#Directly below the last one is black pearl

[munefille]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥

yandere!m.merman x gn.reader

cw: mentions of death, disturbing imagery

as a fish takes refuge inside an oyster, it sees only the chance to hide from the unforgiving water within the calm mollusk, unaware of the true nature of its biology. unfortunately for the fish, the oyster has already activated its unique defense mechanism, encasing the fish as an immortal, precious pearl.

The rhythmic push and pull of the tides never failed to lull you into a state of mild stupor. Soft, slightly cool sand cushioned you while a gentle breeze brushed past your cheek and played with your hair. The day was only moderately gloomy, a grey tinted sky hanging over you as the clouds came and went, the sun nowhere to be seen. Still, you almost liked it better like this. The beach was more private, freer without the confines of eyes watching it.

Your calloused feet hopped onto the rocky shore, leaving the inviting sand disturbed as a sign of your presence. The salty ocean scent intensified the closer you came to the evermoving water. You stood atop the tallest rock, attempting to scan the waves at your vantage point, searching for your most curious find.

At last, peeking out from between the waves, did you spot the partially submerged head of your friend. His black eyes were trained on your form, no doubt watching you long before you noticed him.

A grin emerged across your face. "I see you!" you called, motioning for him to come closer as you waded into the water. The eyes disappeared beneath the tide at your request.

You felt him before you could see him, smooth scales wrapping around your leg in a firm hold. He reappeared directly in front of you, inky black eyes mere inches away from your own.

The creature's appearance was a far cry from the mermaids of your childhood, beautiful human women who happened to have a tail as their bottom half. No, he hardly mirrored the sentimental fairytale. You noticed his eyes first, sclera and pupil alike darkened together as they melded into each other- then you noticed his rubbery flesh stretched taunt across his sharp bones, with pale, sallow skin, nearly as grey as a corpse. You initially thought that's what he had been when he simply peered at you from afar, unmoving and unblinking against the rocking sea. He was just humanoid enough to lure concerned passersby like yourself deeper into the water, yet not quite passable as human.

In a closer vicinity, as you are now, you could see small scales dotting his cheeks and neck. Under the right light they appeared as little moons, revealing an opalescent luster that you could only describe as ethereal.

"Hello," you greeted with a wide close-lipped smile. Last time you had bared your teeth at him ended with him misunderstanding your friendliness for a threat. You weren't sure if he could talk, but that didn't stop you from trying to make conversation. You had a feeling he understood you to an extent anyways.

The mercreature tilted his head sideways in response, sleek, wet dark hair falling over his shoulder. An inscrutable expression remained plastered on his features; one you gave up trying to interpret using human facial language.

Silky scales gently tugged you further into the waves towards a rocky mass that stood above the crashing water. The current strengthened, oscillating you to its whims, but the guidance of the unyielding sea creature kept you from being swept away entirely. Although you would consider yourself a strong swimmer, you knew you would never compare to a creature born of the water, one who moved so in tune to the sea that his lithe form became indistinguishable from the tides.

Finally, you reached the rocks, gripping the relatively dry surface for relief from the unrelenting waters. You found a comfortable position on them, resting your upper body while you let your legs dangle. The mercreature remained below, lower half of his face once again concealed under the water, leaving only his unblinking eyes visible. His body underneath the water became obscured even further by the dark ring of hair that floated around him. Those eyes regarded you with scrutinizing intensity that would've resembled a predator, had you thought hard enough about it.

"What a nice view-" you began, but the thought was cut short when your companion pulled himself below the water, disappearing from your sight almost completely, save for the movement in the water that signified a strong tail pushing against it.

Confusion laced your face. The few minutes he had gone was enough to make you worry. Why had he left so abruptly? Surely he would be back? You weren't certain you could swim back to shore on your own. Although you trusted him- in fact, you would even consider him a friend- doubt from his apparent unpredictability lingered. After all, you had no way to reliably communicate, nor were you sure if your opinion of your relationship was mutual.

Your concerns vanished as he broke the surface of the water, swimming towards the rocks with something that gleamed as the light hit it.

He stopped at your feet, lifting the object slowly up to you. If you hadn't known better, you'd say the action seemed almost shy.

A gasp left you as you got a view of it. In his webbed, slender fingers lay a glistering mass of refined pearl, hints of color dancing across it the glossy surface. Distantly, you recalled that the creature's scales were of the same material. It resembled an anatomically correct heart. Never before had you seen a pearl shaped in such a way, nor did you know how it could've been, or why the shape was so accurate, even down to the imprint of the vessels. It was as if the thing had been pulsating. Why was it so accurate?

The beautiful piece was presented to you like a gift, so you had gladly accepted. You collected it from the awaiting hands. The coolness of it nearly burned you as it touched your flesh, the brilliant iridescence of it stealing your attention away from the faint scent of iron permeating the breeze. It distracted you from the bloody teeth of the now grinning merman, sharp rows glinting bright cardinal red. You thought nothing of the diluted red in the dark water, seeping towards your feet. The sinking body below, twisted and stuck eternally in a cry for help, was lost to you as you held the glimmering heart with reverence.

_____________________________✧_______________________________

i love creepy mermaids

[sinnabum45]

⚠Trigger Warning! Graphic depictions of suicide attempt, suicide ideation, and spiraling thoughts⚠

[Image description: black and white with gray tones, digital drawing of a comic about characters from the Ace Attorney series. Page one: First three panels are of Miles Edgeworth sitting at his desk, which is covered with papers, tired with eye bags and feeling frustrated with himself. His left hand is on his face and it moves back down. He thinks to himself, “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I even do something as simple as this?” A flashback to Phoenix Wright glaring at Edgeworth, then saying, “It’d been better if you never came back from the dead, Edgeworth!” Pearl Fey is standing next to him with a shocked and worried expression. Page one end. Page two: Miles is shocked and his desk is now covered with sleeping pills and an open pill bottle. An embodiment of Manfred von Karma appears behind Miles and reaches for Miles’s face. Manfred says, “How selfish can you be? Can’t even do me the favor of simply dying. ” The embodiment turns into Miles when he attempted suicide. Messy hair, bloodshot eyes, dried tears, dark circles under his eyes, and pills pouring from his mouth. He is squeezing the real Miles’s face and says, “Why don’t you try it again?” Page two end. Page three: Miles shuts his eyes and covers his ears with his fists while shouting, “No!! I don’t need you anymore!”. He opens his teary eyes when he hears Phoenix say, “Edgeworth.” Miles remembers Phoenix telling him, “Please call me anytime. I want to be there for you this time, okay?”. In the flashback, it is bright, Phoenix is facing forward, smiling with a worried expression, and holding his phone. The present Miles looks forward and calmed down a little. He’s still shaken up a bit. Page three end. Page four: Throughout the three panels, Miles is reaching for his smart phone on the desk, pulls away, then grabs his phone. Quotes from various characters: Phoenix, Gant, Manfred, and Franziska are scattered throughout the page. First panel, “I never wanted to see you again! To think that your motivation for prosecuting trials was so selfish…” by Phoenix. “I can feel it. You and me… we’re the same.” by Gant. Second panel, “You can let what happened kill the prosecutor inside you, or you can let it help you grow. I’ll be waiting for you in court…” by Phoenix. “Our battle… begins now… so you had better prepare yourself, Miles Edgeworth!” by Franziska. Third panel, “You have fallen so far. All these years I guided you, raised you as my own. You and your father are my curse!” by Manfred. “A von Karma is someone who is destined to be perfect! You are no longer worthy of being a von Karma! And neither am I!” by Franziska. Page four end. Page five: Miles is calling Phoenix. It rings throughout the page. The embodiment of Miles yells, “Stop! He will just hate you more than he already does!”. He is crying as he says, “ Then… I’ll truly be alone.” He has both hands raised to around his collarbone level and ink is smudged on his right hand. Miles reaches for his face and it startles his embodiment. The last panel is brighter. Miles, with closed eyes and somber expression, is holding his own face and reassuring himself by saying, “Don’t worry… I trust him.” Miles’s chair is squeaking as he rocks back and forth while leaning on his desk. Page five end. Page six: It is single light page with the phone ringing and getting picked up. Then Phoenix answers, “ Hello? Edgeworth?”. Comic end. End description]

Links to help Palestine and other resources! 🇵🇸

[Plain text: Links to help Palestine and other resources! (palestine flag). End plain text.]

Some extra thoughts below! These are just my personal interpretations of what I watched. I'll try to make sense of what I'm saying LOL 🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️

Again, trigger warning for suicide attempt+ ideation!

Something I noticed while skimming through Farewell, My Turnabout is the similarities between Miles and Adrian Andrews. They directly connected Franziska and Adrian at the end, but they kinda just "hinted" at Miles being similar to Adrian. The main thing that stood out to me is when Miles starts explaining how Adrian is putting up a façade by acting strong. The background fades to black (TWICE), which is something that mostly happens when it's something important, putting focus onto Miles while he talks about how Adrian "lost her will to live" after losing Inpax. Inpax was Adrian's "pillar of strength" and when Inpax comitted suicide, Adrian completely fell apart. She then started to act just like Inpax to cope with losing herself and her mentor. That sounds like the relationship between Miles (and Franziska) and Manfred.

Miles's and Franziska's whole life with Manfred was them depending on him to validate/approve of them. When Manfred left their lives, they started to fall apart trying to gain approval of a man who isn't there anymore. Franziska's confidence was chipped away throughout every case because she kept losing against Phoenix. Miles fell apart a lot quicker (cuz Franziska wasn't created until after--).

Throughout Rise from the Ashes, multiple characters point out how Miles was not doing well and it progressively gets worse. This honestly confused me because Phoenix did notice that Miles wasn't doing okay. He even told Miles that he needs to choose between killing the prosecutor within him or let it help him grow. This interaction is at the very end of the case. Idk if "killing the prosecutor within" was ever brought up before that, but that was interesting cuz I kept seeing people say that Miles wrote that in his note out of nowhere.

With everything that Miles went through in just 2 MONTHS- it makes sense to me if he was not okay. His whole life was uprooted again after 15 years, he was betrayed by almost everyone he trusted, his adoptive dad killed his biological dad and tried to blame it on him, he was brought out on a boat in the middle of the night and shot at, Gant+ Lana used his knife to stab a person's body and made him unknowingly transport it in his own car, Gant saying that he's just like him, etc. Like DAMN bro, what the heck 😭

Also, the thing that made me want to make this comic was when Phoenix told Miles that "everyone would be better off if he stayed dead". Imo, I think it's understandable why Phoenix is angry at Miles. He felt betrayed and couldn't face the fact that Miles isn't who he was when he was 9. There was a post talking about it in more detail, but I mostly agree with what they had to say about it. Phoenix put an unfair standard onto Miles and got hurt when Miles couldn't meet that expectation. He wanted to "save" Miles by solving the DL-6 case and then thought that Miles would go back to how he was when they were kids. When he realized that it doesn't work like that, at least not right away, he felt betrayed. I love that they wrote Phoenix, the protagonist, with these traits tbh. I think it's very interesting! I just wished that they added a scene where Phoenix apologized for saying that Miles should stay dead tho cuz that's never okay to say to anyone, let alone someone you care about and apparently "know better than anyone else" 👁👁

Another thing I noticed is how different the characters treat Adrian vs Miles with the topic of "death". For some reason they're very sympathetic and delicate with Adrian, but then tell Miles to die. Phoenix tells Miles that everyone would be better off if he stayed dead, but then calls Miles cold for telling Adrian that if she decides to "choose death", then it is of no concern to him. Which goes right into my next point.

Miles seemed like he really didn't want to bring up Adrian's suicide attempt and her mental illness. It seemed like they tried everything to get her to talk, but because Franziska told her not to testify, Adrian kept trying to stay quiet. Even the judge was trying to get her to testify by saying at this point, it's looking like she's guilty. In any other situation, what Miles said to her would be uncalled for, but this was literally life or death for Adrian. Also, with context, Miles said that regardless of what she decided to do after the trial, she needed to talk now. She was asking for someone to help her, but only she can accept that help. He could've definitely put it in a way better way tho like damn. I think he's projecting how he talks to himself onto Adrian tbh 👀 It's honestly just a really shitty situation for Adrian to be in cuz no matter the reason, she was forced to face her worst fear. If anyone is to blame for all this bs, it's definitely Matt Engarde and Juan Corrida imo-- 🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️ Her illness was something Adrian would have to face sooner or later, it just sucks that it had to be like this 😢 Another thing I noticed is when Adrian said that if the truth of her illness were to come out she couldn't finish her sentence. Then Miles finished it for her by asking if she would "choose death". That's a more obvious clue that maybe Miles's note was a suicide note, since it was used in the context of committing suicide.

This guy is always on my mind-- All of them are always on my mind tbh 😭 I just wanted to draw Miles struggling (just the usual on this account) SKMSDKLML I also wanted to show that healing isn't linear and there are a LOT of times where it's just hard. I also wanted to show that Phoenix (and literally everyone else OvO) does want to be there for him despite everything, Miles just has to be brave and accept his support. I just want them to be happy DAMN 😭😭

I feel like I have so much more to talk about, but I can't think of anything else rn. I hope all of this makes sense- I'd love to read your thoughts on this or if you have any questions! Just keep it respectful, please 🥺

[monicaeidolith]

my OLBA MC, Sunny Last ☀️

(his backstory + close ups below)

Step 1 -

Sunny is a very shy and nervous boy, who's easily afraid of strangers (when he first saw Cliff, he ran away) and easily worried. Sunny hates getting in the middle of a conflict and will avoid taking a side if he can. He loves spending time at the beach, collecting seashells, reading books and going to the library, things that will never die down growing up.

When he met Cove, Sunny was initially worried about him, as Cove was crying all alone. Sunny gets fond of Cove and befriends him quickly. As "selfish" as it may sound, Sunny did wish Cove would never go away from Sunset Bird and stay with him.

Sunny doesn't have any romantic feelings towards Cove during that Step though, he only starts developing a crush on him some time before Step 2.

Step 2 -

Sunny remains a nervous person, in fact, it seems he has social anxiety, though he developed a more teasing and snarky side growing up. Whenever he is openly snarky depends on how close you are with him... or how pissed he is at you (side looking at Jeremy), otherwise he keeps whatever he's thinking for himself, like he often does for what he's truly feeling actually (unless your name is Cove Holden (doesn't apply to the subject of romance)). Ironically, he struggles to understand when a stranger is being sarcastic or not. Despite all that, he's someone you can rely on if you need.

His love for literature grew and he kinda wishes to be a writer. In fact, he writes some things sometimes, such as poems or songs that his cousin Lee could sing. While he isn't particularly a sporty guy, he loves surfing, swimming and playing volleyball. At 13, he started getting interested in jewellery specifically, to Lee's greatest joy.

During Step 2, Sunny starts feeling insecure about his physical appearance and doesn't like showing his body that much (but summer is kind of the "worst" season for that specific part). He thinks he's too "scrawny". Also doesn't he look weird for blushing for anything?

He's also conflicted about his feelings towards Cove: during this gap of 5 years, Sunny's feelings for Cove grew into something different than friendship and he doesn't know what to do about it. He never felt this way before, not with anyone else either. He's too scared to say a word about it to Cove directly, he doesn't want to mess up their friendship (classic.).

When it comes to romance in general, concepts like "love at first sight" don't really make sense to him. How can you fall for someone you barely know? Sounds like a myth.

Step 3 -

At 18, Sunny manages a bit more with his social anxiety, though he's still a bit uneasy around people he doesn't know. His snarkiness hasn't tone downed growing up... and sadly for him, his insecurities about his body haven't that much either.

18 years old is probably the age where the contrast between his clothing style and his name is the most ironic and the object of many jokes (none of them are ill-intended of course). But wearing black clothes won't change the fact he's his moms' little sunshine!

His interest for jewellery turned into the hobby of making hand-made jewellery, mainly with seashells, sea glass or pearls.

During Step 3, Sunny is now afraid of the future. He does have some projects for the future: going to college, specifically for studying literature and hopefully working in the writing industry (not necessarily as a writer like he wanted to at 13, just as long as he can write). And he was happy to find a part time job in the library he always loved. However, all of that means leaving Sunset Bird one day, and he's scared of that. He always lived in the same place, with his moms, with Cove as his next door neighbor, ... And Elizabeth leaving for college was already something... How much will things change?

About his relationship with Cove: Sunny knows for certain he's in love with him. But God forbid he actually tells him how he actually feels.

He also figured out his sexuality: he's gay and demiromantic (oooh so that's why love at first sight felt like a complete myth...)!

Step 4 -

His personality hasn't changed that much since Step 3 but one thing that changed is that he managed to outgrow a little bit his habit to hide his negative feelings from others, at least to a less extreme level. His social anxiety is still present of course, but he learned to live with it. He also learned how to love himself and feel comfortable with his body! It was hard but he did it!

Living away from Sunset Bird was also hard, very hard at first, especially since Cove confessed his love for Sunny at the end of the summer and then they had to be separated for long times. But it seems nothing could break their bond.

Sunny got a 4 years English literature degree and works pretty much on freelance writing now. (I'm not sure myself yet tbh, that may change in the future.)

the close ups!

listen the fact Sunny is kind of similar to Athena (my OLNF MC) is completely involuntary lmao

this is what happen when you keep on projecting bits of yourself onto your OCs

[shelbyslut20]

Better In The Dark Chapter One

Hello everyone this is the first chapter of my new Tommy Shelby story. Please feel free to leave comments or suggestions !

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.7k

Story & Character Preview

“Clara” Ruth's voice echoed from behind the large wooden doors. With a rather heavy sigh, she reluctantly opened the door for her Mother. “Yes?” She questioned the presence of her pestering mother. “Why are you giving me attitude Clara? Tonight is an important night and I need you to be respectful. Now if you could drop the attitude that would be appreciated.” Nodding her head and giving a rather taunting smile “Yes I know that tonight is important, we are finally getting to meet Father's sleazy business partner.” “You need to watch your mouth, young lady, wash up and look presentable” Swiftly pulling the door shut behind her.

The sound of heels pattering outside the door filled Clara’s ears, knowing that it would be her baby sister knocking at the door any minute. A quiet knock laid against the door prompted Clara to open it. “Have you heard?” Anna spoke in a hushed voice. “Heard what? Why are you whispering?” “About Father's business partner,” She said, still maintaining a low voice “Well I know we must be on our best behavior,” Clara said, intentionally impersonating their Mother. “He's a gangster,” Anna said with wide eyes, a concept that a young girl of her age could not yet comprehend. Letting out a rather loud laugh “Please don’t be silly Anna, I know that father has some shady partners but none being gangsters. You have a wonderful imagination.” She said, placing a hand on her sister's shoulder. “Now let me finish getting ready, and don’t worry too much the man, he is most likely just someone to boost Father's ego.” She spoke quickly, placing both hands on her shoulders and ushering her out of the room.

‘Gangster, ' Clara said out loud laughing to herself. The black beaded dress specifically picked out for her hung from her dresser while her accessories lay neatly on her vanity. Taking her time to get ready she finally placed her signature pearls around her neck and slipped into the matching black heels. Applying one last coat of lip pomade she was finally ready for this long-awaited dinner party. Opening her door to hear the chatter of the elite filling the once-empty home. Anna ironically stepped out of her room at the same time wearing a dark green dress that fell just below the knees along with white stockings and shoes. “Well, don’t you clean up nicely?” Clara started with a smile trying to take her little sister's innocent mind off of the potential fact that there could be a “gangster” attending tonight's party. “Well, I am not as pretty as you.” “Nonsense” Clara held out her arm for Anna to take as they made their descent down the grand staircase and into the lion's den.

“Ladies,” William said loudly, “How nice of you to finally join us.” Letting out a chuckle as he began to introduce party guests to his daughters. Making small talk and plastering fake smiles upon their faces until everyone was called into the formal dining room. “Do you think he's here yet? Anna said, pulling Clara down to her level. “Anna I have no idea what the man even looks like, only God knows if he will show his face tonight, stop worrying,” Clara spoke swiftly and sternly making sure to get her point across. Anna nodded in understanding and casted her gaze onto the checkered tile floor.

The chime of the dinner bell caused conversations between socialites to come to a halt. Everyone turns their heads in the direction of the pleasant sound which alarms guests that dinner is ready. Quickly exiting a conversation with a rather boring man, Clara finds herself navigating the crowd to find a place card with her name on it. Reading Lady Clara Belfort. Seeing as though she is placed next to her sister, her nerves are simultaneously calmed by Anna's reassuring smile. While their Mother Ruth sits directly across from them and their father at the head of the table. Anna recognizes that there is a place card and an unoccupied seat across from her sister. “Maybe it's for the gangster.” She whispers into Clara's ear. “Shh,” She quickly whispers back in an attempt to put an end to her sister's childish comments. Guests began to take their seats at the long oak table as servers began to bring out covered dishes soon to be revealed. Once the dishes were placed in front of each guest William stood up from his chair to make a toast. A butler quickly tapped the Duke on the shoulder to alert him of a guest who was late. “Sir, there is a man here by the name of Shelby. Should we allow him to enter?” The butler murmured. “Ah, yes please bring him in and see to it that he is well taken care of,” Willam said with confidence. Anna's head swiveled to the left to watch her sister's reaction to the man who was about to enter the room. Quiet conversations took place as guests were waiting for the Duke to make a toast.

Hearing the dining room doors open Claras head turned to see who it was. A man with a long black trench coat made his way swiftly through the room. His presence quickly became known to everyone present. A butler takes his coat from him and places it in the coat closet at the front of the room. While another butler directs him to his seat. The last seat to go unclaimed was directly across from Clara. Plopping down in the chair in a rather fed-up manner. “ I apologize for the late entrance Mr.Belfort.” His Brummie accent filled Clara's ears.

“I assure you it is quite alright Mr.Shelby.” William smiled as he continued to make his toast causing guests to give him a round of applause. Clara rolled her eyes in response knowing that her Father was somewhat of a phony. “Please enjoy this meal courtesy of me and my beautiful wife Ruth.” Everyone quickly picked up their utensils to begin eating. “Girls, I would like you to meet my business partner, Mr.Shelby.” Tommy stretched his hand out over the table, and Clara in return placed her hand in his. Bringing her hand up to his lips to plant a gentle kiss on the back of her hand. His blue eyes pierced through her green ones with no words being spoken. “Nice to meet you, Lady Belfort.” He said, giving her a light nod. “Same to you Mr.Shelby” Clara spoke softly wondering if he was the gangster her little sister had spoken about earlier.

Tommy held out his hand for Anna to take, Clara could see the hesitancy in her sister's eyes. Using her elbow to place a light jab to Anna's side prompting her to take Tommys hand. “You must be Lady Belfort's sister, yes?” He questions “Uh yes, yes I am.” Anna stuttered out causing the girl's Mother to shoot them a look of disapproval. “Yes, Mr. Shelby these are our girls, Clara and Anna,” she said, gesturing to both of them. Anna looked down at her plate and began to eat to distract herself. Clara motioned for a butler to come to her aide. “Yes, Miss?” “A glass of champagne please, and what will you be drinking Mr.Shelby?” Clara boldly asked. Causing Ruth to let out a gasp. “Whiskey, Irish,” Tommy responded, lowering his gaze directly to Clara. “Yes, Miss a glass of champagne and Irish Whiskey.” The butler repeated her request back to her and left to collect the drinks.

Guests began to wrap up their dinner and head out to where the music was playing. Strauss II Frühlingsstimmen Voices of Spring echoed throughout the house. “Will you excuse me and my sister? We are going to listen to the ensemble play.” William and Ruth nodded while Tommy watched the girls walk into the other room. “Well, do you think he is a gangster?” Anna asked, looking up at her sister. “ I’m not sure to be quite honest with you.” She said, raising the glass of champagne to her lips. Feeling a hand on her lower back, causing her to quickly swallow the sparkling liquid. She turned her head to whose hand was placed on her back. “Oh hello Mr.Shelby, can I help you.” “Was going to ask if you wanted to dance to Lady Belfort?” “Oh um yes just let me put this down.” She said handing the glass off to her baby sister. Anna's eyes went wide upon hearing Mr. Shelby's offer. Clara took Tommy's hand as he guided her towards the middle of the dancefloor. Slowly placing his hand on the small of her back and taking her hand in his guiding her through the dance. “I wanted to say thank you for the drink” “Of course, just trying to keep my father's business partner happy,” Clara said with a smile trying to avoid his gaze. “ Well, your father never told me he had daughters.” He said using his hand to pull her closer so that Clara wouldn’t bump into the couple dancing behind her. “Well now you know,” Clara said lightly as he spun her around causing her to lose her balance and grab onto his shirt.

“It's okay I've got ya.” He said dipping her and then pulling her back up to continue dancing. “You made a smooth recovery.” Clara let out a small chuckle. “It's what I do best, eh?” “Mr.Shelby there is a telephone call for you,” A butler said, nodding and acknowledging the man's statement. “Well, it was lovely to dance with you tonight Lady Belfort.” Reaching for her hand to place another kiss on the back of it. “Same to you Mr.Shelby,” Clara said watching the man who had practically swept her off her feet follow the butler to the telephone.

‘Will you hand me my glass please, and stop making those eyes you look mad,' Clara said to Anna. “I am just surprised.” She said passing the glass over to her sister. “Do you still think he's a gangster?” Clara asked her sister with a slight laugh “Honestly I have no idea,” Anna said practically speechless from watching her father's business partner treat her sister with such grace. Clara placed her hand on Anna's shoulder and motioned over to their mother who had a scowl on her face. “Looks like I will be getting in trouble later this evening.”

Chapter Two

[dangans-ur-ronpas]

Chapter 1

Ok here we go

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

From what I know, very few blind people actually perceive their surroundings as complete darkness, and it's more common for people to still perceive changes in light.

For Byakuya, he has low vision, so he can see color and vague outlines, but finer details are more or less impossible. Get Gaussian blurred, idiot.

I'll include content warning tags before each chapter but if I miss anything please let me know.

Content warning tags: implied non-consensual body modification, ableist internal dialogue

next >

The first thing that Byakuya Togami notices when he wakes up isn't the unfamiliar classroom of his surroundings, or the uncomfortable position in which he was slumped over on the wooden desk.

Rather, the first thing he wonders is: Why are my glasses so filthy?

His surroundings are fogged around him as he blinks, squints, and tries to make out anything more distinct than a vague, fuzzy blob of color. He takes off his glasses and cleans them with a silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and puts them back on. And then takes them off again, places them to his mouth and fogs the surface, wipes them, and tries again. And then again, and again, until at last he sets slowly down the spectacles with a quiet 'click' against the desk, blinking slowly, deliberately.

It didn't make sense. It was one thing if his glasses were just filthy, though he couldn't imagine who he would let get close enough to dirty them up to this point, but it was another thing for him to be nearly blind without them. Even without his lenses, his vision was nearly 20/40 - and yet, here he found himself squinting his eyes to nearly shutting, and was still unable to discern even the large, colorful characters on the brochure on the desk next to him, even when held less than an inch away from his face.

Impossible, he thinks first. He must still be half-asleep, and he rubs his eyes, trying to wipe away some invisible veil, knuckling against his eyelids until stars burst in the darkness. But the fog still didn't clear.

The realization is a sick dread that settles into the pit of his stomach. He doesn't panic, because a Togami doesn't panic, but an old anxiety was beginning to grow, twining roots into his chest. He opts to ignore that and the rising beat of his pulse and begins flicking through his memories, logically and methodically, trying to think when and how this could have happened.

He woke up this morning at his usual five AM. He went through his usual morning routine until six, at which point his chauffeur drove him to Hope's Peak Academy by seven. He passed excited crowds of news reporters, fellow students, and crying parents, through the school doors...

And then...

Nothing. He rubs his thumb against the bridge of his nose, trying to come up with anything past stepping foot into the entrance hall, but all he gets is a nauseating blur, the memories turning to mush. Had he passed out? Did someone carry him here? How long had it been since then?

What time is it, he thinks, and looks up. His watch is as good as useless, the pearl hands blending in nearly perfectly with the egg-colored enamel face, so he scans the room for a wall clock, and finally locates a vague, white circle hanging above the dark expanse of the blackboard. The thin black hands aren't even visible to him, and he ends up having to stand directly below it to make out what positions they're pointing at. It was just before 8, which meant that it hadn't even been an hour since he first crossed the threshold.

It was possible that that would have been enough time to knock him out, blind him, and then leave him here, but Hope's Peak prided itself on its security, especially for its high-class students. And Byakuya had been surrounded by his bodyguards all the way until his unconsciousness. And he had made sure that the few siblings who survived his family's game of inheritance didn't have the resources or the will to try anything so petty as vengeance.

He rubs his eyes again, as if that would do anything. From what he could tell, he was in a classroom, likely still within the Academy, and it'd do him no good to stay in the room in the off-chance that his attacker returned. He needed to find someone - faculty, maybe, or one of his guards - and get his eyes fixed, first and foremost. And he wasn't so helpless that he'd let someone get the drop on him a second time, blinded or not.

But even with this plan in mind, he found his hand trembling as he set it on the doorknob, and he hesitates before he leaves the room.

The hallways are strangely empty, despite the earlier hubbub. There are no students running around trying to find their classrooms or their dorms, or exploring the facilities. There are no teachers either, offering welcomes and introductions, promoting the safety and warmth of the Academy. Rather, the place is eerily silent, and it unnerves Byakuya further.

He catches himself glancing around far too often, scanning desperately for any movement, and scolds himself for it. It was a show of fear, and one that he should have abandoned long ago, even when he was being chased by his older siblings in a wild game of power upheavals and assassinations. But between the lack of sound and the fact that his surroundings were entirely unfamiliar (and furthermore, entirely obscured), he couldn't help canting his head around like a nervous deer, trying to find even the smallest detail that could offer him anything.

He finally catches on to the low murmur of talking, however, and after a brief moment of consideration, walks towards the sound. If it was assassins, they would have to be very unprofessional ones to be speaking so casually in such an open space. And as he enters a large room, walled off on one side by a mass of steel-gray, he sees a few people standing around; none of them dressed remotely like an assassin, or acting like one, and he could even recognize the majority of them from their vague silhouettes and general colors, and the news article he had perused that morning about his fellow classmates. There was the broad frame of Sakura Ogami, the Ultimate Martial Artist, and then the wild, fluffed-up hair of Yasuhiro Hagakure, the Ultimate Clairvoyant. Even the wild pompadour of the Ultimate Biker Gang Leader, Mondo Owada, didn't escape his recognition, nor did the punkish, uneducated tone of his voice.

"Who the fuck're you?" The Owada-shaped figure grunts as Byakuya approaches, and he frowns at the rudeness, though he had expected nothing less.

He doesn't bother to respond right away, instead looking between those gathered. He counts thirteen blobs, which meant they were still expecting two more to join them to complete this year's class of sixteen. Standing closer, he can just make out some facial features when he squints; Owada's face in particular, has his brow scrunched in a look of disdain, and one person - Toko Fukawa, maybe? Judging by her braided pigtails - seemed to be watching him, though she quickly looks away as he turns towards her.

"Hey, I'm talkin' to you!"

"I don't talk to ruffians," Byakuya replies, not even bothering to face him and ignoring the indignant sputters as he walks away. Even if all these people were strangers to him, he felt better already, being among them. The safety of a herd was something that a Togami was usually above, but it was good to take advantage of such things during perilous times, such as now. And at the very least, it might be harder for him to get singled out.

"Excuse me," comes a different voice, though no less sharp or intense. This time from a straight-backed figure in white, and with dark, spiky hair. "My name is Kiyotaka Ishimaru. Please introduce yourself!"

"And why should I?"

Ishimaru wasn't as easily ruffled by Byakuya's brusque manner as Owada, though his stark eyebrows did somehow furrow even more on his pale face. "As a class, we should all work together to get along for our educational crusade! We all have already introduced ourselves to each other. Please do the same!"

He was annoying. But he had a point. If Byakuya was going to be living with these people for his high-school life, he might as well let them know how to refer to him...and he had a feeling if he didn't offer the minimal level of cooperation to Ishimaru, he would never see the end of it. "Byakuya Togami," He replies simply, and moves on before anyone can say anything else.

None of these people seem to be killers. He can't sense any killing intent, though he does get an inexplicable shiver as he walks by Fukawa, standing next to the twin, pale-pink fans of Junko Enoshima's hair, though he puts that down as the rank odor that comes off of her as he passes. He settles to stand a small distance away from all of them, and with his curt introduction over and him standing seemingly out of earshot, they resume their conversation, and Byakuya can make out a few phrases that equally reassure and unsettle him.

'Do you think he's...like us?'

'Must have. I mean, he was walking from the direction of the classrooms, right?'

'Someone should go ask him, can you go ask...?'

'Forget it. He freaks me out, glaring like that...'

It sounded like they were all in a similar state, having woken up in a classroom and found their way here. He wonders if any of them were also blind, or otherwise found themselves suddenly impaired, but it wouldn't do him any good to reveal that about himself now. No matter how much safer it was to be a part of the group, he couldn't let them know his weaknesses, not if it turned out that one of them did mean him some kind of harm.

Standing from this position, he can finally recognize where he was. It was the entrance hall of the Academy, and behind him was where the entrance should have been. But instead, as he reaches out to touch it, he's met with a sheer surface of metal, heavy and unyielding, and not the proud, hand-carved wooden doors that he had passed through not an hour earlier. Was this place not Hope's Peak, then? If so, where was it? And how did they all get transported here?

He clicks his tongue, annoyed. He'd had nothing but questions and unsolved mysteries since he woke up, and it frustrated him almost as much as his vision. He fights the urge to keep touching his eyes, settling on drumming his fingers against his elbow, and finally polishing his glasses lenses once more. At this point, the action was as good as meaningless, but the repetitiveness of the motion was calming, and he couldn't help the quiet glimmer of hope that maybe, eventually, it would clear up.

He hears the newcomer before he sees them, the quiet click of footsteps from the hall making his head jerk up. He doesn't recognize this figure, not even as they approached nearer; white hair and dark purple clothes, not matching any of the profiles he had seen. He hears the others and Ishimaru give them a similar greeting, and the figure responds, voice calm and feminine.

"My name is Kyoko Kirigiri," Is all they say. Like Byakuya, they don't offer anything more, and for some reason that puts him on edge. They're too much like him, too calculating and careful - not the same fodder as the rest of the class - and they strike him as someone who knows more than they're letting on. He hears them ask some questions, mostly in regards to the classrooms and how everyone got here, before moving to stand just a few meters away from him in silence. Not approaching him, nor letting themselves be approached by anyone else.

Dangerous, he notes. He mentally files this away, and pretends to be too focused on cleaning the nose-pads of his glasses to pay them any mind.

A few minutes later, their sixteenth class member joins them. Makoto Naegi, someone else who hadn't stood out to Byakuya on the roster, has spiky brown hair and a bumbling, wondering voice. Unlike Kirigiri, he takes his time to talk to each of his classmates, and he sounds friendly but confused. And a little dense, in Byakuya's opinion - his entire demeanor screams 'commoner'.

Byakuya doesn't bother to say anything as Naegi moves to stand before him, not even as he feels expectant eyes resting on his face. But it becomes clear that the boy had no plans of walking away until he got a name at least, so Byakuya sighs and puts on his glasses, and glares down at Naegi, his face no more visible than it had been a moment before.

"Name's Byakuya Togami," Is all he says. Naegi babbles some kind of greeting, but Byakuya is already not paying attention, gaze wandering. This one didn't seem as dangerous as Kirigiri, at least, or even particularly outstanding in any other way. That made him seem all the stranger; a seemingly unremarkable person in a school meant for remarkable people; Byakuya couldn't imagine what his special talent could be, if he had one at all.

He tries to focus his gaze on one of the banners on the wall. Royal blue and etched with gold lettering - if he tries, he might be able to find the letters that match one of his ancestors. He frowns, staring intently…

"Um, are you...are your eyes okay?"

Byakuya stiffens immediately, eyes snapping back down to Naegi's face. "What is that supposed to mean?" He hisses sharply, and Naegi startles back, surprised.

"Sorry! I didn't mean-you were just squinting, even after putting on your glasses, so I just-" he stammers, voice deceptively innocent. Byakuya feels his blood run cold, his fists clenching at his sides. "Um, I'll just....go? Sorry again?"

He doesn't relax until Naegi has scurried away, nails biting into his palms as he tries to calm himself. Had he really been squinting so obviously this whole time, or had that peasant just been absurdly observant? Whatever the case, Byakuya would have to fix that habit, or else, keep the others from finding out.

Never mind what he thought earlier about Naegi seeming harmless. That boy was probably the most dangerous one here.

next >

[sassyshoulderangel319]

Time to Go

This is definitely not my usual writing style or a fandom I write for very often. I just have a little headcanon about Skizz and I wanted to explore an idea where Scott stayed in the world of Last Life for a little while after winning. Enjoy, perhaps? 2.1k words

—

"I can hear you, you know," Smajor says to the empty landscape, still devastated by the fighting. No animals spawn here anymore. The others in the arena were too careless, leaving nothing behind. But since they all vanished, it's like he doesn't need to eat or sleep anymore to survive. Phantoms don't even spawn. This arena has been abandoned.

Except for him.

And the voices that don't stop.

They're dreaming, he knows it. All of them dreaming. Suspended in some void. Unable to wake until he joins them. All of their souls are tied together. Tied to these games.

Whenever he tells them all to pipe down because he needs to think, no one ever replies. Not directly anyway. He was pretty sure he heard Martyn say "sorry" once. Just a quiet mumble.

Smajor doesn't rebuild the landscape. He doesn't care. This place was just another map of misery. It was fun, to some degree, but fighting one's friends does get heartbreaking after a certain point. And after Ren killed Pearl... all of his emotions seem to have fled with the souls of his friends. Leaving him empty.

Instead of rebuilding, Smajor works. Tests his limits going beyond the border. He can't survive long out there. Yet. But if he can break the border... maybe he can flee into the wilds beyond. Flee the violet-edged moon that stares down at him like an eye. Flee the memories. Flee the numbness and the pain.

But breaking the border is no easy feat. The power that holds it there is infinite and stubborn.

But so is he.

Every day, he mines for all the redstone left deep below. He stays awake all night, killing creepers for their gunpowder. He knows TNT won't be able to break the border, but he doesn't know what might, so he tries everything.

And still, his friends dream. Their minds echoing all around him.

Smajor sits in one corner where two border walls meet, a small pile of redstone and another of gunpowder on a crafting table beside him. He's never tried mixing redstone and gunpowder before. Maybe there's something to that...

"Smajor?"

With a jolt, he looks up.

A light shimmers near the border wall a few blocks away. White, tinged with yellow. Nothing like the moon's cold stare.

"I know that voice..." Smajor says, almost an invitation for an introduction. He pushes himself to his feet, watching as the light shifts and twists.

He blinks in surprise as it solidifies. A pair of vibrant blue eyes—glowing in the sunlight—smile at him. The figure is familiar. The eyes give the figure's identity away, sure, but so does the outfit. It takes a brave person to wear a suit with the sleeves torn off.

"Skizz?" he asks.

That invites an even broader smile. "Wussup homie," Skizzleman greets.

"You're... you're dead, though," Smajor says. "I heard your scream for blood." The crimson stars still dance around Smajor's hair, their light gathered in his throat where he swallowed the bloodlust of the Boogeyman, and then the bloodlust of a Red Life, forcing it all down.

Skizz chuckles and reaches up to push a hand through his hair. It's brown-black again, not red. At first, Smajor thinks Skizz has somehow acquired an elytra. But rather than purplish-grey, it's white. Flashes of a twelve-foot god with a bit of green in his brown hair and white wings strike Smajor's memory like lightning before they're gone again. "Yeah... sometimes I say things like that when I'm Red," Skizz remarks, sounding embarrassed.

"How are you here, Skizz?" Smajor doesn't dare get closer. Yet. Skizz is still glowing like the sun is directly behind him, instead of overhead.

"My friends helped me. But I don't have long," Skizz says. "The Others... they're trying to force my friends away from here."

"What do you mean? Our friends are tied to this place until I'm gone."

Skizz shakes his head. "Not those friends." He leans back, casually, against the border wall. "I have friends in... other places too." He clears his throat. "They're trying, homie. Trying to break the cycle."

"Who are they? How could they break the cycle?"

Skizz doesn't answer immediately. He looks up, staring straight at the sun without so much as a wince. The glowing light coalesces even more, ringing the top of his head in a band more solid than Smajor's stars.

"Let's just say... we're the same kind of folk that The Others are. But we split apart... a long time ago. We haven't gotten along since."

Somewhere in the void, still tied to this arena, Smajor hears Martyn... talking to someone. Usually the dreams are short snippets of sentences. This is a full—if distant—conversation.

Smajor and Skizz both cock their ears as though to hear the directionless sound better.

Skizz smiles. "Martyn always was special," he says. "Closer to the Veil than most of the others."

"The Veil?" Smajor asks.

"Look, homie. I don't gotta lotta time. Basically, you can't stay here forever. The Others want you dead. G-man and I are fighting them every waking moment. And I know it's breaking his heart, even if he does hate them as much as they hate you for breaking the rules of their game. But we can't fight them off forever. There's two of us and, right now, there's two of The Others. But they're older and more powerful. Original. We're just... converts, if you will. You can't linger here much longer. If they get to you before your soul leaves this world... it'll be shattered into pieces. There won't be nothin' left of you. Even Grian won't be able to put you back together."

Smajor waves his hand. "Wait. Who are these Others? Why do they hate me for not playing their game?"

Skizz takes a deep breath and looks to the sky again. "You wanna take this one?"

The disembodied, dreaming voice of Grian groans in complaint. "Fiiine. I wanted you to handle this, Skizz."

"Well sure, homie, but those guys are your area of expertise."

Grian sighs. "One moment."

Smajor lurches as a black-tinged-with-purple portal rips a hole in reality.

Grian steps out.

But he's not quite the Grian that Smajor has known all these years. The "elytra" on his back is more black than grey, and shines a darker violet than most enchantment glimmers. Rather than a red sweater, a black-and-purple robe that seems to be lined with stars underneath drifts around his ankles in a nonexistent wind. His eyes are closed, but others—spectral, vibrant, violet—drift lazily around him. Even his hair is slightly darker. On the chest of the robe, a broken, square-ish symbol burns purple.

"We're called Watchers," Grian says, not bothering with preamble or beating around the bush. None of his many floating eyes meeting Smajor's. "I wasn't always one. There used to only be two. They chose me to become one of them after I..." Grian shakes his head. "It doesn't matter now. It was a long time ago. They—we—feed on emotions. Any will do, but the easiest ones to illicit and consume are the negative ones. Misery. That's why the other Watchers made this cycle. To keep feeding on yours. I ran from them, down here, to undermine their meal ticket, as it were. I make it fun for all of us, and make their meal a little worse. They hate you for the same reason they hate me: because you refused to play their game the way they wanted, and denied them that control and that energy to feed on. And I'm sorry, but I'm almost out of power. I don't want to feed on my friends and I'm only one converted Watcher. The other two have always been Watchers. Their powers run deeper than mine, and I can't... I can't defend you forever. I've been trying. And I'm starting to lose."

Smajor looks over at Skizz. "And you?"

"My kind are called Listeners," Skizz says. "We're the same race as the Watchers, but split off a long time ago. Rival factions, you could say. Our self-appointed job is to try to protect those the Watchers go after." Skizz fixes Smajor with an intense look. "Now don't you go getting mad at G-man, okay? He never asked to be turned into a Watcher and he didn't want to be one. He didn't get a choice. And neither did I. So be nice, you hear?"

Smajor eyes Grian. "I'll... do my best, but no promises."

"Look. The only way to get you out of here—"

"—is to kill me. I know."

"It's better this way. For now. The Listeners are trying to rescue us all from these cycles, but there's only so much they can do. It's a slow thing because they have to conserve their power," Grian says.

Skizz pushes off the border wall and stands nearly toe-to-toe with Smajor. "If you join us back in the void, the drive of the Red Life will leave you alone for a while. You'll think clearer than you have in weeks."

Smajor inhales deeply through his nose, his stars twisting faster. "I was trying to save you all." He blinks hard to keep the tears from falling. He's tried so hard for so long... all for nothing...

Grian smiles slightly. "We know. Skizz and Martyn can hear you the best. They've told us all in our dreams. But this is bigger than just one person. Bigger than you. Bigger than me. Bigger than Skizz. Bigger than all of us. We appreciate your effort, but it's time to go. Please."

Smajor stares as Grian extends a hand. Another spectral purple eye blazes on his palm. Skizz's "elytra" flares, revealing feathers.

"Come on, homie. There will come a time for all of us to escape this cycle. But it's not now, and it's not your burden to shoulder alone," Skizz says.

Smajor swallows. "Okay."

He sets his hand on top of Grian's.

Whose black eyes open and flare violet along with all the floating ones as thunder booms.

Lightning strikes.

Smajor1995 fell out of the world.

Skizz looks down. His form is starting to dissolve back into light, starting with the ring around his head. "Don't have long," he says.

Grian nods. "We need to get back." His own fingers begin to look transparent. "This whole arena is going to turn back into potential for the next one." His many floating eyes look around. The world is already falling apart at the seams. Grian takes the last breath of fresh air he'll get until the next time the Watchers throw his friends into a new arena for a new game and he descends to join. He prefers fresh air to the void. Anyone would.

"Thanks, G," Skizz says. "I know it takes a lot for you to manifest in a dying place like this without help. At least I've got the other Listeners to bolster me."

Grian shrugs, his wings whooshing with the movement. "It's fine. You were right. He needed to hear it from me," he replies. "See you soon."

Skizz suddenly looks uncomfortable. "Actually, buddy. Not for a while."

"What do you mean?"

"I gotta take more time to recharge. The other Listeners are going to protect me for one cycle so I have time to build my power back up. Next time you're in an arena, I won't be here. But count on me for the next one."

"If there is a next one after, I'll hold you to that."

Skizz smiles. "I'd expect nothing less." He takes a step back, and dissolves completely into light that immediately fades.

Grian sighs and stretches. Without the other Watchers' power to bolster him, it takes a lot of concentration and effort to appear physical, rather than astral. "See you all soon," he says to the dreams of his friends.

He swears he can almost hear Martyn’s chuckle in response. The Veil was always thinner for Martyn than any of the other Evolutionists, even Grian before he became a Watcher. Martyn just had a natural ability to communicate with the Watchers and Listeners. Even in their extra-dimensional, astral forms on the other side of the Veil. Seems like nothing has changed with him since Grian’s Ascension.

Grian smiles sadly. Martyn’s ability is probably causing him more misery than the others, since he’s the only one who knows why these games keep happening.

“Stay strong,” Grian whispers directly into Martyn’s dream.

Black and purple shadows swirl around him.

He returns to the void.

—

“Just… tell me one thing before I go. Why were you so set on Grian?” Martyn asks the bodiless voice.

Hmph. HIM. He was never meant to be there, the voice says. He was only ever meant to WATCH.

[josiesaltzmanstyle]

Malivore

This marks the first (and quite possibly the only) time Josie spends the whole episode in the same outfit, which makes sense, as the events of the plot seem to take place over one day.

She's kept her hair pretty similarly styled to the episode before, and I still think it's a great style on her!

And we have another Modcloth sweater, this time in navy! This is par for the course for season one Josie, but cute all the same. The bell sleeves we'll see below are a continuation from the last episode (a detail of that red cropped sweater I totally forgot to mention), but the zigzagged stripes (again—somewhat hard to see due to lighting) are new.

And, of course, she accessorizes by attaching an isolated white ruffle collar and a yellow shoe-string tie we'll shortly see matches her skirt. As of now, she can be very predictable when it comes to her accessory choices. Though I don't think it's the same one she wore in the last episode. The idea that she owns multiple is both telling and adorable.

It also looks like she's wearing these pearl-hook Angara earrings she wore in the first episode! I've been very pleasantly surprised by how the costuming department has been incorporating pieces multiple times, and I'm excited to see if it continues on. Also notable because Lizzie's rocking pearl earrings of her own, though there are two and they seem slightly bigger. #twingoals

Later on, we see she's paired the sweater with this yellow fringe skirt with a row of buttons at three sides! I was surprised to learn this skirt is part of a set that goes with a matching crop top. It's interesting that she chooses not to wear it directly after the first episode we saw her wear one in. I wonder if she wore it under her sweater? I would guess not, but I can't tell for sure one way or another.

She's also got another pair of gold earrings set above them. I can't quite make out the shape (they're somewhat jagged, like an arrow, but I'm not sure).

She also wears bright red tights under the skirt. Primary colors galore! The color palette reminds me a bit of the palette from 1.04, as both coordinate blue, yellow, and red, but it's a little more of a traditionally studious look.

I couldn't get a good shot of her shoes, but they're strappy black platform heels. While I'm not sure, I believe they could be these Aldo heels wornontv lists her wearing in 3.03. It's possible they had them that early, and that was just the first time they were able to be identified. But who knows!

This is definitely another solid look for Josie, so I'm definitely happy to choose it as my favorite look of the episode (even if there ARE no other looks, lmao). Here she is:

[omniblades-and-stars]

The Last Time (A Game of Cat and Mouse)

Read on AO3

"Bancroft Exports and Logistics Headquarters" read the sign carved from impeccably polished wood, no doubt from Earth. It was mounted on the wall next to a door made of frosted glass and featuring antique bronze hinges and a matching bronze doorknob, shaped humorously like one of Earth's large felines, a lion, if he remembered correctly. He always did. As he reached for the door knob with a green-scaled hand, Thane Krios noted it as something to ask Mr. Bancroft about. It was obviously meant as a statement, the expense of retrofitting a Nos Astra office building for an ancient human door alone meant that it was not simply a design choice.

He straightened the front panel of his expensive suit jacket as he strolled into the lobby. There was a reception desk with a high counter wrapped around the front, topped in the same dark polished wood that the sign at the door was. There was another office door directly to the right of the reception desk, and a cart against the wall with porcelain tea cups hanging from metal hooks. One was missing.

The receptionist was not at their post, it seemed. There was, however, a small sign that read "Press Button for Assistance". He was surprised when there was no audible tone when his carefully filed talon depressed the cool metallic button.

After several seconds of empty silence, a booming, "I don't pay you to stand around and look pretty! Go see who it is, damn it," reverberated from the office behind the door. A feminine voice answered back, the words of her quiet reply were lost to the barrier provided by thick walls. Thane clasped his hands behind his back and waited patiently to be greeted by someone. He was going to enjoy killing Mr. Bancroft later. 

The door cracked open and the first thing out of it was a slender, human, woman's foot. It was clad in a precarious, ruby red high-heeled shoe, a thin strap buckled around a delicately arched ankle. Her legs, shapely and well-toned, were covered by sheer black stockings. A pronounced seam ran up the length of her calf, disappearing behind her knee and beneath the hem of a charcoal gray skirt so tight, it could have been a second skin. 

His eyes traveled up her body, taking in the receptionist as she pushed sideways out of the door. She held a silver tea tray in her delicate, gloved hands, and despite her unreasonably high heels, she moved with well-practiced grace and fluidity. 

A pristine cream colored blouse covered a supple chest, the promising curve of soft flesh hidden beneath whisper thin fabric. A collar buttoned high on her slender throat with dainty, round pearls, covered a scar he knew was there. He was surprised to see her here. She was supposed to be dead.

He killed her.

Bare skin burns hot, pressed and writhing beneath him. A soft moan turns to a surprised gasp and her fingers dig sharp into the muscles of his arms. Silken lips parted against his in a silent plea. Breaths ragged from exertion and the effects of the venom still coursing in her veins. Crimson rivulets wash down the cold metal of his blade. Tears bead at the edges of her clouded, disbelieving eyes, pupils wide, surprised by the betrayal she knew would inevitably come. "Why?" She mouths, unable to speak.

"We can't keep doing this. This is the last time," he whispers, and tenderly brushes wisps of dark hair from her sweat-dewed cheek. Tears that are not hers fall, mingling with the ones sliding over her skin and into the hair tangled on the pillow below her. Her grip on his arms falters as she grows weak. He leaves her alone to die in a Presidium hotel room, disquieted and regretful.

It had been too difficult to stay. He should have known she would pull through. She was stubborn, tenacious.

Beautiful, precious.

And above all, a devious, deadly viper.

But why was it relief that he felt to see her again?

Familiar honey-colored eyes glared at him as she turned to greet him. She drew the plush flesh of her burgundy lip in between her teeth, seductive and no doubt a sign of the anger she felt at the sight of him.

The anger burning in her wide, clear eyes disappeared in a flash, as though it had never existed. A wide smile took its place, creasing the corners of her eyes, and she broke her silence by proclaiming, "Oh, you must be the security consultant here to meet with the board. I am so sorry, how do you pronounce your name, Mister…" Her voice was soft, dripping with syrupy cheer. Her head cocked slightly to the side quizzically, a convincing charade played out for no one but the two of them. 

"Tuek. Rumi Tuek. It is a pleasure to meet you. Though, I am afraid that I do not know your name," he said in reply. In this, he told no lie. No living person knew her true name. Her names shifted like the crashing tides of the sea.

"Julia Tophana," she answered cheerfully and bravely turned her back on him to set the tray on top of the cart. "When I first saw your name on the appointment list this week, I assumed it must have been a salarian name," she lied easily, putting on a breathy, airy voice that he knew very well was an act. She continued putting the pieces of the tea service away with gloved hands as she filled the silence with trite chatter. "I thought, 'Surely it couldn't be a drell name, there are so few to be seen away from Kahje.' But what do I know? Mr. Bancroft always says, 'I didn't hire you for your brains, Jules.'"

How long had she been working as the man’s secretary just to murder him?

She loved the long game.

Julia turned and flashed a charming smile at him, holding a stained tea cup in her left hand. "He underestimates me. They always pay for underestimating me. Don't they?" Thane's hand ghosted over his abdomen, where the memory of her blade made itself known. She started this destructive little game of theirs.

She cries out for help as his target tries to pull her into a filthy alley, one of so many on this part of Omega. He runs to help this stranger, a young, human woman out for a jog. A gunshot echoes out of the alley, and the woman's screams stop.

Too late, he fears. But as he turns around the abandoned building at the entrance to the alley, he sees her standing hunched over a body, hands gripping the pistol like iron. She holds it like it is both her only lifeline and the most terrifying thing in the galaxy. Like she has never fired it before.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to! I … I … was so scared! I didn't … oh God, what did I do?" Her cries are shrill, panicked, she is nearly hyperventilating. Her hands shake and tears streak over the gentle curve of her cheeks. She looks up at him with large, pleading, amber eyes, and drops the pistol on the ground right before she heaves and vomits all over her lavender running shoes.

"Please, let me help you get cleaned up," he offers quietly as he approaches. She clutches his hands with her own trembling fingers and allows him to lead her away. She tells him her name is Artemis, tells him about how she ended up on Omega, and how lonely it is living on that horrible station.

It's hours later and they are still together, she's pressed against him, hot and needy. Her kisses taste like peppermint toothpaste. "It was so easy. This is the last time you'll see me, see anything," she whispers against his lips. Cold metal bites into his skin, just below his lung and it twists as she pushes him harder against the wall. Her strength is surprising. Too late he realizes that she is not just an innocent woman out for an evening run. The pain forces a groan coursing up his throat. He can feel the blade scraping through his ribs, feel it pierce through the other side. "I don't do competition," she explains and strokes his cheek with a soft hand, now coated in emerald blood. She simply walks away after, leaving her blade, and him, pinned to the wall. It is the kind of folding blade engineered by and for killers, expensive and easily hidden.

The truth of the matter was that she was a small, beautiful woman blessed with large, doe eyes, and perfect, bow shaped lips. Traits that she carefully wielded to her advantage at every available opportunity. Including here, in this moment, where he was her only audience. She was like the sirens of Earth’s ancient mythology, and he too often found himself ensnared by her song.

Arashu protect me, Amonkira guide me, and Kalahira, please take this damnable woman to the darkest, coldest depths of your oceans.

She brought the cup down onto the hard surface of the desk, shattering it with purpose. "Oops! How clumsy of me!" She brushed the shards into the trash can, and in a smooth motion removed the gloves from her hands and deposited them into the receptacle after, careful not to touch the outside material with her bare fingers.

The gloves must have cost a fortune. They appeared to be made of real animal skin, unlike the synthetic leather worn by most. Even in their line of work. 

She'd always been one for flair, even if only for her own sake.

His eyes followed the dexterous lines of slender fingers, recalling the feeling of them tracing tender lines over the ridges of his scales, the feel as they dug into his flesh as she tried to tear his grip from her throat. With a raised brow, he started to ask, “Mr. Bancroft, is he-”

“Dead? He is, but he doesn’t know it yet,” The Shepherd responded while she checked the watch set into a dainty silver band around her wrist. “He will have a “sudden” stroke in approximately four hours.”

Of course, poison. 

One of her favorite methods. She had always been one for a more personal approach. She liked to get in close, get to know the target. She loved to play games, like a cat toying with a mouse that didn't know her claws were already piercing its skin. Until it was much, much too late.

She always played games. 

Thane's lips curled into a disapproving grimace. He despised that she got to Bancroft first.

He despised that she waited until she knew he would be here to do it. This entire charade, this whole show was for his benefit alone. 

It was payback. It was his turn to be the mouse, it seemed. It was probably no less than he deserved.

Deserved or not, he would not let her win.

Her clean up finished, The Shepherd picked up a datapad and waved for him to follow her into the curving hallway. “This way, Mr. Tuek. The board meets on the next floor up, accessible only by the interior elevator.” She strode in front of him, the long curve of her legs accented by the pointed heel of her shoe. Absently, she brushed a long dark lock of hair that had fallen loose from her bun, held together by shining metal sticks, behind her ear. It was much longer than their last meeting.

“I like what you’ve done with your hair, Ms. Tophana. It is a shame that I will kill you before I get to enjoy it,” he whispered in her ear as they walked past the office workers diligently working at their desks in the open office space nested behind the reception lobby.

“I like the piercings you have there on the ridge above your frill, those are new. I will take great pleasure in tearing them from your smug face right before I end you,” she retorted while looking straight ahead. Her mouth curled up, confidence hidden in the upturned corner of her lips. "This is the last time, Krios," she whispered hotly.

"You are sure of this? You have yet to kill me, Shepherd," he reminded her and placed a gentle, threatening hand at the small of her back. The silken fabric of her blouse slid pleasantly over his scales. 

Their walk through the office came to a halt at the elevator, tucked into a hall filled with more office spaces. The Shepherd turned to face him as she pressed the call button for the lift. "It will either be me or you this time. To the death, once and for all. I'm not leaving this building without your life."

The elevator arrived with a chime, and the door slid open. "Then you will not leave this building," he answered emphatically and stepped into the elevator.

The Shepherd pressed her arm across the opening to prevent the door from sliding closed. She leaned in, passing the datapad to him, her lips ghosted dangerously close to his cheek, her breath hot on his skin, stirring heat deep within him. Her hair smelled like honeysuckle. It always smelled like honeysuckle. "You make mistakes when you underestimate me. Don't make it easy for me," she whispered. Suddenly, she pulled back, "You'll understand why I won't be joining you in the elevator. The boardroom is directly to your right, through the preposterous double doors. You can't miss it." 

She had the audacity to wiggle her fingers at him as though she were waving goodbye to a friend as the door slid shut. 

He looked down at the datapad and turned the screen on. Thane didn't know whether to be greatly amused or greatly irritated by the image that greeted him:

"A Game of Cat and Mouse" written out in the flowing script he knew to be hers, followed by a humorous drawing of a cat with human hair styled just like hers. And pinned beneath her feline paws, a mouse with green and black scales.

Hiding in an office suite after his meeting, now entirely pointless due to Bancroft's impending death, had concluded was a simple matter. It was easy enough to duck into the office of some executive who was almost certainly on vacation, and simply wait until everyone who was not The Shepherd left. By the time the work day drew to a close, he found himself pondering the pendulous motion of the Newton’s Cradle decorating the large wooden desk in his hiding office.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Cla-

“We’re alone now, Krios. You can come out of hiding,” she shouted down the hall from her roost in the lobby.

As he walked silently down the hall, he removed his suit jacket, slinging it over his shoulder and cuffing his shirt sleeves at his forearms. When he rounded the hall into the lobby, she was standing with her back to him. Her arms were raised, the mass of her hair held tightly in her fist as she began to wrap it around her hand and tie it more suitably to the base of her skull. The two decorative sticks were laid on the counter, perfectly symmetrical to one another.

“That’s close enough, Thane. Rules first,” she said firmly without turning to him. She grabbed one of the sticks and popped the bottom tip off of it, revealing a very fine sharp point. She leaned to the side and pulled the hem of her skirt taut in her fingers. The Shepherd drove the point into the stretched fabric and then pulled it. The organic fibers parted noisily up the side of her leg, up to the leather belt fastened around her thigh, just above where her stockings came to an end, teasing him.

Thane drew his gaze back to her hair. Her hair was safe, it was drawn up messily in a simple elastic band, and was quite possibly the only part of this that wasn't a performance. “I am listening, Shepherd,” he confirmed. She paused, and almost imperceptibly shivered before leaning to tear the other side of her skirt.

Muscle and bone shifts beneath the tan skin of her back as she undulates. Her back is a star-chart, made up of tiny constellations of freckles and scars. Bruises blooming purple and blue prove the background of the galaxy mapped out between her shoulder blades and beyond. He props himself up on one hand before gently running a short talon over a long jagged scar just below her shoulder blade.

"This one?" He asks, breaking the silence. Her skin pebbles beneath his touch, goosebumps, she calls them. She shivers as his finger trails across her back.

"From the time I killed an elcor diplomat," she says through heavy, panting breaths. "Didn't think he'd be sneaky enough to hide a knife." She is lying, a preposterous lie at that. He has asked her about it before. The last time, it was from a krogan battlemaster's pet varren. He is fairly certain it is a scar from a turian's unfiled talon.

He moves again to sit up completely, and her back arches to accommodate him. His left hand circles around her body, tracing gentle lines over her skin, admiring the bumps that form in its wake, but only for a moment. He presses his other hand around the base of her throat, he can feel the tendons shift as she swallows and moves, and the beat of her heart, fast and strong. He can feel another line, just under her breast. "And what of this one?" He asks with his lips pressed against her neck, he can taste the salt of her sweat.

He knows the answer. He put it there. 

They are moving in tandem, languid, and unhurried, savoring this beautiful charade, awash in blinding pleasures. This time, they started as enemies and ended as lovers. He much prefers it this way than the other. Tonight, she is sweet … by the gods is she sweet. Her hair smells of honeysuckle, and the softest sounds drip like nectar from her lips. And he is an addict for them. He can almost imagine that she isn't like a poison to him, or him a sharpened knife to her.

"I tripped and fell into that one. It was an accident, really," she says with a smile in her voice. "Dropped my guard, for the last time," she explains and lies and tells the truth all in the same sentence, through the same panting breaths. He can't explain why he finds these little, unnecessary lies so charming, so enrapturing, but he does.

He is caught in her web, and he climbs further in of his own volition.

"No guns, no poison, no omni-tools, and no warp fields. Agreed?" The Shepherd rolled her shoulders back and stretched her neck, the elongated curve of it far too tempting. The very edge of the silvering scar peaked over the edge of her collar.

"Agreed."

She stood on one leg and pulled her foot up behind her, stretching her leg and rolling her ankle. She was still wearing those impractical, ridiculous, attractive shoes. "Good, any additions you'd like to make?" She continued her stretching as though she were preparing to go on a run,  and he was not a professional assassin ready to attack.

"I would appreciate it if you did not use your biotics to pull my central nervous system apart this time," he requested with a smile. One encounter with her biotics had left him twitching and blinking sporadically for weeks. "I believe that is a fair exchange in return for not using mine to rip you apart from the outside."

"Oh, I hate when you make a good point. Fine. Questions?" She asked as she turned to face him. He had expected to see her cocky smile, or a demure smirk. Maybe even a deep, hateful scowl. 

But her lips were pressed in a hard line, and her eyes were bloodshot, and lined harshly red at the edges. Had she been crying? Was she frightened?

Or was this a part of her game? He could never tell with her. It could have been another of her little lies. Even still, it gave him pause, tightened a knot in his gut. 

Thane shook his head and tried to push off his reservations. He was in her snare, he knew. He tossed his jacket to one of the small chairs in the lobby and clasped his hands behind his back. "Who hired you to kill Bancroft?" 

He was merely curious, very few people earned having more than one assassination plot against them.

"His wife. You?"

"His son," he answered with a smile. Even fewer people were so hated by their families that they would independently hire someone to kill them. "Do you have any questions for me?"

The Shepherd cocked her head and furrowed her brow. Her question fell from her lips quietly and without preamble, and it detonated like a hydrogen bomb, "If I die tonight, will you mourn me? There isn’t anyone else." She fumbled her words and hastened to add, "Who would even notice, much less care if I die, I mean."

The aftershock rolled into him and sent blood thundering through his chest. "Yes, I mourn you every time, " he answered sincerely and before he could grasp the magnitude of his own words. "Shepherd, if Kalahira calls me to the sea tonight, will you mourn for me?"

"Yes. Every time."

They had killed each other, or tried to anyways, far too many times.

The seconds that passed before either of them moved crackled with electricity. The only warning he had before The Shepherd leapt at him was the flaring of her nostrils. She held the slender stick in her hand like a blade as she pushed off the ground without a sound. He threw his left arm up and pushed the blade away with his forearm, and curled his right fist up towards her ribs.

Her body bowed out of the way of his strike, and stepped in towards him. She hooked her foot around his ankle and pulled him off-balance. Her elbow connected with his collarbone sending a sharp pain shooting through his neck and shoulder. Just as the tiny little blade made its way to his chest, he thrust the flat his hand up. The air around his body ignited cerulean blue, and the blade struck the barrier and snapped. 

The Shepherd stumbled backwards, dropping the now useless implement to the ground. "Shit, I hate it when you do that," she grumbled and adjusted her stance again. 

He pressed his hand into his shoulder and rolled it, stretching out the muscle. "You know, you possess the same skill? It might be useful for keeping much more of your blood inside of your body."

Her small nose crinkled up before she smirked, "That your professional opinion, since you're so good at freeing me of mine?"

"Deserved, although the same could be said for you of mine," he retorted right before advancing on her. They fought. Fists, hands, feet, all moving with blinding speed and precision. He pressed hard against her, and she took steps back, all the while blocking quick strikes and narrowly avoiding getting caught in his grasp.

She came to a stop with her back pressed against the reception counter. The Shepherd reached behind her without looking away from him, and snatched the other hair pin up, releasing the pointed tip hidden under a small metallic cap. She was quick, and aimed the small weapon for his neck.

Thane wrapped one hand around her wrist, and pulled the implement free with the other. He didn’t hesitate and drove it into her side, earning a snarling hiss from the woman.

He’d always been faster than her.

The Shepherd struck him hard in the chest with her outstretched palm, and a concentrated blast of energy followed it a fraction of a second later. Indigo light flared from beneath her hand and he was pushed back across the room, knocking the air from his lungs, and his body to the floor. She pulled the weapon from her side with a grunt, vermillion spreading across the thin fabric of her punctured shirt.

She closed the gap between them with a short run. She raised her foot to bring it down hard on his chest. Thane shifted and rolled away just as she brought her foot down, throwing her off balance. He struck her other foot with a blunt kick, bringing her down to his level.

“Fuck!” she shouted as she crashed to her hands and knees. Immediately, she began to crawl away, working her way back up to crouching, trying to stand again.

Until he grabbed her around the ankle and began to pull her back towards him. “No you don’t,” he grunted as he dragged her thrashing body, preventing her escape. “Why do you wear these shoes, Shepherd? They are quite impractical for walking, much less a fight.”

The Shepherd stopped thrashing and allowed him to pull her nearer while answering, “Have you seen what they do for my legs and my ass?” He had, he could see it right now. “Besides, they serve a function.” She pushed her hands up under her body and flipped herself onto her back. She drove the hard, narrow point of her heel hard into the musculature just below his left shoulder.

He growled and nearly bit his tongue. 

Evil, demon of a woman. 

The stiletto ground against sinew and bone, the pain sending a flash of white static through his vision. He dropped his grip on her leg, and groaned as she pulled her foot free from his shoulder, centimeter by visceral centimeter.

The woman scurried away, standing and disappearing around the corner in the hall at dead run. 

He stood and tested his shoulder, it seemed that she managed not to tear any ligaments or tendons. He could move through the pain. Thane darted off after her, “Running away? That is very unlike you.”

“No … ugh … just looking for a change of scenery,” he heard her breathless and grunting reply from down the hall heading towards the elevator. As he neared the hall, he saw her forcing the doors open and pulling herself up and into the empty elevator shaft. He followed after, fully expecting her to be waiting at the next floor to push him to his death down the shaft.

But she was not there.

Instead, a small ceramic saucer came flying at him, a projectile sent from inside of the truly ridiculous, large double doors leading into the boardroom. He ducked below it, but didn't see the next saucer, until it struck him right in the side of the head. The ceramic shattered against his scales, and he could feel the stinging heat of blood gathering on small cuts.

The Shepherd was standing on the board room table, an enormous expanse of wood cut from a singular tree, stained and sealed with resin. She pulled her foot back and kicked a holo-conference terminal, sending it sailing towards him. Thane leaned to the side, easily dodging the awkward projectile.

He balled up his fist and pulled it back, gathering biotic energy before releasing it. It sailed into her and sent her sprawling to the surface of the table. Paper, more saucers, and a datapad or two went scattering out from under her fall. He jumped onto the table, rapidly closing the distance. 

She crossed her ankles around one of his legs, pulling him to the surface of the table. Their fight turned into something more akin to a schoolyard brawl. They traded sloppy, awkward blows, rolling back and forth on the broad meeting room table.

Suddenly, she had him pinned, pressing hard into the wound on his shoulder while she reached for the belt secured around her leg.

Thane wrapped his right hand over her face and pushed her head back hard, and grabbed her wrist with his other hand as she attempted to stab him with the knife that had been hidden on the inside of her thigh. He pushed up while she pushed down. She shifted her head and snapped her teeth around the base of his thumb hard enough to draw blood.

He bared his teeth at her and growled. Thane shifted his weight and wrapped his leg over her hip, with her knife-wielding hand still held firmly in his grip, he pulled her down close just before rolling over her. He sat fully on her abdomen, preventing her from rolling and thrashing.

She clawed at his throat with her free hand, curses quickly turned to animalistic cries as she struggled to keep her grip on her precious little knife. Much of her hair had come loose, splayed out in messy tangles around her head and cheeks. Blood seeped from a bite mark on her lip and her eyes burned with fury, and perhaps, fear.

Thane wrenched the knife from her hand and threw it off to the side. It hit the tiled floor with a sharp, metallic crack, but was immediately forgotten as the woman returned to clawing, scratching and hitting him with every ounce of energy she could muster. And it did hurt. He wrapped his hands around her slender wrists with crushing strength. She let out a guttural cry and twisted at the abdomen, trying to free herself. Her legs scrambled to find purchase on the table and push him up from on top of her, but all she accomplished was scraping deep ruts into the resin coating on the wood.

He gathered her wrists in one hand and brought them down hard and awkwardly just above her head. He brought his other hand to her throat, the buttons of her collar long since pulled free during their struggle, and he paused.

Beneath his fingers, the smooth, but too long line of the scar taunted him. It was thin, almost surgical in its precision, but cruel. His cruelty, not hers. 

His heart skipped while hers thundered beneath his ghosting touch. Her chest rose and fell so rapidly, she was on the verge of hyperventilating. Genuinely.

The Shepherd looked up at him with those wide, terrified eyes of hers. She let her head fall back to the tabletop, exhaled, and squeezed her eyes shut. “Just do it, Thane. You win. Better this way, wouldn't want it to be anyone else.”  Silent tears rolled from the corners of her eyes. “The last time, right?” she asked with a choked, pitiful laugh.

"No," he said, frozen in place with just the barest contact with her skin.

Her breath hitched and her eyes flew open. Impossibly, her heart began to beat faster, breaths came out in short, fast bursts from her nose. "What? Fuck, don't drag this out!” She cried out. “Just snap my neck, or shit, strangle me. Plea-"

Her confused protestations were silenced when his lips covered hers in a bruising, searing kiss. She gasped and he released her hands. Just as he was pulling back to ask her if that was alright, she grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and brought him back to her lips.

In seconds they were consumed by each other, psychological games, anger and violence all but forgotten in the blinding heat of raw, pent up desire. The way she moved and how they were suddenly undressed was dizzying. His memories of the softness of her skin and sweet melody of her voice could never compare to the satin plush of her thighs gripping his waist, or the sounds that tumbled from her mouth.

By the gods, the sounds she made. They were healing waters from the wellspring of her lips. They were quiet, keening mewls, breathy gasps, and those hushed moans pressed against his lips like mumbled prayers. And oh, the way she whined when his teeth scraped against the delicate curve of her throat. He was drunk on the way she breathed his name with muted fervor.

His world turned upside down, and the cool surface of the table met his back. Loose tendrils of her hair brushed his scales as she moved over him. Her head tipped back and her lips parted, forming the perfect silhouette of ecstasy. The muscles in her stomach slithered and writhed with the hypnotic rhythm beneath his hands.  

He was lost in the intoxicating, feverish warmth of her. 

It crested, they existed on the edge of a corona, just before falling over the edge into the crushing gravity, and all-consuming, plasmic bliss. It surged through him like an electric shock and stole his breath, made his fingers tingle like her skin held a static charge.

She collapsed on top of him, the full weight of her small body pushing what little air was held in his lungs out with a groan. The Shepherd laughed, breathless but musical. “It happened again,” she muttered against his chest.

Thane wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight to him and carding his hand into her hair, and drawing gentle circles between her shoulders with the other. She shivered, goosebumps rising beneath carefully filed talons. Her fingers traced lines over the soft ridges of his neck. He stared up at the ceiling above them, struggling to control the surge of confused emotion mounting inside of him. “It did,” he agreed quietly. “Will you tell me your name?”

He could feel her muscles tense, and her shoulder blades drew close together before she released the tension with a sad sigh. “No,” she started and then hesitated. “My real name belongs to someone I’m not anymore. Call me Sophie, always liked that one.”

“Sophie,” he repeated into her flower scented hair.

“There isn’t anyone else. To love or to hate me,” she said suddenly, somehow disarming him again.

“You have me,” it rolled off of his lips too easily. She did that to him, pulled his guard away and rendered him loose with his affections and tongue.

She’d probably try to kill him right now. Tear him apart with biotics, or reveal that she’d poisoned some innocuous part of the office that he touched. Maybe that absurd lion’s head door knob at the entrance to the office. Maybe even the heel of her ridiculous shoe. That’s how this usually went.

Instead, she raised her head and looked at him with tired, quizzical eyes, “To love, or to hate me?”

“Perhaps, it is both,” he responded honestly. Maybe the gods knew, because he certainly did not.

“We can figure it out the next last time,” she said with a small smirk playing at the corner of her bruised, cut and perfect lips. “Assuming we don’t kill each other first.”

He returned her smile with one of his own. “I would not want it to be anyone else.”

[kay-jay-self-shipping]

United (AaravosxOC)

Spilers for the end of Season 6 below, don't read if you haven't seen it yet.

Also, expect mistakes, I am writing this because my muse has been inspired, so it's going to be rough, and I'm happy to just get it out for others to enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: This drabble is not canon to my story as of yet. Until season 7 is released, I will not be making plans for my actual story, this is just an idea I had floating in my head after watching the last episode.

After everything that had happened, every drop of blood shed, every tear, every nightmare... It was finally happening.

Nymera stood between Claudia and Terry at the altar of Harrow's grave, surrounded by the bones of the Archdragon Sol Regem, and the makeshift grave for Viren. Everything she needed to release Aaravos was strewn out in front of her, and her heart pounded against her ribs as she prepared to cast the most important spell of her life.

Claudia's hand rested on her shoulder, and she looked over to see the younger woman looking up at her with a smile of affirmation. They shared a nod, and she looked over at Terry who reluctantly averted his gaze.

No matter, soon someone very important would be given a new lease on life, and having heard his backstory, his motivations, she understood why he did what he did to get to this point. If she had lost the one light in her life, as he had, she may have fallen to darkness long before she reached this graveyard.

With a deep breath, the mute woman stepped forward and raised her hands. While she couldn't speak her incantations, something that'd likely lead to the end of her Dark Magic career... Viren had done her a kindness and developed a spell to give her the power to sign her spells rather than speak them. However, with his death, her power fell with him, but his daughter was a genius for magic, and was quick to recast the spell and give her the power needed to see her final mission to its end.

'Aaravos...' She thought, closing her eyes as she felt the Dark Magic flow through her fingers, up her arm and into her eyes which opened and glowed a dangerous purple. 'You've waited for me for long enough... If its true that the spell must be cast with love... Then take mine, every little moment, every smile, every conversation, take it all...! Because I love you, and I can't wait to see you!"

With tears filling her eyes, she signed the words to the spell as the objects surrounding the pearl levitated into the air, each movement of her hand was filled with conviction and power, as if shouting without words. She closed her eyes as the objects spun into the air around the Quasar Diamond, and finally she finished the final motions and watched as the objects merged together to create a light so bright, the glow in her eyes vanished, leaving nothing but inky blackness as she closed her eyes to shield them.

A moment passed until the light faded enough for all three people to lower their hands and open their eyes to reveal the form of an elf, a white silhouette before them. Nymera's welling tears finally spilled over, and she stepped forward just as the stardust disappeared and Aaravos hovered a few feet in the air before her, in the flesh.

The Startouch elf inhaled suddenly as he opened his eyes, then dropped to his knees on the ground as he let the air fill his lungs from the outside world for the first time in three centuries. "Stone..." He spoke up, after a moment to get his bearings. His blank expression twisting into a smile as he clenched his fist against the dusty bricks beneath him. "The cool night air..." He lifted his head and closed his eyes as the wind whipped up around him, 'causing his majestic white hair to flutter around his starlit features.

Nymera stood there with a hand against her chest, choking back silent sobs as he slowly got to his feet and lowered his head enough to face her directly. Slowly, he opened his eyes and his smile twisted into a pleased smirk. "And you... How long I have waited to see you in the flesh."

The young hybrid's lips curled up into a happy smile, and she wiped her eyes with the palms of her hand as she took a tentative step towards him, mirrored by his own. 'You're free... You're here.' She signed, watching as he took another step, then another.

"Yes." He confirmed, his pace quickening as he watched her take another tentative step. Perhaps she was still questioning his solid form? "And it's all thanks to you!"

Without giving her a chance to say anything else, he dove forward and wrapped his arms around her waist. He scooped her up while her expression screamed surprise when she couldn't, laughing as he spun her around and allowed himself to feel the arms; the form of another against his own. Oh, she was warm, soft, and ever so light.

It was wonderful!

Nymera's tears only intensified as she was lowered into an embrace, one she returned with as much force as she could muster, relishing in his warm and strong hold on her. His face was buried in her shoulder, while her's nestled in his pristine hair, both basking in the knowledge that they'd achieved what they'd long planned to be a reunion.

"Nymph, you have proven far more valuable than any vessel I could have chosen..." Aaravos told her, muffled by her clothing as he opened his eyes halfway, not caring that others could see him. "And it is a pleasure to finally see you face to face, rather than behind that dusty old mirror."

She tightened her grip, affirming his words, as she nodded against his locks, soaking them with her happy tears. He was her best friend, the only person to accept her for who she was, rather than what she was by blood.

"This spell is only possible with love, my little Nymph." Aaravos said, pulling away to look her in the eyes as he brushed her fringe away from her corrupted eye, allowing him to relish the vibrant hue of her fuschia eyes. "Tell me, what motivated you to complete the spell?"

Nymera's cheeks turned pink, as she raised her hands to sign her response, only to hesitate and lower them along with her gaze. While she knew the answer, deep down the still feared rejection, and if she were to tell him, and he didn't feel the same... It would shatter what little heart she had left to love.

But Aaravos wasn't a fool, he saw right through her, even now.

Aaravos stared down at her, then smirked as he silently lifted her chin with the side of his index finger, moving her gaze to meet his, before he leaned down and brushed his lips briefly against hers. The mute mage's eyes widened in surprise, and she stood there frozen for a moment, while her beloved elf pulled away and flashed her a grin. "Sometimes words aren't necessary for a confession, my starlight~."

Nymera's form tensed as she started breathing heavily, and her lip trembled. Tears spilled harder down her cheeks, and she let out a silent sob before she tackled him in another hug, comforted by his soft laughter as he embraced her once again.

In the background, Terry was looking away, his eyes filled with tears as well, while Claudia sniffled with a smile, wiping her eyes as she basked in the knowledge that they had succeeded in their mission.

The former High Mage finally pulled away enough to meet Aaravos' gaze, but as she went to remove her hands to sign her love for him, he gently grasped them in his own. "No" He said gently, letting go to cup her cheeks. "There's no need for words..."

And with that, he pressed his lips against her own with a firm passion, which she reciprocated with every cell in her being, every speck of love she had held onto for so, so long.

Yes, they had a job to do, now that the Startouch giant had been released, but at that moment, the only thing that mattered was this moment, and Aaravos could only think of one thing as he pulled away to bask in her smile.

'Leola would have loved to meet you.'

A/N: Thanks for reading! I want to note that in my headcanon, Aaravos can become human-sized at will, which is why he was able to live among them with Leola. As a result, he chooses to appear human-sized to Nymera, fully intending to lock lips with her.

I hope you enjoyed my drabble! I had a blast writing it!

[boltlightning]

landfall: chapter 2

On a bright fateful morn, Jack Sparrow brings rumors of the Black Pearl and her crew of the damned to Port Royal. In theory, the ship should be no match for the dragon Tempest and his Captain Norrington — but the Pearl harbors dangerous shadows of her own. or: potc, but temeraire, multi-chapter wip. sequel to windfall

A flash in the water catches her eye. The spine of a large fish breaks the surface. She peers closer and — no, it is not a fish, but Barbossa’s dark dragon, miraculously keeping pace with the Pearl. Lookout swims just below the surface of the water. His colors — black-blue scales with stark white dappling — make him nearly invisible to the untrained eye. Elizabeth watches him swim, entranced, her stubbed toe forgotten.

At midday Lookout finally bursts from the water. He circles the Pearl once, his wingbeat not unlike the snapping of sailcloth, then lands on the deck directly in front of the captain’s quarters. There is just enough space for him to curl around the capstan — his tail drapes over the side of the ship into the water, yes, but it must be comfortable enough, for he closes his eyes against the sun and relaxes to nap. The crew steps over his thick tail like he is a minor obstacle, clearly used to such behavior.

Elizabeth holds her breath. Perhaps the crew placed Lookout here to deter her from escaping (as though she has anywhere to go). They could not know that Elizabeth has spent most every day of the last three years in the immediate presence of a much larger dragon. With a rational amount of fear and not a mote more, Elizabeth crouches before the doors to the cabin and pushes one open, just slightly.

“Lookout? Can you understand me?” Elizabeth whispers.

Lookout’s ears flick irritably. “Yes,” he says. He opens his mouth only enough to growl the word.

“Then help me,” Elizabeth pleads. She inches forward. “I can offer you treasure beyond your imagination, amounts beyond what fits in a ship’s hoard.”

“Leave me be. Every human lies to get what they want. You are no different.”

(read here on ao3!)

[burningsands99]

A Room Overlooking Gotham Zoo

A mental hospital sits on a hill, overlooking the Gotham City Zoo. Down below, penguins waddle in their enclosure. A clown makes dubiously accurate balloon animals. Ivy climbs up the side of the hospital, nearest one patient’s window. A tree near the window is full of birds. Robins, mostly, but occasionally, in the dead of night, a bat will show up too.

Once, the patient watched as a circus set up in the zoo’s parking lot. Hours later, the patient watched as emergency vehicles flooded the parking lot, and as two body bags were brought out of the main circus tent. The patient could hear the child cry. That night, the first robin landed on the tree outside his window.

Once, the patient watched as the not-so-very-skilled clown beat his assistant near a dumpster. He watched as her mascara ran down her face, little black diamonds forming on her skin. He listened as the ivy near his windowed shivered in response to her cries.

Once, the patient watched as that same clown, long-since fired from the zoo, returned in a mad rage, armed with a bomb. Among the dead was a young boy with black hair. The patient watched as he was wheeled towards the coroner’s van. That night, a bloodied bat appeared in the tree outside his window.

Once, the patient watched as a young teenager broke into the zoo at night and sat, watching the stand where the clown had worked. Before the boy left, he glanced up at the patient’s window and winked. That night, a robin with a peculiar red color appeared in the tree outside his window.

Once, the patient watched as a group of friends came to the zoo. One of the women carried an inflatable mace, and jokingly chased around the man with the plastic green ring. The other woman carried a lasso around her hip. She was a competitor in the local rodeo. She raised an elegant eyebrow at one of her friends in a way that made her seem older than she looked. The patient watched as one of the men (plaid and glasses, seemingly gentle but unsure of his own strength) admonished one of the others (the younger one, the one that always ran ahead of all of them, the one with a fondness for red shirts and fried food). Before the group left, the last friend (cloaked in green, eerie but comforting at the same time) looked directly at the patients window and smiled sadly. That night, the patient dreamed of a powerful alien in a red cap, the world’s fastest man, the mace-wielding alien with wings, the green-encompassed man with the ring, the woman with a powerful golden lasso, and the alien that was eerie and comforting at the same time, the one who knew too much.

Once, the patient watched as a family entered the zoo. An older man, a younger woman, presumably his daughter, and a young boy, no more than 10. They stayed all day, and the patient smiled at the boy’s obvious excitement at seeing the animals. Come closing time, the boy was crying. His family had left him behind. That night, another robin landed in the tree outside his window. This one was smaller than the rest.

Once, before his room overlooking the zoo, a young boy walked down an alley with his parents. A monster appeared, armed with a gun and sorrow. All the boy remembered was the sight of his mother’s pearls and the bat that hung on a nearby gargoyle. Later that year, the boy found himself in his room overlooking the zoo.

Or:

Bruce, traumatized by the death of his parents, had imagined the whole thing.

[frozenprocedural]

"you don't have anything to sleep in, so your lover lends you their shirt. a couple weeks later, you find the same shirt in your room. you never gave it back, and you're reminded of what it was like to sleep in the same bed as them"

ELSARIK PLS

@kristanna-days, for the "Pearl" prompt- First Time.

Alarik belongs to @patricia-von-arundel. Set in the Flowers and Ink universe, and the prequel to this fic here.

The Gray Shirt

Rating: E

Paring: Elsa/Alarik (OC).

The shirt was bunched at the bottom of Elsa's laundry, its grey nearly matching the grey of the basket. No wonder she'd missed it the last few times she'd done laundry. 

She pulled it out, letting the other clothes fall to the ground, and felt a flush color her cheeks as she brought it to her nose. Even after the two weeks it had spent in the hamper, she could still smell the faint floral-and-coffee scent of its owner. 

She could still vividly remember the night she'd gotten it as well.

……………

Two weeks previously….

The wind drove the rain at an angle, making it difficult to see. Elsa stayed close to Alarik, their umbrellas overlapping, as they cut through an alley to reach Alarik's apartment building. As they descended a small set of stairs, Elsa misstepped, her ankle giving way. With a pained yelp, she fell directly into the large puddle waiting below. 

"Elsa!" Alarik was by her side in seconds, his eyes wide with concern. "Are you alright?"

Elsa pushed herself into a sitting position, wincing slightly. Other than her throbbing ankle, she didn't feel like anything else had been injured. "I think I just twisted my ankle. And messed up my clothes." She frowned at her bag, which was mud-splattered and completely soaked.

"Are you sure? It's not broken, is it?"

"Help me stand?" After a pause, Alarik offered an arm and helped pull her to her feet. Elsa tentatively put her ankle and hissed. 

"I can put weight on it, so I don't think it's broken, just twisted. Just help me get to your apartment so I can get some ice on it."

Alarik nodded, bent down to grab her bag, then put her arm around his shoulder. "We'll get there together, älskling."

"What was that?" Elsa turned to look at him, not understanding the last word he'd spoken. Alarik was bright red, and he wouldn't quite look her in the eye. 

"It's just a Swedish word. Let's get you out of the rain, alright?"

Elsa let the matter drop for the time being. She knew Alarik hadn't said anything negative- that wasn't his way- but she still felt there was more there than he was saying. Nonetheless, she allowed him to assist her inside without any further questions. She knew he'd tell her when he was ready.

………

"Oh my! Elsa, dear, are you alright?"

Elsa gave Alarik's elderly neighbor what she hoped was a reassuring smile. She'd met Dorothy several times, and the old woman had seemed just as delighted as Anna was that the two of them were together. 

"It's probably just a twisted ankle. I'll be okay." Without really knowing why, she added, "Alarik will take care of me." 

Behind her, she felt Alarik start, and Dorothy had a wide grin on her face.

"I'm certain he will, dear. Don't hesitate to knock if you need anything, alright?" She gave them both a wave before disappearing into her own apartment.

Alarik opened the door and helped Elsa into a chair. He had her prop her injured foot on another one, heedless of the dripping water, and knelt in front of her, his hands hovering above her shoe. Not touching, at least yet.

"May I?"

Elsa nodded, and Alarik undid the laces and loosened her shoe, easing it off her foot, flinching when she winced. 

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, running his hands over her ankle with such tenderness that Elsa momentarily forgot the pain.

"It's alright," she murmured as he pulled her sock off. 

Both of them sucked in a breath upon seeing the swollen ankle mottled black-and-blue. 

"I'm definitely going to need ice for that." Elsa commented, trying to lighten the mood. Alarik was gently stroking the skin of her foot in an absent sort of way. The sensation made her skin prickle, but in a rather pleasant manner. 

Alarik seemed to suddenly notice what he was doing- he went red and pulled his hand away, stumbling to his feet and rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm so sorry! I don't know what I was thinking…"

"It's alright." Elsa murmured, feeling her own cheeks begin to flush. 

Alarik looked away, shifting his weight from foot to foot before blurring out, "I think I might have an elastic bandage somewhere. Um…not used, of course. I just like to keep first aid things on hand, and… I'll just grab that quick, and then we can get some ice on there." 

"Before that, can I use your bathtub? I've got mud all over. If I keep the weight off my foot, I should be fine."

"Oh, right, sure! I'll grab you fresh towels and I'll find a shirt too. I'll wash your stuff so you have something for tomorrow and…"

"Alarik."

"Yes?"

Elsa extended a hand. "Help me up first, okay? Once I'm in the shower, you can do all that."

Alarik helped her to her feet, nodding frantically. "If you're okay with it, I'll, ah… just leave them in the bathroom while you're…ah… in the shower?"

"That's just fine, Alarik. Thank you."

………….

Elsa eased herself from the shower to find a blue towel with one of Alarik's grey shirts and a pair of boxer shorts neatly folded on top. She pulled them on and with some difficulty, hobbled to the door and opened it. 

Alarik was placing a pizza box on the counter, and when he caught sight of her, he all but ran to her side, offering an arm. "How does it feel?"

Elsa winced when she placed a bit too much weight on the injured foot, quickly drawing it back up. 

"Sore." She admitted. 

"Then we need to get it up and ice it. Your snowman is all out of proportion now, poor guy." True enough, the snowman tattoo on the outside of her ankle- a twin of one Anna had in the same place- appeared bloated with the swelling. 

Alarik helped her to the couch and found a box to prop her foot up. He grabbed a towel-wrapped bag and placed it gently on her ankle. Elsa sighed as the coolness seeped in. He brought her a plate with two slices of pizza and a glass of water before settling next to her with his own plate and glass. 

"Any requests?" Alarik gestured to the TV, and Elsa shrugged. 

"Not particularly. Whatever's on."

Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End was playing on the first channel, and they let it play, sometimes discussing scenes- particularly the character's tattoos or the flora in a shot. Eventually they fell into a companionable silence, Elsa curling up as best she could against Alarik's side, with his arm thrown around her and idly stroking her shoulder.

As before, she found the touch oddly electrifying, and was hyper-aware of his presence. His scent- floral, dominated by lavender, and a slight bit of perspiration. The steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. His warmth. 

As the movie came to its end, with Will delicately kissing his way up Elizabeth's knee, heat bloomed in Elsa's belly, and she found herself imagining that were her and Alarik- his lips on her skin, making her shiver and gasp. 

In fact, she did shiver, enough to make Alarik look at her. "Are you cold? Do you need a blanket, or…"

"Take me to bed. Please." The words were out before she could stop them, and Alarik's eyes went wide- he could tell what she truly meant. 

"Are… are you sure?"

"Yes." And she was- any hesitation she may have had was gone, replaced only by the need for him. 

Alarik switched off the TV, his eyes remaining on hers. He stood, a grin forming on his face.

"Alarik what…Ah!" She yelped as she was scooped into his arms, her own instinctively wrapping around his neck to steady herself. 

"Can't have you putting weight on that ankle, can we?" He pressed a kiss to her forehead, causing her to giggle. She pressed her nose to his neck, breathing in his scent again, the smell bringing her both comfort and a rush of desire. 

Alarik took long steps, and beneath her ear, Elsa could hear his rapidly pounding heart. He set her on the bed, but she didn't release her hold on him right away, instead leaning in for another kiss. His tongue played against her lips, and she parted them, allowing it entrance. He traced her teeth, pressed against her own tongue until the need for air pulled them apart.

They rested their foreheads together, breathing heavily. "Still okay?" Alarik murmured, and Elsa nodded. He pulled away, his hands going to the first button of his shirt. 

"Wait."

Alarik froze, his eyes wide, and Elsa spoke quickly to rectify the statement. 

"Wait… I mean… let me?" She lifted her hands, letting them hover over his. 

Alarik grinned, gently taking them and placing them on the button. "By all means, please do."

Elsa worked each button loose, trying to appear confident and hide the growing tremble in her hands. But Alarik, ever sensitive to her every movement, noticed immediately.

"Elsa…?" 

She bit her lip, unable to meet his gaze. She tried to keep going, but her fingers refused to cooperate, fumbling and slipping. Eventually he took her hands back in his, thumbs gently rubbing her knuckles.

"Please don't force yourself. If you're not comfortable, I'll stop."

She still couldn't bring herself to look at him, but she didn't pull her hands away either. Alarik waited, still stroking her skin, never pushing. 

"I'm nervous. I'm not all that experienced, and I want to make sure this is good for you." 

Alarik knelt in front of her, placing their hands in her lap, tracing the snowflake tattoo on her wrist. "Elsa, the only way it can be good for me is if it's good for you. Please, don't worry about your experience. Let's just figure it out. Together. Is that okay?"

Elsa took a steadying breath, finally making herself meet Alarik's gaze. The look he gave her was so soft, so loving, she had to fight back tears. 

"Together," she whispered. She allowed him to bring her hands back to the buttons, and, with them resting gently upon hers, began to work them free.

When his shirt fell open, Elsa hesitated, then placed her hands on his bare chest, his skin almost feverishly warm against hers. She was tentative at first, just barely moving the tips of her fingers against him, but slowly grew more courageous, tracing idle patterns as she explored. Goosebumps followed in the wake of her explorations, and Alarik's breathing was rapid. She played with the soft tufts of auburn curls on his chest while Alarik pulled his arms free of the shirt and tossed it carelessly to the side.

Alarik caught her eye and grinned, one eyebrow quirked. "Enjoying the view?" He puffed his chest out, and Elsa swatted him, giggling helplessly. 

"You goose." 

He chuckled, and brought them together for another quick kiss. Then his lips were travelling down, finding the line of her jaw and following it until…

Elsa let out a whimper, arching into him as he kissed the spot behind her ear. She could feel him smiling at the discovery before his lips returned to the spot, working harder against her skin. She slid her hands around to clutch at his back, needing something to anchor herself as Alarik switched to the other ear, tracing her earlobe with the tip of his tongue and nibbling at the skin. Elsa's fingers traced up and down his spine, and much to her satisfaction, Alarik trembled, his ministrations interrupted by a breathy hiss. 

He returned to her ear, and nuzzled the skin there, whispering "min älskling." He froze, and Elsa guessed he hadn't meant to speak it aloud. 

"What does that mean?" Uneasiness grew in Elsa's chest- why was he so reluctant to say it? 

Alarik looked askance, quiet for a moment. Then in a barely audible voice, he murmured. "'My darling.' It's Swedish for 'My darling'. I…" He shook his head, still not meeting her gaze. 

Heat filled Elsa. "Say it again," she whispered, her breath coming faster. "Please."

He turned back to her, face flushed. He brought his lips back to the spot behind her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "Min älskling. My beautiful, beautiful darling Elsa."

She moaned, pulling herself against him, and could feel his bulge against her belly. Feeling brave, she pressed against it, and Alarik let out a desperate groan and bucked his hips. Then his hands were sliding down, finding the hem of the shirt she wore. 

"Elsa…"

As he had done with her, she covered his hands, curling his fingers around the fabric and drawing them up her body. The sensation of his knuckles brushing her skin sent sparks of pleasure travelling throughout her. Alarik's body loomed over hers, but rather than being unsettling, Elsa found a sense of security, as if he blocked out everything else, leaving just the two of them. 

When he reached the point just below her breasts, Alarik paused, looking her in the eye. "Can I continue?"

Elsa swallowed hard, then nodded. "Yes. Please." She felt heady, her pulse roaring in her ears, both giddy and nervous. But she wanted him to continue. Alarik bent and kissed her just below where the shirt stopped, then in one movement pulled it up to her arms. She lifted them and he removed the shirt.

Alarik made some strange, strangled noise, and when she looked at him, his pupils were so wide only the thinnest ring of green surrounded them.  

"Oh, Elsa." Her name came out in a reverent tone, and part of her wanted to shy away. But a larger part of her longed for it, and when his hands found her torso and began to wander against her skin, she arched into him. 

"Please…. please…." She wasn't sure exactly what she pleaded for, but she knew she wanted more. Her hands reached around the back of his neck once again, and she pulled him down, kissing him with renewed fervor.

As they kissed, Alarik's hands slid up to her breasts, brushing her nipples. Elsa gasped against his mouth, her hands clutching at his neck, and she could feel his grin. 

"Does that feel good?"

"Yes!"

He closed his fingers around her nipples, pinching softly, and Elsa let out a sharp cry, arching into his touch. His mouth started a meandering path down her neck, alternating between kissing and sucking, down and down and down until it joined his fingers. He caught her eyes, grinned again, then closed his lips around a nipple, sucking on it gently. 

Elsa palmed the back of his head, holding him in place, whimpering helplessly as he worked his mouth against her, using his tongue to flick the erect bud. After a moment, he pulled away enough to switch to the other breast, his fingers returning to the one he'd left. He squeezed harder this time, and Elsa dug her fingers into his curls. 

Alarik grunted, and she realized she was pulling his hair. She let go, hands flying to her mouth. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, I…"

"Hey, hey, it's alright. We're learning." Alarik cupped her cheek and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She noticed that his cheeks were flushed. "And I… I kind of liked that." 

"You did?"

He smiled, running a hand through his curls. "I did. May I keep going?"

She nodded, and he returned to her breasts, kissing each of them. Elsa carded her fingers through his hair, and when he pulled a nipple into his mouth to nibble it with gentle teeth, she felt no fear in tightening her grip. He repeated the motion on the other side, then slid over to kiss the dip between her breasts. She whimpered. 

"Are you okay?" 

"Yes."

"Can I keep going?" His voice was husky.

"Please!"

His fingers traced the undersides of her breasts as his mouth began to travel lower, creating random patterns across her torso. Any time she shivered or moaned, he spent a little longer in that spot, nibbling and lathing his tongue over it. 

His hands joined his mouth, sliding hot against her skin. When they landed on her hipbones, fingers stroking lightly, Elsa giggled. Alarik's head popped up, eyes sparkling.

"Ticklish?" He repeated the gesture, and any hope of convincing him otherwise was dashed when she dissolved into helpless laughter, squirming away from his touch. 

"Stoooooop!" She swatted at his dancing fingers, trying to catch his hands, and he eventually relented, kissing her belly and swirling his tongue in her navel. She shivered, moaning softly. His fingers continued further, curling around the waistband of the boxer shorts.

"Is it…?"

She nodded, her breathing quickening as he pulled the shorts away, careful not to touch her injured ankle. The shorts joined the growing pile on the floor, and Alarik placed his hands on her calves. He slid them up to her knees, and after a moment, she let her legs fall open.

Alarik let out a guttural groan, and when she looked at him, his pupils had gone wide, with only the thinnest ring of green surrounding them. It was a look she could only describe as hungry. 

Alarik's eyes slid to the left, his hand following them to rest on her inner thigh. 

"Is that a crocus?" He murmured.

Elsa nodded, watching as his fingers traced the outside of the petals. "It's an old family crest. I wanted l to try tattooing that area myself and that seemed like a good design…oooohhhh!" 

Her voice tapered off to a strangled moan when Alarik brought his mouth down, tracing the lines of the design with his tongue. Occasionally he broke to pepper the skin with soft kisses, and Elsa's moan grew higher in pitch. 

With one last kiss, Alarik turned to her right thigh, treating each faint freckle he found there with a kiss or nip. Elsa panted, needing more, but she didn't know quite how to ask. 

"Alarik?"

"Hmmmmm?" The vibration of his hum against her skin made her shudder. 

"I need you… I need…" Words failed, she could only look down, between her legs. 

He turned his head, his breath fanning against her need. "Here? Do you want me to kiss you here?" One finger slid through her patch of curls, down her folds, collecting the wetness there. 

"Please, yes!" 

He licked one long stripe up her center, ending with a flick at her nub, and Elsa's head fell back as she cried his name to the ceiling. Her fingers found his hair, tugging, and he responded with a low moan that reverberated through her core. And then he had a rhythm going, spelling the letters of their names against her nub, lapping at her folds, repeating motions that had her crying out louder and pulling his curls. 

One hand slid from where it had been gripping her thigh, and he pressed a finger into her entrance, curling against a spot that made her arch. Her second hand joined the first in his hair as she thrust into his ministrations, her cries growing louder. 

"Right there, right there, don't stop…!" His tongue worked its way inside, working back and forth, while his other hand found her bud. Pleasure coiled within her, tight as a spring, making her toes and fingers curl until it finally snapped, his name a breathless moan as she released. 

Rather than slow down, however, Alarik kept at it, working his fingers and tongue until bright lights flashed behind her tightly closed lids as a second orgasm followed the heels of the first. When she felt his tongue move again, Elsa pushed against his head. Alarik got the message, pulling away, his fingers sliding free. Even that small movement was enough to make her shudder. 

The mattress dipped as Alarik settled beside her. "Are you alright? Did I hurt you?"

Elsa shook her head, her hazy brain struggling to find words. "I'm…fine. That was… amazing. I just… need…a minute."

"Of course." Alarik reached over and took her hand in his, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. 

As her breathing settled, Elsa rolled to face him, and Alarik let go of her hand to push the stray hairs out of her face. She hummed and brought her arms up to wrap around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss. She could taste herself on him, and it sparked her arousal anew. Pressed as she was against him, she could clearly feel the firm bulge against her belly. He whined when she rubbed against it.

But then he pulled away, shaking his head, breathing hard. "You don't have to. I can… take care of myself if you want to sleep."

She smiled and stroked his cheek. "I want to. I want you."

He shuddered and reached for her, and she allowed herself to be pulled into another kiss, hard and frantic. Once more Elsa ground her hips into his, reveling in the way it made him groan. When he let go to reach for his waistband, she slid her hands over his. He let them fall away, and she pulled them off with a quick, sharp movement. His erection bobbed free, the tip leaking, and he sighed in clear relief. 

Elsa reached forward, and at his nod, wrapped her hand around him. The skin was soft and hot, pulsing against her palm. Alarik whimpered, his hips bucking as she stroked him. She took pity on his obvious need and released him to roll onto her back. Alarik pushed himself up with a curse. 

"Condom," he growled, looking about frantically. "I don't know if I have one. I'm clean, but…shit."

"Alarik, I'm on birth control. It's alright." When he hesitated, she tugged his arm. "It's alright. I promise."

He straddled her, eyes wide, still searching her face for any resistance. She cupped his cheek, her thumb stroking his jaw. "It's okay. Just… go slow. Please?"

He leaned down and kissed her, pulling away just enough to speak. "Of course, älskling." He took her hand and placed it around his shaft once more, letting Elsa guide him in. 

He pressed in a few inches, then paused, watching her face. There was a slight sting as she was stretched, but it was tolerable. 

"May I touch you again? Down here, I mean?" Alarik trailed his fingers through her curls. Elsa nodded, and he found her nub once more, stroking it. She shivered at the pleasure it brought, and Alarik continued to slide in, slow and steady, until he was completely inside her.

And, oh, how wonderful it felt. He filled her, his length hot and twitching against her walls. His hands gripped the sheets on either side if her, and he buried his face into her neck with a groan. 

"Elsa, min älskling…" He rocked his hips, and they both moaned at the movement. Alarik nuzzled her neck, kissed the skin there, and Elsa wrapped her hands around his neck, twisting her fingers into his curls. 

"Elsa… I want to… can I move?"

"Yes."

He pulled out almost completely, then thrust back in, gasping and panting for air. Then he was moving, a steady rhythm that had him brushing against a spot that made Elsa's toes curl and back arch. 

"Alarik…"

He moved to her ear, nipping the skin there when she exposed it. "Tell me. What do you need?" His voice was deep, tinged with a dark desire, but she wanted it. 

"Touch me, please…" She found his hand and pulled it back down to her center. He resumed his stroking from earlier, his fingers finding a pattern to match his thrusts. He hunched over, taking a nipple into his mouth, suckling gently. She just about screamed.

She might be heard, but she couldn't bring herself to care at that point. All her attention was on the quickly-rising fire consuming her. She dug her fingers into his back, trying to pull him as close as possible, wanting to feel every inch of him. His thrusts hit that sweet spot within her each time, his member hot and pulsing. 

Alarik's free hand tightened at her hip, almost painful in the way his nails pressed into her skin, but it only served to drive her pleasure higher. 

"So…close…" He gasped, his thighs trembling. "Do I… need to pull…out?"

Elsa shook her head, keeping her hold on him. If anything, she tried to pull him closer, even wrapping her uninjured leg around his thigh. "Inside. I want to feel you…"

Alarik whined, actually whined, and his entire body went stiff. She felt him twitch within her, and then the liquid heat of his release spilling free. The sensation was the final push she needed to fall over the edge, arching and shaking as she climaxed one final time.

They collapsed onto the bed, Alarik landing beside her, his softening length slipping free and making her whimper at the loss. She could feel their mixed fluids trickling from her core, and it made her shiver. From his position next to her, his chest still heaving, Alarik glanced over.

"Are you cold?"

Elsa shook her head, reaching over to grasp his hand. "I'm fine. I'll need to clean up when I recover, though." She saw him glance down, his cheeks flushing. 

"I'll help you."

……..

Half an hour later, they were in the bed again, her back to him. Alarik had discovered the snowdrop tattoo that appeared to sprout off of her spine, and was gently tracing it.

"Sorry about your shirt." He murmured for the third time. When he'd gone to check the laundry, he'd discovered Elsa's shirt had caught on the door latch and had been torn beyond repair. 

"Alarik." She rolled to face him, resting her hands on his chest. "It's fine, really. Besides," she looked up at him with a grin, "I can just keep yours."

Alarik chuckled and pressed his lips to her forehead, wrapping his hands behind her back to draw her in closer. 

"It looks better on you anyway."

"Just because you like taking it off."

Alarik made a startled noise, and Elsa giggled, burrowing against him, feeling the onset of sleep tugging at her. Alarik sighed and rested his chin on the top of her head, his hands continuing to rub her back.

"Goodnight, min älskling. My darling Elsa."

[firedragon1321]

Pokemon Games Based On How Much I Can Scream About Them Version 2.0

I remembered this post and decided to make a new one including some spin-off games. I only included the ones I played, at least in part. This is rated not by overall game quality, but the amount of feels I get from the lore, and also how long I can rant about them. The longer I can go, the higher it ranks. Near the bottom of the list, it does get kind of game quality-ish, simply because there's less positive things to discuss.

So the updated order is-

Sun/Moon

Ultra Sun/Moon

Scarlet/Violet (including DLC)

Black/White and 2

Colosseum/XD

Mystery Dungeon

Sword/Shield (excluding DLC)

Red/Green and Remakes (excluding Let's Go)

Let's Go Pikachu/Eevee

Ranger

Legends Arceus

Diamond/Pearl and Remakes

Ruby/Sapphire and Remakes

X/Y

Sword/Shield DLC

Battle Revolution

Conquest

Trozei

Gold/Silver and Remakes

And here are some notes-

I have so many FEELINGS about the Teal Mask and will have feelings about The Indigo Disk 100 percent. I just have more FEELINGS about the Aether Foundation.

Most of what I have to say abut USUM is actually bitching about how the original is better. Maybe it should be lower?

Black and White and their sequels are still about even.

Ranking Let's Go separately now because it's a separate story, but not connected directly like Gen 5. there's not much to say about it that I can't also say about the original games. So I put it right below Red/Green.

I originally forgot Ranger, which is a crime. It's been years since I played. I only played the first game. Most of what I have to screech about is nostalgia, but there's some great designs for certain NPCs (read- Spenser). If I ever play/beat the other two, I might rank it higher.

The Hoenn and Sinnoh remakes are about equal to the originals for me.

Rated SwSh DLC separately. It was useful for training, but story-wise? Kind of a waste of money. Placed where it is because Peony and Calyrex.

Also because it was my childhood- Battle Revolution. I wrote shitty fanfic about Battle Revolution, and I like its vibe. But there's not much meat to it canonically.

I added Trozei because it was also my childhood and hella fun. But that's all I can say about it.

I wish I got more into the Mystery Dungeon series, but I kept dying. So I'm just living via memes. They're good-ass memes though. I should play it again.

I ranked Conquest just because I played it, but ehhh...not that high.

Everything worth talking about Gold/Silver/HGSS is either directly or indirectly connected to Kanto (except PokeWalker, but you're technically not playing the game while using it). Taking Johto as an individual region, it will always rate dead fucking last. Though HGSS does have PokeWalker/good quality of life updates, and all the Johto games have the Red boss battle (Kanto-adjacent but still). So I'll give them credit where it's due.

[random-thought-depository]

Lots of interesting commentary in there! Right now, I want to talk about this part:

"In the months after Pearl Harbor the driving aim of Japanese strategy was to capture a string of islands running the length of the western Pacific and fortify them against an American counterattack. This defensive perimeter would set the boundaries of their new empire -- or, as they called it, the "Greater Asia Coprosperity Sphere." Midway Island, the westernmost of the Hawaiian Islands, was one of the last links they needed to complete the chain. They sent an enormous fleet, the heart of the Japanese navy, to do the job: four enormous aircraft carriers, together with a whole galaxy of escort ships. On June 4 the attack force arrived at Midway, where they found a smaller American fleet waiting for them.

Or so the history-book version normally runs. But the sailors on board the Japanese fleet saw things differently. They didn't meet any American ships on June 4. That day, as on all the other days of their voyage, they saw nothing from horizon to horizon but the immensity of the Pacific. Somewhere beyond the horizon line, shortly after dawn, Japanese pilots from the carriers had discovered the presence of the American fleet, but for the Japanese sailors, the only indications of anything unusual that morning were two brief flyovers by American fighter squadrons. Both had made ineffectual attacks and flown off again. Coming on toward 10:30 AM, with no further sign of enemy activity anywhere near, the commanders ordered the crews on the aircraft carriers to prepare for the final assault on the island, which wasn't yet visible on the horizon.

That was when a squadron of American dive-bombers came out of the clouds overhead. They'd got lost earlier that morning and were trying to make their way back to base. In the empty ocean below they spotted a fading wake -- one of the Japanese escort ships had been diverted from the convoy to drop a depth charge on a suspected American submarine. The squadron followed it just to see where it might lead. A few minutes later they cleared a cloud deck and discovered themselves directly above the single largest "target of opportunity," as the military saying goes, that any American bomber had ever been offered.

When we try to imagine what happened next we're likely to get an image out of Star Wars -- daring attack planes, as graceful as swallows, darting among the ponderously churning cannons of some behemoth of a Death Star. But the sci-fi trappings of Star Wars disguise an archaic and sluggish idea of battle. What happened instead was this: the American squadron commander gave the order to attack, the planes came hurtling down from around 12,000 feet and released their bombs, and then they pulled out of their dives and were gone. That was all. Most of the Japanese sailors didn't even see them.

The aircraft carriers were in a frenzy just then. Dozens of planes were being refueled and rearmed on the hangar decks, and elevators were raising them to the flight decks, where other planes were already revving up for takeoff. The noise was deafening, and the warning sirens were inaudible. Only the sudden, shattering bass thunder of the big guns going off underneath the bedlam alerted the sailors that anything was wrong. That was when they looked up. By then the planes were already soaring out of sight, and the black blobs of the bombs were already descending from the brilliant sky in a languorous glide.

One bomb fell on the flight deck of the Akagi, the flagship of the fleet, and exploded amidships near the elevator. The concussion wave of the blast roared through the open shaft to the hangar deck below, where it detonated a stack of torpedoes. The explosion that followed was so powerful it ruptured the flight deck; a fireball flashed like a volcano through the blast crater and swallowed up the midsection of the ship. Sailors were killed instantly by the fierce heat, by hydrostatic shock from the concussion wave, by flying shards of steel; they were hurled overboard unconscious and drowned. The sailors in the engine room were killed by flames drawn through the ventilating system. Two hundred died in all. Then came more explosions rumbling up from below decks as the fuel reserves ignited. That was when the captain, still frozen in shock and disbelief, collected his wits sufficiently to recognize that the ship had to be abandoned.

Meanwhile another carrier, the Kaga, was hit by a bomb that exploded directly on the hangar deck. The deck was strewn with live artillery shells, and open fuel lines snaked everywhere. Within seconds, explosions were going off in cascading chain reactions, and uncontrollable fuel fires were breaking out all along the length of the ship. Eight hundred sailors died. On the flight deck a fuel truck exploded and began shooting wide fans of ignited fuel in all directions; the captain and the rest of the senior officers, watching in horror from the bridge, were caught in the spray, and they all burned to death.

Less than five minutes had passed since the American planes had first appeared overhead. The Akagi and the Kaga were breaking up. Billowing columns of smoke towered above the horizon line. These attracted another American bomber squadron, which immediately launched an attack on a third aircraft carrier, the Soryu. These bombs were less effective -- they set off fuel fires all over the ship, but the desperate crew managed to get them under control. Still, the Soryu was so badly damaged it was helpless. Shortly afterward it was targeted by an American submarine (the same one the escort ship had earlier tried to drop a depth charge on). American subs in those days were a byword for military ineffectiveness; they were notorious for their faulty and unpredictable torpedoes. But the crew of this particular sub had a large stationary target to fire at point-blank. The Soryu was blasted apart by repeated direct hits. Seven hundred sailors died.

The last of the carriers, the Hiryu, managed to escape untouched, but later that afternoon it was located and attacked by another flight of American bombers. One bomb set off an explosion so strong it blew the elevator assembly into the bridge. More than 400 died, and the crippled ship had to be scuttled a few hours later to keep it from being captured.

Now there was nothing left of the Japanese attack force except a scattering of escort ships and the planes still in the air. The pilots were the final casualties of the battle; with the aircraft carriers gone, and with Midway still in American hands, they had nowhere to land. They were doomed to circle helplessly above the sinking debris, the floating bodies, and the burning oil slicks until their fuel ran out.

This was the Battle of Midway. As John Keegan writes, it was "the most stunning and decisive blow in the history of naval warfare." Its consequences were instant, permanent and devastating. It gutted Japan's navy and broke its strategy for the Pacific war. The Japanese would never complete their perimeter around their new empire; instead they were thrown back on the defensive, against an increasingly large and better-organized American force, which grew surgingly confident after its spectacular victory. After Midway, as the Japanese scrambled to rebuild their shattered fleet, the Americans went on the attack. In August 1942 they began landing a marine force on the small island of Guadalcanal (it's in the Solomons, near New Guinea) and inexorably forced a breach in the perimeter in the southern Pacific. From there American forces began fanning out into the outer reaches of the empire, cutting supply lines and isolating the strongest garrisons. From Midway till the end of the war the Japanese didn't win a single substantial engagement against the Americans. They had "lost the initiative," as the bland military saying goes, and they never got it back.

But it seems somehow paltry and wrong to call what happened at Midway a "battle." It had nothing to do with battles the way they were pictured in the popular imagination. There were no last-gasp gestures of transcendent heroism, no brilliant counterstrategies that saved the day. It was more like an industrial accident. It was a clash not between armies, but between TNT and ignited petroleum and drop-forged steel. The thousands who died there weren't warriors but bystanders -- the workers at the factory who happened to draw the shift when the boiler exploded."

-----------

""Shigata na gai," Mrs. Nakamura says about what happened to her city that day; Hersey glosses: "A Japanese expression as common as, and corresponding to, the Russian word nichevo: It can't be helped. Oh well. Too bad."

Hersey doesn't say so directly, but he appears on the surface to agree. He presents the bombing neutrally, without commentary, as though it's a new species of natural disaster, motiveless and agentless. As far as any reader of Hiroshima can tell, the bomb came out of nowhere, was dropped by nobody, and had no purpose.

...

Hersey was describing for the first time the war's true legacy: a permanent condition of helpless anger and universal dread."

-------------

Oh, hey, it's the thing I talked about here:

"It’s also the culmination of a modern trend of increasingly destructive weapons reducing the individual soldier’s scope for personal agency (one might say, for heroism). The explosion of an atomic bomb doesn’t look like anything an ancient warrior would have recognized as a battle, it looks like a natural disaster, like a storm or an earthquake; its typical victim experiences it as something that cannot be fought or hurt or meaningfully defied, only endured.

For most of the time war has existed, war consisted mostly of personal combat (broadly defined). I suspect there’s a relatively common sort of person (often male) who finds personal combat kind of fun, in the way some some people find playing football and rugby fun. I suspect the historically common cultural romanticization of war partially reflects this; for much of history a non-trivial number of the combatants really did kind of enjoy it.

Being in a WWI trench charge or being on the receiving end of a nuclear strike isn’t anybody’s idea of fun... Broadly speaking, it has the horrible parts of combat, but not the parts that I suspect some people find kind of fun; the opportunity to exercise personal agency in a heroic way, the opportunity to feel strong and powerful, the opportunity to feel like you’re playing a heroic role in some grand and important narrative, etc.. The experience of having an artillery barrage or a nuke dropped on you is closer to the experience of the Midianite women in Numbers 31; you feel impotent and afraid and you suffer and if you die it’ll probably be in a squalid and humiliating and painful way and you probably won’t even get to hurt the people who are doing this to you.

...

WWI trench warfare and fire-bombing with napalm and nuclear MAD are hard to romanticize. And I suspect that’s part of the reason we romanticize war a lot less than we used to."

Tempted to call this the feminization of war (see the point where I reference the Numbers 31 for why).

just finished this essay. highly recommended

[storiesforallfandoms]

vulnerable ~ captain jack sparrow;pirates of the caribbean

word count: 1845

request?: yes!

“♥️Hi, I wanted to request something for Jack Sparrow if that's okay? So, I was watching potc dead man's chest, and noticed how at the end where Elizabeth kisses him, Jack is so soft and gentle with her, he barely moves, he looks so vulnerable and small, it touched my heart. So I wanted to ask something like that, where when the reader first kisses him he's surprised and vulnerable, maybe never thought she would like him back. something with angst, an emotional Jack, but a happy ending, thanks <3″

description: in which he becomes vulnerable when she kisses him and admits her feelings for him

pairing: jack sparrow x female!reader

warnings: swearing, an attack that leads to a sinking ship

masterlist (one, two)

If there’s one side of Captain Jack Sparrow that was never shown, it was his vulnerable side.

Being vulnerable only got you one thing when you were a pirate, and that was killed. You had to be tough as a pirate, especially as an infamous captain. Sure, Jack had his less than serious moments, but no one saw that softer side of him. He wouldn’t let anyone see it as long as he lived.

Until (Y/N) joined the crew.

She had stowed away on the Black Pearl the last time they were docked. Pintel and Ragetti had found her hidden among the barrels of rum below deck. They brought her to Jack, expecting their captain to throw the stowaway into the water and leave her for dead.

“I’m not trying to steal!” she insisted. “I was just trying to get away. Please, I can be of some use. If you don’t want me here, I’ll depart when you find land next. You’ll never see me again.”

Jack studied their stowaway. She was small and he could see in her eyes that she had definitely had a hard life wherever she had come from. She wasn’t a threat, and he felt like he wanted to protect her.

“She’s not a threat,” he decided. “She can stay.”

Captain Jack Sparrow had a way with the ladies, everyone knew this. He could get under the skirt of almost any woman he wanted just with a few sweet nothings whispered in their ear. But what he felt for (Y/N) was different. He found his chest would warm whenever she was around, and he’d easily get tongue tied.

He wanted to vocalize these feelings to her, but every time he tried he would chicken out. Instead he would find some way to open himself to (Y/N) more, to show her the side no one else ever saw. In return, (Y/N) told Jack all about herself, and they became the only two people on the Black Pearl to know so much about one another.

Then came the day of the attack.

They were sailing on a beautiful day. Not a single cloud in the sky, nor anything in their sights. (Y/N) was stood at the bow, watching as the Black Pearl peacefully move through the calm water.

“Peaceful days scare me,” she said, startling Jack who had been approaching her.

“How did you know I was here?” he asked.

She looked at him over her shoulder and smiled. “I just knew.”

He stepped up onto the bow next to her. “Why do peaceful days scare you?”

“They are so few and far between that I always expect the worst to happen,” she explained. “Either the weather is bad, or something bad is happening. We have yet to have such a calm and peaceful day.”

“Maybe we’re just lucky today.”

(Y/N) looked up at him with a skeptical look. “Maybe.”

They were silent then, but it was a comfortable silence. Jack looked over at (Y/N), who was now gazing out over the water. The breeze blew her hair slightly, giving Jack a better look at her face. Despite her feelings on peaceful days, her face looked relaxed and at peace in that moment.

Jack’s mouth moved before his brain could comprehend what he was doing. “(Y/N).”

She looked up at him. “Yes Jack?”

He opened his mouth to speak again, but was cut off by Gibbs shouting. “Captain! Enemies along the horizon!”

Jack and (Y/N) shared a look before racing for the wheel where Gibbs had been standing. Jack took the telescope from his first made and looked through it at the oncoming ship.

“Not necessarily an enemy ship, Gibbs,” Jack said, trying to zero on the flag the ship was flying but was unable to get a good look at it. “Might just be someone else sailing today.”

But then the sound of a cannon rang out and the water beside the Black Pearl shook violently.

“Shit,” Jack hissed. “Get to the cannons! Return fire!”

“Is that a good idea, Jack?” (Y/N) asked. “They’re so far away, we’ll be wasting ammo.”

“We have to show them we aren’t going down without a fight,” Jack declared.

His men loaded the cannons and fired back at the ship. The giant masses landed just inches from the enemy ship, causing the water around it to build up in massive waves and disrupt the ship’s course.

“Again!” Jack called. “Just one more this time!”

As they fired another shot at the ship, another cannonball landed in the water next to them as well. Anyone above deck was thrown to the ground as the ship tilted due to the waves.

“Jack, we have to retreat!” (Y/N) insisted as she tried to get to her feet.

“There’s no retreat,” Jack said. “They’re advancing on us fast. By the time we even turn to get away, they’d be on us.”

“Well what do we do then?”

The next cannonball hit the ship directly, putting a massive hole in the side of it. The Black Pearl began to sink into the water began to fill the deck.

“Abandon ship!” Jack called. “Go to everyone below deck and make sure anyone who can be saved is saved! Abandon ship and swim to the nearest land or boat you can find!”

He turned to (Y/N). There was so much fear in her eyes and she looked close to tears. Jack cupped her face in his hands, trying to remain calm himself.

“Find land, get help,” he told her. “For yourself, don’t look back for us.”

“No!” she exclaimed. “If I get anywhere, I’ll be sending the first boat back looking for you and the others.”

“We’re pirates, (Y/N). No one will care about us. No one will want to save us.”

“I will want to, and I will save you.”

Before Jack could argue further, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Every ounce of fear or worry slowly dissolved then and Jack relaxed into the kiss. He put one hand on the back of her head while holding her body close to his with the other. They were so lost in one another that they didn’t realize the entire front of the ship was submerged in water until Gibbs called out for them again.

(Y/N) pulled away first. Jack gently caressed her face, his face mirroring the fear in her own. Except he wasn’t afraid of the enemy ship or the attack; he was afraid of never seeing her again.

“I will find you,” he promised.

(Y/N) nodded. “I will find you, too.”

The two of them jumped ship as another cannonball landed next to the sinking ship. (Y/N) reached for Jack, who had been next to her moments before, but found herself thrown around in the chaos of the sinking ship and the still attacking enemies. She tried to open her eyes to look for Jack, but the water stung so bad she was unable to see.

She broke through the water a few times, but continued to be shoved back down by the crewmates or by the force of the sinking ship. Finally, she began to swim away as fast as her body could take her. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but she knew she had to get away before the Black Pearl took her down with it.

(Y/N) swam and swam until her arms and legs grew too tired to swim anymore. When she was finally far enough away from the chaos, she broke through the water and inhaled the fresh air into her lungs. She could no longer see either ship, or her crewmates. She wasn’t sure if she had swam away that far that she couldn’t see them, or if they had all gone down with their beloved ship as well.

Her body ached, but she did everything she could to stay above water. There were no signs of land or another boat anywhere. Not even any debris for her to float on. Just water as far as the eye could see. (Y/N) felt a lump grow in her throat and all she wanted to do was cry. She had lost the people she cared most about, she had lost the place she considered home. She had lost Jack.

(Y/N) was floating for some time when another boat sailing through the water spotted her. They got close enough that one of their members could reach into the water and pull her out. She nearly sobbed with relief when her tired body was able to relax against the ship’s floor.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” one of the crew members asked, kneeling down to peer into (Y/N)’s face. “Have you been hurt?”

She shook her head sheepishly, still regaining her energy. “I...I was on a-on a ship. We were...we were attacked.”

“Another from the shipwreck!” the crewmate called. He turned back to (Y/N) to add, “We’ve rescued a number of your crewmates, they’re all below deck receiving any medical attention they may need.”

It took a moment for his words to get through her head. When they did, she jumped up as fast as she could and made her way below deck. Many familiar faces were sat together or laying in the beds provided, but not the familiar face she was looking for. (Y/N)’s heart squeezed with sadness as she desperately looked for Jack among her saved crewmates.

She tried not to let her disappointment show as a call was heard from above ship. “We’ve got another! Says he’s the captain!”

(Y/N) turned to watch as the crewmates brought Jack down below ship, his hair and clothes clinging to him from the water. She contained herself for just a moment, waiting to see if Jack needed any medical attention. When his eyes locked on her, however, he broke free from the grasp of the crewmates and ran to her, taking her in his arms and kissing her deeply, there in front of all of his men.

“I thought I lost you,” he breathed between kisses.

“I thought I had lost you as well,” she responded. “When I came down and didn’t see your face. I was so sure - ”

“Shh, love,” Jack said, placing a finger against her lips. “No need to worry now. We’re both alright.”

“Oh Jack, the Black Pearl,” (Y/N) said. “I’m so sorry about your ship.”

Jack chuckled. “My ship? Don’t apologize for that. My only worry was you, and you’re okay now.”

“Well,” came Gibbs’ voice, tearing the two away from their moment. “I never thought I would heard the great Captain Jack Sparrow say he cared more for a lady than his own ship.”

“What can I say, Gibbs?” Jack said, putting an arm around (Y/N)’s waist and pulling her close to him. “She brings out the softer side in me, and maybe I’m much better for it.”

[cthulhumystery]

[Image description:A black and white photo of Special Agent Lenore Houston. She wears her hair pulled back, pearls, and a dark coat. ]

This is Special Agent Lenore Houston, one of only three female Bureau of Investigation agents hired before 1972. Her history is shrouded in mystery and in the process of writing "The Case of the Penumbral Gate" (our next season which we’re crowdfunding for right now and ends 11/23/22). We hope to uncover more of her real history and imbue our fictional character, Special Agent Lake, with authentic experiences pulled from Houston's life.

As Sarah Rhea Werner, who plays her on the show pointed out, in the above photo Special Agent Houston "just looks f---in' PISSED."

When J. Edgar Hoover came to power, he asked for the resignation of the two existing female agents, Davidson and Duckstein. Houston has the strange distinction of being the only female agent hired during Hoover's nearly 50 years of tyranny as Director of the FBI.

[ Image description: Special Agent Lenore Houston's form and photo certifying her as an agent. a CANCELLED stamp is across it. ]

Side note: Duckstein, who we can't find any photos of, has her own wild story and Hoover targeted her for testifying against the Bureau's illegal investigative techniques. We're looking into her too. Below is an excerpt from page 547 of the Investigation of the Former Attorney General Harry M. Daugherty, in which Duckstein is intensely charming in her enthusiasm to point out some creepy perps in this scandal.

[Image description: An excerpt from page 547 of the Investigation of the Former Attorney General Harry M. Daugherty, transcripts of Duckstein where she says it would give her great pleasure to identify some shady characters. ]

Hoover, famously misogynistic (see below letter from 1971), was against Houston becoming an agent, but after pressure from the Pennsylvania Governor & a Congressman on her behalf, he conceded & she was an active agent from 1924 to 1928. Who was she and how did she have such powerful allies? No one knows.

[Image description: A famous letter from Director Hoover in 1971 in which he insists that women are unfit to be FBI agents. ]

Houston was born in a town that no longer exists (Collamer, PA), went to Swarthmore College, belonged to Pi Beta Phi - the first female secret society in the US, and was unmarried. Between graduating college and becoming a Special Agent at 45 there's 20 years unaccounted for.

[Image description: An image from @usnatarchives​ of Lenore Huston in a studio photograph from the bust up, wearing a wide-brimmed hat. ]

In her last year as an agent, Hoover personally wrote several memos retroactively placing her on leave (very unusual) until asking her resignation. Two years later she was institutionalized, reportedly hallucinating and threatening to shoot Hoover if she was ever released.

[Image description: Hoover's final letter retroactively placing Houston on leave without pay and asking her resignation.]

Houston died in 1933, and her strange final years suggest a sinister story. She moved from the Philadelphia office to the Washington D.C. office in 1927 and an outstanding career turns sour, the more Hoover directly gets involved. During a time where it was very easy to call a woman hysterical and have her institutionalized (especially a gender-nonconforming unmarried woman of almost 50) it's easy to read that Hoover silenced her. It's in his playbook.

[Image description: An illustration by Jarrod Pope of Special Agent Lenora Lake from The Call of Cthulhu Mystery Program, rendered in the style of a sepia toned photograph. Lake looks disheveled, wearing a dress and hat, holding a gun.]

Agent Lake's story is going to be very different from Houston's - very much her own, but very informed by Houston's life, times, work environment, and perhaps even the history of her fellow female agents. Though all of this informed the character that Sarah played in our initial roleplaying session, this history isn't at the center of "The Case of the Penumbral Gate". We're hoping that we'll be able to meet our stretch goal to do a standalone Agent Lake special so we can dive deep into all of this and tell the story of how untangling a conspiracy in Washington D.C. puts Agent Lake in Director Hoover’s crosshairs. There’s something weird going on and no one is listening. Naturally, this world-weary non-conformist has to take matters into her own hands.

If you want to hear this story and help us do research that as far as we know no one else has done into the lives of these Agents, please spread the word far and wide. Let's see if we can get this campaign funded and reach these stretch goals!