#young blades fanfic

[spacedoutman]

Concept for a younger Velvet Von Ragnar for the fanfiction because my brain is bleeding due to how much inspiration I have for this is has been so fucking long

[pascaloverx]

STARVE

FANFIC: LUCIUS VERUS X READER X GENERAL ACACIUS

Author's Note: As a test to see if this fanfic might appeal to anyone other than myself, I decided to share a preview with you all. If you enjoy it, feel free to leave a comment—I haven’t yet decided if I’ll continue writing it. The characters do not belong to me but rather to the Gladiator II universe created by Ridley Scott.

one

PREVIEW

Gladiators fighting for their lives in the most savage of manners. The savagery does not startle you; you are accustomed to it. Your late husband often had to fight, quite literally, with tooth and nail to survive. He perished as he fought, dreaming that one day you both might escape. Left alone, hollow within, you were spared by General Acacius.

General Marcus Acacius delivered you from the fate of becoming a courtesan to Emperors Geta and Caracalla. In an act of calculated benevolence, he claimed you as his concubine (concubinatus), securing your liberty through this arrangement. For this, you harbor a profound sense of gratitude each day of your life. From that moment forth, you and the General Acacius have maintained the appearance of a romantic entanglement. He graciously granted you leave to serve as an attendant to Ravi, the steward responsible for tending to the wounded gladiators.

"I have heard that you are Macrinus' new gladiator. It seems the battlefield has taken its toll on you," you remark, approaching the gladiator. Hanno—that is what you heard him called. His blue eyes fix upon you, studying you as though he seeks to unravel your very essence.

"I belong to no one," the gladiator replies, his voice strained as he winces in pain. "But I do appreciate your company. Ravi may be a skilled healer, yet nothing compares to the presence of a beautiful woman." His words are accompanied by a grimace, his arm bearing a wound, likely inflicted by the blade of a sword. Positioning yourself before him, you reach for one of the tools Ravi uses to stitch the torn flesh of gladiators. With steady hands, you then lift a cup of wine laced with opium, offering it to the gladiator to ease his suffering.

The gladiator drinks the wine greedily, allowing the liquid to trickle down his lips. "If my appearance pleases you, I suggest you focus on that," you remark coolly. "For what I am about to do will bring you little satisfaction." Without hesitation, you begin stitching his wound, prompting him to release several groans of pain.

"You seem to take pleasure in causing me pain," he mutters between groans, a chuckle escaping him despite the agony etched across his face.

"Do not misinterpret me so gravely. I take pride in being of service to the recovery of gladiators," you reply while continuing to stitch his wound. "I lost my husband to one of the games orchestrated by Emperors Geta and Caracalla. So rest assured, my dedication lies entirely in aiding you." As you work, his expressions shift, the pain visibly dulling—likely the effects of the wine and opium taking hold. Yet, his hand from the uninjured arm suddenly grips your leg firmly, near your thigh. The gesture appears unintentional. You glance at him, startled.

"Forgive me," he murmurs, withdrawing his hand swiftly, your silent gaze alone conveying your disapproval. "I believe I lost control of my actions for a moment." You offer no verbal response, but the unspoken understanding in your exchange pleases you.

"There are rumors circulating that you have come in search of something," you say, your gaze lingering on the ring adorning the gladiator's finger. "I wonder if what you seek is vengeance—or perhaps a love lost." He lifts his eyes to meet yours, as though carefully crafting the right response.

"Vengeance for a lost love," he finally admits, his voice laden with the fury of grief. "My wife perished under the command of the General." The intensity of his words is mirrored in his eyes, now burning with a hunger that seems insatiable.

A fleeting discomfort stirs within you as his words settle. You owe much to General Acacius; your life, your freedom, and perhaps even a part of your heart are tied to him. He has been nothing but an honorable man in your eyes, despite his marriage to Lucilla. A genuine affection for him lingers within you, though you respect the boundaries of his union.

"Since you do not know me, I feel compelled to warn you—should your vengeance be aimed at General Acacius, you will find no ally in me. I am among the many who will not stand idly by should harm come to him," you declare, finishing your care for his wound.

"Ah, and we have only just met, yet I seem to have displeased you already," the gladiator replies, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "But allow me to ask—if you had the chance to kill the one responsible for your husband's death, would you not take it?"

His gaze is unwavering, piercing into yours. You avert your eyes, exhaling slowly before stepping closer to him. "When my husband died, vengeance had no place in my heart," you say firmly. "I was consumed with fear—wondering which emperor I would be forced to lay with to survive, or whose entertainment I would become. Fortunately, General Acacius spared me from all those fates and ensured I was kept far from the gladiator who killed my husband." Your eyes meet his with an intensity that demands understanding, your voice steady and resolute. He listens in silence, his focus unbroken.

"Then you are indebted to General Acacius," the gladiator remarks, his tone probing as he holds your gaze. You step away, irritation rising within you, though you refuse to admit it aloud.

"You could say so—I am indebted to General Acacius. Does that make you angry with me?" you ask earnestly, taking a cloth soaked in wine and carefully pressing it against the gladiator's wounds.

"No, I do not feel anger toward you," he replies, his voice steady despite the sting of the alcohol against his skin.

"Gladiator, you are ready to fight once more. Should you suffer any wounds in the future and prefer Ravi's care, I will not take offense," you say, finishing your work.

He smiles softly, gradually regaining his composure. "My name is Hanno. You may call me that, and I would like to keep you as the one responsible for my care." Hanno says, taking your hands as if in gratitude.

"I am Y/N, since we are introducing ourselves," you reply. "And since we are being friendly, I will ask a favor of you. If you plan to seek revenge, do it properly. Confront General Acacius in a fair manner, that one of you may die an honorable death."

You hold Hanno's rough hands, hoping to appeal to his sense of reason. "I will take your words into consideration, but I cannot guarantee anything," Hanno responds, his gaze never leaving you.

"I recommend you rest before being taken to your cell. Surely, we will meet again soon," you say as you step away, gathering the healing supplies Ravi entrusted to you.

Hanno bids you farewell, settling down in a corner of the place where you had been tending to him. You leave him there, knowing he will soon be escorted to his cell. Meanwhile, you make your way to General Acacius, as he often summons you when he returns from his campaigns, and you follow him without hesitation.

"Mea domina, I have waited so long for you to come to me..." Marcus Acacius' voice fills the space around you. The setting is a private garden within his residence, shared with Lucilla.

You approach him, adjusting the stole around your body. He moves toward you slowly, holding a goblet of wine in his hands.

"I had to attend to the treatment of one of the gladiators," you speak softly, drawing nearer to him. He extends the goblet to you, and you drink from it. Then, he rises slightly and places a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"I have a wound as well; I would like you to tend to it," General Acacius says, his fingers brushing lightly against his lower lip. Gently, you rise toward him, pressing your lips to his in a kiss so soft it could scarcely be called one. It is delicate, restrained—you have no desire to overstep any boundaries.

"Our charade may now conclude, General Acacius. I believe any servant or guard lingering nearby has been sufficiently convinced by our display of affection," you say, fully aware that this romantic gesture is but a performance to solidify the illusion that you truly belong to him.

"Just a little longer, mea domina," he murmurs, placing his hands gently on your face and pulling you into another kiss. This time, it is more fervent, as though he is intent on committing the feel of your lips to memory.

[junkpuppet225]

Noticing You

DarylxF!Reader

**summary: Daryl notices you.

**setting: Alexandria Safe Zone, prob S5… maybe later

**word count: 2K+

**warnings: smut, swearing, age gap, brief m!masterbating, p in v, no protection - pull out game strong, at first, mentions of oral f!receiving - 18+, minors DO NOT interact, NSFW

**a/n: I do not own anything related to The Walking Dead nor am I making any money from the writing of this fanfic. This is just something that came to me in the middle of the night. I hope you enjoy!

*****

Daryl noticed you - despite being twice your age. Every time you stepped into his line of sight his gaze washed over you - you were the prettiest thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

You noticed Daryl too - the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when your eyes met - his fingers tightening into fists at his sides when you were lucky enough to be able to idly touch him. The brush of your hand against his when you reach for the same dusty item on a supply run, your palm on his shoulder in passing.

You were Alexandria’s best scavenger - smart, quiet and a native to Northern Virginia. You accompanied Rick’s group on supply runs often - impressed with their skill set, especially the archers.

One particular quest found you trapped in a small supply closet with Daryl while the dead marched through - your back pressed against his front as you tried to steady your breathing - panic washing over you from the surrounding dead and the warmth radiating from your company. Daryl stood like a statue behind you, holding his breath until he worried he’d pass out to keep from breathing in your delicious scent. He didn’t know if he’d survive it again.

After that he tried to avoid you. You were too young, too sweet for someone like him and he didn’t deserve these feelings that bloomed in his chest whenever he saw you so he kept his head down whenever you were around, much to your dismay.

“Jesus.” Abraham muttered before returning his attention to sharpening his knife with a shake of his head as you made your way down the quiet street with a coy smile on your face. Curiosity got the best of the archer who stood leaned against the porch railing, bringing his eyes up to yours as a muffled groan escaped his throat.

In your defense it was late summer causing beads of sweat to roll down your neck as you stopped to say hello, hands on your hips and hair pulled up high on your head - little wisps blowing around your face with the too warm breeze. Your thin white camisole of a shirt and cut off jean shorts left almost nothing for the imagination and Abraham kept his eyes on his blade as the man standing behind him began to growl deep in his chest.

In his defense Daryl tried to look away, weakness wasn’t easy for him but you were just to god damn beautiful not to soak it all in so he looked - eyes falling from your neck to your collarbone then over your scraps of clothes to appreciate your legs from the very tops of your exposed thighs all the way to your calf’s.

When you continued on your way his eyes were glued to your perfect ass, barely contained by the scraps of denim you tried to pass off as shorts. “That girl knows exactly what she’s doing.” Abraham muttered with another shake of his head as Daryl grunted a response before jerking the front door open on their gifted home and storming off through the quiet house. He didn’t stop moving until he was standing under a steady stream of cold water with his cock in his hand, working himself into a frenzy with his other palm pressed hard against the shower wall. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt the need to relieve himself from all this sexual tension but you were driving him fucking crazy.

How old even were ya? Too young to have someone like him jerking off to the thought of you wrapped around his cock as he pumped himself deep inside of you over and over. God, the sounds he knew you could make - soft gasps and desperate groans as he fucked you into oblivion and the way you’d look after - cock drunk and gazing up at him with those beautiful fucking eyes. A quiet groan escaped him as he tightened his grip, cock jerking with release as he imagined filling your sweet fucking cunt.

Daryl lifted his face to the stream of water, slinging his hair from his eyes and breathing hard as he placed his other hand against the wall and groaned at the thought of you - trying to steady the heavy thumping in his chest.

When he sees you again he can’t look you in the eye no matter how much he wants to - standing across from you with his bow high on his shoulder as Rick and Michonne study the map to determine where to scavenge today. Your eyebrow lifts in concern as you watch a deep blush creep up Daryl’s neck and into his cheeks as his eyes dart to everything around you.

“Daryl?”

You both turn your attention to Rick’s deep voice as he repeats his request - that the two of you take the bike and head west to a small independent pharmacy located just off the highway while they return to the shopping mall you visited a few days ago. You’re just about to protest - being that close to him? No good will come from it but the quick alright he gives widens your gaze. Alright? Daryl just shrugs and nods to his bike as you wish the others safe travels and watch him straddle the seat waiting for you to join him.

There’s no denying the tension in his body as you place his bow on your back and slide your fingers across his shoulders, gripping the coiled muscles softly as you throw your leg over the seat and sink your chest into his back - listening to his breath catch in his throat. “Is this okay?” You whisper against his ear as you slide your arm around his waist - almost missing the slight nod of his head. “Hold on.” He mutters and guns the motorcycle out of Alexandria without another word.

You ride in silence as Daryl eventually relaxes his weight into your chest and you grip his shirt with your fingers - enjoying the breeze and the scenery as you roll down the highway with just the sound of the motorcycle roaring beneath you. You’re thankful Daryl agreed to let you ride with him - this is better than being in that stuffy Honda with Rick and Michonne who have their own sexual frustrations radiating off them every second of the day.

Your thoughts return to the sexy archer as he speeds down the highway sending a surge of excitement to your core - giving you the courage to lower your hold on him just an inch and splay your fingers across his tight stomach as the tension returns to his back. The thought of releasing some of his tension brings a smile to your lips as you grip him tighter and he slows the bike a notch - afraid he’s frightening you or worse, hoping it will make you loosen your hold on him.

No chance in hell, Dixon. If anything you push yourself closer, tightening your thighs around his hips and running your hand up his chest - gripping him just below his throat. The bike falters again but this time you don’t think it has anything to do with his concern for you and his back expands with a deep needed breath.

When you make it to your destination neither of you move at first and Daryl is breathing hard, your hands still clinging to his chest. “Daryl… I…” You listen to his breath catch as his name slips from your lips and then he’s angry, pushing you back before leaping from the motorcycle and glaring at you.

You’re still straddling his bike with wide eyes as he paces before you like a caged animal, grunting and everything. “Daryl.”

“Stop!”

“Stop what?” You just said his name. “Whatever the fuck this is - jus’, stop. Please…” He’s not yelling - he’s pleading with you and the sound only makes you want him more. You spread your legs slightly, allowing those damn barely there shorts to ride up your thighs even further. Daryl looks up from your legs slowly with a storm brewing in his blue eyes and the next thing you know he’s crossed the short distance and sunk a hand into the back of your hair - bringing you to his parted lips roughly as he kisses you like you’ve never been kissed before.

Teeth scraping and tongues demanding - his other hand grasps your jaw as his tongue savors every inch of your mouth leaving you gasping for air when he finally pulls away. His eyes are searching yours and then he’s mumbling something about you being so fucking sweet before he’s kissing you again.

After that second kiss there was no going back, that second kiss had you bent over his motorcycle with your chest pressed to the seat and his rough hands on your waist - thrusting into your soaked cunt so deep it had you seeing stars. “D-Daryl…” Even the slow shuffle of a nearby walker didn’t stop his pace as he lifted his bow and sunk a bolt deep into its brain before tossing it back to the ground and gripping the soft curve of your ass as you tightened around him. “F-fuck, that’s it…” That’s everything he knew this would be, gripping him so fucking tight - your soft pleas for more filling his head as your pussy suddenly gushed around him and he lost all sense of control - slamming into you so fucking hard he silently prayed you’d feel him inside of you for weeks.

“M’gonna come.” Daryl announced to the empty street as he gripped your hip with one hand and jerked his dick from deep inside of you with the other - covering your swollen cunt with ropes of white as a deep groan fell from his throat. “F-fuck.”

His desperation melts away as Daryl wraps his strong hands around you and lifts you from the motorcycle, breathing hard against your throat as he sweetly asks if you’re okay. You nod and assure him you’re better than okay before pulling your shorts up your thighs with a grin.

The look on Daryl’s face when you mentioned you never bothered with panties was one that would be burned into your memory for a long time and you knew he was thinking of all those days he silently watched you walk through Alexandria in just a dress. He thought about it so much that the next time you walked past him in town with that bright knowing smile on your lips and the soft material of your dress barely brushing against your thighs he followed you home and buried his face between your legs - staying on his knees before you until your entire body was shaking with pleasure and when he finally fucked you it was something else entirely - something soft and sweet and left a foreign emotion blooming in both of you.

An emotion that scared the shit out of Daryl and kept him away after that - away from you, from Alexandria. He spent his time in the woods after the night he fucked into you slowly and desperately and whispered how beautiful you were against your throat. Then when it all got to be to much and you were gripping him so fucking tight he lost himself inside of you - sending a panic between you both despite your assurance it would be okay.

That time had been okay but by the fourth time he returned to your door step and fucked you into oblivion your son was born nine months later, then your daughter a year after that. You’d given Daryl everything he’d ever wanted - a family, something worth protecting and the night he asked you to marry him - quietly with his son asleep across his chest and his daughter nuzzled in your arms tears filled your eyes as you kissed him until he carried the kids to their beds and returned to your waiting mouth, climbing over your perfect body as he ran his lips over every inch of you while you assured him you’d marry him right now if he wanted but right now all he wanted was to be buried deep inside of you again.

*****

[ghostgirl101]

LOVE TRIANGLE BETWEEN FEYD FEYD + PAUL 🙏🙏🙏

Being In A Love Triangle With Paul Atreides And Feyd-Rautha Would Be Like This...

A/N: Exam season's over, writing season's started 🖤 sorry for the brief hiatus, but I've got some more stuff coming for Paul this winter since I haven't done proper relationship hcs for him yet, and then I'm gonna bounce around answering fanfic requests for the slashers and stuff 🙃 Keep in mind that requests are not open currently, as I'm catching up with ones already in my inbox for Dune and other dark fandoms.

Warnings: Mid violence.. it's Feyd Rautha, idk what to tell you 😐

Next Week's Fanfic: Oliver Quick being obsessed with you pt. 2 relationship headcanons 😎😎

🏜• CODEPENDENT CODPENDENT CODEPENDENT

🏜• That's the best and simplest way to describe this mess of emotions and twisted relationship that goes on between the three of you, because the two boys were drawn to you because of the simple fact that they found you bafflingly alluring and pretty by your own ways and looks, and that you seem to be the one living thing in the worlds that are grounding enough to give them some form of peace and love that's completely unattainable anywhere else.

🏜• For Feyd, most relationships are a means to an end, through using his uncle to ascend to power and watching him die like an animal shortly after, people being little curiosities in his mind before he gets bored of them and disposes of them, no hurt for him. And for Paul, whoever he's close to seems to suffer, through the loss of his mother mentally to her ancestors, fate dealing dreadful deaths to those he loves, dangers and unseen forces he can't control and can't stop.

🏜• There's a big part of Paul that would rather keep you away and at a safe distance from him and his Jihad, relocate you to another world or system where you could live peacefully until your old age, away from the curse that plagues his soul... but ultimately, that's more unbearable than facing the spiking risks of having your life changed and turned upside down by being melded into his.

🏜• Love has two very different meanings for the two boys, being one of passion, a bond unspeakable, incomprehensible, unbreakable, to Paul. And to Feyd-Rautha, it's laughable, confusing, petty, weak, for the dogs. Or so he says.

🏜• Being caught between the two of them at the same time? And both of them catching on and knowing about it?? Oh god

🏜• Just imagining you witnessing the fight between heirs, the cold-blooded young Harkonnen on one side facing off the intense, blue-eyed lost Atreides on the other. Both looking for you, at you, watching briefly for your attention and to pinpoint you in the room... before both noticing they're looking at the same person, and suddenly their grips on the blade have become bruisingly tight.

🏜• It kind of depends on what you're in the mood for: an unpredictable yandere madman who randomly stabs people who look at you too long for the excitement, a possessive wild Harkonnen who adorns you in diamond collars and beautiful black clothes, self-proclaiming you as Queen of the Known Universe. Or the lost blue-in-blue soul with eyes that go almost unnoticeably softer when they look at you, cryptic words spoken from the heart when there are any needed, who wakes you up during the long hot night in Arrakeen's palace to stargaze and lay together soundlessly, to stare at you for literal hours on end while he gets lost in thought.

🏜• Both? Difficult.

🏜• Paul can almost rival Feyd in terms of possessiveness, both young men being determined to keep what's theirs from harm, with that slight edge of darkness Paul developed after consuming the Water of Life being brought out any time the subject of you comes up - something he gets oddly defensive about before the conversation's even started. He'll interrupt them straight away if they refer to you by your first name to correct them to address you by your title, because even that level of intimacy and familiarity is too much for him to acknowledge.

🏜• While Paul rules over his Jihad and Fremen in Arrakis, you're quite literally his only source of stability left in the world, no true family left to ground him and remind him of what he lost and left behind. Any possessive and protective nature of his will always be deep-rooted in love, even if he doesn't admit it straight up. It's obvious through everything he says and does for you, to Gurney and Jessica and the whole of his court, as well as you. Even the Fremen nomads and Arrakeen dwellers would observe it any time Paul came stalking through the sandy streets to watch over his land, and you'd hear murmurs from the workers with looks of revered curiosity and wonder as they gossiped discreetly.

🏜• "My cousin went to present himself to the great court of Arrakeen Palace only a fortnight ago, and do you know, the whole meeting was closed and postponed only seven minutes in discussion! Well, his sihaya had been out of spirits, that's what they heard the maids say, and the God Emperor took off just like that, without a word. I'd almost think it rude. But Muad'Dib leads the way."

🏜• As for Feyd, everyone knows not to even look your way without accepting the high risk of a humiliating death or trial under his command and blade, something he'd want to do personally, as if it was a threat to his pride and manhood, staring him in the eyes through you. With Paul, he can practically read minds, so if men or women of the Sietches had any threatening or lingering thoughts revolving around you, they'd be in for the most uncomfortable, intimidating short lecture with a private audience to the Emperor himself.

🏜• It's hard to think that these two could form a sort of alliance together for your sake, because realistically to their characters, they very probably wouldn't. Each would fight to the death for you, and the last standing would be the one worthy of defending your honour and life with their own, proving themself the strongest and most capable of doing just that. Other than that, it's a hard time believing that they could just stifle their differences in rulership and rights to be with you in harmony, so being together as a three would take a lot of hard work and manipulation, and even then... No, it's too unbelievable. That's just realism. Sorry .-.

🏜• None of them want to feel betrayed by you, so whoever you pick above the other, choose through following your heart and your mind. If it is Paul, he'll easily fend off Feyd to his demise like he was prophesied to do when he rages in a mad fit over your shift in passion, but if it is Feyd, Paul would simply ask you both leave Arrakis and never return. It would make it a little less painful if he didn't have to see you again, and he'd wait out his mind until it stopped conjuring you in his dreams.

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Taglist (lmk if you want to be added to this for my future Dune fanfics): @milaeth @ennycutie @nckcn @void21 @leighta @williamtt33 @deathsimp @tatumrileyslover @beebumbo @the-dark-dreamer25 @lilepad @skboo @keicdcat @1950schick @reggiesmoon @velosrantipole @yoonessa @anonymjuni @saturnhas82moons @xlxnq @frickyea-guacamole19 @meowmeeps @chalklate @aoi-targaryen

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DUNE MASTERLIST ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆ MAIN MASTERLIST

[anniflamma]

OK FINE same anon with the fanfic ask XD Thank u for your amazing Epic animatics and your beloved and daniel animatics, just literally everything. I hope u enjoy this little snippet thing

Darius, he finds, is a man of perplexing mind, body, and spirit. The same man that coldly executes his traitors is the same man with tears in his eyes when Daniel emerges from the den, that hauls him into an embrace so crushing Daniel thinks he’ll go to God that day anyway.

Darius is not a fool, but he wields honesty and sincerity as sharp as a blade, never steps away from his convictions while also allowing room for redefinition. He tears down all of Daniel’s misgivings and years of disillusionment and pain, to make room for hope in a future.

Darius is not a perfect man. But to Daniel, he is a miracle.

One that gives him many headaches.

“How has no one ever told you how breathtakingly beautiful you are?”

And one that reminds him he is far, far too old for this.

The other facet of Darius that gives Daniel constant pause and constant rumination, is how he uses his emotions. He is neither detached from them nor a slave to them. He carries them openly, not worn as an armor or exposed as a weakness, but instead carried like a tool, honed finely to use for any conquest to the answers he seeks.

So yes, Daniel is aware that while Darius means this compliment, he is goading Daniel for a specific response.

Daniel clears his throat—ignores that Darius poorly hides a smile behind his hand—and fans out a roll of parchment to look over the records with the king.

“I know I say it often.” Darius tilts his head to rest it in his fist. “Yet you always deflect and hide away from it. I cannot tell if this is aversion or if no one has ever paid you due compliment for how radiant you are. If it’s the former, I shall stop. If it’s the latter, then I must continue to rectify this at all opportunities.”

Usually Daniel would deflect, though not when Darius calls him out on it. He’s long grown out of blushing. So he rubs at the tension between his brows with a sigh.

“Don’t make such flagrant assumptions with no evidence to back them, my king,” Daniel replies, with his most level advisory tone he can muster. “I was a young man once. You are not the first.”

He doesn’t know why he entertains this, but he does know it makes his heart race when Darius’s eyes light up with intrigue. Lord help him.

“Oh? Pray tell, who?”

Daniel rolls his eyes up and slowly counts to three. “Just about all the royal courts I’ve served when not trying to kill me.”

Darius’s brows predictably raise. He is quiet for a moment, schooling his reaction that Daniel wishes he would read. “I see.”

His mouth turns, a fine line of contemplation, and then asks, “Were there advances?

Of course there were. He wonders where this will go, if Darius will rear jealousy or pride over just how many have made a point to break Daniel down into his features and not his heart.

“Dare I answer that?”

Darius’s mouth tightens. “Was their reciprocity in those advances?”

No.

Daniel looks away. “I remember being summoned here for taxes, King Darius.”

Darius hums softly.

“I apologize for overstepping. I never intended to open old wounds.”

He is so disarming, his ability to reach past ever defense and seek Daniel exactly for what he is. His sheer strength and respect for another’s state of being will always rattle him to the core. Daniel looks back to him.

“It’s alright.”

Darius studies him, unwilling to break from their eye-contact and Daniel finds himself accidentally caught in the thousands of ruminations flickering in those warm eyes.

Darius sighs and straightens up. He leans across the table, palm fanning out of the parchment so that his fingertips brush the side of Daniel’s palm.

“As it stands,” Darius murmurs. “I did not know you as a young man. Has anyone ever told you how you shine now?”

Daniel’s cheeks heat before he can remind them he is not a teenager anymore.

“I don’t need flattery.”

“I’m not.” Darius leans down closer and Daniel shivers at the suddenness of their shared body heat. “I also have no intention of advances.”

Darius plucks the parchment from the desk, and steps away from his space. Like the pull of gravity Daniel nearly follows the impossible force of him as he retreats.

He peeks over the paperwork with a glint like a sheer devil. Daniel’s mouth twitches. He bites.

“These bones are not made for initiation anymore,” Daniel supplies, and Darius’s eyes squint up from behind the scroll with a clear grin.

“I find your tongue more than persuasive enough.”

Oh, the lions were easier to tame.

Omg!! This is amazing!! And the amount of flirting is insane!

"Oh, the lions were easier to tame." AAAAAHH!

More pliz I'm hungry...

Also... WHY ARE YOU ANON! I WANNA KNOW WHEN YOU POSTING THE FULL FIC! >:(

[sivyera]

puck and pirouette

inside out 2 riley andersen x fem!reader

a/n: i'm SO excited for inside out 2! also in this fanfic, Riley is 15+! also at the end there is a edit of Riley i found on tt, so you can imagine more how she looks like now, when she's older, credit for the edit goes to the author! also i guess this is a bit shorter fic but i still like it, enjoy

key words: rivals to lovers, secret relationship, hockey player x ice-skater

༺☆༻

In San Francisco there are lots of good winter stadions, the one where Riley played wasn't the only one, yet you and your ice-skater friends decided to take this one.

Your ice-skating practice was from 5 p.m. to 6:45 p.m., then it was hockey time.

But you and your friends always stayed a bit longer which made Riley and her team angry. But they were always 20 minutes early which distracted you and your team from practising as they were walking around, laughing and looking at you.

It was a circle of you and Riley, passing around the responsibility, arguing, giving each other mean looks and provoking each other.

Both, your and Riley's coach noticed but they though it was just a playful rivality between two young girls.

Your rivality continued even in school because to Riley's and your surprise, you both were in the same school. You sometimes left a sticker saying "i ♥️ ice-skating" on her locker, which took her weeks to wash off. In return she sometimes left her stinky socks from practise in your locker.

Or when you're doing pirouettes and she's already on the ice, she passes a puck towards you and you, in worry not to get hit, ruin the pirouette.

On the other hand when she's on the wc, you always steal her hockey stick and hide it somewhere; you always smile at her angry face when she can't find it and you already have after practice so you can leave without any aftermath.

But one time, things changed. You got sick, so you missed practice.

When she entered the winter stadion with few of her hockey friends, her eyes went immediately to the right corner of the ice, that was your favourite place. But she didn't see you there, so at first she thought you are at the bathroom but when you weren't coming after 10 minutes, she realized that you are not coming.

She though it will be perfect practice, no one will provoke her, but oh how she was wrong..

Riley and her team always came few minutes earlier and after they put their things in their hockey changing room, they went and sat on those folding chairs that were above the ice.

They were usually talking, talking about everything. About your practice, about their new dresses, about food, about everything.

But Riley was quiet. She had her head leaning against her palm, looking down at the ice, into that one right corner, your corner.

She didn't know why, but she kinda missed you. She got used to you rolling your eyes when you made eye contact with her, she got used to your evil smirk and you sticking your tongue at her when you hid her hockey stick, she got used to stealing your sleeves and blade guards. But now, now she was bored, nothing was happening.

Her friend that was sitting next to her noticed, she knew something was going on long time before. She then smirked and tapped on Riley's shoulder. "You miss her, huh?" Her friend laughed.

Riley quickly turned her head as she heard the question. It was ridiculous, she and miss you? Never.

"What!? No, my god no." Riley answered as she shook her head.

Her friend raised her eyebrow and laughed at Riley. "Yeah sure, whatever you say." Her friend continued laughing.

Riley frowned. Of course she didn't miss you. She didn't like you, she hated you, yes! Yes, she hated you. She hated your soothing voice she always heard in her head whenever she was angry. She hated your magnetizing eyes that were always looking at her. She hated the sport you were doing. She hated how elegant and gorgeous you were when you were ice-skating. She hated all of it.

At least that what she thought few days ago.

Now, here she stands with a flowers in her hands, in front of your front door. Because it didn't take her long to realize that these feelings aren't hate, but love.

You opened the door and saw Riley standing there with awkward smile that showed her bracelets.

After few extra seconds of Riley admiring how pretty you are, she cleared her throat and spoke. "Um- will you go on a date with me, please? Riley asked with a smile as she gave you those flowers she brought you.

You just smiled at took those flowers into your hands. They were beautiful and smelled amazingly.

"Yes, yes I will Riley." You answered with a smile as you gave her a quick kiss on her right cheek. That made Riley blush like crazy, her heart was pounding out of her chest but she was happy.

She finally found the courage to ask you out, to tell you that she likes you...

And it was the best decision she ever made.

"I really like y/n. She has amazing style and clothes." Disgust said as she looked at Joy who was standing next to her.

Joy nodded her head and spined in her yellow dress. "Oh yes, I love her." She said as she smiled while looking at you through Riley's mind.

"She's really kind so I liker her too." Sadness said as a small smile appeared on her face. She then went back to reading.

As Fear heard your name, he automatically nodded his head while Sadness was talking. And Anger of course had to have last word.

"Yeah, she's nice." He said as he was reading the newspaper.

[novaursa]

Crown of Fire

- Summary: Aegon didn't conquer Westeros because of the prophecy. He did it because of you. And it started as a child’s game. 

- Pairing: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen

- Note: Events that transpired in this short story happened before The Broken Crown.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

The sun was high in the sky, casting warm, golden light over the cliffs of Dragonstone. The air was filled with the sound of waves crashing against the jagged rocks below, mingling with the calls of seabirds that circled overhead. The children of House Targaryen played in the castle’s courtyard, their laughter bright and free as only youth could be. Visenya, the eldest, was a blur of silver hair and dark armor as she sparred with one of the guards, her movements fluid and fierce. At fifteen, she was already a formidable warrior, wielding Dark Sister as if the Valyrian steel blade were an extension of herself.

Aegon, at fourteen, watched her with his usual calm intensity, a faint smile on his lips. He was tall for his age, his face still carrying the soft lines of boyhood, though his violet eyes spoke of a seriousness beyond his years. Rhaenys, all of thirteen and full of boundless energy, had draped herself dramatically over the carved stone bench nearby, pretending to swoon at the sight of Visenya’s prowess.

But it was you, the youngest at ten, who caught Aegon’s gaze more often than not. You, with your bright laughter and infectious spirit, darting around the courtyard like a flame that couldn’t be contained. Your silvery hair whipped around your face as you twirled, a makeshift crown of wildflowers slipping down to rest lopsided on your brow. You had always been their little sunbeam, the one who could draw a smile even from Visenya’s stern lips and make Rhaenys’ endless schemes seem tame in comparison.

“Aegon, come play!” you called, running up to him and tugging at his sleeve. He looked down at you, a rare, soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he set aside the practice sword he’d been holding.

“And what game would you have us play today, little sister?” he asked, his voice gentle in a way that he used for no one else.

You grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Let’s play kings and queens!” you declared, hopping from one foot to the other. “I’ll be the queen, of course. And you all have to be my subjects.”

Rhaenys laughed, clapping her hands. “I shall be your loyal knight, Your Grace,” she said with a mock bow, her face alight with amusement.

Visenya, pausing in her training, raised an eyebrow. “And who do you imagine will be your king, then?” she asked, her tone teasing.

You pursed your lips, pretending to think deeply. “Hmm… I suppose I’ll have to marry one of the kings of Westeros.” you said, a playful glint in your eye. 

Rhaenys burst out laughing, and even Visenya cracked a smile. “Which one, little sister?” Rhaenys asked, her eyes dancing with amusement. “The fat one in the Riverlands, or the one in the North who always looks like he swallowed something sour?”

You thought for a moment, then raised your chin, mimicking the haughty tone of the court ladies you’d seen at Dragonstone. “Maybe the King of the North! They say Starks are very handsome.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you felt the air change. It was subtle, but you noticed. Aegon’s smile faltered, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. You were too young to understand the depth of his feelings then, but you knew how to get a rise out of him, and his reaction made your heart beat a little faster.

“Why would you want to marry a Stark?” he asked, his voice a touch too steady. “The North is cold and bleak. You wouldn’t like it there.”

You shrugged, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “But if I’m to be a queen, I must marry someone important, no?” you said, your tone light and teasing. “Unless… unless you mean to conquer the kingdoms yourself, brother. Then I would have no need to marry anyone else. I could be queen, and you could be… king.”

There was a pause, a moment where the world seemed to still around you. Aegon’s gaze locked onto yours, something fierce and unspoken flickering in his eyes. He reached out, almost unconsciously, and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering.

“Maybe I will, then,” he murmured, so quietly that only you could hear. “Maybe I will conquer them all. So that you’ll never have to leave.”

You blinked, surprised by the intensity in his voice. It was a game, wasn’t it? A child’s dream, nothing more. But something in the way he looked at you made your heart flutter strangely, a feeling you didn’t yet have a name for.

“Don’t be silly, Aegon,” you said, trying to laugh it off. “You can’t conquer the whole world just for me.”

But the look he gave you then was one you would remember long after, a look that promised he would do exactly that, and more, if you asked it of him.

“I would conquer it all,” he said, his voice steady, “just to see you smile.”

You shook your head, trying to hide your blush as you spun away, your laughter echoing around the courtyard. “Then I’ll be waiting, King Aegon,” you called over your shoulder, skipping away to join Rhaenys in her dramatics.

But even as you played, your words had already taken root in Aegon’s mind, planting a seed that would one day grow into a fire that would consume the Seven Kingdoms.

He watched you, his little sister, his beloved Y/N, and knew, even then, that he would do whatever it took to keep you by his side. He would break any betrothal, defy any tradition, and, if necessary, lay waste to the entire continent, just to make sure you were his and his alone.

The game might have ended that day, but Aegon’s resolve had only begun to form. And though you couldn’t know it then, your innocent words had set in motion a chain of events that would shape the history of Westeros forever.

Aegon I Targaryen, the first of his name, stood atop the hill, surveying the devastation below. The smell of smoke and blood hung thick in the air, mingling with the cries of the wounded and the dying. His armor, blackened and scorched, bore the marks of battle, but he felt no pain, no weariness. Only a cold, relentless purpose.

He had begun this conquest with fire and blood, and he would end it the same way.

The Seven Kingdoms had once seemed so distant, disparate lands ruled by petty kings and warlords, their power fractured and fleeting. Yet now, as he gazed across the smoking ruins of Harrenhal, the shattered stronghold of House Hoare, he felt the inevitable weight of destiny settle upon his shoulders. This was his, all of it, as he had always known it would be. And he would bind it together under one rule—his rule.

But even as he claimed victory after victory, his mind kept drifting back to a single thought, a promise made long ago in the carefree days of childhood.

You.

He had known since that day, when you had teased him with talk of kings and queens, that he would never let you go. He had watched you grow from the lively, carefree child who danced through Dragonstone’s halls, to a fierce young woman whose spirit shone brighter than any flame. You were his joy, his anchor, the one thing in this world that made him feel truly alive. And he would not let you be taken from him—not by anyone, not even by duty.

The other kings of Westeros had fallen one by one before him. The Reach and the Riverlands had bent the knee. The Ironborn were broken. Dorne remained stubbornly defiant, but they would come to heel in time. Yet the North… the North was different. Stark men were proud, unyielding. Torrhen Stark had sent word of his intent to negotiate, to discuss terms, and with it, a reminder of the betrothal promised long ago—a political arrangement meant to solidify alliances.

Aegon’s grip tightened on Blackfyre’s hilt at the thought, his knuckles white beneath the leather. Torrhen Stark, King in the North, dared to speak as if the arrangement still held weight, as if he could claim you as his own. The very idea made something fierce and possessive rise within him, a dark flame that burned hotter than dragonfire.

He remembered your face the day your father had first mentioned the match, the way you had looked at Aegon, eyes wide and uncertain, seeking his reaction. He had said nothing then, merely turned and left the hall, his silence a mask for the storm raging within him. He had known even then that he would never allow it, but he had let the betrothal stand for a time, waiting, biding his moment.

That moment was now.

Aegon closed his eyes, the din of battle fading to a distant hum as he focused inward. He saw your face, your smile, the way your eyes lit up when you spoke of dreams and adventures. He remembered the softness in your voice when you spoke of the future, how you had confided in him your fears and hopes. You were not meant to be some lord’s prize, bartered and traded for power. You were meant to rule, to stand beside him as his equal, as his queen.

His resolve hardened. The North would bend, just like the rest. Torrhen Stark would come before him, crown in hand, and he would kneel. But not as a suitor. As a subject. He would relinquish any claim he thought he had to you, or he would face the wrath of Balerion’s flames. There was no compromise, no room for negotiation.

The betrothal would be broken. You would not be sent away, not to the frozen wasteland of the North, not anywhere. You would be here, with him, where you belonged.

And then, when the last of the kings had bent the knee, when the Seven Kingdoms were his and his alone, he would turn to you. He would take your hand and look into your eyes, and you would see that this—all of this—had been for you.

He could already imagine the scene, the way you would look at him, the disbelief that would give way to understanding, to the same fierce love that burned in his own heart. You had resisted him for so long, pushing him away, keeping him at arm’s length even as you had grown closer to his sisters. He knew it was because of that broken promise, the shattered dream of freedom that he had taken from you. But he would show you that this was the only way, the only path that would ever make sense.

The thought of you—of your stubborn defiance, your laughter, the fire in your eyes—gave him strength as he turned back to his men. The conquest was not yet finished. There were still battles to be fought, crowns to be claimed, and a future to secure.

But soon, soon he would return to Dragonstone, to you. And when he did, he would take you in his arms and tell you the truth of it all. That every kingdom he had claimed, every battle he had fought, had been for you. That he would burn the world itself if it meant keeping you by his side.

He mounted Balerion with a fluid grace, feeling the great beast’s muscles coil beneath him, the heat of the dragon’s breath warming his legs through the scales of his armor. The conquest would go on, and he would crush any who stood in his way. But his heart, his mind, his very soul, were already set on the moment he would return to you, victorious.

He would place the crown upon your head, not as a gesture of power, but of devotion. He would marry you, not because of duty or tradition, but because you were his, and he was yours, bound together by a fire that could never be quenched.

And if anyone tried to take you from him—be it Stark, Lannister, or even the gods themselves—he would unleash hell upon them all. Because you were his queen, his beloved Y/N, and he would let the world burn before he let you go.

[chosaraki]

Rebellious concubine.

—————————————————————————

Part 1:

————————————-

Shingen Yamazaki was not a man of many words, nor of visible feelings. He had received several concubines over the years, but rarely cared about them beyond the function they had within the clan. Somi, the young woman they gave her years ago, had been just another one. She gave him an heir, a boy with inverted eyes, but not even that was enough to hold his attention.

So, they brought her older sister.

They said that she could not get married because she refused to submit, that she was not a traditional wife and that her presence challenged the patience of any man. It wasn't Shingen's problem. He didn't care about concubines or wives in the emotional sense. He just accepted what was given to him.

However, the first time he saw her, he immediately realized that this one would be different.

She didn't make the traditional bow when introducing herself to him. She didn't bow her head, she didn't wait for him to call her to talk. She simply stared at him with a firm look, her lips slightly curved in something that was not a smile.

- So, you're the famous Yamazaki Tiger - she said, crossing her arms. - Big deal.

There was silence in the hall. Shingen remained seated, watching her, while the others present swallowed dry, waiting for her reaction. No concubine had ever spoken to him like that.

- If you want me to stay here, let it be clear - she continued, impassive. - I'm not a woman who will drag herself to be noticed. If you need to talk to me, talk. Otherwise, pretend I don't exist.

She wasn't Somi. It was none of the other women who went through his life. There was a ferocity in her, a pride that not even being in the presence of a man like him could break.

Shingen didn't answer immediately. His sharp gaze slid over her like a blade, evaluating her.

And then, for the first time in a long time, an almost imperceptible smile appeared on his face.

- Hm. Interesting.

—————————————————————————

This is a fanfic in development..

Who gave me the idea was:

Bia-chan

……………………………………………………………………………

The concubine is inspired by this muse:

[soleilapproves]

Lucid Submission - chapter 4

(feudal lord!sukuna x reader)

synopsis:

The fearsome demon king, Sukuna Ryomen, is reborn as a human being as punishment for ruining the balance of good and evil in the divine realm. To lift his curse and return to his original form, he must complete the condition bestowed upon him by the deities.

But It requires him to have a child with the street thief who stole his coin pouch.

fanfic masterlist

Sukuna had never known what it was like to have a family. In the Divine Realm, there was no system of succession of the throne to the next of kin; instead, a more powerful demon would just come along, kill the current king, and begin their reign. The closest feeling to familial love was the support one would get from their loyal followers.

He didn’t even have a family in the mortal realm. All he remembered when he arrived was waking up in a human man’s body with no parents or siblings in sight and only his demon subordinates in their human forms surrounding him with questions of their own.

After being in the mortal realm for so long, he knew that despite having no blood ties with the four followers, they were the only people who cared about him unconditionally. They were the only ones from his realm who refused to be under the rule of a new king.

But now, he was expected to create life with another human being who wanted nothing to do with him.

A family. Father, mother, child.

He did not have many examples to follow from. Most he saw were parents and children selling their wares at the street market or fathers bringing their children to his estate to evoke some sense of humanity for the sake of borrowing large sums of money.

It never occurred to him why he always gave away more than what they needed when he saw their young flesh and blood look confused over why their father was sobbing while bowing down with his forehead pressed against the dusty ground.

His head was muddled in contemplation during the entire journey back to his estate.

Much to his surprise, the estate was calm, except for the distant clanging of metals from Yuuji and Megumi’s training after their shifts at the local school. He expected to see you trashing the rooms, maybe collecting some of the jewels he had collected over the years in a small sack, but you were simply sitting on the veranda with your head leaning against a wooden column. Eyes empty and cheeks sunken.

Your gaze followed every movement Megumi made, his blade gracefully dancing with Yuuji’s, even though both had contrasting fighting styles. Megumi pushed forward, often charging into Yuuji’s weak points, while the other boy focused more on defending and deflecting.

Sukuna beckoned Uraume with his hand and dropped his outer robes into his arms. “I thought she would’ve been asleep by now,” he murmured. You were so distracted by the fight that you hadn’t noticed Sukuna’s dominant presence, dark waves of fabric standing out from the white snow.

“My Lord, she…does not know how to read or write. She began to cry until she grew tired. She hasn’t moved from that spot since this morning.”

Shame washed over his senses. He should not have expected you to know something only the privileged had access to. It did not quickly occur to him that he had forced you into a new lifestyle overnight.

“Has she eaten anything since this morning?”

Uraume rarely showed any facial expressions, mostly just conveying his distaste through bold snaps, but he grimaced before answering the feudal lord. “Nobara brought her breakfast after you left but she refused to eat as usual, saying that she would rather eat dirty snow over the food we provided.”

“I have something I want to talk about with you, but first, get dinner ready. I will get her to eat,” Sukuna says as he begins to walk towards you, a deep sense of purpose welling up with each step

“My Lord, I am afraid she will run into the snow and stuff her face full of it. Your efforts will be futile,” Uraume huffs as he is hot on the feudal lord’s feet, barely catching up because of his short stature.

‘Not when I’m holding her down,’ Sukuna thinks.

You only sigh when your husband stands before you with his hands on his hips, blocking the engaging fight between his bodyguards. “Do you mind? I am just beginning to find entertainment in this bleak place,” you say, despite not making any effort to peer at the young men behind Sukuna.

Sukuna wanted to chuckle out loud at how quick you were with your tongue, almost like you were always ready to respond to every situation. “Thank you for the warm welcome, wife. I am happy to see you, too.” He couldn’t help but tease you–there was just something so very satisfying about seeing your lips stick out in a pout.

“I wish to be accompanied while eating dinner. Come.” He extends his large, calloused hand out to you. Your eyes don’t so as much to glance at the hand in front of you and choose to stare at the pillar you were leaning on instead.

Sukuna never expected you to submit to him, but he wished that for once, you’d just listen to him with little to no objection from your conscience. “Fine, I shall compel you to join me then,” he complains under his breath.

Before you can counter his remark, you are swept off your feet and slung on his shoulder. “Put me down, you heathen!” you yelped as he entered the dining area. Megumi and Yuuji stopped fighting when they noticed the scene, rushing to your and Sukuna’s side out of concern. “She is fine, just very hungry for food, and her husb–”

“Do not complete that sentence!” you reprimanded Sukuna. You felt horrified and did not want to traumatize the two boys. Though you couldn’t see anything from where you were (your legs and buttocks faced the world while your head hung low as your nose dug into your husband’s firm back), you could tell both Megumi and Yuuji felt uneasy.

“I’m sure Uraume has dinner ready for you both. I will be fine,” you called out. Yuuji knelt down to your head. “Are you sure, Lady Sukuna?”

“Yes, go on now.”

As soon as the boys walked away, Sukuna put you down on the ground, and just like in the morning, you tried to scramble away. Your husband had, yet again, caught onto your ankle with his quick hands and hands dragged you into his lap. You were secured and immovable with his steel band-like arm wrapped around you.

You kept your sanity at bay by trying not to mentally fuss over how a single arm had enough strength to hold a person down.

“Look at you, already acting like a lord’s wife.” You don’t appreciate his little joke and simply turn away, practicing your habit of staring at things that don’t infuriate you as much as your new husband’s face. You can tell he doesn’t take kindly to it because he simply grabs your face and forces you to face him.

“I do not appreciate being treated like a toy or a carcass that you can just toss over your shoulder.”

“I am aware,” he muses with a heady glint in his eye. “But it is just so entertaining to see you kick and scream when you are helpless. I cannot help but irk you when I get the chance.”

He plays with you a predator with his prey, weakening your mind, then your body, and then ultimately embedding his claws into your flesh

Your first curls, fingernails digging half-moon-shaped indents into your palm as you brace yourself to punch the man holding you, but Uraume and Nobara quickly walk in with dinner, placing them on the table before you.

By seeing the orange-haired girl, you are reminded of her quick reflexes. She only held you down when you had first tried to escape. Who’s to say what she would do if she saw you hit her employer? That, too, a man she blindly devoted all her loyalty to.

“Steamed fish and rice for dinner. Would you like some sake as well?” Uraume asks with a bow.

“Yes, maybe it will help my stubborn wife warm up to me.”

You still don’t find his humor appealing.

Uraume hides his ornery expression well, but you don’t miss a slight twitch in his brows. Nobara only shakes her head as she resumes guarding the dining room from outside.

There’s a hollowing feeling in your stomach from not eating since the day before. Usually, the gaps between your meals wouldn’t last as long after you became quick at foraging and stealing, often going unnoticed by fruit vendors.

The sight of the plump, white fish steaming in the porcelain bowl was starting to make your mouth water. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d eaten meat. It was only back when the rich men donated money at the brothel.

However, it is best not to think about the past when the present is surprisingly enticing.

Drool dares to drip out your mouth when Sukuna pushes his chopsticks to it, the fishy soup broth smearing your bottom lip. Your pride stops you from licking it up and scarfing the soft white meat in one quick bite.

“Eat,” he commanded.

“No.” Hunger bubbled to the surface like sizzling fat on grilled lean meat. You kept your eyes trained on his to forget about the fish, but it only posed a more considerable annoyance because of his lustful, half-lidded gaze.

Your days at the brothel taught you that a warm body was the only thing men wanted from women. Unsurprisingly. Though he was awfully patient with you. Letting your blade-like tongue constantly nick him with rude and careless words.

Still, it was only a matter of time till you were nothing but a limp pile of bones, flesh, and sweat under him, writhing in unwarranted pain and pleasure. You just had to find a way to escape before it could happen.

“There is nothing that will stop me from consummating this marriage. But I will reconsider my ideas if you eat dinner tonight.”

After cowering from men for so long, you had promised yourself that you would not let them get in the way of your autonomy. But this was unjust; he was using vexing methods to mold you into doing his bidding.

Like a good little wife.

“I will remove this piece of fish if you do not answer me within three seconds.”

Your teeth slam so hard against the chopsticks that you are almost afraid you’ll break them in two. The fish is soft and nearly melts every time you masticate it. The dish is rejuvenating with the refreshing taste of the winter sea coating your tongue: fatty meat warming you up and kelp softening your rough tongue after hours of starving yourself.

“From now on, we will have every meal together. I will make sure you do not miss any of them. The minute you do so will be when I take you,” Sukuna stated as he brought his bowl of rice by your mouth and gathered the thick, sticky grains on his chopsticks to feed you again.

“You are a liar. All men lie. You will eventually take whatever you want from me and are choosing to fool me so that I will let my guard down,” you speak with a mouth full of rice. You dared to look fierce even with your cheeks full like a squirrel foraging for winter.

“First, do not speak with your mouth full; you are a lord’s wife. Second of all, I have not lied to you since the moment we met. I have been nothing but honest. And last but not least, I am not a mere man. I am a demon.”

Again, with the demon charade. You were starting to believe that he must have hit his head while playing pretend as a child and now has permanent cognitive damage because it is something he still wholeheartedly believes in well into his adulthood.

When you don’t answer, he pensively stares at you and wipes off the stray grains of rice sticking to the corners of your mouth.

“You behave so vacuously. I will have to turn you into a woman truly fitting your status. Had you not been the vessel for my marble, I would not have glanced twice your way,” he chides.

“I would not have glanced even once if you were passing me by,” you retorted sharply.

“So uncivilized,” he muttered under his breath.

“Yet you are feeding me like a personal servant.”

“Watch your tongue, wife.”

“I will watch whatever I like, failed demon.”

Your heart thrummed in your chest. You always had a knack for going too far with words, often finding yourself in trouble more often than not. Your grandmother used to warn you to catch yourself, but you were too young to give genuine regard to her advice.

“You seem to have eaten enough. It is time for bed.” And without giving you a moment to respond, the man picks you up like a doll, one arm wrapped around your upper body so you cannot use your hands to scratch his pensive face off and one arm wrapped just below your rump.

“You wretched man! At least let me sleep in my personal chambers with Nobara nearby,” lament as the four estate’s attendants’ heads follow both your figures to his quarters.

“You misbehave too much for luxuries like that. You can go wherever you'd like once you stop trying to slip out of my embrace.”

That night, you dream of a silhouette of a large man with four arms and barking laughter that sounds eerily similar to your husband’s voice. You felt disappointed in yourself because his constant reminder was beginning to manipulate your unconscious mind.

As promised, Sukuna had created an itinerary for you to reach your true upper-class potential. You snorted when he told you about the whole ordeal during breakfast (where you were trusted enough to receive your own bowl of rice and cutlery. You had refused to drink tea because it reminded you too much of your wedding day.)

He took a moment to send you a glare and then told you that every high society woman was expected to know how to do basic reading and writing, weaving, stitching, and other crafts. He also said he would take you to the town’s market to buy supplies.

None of the crafts had ever interested you. You chose to appreciate its beauty rather than taint it with your maladroit and inexperienced hands.

After forcing you to dress up in beautiful clothes for the day, he insisted that you carry the fan he was forced to take for free from the old woman at the market. “You will learn to take accountability for your actions,” he said.

Everything was being forced upon you against your will.

The townspeople at the market stared at you with awe and confusion. Most of the whispers were about how he had changed a ragged thief into a refined woman over the course of two days. Some young women stared at you in envy, while most men only questioned the feudal lord’s tastes. Seion is a small town, so you were not surprised that word had spread quickly.

Of course, there were also some leery gazes, but society was never created for women to revolt and rise against such behavior. It is only to shut them down and minimize them to dust under men's feet.

Sometimes people forget that life begins in a mother’s womb and not an emperor’s cock.

Sukuna stopped in front of an old lady’s shop and pushed you forward, introducing you as his wife and apologizing to her on your behalf in the same breath. “I am trying to give her a new chance at life.” You felt cloy at his tone–it made you want to whip out a dagger and stab him in the leg for it.

The old lady simply patted your head with a warm maternal gaze and refused to accept the fan. “Consider it a wedding present. I have a feeling you both will be together for a long time. Take my craftsmanship as a humble representation of this beautiful union.”

If only she knew that you were being threatened to eat your meals if you did not want to be taken every night.

The woman ultimately sent you and your new husband (and his two bodyguards) on your way to the next place–the writing utensils shop.

The shop owner immediately pulls away from his current customer and gives a proper bow to Sukuna. “My Lord, being graced in your presence is so lovely. It is an honor to meet your new wife as well.”

Sukuna does not address the man’s heavy respect and gets straight to the point. “I hope you are working to return the money soon, Naoya. I can only wait so long until my men begin to starve,” his voice is quiet yet demanding. It chills you to think this is more terrifying than being yelled at.

Naoya gulps as he glances at Yuuji and Megumi standing guard behind you and Sukuna, backs straight and swords on their sides. Even though they were quite young, both boys had the builds of formidable fighters.

“Yes, yes, I am working on it. How about I show you what I have in stock today? There are some lovely brushes that my brother sent in yesterday,” Naoya says as he rushes to bring samples. “This one is sheep hair, and this one is horse hair.”

“We will get the sheep hair brush,” Sukuna answers without missing a beat, already getting his coin pouch (this time handed over to him by Megumi.)

“Excellent choice, my lord! I will pack this up for you right away. The horse hair one was much more expensive anyway.” Never mind, you were initially wrong about Sukuna’s tone with the old lady. Naoya was a true example of saccharine nausea.

“I cannot believe you are already cheapening out on your new wife,” you sarcastically griped. But instead of the usual banter you expected, you were met with silence from all the men around you. Yuuji and Megumi only looked to their sides, pretending to be on the lookout for any suspicious people. Sukuna quit counting his coins, and Naoya glared at you with his eyebrows furrowed and mouth agape.

“Sir, if I had a wife like that, I would have whipped her to a pulp to teach her some manners. I can understand your pain, and these women have been turning into wenches lately. The other day, when I was at a brothel–”

A loud crack echoes through the busy street, turning everyone’s attention to the five of you. Your heart clenches as you see angry red swelling on Naoya’s cheek. The man looks dumbfounded, calligraphy brush now abandoned with a clunk on the ground. The brush rolls on the ground till it rests by your feet. You don’t dare look down.

“Naoya, you, of all people, are wildly unfit to give me unprompted advice about disciplining my wife. It is best you stick to plucking hair from livestock and binding them together. I will have the horse hair brushes instead.” Sukuna only brushes dust off his palm–a more subtle signal for those around Naoya to know their place.

The little spectacle removes all the comfort you were finally beginning to harbor with your husband. You all immediately head home after that. You cannot imagine if Naoya will be able to show face the next day.

The estate is eerily quiet. Megumi and Yuuji have gone to teach at the local school, Uraume is busy cooking lunch, and Nobara is meditating and keeping guard right outside Sukuna’s office. Which only leaves you–still shaken by the incident.

Sukuna seems most unphased, though it is evident in his heavy stomping that he is a little more on edge than usual.

You find him unbelievably crass for his social standing and his behavior with you an enigma.

“I will teach you a few letters, and you will practice those today,” he instructs. He pulls out a long paper sheet and splays it across the table, sitting beside you. He grabs your hand, but you flinch.

“Do not say you will take me if I don’t write. I am simply afraid to be touched by you,” you embarrassingly admit, trying to appeal to his humanity so you won’t sooner or later have to be another victim of his heavy hand.

But he doesn’t listen; he pushes past your limits anyway and wraps a large arm around you, gathering your pliant hand in his, using it to grasp the brush he had brought for you. He dips it in the ink pot and braces you.

“I know there is fear in your heart–not just of me, but of many people. You have been wronged,” his tone is unexpectedly serene as he glides your hand across the paper, creating a long black stroke. “You have been wronged many times. I understand that, too. But know this–I do not wish you any harm. I simply want my marble.” It almost feels like he’s begging at the end, like a thirsty traveler seeking water wherever he can.

“I repeat: I do not have it,” you whisper.

He creates a few more strokes before he faces you; you are already staring at him. “I see it in your eyes. It is only a matter of time.”

He doesn’t tell you that the letters you are practicing spell out your name.

--

Sukuna peels his yogi off as he downs another shot of sake. The heat from the alcohol blankets him from the snow. “Master, you will get sick, and so will your wife. You have to sleep next to her after this,” Uraume says as he glances toward Sukuna’s quarters–where you were asleep with Nobara right by your side.

Both the men are sitting in the courtyard, which is, again, filled with heaps of snow (much to Uraume’s tireless sweeping.) Of all his subordinates, Sukuna has only found Uraume to be the best at keeping secrets.

So the former demon king told him about his encounter with Geto, the Tengu spirit, and the true way of finding the pearl.

“I do not care. How do you expect me to sleep in peace after knowing that I am to create a little brat of my own with her? I do not remember the last time I bedded a woman, let alone be liked by one,” he groaned into his hand. He usually refused to be so inebriated, but he needed liquid courage to cope with the news.

Sukuna does not say much when he notices that Uraume has that usual empty look in his eyes.

But he is surprised when he hears a sliver of a gasp from him. “What?”

“There is someone out there–another lord I met while scavenging for your pearl in one of the many brothels you asked me to go to.”

“You talk to people other than those at the estate?”

Uraume begins to pace around the courtyard, his sandals creating deeper indents in the fresh, crisp snow with every step. “When necessary. Back to the lord, he told me that he had bedded almost every woman with beautiful eyes. I asked him how he could charm so many of them with his irritating personality, and he told me that he knew some strange secret.”

Sukuna expectantly stared at his servant. “And? What is it?” he impatiently asked.

“He never told me. He said he could only help me if I desperately needed it. It also did not help that he thought I was a woman at first and tried to court me.”

Both were heavily disappointing news.

“What is that fool’s name?”

“Gojo Satoru.”

--

taglist: @sukubusss @lady-of-blossoms @gradmacoco @cheriiepies @brunnetteiwik @poopooindamouf @miakxn @emochosoluvr @sunasgf1 @albakugo @00frenchfries00 @kurtswld

[missviviii]

Could you please write a fanfic of mizu x reader when taigen flirts with reader and makes mizu get really jealous?

a/n: omg yes!! 🫶 i love this idea and i find it so cute! first time writing here!!

.

“Jealousy”

mizu x reader

summary: mizu doesn’t like it when taigen gets too close to you. perhaps it’s time to take things into her own hands.

warning(s): swearing

——————————————————————————

You kind of just hopped along with Mizu after her fun little fight at the Shindo Dojo. Just a swordmaster like her, but much more open and friendly. Mizu really doesn’t get it. Why’d an angel and talented person like you hang with her? But nevertheless, your company was appreciated and at least it didn’t annoy her.

That was all until Taigen joined along. You two had known each other since you were young and through most of your time at the Shindo Dojo. Yes he was a dumbass and an utter failure, but at least he was funny and you had fun with him.

Much to Mizu’s annoyance, Taigen was awfully annoying and did not shut up whatsoever. Not to mention, he could not shut his damn mouth whenever you were around. Taigen flirted with you, made jokes that made you laugh, even wrapped his arm around your shoulder so casually when you were walking beside him. It made her feel this weird burning, hating feeling grow within her, and she always hated the smile on your face when you were with him, not her.

“What’s with the lipstick, princess?” Taigen commented as he looked at your reflection in the little mirror you brought along. You rolled your eyes, sticking out your tongue at him momentarily before you continued to apply lipstick on your lips. You let out a small giggle while Taigen continued to flirt with you. Mizu entered just then, only to see Taigen all close to you and flirting. “I might just have to steal kiss if you wear that lipstick—“

Boink! Mizu hits his head with the end of her blade, an unamused expression on her face as she pushed his face away from yours. “Move, idiot. Ever heard of personal space?” She says in an annoyed voice, forcing him to scoot his ass over so she can sit beside you. Taigen grunts, rubbing the sore spot that Mizu had hit him with her sword.

“What the fuck?! Can’t a guy just be funny?!” He grumbled, glaring at Mizu while you simply just giggled. Mizu rolled her eyes, scooting closer to you until your shoulders were touching. “Besides, im not wrong. Who wouldn’t want a kiss from the angel—“

“Alright that’s enough, Taigen. Say that again and i slice all your fingers off,” Mizu sharply said as she waved Taigen off. You cocked your head to the side, particularly amused at how protective she was being today. Taigen cursed under his breath before he very much reluctantly gave in and left.

Mizu turned to look at you, only to be met with an amused expression and a small smirk. “What’s with the look?”

“You’re jealous, aren’t you?” You hummed as you finished applying your lipstick. Mizu grumbled, trying to deny it and say it was ‘only to save your mentality from his idiotic behavior’, but you knew better.

Could you blame her? How is Mizu supposed to not be jealous when Taigen of all people gets to make you laugh and flirt with you. Or even have the slightest chance on getting a kiss from you? “I fucking hate how touchy that bastard is,” Mizu grumbled as you cupped her face into your hands. She almost melts right then and there.

Then you plant a kiss right on her lips, catching her off guard for the slightest moment. Even leaving your lipstick on her lips. Red and clearly showing that you left your mark on her. “Oh you little tease—“

Mizu regained her focus and immediately pulled you onto her lap. You straddled her, thighs on both side of her legs while your hands were wrapped around her neck while she made out with you. Her rough hands dug into your thighs while you pushed her back onto the ground.

Well, what happens next is quite obvious, isn’t it?

——————————————————————————

[gwen-novella]

Ivar Ragnarsson - Nsfw Alphabet

Pairing: Ivar x female reader

Word count: 3.5K

Warnings: Smut (18+ !!!), it's a nsfw alphabet so expect all things sex, all kinds of kinks, no use of y/n

Summary: A nsfw alphabet for our favorite boy that's only soft for you. Can be read as part of TPAW.

Author’s note: I have reappeared from my hiatus. I decided to finally try my hand at writing fanfics again and thought I'd start off with something short and easy - ended up writing 3.5K words anyways. Mission failed successfully. Please excuse if my writing is a little rusty.

Please consider commenting or reblogging - it really makes my day!

(*) smár brandr = little blade

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Anyone that knows Ivar and has seen the two of you together will notice that he is uncharacteristically open, affectionate, and kind to you. Whenever this is pointed out to you, you always struggle to hide an amused snicker behind a bashful smile. If only they knew. 

The two of you lay entangled on the bed. Your left leg is thrown over Ivars midsection and your arm traces invisible shapes on his chest. Ivar is laying on his back, his left arm lays underneath your body and is stroking up and down your back. Both of your breathing has calmed by now and with the gentle hum of satisfaction in your veins you’d be perfectly content to stay like this forever. 

The almost meditative state you’re in is broken when your left hand is halted in its movements, now gently held in Ivars right. Tilting your head up to look at him, you meet Ivars gaze and the intensity in his eyes almost makes you shy away. "I treasure you, smár brandr." (*)

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Ivar doesn’t give much thought to his body. For quite obvious reasons he avoids it as much as possible. He does like his hands though. He’s quite good at using them, whether that be spinning a dagger or wrapping them around your throat. 

Ivar has also become more accepting of the rest of his body as your relationship progresses. How could he not, when you hold his face in your hands, your delicate fingers tracing his features, when you constantly compliment his strong arms and back and when you don’t even bat an eye at the sight of his legs.

When it comes to you, there isn’t a part of your body that Ivar doesn’t like. Though he has a strange fascination with your neck. Kissing it, biting it, but especially wrapping his hand around it. It’s not so much the choking itself that turns him on - but the trust you show him when you allow his fingers to slowly tighten around your throat. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Further elaborated under K = Kink, but Ivars favorite place to cum is deep inside you. "Where I belong", he’d once told you, caressing your lower stomach. However, when the night is still young and he plans to make the both of you cum several times, Ivar enjoys watching you swallow his cum.

Ivar’s sat, fully clothed, at the edge of his bed, his unfocused eyes gazing down at your kneeling form on the ground, your sweet lips wrapped around his cock. You’re sat between his legs, one hand stroking along the length that doesn’t fit in your mouth, the other underneath your skirt, drawing circles over your clit. 

You can tell Ivar is close, his breathing labored as his cock throbs against your eager tongue. His arms move from their place at his side and you’re certain he’ll pull you off him and toss you on the bed, as he does so often, but his hands find their way into your hair, gripping tightly and aiding your movements. 

"I’ll cum down your throat", he raps, sending a bolt of arousal through you, "and you won’t dare swallow until I tell you to."

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

When you and Ivar first slept together it was you who took the lead to begin with. And even though his touches became more confident and urgent throughout, they were clearly still laced with inexperience until they weren’t. 

"Your eyes snap open as you feel a finger drawing circles on your clit, looking down to see Ivar has taken one of his hands off your hips and is instead circling your sensitive nub with his thumb. How he knows to do this, you do not know, but you are thankful for it, already feeling the coil in your stomach tightening."

Ivar would rather spend the rest of his days locked in a shed with an ever-singing Sigurd than admit that he knows those things because he had watched some of his brothers with Margrethe. Looking back, he is deeply embarrassed. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

None. Well, that is if you don’t count his horrid encounter with Margrethe (which you don’t). You were the first woman he ever slept with. 

Don’t worry though, Ivar is very quick learner. Whether that includes learning alongside you, if you’re equally inexperienced, or learning from you, if you’re more experienced. If the latter is the case, expect your prior partners to have some less than pleasant encounters with Ivar.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

It very much depends on his mood. If he wants you to take charge: cowgirl. 

He’ll either sit back against the headboard or lay down flat on his back to watch you bounce and circle your hips above him. Don’t think him to be a passive participant though. Much like his eyes, his mouth and hands won’t stop wandering. His lips find their way to your neck, leaving evidence of the nights activities on your skin for all to see, sucking and biting on your nipples until they’re sore and whispering the filthiest of commands and praises.

Every tilt of your hips grinds your clit against his pubic hair, sending sparks up your spine. So caught up in your pleasure you don’t notice Ivars hand moving until it’s slipped its way around your throat, making your eyes flutter open once more. When had they even closed? 

"Look at you", Ivar groans, "riding me so well, smár brandr." Using his hand to tilt your head down to look at him, Ivar fixes you with his piercing gaze. "Mhm", he hums, "Like a goddess… or a whore." The hand around your throat tightens. 

If Ivar is in the mood to watch you squirm underneath him (which is often) he’ll take you from behind, pressing you flat on your belly and draping himself along your back. 

If anyone has given him reason to be possessive, or jealous, expect to wobble your way around Kattegat the next day. Instead of gripping your throat, like usual, his hand will grip your hair in a makeshift pony tail, either pressing your head into the pillow, or raising your ear to his lips, making sure to tell you who you belong to.

The room is filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin and your muffled moans against the furs. Ivars hips pound into yours so deeply, you’re sure that you won’t be able to sit properly tomorrow. Suddenly your head is yanked from the pillows and you feel Ivars breath against the side of your face. 

"You’re mine", he hisses. "Mine to love, mine to kiss, mine to fuck." Nibbling along your shoulder Ivar promises darkly: "Tomorrow, when you’re not able to leave this bed, I’ll kill Earl Leif… Perhaps I’ll bring him here first. Would you like that, hm? Make him watch how good only I can make you feel?" 

You don’t even remember what the foreign Earl had done to anger Ivar, your brain not absorbing anything that isn’t the drag of Ivars cock along your walls.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Ivar is a very passionate lover. As such he does really immerse himself into the act. It’s not so much that you’d call him serious in those moments, it’s just that he’s so zeroed in on you - the rest of the world could burn around him for all he cares. 

Sex is also a very vulnerable thing for Ivar. In your chambers, when it’s just you and him, he’s a very different man than the one most perceive him to be. Most people know not to intrude upon your little safe haven, at least if they want to keep all their limbs. 

Hvitserk learned this the hard way one night when in a drunken state he mistook Ivars room for his own. He had barely stepped a foot over the threshold when a dagger had already planted itself into the wooden frame next to his head.

In the afterglow of it all Ivar is probably at his most vulnerable and most relaxed. The two of you will cuddle, talk about everything or nothing at all and sometimes that includes laughing together.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

As explained above Ivar tries to avoid thinking too much about his body. As such he doesn’t groom. His medical condition however has lead to him having impeccable personal hygiene, since his legs often need to be washed, moisturized and bandaged.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Again, Ivar is a very passionate and devoted lover. Most times this will express itself in a raw, sort of untamed way. Some may label this rough - the way his hands firmly grip your hips, the firm snap of his hips and the incessant way he kisses and bites anywhere he can reach can certainly feel like it. Everything he does though is born from love, from devotion.

Occasionally, he slows. Ivars passion become gentle and sweet, drawn out like strings of honey - seeking comfort in you.

You can feel the warmth of his release coat your walls, a pleasant hum of satisfaction in your veins, not as pulsing and exhausting as you’re used to. You make to raise yourself from Ivars cock, from his lap, to cuddle up beside him, when his hands that so softly caress your hips tighten for a split second. 

"Don’t move", Ivar whispers, the first words he’s spoken since he’s entered your heat. "I want to stay like this for a while." You don’t decline.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Since Ivars relationship with sex started off the way it did, sex isn’t really about "getting off" itself. Don’t get him wrong, Ivar enjoys having sex, enjoys cumming, as much as any man. It’s just that he doesn’t crave for it, if it is not with you. 

Ivar doesn’t need sex - he needs sex with you. Ivar doesn’t need release - he needs release with you. If he can’t have you he doesn’t bother.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Breeding Kink

Ivar never thought he’d be able to have kids. He didn’t even think he’d be able to fuck. When one fateful night with you led him to discover that he could in fact please a woman, sex was the only thing on his mind. For weeks you spent every night in Ivars bed, his head in between your thighs, your mouth around his length and his cock deep in your cunt. It was a comment from one of his brothers over breakfast that planted an even deeper desire into his heart. 

Ivar had teased Hvitserk for looking so tired, knowing full well his room was right next to Ivars and that Hvitserk had probably been kept awake by your squealing the night prior. It was then that Ubbe, in an attempt to prevent a fight, almost mindlessly commented: "Don’t fret Hvitserk. Not much longer and he’ll have put a babe in her belly. Then Ivars tiny room will no longer suffice and we’ll be rid of them."

Trust Kink (?)

Hear me out. Ivar’s never really had anyone he could trust completely, some he’s comfortable being vulnerable around. Likewise, he’s also never had anyone that trusted him, that willingly was vulnerable around him. And whilst it took a long time for your relationship to progress to this state, now that it has Ivar cannot get enough of it - this feeling of safety and belonging. 

As such, everything that reminds him of this, anything that is proof of this precious trust is an instant turn on for him. His hand around your throat, him caging you under his body, restraining your hands above your head, cutting your clothes from your body using his dagger… 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

As explained, Ivar does not take kindly to his time with you being interrupted. Therefore his room it is.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Short answer: You. Long answer: Also you. 

As explained above, once Ivar realized he could have sex, there wasn’t a lot of holding back on his side. He was insatiable. Though, the thing that gets him going more than anything else is the realization that not only could he fuck you, but you wanted him to.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Hurting you.

Anything beyond reddish handprints in the places he grabs you, love bites across your throat and chest and the wobble in your step the next morning is a hard no. Ivar cherishes the trust you two share - he’d never think of doing something to break it.

Sharing.

Even though, when possessive or jealous, Ivar sometimes talks about showing off how well he pleases you, it is all talk. He’d never consider someone intruding in such a vulnerable situation. Besides, you’re for his eyes only.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

"I can show you that there are other ways to please a woman too, if you so wish."

Ivar remembers you whispering those words against his lips the first time you were intimate together, gently reassuring him. After the first few times following that day, when his eagerness to feel your walls wrapped around his cock as fast as possible had slowly calmed from a raging fire to a steady flame, those words of yours kept echoing in his mind. You’d proposed it as an alternative, so technically there was no need for that now, but Ivars curiosity was peaked.

His breath is fanning over your lower stomach, Ivars blue eyes are looking up at you for guidance, between placing kisses on and nipping at your skin. 

"You told me you’d show me. I do not know how to make you feel good like this." A breathless laugh falls from your lips. "I promise to tell you if something does not feel good." 

Ivar huffs but relents nonetheless, his nips and kisses moving lower, a few of them straying to the inside of your thighs, before his tongue suddenly licks a broad stripe up your cunt. Something between a whimper and a moan tears from your throat and Ivar decides right then and there that he wants to hear that sound over and over and over again.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

As explained under I = Intimacy, Ivars love making is usually very passionate. If not fast, his thrusts will at the very least be hard and deep, hands firm on whichever part of your body he chooses to grab, his love bites just on that fine line between pleasure and pain.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He isn’t exactly opposed to the idea, it’s just that your circumstances don’t really allow for them. Between the daily bustle of Kattegat, your respective duties throughout the day and Ivars reluctance to have sex outside the safety of his chambers there aren’t really opportunities for quickies. 

It’s fine by the both of you though, you prefer to take your time anyways, especially the calm and intimacy afterwards is treasured by the both of you.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Ivar is ever learning, he’s willing to try most everything you’d approach him with, so long as it doesn’t fall under his hard no’s. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

In the beginning Ivar was insatiable. Once he got you into bed you could expect not to leave it or go to sleep for quite a while. 

That is still the case, though the way you spend your time in bed has changed. The two of you used to go as many rounds as either of you could take until sleep took you.

As your relationship blossomed, it became less about sex itself and more about being intimately connected - whether that be foreplay, sex, or basking in the afterglow of it all. Rounds became fewer, but more drawn out. On the days Ivar seeks comfort, the intimacy of you laying on his chest afterwards, warming his cock, both of you speaking in hushed whispers have become his favorite part.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Since it’s the early 800s … there are no toys. The closest thing would be his daggers, perhaps some rope.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Ivar has no patience to actually tease you in terms of withholding his physical affections. He excels at making your squirm with his verbal teasing though.

You’re circling your hips above him, eyes screwed shut, clearly focused on chasing your release, but slightly overwhelmed by the pleasure all the same. A sudden pressure makes you moan out and look down to where Ivar has placed his hand against the little bulge in your lower stomach. 

"Look at that", he grins, "Look at me all the way inside you. Such a little thing, can barely fit me." A frustrated whine bubbles up in you. Ivars face morphs into one of mock concern, "What’s the matter sweet thing?" "Please..", you whimper. "Please what, hm?" 

When his question goes unanswered, the rock of your hips only growing more frantic, Ivar sits up, the sudden shift of the angle of his cock making you gasp. "Can’t even make yourself cum, is that it? Poor, dumb little thing" A quick, filthy kiss is planted on your lips, and you don’t even have the time to reciprocate before your world spins and you’re suddenly on your back.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

"I don’t growl." Ivar halfheartedly glowers down at you, you grin in return. "Oh, you definitely do."

"I do not."

Your grin grows mischievous, "Mhm, fine. I do suppose it was far more interesting how you whimpered when I li-"

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

You joined Ivar in his bed every single night, following the day you first laid together. After a while your monthly bleeding made its appearance one morning. You thought this would surely put a temporary stop to your shared nights of passion, but Ivar surprised you. 

As soon as you sit down on the edge of the bed you’re ambushed. Giggling you let Ivar lay you down on your back and eagerly welcome him into your arms once he dips down to kiss you.

As always the kiss deepens and your hands wander - yours to his hair, combing your fingers through his silky strands, whilst Ivars hands caress your sides. When his fingers slip under the hem of your dress, you draw back from the kiss and halt his hand on your thigh. Immediately Ivars face furrows and his hand lifts to hold the side of your face. 

"My moon blood started this morning", you answer his unspoken question. Ivars eyes widen and he props himself up on his hands, lifting his hips off of yours. For a second you think he’s disgusted, but your worries disappear as soon as they come. "Oh fuck - am I hurting you, smár brandr?"

Pulling his body down onto yours again, his weight and warmth actually comforting, you shake your head. "No", you reassure him, "I’m just bloody. Some women say release eases their discomfort, but it’s not exactly… appealing to most men."

To your surprise Ivar barks out a laugh. "Some Vikings we have in Kattegat then, hm? Bothered by a little blood." Shaking his head, his hand makes his way under your dress once more.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

To quote TPAW:

"Looking down at what you have just undressed, you are surprised a second time this night. For all the burdens the Gods have made Ivar carry, they sure have blessed him with a gorgeous cock. Its head is flushed a lovely shade of red, and with a length and girth that promises a delicious stretch once inside you, it was simply perfect … and hard - very much so."

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

High. That’s all I am going to say. Sometimes the gods can see it all the way from Asgard.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

You’re usually asleep before Ivar is. He very much treasures just laying with you. Tracing shapes on your back, enjoying the warmth of your body next to his and watching your pleased face lowly morph into the relaxed expression he associates with you sleeping.. this is probably the most peaceful time of his day. 

Please consider commenting or reblogging - it really makes my day!

(*) smár brandr = little blade

[tuktukpodfics]

The Problem With "Dao Swords": My love-hate relationship with pleonastic translations

An essay that no one asked for.

A lot of fanfics call Zuko’s broadswords “dao swords.” As a Chinese to English translator, this phrase makes me pause every time. Here is my humble opinion on “dao swords” and other pleonastic translations:

What the heck is a pleonastic translation?

I’m so glad you asked! “Pleonasm” is a fancy term for a redundant phrase, like “black darkness” or “burning fire.”

A pleonastic translation is a phrase that puts the source language and the translation back-to-back. A common example is “chai tea” which literally means “tea tea.”

“Dao swords” is a pleonastic translation. “Dao” 刀 is the Chinese blanket term for blade. The phrase basically means “sword swords.” Sounds pretty silly, right?

Pleonastic translations are bad?

I think it depends on your audience, the text purpose, and how special the word is.

In advertising, pleonastic translations can help increase a product’s searchability. Ex: “Longjing Dragonwell tea” would appear in a Google search for either “longjing” or “dragonwell.”

Tourist destinations often use pleonastic translations to help foreigners navigate. Ex: “Nanzhan South Station” on a map helps foreigners know what the place is, but also gives them the Chinese pronunciation so that they can communicate with their taxi driver.

In literature, a pleonastic translation is a succinct way to introduce a culturally significant term without a footnote or distracting tangent. A lot of translators will sneak in a pleonastic translation the first time the word appears in a text, and then use the untranslated term alone every time after. Ex: "He slouched on the kang bed-stove. His grandmother sighed and took a seat on the kang too.”

Is "dao" a culturally significant word?

No.

Dao is a super mundane word used to describe any kind of single-edged blade, from butter knives to ice skates. It feels weird to keep such a normal word untranslated. Using the Chinese word emphasizes its foreignness. They’re not just swords, they’re special, Chinese swords. 

Yes, words take on different meanings as they pass from culture to culture. That’s how language works. But English is also a unique case. Because of imperialism. I think English speakers have an obligation to avoid exotifying every-day words.

Also, English is a global language. Chinese speakers are reading your translation, and…I dunno...“sword swords” feels off putting. Disruptive.

But I want to acknowledge the real-life culture behind the swords

Giving credit to the cultures that you're borrowing from is an A+ idea.

...I don't know how to do this in a fantasy setting.

Zuko’s swords and fighting style is based on oxtail sabers (牛尾刀）and Shaolin dual broadswords (少林双刀). @atlaculture has a very cool post on oxtail sabers. But calling his swords "oxtail sabers" doesn't work because cows don't exist in atla. Shaolin is a type of martial arts that originates from Shaolin temple in Henan, China (Shaolin itself literally means “young forest”). But you can’t call them “Shaolin broadswords," since Shaolin does not exist in the Fire Nation.

It’s quite a pickle.

Maybe just use a footnote?

So what should I call Zuko’s swords?

I don’t know.

I think you can just call them broadswords. That’s what the TV show calls them.

Dao by itself could work too if you need to differentiate Zuko's dao from Sokka's jian (double-edged blade). Readers can probably figure out what dao means from context.

If it’s not clear from context what dao means? *sigh* ..."Dao swords" it is, I guess.

To end on a happier note, here is a video of Chang Zhizhao busting some sweet moves.

[thestuffedalligator]

I have a dumb fanfic concept in my head where Zagreus gets pulled through time from Mythic Greece to Dark Ages England because some skinny young mortal squire pulled the Stygian Blade out of a rock, which is a big deal apparently.

Zag is pretty sure this is a temporary situation that will sort itself out eventually, but while he’s here he might as well help train this kid to be a proper warrior and king. He also tries to explain to mortals that he’s the son of Hades, king of the underworld, but nobody quite gets it and this is how the myth of Merlin being the son of a demon starts.

[http-paprika]

Under the Orange Sky / Phillip Graves

cowboy!au / pairing philip graves x wife!reader / wc 1027 / warnings suggestive content, nondescript mentions of nudity, allusions to sex

summery her husband has always been a stranger to her, but one day when he returns from the fields, Phillip's behavior towards her has changed.

notes here's the second poll fanfic, not as long as i thought it would be, but satisfying still. no use of y/n. the story takes place during the turn of the 20th century in western texas.

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Her husband was a stranger, despite the five years she’d spent tied down to him, living in the wild of Texas, far from town, far from her parents; he stayed estranged. Leaving early in the morning before the sun rose over the jagged mountains, returning late in the evenings when she was already in bed, trying to sleep, she seldomly saw Phillip ‘cept for Sundays, on the Lord’s day of rest. Yet still on those days, he was distant from her, withdrawn, solemn, never touching, and only a few stray glances. It was hard for her to remember that charming, proud man who’d swept her off her feet, who flattered her mother and talked business with her father. 

Closing her eyes, laying her head against the back of the tub, she could hear the faint rumbling of hooves, the barking of cattle dogs, and the distinct sound of her husband’s voice. It was early, too early compared to the usual time of his arrival. The sun still hung in the sky, just below the mountains and spilling light into the washroom, remnants of dinner lay on the table waiting for him, lukewarm, and she felt her throat constrict as the sound of his footsteps heavy against the wooden floors of the home. 

The door opens, creaking on its rusty hinges, his blue-eyed gaze falls on her bare figure as Phillip approaches her. Dirty, tall, stern. Removing the black, worn glove off of his hand, it moves down and cups her chin, making her look up at him. Swallowing harshly, she fights the temptation to yank away and look elsewhere, not wanting to invoke the anger she’d seen him possess before. The feeling of his rough and calloused skin against her chin, and the deep gaze of his eyes causes a shiver to run down her spine and a low chuckle to escape his mouth. 

“Do you plan on getting ill, bathing in water this cold?” Phillip asks, removing his other glove before beginning to undo the buttons of his shirt, his overcoat hung up by the door along with his boots. His wife hadn’t even noticed that the water had turned cold around her, or the ache in her chest as she watched her husband slowly undress, folding his clothes and laying them neatly in a pile on the stool next to hers. 

Before she can finally connect the words to ask, he settles into the tub behind her. The warmth of his skin from being out under the Texan sun seeps into her as his hands move to his wife’s shoulder blades. They begin drawing tight circles with his thumbs which causes her to sit up straighter in the bath, stiff with nerves. This wasn’t unfamiliar to her, she knew Phillip’s touch, and with heat pooling to her cheeks, could remember different nights when he’d woken her up and left her sore in the morning. But it was still as strange to her as Phillip was. 

“Relax, doll.” His voice comes out cool, albeit gravely, as Phillip speaks to her. Keeping his hands fixed on her shoulder blades, he brings her back until she’s resting against his broad chest. The rosy blush stays on her cheeks and his nose presses against the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of soap she’d used to cleanse her skin and hair. Staying beneath his grasp, the rising and falling of her chest begins to slow as she realizes his actions are gentle, slow, and considerate of her. Not like before where she had the innate sensation of being a deer that’s being hunted by a coyote. Instead, it reminds her of a book she once read as a young girl, and the pink tint of her cheeks turns into a violent shade of red. 

“Didn’t I say to relax?” Phillip states, once again bringing his hand back to cup her chin so she has to turn her head to look at him. His gaze transfixed on her face, the haze in her eyes and the soft swell of her lips. The way she appeared was so heavenly, that even a holy man would find himself sinning. Pride swelled in Phillip’s chest as he acknowledged the fact that she was his, his wife, his girl. She, on the other hand, felt like the world was spinning around her as she tried to figure out what had happened to her distant husband, Phillip had never done this before. He’d never been so attentive, even when they courted and he had left her feeling dazed and confused. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” She finally gets the courage to ask, feeling stupid as the words left her mouth. There was almost a sense of adoration as his thumb grazed her lips, a desire that was not primal, but loving. 

“Like how a husband should look at his wife?” Phillip’s voice comes out calmly, yet it still sends shivers down her spine. He chuckles again, relishing in the reaction he receives, enjoying the way her face turns flush and how she looks away from him. “What’s wrong, doll? Would you rather me leave?” 

“No.” Yes, no, she didn’t know what she wanted. The feeling of her stomach tightening as his hands dip down to rest on her hips leaves her unsure and startled. Phillip’s rough lips move to her neck, peppering small, light kisses on her cool skin.

“You’re still cold, doll.” His hands run up her side, the calloused palms rubbing against her plush, soft skin, her breathing hitches as she leans back against him. Letting logic and sensibility fall to the side, her hands fall on top of his, nails grazing against the back of his hands. “Let me help with that.” 

The man behind her was still a stranger, but there was a burning desire in the bottom of her stomach to know him. To find the reason for his sudden change, to touch him, bask in the warmth of his skin, and mindlessly confess everything to him. Phillip Graves was like the sun, lighting her up and painting her skies in shades she’d never known.

[agendergorgon]

Worm Crisis Protocol

Marvel Crisis Protocol is a tabletop miniatures wargame where the heroes and villains of the Marvel universe (well, a Marvel Universe, and a fun one at that where MCU inspired pouch fest heroes are stood shoulder to shoulder with leotard clad villains fresh from the 60s) get into manic brawls and gradually disassemble all the pretty dollhouse terrain pieces you spent so long laying out by chucking them at each other, and chucking each other at each other. Worm is a webnovel about a young woman who controls bugs and has too much of an imagination. Her and her friends have some well cool powers, like smoke clouds that sap people's powers, or a mind that unravels a foe's secrets over time. And her foes! Heroes that can conjure forth any weapon, villains that can summon blades from any surface. There's a whole rogues gallery. Or there would be, if Worm's fights weren't quite as cutthroat. What if one was to make a couple custom rules for adapting some of Worm's beloved and beloathed characters to Marvel Crisis Protocol's madcap combat? What if one was to make more than a couple? Whole teams and rosters to let people field everything from the Undersiders; a bank robbing team of teen supervillains who pull together to pull off daring heists and escape certain death or capture at every turn, to the Slaughterhouse 9, America's most feared roving gang of sinister slashers only barely held together by the machinations of their mad leader. And what if it came with little cut outs of character art so you could print tokens/proxies at home? What if indeed! Anyway, me and my husband to be have been working on this for a while but it sort of fell on the way side while other projects came up. BUT! figure if I stick a big ol COMING SOON on this to maybe kick my arse into finishing the Undersiders before I make rules for yet another Slaughterhouse 9 member that I'd only have to make up an alter ego for. Any Worm fans do tell us your own headcanon names for those we don't know and I'll use the best ones in this or a fanfic. Any MCP fans do give Worm a check out for some superpowered shenaniganry in literary form. Any questions or interest do DM me it'll help with motivation. Anyway, here's a sneak peak. Thanks again to @creator-crash for letting us use some phenomenal Worm fan art in this project.

[d33pwithinmys0ul]

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Pride and Prejudice and Titans

This is a project I've wanted to do for a while, and finally started for day 26 of Janeuary, militia! Author's note and prologue (technically chapter one) are below the cut, but the first two chapters are here on ao3!

જ⁀➴ Regency romantasy AU inspired by Pride and Prejudice, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, and Attack on Titan. Jean Kirstein x Reader, third person, semi graphic violence, use of y/n, Levihan, Aruani, she/her Hange Zoe, and soon to feature Eremika, Pokkopiku, Yumihisu, and more chapters.

See other Janeuary works reposted by @janeuary-month! See my Jane Austen blog here @aust3nland

જ⁀➴ authors note: This fanfic is a melting pot of direct lines from the Pride and Prejudice novel, references to the 2005 & 1995 adaptations, the p&p zombies novel, but mostly the p&p zombies movie- with Attack on Titan on top. I wanna make the disclaimer that this was super self indulgent fun, and though it features chunks of Austen’s writing, it’s obviously mixed with mine, and it’s not perfect, and definitely not “better,” that’s not the goal. I took certain liberties with characters in both canons to fit the idea of everything mashed together, and tried to contextualize both canons enough so that (hopefully) if someone read this with only knowledge of one fandom but not the other, they can still somewhat enjoy this. And there’s literally third person self insert, so that’s another gluttonous sin. <3

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Prologue

It is a truth universally acknowledged that any titan consuming human flesh must be in want of more flesh. 

Never was this truth more plain than during the attack at Maria Park in Shiganshire, in which the grand household of twenty aristocrats, children, and servants, were slaughtered and feasted upon by a horde of titans. They were brought on by a previous ambush from an exceptionally tall and menacing titan, very unlike the rest of his kind. 

Aptly named, the Coordinate Titan was observed to withhold a great degree of control and consciousness, alongside the unique ability to command armies of his “pure,” comparatively docile brethren. 

In the earliest days of the war against the titan scourge, long before the Coordinate came to be, the great country of Paradis built three walls within their borders, with very few access points, in order to keep the horde at bay. 

The outermost wall collapsed almost completely, prior to the discovery and invention of those omnidirectional mechanisms by which one could kill such beasts. It became fashionable and esteemed for young and able bodied people in and out of the militia to learn the art of navigating such gear, leaping to great heights and slaying the giants with a long blade in each hand. 

After the Coordinate titan unleashed its wrath upon many towns across Paradis, was one last attempt at isolating man, the order to destroy every connection and entrance of the walls to one another—save Fritz Bridge, now teeming with defenses, and the only remaining means of protected correspondence between the central city of Mitras and the new outer wall. 

Without warning, humanity’s most perilous discovery then vanished, and the threat of the Coordinate was no more, the circumstances of his disappearance and initial attack still unknown. 

Following the rehabilitation of society, the gentry began to leave the safe confines of the Interior, in favor of newly fortified country estates. 

Many were of the opinion that Paradis approached peace, despite the remaining infection of pure titans milling within and beyond its walls. Some insisted that vigilance was of the essence, and there were greater things to fear than the occasional horde upon a vulnerable town—whether it was the end of days, or the return of the Coordinate, often seen as one and the same. 

Well trained soldiers returned to their lives with a determination to pass their deadly skills onto the next generation, should any greater threat arise.

A former captain, with his section commander and wife, sat in the library at their estate, and possessed such a goal.

“My dear Mr. Ackerman,” said his wife to him one day, “have you heard that Maria Park is let at last?”

Levi replied that he had not. 

“But it is,” returned Hange, “for Mr. Berner had just been here, and told me all about it.”

Levi gave no answer, stirring his tea. 

“Do you want to know who has taken it?” Hange cried impatiently. 

The embroidered rose upon her eyepatch, a decorated mark of her many battles, winked at her husband from behind wiry spectacles. 

“You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.” Mr. Ackerman replied. 

This was invitation enough. 

“Mr. Berner says that Maria is taken by a young man of large fortune and artillery; he came to Shiganshire in a chaise and four, narrowly escaping from the most recent resurgence of unmentionables in Ermich!”

“What is his name?” Only the latter statement piqued Mr. Ackerman's interest.

“Arlert. Though the man says that Mitras no longer agrees with him, and that Shiganshire is most charming. A single man of four or five thousand a year—what a fine thing for our girls, an even finer thing for my research, to chance the briefest inspection of the true damage the Coordinate had left!” Hange made no attempt to hide her thrill.

“Can this Mr. Arlert train our girls to balance perfectly in firmament as they use their mobility gear?” Levi’s amusement was unabashed.

“How can you be so tiresome, my dear? Surely your own instruction for the girls is more than adequate. You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.” 

Hange was by no means a romantic. Despite society’s disheveled efforts at rebuilding, one must continue moving forward and look to the future. Mr. Ackerman will not live forever, and the female line was not to inherit the estate, no matter her efforts… 

“Is that his design in settling here?” Her husband replied. 

“Design! Nonsense,” Hange said, pacing about the room. “But it is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must consider our daughters. It will be impossible for us to visit him if you do not initiate.” 

“I see no occasion to risk my life to visit a man with whom I am unfamiliar.” Levi cradled his teacup with his palm above the rim. “If you insist it is for the good of your research, surely you may charm him yourself, to be so presumptuous as to consider Mr. Arlert a special instrument for your scientific endeavors.” 

“Mr. Ackerman, you take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves.'' Hange sighed, fanning herself lightly. “With five daughters so close in age, I should desire a young man take a liking to any of them. There are none so refined in the deadly arts as our girls, nor as dutiful as Anne, or as well humored as Sasha.” 

There were many things in Eldian society Hange did not invest her beliefs in, least of all social etiquette —all the more her amiable husband must introduce himself first, to secure the girls in Mr. Arlert’s good graces. She knew that she would much rather explore Maria Park than speak idly to anyone for the permission to do so.

“You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves, as they are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these twenty years at least.'' Levi’s tone was dry, and he could not help but give his wife a small smile. “I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men, fine warriors, of four thousand a year come into the neighborhood.'' 

“It will be no use to us if twenty such should come, since you will not visit him,'' Hange sniffed, discontented. 

“Depend upon it, my dear, when there are twenty, I will visit them all.''

read the rest here on ao3