Summary... a series of headcanons where you do the "wiping my seat" trend on them!
Contains... suggestive themes and flirts, usage of alcohol, fluff, and silly moments.
A/N: I am never on time for these things, Rayleigh and Gaban were supposed to be here... but I am ill and will post them later.
Benn Beckman
With another red-haired pirate party in full swing, meeting many new people and some old, Beckman had his hands full. Naturally, he'd went up onto the quarterdeck to have a smoke, to get away from the noise just so he didn't get the people coughing up a storm. Once again, he'd felt you coming up behind him from a mile away.
"Somethin' the matter, sugar?" He calls to you before you can get within six feet of him, spares you a glance before returning to his pack of cigarettes, lighting another one up. Just in the distance you can hear what sounds like Shanks singing drunkenly, and laughter from the friends gathered around him. Inside of your hand, you clutch the piece of tissue paper tighter.
A snicker slips past you, immediately alerting Beckman that something was up. He turns to face you, squinting at you in the dark just as a cold gust of wind blows through you. You shake against the wind, and Beckman begins to walk closer to you, forgetting the suspicious look he threw straight at you earlier.
"Here, just wrap this around..." Beckman grunts as he holds his cigarette between his teeth like a cigar, removing his purple grass-patterned cape to wrap around you instead. Just as his face is close enough, you reach out with the tissue in hand. When it swipes against the corner of his mouth, he waits until he's done draping his cape over your back before he speaks.
For a few seconds, he blinks, still staring down at you. You continue gently wiping his face, making sure to get the corners of his mouth— you can barely contain your laughter. Were there crumbs on his face? Maybe he'd had something gathering in the corner of his mouth... It could just be another prank the guys had delegated to you.
Beckman decides to ask you. "What on earth are you doing?" He sounds concerned for a second, but when you answer, that all flies out the window. "I'm wiping my seat off." That answer alone has him pausing for a moment, and he can only blink at you. Before he starts to smile, wide and pure. He blows smoke from his mouth, before stomping out his cigarette on deck.
"Yeah? I think it's just about ready for ya, huh? I'll go on and have you try it out in just a second." He grasps you suddenly, throwing you over his shoulder as he heads down to the deck, passing by the whistling crew and cackling captain. Oh boy, you're in for a long night...
Red-haired Shanks
Shanks is all about silly pranks, but he's normally the only one orchestrating these things, so of course he wouldn't expect you to have a certain trick up your sleeve. The problem is, he's surrounded by his men, and some other pirate affiliates, your nerves won't allow you to pull it off now... But, it's now or never. He's drunk, and after he gets done talking, he's heading straight to you for a kiss and then dragging you into bed with him, or his hammock, whatever he's in the mood for that night.
"Hey Lucky, got a napkin?" You nudge the man next to you, who is busy cooking up a delicious meal inside the kitchen. You narrow your eyes as you try to get a better look at your lover outside, still laughing with the crowd. Beck isn't there, normally he would find a way to disperse the crowd so you could mess with Shanks.
Lucky hands you a napkin, mumbling something into the lamb chop he's feasting on, you don't catch it, and instead swallow your anxiety and worry so you can walk out on deck. Your partner in crime is chatting with his lover up on the quarterdeck, it's now or never; you won't remember the prank in the morning. Shanks doesn't pay much attention to you when you walk up, and neither does the crowd.
With a shaky hand, you raise the napkin to his face. There was a bit of grease around his lips, so you spend some time wiping that off, completely forgetting your previous motive. Shanks' eyes widen as he suddenly turns silent, when the napkin moves to the corner of his mouth and his cheeks, he can finally talk again.
"Hey, hey, hey! What's that for? You're embarrassing me here, babe. How dirty am I, anyways?" Shanks chuckles at your antics, setting off a chain of laughter. You wait for him to stop flapping his lips and look up at you.
It takes every ounce of courage you have, at least all that's left after managing to make him yours. "Cleaning my personal seat." You state matter-of-factly. Shanks stares at you in shock, and the laughs halt— before his smile begins, getting wider by the second. Shanks starts to laugh, way too loud, you spot Lucky peeking his head out from the kitchen, nibbling on a turkey leg now, and Beckman throws a curious look your way as he retreats to his room. The crowd resumes their laughter.
"Personal? Well, I don't know about that... Ow, hey! That hurts! Ouch! I'm sorry! This sexy face is yours to sit on! YEOWCH! Stop pinching me! AH!" Shanks yelps and squeals, jumping left and right to avoid your pinches to his sides, the laughter doubles over, and it continues even when you drag Shanks off to your bedroom. Somehow, you managed to pull off that joke without fumbling over yourself.
All that laughing kept your seat nice and warm that night, you were glad for that.
Portgas D. Ace
Doing this joke with Ace would have two different outcomes depending on whether or not the other commanders were around. He values his image as the "confident and charismatic young commander" more than anything, even if many already knew he was completely different when he was with you. This time, he wasn't alone.
This was the perfect time to embarrass him and get back at him for the time he set your sweater on fire after he sneezed, he did have a slight cold, but your new sweaters singed fabric was the true tragedy. All he did was try and kiss you with his runny nose and chapped lips, you shudder involuntarily at the memory. That's besides the point— Ace is going to pay.
"Oh, now I remember!" Ace laughs, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye as he converses with Vista, everybody is adding on little bits and pieces, Ace expects you to do the same when he sees you approaching.
"Hey, what's up? Got nothing to do today, either?" Ace beams at you. Marco crosses his arms and glances between the two of you, he raises an eyebrow at the fancy cloth napkin you hold in your hand. You glance at it, too, and then at the crumbs on Ace's face. Back to the napkin, then Ace, and so on and so forth. Ace blinks slowly at the napkin as well. Somehow, Thatch has joined in, and is even doing his best frog blink.
After you've finished admiring their performance, you approach Ace and begin wiping his face. Ace furrows his brows at this.
"Uh...?" While you continue wiping his face off, dragging the cloth against his cheek, he grabs it from you and begins wiping his own face, still visibly confused, as is everybody else. Small, clueless giggles begin in the crowd. Nobody knows what your point is, but seeing the display, everyone cracks a smile.
"Ah? What's the shtick? Calling me dirty?" Ace clears his throat, crumpling the napkin into a ball and almost incinerating it, but Thatch gives him a glare as his fancy dinner napkins are threatened. Ace gives you an easy smile, and your own grin suddenly grows very sinister.
"Oh... Nothing. I just wanted to make sure my seat wasn't getting too dirty. I'll mess it up myself later." With a triumphant smile, you steal Ace's smile from his face, now glowing red as a fire poker on a winter night.
Immediately, the surrounding men snicker and laugh themselves to tears, some slap Ace on the back and give him a proud smile, others are smirking at the mention of anything even remotely sexual. Ace himself is clearly experiencing a technical error, and can't find any words.
"My man!" One person shouts, another whistles and cries out "get you some!" just as Ace lowers his head in shame. You are all too proud of yourself, and walk away with a little extra pep in your step.
Ace watches you walk away. The men follow his gaze and only whistle louder. He's never living this down. Especially not with that bashful "maiden-like" smile he's got.
"I´m wearing a miniskirt, but why are you the only one who doesn't know?"
Fem!reader
Characters: Portgas D. Ace
Tags: fluff, tension, loser ace, friends to lovers, mutual pining, suggestive, minor nsfw
Words count: 5.8K
Notes: Hi! English is not my first language, so let me know if you see any mistake, I would be very grateful <3
He couldn't deny your beauty, no matter how hard he tried.
The magnetism that drew him to you from the day he joined Whitebeard's crew was inexplicable.
Even at the beginning, after ending up lying on the floor from hitting his back against some surface —because killing Whitebeard was his only reason for being there—, Ace was captivated when he saw you walk by.
Was anyone else watching that woman? Or was he the only one who saw that beauty receiving the newspaper every morning?
Perhaps his biggest mistake was, of all things, deciding to be your friend, when he clearly found you beautiful from the very first day. Only when he joined Whitebeard's forces he could confirm that you weren't some kind of illusion he only saw during the morning. You were in the second division with him and you were one of the strongest women he had ever seen in combat.
"I'm division and I'm in your Ace."
You still teased him when the memory came back to your mind. The black-haired man had stuttered, running away without letting you tell him your name, consumed by embarrassment.
From that day on, you had to chase him to get him to talk to you. Ace was afraid of saying something inappropriate or making a mistake when he had you in front of him. He was lost in your gaze, in the delicacy of your features and how they all created perfect harmony. He was lost in your hair being caressed by the wind on the deck at all hours, whether you were looking for the newspaper or just having tea. He was lost in your kindness, always willing to help those in need.
You were everywhere. Wherever he looked, everything was filled with you. Did he want to steal a sandwich from the kitchen? Magically, you were helping Thatch. Did he want to ask Marco to train with him? You were spinning in the office chair with a pen in your hands. Did he decide after weeks to wash his clothes, not because he liked to do it, but because the others forced him to? You were washing yours.
If he fell asleep due to narcolepsy, he would wake up with you a few steps away from him, looking at him with concern. If he closed his eyes to enjoy the sea, his ears would burn when he heard someone calling your name in the distance. Just hearing your name threw him off balance.
He didn't want to admit that this new feeling could be what everyone called a crush. He was fine on his own. He didn't need anyone to know his deepest wounds, but he longed for your glances.
He had to give up after a month of ignoring you.
The more he ran away from the woman who made him nervous, the more she appeared.
And the more he ran away from his feelings, the stronger they became.
He thought that forcing himself to be your friend would make his mind get used to the idea, forgetting his failed heart. He cursed under his breath when he didn't succeed.
He did his best to keep that first crush from becoming his first love, but he failed. He failed again and again.
Without noticing, he began to save a place for you next to him at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You no longer belonged with Izou. Now you could only sit next to him, or he would give you a huge pout if you tried anything else. He washed his clothes more often because you taught him how to do it properly, not because you gave him the sweetest smiles anyone had ever given him while scrubbing your sheets. He trained his fire powers without wearing a shirt because he was hot, not because he knew the exact time you would walk across the deck to have tea with Izou. His fingers suddenly caught fire because he still couldn't control his fruit, not because you leaned in close to his face to sniff him and tell him he should take a bath.
You got used to each other's presence.
You told each other everything. How your day went, the silly dreams you had, Ace's nightmares, your dreams and goals for the future, your pasts, your pains, gossip about the crew. There was nothing you didn't know about each other.
You never judged him for the blood that ran through his veins. You admired his mother for enduring so much in order to protect him. You listened excitedly to his childhood adventures, telling him he was a walking disaster. You were captivated by his smile when he talked about his little brother, Luffy, who would set sail in a few years. You even supported the younger boy's dream, wanting to see him when he fulfilled it.
More than anything, to see more of that smile. Hadn't anyone told him that it shone brighter under the moon? Happiness suited him well.
And yet, you both swore you didn't love each other.
Everyone could see it, but you wouldn't admit it. Afraid of ruining your friendship. Afraid of rejection. Because what if Ace confessed his feelings and you only saw him as a friend? Or what if you didn't want to cross any lines because he was your commander? And what if you confessed and Ace saw you as nothing more than a girl he felt comfortable being vulnerable with, but not pretty enough to be his girlfriend?
Those insecurities came true after a year of being friends.
Ace no longer looked at you the way he used to. That fire in his eyes every time you spoke to him seemed to have gone out, only to be rekindled when he stopped at islands and went to bars. With beautiful women around him. Women wearing stunning outfits. Tight dresses, high heels, even bikini tops. Women who took the time to put on make-up, something you hadn't done in months. Going from battle to battle and only leaving the Moby Dick to buy what you needed after running out was consuming you.
Consuming your image. The woman you used to be.
As evening fell, most of the crew abandoned ship. Once again, they had stopped at this tropical island. At first, you thought it was incredible, the weather was ideal for wearing your new denim overalls. You weren't hot in them, and you were relaxed. It was good for you to be able to rest for a few hours without having to worry about any pirates who might have the courage to attack a yonko.
You hadn't realised how out of place you were until you walked into the bar and saw him. Ace with a woman sitting on his lap, talking to him so closely. Shaking her head when he said something, getting a pout from him. Those pouts he only gave you.
You thought it was fine. He had every right to date whoever he wanted. You were just his friend, his crewmate, and worse, he was your commander.
But seeing him with the same woman not once, but three different times in the last two months was forcing you to steel yourself so your confidence wouldn't waver. Suzu? Suzy? It was always the same woman. And always the same scene. A whisper here and there, a touch on his shoulder, a pout from him, a giggle from her. You had to tolerate it all, sitting at a table with Marco and Izou, drinking with a frown on your face.
"Why don't you do something if it bothers you so much-yoi? You'll burn a hole in each of their foreheads if you keep staring at them like that."
The jealousy that consumed you prevented you from denying your feelings. Your silence was enough to confirm to Marco and Izou what they already knew. You were in love with the new boy.
"Tomorrow is Vista's birthday. He'll want to go back to the bar." Izou commented, drinking his liquor.
"Oh? Then tomorrow you'll confess-yoi." Marco patted your back, making you blush.
"I won't do anything like that." You quickly denied. "Can't you see? He likes that girl, Suzo."
"It's Suzy, and he doesn't like her." Izou put his glass down on the table and looked at you. "I'll help you."
"Help me with what?"
"To get him to confess."
Marco chuckled, crossing his arms.
"Do you really think Ace, of all people, is going to be the first to confess?"
You looked at both men doubtfully. The first commander would keep the plan a secret. He enjoyed a good, slow-developing love story. Or so said everyone who had known him for years. As for the handsome man from Wano in front of you... You didn't understand what he might want to do.
"Just go with the flow tomorrow." He said with a smile.
If you woke up the next day with an unbearable migraine, the commander of the sixteenth division didn't care.
He opened the door to your cabin after knocking, entering with a glass of water, an ibuprofen, and a breakfast full of fruit. Your mouth watered as you grabbed the tray with a grateful smile. You were biting into a piece of banana when you felt his gaze on you.
"What's wrong?" You asked after drinking some water.
"Do you still have them?"
"Huh? What are you talking about?"
Izou sat down in front of you on your bed. He ignored your just woken-up appearance. Your hair was a mess and your T-shirt was slightly drooled on.
"The miniskirts you always bought. I know you didn’t throw them away. You just stopped wearing them."
A soft "oh" escaped your lips. You had stopped wearing them because they weren't the most comfortable if you wanted to kick someone. Izou smiled.
"Where are they?"
"In the wardrobe, bottom drawer."
You continued eating breakfast while watching the man rummage through your clothes. You had a few nice items that you had bought on different islands and that crew members had given you for your birthdays. Some were hideous to look at, but you couldn't blame Jozu or Vista for not knowing your taste.
Mini skirt after mini skirt fell in front of you on the bed. Izou was impressed. He remembered seeing you wearing some, like the black one or the denim ones. Before Ace arrived (or a month before him, he couldn't quite remember), it was normal for you to wear them without shame. He assumed that every woman reached a point where she wanted to be comfortable and not have perverts looking up her skirt. Everyone in the crew respected you and looked after you like a younger sister, but the number of times it happened to you on different islands was countless.
Some men didn't know how to be men.
"You have so many unworn ones." He said, pulling out the last five.
"I bought that fur one two months ago."
"Are you still buying miniskirts and not wearing them?" Izou looked at you with a frown.
"I bought the red pleated one a week ago."
The commander looked at one on the bed. It had an asymmetrical cut. On one side it was extremely short, but on the other it was a little longer.
"It would barely cover anything..."
"It's cute, isn't it?"
The man from Wano took care of everything.
He analysed every part of you as if he knew something you didn't. As if everything had exasperated him and this was his last attempt.
Ace and you had been affectionate with each other for a whole year, getting too close to the point of invading each other's personal space, getting nervous when your eyes drifted down to each other's lips, blushing and walking away, silently longing for each other. A silence that no one in the crew could bear any longer. Someone had to take a pair of scissors and cut it off if none of you did. And that someone would be Izou.
You could hear the running in the hallway, the excited shouts, the birthday wishes and the fun. Night had fallen and anxiety played with your heart, squeezing it and making it race. Your hands sweated as you clenched your knees. You felt the brushes running over your skin, being used by Izou's magical hands. No one could do makeup better than him. He had given you lessons when you were fourteen and had just joined the crew.
He looked at you one last time, admiring you.
"You're beautiful, kiddo." The tenderness in his smile made your cheeks flush.
You stood up and took a deep breath. Summoning your courage, you left your cabin arm in arm with Izou.
Ace took a sip of his beer. His gaze darted back and forth to the bar door. When would you arrive? Although it would be better if you didn't. He looked at Suzy sitting next to him, distracted, staring at her girlfriend behind the bar. She looked so entranced, as if the woman making drinks meant the whole world to her. He wondered if that's how he looked when he looked at you. He hoped not. You would find out sooner that he loved you, and he couldn't bear it...
"Stop doubting so much." Suzy kicked him. His girlfriend looked at them mockingly. "You promised to do it today."
"I can't." He whispered, turning in his chair to look at the couple.
"Yes, you can. Do it like you practised." Suzy scolded.
"The way you did it yesterday was perfect." Her girlfriend said, taking his beer glass away to refill it.
Ace banged his head against the bar, growling. He looked at his friend with a pout.
"Do you really think she got jealous?" He whispered.
"If her giving me those looks doesn’t mean she’s jealous and has feelings for you, then I don’t know what does."
"You’re pathetic when it comes to her." Said the woman behind the bar.
"So are you!" Replied Ace.
The three of them continued arguing for a few more minutes, laughing and shouting as Suzy pulled Ace's hair. Becoming friends with those two had been what opened his eyes. Before he knew Suzy had a girlfriend, he debated his feelings. Was his heart beating fast because you were the only woman his age in his division? Could it be that he was confusing everything and if he had another female friend he would fall in love with her too? No matter how many excuses he tried to make for himself so as not to face his longing, he could no longer deny it.
He was hopelessly in love with you.
He reached out his hand to take the beer Suzy was passing him just as he turned his head towards the door.
His powers activated unintentionally and flames shot out of his fingers, burning his friend's hand. The girl let out a scream and the beer fell to the floor. He apologised quickly while the woman behind the bar checked for any serious injuries. Luckily, she was fine.
"Idiot! What the hell is wrong with you now?" The girl growled, hitting his shoulder.
His body froze.
The same feeling that overwhelmed his senses the first time he saw you receiving the newspaper on the deck, while he pretended not to want to be on that ship, flooded him. The same feeling of seeing an illusion in front of him. So ethereal that you couldn't exist on the same plane as him. So incomparable that he couldn't have the privilege of having your heart, if he ever had it.
He only felt capable of admiring you, unable to speak to you without ruining it. A compliment would not come out of his mouth. A stutter would. You looked beautiful in your cute denim overalls, or in your long white skirts that distracted him as they responded to the wind with a gentle movement. With your natural face and your hair combed or tousled. But this. This woman in front of him could not be his friend. Yes, you could. But at the same time, no.
You couldn't come in wearing a red corset that emphasised your assets, or black boots with heels that high, or that black miniskirt...
A miniskirt.
He felt his face burn. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind. From the most innocent to the craziest and most daring. Would it be weird if he asked you for a kick with those boots? And what would he do if you approached him with that pronounced cleavage? Could he keep his eyes up? And worse, what would he do to avoid looking at your thighs? Where had you been hiding them all this time? Ace loved thighs. Depriving him of such a view wasn't fair.
He wanted to admire you. And he didn't want to look like a weirdo.
You couldn't play with his heart like that.
He turned in his chair when the whistles started. He would do what he did best when you made him nervous. Ignore you.
Suzy smirked as she took a sip of her drink. She leaned against the bar, her elbows resting on the surface as she played with her long hair.
"She's hot." She said. Ace bit his lip. "If you don't do something tonight, then my girlfriend and I will make a move."
"Do you think she's into women too?" Her girlfriend asked, drying a glass.
The freckled man glared at them both. They loved to tease him with jokes like that. But he didn't know how much of a joke it would be if someone else did it. Any man in this bar who wasn't part of the crew would be willing to talk to you. To flirt with you. He couldn't bear to see that.
"Is this my birthday present!?" Vista shouted, hugging you when he saw you.
You smiled shyly, holding up a bag.
"This one is."
The man sighed in defeat as he took the bag from your hand.
"I preferred you."
"You look beautiful-yoi." Said Marco, smiling broadly when he saw you like that.
"I did a good job, but all the credit goes to her and her beauty." Izou told the doctor, sitting down next to him.
"Ten thousand berries for a date with you." Haruta proposed, approaching you. "And I'll take care of all your work for the month."
"I don't accept."
"I'll do it for you." He insisted.
"I don't accept."
"I'll clean the deck and wash the sheets."
"I don't accept."
The commanders laughed and the man surrendered, sitting down with the others. You were comfortable sitting among them. Your family. The home you belonged to. You couldn't change the affection and love with which they had welcomed you, opening their doors without caring about your past or who you were. In Whitebeard's crew, everyone was treated with respect. They were all brothers. They would not judge you without reason, and that reason was only betrayal.
You spent an hour with them, celebrating Vista's birthday, listening to his bad jokes and keeping score in his drinking contest with Jozu. Thatch had prepared the food even though the bar could have done so, but he said something about it being too much work for these poor people to feed everyone. No one could do it better than him, who knew everyone's appetite. Marco and Izou were talking to each other, Haruta was talking to some women at a table who welcomed him kindly, and the one who was usually the life of the party was nowhere to be seen.
You looked for him with your eyes.
You had prepared yourself to get a reaction from him.
Everyone had seen you come in. Everyone had complimented you.
And you knew you looked beautiful. You had chosen pretty clothes from your wardrobe. Normal enough that others wouldn't think you did this to impress someone, but eye-catching enough to get at least a "you look pretty tonight" from him.
Which you weren't achieving.
Through that sea of people, you managed to find him sitting at the bar.
Ignoring you.
You wore a miniskirt. Why was he the only one who didn't notice? Why wasn't he impressed? You weren't wearing the same old thing, you had gone back to your old clothes, the ones that had caused you so many problems.
You had done it for him, and he didn't even dare to look at you. But he did look at the woman next to him. Suzy again. You were tired. What should you do? Approach him? Sit next to him? Introduce yourself as his best friend, like a woman in love to make her feel insecure? You weren't like that.
Frustration tried to take over your face, forcing you to smooth out the frown between your eyebrows and smile. You mustn't show that something was bothering you, Izou had advised. "Go with the flow, don't force anything." It was stupid advice. You didn't know how to behave normally around him since you admitted your feelings for yourself. But still, still, you had to try.
Suzy watched your every move out of the corner of her eye. You didn't seem upset. You didn't seem to be seeking his attention while smiling at others, but she saw through your indifference. Maybe it was her lesbian superpower. If she told her girlfriend, she'd get a smack on the head, but she really did catch every glance you made. Even if you did it surreptitiously, while eating something, she noticed your glances at Ace.
She smiled and nudged him.
"Your princess is coming."
The dark-haired man choked on his beer.
Your warm presence taking the stool next to him made his blood run cold. He kept his head down, staring at his beer. Big mistake.
His gaze went straight to your thighs. That position gave him the perfect view to let his mind wander, to let his thoughts have free rein. Your skin looked soft, smooth, almost delicate. The way you moved and pressed them together begged him to please put his hand on them. To give them a gentle squeeze. To force you to stay still.
He bit his lip. Your miniskirt rode up, letting him appreciate you more. How would they look wrapped around his hips while you were in his bed? How would they look if you were on top of him? What facial expression would you make if he squeezed them until they hurt? Would you like it, or would you tell him you hated it?
You said something he didn't catch at the time. Maybe you were asking for a beer? How would you react if you were sleeping together and suddenly felt his chest pressed against your back, his hands on your thighs, and how, slowly, without alarming you, he guided his member between them? Would you prefer the friction to be gentle, or would you let him do everything at his own pace? Hard, as you squeeze him tighter...
"Ace? I'm talking to you."
He shook his head and looked up. You were looking at him with a raised eyebrow, and that made him shift. He hoped he hadn't gotten hard. He couldn't get hard just from that sight, but then again, did no one see the woman next to him?
"Y/N! I'm sorry." His gaze drifted slightly down to your cleavage and he blushed, looking away.
He couldn't do it today.
You touched his cheek with your index finger, drawing his full attention back to you. You liked having it.
"A berrie for your thoughts?"
Suzy glanced at her girlfriend, and they both moved to the other end of the bar, giving them some space. The girlfriends smiled.
"They make a cute couple."
"I still wanted to invite her for a threesome." Suzy murmured, pretending to be disappointed. Her girlfriend rolled her eyes.
"Not in a million years would I share you."
Ace took a sip of his beer. It was almost empty. He could have sipped the rest more slowly, then he wouldn't have had to talk to you, but your question had been so direct. And you were looking at him with those sweet eyes. He couldn't ignore you.
He put his glass down on the table and turned on his stool to face you.
It was now or never.
He had practised it.
He had planned it.
He opened and closed his lips several times, until in a trembling voice he let out what was troubling him.
"Y/N, I need to tell you something."
Your heart skipped a beat. His knee brushed against your bare thigh. Neither of you paid any attention to it, not when Ace was struggling between wanting to look at your thighs, rejecting his dirty thoughts about you, and ignoring the other thoughts that were screaming at him between laughs that you would reject him.
Why did you have to come like this today of all days?
"Here? It's too noisy, I can't hear you, Ace." You said, moving a little closer to him.
He had the reflex to choke on his saliva. The gentle movement gave him the pleasure of seeing how well that corset suited you.
"Eh... Outside. Yes. Outside." He muttered, blushing.
He waited for you to get off the stool, following you from behind like a guard dog. It was a habit he'd had for a long time. It was done on all the islands. You in front, him behind, glaring at anyone who looked at you. Without you noticing. He would have died of embarrassment if you found out how protective he was of you.
His steps were suddenly clumsy as he stared at your legs. He could swear he heard the sound of your heels with every step you took above the music. Or maybe he was always so immersed in your existence that he began to imagine things. Like the gentle sway of your hips. Or was it the miniskirt? Why was it so short? His face grew hotter. He was a pervert. Would you consider him a weirdo if he complimented you?
The commanders watched the two of you pass in front of them and remained silent, their eyes wide.
"I'll start the bet, ten thousand berries that Y/N will confess first." Said Vista, placing the berries on the table in front of them.
Marco heard Izou laugh and raised an eyebrow.
"Should I bet the same as you-yoi?"
"We'll win." Whispered the man with long hair.
"How can you be so sure?" He whispered back.
Izou smiled as he watched his friends getting excited. Today, the suffering would finally be over. And a new one would begin: having to watch the younger crew members kissing in every corner and being affectionate in front of everyone. Even more annoying, but less exasperating.
"The girl Suzy that Y/N was jealous of? She's a lesbian. Her girlfriend is the girl who works at the bar. I found out about Ace a month ago." He murmured, drinking his sake. "He's been practising all this time with Suzy to confess his feelings. If you could have seen the look of defeat on his face every time those two told him he was disgusting when he expressed himself."
"Are you kidding?"
When he denied it, Marco burst out laughing.
"Only an idiot like Ace would practise a confession." Izou concluded.
Both commanders bet on the freckled boy, keeping a secret between them.
The blizzard that hit your body when you left the bar took you by surprise. In the two months you had been on this tropical island, you had rarely felt the wind. The heat in the morning was dry and unbearable, so you avoided leaving the Moby Dick. But at night you loved walking through its dirt streets. The villagers watered them and it was relaxing for the body.
Ace adjusted his hat as he heard the relieved sigh you let out. He smiled amusedly.
"You really hate crowded places, huh?"
"It was Vista's birthday, I couldn't miss it." You said, walking beside him.
The streetlights were made of paper lanterns. Every night, someone was in charge of lighting them one by one. It wasn't something you would see in a kingdom, among nobles with so much fortune. But even so, this was a thousand times better. It was cosy. The warm light they gave off did not compete with the power and beauty of the full moon, which illuminated everything, without discriminating against a single corner.
Seeing you distracted, Ace ran towards the field of flowers, picking some. He did not know their names. He only knew they were not roses, and that was better for him. He could cut you if he gave them to you with their thorns.
He returned to your side when you looked at him, hiding something behind his back.
The bar was far behind you now, the shouting of the celebration and the music long lost.
You tilted your head to one side curiously.
"What are you doing? What are you hiding?"
Ace licked his lips before smiling broadly at you. Standing under a paper lantern, the warm light highlighting his delicate freckles and closed eyes, the boy stretched out his hands towards you, holding ten red tulips between them. You noticed how they trembled slightly.
"These are I'm in love with you and I want to confess that those are for you."
You looked at him, perplexed, for a few seconds. His cheeks began to flush again, making his freckles stand out even more. Why didn't you say anything to him? Were you going to reject him? He couldn't bear rejection. He would rather die now than hear the woman who understood and appreciated him most in the world say she didn't love him.
"Did you mean that those are for me and that you're in love with me?"
Ace nodded.
"That's what I said."
"No. You said it backwards."
The black-haired boy blushed, losing the desire to speak. There was no coming back from a mistake like that. You were going to reject him. You were definitely going to reject him. Who would want to date someone like him who couldn't string two sentences together or make his first confession without stuttering or mixing up his words? How could a woman like you, whom he had always seen as an illusion and who had given him the privilege of being her friend, want his rotten heart?
You ran your finger over the crease between his eyebrows, bringing him back to reality, away from his destructive thoughts. You let out a little giggle, looking at him tenderly.
"That brought back memories."
"Huh?"
When he tilted his head to one side, you stroked his hair.
"That's how you introduced yourself. Hi, I'm division and I'm in your Ace?"
Ace nodded slowly as he remembered. Would you tease him again? You wouldn't accept, right? His eyes never left yours, silently yearning. He was altered when he saw you smile.
He watched you every second. When you stole one of the flowers from him, when you took a step away from him, when you stretched out your hands offering him the flower.
His heart leapt with joy, unable to contain itself.
"Hi, I'm in love with you and I'm in your Y/N."
The black-haired boy shook his head, smiling broadly again. He grabbed the flower and put it with the others, pulling your arm to catch you in a strong hug.
"You're an idiot."
"I just imitated what you did. You're the idiot, if anything."
"Is this how we're going to be from now on? Verbally abusing your boyfriend?"
"How is it abuse if I'm just imitating you?" You complained.
"You're not allowed to imitate me."
"Are you afraid I'll do it better than you?" You asked, looking him in the eyes.
"You can't be better than the original."
"Okay, then let me put it another way." You caressed his cheek softly. "Portgas D. Ace, I'm in love with you. I have been for a long time."
The man let out a nervous laugh, unsure of how to act. Your eyes were full of sincerity. Your tone was full of love. He knew he had to believe you, and he knew that little by little, you would both be able to talk more about your feelings. Like you always did. You told each other everything, so sooner or later you would end up confessing your innermost secrets. When the two of you fell in love with each other. What you liked most about each other. What you wanted for your relationship. There was so much to do now that you had finally crossed the line of friendship.
Ace broke the hug, squeezing your cheek.
"Shall we go back to the ship? I really want to talk."
"Aren't you drunk?" You asked as he put his arm around your shoulders.
He gave you the flowers and you held them close to your chest, walking beside him.
"I couldn't confess to you if I was drunk. If I got confused about the order of words when I was sober, imagine if I was drunk." He said, shaking his head.
The moonlight illuminated the path as you both took short steps towards the Moby Dick, wanting to prolong the moment.
"It went pretty well." You admitted.
"I was scared. I won't tell Suzy, she won't leave me alone."
"Suzy?" You mumbled, biting your lip. What did she have to do with all this?
"The lesbian from the bar. I practised with her for two months how to confess. I had everything prepared and it didn't work out. I was going to give a monologue about how much I love you."
You blinked twice. Was the girl sitting on his lap a lesbian all along? You thought for a few seconds. You had noticed the looks she was giving a certain girl behind the bar, but you thought they were just friends. You were an idiot for not realising sooner, succumbing to jealousy.
"She has a girlfriend, right?"
Ace looked at you.
"If we ever come back and they suggest a threesome, your answer has to be no. I'm your boyfriend now."
You smiled amusedly.
"You didn't ask me to be your girlfriend."
"Who needs that? We love each other. Unless you like formalities, and I know you don't. But I'll ask anyway." Ace squeezed your cheek. "Can I be your boyfriend?"
"You can." You said.
The freckled man kissed your cheek, walking with a full heart. Every now and then you pushed each other with your hips, laughing as you talked nonsense. You were surprised at how natural it felt. You were still the same as always, but with other actions allowed. With other feelings on display. But it was still Ace and you, inseparable, unbreakable, fitting together like two perfect pieces of a puzzle.
You leaned against him, sighing contentedly.
"Can we sleep together tonight? I want to touch your thighs under the sheets."
༯ humor / head-cannons / modern au / established friends / sfw / fem reader / no use of yn / kisses / probably a little toxic who knows
A/N: idk where I was going with this honestly.. I have like 4 drafts that are fully planned out and just need to be properly written.
LUFFY was actually purely unintentional despite how it looked. When you first told him you broke up, he barely reacted. Just tilted his head and went, ‘Oh. Okay.’ Then asked if there was any food in your bag.
At the time, he didn’t think much of it beyond the basic idea. Relationships ended sometimes. That was all.
But immediately things started to change. Your ex is around you less, a lot less. And suddenly all that empty space in your schedule ended up filled with him instead. Meals together, work breaks together, wandering around together because somehow the two of you kept ending up side by side naturally.
Luffy didn’t notice how attached he’d gotten to your presence until it became part of his routine, neither did you.
Then one day he sees you laughing at something with your ex again.
Something ugly twists in his chest so hard it actually confuses him. Luffy gets jealous in a way that was surprisingly in between clinging on to your side and intensely territorial without realizing it.
Your ex touches your shoulder? Luffy is suddenly between you two, asking questions that could’ve waited. Someone flirts with you? He’s staring at them with a gaze that makes it awkward for everyone.
As arrogant as it sounded, he never actually felt threatened by your ex. Somewhere deep down, Luffy already assumed you’d choose him. He just didn’t know why he wanted that so badly yet, so he still competed.
And when people ask why he’s acting weird, he’s played it off with an innocent look.
NAMI is the type to leave lingering touches rather than playing out of jealousy or yearning. She knew exactly what she was doing.
She noticed how flustered you got whenever she touched you, so naturally she started touching you constantly. Fingers brushing your thigh during conversations. Resting her chin on your shoulder while reading over your phone. Holding your waist in crowded spaces when there was clearly enough room already.
Your ex hated her immediately.
Which only encouraged her further. To Nami, their irritation just proved she was succeeding. Besides, as far as she was concerned, they had no right to complain anymore.
One night they confronted her about it, frustrated and suspicious, only for Nami to blink innocently before smiling.
“What?” She asked sweetly. “I’m just there for them.”
Meanwhile her nails were tracing circles against your lower back right in front of them while she smiled.
Cruel. Absolutely cruel in the best way possible.
BOA treated your breakup like a blessing sent directly from heaven for her. A minor inconvenience out of the way.
The second she found out you were single, she became unbearable. But the worst part was how impossible it was to dislike it.
Gifts appear in your space that are far too expensive to refuse, or rather too accurate. Your wardrobe starts changing overnight. Jewelry, perfumes, fabrics you never thought you’d own, suddenly they’re just.. yours.
And she watches your reaction every time, something about the way your expression softened at the gesture settled pleasantly in her chest.
She wants to get used to that.
But it wasn’t the main goal, she simply wanted herself woven into every part of your life.
The scent of her perfume lingering on your clothes. Earrings catching the light whenever you moved. Silks and fabrics against your skin that reminded you of her every time you touched them.
She replaced your memories of your ex so thoroughly you barely noticed it happening.
But even mentioning your ex’s name offended her. Every story you told about them had her staring at you in genuine disbelief, like she couldn’t comprehend how anyone could fail to worship you properly.
And maybe that’s what made her so effective. Boa loved loudly, it was very intense for just anyone in the world. She made you feel adored every second you were near her.
Boa gave you devotion, that was a hard difference to ignore.
DOFLAMINGO absolutely, undeniably, intentionally homewrecked your relationship.
There wasn’t anything accidental about it at all. What can he say, he's impatient.
That same devotion Boa had for you was the similar for him, but in his own twisted up ways of wanting you to need him. He saw the cracks early and pushed his fingers directly into them with a grin.
Every insecurity your relationship had, he fed it carefully until your ex started feeling paranoid every time his name came up even before the relationship ended.
And you began to believe the things he said.
Doflamingo enjoyed it, being the problem at least. He liked watching your attention drift toward him more and more each week once it was finally done, how you would run a hand through his hair, touch his skin with the tip of your fingers.
Liked how your ex slowly realized they were losing you to someone they couldn’t compete with, who understood how to treat you right and wrong.
One evening your ex finally snapped and accused him outright, blaming him for the outcome. Doflamingo only laughed in his face, saying something even you thought was pretty rude.
You ignored him for a bit.
Still, later that night, you let him tilt your head back and leave slow kisses from your neck all the way to your cheek. Noting how sweet you tasted.
ACE got protective before he even realized he liked you, that’s what made it tricky to hide. You’d mention your ex upsetting you and suddenly Ace was furious on your behalf like it personally happened to him.
If you knew he was there for you then, imagine now.
He hovered constantly after the breakup. Sitting too close beside you. Walking with an arm around your shoulders. Pulling you against his chest whenever you looked upset because apparently physical affection solved everything to him.
Honestly, it worked embarrassingly well.
Ace felt nice in a way that was hard to explain, because he’s literally warm. Warm skin, warm laughter, warm words. At some point, you stopped resisting it entirely. You started leaning into him first. Letting him pull you close whenever you looked exhausted.
All the comfort you never really got in your past relationship.
Your ex noticed too.
Especially the night Ace answered your phone for you while half asleep beside you. ‘they’re busy right now.’ He muttered lazily, then hung up immediately. He knew who it was, and that’s what made it even better.
He leaned into the top of your head again, ignoring the way you scolded him for being immature while he chuckled in your ear.
SABO was extremely patient, mainly because it was both intentional and he was confident.
Every action always meant something one way or another.
A chair pulled out beside him before you even thought about where to sit. A cup of tea already made the exact way you liked it. Him remembering tiny details from conversations you forgot even mattered.
You’d mention once that you hated walking home alone at night, and suddenly Sabo was always coincidentally headed the same direction.
His gentleness came in soft, consistent touches until relying on him became second nature. And the more he replaced those missing pieces, the more you realized you were leaning on him emotionally.
Sabo noticed, pretty fast actually.
The first time you instinctively searched for him in a crowded room. The first time your bad day ended with you at his side instead of texting your ex. The first time you laughed at something and immediately looked toward him for a reaction without thinking.
He creates situations where giving it to him feels natural. Not in a malicious way exactly, but certainly in a possessive one.
You already adjusted to how comfortable it was being around Sabo, rejecting every advancement your ex made to talk to you with him in mind. And he took you in whole heartedly.
KID is terrible at subtlety. Like genuinely awful at it. If your ex texted you, he’s already leaning over your shoulder trying to read it with a scowl so deep it looks painful.
“Ya’ better ignore him.” He raised an eyebrow, and you extremely, reluctantly agreed.
Yea, sadly he had a point mentioned how stupid you looked.
The worst part is he acts like he’s the reasonable one. Meanwhile he’s showing up places uninvited, yours specifically. It could be late at night, middle of the day, morning, and he’d knock at your window once a little too loud, then followed by weaker ones.
He literally has your key.
In other cases, he’s throwing an arm around your shoulders in public, a thumb rubbing at your shoulder. If anyone points it out Kid is grumbling in anger, like the audacity for anyone to even assume that was the case was baffling.
You weren’t close to him before the relationship, it happened afterwards. If anything you found him annoying at first. That was mainly because you were bitter he wasn’t letting you get your way.
Instead of letting you sleep in with sadness, he’s the one pushing you to go out. Parties, movies, stores, and overtime you realized how much it helped.
When it’s just the two of you, he softens in the weirdest ways. Fixing your jewelry with rough fingers. Quietly memorizing the things you like just so he can pretend it was accidental later.
You assumed it was some type of phycology, being so pushy you actually started to like him.
Shanks was never one to sleep without you. Even when you two were on the Oro Jackson and Buggy would tease him endlessly for sliding into your bed late at night.
So when he woke up without you in his arms— arm, really— Shanks started to panic.
The room was a mess in minutes, searching everywhere you could possibly be, under the blankets, under the bed, under the table, in the cabinets, everywhere. Then he started to take his search outside your shared bedroom.
You on the other hand, had been bothered by this map for the past two days. The original maker had failed to draw the axis lines correctly, making anyone who used it go northwest instead of north.
You’d been redrawing the map in your spare time, including tonight.
Only your work went on longer than you expected, and exhaustion caught you in its clutches.
Which is why you were now face first on the workbench, drool starting to fall, leaking down into the map.
By now Shanks had searched the medic room, the crows nest, above and below deck, and the engine room.
Why would you be in any of those? Well, besides the crows nest. You were up there quite often, scaring Shanks to death.
Almost like a lightbulb went off in his head, Shanks tiptoed to the navigation room. The room filled to the brim with maps, paper, and ink. The door creaked open, Shanks poked his head through, spotting your hunched form over the table.
He sighed, fully stepping into the room, he leaves you off the table, turning the chair to face him. He slid his arm under you, lifting you against his broad chest. You stirred, wrapping your arms around his neck, your legs straddling his hips.
“Uncomfortable?” He cooed into your ear, you nodded, face buried in the crook of his neck. This reminded you of the countless other times Shanks’ carried you to bed, when you two were much younger— sure— but he’d always find you in the same spot if you weren’t in your own bed, or with him.
Shanks carried you back to your— his— room, plopping you on the bed, gently. He took his place directly over you, head resting on your chest, you could feel him trying to have both arms around you; his right arm snaking around your waist, while his stub rested comfortably on the side of your waist, your legs were tangled together.
Shanks needed every bit of him in contact with you, even at the cost of suffocating you. That was what you signed up for when you two became a proper couple, endless nights of love and cuddles.
Luffy
Luffy x Engineer! Reader
Song: Head Over Heels — Tears for Fears
Getting to be on the Sunny was the best thing to ever happen to you, after Luffy showed you what it meant to be truly free.
You two had been attached to the hip ever since.
You’d put your mechanical skills to the use, welding any pipe leaks and screwing the engine. You also loved working with Franky, he was the best father figure you could ask for.
Sure you had your own bunk in the girls cabin, but you preferred a habitat you were familiar with.
Which is why most nights you stuffed yourself into a cabinet in the engine room, the hums and heat of the metal lulling you to sleep better than any rocking wave or sea salt breeze.
Your captain was a huge cuddle bug. Which you’d learned the hard way after you woke with Luffy fully wrapped around you, and you meant fully, thanks to the gum-gum fruit.
Unfortunately for Luffy, during the nights you stayed in the engine room he could never find you, leading him to sulk back to his room like a kicked puppy.
But after a particularly rough night, the unusual nightmares that every so often plagued his mind, got the best of him. Luffy was more determined to find you this time.
He instantly knew where you were, how had he not thought of this earlier?
Luffy bursted through the door of the engine room, “(Name)!” He called out to you. You hummed, poking your head out of your hiding spot. Luffy bounded over, hopping into the cabinet with you.
You laughed at Luffy’s antics while he tried to get comfortable, his body bending in positions not possible for a normal human. Probably because he wasn’t a normal human.
He was your captain after all.
He rested his head in your chest, placing your legs on either side of him, coiling his arms around you. There was hardly enough space for the two of you in the small cabinet, yet Luffy made it his mission to fit in there with you.
And you knew Luffy was determined.
Finally you both got comfortable, Luffy not moving a muscle, out cold. You ran your hand through his hair, smiling to yourself about your idiot captain.
You could get used to sharing your private space with Luffy.
Law
Law x Engineer! Reader
Song: Glue Song — beabadoobee
Law was never one to admit that he needed you beside him to sleep.
He never needed to.
You already knew.
Always staying beside him during the long nights without needed to be asked. And Law wouldn’t habe it any other way.
As long as none of the crew find out. Especially Ikkaku, Shachi, Penguin and Bepo…
But after a fatal attack from an opposing pirate crew had you locked in the engine room all day and night.
Leaving Law pacing around his own room, wondering when you’d return.
Once the clock hit 1:30 am, Law set out to find you. Feet quiet, eyes fierce. Any crew member that saw him didn’t dare interact, didn’t even wave, or look at him for that matter.
Law now stood before the engine room that you had encased yourself in.
He’d complain that you were over working yourself, but Law knew that he was no better.
The door opened with a creek, slamming behind him. He began his search through the maze of pipes.
Law tried his best to avoid the soot and oil that seemed to always adorn your skin, though despite his best efforts, the mess still found him.
After turning left and left and right then left, he was lost.
Law had no idea that the room was this big.
He was so close to giving up. But the only thing that kept him going was finding you so he could sleep. And because you knew the way out of this hellhole.
Law backed up, bumping into a pipe.
Only this pipe was soft.
And he was no engineer, but he knew that pipes were firm. And metal.
Law whipped around, finding you.
Glued to a pipe.
Literally.
You were on the side of the pipe, arms and legs wrapped tightly around the warm metal like a koala. Drool starting to slip from your mouth.
Law let out a sigh of relief, he poked your cheek, causing you to stir, “Law…?” You mumbled, your mouth now dry. “Yeah it’s me,” he spoke softly, placing his hand on your head, “we need to get out of here.”
You nodded, prying yourself off the pipe. Suddenly clinging to Law the same way you did to the metal.
Law accepted his fate, as long as you led him out of there. Your head was resting on his shoulder; whispering directions into his ear, your arms wrapped loosely around his neck while his hands were firmly holding your thighs.
Law was able to walk back to his room after exiting the engine room, swearing that he’d never enter that room ever again. You were back to sleeping, Law didn’t dare wake you, knowing that you’d been overworking yourself, and knowing that the thing you both needed most right now was a good nights rest.
Law laid on his bed, pulling the covers over you both. You sighed, muscles relaxing after sleeping uncomfortably like that for a prolonged time. Law ran his hand through your hair, feeling a sense of ease to have you in his arms once more.
The person that means most to him.
Ace
Ace x Medic! Reader
Song: Love Me Harder — Ariana Grande & The Weeknd
Night abord the Moby Dick was quiet, and Ace was… cold?
He sat upright, rubbing his eyes. His vision coming into focus, though he didn’t need to see to know that you weren’t beside him.
Despite being a literal human heater, Ace needed your warmth at night to lull him to sleep properly.
Ever since Ace joined the crew at 17, you were the one stopping Ace from trying to kill Whitebeard— by any means necessary— somehow in between all of that you two became close, and Ace started relying on you for a good night sleep.
Though that wasn’t hard with his narcolepsy.
Nonetheless, Ace trudged out of bed, tumbling around to look for you. The moon illuminated the deck, you wouldn’t be in the crows nest, and you weren’t an engineer, so Ace first checked in the Med-room, where you spent most of the days cooped in; taking care of the dumb crew mates— in Ace’s eyes— who get injured— on purpose, also in Ace’s opinion— and steal you away from him.
Ace started to grow irritated, pacing all over the ship. The waves rocking it as per usual. Only he realized that the door to the captains room was open.
At first you’d fallen asleep with Ace in your arms, where he so desperately wanted to be, but you started having strange dreams. Nightmares really. That everyone you loved started getting sick, a sickness you didn’t know the cure for.
The crew would beg you to help them, clawing at you for a cure. Then it’d change to Ace, Marco, Whitebeard and so many others dead at your feet. You woke with a start, Ace still sleeping like a rock beside you.
You slipped out of bed, stumbling over to Whitebeard’s room. You opened the door, Whitebeard, the man you considered to be your father, was awake at his desk. He turned to face you, “What’s wrong, my daughter?” You couldn’t get any words out, tears streaming down your face.
He held you close until you fell asleep. Which is where you still are, in his arms as he worked.
Ace swung open the door, “Old man—” “Shh, you’ll wake her up.” Whitebeard turned in his seat, revealing you to Ace, cutting him off before he could say another word.
Ace rushed over to you, taking you into his arms. You leaned into his warmth, and Ace smiled to himself. “What happened?” He whispered, “A nightmare, stress getting to her.” Whitebeard turned back to his work.
Ace carried you back to his room, laying you down on the bed once more, “Ace…?” You stirred. Ace pulled you close to him, his warmth engulfing you, “I’m right here, firefly.” He kissed the top of your head.
You fell back into your slumber, the nightmares no longer haunting you. Ace made sure to hold you extra close that night.
Koby
Koby x Vice Admiral! Reader
Song: Lover Girl — Laufey
You’d been filling out paperwork all day, Garp kept handing you more and more every hour. To the point you thought he was giving you his own load of paperwork.
You’d stayed up for three days straight, Koby checked in every now and then. Even though you swore up and down that you were taking care of yourself, he knew deep down that you weren’t.
The moon rose on another sleepless night, you just finished signing your name on another piece of paper, your hand cramping, your fifth cup of coffee on the corner of your desk.
You could feel your head bobbing, your grip on the pen loosening, the world fading to black.
Your head hit the table. Hard.
Koby started to grow weary, he’d voiced his concerns to Garp. Without explicitly stating that you two were together. Not only would it be a humiliation ritual, but also wrong on both your sides; in the eyes of the Marines.
Grap could only tell Koby that he’d try to get you home. ‘Home’ being the one you two shared together.
Koby made his way back to your office, he knocked on the door once. Twice. Three times.
Still no answer.
Koby peeked his head through the door, freezing as he saw you hunched over your desk. Your cheek was pressed into the paper, stacks upon stacks surrounded you; your pen still in your hand, leaking ink on the desk.
Koby stepped forward, knowing exactly which floor board to avoid making a sound from the countless times that he’d snuck into your office before. He found himself beside you.
He stood there for a moment, pondering how he’d get you out of your office and home. He glanced around the room, spotting the couch leaning against the wall.
It was hypothetically big enough to fit the both of you, and he could hypothetically carry you there, and he hypothetically wanted to cuddle with you.
Okay, maybe that last one wasn’t a hypothetical.
But he starved to hold you again after three long nights without you. He lifted you from the chair, hands under your thighs, your head rested on his shoulder.
Koby laid back on the couch, you on top of him, your legs entangled, his arms wrapped around your waist. You took in a deep breath of his scent, encouraging you to relax further.
“We’ll get caught…” you mumbled into his shirt, voice muffled, “I can go lock the door.” Koby tried to stand, but you grabbed the fabric of his shirt, keeping him under you, “No, don’t go…” you whined.
You fell back asleep listening to Koby’s racing heart, lying over him on the couch. Koby took a moment to glance over all your features, like it was the first time seeing you, his eyes grew heavy; finally giving into sleep.
Corazon
Corazon x Wife! Reader
Song: Out Of Touch — Daryl Hall & John Oates
Corazon had spent another late night in his office noting things for his mission with the Marines.
He hated staying late.
Because it kept him away from you.
And Law…
But mainly you.
Corazon let out a long sigh, flipping through pages and pages of his notes and evidence against his own family.
All he wanted to do was go home, smoke a cigarette and love you.
His beautiful wife and partner in crime.
Cora gave up trying to work, closing the notebook and placing it into a secret compartment in his desk.
He used his devil fruit ability to make himself silent. Slipping through the halls like a ghost, striding through the streets and finally stopping in front of his cosy little home.
You’d chosen it, after all it was only until he’d finished the mission. Then you’d leave this rotten island, going far far away, buy a real home; far away from others, grow old together, raise a cat or two, hell maybe you’d be able to give Law the life he deserves.
When Corazon opened the door he was greeted with darkness, only the dim candle lights in the living room shone.
Corazon leaned in the door way, taking in the sight before him.
You were lying on the couch, Law curled on top against your chest. Cora felt his heart clench, he clutched the fabric of his shirt just over where his heart rested in his body.
Just looking at you two sleeping, Corazon wished he could run away with you both then and there. Unfortunately he had a job to complete.
He felt your eyes on him. Cora raised his head, seeing you reach out to him. “You’re back.” You smiled. Cora raised your hand, bringing it to his lips. “You two look like a family.” He whispered, lips brushing your knuckles as he spoke.
You moved your hand, cupping his cheek. He crouched beside you, your thumb caressed his cheek bone, Corazon melted with your touch.
He wanted this moment to last forever.
You pulled him closer by his collar, bringing him down to you on the couch. Cora now lied under you, his arms around your waist as you still held Law close to your chest.
This. This was something Corazon could get used to. This is was Corazon looked forward to at the end of the day.
You asleep in his arms. The boy he saved, his son, your son.
The little life Corazon never meant to build, but had quickly become his world.
I reached the point in my shifting journey where either I'm genuinely going insane, or I'm living my best life. Maybe both.
My husband and I have shifted to so many places where we are beings, species, things that have a brain, and a conscience. And getting to experience life through the eyes of something like that is something I'll never get bored of.
But we have always shifted to a lot of random places for fun. And recently those random places have opened up even more perspectives. We have grown to appreciate simply being as well as living.
There is a beauty in things that don't have to do anything but simply exist. Whether it's a mossy rock in a river, the river itself, or a tree in a forest.
It's not to say that, in every reality, that twig you stepped on and broke in half was sentient. Or that flower you picked cried in agony.
But there are places where even the smallest beings and things can observe reality, and really exist as more than just background decoration.
It's something we appreciate more and more the more lives we've lived.
So we shifted as flowers in a little meadow. We started off as seeds, in the ground. Growing our roots beneath us. The quiet intimacy of touching, always together, even as plants underground.
We sprouted, and experienced light for the first time. Sun, warmth, water. Each other. That was all there was to life.
No worries, doubts, no overthinking. No identity or self image. We simply were, just like we were meant to be.
There was a small sense of urgency. Of growing, needing water when it was dry, shadow when it was warm. But it didn't come with fear.
Our lives were never meant to be long, but that doesn't mean there was no beauty in our existence at all. We were there exactly as long as we were meant to be. Then faded out when our time came. But our existence didn't disappear completely. And I'm sure had we stayed longer there, we would've popped up again in a different area.
summary — while combing the beach for treasures, you stumble upon the unconscious, grievously injured body of a soldier. you decide to help him, but in doing so find love in a man that may never be able to return it. (11.4k)
featured — jacaerys velaryon / fem!reader
content — spoilers! tread carefully, fluff and ANGST, angst w/ a happy ending, hurt/comfort, canon divergent, jace lives, light medical descriptions, reader cares a lot for jace, dual pov!!!, inexplicit mental health struggles (reader’s deceased father), dead vermax ☹, 18+ MDNI implied sexual content/fade-to-black, tw there is a baby
a/n — am i anywhere near caught up with hotd? no. did i write this in spite of that? yes. i'm sorry if things don't make sense or are not in line with canon. the wiki and i did our best!
(cross-posted on ao3)
The cerulean waves lap at the silver beach, ebbing and flowing with the morrow’s breeze. Quiet has finally settled on the shores after a night of war and destruction. A battle beyond these argent sands occurred out in the gullet. All night, the savagery had kept you awake. This morrow, you collect treasures from your fish nets.
You step carefully across the sands, adjusting your silk scarf tighter around your mouth and nose. You bend the knee at the first net.
You heave it onto the shore. Nothing except too-small pieces of fabric and inedible shelled fish are in this one. You empty it and release the fish back to the embrace of the sea.
You stand again, taking a few more steps down. Your mind drifts as you fall into a rhythm of checking these nets, pocketing pretty shells and scraps of metal. Wonder pricks at the back of your neck as you imagine the war. As the lone tenant of this pier, you had never had to consider the rites of the Targaryen rulers. Most of your neighbors had already chosen their sides, even if it did not really matter in the scheme of things—neither of those fighting for the throne cared for their subjects, especially not those at the bottom, like you.
Rulers like these bled the common man dry while claiming it to be an act of love.
You move a little rougher with the next net. Nothing but rocks and debris in this one. You imagine it will be a while until you find a worthy treat. The Gods are usually not as generous on solemn days like these. War makes monsters out of men, and the Gods scorn those who partake.
When you stand again, your eyes drift a little further down the bank. At the edge of the shore, a clump of trees catch your gaze. The water is darker there, cloaked in shadow. The shrubbery bends so far, it almost touches the water. You draw closer, eyebrows furrowed.
A dark lump sits entangled by brush, barely concealed by the cluster of foliage. You draw closer, hesitantly. As your eyes adjust, you realize it is not a lump of debris, but a body. Your breaths quicken.
If the person is alive, would it hurt you? Never trust a soldier, your father had once told you.
You bend your knee just as if you are checking a fish net. Your hands unfurl from your sides, reaching out hesitantly. You can only see his body. It is clothed in thick leather, a quality of which you’ve never seen before. Several arrows stick out of his torso. A pool of blood stains the sand maroon beneath him.
You pull back the shrubbery to see his face. You startle at the sight, falling back onto your bum.
His eyes—they were open—albeit, he did not seem to see much of anything. His skin was not grey and placid like the bodies that you had seen before. Worse, you’d heard something when you held yourself over him. A breath, shuddering through his parted lips.
“Alive,” you whisper in awe. To survive so many arrows, then the tumultuous sea… it would take more than just courage. It would take something otherworldly. You know then that your decision has been made.
A huge piece of driftwood sits beneath him in the sand. You push it aside to straddle him. Gently, you grab his arm and sling it around your neck.
The rest of your journey back to the cabin passes in a frenzied blur. You move quickly, trying to spend as little time as possible forcing the grievously hurt man onto his feet. He lets out little grumbles as you move, head lolling this way and that like a puppet cut from its strings. You make it inside and push open the door that your father used to live, laying him onto his back on the bed.
Blood immediately infiltrates the off-white of the duvet, crimson floating before your vision. He groans continuously as you break the ends off of the arrows—serving as a reminder to the heart that still valiantly pumped beneath his ribs. Once they are off, you are able to slide the armor off.
The tunic comes easily. It seems to be made of a material that deflects water, so when you drop it onto the floor, a puddle of liquid forms in its spot. You struggle a little with his breeches—though, those too come easily with a little pull.
After he is naked, you stare at his body in silence for a moment. You have helped men with injuries before. Arrow injuries just like these, even. But you’d never helped a man with this many.
You reach out to touch his cold cheek. He is so young—had to be your own age. Too young for the cruel, unflinching hold of war. Gently, you close his eyelids, shutting away the dark brown of his unseeing gaze. He did not need to be witness to this.
You steel your nerves and clench your fists a few times to breathe life back into your numb fingers. Reaching into the bedside table, you grab your supplies—bandages, a bottle of rum, a couple cloths, and several blunt blades.
“I’m sorry, if you are awake,” you tell him, poising the knife along the edge of one of the arrow heads. “This will hurt a lot.”
Hours pass quickly under your blade. Each of the five arrows is cut away, sewn with fishing line, disinfected with rum, and bandaged tightly. Sweat falls into your eyes as you step away triumphantly, and you lift a hand to brush it off. As they are levelled with your eyes, you realize your hands are a bloody mess. Your stomach churns and you force the appendages away.
You hover over him a moment longer. You study the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the fluttering of his eyelids. He had a strong nose and jaw, thick dark eyelashes and a head of water-matted brunet hair. By all appearances, he was quite common-looking. He had the complexion and hair of any man you’d pass on the way to town. But something about him—the quality of his armor, the blemishlessness of his skin, it screamed something ethereal.
But even Gods can be killed.
Your mystery man is not out of the woods yet. The chances of any of those arrows not nicking anything inside him is next to none. He’s also lost a lot of blood. The sheets are covered in it, not to mention the amount he was sure to have lost at sea.
You draw the hair sea-slicked to his head away from his forehead. Your hand slides to cup his cheek. He might never wake again. Your kind hand may be the last he knows. You wonder how many people missed him—if they were sitting with baited breaths, waiting for him to write. If only you could ease their worries.
You pull away and leave the room before your eyes can fill with traitorous saltwater tears.
There are few certainties in life. Ever since you were but a child, you had recognized this. Life is tumultuous and unfair. It takes and it takes, until you can give no longer.
The sea is a comfort. She does not take, she gives. Usually, she gives you more valuable things than a body, but you try not to question her motives.
It’s been a day since you patched him and he still has not woken. His chest continues to move despite this disconcerting sign, and that remains your only comfort. You stood near-vigil at his beside for most of the hours following. Anticipatory nerves fill your every waking second, even at night when you lay awake trying to sleep.
You recognize that the danger has not fully passed for him. He had not had water in who knows how long. Eventually, his organs would fail due to dehydration and blood loss. That is, if the internal bleeding didn’t kill him first.
You also cannot help the hope that blooms in your chest as you gaze upon his face. Perhaps it is the fact that his skin seems more alive as of late. The fact that you have seen his eyes move behind his eyelids more and more often. The fact that you were quite insufferably lonely, and therefore latched onto any individual who came your way—alive or barely, as in the case of this man in your cabin.
You want him to survive because you want to know him. It is a thought that scares you as much as it invigorates you.
By his bedside, after a long morrow of scavenging by the tide, you dump your satchel of goodies on the now-clean duvet. (Now that had been annoying to do—having to move his admittedly quite heavy body over to remove the sheets). You begin to sort through them, cataloging them.
The silence is unsettling, so you begin to speak.
“The sea has been kind this morrow,” you say softly. You pick up a smooth rainbow shell, twisting it this way and that in the light. “These will sell for a couple of silvers.”
You put the shell down and then grab your cloth, gently stroking away sand and debris.
“My father taught me to do this,” you tell the man, “he taught me everything I know.”
Satisfied with its shimmer, you trade the shell for a clam. You pop it open forcefully—apologizing profusely to the creature as you did—and stick your fingers into the dark crevice you created.
“No pearl,” you report when your fingers come up empty. You bring the clam up to your eyes, stroking its now-broken shell. “I’m sorry, friend.”
The last piece had been one you were excited for. You grab the shrapnel of metal gently in your palms, categorizing the weight and feel of it with your hands.
“Probably off a shield,” you decide. “I’m sure a blacksmith would like this.”
You put the metal down and let out a heavy sigh. You stare at the man, worrying your lip between your teeth. Perhaps some foolish part of you had hoped he would wake up to the sound of your voice, like the stories you had read as a girl.
But life is no story, as you had to continually remind yourself. Things like that just didn’t happen.
You go through a few other bits and bobs in silence, mood dampened by reality. A couple of small shells, a nail, and a scrap of maroon fabric. You aren’t sure why you grabbed the fabric—perhaps you’d wanted to try and sew something. It is quite pretty, you decide. It had belonged to someone once.
Once you finish polishing the items, you lift your head up to look at the man. Thoughts and images flash through your mind. What was he like? You wonder. He seems strong, based on his broad shoulders and defined stomach. But he also didn’t have the worn skin of a common man. He didn’t have callouses on his hands or fading scars upon his torso. He had to be a prince, you decide. A prince of a faraway land, hoping to bargain peace between the two feuding Targaryen houses.
You nod, satisfied with that recreation of events. Yes, a prince. A just, altruistic one. Perhaps he knew of the war and wished to come and save the small-folk.
You look down at his pale hand resting lifelessly upon the duvet. You swallow thickly.
“You must wake soon,” you whisper, “the kingdom needs you.”
He does not stir. You sigh and gather your things into your satchel. If he is still not awake by the morrow, you decide, you will return his body to the sea.
That evening, you sit at the table with a plate of roasted fish and a glass of water. The fish is one of two meals you eat regularly. The other was for special occasions, depending on if you were able to procure bread and potatoes at the markets.
You always eat the eye of the fish first. You do not like it looking at you as you eat its flesh. It feels wrong. The eye is not very tasty, though. The odd texture always makes you vaguely nauseous–the gooey, chewy ball. Your father had always laughed at you when you ate fish. He was not of an imaginative mind. He did not see the fish as being once alive, like you did. He did not imagine it swimming beneath the tide, with all its other fishy friends–before it was snared by ruthless hands and suffocated by the open air.
You stare at the vacant chair across from you with an empty feeling in your chest. It had been so long since you had a companion at supper time. Your father had not spoken much, but his presence alone was always enough to keep you happy. He is gone now, like with the ebbing of the tide, and all that is left is the shadow of the person he used to be.
His fishing pole, next to the door. His journal, where he kept extensive notes about what he found out on the sea during the day. His bed that now had a new, warm body sleeping in it.
You wonder what your father would have done, had he found the man. You take another bite of the fish, forcing it down with a thick swallow. Would he have left him? You had never thought of him as being cruel, but you also know he loathed unwelcome responsibility. He had enough of an imagination to conjure horrible images of betrayal and hurt, and so you decide he probably wouldn’t have brought him home to you. He had too much to lose to do so. Everyone did.
And so why did you? Perhaps, you think, you have lost everything that matters most to you already.
You stare down at the limp skeleton of the fish on your plate. You had never seen a person die of dehydration. Your father had once told you a story about a man he knew that had, and it sounded awful.
You pick up your dinner knife, a sharp, clean-edged blade, and hold it in the candlelight. The silver edge catches the light, highlighting the sharp point. Your hand trembles as you study it.
Would it be quick, painless—slitting the sleeping prince’s throat? Or would it be messy and painful? Would it draw him out of sleep and would he gaze upon you with hurting eyes as he clutched the gaping hole in his neck?
Regret gnaws at you. As time draws on, you begin to think that the mercy you had granted your prince had been nothing but a farce. That by saving him for one moment had only just prolonged his suffering.
You put the knife in your satchel and stand. It is cruel, keeping a person alive only to die in a violent manner like this–it is inhumane.
You take quick steps to the bedroom.
You have never killed a person before. Your father had plenty. He always said the eyes, you can hear his voice in your mind now, the eyes are always the worst part.
You can’t eat the prince’s eyes like you can the fish’s. No matter what you did, you would have to see those eyes. And with it, the betrayal. You stand over his prone body now.
A sliver of moonlight streams in from the open window behind you, casting cool light across the heaving chest. He remains impassive, completely unaware of what you were about to do. You do not realize you are crying until you bring the knife up to your eyes and catch a glimpse of your face in the silver.
“I…I am sorry, friend,” you repeat the same mantra you had told so many clams before as you pried your fingers in their mouths, looking for a pearl. “But this is a mercy.”
Your hands tremble like windblown seagrass as you lift the knife against his skin. A moment of hesitation prevents you from acting. And it is just enough for a pale hand to wrap around your own and for dark eyes to snap open.
“Waaa-ter.”
You let out a sharp gasp and yank your hand away. The man watches you, his visage crumpled with pain.
He repeats himself, voice quieter than the first time. “Water, please…”
You move into action. You dart out of the room, hands fumbling with the metal bucket by your door. You run across the moonlit shore to the well that sits on the edge of the woods. Quickly, you fill the bucket. You curse yourself all the while–mind racing in what-ifs and guilt-ridden condemnations.
You heave the bucket back into the house and grab the same goblet you had used with your own water. You take a huge scoop and shuffle back into the bedroom like a child caught with their hand on the sweets plate.
The man is still awake when you re-enter, his eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed. You drop next to him on the bed and angle his head and neck up onto the pillows behind him. Finally, you fulfill his request. He drinks like a man in Essos who has wandered the Red Waste for weeks; heavy, desperate gulps of the liquid. Some fall and drip down his side, which you dab away with a nearby cloth.
When he finally drinks it all, he pulls back, his breaths labored and eyes half-lidded.
“W…Where am I?” he finally says once he has caught his breath. You notice him scanning the room as if trying to find the answer written in the stone.
You decide not to answer honestly. You fear what his reaction will be if he forces himself to recall the battle. Instead you say, “you are safe.”
He stares at you as if only just noticing you. His dark eyes are swallowed almost completely by night, exhausted and ridden with heavy bags. He lifts a hand, as if to touch you, but it falls short. His eyes flutter, and then shut.
He falls unconscious. You touch two hands to his chest to confirm his heart still beats steadily. You let out a breath you had not realized you captured when you find his pulse.
Shame hits you like a tidal wave. You were going to… you were going to kill him. You are shocked at the tears that swim in your eyes. You stand in a hurry–not without remembering to pull the duvet back up to his chest–and stumble out of the room.
The adrenaline has all but worn away now. Tears clog your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. You allow yourself to feel the emotions–all of them. Relief, shame, exhaustion, and fear overwhelm you completely and you can do nothing but sob. On the table in front of you, the skeleton of the fish and the silver knife mock you without having to say a word.
Waking feels like drowning. Fighting against the wave ahead of you, trying to get your head above water. Then when you finally surface, you fall behind the waves again.
Jacaerys wakes to the sun in his eyes and a warmth around his waist. He thinks for a moment, perhaps, he is in a dream. Another barrier between him and wakefulness. Then, the pain hits him. No, dreams don’t feel like this.
The groan stumbles past his lips before he can stop it and his eyes shoot open. Everything is pain. It surrounds him like dragonfire and steals his breath. He trembles as he uses all his strength to cradle his side.
“Gods,” he murmurs. He feels beneath his fingers the familiar texture of a bandage. Someone helped him.
Helped him. Helped him from what? He gasps as memory rolls over him. Drowning. Arrows piercing through skin and muscle. A dragon’s roar of pain. No, not just any dragon—
“Vermax,” he cries out, tears springing to his eyes. No, no, no…
But it was true. His mind had never failed him before. His dragon. His beautiful dragon. Falling to the bottom of the ocean like a ship’s anchor. He tries to move, to jump to his feet, but he can’t. Pain ricochets up his side, and he can literally feel the side of his chest pulling taut.
He stares at the ceiling above him with tears fogging his eyes and coating his tongue in salt. For one long moment, he despairs. Why? Why would he be punished this way? Forced to live without Vermax? The bond between rider and dragon could not—should not be severed. Not by something as futile as war. He can’t breathe, can’t think. Everything is despair.
He should have died. Living is not a gift in this condition. His knuckles go white against the duvet. Anger sweeps over him—hot, potent fury.
He curses everyone who caused this. Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, even fucking Helaena. He doesn’t care. They’ll all pay.
But not like this. He finally shuffles himself into a seated position, cringing at the pain that shoots from every direction. Every small movement feels like another arrow tearing his skin.
His feet are unsteady as he finds his footing. For a second, he fears he might not be able to even walk. Then, he finds himself. He grabs his breeches off the table and slowly, painfully, shrugs them on. He leaves his chest bare—unable to even think about having to lift his arms over his head. He keeps one hand on the wall and the other around his waist as he stumbles across the room.
The place he is in is frighteningly humble. There’s nothing unnecessary here. Everything has a purpose, a function. No gilded armoires, tall candlesticks, or commissioned portraits. Bare, cobblestone walls, sparse furniture (all glaringly handmade and rustic), and cobwebs hanging in every corner.
Jacaerys moves slowly from the room he started in to the short hallway that opens into a tiny living area. A large fireplace is the only comfort to him. A pot of a molten, unappetizing glob bubbles above the waning fire.
There are very few personal effects here. Nothing to propose any kind of hint or insight. Out the window of the front of the ramshackle building, he sees amber light flickering across a wide sea.
His breath shudders out of his lips. He doesn't recognize this place at all. He’s hurt. He has no dragon. He’s never felt worse in his entire life.
All of what energy he summoned flees him in that moment. He practically collapses into a nearby chair and it creaks pathetically under his weight. He hangs his head and a soft sob escapes his lips.
Tears tremble down his cheeks and onto the wood table beneath his hand. His mind races, memory and pain and fury collide in a war of its very own. Vermax, his mind strays. The perfect dragon. Gone. He digs his nails into the grain of the table beneath his hands, trying to recapture something to ground him. Short, hyperventilating breaths escape his lips—his vision fogs.
Then, everything clears. His hands unclench and he leans back in the chair. He stares at the ceiling, measuring his breaths. You are still alive, he tells himself. Therefore you are still useful.
Because perhaps that was his real fear. That he would no longer be of use—that he would no longer be worth fighting for. He’d always measured his worth in terms of what he could provide to his mother. Perhaps the truth is that his worth stretches beyond that.
He hears the sound of crunching footsteps outside. He sits up in the chair, eyes flickering toward the door. Ahead of him, he notices with a jolt, a knife lay discarded on the table. He grabs it before he can think the better of it, brandishing it like he actually could fight his way out of this mess.
He ignores the pain throbbing in his side and pushes himself to stand again. He won’t die now. He can’t.
The door creaks open slowly, and he angles the knife in front of himself protectively.
But the figure that crosses the threshold isn’t what he’d been expecting. Wide eyes and a mouth fallen open into an oval. Hands clutching a satchel of… is that a seashell?
She drops the satchel with immediacy, hands flying into the air. Jacaerys thinks he hears something break inside.
He keeps the arm holding the knife up despite the involuntary tremble that has begun in his arm. A cool sweat travels down his temple. His vision wanes. Despite her… figure (she hadn’t brandished a weapon a day in her life, he thinks), he knows looks can be deceiving.
“You’re up.” She does not immediately acknowledge the weapon in his hand. She’s either brave or simply ignorant. Jace is not sure what he’s more afraid of.
“Who—“ he starts to speak, but he breaks into a coughing fit. His throat feels like it is on fire. She takes a step forward, as if to help or harm him, but he freezes her in place when he turns his gaze back onto her warningly. “Who are you?”
She tells him her name. Then she quickly adds, “you washed up on the beach in front of my cabin. I found you.”
He bends over to clutch his side. He notices her eyes widen.
“Please, I’m not sure you should be up. You sustained massive injuries,” she tells him. “Your body needs rest.”
“I cannot—“ he scoffs, then coughs again. “I cannot simply rest. I must leave. I must…”
A pang in his side makes him gasp and hunch over. The knife falls with a clatter against the floor but he can’t seem to bring himself to retrieve it. Everything feels like it is in slow motion, out of his reach and control.
She grabs him around the waist before he tips over. He stays conscious long enough for her to lead him back to bed, but he falls within the waves again the second his head hits the pillow.
Consciousness returns to him in fragments. The sound of footsteps by his head. A burning pain spreading up his chest, to which he thinks he shouts, but cannot prevent. The feeling of a wet cloth soaking his tears and sweat.
When his eyes finally flutter open, it is dark in the room. A candle burns to a nub on the nightstand next to him, wax coating the wood. Sorrow fills his chest again so quickly it nearly steals his breath.
He sees her slip into the room like a wraith come to haunt him. It is ridiculous, he thinks, that she should be the one to stand over him. On any other day, in any other circumstance, she would not put up much of a fight. Now, he is at her mercy.
“You tore one of your stitches.” Her voice is soft, but it reverberates in his ear drums and skull like a dragon’s final roar. He clenches his jaw and turns his head toward the moon that hangs like a silver noose in the sky. “I had to sew it back while you were resting.”
Jace doesn’t reply. He isn’t sure he would know what to say. How does he encompass all his feelings—or even one of them, into a coherent thought? It isn’t possible.
She draws closer and he tenses. She notices. “Are you going to try and hurt me again?”
He considers her for a moment, then shakes his head.
She pauses, thinking about something, then she settles upon his side of the bed. Jace notices for the first time since she’s entered the room, that she has a bowl of that wretched-looking soup in her hands.
“Here,” she says, outstretching the bowl. He leans back. She pulls away slightly. “Sorry.” She cringes like even she realizes that the soup is nothing to write home about. “It is all I have.”
Jace swallows thickly. He reaches a trembling hand out. She smiles, relieved.
He goes to take the bowl, but his arm feels weak. He pulls back. “Perhaps…” he pauses, clears his throat. “Perhaps you could…”
Asking for help has never come easy to him. Being weak is not something he is accustomed to. His other hand clenches the sheet in his fist.
She nods. He does not have to be explicit. He untenses his hand as she leans forward, a small bit of soup in the wood spoon.
The first bite makes his face twist. She laughs.
“I truly am sorry,” she says. “I know it is probably not what you are used to.”
It takes every bit of his strength to swallow the offending liquid. It is strangely salty. It tastes like the brine that filled his mouth when he—
He cuts the thought short. No need to ruin his own mood again.
“Something happened to you out there,” she says as if she’d read his mind, and although it should be a question, it is not, “something bad.”
He swallows another gulp of the soup. He does not reply.
She must realize he does not want to speak on that, for she does not press the matter. She lifts the spoon again and he forces down another sip.
“The soup has fish and some potatoes—oh, and they had carrots at the market today, so I put those in too. Perhaps those are the disgusting parts. I won’t purchase them again.”
Jace does not have the energy, or perhaps the heart, to tell her it is certainly not the vegetables that have made the soup taste like what sea captains scrape off the bottom of their ships.
She scoops another bit of soup and he forces it down. His mouth had begun to retain that saltiness even when he no longer had the soup in his mouth, like a stain one can’t wash away with soap and water.
She does not speak for a long pause, but Jace suddenly feels a bit antsy. It feels too intimate an act to not be speaking.
He swallows another mouthful, then clears his throat to speak. “Did you catch the fish?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
“Oh, no, no,” she replies to him like it is a preposterous suggestion. Like killing fish is below her standards. “I just buy them.”
He frowns around the spoon in his mouth and hurriedly swallows the liquid. “Then why were you on the shore when you found me?”
She stirs the foul soup around for a moment, thinking hard about something, then she looks up at him. “I collect things. Shells, scrap metal, and fabrics. You would be surprised what comes with the morning tide, and even more what people would pay for them.”
An odd business, Jace can’t help but think. It seems like a hard thing to have to rely solely on the Narrow Sea for food and shelter. The Narrow Sea, he remembers with a sudden clarity. That is near where they fought.
“Are you going to tell your name?” Her head is tilted as she asks this, the soup bowl now empty and forgotten upon her folded legs.
He ponders the question for a moment. He could tell her his full name, but it might backfire, especially if she harbors a grudge against his family. He doesn’t think she has it in her to cause him harm, but he knows that many do not until they are cornered.
“Jace,” he finally tells her. “Just Jace.”
She smiles and her entire face lights up like nothing he’s ever seen before. Something twists in his stomach. “Nice to meet you, Jace.”
One, two, three, four. You count the shells noiselessly as you thread them onto the fishing line. They clink together softly as you pull the line taut around your wrist, measuring the width mentally. You remove the bracelet and add a few more of your little shells.
A few days had passed without much event. Jace drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the day and slept soundlessly through the night. He did not complain, but you had seen his thinly-veiled winces and his shuddering breaths. You know that he is suffering more than he lets on.
It is an odd thing, you think, to be harboring a man in your home that you know next to nothing about, but had inexplicably formed an attachment to. You still know nothing more about Jace than his name and even that had not been an answer easily wrought.
You slide the shells all to one side and swiftly tie a knot at the end of the line, forming a perfect circular bracelet. Putting it to the side, you cut a new piece of fishing line and begin sorting through your shells again.
Just as you go to slide the first shell on, you hear something behind you. The creaking of wood as light footfalls go across.
You turn your head, body tense.
“Jace,” you say, surprised by his appearance. You stand.
He had not been up since he’d ripped that stitch a few days ago, actually heeding your pleas to rest. But a part of you knew even then that the peace would not last long. He is a restless creature, like a bird stuck behind the bars of a cage.
“Do you need something?” You clutch your fingers together across your front, as if doing so could somehow steel your nerves.
He takes a step into the room. You notice his gait seems more steady today. He looks around every bit of the room, his eyes taking in all the pieces that make up your home. You gnaw your lip between your teeth. Did he approve of what he saw?
His voice comes suddenly, a blade cutting through the silence. “What are you doing?”
It is not accusatory nor standoffish, instead it seems almost curious. You grab the bracelet you just finished and hold it out to him.
“A bracelet.”
Jace steps closer, tilting his head. “For what purpose?”
You let out a short laugh. “It has no purpose. It is just pretty.”
“Hm.” He stares at the offending object like he’s never thought about making something just for the sake of making something before. You smile. He averts his eyes to the other side of the room.
“You said you do not fish,” he says, “and yet you have a fishing rod.”
You follow his eyes to where the thing sits near the door. It sits, forgotten, in the corner of the room—there to haunt you and the person you’d never become, you’re sure.
“My father…” you start to say, but something gets caught in your throat. You forcefully swallow past the blockage. “My father used to fish.”
Jace’s accusatory eyes soften around the edges. He hobbles closer and takes the seat across from you at the table. Your father’s seat.
“And your father—“
“He is dead,” you answer curtly, “he has been for two summers now.”
You pick up the bracelet you had only just starteda nd slide a seashell onto the line. Hurt does not fill your chest like a cavity anymore—now all you feel is numbness as it spreads from your lungs to your heart.
Jace turns his head to look out the window at the night sky. “My father is gone too.”
Your eyes leap toward his in a flash. He does not look at you, his hand tracing repetitive shapes on the table. The deep circles beneath his eyes have all but faded now, but the weariness to his expression remains. He possesses the gaze of someone who holds more than they can carry–a gaze your father shared.
Your throat bobs as you force yourself to swallow. You feel hollow, but a bit of warmth has reentered your chest. Two children, you think, without a parent—an awful thing, certainly, but not especially rare in Westeros.
You slide another shell onto the bracelet, fingers trembling. “He went mad.” Telling the truth, those three words, stings like betrayal. “He was a knight before I was born. He never… he never forgot what he had to do. The faces of the men he killed… they haunted him.”
Jace goes pale. His dark eyebrows furrow, the line of his mouth pulling down. “I-I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.”
You nod. Put another two shells on the line. Desperately, you search for a way to change the subject. “He always wanted to teach me,” you say, gesturing to the rod, “but he never did.”
He drags a quick hand through his curly brown hair, then pauses as he gets caught in a tangle. He huffs irritably.
“Perhaps,” he says, onyx eyes catching the amber light of the candle flickering on the table, “if I could summon the strength to get dressed and brush my hair, then I could show you how.”
You swallow thickly. “You do not have to—“
“It is the least I can do,” he murmurs. “You saved my life.”
To smile feels inappropriate, so you avert your eyes and begin to tie a knot in another bracelet.
Jace stares at himself in the mirror that stands in the corner of the bedroom with solemn eyes. His eyes glaze over the bandages that wrap around his chest and lower torso, then the unfamiliar slightness to his shoulders and waist. He feels as though he looks at a person he no longer recognizes, like his mind has been transported into the body of someone much weaker than he used to be.
The old house is quiet in the morrow. Every once in a while, a soft breeze will make the house creak. One may occasionally hear a sea bird calling in the distance. Other than that, everything exists as if completely removed from reality; untouched by the war that rages just beyond the sea’s reaches.
His eyes flick back to the mirror and he sees her standing behind him with a deep green doublet wrapped in her arms.
“It was my father’s,” she says, drawing closer. “It might be a little large on you.”
Jace nods. She hands him the doublet. The material feels like cheap linen, nothing to the quality he had worn before. He does not mind. It would be odd, he thinks, for him to expect anything better.
He lifts the top over his head and she helps guide it over. She seems to be trying not to touch his skin, like she thought he might be made of glass. He clenches his jaw when he feels the familiar tightness in one of his wounds as his arms stretch over his head.
The doublet falls over his body easily, but it does hang on him a bit like the robes a septa might wear.
He hears the sound of muffled laughter from behind him and he turns his head.
“My apologies.” She can barely get it out through her thinly-suppressed amusement. “You do look a bit funny, though.”
Jace feels his lips tug upwards in the first semblance of happiness he’d felt in days. It feels odd and out of place, and so it disappears with his next blink.
“Shall we go?”
Jace nods. He follows her out of the bedroom and into the living area, watching as she bends to grab the fishing pole. He walks behind her as she leads the way outside, too slow to match her pace.
The brush of a briney mist against his skin feels like flying across the humid air on top of Vermax. His chest pangs and he forces the thought away. His eyes brush the swaying grasses that stand cloistered around the sea’s edge, each one caught up in a current of air drifting by. He watches the woman as she strides ahead of him.
She is quite plain. She does not have the dresses of the courts he is used to, nor the manners of a highborn lady. She moves unhindered by corsets and the plumes of expensive dresses. Her soft legs pump quickly across the sands, barefoot, like she has mapped every inch of the shore to near-perfection and knows without looking where she must go.
Seeing her slip ahead, her hair tangled in the sea’s mist, then as she turns over her shoulder with a jovial grin, it feels so different than anything he’s ever known before.
Baela is beautiful. She is poised, and gentle, but with a rough edge that assures him she could—and would—easily hurt him if pushed to it. But his stomach never flipped when she spoke. He never searched for her eyes from across the room. He never grasped her hand and wished he never had to let it go. He had known her for so long, he assumed she was all he’d ever need, that the feeling of content he felt in her presence was love. Now he isn’t so sure.
She reaches the shore and stops when her feet hit the tide.
He meets her gaze as she turns to him. His heart pounds in his ears.
“Is it not wonderful?” She sweeps her arm in a half-arc as she speaks, eyes glimmering beneath the high morrow’s sun.
Jace draws his eyes away from her figure to the open waters. It is wonderful, he thinks. If not wrought with pain and regret.
He forces his gaze away. “Yes.”
“So,” she says, shifting on her heels, “how do we begin?”
Jace steps forward and picks up the rod. He retrieves the little scrap of maroon fabric that she had found a few days back and attaches it to the end of the hook.
“It is always a good idea to have some kind of bait,” he explains, “fish are attracted to movement. If you can find insects or worms, those work even better. But this fabric may do. We will have to see.”
He moves close to the edge of the water and lets the rod scrape the top of the ocean. “Most fish do not swim right by the shore, so you will need to throw the line out a little ways. Make sure that you do not catch your skin with the hook.”
She nods, eyebrows drawn together in deep contemplation. Jace nearly smiles at the way she’s taking this all so seriously, before he catches himself and schools his expression.
Jace steadies his hand and propels the line out into the ocean. One of the wounds on his side complains at the movement, but he ignores it. He watches the line bob in the water with a softened expression. His memory flits between days spent under the sun at Driftmark and Dragonstone, laughing while he chases Lucerys with a wood sword; Laenor showing him how to fish among the tidepools; a fierce burn from the sun that is soothed by his mother’s affectionate hand.
“Who taught you this?” Her voice breaks through the silence that had settled between them. Her eyes keep steady on the line, lashes squinting against the harsh light.
“My father,” he replies after a moment’s hesitation.
Another pause.
He feels her shift to look over at the side of his face. “I’m sure he would be quite proud of the man you have become.”
Jace’s breath halts in his throat. Hands suddenly feel clammy. His heart hiccups and thuds against his skin. He had not thought of Laenor in a long time, Harwin even longer. It feels like decades had passed since he had seen either of them, a forgotten moment in his life overshadowed by tragedy after tragedy.
“Oh, look,” she says suddenly from beside him. “A conch shell.”
She wields the massive thing toward him. Her entire face is bright with delight as she shows him the object that any normal person would completely disregard. She is anything but normal, though.
“These always sell for a few silvers at the markets,” she informs him, “the rich folk think they are good luck.”
He is not able to reply before his arm suddenly jolts and he is pulled a few inches forward. On the end of the line, something stirs in the water.
“Come,” he orders her urgently. “Something is biting.”
She draws close, her eyes wide. The conch shell drops to the sand. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” he says, “here, you hold the rod.”
“What? I don’t know how to catch a fish!”
He thrusts the rod into her hands. “I am too weak to reel it in. You have to.” It is a lie, but she does not seem to recognize it.
Her hands slip all over the rod as she tries to fight the beast at the end of the line. Jace, pitying her struggle, slides behind her and steadies her hands by placing his on top of hers. She freezes for a moment, then begins to pull. Jace clutches her hands gently within his own and he notices that they tremble like seagrass beneath his own.
“Hold it steady,” he says against the shell of her ear, “pull only when you feel it stop fighting. You do not want–”
Suddenly, the pressure is removed from the end of the line and they are both sent stumbling backwards onto the sand. Jace lands on his bum, but she is able to catch herself as she tumbles beside him. The line must have broken. The fish is long gone now.
“Oh Jace, are you okay?” He looks over at her as she crouches beside him. “You did not reopen your wounds, did you?”
The laugh that tumbles out of his lips makes her jolt back. Distantly, he is not sure why he is laughing. The fish got away, he landed on back on the sand, and now one of his cuts hurts. But he had just felt so alive. So unburdened by responsibility, like any man of ten and eight without the entirety of their mother’s empire resting upon their shoulders ought to feel.
The laughter eventually abates, and all that is left is the open sky atop him and the sun beating down on his skin.
“Do you think that the fish I cooked last night was spoiled?” she asks in response to his exuberant mood. “Once, my father caught ill from bad potatoes…”
Jace feels another chuckle escape his lips. “Sorry,” he tells her. “I have… not felt that free in a long time.”
She lets out a soft ‘oh’ and moves to lay next to him in the sand. Far enough away that there is no chance that they will touch, but close enough that Jace can smell the lavender on her skin.
Jace stares at the clear sky ahead of him until he begins to feel his body ache with exhaustion. He pulls himself into a seated position, but she does not move immediately. She looks at him with soft eyes from where she lays against the sand, a small, affectionate smile upon her lips. Her chest rises and falls slowly, hand absentmindedly drawing pictures in the sand.
His stomach churns as he turns away. He stares out at the rippling current with half-lidded eyes.
“How far is the nearest town?” His words are nearly carried away with the next tide that pulls up the shore. She hears him all the same, sliding to sit up next to him.
“Not far,” she replies, a toothy grin on her breath, “would you like to come and help me pick out a fish for dinner tomorrow?”
Jace does not reply. The hope tinged in her words makes something inside him feel rotten. Like he is corrupting the world wherein she lives. As he takes longer and longer to reply, he notices something settle upon her face. A realization that fades into melancholy.
“Oh.” She looks to the sea in an attempt to hide the dewiness in her eyes, but Jace notices all the same. “You wish to leave.”
“My mother,” he says, “she will be looking for me. She will not stop until she finds me.”
She nods.
Something compels him to continue. “I would stay. I would, truly,” he says, “but this is bigger than me. Bigger than this–”
“I understand, Jace.” But Jace is not sure she does. Her lips purse, her eyebrows drawn to form a small wrinkle between them.
“I would at least stay a couple more days,” he tells her, “I need to make sure I do not simply hurt myself again by leaving too soon.”
She pulls her knees to her chest and rests her head upon them. “It sounds like a good plan,” she agrees quietly. “Perhaps… Perhaps I could pack you some food as well.”
“Yes,” he says this far too enthusiastically, but he notices her brighten at the joy in his voice and so he continues to smile. “That would be wonderful.”
She nods, pulling at a frayed edge of her dress. “Then it will be done.”
The two of them watch for a few more moments as the red sun burns a hole against the sky and as the water ripples with wrath.
“I will leave on the morrow”--That is what he had told you over dinner the previous evening.
In the morrow, the sky opens and floods them with her tears.
You stand by the window of the cabin looking out at the frightful weather. Rain falls like daggers against the darkened, tumultuous sea. Waves crash against the shore. A crack of lightning makes you flinch.
“The Gods are angry,” you say to the still air of the cabin.
Jace sits halfway over his plate of roasted fish as you say this. Then he straightens, his eyes flickering briefly outside. The dark brown of his irises reflect the grey of the clouds swirling above. “Or they do not grant me leave.”
You force yourself to pull away from the window. Turning your head, another flash of brilliant light comes across the floor, painting everything white. You fall into a silence as you step carefully across the cabin.
You knew that from the moment you found him, that it would not be permanent. Just like the rains that fall from above now, this momentary storm in your life will too pass. You had not even wished for him to stay, initially. You recall that first night, sewing his wounds with fishing line, as your eyes stretched across his alien visage. You had told yourself that his presence would be temporary as a comfort then, now you tell it to ground yourself in reality.
Jace had become more friendly in the past few days. Conversation came easily to him and made the thought of him leaving that much harder. Now you were the one that deflated at the sound of his voice across the hall, the one that shrunk from revealing the parts of yourself that had not seen the light in years.
You are selfish. It is a quality that had always lurked behind your eyes, but had sharpened since your father’s death. It is a survival tactic. Every animal, even humans, wish to hold onto the things they hold dear. It does not matter if it is not much. Everything you have is in some way worth keeping–including Jace.
But you could not fight logic. His mother, his family–they had a higher claim to him than you did. You could not keep him like a bird with clipped wings. It is cruel to even think it.
You scrub the dish in your hands until your hands feel raw and achy. The only light comes from behind you in the smoldering fireplace and the flash of light that illuminates the sky. You hear the clatter of the bowl from behind you as Jace finds his footing–the screech of the chair as it rubs harshly against the floor.
You feel his warmth as he comes to stand beside you. He reaches a hand into the soapy mess over the wood bucket and fetches your hand from the fray.
“You have made yourself bleed,” he observes quietly, a finger stroking over the cuts.
You feel your throat bob under the weight of his probing stare. You slip your hand away from his and turn your back to dip the bowl in the bucket of soapless water.
“Have I done something to upset you?” he murmurs. His words are echoed by a rumble of thunder in the distance.
You still your movements for just a second before continuing. Your cuts throb at the feeling of the cool water cleansing the blood from your hands. “No,” you reply simply.
“Then why have you been so quiet as of late?”
You drop the bowl onto the wood surface in front of you and turn, drying your hands with a near cloth. “I just haven’t had much to say, I suppose.”
Another flash of light. Rain as it beats ceaselessly against the metal roof. You face him, clenching the towel in your fist.
“Shall we remove your stitches?” It had been suggested a few days ago as the first thing he would do before departing, so he would not have to bother with finding someone to do it for him on the road.
Jace looks like he might say something. Then he shakes his head. “On the bed?”
You nod. “That would be easiest.”
You slip behind him as he moves toward the bedroom. On your way, you light the spill near the fireplace and bring it with you. Your eyes find his figure as it slinks through the darkness. He’s healed so much better than you had ever expected he might. He should not have survived his injuries—should not have been able to heal so quickly. You think the Gods must favor his survival much more than they favored the own laws they stipulated.
He slides off his doublet and lounges back into the bed. You let the flame on the end of the spill touch the end of the wick of the candlestick and the room is bathed in a soft glow. You suffocate the flame and put the spill onto the table next to the bed.
Jace watches you as you do this quietly. When your eyes move up to his face, you notice his eyes are lidded, the tips of his ears red. You feel a warmth catch hold of your skin at his gaze and you avert your eyes to his chest.
You begin your work in silence. You lift the knot of each stitch and easily slice through it with the sharp edge of your knife. At the end of your first removal, you are happy to see that the wound has faded to a pinkish stripe.
“Who taught you this?”
You startle at the sound of his voice after several long minutes of silence. It is a deep baritone, rough around the edges. Its unexpected richness has you shifting in your place on the edge of the bed. A flash of white light from out the window bathes his face in color.
“My father.” You do not elaborate further. You think it self explanatory. Your father taught you everything.
“Was he hurt often?”
You cut another knot. “There are no maesters in the far reaches,” you tell him. A hint of bitter frustration lines your words. “I have assisted several people who have needed help in the village.”
“I did not know,” he replies softly, “that is quite kind of you.”
“We all share responsibility here, no one is without duty.” You put another piece of the fishing line to the side. “It is how things function when you do not have the entire Seven Kingdoms at your disposal.”
You notice Jace’s eyebrows furrow. His stomach tenses beneath your hand. “How did you…”
“It is obvious,” you say, “your voice, your cadence, the way you were dressed when I found you… you have no scars, no callouses. You did not offer your house’s name, so I can only assume—“
“Jacaerys Velaryon,” he says, “that is my name.”
You still. Your eyes dart to his, alarm filling your chest and stealing your breath. “Velaryon,” you echo, heart racing. “That is the name of…”
“Perhaps you know of Corlys Velaryon,” he offers, “the Sea Snake. He is my grandfather. Or Rhaenyra Targaryen, my mother—“
You stand, breathing panicked. “You must leave,” you say, “why did you stay so long? The realm… your mother… the Seven Kingdoms need you.”
Jace leans forward to grasp your arm. You allow him only because you fear you may topple over without the stability.
“I am of no use to them in this condition,” he scoffs. You notice a faraway look in his eyes. The same look he sometimes got when he stared upon the ocean or recalled stories of his father to you. “My dragon is dead, my body a wreck. There is nothing left of me for them to scavenge.”
“T-That is not true,” you stutter. “You must at least find out if they are safe. You have been healed for days… you could have left—“
“I stayed for you.” You fall silent at the sincerity in his voice. His hand drifts down the bare skin of your wrist to thread between your fingers. He cups your hand between his own.
“You cannot stay,” you tell him.
“It does not matter if I stay one more day. The realm will not fall today,” he replies, “we cannot travel in this ruinous weather, anyway.”
Your eyes drift to the window, where the wind throws its tears against the pane. You nod slowly and find your seat again.
You grasp the knife from where you sat it on the duvet. You slide the other to rest upon his warm stomach. His breaths quicken beneath your hand as you drag it up to the next wound.
“I almost killed you the day after I found you,” you whisper, “I thought it would be a mercy. The fact that you are here at all… alive, breathing. It is a gift from the Gods.”
He leans forward. “What stopped you?”
Your movements pause from where you had started to cut away another knot. “You did.”
His throat bobs. His hand moves from where it clutches the sheets to where your hand rests upon his sternum. He strokes the skin of your hand gently.
You lean forward without realizing what you are doing. He does not allow you to back away. He brings his other hand to the nape of your neck and leans forward to seal your lips with his.
The kiss is languid. His tongue probes the seal of your lips and you allow it to slip inside. You bring your hand up to cup his jaw and he drags the hand cupping your neck to your hair. You let out a soft moan against his lips and he responds to the noise by pulling you forward onto his chest.
You do not lean your weight onto him in fear of hurting him, but you feel his hands crawl to settle upon your heaving ribs. You gently settle your lower half onto his hips, settling your hand down on a part of his chest that had no injuries.
You and Jace continue to kiss for what feels like hours. It is exhilarating. It feels like flying. Your stomach feels warm and fluttery, and your lips are throbbing.
You shift your hips and Jace lets out a groan. You pull away from the kiss, concerned. His hand moves to grab the flesh of your hip, sliding you back some. There is a hardness beneath you that makes a pleasant chill slide down your spine.
“Are you alright, Jace?”
“Unless you wish for us to have sex,” he grumbles, “you should move off my hips.”
You swallow thickly at the insinuation. Sex. A novel thing. A thing that should be saved for marriage. But marriage seems so far from your mind now, drifting away like a current.
“And what do you wish for us to do?” you murmur. You slide forward an inch and he throws his head back onto the pillows. His chest heaves.
“You know what I wish,” he groans. “Is it not obvious?”
You lean forward so that your lips barely brush his own. “Then take it.”
Sunlight streams through the window ahead of you, branding the side of your face with heat, and your eyelids flutter against the intrusion. You fist your fingers in the sheets and twist your legs close to your body. As you shift, you feel an arm pulling you backwards.
You grasp the hand splayed across your stomach between your trembling fingers.
“Stay,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. Tears bead in your eyes, but you keep them at bay.
Your thumb finds the pulse that thrums beneath his skin and you count his heart beats. The Gods are cruel, you think. They had kept Jace here long enough for you to miss him when he leaves.
You turn your body over to face him. You are not surprised to see him already staring back at you. His dark curls are a mess on the pillow beneath him. His lips pull upwards at the corners, but do not reach his eyes. He brings his hand up to stroke your cheek.
Your chin wobbles and he blinks away a frown.
“It will not be forever,” he tells you softly, reverently,
“I will return to you one day.”
You bring a hand up to wipe away the stubborn tears. “I suppose you do not know when that will be.”
He leans forward to give you a kiss and you know that is the only way he can possibly tell you no.
Pulling away from the kiss feels like saying good-bye.
You stay in bed as he stands, sluggishly dressing himself as if he was still looking for reasons not to leave. You do not think he finds one. He turns his head to look back at you and his expression falters.
A small smile curls at your lips as you mouth the word—go.
He heeds your instruction and leaves your cabin with a satchel of roasted fish, a map to the nearest town, and a bracelet strung with seashells.
ONE YEAR LATER…
The nets are full this morrow. The tide ebbs and flows, slinking across the silver sands. Birds let out cries of rejoice overhead for the plentiful bounty gifted by the sea.
You bend the knee to heave the first net out of the water. You clutch your chest protectively as you search through the things with the other hand.
“Hm,” you murmur, “a rainbow shell.”
You bring the shell up to the light and small reflections bounce across your vision. Tucking it into your satchel, you search some more. A piece of metal, two scraps of fabric, and a clam.
You pocket the metal and one of the ratty pieces of fabric, but allow the clam to slide back under the tide. You bring your dry hand to rest upon the head of the babe swaddled against your breast.
“Shh,” you whisper to him as he begins to stir. “It is alright, my prince.”
He brings his head up slowly to peer at you. A splatter of sea foam settles on the side of his face, but he does not seem to mind. He gives you a gummy smile and you return it lovingly.
He watches with bleary eyes as you sort through the next net of things. You show him each individual item as you retrieve it. Your heart skips when you feel a familiar shape and weight in the palm of your hand.
“A conch shell,” you inform him with a giddy grin, “these sell for several silvers at the market.”
He stares at the shell with wide eyes. The pattern, a dark brown and white mottling, you think, must confuse or enrapture him by the way he looks at it.
The small of your back has begun to hurt. You straighten up and lift a supportive hand to rest underneath the baby’s bum.
“This will be enough for today,” you decide. “The sea has gifted us more than we need.”
The little boy smacks his lips as if agreeing with the statement. You nod and carry your satchel and the boy up the familiar path to the cabin.
However, your footsteps slow as you grow closer until you stop right before the door. Something is not right. You protectively cradle the back of your son’s head as you touch a hand to the door.
It pushes open with little resistance. You slide the knife you kept on you at all times to your hand in one swift movement as you step inside.
You take not but two steps beyond the threshold before you freeze. The knife clatters to the ground and a gasp shudders from your lips at the sight in front of you.
He stands across from you like he never left. He’s dressed in black gilded leathers, his body a tad leaner and steadier. His face looks older, more mature and shaped by circumstance, just as you imagine yours must too. His mop of dark hair curls around his ears, longer than when you saw him last.
His lips with awe. He stares at you and your face as if trying to map something with his mind.
“Jace,” you say breathlessly. “How…”
“I saw you by the shore as I rode in from town,” he murmurs, taking a hesitant step forward. He lets out a soft laugh that sends your stomach aflutter. “I thought I might surprise you. I guess I am lucky to not have received a knife in my throat.”
Your throat bobs. Mistiness clouds your vision. “You came back for us.”
“For us?” Jace echoes, eyebrows furrowed. He comes so close he can reach out to you with his arm and you know that he has seen him then, by the shock that melts his features.
The boy turns his head to the best of his ability in your swaddle, his eyes searching for the unfamiliar voice. Jace’s mouth comes nearly unhinged, a trembling hand lifting as if to stroke his head, but it falls short.
He forces his eyes to look at you. “He… he’s mine?”
You bite your lip to suppress your smile as you nod. You reach around your neck with one arm while the other supports the baby’s bum. You unravel the swaddle easily, and the chubby baby flails his arms with relief. Never one to like a cage.
You outstretch him toward Jace and he takes him eagerly. He holds him with practiced ease. He supports the baby’s head and bum as he gazes down at him, tracing his forehead to the slope of his nose to the flutter of his lashes with only his eyes.
Jace finally breaks away from the baby long enough to look up at you. “And I just… I just left you. You and my son.”
Your heart skips a beat at the name. Son. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning like a fool.
“You had to,” you say, stepping forward to lay a gentle hand upon his upper arm. “Your family needed you.”
He clenches his jaw. “Nothing we did… nothing we accomplished… equals this.”
He strokes a featherlight touch against the boy’s cheek and he wrinkles his nose.
“Will you…” you pause. You try to steel yourself for the rejection that may very well follow, hands clammy by your sides. “Will you be staying long?”
Jace’s eyes rush to meet yours. He steps forward. The baby whimpers in his arms at the movement.
“I would stay forever if you would have me.”
You feel your heart skip a beat. “What? What of the throne? Of your family?”
He shakes his head. Your stomach drops.
“My brother Aegon will be the next ruler. Wed to his cousin.”
“And you?”
His dark eyes soften as they consider this question carefully. He clutches the lost prince to his chest protectively.
Okay but I fucking love the headcannons of izuku smoking cigarettes and having tattoos while keeping his golden boy image
🏁 eighteen plus only ! ⋆ minors don’t interact ⋆ implied smut ⋆ smoking/drinking ⋆ izu is a hoe!! ⋆ flirty midoriya hehe ⋆ teacher izuku midoriya, teacher & fem reader
feel sooo sick to my stomach because i adore the idea of sleazy!izuku being everybody’s perfect boy. the golden boy. he’s so good with kids and has a campaign about eating healthy and sugar free meals in schools with deku themed cereal bars and drinks but then he secretly smokes after every patrol as a vice to keep himself sane.
he still blushes and clams up when pretty reporters tell him he’s doing so well on the charts despite the hiatus he took … but then he’ll invite them up to his apartment after a round of press junkets just to fuck them by his city view. one hand in their hair, forcing their faces into his sheets and the other one tapping the ash from his cigarette into her glass of wine he’d used to butter them up. izuku will send them home with freshly pressed clothes and one of his sponsored energy drinks tucked underneath their arms — they never squeak, never tell the press. after all, their jobs are on the line and they desperately want another taste.
izuku, underneath crisp linen shirts and blazers and hero suits has more scars than he can count. more tattoos too. his favourite is the one that streaks straight down his spine, intricate work of black ink and green accents that remind him all too much of black whip. no one would ever know unless they saw him naked, he’s too shy to go fully nude for add campaigns and only allows certain creative directors to work with him on shoots because of.. said nerves.
“you’ve got a lot of bad habits, midoriya sensei.” you tell him whilst the two of you work late one night. your eyes aren’t on him, you sit side by side grading papers in the teacher’s office. finals. his third years will be heroes soon and yours move up to second in their place.
izuku’s red marker pen screeches to a halt on the page — dribbly ink, loose and crimson sinking through the crisp and crumpled page of a student’s hand written essay. he’ll bump them up a mark for the mess.
“like what?”
he doesn’t look up either, breaths careful and controlled, because all it would really take is one person and their prying eyes to bring his squeaky clean reputation down to its knees. the symbol of hope, a slimy sleaze would be the headline of the ages.
“you smell like smoke, tobacco. it clings to your tie sometimes, especially after your free periods.” you comment absentmindedly, flipping the page of your own student’s work. “there’s a lipstick on the collar of your shirt. purple. the journalist who came to give the students that media training workshop. she wears a similar colour.” you gesture to the collar of your own shirt next, gaze finally flickering up to meet darkened and amused jade eyes. “and you’ve got new ink right here.” you tap the inside of your wrist once, izuku lifting his own. “dynamight’s death date on your wrist.”
“you got me there, i won’t deny it. you stalking me?” izuku laughs, his fingers press into star studded cheeks and his eyes remain hooded. daring. “didn’t know you were such a fan.” he rolls his hair closer to yours, elbows on his knees.
“i’m just observant sensei, i like to know what you’re up to. keep myself out of trouble.”
rolling your eyes, you shuffle your papers and begin to pack up — completely ignoring the heated figure beside you, the curiosity and newfound desire radiating off of him in alluring waves.
you shake your head. resist.
“i’m one of the good guys remember? no trouble here.” izuku fiddled with the stray pens on your desk, teasing you with a touch that’s yet to be yours,
“everyone has their dark side, sensei.” you quip, snatching the stationary up — not missing the spark of electricity that jolts between you both when your fingers brush. “including you. so if i want to keep working here — i’ll need to be on my best behaviour. away from trouble. away from you.” you smile slow, almost sexy like you see right through him. “so don’t worry too much midoriya. your secret is safe with me.”
end. - reblogs and comments are always appreciated! just liking doesn't do anything. so leave a comment to motivate this writer if you'd like to see more!!
⋆. ⋮ ⌗ ┆ kissing bestfriend and jock!yuuji in front of his fangirls
cw // notes: fem!reader, toothrotting fluff, cliché, reader & yuuji are hopelessly in love with each other
you hated attending your best friend's basketball games.
first and foremost, there was the stench of sweat lingering in the packed gymnasium. it made it almost unbearable to sit through and enjoy the play-off without paying half of the intended attention for the game to the smell itself.
even on yuuji as he comes up to you after finished games, you can clearly catch a whiff of the sweat on him.
"i will not hug you unless you take a shower first, yuu! i don't wanna smell like dirty socks, i just showered!"
"aw, come on! just a quick one to celebrate my win?"
... you fold instantly when he gives you those dumb puppy eyes and that irritatingly adorable frown.
"... fine, just a quick one—"
the hugs are almost always never quick.
second, with how hot it was in there — every time your arm bumped into another's in the seats — you felt their stickiness latch onto you. the moist sensation made your skin crawl and your face wrinkle in disgust.
especially on yuuji during the torturous hugs.
"yuuji! you said quick, oh my god!"
third and lastly — the fangirls. by far, the most annoying one out of the three. with everything yuuji did, they would squeal his name and fawn over him like it was phenomenal to move across the court. sure, there was nothing wrong with having fans, but what was the deal with yuuji having so many?!
it wasn't just fans either, even cheerleaders of his team and the other! they throw their best stunts whenever they receive news that he's playing like it'll change a damn thing.
and you love it, really, how yuuji is so supported by everyone. he trains hard and he's a pretty good player. you're pretty damn sure your best friend loves the attention too! he gets an ego boost knowing there'd be girls swarming him after every game.
but you hated it. it was.. bothering you, to say the least, having to try and focus without being distracted every minute by the screams for yuuji like they were in a badly budgeted film for teen romance.
you didn't hate it just because they were loud! i mean, sure, that's a factor... but maybe it was because there was something more that made it all the more intolerable to you. you didn't like it for a different reason.
"kyaaaa! did you see that? itadori yuuji just winked at me!" one of the girls shrieked in excitement.
point proven.. unfortunately.
and perhaps that started all the way to the time things changed in the way you saw yuuji. you don't know how or when it did — but it was clear to you that things weren't the same anymore.
how suddenly, when you woke up one morning, you found yourself seeing the boy you've always treated as a friend — as something different. as someone that wouldn't be just a friend.
yuuji always took care of you right. better than any of your friends or ex boyfriends. he was the only one who knew how to hold you properly. but you've never even seen it that way! because no, there was nothing more behind the way he looks after you. it was friendship.
yuuji holds your hand in crowds so you don't get lost — sometimes intertwined fingers, sometimes his palm catching yours. you always love the way his big hands warm yours.
he always has to have an arm wrapped around your waist if you two are outside, it's practically mandatory! you'd argue it wasn't necessary, but you loved every single second of yuuji doing it anyway.
he brings you your favorite food and comforts you whenever you're stressed and studying for midterms — moving astray strands of your hair from your face. you don't know how he knew all the stuff that made you feel so at ease even during exhuasting days — but you were glad he did, because you love him.
it's just what itadori yuuji did. he was a gentleman at heart, and there was nothing more ever to that. everything he did was him being him.
when suddenly, you realized that your heart beating at an abnormal pace when he did things for you wasn't something friends felt. it definitely wasn't common at all.
he used to do all of these things without you batting an eye at all! like it was routine — nothing to be shocked or flustered about.
but these days, yuuji was the only one making you feel like this.
before you even knew it — the game has already ended, and yuuji's team won thanks to him clutching the final shot. you're not quite sure if you paid the attention to the play itself, or more on the fangirls swooning over the bubblegum-haired player and your messy feelings for your best friend.
yuuji breathes out a long sigh, running his fingers through his hair & pushing the stray strands away — heading over to the bleachers for some water. beads of sweat rolled down yuuji's temple, as he chugged down the whole bottle without stopping at all, his adam's apple bobbing with each swallow.
the perverted girls took pictures of yuuji who was completely oblivious to how good he looked in the moment, with it not being his intention to look hot at all. seeing them giggle and push each other to ask for his number almost made you want to douse your eyes in bleach. you can tell they're posting this on their story later.
“yuu.”
the mention of his nickname snaps him back to reality after downing two bottles, your voice immediately ringing something special within him. frankly, if someone else called him the way you call him — he wouldn't respond at all. like you pavlov'd yuuji into only acknowledging the way you said it.
“oh hey! i didn't know you came! i thought you said you were busy?” he tossed the empty bottles in the bin, water dribbling down his chin.
yuuji walked over to you with the biggest smile on his face, like it was conditioned to appear upon every time he greets you. you could assume a tail was wagging behind him too.
the air inside the room was then flooded by murmurs of: “who is that?” and hushed interest. the daydreaming stance of the fans was halted — as for somehow — yuuji seemed more excited and happy seeing you, than when he won the game for his team.
you weren't any different either. your cheeks flushed instantly upon the scene before you of yuuji getting eager to talk to you — biting back a beam and a corny joke.
“so.. where's my hug to celebrate?”
it's typical. it's cringe, cliché, and literally reminds you of those memes of men with their pick-up lines thinking they're hot. but instead of shuddering at the dumb gag, your face only turns more red unwillingly.
yuuji has an almost terrifying wide grin as he stood in front of you, and you can already tell he has a plan to irk you somehow. he always does.
so after a long minute of piercing a stare right through each other's eyes — yuuji makes the move. he places a hand on your head... and pats you?! he ruffles your hair and you groan in vexation, quickly swatting his hand away and fixing the mess.
the cringey-romantic interaction has everyone in the room furrow their eyebrows in disgust, gasping an implausible sound — pulling out their phones to start recording. you can feel their eyes land on you, the inescapable stares making it hard to even face yuuji normally.
“oh my gosh, yuu.. they're recording us.” you tug on yuuji's jersey, quickly hiding yourself from the cameras with your hand. it almost felt like you were an actual celebrity! ...except the only mini-celebrity here was your clumsy bestfriend who clearly just did everything he thought of doing despite consequences.
yuuji scans the room — blushing at the thought of being the face of a bunch of girls' videos. he's always dreamt of this, of course he has! girls swarming him and they love him? well, sign yuuji up for it then. he's no different than any teenage boy!
but now that you're here with him — it feels really different. like he doesn't want the attention of anybody anymore, but yours. it's felt like that for a while now. and just like you, yuuji doesn't know how or when every moment with you started to feel like this.
maybe on the day he got into a dumb argument with you. your tears fell slowly while you were still yelling at him, and yuuji swears he could still remember the way his heart tightened in his chest seeing you cry because of him. he'd call you a crybaby — but not when he's the one that caused it.
yuuji won't forget the way his palms caught the falling beads. his hands hugging your cheeks, thumb wiping away the rest that threatened to drop.
how over time, yuuji realized he wanted to be with you more and more every day without being bound to imaginary rules that ‘friends’ couldn't do this, blah, blah, blah. there were so many things to try with you, including stuff that only couples did.
eventually, yuuji blurred the line guarding the two things so much so that he ended up taking care of you how a boyfriend would. it seemed the same for you too, you were the best friend.. and girlfriend?
when over time, he knew the things he wanted to do with you meant that he saw you in a different way. surely the wishes yuuji made weren't normal — what friend would wish to be yours?
“oh, wait— sorry! forgot we weren't alone... lemme just take a shower real quick, then we'll head out for food since i'm kinda hungry.”
but before he could go, you yank his wrists back to you — eliciting a soft hum from him, and a croak from everybody else. you brace against on his shoulders, making yuuji stoop down a little to your level.
you've made the decision. you were gonna end this complicated bullshit of being whatever with the most oblivious loser, itadori yuuji. you've been itching to get a taste of your bestfriend anyhow and anyway.
did you think about this thoroughly? probably not.
are you still gonna do it? well, hell yeah!
your hands find their way to the back of his head, pushing his face closer to yours. the way your heart thumped faster and faster seeing yuuji so up-front like this — fuck, you could almost mistake it was trying to claw its way out with how harsh it was pounding against your chest.
a crease formed in between his eyebrows, an undeniable grin drew his lips. yuuji held you by your waist, afraid to let you go. and for seconds, it was just you two admiring one another's features. the rhythm of your breaths collided — both hearts now beating way too quick.
the cheers of the fans rang in yuuji's ear miserably, but soon faded out as he only kept his focus on you now. he can smell the distinct scent of his cologne on your shirt.. had you sprayed it on yourself before you came here? your perfume smells way better though..
“you smell like me.” yuuji smiled, and you giggled lightly. it sounded so comforting. he could play that sound in his mind endlessly on repeat without ever getting tired of the little noises you make.
you were so gorgeous. his best friend is so gorgeous that it made him lose his shit and go red entirely.
then, yuuji closed his eyes first — leaning in, breath taken aback because of how excited he was. a pulse of uncertainty pattered, he was scared of making the wrong move. were you about to kiss him or did he take it wrong? was this a dream? yuuji really hoped it wasn't.
after what appeared to be the most excruciating seconds wasted on nothing, yuuji knows now he wasn't dreaming at all when his lips finally closed off the unbearable distance and tease. he was glad it wasn't.. otherwise asleep him would probably be kissing his pillow.
it was clumsy at first — why wouldn't it be when you're kissing the person you love? your noses bumped each other, inciting a breathy laugh amid the kiss. ultimately, confidence builds up and yuuji takes this as a chance to hoist you comfortably. also, was what he was tasting on your tongue his gum?
it was still awkward, but neither of you two pulled away until air finally ran out. you met yuuji's eyes, full of reciprocated devotion and delight. you rested your forehead against his, unevenly panting and loosening the grip on his wrist.
meanwhile, yuuji still refused to stop clinging onto you despite the heat. he wondered why he avoided this for so long. he didn't know he could have this with you.
by now, the nosy fans from afar have caught wind of the whole scene on their phones. you two will probably be posted on social media pretty quick.. also calling for a trip to the detention counsel if any of the teachers see it.
“are we still getting food? can we go to my favorite restaurant?” you quip.
“you ask me that after we just kissed? can't i kiss you more?” yuuji pouts, and all you can do is give him a look that says: ‘if i don't eat in under 8 minutes i will dissolve.’
“fine.. i'll get my other kisses later. and of course we are! this'll be our first real date, i'm not missing it. hold on— oh god, i'm not even in a suit!”
a/n: yuuji probably thinks he'll look like a chud next to you, his beautiful babe 🙏🏻 we love a man that worships you and it's yuuji ✋🏻 but can we tell i rlly like writing for this cutie pie,,, also i accidentally deleted a req abt a megumi x reader for enemies to lovers as i was writing it omg im so bummed 🥹
pairing: bf!Yuji Itadori x f!reader
synopsis: you receive an alarming text message from your boyfriend saying he got a new haircut. but even after imploring, he refuses to show you a photo, and insists on you finding out once he comes back home. so you anxiously await his return...
cw: none, fluff, established relationship
wc: 940
Yuji masterlist
You were enjoying your evening in Yuji’s room. Your snacks were laid out on the bed, your hair was messy and you were wearing one of his shirts.
Laid out on your stomach with your feet kicked up, you watched a movie he’d recommended you some time ago. He loved raving about his dvd collection to you.
And although the sci-fi movie was a little weird, it wasn’t that bad. You were excited for him to return from his mission so you could give him your lengthy review of the movie.
That’s when your phone chimed. You reached for it, and tapped your code in. It was a message from Yuji. Your eyes immediately lit up, and you replied.
You let your phone turn off by itself, too stunned to do it manually. The movie continues playing in the background, long forgotten now.
You clear your throat and sit up properly on the bed, trying to rationalize.
So, his hair had caught on fire, which sounds horrifying by the way, but knowing Yuji he was probably fine. This eventually led him to cut his hair.
Okay. Yeah. That’s fine. He was probably due for a trim anyways, right? Besides, how short could it be now? Surely not that short.
You stood up with a sigh, making your way to the small bathroom and staring at your reflection in the mirror propped above the sink.
Snap out of it, it’s just hair. You loved your boyfriend regardless of what he looked like.
… But still, you were going to miss running your hands through his hair now that it was short.
Suddenly, you hear the doorknob turn, and the door carefully swings open.
“I’m back.” You hear his voice, and his footsteps, as he walks around looking for you.
You take a deep breath and brace yourself, determined not to let your face show any emotion you don’t want it to. You open the door of the bathroom and step out.
“Hey, sorry I was in the bathroom—”
He has his back to you at first, and your eyes fly to his head almost immediately. He still has his dark undercut, but the pink part of his hair is much shorter now. He turns to face you.
Usually he’d run to wrap his arms around you and spin you around as he laughed and let out multiple “I missed you”’s. But right now he was too nervous about facing you to do any of that.
He watched carefully as you slowly made your way to him.
And now that you’ve gotten a closer look at him? He honestly didn’t look half bad. No, forget that, he looked really good. Sure his hair was much shorter, it looked like a slightly overgrown buzzcut—but it looked good. You knew Yuji was a cute guy, but for him to be able to pull off short hair like this?
Your hands reach up to touch it, and you let out a small chuckle as your hands are met with a slightly prickly feeling, instead of the softness you’re used to. His gaze lowers and finds yours, as you watch his cheeks flush into a subtle pink.
“You didn’t… burn your scalp or anything right? You’re fine?” you ask, your hands sliding down to cup his jaw.
“Mm-mh.” he shakes his head wordlessly.
“Okay, that’s good.” you mutter in response.
He breaks the silence, his voice quiet. “So… is it bad?” he asks, looking at you expectantly.
You suddenly realize he was waiting for your approval, and you scramble to answer him. “No! It looks great.”
He looks at you with a raised eyebrow. “You’re just being nice, aren’t you?”
Rolling your eyes, you huff. “I mean it, Yuji. You really pull it off well.” you laugh, and your fingers find their way to the back of his scalp, instinctively scratching and caressing his nape.
He looks at you skeptically for a moment before sighing and looking away. “It’ll grow back anyway.”
You look up at him, bottom lip caught between your teeth without even realizing it. “... and if I don’t want it to?”
He looks back down at you, surprise painting his features. “Really?”
Another laugh escapes you and you nod. “Really. You look hot.” you shrug.
He brings up a hand to his chest and points at himself, with raised eyebrows.
You burst out laughing at his gesture. “Yes you, dumbass.”
“You call me hot one second, and then a dumbass the next.” he deadpans, his hand going back to your waist.
“Yeah well we’re talking about you Yuji, the two kind of go hand-in-hand.”
“Thanks… I think?”
The two of you laugh together again, before you speak up. “Okay go wash up, you reek of sweat.” you separate yourself from him. "And make it quick so I can give you my review of that movie you told me to watch."
His eyes light up. "You watched it?"
"I did... was I not supposed to?"
His hands find your waist again and he lifts you up in a tight hug. "You're the best!"
"Yuji, Put me down you're all sticky—"
He quickly lets go of you. "Oh, sorry, forgot." he chuckles.
"At this point I think I'm going to have to shower too." you sigh.
He slowly looks up at you with that look in his eyes. "You know, we could just—"
"No, pervert."
"Yes ma'am. Sorry ma'am." his shoulders straighten.
You watch him as he makes his way to the bathroom, your eyes glued to the top of his head.
Yeah. You could definitely get used to this new hairstyle of his.
I feel like fanon fans fundamentally just do not understand why comic fans have such a complaint about the way fanon fans interact and contribute to the fandom. Even those that are comic readers, but prefer or enjoy fanon, hold the mindset that fanon is more akin to "goofy crackfic and whump", which does have its place in fandom as a staple.
The issue is, there is a clear difference between fandom staples (like crack and whump) and what comic fanon has become.
Comic fanon has become a monolith in comic spaces where thousands of people celebrate and encourage illiteracy, where fanon concepts are lauded as facts, where non-readers speak as authority on comics, where many many fanon concepts are rooted in racism, misogyny, ableism, xenophobia and classism, where any character that is not a Bat or Bat-adjacent is maligned and mischaracterized to be a prop for their nearest Bat (Hal is Bruce's punching bag, Bart is Tim and Kon's baby). Even the Bats are flanderized into tropes.
Everyone who likes comics and other characters has to endure at some point someone who has never bothered to get to actually know these comics being told their comics are stupid or their non-Bat character is only good if tied with a Bat.
It gets exhausting after a while, so fics that might be rightfully crack or whump, depending on the content, are met with suspicion because they feed this aggressive fanon machine.
They contribute to a problem, and it's a problem that thousands of people outright refuse is a problem because they benefit from the problem (they like the content even if it's racist).
So I get told to kill myself for correcting fanon myth held as fact (Clark abandoned Kon, no he didn't), even phrased in the most gentle of ways.
Then I get people telling me that Bart is the r-slur and a sweet innocent baby (he's capable and his friends' age, curses all the time and tried to get his mentor laid).
Then I get told I'm ableist for pointing out that the "silent Cass trope" is racist.
Then I see fanon concepts held as FACTS where the Green Lanterns are terrified of Batman, or Barry Allen can't solve a crossword, or Clark Kent (an investigative journalist) can't solve a mystery and they need Batman to help them.
Any opposition to this is frequently met with accusations of hating fun, or gatekeeping, and fanon fans refuse to acknowledge that they are being at least little bit shitty.
Anyway, fanon content creators are free to create whatever they want, but comic fans that don't want to deal with being told their comics are stupid have every right to call out inappropriate behavior. At some point you have to admit maybe there is a problem, and you're contributing to it.
We cannot ignore it, we cannot filter it out, it is relentless.
mdni. instead of sleep walking, gojo’s sleep sucking on your titties!
“-ngh.”
waking up to satoru’s heavy frame slung on top of you wasn’t exactly anything new. but opening your eyes to discover his warm mouth wrapped around your nipple?
stifling a yawn and squirming, sleepily trying to regain a sliver of sensibility as he sucked hard, sloppily dragging his tongue over the peaked bud as his fingers squeeze and groped your other breast.
“satoru,” you softly whined, blinking as your boyfriend practically tried to breastfeed from you—absolutely undeterred at the lack of milk.
he made a needy noise.
a deep groan that came from his chest, his hips grinding down to rut against the blankets tangled around you.
when you suggested free use to him a few months ago, you figured he’d use it for actually fucking you. not just slurping on your nipple while you were half-asleep.
and even now that you were starting to rise, he hadn’t budged, still groping and grabbing at you as he licked up his own spit that dribbled down the valley of your breasts.
“toru,” you whispered again, gently running your fingers through his fluffy hair, pushing the soft strands back so you could see his eyes.
he blinked slowly back at you, lazy and unfocused, the blue still shining in your dimly lit bedroom. swirling his tongue over the sensitive bud, not slowing or stopping for even a second as you tugged lightly at his roots.
but even when he unlatched, he barely reacted, brows just knitting together in faint confusion. mumbling something completely incoherent before returning to nuzzling against your chest as it struck you that he wasn’t even awake.
exhaustion still heavy enough in your bones and luring you back into your own dreams, readjusting with a thick yawn as you let him snuggle closer, lips leaving lingering kisses. the hypnotic sounds of his moans lulling you under until you had drifted off once more.
“fuck,” gojo’s groans snapped you out of your sleep a second time, morning sun filtering through the window now as you sat up easier, squinting as you scanned the room to discover satoru out of bed this time.
his pretty face all scrunched up, staring down at the unfortunate dried cum stain splotched in the front of his boxers, not even a hint of embarrassment etched into his expression.
girl your thraggs daughter story has so much potential, please write more im begging you. pathetic obsessed mark is beautiful.
THRAGG'S DAUGHTER (3)
warnings: mark is an extreme pervert, lol, premature ejaculation, the reader is extremely narcissistic, hanging, mentions of breeding kink, reader watch mark
summary: What if, in the end, you were Thragg's daughter?
author's note: another chapter because I'm simply loving writing this little collection of fanfics! But I'm a little apprehensive about how the story will unfold x( So get ready because it probably won't be that cute, if you know what I mean! We're on the third-to-last chapter; initially, I'll only do 5 chapters, that is, if I don't go over too much, haha. Well, happy reading, and sorry for the mistakes; English isn't my first language!
The Viltrumites on Earth indicated danger. However, the agreement—that cursed agreement regarding the fact that the Viltrumites were going to re-establish themselves on the planet, and, most importantly... repopulate.
That last word sounded terrifying. Obviously, the Viltrumites were being watched by Cecil and the Coalition of Planets, but they managed to sneak among humans very well. The only bridge, the only possible communication, was [Name].
Classified as one of the strongest enemies after Thragg, with SS-rank agility and strength, you would vanish and reappear with the same intensity, always watching none other than Mark, the Invincible. He already knew your scent well enough, and obviously, he didn't tell Cecil that you were watching him occasionally—Mark barely saw you, he only felt your scent in the air, and that left him desperate, paralyzed in search of more.
Heavens, he should have been worried about the fact that the Viltrumite race was settling on Earth, but along with all of that, he felt exasperated knowing you were there too. Debbie went to the Coalition of Planets with Nolan, and Mark was alone... with his thoughts racing in various directions. He was still searching for you incessantly, but now more cautiously after the pacifying agreement between the Viltrumites.
Flying among the clouds, he didn't even know where he was—he just let the wind take him far away, following the birdsong and the breeze. Suddenly, he inhales, that scent so familiar. The one he tried to replicate in perfumes; your perfume, your scent.
Mark stops, his eyes widening as he sees you, standing still with your arms crossed behind your back, your expression stern and your Viltrumite uniform perfectly aligned on your body. He moans, his irises becoming darker:
"You... are you watching me?" Mark asks, swallowing hard. You simply shrug, giving a tiny smile.
"My father ordered me to keep an eye on you, son of Nolan," your tone is cautious. "I am just following my superior's orders."
He inhales again, the scent becoming more present, and he feels his sweatpants get tighter, as if he were reducing himself to mere nothingness just by being near you.
"I thought we were in a truce," he replies, peacefully, flying a bit closer. He needed more. "Repopulate Viltrum, isn't that it?"
You laugh, a bit loudly, guffawing... and he simply feels a tightness in his heart. Heavens, you could humiliate him right now and he would fall in love even more.
"My father ordered me to keep an eye on you to understand your pathetic passion for these humans," you reply, stopping your laughter. "This empathy of yours... it's disgusting."
Your tone is harsh, as if you were disgusted. And he loved that this tone was being directed at him. Pathetic.
"Yes, repopulating Viltrum is one of my father's main objectives," you reply with patience. "Especially after you, your father, and the traitor destroyed our planet..." your tone is sharp, disdainful. "But I don't want to contaminate my womb with this filthy race."
Your lip curls in a grimace, as if just thinking about procreating with humans was something from another world.
"We aren't that different from humans," he approaches further, and realizes you don't pull away. "Physically we are... identical."
"Physically we are superior, mentally as well," you interject, noticing he was getting closer and closer, like a dazed little puppy. "Do you know why I asked my father to let you live, Mark Grayson?"
Silence. Mark denies, not knowing, as if he wanted to hear a "because I fell in love with you from the first time I saw you."
"Because you were the only half-breed that turned out right... and I respect that," you elaborate, leaning in slowly. "But even so, I will be the one responsible for ripping your head off when our truce ends."
Mark's eyes widen, and in an abrupt impulse, he flies in your direction. It's fast, as he stretches out his arms—probably to attack you, you assumed, but in truth, it was to hug you.
Before his hands could even reach your waist, you stopped him, grabbing him by the neck with force. Your nails dig into the side of his neck, and Mark moans pathetically. He was starting to get hard just from that.
"I—I just want to show you..." He groans, rolling his eyes in pleasure as your nails dig in tighter. "How the Earth can be an incredible planet..." He coughs.
Your eyebrows arch, confused... show you?
Well, your father had assigned you to get as close to Mark as possible, perhaps to try and bring him to the Viltrumite side—and if all goes well, procreate with him for a nearly 100% Viltrumite heir. But the last part about procreating didn't really settle in your head... it made you feel slightly nauseated, mainly at the thought of how someone as weak as Mark could touch your body.
You release Mark's neck, making him breathe deeply—without even realizing the state he was left in, with an erection. You cross your arms, still staring fixedly:
"Show me then. Tomorrow, without fail," you exclaim, and before Mark could say anything, you vanish again.
He could have gone after you, but the erection in his pants didn't let him—grunting, when he realized... Mark had finished in his pants just from having his neck gripped.
Heavens, those Viltrumite hormones were messing with him way too much.
warnings:. mark continues to be a pervert, obsession, foul language, threat, truce, mentions of reproduction.
summary: What if, in the end, you were Thragg's daughter?
author's notes: what was supposed to be a one-chapter fanfic turned into a whole new one, lol, but anyway, I'm actually happy to be writing this fanfic! I don't see the point in explaining everything in a spoon-fed way; I write based on Mark's obsession.
The mission had been a failure. Even with Viltrum destroyed, the situation hadn’t benefited either side.
Both the Viltrumites and the Coalition lost.
Thaedus had his head torn off, Nolan nearly died—tragic—and Oliver was still recovering, slowly, which still worried him.
And Mark? Well, he had been nearly blind for days… But when he finally opened his eyes, all the memories came crashing back into his mind.
He was only alive because of her, and that thought kept hammering inside his head:
❝Mark can’t see anything anymore, only groaning in pain as Thragg drives his fingers into both of his eyes. The sensation sends a chill through his body—was he going to die there, right then?
‘Father,’ her voice, sweet yet firm, echoes. Thragg pauses for a moment, glancing at his own daughter. ‘I don’t think it’s right to kill this half-human, half-Viltrumite.’
Mark’s breath halts. Were you defending him? He wished he could look at you in that moment, admire both your beauty and your strength.
‘You’re right, (name)…’ (name)? God, he feels like he’s in heaven. That name echoing in his mind, the pain still tearing him apart, but just thinking about you—and the possibility that you saved him—fills him with overwhelming hope. ‘There are already so few of us left.’ Thragg releases him, and Mark feels his body drifting into the abyss.
The only thing he senses is your scent. That scent (of preference) filling his lungs before he falls into a dark, indescribable void.❞
When he returned to Earth, Oliver was already better—his arm regenerating, using some kind of prototype to keep him from overexerting himself.
The moment Mark sets foot on his home planet, everything seems to settle… yet he turns to someone he least expects: Cecil Stedman.
❝You’re asking for data to find a girl named (name)?” he asks, fixed, confused. “What exactly for, Mark?"
“Just do it!” he snaps, grinding his teeth. “You owe me one for letting Conquest live!”
Cecil agrees quietly, his chair slowly turning.
“This is the first and last time I help you with something like this, Grayson.❞
But the results aren’t good.
He keeps asking himself why… why he was so desperate to find you, to see your face again… God, you’re a Viltrumite! He was supposed to hate you for being part of that damned empire…
But he couldn’t.
After patrolling, saving worlds, and still trying to track down the Viltrumites (and you), everything he found was nothing.
Even talking to Eve wasn’t helping—yes, he liked her, but not in the way that made his chest ache and made him question his own sanity.
Mark lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling—then he closes his eyes, trying to focus on anything other than your ❪color❫ eyes or simply your voice and—
A blur.
Mark’s eyes snap open, his nostrils flaring… that familiar scent makes him jump out of bed. When he looks ahead—right in front of him—that same imposing figure, the same Viltrumite uniform, and those same eyes:
“Your room is quite flashy,” your voice states, as your gaze scans every detail of his room. “Actually, your planet is very… loud.”
There’s no real sign it’s a criticism—just a firm observation.
Mark looks at you like you’re the most beautiful being in the world, his heart racing. You being there should mean danger, certain death, destruction of the neighborhood—or even the entire city… but all Mark feels is that overwhelming urge to pull you close and do things he didn’t even know were possible.
“Y–You…” he stammers, stepping closer, while your sharp, feline gaze locks onto him as if he were an insect.
“I came here on behalf of my father… for a truce,” you say seriously, and Mark has to control himself just to stay composed.
“A truce?” he asks, eyes practically glowing, which makes your brows arch.
“Yes… a truce.” You don’t move closer, you do nothing, just stand there with your arms behind your back. “We know that even with few Viltrumites left, we’re still capable of wiping out this pathetic little planet of yours.”
Your tone is sarcastic, but Mark can’t even process it—too captivated, almost like a devoted puppy.
“So… Regent Thragg wants you to allow Earth to be used for Viltrumite reproduction, and in return, we won’t attack anyone anymore.”
“REPRODUCE?” he blurts out.
“Yes, Invincible,” your voice is cold as Mark sits at the edge of the bed. You lean slightly forward, locking eyes with him, and he feels like he could die right there. “Either that… or we destroy this pathetic planet, and I’ll personally kill you.”
“You didn’t kill me last time,” he says, stepping closer, eyes locked onto yours. “You… defended me… you kept me alive.”
Your fearless expression falters, replaced by a look of disdain.
“Don’t delude yourself, half-breed. I only saved you because our species is going extinct,” you step closer, your movements nearly silent, your eyes gleaming. “But if you take any action against Viltrum, I’ll be the one to end you.”
And suddenly—you’re gone.
So fast he can’t even process it.
Mark swallows hard, cheeks flushed, breathing heavily as he inhales the last traces of your scent.
And damn it… he’s completely overwhelmed again.
Maybe Cecil would want to hear the news later…
He needed to deal with himself first—thinking about you.
warnings: mark is a stupid pervert, mark likes to get beaten up, bdsm (?), mark yandere, some spoilers for the penultimate episode of season 4.
summary: What if, in the end, you were Thragg's daughter?
author's note: drabble, just products of my imagination while watching the penultimate episode of the series. I'll probably turn it into a mini-series ;)
The vacuum of space is usually cold and silent, but in the heat of the Viltrumite War, it felt like a pressurized furnace of blood and kinetic energy. Amidst the chaos of splintering moons and the screams of the Coalition, Mark Grayson’s world suddenly narrows.
He isn't looking at the Grand Regent. He isn't even looking at the trail of destruction his father and Allen are carving through the Viltrumite ranks.
He is looking at you.
Standing just a few paces ahead of Thragg, you are the ultimate anomaly. Thaedus hadn't prepared them for this; the idea of Thragg having a "prodigy" daughter—a warrior born of pure Viltrumite lineage and refined for nothing but conquest—was a nightmare scenario. Yet, there you are. Your posture is terrifyingly perfect, arms crossed behind your back, your **(eye color)** eyes glowing with a feral, predatory brilliance that makes the stars behind you look dim.
Mark’s jaw literally drops. A small, pathetic thread of saliva escapes his mouth. Beside him, Allen the Alien nudges him, though the Unopaun’s expression shifts from confusion to realization. Everyone on the battlefield can see it: Invincible, the savior of Earth, has just fallen head-over-heels for the daughter of his greatest enemy.
Driven by a sudden, manic surge of adrenaline, Mark decides he’s done with the distractions. Anissa lunges at him, her hands outstretched to tear him apart, but Mark doesn't even blink. He connects a devastating hook to her jaw, sending the elder Viltrumite spiraling through the debris, colliding with Allen in a messy blur of capes.
Mark’s focus is singular. He sees Thragg, the man who wants his entire bloodline erased, beckoning him. Mark lunges, a golden streak of defiance aimed straight at the Regent.
But he never reaches him.
You move faster than his eyes can track. One moment you are a statue of lethal grace; the next, you are a blur of motion. Your fist connects with his face with the force of a collapsing star. The impact shatters one of his lenses, the glass digging into his skin, and the sheer momentum sends him hurtling backward, coughing up a spray of crimson that drifts in the zero-gravity like morbid confetti.
Mark groans, a pathetic, airy sound. He hears Oliver’s distant, panicked scream: "Mark! Get up!"
But as Mark forces his eyes open, his vision isn't blurry from the concussion. His pupils are blown wide, pulsing in the unmistakable shape of hearts. The pain is there, sharp and throbbing, but it’s eclipsed by a rush of endorphins that makes his skin tingle. He is dazed, bleeding, and utterly, hopelessly smitten.
He rights himself, floating unsteadily as he looks at you. His voice, projected through the telepathic link shared by the warriors, is unnervingly calm and soft.
“Look... I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, his tone sounding more like a plea for a date than a declaration of war. “I know you’re Thragg’s daughter... but you have to know that all this Viltrumite supremacy stuff is totally wrong and outdated, right?”
You look at him with a gaze so filled with pure, unadulterated disdain that it should have withered his soul. To Mark, however, it’s the most intoxicating thing he’s ever seen. He feels like he could drop to his knees right there in the void and kiss your boots.
“That is nonsense,” your voice rings in his mind, cold and sharp as a blade. Mark’s eyes roll back into his head for a fleeting second; the mere vibration of your thoughts is enough to make his knees weak. “I will take it upon myself to kill you, Son of Nolan, and display your head for my father.”
It is a gruesome, terrifying threat—standard Viltrumite fare. But Mark doesn't flinch. If anything, his grin grows wider, more determined. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen, or maybe he’s been in space too long with nothing but his own hormones for company, but he’s reached a conclusion.
Something as beautiful and lethal as you doesn't belong on the wrong side of history. And he is going to make sure you realize that—even if he has to let you hit him a few more times to prove his point.
⤷request: Hi💕May I request hc for Meliodas n Ban (separetly!) being lovers of a young queen? Do u think they would want to take the king’s place if thier s/o becomes pregnant with them? Thx❤❤ - anon
⤷notes: okay, I started righting this… and then just got carried away…. so idk but… you’re welcome, nonnie. hope you enjoy! (really prouda this one :) )
⤷warnings/tw: mentions of a secret relationship, and of sexual intimacy, me being cheesy……..
seven deadly sins; valentine’s day dates ft. meliodas, ban, and king
tw: meliodas’ is suggestive at end. 18+
meliodas
the dragon’s sin of not showing he cares enough
He’s really not the romantic type, in the sense of flowers, chocolates, or declarations of love. Meliodas’ brand of romance is a shared beer by the fireplace, inside jokes, and knowing glances. But if you make enough of a fuss about it, dropping hints here and there, he’ll make you breakfast in bed.
Which would be cute… if the Captain wasn’t infamous for his terrible cooking skills. The pancakes he makes look absolutely delectable, but one bite has you wanting to hurl. But hey, he tried! That’s how most of his romantic endeavors go—down south.
Even if you say how much you want flowers and such, Meliodas acts oblivious. Or maybe he really is oblivious. His thinking is, if you really want flowers so much, you silly thing, why don’t you get them yourself? He doesn’t see the need for trite displays of romance; isn’t it enough that he loves you in his own way? If you persist though, he will show up with a bushel of flowers for you. Literally, the entire bush, roots and all.
Continuar a ler
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