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halfvalid · 7 months

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the blade daughter, pt. 2

ABOUT

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3

alternate title: dracule mihawk cures your daddy issues!

rating: mature

characters: live action!roronoa zoro | fem!reader | live action!dracule mihawk | live action!straw hat ensemble

pairing: live action!roronoa zoro x fem!reader

word count: 23.6k total | 8k this part

description: after joining the straw hats on board the going merry, you're confused as to what to do with your life from now—and you can't help but get closer to zoro.

tags: mihawk's daughter!reader, female reader, canon-typical violence, cursing, no use of 'y/n', pet names per mihawk ('dear', 'darling', 'sweetheart', 'little hawk'), emotional hurt/comfort, slow burn, patching of wounds

author’s note: second chapter! i hope you like it <3 out of the three this one's probably my favorite personally, i really like the wound-stitching scene & i think it's one of the best scenes ive ever written. i'm suchhh a slut for the patching up of wounds trope.

You rose before the sun, careful to pack your belongings all in one sack. Considering the very little amount you’d brought, it was a relatively easy task—leaving the sloop would be fine, too, as you paid for the slip for a few months longer at least. Your father had so many ships across so many seas it hardly mattered much anymore.

You double-checked that you had all of your things before shutting down and leaving the sloop, consulting some of the dock men to transfer a boat lift under the berth. You moved carefully across the east port, making quick time as you returned to the Straw Hats’ ship in slip fifty-two.

There were apparent signs of life when you reached the ship, even with the sky cast over in dark hues of navy. All of the dead bodies had been removed, for one, and dock men were loading barrels up on the deck while Sanji watched over them. His expression brightened as his gaze fell across you.

“Lady Dracule!” he called out, slipping off from the barrel on which he’d been perched to meet you at the pier. You gave him an unimpressed look.

“I have a name, you know.”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware of that,” Sanji answered, a lopsided grin pulling up the side of his face. You rolled his eyes and introduced yourself, which only prompted a brighter smile and a steady pat of his hand on your back. “A fine name, for a fine woman.”

“Sanji, stop flirting with the crew.” You glanced up to see Nami, one hip cocked to the side with her hand on her waist, staring down with an exasperated glint in her eye. “Welcome aboard the Going Merry. Sorry I was a little grouchy last night. I don’t like having my sleep interrupted.” She leaned down to offer you her hand, and you took it, climbing aboard the ship.

“The Going Merry?”

“Fits it, don’t you think?” Sanji asked from behind you. Nami eyed him again, volume dropping as she tilted her head towards yours.

“He’ll quit with the sweet talk eventually. I’ll give you a tour once we’ve cast off. We’re just waiting for Zoro to get back from town, and then we’re all set.” She turned to bark out another few orders to Sanji— “Finish up with the crates already!”

“Anything you want, madam,” Sanji said with a little bow. Nami let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Luffy already prepared a room for you. I’ll show you to it.” She led you below deck, back towards the ship’s aft. There was a collection of rooms all crammed together, one beside the other. “These are the women’s quarters. Men’s’ are all the way at the front of the ship.” She nodded behind her. “You get this one here. Sorry, it’s small.”

She opened the door to the very last room, and you stepped inside, surveying your surroundings. It wasn’t much; the cabin barely scraped by as a room, consisting of only a wardrobe, a hanging bed, and a small table and chair stuck in the corner. A round window at the very edge of the room revealed the water just a mere few feet below.

“It’ll do fine, thank you,” you said. Your room back at home was far more ornate, but you’d never been picky.

“You can sleep for a few more hours,” Nami said, lingering by the cabin mouth. “Come find me when you’re ready for a tour. We should be setting off in a few moments, if Zoro’s back.”

You gave her a smile, and she left, the patter of her footsteps dying off as she walked further and further away.

It didn’t take you long to get arranged, and afterwards, you gingerly sat down on the bed, the rope tied to the ceiling causing it to sway under you. You were still uncertain about boarding the ship, but you couldn't exactly return to your sloop now. And it wasn’t the worst idea in the world, you tried to convince yourself.

You felt the ship start moving just a few moments later, and you stood up, walking across the rocking ship to get up to the deck. You were making fast time, Loguetown’s silhouette rapidly getting swallowed in the gulp of the horizon.

Nami was bickering with Zoro and Luffy when you found her. “What even took you so long? We were due to leave a half-hour ago.”

“I was getting new swords,” Zoro said calmly. Nami eyed him, then yanked something out of his hand. A wallet, it looked like, stuffed with bills of berry. “You can’t be mad at me. I spent less than half of your budget.”

“They scammed you,” Nami scoffed, eyeing the katanas at Zoro’s hip. Zoro simply shrugged. “A sword for free? It’s probably made of plastic.”

Zoro snorted. “I’d be able to tell.”

Nami cast him a look, gaze unimpressed under the line of her eyelashes. “You can’t tell the difference between a ship mast and a tree.”

“Yeah, but I know swords.”

“Oh, hey!” Luffy, who’d seemed tuned out of his crewmates’ conversation, said as he spotted you. “Glad to see you here. Officially part of the crew.”

“Oh, well…” you hesitated. “Not so sure if I’ll be joining you forever.” Luffy looked confused by that, but not particularly offended—Nami and Zoro had turned to watch you, too, argument dying on trembling legs. “Right now the plan is to help you get to the Grand Line. From there you can drop me home. And then we’ll part ways.”

“If you change your mind…” Luffy trailed off, then patted you on the shoulder. “Nami, were you going to show her around?”

“I was, but I’ve got some mapping to do.” Nami glanced over at Zoro. “Hey. Make yourself useful.”

“I hate you,” Zoro muttered. He brushed past you, just barely motioning with his head for you to follow. “Afterdeck.”

You stepped into the small space. It was easily the most secluded place on the ship deck, decorated with three young tangerine trees in white boxy planters. “I like your trees.”

“They’re Nami’s trees.” Zoro gestured with his head again, and you followed him. The tour was brief; Zoro didn’t have much to say, generally just showing you a room before telling you what it was and departing for the next area.

You were about halfway through the tour when Zoro spoke again, the words abrupt in his throat. He spat them out rather than spoke them, and you got the impression he’d been mulling over talking for a while— “You ever beat your dad in combat?”

You snorted. “No.”

Zoro didn’t look at you, opting instead to push through the next doorway and gesture vaguely around him to show you the surroundings. “Gotten close?”

“Never.” You shrugged. “He taught me the basics, but I wasn’t the best student. He’d try to be strict and everything, but… sword fighting isn’t really my thing. You’re probably better than me.”

Zoro gazed at you skeptically. “He taught you.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you—” He paused, mouth open for a moment before resuming his sentence. He didn’t sound particularly hesitant, but the pause had you stifling a smile anyway, knowing he was at least a little bit flustered. “We should train together.”

“Was that a question?”

“Not really.” Zoro’s lip quirked, one side of his mouth tugging upwards in an odd semblance of a smile. He didn’t seem the type to smile often, though, so it didn’t look out of ordinary on his face. “Have you seen enough of the ship yet, or do you want me to show you the bilge too?”

“I’m good, thanks,” you answered primly. “Now did you want to fight me or not?”

Zoro actually smiled at that.

You decided to train on the main deck, in an area wide enough to not bump into anyone else. You shed your jacket, pulling Hiru out of its scabbard. Zoro winced as the sun hit the silver blade, reflecting a blinding gleam off its surface. “That a stylistic choice?”

“I polish things when I get anxious,” you answered. “So not really.”

“Right.” Zoro untied a black bandana from where it was fixed on his bicep, fingers working fluidly against the knot. Once he got it untied, he wrapped it around his head, tying it carefully around his head. Afterwards, he slid one of his swords out of its scabbard, holding it with his fingers to follow with the other. “How low should my expectations be?”

“I don’t know, you tell me,” you answered. Zoro let a soft sound out through his mouth, but he said no more, transferring one sword to each hand. He moved carefully, arms arching over his head to lower to each of his sides. You lifted Hiru up, more casual in your movements than Zoro was.

You paid more attention to Zoro than the actual fight when you started moving. You figured you’d have time to genuinely practice later—you hadn’t kept a close eye on the swordsman in the battle against the pirate hunters, and your curiosity was eating at you. Zoro was all angles when he fought, elbows lifted and limbs pin-straight. That wasn’t to say there was no flexibility in his movements, though—he dodged your oncoming attacks easily, sidestepping with a light twist of the torso so your blade cut air instead of flesh.

Just a few seconds in you could tell Zoro was far, far better than you. You parried one of his attacks, gasp ripping from your throat as you just barely managed to block off a slash from his katana with Hiru. He spun towards you, careful not to actually cut as his blade came for the throat. You managed to dodge just in time, moving backwards with a quick patter of your feet against the wooden deck.

There was barely anything skewed in his motions, you were soon to realize. He was perfect in every sense of the word. Your styles were vastly different, of course—Zoro mainly relied on his blades, and his physicality was carefully practiced, no curves or bends apparent in the straight lines and slants of his body. In comparison, you were much more slippery, focusing mainly on your agility to carry you throughout a fight rather than your strength.

“Your elbow,” Zoro said. You barely managed to respond, letting out a grunt of effort as you blocked Zoro’s oncoming attack.

“Hm?”

Zoro’s katana came from the left. He used the other one to knock your arm up, nearly gentle in his movements, and you were reminded of how Mihawk used to train you—stopping mid-fight to reposition your limbs, using his sword to carefully push your hands in the right places. “You’re dropping it.”

“I don’t care much for angles,” you answered, ducking under Zoro’s incoming blade and sliding off to the side instead of trying to shove against it. Zoro seemed startled by that, struck off-balance as he stumbled, turning to face you.

You jerked your sword towards him, one leg coming up to shove against his torso whilst doing so. You managed to knock him fully off-balance then, and he staggered against his feet, teetering precariously backwards. “Your center of gravity is screwed.”

“You dad kept flinging me around the pier,” Zoro said. You raised your brows, the phrase nonsensical to your ears. But it did sound like Mihawk. “It run in the family?”

“Very funny.” You dodged another slash of Zoro’s swords. “The only thing I picked up well in our lessons was about keeping balance.”

“And dodging, apparently.” You snickered at that, parrying another one of Zoro’s attacks—but it was getting harder and harder, what with the immense strength of his body you simply couldn’t keep up with. As flexible as you were, you weren’t quick enough this time, and Zoro swept you off your feet so you fell to the ground, wind bursting out of your chest all in one rush. Hiru clattered a few feet away, your fingers unfolding from their grip and letting it move freely.

Zoro slid his swords back in their sheaths, letting them close with a satisfying click. “You fight too defensively.”

You lay there for a moment, trying to gather air back into your lungs. “Never found a point in attacking others, really.” You got up, straightening your shirt before bending over to pick Hiru up from the floor. “Good fight.”

“Yeah,” Zoro said, but his voice was weak, tapering off to blend in with the wind. He had an uncertain look on his face, big brown eyes all fuzzy around the edges, like there was some cloudlike film covering him from seeing properly. You frowned at him.

“Is that because I’m worse or better than you expected?” you asked, gesturing vaguely up at his expression. Zoro blinked, the fog over his eyes clearing as he glanced down to meet your gaze. You waited expectantly, but he didn’t say anything. “Zoro?” you prompted.

“Sorry,” Zoro said. “I’m—I’m going to go to my cabin.”

You watched him leave, growing more quizzical by the second. Well, you’d gotten what you’d come there for, anyway. Roronoa Zoro was a great swordsman. And he certainly had the potential to be the greatest in the world, too—a realization that shook you a little, heart trembling from where it was fixed in your chest cavity. You swallowed hard, mind replaying the firm motions of his body from the fight. He’d been confident, sure of himself. You had even forgotten he still hosted Yoru’s slash along his torso from just a week or so prior, he’d been so… perfect.

“He’s good, huh?”

You startled, turning to see Usopp sitting atop a pile of crates like a king on a throne. He was picking at his fingernails. “Zoro,” he clarified. “Best swordsman in the East Blue.”

“Yeah,” you said, glancing over at where Zoro had left. “He is.”

Usopp eyed you for a moment. “Your shell phone is ringing.”

You startled, patting down your figure before finally unearthing your phone from where it was tucked safely away in your pocket. You opened it, pushing the den den mushi in your ear as it vibrated, little mouth making soft rumbling sounds to catch your attention. Usopp clearly didn’t know a thing about privacy, though, because he kept watching even as you picked up— “Hello?”

“Back home yet, darling?” Mihawk asked over the line, and you relaxed, your entire body going slack with comfort as you heard the familiar low hum of your father’s voice. “I figured you’d go back as quickly as possible.”

“No, actually,” you said. “Luffy roped me into coming aboard his ship.”

You could practically see Mihawk’s brows lift up in surprise. “You joined the Straw Hat pirate’s crew?”

“No. They’re bringing me home. I’m helping them get to the Grand Line,” you corrected. Mihawk hummed, the sound a crackle of monotony through the den den mushi’s mouth.

“And why, pray tell, would you do that?”

You chewed at your bottom lip, glancing off the side of the Going Merry to the East Blue. The sun had risen fully, fixing itself in a warm beam in the sky. “I was curious about Roronoa Zoro. You never told me why you left him alive. Or why you let Luffy go.” You could still feel Usopp’s gaze on you while you spoke, and you just knew he’d be telling the rest of his crew this after your conversation finished. “So I wanted to figure out your reasoning.”

“Ah,” Mihawk said. “Has he healed from Yoru’s wound yet?”

“It’s not like I tore off his shirt to check, dad,” you muttered. Mihawk barked out a laugh, and you startled at the sound before settling down again. “He walks fine. I saw bandages.”

Mihawk seemed pleased by that. “Wonderful. He’s a hardy one. You should fight him.”

“Already did,” you answered. “He beat me.”

Mihawk considered that for a moment. “Eh, I saw that coming.”

You scoffed. “You have no faith in me. Where are you now?”

“South Blue, still,” Mihawk replied. “Are you at least enjoying yourself there? It’ll be good for you to make friends, sweetheart. You don’t get much social interaction other than me and the villagers, after all.”

“I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to get a ride home,” you said insistently, but your voice was weak, and Mihawk clearly didn’t believe you. Your mind wandered back to Zoro—the firm muscle of his body, the hushed tone he spoke in, and you found your face pinkening. “One of them—one of them wants to kill you. That’s his entire life’s purpose. To murder you.”

“I think you’re being a tad bit broad, darling,” Mihawk said with a click of his tongue. “You seem rather enamored with this particular young swordsman. Something to say?”

“I—” your words fumbled in your mouth, and you were certain you were entirely pink now, the sun’s glowing rays only making your face warmer than it was rapidly turning. “Stop. I’m hanging up now.”

Mihawk’s voice was tastefully dry when he responded. “I’m sure.”

“Shut up, old man,” you grumbled.

“Right. Remember the rule, dear,” Mihawk trilled, and despite his voice being as monotone as ever, you could still identify the undertones of it—laced with syrupy mocking, all teasing and dramatic. “No dating unless he can beat you in combat!”

You actually did hang up this time, practically tearing the den den mushi out of your ear. You huffed out an irritated breath, rubbing a circle into the shell of your snail as an apology just a moment later. “Sorry,” you murmured. “My dad’s a bitch.”

The snail just let out a little grumble in response. You tucked it back into its case and snapped the phone shut.

“Aw, we’re not allowed to say hi?” You spun around at the new voice, glaring upon seeing Sanji and Luffy having joined Usopp in his eavesdropping. Sanji bore a gigantic grin on his face. “Sounded like an interesting conversation.”

“None of you know what boundaries are,” you muttered, but it was light-hearted.

You didn’t see Zoro until suppertime, a fact that rang odd in your head. It seemed like he’d completely evaporated from the ship, disappearing around every corner as you spent the rest of the day getting to know the rest of the crew better. Something had happened, but you weren’t exactly sure what—and you weren’t exactly sure if you were close enough to him to even ask, yet.

Sanji had cooked up a dinner so fine you doubted it could even quality as ship food. From your time traveling with your father, rations on-board hadn’t been much of anything—a few scraps of bread or dried meat, old apples, perhaps some fish if you were lucky. Mihawk hadn’t the biggest priority on eating well, but the Straw Hat crew seemed to have the exact opposite opinion. You were served a bowl of miso soup along with a bowl of rice, and dishes of tofu and oyster sauce stir-fried vegetables were carefully laid out all across the table.

“Bon appétit,” Sanji said, taking a half-bow before slipping into the last seat around the table. “I hope it’s to your liking. Yours especially, Lady Dracule.” He gave you a little wink at that. You just stared at him.

“I thought I told you my name.”

“Well, you did, but I thought Lady Dracule had a nice ring to it.”

“It doesn’t,” you said. Nami stifled a snort, the hand not holding her chopsticks coming up to cover her mouth. Sanji didn’t look the slightest bit dissuaded. You turned your attention on Zoro, who hadn’t spoken a word throughout the whole meal. He was rather studiously focused on his bowl, eyes picking apart the grains of rice like they’d reveal the world’s greatest secrets.

Carefully, you leaned towards Nami, voice coming out in a hushed whisper. “Is he okay?”

“He gets like that sometimes,” Nami answered, her words drowned out by Usopp and Luffy’s cheerful conversation. “Nobody can crack him except for Luffy. I’d just leave him be.”

“You don’t know why?”

Nami just shrugged. “Hell, we’re all depressed sometimes. Not within my rights to question him.”

You nodded, but your gaze didn’t move away from Zoro’s figure. There was a particular squeezing sensation deep in your chest—a little flip-flop thing, a sort of panging you couldn’t quite place. He glanced up, dark eyes meeting yours for just a fraction of a second. But he didn’t flinch away. He just returned your gaze, strong and unblinking.

To your surprise, Zoro was the first to look away, craning his neck to study his bowl again and continuing on like your extended bout of eye contact hadn’t even happened. You watched him, dumbstruck, until Nami nudged you in the shoulder. The rest of the group’s idle chatter had died down, and Usopp and Sanji were staring at you, low murmurs falling out of their mouths. You cleared your throat, finally dropping your gaze from the green-haired swordsman and attempting to ignore the fact everyone had caught you staring.

You didn’t do much of anything after supper—you just returned to your cabin, carefully walking across the creaking boards of the ship. Luffy assigned you mid watch, so you had a few hours to sleep before waking up at midnight to look out for any enemies.

You couldn’t find yourself falling asleep even after you’d slipped into bed. You’d changed, a loose blouse light against your skin, black silk shorts grazing your thighs. It was cold out, so you shrugged on a robe as you headed out into the darkness of the Going Merry. You emerged out on the deck, taking in a breath of the night air as you glanced to see who had the night watch.

Just your luck. It was Zoro.

He seemed tranquil, lounging across a hammock with his white sword—the Wado Ichimonji—cradled in his arms. In the dim light you couldn’t see if his eyes were open or closed, but as you got closer, he cracked one of them open, a gleam reflecting off his right iris. “Hi,” you said, moving over to the side of the ship to watch the waves on the water.

Zoro didn’t deign to respond, so you just stood there, watching the sea lap at the side of the ship until eventually the hour struck twelve. Zoro left soundlessly. You stayed awake all throughout your watch until Usopp came to relieve you of your duties.

Zoro was avoiding you.

A few days had passed since you first boarded the Going Merry. They hadn’t been of much interest—just days of practicing with your sword and chatting with the crew, for the most part. You helped around the ship, completing various tasks apparently none of the members knew or cared enough to do. You were just emerging from the bilge, having done basic maintenance to ensure everything was working properly, when you bumped into him. The man was apparently taking a nap, though you couldn’t figure out why the storage area was a very good place to sleep. Still, he seemed comfortable enough, long body splayed along a grouping of crates.

“Hi,” you said, for what seemed like the hundredth time over a few days. Zoro just averted his gaze and let out a little grunt in response. You stared at him for a moment. The realization had dawned on you ever since the first day, but it was growing more and more apparent, and you were baffled as to what you’d done to incur the silent treatment.

“Hi,” you repeated, more purposefully this time.

“Hey,” Zoro said, though the word was clearly bitter in his mouth. You propped your hands on your hips and stared down at him.

“You’re avoiding me.”

Zoro closed his eyes, expression not even changing. “You’re not that special.”

“Ever since we fought that one time, you’ve been ignoring me,” you barreled on, entirely ignoring his quip. Zoro cocked a brow, eyes still closed, and you glared down at it. “I’d like to know why.”

“Why do you care? We’re not friends.”

“Isn’t it natural to want to know why someone is mad at you?” you demanded, perplexed. Zoro sighed then, shifting around on his boxes.

“I’m not mad at you.” You heaved out a sigh even more irritated than Zoro’s. Your experience in the realm of dealing with close-lipped men’s personal issues was, unfortunately, rather well-seasoned. You’d had to coax situations out of your father, one hand pressed against Yoru’s hilt to prevent Mihawk from lashing out his frustrations rather than explaining them. But that didn’t mean you were all too fond of it.

“Okay, well, why else would you be ignoring me then?”

Zoro’s response was annoyingly frank. “It’s not really any of your business.”

You pursed your lips, trying to suppress the irritated noise that threatened to burst from your throat. “I don’t like being on bad terms with people,” you started. “If I did something to piss you off, I’d very much like it if you—”

The floor slipped out from underneath you before you could finish your sentence. You fell with a graceless clatter, lurching forward into the stack of crates Zoro was leaning on, words dying on your tongue. The entire boat trembled, quivering from side to side as if the ocean waves had suddenly propelled a thousand more ripples at its surface.

Zoro sat immediately up, one hand pushing you off of him as he scrambled off the crates. “What was that?”

“I don’t—” Just a moment after regaining your balance, there was another dull thud and a row of quivers. You remained steady this time, glancing carefully around you before you and Zoro were both hurrying up towards the ship deck. The Going Merry was in chaos when you emerged, Nami at the helm while Sanji was firing up a cannon beside her.

“What’s going on?” you demanded, the tails of your coat lapping around your calves as you hurried up besides Luffy.

“Pirates,” Luffy said grimly, nodding towards a ship that was quickly gaining on you. “They blew through the stern railing. Do any of you recognize the jolly roger?”

You glanced up, taking in the billowing sail boasting a pure-white jolly roger with a top hat and mustache. “Nope. These things are getting more and more ridiculous,” you muttered.

“Yeah,” Luffy agreed, affronted. “Ours is way better.”

You turned your gaze up at the Straw Hat crew’s aforementioned jolly roger. “...No comment.”

“We can’t outrun them!” Nami shouted from her place at the helm. Sanji had successfully nailed a cannonball into the railing of the oncoming ship, but they had a dozen more men. “I’m going to try to get closer. Best chance we have is one-on-one combat.” She turned to fix the small grouping with a glare. “Don’t just stand there. Get to it!”

You launched into action, hurrying to climb up the rigging to get a better view as Nami veered hard to starboard. The enemy ship had dropped their cannons, and you could see them preparing to board the Merry, grabbing onto loose ropes of rigging. “They’re going to swing over,” you reported, watching as the ship tilted in your direction, gaining on you. “I see maybe two or three dozen men.”

You hesitated, glancing around at the rather stationary crew around you. Your lip tugged between your teeth, and you stood there for a moment, unspoken words heavy on your tongue. You could see the captain yelling out orders on the ship across from you, and you turned abruptly, fixing Sanji with a look.

“Sanji, trade with Usopp. I want you to nail a cannon at their port stern.”

“W—What? Me?” Usopp stuttered. You nodded.

“I want Sanji on the frontlines. That should be close enough now.” You gazed out at the rapidly thinning gap between the two ships. One final cannonball whizzed towards, and you ducked, watching as it just brushed the side of the Merry. The ship rocked, and you tightened your grip on the rigging, satisfied to see it’d barely left a mark.

“They’re coming over,” Sanji reported, and you nodded, sliding Hiru out from your scabbard as enemy pirates started swinging over on ropes. Luffy was the first to react, an arching, rubbery limb catching one of them midair and yanking them down into the ocean. Boots thudded on the ground as the enemy pirates landed aboard the Going Merry.

“Time for a fight,” Zoro murmured, barely audible from your left. You jumped down from the rigging, sword coming down to crash against one of the enemy pirates. He reacted slowly, pistol cocking towards your chest—but you just brushed it to the side with Hiru, cutting it straight out his hand and following up with a flurry of sword thrusts.

Besides you, you saw Sanji sliding into battle, spinning on his palms to deliver a mean right hook to someone’s jawbone. An audible crack pierced the air, and you winced, breezing backwards on your feet as two pirates closed in on you.

Luffy seemed to have engaged in a one-on-one with the enemy captain, who was easily identifiable due to the gigantic top hat perched upon his head. He had thick black hair tied neatly back in a ponytail, and a mustache and beard to match. A thick cutlass was tightened in one fist, thrusted towards Luffy—but every sweep was dodged with unbelievable bends of the torso.

You turned your attention away, whipping your sword at the pirates that surrounded you. Hiru clashed with their blades, gleaming silver scraping against theirs. You leaned forward, and the blade before you broke with the pressure, sword snapping under Hiru’s will.

The sword dropped out of the pirate’s hand, and you took the opportunity to pull your leg up, kicking him squarely in the jaw. The other lunged for you, and your fist dug into their torso, hands gripping tight to their belt. You bent over, twisting into his body to push him over your shoulder in a sweeping throw.

He fell to the floor all in one, and you landed a kick to his chest just to ensure he wouldn’t get up again. Another man—bigger, this time, probably half your width and inches taller—gunned for you.

You sidestepped him easily, agility tilting in your favor as you escaped his grasp. It was harder to take this one down—while you could dodge him well enough, and parry his oncoming attacks, he was simply too strong to compete with. Strength isn’t everything, little hawk, Mihawk would always tell you. Everyone has a weakness. Get them off balance. Use your points.

The man delivered a stinging left hook to your torso, and you gasped. He took the opportunity to grab onto your wrist, grip so tight you couldn’t move your hand. Hiru clattered out from between your fingers. You directed a hit with your elbow towards the pirate’s sternum, but it was oddly-placed, and he just sneered down at you.

One of his large fists rose to thud against your skull, and you braced for impact, but the blow never landed. A warm squishing sound of a sword against skin made your entire body shudder, and you turned to stare as your assailant’s head slid cleanly off of his neck.

Zoro was behind him when his body collapsed, sword slick with blood as he spun it lazily around in a hand. “Careful,” he said.

You gaped up at him for merely a second more before you realized your jaw was ajar. You flushed, bending over to fish Hiru up from the floor. “I was fine.”

Zoro just thrust his sword cleanly into the torso of an incoming pirate, eyes not breaking away from yours. He slid it out with a sickening sound, flicking the blood off the blade with a motion of his hand. “A thank you might be nice.”

“Behind you,” you said instead, but Zoro was already reacting. You watched him, an incurable sigh perched on the tip of your tongue. He was good. He was really, really good, and you didn’t know how to feel about it. “Is that most of them?”

“I think—” Zoro cut himself off, glancing over his shoulder as you both hear the familiar yell of Luffy’s voice screaming out one of his final moves. You both watched, soundless, as his foot smashed into the top hat pirate’s face, flinging him all the way across the water straight into the mast of his own ship. Only mere seconds later did the mast crack, the wooden pole falling down in a glorious, wooden heap.

“...Yeah, we’re fine.” Zoro said. He leaned down, grabbing the shirt of one of the fallen pirates to wipe his blade with before sliding it back in its scabbard. “Let’s get out of here.”

“On it.” Nami snapped her bo staff closed—when she’d jumped down into the battle, you were unsure, but she was already returning to her place at the helm. “Toss these bodies off our boat, would you, Zoro?”

“Right.” Zoro bent over, easily picking up the fallen pirate and chucking the corpse overboard without another thought. You watched him the entire time, the strain of his biceps against his skin forming solid ridges up his arms.

“I can clean your swords,” you said, words a bit too late out of your mouth. Zoro glanced up, brow creased. “While you’re doing that.”

Zoro looked uncertain, but he unstrapped the scabbards from his hip, handing the twin katanas to you. You took them, glancing over his figure again. He moved with difficulty, and while you’d originally thought that was because of the bodies’ weight, you now saw the real reason. Lines of crimson were seeping through his shirt, a pool by the left side of his lower abdomen the biggest injured site. You took an involuntary step forward. “You’re hurt.”

“I can treat them later,” Zoro said dismissively. “Gotta clean up the Merry first.”

“No, mosshead, the lady is right,” Sanji said. You startled, not having noticed him slip up beside you. “Usopp and I can manage with waste control, eh?” He winked. “Go clean up.”

Zoro glared at him, the look dripping with malice, but he didn’t argue past that. “Fine,” he said, chucking another body—this one alive—off the side of the ship before straightening. You heard the hitch in his breath as he spoke, along with the near-imperceptible wince of his face. “You good, Luffy?”

“A little hungry,” Luffy responded truthfully. He was still watching the other ship. Fire had started aboard it, and soft billows of black smoke drifted in the air. “Can you cook something up later, Sanji?”

“Got it,” Sanji said. “Tell your first mate to patch up his wound before he bleeds out all over our beautiful deck.”

“The deck isn’t beautiful, it’s got blood and guts all over it,” Zoro muttered.

“Well, have a little respect and don’t add to the mess.” Sanji fixed him with a stern look. Zoro bared his teeth at him in a grimace, extracting a sharp little laugh out of your throat. His eyes brushed over yours, a glimmer of surprise dancing in his irises, before he ducked inside.

“Why are you following me?” Zoro asked flatly, as you entered the cabin he’d gone into. You’d hastened to keep up with him, only a few steps behind before finding the room he’d gone into. Zoro had propped himself up on the hanging bed, loosening the ties of his wrap shirt to expose his bare chest.

“I was wondering if you needed any help with your wounds.” You deposited Zoro’s swords, along with Hiru, on the table in the room, moving closer to him to survey the scene. “If you wanted it.”

Zoro’s gaze met yours, and he said nothing for a moment. “First aid kit’s over there,” he finally said, nodding to the table. You moved towards it, opening up the small box to expose supplies of bandages, needles, stitch string, and disinfectant inside. You carried the box over to the bed, sanitizing your hands before carefully parting the folds of Zoro’s shirt. The cloth stuck to skin, coagulating blood making the shirt peel rather than move. Now that his entire torso was bared, though, you could fully inspect his wounds. There were still bandages from Yoru’s cut, all dirtied up now from his other injuries—you’d have to take them off and re-dress them, so he’d be in the bed for thirty minutes at least.

You turned your attention to the cut by Zoro’s abdomen, deciding it was the most important thing to focus on. The cut wasn’t too deep, but it was gushing a steady flow of blood, and you picked up a towel to press against the wound. “Hold,” you instructed, and Zoro’s fingers brushed against yours as he took a hold of the cloth. “Thanks. I’ve got to take your bandages off, then I’ll clean and dress all the wounds. That one down there might need stitches.”

“How do you know how to do this?” Zoro asked, watching as you unwrapped the previous bandages from around his chest. You were careful to touch his skin as little as possible, distracting yourself with the blood and gauze.

“My dad,” you answered. You’d spent too many late nights patching up a wound Mihawk had brushed off as unimportant, only to wind up bleeding out on your couch. Zoro raised a brow.

“Dracule Mihawk gets injured?”

“Of course he does,” you said with a huff. “Don’t be stupid. He’s a man, just like the rest of you.” The gash from Yoru had fully scabbed over, revealing a long, trembling crust of dark ochre. You finished peeling off all the bandages, and cast them to the side.

“You know a lot.”

“Jack of all trades, master of none,” you quipped. You moved away from the desk to fill a bucket with warm water, dipping a cloth into it and squeezing out the excess. You dabbed around Yoru’s scab with the cloth, careful not to break the shell while still cleaning it of any extra gunk. Then you focused on flushing out the other wounds, wiping across his skin and getting all the little nicks on his chest and arms. Zoro didn’t say a word, but you could feel his eyes boring into your skull, watching you with a hardened intensity that made your insides churn.

You nudged his hand away, examining the big cut. The rag he was holding had filled up with blood, white cotton dyed red and sodden with liquid. Thankfully, the bleeding seemed to have lessened. You wiped up all the last of it with your towel, swiping it against the pills of blood that had caught along the waistband of his trousers. Zoro hissed as you came into contact with the wound. “Sorry,” you murmured.

“Why are you apologizing?”

You frowned at that. “Because it hurt?”

“I thought you were mad at me,” Zoro said stiffly. You raised your brows. “Since… you thought I was annoyed at you, or whatever.”

“Just because you feel a certain kind of way towards me doesn’t mean I reciprocate the same feelings,” you answered, setting aside your towel after deciding everything had been cleaned out well enough. You picked up another cloth, dabbing this one with some alcohol to disinfect the wound. “This is going to sting,” you warned.

Zoro’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding against each other as you flushed out the wound. His torso clenched, and your eyes fell across his exposed midriff, watching the tight skin that was seemingly sculpted into muscles. You glanced away just a moment later, a dusting of warmth brushing over your cheeks. “On that topic,” you hastened to say, trying to distract yourself from the half-naked man in front of you, “Why were you avoiding me?”

Zoro let out a sigh, the sound stuttered as he clenched his jaw again when you brushed your towel against his wound. You waited, taking out a fresh cloth to dab at the other nicks on his body. You examined the wound near his left side again. “Stitches.”

“Great,” Zoro muttered. You ignored him, searching in the kit for some needle and thread. “Can you take the stitches out from your dad’s yet?”

“Ha ha. You’re going to need those for a few more weeks,” you said, without even looking at the scab to check. “Ask me again later. Yoru cuts are deadly.”

Zoro let his eyes flutter closed. “It’s a great sword.”

“Yeah, it is,” you said. You paused from where you were threading the needle, glancing up at Zoro’s face now that you knew he couldn’t catch you staring. He looked so peaceful in this state, eyelashes splayed along his cheeks, dark umber freckles that you hadn’t noticed before splattered across his face. There were dozens of them, skin sun-worn and bearing the marks as proof—constellations of dark brown stars, so similar to his warm, glowing skin it was easy to miss. A five-o’-clock shadow traced around his mouth, and at his left ear, his golden earrings gleamed bright.

“I don’t feel anything,” Zoro said, and you snapped out of your reverie, fingers fumbling to finish threading your needle.

“Patience is a virtue, you know,” you hissed. Zoro snorted.

“Yeah, one I don’t have.” You rolled your eyes, tying off the string and bending down to examine the cut again. It wasn’t too wide—maybe five or six stitches at most. You gave Zoro no warning except for the light brush of your fingers against the wound, and he hissed again.

You glanced up. “Do you want something to bite on?”

“I’m not a toddler,” Zoro sneered. You mouthed his words mockingly, though you didn’t actually speak them, not wanting him to catch you doing such an immature action. You fixed your gaze back on the wound, free hand resting flat against Zoro’s abdomen to steady you—his skin was warm under your palm, and you expected him to say something, but to your surprise, he didn’t even flinch.

The first puncture came carefully. Zoro hissed, the sound of a low rumble in his throat as you felt his abdomen clench under your palm. You forced yourself to continue, pulling the thread fully through the skin before moving onto the other side of the wound. You did it again, carefully to keep the string untangled as it ran through Zoro’s flesh.

“It wasn’t because I was mad at you,” Zoro said abruptly, and you paused, glancing up to look at Zoro’s face. His eyes were still closed, brows contorted tight and mouth bared down into a grimace. “Don’t stop. I wasn’t avoiding you because I was angry. Or because of anything you did.”

“Why, then?” you asked, lowering your head to continue with your stitches. Zoro took in a sharp breath at the next one, the edges of a scream cutting into his breath but not fully escaping from his throat. You were rubbing a comforting circle into his stomach before you could stop yourself—muscle memory from patching up your dad’s wounds. You swallowed hard, but didn’t stop the motions—Zoro didn’t seem offended by them.

His voice was raggedy when he spoke again. “Fighting against you. It reminded me of—my friend, from back then. I told you about her.”

Your lips pursed, but you didn’t stall your actions, running the thread through the hole you’d pricked. “The one you made the promise to?”

“Yeah,” Zoro said, the word falling out all in one breath. You fixed the string tight along the wound, fingers splayed across his stomach warning him for the next puncture. He continued speaking despite it, and your needle hovered over his skin. “We were training together—fuck.”

“Sorry,” you said again, still running your thread through his skin as he heaved out a long, ragged groan from low in his throat.

“We were training together,” he repeated. “Haven’t done that in a while with a girl. So it—” His voice tapered off in another breathy groan. “Reminded me of her. I got bitchy.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” you said. You were getting close to the end of the wound now, but your actions slowed, just to keep him talking—the words came out all harsh and hesitant, and you got the feeling speaking about his past was a laborious task. Might as well let him have the safety of avoiding your eyes like this while he spoke. “Do I look like her or something?”

Zoro huffed out a laugh. “Ha. No.”

“Okay,” you said. You pierced his skin again—he took this one better, muscles clenching as he sucked in hard. You waited until you finished the stitch to speak again. “Are you going to keep avoiding me?”

“No,” Zoro said. His words pierced the air, weighed heavy with a gasp of pain and a hiss, but it still rang sharp in your ears. He eased out a breath, long and soft. “It was unfair. Can’t help it sometimes, that’s all.”

“That’s fine,” you answered carefully. You threaded one last stitch, both of you mute as you tightened the wound closed with the suture and tied it off. You snipped the string with a pocketknife, using another damp towel to clean up any of the excess blood. “I’m going to dress everything with bandages now. Almost done.”

“Okay,” Zoro said. You reorganized your supplies, tucking away your stitching things to replace with bandages and dressing pads. You washed your hands again, then returned to bend over Zoro’s torso. When you did, you were surprised to see Zoro’s eyes had opened, soft brown irises boring into yours. You swallowed, feeling the burn of his gaze into your skin as you stared at the skin of his midsection.

“I’ll do the big one first, then everything else,” you said carefully. You worked in silence, pressing a dressing pad along the wound and tying it off with some gauze to fix it in place. You moved around his body, bandaging up any cuts you deemed worthy until you finally were left with Yoru’s cut.

It stretched the entire expanse of his torso, from shoulder to hip. It’d been well done, the cut deep but not deep enough to kill as long as someone was fast enough with treatment. You recognized the shape of the cut, the very tip of it thin before Yoru’s mouth caught the skin with the center of his blade. “He did it like this on purpose?” Zoro asked.

“Yeah,” you said. “He’s methodical with most things.” You wrapped gauze around the scab, tightening it up and then finally tying it off by his hip. “I’d keep that on for a few days before replacing it. Keep dressing it for another two weeks or so. It’ll probably start swelling soon, so I can help you drain whatever fluid develops.”

“I’ll let you know,” Zoro said. He was still watching you with those big brown eyes, and a soft shiver traced down your spine. “Thank you.”

“Thank you for saving me from that pirate earlier,” you said. You surveyed him again, though you were careful not to meet his eyes. A long silence filled the space, heavy with something you couldn’t quite place. You ducked your head, busying yourself with putting away the first aid kit. The words fell from your mouth before you could stop them— “I like your earrings.”

“Oh,” Zoro said. Nothing else.

You were pretty sure you liked more than the earrings. You liked the way he fought, even if it scared you sometimes—even if you knew one day he’d probably be able to beat your father. You liked his face; those big brown eyes, soulless at times but holding the world in those glistening irises at others. Those freckles, adorned with the entire galaxy, stars and planets and constellations dotting his cheeks like a mural of life. The way he talked, soft-spoken but utterly real, voice low in his throat, words disturbingly honest.

You didn’t say so, though. You stuck with the earrings, because those were safer.

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3

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suzukiblu · 5 months

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Day eighteen of fic NaNoWriMo, obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon AU.

“Definitely somewhere nice,” Tim says, trying not to get distracted by watching Kon drink the last of his smoothie. Why is this bastard so attractive all the time, anyway? Tim doesn’t think Superman is attractive. Superman is just, like, generically and creepily too-perfectly handsome. Like a Ken doll or AI art. Kon looks like somebody with an actual personality.

Tim is aware that Superman possesses an actual personality, yes, but it’s one that he spends half his life fucking lying about in one direction or another, so Tim doesn’t think it should even count at this point. Kon is honest. Genuine. Superman? Superman is sincere, maybe, but also is the asshole who’s let Kon think he doesn’t have a secret identity and left him to rot in a shitty lab and only just took him to the Fortress for the first time.

Robin hasn’t told Kon his real name either, but at least Kon knows he has one. He can’t tell him his identity, but he was clear about that from the start and clear about its existence. Superman doesn’t tell Kon much of anything, Tim’s realizing.

He wonders if Kon even knew the Fortress existed before Superman took him to it. He wonders if that’s the only time Superman's ever told him anything about Krypton.

Considering what a big deal gets made of Superman being the last member of a dead civilization and dying race, you’d think he’d fucking care about telling his only genetic relative about it. Or just care about that relative, if nothing else. Which–look, Supergirl isn’t actually Kryptonian, she’s a protoplasmic matrix from an alternate universe who was loosely based on one, and Steel is an unenhanced human inside his armor. But Kon wasn’t just based on Superman, though, didn’t just take up the “S” out of respect–Kon was made directly from him, and made to be him. Has actual Kryptonian DNA in him and personal reasons to maybe care about Krypton as more than a very brief mention in someone else's history; has Superman’s DNA, and is probably the closest thing Superman’s ever going to get to seeing another Kryptonian who isn’t a probably-murderous Phantom Zone escapee.

As far as Tim can tell, though, Superman thinks Kon’s an accessory more than anything else, and not even one he particularly cares to trot out. Like a stray dog in his neighborhood that he occasionally pets or leaves some kibble out for, but hasn’t bothered getting vaccinated or actually taking inside. Superboy isn’t his sidekick or his partner or anyone he supports outside of the occasional temporary emergency; he’s just some random kid he spares a moment for every now and then. Not a consistent presence in his life; not someone he considers a responsibility in his life.

Tim exhales, carefully packs up the thoughts that are a little bit too “supervillain” for this stage in the process, and goes to find the clerk, who’s very happy to sign them up for a plan and accident insurance and sell them the phone and case and also some screen protectors and earbuds and a UV sanitizer and electronic wipes and then one of those PopSocket grip things with a neon-tinted sunset and some palm trees silhouetted on it. Tim seriously considers getting Kon a tablet too, but maybe that can wait a week or so; Kon’s looking a little overwhelmed right now.

. . . then again, they’re already here, so . . .

One tablet and a new set of screen protectors and another case and additional accident insurance later, the clerk is delighted enough that Tim knows they make commission and Kon is staring at him in obvious bewilderment as he pays for it all.

“Hey, Tim,” Kon says very slowly. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you maybe have, like, some impulse control issues?”

“No,” Tim lies as he programs his civilian number into Kon's contacts, then hands him his all set-up new phone and takes the very full bags with everything else in them from the clerk. “Wanna go walk around a little?”

Specifically, go walk around until he spots something else he can justify buying for Kon. Maybe more jeans, if nothing else. He can say it'll be easier than having to buy Kon a new outfit every time they want to hang out.

Not that he won't be doing that anyway, given half a chance, but Kon doesn't know that.

Yet.

“Um, sure,” Kon says, and they head out of the store, leaving a very pleased salesperson behind with their commission. “You know, I can carry those, you don't have to–”

“I'm kind of enjoying it, honestly,” Tim says with a shrug. He actually is, if only for the novelty factor of being the one carrying something for Kon for once. Kon turns red again and Tim immediately finds a new reason to enjoy carrying the bags.

“Uh,” Kon says, glancing down at his new phone and turning it over in his hands. “Okay.”

They walk a little as Kon plays with his phone, downloading apps and rearranging icons on the screen, and Tim keeps an eye out for tempting stores. They just ate, technically, so lunch can probably wait until they've hit another one or two. They could go to a movie, maybe; it'd reinforce Kon getting used to him paying for things. Wouldn't really get him anything material, though, and Tim's really trying to do as much of that as he can right now. Just in case Kon loses interest too quickly, he means.

Well, he's got other identities to use, if he needs them. He can keep trying until Kon stays interested long enough to get him to the full execution of the lifestyle change. Tim can be patient, if it takes a few tries. He definitely wouldn't have picked his actual identity for this plan, if he'd thought of it sooner.

. . . hm. Jewelry, maybe? Kon only really wears the one earring, but that’s just in the field anyway. Maybe he’d be up for some more accessories off it. The piercers obviously are out, but it’s still an option. Or boots or shoes that aren’t actually a part of his costume, or some new sunglasses. Salon and beauty supplies are an obvious no, art supplies definitely aren’t gonna appeal, he doubts the record store or comic shop or bookstore would either, he’s not even going to glance at Victoria’s Secret, he doesn’t know about the game store, and they’re definitely not going to the Hallmark Store or Yankee Candle.

Or, god forbid, Bath & Body Works.

Clothes are probably the best bet at this point, yeah, Tim is pretty sure. They can hit up a department store or something, maybe. Or maybe . . . well, he’s not sure, because he actually has no idea how Kon would want to dress if he weren’t in costume. Like, at all.

He also doesn’t really know if Kon has any interests or hobbies beyond, like, watching Wendy the Werewolf Stalker and hitting on pretty girls. Does he? Like, what does he actually do in his downtime?

Considering Tim is ninety-four percent certain Kon would die for literally anyone on the team, including himself, it’s a little weird to not know what he does to just . . . relax, or whatever.

Okay. Start with jewelry, shoes, and clothes, and then use the browsing and window-shopping time to subtly interrogate Kon about what else he’s interested in checking out. That’s a reasonable plan of attack. He’ll take Kon to the cheesy airbrush T-shirt store or goddamn Build-A-Bear, if the bastard wants, that’s–

Hm. Actually . . .

Well, it might be a stupid idea, or at least an idea Kon would think was stupid, but . . .

Tim adjusts his route as he rolls over the idea currently in his head. Maybe it is stupid, but it’s, well . . . date-like, isn’t it? Like, it’s something he’d definitely have done for Steph or Ariana if he’d thought they’d like it. And this still isn’t their first date or even really a date at all, because Tim has standards and Kon deserves them, but that doesn’t mean he should be half-assing things here.

Also, literally any excuse to buy Kon something, at this point. Even a kind of silly thing.

“I want to check on something,” he says, and Kon glances sidelong at him again, looking curious.

“Check on what?” he asks.

“That'd be a spoiler,” Tim says, then crosses over to the toy store across the walkway. “Over here.”

“Aren't we a little too old for this place?” Kon says, squinting skeptically up at the brightly-colored sign. “Actually I'm pretty sure I was born too old for this place.”

“Who cares?” Tim asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

“. . . alright, valid response,” Kon allows with a wry grin, then follows him into the store. Tim hasn't been in a toy store for anything not Robin-related in ages unless he counts the occasional game store visit, and even that he hasn't done in a while, so it is a little weird walking into one again. Still, he's got an idea and he's on a mission, so it's whatever.

He glances around and finds what he's looking for pretty quick on a top-to-bottom wall of long shelves, then heads towards them. Kon keeps following him, looking around with badly-concealed curiosity.

It occurs to Tim that Kon has possibly never actually been in a toy store before. He didn't make it sound like he had been with that “born too old” comment, at least, so unless he got roped into an appearance to promote some Superboy action figure or another . . .

Not that Tim knows anything about any theoretical Superboy action figures or anything. And he definitely doesn't own three.

. . . look, technically the one came with the–never mind.

Tim looks over the wall of shelves while Kon looks at basically everything else, then makes a triumphant noise when he spots what he's after. He wasn't sure they'd have one. He transfers all of the shopping bags to one hand, leans down and plucks his find off the shelf, and then straightens back up and wags it at Kon with a smug smirk.

“Gift shop stand-in,” he says. Kon blinks at him, then at the soft and fluffy stuffed goat in his hand. It doesn't particularly resemble the clay idol from the museum except in the sense of also being a goat, but it's still on-theme, Tim figures.

“Huh?” Kon says. Tim pushes the goat at him. Kon takes it, looking bewildered.

“I'm getting it for you,” Tim clarifies. “Consider it me making good on an IOU and also commemorating how good you are at your job.”

Kon blinks again. Tilts his head. Looks down at the goat in his hands.

Maybe it is a stupid idea, Tim thinks with a flash of uneasy self-consciousness. Maybe Steph or Ariana would've gone for something like this, but they're both girls, and Kon's a lot more concerned about looking “cool” than either of them ever were, and actually, presenting a guy he barely knows even counting the superheroics they're both regularly doing together with a fluffy little stuffed goat with white fur and stubby horns and, Tim is belatedly realizing, a brown heart-shaped spot over one of its eyes, is probably not the smoothest move anyone has ever pulled. Like–as far as flirting goes, a kid's toy is probably the literal antithesis of sexy or interesting, and Kon's used to, like, confident older women and beach bunnies in little bikinis and the celebrity treatment, not like, stupid kiddie stuff.

Well, there's a reason Tim wouldn't have picked Tim Drake for this plan if he'd actually set the whole thing up in advance as opposed to just tripping face-first into a convenient opportunity.

“I mean, if you want it,” he backtracks uncomfortably, suddenly feeling more than a little embarrassed about the whole idea. He'd thought it was date-like enough, getting somebody you were flirting with a stuffed animal. Though in retrospect usually that's, like, teddy bears on Valentine's Day and flowers and chocolate are involved, not just a freaking random goat you just plucked off a mall toy store shelf and–

“Uh,” Kon says, flicking his eyes up from the goat to look at him again, and his face is suddenly very, very red. “Okay. Sure.”

#timkon #tim drake #kon el #conner kent #dc robin #superboy #young just us #young justice #rinfic #long post #wip: obligatory sugar baby kon

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clementine-kesh · 8 months

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propaganda for both below the cut

janeway/chakotay/tuvok

-starfleet captain with a martyr complex + freedom fighter ideologically opposed to everything she stands for + her longtime best friend who was spying on that guy

-janeway and tuvok have lied to and hidden important plans from chakotay on multiple occasions

-janeway has thrown chakotay in the brig for suggesting she may be taking things a little too far (he forgave her tho <3)

-tuvok gave in to a mutiny in order to contact the vidiians for a cure for janeway and chakotay’s deadly virus

-while mind controlled chakotay ordered tuvok (also mind controlled) to kill janeway

tom/harry/b’elanna

-guy who has something very wrong with him but thinks he’s completely normal + guy and girl who are both convinced there’s something very wrong with them but are in fact (relatively) normal

-harry and b’elanna attempted to help resolve tom’s daddy issues by building a starship engine that would break the warp 10 barrier, it turned him into a salamander instead

-flying another one of harry and b’elanna’s novel engine designs led to everyone on board except harry and chakotay being dead for 15 years. harry and chakotay solved this issue by committing time crimes

-even though tom and b’elanna weren’t on board at first but harry did eventually manage to convince them to mutiny against tuvok

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thegreymoon · 1 month

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The Story of Minglan

Who?

Wasn't she supposed to take Rongjie fishing? This isn't Rongjie, is it?

***

I'm pretty sure these are all new characters.

I mean, yeah, I took a bit of a long break but I don't remember these two at all. They are relatives of the Emperor? Is this the brother whose wife died? But if so, who is the woman?

Anyway, let's get back to the kitchen fight! Imagine embarrassing yourself so badly in front of the Emperor's relatives, LMAO. I'm here with all the popcorn 🍿🍿

***

State Uncle Shen? 🤔

So, not the Imperial family?? I don't understand who she is married to, then. I must have grossly misunderstood something in her conversation with Minglan.

***

LMAO, so many dead birds with one stone 🤣🤣

***

LMAO, you should practise makeup as well 🤣🤣

***

LMAO, I don't think there is enough ability in the world 🤣🤣

Quit while you're ahead, girl.

***

OH MY GOD. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

AGAIN??

***

Oh? 👀

This is new, lol! The ones before here were all, "Give me a path to live, let me fuck your husband!" and this one is the first to go, "Give me a path to live, I really don't want to fuck your husband!" 🤣🤣

***

Minglan is not a doormat but she chooses to be kind when she can.

They are lucky.

Also, I love the implication that this girl had already slept with Tingye's younger brother in the Marquis Manor and that they are now trying to stuff her into his bed too. Gross 🤮

If I were Tingye, I'd be too disgusted to even get it up.

***

I am obviously a much bigger fan of Minglan than Tingye, but I can't help but feel a bit bad for him 😅

Whenever he tries to get her to flirt or teases (hints, lbr 🤣🤣) that she could use her charms to get him to do anything for her, she gets all serious and says, "Never mind, then! I wouldn't want to indispose you!"

He really wants her to lean on him, he wants her to be free and genuine and loving and playful, but she just refuses to bite and keeps him at arm's length all the time. Yeah, she does all her wifely duties perfectly, but she gives him nothing more than that and he wants so much more.

***

Wait, is it Manniang?

Are they talking about Manniang??

Smh, I had forgotten all about her 😠 Things were going too well, of course she had to show up to stink up the place.

***

OMG, Minglan, noooooooo 😬

Poor guy, the way his face drops as he listens to her 😢 From the happy, smiley expression when she acknowledges that he is good to her, to... this.

***

She just keeps digging that hole deeper and deeper 😬

Poor Tingye, is he even aware of how little she thinks of him and how much she insulted him here? He must be, he is Changbai's best friend and he is intuitive enough to know what was going on in that hell house.

***

The amount of damage shitty, selfish, immature parents do to their children is insane.

If they were living in modern times, she would torch her entire relationship with this attitude and a therapist would earn a fortune dealing with her daddy and attachment issues. She has so much contempt towards men in general (understandably) and has definitely started her own marriage out on the wrong foot.

#the story of minglan #tsoml spoilers #tsoml ep44

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pasta-in-the-pudding · 5 months

Note

omg…HIHIHIHI HELLOOOOOO‼️

ENDISBDID I JUST LOVE YOUR WRITING SM I NEED TO REQUEST SOMETHING AASJSJDJ

anywho, CAN. Can can can caaaaan you write a one shot about where the reader is a young well known killer, she wears a mask to hide her (or their. Any pronouns you’re comfortable with!) identity from the people BUT she gets to go school without the mask so they’re safe! :D

AND THEN (idk but something something happened at school that caused the reader to kill someone out of pure rage.(anger issues RAH)then they run away from school and into the woods and all that stuff) Masky or any other Creepypasta sees the reader and recognizes them by the mask and convinces them to join them AND ALL OF THAT

OH and their killing method is capturing the victim who has done bad shit in their life(like bullies, bad parents and these type of people) record them in tapes, then torturing them to admit the horrible shit they done, then send the tape to the relatives of the victim for them to know AAAAAAAAAAND scene.

I WILL BE KNOWN AS 🐰 TO YOU and be a regular :D

Take your time with this and take care!!

Smooch

-🐰

Omg this is totally giving early 2010's creepypasta fandom/pos

Thank you so much for requesting!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Masky discovering a new creep

Being a world famous killer blows. First world problems, amirite? Anyways, it really does stink. Having such an occupation is filled with endless controversies, people debating over what your doing is right or wrong. You also don't get much sleep, so school is 10x harder. You know that what you're doing is for the greater good. What you do is so others can live peaceful lives, not for your own selfish desires. But it's not like you can explain that, lest you be arrested and charged with murder.

And so, you put up with the tiredness, sores and cuts you get from your little "hobby". This being said, your temper tends to be quite short when it comes to people messing with you. While you rest your head on your desk to try and get some sleep you hear your name, as well as some insulting words and laughs from the girls in the desks behind you. If you actually zeroed in on their conversation, you can tell that they are talking about how greasy your hair looks and how beat up you always are, this being said they are making fun of you for what they assume is abuse at your home.

It is true that you haven't showered in a while, you just hadn't had the time or willpower to. But to make fun of someone for potentially getting abused? That had you all sorts of ticked off. You try to bury your head further into your desk to try and ignore them, but it seems that they only get louder and meaner with their insults. When your anger builds up to a point of no return, you lift your head and turn to face them. "I'm not getting abused, ok? And even if I was, what kind of right do you think you have to make fun of someone for that?! It's obvious your mommy and daddy don't love you, but if you think you can take that out on me, you are dead wrong because baby, I am not the one."

Your yelling has caused most of the class to look at you, and the girls are silent for a moment before laughing amongst themselves again, calling you weird and saying that they must have been right if you were getting so defensive about it. Their words swirl in your head and it gets to a point you can't take anymore. "Shut up." you say "Shut up shut up shut up!" You get out of your desk and push one of the girls out of her chair, climbing on top of her and beating her senseless. The other girls are now calling you crazy, trying to pry you off of their friend but it's no use. Your teacher is calling up the principal but when she sees your hands being coated with blood and the girls face getting bashed more and more into her skull, she instead calls the police.

By the time you have come back to your senses, blood is splattered all over the classroom, all over your clothes, and the girl is nonresponsive. You gasp and stand up, covering your mouth in utter disbelief at what you had done. Without even looking at your scared classmates and teacher, you run out of the classroom, knowing that if you want any chance of escape, you have to go now. You run past multiple teachers who don't even know what's going on, they only try to stop you for running in the halls. You don't listen and keep on running until eventually you realize that you are in the woods. You're a ways away from your city, and you can hear sirens blaring in the distance. No doubt they're looking for you.

The adrenaline has worn off, and you're tired. You are stumbling through the woods blindly. Your legs give out and you fall to the leaf covered floor, catching your breath and letting your sore legs rest. After a while, you hear footsteps approaching you. You curse under your breath and try to get up to run some more, fearing a cop might have found you. Your legs don't work, and the footsteps catch up to you. You are lifted off the ground by the collar of your shirt and met with the face of an older man, eyeing you up and down with a hatchet slung over his shoulder. "Yeesh kid. What happened to you?" He asks, putting you back down on the floor and awaiting your response. You are too scared to answer, only looking up at him worriedly.

He raises a brow and looks at your hands. "Is that blood...?" he asks, leaning down and looking at your hands. "Hey, you're that kid everyone in the city over is looking for!" he finally concludes. This has your heart beating out of your chest. "I heard what you did....I think you better come with me. There's someone I think you'll wanna talk too." He says, picking you up again and half carrying you. "Don't worry, we aren't going to the cops" He says with a chuckle, as if the idea is absurd. It is after this that you begin to feel dizzy, only to pass out again.

#creepypasta #slender mansion #creepypasta x y/n #creepypasta x you #creepypasta x female reader #masky mh #masky creepypasta #creepypasta masky #masky marble hornets #tim masky #masky x reader #masky #mh masky #tim wright #mh tim

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kiwisbell · 8 months

Text

The Hitman's Guide to Getting the Girl: Chapter 6 [dave york x f!reader]

It's just another job, until Dave York decides to kidnap an enemy’s wiseass daughter. It’s just another job, until he falls in love.

series masterlist

status: complete

chapter 6 summary: Encouraging bad habits.

pairing: dave york x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings for entire fic: kidnapping, murder, violence, the world being horrible to women, reader having a very terrible sense of self-preservation, unprotected piv, oral sex (m and f receiving), dave york finding his second calling as a pussy-eating god, pining, possessive sex, jealousy, daddy issues, (stockholm syndrome?), dirty talk, actually filthy talk, hitmen and politicians, revenge, scary man with a soft spot for his woman, philosophical foreplay, tramp stamp worship (you'll see), a little sprinkle of breeding kink if you look hard enough, obsessive behaviour, anal fingering, anal sex, implied age gap, light dom/sub vibes, light bondage

tags and warnings for this chapter: possessive behaviour, sex while on the phone, dave york is still a munch, protective dave, dirty talk, soft dave, a lot of sex and then a lot of sappiness, light anal play, unprotected piv (seriously do not follow my lead), creampie, biting, sex on a desk, very slight free use kink

word count: ~ 4.7k

chapter 6: fuel the pyre of your enemies

AUGUST

On the top left corner of his desk, scrawled on a pink Post-it note, Dave keeps a list of the men who have kidnapped you. He crosses off their names when they are dead.

He also crosses off their names when they are financially destitute, their families turn on them, and/or they are paranoid for their lives. This is because he does not want anything to be traced back to you. If suspicion turns to him, which it will not, he counts on the cops in his pocket.

Whether they die or live has little strategic value. It merely depends on Dave’s mood that day. Or, in many cases, how severely they appear to regret their choices.

Robert Shipman.

Hansen McCarthy.

Norman Beretta.

George Reilly.

Lawrence Dare.

Bernard Flint.

John Fisher.

Hammond Fisher (no relation).

Ali Riggs.

Michael Fredericks.

Patrick Ulrich.

Oliver Goodman (irony not lost).

Kendrick Vears.

Michael Juarez.

Gregory Cochran.

Vincent Gallo.

He's getting close now. By tonight, Cochran will be caught on sixty-eight counts of child pornography. The bastard won’t survive prison. Dave will let the other prisoners take out their frustrations on him.

He hasn't been able to track down Gallo quite yet. Chances are, he’s fled back to Florence to conduct business from the relative safety of his home. Not that an ocean will be enough to save his life. Dave has Kovac and Ari looking into it.

As for the final name on the list—

Dave York.

—he hasn't figured that one out yet.

For now, it's business as usual. But his fingers flex and his eyes flicker repeatedly toward the door. He’s missing his girl.

A soft knock on the door heralds your entry, and of course you can read his mind. You’ve been away all day, taking calls from your publicist and your agent and even your stylist, who is already brainstorming for your Met Gala appearance next year. You've been assuaging concerns regarding your need for a security detail, conducting the typical damage control (no, you are not pregnant, and no, you are not on drugs), and talking far too much about your own appearance for one afternoon.

You step inside Dave’s office and close the door gently behind you, miming bashing your head against the wall. Dave watches you and tries not to laugh while on the line with a client.

You're a vision in your little skirt and your glimmering diamond ring. Your eyes are tired and heavy, but you smile when you see him and let your shoulders sink a little. He’s got an earpiece in and a pen at his lips, chewing up the end. At least he isn't smoking.

You hold up a dry-erase board, on which you've scrawled the word: MEETING?

Dave nods, and you pout, padding into the office. He mocks your pout, holding out his hand to invite you into his arms. You settle on his lap, straddling his hips as he leans back and idly caresses your thighs.

You aren't one to just sit and stay silent. You fondle the buttons of his dress shirt, popping them out from the top down. Dave watches you the whole time, brows lifted in idle warning while he continues to listen to his client drone on. Your eyes trace his hard chest, opening up the planes of his body for you to map. When the last button is undone, you push open the edges of his shirt and curve your body up against his, your lips finding a home beneath his jawline.

You feel it flex against you as you nibble, rubbing your nose against his strong jaw as if you want to impart your scent to him. Dave’s hand slides to your back, his pinky slipping beneath the hem of your skirt and tracing the shape of your tattoo.

“Think of it like an exercise in discretion, Sam,” he says, dropping his skull back against the chair’s headrest to give you better access. You take advantage, playfully biting his neck like his own personal vampire. He bares his teeth, slipping his hand down your skirt and pinching your ass in retribution.

“You ensure everyone is out of the building, my team install the equipment, and you spend the rest of your career spying happily on your employees. Yes, I’ll need your signature and half the payment up-front. No, I won't take twenty-five per cent.” Dave scribbles a number on a piece of paper behind you as he traces your spine with his fingers, up and down and back again. “That's not my concern. I don't make a habit of building relationships with my clients.” Dave gives you a knowing look, and you suppress your laugh in his throat, grazing your teeth along his artery.

He squeezes your hip hard. “No. We’re done for today. My assistant will send you a copy of the forms. Yes, discreetly.”

He hangs up, practically wrenching out his earpiece, and gives his full attention to you, his hands sliding up your back beneath your sweater. “Hey, baby,” he says, gently tugging your head back by your jaw so he can kiss you properly. “So pretty today.”

“Mmm. You don't have an assistant.” Grinning against his mouth, you find your way down to his belt, the softness of his stomach and the trail of hair leading down to your destination so enticing you can't wait.

Dave grunts when you unbuckle his belt, breaking the kiss to nip your chin. “You're bad for business,” he grumbles.

“I am business,” you point out, sliding the belt out of the loops and draping it around your neck. “And we need to discuss some things, Mr. York.”

“You aren't business,” he says, his mouth curving down in a grumpy pout as he brushes your hair away from your face. “You’re my fucking wife.”

“Not yet,” you tease.

“Soon enough that it doesn't matter.” Slowly, his thumbs make circles over the place where your hips meet your thighs. He knows it can make you melt. “Tell me.”

You beam, biting down on your lower lip. “I’m your wife, Dave York. God help anyone who says otherwise.”

He hums, apparently satisfied, bringing himself toward you and kissing you deeply. His strong, muscled arm curves around your waist and his palm presses into your lower back. “This colour on you,” he murmurs, his mouth travelling from your mouth to your jaw. “So beautiful.”

“You say that when I wear pink, and green, and blue, and—”

“We both know it's just you.” Dave lifts the hem of your sweater up over your head and helps you out of it. He surges up against you and resumes the kiss, his erection bumping your clit through your underwear. “Too pretty for your own good.”

You gasp, grinding down into him, fumbling with the button on his pants as desire turns your vision hazy. “Dave,” you plead, looking down at him, nearly cross-eyed from how close your noses are to touching. “Please…”

“Want me to make you feel better, sweet girl?” he asks, whisper-soft, the brush of a velvet blanket over your bare skin. “I’ve been neglecting you all day. Like a bad man.”

“I like you bad,” you tell him, nudging your nose against his. “I even like you nice.”

Dave bucks his hips and your eyes flutter shut at the delicious pressure against your clit. “Like when I make you squirm?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I like it a lot.”

“Bend over my desk, baby. You know the drill.”

Business can wait.

You slide off his lap and turn around, lowering your upper half to his desk and wiggling your ass at him. Dave shucks up the hem of your skirt and teases his thumb over your clothed pussy. “Wet already,” he muses. “You wear blue just for me?”

“Take them off and see for yourself,” you pant.

“Don't make it easy on me,” he coos, his cool, rough palm scorching your ass even in its gentle path across your backside. “I think I’ll take you just like this.”

You feel his fingers slip under your panties and shift them away from your pussy, baring you to a cool gust of air. “Fuck,” you rasp, your back arching. “Like this?”

“Yeah, pretty girl. Like that.” He keeps your panties askew, two fingers sliding between your wet folds. “Spread your legs.”

You do, shifting your thighs apart. Dave hums in satisfaction. “That's it. She does know how to listen.”

“Oh, you’re so full of it,” you say breathlessly. Beside you, a cell phone begins to trill.

Dave stops feeling you up to pick up your phone, lifting his brows at the screen. “Full of it, huh? Is that right?” He places the phone next to you, draping his body over yours to whisper in your ear. “Answer it,” he demands.

You freeze, your body alive with electricity. “Dave?” you squeak, seeing the caller ID on the screen. “What—”

Apparently feeling impatient, Dave presses the Answer button and puts Victor Brock on speakerphone. You crane your head to glare at Dave when your betrothed-to-be says your name.

“Victor, hi,” you chirp, feeling the weight of Dave’s body leave you. Still, you're pinned down by your hips. “How are you?”

So polite, he thinks. Such a sweet sound from that mouth. He feels pride swell inside him as he sinks to his knees behind you. You'd be such a good wife to Senator Brock, if you obeyed your father’s wishes.

It's too fucking bad you’re already spoken for.

You and Victor trade pleasantries, but because he's a complete asshole, Dave waits until the conversation truly begins to spread you wide and put his mouth on your pussy.

“I was hoping we could discuss the wedding,” says Victor. His tone suggests otherwise.

“Of course we can,” you say pointedly, a little loudly, as if you're giving Dave one last opportunity to behave.

Fat chance.

“My mother wants a fall wedding,” says Brock, “inside a church.”

You slap your hand over your mouth to stifle your helpless whimper when you feel his hot, wet tongue lick between your folds, slathering his saliva on your clit. “Mmmhmm,” you say as nonchalantly as possible, slamming your hand down on the desk and squeezing your eyes shut. “And what… what do you want, Victor?”

“Are you all right? You sound out of breath.”

“Oh, God,” you gasp as Dave sucks your clit between his lips. “God, no. Just got back from a run. I’m fine.”

Oh, you're fine, are you? Dave will have to rectify that.

“Churches get a little warm,” says Brock. “Maybe we should take it outside.”

“That sounds—mm!” Dave’s tongue flicks over your clit repeatedly, his fingers digging mercilessly into your thighs. “Sorry. I… stubbed my toe.”

The man underneath you continues to eat you out like you're a drink of water and he's been stumbling through the desert for days. Oh, you're going to get him for this.

“I can call you back,” offers Brock.

Dave takes that moment to bring his palm down in a passing smack to your ass. “No!” you cry out. “No, it’s fine. We—we should keep going. Please keep going.”

Dave smirks, licking your clit and spreading you open with his rough fingers, his index tucked under the lace of your panties to keep them in place. Your thighs are trembling, your breathing going shallow, and you're trying ever harder to sound like nothing is amiss.

You and Victor—well, mostly Victor—discuss the merits of an outdoor wedding, piano player or DJ, flowers or candles, while Dave’s face is buried in your pussy. Your wetness mixes with his saliva, his brain buzzing with the feel and taste and smell of you, your thighs slick with sweat and your hands grasping uselessly for a way to hold on. You're going to come apart under his tongue while on the phone with your impending fiancé.

But not before you dip into your sleeve and find a trick of your own.

“Victor, have you thought at all about the honeymoon?” you ask coyly.

Hands squeeze your thighs hard and a faint growling noise emits from the mouth suctioned to your clit. Dave pulls away and stands up, pressing End Call with such ferocity you’d think your cell phone called him a crude name.

“You think you’re funny?”

You giggle, pushing your ass against him. You're still needy, after all. “You think you're funny, pulling that stunt. Why shouldn't I have fun, too?”

“You can have fun all you want, baby.” Dave smacks your ass. “As long as it's with me.”

He reaches into his pants and pulls out his cock, steel-hard and too heavy in his hand. It’ll feel better in your pussy, anyway. When he guides himself to your tight hole, you mewl, burying your face in your elbow. He's not even inside you and you're already weeping for him.

Your hand snakes down your body to swipe your fingers over your clit, and Dave is surprised to see a spurt of precum bead on your pussy. Something about your desperation has him splitting you open on his dick, wasting no time as he pushes past the tight seal of your cunt and disappears inside you down to his balls. You sob with relief, your fingers leaving your clit to clutch onto Dave’s hip from behind, keeping him fixed to you, unmoving.

It lights fireworks in his ears. The world crackles around him. You're so fucking warm and wet that his vision whites out. “Jesus. Fucking… fucking dirty girl,” he says through his teeth. “You belong here. Bent over my desk, taking what I give you.”

You squeeze his length tight enough to make him feel like he's choking on air. “Dave.”

He pulls out halfway only to thrust hard, jolting your hips against the edge of the desk. You sob his name again, and Dave wraps a hand around the back of your neck. “Such a pretty sight. I should just keep you here. My beautiful wife spread open for me whenever I need some relief.”

It's so filthy. It burns on your cheeks, tingles at the tips of your fingers. It's so… good. His hand on your neck, his cock buried in your pussy, treating you like a toy that's upset him. Your body flushes with arousal and a loud moan slips from your mouth as Dave begins to fuck you hard, punching his hips against your ass.

The squelching noises of your coupling send your head spinning. Your chest is slick with sweat, slipping along the desk with every thrust and fleeing farther from him. He does not like that—he scoops his arm under your body and fixes you to him, bending over your body and humping you like an animal.

You bite down on your own arm to muffle your scream. Your knees give out and your stomach tightens as the hand at the back of your neck slides down to your ass. Dave’s mouth imprints a wet kiss at the junction of your neck and shoulder, his voice like thunder, like blood pounding in your ears. “Tell me,” he says. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Your fingers curl uselessly against the desk as you try to hold on. “I… oh, God, it feels so good.” It’s whiny and pathetic, but he groans into your throat, nipping the skin as if he’s trying to break through—as if he’s trying to possess the whole of you.

“What else?” he demands.

“You’re so—ngh! You’re so big!” His hips grind hard against your ass and stars burst behind your eyes. You’re so close to coming that your words slur into one another, gasping heaves from your smothered chest.

Dave isn’t much better off. His back pinches with the pleasure of being inside you, his arousal building past a rolling boil and his teeth sinking into your throat to give himself somewhere to put it. It isn’t sweet. It’s sweaty, animalistic sex, and it’s the gnashing teeth of love that punctures you both.

He gets sloppier the more he fucks you, his mouth leaving wet kisses along your back. You keen underneath him, your back arching and your ass insistently pushing against his hips. To answer your implicit pleas, he presses the pad of his thumb to your puckered asshole.

“Oh, fuck!” you squeak, trying to close your legs as the pleasure notches up high and threatens to overwhelm your body. He isn’t letting you, keeping them kicked apart with his strong thighs. Tears wet your cheeks and your mascara runs. Dave York will destroy you. And you’re going to let him.

“So tight,” says Dave, massaging your asshole with his thumb as tremors begin to buck your body against him. “Have you ever been taken here? Have you let some other man use what’s mine?”

You choke, swallowing down his words and feeling them clog your throat. “No,” you whimper, the sound sticky between your lips. “Never.”

“Would you let me?” he coos, bumping his nose into your throat.

You nod your head so vigorously your chin knocks into the mahogany. “Yes,” you gasp, your voice surprisingly clear even as white-hot static envelops your brain. “Yes, I’d let you. I’d let you do anything. You’d be so good to me. I love you, baby. I’m in love with you.”

The gruff sound he makes at your babbling reverberates inside your rib cage, batters against the membrane of your heart. Cavitation. The final flap of wings before the fall begins.

At the very same time, your orgasms wreck your bodies. You hold onto his hip, keeping him inside you as your cunt sucks him deep, pulsing around his length with every wave you ride. Bucking helplessly into him, you cry out, a small spurt of juices splashing onto the wood underneath and the body behind you.

Dave collapses on top of your body as he comes, his balls pulling up and pumping, pumping, pumping. He bites you again, this time on your shoulder, seizing from the pleasure while he dumps his hot cum inside of you. Instinctively, he tries to push deeper; your sweat and your perfume and your hormones blind him from any reason, any thought besides burying himself in the warmth of your body.

Faintly, he hears his name, and he realises he’s crushing you under his weight. “I’m sorry, baby,” he says, hauling himself upright and squeezing your ass as he readies to pull out.

“No,” you croak, still grasping his hip. “Stay inside me. Just for a minute.”

He feels his bones settle. He can do that.

“Your back will hurt tomorrow,” you point out.

He idly caresses your lower back. Muscle memory. Knowing your body better than he knows himself most days. “I promise I won’t blame you.”

You giggle, a pleasant fog descending from the ceiling of your brain. “We have an important date tomorrow, Dave. You gonna need a massage?”

“I wouldn't say no,” he teases, tracing the left wing of your tattoo. “But we have work to do.”

You groan, in the mood to complain now that you've been satiated. Why should you have to work at all when you're so sleepy and comfortable, your man’s cock buried inside you? Dave chuckles at your petulance and gives your ass a playful smack. “C’mon, sweet girl. We’ll sit out by the pool.”

Your ears perk up at that, beaming at him over your shoulder. Dave’s cock gives one last feeble pulse inside you at the sight before he pulls out of you. You immediately buckle, slowly lifting your upper half off the desk and bracing your hands on the edge. Dave kisses his way across your back, blowing cool air onto your neck and making you laugh, ticklish.

“Is this a good time to tell you that I’d love a summer wedding?”

Dave hums, grinning against your skin. “I know you would. And pink roses. White daisies. A grand piano and taper candles.”

You turn in his arms and pin him with a glare, though you're sure it's inoffensive. “You read my binder.”

“Baby, it's a beautiful binder,” says Dave, smoothing your skirt back down over your ass. “I have no notes.”

“Good. Because I’ve already started working with an organiser,” you chirp, threading your fingers through his. “I’m going swimming. You can come outside with me.”

“I’ll be right there,” he says, kissing your forehead.

Wrong answer. You lead him toward the door and give him a look that makes him feel like following a siren to his demise. “I’m not going to bother with a swimsuit,” you add.

It’s easy to make him forget about business. Dave follows you happily, the sailor to the song.

By the night of the gala, two problems are becoming apparent.

One: Dave’s back is killing him.

Two: Vincent Gallo.

In the early afternoon, Dave paced inside his office for an hour as he waited for Ari and Kovac to return. It did not help his back problem, but it helped him map fifteen or so backup plans in his head. A man like Gallo would not get one up on Dave York. After the things he has done, a man like Gallo could hardly call himself a man.

A knock at the door, and Dave barked, “Inside,” not once slowing his pace across the room or removing his fingers from his mouth: a thinking pose you liked to tease him about.

“Boss, we might have something,” says Kovac. “Tracked those bastards back to their hole. Got pictures.”

Dave would look at the images later. He was itching with anticipation. “Where's Gallo?”

Kovac and Ari were used to Dave’s snippy moods, so neither were particularly disappointed. “Not in Chicago,” said Kovac, which was to be expected.

“Italy, then?” Dave guessed. He needed a lead. He needed something.

He did not like a target he could not find.

“You asked me to keep an eye on the Gallos’ books,” said Ari.

“I did.”

“More frequent transfers have been going to Florence and fewer coming here. Not only is he in Italy—”

“—He may be getting desperate,” finished Dave. It was good. It was the something he needed. He had finished jobs on far less than a location. “What about the rest of his family?”

“If they know we're snooping, they haven't made it clear. It’s bad business as usual.”

“Which means, if he comes back to Chicago,” said Dave, “it's because he needs his family’s support. I don't want him to get that support. We need to predict their next moves.”

“Already on it,” said Ari. “Bugged a couple of the guards’ vans during a shift change.”

“By next week, we’ll know what times of day they pick their noses,” said Kovac.

“Good. That’s good.” Dave finally stopped pacing and leaned over his desk. His security system pinged, indicating that another person was on the front doorstep. He looked down and lifted his brows.

Carrying fifteen huge shopping bags in just two hands, you waved at the camera. “Can I please have some help?” you said sweetly. “Honey, are you home?”

Dave, along with an Ari and Kovac who knew better than to weasel out of helping you, relieved you of the bags. Now, you’re trying to choose between two dresses for tonight’s gala while Dave sits on the edge of the bed and watches you.

He has a perfect view of your ass from here while you cock your hip and fold your arms over your chest. You're wearing only a pair of black lacy panties to make trying on your options easier. “Do you really think he’s coming back to Chicago?” you ask.

You've been relatively quiet on the subject until now, but Dave catches the worrying of your bottom lip. “Sweetheart, I’m doubling security tonight, and he wouldn’t try anything even if I weren’t. He has a reputation to keep.”

That word again. Reputation. “That isn't what I’m worried about.”

Dave crosses the room to put his arms around you from behind. “The last thing you need to worry about is me.”

Your head falls back to rest on his shoulder. “I know you’re big and strong,” you begin, twisting his watch around his wrist, “but they’re a family. If one gets hurt, the others will swarm. I don’t want you being the product of someone’s revenge. Not for me.”

He doesn’t quite know how to breach this threshold—to tell you that he will do anything, kill anyone, trudge any path, to keep you. That he has never known selfishness like the press of your body to his. That your brilliant smile justifies each new crime he commits. That remorse cannot fill his heart the way you do.

“Tell me the promise you want me to make,” he says, “and I’ll make it.”

“Promise me that you'll love me enough to stay alive.”

Dave splays his hand over your belly, his lips meeting your jaw in a soft kiss. “You're wrong if you think there’s anything in this world that will take me from you. If you're alive, I’m alive. And if I’m alive…” He nibbles your earlobe and you laugh breathlessly.

“That wasn't a promise.”

Dave kisses your neck, his hand sliding up your sternum. “I…” He squeezes your breast. “… promise.”

“That's better,” you whisper, turning your head to the side to kiss him. “Now—sit down on the bed.”

“Mrs. York,” he teases, grabbing a handful of your ass. “Such a dirty girl.”

“Sit down,” you repeat, turning around and giving him a decent shove square in the chest. It turns him on so much that he obliges without any further teasing.

“Tonight won't be easy on you.” Slipping your panties down your legs, achingly slowly, you peer at him coyly from your corner of the room. Dave instinctively licks his lips. “I think you need to remind yourself who you are.”

Dave eyes your body hungrily. “I know who I am.”

“Is that right?” You approach him slowly, a tiger to its prey.

“Come here.” Dave’s gaze is fixed to your pussy as you prowl closer. He wants to devour you. “Let me show you who I am.”

Your submissive instincts have you folding your hands behind your back, pushing out your chest to give him a good view of your tits, but you manage to stop in your tracks. “Then, I think you should remind yourself who I am.”

Dave lifts his brows, rubbing his fingers over his mouth. “Come. Here.”

You walk toward him as he bunches his sleeves up to his elbows, the lamp’s soft yellow glow rolling over your body with every shift in your movement. “Give me your hand,” he says when you're close enough. You know what he wants; lifting your left hand, you let him put his lips to your diamond ring.

“Tell me what this means,” he demands.

“It means I’m yours.” Clear and resounding. It rolls off your tongue. It's true and assured. “It means only you get to touch me.”

“That's right.” His hand splays over your stomach. “Now tell me who I am.”

“You’re Dave York,” you tell him, whisper-soft now, pressing closer into his space. He ghosts his lips over your belly, a silent encouragement to keep going. “You’re a bad man… and a good one. You’re going to be my husband.” Another hand finds your hip, squeezing, relishing. “You’re Dave. And you’re mine.”

For a moment, when his hands wrap around your thighs and tug your body snug to his, you see blood on his fingers. A faint crimson veneer, sticky and wet, pooling in his lifelines, dribbling down his wrists. But the blood is cool. It does not burn or sting. It soothes. It is a promise. The blood will save you because it will destroy everything else.

“I love you,” says Dave, looking up at you with wide eyes, letting the rareness of the sound peter to a soft echo. “Nothing in this world means shit. Nothing amounts to anything. Everyone just lives and then they die. But you’re my purpose. You’re my meaning. You’re living. I’ve got no use for a world that doesn’t have you.”

You can unpack his nihilistic tendencies later. Now, you beam, threading your fingers through his. You let the blood soak. You let it cleanse.

“Who are you?” you ask softly. His eyes are dark and his lashes spread shadows over his cheekbones.

“I’m Dave York,” he says, resting his chin on your belly, “and I’m yours. ‘Til the fucking stars fall down.”

#pedro pascal #dave york #kiwisbell's fics #dave york smut #dave york fanfiction #dave york x you #dave york x reader #pedro pascal fic #equalizer 2 #dave york x female reader #dave york x f!reader

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witchofthesouls · 4 months

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Do you have any he’s about prowl? Who do you pair with him if anyone

It depends on the main universe of the story, but if you're asking for what I headcanons that are relatively consistent, regardless of iterations:

He lives off the equivalent of sludge from a banged up coffee machine that's too spiteful to completely die

He's from Vector Sigma as a special order

Every Prowl will be, for lack of a better word, out of step with the rest of the others

The MTMTE/IDW verse dug deep into this bastard, but I really got a lot of influence from fanfics exploring Prowl as a Praxian in Iacon or how basically functions until the end of the war because Praxus was gone.

Prowl can be such an interesting character to explore, especially as a survivor of a dead/dying culture and as a person in trusted authority from a people that majority of Autobots have negative stereotypes or biases towards.

Do he and the remaining Praxians still celebrate cultural traditions? Speak their dialect? Do they have difficulties with others who can't pick up social cues from their sensory panels/door wings? Are they still practicing certain things that the Autobots are mistaking for something else?

Add in the Protectobots and Skyfire, and there can be soooo much to explore, especially since fanon tends to interpret the Protectobots as a type of Seekerkin, and Skyfire has similar issues being an outsider as well.

In terms of pairings:

Smokescreen/Prowl - they would have an understanding as a dead city rests upon them

Jazz/Prowl - there has been so many interpretations of them, it's just fascinating

Optimus/Prowl - either fantastic hate sex or they're digging their hands into really sore, festering parts of each other and themselves because no one else would do it

Getaway/Prowl - I like it terrible and twisted and with so many flags. Like Getaway would invent Daddy Issues on Cybertron.

Thundercracker/Prowl - based on personal headcanons on Seekerkin and that TC is a femme and a Praxian as well, there is just so much sadness, grief, and hurt between these two.

#ask #transformers #prowl #tf headcanons #optimus prime #optimus #smokescreen #jazz #thundercracker #getaway #maccadam #my thoughts #prowl has so many ways to go #he's a Queen in terms of chess piecds #any direction baby

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genericpuff · 2 years

Text

Guess it's time for me to give the people what they asked for- (FP spoilers ahead)

Hey y'all, thanks for waiting while I got my ducks in a row to put this lil' essay together. Life's been doing a lot of 180's and I haven't had as many spoons to allocate to LO crit and all that good shit. And honestly, half the struggle of putting these essays together is finding screenshots to back up my claims, the episodes are so cluttered with nonsensically-woven events that it often has me scrolling through multiple episodes wondering if I'm crazy and if the panels I remember even exist.

BUT I just got back from work, Halloween's right around the corner, and I'm feeling like talking about one of the witchiest LO characters of all.

Yep, we're talking Daphne.

(note: there are FastPass spoilers in this essay!)

Now I know - some of y'all in the UnpopularLO and LO crit communities really like Daphne because of her willingness to hold Thanatos accountable. But if you'll give me a few paragraphs, ima tell you why she's just as if not more problematic than some of the go-to problematic characters in LO (AND ima blow your mind with something I don't think y'all have even realized but once you see it, you can't unsee it).

Daphne, like many characters in LO, started off relatively strong. Though her inclusion was a little random, I liked it as a way to show Persephone's past friends from the Mortal Realm (and also it just went to show how obsessed Apollo was with Persephone prior to the whole overthrowing-Zeus retcon).

But that's about where my compliments end because as her inclusion in the plot went on, I came to realize that Daphne is 1.) yet another character in the plot whose only purpose is to be a victim, 2.) unable to practice what she preaches and forces onto other characters, and 3.) yet another character who's used as a Therapy Speak stand-in for Rachel to try and project herself onto.

Let's get the obvious aside - yes, she's basically just another Persephone clone. And by extension that does, in a really messed up way, make her another Rachel clone, but instead of serving the DDLG function of satisfying Rachel's weird but obvious hyperfixation on being a sugar baby (i.e. Persephone) she instead serves the function of being a holier than thou "I'm gonna recite self-help advice that doesn't actually apply to your situation" person, in the same vein as people who use Twitter as their handbook for catch-all moral behavior. Y'know the word... virtue signalling.

I think where Daphne first started to fall apart for me was her first serious interaction with Thanatos, and this is one that gets called out a lot. Daphne is talking about her issues trying to get Apollo's validation, and Thanatos is mentioning how upset he is over Persephone getting special treatment from Hades, when we get THIS little schpeel:

I'm sorry to break it to y'all, but she is NOT being insightful here. She's basically telling Thanatos what Rachel wants to say to her audience - "stop caring so much that Hades is a creepy old man taking advantage of a 19 year old girl in a corporate setting where there's obvious special treatment at play - you're supposed to ship them dammit!"

Neither do we, Thanatos, neither do we.

But think about it. Thanatos is an employee of Hades, one we've found out through both previous and future interactions is often berated and mistreated by Hades (retconned to be Daddy Issues, okay Rachel...) whose job is literally affected by internships, the same way it is in most corporate settings. Internships are incredibly competitive positions, ESPECIALLY in massive mega-corporate settings like the one run by the King of the Dead. There were undoubtedly more people way more qualified for the job. Especially considering little miss Persephone doesn't even know how to operate a computer.

No, you're not required to already 'know' everything during an internship, but there's a reason most internships are only open to students with some kind of transcript showing they're familiar with the work that's being expected of them. Persephone has NONE of that here, AFAIK she's in school for biochem, she has no experience managing shades or even turning on a bloody computer, and here she is, hired to work a job that she has no connection to or interest in besides Hera telling her to (which idk why Hera's even able to do that considering it's not her domain) and the money. Which she shouldn't even be receiving but does because of Hades favoring her for being cute.

I've seen a myriad of Daphne-like defenses of this, stating "well Thanatos is the God of the Dead, his job isn't necessarily affected by Persephone so he shouldn't give a shit."

Except he literally sits next to her.

If you've ever worked in a corporate setting or any kind of industry that utilizes internship programs, you very likely also know what it's like to get an intern who's clearly been hired due to favoritism or nepotism or some other bullshit reason that has nothing to do with the job itself. Intern or not, the skill level of other employees can and will affect your own job. If Persephone fucks up, that could mean problems for Thanatos, Minthe, and other employees under Hades' care. And Thanatos/Minthe/etc. should NOT have to be responsible for carrying her weight or teaching her how to do a job that she should have been qualified for when she got picked.

And, by the way, we can give further credit to Thanatos being bothered by this because we know that Thanatos has been working for Hades for centuries and he's witnesses Hades hire not one, not two, but three employees simply due to being cute or because of some made-up superfluous reason that Hades came up with on the spot. That we know of. Needless to say, HADES HAS A HISTORY OF HIRING PEOPLE ON THE SPOT WITH ZERO REAL QUALIFICATIONS.

(there are some obvious parallels between Persephone and Minthe but we're not gonna get into that in this essay)

Needless to say, if you had a boss who treated you like a doormat despite ABSOLUTELY NEEDING YOU TO MAKE MONEY AT ALL (remember that Thanatos is LITERALLY the god of the dead and Hades is the equivalent of the dead's accountant, Thanatos is not someone who is considered subservient to Hades, if anyone is working for anyone, it's the other way around) and had a history of hiring and firing women for no reason other than wanting to bone them? You'd be pretty pissed too.

And yet here comes Daphne with the oh-so-insightful "wHy dO yOu cArE" schpeel straight from the Twitter Handbook of Life Advice as if Thanatos doesn't stand to have his own job or life compromised by Hades' shitty behavior. Thanatos is fully in the right for raising an eyebrow at his boss - and later established, his father figure - constantly hiring unqualified hot young women to help manage the Underworld.

So that alone had me kind of rolling my eyes at Daphne. She's trying to take some kind of moral high ground without taking a moment in the SLIGHTEST to understand where he's coming from or the context of his situation, even though it's literally what he does for her.

But that's just the tip of the iceberg. We ain't done, folks.

Shortly after this, Daphne shows a clear interest in Thanatos but makes it clear she doesn't wanna date him to "fix" him, she wants him to "get his shit together."

This on its own was fine, I'm all for having more female characters who don't date the first guy who gives them empathy.

But then almost IMMEDIATELY afterwards, basically by the time we see her next, she's dating him anyways and goes ahead and says this shit:

Daphne, which is it exactly? Do you have self-respect, or are you seriously gonna try and 'fix' him when you literally just said to him that you weren't gonna be responsible for that? Pick a lane, for the love of god.

Now, once was bad enough, but she literally does it again in Episode 217. When Hades shows up to speak to Thanatos (in an attempt to find Hypnos) and Thanatos obviously IMMEDIATELY writes him off (as he should!) and Daphne just ?? stomps on Thanatos' boundaries entirely? ??

AND THEN SHE HAS THE NERVE

TO TWITTER SPEAK AT HADES

TELLING HIM TO LISTEN AND VALUE THANATOS' FEELINGS

AS IF SHE'S NOT COMPLETELY DISMISSING THANATOS' FEELINGS JUST TO TAKE SOME SUPERFLUOUS MORAL HIGHGROUND-

Man, seriously, fuck Daphne. If Persephone is Rachel's messed up way of having some kink fantasy self-insert, then Daphne is Rachel's equally messed up way of having her moral high ground talk-at-the-audience self-insert.

But hoo boy, that brings us to Persephone, Hades, and the inversion of their relationship juxtaposed against Daphne and Thanatos. This is that "once you see it" thing y'all have been waiting for.

And that begins once you ask yourself, who do Daphne and Thanatos remind you of?

Oh. Right.

Pink nymph-like character from the Mortal Realm with flowing hair who acts like they're better than everyone else and constantly gets away with shitty behavior? Check.

Blue/grey cthonic god with dominion over the dead, mommy/daddy issues, and banging Minthe? Check.

Obvious gap in how the two people in the relationship are presented, treated, and behave in LO's class system compared to everyone around them? Check.

Borderline toxic relationship dynamic in which one plays the Daddy Dom role and another plays the Little Girl role? Oh yeah, check.

But in Daphne and Thanatos' case, it's inverted.

Persephone is presented as a naive, in-over-her-head character who gets into a relationship with someone who speaks on her behalf and makes a lot of decisions for her.

And here we have Thanatos, a naive, in-over-his-head character who gets into a relationship with someone who speaks on his behalf and makes decisions for him- oop.

Daphne and Thanatos may as well just be Rachel's excuse to keep drawing Persephone x Hades fluff without it being Persephone x Hades fluff.

Same petty, tone deaf virtue-signaling dialogue. Same pink x blue aesthetic. Same roles in the comic's established class system. Same character arc that's reduced to being nothing more than a #metoo victim of assault from a man (the same man no less) all just to push their love interests' character arc and make them look better by comparison. Same creepy, toxic DDLG undertones projected from a creator who's proven to be into these power-imbalanced controlling relationship dynamics.

Daphne isn't 'empowering'. She's not 'mature.' She's yet another Rachel projection - Persephone but not Persephone - to talk at the audience with generic Therapy Speak while refusing to uphold the very virtues she's signaling. It's not a good thing that her greatest contribution to the plot was being another victim of Apollo.

The proof is all there. If you've still got a hint of doubt, look no further than the newest FastPass preview for Episode 219.