Title: "Where Silver Meets Skin": The Hobbit fanfiction
Pairing: Thranduil x Reader Male ( human )
Genre: Fantasy | Romance | Slow Burn | Tension/Enemies-to-Lovers vibes
Warnings: none.
Summary: While patrolling the edges of Mirkwood, King Thranduil encounters a bold, tattooed human living alone in the forest. What begins as suspicion quickly turns into fascination, sparking a tense and dangerous attraction neither of them expected.
The forest grows quieter the deeper Thranduil rides into it.
Mirkwood knows its king. The trees bend subtly toward him, the undergrowth parts without protest. Yet today, the silence feels… watchful. Wrong. Tracks have been found—booted feet, not orc, not elf—and so Thranduil leads a small party beyond the usual borders of patrol.
They expect a trespasser.
They do not expect a cabin.
It sits in a small clearing like it has grown there, timber walls darkened by age and smoke, stacked firewood lining one side. Human craftsmanship—crude compared to elven halls, but solid. Lived-in.
Thranduil raises a hand, halting his riders.
Then he sees you.
You stand near a chopping block, back to them, an axe rising and falling in a steady rhythm. You are shirtless despite the cool air, skin warm and marked, muscles shifting beneath inked stories. A full sleeve wraps your arm—black lines and symbols twisting with every movement. Across your shoulders, dark shapes stretch like wings caught mid-spread, disappearing down your spine. Sweat glints along the curves of your back, catching the sunlight that filters through the canopy.
You are wholly unarmored.
Unafraid.
The axe comes down with a solid crack. You pause, sensing something, and turn.
Your eyes meet his.
“Well,” you say, voice rough from exertion, mouth tugging faintly at one corner. “You’re either very lost… or very confident.”
Several elves raise bows instantly.
Thranduil lifts a single finger.
You don’t flinch. You don’t bow. You don’t scramble for decency. You just stand there, sun-warmed skin and ink on full display, studying him with open curiosity.
That, more than anything, is a mistake.
Or a challenge.
“You stand on elven land,” Thranduil says, dismounting in one smooth, predatory motion. His crown glints as he approaches you, pale and cold as winter moonlight. “Unarmed. Uninvited.”
You glance down at the axe. “Unarmed feels inaccurate.”
A murmur ripples through his guard.
Thranduil’s lips curve—not a smile, but something dangerous. He stops a few paces away, close enough now to see the faded edges of older ink beneath the newer lines, the scars hidden among the art.
“You cut wood as if you expect trouble,” he observes.
“I’ve learned to,” you reply. “Forests don’t care who you are.”
“Mine does.”
Your gaze flicks briefly to his crown, then back to his eyes. “Ah. That explains the attitude.”
That does it.
Thranduil steps closer—too close, by any sensible measure. His presence is overwhelming, ancient, sharp as frostbite. He reaches out without warning and grips your tattooed arm, fingers cool against heated skin.
You tense instantly.
Not in fear.
In readiness.
Interesting.
“These marks,” he says quietly, thumb tracing the curve of black ink over your bicep. “They are not decorative.”
“No,” you answer, jaw tightening. “Neither are scars.”
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. The air between you hums—elf and human, eternity and inevitability colliding in a forest that has seen both rise and fall.
Thranduil releases you slowly, as if doing otherwise might shatter something.
“You live alone?” he asks.
“Not anymore, apparently.”
That earns you a sharp look—and then, unexpectedly, a low, breath-soft laugh.
“You are bold,” the Elvenking says. “Or foolish.”
You meet his gaze evenly. “Same thing, depending on how long you live.”
Something shifts in him then—something dangerous and alive. He straightens, authority settling back into place like a blade sliding home.
“You will not leave,” he says. Not a question. “And you will not cut another tree without my knowledge.”
You tilt your head. “That a threat or an invitation?”
Thranduil mounts his elk again, eyes never leaving you.
“Be careful, human,” he says coolly. “Curiosity is a costly thing.”
As he turns his riders back toward the forest, you call after him-
“King of the Woodland Realm!”
He pauses.
“If you’re going to keep watching,” you add, voice carrying, amused and unapologetic, “you could at least say you like the view.”
For a long moment, the forest waits.
Then Thranduil rides on.
But the tips of his ears burn, and he does not forget the way the sunlight loved your skin.
Nor the unsettling certainty that this—you—will not be a passing curiosity.
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Featuring: Ace Trappola, Duece Spade, Jack Howl, Epel Felmier, and Sebek Zigolt. and Body Modificated | Faculty | GN Reader
TW: Talk of needles
Context: You are a tattoo and piercing enthusiast, you have multiple piercings and tattoos. There are tattoos spanning your entire body. Your piercings are mainly on your ears but you do have a septum and snake bites.
⛧----------⛧
You are standing in the front of class, teaching them different art terms, different paint textures and different art mediums.
"Now students, there are several mediums and techniques but for today we will focus on the main three." You turn your back to the class to write on the chalk board. They all take notice of the large fairy wings tattoo, black out stars going down your spine, showing through your black mock turtleneck with a keyhole cutout.
“The three art mediums we are talking about today are painting, drawing and sculpture.” You turn back to the class, noticing some of them are red in the face or have their mouths open.
"Is there something wrong?" Your voice is suddenly sharp, it's known you don't tolerate slackers. They quickly compose themselves, though some are still red.
“Anyway, there are many types of ways to paint, whether that’s oil, acrylic, watercolor, gouache, encaustics or tempera. Now for drawing there's…” You continue class, keeping an eye on them.
After class ends, and your getting ready for your next class, setting everything up, you are approached by some of the first years.
“Did it hurt?! How much was it?! Did it take forever?! Do you-” Ace blurts out before Duece clamps a hand over his mouth.
"Dude, don't overwhelm them."
“Did what hurt?” You glance at him, your hands flat on your desk, deciding to tackle the first question.
"The tattoo." Epel gestures, his eyes wide and excited.
"Ehh, a bit. I used numbing cream so that helped during the appointment."
"What about the cost?" Jack pipes up, tail slightly swaying.
"It certainly cost a pretty penny. I don't remember the exact price since it was my first one."
"You have more?!" Sebek shouts, eyes practically bulging out of his head.
"Yeah?" You raise a brow. You finish cleaning off the chalkboard and start writing for the next class.
"How many more?"
"I have 5. A small one on my shoulder, a big one on my forearm, a small one on my ankle, another small one behind my ear, and of course the one on my back."
"How come we've never seen the others?"
"Well I normally cover them with make up, or my clothes cover them."
"You should show them more."
"Maybe I will, since you all seem so interested. Now shouldn't you all be at your next class." You smirk.
They all in unison look at the clock on the wall and yelp, hurrying out to hopefully get to chemistry on time. You chuckle, finding their panic amusing.
THE steve harrington dating heavily tattooed reader. he loves admiring the artwork all over your body. he traces it with his eyes, his fingers, his tongue. it was the town gossip when the two of you started seeing each other. it was no secret that you were from two different social circles. but no one could ignore the way he looks at you. he loves showing you off when you go out together and you wear something that shows off your ink. hes never dated someone like you before. someone so boldly authentic. someone so established in who they are. he loves that you are dedicated to expressing who you are. he thinks its insane that YOU chose HIM. before you came along he felt so mundain and cookie cutter but because you saw him as someone special, he believes that he is. to steve, you are the most impressive display hes ever seen. he loves you so much.
tattoo AU driven by my itching need to get another tattoo.
Soap, who brushed off the fact that his usual artist had an emergency. "Leavin' you with my right hand," his artist had texted. Alright with me.
Your eyes had sparkled at him over the edge of your surgical mask and he was hooked.
The way you gently prodded at his muscle (not like he was flexing or anything, psshh), angling the stencil before trying a position out. No, he did not ask you to reposition it just to feel the gentle stroking of your hands and the contemplative hum tickle his ears. He was just indecisive.
Johnny adjusted his pants as he sat, steeling himself for the brutal four hour session ahead. Any lusting he had would surely be drowned by the stabbing needle. Or so he thought.
He knew. he knew it was going to hurt. The second your needle touched his skin, he yelped, cuing you to gently coo and pat his thigh. Took every cell in his body not to whine.
Johnny tried.
But fuck.
He was squirming, blue eyes locked on your content, focused expression as you buzzed gently over his bicep. Your hands were heavenly, and the quiet assurances you murmured to him were driving him right mad.
If you were honest, his piercing stare was a bit much. You called for a break, handing him some water and stripping your gloves off.
At the sight of your strong, nimble hands traced in ink, Soap's pants tightened even further and he gasped into his fist. Hell's bells.
Alarmed, you reached for him, petting cool circles onto his non-tatted arm. "Hey, easy big guy, it's a lot," you soothed. "Big pieces always suck."
But he couldn't quite find the words to tell you it's not the tattoo and to please step back or I'm about to burst.
You didn't complain when he requested to finish the session laying on his front.
Dick Grayson x Tattooed!Reader, Jason Todd x Tattooed!Reader
Summary: What was once lost is now found.
Word Count: 2.2k
Warnings: 18+, death, violence, buried alive(ish), grief, more warnings to be added, eventual sexual content, or future love triangle drama (no polycule 😔). Minors DNI.
A/N: I have a pretty good idea where this is headed, but more often than not characters have their own ideas so we’ll see where they lead me
Heartbeat Divider / Writer Banners
You can’t breathe.
Something fills your nose and mouth—heavy and tasting of rot. It clogs your throat when you try to call out for help. Darkness persists even with open eyes, stinging them and forcing them to clench shut in tears. It presses in, weighing heavy on your limbs as the attempt to kick out. Panic urges you to fight it.
Your hands move until the darkness loosens around them. They claw at it, but it gives so little. Wrong way, wrong way, something screams. With the limited movement the darkness allows, you twist and push until the darkness beneath your fingers gives way easier. The darkness breaks apart in clumps and sifts through your fingers. You claw. And claw. And claw. And claw.
And then a frigid breeze bites the tips of your fingers.
You claw harder. Desperate at the ache in your lungs. Your arms find freedom and the leverage allows your face to break the surface. Collapsing still half trapped in the darkness, you gag on its residue in your throat. You heave until you can finally breathe. The air is sharp, stabbing into your deprived lungs, but you inhale it greedily.
Water drips around you. You turn your face to and allow it to help clear away what still clings to your face. Rain, you realize when you can finally open your eyes, to the night above. It continues to patter as you drag yourself free. The darkness—the dirt—slickens to mud beneath you.
Tears add to the growing damp. Mud clings as you push to your knees, limbs sinking in the soft earth. The world around you is half-shadowed and gray. Dark, but near blinding compared to the total lack of light before. You sit there for a long, terrible moment, hunched and shivering.
Your chest rises and falls in shallow, quick breaths.
No, no, later. Panic later.
You push to your feet. One foot forward. Then another. Shivering as the rain slowly eats away at the mud. Mud turns to grass and grass turns to pavement It’s almost familiar, the route pulling you like a magnet, but not quite.
You pass people—blurry faces under umbrellas, shadows with coats tight against the wind. They turn their heads and give you a wide berth. Some cross the street. One woman tries to stop you, speaking but with words that don’t translate to any coherent thought. You don’t stop for her. A hand, maybe hers, tries to grip your arm, but it's too slick and slides off.
The pavement ends in gravel that eventually spreads into mud again. Home. At least, it should be.
The grounds are empty. No trace of the caravan. No tents. Only litter sinking into the mud.
You blink rain from your lashes and wipe at your face with a trembling hand, smearing more mud than you clear away. You open your mouth to call out—someone’s name, anyone’s—but no sound comes out except a ragged croak.
They left you.
You stumble forward. No. You have to be seeing it wrong. It’s dark. You don’t know this city well—can’t even recall its name—maybe this is the wrong place. They could have two fairgrounds, right? Or maybe—maybe it’s not that at all. It could be a dream.
A terrible, awful, torturous nightmare.
You trip over something half sunk in the ground. A sharp sting pricks your palm as it connects with a jagged edge hidden in the mud. It burns white-hot and the shock of it jerks your senses into sudden, blinding focus. You cradle your hand against your chest. The pain throbs. Immediate. Undeniable. You can’t see the wound—the darkness and mud make everything blend into one wet smear—but you feel it. That sharp, raw sting of sliced skin.
The pain throbs with each breath, each quake of your trembling hand. It pulses like a beacon. Too sharp to be part of some dream. You stare down at your muddy hand. The wound is lost beneath filth and darkness. Still, it’s there. Like you.
It starts as a shudder in your chest that spills into broken, ragged sobs. You curl in on yourself, hand still cradled to your chest, every breath a fight to take. Your heart beats in your hand in the most horrifyingly grounding way. You sob until your throat won’t produce anymore sound and the only water sliding down your face falls from the sky.
A noise cuts through your grief and the steady rhythm of the rain. Footsteps. First kicking gravel then squelching in mud. Your head lifts to find two figures closing in. Instinct overrides fear. Your muscles tense in response. You’re on your feet as they near, their words as incompressible as the woman’s had been. One is taller, voice deeper, calmer. The other can’t be more than a child from the pitch of his voice.
“Leave me alone,” you try to say. But even to your own ears, it’s not much more than groaning gibberish.
The smaller one moves. You may not understand what they say, but you understand the way he draws something from his side. It glints, unmistakable even in the gloom. A blade. Long and curved. A sword.
You spin, nearly losing your footing in the mud, and run.
Mud sucks at your feet. You slip, skid, and catch yourself enough to keep moving. There’s no other option. You dug yourself out of a grave, you won’t let them put you back. Every step pounds in your head.
They're still behind you. Foot falls that land in even patterns. Never gaining. Never falling behind. Persistent. Patient, almost. There’s shouting. You don’t know which one it comes from. You don’t care which. They’re both chasing you. Hunting you.
Something rises in front of you. A fence. Chainlink, tall, extending into the abyss both ways. A normal day you would've scaled it. But you can't now. They'd catch you half way up and drag you down.
Instead, you follow the fence. Maybe there's a break.
There isn't.
But they're still there.
And there's a pile of wooden pallets. Broken. Discarded in the muck.
You sprint forward and drop to your knees, sliding close enough to grab two of the loose planks. One long, another half its size. They're ribbed enough to allow a firm grip even with your slick hands. You're up seconds later, spinning to face your pursuers. They're closer than you thought. Better. You launch the shorter plank in a swift, practiced motion. It’s thicker, longer than you’re used to, but your aim is nearly perfect. The taller one narrowly avoids it but pays for the quick duck by losing his balance and smacking into the ground without grace.
The smaller one overtakes his fallen companion. His sword is gone, resheathed at his side. His posture still reads as a threat. You let him come. Then you grip the board in both hands and swing low, forcing him to veer to the side to avoid it. Unlike the other, he expects it. Your foot kicks out and connecs with his chest the moment he plants his feet, however, he doesn’t. It knocks him flat on his back.
The taller one is pushing back to his feet. You charge before he can regain his balance.
He manages to catch the board and twist it from your grasp. It slips from your fingers and splashes in the mud. Despite it, the momentum has you crashing into him. He's not ready for that. You both fall back into the mud. Hard. His body cushions your fall and you hear a stuttered breath from him at the impact. You roll off and land on your knees, preparing to leap to your feet and run again.
But there's a weight that slams into your back, an arm locking around your shoulders.
Your head snaps back and connects with something hard. A pained grunt and the weight shifts, the arm moving to your neck and tightening. You gag, arms clawing at the arm like it was dirt. The fabric that covers it is too thick to dig your nails into.
A sting in your neck. Brief, no more than a pinprick. It wouldn’t be a concern if it weren’t for the cold that spreads from it like a burst dam.
You twist, buck, claw, scream. Anything to get him off. It works as you feel the weight lift. You try to stand, but your arms are too heavy and useless to push you to your feet. Your legs follow next, trembling until they give and you splash into the mud again. It fills your mouth and nose, covers your eyes. Everything dulls.
The world shifts. You choke on a word trying to drag itself out.
Their voices distant, more a hum now.
Then there’s nothing.
The computer screen burns Tim’s eyes as they flick between the running searches that had so far offered no answers. Fingerprints: not in any system. DNA: besides a few very distant relative matches pulled from genealogical sites with vague possible connections, nothing helpful. Facial recognition: zero matches so far. Missing persons reports: none in the immediate or surrounding areas matching your description. He’d removed the search filters on the missing persons reports and gotten a couple false positives from the nationwide search, but he was no closer to learning your name.
There’d been no ID, no phone, not even a set of keys on you.
He leans back, resisting the urge to shut his eyes. Whatever had happened to you must have been recent and quick. Too soon for anyone to notice you’re missing. Someone would soon, though. In a day or two. Your mother, most likely. From the way you’d called for her at the end, the only intelligible thing you’d said, he hoped you had a good relationship. If not, well, hopefully you’ll be able to identify yourself when you’re awake.
His gaze falls from the screen to you, across the Cave in the Med Bay. Still sedated. Strapped down to the bed. Alfred’s decision after he’d attended Damien’s broken nose. It was necessary, Tim could admit that. Given your state at the fairgrounds, it was likely you’d wake up swinging and would hurt someone—including yourself. But he didn’t like it.
Duke had followed your trail when the sun came up—first the physical one you’d left at the fairgrounds and then traced your probable path based on the same reports that had led Tim and Damien to you in the first place. Woman covered in mud. Woman in distress. Zombie. That last one felt uncomfortably close to reality. Duke had found the hole in the ground you most likely crawled out of. Combined with the large, early stage bruise that wrapped around your neck they found after cleaning off the dirt, it was evident someone had murdered you and buried your body. Or at least, they had tried.
A call pinging draws his attention back to the computer. A moment later, Batman’s face appears with the background of the Watchtower. He takes a moment before he speaks, assessing, and then says, “You should sleep.”
Tim huffs. “Ditto, B. Have you even hit eight hours this week?”
Batman doesn’t respond to it. Tim’s far too much like him. “Anything yet?”
“No.”
A beat and then, “Have you contacted Gordon yet?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Tims shifts, the chair squeaking with the movement. “I’m not sure I trust GCPD yet. Someone tried to kill her. Buried her in a place that would have gone unfound if she hadn’t dug herself out. I just,” he pauses, the image of her on her knees in the rain still cover in mud, “I don’t want it getting out yet that she—whoever she is—survived and have the person who did that to her try to finish the job.” His eyes drift over the still running searches, over the photos of her would-be grave and her injuries, and he finally voices something that’s been running through his mind since he first saw her. “And there’s just something off about this, B. Even for Gotham.”
“Something off like the League of Assassins?”
Tim shakes his head. “No, no. She was a good fighter, even in that state, she was smart about it. But it was more street than assassin. Besides, Damien would’ve recognized her. I don’t know what it is yet, but my gut says there’s a lot more to this and handing her over to GCPD would be a mistake.”
Batman nods once. “I trust your judgement. I’ll have a talk with Damien and let him know to continue to follow your lead on this case. Let the others know to keep masks on in the Cave until further notice.”
“Got it.” The call ends a moment later. He slinks back further in his chair. Damien had been vocal about his disagreement with Tim’s decision to bring you back to the Cave. But the past couple years had made him more willing to listen to Tim. Begrudgingly, but progress was progress. Something about Tim’s unwavering belief Batman wasn’t actually dead and being proven right when he managed to escape a temporal vortex.
He watches you again for a few minutes. The monitors beep steadily, reassuringly. You were safe here. The scans showed you had no serious internal injuries to worry about. And Bruce trusted he’d made the right calls today. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if he got a few minutes of rest. His head tilts back, the ceiling above a blur of darkness. He tells himself it’s okay to rest. Just a few minutes. His eyes flutter shut.
And snap open at the alert blinking on the screen. Finally. A match.
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Summary: You tied your hair in a high ponytail that morning, and it was enough for the tip of your tattoo to be visible. You've had it for so long that you're used to it, and sometimes you forget it's there — plus, you forgot that they've never seen it before.
Words: 1716
Tags: reader have tattoos; platonic relationships; more like friendships; no pronouns for reader, but you wear a dress and have sort of long hair.
Can you tell I have favorites? Only Isaac, Mozart, Jean, Arhur, Vincent, Theo, Napoleon and Sebastian show up. Le Comte is vaguely mentioned.
If you're curious to see the tattoos, I linked their images in their respective descriptions throughout the fanfic.
“What is that, mademoiselle?”
You're helping Sebastian with breakfast, moving around the dining room, but you’ve been feeling a strong stare for a while. You're already accustomed to everyone, so you don't mind. You knew that if it was Isaac trying to muster the courage to ask you something, he would eventually do it. But it’s Jean’s voice, and it catches your attention because he usually eats in silence; and he sounds unsure and curious.
You set Arthur’s coffee in front of him while you glance at the table and everything you and Sebastian made. Perhaps there's something he doesn't know, like when you baked him macarons, but today's menu is the same as usual.
“What is what?”
“That thing,” he points in your direction.
Isaac, Mozart, Vincent, and Theo are already having breakfast too, but they pause to glance at you, curious about what Jean is talking about. You feel a bit self-conscious and briefly inspect your clothes. Did you spill something? Fortunately, no.
“I don’t follow, Jean.”
“That thing you have here,” he points at his own back. “I’ve seen it since I sat here to eat, but I can’t understand.”
You raise an eyebrow at him and look over your shoulder, Arthur takes advantage that you’re still by his side to lean backwards on his chair and measure you up and down — and definitely stare at your ass.
“Stop it, perv,” you playfully spat the writer’s arm, earning a chuckle from him.
“Ah, I think Master Jean is talking about your tattoo,” Sebastian tries to help, pointing at his own nape.
Realization finally hits you. Since arriving at the mansion, you've been exclusively wearing long clothes that cover almost your entire body. However, summer started a few weeks ago, and you've been feeling the full force of the heat. It's scorching every day, and at times, you wake up covered in sweat. You've been yearning for an air conditioner or even just a simple fan. So you bought lighter clothes recently — aka Comte bought you a whole summer wardrobe as a gift. What you're wearing today is just an off-the-shoulder dress, so the front and back necklines are a bit lower than usual, but not by much. However, you tied your hair in a high ponytail that morning, and it was enough for the tip of your tattoo to be visible. You've had it for so long that you're used to it, and sometimes you forget it's there — plus, you forgot that they've never seen it before.
“What is that?” Jean is even more curious now, evident from the way he furrows his brow.
“It's a drawing on my body, made with a special kind of paint that never fades. It's a form of art.”
“Really?” You've piqued Theo's interest in art. “And what is it?”
“Music,” and now you’ve piqued Mozart’s interest in music. He doesn’t really show it, but you know him well enough to see when he’s curious. “Well, kinda. It goes a little down my spine, but it’s safe to show. Sebastian, can you help me, please?”
The butler nods and approaches you. You turn your back and move your ponytail to the side for a better view, while Sebastian lowers your neckline slightly so the others can satisfy their curiosity and see it.
It starts just at the end of your nape and goes 5 inches down. It’s an all-black DNA drawing with musical notes on the middle lines, a representation of a metronome pendulum on top, and a treble clef at the bottom. The middle actually has the same number of lines as a music sheet, and the notes can be read as the first five notes of your favorite song.
There’s only silence for a few moments, and as you turn around, you see that they're still staring at you. You think Theo hadn't even blinked until now because he suddenly blinks a lot, and his eyes meet yours.
“It’s pretty!” Vicent smiles like the angel he is. “Is it a real song?”
“It is,” Mozart hums the notes, his eyes conveying that he knows it’s your favorite song.
You've told him once, when you went to the music room to give him an afternoon snack. You were already friends (kind of), so when you saw he wasn't there at the moment, you knew he wouldn't mind if you sat down and softly played it; so you did. The next thing you knew, he was barging into the music room to scold whoever had the audacity to touch his piano, but he stopped when he saw you. He may have asked you to write down the notes so he could play it with you.
“Oh, yeah, you played it for us in the last banquet,” Isaac remembers.
“Does it hurt?” Jean asked, curious again.
“No, not anymore. It hurt when I was getting it done. Boy, that was one hell of a ride,” you laugh. “But it’s been years, so it’s all healed and okay now.”
“It suits you, hondje. Do you have more?”
“I do!” You beam at them, feeling all bubbly inside. It's lovely how they always show interest in anything about you and remember what you like. “It’s on my thigh.” You use the tip of your toes to put more leverage on your right leg, grabbing a fistful of the skirt of your dress. You lift it to show them your tattoo, but a hand stops you when it's reaching your knee.
“Nunuche, what the hell?”
Napoleon had just woken up and was joining you in the dining room. Did you say something about your thigh? He was still a little sleepy, so he thought he heard you wrong. But then you grabbed your dress… What the fuck do you think you’re doing? He was at your side in the blink of an eye, gripping your wrists tightly and looking at you with a panic expression. It’d certainly be red in a second, if the loud slap sound was any indication.
And that’s how you make vampires choke on their foods and drinks. You look at them, a confused expression on your face. Isaac spat his tea all over his plate and is now coughing to clear his throat. Jean dropped his fork, frozen in his chair. Mozart is blinking in a frenzy, his mug in such a tight grip on his hand that his knuckles are white. Vincent is blushing furiously, his mouth agape. Theo is actually amused, and you clearly heard Arthur complaining to Napoleon that it was just getting good.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, startled.
“MC, just remember we’re not in the 21st century,” Sebastian says, clearly holding a smirk.
You feel your entire face heat up. Oh my God! That was certainly an uncomfortable situation. But you were so used to them; they made you feel at home, so you didn’t really think about what you were doing.
“Oh, right, sorry,” You chuckle and blush under the intensity of their stares. “But it’s no big deal, really. Sebastian and le Comte have already seen it.”
“Say that again?” Theo asks as his gaze drifts to the butler, just like everyone else's.
“It’s nothing weird!” You can almost feel the emperor’s grip tightening. Sometimes he was so overprotective — they all were, and it was both endearing and funny. You huff. “We were talking about the 21st century, and I told Sebas that I have tattoos and showed him. Simple as that. Lots of people wear clothes that show a lot of skin in modern days. Do you think I would lift my dress to show the tattoo when I’m right next to Arthur if it wasn’t okay?” You deadpan Napoleon.
“Hey!” The writer complains, but everybody ignores him. You do have a point.
Napoleon frowns, but slowly releases you. You look at the others and just from a look they know you’ll be mad if they freak out again, so they try to act cool. Keyword: try. They’re staring so much you think they’ll open a hole in your thigh, but at least they’re quiet. You lift the dress just a little more and your tattoo is finally showing. It’s colorful and about the same size as the other. There’s white fine lines connecting dots, forming the Leo constellation, with a blue-purple watercolor background.
“Yes, luv! Now that’s a good breakfast,” Arthur smirks and places his elbow on the table to support his head as he looks at you. He’s so glad that Jean started this conversation while you were still beside him. Napoleon purses his lips and glares at the writer, but he knows better than to start a fight. His nunuche wouldn't let him live it down.
“What the fuck is that?” Theo raises an eyebrow. Don’t get him wrong, he likes the art, but he just doesn’t understand what it’s supposed to be.
“Theo, language,” Vincent scolds his brother. He doesn’t want you to think they don’t like it.
“Is it upside down?” Jean frowns and tilts his head, trying to get a different angle, but it doesn’t make a difference.
"It's the Leo constellation," you chuckle and glance at Isaac, knowing he would understand. He enjoyed stargazing and always invited you to join him, especially after discovering your shared interest — then he started rambling about physics and astronomy, and you were lost.
“Oh, the stars,” Vincent says.
"So," Theo begins, and you can tell from his amused tone that he's about to say something to make you blush, "you have one that resembles Mozart and another that resembles Isaac."
“No, no. It’d have to be an apple for Newt,” Arthur grins when the poor physicist blushes as red as… the mentioned fruit.
“You’re the worst,” Isaac mumbles under his breath.
You chuckle at their banter. “So that’s it,” you say, releasing your dress. “We have a lot of things to do. So finish your breakfasts quickly.” You clap your hands twice.
“Indeed,” Sebastian nods in agreement.
You have moments of silence after that and you go back to work, but you feel the stares the whole day. You know they still have so much to say and ask, but they stay quiet.
You have some “not-so-permanent tattoos” now — and they might have helped do some.
I don't have tattoos yet, but I really want it. I'd make the first one, but with colors.
Hi!! I’m so sorry if this is not the right box to request matchups, I’ll send one in both just to make sure so feel free to ignore this 😅
Anyways I would really love to request one of your matchups!! I love them, and I recently got back into One Piece thanks to the live action after growing up watching it with my dad!
I’m 20, my pronouns are she/her and I’m bisexual (I’m okay with both male and female characters but I would prefer one of the protagonists/good guys if that’s okay!). I’m an ESFJ and a Gemini. I study foreign languages, literature and intercultural studies at university and I speak five different languages. I have green eyes and short dark brown hair. I really like the vampire/goth aesthetic and I wear lots of rings and jewelry. I also LOVE tattoos, currently I have seven but I’m planning to get more; and I have a vertical labret piercing. I love to wear makeup, I really care about my looks and I like taking time to look good. Also, if someone lets me do their makeup they’ll have my heart forever.
I’m the mom friend of the group, always there for everyone and my friends say that I’m really good at comforting people. I’m also calm and responsible, I usually am the one that takes care of other people. I’m pretty optimistic, I always try to see the good in everything and I often put other’s needs before my own, to the point in which I’m a little naive. I’m not afraid to stand up for someone else but sometimes it’s hard for me to say no to things.
I’m also very ambitious, I always try to achieve my goals and I expect a lot from myself, especially at university. My love languages are, receiving, physical touch and words of affirmation and giving, quality time and words of affirmation. I also really love giving and receiving gifts!
I absolutely love listening to music, it helps me relax and I really like reading (I love reading out loud to others, when I read dialogues I act them out a little to help picture the scene). I especially love fantasy and I recently got into greek mythology. I also love theatre, especially musicals and I adore collecting trinkets and stuff. Last but not least, I’m a D&D player and I love it sm!!
I really hope this is okay and I did not write too much/too little!! Have a good day 🫶🏻🫶🏻
I am going to pair you with …
𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐣𝐢
【Ｔ𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧】
You are someone who cares beautifully.
Not just in big ways, but in the small ones. The comforting words, the way you show up, the way you put others first even when you probably shouldn’t. You create warmth around you without even realizing it.
Sanji notices that instantly.
You would meet in a setting where you’re taking care of others, helping, comforting, making sure everyone is okay, and instead of overlooking it like most people do…
He focuses on it.
Completely.
“You’re always looking after everyone else.”
Said softly.
Like it matters.
Your dynamic is built on mutual devotion.
You give.
He gives back.
Constantly.
Your love for physical affection is met without hesitation.
He’s naturally affectionate, attentive, always close, always making sure you feel cared for. Whether it’s a hand at your back, pulling you a little closer, or just staying near you, you never feel distant from him.
Your words of affirmation?
Returned tenfold.
“You’re incredible, you know that?”
And he means it every time.
Your tendency to put others first is something he both admires and watches carefully.
He sees how much you give.
How easily you say yes.
How hard it is for you to refuse people.
And while he loves that about you…
He also protects you from being taken advantage of.
“You don’t have to say yes to everything.”
Gentle.
But firm.
Your ambition is something he respects deeply.
You work hard, you push yourself, you hold yourself to high standards, especially with your studies and goals.
He supports that fully.
Makes sure you’re taken care of while you’re chasing those goals.
Your love for languages, storytelling, and reading out loud is something he finds endearing.
You acting out scenes, getting into characters, bringing stories to life…
He listens like it’s the most important thing in the world.
Every time.
Your aesthetic does not go unnoticed.
The jewelry. The rings. The piercings. The effort you put into your appearance.
He loves it.
“You look stunning.”
Every time.
Without fail.
Your love for makeup?
Oh, he is absolutely letting you do his.
Even if he pretends to be a little embarrassed about it.
He’s sitting there.
Letting you take your time.
Not complaining once.
Your “mom friend” nature is something he mirrors in his own way.
You take care of others emotionally.
He takes care of others physically.
Together, you create a space where everyone feels safe.
But most importantly…
You take care of each other.
Your relationship is warm, affectionate, and full of care.
You bring kindness, emotional depth, and unwavering support.
He brings devotion, attentiveness, and someone who makes sure you’re just as cared for as you care for others.
I love your writings! Can I request the COD boys with a s/o who is covered in tattoos from the top of their neck to their ankles. Preferably where they usually where clothes that cover them fully, then for whatever reason they are wearing something like a tank top and shorts and they see their tattoos for the first time <3 thanks
I don’t see a lot of fics where the person is heavily tattooed, if any tattoos at all
My OC in Don’t fear the Reaper is heavily tattooed 😏 I’m poor so can’t afford any more tattoos at the moment, so im living vicariously through her. If you wanted Rudy and Alejandro let me know and I can add them in! Female reader!
Price
You and Price had been seeing each other secretly for a few months, ever the gentleman he kept the pace slow. Allowing yourselves to get to know each other before any hanky panky.
You usually wore a long sleeved layer with long trousers and your boots around base. Never really showing any skin, which Price didn’t mind, it was essentially a tease. Leaving your body and skin to his imagination.
That was until one night when you were in the gym, you couldn’t sleep so decided to release some endorphins instead. You were on the resistance bike, sweat dripped from your brow onto the floor. Music was blasting from your headphones, you were in your own world.
Price had just finished his paperwork which had kept him up past midnight. As he trudged to his room he walked past the gym and noticed the light on. As he peered around the door he saw you figure on the bike.
He couldn’t quite believe his eyes. There you were, sat in all your sweaty glory. You wore shorts and a sports bra revealing a multitude of tattoos all over your body. From your neck to your ankles. An array of art decorated every part of skin he could see. Black and grey, colour, black out ink, all of it. He wanted to trace his fingers all over your body to feel how the ink felt on your skin, to feel the art beneath his finger tips.
Feeling someone watching you, you spun around to see your Captain staring at you. Your gaze softened and beckoned him to come to you.
Soap 🧼
It was a rare sunny day outside so you decided to swap your usual long sleeved attire to a tank top. The jeeps needed attending to so you decided to take advantage of the hot weather.
You were elbow deep in an engine trying to find out why the engine light kept coming on, when you heard a whistle behind you. Turning round to give one of the troops a piece of your mind your eyes met Johnny stood open mouthed. ‘Yes?’ You asked somewhat confused.
‘Just never seen your tats before, steamin Jesus … they’re incredible.’ He stood and took in your neo traditional tattoos, a mixture of Japanese and Art deco ink littered over your skin. ‘They’re just tattoos Johnny. Christ’ you laughed.
‘Yeah but I ain’t ever seen you this … uncovered. Fuckin incredible.’ You felt a blush creep up on your skin as you rubbed your arms.
Johnny came over and started to map out each of your tattoos, telling you which ones were his favourites. You pointed out which one was your first and which one was your most recent. Which one had a story, which one didn’t, he took in every word as he stroked your skin.
Ghost 💀
You were in the changing rooms after a sparring session and you were getting ready to get in the shower. As you pulled your top of you suddenly felt a set of eyes bore into you. Looking up you saw Ghost, his eyes raked up and down your body. ‘Fuckin hell love, didn’t realise you had tatts.’
You smirked showing off your body, ‘what these?’ You winked at him. Your body was covered in a mixture of realistic and black work geometric tattoos. Looking at his half forearm sleeve you smirked ‘puts yours to shame don’t it.’ He let out a breathy chuckle ‘cheeky minx.’
You spun around so he could have a look at the tattoos on your back, realistic skulls, flowers, portraits all adorned you. He pulled you in close, ‘I suggest you get in the shower, get cleaned up and come to my room. I wanna take a closer look at some of these’ he winked.
Gaz 🇬🇧
You were sat in the canteen with Gaz one morning when a load of new recruits came barging in. As they pushed their way past your table one spilt their drink all over you. ‘Fuck sake!’ You yelled throwing your hands in the air. Gaz grabbed some napkins for you as you removed your top, luckily it hadn’t gone through to your vest.
As Gaz turned to give you the napkins he was met with your tattooed body. He felt his breath hitch in his throat, he didn’t think he could fancy you anymore than he did. ‘Where you been hiding them?!’ He gestured to your body ‘we’ve been seeing each other a month and you kept these beauties to yourself!’
Giggling you took the napkins from him ‘you never asked!’ You were covered in traditional old school tattoos, a death moth covered your chest which was surrounded by roses and hearts. He couldn’t take his eyes off his new found treasure in front of him.
