#Fair Sailing Tall Boy

[azen13]

Hello

might I request the grass ring for purchase?

A Promise To Keep

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Grass Ring: A small, shoddily-woven ring made from dead grass, containing echoes of childhood promises uttered in a land of frost. Maybe the ring’s maker, after disappearing from the world for three months before returning, acted on those vows.

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CW: Yandere Themes, Kidnapping, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Implied Murder, Blood

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Snezhnayan summers are always brief and fleeting. For only a few weeks a year, gray skies part like curtains to let the smiling sun gaze over every mile of the land of frost. Withered fields of grass sway with new vigor, trees awaken from their winter slumber, and flowers bloom in all sorts of stunning shades and hues. It’s also one of the few respites you have from aiding your father and siblings in tending to the house. With the icy waters bordering Morepesok rapidly thawing, the ship your mother sails has finally docked; with her return comes both the occasional small sack of Mora sneakily smuggled from her pocket to yours, as well as a gentle push to go and enjoy the fair weather while it lasts.

With windmilling limbs, you scramble out the front door into the bustling streets of town, and head off to your favorite place. It’s a little past where the dirt path ends: over a fallen tree, down a ravine, back up the other side, and just to the right of the raspberry bushes. Making your way through the last few trees, you find yourself in a quaint clearing. For a moment, you think the world is frozen in amber–both from the tranquility you feel, and how everything from the tallest tree to the smallest fern is bathed in a gilded glow.

“Hi there!”

A squeaky voice shatters the illusion of permanence and manages to make you stumble backwards until you slam into a sturdy spruce tree trunk. Looking into the tall grass, you manage to spot a single sapphire blue eye, then another. With a rustle, a flame of ginger hair and a grin that could span the whole of Teyvat pops out from the brush, framed by a speckling of freckles. “Who are you? What are you doing here? My name’s Ajax, what’s yours?” The boy practically pelts you with a myriad of questions, eyes sparkling with interest.

You mumble your name in response, eyes falling down in fear and disappointment. You had hoped to enjoy some time soaking in the solitude of this little slice of paradise, but the journey seems to have been all for naught. 

You quickly learn the entire life story of Ajax, who follows you home after you tell him you had gotten lost in the woods. He lives in Morepesok with his large family, he likes adventuring, and he likes fishing with his father. Also, he likes you, evidenced by the fact that he won’t leave you alone.

Tailing from behind, still rambling incoherently about all sorts of things, Ajax doesn’t seem to take the obvious hints that you want to be left alone. “...and the fish we caught was THIS big! A-and me and my dad brought it home, and my little sis–I told you about Tonia, right? She’s my younger sister, she’s about this tall and she really likes…” His mouth is a never-ending river of words that only ceases when you slam the door to your home shut.

Hopefully you can go tomorrow and enjoy the warm summer sun before the chill of winter returns once more.

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He’s there when you come tomorrow again. And the next day. And the day after that, until eventually, summer’s brief stint has faded away, only to return in a year. At least, you think, you won’t have to ever see Ajax until.

How wrong you are.

It seems the boy is practically camped outside of your house, watching your every move. If you’re carrying groceries, he’s quick to sidle next to you and take them into his own hands. He must think he’s being chivalrous, but you disagree. You try to fight the constant barrage, but find yourself crumbling under it after a while. You start answering his questions, asking some of your own, even. He’s not horrible, just a little overeager.

Soon, you’re happy to call Ajax a friend.

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The promise is made on a brisk fall evening, snow and leaves blanketing the ground like a patchwork quilt of white and orange. The two of you sit in a small clearing surrounded by tall grass; you’re reading a book while Ajax breaks blades of grass and fiddles with them in his hands.

“We should get married.”

You frown and close your book. “Why?

“Why not?”

“Because we’re thirteen, your dad doesn’t like me, and my parents think you’re a weirdo,” you say.

Ajax huffs and crosses his arms. He’s pouting, but you can tell it’s just to cover his amusement. You’d both gotten good at that–reading each other like books, able to point out your favorite chapters and lines. “Well we could do it in secret. Or even do it when we’re older,” he says. An epiphanic look flashes on his face, and he snatches a few more blades of grass. Tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, you watch as he weaves and contorts the grass until they form a small ring. 

With eyes full of starlight, he presents the ring to you. “C’mon, please? Just promise me.”

You sigh and hold your hand out. “Okay, okay, fine. If you’ll stop being so annoying, sure.” Immediately, he slides the ring on your finger, boyish glee dancing in ocean-blue eyes. “Pinky promise?” He demands, holding his pinky finger out expectantly.

Of course Ajax would ask to pinky swear on it. The boy always kept his promises.

“Fine.” You loop your pinky around his for a moment, before letting go. “Now let me get back to reading.”

Ajax only laughs, though his eyes stay glued on you.

You didn’t realize that this was both the last time you would ever see Ajax again, and the moment your fate in life was sealed.

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Days later, you receive the news. Ajax is missing. Supposedly he had gotten lost in the woods. You spent the next few days in a perpetual state of distress, constantly tearing through branches and brambles, desperate to find your friend.

It didn’t take long until he’s found, though not by you. The moment you hear, you race over to his house and knock on the door. Ajax’s dad, however, is the one to greet you. He’s a tall, lanky man with scars that cut through his face and a permanent scowl marring his cracked lips. At the sight of you standing outside his door, his ire only deepens. “Ajax isn’t here. He’s with the Fatui.” 

With that, he swings the door shut and lets it slam only inches from your face.

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Time moves on,  and you let your life take its course. You take up a job planning shipping routes for merchants, and find yourself falling in half-hearted love with a sailor. 

He’s a good man. But he is not the man you love.

Soon enough, encouraged by family and friends, a ring is slid on your finger. It’s a simple band of silver, yet it feels like a chain around your heart.

You accept your life for what it is. That is, until one morning, you wake up to still air beside you instead of a warm body. Unknowing of what has actually happened, you get up quietly and begin getting ready for the day. 

After putting on some clothes, you go to the small foyer of your little home, ready to go down to the docks and start working. But when you swing open the door, dull blue eyes as deep as the sea meet yours, a monstrous grin splitting a stranger’s face open. “Aw, it’s been so long! It’s so good to see you.” The man walks past you into your home as though he’s lived there his whole life. As he walks, you notice he’s trailing something in behind you.

Blood. It’s blood. When he turns back to face you, you notice droplets of blood speckled on his cheeks like freckles. He’s still smiling.

“Get out of my house,” you say.

“Or what?”

You hesitate. It’s not like Morepesok has an official police, or even anything close to a militia. “Or I’ll scream.”

The stranger’s smile melts away like snow under the sun, and he steps closer to you. “Don’t you remember who I am?” He asks. 

At the sight of you shaking your head, and you taking another step away from him, the stranger tsks and stalks forwards. A hand moves forward, so fast all you can see is a blur of motion before it captures your jaw, claims it. Its fingers force your face forwards, straight into those storming eyes. “What a shame,” the man sighs, his other hand slinking behind your back. “We made a promise, darling.”

His words shoot like icicles into your heart, rendering you speechless for a moment. “A-Ajax?” You murmur, body beginning to fall limp. The only thing holding you upright are his hands, firm against your skin.

Ajax smiles, but it isn’t a sweet smile of summer innocence. His smile is jagged and icy, full of frost. “It’s me,” he confirms. You can vaguely see mirth swimming in his eyes, as though he thinks you’re so shocked to see him, so elated to know he’s still here. But in truth, you’re terrified. After all, it’s not exactly a challenge to make the connection between the blood on Ajax’s cheek and your missing husband.

“Did…did you?”

“Come on, darling,” Ajax responds, sweeping you off your feet into a bridal carry. “We made a promise, didn’t we? And you know how the saying goes.” The man chuckles quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We made a promise. And you broke it.” For a moment, you feel fear unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. “But don’t worry. I know that you didn’t want to marry him. You were waiting all those years for me, weren’t you?” He presses another kiss to your head, holding you closer.

You try to speak, but Ajax shushes you. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you what real love looks like.” With a steady gait, he begins walking outside, looping around your home to where a carriage is waiting. Gently, he brings you inside and deposits you on a bench. His eyes are full of hunger.

“That’s a promise.”

[stevesbipanic]

If You Would Promise Me Your Heart

For my Eddie, @steveshairychest.

Every nerd in Steve’s life had their mythical creature niche.

Robin loved pixies. Channelling their mischievous energy into her everyday life, bouncing around the store while they were on shift, even joking she’d get a pixie cut one day.

Nancy, though she would deny it to anyone outside their circle, loved fairies. Soft but calculating, intelligent and beautiful, when they had visited the ren faire the year prior her cheeks matched her glittery wings.

Dustin loved hobbits and Steve loved to affectionately call him one even as the boy grew just as tall as him, the excitement that crossed his face when Steve agreed to watch the movies with him made the confusing deep lore worth it.

Lucas loved ents. Steve would often find him in the woods just listening to the trees, he was the only one of them that would still brave the forest at night, the trees would keep him safe.

Max loved harpies. If Steve were to give any proof that these creatures existed, he’d just tell you to look at Max’s face when some boy told her girls can’t skate.

Will loved merfolk. When they visited the beach last summer Steve could see the years of stress melt away from the young boy’s face as he listened to the waves, the water washing away the memories.

El loved elves. She loved the many forms they came in from fantasy to Christmas, that they could be fun or loud or quiet or brave, that they could be whatever they wanted to pointy ears just made them a little special.

Mike loved griffins. He knew that being both just made you stronger, that you can be strong and brave and protect the things you love, that being different doesn’t make you less whole.

Erica loved unicorns. She would hit you if she heard you saying they were anything less than metal.

Which of course leads us to Steve’s favourite nerd, Eddie.

Eddie loved dragons.

The first thing he did once his scars had healed enough was to get a beautiful dragon tattoo across them, the rough skin almost like scales through the dragon’s back.

One of his most prized possessions is a massive red dragon figure for his campaigns.

Steve thinks he’s seen the How to Train Your Dragon movies more than every seven-year-old in the world because it’s the only things that make Eddie feel better when he has nightmares. He has seen them so many times that he can recite his own favourite scene by heart.

They’re in the small clearing in the woods behind their house, it’s spring, the afternoon is warm and the wind is calming. The sun is setting, they are sharing a small picnic, it’s perfect. The sun is bathing them in a golden light, Steve thinks Eddie would be beautiful even if the world was pitch black.

It’s time.

He whistles out the first few notes.

“I’ll swim and sail on savage seas, with ne’er a fear of drowning. And gladly ride the waves of life, if you will marry me.”

Eddie has turned to Steve recognising the song, his eyes are as bright as the love between them.

“No scorching sun, nor freezing cold, will stop me on my journey.”

Eddie’s eyes are shining, he’ll blame them on allergies.

“If you will promise me your heart, and love,” Steve looks expectantly at Eddie.

Eddie face breaks into a smile at Steve’s pause.

“And love me for eternity,” he continues, “My dearest one, my darling dear, your mighty words astound me. But I’ve no need for mighty deeds when I feel your arms around me,” Eddie sings pulling Steve to his feet as he stands.

Steve laughs as he continues, “But I would bring you rings of gold, I’d even sing you poetry!”

“Oh would you?” Eddie giggles.

“And I would keep you from all harm, if you would stay beside me.”

“I have no use for rings of gold, I care not for your poetry; I only want your hand to hold,” Eddie sings lacing their fingers.

“I only want you near me.”

The boys begin to spin and dance to only the tune of their voices.

“To love and kiss, to sweetly hold, for the dancing and the dreaming. Through all life’s sorrows and delights, I’ll keep your laugh inside me.”

Eddie begins to spin from Steve the joy bubbling up inside him, not even noticing Steve’s voice has gotten softer.

“I’ll swim and sail a savage seas, with ne’er a fear of drowning. And gladly ride the waves of life if-” the last words catching in his throat as he looks at Steve, down on one knee.

“If you will marry me.” Steve finishes, a beautiful black ring in the shape of a dragon protecting a ruby in its centre laying in a black box in his hand. “For the dancing and the dreaming, Stevie, yes.”

[queenlucythevaliant]

I. Many waters

When Eärendil was a child—a hína ?—either, both— his father would take him to the edge of the water at Sirion and ask him, “What do you see?”

“I see waves,” Eärendil would reply. “Tall waves like the towers of Gondolin-that-was.”

“What more?”

Eärendil would scrunch his freckled face and gaze with a critical eye. “The current along the north jetty is strong today,” he might say, or else, “there will be good fishing this week.”

His father would smile back and clasp his son’s shoulders. “Do you know what I see?” he would ask, and though the answer was always the same, little Eärendil would always chorus, “What do you see, father?”

“I see the horizon,” Tuor would say. Even as a boy, Eärendil knew deep in his sinew that what Tuor really meant was, “I see my doom.”

For all his mother Idril’s fairness, Eärendil was a gangly, freckled child. He tanned leather-dark in the sun, his tow-colored hair bleached gold and his feet perpetually covered in sand. As a child, he spared little thought for the stars. It was the ocean, always the ocean that called to him as to his father, and with it the sun and the sand and the salt.

He played with toy boats in the river. They were roughly hewn by elvish standards and impossibly detailed by human ones. Eärendil would set them in the river and watch their small sails unfurl. Then he would race along the river banks as his boats were dragged, inevitably, inexorably, out towards Sirion’s open mouth.

Usually, Eärendil retrieved his toys before they were pulled out to sea. Supplies were stretched thin among the refugees at the Havens, and even a hína knew better than to waste. Yet sometimes, when the current was too strong or the waters too swift, Eärendil would watch as his little boats floated out to sea beyond sight. He would watch them disappear and he would wonder where they were going, and if he would ever follow them.

Years later, when he was a man grown and Tuor stooped and weary, Eärendil worked beside his father to build the ship Eärrámë, roughly hewn and finely detailed. Eärendil did not question his father’s need for a ship. He did not know then— and would not know for several months yet— that it was built to carry his father and mother to the horizon, to their doom.

-

Tuor and Idril set sail in the late afternoon, as the shadows were beginning to lengthen. The sun in the west was golden by the time Eärrámë finally passed beyond sight of Eärendil’s half-elven eyes. By that time, the party that had gathered to wish their lord and lady farewell had largely dispersed. Yet Eärendil remained at the water’s edge, watching as sunset faded to night and the stars began to appear in the sky. Only Elwing waited with him.

Eärendil had known Elwing since he was first brought to the Havens, nearly as long ago as he could recall. In appearance she was his opposite: petite and fair where he was rough and tanned. Yet in all other respects, Eärendil and Elwing were just alike. They were the only two peredhel at Sirion, perhaps in all the world. Their strides matched one another in growth and maturation as no one else’s ever could. They could not help loving one another; for they fit together as two halves of a clam shell.

Elwing waited beside Eärendil all night long after his parents passed beyond the horizon. She was quiet for a while, and then presently she began to name the stars.

“There’s Alcarinquë,” she whispered, pointing. “Ele! How bright it is. And there is Luinil, blue and steadfast. I think it would be impossible to lose one’s way on a night as bright as this.”

-

With Idril and Tuor gone, their son soon took up their mantle as leader of Sirion, with Elwing beside him. They married quietly, for to them it seemed as though they had always been of one body, one kind. As inexorable as the tide, their union; and perhaps also their doom.

Yet now that he was grown, Eärendil’s mariner-heart could not content itself with toy boats and river-mouths. The ocean called to him in the voice of many waters, and so, on another starlit night, Eärendil crept out of bed and to the shed where Tuor had hammered and sanded and built Eärrámë. It was there that Elwing found him come morning.

“You’re building another ship,” she murmured, coming up beside her husband where constellations of sawdust hung in the air. “Where are you going?”

Taking her hand, Eärendil led his second self out to the shore, where the first dawn light lapped gray on the water’s surface. “Tell me, Elwing,” he murmured. “What do you see?”

-

In the late nights that followed, Eärendil showed his wife how to lob off the edges of the wood; how to cut and sand and shape the it into something that resembled a roughly hewn ship. He took her small hand in his own large, freckled ones and guided the tools along the wood. Elwing helped her husband build his ship; but in the wee dawn hours when they returned to bed together, she would clutch his arms tightly, leaving tiny, crescent-moon divots when she released him.

-

A fingernail moon was etched against the western sky when Vingilot made its first voyage. In truth, Eärendil was not thinking of Valinor when he left, nor even of his mother and father: all he could hear was the echoing sound of deep crying out to deep.

At sea, his heart was calm. Eärendil navigated by the stars, charting an all but arbitrary course across the waters. He came back to Elwing a week later, a little more tanned and freckled, his hair a little more sun-bleached. He tasted like salt when Elwing kissed him. She tasted like starlight, like home.

She found him at the dock several nights later, tending to Vingilot’s rigging. “You’re leaving again, aren’t you?” she murmured, and gripped his arms with her fingernails.

-

At sea, Eärendil dreamed of light far off in the west. He dreamed of rivers opening their mouths to the sea, of monsters roving through the deep, but always there was the strange light that shone off in the distance. Night by night, it grew nearer. He would wake with a fierce, frenzied look in his eyes that frightened his three shipmates. Eärendil wondered, sometimes, if this was how his father felt when Ulmo first spoke to him.

-

“Where are you going?” Elwing asked him again.

“There’s a light in the West,” said Eärendil. “I am going to find it.”

“Valinor?”

“Not Valinor. A star.”

-

II. Fingernail divots 

Elwing was sister to twin brothers and mother to twin sons. She knew about loving helplessly; about holding on and letting go. 

“Mariner’s wives are always widows,” a human woman warned. “Their husbands go where they cannot follow.”

“I know it,” said Elwing.

Her husband left, and he returned. At home, Elwing sank her fingernails into his arms, his shoulders, his back. She left crescent divots wherever she touched him. Sometimes, she drew blood.

Eärendil never complained. He knew that Elwing had to hold on tight, in order to let him go again.

-

She bore their sons while Eärendil was away on one of his voyages. Because Elwing and her husband were both peredhel, their children would be something new. They came too soon for elves and too late for men. How could their father have known that they were being born, but that he had not strayed from Sirion? 

The pain of childbirth was greater for Elwing than it had been for her Sindarin midwife, or either of her full-blooded elvish handmaids. Human women suffered in childbirth, doubly so when they bore twins. It was the silmaril that carried her through all the long, painful hours of her labor. 

The sacred jewel for which Elwings parents had died never left her person. She clutched it as a man clutches a war-prize, knowing it has been paid for in blood. On the childbed, she held it so tight it left its imprint on her hand. She gazed at the bloodstained jewel and saw only sacred starlight. 

Her pain lessoned a little. Beauty was an anesthetic, of a kind. Elwing’s heart swelled with supernatural hope, and soon she was holding two little sons in her arms. She had paid for them in blood too. 

-

Eärendil came home late at night a week later, when the moon was eggshell-large in the sky. Elwing was holding the twins in her arms when he opened the door. She looked up when she heard the latch. 

"Your children are born," said Elwing. "Elros. Elrond."

"The sea and the stars," her husband answered. He studied them, with love and fear of loss all writ across his face. 

"The sea and the stars," Elwing echoed back. The two great lovers with which she would always share her husband. 

The babes were holding each other tight in her arms: mindless, instinctual, because they had never been apart. It was ironic, in the end. The stars endure forever. The waves roll in, and then they go back to the sea. Her babies would let each other go, in time; just as their mother would let them both go one bloody day, very soon

-

"You're going to run," Elwing said, gentle and firm as she knelt in the the nursery before her two little boys with her hands on their shoulders.

“Ama, you’re hurting me,” Elros whispered. She looked down. She was gripping him tight, so tight. There were fingernail divots on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry, beloved,” Elwing said. With effort, she released both boys’ shoulders. "You're going to run, and you're going to hold hands. Tight as you can, do you understand? You're not to release one another for anything in the world."

Her sons nodded: Elrond solemn, Elros stubborn. Elwing wrapped her arms around their small bodies one more time and squeezed them, not too tight. She released them. They ran. 

Outside, Elwing clutched the silmaril until it hurt; until her hand bled where its facets had cut her. All her family before her had died for that jewel, to keep it from other hands. It was obsession, and beauty, and hope. It was the star that Eärendil searched for on his far-flung sea voyages. It would save Middle Earth one day, when a little hobbit named Frodo would raise a phial of its captured light and shout her husbands name. 

Elwing knew about holding on, and about letting go. 

She made for the cliffs. 

-

III. The speed of light in a vacuum

The ocean of the heavens was like the oceans of the earth, except in all the ways in which it was not. Vingilot rocked smooth and rhythmic on cosmic waves and occasionally it rolled from side to side as though tossed by storms. Eärendil navigated by the stars, and by the light of the silmaril studied his maps and charts. The ocean of the heavens was always different, for all that the stars stayed the same.

-

When he’d first landed in Valinor, Eärendil had been all but certain that the Valar would destroy him. He’d been sailing west a long time by then, seeking after that elusive star; yet he knew, like his father before him, that the horizon was also his doom. It was only that last, desperate hope that carried him to Valinor’s shore: that perhaps, before they struck him dead, Ulmo or Nienna or Varda would at least hear his pleas and understand.

Eärendil did not want Elwing to follow him to shore. He wanted his wife to live, live and find their sons, if by some grace they had survived. But Elwing had been letting him go for as long as the ocean had gripped him. Only at the last, at the forbidden shore of the sacred isle, did she finally leap into the shallow water and go running after her husband, reaching for his hand.

-

The silmaril should have been blinding, set between his eyes as it was. When Eärendil took it from his head and studied it, its brightness put all of heaven’s stars to shame. Yet when he looked out from his little ship, his eyes were clear. On the ocean of the heavens, Eärendil half-elven leaned over Vingilot’s rail and glimpsed interstellar clouds that billowed with color and brightness. Towering and fae they were, and his were the only eyes born of Arda ever to have seen them up close.

-

Eönwë had greeted him, “Hail Eärendil, the longed for that cometh beyond hope, bearer of light before the Sun and Moon.” It was a greeting unlike anything Eärendil could have expected. It changed him utterly.

In the dreams that followed, the voice of the sea was quiet; a lilting lullaby rather than the fierce, inevitable call it had been for so many years. Now, now it was starlight that ran through his heart like lightning. Now the sky, not the sea, became his doom.

-

When Vingilot passed through the Door of Night each morn, Elwing’s birds were always the first creatures to greet him. Gulls and osprey, albatrosses and terns circled round his mast and cried out in high, fair voices, Good morning! Welcome home! in the language of birds. Then, at last, Eärendil would catch sight of his wife’s feathered wings, white and silver-gray. She was only a speck at first, but his eyes were elven-strong. When Elwing came into sight, Eärendil would cry “Utúlie'n aurë!” “Day has come!” as he rushed to the prow of the ship. Elwing would reply in clear, glorious birdsong, and then she would alight on the deck and fall at once into Eärendil’s arms.

When at last they broke their embrace, Eärendil was always covered in bits of feather and Elwing in glittering stardust. They would both laugh the way only exiles do as Eärendil steered his hallowed ship into the waters of day. Elwing would run her hands over Vingilot’s paint, which she herself had long ago brushed onto its beams. She would look at her husband, so much less tan and freckled than he was in their youth, and he would kiss her tasting of plasma, with lightning in his eyes.

-

When Manwë had summoned them to Valimar, Eärendil told Elwing, “Choose thou.” She chose the Eldar, and for that choice, Eärendil was given a hundred thousand million nights of sailing through the heavens’ ocean. The stars sang to him, burning at Eärendil’s heart with a kind of beautiful, terrible fire that scorched as much as it overwhelmed him with joyous longing. They carried him away from Elwing, for all that she gripped him tight.

Before he set sail, Eärendil spent one last night with his wife in his arms. “Our parting will not be long,” he whispered, holding her tight to his freckled shoulder. “The Lady Elbereth told me. Light traveling through the void is the fastest thing in all Eä.”

-

IV. High Hope

Hobbits were simpler folk than elves. When Frodo’s heart pulled him away from the Shire, there was no obsession in it. It was only love for his uncle, his cousins, his friends that made him go; only duty; only courage. Only that.

Galadriel gave him a phial of starlight, and it was a gentle, desperate thing. She didn’t tell him that the star which had cast it had been the cause of more bloodshed than any other bright and beautiful thing in their world. She only called it hope.

More than anything, Frodo longed for hope.

He could feel himself coming unraveled, drawing close to Mordor. He was stripped bare and hollowed out, and all his longings turned ill by the bit of metal that hung around his neck. Yet in his cloak, cradled close to his heart: starlight.

-

In the depths of the earth, Frodo pulled the star-glass from his bosom, and the Star of High Hope—Eärendil’s star—shone about the pit. The longed for that cometh beyond hope, Eönwë had said. Frodo did not know those words, but he felt them deep in his sinews.

Eärendil stepped down from his high sunset paths with the last silmaril upon his brow. He stood beside Frodo in that cave where nothing lovely ever came, casting rays of lightning into the dark till it was as sun-soaked as the Havens of Sirion. Hope, he murmured in Frodo’s ear, the stars. The sea.

Frodo gasped, and with a voice that came from somewhere beyond him he cried out, “Aiya Eärendil elenion ancalima!” The very darkness trembled at his words. Eärendil smiled.

Yet from close by, Sam watched helpless as Shelob came and snatched Frodo away. Sam would have dug crescent moons into Frodo’s arms, had they been within reach. As it was, he could only pick up the star-glass where his master had dropped it and go running after him.

[johannestevans]

Short Stories About Tall Ships & Their Sailors

I'm on Ao3 as DictionaryWrites and have written various Peter Pan and Our Flag Means Death Works as well as the original works listed below, such as Communicating Want.

Hunger At Sea

A sailor turns out to have met one of the ship’s passengers before.

This piece is part of this issue of the Shousetsu Bang Bang, Issue 109, The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea! Make sure to go and check out the entries by the other many talented authors and creators contributing! You can read this piece in SBB 109 here.

Rated E, 7.3k, cis M/M. Age of sail, a Jewish sailor and a vampire. Featuring some biting, some D/s and age dynamics, power dynamics, dirty talk, and anal!

The Pirate Accountant

A quartermaster works up the nerve to finally mount a seduction on their accountant.

Rated M, M/M, 4.5k. Dark humour and biting banter throughout, between an exceedingly cautious and paranoid accountant and the quartermaster who’s finally worked up the courage to ask him out.

Sleeping Beauty

A sailor takes something that doesn’t belong to him, and the captain punishes him.

9.2k, cis M/trans M and cis M/M. A carpenter’s apprentice can’t resist the captain’s cabin boy while he’s meant to be performing maintenance, and afterwards, the captain and the cabin boy punish him between them — if the apprentice wants another chance at sex with the cabin boy, he has to let the captain bugger him first.

Two of a Kind

A boy washes up on shore and meets a pirate swordmaster.

1.2k, rated M. Warnings for implied sexual abuse and reference to past sexual assault throughout, with a focus on survivors’ solidarity.

Spanking

A young man takes a punishment from his captain.

Short M/M story between a cis ship captain in the age of sail and a trans sailor. 3k. Contains open-handed over-the-knee spanking, a little crying, D/s, the obvious employer/employee power imbalance (with a past relationship discussed), some mild humiliation.

Sweet Torture

Curt has a surprise for his boyfriend when he comes home from sea.

Explicit M/M short between a cis male lecturer in medicine and his trans boyfriend, set loosely in the late 1800s. 1384 words. Features nipple piercings, nipple play, chest play, rough sex, fingering, D/s, dirty talk.

Sensory Deprivation

Gerald is being a nuisance on the ship, so the crew make efforts to occupy him.

3.2k. Gerald Poole has a sprained wrist, and not being able to work, the boredom is getting to him. His lovers — Jack Wicks and Captain Thwaites, respectively — go to some efforts to keep him occupied. These characters originally appeared in Gerald Poole and the Pirates.

Fair Trade

A passenger on a sail ship makes an unwitting trade with a sailor on watch.

1.6k, cis M/M, age difference, oral sex, facefucking, teasing, hair-pulling!

Getting Old

Two old men sleepy on a pirate ship.

Cis M/M, rated E, 1k. Sleepy sex, intercrural, teasing, a bit of banter, mostly just two old men being tired and achy together!

Haughty Paris

A sailor picks out the coolest and most beautiful of the tavern’s boys, like he always does.

Rated E, cis M/M, 800w. D/s, humiliation kink, face slapping, sex work.

Honesty & Ease

4k, rated E, cis M/M! A sailor visits his favourite brothel.

Featuring some sex work, age difference, teasing, anal, some self esteem stuff, some degradation and humiliation!

The Captain's Clerk

A new sailor is curious about the captain’s kept man. Just a short taste of something. 1.2k, rated E, M/M.

[istumpysk]

to bad lady stoneheart will crown arya in robb’s crown leading her to be queen of the north at least sansa can enjoy her life with her two timing husband in the vale 😌

Top 10 Funniest Ship Girl Foreshadowing

10. Gendry's very important question.

He looked dubious. "Did you ever sail a boat?" "You put up the sail," she said, "and the wind pushes it." "What if the wind is blowing the wrong way?" "Then there's oars to row." - Arya II, ASOS

9. Excellent names!

I mean to use your second son as well. He will take Lady Marya across the narrow sea, to Braavos and the other Free Cities, to deliver other letters to the men who rule there. - Davos I, ACOK

x

"Just so. Your father was oarmaster on a galley. When your mother died, he took you off to sea with him. Then he died as well, and his captain had no use for you, so he put you off the ship in Braavos. And what was the name of the ship?" "Nymeria," she said at once. - Arya II, AFFC

8. Hey, what's with this Stark they keep telling us about.

That's a Brandon, the tall one with the dreamy face, he was Brandon the Shipwright, because he loved the sea. His tomb is empty. He tried to sail west across the Sunset Sea and was never seen again. - Bran VII, AGOT

x

It was Bran's turn to tell a story, so he told them about another Brandon Stark, the one called Brandon the Shipwright, who had sailed off beyond the Sunset Sea. - Bran III, ASOS

7. Arya spells it out.

Only Braavosi were permitted use of the Purple Harbor, from the Drowned Town and the Sealord's Palace; ships from her sister cities and the rest of the wide world had to use the Ragman's Harbor, a poorer, rougher, dirtier port than the Purple. It was noisier as well, as sailors and traders from half a hundred lands crowded its wharves and alleys, mingling with those who served and preyed on them. Cat liked it best of any place in Braavos. She liked the noise and the strange smells, and seeing what ships had come in on the evening tide and what ships had departed. She liked the sailors too; the boisterous Tyroshi with their booming voices and dyed whiskers; the fair-haired Lyseni, always trying to niggle down her prices; the squat, hairy sailors from the Port of Ibben, growling curses in low, raspy voices. Her favorites were the Summer Islanders, with their skins as smooth and dark as teak. They wore feathered cloaks of red and green and yellow, and the tall masts and white sails of their swan ships were magnificent. - Cat of the Canals, AFFC

6. Arya spells it out again.

Arya bit her lip. She had crossed the narrow sea to get here, but if the captain had asked she would have told him she wanted to stay aboard the Titan’s Daughter. Salty was too small to man an oar, she knew that now, but she could learn to splice ropes and reef the sails and steer a course across the great salt seas. Denyo had taken her up to the crow’s nest once, and she hadn’t been afraid at all, though the deck had seemed a tiny thing below her. I can do sums too, and keep a cabin neat. - Arya I, AFFC

5. Arya spells it out one more time. (Plus one more, because she's so generous!)

It made her think of the sea. Maybe that was the way out. Old Nan used to tell stories of boys who stowed away on trading galleys and sailed off into all kinds of adventures. Maybe Arya could do that too. - Arya V, AGOT

x

"It won’t be so bad, Sansa," Arya said. "We're going to sail on a galley. It will be an adventure - Sansa III, AGOT

4. Ned Stark makes a bizarre prediction about the future of one of his children.

"No," Ned said. He saw no use in lying to her. "Yet someday he may be the lord of a great holdfast and sit on the king's council. He might raise castles like Brandon the Builder, or sail a ship across the Sunset Sea, or enter your mother’s Faith and become the High Septon." - Eddard II, AGOT

3. An entire fandom forgets what made Nymeria famous.

He sang of Jonquil and Florian, of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and his love for his brother's queen, of Nymeria's ten thousand ships. - Sansa VI, ACOK

x

He had not noticed that before, no more than he had noticed the picture on the tapestry, a scene of Nymeria and her ten thousand ships. - The Soiled Knight, AFFC

x

That is Nymeria's star, burning bright, and that milky band behind her, those are ten thousand ships. - The Queenmaker, AFFC

2. They could be like Nymeria, and sail beyond the Sunset Sea.

Lord Gylbert began to speak. He told of a wondrous land beyond the Sunset Sea, a land without winter or want, where death had no dominion. "Make me your king, and I shall lead you there," he cried. "We will build ten thousand ships as Nymeria once did and take sail with all our people to the land beyond the sunset. There every man shall be a king and every wife a queen." - The Drowned Man, AFFC

A marriage is arranged between Arya and Elmar. El mar. The sea.

"Also, if your sister Arya is returned to us safely, it is agreed that she will marry Lord Walder's youngest son, Elmar, when the two of them come of age." - Catelyn IX, AGOT

[thelustybraavosimaid]

This is legitimately one of the most insane things I've read on this site.

Sansa knew all about the sorts of people Arya liked to talk to: squires and grooms and serving girls, old men and naked children, rough-spoken freeriders of uncertain birth. Arya would make friends with anybody. This Mycah was the worst; a butcher's boy, thirteen and wild, he slept in the meat wagon and smelled of the slaughtering block. Just the sight of him was enough to make Sansa feel sick, but Arya seemed to prefer his company to hers. (Sansa I, AGoT)

She recognises that there are class differences and loves and respects people regardless. Are we actually supposed to see this as...a crime of some sort? She recognises the class lines, starting with the way even Jon was treated, and befriends people no matter what walk of life they're from. That's why she made friends with Gendry, Hot Pie, Lommy and took care of (as best as she could) Weasel/the crying girl. That's why she enjoys people like these:

Only Braavosi were permitted use of the Purple Harbor, from the Drowned Town and the Sealord's Palace; ships from her sister cities and the rest of the wide world had to use the Ragman's Harbor, a poorer, rougher, dirtier port than the Purple. It was noisier as well, as sailors and traders from half a hundred lands crowded its wharves and alleys, mingling with those who served and preyed on them. Cat liked it best of any place in Braavos. She liked the noise and the strange smells, and seeing what ships had come in on the evening tide and what ships had departed. She liked the sailors too; the boisterous Tyroshi with their booming voices and dyed whiskers; the fair-haired Lyseni, always trying to niggle down her prices; the squat, hairy sailors from the Port of Ibben, growling curses in low, raspy voices. Her favorites were the Summer Islanders, with their skins as smooth and dark as teak. They wore feathered cloaks of red and green and yellow, and the tall masts and white sails of their swan ships were magnificent. (Cat of the Canals, AFfC)

Because of the way Mycah was treated—which is not her getting off with a warning, her punishment was HER FRIEND DYING BY THE HOUND'S SWORD, you know, for standing up to the Crown prince.

The hurt and pain she feels is directed to the people she used to love speaking to in Winterfell:

Arya hated it. She hated the sounds of their voices now, the way they laughed, the stories they told. They'd been her friends, she'd felt safe around them, but now she knew that was a lie. They'd let the queen kill Lady, that was horrible enough, but then the Hound found Mycah. Jeyne Poole had told Arya that he'd cut him up in so many pieces that they'd given him back to the butcher in a bag, and at first the poor man had thought it was a pig they'd slaughtered. And no one had raised a voice or drawn a blade or anything, not Harwin who always talked so bold, or Alyn who was going to be a knight, or Jory who was captain of the guard. Not even her father.

"He was my friend," Arya whispered into her plate, so low that no one could hear. Her ribs sat there untouched, grown cold now, a thin film of grease congealing beneath them on the plate. Arya looked at them and felt ill. She pushed away from the table. (Arya II, AGoT)

She still thinks of Mycah a while after the fact.

But why exactly is Arya's care for people constantly being weaponised against her? How even is this immaturity? Is this person forgetting that Arya was starving on the road with smallfolk of all kinds? That she was forced to eat bugs and worms or drank water to keep her stomach from hurting? Is this really immaturity?

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 26

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 26: Dragonstone

AO3 - Masterlist

The journey from King’s Landing to Dragonstone proved to be relatively smooth for most aboard the vessel, but Jelissa, unfortunately, didn’t share the same sentiment. The wind filled the sails, propelling the ship forward, and the current guided them steadily on their course. Despite the favorable condition, five days had to pass before they finally reached the shores of Dragonstone. 

As the ship neared the stony island, the sea seemed to become increasingly hostile, lashing against the rocks with an unyielding force. The waves crashed with a ferocity that mirrored the dark and ominous sky overhead. The air was thick with tension as if the sea itself was angry, ready to unleash its wrath upon anyone daring to challenge its dominion. 

Daenera stood near the helm, her hair whipping around her face as the wind picked up speed. She couldn’t help but feel a sense of familiarity with the weather’s temperament. Dragonstone had always been know for its harsh and unpredictable climate. While some might have grown used to the lack of fair days, Daenera had not and often bemoaned the island’s tempestuous nature. The warm weather of King’s Landing suited her better, she thought. 

As the ship navigated through the turbulent waters, Daenera cast her gaze towards Dragonstone’s imposing cliffs that cutted out from the sea. Despite the foreboding weather, there was a sense of homecoming that washed over her. She hadn’t set foot on the island for months, and she felt a mixture of apprehension and excitement stir within her.  The Seafarer threw anchor outside the docks, unable to safely enter the area without hitting the many rocks that threatened to crack open the keel of the ship. Instead the captain decided to set the longboats and row the princess to shore. Jelissa was even less content with this, but the threat of staying on the Seafarer for days until the ship was able to dock was far too terrible. 

Even Daenera herself felt a little green sick in the longboat as they were rowed to shore. The wind whirled around them, whisking up droplets of the sea and making it rain down again. She tasted salt in the air.  

Why did her ancestors insist on building the castle such a wretched place? 

For the dragons, of course. But dragons did little to change the weather. 

As the longboat finally reached the shore, Daenera wasted no time, leaping from it with a sense of urgency. The cold waves splashed around her, quickly saturating her boots and drenching her skirts, making them cling to her legs. But she paid no mind to the discomfort, her attention solely focused on the young boy running eagerly towards her. 

Her heart swelled with joy as she saw him, arms outstretched and a bright smile lighting up his face. “Daenera!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Daenera closed the distance between them, the excitement palpable in her own voice. “Luke! By the gods, old and new, you’ve grown so much!”

“I am almost as tall as Jace,” Luke chuckled, pulling back slightly to meet his sister’s gaze. “It’s so good to see you.”

Before she could respond, Jacaerys stepped forward, playfully pushing Luke aside to claim his own hug. He wrapped his arms around Daenera. 

“You haven’t grown at all. You should be careful, Jace, otherwise I think Luke will outgrow you,” Daenera teased, making Jace push out of her embrace with a huff. 

“Seems King’s Landing has not provided you with a new sense of humor,” Jace retorted, rolling his eyes. 

“I think my sense of humor is perfectly adequate,” Daenera replied with a playful grin. 

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Jace quipped, smirking in response.

“Come on, let’s get back to the castle. It’s freezing, and you’re wet,”Luke interjected, taking Daenera’s hand and leading her towards the horses that awaited them. 

“See, this is what a good brother should be like,” Daenera remarked to Jace, who rolled his eyes again and playfully bumped into her shoulder with his own. 

As they walked, the wind whipped around them, sending strands of hair flying every which way. The chill was almost biting, and Daenera began to feel it creep into her feet, turning them to blocks of ice in her boots. 

“Joffrey is excited to see you again,” Luke informed her. “He’s been asking every few hours for you and running after the servants as they prepare for the feast.”

Jace slapped Luke at the back of the head, making a grimace at him. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Oh, right. Sorry,” Luke said sheepishly, the tip of his ears turning red, though it could very well be due to the briskness of the wind. 

“Hopefully it’s not too big a feast,” Daenera said, not wanting her return to be grandiose. After all, she hadn’t been away for that long , she was not a soldier returning from a war. 

“It’s not. It’s just the family,” Luke reassured her, a warm smile spreading across his face. Daenera squeezed his hand in appreciation. A feast with her family was all she needed. 

It was then that the full weight of how much she had missed her family hit her. 

She took a moment to soak it all in before asking, “How’s mother?”

“Heavy with child,”Jace responded, raising his voice to be heard over the howling wind. He moved to help Daenera mount her horse, as she struggled to lift her now stiff cold limbs and the weighed down dress she wore. And with that, they began their trek back to the castle. 

As they rode, Jace and Luke filled her in on the happenings at Dragonstone during her absence. Not much had changed, as little tended to happen on the island. However, Luke proudly shared that he had finally managed to beat Jace in a race on Arrax. Jace in turn shook his head and said the victory was out of luck, not skill. Daenera couldn’t help but laugh.

They continued their ride, the rocky cliffs of Dragonstone surrounding them, the wind whipping through their hair, and the waves crashing against the shore. Despite the less-than-ideal weather, Daenera felt a sense of contentment settling over her. She was home and with her family. 

Her eyes were drawn to the sight of her ancestral home, perched majestically upon the rock. The castle of Dragonstone stood as a testament to the resilience and might of House Targaryen, its imposing structure carved out of the very rock itself. The architects and builders had skillfully chiseled its grand walls into existence, creating a mighty fortress that would withstand weather and war. 

When at last they reached the imposing walls of the castle, Daenera embraced her brothers once more, a mixture of relief and excitement coursing through her. Parting from them, she hurried to her chambers, eager to rid herself of the filth of the journey and savor the comfort of her home. 

Stepping into her familiar quarters, she couldn’t help but notice how little had changed since she last laid eyes on them. Unlike her rooms in the Red Keep, these chambers were less adorned, the furnishings simpler and the trinkets scars. The walls themselves were a testament to the castle’s rugged nature, as if hewn from the very heart of the island, each surface hard, rough, and cold to the touch. 

Daenera had tried her best when she had arrived the first time to soften the room’s hardness, placing rugs and tapestries to add a touch of warmth and color, but she soon found the attempt a futile endeavor. The brutality of Dragonstone’s construction could not be disguised, and its stark edges served as a constant reminder of the island’s untamed beauty and fierce resilience. 

After washing off the grime of the journey and donning a dress made of thicker material than the ones she had worn in King’s Landing, Daenera felt a sense of relief at being properly attired for the chilly island weather. 

Leaving her room, she navigated the familiar passageways of Dragonstone, each step echoing softly against the cold, rough-hewn walls. Torches lining the halls cast flickering shadows on the surroundings. 

As she approached the great hall, the sound of voices and laughter grew louder, signaling the warmth and liveliness of the gathering within. Her heart quickened with anticipation as she pushed open the heavy doors, revealing the grandeur of the hall. 

Upon entering her eyes were immediately drawn to a beautifully adorned table set up in front of the crackling hearth. The flickering flames cast a warm glow upon the scene, and to the side stood a troupe of musicians, their instruments ready to fill the air with melodies. 

Her mother turned around and her face lit up with a radiant smile as she caught sight of her daughter. With arms outstretched, she welcomed Daenera into her embrace. 

The embrace seemed to melt away Daenera’s apprehension. The tension eased, and she found herself relaxing into her mothers touch. 

“My sweet girl,” Rhaenyra cooed, gently kissing Daenera’s forehead. 

“Mother, how I’ve missed you,” Daenera whispered, her voice filled with genuine affection. 

“As I have you,” Rhaenyra replied, her eyes parleking with love. 

As they separated, Rhaenyra took a moment to study her daughter. “You look healthy. Your skin has gotten more color.”

“The sun agrees with me,” Daenera chuckled, a hint of playfulness in her voice. 

At that moment Daemon approached them, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and planting a tender kiss on her temple in greeting. Behind him, her brothers followed suit, each offering their warm greetings. 

“Dae!” Joffrey’s enthusiastic voice rang out, and the little boy came bounding across the floor, his tiny hands grabbing the hem of Daenera’s skirts. She beamed at him and scooped him up into her arms, planting a loving kiss on his rosy cheek. Joffrey nestled into the crook of her neck, and Daenera held him close, swaying. 

“I missed you,” Joffrey mumbled, his voice muffled against her shoulder. 

“And I missed you too,” Daenera replied softly. 

Joffrey leaned back in her arms to look upon her face with a grin spread across his face. “Jace has promised to take me riding on Vermax!”

“How exciting,” Daenera chuckled, letting her brother down from her arms as he began to squirm. 

Daemon suggested they take their seats at the table, and they all found their designated places. Rhaenyra and Daemon sat at the center of the table, while Daenera settled between Luke and Rhaena, who leaned in close to whisper in her ear; “I have so much to tell you.”

Daenera flashed her a smile. 

Brined pigeon, succulent and tender, was served alongside slices of artichoke and wolfberries. The tangy brined goat cheese added a creamy contrast thad danced on the taste buds, and as they savored the starters, the aroma of shrew soup filled the air around them. 

The main course was a feast for both the eyes and the palate. Curried bass, perfectly cooked to flaky perfection, rested on a bed of choked garlic, asparagus, and kumquats. Slow-roasted boar, tender and rich, was accompanied by the unique flavors of ogbono nuts– from Myr, and rhubarb. Cooked greater plantain and figs added a touch of sweetness and earthiness to the dish. 

“How was King’s Landing?” Rhaenyra inquired, her gaze fixed on her daughter, the hint of concern nibbing at the edges of her face. 

Daemon interjected, pouring himself a cup of wine. “Still a festering pit of shit?”

Daenera glanced at her mother while delicately scooping a handful of berries onto her plate. “If you’re speaking of the smell, then yes, it's still a festering pit of shit. And if you’re referring to the political climate, then also yes, it’s still a festering pit of shit… But the weather is nice.”

It wasn’t the comprehensive update they were seeking, but the subtle exchange of glance between Rhaenyra and Daemon revealed that now was not the time for it. 

“How was my father?” Rhaenyra asked. 

Daenera smiled gently, torn between sharing the complete truth and easing her mother’s worries. “Viserys is… falling ill frequently, but he remains in high spirits.” 

“The Hightowers consolidate more power by the day, it would seem,” Daemon commented, the disdain he felt towards them on full display in the disgust curl of his lip. 

Rhaenyra placed a comforting hand on his, offering silent reassurance. “I am sure Viserys is well taken care of.” 

“He is. I often bring him tea, and we talk. He enjoys my presence and misses all of you very much,” Daenera replied. “I think it would benefit him if you both paid him a visit.”

Rhaenyra’s countenance shifted, revealing an expression that Daenera knew all too well. It was a mixture of sadness and haunting memories, a reminder of the years she had spent enduring the torment of those who sought to undermine her. Though she had managed to regain her spark again, the years in King’s Landing had taken its toll on her. It was only here, on Dragonstone, that her mother had managed to become at ease. 

Daenera understood her mothers reluctance to leave it all behind to enter the pit of vipers that resided in King’s Landing, but she also understood the importance of it. 

“Mayhaps soon,” Rhaenyra replied, her hand tenderly caressing her belly as she spoke. 

Daenera’s eyes flickered to Daemon, whose gaze always seemed to hold a glint of calculative amusement. His sharp intellect and cunning were evident in the way he observed everything around him. Even now, she knew his mind whirled with thoughts on the matter, but he withheld them for the sake of his wife. 

“Do you think we’ll get a new brother or a sister?” Like asked, his eyes wide with curiosity as he broke through the palpable tension that came along with the subject King’s Landing. 

“I think it’ll be a boy,” Daenera replied, considering the question. Jace nodded in agreement. 

“I think it’ll be a girl. It is only fair if it is,” Rhaena chimed in, brushing a long lock of pale hair behind her ear. 

Jace chuckled. “I don’t think that it's how it works. It’s not like fate decides to balance out genders of every family.”

“ No ,” Rhaena drawled, not conceding. “But the chances of having a girl must increase with each boy born.”

“I suppose you could see it that way if you want to be wrong,” Jace teased, his tone playfully argumentative. “It’s still a fifty-fifty chance.”

In the company of others, Rhaena might have chosen her words cautiously, but here, with her family, she felt no need to hold back as she entered a discussion with Jace about the probability of the child being a boy or a girl.

And while they argued, Luke turned to Daenera with his pale blue eyes. “Do you not wish for a sister?”

Daenera smiled warmly at her younger brother. “I wish for a healthy mother and child. Whether it’s a boy or a girl, matters little to me.”

Luke frowned thoughtfully. “Were I the only boy, I think I’d wish for a brother.”

“But you’re not the only boy,” Daenera said and teasingly ruffled his hair. “Besides, I have Baela and Rhaena as sisters.”

As the conversation shifted, the table filled with laughter and chatter. Music played in the background, filling the hall with a melodic tune that complemented the jovial ambiance. Daenera found herself immersed in the warm embrace of her family’s affection. It was so different from the atmosphere in King’s Landing. 

Joffrey chimed in with his innocent voice, asking Daenera about her adventures in King’s Landing. She regaled him with stories of the bustling city and the tourney she had attended, earning giggles and wide-eyed expressions from the young boy. She did not tell him of any of the hardships, of the slights she had suffered at the hands of the Hightowers. 

“– Knights and lords came from all over the kingdom to win glory in the tourney,” Daenera told him, as the boy’s eyes grew bigger. He was not the only one who listened in. “One of the more exciting among the jousters was between a knight from House Oakheart and House Westerling. The old Oakheart had years of experience, but in the end it was the young knight from House Westerling that won the match… Unfortunately, he was unseated by a knight from House Karstark. In the end, it was the Kettleblacks that won the jousting tourney.”

“Did anyone die?” Joffrey asked with intrigue. 

“Yes,” Daenera answered him. “Ser Jorah Bracken was killed by Aran Blackwood, and I believe a couple more died during the joust.”

Jace’s eyes lit up with curiosity as he leaned forward, eager to hear more about the tourney. “Tha must have been quite a fight. Blackwoods against Brackens. I would have liked to see that.”

“It was,” Daenera replied with a hint of pride in her voice. She glanced back at Daemon with a playful smile. “A pity you couldn’t attend. I’m sure there would have been more bloodshed.”

Daemon simply smirked, taking a sip of his wine. “I’m retired.”

“Liar,” Daenera accused. 

Daemon chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement at her remark. He raised his cup of wine in acknowledgement of her jape. Had he entered the competition, he would have been sure to make a spectacle and shed some Hightower blood. 

“None of my nephews entered the competition?” Daemon asked.

“No,” Daenera replied, shaking her head. “A shame, really. I would have enjoyed watching them get raked across the sands. But alas, Aegon is not much of a fighter, and Aemond think’s tourneys are a waste of time.”

“How are my siblings?” Rhaenyra asked, massaging the swell of her stomach as if it pained her. 

“Aegon is as he’s always been,” Daenera began. “He spends his days drinking and whoring, which is a great disappointment to the queen.” She took a sip of wine, her gaze wandering thoughtfully for a moment before she continued. “Aemond, on the other hand… He is exactly what Alicent wants him to be.”

She paused, entangled in the conflicting thoughts about Aemond. He had certainly become a nuisance, a relentless thorn in her side. He was terrible, cruel and calculated. Everything he did was to provoke her. And yet, despite it all, his touch made her heart flutter. 

The danger of Aemond being the boy with the stars in his eyes was clear. Due to him, she had let down some of her defenses, she had handed her enemy a weapon made specifically to destroy her. It was stupid. Daenera gulped down the rest of her wine, trying to drown the unsettling emotions that threatened to rise to the surface. She was not ready to confront them. 

“As for Daeron,” Daenera shrugged lightly. “I wouldn’t know. He is in Old Town and hasn’t been to King’s Landing while I’ve been there.”

“And my sister?”

“Helaena is delightful,” Daenera answered. “She spends her days with the children or in her own little world.”

“I would have thought one of them would have entered the competition,” Jace remarked, leaning back in his chair. “I would have joined the melee if I were there.”

A crooked smile played on Daenera’s lips. “Are there not height requirements?”

Jace playfully picked up a nut and tossed it at Daenera, who deftly dodged it. Unfortunately, the nut hit Luke on the side of his head before landing on the floor. The struck boy seized a berry and made ready to toss it back at his brother, but was stopped by his mothers chastisement. 

“Jace! Don’t throw food at your sister,” Rhaenyra scolded, while Daenera couldn’t help but laugh. Luke quickly shoved the berry into his mouth. 

“It’s not that funny!” Jace complained. 

“It is,” Luke argued, joining in the laughter. Rhaena was the only one who made her chuckle subtle. 

“At least I know how to wield a sword, you barely know how to hold it up,” Jace retorted, lightly kicking Luke under the table. 

The laugh slipped from Luke’s face as he bristled. “I know how to handle a sword!”

“I hate to disappoint you, Jace,” Daenera interjected, breaking up the escalating exchange. “But if you think you could have won the melee competition against Boris Baratheon, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“It’s a shame what happened to Aran Blackwood. He was so young, and I imagine as fierce as his brother,” Rhaenyra said, shifting the topic to a more somber note. 

“The Blackwood boy never stood a chance,” Daemon remarked. “Boris Baratheon is known for his formidable size and strength. If he is to be bested the boy would have needed years of experience or had a trick up his sleeve.”

Even Daemon would have broken out in sweat battling Boris Baratheon, though, he would have won in the end. Boris' only experience in combat was in melee competitions or fighting bandits and poachers. 

“What happened to him? Is he dead?” Rhaena asked, her eyes wide with concern. 

“Paralyzed,” Daenera replied solemnly. “Baratheon wouldn’t stop beating him, even after he had fallen.”

“It’s the risk you take,” Daemon commented, his indifference towards Aran’s misfortune evident in his tone. The dangers of entering such competitions were well understood, and the potential consequences were merely a part of the game. He had no qualms about killing or seeing someone suffer. His eyes landed on Daenera. “I believe Baratheon dedicated his victory to you.”

“He did,” Daenera replied with a scowl, not taking the dedication as a compliment. 

“He likely hoped his victory would please you, sister,” Jace said.

“It did not. Aran did not deserve the beating.”

Daemon’s expressions were both amused and accusatory, as if silently questioning Daenera’s choice of befriending someone like Aran Blackwood–a boy who, in his eyes, held little significance. 

As the conversation shifted, Daenera felt the need to escape the weighty atmosphere. The lively music played by the musicians offered a perfect distraction. She smiled at Luke and reached for his hand, gently pulling him to his feet. 

“Let’s see if you’ve improved while I was away,” she teased, her eyes bright with excitement. 

Luke’s expression turned concentrated, his brows furrowing and teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he attentively listened to the lively tune. He moved with uncertainty and stiffness, trying his best to keep up with Daenera’s graceful steps. The siblings danced around each other, locking arms together and spinning around the room. 

“Ow!” Daenera winced as Luke accidentally stepped on her foot. 

“Sorry!” Luke exclaimed sheepishly, realizing his mistake. 

Daenera laughed, and spun around with a little more force. 

Suddenly, Joffrey came running over to join in the dance, clutching Daenera’s skirts. She lifted him up, holding him on her hip as they twisted around, the little boy giggling with joy. Jace and Rhaena soon joined in the fun, and they all danced together, laughing at each other’s clumsy moves. 

Meanwhile, Rhaenyra and Daemon watched their children with warm smiles. 

“It’s good to have her home,” Rhaenyra whispered to her husband, her hand tenderly caressing her pregnant belly, feeling the flutter of life inside her womb. Daemon placed his hand on hers and hummed in agreement. 

The halls of the castle were enveloped in darkness, with only braziers and torches casting flickering lights, deepening the shadows within the bowls of the carved out rock. Despite the eerie ambiance, the castle’s familiar corridors no longer scared Daenera as they had done as a child. Luke walked quietly at her side as they headed towards their room, and as she glanced at him she noted the thoughtful expression on his face, as if something troubled his mind. 

“What is it?” Daenera inquired, sensing that her brother needed to talk. 

“What do you mean?” Luke hesitated, attempting to conceal his concern. 

“I can see something is bothering you. What is it?”

“I… Aemond…” Luke struggled to find the right words. “Was he–how did… is he still angry?”

Daenera almost burst out laughing but managed to keep herself composed. “Is he still angry with you for cutting his eye out of his skull?”

Luke paled, his shoulders slumping, and he sheepishly scratched the back of his head. “I just… thought that maybe…”

“Aemond holds grudges like no other,” Daenera told her brother. She would not mask the reality of Aemond’s anger to spare Luke from reality. “He feels that justice wasn’t served, and he resents everyone involved for that. Aemond isn’t forgiving and he will not let it go.”

“I didn’t mean to maim him like that,” Luke admitted with an edge of remorse in his tone. 

Daenera stopped, holding her brother’s chin to make him look at her. She knew Luke battled with his feelings towards what happened, fluctuating between remorse and believing himself justified. “You protected your brother. Do not ever apologize or feel wrong for that. It was unfortunate that Aemond lost his eye, but it happened. You wanted to protect Jace, and for that I am proud of you.”

Luke but the inside of his cheek. He had heard this reassurance before, but that didn’t mean that he felt any less guilty for the extent of Aemond’s injury. It had not been his intent to harm him so severely; his only aim had been to make him stop. Both Jace and Daemon had told him that Aemond got what he deserved, but it didn’t erase the guilt. 

“Don’t ever apologize for wanting to protect us. Let Aemond harbor his grudge, and don’t let it consume you,” Daenera advised. 

“I imagine he holds a grudge against you as well,” Luke said. 

Daenera’s lips curled into a short smile. Aemond’s resentment towards her ran deeper than a mere grudge. “Aemond is like a thistle . He stings and is annoying to be around, but even thistles have their uses.”

And unfortunately, Daenera found herself drawn to his sting, despite her better judgment. She knew she needed to distance herself from him.

Luke made a face. “I don’t think Aemond would like being compared to a flower, let alone a weed.”

“Well, that’s what makes it fun,” Daenera replied, taking his hands in hers as they resumed their walk. 

“What flower would I be?”

“That depends on whether you can bear the burden of being compared to a flower.” Daenera grinned at him.

“I can,” Luke answered, grinning back. 

“ Common Hollyhock, ” Daenera said. “They can grow tall and their scent is sweet and comforting. The flowers are pretty, varying in colors, but I like the deep red the most. They’re resilient, just like you.”

*Thistle; Warning *Hollyhock; Ambition. (It may not fit Luke, but its to signal the thing that will get him killed.)

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖The Captain and the Rake

Rated: Mature

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Word Count: 7338

Tags: historical romance, regency time period, slavery, racism (not from Steve of Bucky tho), period-typical attitudes, prejudice, mermaids, curses, internalized homophobia, historical fantasy drama, prostitution, period typical race relations and terminology ("colored," "mixed," and "black" are used)

Summary: After receiving a large inheritance, Steve must travel to the West Indies to figure out the origins of a mysterious letter.

(Regency manips made by @amarriageoftrueminds)

A.N. This fic was originally for the Stucky historical fiction event in 2023. I never was able to finish due to injury, but thought I'd brush it off for Mermay this year. This fic contains subject matter to do with the trans-Atlantic slave trade, so please heed the tags as they are updated each chapter. Racial descriptors used in this fic include: colored, black, and a couple instances of negro. I did my best to balance historical realism without getting too offensive to the reader.\ The name "Alva" was chosen before I knew about Alba, I swear to God 😂

Chapter 1. A Great and Grievous Rumbling

Steve emerged from his stateroom when a knock came at the door and a gruff voice called out, “We’ll be makin��� port within the hour now, Capt’n!”

Thank goodness. 

He’d been queasy the entire trip, ever since they’d first sailed from Charleston and the rocking of the boat set into his bones. Storms had delayed their progress halfway through, and the closer they got to the equator, the more unbearable the underdecks of the ship had become. As a paying passenger, Steve was afforded small but tidy accommodations, and Captain Odinson had merrily invited him to explore the ship at his leisure, but Steve had been reticent to engage with the crew. They seemed … not distrustful of him, per se, but perhaps disdainful. In the way that men with hardened hands often disdained men with soft ones. One look at Steve, and they’d made up their minds about him being a spoilt “fancy man.”

Steve could concede that he was a comely fellow, with short, fair hair and uncommonly bright blue eyes. He sported a strong jaw and handsome nose, but his mouth had always struck him as a bit too feminine, and his eyelashes didn’t help the matter. He kept no beard, and was better groomed than the men on Odinson’s crew. Tack on the fact that he dressed in the fashion of his peers, and he supposed he might seem a bit foppish to a bunch of hard worn, seagoing men. But his body was tall and strong, towering over most other men back in New York by several inches at least. 

That didn’t seem to make a difference to the crew, who’d readily laughed at a man whose constitution was weakened by seasickness. Steve had kept to his cabin, reading what little he could in between bouts of nausea. To be called up to set his eyes on land was a mercy. He was relieved that the journey was almost over.

Steve emerged above deck and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light, the fresh air a tonic to his mood. It was late into the day now, the storms having swept away all traces of cloud cover. The tradewinds came in sharp and brisk, filling the ship’s sails and propelling them closer to the coast. Seeing the dark shapes of mountains swelling in the distance, Steve felt immense gratitude for land, and even greater excitement for the unknown. Nervousness, sure, it wasn’t all pleasant business that brought him halfway across the world. But he’d been going crazy back in New York. The pleasantries and mundanalities of society life having been twice as stifling after coming back from the war—and thrice as much since his inheritance. It’d been time for a change. 

“Got yer sea legs now, Capt’n Rosewater?” one of the younger cabin boys snickered as he passed by.

Steve waved him off with a gamely scowl and continued towards the port bow. He held firm to the banister and looked out at the churning waters below, then up to the land ahead. It was still too far away to make out all the details, but as the next few moments brought them closer, he could see more and more of the island: masses of trees and distant green hills, mountains beyond that, the white tops of breaking surf at the edges of the inlet, and then increasingly jewel blue tones of water that bled from pure azul, to aqua, to sparkling green in the shallows. It shocked Steve, how beautifully colorful it all was in comparison to the dull, muddy waters they’d left behind in Charleston. 

They sailed past a bar of land on the starboard. It jutted out far into the ocean, curling in like an arm, as if to cradle the ships come into harbor. Steve caught sight of stone ruins poking out of the water and strained to try and see more. Captain Odinson and his quartermaster—an imposing and impressive man named Heimdall—had spent their second evening at sea consoling Steve over his embarrassing queasiness, offering him drink and telling him fairy stories of the sunken pirate city of Port Royal. Standing in the just-setting sun, Steve had to squint to see. There appeared to be something left of the old town out on the sandbar, but not very much. Most of it must be underwater, Steve thought with disappointment. Earthquakes tended to do that. It sure didn’t live up to any of Odinson’s stories.

The sun was close to setting as they drew in, other ships in the harbor floating nearby with increasing frequency. There was one particularly massive frigate on the portside as they sailed, perhaps fifty yards away, and Steve noticed some of the crew shooting it dirty looks. He turned to watch as they passed. The other vessel was moored in place. It had thick, old rails with weathered paint up top and a pitch-blackened hull below, barnacles creeping far up the sides. No sails were rigged and no crew was visible, yet as he stood there, Steve began to hear something faint.

At first he thought he’d only imagined it, or that perhaps some of Odinson’s men were below deck, hauling heavy things about in their preparations for docking. But the sound came again, and Steve felt a chill on his skin as the sound grew unnaturally, filling his ears and consuming his senses to the exclusion of all else. Louder and louder it became, until he could feel it reverberating in his head, like the inside of a conch, like a pulse. Leaning harder against the rail, his fingers gripped the wood as he listened to the sound.

It was coming from the other ship, not theirs.

Steve glanced about, but none of the crew were paying attention. It was as though they couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t understand how that was possible, as the sound swelled to a grievous rumble that made his heart beat faster in fear. It sounded like a … like a machine, like some great and groaning monster was inside the belly of the other ship, producing a deep and steady pounding. Steve hadn’t a clue what on earth could make such a noise. They’d already passed the ship by, so the sound should be fading, not growing louder. It didn’t make any sense. Steve stood there, aghast and locked in place.

Until a hand clapped down on his shoulder from behind, and he all but jumped out of his skin. The roaring was sucked clean out of his ears, immediately replaced by the usual cadence of wind and boat deck chatter as Steve whipped around and blustered over the embarrassing yelp he’d given. “Oh! Quartermaster!” He straightened himself. “Um, forgive me. I didn’t hear you approach.”

The quartermaster’s eye twinkled as he stepped up to join him. His name was Heimdall. He’d seen where Steve was watching the other ship. Together they stood at the rail and observed the island that lay ahead of them. “That, back there,” he said, referencing the frigate.

“Yes,” Steve said, not quite wanting to look over his shoulder at it anymore. “What was that?” He meant the monstrous sound of it, but had an odd and chilling suspicion that he’d been the only one who’d heard the noise. “The ship,” he said. “Didn’t you … didn’t you hear it?”

“Hear what?” Heimdall peered at him strangely. “The Hannibal. A Guineaman, godforsaken craft.” When he could see that Steve didn’t understand the scorn in his voice, he told him, “That’d be one of the old slave ships, Captain.”

Steve felt his stomach drop out. “O-Oh?” Heimdall nodded. All of a sudden it seemed that he was doubly as black—and Steve doubly as aware of it. He bit the inside of his cheek as he wondered if Heimdall knew his business on the island. Steve had mentioned his inheritance to Captain Odinson, but no one else on the ship. He wasn’t exactly proud of it, and he hadn’t wanted word to get ‘round that he was a slaveholder. Assumptions might be made. No one here knew his character or his intentions, after all. Nobody knew about Sam, or Hamilton House back home in Brooklyn, or that Steve’s aunt in Utica often mailed him back issues from her subscription to the Emancipator. Steve frowned at the distant shoreline, resisting the urge to twist his fingers into his ears. They still held the echo of that phantom sound. “Ships like that still sail?” he asked. “How?”

“Sugar, molasses, rum.” Heimdall shrugged. “For less profit.”

Steve wasn’t an idiot. He knew how all three of those things were produced: sugarcane. He now owned a large plantation of the stuff. “I see,” he said stiffly. “Do you know what’s brought me out here, then?”

Heimdall looked over at him, and for a tense moment, Steve thought he’d say yes, but then the quartermaster’s mouth twitched up in a smirk of gentle disdain. “You’re from New York,” he drawled. “Only two things’ll bring a gentleman American out to this edge of the world: money, or a powerful need to run away from something.”

“Run away,” Steve murmured, thoughts instantly veering to the genteel form of Miss Alva Barclay. He fought not to wince. He wasn’t running, and certainly not from her. “Yes,” he said, wetting his lips as he realized that he could relax once again, because Heimdall had no ill opinion of him. The man obviously didn’t know. So, Steve joined him in staring ahead peaceably, watching as the edge of the world drew into clearer relief. 

“Jamaica at last!” Captain Odinson arrived happily at Steve’s side and threw his hand out at the town and the docks below. “Isn’t it beautiful? Just as I said!” 

No matter the topic, Odinson always seemed to say everything with a boom, his enthusiasm infectious. Steve nodded in agreement. “Indeed.” Even in the day’s waning light, everything seemed brighter here. Steve had never once seen an entire building painted egg yolk yellow. “I knew it would be warmer here, but not like this. I’m afraid my trunk won’t be suitable for such a climate.” When they’d departed Charleston, it had only just turned November. Now all he could see were palm trees and folks dressed in light cotton clothes or even with no shirts on at all. “Incredible.”

“Indeed. You may find your New York winters more difficult to bear, once you return.”

Steve grimaced, remembering the past two winters and how exceptionally harsh they had been. When he’d departed for Charleston, there’d already been snow on the ground in New York. One of the crew members called out to the Captain, and he excused himself from Steve’s company. Steve decided to remain where he was until the work of unloading the ship died down a bit, as he didn’t want to be in the way. He spent the time watching the docks below, fascinated by the scenery.

Despite the unsavory nature of his inheritance, Steve was still very excited to be in Jamaica. Already it seemed amazing, and he’d only stood there on the ship looking at the ruddy docks, not even yet ventured into the town! He took in all the action of the street: carts and chickens and sailors cursing at one another. There was so much green. The forest beyond seemed lush and dense, the wilderness of it curling in at the edges of the town and creeping to fill up empty spaces. And oh, with the sunset just beginning to cast its colors, Steve’s fingers itched to find a paintbrush. The people bustling about were of such variety and comport that he instantly knew a day in Kingston could never be dull. 

There were far more people of color than Steve had ever seen in one place. The ship captains and many of the crewmen were white, but not all, and out on the street there were many colored merchants and dockworkers. Groups of black and mixed-race children loitered about, looking hopeful for either mischief or play. Steve inhaled deeply, figuring that he’d continue to feel odd and out of place no matter what he did, but certain that he’d feel better once he’d visited his solicitor.

Mr. Coulson was due to arrive on the island within the week. Steve had corresponded with him before he’d departed from New York. Coulson had been to the West Indies many times, and had suggested they arrange for their travel schedules to align. He was the one who knew the most about Steve’s property in Jamaica, as he’d worked for and been closely acquainted with Steve’s late uncle, back in England. Steve hoped that Coulson would be there soon, as this was far from a leisure trip for him.

Coulson had warned Steve that there would be numerous steps to take, both legal and practical, before his end goal for the estate could be achieved. Nothing would be done in a day, little in a fortnight. It would take time, and both men had agreed to make themselves available on the island for not less than two months—and more, if need be. Steve himself had half a mind to winter over here and not return to New York until the spring. 

It took a while before the ship was fully unloaded. Steve disembarked and stood by his trunks as he waited for his ride. He was to be picked up by a man from the estate, so he kept an eye out for anyone who might be looking for him, and in the meantime bought a sweet bread from a street vendor and sat eating it next to his luggage. Wiping his hands clean, he reached into his breast pocket and retrieved the letter which he’d received in the post several months ago—the letter that had started this whole journey. He unfolded the paper and read the words that he all but knew by heart, at this point:

꘏ Mister Steven Rogers,  I hope this letter finds you well, and I send my condolences for the loss of your uncle. We are not acquainted, and indeed I’m sure you’ve never so much as heard my name spoken in conversation, as I have not spent time in New York in many years. I am writing in regards to what is going on at your property here. As I am sure you are aware, since the passing of your relation, Mr. Charles Cleland, the house of Shield Hall and all of its materials, peoples, and lands have come into your possession. As a fellow landowner on the island, I feel it is my duty to inform you that the operation which your uncle upkept in his lifetime has quickly deteriorated into a state of chaos and disrepair. The property is currently being mismanaged by several hired men, none of whom are keeping care of their charges, the land, or the profits that the land is meant to yield. Since this property is part of your estate, and your estate pays these very men’s wages, I felt I should write you.  There is a great manor house which sits functionally abandoned, with hardly a single man watching over it day and night. Vagrants have had to be chased away more than once. Your working men and women number close to two hundred, and they all have been treated harshly and unfairly by the overseers, often deprived of suitable conditions. The harvests of this past year were summarily affected by these happenings. Word of the disorganization and abuse has reached many in the community already, and rumors abound of the great discontent brewing amongst your slaves. I have received only general description of you from my aunt in New York, but am sure that you are a fine man and will agree with me that it is our Christian duty to treat all of God’s children with dignity and fairness, including the negro man in bondage. I urge you to come at once and see for yourself, for only then can things be put right. Your respectful neighbor,  J. Buchanan ꘏

Steve blinked down at the page, looking once more at that elegantly scrawled name: J. Buchanan. Only an educated and moneyed man would have such excellent penmanship, lending credence to the writer’s claims of who he was. But the letter was signed only with “J. Buchanan,” with no other identifying information given. It had arrived several months ago, posted from Kingston, Jamaica, but with no return address. Its author claimed to be a fellow landowner and wrote “neighbor” as his salutation, but when Steve had looked at records of land holdings on the island, he’d found no history of a Buchanan family.

Still, the stranger had thought the situation serious enough to contact Steve, and so whether the letter’s claims were true or not, Steve felt he should investigate. That was the only respectable thing to do, since it was his property now. The very land that made him rich.

That in itself was still novel. Steve had never owned much of anything, other than his house in Brooklyn which he’d inherited from his mother. He’d grown up privileged but not overly so, within the bounds of New York Society but never pursued the way that more moneyed gentlemen were. That had all changed once his uncle had passed and word got out that Steve now owned a large sugar plantation and all of the wealth that came with it. He’d spent the past twenty months fending off eager mothers and their daughters. Two seasons’ worth of balls, courtships, and fripperies had been useful in warding off the loneliness, but they were exhausting at the end of the day. 

And then there was Miss Barclay, who was one of the many ladies being continually foisted upon him. Though she was the most agreeable, Steve still felt that his lungs could take in twice the amount of oxygen now that he knew he was a thousand miles away from her—an ungenerous sentiment, perhaps, but nonetheless true.

Steve hadn’t yet spent much of his newfound fortune, the habits of a widowed spendthrift mother having been ingrained in him since boyhood; but the one thing he had indulged in, was the singular luxury of a private box at the opera house. A veritable bidding war had commenced when the next box over came up for sale not long after. That was how Steve had gotten to know Alva over the arias of Fidelio and Silvana, her mother always looming nearby like a hawk searching out prey.

Though Steve enjoyed Miss Barclay’s company as well as any other lady’s, it’d been months of these not so subtle overtures, and he feared he would soon wind up engaged if things continued on the way they were. Traveling to Jamaica now, he’d narrowly avoided the crux of this year’s winter season. It was his hope that this sojourn would send the message of his disinterest without him having to actually turn the poor girl down. Steve was only twenty-eight, after all. He wasn’t ready for all of that.

Both his solicitor in New York and Mr. Coulson in London had told him not to worry about the details of his inheritance and the running of the estate in Jamaica, insisting that others were handling it and his bank account would remain well-padded without any direct interference. “Nasty business, sugar,” Coulson advised, pointing out that Steve’s late uncle hadn’t visited the island himself in decades. It was a common arrangement that absentee landlords would hire competent men to manage the operations of their plantations. The hired men at Shield Hall would continue to do so, Coulson had assured, whilst Steve continued to reap the benefits. Steve had believed it for a time, and had been sufficiently distracted by the demands and complications of his sudden shift in New York Society. But as soon as the letter from J. Buchanan had arrived, everything had changed. 

Steve couldn’t ignore “the slave problem” anymore, and he had the exact excuse he needed to make a quick escape from the burgeoning weight of high society and all its expectations of him. He was grateful to J. Buchanan, whoever he was.

Carefully, he refolded the letter and tucked it back into his breast pocket. J claimed that conditions at Shield Hall were abusive. Steve couldn’t fathom a reason for a stranger to fabricate such a story. So here he was to see for himself. He was absolutely dreading it.

“There you are. Ha, I’d thought we’d lost you!” Steve looked up and saw Odinson approaching from across the cobblestone in long strides. “We’re nearly finished,” he said, eyeing up Steve’s luggage approvingly. “You pack light for a gentleman. You must have a sense of adventure!”

Steve gave a good-natured grimace. “I’d have said not, nineteen days ago, and yet here I stand.” He illustrated his meaning by looking about the wharf. Not even away from the docks yet, and already he’d seen a parrot with more colors in its feathers than any single living thing in Brooklyn. He scratched behind his ear. Life had been in color before, hadn’t it? Surely, New York wasn’t as dull and gray as his memory was now painting it. He said as much to Odinson, who agreed and noted the closest building’s bright coral stucco. That was when Steve caught sight of a crewmember lugging out his crate of painting supplies. “Oh! Over here! You can put that one just here. Thank you.” When Odinson raised an eyebrow, Steve explained, “Well, my easel and things. I paint. A bit.”

“An artist! Good for you.”

Steve blushed, but he could tell that Odinson meant no harm. Other men in Steve’s life had contrived plenty more obvious ways of telling him that it seemed foppish and silly for a man of his status to spend so much time on such a frivolous hobby. “Yes,” he agreed. “Subjects will be in no short supply, in this place.”

Captain Odinson bid him farewell once Steve’s helper arrived and made himself known. A large and competent man named M'baku had come from the estate with a carriage. Steve shook his hand and M'baku looked at him sternly and then announced that he would be Steve’s man whilst in town. (Steve feared that he might also be his property, but hadn’t yet gotten up the courage to ask.) “Erm … shall we be off?” he asked.

M'baku took the lead and indicated the carriage. He gruffly refused Steve’s help with the luggage, and sat up front on the bench while Steve rode as lone passenger. Since Shield Hall was located a ways outside of the city, and evening was nearly upon them, they sought out local accommodations. M'baku asked Steve what sort of place he wanted to go to. “Do you want a big room? Company?” he asked, a distinctive island accent clinging to his vowels. “There are a couple of places to choose from. Different.”

“Eh, anywhere will do,” Steve hemmed, adding offhandedly that he wouldn’t mind the company of others.

So M'baku drove them to the Royal Naval Hotel. It seemed a handsome establishment, lively even, with quite a few people loitering about the downstairs. Steve checked himself in and had his luggage sent up, then he walked to the lounge with M’baku by his side. There were many fine couches and tables for the hotel’s patrons to use. Steve and M'baku spoke together for a moment, discussing their plans for the next day, when they would meet again and depart for Shield Hall.

With that settled, M'baku seemed eager to leave, and Steve could see a fancily dressed woman standing in the doorway leading into the next parlor, hiding behind a partially tied back velvet drape. She was peeking out at M'baku and Steve with narrowed eyes, looking none too pleased. 

Steve turned back to M'baku and thanked him again for his help, eager to not have the prim hotel ladies complaining to management about him so soon. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said in parting, and M'baku left as sternly as he’d arrived. Steve chanced a glance towards the draped doorway again, but the lady had turned away to converse with a gentleman. The backside of her gown faced Steve; a fine India silk and muslin, as was the fashion, but it was the amount of skin permitted to show which stood out. She wore no gloves, and Steve couldn’t keep his eyes from honing in at the low dip of the neckline which was nearly below the lady’s shoulder blades in the back. 

That tantalizing stretch of skin continued up her back and slim neck, to the mass of dark curls piled atop her head. Steve hadn’t realized it when she was peering out from the shadows before, but she wasn’t white. His own gaze narrowed at her in distaste, finding it odd that she of all people would take issue with a colored manservant being briefly inside the room.

Not that it was any different in New York. Indeed, Steve had tried—and failed—on an occasion or two to get Sam in with him to a certain place or another. Sometimes, if enough money was being spent and the proprietors were the right sort and employed discretion, there wouldn’t be much of a fuss made over who Steve wanted to have with him. But in many places, other patrons would eventually complain. However it was normally white people doing the complaining and looking down their noses.

The lady in the fine gown reacted to something her companion said, drawing Steve’s attention to the sound of her laughter that was like a little, tinkling bell. His eyes flicked up, and over her shoulder he caught the gaze of the gentleman with whom she was speaking. The man was easing off from the grin of a joke he’d told, and his still-laughing eyes locked intently on Steve. For a split second, it was electric, something in the man’s glittering eyes stealing the breath from Steve’s lungs.

Steve hurriedly looked away, feeling caught out. He thought he’d seen the man’s mouth twitch up there at the end, but he hadn’t the courage to turn back and check. The man was very good looking, in a rakish sort of way, with an unshaven jaw and murky blue eyes set in a handsome face. He kept his hair longer than was the fashion, but pulled back in a way that suited his features. He looked older than Steve’s own twenty-eight years, perhaps a man of twenty and fifteen or more, and he moved with the loose sort of confidence that a man did when he knew himself to be attractive. He was the exact type of fellow whom Steve avoided looking at or being around any more than was strictly necessary, lest he look or linger too long.

He turned away and ambled over into the next parlor, where he leant against the bar top and found his reprieve. He told the barkeep he’d have some good sort of rum, and took his drink off to another of the downstairs parlors, planting himself on a velvet settee where he could be out of the way and still observe the room at large. The place grew more crowded as evening drew in, and Steve saw enough to become convinced that the Royal Naval Hotel was not just a hotel: It was a bawdyhouse.

In the span of an hour, he witnessed no less than five different girls, interacting indecently amorous with seven different men, before taking said men’s hands and leading the grinning dopes away. Steve couldn’t see where they went once out of the room, but he could make an educated guess. None of these ladies wore gloves, either.

Incredible, he thought, as he watched one of them returning to approach her second gentleman within the span of forty minutes. The game began all over again, and Steve felt shocked and yet fascinated by her practiced movements and speech. It was like watching a ballet: scandalous and still elegant, the girl comporting herself with grace and impropriety all at once. Steve felt his cheeks heat as she left the room with her newest suiter, and he went back to the bar to get himself another pour.

A piano took up in one of the rooms, heard throughout the place, and more men came in. The number of women multiplied as well, but at a ratio which substantially favored the men. There were a number of British naval officers present, and Steve felt even more uncomfortable about that than he had been being led around by M'baku. He’d never hurt a negro man before, after all. He had killed English soldiers, and quite recently at that. 

The last time Steve had fought had been in Canada, less than two full years ago. Niagara, dead Indians just as plentiful as all the uniformed red-and-whites, bodies bleeding into the snow. Steve suddenly remembered that he’d resolved to not make his nationality overly apparent whilst visiting Jamaica—a very British colony. And he certainly wasn’t planning on letting anyone know about his recent military service. He hadn’t a clue what the English soldiers’ attitudes towards Americans were, but back in New York, no known Brit was yet tolerated in polite company, even these twenty long months after the war had ended. Steve was certain that he’d be treated poorly at best, pickpocketed or accosted in the street at worst. 

Unsurprisingly, about half of the men who filled The Royal Naval Hotel’s downstairs parlors wore the royal naval uniform. Some of them sat in groups and drank together and laughed, others played cards, their behavior for the most part unremarkable. But the ones who were there for other services made their interest plainly known as the evening wore on, and the ladies of the room would respond and float over like swans bobbing to breadcrumbs on a pond. It was not possible to miss that all of the crumbs were white, and all of the swans were black. 

They were black, and less black, light skinned, and very dark indeed; as exotic and varied as any man could want. Much like the very first lady whom Steve had observed, they all wore luxurious clothes in the current fashions, with their hair piled high and woven through with decoration, sweet silk shawls draped about their arms, necks left bare of any jewelry, bosoms powdered and presented. It really was a bit like watching the ballet, and as the evening wore on and Steve sat there drinking a second and then a third round of what the barkeep called “grog,” he found he couldn’t tear his eyes away from their dance.

They spoke and whispered into the men’s ears with cultured English and sometimes French, and they moved and walked like true ladies of society (at least when they weren’t sneakily sliding their hands into places they oughtn't be). Many of the men seemed respectful at best and besotted at worst, but Steve did catch a few dark glances that they would share amongst themselves when they thought the women weren’t looking. The way they looked made Steve uncomfortable—less so for the impropriety of it all, and more so for how it made him recognize his own lack of such interest.

For a moment, he thought again of Alva, back in New York. She was a pretty and tolerable girl, well-mannered and quick-witted even, with an interest in the theater and the arts that, while not matching Steve’s own, was robust enough to hold a conversation. He had no real objections to her other than that he didn’t love her, which in itself wasn’t uncommon between couples courting engagements. The thing was though: Steve had never loved any girl at all. He’d never felt the real and pressing temptation that other men seemed to harbor deep within themselves. He lacked that natural inclination which made men’s eyes linger and their gazes go dark behind ladies’ backs. 

Steve squirmed in his seat, agitated when he tried and failed to view the various prostitutes as the other men saw them: alluring, desirable, lustful. He thought they were very pretty and graceful, of course, but in the way that birds were pretty and that cats were graceful. He felt nothing more towards them. Certainly not the things that the British naval officers clearly felt. … Certainly not the things which Steve had been known to feel about certain men.

He felt his cheeks go hot as his mind strayed to the unbidden memory of a crowded house: Bleecker street, dark rooms filled with smoke and drink and chatter, people in less and less clothing the further in one went. A broad back, two men pulling off shirts, their squared jaws kissing against a couch. Steve had nearly dropped his brandy glass when he’d walked in on it. He’d always fraternized with the bohemian types through his interests in the arts, and parties in the Village were undoubtedly of a different ilk, but he’d never imagined that any man could just … would just … 

And right there in the middle of an unlocked room, no less! With others not even ten paces away who might look, might see—who had seen, and had simply looked the other way. 

The drapes in that Molly house had all been heavy and drawn.

Steve squinched his eyes shut to try and knock the memory from his mind. Perhaps he should choose a woman, he thought. Try and pretend for a night, maybe even awaken the desire inside himself that he was supposed to have. Steve had never been with a woman, so perhaps his perversion was only due to inexperience. Perhaps he could change, if only he put in some effort and sought out a beautiful, soft body.

He drank the last of his rum and kept hold of the glass, keen on going to the bar for another pour. Three miserable weeks at sea and not a drop had passed his lips. He was overdue to indulge in one way or another. And since he wasn’t likely to work up the nerve to actually pay a woman for her company, he thought he might as well drink. The rum was sweet, after all. 

Just as he was about to stand, a dress’ hem appeared in his field of vision, the tiny white points of a lady’s satin slippers peeking out from the bottom. Slowly, Steve let his eyes trail up. Oh. It was the same girl as before, the one who’d observed Steve and M'baku with meanly narrowed eyes. She didn’t look quite so peevish now. Her dark hair was curled and styled to frame her face, her cream-in-coffee skin on prominent display in the shelf of her bosom against the dress. Her features were graceful and classically feminine, but she had a prominent forehead and a dimple in her chin that elevated her from simply pretty, to handsomely striking. Really, she seemed a girl of hardly twenty, but her perceptive eyes hinted that she might be older.

“Hello,” she said, stepping even closer, until Steve could smell her perfume. “I saw you alone over here and thought I’d come to say hello. Maybe even cheer you up.”

“Cheer me up?” Steve breathed, then sat there like a dummy, speechless for long seconds. He hadn’t entertained the possibility that any of the working women would focus their attentions on him. Not when there were so many other eager breadcrumbs fellows in the middle of the room. “Well, I’m uh, I don’t need … cheer,” is what he eventually said, the words coming out weaker than intended. He watched as the girl’s features pinched in a polite sort of titter at his expense. Steve could hardly blame her. He sounded like a regular moron.

She perched herself daintily on the cushion beside him. “Don’t be silly. Everyone needs company.” Her voice, Steve noted, was fluid and viscous, like warmed honey. She lacked the island twang and in its place there was a hint of French. “I’m Rebecca,” she introduced, holding out her hand.

Steve took it, grazing lips to the backs of her scandalously bare fingers. He let it go, and she placed it on his shoulder rather than back in her own lap. Steve gulped. Now he felt less like a breadcrumb and more like a worm on a hook. “I … I’m only just arrived,” he rasped, feeling the need to excuse his antisocial behavior. “Not staying long. I was about to go to my, um, room—to sleep, that is! Go to my room to sleep.” He coughed. “I, erm, have some business in the morning.” 

Rebecca tilted her head, eyes glittering. “Don’t we all. But you must tell me your name, Sir. I’d remember if I’d seen someone who looks like you at the Royal Naval before.” She touched her finger to her chin, as if putting great effort into guessing. “Mm. You’re American?”

Steve hemmed, overly conscious of where she was still touching his shoulder. Never in his life had he experienced such forward attentions from a woman, not even from Miss Barclay and her mother. “Um, yes,” he bumbled. “American. I’m … am.” She giggled at him and Steve shook his head. “I’m not planning on making any public announcements about that, you know. I don’t want trouble. I'm only here because I’ve inherited land.” An American veteran in British territory, not even two full years since the war? Yes, discretion would be prudent. “I’m Steven Rogers,” he hastily added, realizing that he hadn’t returned the introduction. “Of New York.”

“Steven,” she cooed. “Oh, how lovely. Steven from New York. May I call you Steve?”

“Um,”

Her lashes lowered demurely. “I’m Rebecca. Rebecca Beauchêne Proctor-Polgreen.” 

“That's a mouthful.”

She laughed and winked. “Oh, I don’t mind a mouthful.”

Steve felt his cheeks flame at the double entendre. He cleared his throat and looked down at his lap. Her hand was still on his shoulder, and he hadn’t a clue as to how he should politely inform her that he had no intention of paying for her services. Suddenly, he thought of how M'baku had phrased his question earlier: if Steve would like to stay in a place where he could find “company.”

Oh. Steve realized that he was an utter dolt. “Um, well. I appreciate your welcome, Miss, um …” 

“Just Rebecca,” she teased.

“Right. Miss Rebecca. You’ve been most kind, but my travels have left me tired and I wasn’t particularly seeking the … the company of a lady this evening.” He waited, and sure enough, her hand was soon removed from his shoulder. He nearly sagged in relief.

“Oh,” Rebecca said. “Oh yes, well you wouldn’t know, being new to town and all. I ought to have said. I serve in a managerial capacity here, Steve.” She grinned. “I take care of the girls, you understand? I’m afraid it is the rare gentleman whom I invite up to my private quarters, these days.” As Steve’s face continued to reach new levels of heat, she stood again and went to take his empty glass from the table. “A welcome is all I had on offer for you, handsome as you are. That, and any of my flock whom you might fancy.” Her eyes skimmed brazenly up and down Steve’s form. “I daresay they’ll fight each other for a chance at you.”

“Pardon,” Steve spluttered. “I shouldn’t have assumed.” He could see it now: how much more expensive her dress was than the other girls’, how fine the combs in her hair, the gold dangling from her ears. “Madam,” he said, “You have my apologies, please.” She waved him off, obviously unoffended and perhaps even amused. Steve realized that he was wasting his good manners, blundering and blushing the way he was.

Rebecca gestured at him with his empty cup in hand. “Don’t stress, Steve from New York. You’re on Caribbean time now. ‘Eaze and breeze’.” Her voice picked up the lilt of the island accent there at the end, and she sauntered back across the parlor to hand Steve’s glass over to the barkeep to be refilled. 

Steve felt glued in place until she returned with yet another helping of rum, which he was sure he didn’t need. “Thank you,” he managed, sipping it only to be polite. Between his previous three rounds and the thinly-veiled obscenity of the atmosphere, he felt drunk already. Luckily, Miss Rebecca seemed to understand his discomfort and soon left him alone, though not without giving him one last wink and a pointed nod in the direction of her company of girls. 

Steve wilted, watching as she went about that parlor and the next, stopping to chat with different groups of gentlemen—some with girls in their laps, and some without—never staying in one place for long. Steve felt foolish for not having realized her as the madame that she clearly was. It was so obvious now, as he watched her in the dance of the room and its ladies. She was the prima ballerina in a sea of coryphées.

After some time had passed, Steve felt himself quite literally falling asleep in his chair. Dear lord, he needed to go to bed. He abandoned his cup and stood, heading back out towards the main lobby. Tomorrow would be a productive day, he resolved as he went up to his room. He could start on what he’d come out here to do in the first place, not sit around bawdyhouse parlors making a fool of himself. 

He’d just turned at the top of the stair when he caught sight of Rebecca again. It was dark and she didn’t see him, facing the other way. But the gentleman with her did. It was that same man with whom she’d been speaking before, downstairs when Steve first arrived with M'baku. 

Steve gulped and stood very still, not wanting to be noticed and drawn into conversation. The man seemed to know this, as he smirked secretively in Steve’s direction but continued on in his murmured conversation with Rebecca. The two of them stood just outside one of the doors of the long upstairs hallway, and Steve pressed himself back against the wall in an attempt to be unobtrusive.

If the fellow was going to pay to spend the night with her, why didn’t he just get on with it already? They remained there speaking for long enough that Steve had ample time to appreciate the man’s features all over again. He was as tall as Steve, which was in itself uncommon, with a straight nose and shapely lips, not to mention a strong, unshaven jaw that all but had Steve’s mouth watering in a way that he was loath to admit. He held his breath as he was shot another leer from over Rebecca’s shoulder. If Steve didn’t know any better, he’dve said the man seemed almost amused at him.

The man bent to kiss Rebecca on her cheek. He took her hand and opened the door to the room, leading her through before himself. And when he turned to close it from the other side, he paused and stared long enough to make Steve’s blood stir, before shutting himself away behind the wood. 

Steve was left feeling unsettled, and not sure that he’d entirely imagined the heated look in the other man’s eye. This fellow, he surmised, must be one of the ‘rare gentlemen’ who merited invitation into Miss Rebecca’s private quarters.

Steve put himself to bed hastily that night, aroused and frustrated as to the cause of it. And despite his long-held resolve to never touch himself to the thought of another man, he was soon reminded that even he couldn’t control what things crept into his dreams.

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🌚 Fem Fridays 🌚

Girls Play Quidditch Too (Marlene centric)

Marlene is sick and tired of this shit. Always second best to every man, boy, wanker, just because she’s a girl. 

Growing up at home with three older brothers was never easy. Everything’s always a competition, she’s always trying to prove herself, to be recognised as something wonderful just like them. 

Every time she does anything remotely cool, everyone always coos at her and suspects she’s just trying to be like her older brothers. And it’s not fair. Nothings fucking fair. Everything they do will always be better because they’re boys. Men always have a leg up in this stupid world, and Marlene thinks that’s utter cow-shit. 

Here she is, age thirteen, teeth bared, and hungry for blood. 

Quidditch try outs. 

Last year she didn’t make the team because her stupid fucking brother was captain and “didn’t think she has what it takes”. And he had the “evidence” to back that up, because he stuck her on goal keep. She was twelve and tiny and he stuck her on goal keep when she was trying out to be a beater, because he didn’t want his little sister on the team. She hates her stupid brother. 

But Nick isn’t on the team anymore, he’s finished school now, and the captain is just some random Gryffindor. She doesn’t really care where she gets put on the team, so long as she gets on it, even though she’d prefer beater. She’s nasty with that bat. 

All she has to do is beat one of the other beaters on the team and it’s all smooth sailing from there out. Her competition today is a second year named Thomas Yates who looks like he might shit his pants the next time someone talks too loud, that stupid wanker Sirius Black who keeps flirting with Mary, and Marcus; her fifteen year old brother. 

She can’t wait to take him down. 

Marlene looks around the pitch, assessing the team so far. A bunch of boys aren’t even taking this seriously, but they’re all already on the team, so she suspects that’s why. 

There’s one thing she notices though, one thing she doesn't like at all. 

She’s the only girl. 

“Are you lost?” Fredrick, the new captain, said, looking down at her over his clipboard. He’s very tall, and very skinny, and Marlene already doesn’t like him. He has a stupid mustache that he clearly can’t grow any thicker. 

“Nope.” She said, glaring at him. 

Fredrick laughed, “Sweetie, this isn’t makeup club.” 

Marlene smeared at him, “Obviously. I’m here to try for beater.”

“Beater?” Fredrick asked, and he, and all his mates behind him began to snicker and laugh, “Not worth it. You’ll never make the team, look at yourself, you’re tiny. Besides, we don’t want a stupid little girl on the team.”

“I’m not a stupid little girl, you wanker!” She spat, stomping down on his foot, making him cry out in pain before storming off over to the pack of younger boys. With her approach, they all went quiet. She glared at them all. 

With a quirk of her eyebrow and a stupid, smug smirk, Sirius spoke in his posh little accent, “McKinnon… trying out?”

“Yeah.” She shrugged, twisting her broom beside her, “I’m going for beater.”

Sirius laughed, “Ooh, against me and your brother?” He shook his head, “I reckon Yates’ got a better chance than you.”

“You sure about that, Black?”

Sirius shrugged, up on his high horse, “Well… yeah. Look at you.” 

“Willing to bet on it?” She asked, raising an eyebrow in challenge. 

With a snicker, Sirius nodded, “Why not. If you make the team, I’ll give you ten galleons, if you don’t make it, you give me twenty.” 

What. A. Prick. 

“Deal.” Marlene said, sticking her hand out to shake. Sirius shook it, his hand so much bigger than her own. But that didn’t deter her, boys have such stupid ideals about what makes you good at things. They think they’re better beaters than her because they’re bigger, stronger, better simply because they’re men. But Marlene’s more agile, she’s ridiculously fast and her aim is near perfect already. She puts in the work, training whenever the pitch is free. She’s determined to prove herself. To prove them all wrong. 

They all take to the sky, broken up into teams of red versus yellow. Marlene’s playing red, saddled up beside Black, which is perfect. This way she can prove she’s better than him by hitting more bludgers, and she can go ham on her brother on the opposite team. She can’t wait to beat him, honestly. She can already feel the victory. 

Fredrick blew the whistle, sitting off to the side on his broom to watch and take notes. And Marlene thanks Mary for tying this great big red bow into her braid this morning, it’s sure to keep his attention. 

They were off, zipping around the pitch and playing. Marlene hit the bludger hard, managing to stop it from flying right into Potter's head and straight towards her brother. He barely dodged it in time. 

“Fuck!” He screeched, gripping onto his broom for dear life, looking at her all the way on the other side of the pitch. 

“Watch out, Marcus, bludgers are dangerous! Are you sure you’re equipped for this?”

“Bloody hell.” She heard Potter snicker from behind, “I reckon you’re out ten galleons, Sirius.”

“Shit.” 

Marlene laughed and was off again, diving for a bludger as it shot straight towards the seekers head.  

The game went on and Marlene played ruthlessly, sending bludger after bludger straight at her brother, keeping him on his toes. It only serves him right after all these years he’s spent picking on Marlene for being so small. And he always gets away with it, their mum just says “oh, boys will be boys, Marlene, it’s only in their nature.”. Sometimes she wants to stomp on her mum's foot too, but she knows she’ll get in big trouble if she does that. 

Black is pretty fast, and pretty strong, so his hits fly faster, are harder. But he doesn’t have her agility, and certainly not her aim. She reckons, out of all her options, Black would be the best teammate. Poor Thomas hasn’t gotten very involved at all, shies away from bludgers when they shoot his way, so Marlene knows he won’t make the team. Honestly, he’d probably prefer that outcome by the looks of things. 

Her brother, on the other hand, is playing pretty tough too. He’s clearly a little shocked by Marlene’s abilities and is determined to be better than her. Marlene is not a very cocky person, but she’s certain she’s doing better than her brother. She’s definitely getting on the team. 

Back on the ground, Potter was giving her shoulder a good jostle, keen to keep playing beside her. James is a very quidditch focused lad, she’s come to notice. It’s pretty much all he talks about, besides Lily Evans, so she knows he’s thinking strategically more than anything else. He wants her on the team because having her there will bump up their chances for a win. Marlene is pretty chuffed with that. 

Black seems to be dreading handing over his ten galleons. 

“Right, now the beaters.” Fredrick says, announcing who has, and hasn’t made the team this year, reading from his clipboard, “Black, you’re safe, McKinnon- Marcus, you’re safe… And welcome to the team Yates!”

Marlene’s smile dropped. 

“Right, that’s that. See all of you who made it at training tomorrow, the rest of you, see ya!”

She didn’t… No, no this can’t be right. There must be some mistake. She can’t have this, it’s…

She storms over to Fredrick, stopping him in his tracks, “Oi, what about me?”

“What about you?” He asked, glaring down at her. 

“I’m on the team, right?”

“Did you hear me call your name? Don’t think so, sorry. Better luck next time.”

Marlene is furious. “Why? Why aren’t I on the team?”

Fredrick looked around and leant down to whisper, “No one wants a stupid girl on their team, do they? Now fuck off.”

♢♤♡♧

Marlene practically busted down McGonagall's door with how aggressively she was knocking on it. Her fist slammed into the wood, over and over and over until the door swung open and she was met with the professor's scowl. “Miss McKinnon, what can I do for you that is so urgent that you feel the need to break down my door?”  

“They won’t let me on the team cause I’m a girl.”

“Now, that’s a rather heavy accusation to throw-“

“It’s true Miss.” Mary backed up, “We watched the whole thing.”

“Yeah, she was better than half those blokes!” Lily agreed. 

“It’s sexist.” Mary nodded. 

“Really misogynistic, Professor.”

“It’s fucking stupid.” Marlene added. 

“Miss McKinnon, watch your language.”

“It happened last year, my brother didn’t let me on the team. I told you how he set it all up and everything. But Fredrick didn’t get clever about this, I proved I was good. Ask anyone… except maybe my brother. Ask Yates!”

“Yeah, he made the team and he was proper useless.” Mary said.

“Miss McDonald.” McGonagall tutted before taking a heavy sigh, “Yes, well, there hasn’t been a female on the Gryffindor team in nearly twelve years. I’m not surprised to say the least, however Fredrick is the captain and has the overall say. Unless there is evidence that he has malicious intent I can not intervene.” 

“But Miss!”

“Now, now, Marlene. I’m sorry, but I really cannot get involved, I haven’t the jurisdiction. I can’t tell you that all you’ll need to fight this would be a simple petition signed by majority of the team requesting your recruitment. I’m simply not allowed to get involved.” She said with a little smile, “Now, I have essays to mark, good day, Marlene.” She said and shut the door. 

“Brilliant!” Marlene grinned, and the girls set off on their mission. 

Mary drew up the petition, used nice colours and everything. Real proper looking, and everything. They headed straight for the Great Hall, since it was lunchtime now and the quidditch players surely would be eating their fill. Marlene was quite hungry herself after all that, but she had priorities. 

Her first stop was Potter and Black. 

“Oi, McKinnon, shit luck.” Sirius grinned. 

“Hey, leave it. She did good, I think it’s bollocks you didn’t make the team.” Potter said.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Black nodded, “Honestly, I’m willing to call off the bet, you should have made it.”

“If you really think so,” Marlene grinned, slamming the petition down between them, “Sign this. I swear I’ll keep the bludgers as far away from you as possible, Potter, secure your path straight to the goals.” 

“What’s this?” He asked, peering over the page.

“A petition to get me on the team. Imagine it, Black, we played so well together. I’m better than my stupid brother and you know it.”

“A lot faster, that’s for sure.” Sirius nodded.

“It’d be nice to have a girl on the team, new perspective and all.” James shrugged, “Plus, we’re the only team without one, we’d be able to even out the competition, it’s not really fair, otherwise. Girls are a lot smarter than us, no wonder we never win.”

“No, we never win because you’re always trying to show off.” Sirius retorted with a snicker. 

“Just sign it, will you?” Marlene sighed. 

James shrugged, taking the quill to write his name, ”How many do you need?”

“Most of the team.” She said, "A few of you will be easy, it’s the older ones I’ll have a problem with.”

“I reckon Yates will sign it, easy.” Sirius said, taking the quill from James to sign it himself, “I don’t think he actually wanted to make the team, he was just trying out because his dads crazy about quidditch.” 

“The older ones will be harder to persuade, they’re all friends with your brother and he chats a lot of shit about you, I mean, some of the stuff he said after practice today was really rude-“

“Shut up, James.” Sirius hissed, “Don’t hurt her feelings.”

Marlene rolled her eyes, “Oh, ease up, I know he hates me because I’m better than him. He’s so insecure.” 

“Sorry.” James winced. 

“Maybe you could help?” Mary suggested, and Marlene was about to butt in and shut her up, she’s capable of doing this herself. She wants to do this herself. Mary lent down, right into Sirius’ space and locked eyes with him, “Come on, Black, help her out. Get the other blokes to sign it and let her on the team, and if she makes it, I’ll give you a snog.”

“Mary!” Lily gasped.

“Oh, it’s just one snog, no big deal.“ Mary grinned. “I’ll probably give him one eventually anyway.”

Maybe their help wouldn’t be the worst, Marlene thought. Boys did tend to listen to boys more, and if she gets on the team, she can prove to them that she’s totally worth it. That girls are worth it. Maybe, if she makes the team, other girls will want to join too. That would be pretty cool, Marlene thinks. 

“Yeah, come on, I heard you talking about your dumb snogging competition today, you’ll win.” Marlene said. 

Sirius was quick to agree, “Absolutely, I’m in!”

“No!” James gasped, “Lily, snog me, it’s an emergency!”

“Absolutely not.” Lily shook her head, “But it would be cool of you if you helped. It would be so nice of you…” She said, strategically curling her hair around a finger. 

James went bright red, nodding his head, “Y-yeah, absolutely. Yes, I’m- of course. I just wanna help Marlene, you know, she deserves a spot on the team, I totally agree. Definitely.” He said, trying to act all heroic and nonchalant. 

Marlene rolled her eyes. Honestly, boys are so daft. 

“Wow, that’s so cool of you, James.” Lily continued.

“Yeah…” James replied, shrugging, clearly trying to hide how bashful he was, “That’s me, you know? Cool, I’m cool. So cool, just… cool and-“

“I think they get it, James.” Sirius said, monotonous, “Wanna tell them how cool you are again, cool boy?”

“Shove off.” James mumbled, a little embarrassed. 

“Go on.” Mary said, literally shooing them away, “You have things to do. Go do them.” 

James and Sirius scrambled to do as they were told, both eager to impress the girls and inflate their egos a little more. Marlene will never underhand boys, she thinks. They’re all so dimwitted and girl crazy. 

Over the rest of the afternoon, Marlene managed to rack up enough signatures, thanks to the help of James and Sirius convincing a handful of the older boys to sign. Merlin knows how they managed that, but Marlene suspects foul play, James and Sirius are known to get up to no good. 

This doesn’t bother Marlene though, she’s just chaffed she’s got enough signatures. Mary, Lily and herself managed to nab the majority of them, wandering the castle and hunting down the younger, nicer, more alone and easier to intimidate Gryffindor players, so she’s rather proud she's done most of it herself. She did think it was very smart of Mary and Lily to use the boys' crushes on them to their advantage. Marlene wonders how easy it would be to make boys do anything if you promised them a snog or something. Though, Marlene doesn’t think she’ll ever put that to the test. Even if some boy finds himself attracted to her, rather than repulsed by how boyish she is, she would never promise them a snog. 

She really doesn’t understand Mary’s desire to put her mouth anywhere near one of those things. Marlene suspects it’s because she doesn’t have any brothers. 

The three of them marched their way back to McGonagall's office, declaring the petition with a wide grin. Fixing the little specs on her face, Minerva reads it over before giving Marlene a rather proud smile. 

“Give me one moment, girls.” She says before shutting the door in their faces. 

They wait in anticipation, Marlene’s nerves radiating off her like some nuclear fuse, spreading onto Mary and Lily, who are now buzzing with anxieties of their own. When their Professor steps back out, she requests Marlene’s follow behind, so the three of them race right after her. They approach Fredrick in the courtyard, and Marlene puffs out her chest proudly. 

“Mr. Fredrick,” McGonagall says, handing the petition over to him, “If you have any further issues, you may take them up privately with me, in my office. If you have such a severe issue with Miss McKinnon here being on the team, perhaps we should have a chat about finding a new captain for the season. You know where to find me, good day.” She said, and off she went. 

Marcus snatched the petition from Fredrick, snarling down at his little sister. 

Proudly, Marlene stuck her hands on her hips and grinned, “What’s the problem, Marc? Are you and your mates here intimidated by a little girl?” And with that, she turned to walk away, “See you at practice tomorrow.”

Marlene felt pretty fucking good when one year later, five whole girls came to try out for the team. She couldn’t wait to make captain one day, that’ll really show them. 

[the-bar-sinister]

Bright and All-Consuming (3710 words) by VickytheSnake, thesavagesabretooth Chapters: 1/1 Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Bartolomeo/Cavendish (One Piece), Basil Hawkins/Eustass Kid Characters: Cavendish (One Piece), Bartolomeo (One Piece), Eustass Kid, Killer (One Piece), Basil Hawkins, O-Kiku (One Piece), O-Tama (One Piece), Speed (One Piece)

Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, pirates acting like pirates, Established Relationship, Missing Scene, Minor Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Revenge, Character Study, Aftermath of Violence Summary: Soon after everyone's departed Wano, Bartolomeo and Cavendish run across the wreckage of the Victoria Punk and chase down the marines that have Kid and his crew in custody.

Reeling and raging from the sharp, sudden loss of ship and crew, the remaining Kid Pirates come together, and Basil Hawkins reaffirms his loyalty to his new captain as they figure out where to go next.

Whatever happens, none of them are giving up.

-

Cavendish stood on the prow of the ship, the sea breeze whipping through his gorgeous blond ringlets as he held his hat in his hand. It was a gorgeous day, clear skies and fair winds, and the Sleeping White Horse, carrying his and his recent co-captain's combined crews, cut a gorgeous path through the gleaming, jewel-like blue waters of the New World. They had been exploring the local waters for the past several weeks while Luffy– Emperor Luffy now– was busy with his adventure on Wano, and now that they'd heard word that he was setting sail further into the grand line,so too had they in his wake.

And it was all going beautifully, Cavendish thought with a beautiful smile.

Except for that huge plume of black smoke on the horizon.

The blight on the otherwise perfect skyline twisted and rose into the sky like an obsidian snake, blotting out the blue of the sea and sky. He heard the footsteps of his co-captain clomping behind him, heavy boots against the treated wood before he leaned heavily on the banister beside him.

"What the fuck is all that?" Bartolomeo's tone was as loud and brazen as ever as he squinted out at the smoke. "Think Emperor Luffy sank some idiot? No— we woulda seen his ship if it was him." 

Cavendish nodded, putting his hat back on and looking up at his tall companion's striking–if not beautiful– face. "We would have! Shall we come around and get a better look at the scene? Or steer clear of it."

Barto's piercings were catching the light, and his long fangs were bared in the confused curl of his lips as he scratched the back of his strikingly verdant head.

"Eugh…we don't exactly have the time to be checking on every poor sap who falls into the drink, Cav. But…" he squinted again at the curling smoke. "It looks pretty bad. Hell, worse comes to worse nobody's alive, right? And we can grab whatever supplies they left." 

Cavendish grinned and hooked his pinkie finger through Barto's nose ring, tugging on it gently. "Oooh, you're so mercenary, Barto. But I'll admit I was thinking much the same thing. Besides, if there's trouble, we'll want to know, eh?"

Barto wobbled on his feet, and Cavendish was treated to the hot flush across his face as he grinned widely, baring his uncanny teeth as he laughed. 

"Of course you were, prettyboy! You're as much a mercenary as I am, ya know!" He chuckled under his breath. "And if it's real trouble, yeah… we'd better make sure it ain't gonna interfere with anythin'." 

Cavendish tugged on him again with great satisfaction before letting him go. "Good boy. Have the crew bring us around!"

That brought an indignant and delightfully flustered huff from the man as he stuck his hands in his long coat's pockets with a lopsided grin. "Yeah, yeah. You keep prettying up the prow like a figurehead, I'll get 'em going."

As he walked off with his strangely birdlike gait, he hollered to the men to start bringing the crew about. 

–

With the mainsail broad, and a good, steady wind they made it within telescope sight of the wreck within the hour. There were great chunks of a familiar ship floating in the sea when Barto peered through his glass.

The unmistakable Victoria Punk.

And the ghastly wreck wasn't the only ship in view. A hulking marine vessel– itself smoking and the worse for wear– was sailing away from its ruined prey.

Bartolomeo hissed softly between his teeth as his eyes traced the marine vessel— one of the Navy's battleships, clearly. The sorts that rolled in and blew entire islands to rubble. Still, the idea that it could decimate the hell out of the VICTORIA PUNK of all ships.

Kid was a monster, a brutal sonofabitch who seemed to walk out of any fight he stepped into with a grin.

But he sure wasn't walking out of this one smilin', that was for sure.

"Son of a bitch, it's Kid's ship. You've gotta be kiddin' me…the Navy did this?" 

Cavendish popped up under Barto's shoulder, wide eyed and angry look on his too-pretty face. "What did you say? Kid's ship? The navy?"

"Yeah!" Bartolomeo almost growled as he leaned on the railing and handed the spyglass to Cavendish. "It's unmistakable. I'd recognize that skull anywhere. That's Eustass Kid's 'Victoria Punk'.., and that's absolutely the fucking Navy. Wounded, but— shit, they somehow WON." 

The prince-pirate's eyes flashed dangerously with a look of bloodlust. "Wounded, you say? And I'd wager that it's a highly ranked ship?"

Barto's heart beat faster as he leaned over the bannister. "Oh yeah, Cav. That's a warship. That's one of the ones they use for serious shit. They brought one to Dressrosa, remember?" 

Cav's smile took on an uncanny, toothy nature. "So I do. Why not take advantage of wounded prey then, eh? Maybe rescue a few fellow pirates as a bonus. But I would love to take down a warship."

Bartolomeo glanced at his co-captain's increasingly unhinged smile. He found himself grinning widely in response. 

It was kind of hot when that bloodlust crazed alter-ego of his bubbled to the surface. Real hot, even, when he pictured the 'prince' covered in blood and cackling. This was going to get REAL FUN , REAL FAST.

He rolled up his sleeves and pointed to the Navy ship with his foot up on the bannister and a wicked grin of his own "All men! Open fire on the Navy and bring us into close contact! Let's butcher ourselves some marines!" 

Cavendish— Hakuba— drew his sword and cackled.

-

They were all in sea-stone shackles in the navy's brig when the ship rocked powerfully– first once. Then a second time.

It sent Otama falling, too weak to stop herself as she rocked into O-Kiku with a gasp, caught by the only woman not weakened by the cuffs to the point of exhaustion.

It'd been terrifying. One moment they were sailing along, she'd been talking to her new captain and trying to show him the latest ninjitsu art she'd mastered— and the next, the next moment the world was on fire.

Shells exploded, splinters showered her face, and the world grew hot as a ship the size of a castle fired upon them from a distance Otama would have once called impossible. They hardly had a chance to fight, even as Hawkins attempted to use his strange devil fruit's powers to intercept the shells with straw, and her captain attempted to with the power of 'magnetism'.

It was as good a fight as they could manage, especially when the Marines were close enough to board. Swords clashed, powers flared— Otama tried her best to be useful to her new crew with her kunai and ninjitsu, only to be grabbed and beaten by a heavy handed man in a coat reading 'Absolute Justice'. 

The Victoria Punk was sinking, the crew was slaughtered, and those deemed important enough were dragged off into the brig and slapped in cuffs. 

Otama wasn't sure exactly why she'd been spared.

O-Kiku squeezed her, and used her limited range of movement to ease her back into a sitting position.

"There, there…" she murmured soothingly before looking up at the ceiling. "it appears the 'marines' are encountering difficulties."

Speed hissed softly through her teeth. "If it weren't for these cuffs I'd be given' them a few more." 

"Be ready for anything," Kid warned, sneering. "And use it to your advantage."

The captain's eyes were flaming, though he looked small, and rather wretched without his metal arm, and with his face covered in bloody streaks.

More cannon shots— they could only be cannon shots— slammed against the hull of the ship, and all of the men who had been left to guard them scurried up on deck leaving them alone.

Hawkins, his own stump raw and bleeding again with the re-opening of his wounds, smiled grimly. "The cards are in our favor…we have only a 10% chance of death in this affair."

"That's reassuring!" Otama managed to smile, despite the fresh wounds dotting her body. Her throat hurt, dark bruises around her neck from the marine's grip when he caught her. Everything hurt.

O-Kiku— the only non-devil fruit user among them now— flexed her fingers in her cuffs "I am not weakened. If the door opens, I shall bludgeon any who dare check on us with my cuffs and steal the keys for you." 

"Good." Kid's eyes searched the room, looking for anything they could use to their advantage.

That was when a high, echoing laugh— a cackle— cut through the sounds of chaos. The clang of swords rang closer and closer from down the stairs to the deck.

Otama froze, her eyes widening as she glanced at Speed.

 "What— what is that?"

"...someone having a good time?" Speed offered with a half smile. "Hopefully they're on our side." 

A beautiful blond face, covered in blood and looking utterly deranged peeked in the room just as a navy man fell dead at their feet.

Otama's eyes widened further. "A-Akuma…" she whispered to O-Kiku's curious 'hmm'. 

Some of the twisted fervor went out of his smile as he said, "Kid and crew, I presume? How about a little vengeance? My partner's holding the admiral back, for the moment, up on deck."

Hawkins closed his eyes with a sliver of a smile "I personally would be delighted for a little vengeance."

Speed glanced over at Kid with a wide grin, as O-Kiku shifted to hold her cuffed hands up towards the door.

"I think we should go for it, Captain— I'm itching for a little payback."

Otama had to agree. Her body hurt, she felt angry and humiliated, and the pirate part of her wanted very, very much to give a little of that back to the marines. 

With difficulty, Kid pushed himself to his feet alongside the silent Killer, he and smiled a smile almost as terrible as the one on their savior. 

"Let's paint these marines red."

-

It was one thing for Admiral Ryokugyu to have taken them by surprise and torn their ship apart when they could barely respond.

It was another thing entirely for him and his marines to try to take them on already wounded from the battle themselves, with a full crew of pirates, and more than half a dozen devil fruit users loose on the ship.

It was a brutal, chaotic battle. They made good, blood for blood, for the crewmen who had been lost. For Heat, and Wire who had been with them for so long, and for the rest. The deck of the warship ran red, and Eustass Kid's new arm was fashioned from marine guns and swords, and metal pieces of hull. It slammed, and smashed and splattered screaming marines as the pirates wrecked the navy at their own game.

In the end, it was Ryokugyu in sea-stone irons, crawling on his belly on the deck, his glasses smashed. 

Kid stood with the two captains from the garish ship that had rescued them, with his foot on the admiral's back.

"I'm gonna kill him," he declared, pressing his boot down hard. 

Cavendish's face contorted. "Hold on— there's a bounty on him. Barto, is he worth more alive?"

Nearby, O-Kiku cleaned her shining blade on a marine captain's coat, wiping the blood from it as she looked down at him through the glaring eyes of her demonic mask. "What is this talk of 'bounties'?"

Barto rubbed his chin, looking down at Ryokugyu thoughtfully. "Not that I know of. But you know those Cross Guild fellas. Someone there might have a grudge to settle and be willing to pay a little extra for it."

Otama walked over, her kimono tattered and her eyes glowering in anger, and kicked the back of Ryokugyu's head to smash him and his glasses one more time into the deck. "S-stop trying to wiggle away! Asshole!" 

She'd come at him with a bomb during the fight, using some 'substitution' trick of the ninja to blow part of the man's plant-armor away enough for the rest of them to rush in.

"We've got a grudge against him," Kid growled. At his side, Killer grunted tacitly agreeing. His new zoan-fruit tusks ran red with blood, and Kid thought it was a good look. "He killed men who've been sailing at our side for years."

Cavendish sneered. "Then if he's worth as much dead as alive, I'd say that makes him worth more dead, then."

On the ground, the admiral squirmed pathetically as Otama kicked him.

Hawkins drifted in from below deck, a massive lurching monster of blood-stained straw and nails, and loomed over with a low hiss of breath. "best not take the risk of him wriggling away. The chances are in our favor if we kill him now."

Speed's hoof clopped against the ground, blood running down her own face from the crimson-stained spiral horn jutting from her forehead "I say we let our captain do the honors…unless he wants this to be a group activity."

Barto held his hands up, a grin on his face. "Agreed. One less admiral is a DAMN good deal. Especially a chump like this!"

Otama kicked him again. 

Kid grinned widely. "Then let's do this. All we need is for the head to be recognizable."

The look of terror was the last expression on the admiral's face.

-

They had butchered the admiral and the rest of his men, and put the warship to the torch. Killer stood on the deck of the ship that had rescued them— a ridiculous thing with a unicorn figurehead— and looked out at the small amount of remains of the Victoria Punk that were still visible.

"After all that," he said thickly, thinking of Wano. "After all that, she's gone and they're dead anyway."

O-Kiku stood beside him, her hand upon her sword at her side and her mask still lowered over her face.

She nodded once, and her off-hand reached out to pat his shoulder. "I know. It's a tremendous loss…your ship, your men. Thi– I'm sorry I could not do more to protect them alongside you."

He shook his head. "You did everything you could. I'm glad you were there."

It was little surprise that it was their 'new recruits' who had survived in the end. And if they hadn't been there? It could have been a total disaster. Killer and his captain might have been at the bottom of the ocean too.

It just wasn't fair. Heat, and Wire. All the rest. They'd been with them a long time.

"I'm pleased I could be there too, but…" Her fingers tightened against her sword's grip. "Your men deserved better. I hope you won't mind if I say a prayer for them…?" 

He shook his head. He didn't mind. He sure wasn't going to say one, but—

"I don't mind. None of us… are good men. But they were my friends."

She laughed softly, and without joy. 

"I feel that is the important thing. What makes a 'good man'? They were your friends; they had an honor of their own. And they'll live on in one form or another. The spirits of warriors always do." She closed her eyes, clapping her hands together and whispering softly under her breath as the remnants of his beloved ship floated among the waves and sank into the churning sea. 

Killer closed his eyes too, and leaned on the rail, watching the wreckage and thinking back to the day they'd set sail.

Would they have regretted it, if they knew how it would end? He didn't think so.

"The spirits of warriors live on," he repeated. 

If nothing else, they'd carry them forward. The captain was already talking to their rescuers about plans.

O-Kiku finished, a soft prayer on the strength of a warrior's soul lingering as it drifted from behind her mask, and she straightened up.

"They do. In many ways, Killer. In memories, in others, in their weapons, or their wishes. Or on to their next life— reborn to fight again." 

"Yeah." He was aware of the thick sound at the back of his throat. He'd done so much to try to keep them all from harm. In the end it was a zero sum game. But he'd make it count, and he'd remember them. "That's good to remember. Thanks."

O-Kiku bowed her head to him as her fingers returned to the blade at her side.

"Of course. It's something I myself have to remember, for my brother." She grabbed his shoulder again. "I did not know them well, but we've already gotten a start on vengeance for you, Killer. You will have my blade for all further blood that must spill in atonement." 

Killer put his hand on her back in return and nodded. 

"I'm sorry you didn't have longer to get to know them. But we've spilled a lot of blood for them already— and there'll be more, I know it. Captain's not going to give up just because we lost…"

Everything.

The ship. The whole crew minus the handful of them. They lost everything.

"He won't give up," Killer repeated firmly.

O-Kiku chuckled softly. "That may be the thing that drew me to ask to join his crew. He isn't a man who'll give up in the face of despair." 

"Damn right. And we'll follow his example, eh?" He slung his arm fully over her shoulder.

The former samurai leaned down and against his shoulder with a nod, finally pushing her mask up and out of her face to smile at him. 

"Without hesitation, Killer." 

-

Basil Hawkins felt— dreadful, really. The loss of his new captain's ship, so like his own loss months ago, combined with the brutal loss at the Marines' hands had not done wonders for morale.

But the shadow of death was never on any of the surviving cadre, and they'd been rescued by familiar faces to the New World. The 'pirate prince' and Barto the terror. And in said rescue they'd killed a naval Admiral and removed his head to put on ice for the trip to Cross Guild for his bounty.

A sweet revenge but it did little to ease the lingering anger. He worked with straw, forming shapes and dolls with it as it wound through his body, and sighed softly. He did not know them well, Kid's crew.

But he knew the lance of loss better than anyone. 

He heard stomping boots across the deck behind him that could only belong to one person, though he didn't announce himself.

One of Basil's dolls turned instead of him as he shifted against the chair. "Hello, Captain Kid." 

"What the hell are you doing, Hawkins?" Kid growled. He drew up behind him, leaning over his shoulder as Basil remained with his back to him.

Basil finally half turned, the dolls hanging off his arms as he held them out. "I'm working on dolls. I'll likely keep them in my body until we face a proper target for me to latch them onto. But for the moment it's keeping my mind occupied." 

"Freaky fucking hobby," Kid drawled. There was a twitch at the edge of his lips though— a shred of amusement? Even that tiny amount would be a surprise after the day Kid had had.

"I've been told," Basil smiled wryly as he stood, and the dolls burrowed their way into the straw of his arm. "But I think you like it well enough. I'll gift you one. As a present."

Kid snorted and rolled his eyes brushing off the offer and changing the subject. "We're sailing with the pretty boy and the ogre for now, until we can get another ship."

He tilted his head. "We're sailing with the famous 'pirate heel' and the pirate prince? Interesting— for very long, do you think?" 

Kid growled. "As short as I can fucking manage, that's for sure. I'm not a huge fan of sailing under another man's flag. Speaking of which…"

He gave Basil a speculative look.

Basil tilted his head to the side, examining Kid's expression. "I believe I know what you're wondering… but go on." 

"I want to know if you're still planning to sail with me after this… fucking diaster." Kid's weight was heavy against his back as he stood with his arm thrown over Basil's.

Basil leaned against him with a thoughtful hum. 

"While it's true I could sail under my own flag again…" he began. Faust, his beloved first mate, and his crew were dead. His ship, tailored to their shared tastes, was sunk. His flag burned away in the disgrace of defeat. "I'm still rather curious to see what sailing under you holds in store. Even with this disaster muddling the cards." 

"Wouldn't blame you if you were going to leave." Eustass' hand found his own, and his fingers closed around it. "But I'm glad you're not planning on it."

Basil squeezed his hand tightly as one of the dolls trotted along to hang off of Eustass' elbow, looking up at him with a half smile. "Quite the opposite. I've hitched myself to your star, I'll be with you as we recover from this mess and beyond." 

Kid's narrow eyes followed the doll, then his gaze returned to Basil's face and he smiled grimly. "I'll happily accept the vote of confidence, magician. We've been set back. But I'm going to keep rising as far as I can before I burn out. You and this lot with me."

Basil's fingers trailed against the pack of cards at his hip, his other hand still squeezing against Kid's. He didn't need them at the moment to tell him what he already knew.

This star would rise higher, even with this cursed day upon them, and it would either illuminate the sky or burn out and fade to stardust.

He smiled grimly back up at him. "If we should burn out, let's burn out as what they called us." He chuckled under his breath. "As supernovas. Bright and all-consuming. But let also that time be a long way out, Captain Kid." 

[aaluminiumas]

See You Tomorrow

At any other time of day and week, St. Patrick’s would be overcrowded, but today, for some reason, no one showed up. Abandoned, shabby, and merely whitewashed, the church looked especially dilapidated and decrepit. How did they manage to live in such a ramshackle place? How did they grow used to the dull and stultifying landscapes enshrouding them every morning when they opened their eyes? How did they find the vivacity to arrange fairs and local competitions while he strove to impel himself to return to the island each time he visited the Vatican?

           He sighed and leaned back in the confessional, mentally asking for forgiveness. Someone had to do it, he reminded himself. You chose this path; no one forced you into a school of theology. Truth be told, he never doubted his vocation: since the death of his little sister, John struggled to find a purpose, and God seemed to be the perfect answer to all his aspirations. Lonely and confused, the boy rummaged in books, spoke to his parents, and tried to contemplate the situation by himself, but only the parish priest turned out to be competent enough to offer a decent explanation. It didn't mollify him at the time but granted the young man the necessary respite to resurface from his grief and get back to the daily routine. The salubrious effect of the conversation with the cleric lasted sufficiently long for John to make the decision that defined his entire life: the day Bishop Burke ordained him became one of the most memorable moments. John Pruitt, a mere fledgling without any decent experience, finally found his place within the confines of the church.

        Pruitt cast another glance at his watch. 7:30pm. Usually punctual, not a single congregation member turned up. It happened every once in a while. At first, John felt mildly offended and insecure: if his people refused to attend, that was his fault; he failed to deliver God's message and inspire his congregation. Judging by the example set by his role models at the seminary and in the Vatican, he felt he could not compare: his reasonings sounded lame, his wording lacked power and ethos, his tall frame, looming over the pulpit, might have created an impression of a hangman, rather than a compassionate guide, a shepherd, willing to bolster his sheep and help them discover the right way. When the initial stage of self-criticism came to a close, John realized that he was never the one to blame. Unlike residents of bigger cities, local dwellers dedicated all their time to work, as their lives naturally depended on it: women who worked at school or in a store could certainly not survive on their own, so they relied on their husbands, dealing with fishing and sailing. They would occasionally stop by and listen to the preachings when the weather threatened their boats, and the men felt robust enough—and bored enough—to socialize with their neighbors at St. Patrick's. Obviously, today, though cloudy, was a good day, and no one was eager to confess.

           At this, the priest smiled. Sins on Crockett were never too hideous: these were truly religious people who sometimes strayed and needed direction. Someone drank too much, others ate too much; a case of adultery was reported, and maybe the pious Keanes exaggerated the inadvertently exacerbating situation with the deteriorating morals, never admitting their own arrogance and a knack for gossip. But aren’t we all like this? Aren’t we all inclined to make wrong decisions and overindulge in minor temptations? Aren’t we all flawed human beings, more or less exposed to the imperfections of this world? Aren’t these problems, so pathetically commonplace and hackneyed, perennial and common for any diocese, regardless of location? In this case, he shouldn’t complain: at any rate, no one had confessed to a felony or a sin he would have a hard time to absolve.

           Pruitt looked at his watch once again, and, following the hand striking eight with his eyes, he reached for the stole to take it off. Suddenly, the man heard the light steps softly echoing in the empty church.

           His heart missed a beat. He knew exactly who was coming.

            The woman quietly stepped into the confessional, and the priest sensed an unfamiliar bout of frisson spreading across his body in a warm wave.

He couldn't see her face, of course, but by the rustling of her clothes, he understood that she knelt and folded her hands in a silent prayer. She seemed hesitant, and he didn't hurry her: after all, they had an eternity ahead of them, as no one was going to accidentally turn up this late in the evening. Usually, Pruitt would tenderly nudge parishioners, knowing that soon their confession would eventually trickle out through the lattice of the booth; with Mildred, he did no such thing.

In a few minutes, she finally spoke.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Millie whispered in a low voice. Pruitt envisioned her tiny frame, sloping shoulders and hands folded in prayer and pressed to the forehead. “I committed a mortal sin—” 

The man gave a start. What could she have done? This innocent woman, always smiling, always immensely kind and considerate? What did she consider a mortal sin? He almost bit his tongue, suppressing a weird urge to call her by name. 

 “I…” she paused, trying to find the right words, “I fell in love with a man I cannot be with.” 

Her words startled him further. Of all the people he had met, she might be the only one who deemed feelings to be a sin: even those who cheated on their spouses latched onto the thought that love was a blessing sent directly by God. A rudderless blessing, as one parishioner said; no matter how daunting it seems at the beginning, you eventually give in. John couldn't stifle a cackle that time, and now he was exposed to a completely different point of view. 

"But love's never a sin," John heard himself saying. "Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins... And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity... These are the verses that come to mind immediately, but there are many more." 

Millie paused, and he got an impression that it was stubborn taciturnity rather than that of acceptance. The priest didn't know the woman well, but from his short exchanges with her, he deduced that she hardly agreed with other dwellers on the island. An overt, outright rebellion would endanger her independence, so she remained affable, but it never meant she supported all the ideas voiced at local gatherings. She lived her simple life as the next man, creating an inner bubble of things she enjoyed. 

“Why do you think it's wrong to love a man?” 

She adjusted her dress and sighed. 

“Not any man. One particular man.” 

The priest felt tension growing, his mouth going dry for no reason whatsoever. He cleared his throat. 

“Is he married?” 

           Another pause. 

           “In a way.” 

  In a way. What does this even mean? Did she get seduced by a stranger from the outer world who deceived her and abandoned her after he satisfied his needs? 

Before he managed to contrive a decent answer, the woman continued, “Well, he’s… not married in the full sense of the word, but he’s sworn, too. Oath bound,” Millie said vaguely in a coarse voice. “And I do not know… I do not know how much longer I will be able to hide it. To pretend that everything’s fine.”

John contemplated it for a moment. He had heard a great deal of confessions, each scarier than the previous; he talked to his superiors at seminary, consulted them, discussed the entire topic, not sure how to behave around murderers and terrorists who decided to find their way to God; he mentally prepared himself for all types of complications, but this one was never on the list. The man couldn't deny his own curiosity and shame, his bizarre urge to see this woman's face and hear her calm voice, but her confession, so obvious in its honesty and candor literally pulled the floor out from under him. Was it possible that she—

 “Why…” he swallowed thickly, feeling the words sticking to the back of his throat, “Why won’t you tell him?” 

Millie seemed genuinely surprised, but when she replied, her voice sounded firm.  

 “I… it won’t do any good to either of us. I do not want to be the reason for his falling. Let me be the sinner.”

 “But you did not commit any mortal sin. Our emotions can be utterly illogical; sometimes we make decisions based on our speculations, and—”

“Thank you, Father.”

Mildred seemed to be putting a stop to his lengthy monologue, but she didn't leave immediately, and he didn't have the heart to send her away. Instead, they were just sitting there quietly, listening to the distant rumble of the upcoming storm, both reluctant to break the fragile connection forging between them: they could always pin the blame on the weather, if someone planned to question her late return. Would anyone plan to question her late return, though?.. He knew she lived alone as her mother had left for the mainland and her father had died, but was she involved in any kind of relationship? George Gunning attempted at courting her, but the only reaction he seemed to be receiving was a polite smile and a lemon pie she brought as a courtesy. She still smelled bakery, violets, and sea salt. A most fascinating combination of fragrances, especially to someone so used to frankincense…

The woman shifted slightly behind the lattice, and he heard a quiet sigh. She came here seeking validation and warmth, and he only managed to utter a few general words that probably did no good.

“Millie… Mildred,” he called softly after another long pause, suddenly going against all the formalities and regulations, implying that he be absolutely impartial. But what’s the point of playing this game when she already knew he was aware of who exactly knelt in the narrow compartment next to him? “Thank you for your honesty.”

He couldn’t see her, but he sensed a slight change: she shifted, or gave a start, or moved to hide her rosary that was knocking against wood. For some reason, he envisioned her caramel eyes staring directly at him.

“It takes a lot of a person to speak their heart out,” Pruitt started pensively, carefully choosing every word. “And I appreciate it that you trust me.” He paused for a moment. “I… am honored to be able to discuss it with you, even though I cannot say I have any expertise in the field of human relationships… Thank you, Mildred. You may be dismissed.”

She didn’t respond right away, as if she needed a moment to process his words. But when he finally heard her voice, he could make out a smile, which inevitably caused her face to appear in front of his mind’s eye: always cheerful, kind, and gentle, Millie waved her hand to attract his attention and invited him for tea. He rarely rejected: she eagerly listened to his endless stories, and was genuinely interested in history and art.

“No ‘your sins are forgiven, go in peace’?” she drawled in a soft voice, grin tugging at the corners of her lips.

“I’ll give you the absolution whenever you need it, but for now you don’t seem to have committed a sin,” he replied in the same lighthearted voice, feeling relieved. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

When the door behind her closed, father Pruitt leaned back in the confessional and thought that maybe—just maybe—he had made the wrong choice.

[siremasterlawrence]

Captain America & The Winter Soldier: Fair Play

Part 1

The pods clear glass cover pops open with steam ever flowing through into the cosmos my final stages emerge.

Four hands grab onto their respective sides of the pods pulling themselves upward out of the pods.

Night dawning his same costume with a few minor changes mixture of gold patterns his shot of royal blue now and hypno spiral on his chest.

Superman follows next standing tall with a ruby red cape attach to his cosmic blue and gold costume with a hypno spiral.

Deciding to test my theory I flip on switch as systems are a go my new global satellites are active for the world transformations.

Soon everyone will see things my way my alert system goes off, the screen pops on for my viewing pleasure.

“Uuuuhhhh…were you Master? Everything was dark my love.” Superman comes to my side.

“You are the first to wake up interesting.” I reply.

“Anything for you, Nightwing will join me at my side soon.” He says.

“There’s the other alert! Fantastic welcome back.”

“Yes My King”

“Your new names are Nightmare and Super Himbo.”

They sigh in ecstasy releasing the old them in of huff breath their last free will they smile in response.

The alarm goes off sending the stream into my screen Captain America lands on my roof in heroic fashion as always.

Super Himbo’s fist form slamming into the

table in front of him smashing it into two for all to see.

Clark’s eyes slow fill with fiery red lit color to its pupils leaving no doubt of allegiance to me.

A wicked smile covers his face walking over to me he kisses me tenderly my feet float over a shadow.

He promises to keep my safe flying off with Dick on guard he blocks me from making a run for it.

“You proved your loyalty to me by letting me control your body Dick”

“Clark crush him into a million pieces”

“With pleasure”

“On my way my king”

“Well well well! How quaint a Boy Scout. Are you here to sell cookies or to see me?”

“Superman? What are you doing here? I am

On a case.”

“So am I! One which only one of us will come on top and alive.”

“You have been compromised.”

“Freed is more like it.”

“From what?”

“The shackles of society “

“You fight for freedom not oppression “

“What is the life we live in if not oppression?”

“Freedom is a faint idea and I will show you how to truly get it.”

Clark flew off to face him summoning up a deep breath he uses his ice breath to blow Clark down.

Continuing on he freezes Steve upward from his feet to his neck in perfect like he is Night mares sign allegiance.

Steve will be his a burning bright ember of his loyalty and dedication to the man, the myth and legend.

“Master he is in processing now.”

“He will make a loyal soldier indeed”

“Don’t think Nightmare”

“Never as good as me.”

“Zip it Night Bitch and how howl elsewhere”

“I can believe I ever use to admire you Super cunt.”

The two go to blows while I map my next tiny plan to unfurl the world. I snap my fingers and they are in zombie mode again.

Part 2

Bucky Barnes is walking away from Sam the man Wilson for what he hopes is the last time on mission.

The Thunder Bolts are awaiting his arrival for their final missions together except on that bay.

It comes to heed their bodies lag life less like rag dolls on the floor a shadowy figure emerges from the darkness.

The figure stops letting his body lay on one of the wooden docks to hold the ships sails from departing.

The man I question had apple in his hand he would consistently toss and catch in the palm of his hand.

He tips peering down at it then looks up to be in eye line with Bucky who is left stunned and breathless.

“Hey Buck” the man says in a cool, super chill and confident tone.

“I know that voice…Steve” Bucky expression changes instinctively.

“Don’t be concerned Buck! I saved you from the riff raft punishing you.” Steve threw the half bitten apple in the ocean.

“You killed them” Bucky state’s horrified.

“So what? You want me to play a violin?”

“I can do a fake cry.”

“Let me guess you are thinking….what happen to me?”

“Where is my friend Steve?”

“I’ll answer them in order I am right here.”

“Two my Master Lawrence set me free and a blaze.”

“A rising phoenix from the ashes”

“It suits me well.”

Bucky freaks out jumping over a boat he is in a race for his life dashing through yards and homes.

Steve scuffs shaking his head chasing after him he thought his best friend was smarter than this.

Steve flips off the balcony of one house to land right in front of him in an epic stand off the two face off.

Bucky throws a double bunch left the right with a hook straight after and Steve blocks.

Steve rolls under grabbing under Bucks under arms holding him tight in place and forcing him on his knees.

He bends his arms tying them behind his back and leaves him on the ground in a victorious row he pumps his fist.

“Why Steve? You are hero…my hero”

“We are villains Bucky”

“I use to be just the same such a Boy Scout”

“It’s too bad you won’t willingly come”

“It would be easier and bring me such joy”

“I will gladly drag you kicking and screaming “

“Fuck You!”

“Kicking and screaming it is”

“Your funeral Bucky”

“Spitting in my face?”

“It’s what you earned”

“I tell you what I earned”

“My friend back”

“Bastard”

“Mwahahahahaha! Master is waiting on us”

The end

[ven-brekker]

The Waves’ Heir

“‘There is an ancient Suli saying that goes: “When the Waves’ Heir has crowned himself, the blood of the people shall roam no more.”… It is said, in ink and human story, that the son of the sea shall protect its waters in life and in death.’

I was so excited to take part in this year’s ( and last year’s?) GrishaVerse Reverse Mini-Bang! I got to do two pieces, and work alongside some amazing, very talented people! Speaking of, you should definitely check out the art upon which this fic is based as well as the other fic.

Materialki: @it-takes-acquired-minds (here)

Etherealki: @alonlyfangirl (here)

Full fic under the cut

When the waves rise gray and roar solemnly with storm, it is said that they are calling out for their heir who has yet returned home. It is said, in ink and human story, that the son of the sea shall protect its waters in life and in death. In southern tapestry, his hair flows the same blue as his blood. Up north, his body has the same inky scales known to the Sildroher. In the utmost west, his bronze skin can be formed to ice and rain. In the east, his skin is translucent, his fingers webbed and his head adorned with a living crown of ice, fire and impossible waves. His legacy is one of promise, and one of speculation.

In truth, human whispers cannot mimic the subtle speakings of water. If you ask the waves, they will tell you that their son is not blue of hair nor of blood, and that his body bears no scales, neither can it turn to water of solid or liquid at will. In fact, they may tell you that they do not have a son. Rather, that their heir is no more than a quiet woman, and that the same inky black rumor of her scales in fact flows through her hair, and that the bronze skin that turns to liquid is just simply bronze and flushed red by sun; that the crown upon her head lies, unmade, upon the deep sands of the True Sea, and that her ephemeral legacy is painted upon the seafoam and plastered across the heads of sailors.

The waves, however, have long since stopped responding to the questions asked of them by mortal men, who plague their surfaces with armor of groaning weight and fire of war; who turn the blue crystalline mirror of the horizon into a black and tarry poison. Stories, like many other things, become stuck in this surface of ink, and become unable to travel, or to be told.

There was a time, before, when the waves were not weary with whom they shared their stories, a time when the sands did not heave under the groaning weight of buoyant metal and gunned ships. This was a time of wood tainted with the scent of saline. A time of cloth sails that billowed in the wind, bearing sigils of great history and equal emotion.

One such sigil was that of the blue serpent. Its coiling seasnake bejeweled a deck that heaved under the weight of hefty boot and heftier gold. It carried more money than men; an army of treasure opposing a mere club of sailors.

It was wealth that, most of all, littered the masts and hull. The ship that bore the sigil featured various engravings of its symbol, serpents coiling around each mast until reaching sails of the finest quality. Even the bow of the boat could not escape the serpent’s wrath - a fine figurehead, sculpted in white and washed in blue, slithered in front of the ship, a warning to all those it approached.

The serpent, however, did not calm its fury for man. Below the main deck, in the damp hold that creaked with each rise and fall, laid the serpent’s real treasure: children. They came from all over, east and west of the True Sea. There were tall and short, dark and fair, boys and girls. Yet despite their variety, they all summoned a single likeness: there was darkness in their eyes. The child’s sparkle, the same one that the waves themselves often longed to see, had been thieved and replaced with a dull dimness that belonged to fear. In fear, the hold was silent. Not even shaky breaths nor sobs were risked, lest the serpent be disturbed and provoked to attack.

In truth, the serpent was nothing more than a sigil. His attacks and fury were not his own, but were instead that of the Serpent Captain - his true name long since lost upon the edge of a bloodied cutlass. He was more terrifying than a sea beast ever could be. He was huge, and incredibly strong, with a ruthlessness that manifested itself in the dark rims of his irises, the malicious coils of his oil-black hair and the veins that rose in his neck, upon which there was a vivid tattoo of his ship’s sigil, a serpent inked in deep blue that coiled up his carotid. For not only was he as merciless as a sea serpent, but he was as ugly as one too.

The waves have heard many tales of the Serpent Captain. He has ridden the True Sea for many years, coiling himself around the slaver trade and making illegal business in every country. It is said that the parents of taken children would hear a laugh, hoarse and guttural like that of a cawing gull, in the dead blackness of night, and then their child would be gone. The waves, of course, cannot reach the inland to say if this is true, and more can any of the children, for all who step off the ship have since been silent - or had.

The Serpent Captain imposed silence as a curse and punishment that he himself was the victor of - the dictator, and terrifying tyrant. He did not know that silence was also a weapon. It was a lesson the waves and Saints knew he would learn in good time.

As the serpent cruised southward, unnoticed alongside it rose a second, far humbler ship, whose masts were not adorned with extravagant engravings, nor was its tween deck privy to unfathomable spoils. It appeared from the ocean mist, as though materializing out of the spray of the True Sea itself, and rode with a grace that made it seem one with the water. It stayed steady, but most of all - silent.

It creaked in tandem with the waves, becoming visible to the serpentine crew only when it came so close as to cast a deep shadow over the main deck. At such a proximity, the white lettering on the ship’s side became glaringly visible, just as the sun is in the sky. The Serpent Captain sighed a curse, then muttered with horror the name that gleamed in white cursive: The Wraith.

There was a rush as crew members dashed to ring the ship’s bell, to issue some kind of inescapable warning. The sound of tolling was immediately followed by the splatter of blood against metal. The three had been cut down, and their bodies lay in half upon the sullied deck.

Their screams carried upon the whistling wind, and the echo of the bell soon died out. Silence remained again, and on its depths were the souls of a dozen slavers, whose blood was now ingested by the water.

The Serpent Captain was strong, but he was no fool. And sometimes, the smart thing to do is to turn to cowardice. And so, as the silence filled the captain’s office with a deafening solidify, this man of infamous repute could be found huddling behind a desk that was cluttered with trophies of his exploits: a ring from the hand of a wealthy Kerch merchant whom he’d sold to; a piece of cloth sewn into Zemeni patterns which he’d ripped from the hands of the child of a prominent diplomat; a Shu falcon sculpture. In their ordered rows, they formed a barrier, so that someone looking in would be barred from seeing the fear upon the Serpent Captain’s face.

A barrier of ego and clutter could not defend against the silence for long. After moments, perhaps minutes, the door swung open. Silently, in the doorway, stood a dozen men and women, porting the loose linen and armed with the sharp silver of pirate-sailors. They dragged the Captain by his oil-black hair while he mewled.

Trailing onto the slick red deck, the Serpent Captain was met with dozens more of these sailors. They, as the children, appeared from all corners of the world. They, too, varied in age and origin, though many seemed to bear the branded forearm of slaver indenture - and all bore the glittering jewel of weapon metal. Among them were the cowering, tearful crowds of children, arms clean of branding but littered in cuts and bruises. He recognised none of them, but knew them all to be from the hold, not for the condition of their well-being nor the stench they collectively gave off, but for the mix of rage and fear at which they stared him down with, and for the faint glimmer in their eyes that seemed to be growing brighter each moment.

The Captain’s eyes, however, grew red and teary as he was dragged off his own deck and onto the Wraith, thrown over the slight gap between the two and landing in a dull thud on the neighboring deck.

It is such an odd sensation to face death head on. The Serpent Captain had always known he would have to, perhaps at the hands of some treacherous crew member or some devout chief of law. He had not, in all his years, imagined death to be so young.

Alas, against a wall of golden sunlight, death stood at a small height and gazed upon him with eyes not yet creased by age, but depthened by time. Her hair, young and deep and without a line of stress-gray, covered her shoulder in a loose braid, her face framed by the escaped pieces. Her clothes were thin and light, not at all reminiscent of the thick darkness we may associate with death and its responsibilities. Most notable of death, though, was that she glittered. First, that her face, ears, neck and wrists bore rings of gold. Then, that the rest of her body - her waist, thighs and boots - was adorned with daggers and swords that glittered like diamonds in the sun, casting rainbows across wood and sea better than any jewel.

And though the Serpent Captain may not have thought it then, the waves shall tell you that death was beautiful. That she, too, had a ruthlessness in her, but that it was not the cause of a lack of heart, but rather through an incomprehensible excess of love. Her lips, though now parted and stoic, were well accustomed to the tug of a smile, and that her bronze skin was made radiant by the caress of the naval sun.

The waves shall also tell you that this young girl was not death: she is far more memorable. They shall tell you that she was cunning and courageous and incredibly compassionate, and that they are extremely proud of their daughter. They shall tell you that, as her ship is one with them, she is one with her ship, and that they share a name.

There is an ancient Suli saying that goes: “When the Waves’ Heir has crowned himself, the blood of the people shall roam no more.” Upon The Wraith, it is embodied by a block of wood - attached to a mast - the words engraved in Suli script, lettered in gold, the edges embellished with carved flowers. This block was the last thing the Serpent Captain saw before his throat was slit.

His blood spattered out, creating a road like that of a breaking wave, pooling on the deck as an idle lake. As it sprayed, it seemed to become stagnant in the air, taking humanoid form. All at once, the splatter of blood seemed to form dozens of small human mannequins that collectively cried out in a triumph and power that outweighed nature in a staggering degree.

When the Wraith sheathed her dagger, its shine now dulled by a thick and viscous red, the humanoid blood ceased its shape, and fell to the wood in a silent tsunami.

From then, tales of the Wraith spread far and wide, a greater trade than any merchant or ruler could dream of. The Wraith became a vessel of not only the Wraith’s crew, but also of hope and freedom. Sailors and slavers alike would speak in hushed tones about the Wraith of the Waves, manned by the daughter of the sea itself.

The waves, however, spoke in no such tones. They preached with great pride the achievements of their daughter, and whenever a traveling Suli family would reach the Ravkan coast, they would make sure that their daughter’s mother and father too knew of her victories, and too spoke of her with pride.

[gayleafpool]

You had any dreams lately?

OH BOY HAVE I

i think i actually posted about this one already but not too long ago i had a dream that i was in a competition where i had to balance baby sheep on a fence and it was like super stressful for some reason perhaps the competition was life or death i don’t remember

this maybe sounds concerning but most of the dreams i remember are nightmares and i have like super vivid nightmares with really complex stories and it’s almost kinda fun bc i wake up and i’m like damn bro i should write that down and use it as a story. scary in the moment sure but fun when i wake up. ONTO THE NIGHTMARES

-this one where i was in a field of dead grass that was really orange and there was a rusty metal pole at the top of a hill in the grass and when i went up to touch the pole it transported me to a dark house where everything was really long? idk how to explain it but shit was LONG. it was hard to move in the house. anyway i think somebody was trying to murder me so i had to like make sure they didn’t find out about the orange field. for some reason?? and then suddenly i was back in the field and the trees were really scary

-this one where i was at a county fair and found a puddle in the grass so naturally i dived into the puddle and the puddle led to this super elaborate underwater palace thingy with tile walls but then a shark swims in and it’s mouth is like full of flesh and blood so i’m like aw shit bro

-one where i had this ballpoint pen that the government(?) was looking for so i was like walking around my neighborhood at midnight knocking and doors trying to find someone who would hide me and the pen all while the government was chasing me down

-OH this super realistic one where i got out of bed and walked downstairs and saw this freaky wolf like thing sitting in the room and looking at me and it was like as tall as the ceiling. now that i think about it there’s a chance i like actually did get out of bed and hallucinated it but perhaps not maybe i just dreamed the getting out of bed part too

-oh man this one isn’t a nightmare but i’ve only had a dream with fictional characters in it once in my life and it was the atla/lok and let me tell u this was the most detailed weird ass dream i’ve ever had in my life. if u desire 2 know i will tell u but it’s like for real a good 3 paragraphs of nonsense. this one wasn’t even recent but still

-also not a nightmare i had a dream i was a prop in a travel ad and they put me in a giant slingshot and slungshot me and i sailed across the world but like cartoonishly and through space and stuff with like block letters signifying what part of the world i was flying over

-as for boring normal ass dreams: i very frequently get stress dreams about forgetting to study for tests LMAOOOO sorry for being a nerd

[asexxxualerotica]

Jaerik's wishlist 2E (Snippet): Jaerik deal with the captain kept her safe, but the captain itself decided it would be fair to share such a fine lass with some of his most loyal crew.

Though she had initially been surprised by the request, it hadn't taken much convincing from the captain before she'd found herself agreeing. After all, though he had been the one she'd arranged her passage with after being found, it was the rest of the crew that were ensuring that the ship made its way to port safely—and with it, her. So it was only right that she...service them as well for all their hard work.

Besides, a crew full of tall, strong, and handsome men all eager to have their way with her—maybe she had a problem, but she just couldn't say no to something like that.

"Ohhh yes~ oh yes, boys, mmm~ give it to me more~" the changeling stowaway moaned with delight, licking her lips as she bucked her hips back into the men behind her. No longer was she sequestered away in the captain's quarters, no—now she found herself down in the galley, right in the middle of the crew's shared quarters, for any man and all of the men to enjoy her to their absolute pleasure.

At the moment, that happened to be three hulking studs—one dragonborn, who she found herself laying on as he plunged his cock hard into her folds and groped at her ass roughly as it bounced up and down—one an orc, standing behind her and holding her with his firm hands on her waist as his thick and throbbing cock pounded away into her ass—and last being a statuesque goliath who towered over her, his massive cock looming before her face as she stroked him with such eager delight.

Was she being a bit shameless? Of course she was—she was letting three men have their way with her, to the point she was losing her mind with pleasure. Did she even know how many days had passed, or that they had already sailed past her destination? Maybe, maybe not—it was hard to keep track when a goliath shoved his cock into her face and commanded in that low, bassy tone for her to suck.

But she'd get there when she got there, and until then, she had so many men to satisfy~

[writerleo86]

Terravenger Season 6 - The Twilight Arc - Episode 520 (Do NOT Copy) - 02.23.2024

Many years later, the angelic woman known as Alexia Palatinate floated in the nightly sky with her arms spread apart and her head forward.

The woman now had long brown hair that was parted into two sections. She had on purple lipstick. And she had on a pair of brown glasses with black lenses. She had worn a buttoned black top with long sleeves and a thick collar. Underneath her top was a lavender shirt that had a thick collar and short sleeves. She also wore a pair of tight dark-blue jeans. And she had on a pair of black slippers that had high heels.

She waited until she spotted something happened below. She found two individuals running as quick as they could toward a large ferryboat at a large ocean. And the pair were chased by a large army of bounty hunters.

Alexia gave a cute smile and responded "I guess it's show time."

One of the escaping individuals was a tall young man with pale skin, light-blue eyes, and short dark-brown hair. And he was growing a beard. He wore a sleeveless black shirt underneath a short-sleeved scarlet-colored shirt with a thick collar and the white skull crest placed on the front left side of the chest. He also had on a pair of long khaki pants, brown socks, and white shoes. And a thin silver chain was placed around his neck.

He carried around his arms was a small boy with fair skin and blue eyes. He had light-blond hair that was short and wavy. He had worn a buttoned white shirt with short sleeves and a thick collar. He also had on long gray shorts, short brown socks, and black shoes.

The young pair were chased by two familiar people among the villainous hunters.

The one at the right side was Lua with fair skin, a well-built body, and short brown hair slanting to the left side. And he had a thin beard. He wore an opened black coat with the two tails laying on the ground. He also had on a pair of baggy black pants and short black boots. And he had on three types of necklaces.

The other who was running at the left side was his partner Leo with long dark-brown hair and a fine beard. He wore a military top that had dark camouflage-typed colors and a black T-shirt underneath. He also had on tight pants that were made of black leather. And he had short boots that were also made of black leather.

Lua gave a sinister grin as Leo reported in an English accent "Other than our escapees, there are five civilians aboard the craft."

And Lua ordered "Go on. Show them what happens to blasphemers."

After pointing his right finger to the dark sky, Leo fired a small ball of yellow energy.

He whispered "Canum Venaticorum!"

The small projectile flew into the sky and exploded into hundreds of falling rays.

Once the escapees boarded, one ray fell toward the top of the boat. That was when a large purple light from the right point-finger of the savior Alexia began to shine around the entire area.

Terravenger -- Season 6

Episode 520:  My Name Is...

Then Alexia stood over the boat as it sailed into the ocean. And every projectile created by Leo had dissolved into nothing once it hit the large barrier.

After the globe of purple light faded, the observant Leo spotted the person still floating in the sky.

Leo finally gave a calm smile and asked "Was it you that helped the sinners escape, Alexia Palatinate?"

Once the sun rose, the small boy awoke and found himself laying by the right side of his older partner named Ivan Scorpio. The boy who was revealed as a young Kirk Tucson soon spotted a long dark blanket covering the both of them.

Then he heard a soft female voice ask "Did you sleep well, Little One?"

Tucson looked forward and found the mysterious Alexia Palatinate standing three steps before him.

The small boy soon unwrapped the blanket off himself as the purple-skinned woman leaned his head to the left side. And she gave a cute smile as the boy walked toward her.

"It's okay," said the woman. "You are among a friend."

The small Tucson lifted his left point-finger before his bottom lip.

And Alexia replied "I had a great vision with you having a big part to play, Kirk Tucson."

"Me?" questioned the boy.

Alexia slowly crawled forward and wrapped her arms around the questioning boy.

She responded "I am going to take you to those who will teach you how to fight against the people who took away your mom. And the person who orders those people. You will learn how to cleanse the world of its darkness. You are going to be one fine warrior of Light."

Alexia soon turned to the sleeping Ivan and said "Oh Ivan Scorpio. You have done well helping this boy get out from the Devil's thumb, as it was predicted. You can now rest yourself and get ready for the rest of your life."

And she faced the right side as she thought "I do know why you Ivan had gotten into a huge fight with your dad. But you will eventually go back to him. And the both of you will be reconcile. That will happen way before the great general reaches his end."

Alexia continued to hold the sleeping boy as she gave a relieved smile.

She thought "You will do so much for the entire universe, Kirk Tucson. And I will make sure of it."

Many years later, there were few knocks on the closed door inside the Midas Academy during one calm morning.

A male voice called out "Come in! Come in!"

The door opened and someone entered into the Principal's Office.

This was the mysterious woman called Alexia Palatinate. She had on dark-purple lipstick. She had long black hair with the front parts covering her forehead. And she had on a pair of light-brown glasses with clear lenses. She wore a sleeveless orange top with a long black dress. She also had on a pair of short black boots. And she wore an opened coat that was made of brown leather.

Sitting at a desk was the commander and principal of the Midas Academy -- Beau Ravenstone. He was a tall man with fair skin, brown eyes, and a muscular body. The front part of his brown hair had covered his forehead while the back part lowered to the top of his neck. And he had a thick beard. He wore a uniform consisting of a black top with long sleeves and gray pants. At the top of his pants was a thick silver belt which had his family's crest at the center. He also had a thick silver pad on the top of each shoulder along with silver pads that covered his knees and ankles. And he wore a pair of long black boots. His golden MAF badge was placed on the front left side of his top.

The kind Beau greeted "Ah, it's you. Welcome!"

"Thank-you Sir," responded Alexia. "Such a beautiful morning this is."

First, the principal sat a closed folder on his desk as he faced the purple-skinned woman.

"According to your information," implied Beau. "You happen to be quite a psychic."

Alexia looked up at the ceiling while she asked "How is your wife?"

Beau stared at her with complete shock as the woman implied "You have tried to have a child for a few years now. Am I right?"

"How did you..." cried Beau.

"Well," said the woman. "Your ad stated that you needed a person of my talents, Right?"

Beau gathered himself and answered "Yes. Of course."

"Well," claimed Alexia. "Here I am."

Next, Beau lowered his head.

He informed the woman "No one knows of my wife's troubles. Not even my general."

Alexia shook her head and told him "I won't tell if you prefer. My lips are sealed."

Then the commander thought to himself as the calm Alexia waited.

And Beau answered "Very well, you're hired. I will give you a shot."

The excited Alexia told the principal "Thank-you Sir. You won't regret this. I won't let you down. You can count on me."

"By the way," replied Beau. "What do I call you? You have never given a name on your resume."

The woman gave a large smile and told the commander "Just call me... Alexis. Yes! Alexis will do. Alexis Sanyo."

"Alexis Sanyo huh?" questioned Beau.

After that, Beau stood from his chair and offered his right hand.

"Alright then," He told the woman. "I welcome you to the Midas Armed Forces, Alexis Sanyo."