#softens harsh sunlight

[asksailorponies]

New York Large Sun Room Sunroom - large transitional medium tone wood floor sunroom idea with no fireplace and a standard ceiling

[littlelamy]

I'm not your enemy

credits: thank you to @mad3ylncline

The sandy building groaned under the weight of time, its cracked walls and sunken roof barely holding together. Dust and grit hung in the air, and the dim sunlight streaming through broken slats created an eerie haze around the tense group.

Rafe stood at the center of it all, the map clutched tightly in his trembling hands. His chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths. He glanced between John B, Sarah, JJ, and Kie like a trapped animal, his paranoia simmering just beneath the surface.

“Rafe, baby,” you said gently, taking a small step toward him. Your voice was steady, but your heart was hammering in your chest. “Just give John B the map.”

Rafe’s head snapped toward you, his jaw tightening. His eyes were glassy, tears threatening to spill over. “No!” he barked, shaking his head violently. “You’re just going to screw me like everyone else in my life!”

His voice cracked, and the rawness of his words echoed off the fragile walls. His fingers curled tighter around the fragile parchment as though letting go of it would unravel him completely.

“I know you will,” he muttered, his voice breaking as he looked at you. His hands trembled, and his gaze darted between you and Sarah. “You all will.”

You took a tentative step closer, hands raised to calm him. “Rafe, no one’s trying to screw you over,” you said softly. “We just need the map so we can find the crown. That’s it.”

He let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. “Oh, yeah? And then what?” His gaze fixed on Sarah, a storm brewing in his eyes. “You’ll just take it for yourselves, won’t you, Sarah? My own sister would rather side with them than with me!”

“Rafe, that’s not true,” Sarah said, her voice trembling. She took a cautious step forward, but JJ grabbed her arm, pulling her back.

“Don’t,” JJ muttered under his breath, his eyes never leaving Rafe. “He’s a ticking time bomb right now.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Rafe snarled, his voice rising as he took a step back. The fragile map crinkled under his grip, and the group collectively tensed.

You watched him closely, your chest tightening at the desperation in his eyes. This wasn’t just anger—it was fear. He felt cornered, betrayed, and utterly alone.

“Rafe,” you said again, your voice calm and unwavering. “Look at me.”

His gaze flicked to yours, and for a moment, his hardened expression softened.

“No one here is your enemy,” you continued, taking another step closer. “I’m not your enemy.”

His jaw clenched, and he shook his head. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “They’ll screw me over, just like they did Dad, just like everyone else.”

“They won’t,” you insisted, your voice firm. “And even if they try, I won’t. I’m here, Rafe. I’m always here.”

He stared at you, his chest heaving. The cracks in his armor were widening, the vulnerability he worked so hard to hide bleeding through.

“Rafe,” Sarah said softly, her tone cautious but sincere. “This is what Dad would’ve wanted. He would’ve wanted us to work together.”

Rafe let out a harsh, bitter laugh, tears welling up in his eyes. “Yeah? Like you worked with him? You let him die!”

Sarah’s face paled, her breath hitching as the accusation hit her squarely in the chest. “He died taking a bullet for me, Rafe,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. “He died protecting me.”

Rafe’s lip quivered, and tears began streaming down his face. His hands shook as he clung to the map, but the anger drained from his expression, replaced with pure sorrow.

Sarah’s heart broke as she stepped toward him. “I’m so sorry, Rafe,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around him. Rafe stood stiffly for a moment before his shoulders sagged, and he let himself lean into the hug. His tears soaked into her shirt as his walls crumbled, his sobs muffled against her shoulder.

When Sarah finally let go, her own tears glistening on her cheeks, Rafe turned to you. His face was still streaked with tears, his vulnerability laid bare in a way you’d never seen before. Without hesitation, you reached for him, your hands gently cupping his face.

“Rafe,” you murmured, brushing a tear from his cheek. His blue eyes locked onto yours, searching for something—comfort, reassurance, hope. You leaned in, your lips meeting his in a sweet, tender kiss. His hands instinctively found your waist, grounding himself in the moment.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his. “You’re not alone,” you whispered. “You’ll never be alone as long as I’m here.”

For a moment, it was as if the rest of the world melted away. Rafe exhaled shakily, his grip on the map loosening as he let the weight of his pain lift, even if just a little.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

You smiled softly, taking the map from his trembling hands. As the group exchanged nervous glances, you kept your focus on Rafe, your fingers brushing his one last time.

“We’ll figure this out,” you said quietly, holding his gaze as the group began to move out of the crumbling building.

He didn’t respond, but the flicker of hope in his eyes was enough.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01

[moonstruckme]

I really hope you mean here 🤭

Request: "Remus is being rude to the reader due to the upcoming full moon.. make it as angsty as you can"

Thanks for requesting babe <3

cw: migraine, Rem is mean :(

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

When you come home from work, the apartment is dark and there’s evidence of Remus’ shit day everywhere. 

The curtains are drawn closed against the sunlight, and there’s a discarded blanket on the couch and several snack containers half-emptied on the coffee table. One of them has tipped onto the floor, a mess of crisps your boyfriend was likely feeling too unwell to tidy. He’s spilled tea on the table, too. These kinds of things are more common in the days before the full moon, but you think he must really be having a rough one. Even a few unwashed dishes in the sink is usually enough to stress Remus out, so he has to have been in a state to leave things like this. 

You brew a fresh cup of tea, grabbing some chocolates from the cabinet in case he didn’t bring any with him, and broach the bedroom. A shape moves under the sheets when the door creaks open. 

“Hi,” you say softly. You kneel by the bed, lightly touching the ends of Remus’ hair. “How are you, love?” 

“Bad,” he mutters from beneath the covers. You wince. He must be, if he won’t even lower the sheets beneath his eyes. 

You do your best to keep the pity from your voice, knowing he’d hate it. “I brought you some tea,” you murmur, “if you want it.”

“Can’t right now.” 

“It’s chamomile,” you coax. “It might help—”

“I can’t.” The low rumble of his voice takes on a hard edge, and you fall instantly silent. You nod even though he can’t see it, setting the tea and chocolate on his nightstand as quietly as you can. 

You don’t tell him you’re going, sure every footstep is agonizingly loud for him. You force down the lump in your throat. Remus is miserable right now; he’s not thinking about how his tone affects you, and that’s not his fault. He doesn’t mean anything by it. You can deal with it, help anyways.

You sweep instead of vacuuming, gathering the little bits of crisps into a dustpan and dumping them in the trash. The half-eaten snacks get reshelved in your cabinets, the puddle of tea cleaned off the coffee table, and candles lit to banish the stale smell in the living room. The cinnamon ones are usually Remus’ favorite, but you trade them out for lavender on the off chance it helps with his headache. You’re washing dishes one at a time so they don’t clatter when the bedroom door creaks open. 

“Hey,” you say, relieved. “Feeling better?” 

“No.” Remus’ voice is low, and the scratch of it tears at your heartstrings. He trudges to the end of the hall, where he stops, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “I need you to be quiet.” 

“Oh, sorry.” You soften your voice, freezing with your hands submerged in the warm dishwater. “I’ve been trying, I didn’t realize you could hear. I’m almost done with this, so—” 

“Could you stop?” he asks, tone going harsh again. “Just, be quiet or find somewhere else to be, please. I can’t deal with this.” 

You swallow against the intrusion in your throat. Will away the heat from your face. “Okay,” you say, the word barely a whisper. 

Remus turns, plodding back to the bedroom. You hear the door shut.

You leave the dishwater to get cold rather than pouring it out and making more noise. You sit down on the couch with a book, eyes skimming over the words as you convince yourself over and over that it’d be stupid to cry about this. Your face heats, then cools. Tears blur your vision and you blink them away. This is ridiculous. Remus is just moody, he didn’t mean it. You know better than to take anything he says to heart right now. You can’t expect your efforts to be properly appreciated, but the important part is to keep making them. When he’s feeling better, he’ll thank you in a million sweet ways, because that’s who he is. He loves you. He didn’t mean it. 

It’s dark outside when the bedroom door creaks open again. You hadn’t noticed night falling, even when the light became too dim for you to make out the words on your page. You set your book down; you hadn’t been reading anyway. 

Remus sits next to you without a word. He leans the side of his head against the cushion with a sigh. 

“Dove?” he murmurs. 

You don’t dare do more than hum in response. 

A scarred hand finds your leg, the thumb sweeping back and forth over your skin. “I’m sorry for snapping at you,” he says quietly. “That was…it was really mean. And undeserved.”

“I’m sorry I was being loud,” you reply, and you can’t help it, your throat clogs all over again. “I was just trying to help.” 

Your voice catches on the last word, and Remus makes a pained sound that has you silencing yourself instantly. He makes another at your response. 

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” he rasps. “Do you want a hug?” 

You bite down on your lower lip. “Are you okay to hug?” 

“Yeah, sweetheart.” 

He meets you in the middle, pressing upon your shoulder blades like he can hold you together by sheer physical force. You try for his sake, swallowing the cries that rise in your throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, palm marking a slow path up and down your back. “You weren’t too loud, I’m just fussy. You were only being your kind self. I had no reason to be so horrid.” 

“You weren’t horrid,” you warble. “I know you’re having a hard time.” 

“That’s no excuse.” His palm makes its way back to your shoulders just in time to feel the first little sob escape you. Remus’ grip tightens. “Aw, dovey. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t believe I spoke to you like that.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“It’s not,” he murmurs, kissing the exposed bit of skin where your shirt is slipping down your shoulder. “It’s not, and—” He pauses, looking around the room for the first time. “Did you clean?” 

You nod against his front, feeling the pained sigh that leaves him. 

“Fuck, I’m awful.” 

“You’re not.” 

“You were cleaning up my mess, and I yelled at you.” Now Remus’ voice sounds a tad raw too. He gathers you closer, stubble scratching your forehead as he kisses your hairline. “My sweet girl. You should have ripped me a new one.” 

“You weren’t yelling,” you point out, teasing a bit now, “and anyway, it seemed like you were already being ripped a new one.” 

“Still,” he mumbles into your hair. “You lit the lavender candles and everything. You deserve to put me through hell.” 

“You’re already going through hell,” you remind him gently, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “I don’t need to help the process along. Do you want some tea, love?” 

Remus hums. “I do, but let me get it. Let me get some for you, too, yeah?” He leans back to look down at you. “You want some nighttime tea, darling?” 

You’re alright really, but you tell him you do anyway. He looks nearly happy as he drags himself into the kitchen, and he won’t stop mollycoddling you for the rest of the night. 

[moechies]

sugu breaking your fever 〜（ゝ。∂）

“how d’ya feel pretty?”

“still feel like shit.”

you whine into his chest, the warm compress that once laid on your tummy is held in place by the man.

“y’know.. i heard that orgasms break fevers.”

“what? can’t be, s-stop it.”

“mm what’s the harm in trying?”

“c-cus i’m sick sugu! don’t wanna get you sick too. s-s okay, i’ll get better so—“ your quieted by a cough, followed by the man pressing the glass of water towards your lips.

“doesn’t seem likely pretty. c’mon, let me finger you at least, hm?”

“y-you’re so weird, sugu.”

“that means yes, right?” he slithers atop of you, looking down with a sly grin that you can’t help but flush at. he presses kisses to your hot skin, whining when he nips at your sensitive neck.

“s-sugu, ‘s hot.”

“hmm.. air conditionings on gorgeous..” he teases.

he lifts your shirt, releasing your tits, giving them a light grope. you whine at the sensation of his cold hand pressing against your hot flesh, a slight buck in your hips that yearns for more.

“don’t rush, pretty. we have all day.”

he leans in between your thighs, slim fingers that come to toy with the band of your panties. he presses a harsh kiss to your sticky clit, twitching from the attention.

“needy girl.” he snickers, whistling when he pulls the crotch of your panties to the side. he watches your feverent cunt pulse with need, cute clit swollen and aching for more.

“s-sugu, stop staring.!”

in a short attempt to close your thighs, to prove some decency to the perverted man, you’re met with a gentle slap to your inner thigh. you mewl, anticipating more as he drags a gentle finger through your slit.

“mm, say you want it. tell me ya want my fingers inside, honey.”

“s-sugu don’t tease please.. y-you were the one that said you wanted to give it t’me..”

“mhm, know what i said. now tell me, you want it right?”

you huff, but at last you fall into the man’s trap, “yes s-suguru, wan’ it. want you inside, y-your fingers, please.”

“mm, good girl.” he hums against your thigh, a singular digit slipping into your moist cunt.

“s-sugu..!” you moan with surprise.

“see? if you’re good, ya get what you want, right?”

“y-yes..!”

“now take it gorgeous.” he slips another finger along side his first, curling himself against your sweet gummy walls. you flinch at the sensation, every moment he’s inside of you pushes you towards your high.

he comes up to face your ecstatic expression, smothering your hot skin with gentle but sloppy kisses. you flinch at the sensation, body sensitive due to your cold. it’s all so intense, better, even.

“suguru, p-please..!”

“mhm, patient sweet girl.”

“need t’cum, pleasepleaseplease.. daddy..”

“oh? how dirty, baby. thought you were feeling sick. y’asking for more now?” he chuckles.

“mfgh, d-daddy please.. gonna cum..!”

“yeah? want daddy t’make you cum?”

“yesyes, please..!”

and you do, back arching from the intense sensation, your boyfriends fingers covered in a heavy slick; a sight he’s definitely not new to.

“there you go baby. good girl, such a good girl.”

he pulls himself out gently, wrapping his lips around his own digits, sucking your cum off his fingers. the entire time he stares into you, a teasing smirk spread across his expression.

“stop doin’ that sugu.! ‘s gross!” you whine, flustered from the eye contact he forcefully holds.

“taste so sweet baby.” he teases once again.

he unlatches himself with a ‘pop!’ bending over you to press a heavy kiss onto your lips. he can’t help but laugh when you moan into his mouth, overwhelmed.

“sugu.. tired..”

he presses another kiss onto the soft of your cheek, leaving your side to clean you up for bed.

upon cleaning you up, his heart softens at your sleepy expression and soft snores, pressing a final kiss onto your forehead before slipping besides you.

bonus . . ♡

the morning after is so much better. the sunlight beams through the curtains , the blankets laid on top of you two is just warm enough. doubt him all you want , but turns out his dumb little factoid proves to be true !

but of course he didn’t listen , and now he’s caught your cold.. whining and tugging at your sleeve for you to take care of him , to ride his pain away and make him orgasm so that his fever breaks too.

“y’have to return the favor princess.”

“no, you perv!”

“please, you owe me baby.”

[wheeboo]

"pretty." | yoon jeonghan

SYNOPSIS. in which jeonghan calls you pretty. PAIRING. yoon jeonghan x gn!reader GENRE. fluff, established relationship WARNINGS. one kiss on the cheek, terms of endearment, jeonghan just being down bad and whipped for you lmao WORD COUNT. 1k

notes: because who wouldn't wnt to write something from that clip of him kissing gyu on the cheek cuz he's pretty?? anyway. can u tell that my fav word is pretty...

Jeonghan finds you pretty.

Pretty like... the first rays of dawn painting the sky in streaks of colours. Not like a fiery and blazing sunrise, but a soft, hesitant awakening; the hush before the world truly stirs to life.

His gaze lingers on your quiet form right next to him, eyes tracing the path of sunlight across your cheek peeking in from the shutters of the window, the way it seems to kiss the curve of your jawline and dance in the strands of your hair. A sleepy smile forms at his own lips, head tilting slightly as he lets out the quietest of chuckles.

Pretty like... the way a flower blooms. Each petal peeks out from the bud, hesitant at first, then unfurling with a contented sigh. Like the way you smile, Jeonghan thinks, merely a shy bloom starting at the corners of your lips before blossoming into the radiant sunflower that he always believes that you are.

Your chest rises up and down rhythmically, lips twitching ever so slightly, and Jeonghan wonders what kind of dreams must be playing in your mind𑁋if he should at all try to intervene and chase away the frequent nightmares that sometimes visit, and the clouds that occasionally cast shadows on your peaceful expression.

Pretty like... a book whose cover is worn and flimsy, its pages softened by countless turns and accidental (and intentional) rips, yet the ink still vibrantly tells tales of laughter and tears, of mishaps and misfortunes, of you. But even with this, the spine of the book remains unbroken.

Jeonghan remembers you reading a book last night, an older story if he recalls. He remembers the way your brows furrowed in concentration, hands clutched on the worn paperback, and how your lips moved silently, mouthing words only your heart could hear. He remembers the way your eyes lit up when you turned a page and nudged at his side to get his attention even if he didn't know what the story was about, a flicker of joy to your face like a firefly illuminating the room and the night skies.

Suddenly, a vibration snaps Jeonghan awake at this point, focus darting towards the unwelcomed presence of his phone on the nightstand. The screen casts a harsh light against the gentle morning glow, and Jeonghan reluctantly detaches himself to reach over for it, noting incoming messages from his members about their scheduled practice for later today, the words blurring slightly as sleep clings stubbornly to his eyelids. He quickly types out a message before silencing his phone, and then he shoots a contemplative glance back to you, before slipping out of the sheets and tip-toeing out of the bedroom.

Pretty like... the first sip of morning coffee. Not a jolt of bitter heat, but a warm caress on the tongue, enough to awaken the senses slowly. Jeonghan moves silently throughout your shared space, not wanting to disturb your peace. The aroma of brewing coffee wafts through the air, intertwining with the lingering traces of dawn and the new day ahead.

Carefully pouring a cup for himself, Jeonghan adds a sprinkle of cinnamon on top, the scent swirling like a mini-tornado and playfully tickling his nose. He remembers how you once told him you associate cinnamon with warmth and comfort, and a soft smile graces his lips.

He glides through the rest of his morning routine with practiced ease, mindful not to disturb your slumber, the quietness only punctuated by the occasional soft melody hummed under his breath of one of his songs. As time continues to pass, nearing to when he has to leave, Jeonghan glances at the numbers displayed on his phone, and a tinge of bittersweetness settles in his stomach. A tiny frown creases across his brow as he sets down his empty coffee cup and smooths over the fabric of his shirt with a sigh.

Heading back into the bedroom, he finds you still slumbering on the bed, the streaks of morning light painting over your cheeks. Jeonghan trots over to the window and gently adjusts the shutters, letting in a wider ray of sunlight that dances across your nose.

A creak from the bed tells him you're stirring, and he turns just in time to see your eyes flutter open. Sunlight spills across your face, bathing over your features like honey, and his breath catches in his throat, as if he'd just swallowed a handful of butterflies. You look even more beautiful than the dawn, he thinks.

A sleepy yawn escapes you, stretching your arms above your head, your eyes still closed shut from the light.

"Hannie...?" You mumble out, and Jeonghan is swift to come racing to your side, sitting himself down at the edge of the bed right beside you.

"Morning, angel," he says softly, letting a finger push back a few loose strands of hair flying over your face. "I was about to tell you that I'm leaving."

Your eyes flutter open just slightly, just enough to catch the small curve to your boyfriend's lips, yet mind still cloudy with sleep to even process it. "Hmm... what time is it?"

"Still early. You can go back to sleep," Jeonghan tells you reassuringly. "I just wanted to see your face before I leave."

His words send a faint smile to play across your lips.

"Why do you always have to leave so early?" You ask, voice raspy with sleep.

Jeonghan lets his hand lace with yours on the sheets, the warmth spreading through your fingers and coursing through your body.

"Work calls, love," he says, voice soft but laced with a playful tone. "But you know I wouldn't leave if I didn't have to."

A low groan leaves your mouth as your adjust yourself further into the comfort of the bed while still not letting go of his hand, your eyes fluttering closed again. Jeonghan just chuckles at your sulky antics, and you feel the way his finger caresses lightly over your knuckle.

Pretty like... a diamond ring glinting in the soft morning light, a promise of forever shimmering between them. He knows with a certainty settled deep in his bones that one day he'll slide that very ring onto your finger. But for now, the promise waits beneath the surface, a secret shared only by the gentle stroke of his thumb against your skin and the way his gaze lingers a little longer than necessary on your face𑁋hair messy and clinging to the pillow, eyes closed shut once more, yet you've never looked more beautiful to him.

And so, Jeonghan leans down, lips meeting in a feathery kiss at the skin of your cheek just below your eye. He lingers there for a moment, savouring the warmth of your skin against his own, before lowering himself down just next to your ear.

"Pretty," he whispers softly, simply, and irrevocably in love.

taglist (open) ʚɞ @enhazen @haowrld @icyminghao @slytherinshua @jeonride @lockburn-castle @vrnism @weird-bookworm @mhlsymlysn @ryuwonieebae @yeonjuns-redhair @wonwooz1 @woohaeyo @mark-geolli @caramyisabitchforsvtandbts @aaniag @wootify @carlesscat-thinklogic23 @phenomenalgirl9 @roziees @mirxzii @bookyeom

[gladiatorcunt]

- # GIVE A FLY SOME HONEY !!

all roads lead to death valley

cw: southern setting & accents, sui ideation/thoughts, protected sex (are you proud of me), dead dove ending and undertones, sort of ambiguous, virgin cowboy!anakin x virgin afab!reader, ROTS coded!anakin, r2’s a horse, the force is in place of the christian God and is referred to as such at times, star wars being a fictional franchise in a star wars au fic, weird mix of a farm and a ranch, spanking, clit slapping, biting, reader’s inner freak has some crazy thoughts, mentions of humiliation and collaring/choking, anakin murders somebody (one scene of violence), what a heat advisory and the south’s sex education does to a mf, implied plus size and neurodivergent!reader, kidnapping????????????, mention of drugs, reader has a lot of internalized shame about where they’re from

wc: 4.2k (unedited)

what if instead of star wars it was called 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 wars

consider commissioning me!

Your unlucky streak rears its ugly head yet again. June was already shaping up to be a hot month, and your junkyard car wouldn’t start. You’re used to driving long stretches of road with nothing but livestock in fields to gawk at, it comes with the territory. But you couldn’t afford gas and decided to push your luck on the way back home, nevermind that the drive would be at least 20 hours. Moving to the city had its drawbacks, the road trip to and back being one of them.

“No, no. Come on, please work. Do you need me to fucking sing to you or something?” You groan, fruitlessly twisting your key in the ignition over and over.

Nope, “Tough shit.” Your engine mocks, death coughs sputtering out one after the other.

“ ‘You havin’ trouble?” A masculine voice shouts from behind you.

You get startled by the sound and gracefully slam your head up into the roof of the car as you turn around. You must look like quite the sight, clutching your now throbbing head and stumbling out of your broken down hand-me-down car on a long open road. Once you’ve blinked enough to adjust to the harsh sunlight, your eyes land on a tall muscular figure riding a horse. The clip clop of the horse’s dirty hooves on the gravel pierce your ears but the gentle sway of the man’s fluffy hair softens the blow.

“Um…. yes, sir. I am actually. My…. my car won’t start and I’m all out of gas.” You burn with embarrassment as you get through your explanation, trying your hardest not to throw up from the sheer social anxiety.

“Well that ain’t no biggy, I think I can help with that.” The man cocks his head and hops down from the horse, a white stallion with a few faded black-gray spots here and there. “Stay here, R2.”

You’re standing there dumbly, ignoring the tiny rocks digging into your shoes and the pounding in your skull as the cowboy wanders up to you. The sun bounces off his dark hat in a way that gives him a sort of halo, and you gape like a fish when he tips it down at you in a silent greeting, reaching out to shake your hand after. The silver spurs on his boots reflect sunlight directly onto your face, so you miss his open palm the first time.

His hand is rough, you can feel numerous old scrapes and cuts when you accept the gesture. But it’s so much bigger than yours, and there’s strange heat coming from his skin that you’re hesitant to pin on the southern summer sun. Too handsome, in a way that just can’t be possible, you quickly swipe a fingertip over his ring finger during the handshake and The Force must be looking out for you because there’s no ring. Not that you’re seeking anything out, but in the town you’re from, you’re lucky if anyone makes it past 18 without having a baby and getting hitched as a result.

Anakin tinkers away at your car for over an hour, finding more problems than just a lack of gas. Eventually he determines that you’ll die in this heat before you can back on the road, so he asks you to accompany him back to his ranch and he’ll send out one of his employees to bring your car around. You try to show him that you’re listening by ‘hm’-ing and nodding every so often, but it’s hard to rip your eyes away from a very attractive man bent over and sweaty while he’s fixing your car. You definitely do not want to cry when his flannel lifts up as he wipes the sweat on his forehead away with his greasy hand, revealing the slight softness over his muscles.

Since your car was no longer an option, Anakin grins as he gestures towards his horse, “R2’s a good horse, won’t give you any trouble. He likes to make a lot of noise and has an… acquired sense of humor, but I reckon we’ll get back just fine.”

He has you practice getting off and on the horse for a good while, the next step is letting you adjust to the feeling of being on one. You’d be embarrassed that Anakin’s having to teach you how to ride but his hands curl around your waist, keeping you steady and whispering in your ear to not be so stiff. Horses can smell fear after all, it’d suck to not only have your car be broken but your bones too. It’s a scene straight out of a cheesy romance novel, the kind that’s a tiny yellowed book sold almost exclusively in run down gas stations with a cover not far off from a porno.

Your cheeks are burning the entire way to the ranch, you relax as much as you can on an animal that’s a few hundred pounds of muscle with a searing hot body pressed right up against you from behind. It doesn't take long to get to your destination though, and before you know it sprawling fields bracket a mid size homey wooden building. There are some smaller pens for the cows to stay in and you follow their movement as an employee unlatches the gate and leads them out towards the left most field.

“They gotta switch pastures every so often.” He informs you, urging his horse into an energetic trot, “And it’s a good rule of thumb to have about an acre per cow.”

You tighten your hold on the reins and try not to focus on your fear of falling off. The pace of R2 isn’t one that you struggle to match but then again this is the first time you’ve ever ridden a horse in a long time. You’ve always been too skittish to do it regularly, and when you moved you got rid of the hobby entirely. You take a deep breath and let the horse’s movements travel through you, coming to enjoy the gentle jostling as you go. Anakin keeps his hands around yours on the reigns, making sure you don’t panic and seize up. R2’s not really beginner friendly unless he likes his rider, he has a tendency to just whinny and take off when the spirit moves him.

“The Force has done me good and given me a nice house on nice land, but it don’t mean nothin’ if i’m all by my lonesome. Ever since my dad passed and my ma’ died a few years after that, the workers and the cows are all I got, plus R2 of course.”

All right, he sinks into the jargon a little too much, but the way the sun accentuates the scar on his cheek makes it a charming quirk. You want to lick his teeth when he smiles, you think, before blaming it on an oncoming heatstroke. You’re no better than a man in this moment, and if you had seen him soaking up all of the attention in a crowded room in a bar you’d have no business being in, you like to think that you could pull him. You play with the slightly waxy feel of the leather reins, allowing the sensation of coarseness in the stitching to overpower any coherent thought.

“Why’d you name your horse R2?” You ask, ducking your head as you feel him guide the animal towards the stables.

“Oh uh, I was real wild over these sci fi movies from back when I was a kid. The hero had this robot called R2-D2, and I guess it just stuck with me.” He answers you with a shrug and a mild blush, curving his fingers around yours.

Your stomach warms at the feeling, but you refrain from returning the gesture, he probably isn’t even thinking that deeply about what he’s doing. He’s not obsessing over every square inch of skin that comes into contact with his own, not like you. You’re already missing the comforting weight of Anakin’s herculean body when he’s pulling the reins to stop R2 and hopping off, clamping his big hands around your waist and helping you down. You wobble for a bit and find your footing before you can pick up on how he momentarily froze in front of you, anticipating an easy opportunity to touch you again. Force, you really are stupid, bless your heart.

You glance up at him and start to say something but then you hear rustling in the bushes, Anakin must hear it too because before you can tug on his sleeve and tell him, he’s pulling his revolver out from its holster and striding off towards the sound. You’re quick to learn that he has a bit of a one track mind, especially when it comes to indulging the serpent twisting in between his ribs like a switchblade.

“I’ll be damned…”

You’re supposed to head inside and awkwardly linger around until your car is in good enough condition to get you back to Coruscant. The only thing is, you’ve now found yourself without your new security blanket, and your curiosity agrees with how much you don’t fucking want to speak to any of the people here without Anakin to hide behind. R2 loudly chuffs at you from his stall in the stables, either saying “That’s just how he is, leave him be!” or "What are you doing? You should obviously go after him!” You choose to believe it’s the latter, so you wander off into the distance, following Anakin’s lead.

You catch up to him quicker than you thought you would, and you have half a mind to scold him like a child if you weren’t catching your breath. All you can see is his wide shoulders because he’s hunched over something, your heartbeat quickens when you spot his gun being pointed at something. You circle around him to find a man squirming on the ground like a toddler, twitching every so often. Anakin seems almost enthralled by the desperate display, so he doesn’t notice you until you gingerly place a hand on his shoulder, soft and looking to soothe. Later you won’t remember the blood on the man’s temple or the matching stain on the muzzle of Anakin’s gun, because you didn’t witness that part.

He snaps out of it, turning his head to nuzzle his nose against your knuckles, “ ‘s alright, sweetheart, just a meth head too out of his mind to watch where he’s goin’. Had a knife with him, probably lookin’ to rob somebody blind.”

Your eyes flicker between him and the man, fully aware of how common stuff like drug addicts trespassing is and the old fashioned black and red ‘Trespassers Will Be Shot On Sight’ sign. You’ve grown up around guns, you’re more used to hearing them in a hunting or taking shots at beer bottles kind of way, but it’s not like Anakin’s the only one to have that kind of self enforced rule when it comes to his property. Still… killing a human man is different than making use out of a successful deer hunt, right?

“Maybe we should call the cops, he can’t hurt nobody like that…” You try to reason, casting a pitiful glance towards the cowering man.

There’s a scratch on Anakin’s face that’s still bleeding from the knife the guy had used before Anakin took it, it just barely missed his right eye, he could’ve lost it. You’ll ask to help him with it when you get back to the ranch, but you know that there’s no seeing to it right now. You don’t want to risk an infection just so you could brush your thumb across the wound, you’re not even sure why you want to, it’s like the urge just materialized in your head out of thin fog. Anakin gently shrugs your hand off and uses his free one to pull you against his chest, and it’s like you’re back on his horse, that same fear entwined with exhilaration like barbed wire. Your hearts are beating at the same pace, some folks say that’s how you know it’s love, that’s how you know it’s fate.

“You don’t got the stuff in ya to be a killer, that’s just fine, darlin’. ‘Cause I sure do.” His words dissolve into a previously unknown to you cold sneer.

Anakin clamps a burly, sweaty hand over your eyes as he empties the entire magnum into the tresspasser’s skull. The bright sun bounces off the brim of his hat, casting a shadow over his stormy eyes. He may not have let you witness the massacre, but you will never forget the sickening yelps the poor bastard gave to Anakin like prayer. And then he got put down in a more inhumane fashion than if he were a rabid dog. To your gracious host, there’s probably not a whole lick of difference. Between a wanderin’ sap and a deranged mutt, that is.

But there’s a far off expression on his face, maybe he was once at risk of having two bullets in his temple at the hands of someone unforgiving.

“Welp.” Anakin exclaims, making a point of slapping his thigh as he holsters his pistol. “Better head on home now, I reckon. Come on, honey, don’t want to lose you to the coyotes.”

It’s said like “kai-yohtes.” You balk at his teasing and obediently trail after him, a vulnerable duckling staying in line. The storm is hitting hard by the time you’re out of the woods, and you briefly wonder if the Angels up in heaven are gonna start bowling soon. A saying that got passed around in your family, when you and the ones before you would stare up in wonder and shiver in fear at the thundering purple skies as kids. You remember being surprised that one of the Angels’ bowling balls never fell down to earth, maybe it’d be somethin’ like a meteorite.

As is the case with many things, it’s easy to lose sight of the fresh corpse in the dry grass. Once you turn around and thread your finger through Anakin’s, dirtying them, it’s almost like that man never existed. There must be something wrong with you, sure the situation is so unimaginable that it would be hard to cope with, but shouldn’t you be feeling more guilt than you do? You feel bad, of course, but ‘easy come and easy go’ has always been the way of things in these parts. God giveth and God taketh away.

You’re back where you should be, a narrow dirt path going under a wooden fence to the ranch. Grand trees line the road forming a moss green canopy. A few workers are goofing off and playing a very amateur game of football, blissfully ignorant to the fact that Anakin can obviously see them from his place next to you.

It would be a peaceful place to die, a bright and clear afternoon-evening in the way that the world can only be when you’re about to leave it. That’s how you’d want it to feel, like you’re rowing a boat across the lake you used to go fishing at to see people you’d never thought you’d see again waiting for you. Fall leaves, blinding pale sun, a serene and calming quiet. You’d be the happiest you’ve ever been, skipping even though you never could as a kid. There’d be no sadness, only relief and a memento of everything that’ll only make sense when it’s someone’s turn to see you again. No buzzing from mosquitoes or chirping from crickets, only little lightnin’ bugs. Maybe you only get that kinda ending if you’re good, in the godly sense, if you come from something worth remembering.

Anakin raises an eyebrow and gently jostles you, and just like that your train of thought is derailed. He chalks it up to shock, and nods his head towards a clearing behind the building. A change of plans. You follow, as you are wont to do.

“That rat bastard had it comin’ to ‘im, hun.” He tries to reassure and squeezes your hand, imploring you to see reason. “The Force decided it was his time, sweet thing.”

You shake your head, not disagreeing, just in utter disbelief. “I just… most everyone in my life I've known that’s died did it when I wasn't there. I’ve never had to actually be there when they… you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” And that’s all he says, regardless of the truth.

It’s what you need, somehow he just understands exactly what that is. You’re starting to think that you certainly don’t have a damn clue. You look up at him again, really drinking in every facet of his entire being that you can latch onto and obsess over. You’re remembering why you were so anxious to get out of this sinkhole, it’s a miracle you ever got out of it in the first place. His hair’s all messy, dark curls strewn about like a windswept bale of hay. A storm is brewing in his eyes, like he could Earth to rotate in the opposite direction if he wanted it to. He works his jaw around in a weird way to get rid of the soreness after grinding his teeth.

It’s tantalizing, being the hand holding a man on the edge back from wreaking his God given havoc.

You dot a quick peck on his cheek, scrunching your nose up at the barest hint of prickly stubble.

His eyes widen, and the sun itself shines brighter. The cutest light dusting of pink spreads across his face, so he one ups you by pressing your lips together. It’s exactly how a first kiss should feel, a simple gesture that leaves you breathless and with more butterflies than a flower garden swarming in your tummy. There’s no fireworks, but you can hear wind chimes and birds singing as your lips glide together, the meeting of your tongues is so natural that you won’t be able to remember when his slipped through the seam of your mouth. You want to keen as he maps out your teeth, his spit has to have some kind of aphrodisiac in it.

Anakin works your jeans open and off your legs completely, his pupils expand when he sees your thick thighs in all their glory but he keeps himself from slapping them and acting like they’re the only part of your body. There’s an ever growing to do list in both of your heads, your combined inexperience brings a flurry of perverted ideas and porn scenarios to recreate with it, and you’re sad that you’ll very likely leave with none of them being fulfilled.

He yanks the collar of your tank below your chest, immediately leaving over to bite your cute breasts with all the grace of a rattlesnake. He doesn’t try to make any marks, he just wants to bite wildly and with reckless abandon, like he’s using your tits to self soothe. You’d do the same if he let you at his pecs to be fair, his chest is practically as big as yours if not bigger.

“This means somethin’ to me, hear that? ‘m always gonna remember my first.” He spits, clutching onto your bruised tit like he’s a split second away from sinking his hand into your viscera and dumpster diving for your heart.

He pauses pawing at your tits to reach in his back pocket and pull out a condom. It’s crumpled and the packaging is worn by rubbing against the denim of Anakin’s jeans, you can tell that he’s excited to finally put it to use. You’re glad that there’s some safety measures being taken, but your heart swoops in disappointment at the dose of reality. It’s the kind of thing that calls for the most diabolical, unhinged, strings of goopy fluid hanging from his balls as they slap against your rippling ass, raw sex. You don’t let yourself pout, Anakin’s making good use of the only working brain cell between the two of you. You scoot back on his lap to give him room to pop to button on his pants and whip his dick out. It makes a heavy ‘thwop!’ as it slaps against Anakin’s abs.

Your mouth waters at the sight, so thick with the just right amount of curve, it would scratch your throat perfectly. His hands shake harder as he rips the condom’s packaging open with his teeth and rolls it on his twitching length. You take a deep breath, finding comfort in the tense muscles on Anakin’s shoulders through his warm flannel. He curls a hand around the base of his cock and grasps it tightly, positioning it right under your empty hole. You’re lucky he didn’t have to tell you what to do, because working yourself down every inch would’ve been much more painful if you already needed to be taught a lesson. It’s weirdly sweet, the chaste pecks he presses along your nose and jawline as you adjust to what feels like a tree log forcing your tender folds to stretch around it. Your slutty body tries to twist itself in a pretzel with the way you’re swiveling your hips, trying to get more of Anakin’s dick inside of you when you’ve miraculously already swallowed him to the hilt.

“I want this pretty pussy weepin’ for me, I’m awfully sorry honey but i’m not stopping till it’s gushin’ all over me.” He speaks in between wet kisses up and down the column of your throat.

“Mmm- It’s okay, I want it like that, Ani. Promise- oh my god, so big.”

You make him feel like a man trying to outrun a forest fire only to get swept up in a tornado. Like there’s a fever in his brain that’s gotten into his blood, black tar dripping into his liver. Drives a man to drink so he can have a sliver of that feeling, that scalding need not even God could give you. There’s no finesse or coordination to anything, his lips frantically scurry along random spots on your upper body. His upward thrusts are heavy hitting and wrangle your breath out in stuttered gasps, he moves as if he were riding a horse, following only the imagined scent of old blood. Anakin’s cock is so big your walls could rip if he wasn’t always keeping a sharp eye on how much he’s bullying you. He doesn’t try anything crazy like fucking your cervix, it might shock you so much that you remeber exactly how long it’s been since he’s had your car “taken to the shop”.

His spurs dig into the dirt as he slaps your ass, the material of his gloves adding an extra bit of ‘umph!’ to the resulting sting. Anakin’s jeans are so warm against your ass that it takes a few more spanks before you really get the urge to bend over his lap and tell him to just have at it until you sob. You’re on an ecstatic high, living in the present with a near stranger’s dick balls deep inside of you. His eyes gleam gold when you make eye contact, and you find it so easy to fall down the rabbit hole, letting this man burn away all your responsibilities until he’s the last one left standing in a sea of ashes.

You don’t mind that he stops talking eventually, switching to gruff grunts and harsh yells. ‘Don’t be so stiff, let the movement roll through you.’ Anakin digs his fingers into the meat of your jiggling ass and delivers a final smack to both cheeks. You sigh in relief, but then you snap out of your cockdrunk haze to yelp at the cruel hit to your swollen clit.

“Need ya to keep squeakin’ sweets.” He orders. “Don’t want the townsfolk to think I fucked your brain out your ears.”

It’d be polite to make conversation with the people you meet when Anakin parades you around with his hat on your head later, something of a pre engagement tour. If the Force is good, you’ll be willing, because rope burn isn’t something you want to become your new normal.

“Chin up, buttercup,” He says almost bashfully despite how hard he’s pounding your puffy cunt, “We can get some ice cream at the fair after if ya like, make it a cute little second date.”

You whimper and harshly pull his hair, earning you a throaty moan and another slap to your clit, saying yes to him like you’ve already done a million times. You thought that the pure social anxiety of being around so many of Anakin’s employees would be nerve wracking, it’s nothing compared to having to speak to them AND keep their boss’s cum from oozing down your leg. Anakin’s discarded belt catches your eye when a sharp thrust sends your head falling back, and you picture the scuffed up belt buckle as the O shaped ring of a more traditional collar. The black stains from working on your car only add to the appeal, it scares you exactly how much you’d let the man fucking you with a cheap gas station condom get away with. You’ve already heard him kill a man, finding yourself in a relationship is pretty much the natural next step.

When he cums deep inside with a hoarse growl, there’s the sound of a bear trap slamming shut on an unsuspecting bunny rabbit. Your simultaneous orgasm is the tiny squeal it makes before it dies.

“I forgot to ask, hun, what stuffed animal do ya want me to win for ya?”

- faetreides 2024. do not repost, translate, or put my works into ai

[mrsmangi]

petition for violet please my love hehe

forever, always - luigi mangione

♡ flower prompt: violet - a daydream about the future - meaning: loyalty & faithfulness ♡ w.c.: 1.3k ♡ a/n: highly requested prompt, it's 2am. pls have mercy on me. i love you all. enjoy!

♡ send me a flower & i'll write a drabble based off the prompt ! ↪ prompts that have been requested

You’ve always hated the question, “Where do you see yourself in ten years?” 

What a trap, you think. It’s a polite way for people to pry their dirty fingers into your business–your uncertainties. It’s not like you avoid thinking about the future (sometimes you feel like you think about it too much) but answering that question always feels impossible. Ten years is so abstract, after all. It’s too vast, too distant to feel real. Yet, here you are again, the question living in your head, free of rent. 

You look across the café table where Luigi sits, blissfully unaware of the chaos in your mind. He’s staring at the menu, brows furrowed in concentration as his fingers hover over the laminated options. You know he’s not actually interested in the coffees, not when the boy doesn’t even like caffeine. He’s scanning for something else: a tea, maybe, or a fruit smoothie. Something simple. His lips twitch into a pleased smile when he finally spots what he’s looking for. 

“They’ve got a chamomile blend,” he says, glancing up at you, voice warm. It reminds you of the way sunlight feels on your skin after a harsh, long winter. “What about you? Are you already set on something?” 

You raise your glass of water to your lips with a small smile. “Just the usual,” you reply, warmth grounding you in the moment. The café around you hums softly with conversation and the quiet clattering of cups, but none of it registers itself in your head. Not when Luigi looks at you like that, his attention is completely yours. 

“You’re staring at me,” he says, tilting his head slightly, bemused. 

“Just thinking.” 

“Dangerous,” he teases. He doesn’t push you, though, just watches you with a quiet patience. It makes you feel like you can tell him anything, like he’d hold your words carefully as if they were fragile and delicate. You feel understood and seen under his gaze alone. His head tilts once more, a silent invitation to speak if you’d like to. 

You do, but how could you even begin? The future feels like a fragile thing, one you’re afraid of vocalizing. Still, the thought of it remains, persistent and teetering on the tip of your tongue. 

“I think,” you start, words unsteady at first, but growing firmer as you continue to speak. “I’ve been thinking about what it feels like to be happy. Content. To have everything feel right in your life, even if it’s not perfect.” 

Luigi sets down the menu, eyes softening with curiosity. “Uh-huh.” 

“I don’t really have a plan for it or anything,” you continue, nearly stumbling over your own words. “It’s more like a feeling I have. I don’t know if I could ever really have that, but the idea of it is stuck in my head. It won’t go away.” 

“What do you picture when you think of that feeling?” he asks gently. 

“A house,” you blurt abruptly. He blinks, eyebrows lifting, intrigued. “A little one that we own together. It’s not too big, but it’s warm and cozy. There’s a garden in the back and it’s a bit overgrown, but we both agree that it’s still beautiful. You’d probably spend all your time out there, trying to tame it.” 

Luigi’s lips curve into a soft smile. He props his cheek up, fist rested against it, with his elbow on the table, gazing at you. “Sounds like a losing battle to me,” he says. 

“Maybe,” you reply, smiling. “You’d come in with dirt under your nails, and tell me about how you finally got the roses to climb the trellis, even though the weeds just won’t quit.”

“What about inside?” 

“Inside…” You pause, trailing off. “It’s a different kind of mess. We have bookshelves overflowing, little trinkets and postcards I’ve collected scattered everywhere. We have a record player because I told you how much I always wanted one as a kid and you bought one for me. You purposely buy vinyls with weird covers just to make me laugh. The walls are covered with little pieces of us. A lot of photos, some art. It’s not perfect, but it feels like it’s alive. Like it’s been lived in. Loved. And there’s always laughter,” you continue. Luigi leans forward slightly. You recognize something unspoken in the way he watches you, like you’re sharing something more important than just a daydream. “The type of laughter that makes your stomach hurt because you’re so happy, you don’t even care. It’s messy, but it’s ours.” 

 “It doesn't sound messy," he says. "It sounds wonderful. Is that where you see yourself in 10 years?”

There it is, you sigh internally. That dreaded question. You’ve spent so much time resenting it, the way it forces you to confront how little you have figured out about your life, how impossible it makes it feel to predict the kind of person you’ll be then or the kind of life you’ll live. Sitting here with Luigi, you wonder if maybe you’ve misunderstood the question all this time. Maybe it hasn’t always been a test, but an invitation–a chance to dream aloud, to let yourself want something even if you don’t know what the future carries. You’ve always been afraid to answer because it feels like committing to something intangible and fragile.

His hand covers yours suddenly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. You glance up at Luigi, his unspoken patience pulling you out of your thoughts. The weight of his hand in yours feels like a lifeline to you, something solid holding onto you in the middle of your uncertainty. And suddenly, the question you’ve disliked for so long doesn’t feel like such a trap after all. 

Luigi makes you feel like your answer doesn’t have to be perfect, and it doesn’t have to include every detail of your imagination. It only has to be yours. For the first time, it doesn’t scare you and it doesn’t feel like an impossible demand. 

“I don’t know,” you admit to him, honestly. You glance down at your joined hands, curling your fingers to interlock with his. “I don’t know where I’ll be in ten years or the kind of life I’ll lead or the kind of person I’ll be.” 

You pause, lifting your gaze to meet his, words spilling out of you before you can second-guess them. “All I know is that I want you there. Forever, always.” 

Luigi blinks, surprise flickering across his face before his expression softens, lips curling upward. It’s tender. His thumb brushes over your knuckles again before he speaks. 

“Forever, always?” he repeats, like he’s testing the words in his mouth to make sure they feel as solid as they sound. 

“Yeah,” you say, “I don’t know where I’ll be living or what I’ll be doing, but if I have you…I think I’ll be okay. Better than okay–I will be happy. Content.” 

His lips curl further into a smile so genuine it makes your chest ache. “I think I can promise you that,” he says, voice steady. “Forever, always.” 

“You can promise me that?” you laugh quietly, tilting your head. “You don’t think I’ll drive you crazy in ten years?” 

“Oh,” he chuckles, shaking his head gently. “I’m sure you will, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that you’re the kind of crazy I don’t ever want to live without.” 

You don’t find it in yourself to look away from him. For the first time in your life, the future doesn’t feel like a vast, unknowable, daunting thing–it feels manageable, hopeful. Beautiful, even. No matter what happens, you know one thing is for certain: you want Luigi by your side.

“Forever, always,” you repeat, the words rolling off your tongue like an oath. With your hands intertwined with Luigi’s in the small cafe you sit in, the world has never felt so right. The question you’ve hated for so much of your life feels like an open door now–all because of him. It’s a chance to step into something messy and imperfect and entirely yours with the love of your life.

[snazzynacho]

— Sick Side

Part 1/? Part 2

Emperor Geta x female original character (x Caracalla (one-sided)

Summary: Florentia is betrothed to Geta, but Caracalla is dangerously obsessed with her.

Warnings/tags: 18+ Mentions of STD, mental illness, disease, Forced proximity, forced kissing, referenced/implied past sexual abuse, violent urges, obsessive thoughts, delusions of a disordered mind. No non-con s3x, but it's close. She/her pronouns used. Slight canon divergence. OC is a bit naive and way too nice. Tags may change.

Words: 5k Read on ao3. Masterlist.

A/N: Let’s explore Caracalla’s sick side together (he’s still my babygirl). I initially planned for this to take place in a sort of au/pre-gladiator ii, but then it started making sense to take place during gladiator ii, when Macrinus is being manipulative…so yeah. I've only been able to see the film once so sorry if I get some things wrong. I don't have an editor so sorry if there are typos etc.

Please check the tags before reading.

It is often that Florentia finds herself immersed in the magnificence of the imperial gardens.

She feels it is an honour to walk among the beauty of the statues of the Roman gods and goddesses, and the flowers blooming for all to see. She remembers the Imperial Gardens being talked about with her, before she became wedded to Geta. Everyone has said how wonderful it is, and she can understand why now.

Usually, when she is invited to the palace, Geta’s brother happens to be in the gardens and they walk together when Geta is busy. She likes his company, no more than Geta’s, but he seems sweet. Troubled, but sweet.

Today, they are doing just that.

The air is thick with blooming flowers such as roses and lilies. Caracalla follows a few steps behind her, rambling about nothing in particular, his words spilling out in his usual, disjointed manner.

Caracalla suddenly beams at her, expecting agreement. Having not listened, Florentia does not respond immediately. She does not dislike him, per-sey, but he is so oblivious and his childlike enthusiasm worries her. How is he, Emperor? She knows that his father pleaded with Geta to be Co-Emperors with him, but being in person with the ill emperor is—and she hates to admit it—quite jarring. Her platonic love for him does not diminish, though. Caracalla is going to become her brother-in-law and she will become another one of his carers, as Geta is to him already. Maybe she’s the missing link between them.

“I suppose,” she says, her tone cool, as if she knows what he is talking about.

He nods eagerly, clearly pleased. He believes her lie. “I knew you’d get it. You’re not like the others. You actually understand me.”

Florentia shifts her attention to a butterfly that has fluttered past, its wings reflecting in the sunlight. It lands on a nearby rose, and she absently follows its flight.

“It’s pretty,” she murmurs, more to herself than to him.

“It’s not as pretty as you.” He is serious, his bright blue eyes train on her with an intensity that is both surprising and unsettling.

Florentia blinks, unsure whether to laugh or change the subject in its entirety.

“Yes,” he continues, his gaze softening. “You are like…the sunniest daffodil, the brightest narcissi—though unvain…The smartest rose in the garden. Beautiful, but also clever…A sharp edge to the most elegant sword.”

Florentia is stunned. He is rambling, yet there is an earnestness in his voice, a sweetness beneath. She opens her mouth to respond, but finds herself at a loss.

Caracalla flushes slightly, misinterpreting her silence as disappointment. He feels somewhat dejected. “I…I mean- not that you are weak without a sword, or too harsh like one-”

For the first time, Florentia truly realises that, despite his maddening disease, he is trying. Underneath, there is a sincere man.

Florentia holds his hand carefully. She can feel him trembling. “What you said was beautiful, Caracalla. Don’t go back on your word,”

Caracalla’s eyes widen, his cheeks turning a deeper shade of red. He has not expected her to respond this way. “You…you think so?” he asks, almost shyly.

“Yes,” she says. “It was…quite sweet.”

His face brightes, a smile grows on his lips. “I knew you’d get it,” he echoed, sounding like a child who had just received praise from a teacher he admired.

Florentia squeezes his hand gently, before letting go carefully. She studies him for a moment, noting the eager light in his eyes, the almost nervous way he was fiddling with the fabric of his toga. Her heart softens. She is so happy to have such a generous brother-in-law already—a new friend.

An orange blur flutters past the corner of her eye. “oh, I think it flew away,” she says sadly.

Caracalla turns to follow her gaze, his expression turning almost boyish. “I’ll catch it!”

He dashes forward, his footsteps heavy on the cobblestones, trying to keep up with the elusive butterfly which seems to take pleasure in taunting him, fluttering away just as he reaches for it, only to settle on a flower just out of his grasp.

“Caracalla!” she giggles as she tries to catch up with him, holding her stola to aid in running.

“I got it! I got it!” he exclaims, lunging forward, arms outstretched. Just as he thinks he has the butterfly cornered, it darts away again, leaving Caracalla grasping at thin air.

Florentia reaches him, catching up with his pursuit. She tries to hold back her laughter, but a chuckle escapes her lips. “You’re scaring it!” she speaks a hint of glee in her voice. “If it wants to fly away, let it. That’s what it does” she calmly says.

Caracalla stands there, slightly out of breath, a dejected expression on his face. “But I wanted to hold it,” he mumbles, his lower lip almost quivering. Florentia cannot help but find him strangely endearing in that moment. He is an emperor, a powerful man, yet he is pouting like a child over a butterfly.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she places a tender hand on his shoulder, gently caressing. “I am sure you will soon,”

His breath hitches at her touch, his eyes widening at the unexpected affection. He leans his weight into her hand, soaking up her comfort like a flower in the sun.

“You think so?” he asks, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it. For once, he sounds almost insecure and vulnerable.

“Yes, I believe so,”

He smiles, a small, genuine smile, his earlier disappointment forgotten. For a while, he simply stays there, savouring the touch of her hand on his face. It is such a stark contrast to the usual spoilt swagger and boldness he usually displays, it catches Florentia off guard.

“It can sense a great friend, as I have with you!” she beams.

A tinge of uncertainty occurs at the pit of his stomach, but he smiles nonetheless.

“Look! There it is again!” she spots the butterfly up ahead again. “Wait here, it’ll slowly come back” she interlocks her arm with his gently, so he doesn't run after the butterfly and scare it away.

He obeys, keeping absolutely still, almost holding his breath, as the butterfly returns. Florentia's strategy seems to be working. The tiny insect flutters closer, seemingly unbothered by their presence now, drawn in by her gentle coaxing.

Caracalla gapes, wonder in his eyes, as the butterfly lands delicately on a nearby flower.

It then flies back up in front of their faces and then lands somewhere they do not expect…her nose.

The butterfly perches calmly on the tip of her nose, its wings gently flutter. The moment is almost magical, the world around them fades away as they focus on the tiny creature on Florentia’s nose.

Caracalla’s eyes widen in surprise. Pure glee on his expression. A small gasp escapes his lips. He tenses to move, to try and grab the butterfly, but one look from Florentia holds him in place.

“Don’t move!” she whispers tersely.

She cannot stop grinning as she looks cross eyed, staring down at the butterfly. Caracalla chuckles softly, his eyes are glued to the scene before him. He’s seen Florentia smile and laugh plenty of times—at parties the emperor’s have thrown and dinners they've presented, which is where Geta and her first met—but this is different. There is something nearly childlike in her wide, joyous smile, in the way her eyes sparkle with wonder—like he.

He can't resist marvelling at the sight before him: a beautiful woman, standing in a sunlight garden, a butterfly perched delicately on her nose, making her look for all the world like a nymph straight out of mythology. A true goddess.

He is simply a man, sharing a serene moment with a captivating woman.

“You look positively adorable,” he murmurs, barely able to keep a laugh at bay.

Florentia gulps but blushes deeply, as the implications of his words sink in. The butterfly stays on her nose.

He cannot stop himself from stepping closer, unable to tear his eyes away from her smiling face. She looks so happy, so unguarded in that moment, and all he wants is to be closer to her.

“You are… lovely,” his voice low, reverent. Without thinking, he reaches out, his fingers hovering just above her cheek, as if afraid to touch the fragile moment and shatter it.

The butterfly, seemingly unbothered by Caracalla’s movement, remains perched on Florentia’s nose, oblivious to the tension between them. It continues to flutter softly, its wings a flurry of orange, black and white colours.

Caracalla’s hand hovers a moment longer, the desire to touch her is practically overwhelming, but he hesitates. The reality of their situation crashes back into his mind. She is promised to his brother. There are rules, traditions, duties…

Still, he aches to touch her, to feel the softness of her skin under his fingers.

“Florentia,” he whispers, his voice almost hoarse. “I… I…” He does not know what to say. He wants to confess his feelings, and his growing liking for her. But the words seem to catch in his throat, trapped in the knowledge that he should not feel this way, not towards Geta’s betrothed.

The butterfly suddenly flies away, snapping them out of this trance. Caracalla’s outstretched hand drops to his side, the moment lost. Florentia steps back, clearing her throat.

He blinks, suddenly self-conscious, his heart still pounds in his chest. He wants to say something, to bring the magic back, but what can he say? He almost confessed, almost crossed a line he knew he shouldn’t.

Instead, he clears his throat, attempting to regain his composure. “Ah… that was… quite the experience.”

“I’m sorry Caracalla, I do apologise, but I must go.” she abruptly declares.

“What?” Caracalla’s brows furrow as his eyes widen, a pang of panic hitting him in the stomach. “Go? Where? Why?”

He has not expected her to leave so unexpectedly. Just moments ago, she looked so carefree, so happy, and now she was rushing off, her face tight with tension.

“Florentia, wait,” he calls out, reaching for her, a desperate edge to his voice. He cannot let her go, not now, not when he’s just had the smallest taste of the closeness he’s been yearning for.

“It’s uh— a lady thing!” Florentia blurts as she practically sprints away. It is a lie to her but she does not have time to care.

“A… a Lady thing?” Caracalla stands there, dumbfounded, as he watches her hasty retreat. She is obviously flustered, her cheeks rosy and her steps quick. But a ‘Lady thing’? Caracalla did not know much about the female mind, or their struggles, but he did know a thing or two of something they go through every month…

He frowns at the thought of her being in discomfort. He stands there for what feels like ages, hesitating. He listens to the conflicting voices fight in his head. The more primal voice, the one that cannot forget the way her skin had felt under his fingers, the one that craves her touch again, urges him to follow her, to demand answers. But the other part, the rational voice of imperial duty which understands propriety and etiquette, wills him to remain where he is and tells him to let her go, to forget about her and move on.

He is Emperor. He has a reputation to maintain, an image of absolute power and control. Chasing after a woman, especially his Co-Emperor’s—his brother’s—betrothed, is beneath him. Is it not?

Yet, he cannot unsee her soft and joyful face under the butterfly’s touch, like a painting he can admire but cannot touch, for fear of his hands being scolded.

Finally, with a growl of frustration, he spun on his heel and stalks back towards the palace. He will not follow her, not right now. But he will find her, and he will get answers.

As he walks, his head is a tangled mess of unresolved questions, of unfulfilled desires. He cannot shake the persistent image of her face from his mind, the ghost of his fingers on her skin. He wants to deny his feelings, to bury them under the weight of imperial duties, of concubines. But they remain, stubbornly lodged in his heart. Whether he likes it or not, he has found something he has not experienced: a connection, a longing, for a woman he should not even be thinking about.

Caracalla knows this is dangerous territory—a minefield of political intrigue and familial duty. But he has never been one to heed his own instincts, especially when it comes to women and others he desires. He is an Emperor, and he usually gets what he wants. So why not pursue this forbidden desire?

His ill mind is rapidly regurgitating this greedy sequence of craving, need and want. One minute, he is telling himself he needs to stop thinking about her, and the next, he is already inside the palace, his mind still wrestling with these questions.

Every solution he comes up with raises more obstacles. His duty as an emperor, the politics of the empire, the delicate balance of the imperial family… All of it stands in his way, like unconquerable walls. He scowls, his frustration making his steps heavy as he paces the corridors.

And then, a thought occurs to him. A wild, treacherous thought…

What if he removes Geta from the equation?

The idea is almost shocking in its boldness, its audacity. But the more he thinks about it, the more it begins to carve a twisted sort of sense. Geta, his albeit more stronger brother, the one always better than him... He is a hindrance, a thorn in Caracalla’s side. What if he can eliminate the obstacle, and have Florentia all to himself?

He knows such a thought can be seen as treasonous. but then again, who would dare to accuse the emperor? Geta’s vulnerable, sick, brother? Poor poor Caracalla, to be left with such a weight to bore on his back alone...

The idea continues to take root in his mind, its ugliness blossoming into a twisted plan. Kill Geta, claim Florentia, and secure his line of succession. It is rash, it is dangerous, but it is also thrilling.

Rome’s people are already starting to hate Geta. To turn on them. Macrinus says so himself. So what can be worse?

Caracalla allows himself a small sinister smile, his mind already spinning, devising the first steps of the plan. He makes his way deeper into the imperial residence, nodding curtly at the passing guards and slaves. He will need to keep his growing preoccupation hidden, for now. No one can know his intentions, especially his brother. Geta would certainly know something was askew…he has always been annoyingly perceptive.

He eventually reaches his chambers, closing the door behind him. The room was glorious and luxurious, fit for any majesty. Massive, lavish, and impersonal.

He stalks over to a table, his shaky hand immediately reaches for a bottle of alcohol. He pours himself a goblet of red wine, the quality stuff which is normally reserved for high officials and special occasions, but he thinks this is special enough, right? He needs something stronger for today. The liquid is rich and dark. It doesn't quench his thirst for a particular woman, though.

Drinking deeply from the goblet, savouring the bitter taste, he doesn’t realise he has drunk it all until he’s left slurping air. It was certainly a good drink. He feels the wine spreading through his body, warm and invigorating—a dangerous addition to his already unstable state.

He refills his goblet again and slumps onto a plump chair, swishing the dark red liquid around in the golden goblet, watching the swirls and bubbles forming. He leans back in the chair, his mind is still reeling with his decision. He wants Florentia. He wants her with an intensity so strong, that even he is surprised. And if getting her means doing something as reprehensible as killing his own brother, his own flesh and blood, the one he shared a womb with, then so be it.

He will finally have something of his own, and solely his own. He will have Florentia. One way or another, she will be his.

Caracalla entitles himself to bask in thought. He imagines Florentia by his side, in his bed, under his control. No more coy glances, no more stolen moments. Just her, completely his.

He chuckles darkly, how twisted his mind has become.

He pushes himself up from the chair, pacing across the room. He halts when he walks past his large ornate mirror. He turns to face it, studying his reflection. He looks every bit the Emperor: regal, strong, powerful. More, there is something in his bright blue eyes—a madness that has been festering for a long time. It is a look of a man who has incurably lost all tether to the world, cast to inhumane territories, whether he wants or not.

The enormity of what he is planning to do sinks in. It is not just an act of lust or obsession, it is a betrayal of the highest caliber. Killing his own brother, his blood, just to have his wife.

Yet even as he struggles with the magnitude of what he is about to do, his heart still thuds harder in his chest, his blood grows hotter in his veins. He craves Florentia more than he cares about his own brother.

His gaze never tears from himself. It is the look of a man who is willing to do anything to get what he wants.

“Anything,” he mutters to himself, his voice hoarse with determination. “Anything at all…” He wants Florentia, and he will have her. And nothing, not even familial ties or the wrath of the gods, will stand in his way.

The silence of the room is interrupted by a knock on the door. Caracalla snaps out of his thoughts, his eyes narrow in irritation. Who is foolish enough to disturb him when he is in such a brooding mood?

“What?” he barks out, turning from the mirror. He watches as a slave boy - one of the younger ones - timidly pushes open the door, his eyes lower to the floor and his hands quiver by his sides.

“What is it?” Caracalla repeats, his voice gruff. He can already feel his anger rising. He has no patience for this boy’s cowardice. “Speak up when you’re addressing your Emperor!”

The boy gulps visibly, clearly terrified by the thunderous tone of the emperor's voice. As if the God, Jupiter, has possessed him.

The young servant’s voice comes out in a meek whisper. "The…the Lady Florentia is here, Dominus. She…she says she must speak with you. Urgently,”

Caracalla's eyes widen fractionally in surprise. Florentia is here? In his chambers? It is almost too good to be true. But he quickly composes himself, schooling his features into a neutral expression. "Send her in."

The boy nods quickly before scuttling away, the door closing behind him. Caracalla takes a sudden deep breath, trying to calm his suddenly racing heart. He is about to be alone, in his room, with Florentia. The very thing he has been craving.

He watches the door expectantly, his hands clenching and unclenching are his sides. Please, he silently prays. Please, come in.

There is a moment of silence, it feels like a century, and then the door swings open. His heart lurches before him. Florentia stands there, silhouetted against the brighter lights of the hallway, her figure in her purple stola, elegant and enticing. Her hair is loose, falling past her shoulders, unbraided unlike it was earlier. Has she arranged it down, especially for him? This enchantress…This Goddess… She might as well be holding his heart in her hands, as that is where it belongs.

Clearly, Caracalla does not see the emotion on her face at first—or rather, unemotion. He's too pre-occupied by the woman he wants in his chambers. Does she feel the same way? Has she heard his plea and come to confess her feelings? Her happy face from earlier is replaced with a tense seriousness he has rarely seen from her.

He stands there transfixed, unsure of what to say.

"Caracalla," Florentia begins softly, her voice cutting through the silence. "May I come in?" Her words come out more like a statement than a question, and Caracalla finds himself nodding “yes” without even thinking, as if under a spell. He watches as she steps fully into the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

This is it. This is the moment…

“What brings you here at this hour, Florentia?" he asks, egging on her feelings for him he thinks she will admit.

He watches as she moves further into the room, her movements graceful but purposeful. She stills, her back to him for a moment, then she turns around. She meets his gaze, her eyes still serious. "We need to talk," she says simply.

Caracalla senses his heart skip a beat at her serious tone. Whatever she has to say, it is clearly important. He tries to keep his features controlled though the urge to reach out and touch her is nearly overwhelming.

“Talk about what?” he questions.

“Please sit with me, Caracalla. I don’t want this to be more difficult than it already is,” she speaks softly, like a parent to a child.

Caracalla frowns, biting his lip, except her soft soothing voice sends shivers down his spine. He feels so conflicted, a mix of dread and anticipation at her request.

Obliging, he settles on a large chaise nearby, gesturing for her to join him. He scrutinises as Florentia settles across from him, sitting straight, her hands tucked in her lap. She is supposed to sit next to me.

For a moment, neither one speaks. The air is thick with tension, each waiting for the other to break the silence first. Finally, Caracalla cannot bear the suspense any longer. “What is it, Florentia?” he asks, his voice gruff. “You say we need to talk. So speak.”

As their eyes lock, he catches a fracture in her serious expression—a flicker of hurt—and it hits him like a punch in the gut.

He tries to steady his features, to keep the turmoil within him at bay. But he can feel his composure slipping. Where is Dondas?

“Flora—” he says, his voice softer now. But she cuts him off with a wave of her hand.

“This is difficult enough, Caracalla,” she lets out, her own voice catching slightly. “Please, let me speak. I need to say this.”

He bites back a retort, falling silent. He has never seen her quite like this before…so serious, so vulnerable. It makes him strangely unsettled. He gestures for her to continue, his gaze never leaves her beautiful face.

Florentia takes a deep breath, clearly gathering her thoughts. When she speaks again, her voice has regained its stoic determination.

“Caracalla, I know you have feelings for me. I’ve seen the way you look at me, the way you act around me. And I…” She pauses, a flicker of indecision passing over her features. “I cannot reciprocate those feelings.”

Caracalla leans back, his back hits the chase, as if physically blown by her words. He feels the color drain from his face, his mouth suddenly bone-dry. Is she saying what he thinks she is? She cannot be. Florentia…she is his. How can she not want him?

He attempts to speak, but the words are lodged in his throat. All he can manage is a strangled, “what?”

“Caracalla, this does not mean I do not love you, nor care about you.” she leans forward to carefully hold his hands “I do deeply. Just…not in the romantic sense.”

Caracalla senses her grip on his hands, but he cannot bring himself to look at her. Her words echo in his ears, each syllable is a fresh spike in his heart. She is rejecting him. She cares for him, but only as a friend. Not as a lover, not as he wants her to. It is worse than any physical blow he has ever received.

“But… why?” he manages to croak out, the sound pathetically pleading. His mind shows him flashes of all the times they have spent together these past few months. All those walks in the garden, the polite smiles in passing, the shared memories of the feasts he and his co-emperor have put on. How can she not love me?

“Why?…I…Well, because. Because the gods have someone else for you. Your true love. They’re out there somewhere, just not…here,” Florentia tries to tread around the topic carefully, as she squeezes his hands gently and lovingly.

Her words only fuel his disbelief, his confusion. “The gods?” he echoes, his voice thick with skepticism. “They’ve decided for me who I should love? After deciding to give me this disease?!” his nostrils flare as his anger grows, his expression quickly turns sinister. He can no longer control his unrest.

He cannot fathom how the whims of the gods can dictate something as personal and primal as love. Let alone gift him a lifelong struggle with his disease, which is increasingly becoming more deteriorating day by day, Florentia fears. It seems arbitrary, cruel even.

What have I done to deserve this?

“What I mean is…That, I am not the one for you, and whoever that is will love you so much, as you so deserve. I cannot do so, I am sorry Caracalla.“

He laughs mirthlessly, a hollow sound that reverberates around the room. Love him, as he deserved? He does not care about any other love. He wants HER, and no one else!

Caracalla leans closer, gripping her hand now. Tightly. The pain of her rejection is beginning to give way to something else. Kill Geta. Take Florentia.

“That’s not good enough,” he says, his voice now low and dangerous. “I don’t want anyone else. I want you, Florentia.”

“Want?” she careens back, looking at him in an unreadable expression.

“Yes, want!” Caracalla snaps, his patience wearing thin. He rose from the chaise, pacing restlessly back and forth in front of her. “You say the gods have decreed that there is someone else out there for me. But what do the gods know of love? Of desire?” He stops, turning, pleading. “They are immortal, unfeeling. They do not understand the concept of yearning for someone, to desire them with every fibre of your being.”

Florentia swallows harshly. Her mouth goes dry, and her chest feels heavy. She stares at where he was sitting only a moment ago. “I have desired you from the moment I first laid eyes on you,” Caracalla admits, though Florentia has quickly pieced that together after earlier’s event. His voice is quiet but intense. “Your laugh. Your intelligence. Your beauty. You have invaded my every thought. I cannot think, I cannot sleep, and when I do you are in my dreams. You are all I want, all I fantasise about.”

Tears are brimming his blue eyes, threatening to fall. He takes a step towards her, leaning over to look into her eyes. His eyes burn with an intensity that makes her involuntarily bend her neck away from him. “How dare some gods decide that I cannot have you?” he concludes his speech. His breath is hot on her face, and his possessive words start to scare her.

Her lip wobbles, but she keeps it steady. Her tears cannot fall. Not yet. His passion shocks her and if she were in different circumstances, she may have swooned, but, she is not. Florentia is betrothed to his brother, the one she loves. She stands tall, glaring at him “I have a say in this too, you do realise? Not the Gods, ME. If you loved me as much you claim, then you would do anything for me to be happy,”

Her firmness and strength stuns him momentarily. He did expect her to back down, to be overwhelmed by the force of his passion. But there she is, standing strong against him, her eyes blazing with a fire to match his own.

He takes a step closer, their bodies almost touching. “I would do anything to make you happy,” he says. His voice is a hoarse whisper. “Anything at all. You know that,” he repeats. His shaking hands want to reach out for her.

“Then let me go.” she whispers as her hand reaches for his trembling ones, as if reading his mind, which only makes his delusion of her secretly loving him thrive. We are so in sync, as lovers become one.

His breath catches in his throat. Let her go? It is the last thing he wants to do. But her words hold him in a peculiar sort of trance, as if he is physically incapable of disobeying. “I cannot,” he manages, his voice rough, cheeks rosy and wet with tears. “You cannot ask me to do that, Florentia, you are…” He trails off, his eyes search hers desperately. “You are the only person who makes me feel alive. You cannot ask me to give that up.”

“I will still be here for you. We will still walk together in the garden, see each other over meals, be friends…and when I am married—”

He cuts her off, shaking his head as his hands grip hers tightly. “That’s not enough. I want more than that! I want more of you!”

He steps even closer, their bodies are now pressed against each other. He can feel the heat of her, smell the sweet scent of her skin. The nearness only intensified his need, his longing, his hunger.

“Please, Caracalla, I do not know what to say—”

“Do not speak, then.” He cuts her off again, his voice harsh. Then, his lips are on hers, bruising, possessive. He kisses her with desperation and a need that borders on feral.

Her stomach drops, plunging into a deep uneasy feeling. Her eyes widen as his lips are pressing against hers. She whimpers, not in pleasure, but in shock and hurt.

He does not notice her whimper, deafened by the pounding of his own heart, the roaring in his ears. He only feels the softness of her plump lips, the heat of her breath. He presses forward, his hands moving to grip her waist, pulling her closer to him.

Florentia finally comes to terms with what is happening and grips his shoulders, pushing him away. The unexpected resistance snaps him out of his haze of desire. He lifts his head slightly, meeting her gaze with a mix of surprise and irritation. “What are you doing?” he demands, his voice strained. “Why are you pushing me away?”

“I am scared,” she voices subconsciously, her thought spills out of her, her voice wobbily. “You are frightening me,” It is not the first time a man has acted this way around her. Disturbed her. It has never occurred to her that Caracalla could be the one to continue that cycle, until now. Perhaps she has been naive…

She has to flee before it twists into a situation she never wants to experience again.

Caracalla’s gaze softens at her admission. The anger that has flared up at her resistance fades, replaced with a mix of confusion and tenderness. “Scared?” he recites incredulously. “Why? It is only me, Florentia. I am not going to hurt you.”

Florentia motions backwards, looking at him stunned. But Caracalla doesn't quite understand why. He follows her stare, his confusion deepening. He glances behind him, but sees nothing there that would possibly unnerve her. “What is it?” he asks, his brows furrowing, and his leg taunts, wanting to stamp it down like an irritable child. His impatience is returning, his desire for her opposing with his bewilderment.

“You…” she shakes her head, holding one hand on her chest as she braces a sob. “You are…different.” she takes a deep breath and blinks, hoping to see the sweet side of him from earlier rather than the sick side when she opens her eyes again.

Caracalla takes a step back, withdrawing slightly. Her words hit him like a cold splash of water, sobering him. “Different? How?” he asks gruffly.

His heart is still pounding with a mixture of desire and frustration, but her apparent fear is giving him room to think.

Florentia opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out before she practically leaps out of the room. Her legs working faster than her thoughts

He watches her go, confusion and anger warring within him. “Wait...” he manages to let out, but she is already gone. Caracalla is frozen in place, left alone with a whirlwind of emotions. Confusion, desire, hurt, anger—he feels them all intensely. But over everything is the caving feeling of rejection. Florentia was so close, the taste of her still on his lips, yet, she pulled back as if horrified of him. Everyone always sees me as a monster.

He ran a trembling hand through his red hair, his breathing ragged. What has just happened? How did everything go so wrong, so fast? He wants to go after her, to force her to explain why she has run away. But he also fears whatever it is about him that has frightened her.

Feeling restless and agitated, he paces his room again. He tries to tell himself that it was her uncertainty that made her react that way, not disgust or fear but the thought refuses to take root. Every time he reaches for it, it slips through his fingers like smoke while her terrified expression flashes in his mind as clear as day. “I am scared,” The scene replays over and over in his head, analysing every moment. It is like a neverending waking nightmare.

Her flowery scent still lingers in his chambers, and instead of calming him down as it usually does, it is starting to give him a headache, taunting him as if she is still in the room with him. He pictures how the scene could have happened—how it should have proceeded…with Florentia kissing him back, with equal desire and passion. Her hands gliding along his body, his chest. The flutters of his stomach when her hands cradle his cheeks, sliding them down to disrobe him before setting him down on his bed. Then, he feistily tosses her over so he is on top, rips her clothes off, and greedily takes her there and then, feeling how tight and wet she is. All for him.

Gods, he cannot even think straight. His cock reacts to his dirty thoughts which leaves him flustered and irate at the situation. No concubine can cure this.

YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS.

A/N: Comments and reblogs are appreciated. <3

Part 2 soon. 🤞

THIS WAS TENSE ASF. (it gets worse)

[elixirina]

WELCOME & GOODBYE — natasha romanoff x gn!avenger!reader

in which... you thought you and natasha had something special. did you do something wrong?

warnings... angst (are you even surprised?), regular avengers mission stuff, tony yelling at the reader :(, and natasha being lwk mean, hurt/no comfort, lwk unrequited love, lwk not proofread

note... "Hey! If your requests are still open: Reader, who has been an avenger and known Natasha for over a year. Who has stayed up late at night talking about random shit and comforting each other for a good portion of that. Who, then, during what seems like a normal late night conversation turns into Natasha saying, "We're not close" after reader expressed they'd feel devastated if something happened to her. Reader then shutting down and basically becoming an empty husk. Maybe becoming reckless during missions. Thanks for considering! I enjoy your stories!" - i really liked this request because yall know i love angst, so enjoy this!! maybe part two if you guys like it.

from where you stand, the avengers tower feels impossibly tall, it's gleaming facade of steel and glass catching the fading sunlight. the large 'A' at the top glows faintly, its light cutting through the hazy sky. it's meant to be a symbol of hope, but up close, it feels colder than you imagined. more fortress than home.

as you step inside, the hum of technology greets you, soft and unrelenting, like the tower itself is alive. the blue-tinted lights along the walls seem to strip the warmth from the space, casting everything in shades of gray.

the corridors stretch endlessly, polished floors reflecting your rather hesitant footsteps. there's a quiet here that always feels unnatural, like the kind of silence you expect from the aftermath of an argument or just before something breaks. when you pause to glance out of a window, the view is so breathtaking.

new york city sprawls beneath you, glittering and alive. but it feels distant today, like you're watching a movie on mute. the labs you pass are buzzing with soft whirs and beeps, glowing screens filed with data you can't even begin to understand.

it's impressive, but also intimidating, a constant reminder of just how much responsibility rests on the shoulders of the people who walk these halls.

you were on your way to your own quarters. why did you feel so lost? it felt like all the walls were closing in on you.

the halls are quiet, too quiet. every one of your footsteps echoes, too loud against the polished floors. the air feels heavy, as if it carries the weight of every mission, every mistake, every sacrifice, every one of your faults. you pass by the living quarters, sleek and sterile, designed for convenience rather than comfort.

the common areas are empty, filled with untouched furniture and the faint scent of coffee long gone cold.

it's as though the building itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to shatter the silence.

and yet, it's not the tower that makes your lifestyle bearable. it isn't always the satisfaction of helping people. it's her.

natasha.

she has a way of grounding you, of cutting through the weight of it all with a single glance. it's not just her presence, though that alone feels like enough to keep the walls from closing in; it's the way she sees you. really sees you, even when you don't want to be seen. in a place that feels so impossibly vast and yet so claustrophobic, she's the one thing that feels solid, real.

it's in the way she moves, effortless but deliberate, as if she belongs here in a way no one else does. her voice, calm and steady, has a way of softening the sharp edges of the tower. when she's around, the cold steel walls feel a little less harsh, the silence a little less suffocating.

she doesn't need to say much--she never does--but somehow, she always knows what you need to hear.

the tower is still the same--tall, unyielding, and distant. but when she's near, it feels a little less like a cage. when she looks at you, it's like the weight of everything doesn't matter as much. it's not that the burden disappears; it's just that, with her, it feels a little lights. a little easier to carry.

it's been like that since day one. being a shield agent was all you thought your life was worth. you helped out, sure, but the credit wasn't always given to you. when you were offered a spot as an avenger, you found it impossible to believe.

they could've chosen anyone, yet you made the cut.

you accepted, of course, and the moment you started, everything was amazing. maybe it was the adrenaline rush. but after a couple months in, you were drained. suffocating. the whole experience felt alienating.

you and natasha hit it off immediately, just casually finding different times to talk. those conversations would go on for hours, the two of you never finding somewhere to stop. and if you did, it's due to the fact that you've fallen asleep together.

those moments with her were something you cherished ever so deeply. you couldn't see your day go on without them.

the conversations ranged from lighthearted banter about clint's terrible taste in music to heavier topics--the kind of raw truths that only surfaced when the world fell asleep, and your walls could come down.

natasha's walls had always been higher, sturdier, but even she had let a few cracks show over the months. she'd told you about her childhood, her regrets, and her fears, her voice steady even when her words were not. in turn, you'd shared your own burdens, feeling safe in the quiet connection you thought you had with her.

being able to come back to the tower after a rough mission and being comforted immediately after made your heart want to explode. after a while, you just couldn't be casual about it.

you'd been an avenger for almost two years now, and apart from the undeniable satisfaction of saving people, she was what you looked forward to at the end of the day.

after one particularly rough mission, you found yourself scanning the tower for your red-headed beauty best friend.

natasha's sprawled out on the rough couch in the living quarters and it doesn't take you long to find her. as you settled yourself on one of the plush chairs, you muttered out a "hey" and she lets out a soft hum.

she's obviously exhausted, and you know she didn't handle herself okay when this was the case. so you ask a rather stupid question, "you okay?" you almost planted yourself on the ground for pulling the stupidest question out of your ass.

the red-head propped herself up with her elbows--a thing she did that you always thought was rather attractive. she gave you a look that practically gave you the answer.

you sighed, hugging one of the fur pillows close to your chest. changing the subject would be the easiest thing to do.

"okay... weirdest thing you've eaten on a mission?" you asked, a soft smile on your face as you leaned back on the chair.

natasha sat up, biting back a smile. "what?"

you blinked, "you heard me."

the woman smirked, tilting her head in though. "a cricket."

your lips fell into a thin line. "a cricket?" you repeated.

she nodded, her expression nonchalant. "deep-fried. crunchy. it was actually quite decent."

"ugh," you groaned, wrinkling your nose. "you're braver than me."

"that's not exactly the word i'd use," natasha teased, her lips twitching into a small smile.

moments like this, where her guard came down even just a little, made you feel like you were glimpsing a side of her that no one else got to see. a side she didn't let many people near.

"well, you win," you said, raising your hands in surrender. "the weirdest thing i've eaten is a half-melted protein bar that i found at the bottom of my bag. that probably doesn't even qualify."

"not even close," natasha quipped, the corner of her mouth lifting in amusement.

a comfortable silence settled between you, the kind of quiet you'd only recently realize you appreciated. with most people, silence felt awkward, like you had to fill it with noise. with natasha, it felt... safe

you glanced over at her, the words on the tip of your tongue before you even realized you were going to say them. "you know, i don't think i've ever had anyone in my life who gets me the way you do."

natasha's gaze flicked to you, her expression unreadable, and for a moment, you wondered if you'd gone too far. but you pressed on, feeling like this was a rare moment to be honest with her.

"i mean it," you said, your voice softer now. "these nights, just talking like this... they've kept me sane. you've kept me sane." you hesitated, swallowing hard before continuing. "and i know i don't say it enough, but... you mean a lot to me, natasha. i mean, if something ever happened to you, i don't think i'd recover."

you hadn't planned to say that last part. the vulnerability of it felt too raw, too much, but it was the truth.

natasha's expression shifted slightly, her mouth opening as if she was about to respond, but then she stopped.

you waited, your heart thudding in the silence. "nat?" you prompted, your voice tentative.

when she finally looked at you, her eyes were distant, her expression carefully neutral. "we're not close," she said, her voice eerily calm but firm.

it felt like the ground had crumbled beneath you. "what?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"we're not close," she repeated, her tone colder this time. "you think you know me, but you don't. you don't know what i've done, or who i really am. these conversations... they don't mean what you think they do."

you stared at her, stunned into silence. "but... i thought--"

"you thought wrong," she interrupted, her words cutting through you like a blade. her expression didn't waver, and that was the worst part--how composed she seemed, like she hadn't just shattered something inside you.

"i see you as a teammate," natasha continued, her voice emotionless. "nothing more."

for a moment, you couldn't breathe. you wanted to say something, to argue, to demand an explanation, but all the words died in your throat.

"i think i'm going to call it a night," natasha said, standing. she didn't look as she spoke. "goodnight."

and just like that, she was gone, leaving you alone in the dimly lit room.

you sat there for what felt like an eternity, staring blankly at the space where she'd been. her words echoed in your mind, over and over again, until they were all you could hear.

"we're not close."

the truth of it stung more than you thought it would.

the mission in paris was supposed to be straightforward. in and out, minimal casualties, quick extraction. but it all went sideways when you made the decision to split up--ignoring steve's orders, ignoring tony's voice crackling through your earpiece telling you to stick to the plan.

there was no reason for it, no logic behind your decision. you just couldn't stand the thought of standing still, of waiting for the inevitable--whatever that may be. natasha’s words had shattered something inside you, and now you were just reacting.

the battle raged on. you fought like a machine, but you were anything but. your moves were reckless, too fast, too eager to prove you could still keep up. you dodged fire and threw yourself into the fray, not caring if you got hit.

when tony’s voice came through your comms, it was sharp, demanding. “y/n, fall back. now. you’re outnumbered.”

but you didn’t listen. you couldn’t.

“y/n, damn it, i’m serious. what the hell is going on with you?” tony’s frustration cut through the static.

“i’m fine,” you muttered, voice hoarse, even though you weren’t.

the mission ended in chaos. by the time you made it to the extraction point, bruised and battered, you couldn’t look anyone in the eye. you had made stupid decisions, and the team had suffered for it. but the worst part? you didn’t care as much as you should have.

back at the compound, you knew the lecture was coming. tony, steve, and clint had all gathered in the debriefing room, waiting for you. you could hear their murmurs as you made your way toward them, but you didn’t feel any relief at being home.

you stepped into the room, your eyes focused on the floor.

“sit down,” tony ordered, his voice clipped.

you took a seat, the weight of his gaze heavy on you.

“we’ve got to talk about what happened,” steve began, but tony cut him off, his tone rising.

“i don’t want to hear any more excuses. y/n, you almost got yourself killed today. you were out there acting like you didn’t give a damn about the mission or anyone else’s safety. what the hell is going on?”

you swallowed hard, fighting the lump in your throat. the words natasha had said to you that night, when you’d bared your soul, suddenly seemed to suffocate you. you had tried to pretend they didn’t hurt, but now, in front of tony’s fiery gaze and steve’s concerned eyes, they were the only thing you could think about.

“i’m fine,” you muttered, your voice too quiet. too weak.

“no, you’re not,” tony retorted, voice low and dangerous now. “stop lying. you’re falling apart, and you’re dragging everyone down with you.”

you didn’t say anything. you didn’t have an explanation. how could you? you were lost in the aftershock of Natasha’s rejection, and no matter how hard you tried to push it down, it always resurfaced. god, it was so stupid.

“you know what? fine. If you’re too stubborn to get your shit together, maybe we’ll have to bench you for a while,” tony snapped.

the words hit you like a punch to the gut. you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.

“tony, that’s too far,” steve interjected, but tony’s expression was cold, his anger boiling over.

“no, it’s not. you’re not invincible, y/n,” tony shot back, his eyes narrowed. “if you can’t focus on the mission, then you’re not helping anyone. and I’m not risking the team because of some personal... whatever this is.”

you sat there in silence, the sting of his words sinking deep, and all you could think about was how everything had been so much simpler before. before natasha made you feel like an afterthought, before you felt like you were just another expendable member of the team.

“i’m fine,” you repeated, though it didn’t feel like the truth anymore.

but the truth didn’t matter, did it? no one cared about your pain.

and you should've known a black widow would never hold back her venom for anyone.

ha no happy ending love ya

[cherryblessing]

📎— TO LOVE.

SATORU & SUGURU × GN!reader

—GOJO SATORU

``to be loved by you feels like stepping out after the rain, the air hushed, the sky a tender gray. your eyes, like trembling leaves, catch the droplets of a passing storm, each one a mirror— tiny worlds where i see myself reflected, always cradled in your everything.``

To be loved by Gojo Satoru feels like curling up on the couch after a long day, your head resting against his chest as the soft glow of the TV flickers across the room. The movie playing is something ridiculous—so bad it’s good—but neither of you is paying much attention.

Satoru’s laugh fills the space, bright and carefree, as he makes snarky comments about the plot, his voice dipping into exaggerated tones to mimic the absurd dialogue.

You can feel the vibration of his laughter against your cheek, a quiet reminder of just how alive he is. His arm is draped around your shoulders, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns on your skin, and for once, there’s no urgency, no chaos, just the gentle rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his body against yours.

Every so often, Satoru turns his head to look at you—not with the sharp, calculating gaze the world knows him for, but something softer, almost boyish. There’s something grounding in the way he watches you, as if you’re the only thing that matters in this moment, the only thing he wants to see.

When he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head, it’s as casual as it is tender. “You’re not even watching,” Satoru teases, his voice low and warm.

“I am,” you lie, but it doesn’t matter, because neither is he.

His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer until you can hear the steady beat of his heart. It’s a sound that feels safe, refreshing, like stepping outside after a storm and breathing in the crisp, clean air. The rest of the world falls away, leaving just the two of you in this tiny bubble of peace and silliness.

And somehow, in that simplicity, there’s everything. The way Satoru holds you, so effortlessly, makes you feel cradled in something bigger than yourself—like even in his most unguarded moments, he’s giving you a piece of infinity. His love isn’t loud or overwhelming right now; it’s in the quiet gestures, the way he doesn’t move even though his arm is probably falling asleep, the way his thumb brushes against your shoulder without him even realizing it.

To be loved by Gojo Satoru is to find that even in the most ordinary moments, he has a way of making you feel extraordinary. It’s the safety of his warmth, the way he makes you laugh, the way he looks at you like you’re the best part of his life. It’s messy, imperfect, and utterly human. And as he starts pointing out yet another ridiculous plot hole in the movie, you can’t help but smile, because being here with him feels like home.

—GETO SUGURU

``to be loved by you feels like moonlight spilling through fractured walls, its silver touch stitching shadows with light. in the stillness of midnight, your voice carries like the first bird's song, gentle but insistent— a herald of dawn, softening the horizon. the sun breaks, and i see you there, shining just as fierce, just as constant.``

To be loved by you feels like sitting under the shade of a tree after a day that’s drained all the strength from Geto Suguru’s body. The morning’s training still lingers in his every muscle, a dull ache that he would normally ignore, but today he doesn’t have to. Not with you here. The warmth of your presence takes the edge off, softening the harshness of the day in a way nothing else can.

Suguru watches as you pull out the lunch you’ve prepared for him, your hands moving with the quiet confidence he’s come to admire. The dappled sunlight filters through the leaves above, flickering across your face, and for a moment, he forgets the ache in his shoulders or the heaviness in his chest. You hand him a neatly packed box, and he takes it, your fingers brushing for the briefest moment.

The first bite is simple but satisfying, a kind of care he hasn’t allowed himself to believe he deserves.

“This is good,” Suguru murmurs, his voice quieter than he intended. There’s a fleeting vulnerability in the way he says it, his words tinged with the unspoken realization that someone took the time to do this for him.

“Really good.”

You laugh softly, and it makes him pause. The sound is gentle, cutting through the quiet like a thread of moonlight slipping through fractured walls. It doesn’t demand attention—it simply exists, constant and steady, much like you. It’s in moments like these that Suguru wonders if you realize the weight you lift from him just by being here.

“You always forget to eat properly after training,” you tease lightly, and the corner of Suguru’s mouth lifts in a rare, unguarded smile. “So I figured I’d help you out.”

“Help me out, huh?” Suguru repeats, his tone laced with faint amusement, but his gaze is soft as it rests on you. There’s a kind of peace in your presence that Suguru hasn’t found anywhere else—a quiet understanding that feels like stepping into the stillness of midnight and hearing the first bird’s song, a herald of something brighter.

As he leans back against the tree, Suguru finds himself watching you more than eating. The way your eyes light up as you talk about something small, the way the sunlight catches in your hair, the way you look at him—not with pity, but with something fierce and unshakable. You remind him of the sun breaking over the horizon, shining just as constant, just as fierce, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready for it. But he knows he doesn’t want it to stop.

“Thank you,” Suguru says, his voice quiet but certain. The words feel heavier than they should, carrying more than just gratitude for the meal. Maybe he’s thanking you for more—for the way you soften the edges of his life, for the way you make him feel like he’s allowed to have moments like this.

To be loved by you, Suguru realizes, is to be held in a light that doesn’t waver, even when everything else feels broken. It’s constant, unrelenting, and impossibly kind. And for the first time in what feels like forever, Suguru allows himself to lean into it.

all writing, including poems are my own.

©cherryblessing.2024

[therogueflame]

Steel and Silk

Hi my sweetlings,

Here is the promised Harwin x Reader fic! After writing Through Storm and Silence, I reeaally needed something to lighten the mood. I love Harwin sm :'). (Possibility of subsequent parts based on reception!)

✨My Masterlist✨

WC: 5.6k

Summary: After brandishing some wounds in a heated training session, Harwin seeks out the comfort of your embrace.

Warnings: 18+, sex (p in v), oral (f!recieving), multiple orgasm, no use of y/n, smuffy goodness

Harwin Strong x Targaryen!Fem!Reader

MDNI!!!

The clash of steel tore through the training yard, breaking the stillness with a brutal rhythm that echoed against the ancient stone walls of the Red Keep. The air hung heavy, thick with the weight of unspoken tension that had drawn a small circle of knights to the dusty ring. Their gazes, cautious and uncertain, lingered on the combatants, each man unwilling to intervene yet unable to look away. The midday sun bore down with relentless heat, clinging to the air and earth as though it too braced for the storm brewing within the circle.

Harwin Strong stood at its center, his broad frame taut with restrained fury. His chest rose and fell steadily, but the tight grip of his knuckles on the hilt of his sword betrayed the simmering anger that burned just beneath the surface. Across from him, his opponent staggered to his feet, arrogance still etched into the lines of his bloodied face. A smear of red stained the corner of the knight’s mouth, but his sneer remained intact, insolent words still lingering in the air like an unwelcome shadow.

“You’ve had enough,” Harwin said, his voice low and steady, the calm before the inevitable storm. The weight of his words cut through the murmurs of the onlookers, a warning carried on the edge of his barely restrained temper. “Stand down before you make a greater fool of yourself.”

The knight wiped at his mouth with deliberate slowness, the smirk on his lips deepening with every passing moment. “Temper, temper, Strong,” he mocked, his tone dripping with false amusement. His movements were unhurried, calculated, as if testing the boundaries of Harwin’s patience. “Tell me, what inspires such fire? Most men only fight this way for someone they hold close. Family, perhaps. Someone they love.”

The insinuation struck its mark, slicing through Harwin’s restraint like a blade. His jaw clenched, the tension in his frame growing as he stood frozen, unmoving. A ripple of unease passed through the onlookers, their shifting feet betraying their discomfort, but none stepped forward to break the moment.

The knight took another step closer, emboldened by Harwin’s silence, mistaking it for hesitation. The grin on his face widened as he raised his chin. “Or perhaps,” he continued, his voice softening into a goad, “it’s something more. What drives you, Strong? What makes a man risk so much for someone who will never truly be his?”

The knight’s words landed like a spark on dry tinder, igniting Harwin’s fury in an instant. He moved without hesitation, swift and deliberate, his sword flashing in the harsh sunlight. The strike was precise, unrelenting; the knight’s blade flew from his hand, clattering uselessly to the ground. The man barely had time to register his defeat before Harwin’s fist crashed into his jaw with a sickening crack. The force of the blow sent him sprawling, dust rising in a choking cloud as he hit the ground with a thud that seemed to echo in the still air.

The knights who had been watching froze, their breaths catching as the scene unfolded. Harwin didn’t pause. He dropped to his knees, pinning the man beneath him with a force that left no room for resistance. His fists came down like hammers, each strike landing with brutal precision. The sharp, visceral sound of bone meeting flesh punctuated the knight’s groans, his earlier arrogance dissolving into pitiful whimpers. Dust and blood smeared across Harwin’s knuckles, but the fury in his eyes didn’t waver. It burned, raw and unyielding, a silent warning to anyone who dared linger too long.

“Harwin, stop!” one of the knights called, his voice edged with alarm. It took four men to seize Harwin’s arms, their combined strength barely enough to drag him away. Even as they restrained him, his chest heaved, his muscles taut with the effort of holding himself back. The tension radiating from him was palpable, a storm not yet spent.

“You’ll speak no more of her,” Harwin growled, his voice low and venomous. Each word struck the air with the weight of a promise. “Not here. Not anywhere.”

The knight groaned weakly, his head lolling to the side, his broken form a stark contrast to the bravado he had carried mere moments before. The yard fell into an uneasy silence, the onlookers shifting awkwardly as they exchanged wary glances. Harwin wrenched himself free from the hands holding him, his movements sharp and purposeful as he turned on his heel. Without sparing the knight another glance, he strode away, his shadow stretching long and dark across the sunlit dirt, leaving behind the image of a man both feared and resolute.

⚔

The whispers began before the dust in the training yard had even settled. By the time the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting its golden light across the Red Keep, the tale of Harwin Strong’s fury had reached every corner of the castle. Servants murmured in dimly lit hallways, their voices a blend of awe and speculation. Knights recounted the scene over their cups, their retellings growing more embellished with each round. Even the ladies of the court, draped in silks and jewels, leaned in close with hushed voices to trade fragments of the story like secrets too potent to be spoken aloud.

And yet, for all the exaggerations that followed, it was the truth beneath it all that lingered in your mind, the fragments that carried the weight of why it had happened.

You moved through the halls that afternoon with practiced grace, your head held high and your steps measured. The air around you felt charged, buzzing with glances and murmurs that trailed in your wake like shadows. The weight of their stares was nothing new—you had long ago learned how to steel yourself against their quiet judgments. But this felt different. Harwin’s actions had carved a story into the fabric of the day, one that would not be forgotten easily. Though the rumors stung at the edges of your composure, there was something else nestled within your chest, a warmth that refused to be ignored.

As dusk fell, the day’s oppressive heat surrendered to the cool stillness of evening. You retreated to your chambers, seeking solace in the quiet, though it brought little peace. The faint hum of the castle drifted on, the occasional clatter of footsteps and low voices a distant reminder of the world outside your door. You sat in silence, your thoughts restless, turning over the events of the day like a worry stone. The stillness of the room felt heavy, pressing against your chest.

It wasn’t until a soft knock broke the quiet that your heart stilled. The sound was hesitant, almost reverent, yet it carried a weight that settled low in your chest. For a moment, you hesitated, your hand brushing the arm of the chair as though the act of rising might anchor you more firmly in the present. Then, with slow, deliberate steps, you crossed the chamber, your bare feet ghosting across the cold stone floor.

When you opened the door, the flickering light of the torches outside cast long, uneven shadows across the threshold. Standing there, framed by the golden glow, was the figure you had expected—yet seeing him still made your breath catch.

Harwin Strong. His broad frame filled the doorway, his City Watch armor scuffed and dulled, streaked with marks of the day’s ordeal. His face was unreadable, though his dark eyes searched yours with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt fragile, heavy with all the words left unsaid.

“Your Highness,” he said softly, his voice low and edged with a weariness he couldn’t quite mask.

You stepped aside without a word, the flicker of your gaze enough to convey permission. He hesitated, lingering in the doorway as if weighing the impropriety of entering your chambers at such an hour. But the look you gave him—a silent command wrapped in quiet understanding—left him with no choice. He stepped inside, the sound of the door closing behind him swallowed by the stillness of the room.

“Sit,” you said gently, gesturing toward the chair by the hearth. Though your tone held no sharpness, it allowed for no argument. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” he replied, but his voice faltered as he crossed the room. Lowering himself into the chair, his movements betrayed him—stiff and deliberate, a faint wince flickering across his face as the bruises beneath his armor made themselves known.

Without hesitation, you knelt beside him, your hands moving to the straps of his armor. The cold metal was unyielding beneath your fingertips, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from him. He tensed at first, his shoulders tightening as though bracing himself, but as you worked, his breath eased, and the tension began to melt from his frame.

“You’ve been the subject of much talk today,” you murmured, your voice low and measured, your focus never leaving the clasps beneath your fingers. One by one, they loosened under your careful touch. “The Red Keep is alive with whispers about the training yard.”

His jaw tightened at your words, the shadow of something unspoken flickering in his eyes. He turned his gaze away, letting it settle on the darkened hearth, now faintly glowing with renewed embers. “I regret nothing,” he said after a pause, the resoluteness in his tone firm yet quiet, like steel forged in fire.

“I’m not here to demand your regrets, Harwin,” you replied, your voice steady though a trace of softness lingered at its edges. You slid the breastplate free, the weight of it pressing briefly against your palms before you set it aside with care. “But you must understand how this looks. A knight of the City Watch, losing control, laying a man low with his fists. It’s not a story they’ll forget.”

“I know,” he admitted, the tension in his voice softening into something quieter, more vulnerable. “And yet… if I had to do it again, I would.” His eyes flicked to yours, dark and unyielding. “He spoke of you as though your name were his to wield. As though your honor was a thing to be mocked.” His jaw tightened, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. “I could not stand it.”

His words struck you like a sudden wind, stealing the air from your lungs. The raw honesty in his tone caught you off guard, and for a fleeting moment, you faltered. But you masked it quickly, your hands resuming their work as you moved to undo the vambraces strapped to his forearms. Beneath the polished steel, his skin bore the marks of the day—a collection of fresh bruises and a shallow gash along his arm that gleamed faintly in the firelight.

The sight made your chest ache, a pang of something sharp and unnameable lodging itself beneath your ribs. “Reckless,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him, the word carrying both reproach and quiet affection. Rising, you crossed to the small table near the hearth, pouring water into a basin with practiced ease. The cool splash of it was the only sound in the room as you retrieved a clean cloth and returned to his side.

Kneeling once more, you dipped the cloth into the water and pressed it gently against the wound. His sharp intake of breath was the only sign of discomfort he allowed, and as you worked, your touch firm but careful, you felt his gaze on you—steady, unwavering.

“They don’t understand,” he said suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet. There was no bitterness in his tone, only quiet conviction. “What it means to protect something worth more than your own life.”

The weight of his words settled over you, silencing any reply that might have formed. You kept your focus on the task at hand, the cloth brushing over his skin in slow, deliberate strokes, but your heart beat faster beneath his unrelenting gaze. The warmth of the firelight seemed to intensify, cocooning the two of you in a fragile moment suspended from the world outside.

The cloth in your hand hovered above his skin, forgotten in the tension that thickened the air. Slowly, you exhaled, finding your voice once more, soft but firm. “You are brave, Harwin,” you murmured, “but bravery and wisdom are not the same. What good is your protection if you destroy yourself in the process?”

His eyes searched yours, unabated, his jaw tight. “And what would you have me do, Princess?” he asked, his voice low and laced with frustration. “Stand by while they speak of you that way? Pretend I don’t hear it? Pretend it doesn’t tear me apart?”

His words hit you with the force of a wave, and you faltered, the breath you’d drawn catching in your chest. For a moment, the room was silent but for the faint crackle of the fire. At last, you shook your head, a soft sigh escaping as your hand resumed its careful work. “No, Harwin,” you said, your voice trembling just slightly. “But you must remember—your life is not so easily dismissed. Not to me.”

His shoulders eased slightly, the hardness in his expression giving way to something gentler, something unspoken. He watched you with an intensity that made your fingers feel clumsy as you worked, and the weight of his gaze sent a warmth rising to your cheeks. The air between you felt fragile now, the earlier tension softening into something tender, something that seemed to close the space between you with every passing second.

As you shifted to reach for the basin again, his hand moved. The warmth of his palm closed around your wrist, halting you. “Enough,” he murmured, though his voice carried no edge, only quiet insistence.

Before you could respond, he tugged gently, the motion steady but unyielding. You stumbled forward, your balance catching as he guided you into his lap with ease. A soft laugh escaped you, startled and unbidden, as you found yourself straddled across his lap.

“Harwin!” you exclaimed, the word more breathless than scolding. Your laughter softened as his arms wrapped around you, steady and sure, holding you close against him.

The corner of his mouth curved into a faint grin, the earlier shadows in his expression lifting. “You were fussing too much,” he said lightly, though there was a warmth in his voice that sent your heart fluttering. “I thought this might quiet you.”

“Oh, so you think this is better?” you retorted, though the mirth in your tone betrayed any attempt at reproach. Your hands rested lightly on his shoulders, and the solid warmth of him beneath your palms only deepened the blush rising to your cheeks.

“I do,” he replied simply, his grin softening into something sweeter, his gaze dipping to yours. 

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat as his hand shifted, settling at the small of your back. The gentle pressure sent a shiver up your spine, and the playful tension between you melted into something quieter, something far more intimate. The firelight flickered against the stone walls, casting the two of you in its soft glow, but all you could focus on was the steady warmth of him, the way his thumb brushed absentmindedly along your side, the weight of his gaze fixed entirely on you.

“Harwin…” you said again, his name falling from your lips softer this time, the sound of it barely audible over the crackling fire.

“Yes?” he murmured, leaning closer, his breath warm against your skin.

You allowed yourself to relax, the tension in your shoulders melting away as his hand came to rest at the small of your back. His fingers moved absentmindedly, tracing slow, soothing patterns that sent warmth curling low in your stomach. “You’re lucky I don’t scold you more,” you murmured, your voice light, though the weight of your concern lingered in your tone. “Throwing yourself into fights as if you’re made of stone.”

Harwin let out a soft chuckle, the sound deep and resonant, rumbling through his chest beneath your cheek. “And yet, here you are, tending to me every time,” he replied, the hint of a grin tugging at his lips. “Perhaps I’ve grown fond of your care.”

You pulled back slightly, shifting so you could look up at him, your hands braced lightly against his chest. The firelight cast golden shadows across his face, softening the sharp angles of his jaw and catching the warmth in his dark eyes. “You’re not invincible, you know,” you said, your voice quiet but firm, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Even the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms can break.”

His grin widened at that, spreading slowly across his face, the kind of smile that made your heart stutter. “So you admit I’m the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms,” he teased, though his tone carried a gentleness that softened the jest.

You rolled your eyes, though your smile lingered. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m practical,” he countered easily, leaning back slightly, though his hands didn’t loosen their steady hold on you. “If I’m to be scolded, I might as well be comfortable.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, soft and unguarded. The sound seemed to catch even him by surprise, his gaze softening further as his thumb brushed along the curve of your arm. The space between you felt impossibly close now, the air warm and heavy with something unspoken.

“You know they’re still talking,” you said after a moment, your voice quieter, almost hesitant. “About the fight. About you.”

“They can talk,” he said simply, his tone calm and unbothered, but there was an edge of steel in his words. “I’d do it again. A thousand times, if I had to.”

The unshakable truth in his words struck you, made your chest tighten with something too complex to name. Your hands shifted against his chest, your fingers toying idly with the fabric of his tunic. “You shouldn’t have to,” you murmured, your voice barely audible above the crackle of the fire.

His hand moved to yours, his palm steady and warm as his fingers curled around yours. “But I will,” he said, his voice low, filled with quiet conviction. “Because you’re worth every blow, every scar, and every rumor.”

The raw sincerity in his voice made your breath catch, and your heart rate increased as he locked eyes with you. You couldn’t tear yourself away from his gaze, feeling a change between the two of you. Without thinking, you shifted your body, aware of the warmth emanating from him through his trousers and the thin material of your nightgown. 

Harwin stilled for a moment, his hands steadying at your waist, his fingers flexing slightly against the fabric of your gown. His gaze flicked down briefly before meeting yours again, darker now, the tension between you thick and electric. “Princess,” he murmured, his voice softer, lower, his grip tightening just slightly as though to keep you there.

Your hands rested against his shoulders, your fingertips grazing the strong curve of muscle beneath the thin fabric of his tunic. “Yes?” you replied, your voice soft but laced with a teasing edge, the smallest smile tugging at your lips as you leaned closer.

His lips curved, his grin both tender and filled with a quiet challenge. “You’ll be the ruin of me,” he said, his tone low and almost reverent.

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with promise and unspoken desire. Your breath caught in your throat as you gazed into Harwin's eyes, seeing the intensity there, the raw emotion barely contained. Your fingers curled against his shoulders, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath your touch.

"Perhaps," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, "but what a sweet ruin it would be."

Something shifted in Harwin's expression then, a dam breaking. In one fluid motion, his hand moved to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled you closer. His lips met yours with a hunger that stole your breath away, passionate and demanding. You melted into the kiss, your body pressing against his as your arms wound around his neck.

The kiss deepened, igniting a fire that coursed through your veins. Harwin's large arms encircled you, pulling you flush against his chest as his lips moved against yours with increasing urgency. You responded in kind, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging gently as a soft moan escaped you.

The world beyond this moment ceased to exist. There was only the heat of Harwin's body against yours, the taste of him on your lips, the intoxicating scent of leather and sweat that clung to his skin. Your hips rocked instinctively, drawing a low groan from deep in his throat.

"We shouldn't," Harwin murmured against your lips, even as his hands roamed your back, tracing the curve of your spine.

"No," you agreed breathlessly, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. "We shouldn't.”

Your eyes locked with Harwin's, both of you breathing heavily. The firelight danced across his features, highlighting the conflict warring in his dark eyes - desire battling with duty.

"We shouldn't," you repeated softly, your fingers tracing along his jaw. "And yet..."

Your words trailed off as Harwin surged forward, capturing your lips once more in a searing kiss. Any remaining hesitation melted away as you surrendered to the passion building between you. His hands roamed your body with newfound urgency, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

You shifted in his lap, pressing closer as a soft moan escaped your throat. Harwin's grip on your waist tightened in response, his fingers digging into the fabric of your gown. With a low growl, he stood suddenly, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. He placed you softly on your bed, and you watched as he removed his lingering undergarments from a day spent under armor.

As you lay back on the bed, Harwin's eyes raked over you with undisguised hunger. His hands moved to the laces of your gown, fingers working deftly to loosen them. With each inch of skin revealed, his breath grew heavier, his touch more urgent. You arched into his caress, helping him peel away the layers of silk and linen until you lay bare before him.

Harwin paused, drinking in the sight of you. His calloused palm skimmed along your side, igniting sparks wherever he touched. "You're beautiful," he murmured, voice rough with desire.

Harwin's lips trailed down your neck, kissing a blazing path along your collarbone. His calloused hands caressed your sides, drawing soft gasps from your lips as he explored your body with reverent touches. You pressed yourself closer to him, yearning for the heat of his body to seep into yours.

"Harwin," you breathed, fingers tangling in his dark hair as his mouth moved lower. He looked up at you, eyes dark with desire, before pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. The anticipation built as his breath ghosted over your center.

As his soft lips pressed against your most sensitive area, you couldn't help but stifle a cry of pleasure. His tongue moved with fervent passion, eliciting breathy moans from your throat that echoed throughout the room. Your hips eagerly rocked against his face as the pleasure built, each wave crashing harder than the last and sending shivers down your spine.

Harwin's skilled hands and mouth worked in perfect harmony, savoring every taste and driving you to the brink of ecstasy. You clutched at his hair, pulling him closer and gasping for air as the tension within you coiled tighter and tighter. In this moment, nothing else in the world mattered except for the exquisite sensations he was drawing from your body.

You pleaded, your body writhing in pleasure on the bed as you approached the brink, "Harwin, please." He responded by intensifying his actions, one hand gripping your hip to hold you steady while the other skillfully worked to push you over the edge into pure bliss.

As release finally crashed over you, it was with Harwin's name on your lips. Your body trembled and shook as he continued his attentions, drawing out your climax until you were trembling and oversensitive. Every nerve ending was alive, every touch amplified into pure ecstasy.

As you came down from the high, Harwin moved back up your body, pressing tender kisses along your skin. His mouth trailed fire as he made his way up your thighs, hips, stomach, and chest. When he reached your lips, they tasted of him and of yourself, igniting a new wave of desire within you. Your hands roamed over the planes of his muscled back, feeling the strength coiled beneath his smooth skin.

"I need you," you whispered against his lips, your voice laced with want. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, smell the musk and sweat that only added to the intensity of your desire.

Harwin groaned softly, his hips pressing against yours in response. "Are you certain?" His dark eyes searched yours, even in this moment of passion giving you a chance to change your mind. But there was no hesitation in your heart or your body.

In response to his question, you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you. "I've never been more certain of anything," you breathed against his lips, knowing that this was where you belonged - in his arms, in this moment of pure bliss.

With a low groan, Harwin slowly pushed into you, both of you gasping at the exquisite sensation. He paused, giving you time to adjust, his forehead resting against yours as he struggled for control. You could feel the tension in his muscles, the restraint it took not to move.

"Harwin," you breathed, rocking your hips slightly. "Please..."

As Harwin's strong, calloused hands gripped your hips, you gasped and wrapped your legs tightly around his waist. With practiced precision, he moved inside of you, each thrust igniting a fire within your body. Your fingers tangled in his thick hair as he kissed you hungrily, his need evident in the way he devoured your lips.

Your body responded eagerly to his movements, arching against him and urging him on. The room was filled with the sounds of your lovemaking - the wet slap of skin against skin, your breathy moans, and Harwin's gruff groans of pleasure. His muscles tensed beneath your fingertips as he buried himself deep inside of you, sending waves of ecstasy coursing through your body.

In that moment, nothing else existed but the two of you, lost in a world of pleasure and desire. And as you clung to each other, consumed by the intensity of your passion, it was clear that there was no one else who could make you feel this alive.

"Gods, you feel incredible," Harwin groaned against your neck, his voice rough with desire. His lips trailed a path of fire along your jawline, adding to the overwhelming sensations you were feeling.

Lost in the ecstasy of the moment, all you could do was whimper in response. The tension continued to build rapidly, coiling tighter and tighter until it felt almost unbearable. Sensing how close you were, Harwin's movements became more focused and intense. One of his hands slipped between your bodies, his fingers deftly finding that sensitive bundle of nerves that sent you over the edge into pure pleasure.

Your body curved instinctively, a graceful response as waves of pure bliss cascaded through you, Harwin's name escaping your lips in a breathless cry. The intensity of your release triggered his own, and with a low groan, he buried his face in the crook of your neck as he found his climax. For several long moments, you clung to each other, bodies trembling with the shared passion that pulsed between you.

As your breathing began to steady, Harwin shifted to lay beside you, the comforting warmth of his body close but no longer pressing down. Propped on one elbow, he gazed at you, his dark eyes brimming with a tenderness that sent your heart fluttering. You turned your head to meet his loving gaze, his presence grounding you in the moment.

Gently, he reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His calloused fingers lingered against your cheek, their warmth seeping into your flushed skin.

"My princess," he murmured, his voice low and thick with emotion. "My heart is yours, now and always."

Your lips curved into a soft smile as a wave of deep contentment washed over you. Lying there, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of Harwin's affection, you felt a profound sense of safety and love, a certainty that you were cherished beyond measure.

A soft sigh escaped you as your fingers traced slow, idle patterns across his broad chest, savoring the solid feel of him beside you. "And mine to you," you whispered, your voice laced with tender affection. "Always."

Harwin’s lips twitched into a gentle smile, his eyes softening further as they held yours. Slowly, he leaned in, pressing a reverent kiss to your forehead, then to your cheek, before finally capturing your lips in a kiss so achingly sweet it left you breathless. When he pulled back, the look in his eyes—so full of adoration—stole the air from your lungs all over again.

"I would move mountains for you," Harwin murmured, his voice low and fervent as he lay on his side, facing you. His gaze was steady, filled with an intensity that made your breath catch. "I would fight armies, slay dragons, challenge the gods themselves if it meant keeping you safe and by my side."

“Please do not slay my dragons, Harwin.”

Your soft, melodic laughter filled the quiet room, and you turned your head on the pillow to meet his playful grin. His chuckle followed, a deep, rich sound that rumbled softly between you. "Very well," he said with a teasing glint in his eyes. "I shall leave your dragons be. But the rest still stands."

Your gaze softened as you looked at him, your hand resting lightly against your stomach. "My brave knight," you murmured, your voice tender. "I need no grand gestures or heroic deeds. Just you, here with me. That’s all I’ve ever wanted."

Harwin shifted closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin with a delicate reverence. "And you shall have me," he promised, his voice low and earnest. "For as long as you’ll have me, I am yours."

A quiet peace settled between you, though it carried the faintest edge of sadness, as Harwin rose and began the methodical task of donning his armor once more.

The soft clink of metal filled the air as Harwin fastened the last pieces of his armor. You watched him from the bed, the sheets pulled loosely around you, a bittersweet ache settling in your chest. As he reached for his yellow cloak, you rose, wrapping yourself in a light robe before crossing the room to him.

"Let me," you said softly, taking the cloak from his hands. With careful movements, you draped it over his shoulders, smoothing the fabric across his broad back. Your fingers lingered on the clasp at his throat, reluctant to complete the final step that would transform him back into Ser Harwin Strong of the City Watch.

Harwin's hand came up to cover yours, his touch warm and comforting. "Dawn will come too soon," he murmured, his voice low and tinged with wistfulness.

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest. "It always does," you replied softly, your fingers tracing the edge of the honey-hued cloak. The fabric was cool beneath your touch, a stark contrast to the lingering warmth of Harwin's skin.

For a moment, you both stood in silence, the air heavy with unspoken words and shared longing. Then, with a gentle sigh, you fastened the clasp at his throat, completing his transformation. The golden cloak seemed to glow in the dim light of your chambers, a symbol of the duty that would always stand between you.

Harwin's hand came up to cup your cheek, his touch impossibly tender. "My heart remains here," he murmured, his dark eyes searching yours. "Even when duty calls me away."

You leaned into his touch, savoring these final moments. "And mine with you.”

Your eyes met his, a silent understanding passing between you. "Go," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Before the castle wakes."

Harwin nodded, his jaw tightening as he steeled himself. He leaned in, pressing a final, lingering kiss to your forehead. "Until next time, my princess," he murmured against your skin.

Then, with a swirl of his yellow cloak, he was gone. The door closed behind him with a soft, measured click, leaving your chambers quiet once more. For a moment, you stood where he’d left you, your fingers brushing the place where his lips had lingered, the memory of his touch still warm against your skin. The silence around you wasn’t empty—it thrummed with the weight of what had passed between you, a fragile, fleeting gift stolen from the demands of the world beyond these walls.

You exhaled slowly, your gaze lingering on the door he’d vanished through. Duty would always call him away, that much you both knew. Yet tonight, in those stolen hours, the weight of that truth had felt lighter, bearable even. A soft smile tugged at your lips as you turned back to the hearth, his warmth still clinging to your skin like the faint glow of embers. For now, it was enough.

[mapis-putellas]

𝑶𝒄𝒆𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒆

Pairing: Mapi Leon x Ingrid x reader

Words: 1500+

Warnings: vague body image issues.

Summary: You take a trip to the beach with your girlfriends.

The beach trip was supposed to be fun, a spontaneous idea that Mapi had brought up the night before, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She and Ingrid had finished a particularly grueling training session that day, and the idea of lounging by the ocean, sun warming their skin, and waves crashing against the shore had sounded like the perfect remedy for sore muscles and tired minds. They'd both looked at you with hopeful eyes, and you'd agreed, swept up by their enthusiasm.

The morning of, however, the reality of it hit you.

Standing in front of the mirror in the small changing room near the beach, you tugged nervously at your bikini, eyeing the reflection that stared back. The swimsuit fit fine; it was actually really flattering. But that wasn't the issue. The issue was that it left you feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way that even intimacy with Ingrid and Mapi hadn't made you feel. Despite being with them for nearly six months, despite the countless nights you'd spent tangled together in bed, their bodies pressed against yours, this felt... different.

There was a safety in the dim lighting of your bedroom, the privacy of closed doors. Here, though, out in the open, with the sunlight harsh and unforgiving, every insecurity you'd ever had seemed to bubble up to the surface. Your eyes trailed over your body, taking in every curve and line. You weren't big, not by any stretch of the imagination. But standing here, knowing you'd soon be beside Ingrid and Mapi — two professional athletes with lean, toned bodies honed from years of training — you couldn't help but feel... inadequate.

Ingrid, with her tall frame and thick, dark hair cascading down her back, was effortlessly graceful and strong. Her Norwegian features were softened by her warm smile, the one she gave you that made you feel like the most special person in the world. She was lean but muscular in a way that was understated yet powerful. And Mapi... Mapi was pure energy, her body compact and defined. Her natural brown hair mixed with blonde from the last time she'd bleached it, and her easy, playful confidence made her feel untouchable in your eyes.

They were waiting for you outside, both probably already sprawled out on the sand, soaking up the sun. You wrapped a towel around yourself tightly, feeling like you needed a barrier between yourself and the world. It wasn't just the swimsuit. The beach itself was unnerving. The vastness of the ocean, with its dark depths and unknown creatures lurking beneath, had always terrified you. You couldn't swim, and the thought of going into that endless water made your stomach twist with anxiety.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped out of the changing room, hoping that neither of them would notice the way you clung to the towel. The sun was bright, casting a warm glow over the beach, and the sound of waves crashing was both calming and intimidating. You spotted them immediately. Ingrid was lying on a beach towel, her sunglasses perched on her nose, looking effortlessly serene. Mapi, on the other hand, was already in the water up to her knees, waving at you excitedly.

"¡Amor!" she called, grinning widely, her English slightly stilted but endearing. "Come in! It's perfect!"

You forced a smile, lifting a hand in a half-hearted wave. Ingrid looked over, sensing your hesitation even from a distance. She raised her sunglasses, her warm eyes narrowing in concern as she took in your expression and the towel wrapped around you like armor.

As you reached their spot on the sand, Ingrid sat up, patting the space beside her. "Hey, love," she said gently, her Norwegian accent wrapping around the words. "Are you okay?"

Mapi, catching on to Ingrid's tone, made her way out of the water and jogged over, sand sticking to her legs as she approached. She tilted her head, eyeing you with that same concern, her brows furrowed slightly.

"I'm fine," you said, trying to brush it off. "Just... not really a beach person, I guess."

Mapi chuckled, oblivious to the undertone of your words. "Not a beach person?" she teased, nudging you lightly. "Who doesn't like the beach?" She reached for your towel playfully, her fingers grasping the edge. "Come on, let me see you."

You instinctively tightened your grip on the towel, pulling it closer. "I... I'm fine like this," you mumbled, looking away, hoping they wouldn't notice the heat rising to your cheeks.

Ingrid's hand found yours, her touch grounding you as her thumb brushed softly over your knuckles. "You know," she began softly, her voice low and soothing, "you don't have to hide from us."

Mapi's playful demeanor softened, and she exchanged a quick look with Ingrid, understanding passing between them in a way that needed no words. She crouched down beside you, her gaze warm and steady. "We've seen all of you before, hermosa. We love all of you."

You bit your lip, looking down at the sand. "I know, it's just... out here, it feels different. I don't know." You hesitated, glancing up at the ocean in the distance. "And... I can't swim, so I don't really want to go in the water."

Mapi's eyes softened, and she placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "Why didn't you say so, amor? We wouldn't have dragged you here if we knew."

Ingrid squeezed your hand gently. "We'll stay right here on the sand if that's what you want," she said, her gaze earnest. "We don't need the water to enjoy being with you.”

Something in her words loosened the tightness in your chest. You took a deep breath, glancing between the two of them, the warmth in their eyes melting away some of your insecurities.

"Maybe... maybe I'll try sitting on the edge," you said, your voice barely a whisper.

Ingrid's face lit up with a soft, encouraging smile. "Whatever you want, love. We'll be right there with you."

They each took one of your hands, guiding you toward the shoreline at a leisurely pace. The sound of the waves grew louder, and the salty breeze brushed against your skin as you neared the water. When you reached the edge, Ingrid and Mapi sat down beside you, their hands still holding yours.

Ingrid looked at you, her eyes gentle. "If you're uncomfortable, just let us know. We're here for you."

You nodded, feeling a bit braver with their hands anchoring you. You let your feet stretch out toward the water, watching as the waves gently lapped at your toes. It was... surprisingly soothing, and you found yourself relaxing a little.

Mapi, never one to stay quiet for long, leaned over with a playful grin. "See? Not so scary, right?" she teased, though her tone was gentle, supportive rather than mocking.

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. "Maybe not as scary as I thought," you admitted.

They both smiled, and you felt yourself easing into the moment, letting go of the tension you'd been holding onto since you'd arrived at the beach. You glanced over at them, their bodies relaxed and carefree, and for the first time, you didn't feel the urge to compare. They were beautiful, yes, but they were also so much more — supportive, patient, understanding.

After a few moments, Mapi gave your hand a light squeeze. "Let's take it slow," she said, her gaze kind but teasing. "I'll hold onto you if you get scared."

You laughed, the sound surprising you. "I think I'll be okay."

Ingrid smiled, her thumb tracing soothing patterns on your hand. "We'll take it one step at a time. And remember, you don't have to prove anything to us. We love you just as you are."

The words settled into your heart, and for the first time, you felt yourself believing them. You let the towel slip from your shoulders, feeling the sun's warmth on your skin, and both of them grinned as if they'd just witnessed a small victory.

For the rest of the day, you stayed close to the shore, letting the gentle waves brush over your feet as you laughed and talked with them. They never left your side, always checking in, always making sure you felt safe and comfortable. You even let Mapi coax you a little further into the water, her hands on your waist as she steadied you, her grin infectious as she cheered you on.

By the time the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of pink and orange, you felt lighter, the insecurities that had weighed you down at the beginning of the day now distant memories.

As you all sat together, watching the sunset, Mapi leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. "I told you, didn't I?" she murmured, her voice a gentle tease. "Nothing to be scared of."

Ingrid wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close as she pressed a kiss to your temple. "You're perfect just like this," she whispered, her accent thick with affection.

And in that moment, wrapped in their warmth and love, you believed them. You didn't need to be anything more than who you were, because to them, you were already enough.

**

Tags: @marysfics @ceesimz @codiemarin @girlgenius1111 @goldenempyrean @liloandstitchstan @xxnaiaxx @silentwolfsstuff

[aventurineswife]

A kinda specific and maybe long but fun idea i had for a req:

Essentially, {and bare w me, i’m half asleep writing this lol} Reader x Sunday, and Reader is a childhood friend of his, who he loved, and someday when they were older, Reader was tragically killed in an incident. Sunday however, in a grief stricken state, decides to rebel against his original goal for the sweetdream paradise (penacony arc reference) and decides to shape it into a dream instead where he’s happily married to Reader, although for the sake of the dream he’s altered their memories. ending is essentially up to you!

{some additional ideas i had if you wanted to, were things like an argument between gopher and sunday, or robin and sunday, in whichever points of the story you wanted}

alternatively, a different Aventurine version would be interesting, mostly w the same set up but Sunday met Reader during Aventurine’s mission on Penacony, liked them, and Aven has to basically fight off the dream and Sunday.

but yeah, that’s pretty much it, everything else is up for creative liberties! i hope this one is at least somewhat interesting lol xx and srry if some of it doesn’t make sense 😓🤍

“Sometimes, the hardest part of letting go is realizing that the dream was never real”

Summary: In the idyllic yet hollow world of Sweetdream Paradise, Sunday crafts a perfect life with you—his lost love, altered memories and all—to escape the sorrow of reality. But as others begin to break through his illusion, and you start to remember fragments of a different fate, the dream begins to fracture. Torn between love and the harshness of truth, Sunday must finally face the choice to let you go, or remain forever in his self-made paradise.

Tags: Sunday x Reader, unrequited love, grief, loss, dreamscape, bittersweet ending, altered memories, memory manipulation, moral dilemma, angst, hurt/comfort, alternate reality, surrealism, slow unraveling, denial of reality.

Warnings: Grief, themes of manipulation, psychological trauma, implied death of Reader, reality distortion, emotional conflict, bittersweet resolution, morally ambiguous decisions.

A/N: Don't worry, anon! I appreciate all the details, the more details the more I can try to understand what you want exactly! Though I probably changed some bits of it here 😪

Sunday had always been proud of his role within Penacony, the creator of Sweetdream Paradise—a place where sorrow could be stilled, where suffering dissolved into an endless realm of serene dreams. It was a comforting reality he believed people needed, a soft oblivion to cradle them. Yet, in the depths of his mind, his peaceful philosophy hid a darker purpose, shaped by the ache of a loss he could never endure.

You had been his friend, a constant light in his youth, a companion who grounded his dreams. For as long as he remembered, you were there, with laughter that melted his worries and eyes that could see through his layered philosophies. But the day you were lost, taken too soon in a tragic incident, the world itself had hollowed out for him. The pain of your absence haunted him like a shadow, feeding a grief so deep that he was willing to defy his original purpose. In that moment of desolation, he turned Sweetdream Paradise into something far more personal—a realm where you still lived, where you loved him just as much as he had loved you.

In this new dream, Sunday made alterations. He reshaped your memories, softened the sharp edges of reality, and wove a seamless history where you had married him, where together, you built a life free of tragedy. In this dream, he could protect you eternally, shielded by his crafted illusion.

You woke to sunlight filtering through the windows, lying beside Sunday as the golden morning glow danced over his features. His eyes opened, catching you with a familiar warmth, and he reached over, brushing his fingers across your cheek.

"Good morning." he murmured, voice low and rich, as if savoring the simplicity of that greeting.

Every day was like this—a gentle, perfect rhythm that never seemed to break. You didn’t remember a world outside of this home, this life with him. And as you looked at him, you felt safe, loved, yet there was always a faint unease, like a fragment of something forgotten.

But the days went on, filled with laughter and love. Sunday seemed devoted to making sure you never doubted this world, his every word a reassurance that here, you were whole and happy.

One evening, as Sunday worked quietly at his desk, a visitor shattered the peace of his dream. It was Robin, standing just inside the doorway, her expression dark with a kind of wary sadness.

“Brother, you need to stop this,” she said, folding her arms. Her gaze fixed on him, seeing through the veneer of the dream. “This isn’t right. This… this paradise you’re keeping isn’t reality.”

Sunday straightened, his face hardening at her words. “Who are we to deny people peace, Robin? Haven’t we seen enough pain? Haven’t they?” His voice broke slightly, the facade slipping as he glanced toward where you sat by the fire, unaware of the intensity in his voice. He softened, as if trying to protect the dream from any trace of discord.

“You’re keeping people trapped. Yourself included. And for what? A fantasy? Is that really what they would have wanted?” Robin’s voice grew more urgent, her frustration showing. “They’re gone. You have to accept that.”

Sunday’s fists clenched at her words, every fiber in his body resisting the truth. “How could you understand?” he whispered. “In this place, they’re alive. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m giving them peace. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Robin stared at him, her gaze a mix of pity and sorrow. “At what cost, Brother? You’re keeping yourself from moving on, holding them hostage in a world that isn’t even real.”

In an alternate version of Penacony, Sunday’s paradise faced an even stranger twist. Aventurine, the cunning Stoneheart known for his strategic mind, was on his own mission in Sweetdream Paradise, seeking information that only Sunday could provide. But as he delved into the fabric of this dreamscape, he found himself questioning the reality around him, the shimmering dream where Sunday lived an idyllic life with you.

Aventurine confronted Sunday one night, his tone half-amused, half-concerned. “Interesting setup you have here,” he remarked, eyes gleaming with curiosity as he took in the flawless surroundings. “I almost believed it myself… almost. But what happens when the dream can’t hold itself together anymore?”

Sunday’s gaze narrowed, his protective instincts flaring. “What do you mean by that?”

Aventurine shrugged, his gaze flicking to you, sitting quietly, oblivious to the tension. “Everyone in this place… it’s all too perfect, isn’t it? You’re clinging to a memory, one that doesn’t belong here.”

In a rare flash of anger, Sunday stepped forward, his eyes darkening. “This isn’t any of your concern, Aventurine. Leave.”

Aventurine met his glare, his smirk slipping. “You think you’re the only one who’s loved and lost? Reality has its flaws, Sunday. It’s messy, painful… but it’s real. This—this is just a prison you’re keeping yourself in.”

Sunday’s voice trembled, caught between anguish and fury. “Better a beautiful dream than a brutal reality.”

Aventurine’s gaze softened for a brief moment, though he couldn’t abandon his sardonic tone. “But at least in reality, they would have remembered you for who you are, not a god in a gilded cage.”

In the end, it was you—within the dream—who finally confronted him, feeling the intangible pull of memories you didn’t recognize. “Sunday… something doesn’t feel right,” you whispered one night, as he sat beside you. “I keep… remembering pieces of something different, something that feels like it wasn’t supposed to end this way.”

Sunday’s face grew pale, fear creeping into his eyes. “No, you don’t have to worry about that. You’re here. We’re together. Isn’t that enough?”

But as you searched his eyes, you could feel the truth breaking through, the dream trembling under the weight of reality. “Sunday, what are you not telling me?”

He looked away, his heart shattering as he realized he couldn’t keep you here forever. Slowly, he whispered, “I… I just wanted to keep you safe. To give us a life that didn’t end in sorrow.”

With a trembling hand, you reached out, brushing a tear from his cheek. “It’s okay to let go. You have to keep going… even if it means letting me go.”

Sunday’s shoulders shook, the dream beginning to unravel around them, pieces of the illusion fading as he looked into your eyes one last time. “I… I don’t know if I can.”

But in the final moments, he felt your hand slip away, leaving him alone in the vast silence of his own grief. And as he awoke from his dream, Sunday found himself in a world still plagued by loss, his heart hollow yet somehow freer. Though you were gone, he understood, at last, that he had to face reality, no matter how painful it was.

And in that pain, he found a fragile hope—a sliver of light breaking through the dark.

*cutely posts all my drafts that have been dying to see the light* 😇💖

[buneio]

Love letters

Low! Honor Arthur Morgan

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

Arthur wrote love letters for the gang's herbalist, but she has never been taught to read before. Arthur learns the truth and offers to teach her!

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 Word count: 1051

Content warning(s): Low! Honor Arthur is slightly mean when approaching the situation at first. Reader described as delicate and tiny (if that makes you uncomfortable!!)

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Love letters — love letters were the only way Arthur could think of to confess his feelings to the little florist. But when she didn’t come find him after reading his note, his hope crumbled into something cold and bitter.

“You damn fool,” he muttered under his breath, pushing himself off his cot with a frustrated huff. He couldn’t let it fester any longer. Storming through camp, his boots kicking up dust, Arthur resolved to find her.

There she was, her tiny figure sitting beneath one of the old oaks that shaded the camp, her delicate fingers wrapping thin ribbons around bundles of herbs. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, dancing across her soft features as she worked. Her attention was fixed on her task, tying neat little knots to keep the herbs together for Pearson and Susan.

The soft jingle of Arthur’s spurs announced his approach, and her doe-like eyes flickered up to meet his. Her lips parted as if to greet him, but she froze the moment his sharp voice cut through the air.

“You stood me up, girl,” he snapped, his tone gruff and raw with frustration.

She flinched, her hands pausing mid-tie as she gave him a confused, wide-eyed look. She could see the tension in his posture, the storm brewing in his expression, and it unsettled her.

Arthur let out a low growl and leaned heavily against the tree, running a hand across his beard to rein himself in. He hated the way she trembled under his gaze, her usual warmth replaced by hesitance. His voice softened, but the ache in his chest remained.

“You saw my letter,” he rephrased, his tone quieter now, though no less weighted.

Her fingers released the herbs in her lap, letting them rest in her basket. She stood slowly, brushing bits of dirt from her skirt. Her hesitation spoke volumes, but so did her courage as she finally met his gaze.

“I did,” she admitted softly. “I… I’m sure it was lovely, but…” She trailed off, her words faltering as she wrung her hands nervously.

“But?” Arthur pressed, his brows furrowing deeper. He tried to keep his voice steady, coaxing rather than commanding. “C’mon, doll. Spit it out.”

Her shoulders slumped, and she gave a weary sigh, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I can’t read it,” she finally confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how.”

Arthur froze. The words sank in, disarming him completely. She couldn’t read?

A pang of guilt hit him square in the chest as he replayed his own harshness in his mind. He sighed deeply, letting the tension in his shoulders melt away as he sank down to sit beside her. His eyes drifted to the basket, where his letter still sat, its envelope slightly crumpled at the edges.

He shook his head at himself. How could he have been so blind? So quick to anger? With a careful hand, he reached for the letter, pulling it from its envelope.

“I’ll read it to you,” he said softly, his voice full of regret and something else — something tender. He reached out, his rough palm brushing her shoulder gently. “I’m sorry, Doll. It’s alright.”

Her wide eyes lit up with a spark of relief, and she scooted closer to him, her knee brushing his as she stared at the paper he held. To her, the letters were meaningless scribbles, but when Arthur looked at them, they were a piece of his heart laid bare.

“What’s it say, Mister Morgan?” she asked, her voice quiet but hopeful.

Arthur swallowed hard, his palms sweating as he unfolded the paper. He hadn’t expected to read it out loud, and the words felt heavier somehow, knowing she’d hear them from his lips.

“Well…” He cleared his throat and began, his voice low and steady. Each word carried the weight of his feelings — his admiration, his longing, his love.

By the time he finished, silence hung between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. She sat still, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she processed what she’d just heard. Who would’ve thought that Arthur Morgan, the rugged, stoic outlaw, could be so… gentle?

“You love me?” she finally whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Arthur nodded slowly, his gaze steady on hers. “I do,” he admitted, his voice unwavering despite the flutter in his chest.

Her cheeks turned pink, and she bit her lip as a shy smile crept across her face. “I… I didn’t think…” She trailed off, her eyes darting to her lap. “I didn’t think someone like you would ever feel that way about someone like me.”

Arthur frowned, leaning in slightly. “Someone like me?” he echoed. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“You’re strong,” she said quietly. “Brave… you’ve seen so much of the world. Me? I can’t even read a letter proper. I’m just a silly girl who spends her time pickin’ flowers and takin’ care of the horses. Why would you—”

Arthur didn’t let her finish. He reached out, his calloused fingers tilting her chin so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. His blue eyes burned with sincerity as he spoke.

“Don’t you dare talk about yourself like that,” he said, his voice low but firm. “There ain’t nothin’ silly about you. You’re the best thing in this camp. Hell, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You make this life… worth livin’.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she could only stare at him. The weight of his words, the raw honesty in his voice, left her speechless.

“I’ll teach you,” he said after a beat, his lips curving into a soft smile.

“Teach me?” she echoed, blinking.

“To read,” he clarified. “Can’t have my Doll missin’ out on all the sweet nothin’s I plan to write her.”

Her cheeks turned crimson, and a giggle escaped her lips despite herself. “You’re somethin’ else, Arthur Morgan.”

“Aww, don’t be too sappy now,” he replied, his voice warm and teasing.

For the first time in a long while, She felt like she truly belonged — like she was more than just a girl picking flowers in the background of someone else’s story. She was his, and he was hers. And for now, that was enough.

[kusakiguzen]

Hello 👋 um I don't know if your request is open, but could you do yandere Shanks x female reader headcanon. Like how Shanks meet the reader, how he got obsessed, etc. (Can you make it where shanks crew is obsessed with the reader too, not in a romantic way and helps shanks)

A/N: It took me a while to get a good enough idea and i have two. I feel this is soul less but i did my best with my degrading mental health right now. I hope you enjoy.

I'm not really familiar with the crew except Benn so i did include him. I don't think this is my best work and i honestly hate it and will probably try again once in a better headspace.

I apologize if its not up to your taste

Warning: Has a shit ton of grammatical mistakes, I'm so sorry

Thank you for stopping by

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the Red force. Laughter and the sounds of clashing swords filled the air, a reminder of the crew’s relentless spirit. You were nestled in a corner of the ship, blissfully unaware of the darker truths that surrounded you. As Ben Beckman’s little sister, you had grown up sheltered from the harsh realities of the world, always finding comfort in your brother’s protective presence.

Your first encounter with Shanks was a vivid memory. It had been a fateful day when your brother brought you on the infamous captain aboard the Red force for a visit. You had been playing with a few of the younger crewmates, their laughter echoing around you, when Ben approached, his usual calm demeanor slightly overshadowed by a hint of excitement.

“Y/N, come here! I want you to meet someone special,” he called, ushering you toward the main deck.

You followed, curious and eager. As you stepped into the sunlight, your eyes landed on the man with red hair, his grin wide and inviting. “Hey there! You must be Ben’s little sister. I’ve heard so much about you!”

Your heart raced at the sight of him. He was everything stories had described—a charismatic figure whose presence lit up the room. “Hi! I’m Y/N,” you said, beaming.

Shanks smiling while holding your hand, his playful nature shining through. “I hear you love adventures. How about we have one together? I could use a partner in crime!”

You giggled, completely taken in by his charm. “Really? That sounds amazing!”

That day marked the beginning of your bond with Shanks. He took you on a mini adventure around the ship, showing you the ropes and regaling you with tales of his travels. You listened, wide-eyed, as he spoke of battles and treasures, unaware of the underlying dangers that came with such a life.

As you laughed and explored, you felt a sense of warmth and safety that enveloped you. Little did you know that Shanks, even then, had been captivated by your innocence, seeing you as a light in a world filled with shadows.

Fast forward to the present, and Shanks was still a constant figure in your life, always by your side, watching over you with a mix of affection and an intensity that you couldn’t quite place.

“Hey, Y/N!” Shanks called out one afternoon, striding over with that signature grin. “What are you up to?”

“Just watching the waves,” you replied, your eyes sparkling with innocence. “It’s so peaceful!”

Shanks’ heart raced at your words. He loved how you saw the world, so untouched by the dangers lurking just beyond the horizon. “You know, the world isn’t as safe as it seems,” he said, his tone shifting ever so slightly. “But I promise to protect you, no matter what.”

You giggled, brushing off his concern. “I know! Ben would never let anything happen to me.”

At the mention of your brother, Shanks’ expression softened. Ben was fiercely protective, almost possessive, and the crew had come to share that sentiment. While they all adored you, their affection had a darker edge, something you remained blissfully unaware of.

“Ben’s always looking out for you,” Shanks agreed, stepping closer. “But sometimes, you need to rely on others too. Like me.”

You smiled, oblivious to the way his gaze lingered on you, filled with intensity. “Of course! You’re my favorite big brother figure!”

Shanks chuckled, though a hint of frustration bubbled beneath the surface. He wanted more than just the role of a guardian; he longed to claim you as his own. But he also understood that you were naive to the world's cruelties. That innocence was something he cherished, and he’d do anything to keep it intact.

Meanwhile, Ben watched from a distance, arms crossed, his eyes narrowed. He’d seen the way Shanks looked at you, and though he trusted his captain, an unsettling feeling gnawed at him. He would always prioritize your safety above all else, even if it meant keeping you sheltered from the crew's darker inclinations.

“Y/N!” Ben called, stepping forward. “How about a game? Just the two of us.”

You perked up, grateful for your brother’s attention. “Sure! What should we play?”

As you wandered off with Ben, Shanks watched, his expression conflicted. He loved you dearly, but he knew that your brother's presence would always be a barrier. Later that evening, as you prepared to settle down for the night, Ben and Shanks found a moment to speak privately.

“Shanks,” Ben began, his tone serious. “We both care about Y/N. We need to keep her safe.”

Shanks nodded, his expression hardening. “I agree. The world is dangerous, and we both know it. But together, we can protect her.”

Ben’s eyes narrowed. “We need to be vigilant. No one can get to her without going through us.”

“Exactly,” Shanks replied, a determined glint in his eye. “We’ll make sure she never sees the darkness of this world. We’re in this together, Ben. We’ll keep her innocent and happy, no matter what.”

Days passed, filled with laughter and adventures on the high seas. Yet, as you explored, the crew’s obsession grew, entwining around you like a vine. You remained blissfully unaware, believing the crew’s protectiveness stemmed from love and friendship. Little did you know, their hearts were tied together by a darker thread, one that bound them to you more tightly than any affection could.

One night, as the stars twinkled above, you sat on the deck, lost in thought. Shanks approached, leaning against the railing beside you. “You okay, Y/N?”

“Yeah! Just thinking about how lucky I am to be with you all,” you replied, your eyes shining with sincerity.

Shanks’ smile faltered for a brief moment, replaced by a more serious look. “You have no idea how lucky you are… or how dangerous this world can be.”

You tilted your head, confused. “I mean, I’ve heard stories, but it doesn’t feel that way here.”

“Exactly,” Shanks said, his voice low. “And that’s how it should stay. As long as we’re here, you’ll always be safe.”

You grinned, completely missing the intensity behind his words. “I know! You all make me feel so protected.”

As the night deepened, Shanks’ hand brushed against yours, an electric jolt that sent a thrill down your spine. You looked up, meeting his gaze, still unaware of the storm brewing within him.

The next day, Ben noticed the lingering touches and exchanged glances. He felt the urge to intervene, to remind Shanks of the boundaries. But deep down, he understood the allure of your innocence—the way it made everyone around you feel alive, almost compelled to keep you close.

“Let’s go on an adventure today!” you suggested, breaking the tension.

“Count me in,” Ben replied, masking his unease with a smile. Shanks nodded, but a flicker of possessiveness gleamed in his eye. He wouldn’t let anyone take you away from him.

As you laughed and played with your brother and the crew, you remained blissfully unaware of the intertwining shadows of yandere love that surrounded you. The Red-Haired Pirates had claimed you as their treasure, and they would go to any lengths to protect you, even if it meant shielding you from the very truths of the world that would shatter your innocence.

In the embrace of their twisted affection, you danced on the edge of a dangerous precipice, blissfully ignorant of the love that could turn to obsession at a moment's notice. And so, the sweet story of your life with the yandere Shanks and Ben continued, a delicate balance of joy and darkness that only time would reveal.

A/N: I didn't particularly like this piece but i still posted it.

Umm i hope you enjoy reading it @wereallmadhere666

Masterlist

Stay Safe, Healthy and Hydrated

[cherryblossom-chopper]

ღ Badly Hurt ღ

Violent and Angst Content with Ace, Shanks, and Luffy.

————— ୨୧ —————

Ace’s stomach dropped when you crumpled a few meters before him. “(Name)!” he shrieked, rushing toward you as fire licked his skin. Rubble scraped his knees as he hit the ground beside you. He frantically jerked you off the ground, pulling you onto his lap. “Sweetheart,” Ace whimpered, shaking you gently. He brushed the dirt and rock from your face.

When you didn’t stir, Ace tried to gently slap your cheek . Your name found its way into the air as he begged you to open your eyes. The blood starting to cake on your hairline made bile rise in his throat. “Baby, come on, this isn’t funny,” he sniffled as unexpected tears pricked his eyes. His hand was resting on your chest. Agony swelled within him each time it fell, and relief grew each time it rose.

The great pirate, Portgas D. Ace, sobbed when you let out a strangled groan. “(Name), fuck, hey there,” Ace whimpered, nearly out of breath. He leaned over you, trying to shield your face from the harsh sunlight, when you squinted your eyes.

“Ace,” you gasped. Your head burned, and it was hard to focus on the freckles on his cheeks.

“Hi baby,” his voice wavered, and he wiped his tears with his hand, “Welcome back.”

・‥…━━━☆

Luffy had never sat in the spot for so long before. An irritating slapping sound came from Luffy's sandal as his knee anxiously bounced. He leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. An unbecoming frown was plastered onto the captain's face. "When are they going to wake up?" Luffy asked, his eyes closely watching his trusted doctor.

"(Name) is going to be okay. They just overdid it… again," Chopper reassured him as the doctor began packing up his equipment, "You should try to convince them to take it easy."

Left alone, Luffy moved his chair close to your bedside. He held your hand, giving it a tender squeeze. The air caught in his throat when you squeezed back.

"Treasure?" Luffy leaned closer to you, his heart beating hard in his chest. Your tired eyes met his, and a smile bloomed on Luffy's face.

"Hey," you tried to smile back. You're entire body ached as you attempted to sit up.

Luffy quickly held you in place with a firm hand on your shoulder. "You need to rest," he said sternly, "I don't like it when you faint. It's scary."

"I can't. I know I have chores to do," you grunted, trying to get out of bed, "I can't lay around all day."

"(Name)," Luffy's grip was stiffer, "Stop it. I don't want to see you get hurt. If you keep doing this…" his breath hitched, and Luffy looked away.

Your heart softened at his hurt expression. "Luffy," you said, squeezing his hand again, "I'll be okay. I was just a little burnt out."

"But what if you're not," he whispered, "What am I supposed to do if you're not okay? What if next time you get too hurt to travel with us? I'm supposed to protect you, not the other way around." You cupped his cheek, stroking the scar under his with your thumb. "Okay, Luffy, I'll stay," you relaxed into the pillows, and your aching muscles thanked you.

"Can I get in bed with you?" he asked much, as a frightened child would, his big eyes pleading with you.

"Of course, you can," you offered him a sleepy smile. A nearly aching laugh came out of you as Luffy haphazardly crawled over you to flop onto the other side of the bed. Your heart filled with love as he snuggled up close to you. His arm draped over your middle.

"You're staying put till Chopper says it's okay," he informed you, squeezing you tight.

You smile a little more, "Okay, sweetheart. I can live with that."

・‥…━━━☆

"For fuck sake," Shanks growled, wrenching you upright with his hand around your upper arm. The last of the captain's concerns was the likely bruise his grasp would cause. He pulled you close to his chest. "Stay with me, (Name)," he barked, attempting to maneuver your weak form, "Stay on your feet."

The rock beneath your feet shifted as you swayed in Shank's arm. Nausea washed over you as you looked down at the blood on your shirt. Your mouth opened and closed, desperately trying to find words. The fog settled into your mind, and Shank's darkening face filled your vision.

Shanks pushed you against Benn's chest as he came to help. Benn steadied you with his firm hands and held your back to his chest. Your head tilted back to look up at him, confused about how you got there.

Your partner grabbed your cheeks with his hand. "Babe, look at me," Shanks leaned close to your face, "Focus on me." The battle behind him melted away as he tugged up your shirt.

Benn's hands keeping you upright helped your eyes focus on Shanks. You watched with foggy concern as his face was pulled tight into a frown. His glare went from your body to your face, barely softening when your eyes met.

"Shanks," you mumbled, weakly reaching out to him.

Your voice made his face crack ever so slightly. He shouldered his classic white shirt off and tore it with his teeth. "Never ever do that again," he ordered, wrapping the cloth around your torso, "I'm an emperor, and you're- you're not."

When you jerked in pain, Shanks tenderly shushed you. "You're going to be fine, okay?" he insisted, "You'll be okay. You've gotta be okay."

————— ୨୧ —————

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