on Skype while Iwaizumi attended university in California and Oikawa training in Buenos Aires, the time zone making it hard but never impossible to love one another, no matter how far; and then Iwaizumi moving back to Japan to become an athletic trainer, a full 12 hour time distance, calls becoming infrequent, visits too short and sparse, until eventually, Oikawa had sat him down and said those four fatal words:

“This will never work.”

Tooru gritted his teeth at the memory. He had to find his Iwa-chan, his Hajime. Did it matter, now? He was sure. He couldn’t live without him.

The time apart had been melancholy incarnate. Everything he had ever wanted, at his fingertips, in his hands, easy and reachable or achieved, and yet, it had not been enough. He had longed for his best friend. His lover. His anything, everything. Did it matter if Iwaizumi didn’t want to be his boyfriend again? They were partners. They had to be together. If Oikawa had believed in the red string of fate, it would be with utmost certainty there, tying him to Hajime all his life, always pulling him back into his best friend’s orbit. They belonged in the same world, he was sure of it. He was less sure things could go back to normal, but he had to try. His best friend deserved someone who would try for him.

It wasn’t late when Oikawa finally crashed out in a hole in the wall ramen shop, but he was so tired, and so jetlagged from the 12 hour time distance. His search could continue tomorrow. Iwaizumi was probably asleep, anyway.

______

“Shittykawa, why the fuck are you here? Get up.”

A dream. He was dreaming of his Iwa-chan. It felt so real, like he could reach out and touch him, his beautiful boy in front of him, angrily shouting, shaking him roughly. The setter felt a twinge of annoyance. If he could have him in a dream, he’d prefer it not be like this.

“...my dream, Iwa-chan…” he mumbled. “Mean… my dream? Do what I want…”

“You’re not fucking dreaming, stupid. Wake the fuck up.” Iwaizumi said roughly, harshly.

Fuck.

“Iwa– Iwa-chan!” Tooru shot up, eyes wide. He recognized the scenery now as he slowly came to; he had fallen asleep in the middle of dinner hour at the ramen shop, collapsed down onto the counter. Tokyo was cold, so much colder than Buenos Aires, and goosebumps were raised all along his tan skin. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“It’s not even 9pm, Shittykawa. Get up.”

The nickname made it seem like everything was normal, fine. But the tone of Iwaizumi’s voice was new, cold, unreadable– foreign. It struck Tooru that he might not know his best friend anymore. That they might be alien to each other now, that a year might be too big of a rift to patch. So he was quiet, the silence uncomfortable and omnipresent when it had once been okay because they were together, and Iwaizumi dragged him behind him through late Tokyo evening, the city lighting up in a thousand colors that were dazzling and too bright all at once. Iwaizumi continued to drag him, up six flights of stairs wordlessly, angrily, cursing to himself as he struggled with the key to his blue-doored apartment, and shoved Oikawa inside before shutting the door behind them.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” The spiker shouted, and only then could Tooru see the anxiety, the fear in his best friend’s eyes. “Why the hell are you here, anyway? And you didn’t even fucking– fuck, Oikawa, what the fuck?”

What the hell could he do in this situation? Iwaizumi continued, pacing, ranting in the small of his barren apartment, shouting obscenities that were never quite aimed at Tooru and always hit the walls instead. The setter felt himself tear up. Even now, Iwaizumi didn’t want to hurt him. Didn’t want to shout at him, because he knew Oikawa would crumple. 

“Why the hell didn’t you even–” Iwaizumi quieted, green eyes dropping to stare at the setter’s sneakers, face deadpan, voice hollow and hesitant. “Why didn’t you even tell me you were coming?”

“Iwa.” Oikawa whispered.

“I still would’ve cared to know you were coming, even after… everything.” Iwaizumi’s voice cracked, unwilling to look in Tooru’s eyes, intentionally looking anywhere else. Staring at his hands, his knees, the floor. 

“Iwaizumi–”

“Don’t.” The spiker held up one hand, voice and eyes so tired, like he hadn’t slept in the year since Oikawa had left him. “It’s fine. Just crash over and leave tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.” Tooru got out as his best friend stalked off to another room. This was not how he had envisioned it. He had imagined finding Iwaizumi sunlit and tan and healthy, and run into his arms, crying and apologizing and pleading, and his best friend murmuring quiet into his perfect and silky hair, I still love you, I still love you, it’s okay, I waited for you, I love you, Tooru. His vision had, of course, had a few flexible elements– but he certainly hadn’t prepared for this. Looking stupid. Ugly. Pale and cold and miserable with chapped lips asleep in a ramen shop on the street, hair mussed, eyebags probably huge and swollen and blue from jetlag– and Iwaizumi yelling, cursing, and Oikawa being unable to tell him why he had come, a glassy marble stopping up his throat like he was a bottle of ramune.

Fuck. Fuck. Tooru had not come all the way to Tokyo to sleep on Iwaizumi’s stupid couch and leave early the next morning and go on with his life. The setter pulled himself to his feet with the same determination he always approached everything with. Hit it until it breaks. Keep trying until you can’t anymore. He padded across to the door Iwaizumi had left through, socks quiet in the dark apartment, and opened the door as carefully as he could.

“Iwa-chan?”

And– shit. He felt his heart drop like a stone onto the floor. Iwaizumi was crying, duvet pulled up over his head, spiky hair shaking, arms tense and twitching as he clung to a pillow, shivering. He looked so vulnerable. So weak. Tooru hadn’t seen him like this in so long and felt a rush of affection hand in hand with horror through every bone. “Iwa-ch– Hajime.” He whispered brokenly.

“What the hell do you want?” Iwaizumi asked, eyes red and puffy as he sat up, pushing the duvet aside. He still couldn’t hold eye contact. “Just go back to bed, Oikawa, you can get to whatever it is you’re here for in the morning.”

Oh. “I’m–” Tooru swallowed his pride. It tasted lonely and caught in his throat. “I’m here for you.”

“What?” Iwaizumi finally met his gaze, eyes wide, confused more than anything. “What? Why?”

“I came because–” Oikawa felt the tears that had been brimming spill over, uncontrollable now as they ran down his cheeks, voice shaking, hands clenched in fists. “I came because I’m so stupid. I’m so stupid, Hajime, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. I’m sorry–” He pushed down a sob as best he could– “I’m so sorry it took me so long to say it. I’m sorry I pushed you away. I fucking love you, Hajime, I love you more than anything in the world. And I don’t care– I don’t care if you don’t want me, you’re my best friend and my partner and I don’t want anything in the world if I can’t have you–”

“Tooru.” Iwaizumi said quietly.

“It’s not living without you, Hajime, I love you, I love you, I love you, I’m so sorry.” He got out brokenly, staring at his socks and the aliens patterned on them blurring through his eyes too tearful to quite see properly, and all of a sudden warm arms, bare and muscular and so, so familiar were wrapped all around him, holding the pieces of him together like they had always been.

“Tooru.” Iwaizumi breathed, soft and relieved, into the setter’s shoulder. “I love you, too.”

The crying was ugly now, snotty with big sobs and hiccups. “You– you do? I’m sorry, Iwa-chan, I don’t deserve you–”

“God, you’re stupid.” Hajime smiled, brushing Tooru’s hair back, wiping his tears away with his thumb. His every movement was so certain. It was something Oikawa had always loved about him– his stability, determination, his ability to be so sure about him every time.

“I’m sorry.” 

“I know.” Iwaizumi snickered. “Your personality is really shitty, you know. I don’t know if I can forgive you.” Tooru’s sobs doubled in intensity, snot dripping all over his best friend’s bare shoulders, and he was vaguely aware of how unpleasant it must be for Hajime as he bawled out disjointed apologies.

“Okay, too soon. I’m sorry.” Iwaizumi murmured, planting the softest kiss to Tooru’s shoulder as he held him and rocked him in the dark of his apartment.

“I don’t deserve you, Hajime.” Oikawa sniffled as Iwaizumi pulled him towards the bed and sat him down, cradling him.

“I know.” Iwaizumi chuckled softly, burying his head in his best friend’s hair. “Did you get off the plane today?”

“I did.” Tooru whispered. “I’m ugly, Iwa-chan.”

“I think you’re the prettiest.” Iwaizumi whispered.

“Can I–” The setter swallowed hard, throat and stomach all tied in knots. “Can I have you back, please? I’m sorry if–”

“You always had me.” The shorter boy murmured, lips pressing to Oikawa’s cheek. “And I’m still so, so mad at you. But I love you. Even though you’re stupid.”

“I love you.” Tooru whispered.

“I love you, too, stupid.” Hajime whispered, eyes glowing determined and so, so full of joy. “We’ll figure this out. I know we will. I want you no matter where you are.”

“I love you, Iwa-chan. If you’ll have me.”

“I’ll have you forever,” Iwaizumi promised.

______

“...and don’t you ever do that stupid shit again, Shittykawa.”

“Iwa-chan!”

“I love you.”

“Yeah. I love you too.”

[midnightprelude]

Senseless, Pt. 4

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Finally, three years later, I tested positive for COVID-19. Of course, I couldn't suffer alone, so @oftachancer humored me in inflicting the disease on Dorian so we could write Anders taking care of him (and falling in love). This is a 4-part fic which will post daily! You can follow the #senseless da fic to get updates. Written for @30daysofdorian!

Two years later, when the world began to open up again, Dorian surprised me with a pair of tickets to Antiva. Three long weeks, stretched out in the sand under my umbrella, watching him emerge dripping from the waves to pad across the beach, past all of the other beautiful people.

To me.

He curled up against my side, again and again, kissing the freckles on my shoulders and drawing runes on my skin to keep it from burning.

I knew I loved him. Had known, at least the barest inklings, during those first few weeks when he was ill and vulnerable, all of his careful masks set aside to focus on the monumental effort of just living. Fragile as spun glass, in parts, strong as steel in others. Precious and valuable and worthy of protection. 

His house had become ours, during the past two years. Dorian’s upholstery had long ago lost the battle against Ser Pounce’s fur, ginger tufts covering as much of the massive house as my old cat cared to explore. It was still far too large, but it had long ago stopped feeling empty. The evidence of the lives we’d woven together accumulated through the long hallways. Half finished knitting projects I’d abandoned. Bread I baked in batches whenever he was working and I had a day off from the ER. Puzzles we’d framed of all the places we wanted to go, once the world was ours again.

I took his hand, bringing it to my lips. Crystals of salt adhered to his knuckles, the scent of spices that always seemed to cling to his skin overshadowed by the sea. 

“You’re so beautiful when you stop to rest,” I murmured, watching his eyes flutter open to reveal thin slivers of moonlight. His lips curved in a proud, pleased little grin. A glutton for praise. I knew he was. I loved to indulge him. I scooted closer, continuing. “In motion, too, but…” I brushed a damp curl from his brow, as I’d done a hundred times before. “There’s something so special about the look you get when you’re perfectly content.”

“Go on,” he murmured, leaning into my touch. 

“You were right about Antiva.” Not just because it was beautiful, but because I could see it through his eyes. Well earned relaxation. A haven. “I should have guessed you would be.”

“I am right about many things.” He touched my chin gently. “I was right about you.”

“That I’d love you?” I wondered, leaning in to brush my lips to his. “You were.”

“That you might be capable of that,” he chuckled, “yes. And that I could love you. That I could learn to be myself with you. That I would want to.”

“Thank the Maker for that,” I whispered. So many things to be thankful for these days, I was starting to wonder what I’d done to please the old guy and His Bride. Maybe Dorian was His gift to me to make up for the rest of it. I nudged his nose with mine. “I’m pretty fond of yourself, you know. I can’t believe you wanted to keep him hidden.”

“Can’t you?” Dorian wondered, tracing the shell of my ear. “I suppose that’s part of what makes you exemplary. You found it, then, I suppose?”

“Found what, love?” I wondered.

“Found what, he says, as if he can be trusted not to dig through the satchel for snacks like a rummaging hamster.”

“The chocolates were divine,” I admitted, sheepish.

“Yes, I’d suspected you would think so.” Dorian chuckled. Nervous? Was he nervous? “…And the other?”

“Hm?” I tilted my head to the side. His gaze seemed determined to flutter away from mine. “What other, darling? More of those caramels?” I wiggled my brows. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Not interested, then.” Dorian wrinkled his nose. “Perhaps I was hasty. I can procure caramels instead.”

I blinked, frowning. “Instead of what, love?”

He glanced at me, then down into the bag between the chairs. “…ah… well, this is a bit of a pickle, isn’t it. Never mind. I shall return to Plan A. Would you like a virgin pina colada?”

“Dorian.” I cupped his cheeks, meeting his gaze and holding it steady. “Yes. I would. After you tell me what’s going on?”

He exhaled slowly and bowed his head, leaning into my hands. “If you would be so kind as to thoroughly check the chocolate box.”

“The-“ I tilted my head to the side, dragging the bag back over and pulling out the box. I rifled through the wrappers, planning on handing the lone chocolate I’d left to him when my finger brushed something smooth and round. “I-“ I pulled the ring out, letting it rest on my palm, then turned to stare at him. “This?” I managed to squeak. “For me?”

“Don’t ask obtuse questions.” Dorian hesitated, touching my wrist. “Is it… to your liking?”

The inside of the golden band was intricately carved with runes, some which I recognized, others I did not. Protection. Fortune. Warmth. I nodded, any words that came to mind seeming too small to hold the swell of my heart. I sniffed, nodding again. “…is it obtuse to wonder if there was something else you meant to ask me?”

“If it is a piece that pleases you,” he murmured, “I did wonder if you would enjoy wearing it. Quite possibly for the rest of your life.”

I turned the slender circle around, slipping it onto the fourth finger of my left hand. “Most definitely for the rest of my life.” I took his hand, kissing each of his knuckles. “Have you already picked out yours?”

“I didn’t want to put the carriage before the horse.” He breathed slowly, tracing the curve of my wrist. “Perhaps, if you’d like, you can assist me.”

“I’d love to, Dorian.” I leaned in, cradling his cheek in my hand. “That, and being your husband.”

“Oh, is that what you think the rings are for?” he teased. “I’d simply planned some matching accessories. Rings to join the sweaters for Wintersend.”

“You’re actually going to wear the one I knit for you?” I laughed, curling into the strong circle of his arms. “That’s a better wedding gift than I could’ve hoped for.”

“Is it.” Dorian wondered. “Does this mean I can return the catio?”

“What?” I grinned. “You didn’t.”

“I certainly see no need if all I need to do is wear a hideo- interesting sweater.” Dorian sighed deeply. “I shall have to tell the contractors to stop building and go home, I suppose.”

“No you don’t. We owe the poor guy for leaving him to his lonesome for three weeks.” I shook my head, grinning. “Do you want me to ask you, instead?”

“Ask me what? I was going to ask you over dinner while the quartet played but then someone went scurrying into the box of runed chocolates like he told me he would not.” He swiped his thumb over the corner of my lips to dab a bit of chocolate free and licked it clean. 

“I was peckish!” I laughed, nudging him with my nose. “Do you still want to ask me then, even knowing my answer?”

“I really don’t see why I should ask a question to which I know the answer. That would be redundant, wouldn’t it?” Dorian kissed me gently, drawing me over him on the chaise. “You’ll have to take my name. When do you imagine you’ll start popping out babies? I was assured as a lad that that began to happen soon after marriage.”

“I haven’t even signed anything yet and already he’s making demands.” I walked my fingers up his chest. “As for the second bit, I suppose that depends on how often you bed me, doesn’t it? Eager to have a swarm of little Dorians about, are you?”

Dorian laughed, turning me to lie beneath him on the chaise. “I’m extraordinarily eager to make the effort, results be damned.”

[2dayihaveaheadache]

Obikin AU. The idea of Anakin as Macbeth and Obi-Wan as King Duncan, quite the lovebirds, never quite left my headspace. So here it is.

Lord Anakin of House Skywalker, Thane of Cawdor, has been injured on the battlefield fighting off the rebellion in Scotland, led by Count Dooku. The Count has been exiled for various years due to his political activities as a separatist. Years ago, he had been Anakin’s mentor and even helped the young man to knighthood. He is to Anakin more than a father than any other man had ever been. Now, the mentor and apprentice are forced to meet again on opposite sides of the battlefield. Both are willing to sacrifice everything, their title, their honor, or even their life for their beloved ones and their beliefs.

In the Aftermath, Ahsoka Tano remains to save what has been left of Anakin, only the shadow of the man, that he used to be, physically and mentally drained.

I.

A few miles north of Nairn, the land drops in close to the hillside bank of the coast and molds the spikes of stone and deep clefts to a rutted cliff. Murray Firth, the people whispered to each other behind closed doors in the fishermen’s villages around, is a chasm, the maw of a leviathan. Only the forsaken are damned to cross its path and fight the wave crests every day. When the fog hangs low over the coast, only the spikes of the slate-grey stone peak out of the veil like the rotten teeth of a Sea Monster. The air tasted of festered fish and salt from the fishnets spanned between the huts. Life was hard, the people haggard, the skin weather-beaten, the eyes without a sparkle of hope.

A horse neighed and two riders peeled out of the thick fog, darkly dressed in cloaks and leather armor. Their faces were hidden under a hood but their swords were openly shown in pride. Steel that carried a title as it carried the shed blood of its nemesis. They were royal horsemen, the burgundy emblem of the royal house embroidered on their back, riders of the king’s brigade. When they passed the gate of the settlement, two wooden pillars pushed into the muddy ground, the smaller one of them unveiled herself. Under the hood had been hidden a girl in the bloom of womanhood, the hair braided with blue and white beads in the custom of clan Tano.

“I am Lady Ahsoka Tano, first to her name, ward of the Thane of Cawdor of the house Skywalker.” The girl dismounted from the horse and let herself fall to her knees, her cloak disappearing into the mud. She had stretched out both arms, her palms of her hands upwards, and placed the iron sword on them. A gesture like a prayer. “My warden has been injured and I am begging for shelter.”

II.

Heat and the smell of burnt coal hit Anakin’s nose as he lifted his eyelids. Some Straw tickled the back of his neck. He had been laid out in a barn and undressed. He felt utterly exposed and vulnerable in his linen undergarments without his leather armor. The steel of his sword was nowhere in sight. Yet another smell was recognizable among the others. Anakin had spent enough time on the burnt earth of battlefields to sense the misery of the wounded in the air. Now, however, he smelled of dried blood, which seemed to mix again and again with fresh one. An open wound. As he straightened up, pushing himself up on the cot made of hay, he discovered that the linen had been pushed up to his collarbones to reveal a gaping sore on his chest. The wound had missed his heart by a mere centimeter. A new scar in his collection, he grinned.

"Master," a female voice called out, panic resonating in it. “You are not to be up again.” Someone leaned over him and pushed him back onto the hay. Where the hands touched his skin, a gentleness shook Anakin to his core. The tenderness of the hands of a beloved one. “’ Soka?”, he asked weakly, his voice hoarse and only a rasp shadow of its usual strong character. “Yes, it’s me, Master.,” the girl assured him, running a wet cloth over his feverish forehead. She lowered her head so that her Master could see her face, and recognize her as his savior.

The youthfulness had disappeared from her features, her tanned skin was stale, and her lips bitten. The expression of sorrow had appeared in her eyes, which otherwise were brimful of life. The girl, his ward, who had always been a source full of bubbly youthfulness, suddenly seemed to have aged years. “Soka…,” he tried again, bringing one hand to her cheek. “Are you unharmed?” A weak smile curved her lips It did not reach her eyes. “Of course...,” she broke off, voice high-pitched and on the verge of crying. For a moment, she turned her head away. A single tear ran down her cheeks.

When she turned back to him, her voice was firm, the weakness overcome. " You’ve won the battle. Count Dooku fell by your hand. When you raised your sword against him, it seemed as if two comets were colliding. Two warriors armed with blood-stained steel and blessed by Fortuna with a talent for dueling. He was the one who had taught you the art of the sword back when you were a knight’s attendant, wasn't he?"

Anakin just nodded absently. Years had passed since his days as a lad on the Orkney Islands of the noble House Dooku. He had spent his days in the Yard of Notland Castle, often falling into the sand of the training ground when the Count had beaten him once again. Wooden sticks clawing into one another. He remembered the excitement when the prince had watched him from afar, the urge to flex his chiseled upper body, and then the Count punishing him for his state of distraction with yet another epic defeat. Years later the Count had committed treason on the Scottish Crown and with that on Obi-Wan, the lad, his ward, the prince, that he had parented like his own son, the man who was to Anakin like a brother.

Ahsoka continued with her battle report. "You have surpassed him in his own art, beheaded and thus killed the traitor of the Scottish crown."

Beads of sweat stood on Anakin's forehead in the heat of the coal-fired barn. He straightened his back, suppressing the sting in his chest and the smell of fresh blood tickling his nose. The wound had been ripped open again by his movement but he wanted to get his head clear. He was now the slayer of a traitor, a war hero. An incredible sadness filled his core. He had killed the man, who had been like a father to him, and now would be honored for it. Granted a title. Sweat prickled on his skin.

"Then why am I here?", he asked, looking around the barn, catching no glimpse of his sword. Ahsoka had wisely put it out of his eyes, not wanting to burden him with the sight of the Count’s blood. It would be dried on the steel by now. The air in the barn tasted bitter on Anakin’s tongue as he swallowed, like coal and burned wood.  

"Count Dooku was a deceitful man. He was aware of his age and the weak flesh, that came with it. Should your steel overpower him, an ambush had been planned. His army, the troops that had landed a mile north of Elgin were not the only ones, that had become pawns in his game. Thousands of mercenaries attacked us after his death, all led by the young Lord Maul.”

A vision of a young man came to Anakin’s feverish mind. A face adorned with black inking, the Celtic runes of an old Tribe. Lord Maul, a second cousin to King Kenobi, had recently inherited his family title. Some evil tongues whispered that witchcraft had been involved as similar Celtic runes had been found on his father’s deathbed. The young lord was the wielder of a claymore, that was told to have been forged in a volcano in Iceland. A vicious weapon, spiked with thorns of steel to almost appeal like a flail. “A Norwegian Lord fought on the battlefield?”

“Yes, under the Banner of Dooku’s noble house. The Count must have conspired with the Norwegian crown. For centuries they have been trying to claim the Scottish throne. Now that King Obi-Wan, the heir of the royal House Kenobi has, not wed yet and therefore no legitimate offspring has been born, they sense their chance.,” Ahsoka explained with a lowered voice.

"But enough of the war, Master. Your wound needs to be cleaned." She glanced at Anakin’s chest and the gaping wound, which seemed to only worsen by the minute. His skin was pale, almost yellowish by fever. The wound was inflamed. She bent down to pick up something from the floor of the barn. A bottle of brown, scuffed glass. “Smells like home, doesn’t it? " She grinned, and a piece of her former mischievous self glimmered underneath her expression. The bottle was uncorked with a pop and the burning smell of homemade Schnaps rose. Anakin grimaced.

“Normally, the two of us would have celebrated our victory in a tavern with that.” The cool liquid hit Anakin's feverish skin and he bit his lip to suppress a cry of pain. It burnt to his core, fighting the inflammation. ”Not finished yet, Master," Ahsoka warned him, "The worst is yet to come." Without a thought, Anakin reached for the piece of leather that Ahsoka gently handed him. A mouthpiece so he would not bite off his tongue in Agony. Closing wounds with fire was no unknown custom to him. When he had lost his hand, he himself had burned off what had remained of the stump with his own heated blade, most of the pain suppressed in the adrenaline of the moment.

This time, when the metal of the sword heated in the coal fire touched his skin, he bent his back in agony until his muscles and sinews were impossibly stretched. The pain penetrated him through and through, his mouth torn open into a silent, shrill cry. The world became a single white panorama before his eyes. The moment seemed to drag on forever until Anakin had lost all sense of time, place, and identity, trapped in an eternal cycle of pain, heat, and anonymity, crying out for help, although only a few seconds had passed.

The color returned to his vision as the metal left his skin. His body collapses, suddenly battered by exhaustion that slackened his muscles and tendons. A hand moved up to his chest, hesitantly brushing over the spot where the wound had once been. A new scar in his collection. He turned his head to his ward and grinned, “Indestructible. A Skywalker is indestructible.”

He fell back into the cushion of the hay. “Has…”, Anakin tried again but Ahsoka broke him off too soon, tenderly brushing with a wet cloth over his feverish forehead. “A messenger has been sent. Lord Palpatine has ridden to court and brought King Kenobi a word of your epic victory. He knows about your remains here in Nairn and sends his best regards.” Then she leaned closer and almost whispered. “He fears your wellbeing, Master. He is frighted to see how much you are willing to sacrifice for him.”

“I…”

“You love him, Master, I know. He is your family. You grew up together as lads in Orkney Island. That is a bond, you share, similar to brothers. This attachment clouds your sense of judgment and your self-preservation instinct. This love, I fear, devours you from the inside.” Ahsoka had started to fidget with her fingers in the middle of her sentence. Then she fished an envelope out of her pocket, the seal still unbroken.

“A messenger brought it for you. You shall read it in the privacy of your chamber, no other eyes than yours shall see its content. A letter from the king and yet not from the king, a message from a lover.”, she paused. “Promise me to care of yourself whatever may be written in it.”

Anakin nodded even though deep down he knew that he could keep no such promise.

.... that's the snippet. Hope you enjoy it!