poniescanterover

[silkjade]

FAIREST OF THEM ALL

alhaitham x mermaid!reader au ⤀ synopsis: mermaids, and their vanity, and their affinity for pretty things... who better to admire, than the fairest one of all? ⤀ cw: fem!reader, established relationship, mirror sex, fingering, praise, rough + unprotected sex, size kink, creampie, a lil bit of dom!haitham, overstimulation, cervix kisses, squirting, subspace, vry sweet he’s actually so in love — mdni || ꒰ 5.1k wc ꒱ ⤀ notes: recommended to read the affiliated series, but it can stand alone as well ! reblogs & feedback are always vry much appreciated ♡

series masterlist ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓇼

Mermaids and their vanity and their affinity for pretty things…

Where Alhaitham lacks in idle conversations, he makes up for in his acute observation; taking note in particular of the way you glance at your reflection—not only in the mirrors of a merchant’s passing display, but at every turn, and every corner. In the stained glass windows of the Akademiya, in the bronze vessels decorating Lambad’s second floor…even now, on your excursion through the Grand Bazaar, he catches the quick flit of your head as you peer at yourself in the fountain beneath Zubayr Theater. 

Not that he’d ever fault a star for its beauty, when even the sweltering Sumeru sun is roped into your orbit—bending to your will as it dazzles behind you, like a halo in your backdrop. Perhaps the world is, but a shell…and a pearl such as yourself—beautiful and rare—ought to shine on a more veracious display. A familiar smirk plays on his lips, painting his handsome face in a devious shade of sly.

It’s clear from just your peripherals that he must be devising something terrible… Yet there’s a dance to your step when you stop him in his path; your hands clasped coyly behind your back, as you dip into his vicinity with your feigned innocence. 

“And just what are you smiling for?” you lilt, shifting your weight forward onto your tiptoes. He leans over to honor what he can only surmise to be a wordless request, but you pull away before his lips ever have the chance to meet yours. You gleam in that coquettish smile of yours—one that sits so perfectly atop your playful flirtations. “Thinking about me?” 

Alhaitham clears his throat, crossing his arms with a raised brow, despite the remaining wisp still tugging at the corner of his lip. “Am I not allowed to smile?”

By now, he can accurately read your tells and predict your actions: pursed lips and shifting eyes…all in a poor attempt to hide your grin as you quip back with something smart, or flirtatious, or on certain days, shameless—any of which might send a lesser man into a fluster. Not that he fares particularly better when it comes to you… 

So he cuts you off while he’s still ahead, his strong arm easily pulling you back into his sphere, and with a tilt of his head, gestures at the fountain, letting curiosity guide you as it casts your reflection onto the waters’ surface once again.

“Just thinking about how pretty you are...” 

And pretty you are indeed when he sits you between his legs, your bare back arching away from his chest as he curls his fingers in your cunt, hitting exactly where he knows you’d keen. His free hand kneads at the meat of your inner thigh, parting your legs wider in the process, your pussy lips following suit, blooming with the sticky sound of your wetness. 

Alhaitham huffs, impressed, as he glances into the mirror standing steadfast before you both. Large and unwavering, it’s resolute in its honorable pursuit to uncover the truth—the one with your cunt propped open and your head thrown into the curvature of his neck. The one you’re clearly not yet privy to, if your eyes are squeezed shut in the midst of all your pleasure. It’s a shame, really. For although he’s never had the ambition to conquer the unknown verities, if such beauty were the splendor of all the world’s truths, then he’d gladly partake down this endless road—as a scholar or as a madman. After all, who better to perfect his limited human perspective, than the fairest one of all? 

Tilting his head, he kisses his way up the column of your neck, feeling you curl into him as he paints intermittent bruises on your supple skin, stopping only when he reaches beneath your ear so that his teeth may tug lightly on its lobe. 

“I know how you love to admire your own reflection…” His voice gravels in your ear, the rich baritone sending a shiver whose reach extends all the way down to your core. “So don’t you want to see how pretty you look?” 

“No. That’s—” Whining, you continue to shake your head at the very prospect, ignoring the clear disconnect as you tighten and clench around the fingers still holed up inside of you. “‘s embarrassing…”

He hums from deep in his chest; thoughtfully amused at how such words could leave your mouth, when your cunt gushes as unabashedly as if she were attempting to lure his fingers further with a squelching song of her own. But there’s nothing to tempt, when there’s no iron will to break, for your bodies move like the moon and the tide: ebbing and flowing, ever connected, fates intertwined. Where his thumb spreads to draw harsh circles, your breath shallows in response, crying out at the sudden aggressive waves of pleasure that surge at your clit. Your nails dig into the sheets, hips lifting and squirming to no avail, as he continues to barrage you from the inside out. 

“Haitham…” you breathe, and he knows you’re close from how you moan through sealed lips, brows furrowed and teeth clenched, until the disappointing realization that he’s pulled out. Your doe eyes flutter open, perplexed and brimming with spoiled petulance at his amused brow and little smirk, whilst at the same time, your lips part with all the intention of asking your lover ‘whyyyy?’, if only for the fact that he’s simply…faster. 

Slick-coated fingers grasp onto your chin, slowly tilting your head down—away from that safe corner by his neck—so that you’d come meet him in the mirror, with all your vanity in tow. He holds your gaze, never turning away, not even as his head dips again so that his lips are level when he whispers low and sultry into your ear.

“If you look away, I’ll stop.” 

…And so you watch as Alhaitham turns his attention back between your legs, spreading open your folds until they’re well smeared with your free-flowing slick. And you watch as two lithe fingers penetrate past your slit, steadily pumping slow, smooth strokes, before splintering apart to stretch you open in preparation for the third prodding at your entrance, eager to join the fray.

“That’s it,” he coos, though his low voice does absolutely nothing to soothe how you squirm against him at the…discomfort? The fervor? Perhaps even the discomfort of such fervor, as it’s become nigh difficult to tell, when his free hand has migrated to fondle with one of your breasts, roughly kneading the mound to double your sensations. “Look at you…” 

Yet what is there to look at but the lascivious combination of your shame and desire? Both wrestle for a place in your reflection, battling to outweigh the other upon your visage…but it’s hardly a fair fight when shame has never been your forte—especially not when you squeeze around him so tightly, almost as if in resistance to how he’s scissoring you open.

It’s almost mesmerizing how your body reacts so eagerly: how your mouth falls open in a gasp and then a squeal, as your gummy walls concede to stretch by way of his provocation. Or that slight hitch in your breath, chest stuttering as you inhale the familiar stretch of three digits sinking into your cunt whilst you sink ever deeper into the watery depths of such hedonistic volitions.

Still, Alhaitham so greedily grasps at every open inch of you, ravishing your body with almost everything at his disposal. His chiseled frame looming behind you as he holds you open and bare, his grip the jaws of lust incarnate; his heavy breath crowding on your skin like a heated apparition of his own dire need to fuck and please and share in the admiration of just how beautiful he thinks you are—until like fine mist, it disperses across your mind, and the shame melts off your bones, replaced with only the desire for more, for him, for more of him.

“Haitham…” you mewl again, brows furrowing in an earnest attempt to keep your eyes open in spite of the rush, because god forbid he stop… 

But it’s tortuous, the way Alhaitham pumps his fingers in and out—slowly, steadily—so that you’d see in your reflection, just how wet you are, hear every squish that sounds as he repeatedly buries himself three knuckles deep. Your slick coats his skin with a layer of gloss at every re-emergence, wordlessly conveying that it isn’t nearly enough to satisfy the burning ache between your legs.

“Please more… ‘m so close…” Pleading, you do what you can to muster your sweetest voice, your most honeyed cadence, in the hopes that you’d persuade him to your cause, rolling your hips to embody your words, furthering both his reach and your intent. For all the time you’ve spent with your lover in the nation of wisdom, it’s certainly helped to remember that only praxes can truly validate such words of honesty, and you truly are honest in your intent to cum.

“As you wish,” he hums, and his breath wraps around the shell of your ear in a warm embrace (though it’s hardly even an ember compared to the heat quickly ebbing in your belly.) The want amplifies by tenfold as he digs the heel of his palm against your clit, forcing another wave of euphoria to course through your form, as he angles his fingers in pursuit of where you feel him most. 

Every twist, every curl, beckons at sweet release, as the tips of his fingers drag past each velvet inch of your walls at an ungodly pace, drawing out your orgasm with such magnetic fortitude that even your own lucidity seems to fade in the midst of such mental upheaval. It goes, and it goes, and it’s gone—as if the plug had just been pulled from your very being—and like a doll, your eyes fall shut to the joy of diving back into such revelry.

A sharp slap to your clit jolts you back to reality with a staggered gasp, your thighs nearly snapping shut at the sudden impact, while rootless static fills the emptiness in your stolen pleasure. Your perpetrator, however, only spares you a half-lidded glance whilst he continues to brandish the finishing touches of another hickey along your neck.  

“Keep looking,” he issues, one part a command, the other, a warning. His grip loosens from your thigh, allowing your legs to fall just the slightest bit slack, before his voice softens and he pries open the lips of your drenched cunt, strumming through your folds so unbearably lazily, as you situate your gaze back into the mirror. “I want you to see everything I do to you…”

“Like how pretty you are when I touch you…” He dips a finger between your pussy lips, unfolding the rippling petals on his way up your slit, carefully paving the way for his place beneath the hood of your clit. “Here,” he drawls, rubbing at the nub so deliberately, that the sudden titillation evokes your instinct to shrink away with a broken, pitched cry; for wherever you squirm, Alhaitham follows, and backed against his chest, there’s nowhere left to turn, but forward at your reflection in the glass. 

It's obscene. You’re obscene. But despite the disconnect with your head, your body still begs for more, and you think it’s almost pathetic how far you’ve sunk into his magnetism (though you vaguely recall it was once the other way around) that you hardly recognize the figure before you, so…distorted by the draw of lust. Your chest heaving with every breath that circulates through full, parted lips, your face bleary from carrying the heavy weight of pleasure on your lashes. Yet, the longer you watch, the more you glisten between your legs, clearly seduced by that perfect view of your own body on display. 

Perhaps there is something provocative about the way your folds are spread, barred open by his fingers while he taps away at your clit. Perhaps there is some coquetry in the way your empty hole drools, some enchantment in how your juices shine…everything to flaunt how you need to cum—how you need him and anything he’s willing to give. 

Your eyes begin to glaze, your focus drifting as you continue to stare at how your lover’s reflection so teases the hardened nub, every touch drumming your nerves with pleasure like the beguiling lull of gentle waves. At least your lungs seem to appreciate the monotonous pattern; your heaving chest adjusts to match his rhythm, the faint stimulus now an almost comfortable familiarity—one too easily shattered by the whims of another, as Alhaitham presses firmly into your swollen clit.

Renewed arousal swells in your belly, burning through whatever you thought had previously dissipated, and closing the window on any remnant of self-restraint, as you soon start to squirm with electrified impatience. Once steady breaths devolve into ragged gasps; your spine curves and your hips jolt, all from exposure to Alhaitham’s prolonged stimulation, writhing this way and that, until you inevitably grind against his cock, surprising him with his own throbbing rush of sensation. 

“Do you see how,” Alhaitham grunts, gritting his teeth as he holds down a groan, “erotic you are…” Even half-dazed, you can feel just how hard his erection stands against the small of your back.

You exhale, waveringly so, as you steady yourself before releasing your grasp on the sheets, clawing weakly at his toned bicep in an effort to garner his attention. Between your misty eyes and sweat-mottled skin, disheveled hair and trembling thighs…there’s a delicate show of tenacity as your reflection holds his gaze, daring to dance with the devil you’ve chosen to submit to. “So show me what I look like when you fuck me.”

“Gladly,” he chuckles, and there’s a wicked glint that shines from beyond the turquoise, accompanied by a dim clang and a quiet rustle, as he frees his cock from its fabric confines. 

A low growl rumbles from deep in his throat as his hands run a path along the concave of your waist, before scooping you up by the underside of your thighs, and shifting you further in his lap—spread open on wide display, behind the glaring pink of his leaking tip. 

Alhaitham drags his cock along your slit, gathering slick from your fluttering anticipation, as he tempers the urge to plunge into you right then and there. He swallows the thought, giving way for the honeyed lilt of your name to flow from his lips instead. You turn, looking up at him with that darling half-lidded gaze, and he breathes in the sweet image of your pretty face. Please allow him to have one good look at you—the real you, in the flesh—before he fucks you into oblivion. 

He presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, murmuring something you don’t quite catch. “‘Ayouni,” he hums, aligning his cock at your entrance. (My love, my eyes—as precious as the gift of sight.) “Nour ‘ayouni…” His tip dips past your entrance, wallowing in the tight fit, before finally pushing into your quivering insides—a resolute promise to fill both your desires, and your cunt as deep as you’d take him. (Light of my eyes, anything for you.)

Large hands secure themselves onto your hips, easily crowding you in until your knees are folded before your tits and your back is pressed flush against his chest. Every bead of sweat stitches your bodies together, skin on damp skin, though only you are locked on full, shameless display; your body and limbs tethered to invisible strings in his hands—his little mermaid, his little doll—to maneuver and fold as he pleases.

A pitched sob breaks the thickness in the air, followed by a few hushed whimpers and stifled moans, as you watch yourself take him, inch by overwhelming inch. It’s never truly occurred to you how big he really is—at least not until now, when you’re confronted before your very eyes with just how much your little hole must work to accommodate his size. That initial stretch when he first pushes past your folds, and how it grows wider little by little as he forges on… (it’s no wonder you always feel so delectably full.) Or how you can clearly see the protruding veins disappear as he glides deeper (is that how he’s always able to touch upon every crook and corner?)

The sight alone has you pulsing: your greedy cunt quite literally drooling at the prospect of swallowing him down to the base, churning out more slick to ease his descent, and melting any discomfort into delight. As his bonafide lover, it’s one thing to be fucked beyond belief, but to see yourself completely surrendered to your lecherous desires, and entirely pliable at his behest…? What a terrifying way to solicit your pleasure.

Still, you’ve no choice but to sputter out a moan as your walls constrict around his shaft, drawing out a grunt from Alhaitham with how titillating it feels when you cling to him like this. His rasp reverberates on the shell of your ear, travelling down your spine like lust-tainted fire to pass the message down between your thighs. And although dew threatens to blur your vision, from what you can see in the mirror, it’s clear that he’s yet to bottom out. Even worse, is that you can feel the emptiness—your insides so cravenly wanting what is amiss—because it’s just so inherently wrong that you aren’t full enough, that he isn’t deep enough.

An urgent hand flies to tangle your fingers in his hair, as you turn to pull him into a wanton kiss, your lips just as greedy as your hips that grind on his cock for more. “Want you,” you murmur between tongue and teeth, exchanging breaths as desperation and uncertainty clash in your throat, and crack like lightning in your voice. “All of you, all the way…please…?”

“Aren’t you, ngh,” he pauses, failing to swallow down his grunt, as disbelief rolls in with another tide of arousal that pulses in his cock. His attempt to taunt, ruined by his inability to resist any longer. “Aren’t you shameless today?”  

“Don’t care.” Though slurred, the words still tumble out of your mouth with a sense of urgency, your fingers curling against him, grasping onto the hope that he’d finally fill you. “Just n-need you.” In such a deliriated state, it’s difficult to tell whether you had imagined the way his breath rings through the hollows of your bones—the resounding echoes of a small, yet exasperated laugh reverberating through the very core of your being…but it was real, and his presence was there, and how could he ever say no when you’re asking for his cock so nicely? Per your request, of course he’ll drop you lower onto his shaft.

Alhaitham groans, powerless against the way you whine, tightening around him as he advances further and further, until he bottoms out with a guttural ‘fuck.’ He’s never had you in such a position, but with you atop his lap and gravity as his prerogative, it’s suffice to say he’s reached... 

“Too..d-deep…” you babble, eyes rolling back as your words disperse into the same nothingness that’s engulfed your thoughts. 

A soft tut tut clicks from his tongue, followed by a light roll from his hips…and suddenly your string of whimpers break into a shrill gasp as his eager tip kisses the entrance to your womb. Alhaitham is, after all, a man of his word, though this time, he lets his actions speak in his stead. (Where did I tell you to look, habibti?)

There’s little time to process any of his wordless cues—especially not when his stuttered breath is hot against your neck, the warmth just beginning to melt away the jarring discomfort of being penetrated so deeply, before equally warm fingers squish your cheeks to turn your attention back to the mirror in question. “Like what you see?” he whispers, and your dew-laden eyes flutter open to the sight of you and him: thighs spread, legs tangled, your hips on his, as you sit impaled on the entirety of his length. 

All you can muster is a whimper and a nod, because what else can you do when you’re so overcome by the feeling of Alhaitham…everywhere? On your tongue where you can still taste his kiss, in your veins where his love circulates to your heart, and most obvious of all, in your cunt where his leaking precum swirls with your slick.

“Show me where you feel me,” he rasps, gingerly plucking your hand away from that wrinkled patch of sheets you so desperately latch on to. His touch is sticky on the back of your hand—no doubt the remnants of your juices still clinging stubbornly to his fingers, like a souvenir collected from his last venture between your legs—but he serves well as a guide: directing you along your abdomen, letting just the very tips of your fingers, ghost across your sensitive skin. 

“This…” Starting at the apex of your thighs, he helps you along the path up your lower waist. “... is how far I am inside you…” 

You can’t help but wonder if it were even possible to be buried so deep within someone, but curiosity gets the better of you, and your hand begins to move on its own, absentmindedly glossing over where you feel his tip so deep, it almost seems…taboo. Not that you really care for the ins and outs of such moral standards, especially when it feels so right to be stuffed so full. Or perhaps your eyes are simply playing tricks on you—dirty work done by the fog that’s settled in your head with the sole intent of altering your cognition. 

“Don’t believe me?” Hand in hand, he presses gently down onto your belly, where even the slightest bit of pressure is enough to make you jolt. But from the way he struggles to catch his breath, to the violent throbs bursting all along his length, Alhaitham too, suffers from the repercussions of his boldfaced provocation—too human to act as if he’d been left unscathed.

For even as you cry in little songs of pleasure, your walls almost seem to be spinning a trance of its own: clenching and unclenching, the pulsating rhythm urging him to move… Which he obliges to of course—adjusting ever so slightly, until he’s perfectly angled and prodding at the divot that absolutely ruins whatever’s left of you, as you’re made to feel everything all at once. Every long, languid stroke comes as an electric current, reinvigorating dead limbs as the muscles come twitching back to life, conducting more and more arousal with every rough drag of his cock. Euphoria surges and sparks fly, overloading the wires in your head, with each thrust into the very spot that unravels you so. 

“Keep singing for me,” he murmurs, content with how the shape of his name breaks into pieces of fragmented  whimpers and moans, echoing across the room. It’s clear his words are largely lost on you—displaced by the fresh barrage of wet kisses down your neck, to be absorbed through your skin and used as fuel for your core. 

“My beautiful mermaid,” Alhaitham keeps his eyes locked on your reflection; eager, despite his own fraying disposition, to catch all your reactions. “My beautiful mermaid…who always…” 

His grip tightens around the meat of your thighs, while a dominant hand glides up to the back of your knee—effectively lifting your leg higher and spreading you open wider—before a quick, rough motion lands him somewhere inexplicably deep.“…takes me so well.” 

You keen, nails digging into whatever they can, anything that might still tether you to this reality when every sensation has been ignited into something far too big for you to handle. Your back curves in response, arching away from his chest, but the shift in position only sits you deeper on his cock, and a shrill sob cracks from your throat, as your stomach coils and your teary eyes flutter open to the direct image of your reflection. In the mirror’s shallow abyss, your looming orgasm stares back as its own depraved monster—inhabiting your body and tainting your pretty face with lecherous intent, as it urges you to let go. 

“Come on, let go…” Or perhaps the fiend whispering in your ear is Alhaitham himself. “I promise you’re just as ravishing when you cum,” he croons, speeding up his pace to climb the heights of his determination. “Maybe even more so…”

The sheer intensity of his rough fucking is overwhelming. The extensive depth, the meticulous precision, the impressive girth—they’re all things you’ve come to expect in the bedroom with your less-than-feeble lover. But to exploit your vanity, whilst simultaneously feeding you with praise…to hold you open with his own hands, to make you a spectator of your own base instincts…

It’s a dangerous combination. It’s too much. It has your entire body trembling as the pressure peaks—your muscles wound taut, and your pussy clenching tight. 

“‘m c-cumming…” you sob, though your quivering voice soon falls flat from the sheer enormity of the orgasm that races to smother you in its fervor, replacing the blood in your veins with liquid bliss, and allowing that to circulate through every inch of your being, until it becomes the only thing you can even bear to breathe.

The name ‘Haitham’ tangles with your cries, and he loves it—addicted even, to the sound of you, the sight of you—finds it near impossible to tear his eyes away from that perfect view of your pretty little cunt, obediently stretched and fully stuffed with every inch of his length. Warmth blooms and engulfs him at his mushroom tip, and Alhaitham bucks by reflex, desperate to chase your waning orgasm with his.

He’s close too; you can feel it. The familiar (yet delusional) way in which each throb seems to fill you out even more, the relentless increase in speed and force, unapologetically running his veined cock along your sensitive walls, over and over until he drags you back to the edge. His own breath skips and stutters in his lungs, but still he punctuates each word with power and precision, jutting in as deep as you’d allow him to follow. “Just. Like. That.” 

And so, when it breaks, it shatters—like skipping stones across the water, rippling and disruptive as they bound on and on in a path of hedonistic destruction—until your vision blanks, and your body convulses, and your mouth falls open in a silent moan. Your release comes in a violent torrent, uncontrollably battering through your body as you drench him in your juices, leaving the remaining splice of your consciousness trembling, spent, and completely surrendered to the pleasure. 

Somewhere in the white noise, you hear the echo of your name, said with a pleased lilt, as if he were…impressed? Proud? Maybe even both, for Alhaitham finds himself mesmerized by the undeniable, tangible evidence, that he’s pleasured you this far beyond belief. It’s surreal—the only word in any of the languages he’s studied (including yours)—that could even begin to describe such eroticism. For a moment, he loses track of his movements, lets his hips fall to an irregular rhythm as he fully takes to the reflection in the mirror: colorless, liquid pleasure still dripping from your hole, glistening as it runs down his shaft with every shallow draw…only to be pushed back with a squish and a squelch from the wetness that now finds a rival in the soaked sheets. 

Without hesitation, he pummels back to reality, thinking only with his cock, as he pounds into you with a newfound ferocity that seems almost inhumane…but then again, a mermaid like you isn’t quite human after all.

“Can you, ngh, hold out…a little longer…?” His voice is low and strained, yet still retaining a softness reminiscent of morning mist above the waters, grazing wisps atop your skin. (Just a little longer, I promise.)

“‘kay…” The word spills from your mouth, melted and slurred into a weak mewl, too dazed to process much, other than the fact that you’d do anything he asked of you, even at your own expense. Just a little longer…(but ignore the tears that prick of overstimulation.) For him, for Alhaitham, anything for Alhaitham (in spite of how your body screams ‘too much,’ as you cream around his cock again, this time faster than all the others had come.)

Any sense of clarity found in your mantra, only serves to prove that perhaps your head truly has been scrambled to nonsense, because the only thing you could even fathom to think of, is the desperate need for him to finish inside you. For him to paint you with a white fire so hot, it’d cleanse away even the smallest remnants of your tortuous embers. The final few thrusts come sloppily—too busy drowning in your deluge to care—while the very last stroke nuzzles deep against your womb, as he fills you full of his cum. 

Two sets of labored breathing resonate around the room, and in the afterglow, Alhaitham sets your frail legs down, knees buckling and knocking into one another, as your feet are finally brought to rest on something solid. (Though mentally, you don’t feel any closer to the ground.) Still, the drastic change in position shuffles his cock against your sensitive walls, breathing life to another soft groan that escapes into a silent harmony. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, peppering you with soft kisses wherever his lips can reach. The unyielding grip, once pressed so firmly into your thighs, melts away—replaced by gentler hands that work to sooth the tenderness in your flesh. “I’m going to pull out now, okay?” He readies himself to withdraw from your warmth, but you blink your bleary eyes, and the distant stars in your pupils illuminate just a fraction more. 

Alhaitham studies the ‘you’ in the mirror; watches the steady rise and fall of your chest as your breathing evens out, and your red-rimmed gaze drifts down the length of your body. One of your hands absentmindedly wanders, delicately brushing over the dark imprints left upon the skin of your thighs, color-matched to the hickeys blooming along your neck and shoulders—each one a bruise forged from his passion. And nothing could ever attest more to the throes of passion than the very reflection of your bodies, melded seamlessly together: his cock in your cunt, leaking with shared essence.

‘How…beautiful…’ 

You shake your head in dreamy opposition. “W’nna stay like this…for…a bit longer…” Your words trail into a content sigh as you rest your head back against that comfortable nook at the juncture of his neck, angling just enough to still catch your reflections in the mirror.

notes2: mirrors in his kit -> mirror in the bedroom pipeline, am i right (๑>؂•́๑) … i wasn't able to complete this in time for mermay this year, so consider this a little something for kinktober, i suppose ^^;; but i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless ! as always, thank you so much for reading, and reblogs + feedback are very much appreciated ♡

© silkjade — do not steal, plagiarize, translate or repost any content onto any other platform

[uplatterme]

Sit Still, Look Pretty.

a/n: i don’t think the doll fetish is a joke anymore *cries*

cw: sub!albedo, dom!reader, amab!reader (gender-neutral terms and pronouns | dollification, mirror sex, slight feminization, orgasm delay/denial

The alchemist stands there, observing his surroundings as he waits for you to get your things. Your room is like any other, quite simplistic besides the few paintings that decorated the walls, paintings that he’d given you as presents.

He’s been here multiple times and usually, everything remains the same. The stack of books on your desk, the mint flower you keep by the window, your sword which always rested laying on your chair.

Usually, is the keyword here.

Now, he finds himself gazing up on one of the shelves, where a doll sits elegantly on a tiny chair.

It’s oddly…human-like.

“I found last week’s reports that you were looking for.” You return to the room, the notebook in your hands.

He takes it from you and checks, it’s just what he needs.

And while he doesn’t really require anything else, his thoughts are captivated by the expensive-looking doll. So, he asks.

Your face turns into worry, although it soon is replaced by a gleeful smile. He wonders what the reason for this is.

“That, right.” He hears you chuckle.

“I happened to get it from a traveling merchant. It’s quite pretty, isn’t it?”

He feels as if there is something else you aren’t telling him.

“How much was it?” Albedo questions.

“Including the clothes? Well, it’s about…”

Once Albedo hears of the amount, he can’t help but furrow his eyebrows from your purchase.

He hears you laugh again, your eyes looking as bright as they can.

“Don’t you find them appealing, Albedo? Lifeless forms whose purpose is nothing but to sit pretty.”

“I suppose.” The alchemist answers.

He really doesn’t.

“I just think it’s neat. Having no other choice but to obey their owners, wear dresses whether they like it or not, pose in whichever way they’re directed to…” You describe freely, grabbing the doll and placing it in his hands.

“And you know what the best part of it is?” Albedo sees your face lighten up.

He maintains his expressionless face, even if he’s taken aback by how close your face is to him, gazing into your spellbinding eyes.

“What?”

“They do it all with a smile.”

Needless to say, Albedo’s thoughts had become occupied since then.

He tells himself that he shouldn’t bother with it this much. 

Your liking of dolls is just like any other hobby, isn’t it? It’s like how Lisa is with her books, obsessive when they aren’t handled properly or returned within the given time.

Still, he sighs. He does receive your tender touch from time to time, but there’s something else that Albedo wants…or needs.

“Which do you think suits her better?”

Albedo snaps out of his thinking to see you holding two dresses right in front of his face.

He absent-mindedly chose the one on the left, and you smile at his choice. 

“Cute.” You say.

He feels flustered despite knowing that the compliment wasn’t for him. It was for that doll.

The only thing he can do is watch you pamper it, brushing its hair and using those fingers of yours to undress it and change it into a new outfit. 

He sits there, an uncomfortable emotion in his chest as he hears you utter praises for something that doesn’t even move.

“I’m sorry, I must excuse myself.” Albedo stands up from his seat to leave, unable to bear your fondness for the doll.

He needs to do something.

The door to your house creaks in as you unlock it. You hum a tune, stretching your arms, a bit tired from today’s schedule.

You take off your coat, hanging it on the wall. You rethink if there’s something else you have to do before going to bed.

“Ah, my mint flower. I haven’t watered it yet.” You say out loud.

With the glass of water in your hand, you step into your bedroom.

“Archons, you scared me!” You sigh, seeing the alchemist sitting on your bed.

While he’s the only other person who has a key to your house, he’s never been the one to visit of his own accord.

You await his response.

The alchemist stays still and unresponsive, staring past you as if there’s something that you’re not seeing.

“Albedo? Are you alright?” You question the man again, only to receive nothing.

Worried, you come up closer to him.

His eyes looked empty and his breathing was…quiet. There’s nothing wrong with him physically. No signs of any injuries that may hinder his talking nor any sign of trauma to his head.

He looks perfect, actually. And now that you take a look closer, you can see pink powder dusting his cheeks.

Albedo has always been that way. Beauty and brains, truly a perfect mix

You direct his face to yours, wanting him to look at you as you speak.

Albedo hasn’t blinked throughout this whole ordeal.

You get a hold of his chin and bring his lips to yours, wondering if that’ll execute a reaction.

Unfortunately, no results are to be seen.

He doesn’t open his mouth when you kiss him, confusing you since he usually does.

It’s as if Albedo has no sentience. A lifeless being, somewhat similar to that of a statue that served no other use but to be stared at.

…

No. 

You deny your thoughts.

Surely, Albedo isn’t doing what you think he’s doing, right?

You trace your fingers on his thighs, its smoothness surprising you. Almost as if it were made from porcelain, you observe.

“Albedo, you cannot do this to me.” You scold him, each second passing by with him in this state is not good for your heart.

“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” You stare at him, wanting to see if he’ll say anything.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop myself if things get too far.” You admit, caressing his emotionless face.

Extraordinary.

“To think you would be that jealous of a doll. It’s adorable, my love.” It’s too good to be true, you think. Albedo presents himself as if he is one too, just so he can garner your attention.

He’s always been smart and reckless like this. He knows this will work. Now, to see how far this ambitiousness will push him…

“Well, a new doll needs a new outfit.” You say to him.

Albedo tenses up at your words.

This is proving to be much more difficult than he expected. Your lingering touch makes him want to buckle to his knees. The kiss on his lips, that led to the core in his chest tightening up.

Has he always been that soft? 

Only having a limited field of vision, he cannot see what you’re doing. But from what it sounded, you were likely looking for something to put him in.

“Ah! Here it is!” You bring the dress to his eyes and he immediately regrets playing this role. This is a bit…embarrassing.

“This was supposed to be a gift for Sucrose’s birthday, but I’m sure you’d do a better job modeling this than her.” You explain.

It was getting difficult to maintain his quiet breathing, especially when you ogled his body as you took off the clothes that he has now. He wants to tell you that you should look away, that he can do it in your stead.

However, he ignores it. He ignores the embarrassment and the warmth rushing up to his cheeks. 

“Your white underwear suits you, Albedo. Although, don’t dolls have no need for undergarments?”

Your voice sends a chill to his spine. He sits there helpless under your fingers, awaiting what you’ll do next to him.

“You’re so perfect, my doll.” Albedo bites back the need to whine.

“Should I set up a mirror so you can see?”

He stares at himself through the mirror, the fluffy dress reaching just above his knee. It’s not of Monstadt creation, that’s for sure. Perhaps it’s a dress from Fontaine?

“Do you like it?” He watches you brush his hair.

“You know, I’ve always been amazed at how gorgeous you are. To think I’m this lucky to own you…I’ll make sure to take good care of you, dear.”

Albedo wants to bury himself underground. He’s enjoying this more than he should be.

It’s strange. He doesn’t get why he’s enjoying this at all. Isn’t his sole purpose to be that of living as a human? Why would he succumb to regressing himself like this?

Your arms envelop his body, your hands traveling on top of the fabric. 

They’re warm.

Albedo seethes when he feels you tug his nipple. No talking, he has to remind himself, even if you fondle his body like this without warning.

His throat is itching for something, a word, or any kind of sound. He hasn’t said a single thing since he stepped into your abode. 

He can do it, he reassures himself.

“My doll isn’t giving up this early, no?” You whisper directly to his ears.

Your fingers slip under the dress and he’s forced to be reminded that you’d taken off his underwear earlier. No! If you touch there, he’ll surely—

“Hmm…” 

Panic settles on his face when the noise unconsciously slips out of him.

“Is my doll malfunctioning? That’s a shame. I thought you were perfect. Do I have to throw you out already?” 

No, no… He stresses.

Give him one more chance! He pleads in his head.

Your thumb rubs the slit of his tip, playing with the already oozing precum. His thighs slightly tremble and he’s begging you to not notice it. He can’t —It’s physically impossible for him to stay still!

Your fingers now move to his shaft, stroking his cock slowly and giving him the right pace that he needs.

Albedo’s mind is getting hazy. It feels so damn good, he’s this close to moaning loudly if not for the fear that he’ll disappoint you.

He bites the inside of his cheek, his eyelids shutting close every now and then.

Your pace hastens, each stroke getting rougher and faster. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to hold in his scream when he cums. 

“Mmgh–”

His breaths are getting heavier and deeper, his cock ready to burst at any second. 

And then he feels your grip tighten. 

You stop your movement, letting his worry go to waste. It’s painful, being stopped when you’re so close to reaching your high. Still, this is better. He can’t imagine what he would do if he actually did crumble beneath your hands.

Albedo shivers when he feels you touch his tip again, replicating the same movements you had done earlier. His thighs are sticky, the insides of the dress damp and warm. 

The alchemist breathes. Coming to a conclusion that he’ll make less of a noise this way. He hears the way it squelches with each stroke, the noise leaving him greatly humiliated.

His cock aches for a release, the emotionless facade that he wears slowly shattering as he gets closer to an orgasm.

He bit down on his lip, ready to contain the noise, when you immediately stopped. His cock twitching from being suddenly released from the friction.

This happens five more times.

Albedo can feel his sanity going away. He needs to cum. Let him, please. He’s been doing so well, hasn’t he?

His legs have stopped shaking, already used to the same torture that you keep putting him under.

He wants it already, impatient at how long he thinks you’ll keep doing this. Albedo wants it to be all over, he’ll do anything. He’ll suck you off with his mouth if you want, no matter if it ends up with him choking at the end.

How long will he have to bear this?

“You really don’t get it, do you?” You ask the worn-out alchemist.

“You’re already perfect, Albedo. But isn’t there something you’re forgetting?”

What?

“I’ve given you so many chances to guess, and yet you still won’t remember?”

Your fingers cup his chin, and his mind relishes at the fact that he could forget about the one thing you told him that you enjoyed the most.

“Smile for me, doll.”

Albedo’s a wreck as he gets his insides wrecked with your length. His body every now and then writhes as he lets you handle his body even if you push inside him so far that he can feel it inside his guts.

He’s not allowed to move. He’s a doll, he keeps repeating to himself.

The smile on his face looks whorish instead of being elegant. 

He doesn’t know whether it’s because of the mirror but seeing you penetrate him, his hole opening up graciously for you has the poor alchemist wanting to scream. But since he can’t, his emotions overwhelm him and tears start flowing down his cheeks.

Being used like this, as if he’s just some object to be thrown around sends a thrill in his head. Perhaps it’s because of the fact that he would have been, if things didn’t go his way. 

Albedo ejaculates on the bed, the dress sticky with his cum. 

You don’t stop, his walls being mercilessly pounded through, wanting to see how far his limit is until he finally begs of you to stop.

Well, you did warn him before, didn’t you?

His body is weightless in your arms, using his body as if it’s your personal sex doll, you grab him by the sides of his waist, thrusting and hitting his sensitive spot each time.

He loves it.

He’s yours and you have every right to decide what he can and cannot do.

He won’t mind.

Not at all.

[walidgoldpreppy]

Welcome WalidGold

Walter Jenkins, a square-faced man in his thirties with a layered red haircut, stood in front of his office mirror, meticulously adjusting his gold tie knot. He wore a crisp suit, black with gold accents here and there—a nod to his role as manager of the famous sports team, the Golden Team.

Each member of the team wore their Gold uniforms, a symbol of their success and unity, and Walter, always dapper, found subtle ways to incorporate the color into his own outfit. Today, it was his tie clip, watch, and belt buckle that sparkled in the dim office light.

On the mahogany desk sat a small bottle, with Arabic writing etched into the glass. It was a gift from a friend, @arab-god.

Why not try it, he thought, with a wry smile. Without further hesitation, he uncorked the bottle and swallowed the liquid in one gulp. At first, he didn't feel anything out of the ordinary.

But a few moments later, a wave of heat invaded his body. His red beard, although well-groomed, began to gradually darken, turning a deep brown. The heat spread, making his skin browner and browner, as if every cell of his being was burning with energy. His muscles swelled, his body became wider, more imposing, as if every fiber of his flesh was being reforged under the effect of the drink.

Walter staggered slightly, his hands gripping the desk to keep his balance. He felt his mind grow numb, his head became lighter, as if his intelligence was slowly fading to make way for something more primal.

His Gold tie strained against his pecs, which were developing visibly. Each breath was heavier, slower, as the heat reached his lower abdomen, triggering an even more radical transformation.

He placed a hand on his chest, watching in amazement as his red hair turned black, taking on a more neat, almost slicked-back look. His eyes, previously a bright blue, became dark, almost black, as a voice echoed in his head, murmuring words in Arabic.

Walter didn't understand a thing, but he knew, deep down, that something had changed. He repeated these words mentally, without understanding their meaning. Suddenly, everything became clear: he had surrendered to something greater. He submitted to the force of this transformation, feeling a new power invade his mind and body. *Allah*... A clear, precise word, invaded his mind.

He felt stronger, more confident, and above all... more dominant. He straightened up, becoming aware of his new body. His skin was tanned, his features harder, his gaze, now dark brown, more piercing. He ran a hand over his beard, which had grown thick and black. Now he was Walter, but also something more. He felt more masculine, more imposing. Every gesture, every movement gave off an aura of power and control.

Standing in his office, Walter or whatever he had become stared into space. His right hand played absently with his tie as his mind sank into a thick, confused haze. Fuzzy memories came to mind, but none of them seemed to belong to the life he had led so far.

Images of his childhood in a small American town, his rising career in sports management, all of it gradually dissipated, like a dream that evaporates in the morning. In their place, a new reality imposed itself, more powerful, more vivid. He was no longer Walter.

Perhaps he had never been. *Walid*, that was who he was. The name echoed in his mind, filling every corner of his being.

Memories of a sunny childhood in a faraway land, in the heart of palm-lined alleys and bustling markets, imposed themselves on him. His parents, pious and respected, had taught him the values ​​of religion from a young age. Every morning, he rose for prayer at dawn, his eyes still sleepy, but his heart filled with faith. Walter's mind was slowly burning, absorbed by these new memories. He was no longer the man he believed himself to be. *Walid*, the son of a prosperous merchant, had grown up learning to dominate his environment, to impose his will with charisma and authority.

Very young, he had developed a natural talent for business, a keen sense of commerce and negotiation. Everything in his life had converged towards an unstoppable rise. Within a few years, he had become an influential businessman, respected throughout the country.

Every morning, Walid put on his suit and tie, a symbol of his success and power.

His unwavering faith had been his guide throughout this journey. He prayed fervently, guided by the love of Allah, and strove to spread the good word wherever he went. His success was not only the fruit of his hard work, but also of his deep devotion to his Creator.

It was Allah who had given him this strength, this natural dominance over other men. Every day, dressed in his impeccable suit, Walid stood as a manager, but also as a guide, a model of masculinity. With his ties and elegant suits, he embodied success, faith, and power. Under his leadership, the team was no longer simply a sports team, but a unified force, driven by a deeper conviction.

Adjusting his tie, he contemplated his reflection in the mirror. His tanned skin, his impeccably groomed black hair, his perfectly trimmed dark beard... Everything about him exuded a natural authority. Walid stood there, towering and powerful, ready to spread the good word through his success in business and sports. There was no more doubt, no more hesitation. Walter Jenkins was a distant memory. Now, he was *WalidGold*.

[robinette-green]

Robin's Guns and Swords DCA Romance Fics

These are fics that involve battles, pirates, mob bosses, cowboys, detective and so much more!

Light in the Darkness:

You fall into the debts of the Aperture Science Facility and find the remains of the past. Aperture’s repeating history. To your surprise, at the deepest part of this salt mine of science, you find two robots that should have stopped working long ago. Will they help you find a way top the surface?

Black Sea Glass: (tag)

Trying to escape from a group of mercenaries hunting you down to catch you and collect the bounty on your head, you stow away on what you think to be a merchant ship. Unfortunately for you, you end up on a ship flying under the king’s flag. The two captains decide that you can work on the crew while aboard. Over time you find yourself falling in love with the Captains. This is bad news for you. You have so many secrets to hide and the two captains despise lies. If they find out who you really are will they leave you? Would they turn you in?

Bits and Pieces:

A cop buddy invites you to a speakeasy for a good time. You go to drown yourself in booze. Little did you know that not only would this make your problems so much worse, but you would also gain the attention of the city's two most dangerous mob bosses. You just wanted to run your little coffee shop and leave your life of danger behind, but fate has other plans for you.

Hellfire to Warm the Heart:

There I was, standing in the rain, my ears still ringing from the door slamming behind me. Everything had gone downhill so fast. First, my job fired me without warning or reason then, unable to find a new job, I was evicted from my apartment due to being unable to pay rent. With my suitcase at my feet, I stared blankety down the street. What was I going to do? I had nowhere to go. My family had cut ties with me years ago, and I didn't have a friend to speak of. Was there a shelter I should go to, or would I be sleeping on the street tonight? "Oh, dear! Are you okay?" I flinched, not expecting anyone to speak to me. Looking around, I saw an expensive black car parked at the curb, and a back window rolled down. As I watched, the back door opened, and a man, preceded by a large black umbrella, exited the car. As he straightened, I took a step back, gazing up at a towering individual standing before me. Dressed in a pale blue suit, this guy had to be almost 7 feet tall, towering over me. His hair was shimmery gold, making him look like a sun. Golden eyes glittered as, with a soft smile, the man asked, "You look to be in a bit of a bind. Would you like some help?"

Fish Fry:

(tag)

Pulled from the sea 5 years ago, I was tied up, beaten, and sold to owner after owner, each deciding I was too dangerous to keep. Back then, I was strong, able to break bones and tear flesh with ease, singing to lure humans to their demise. It's what my kind was made to do, kill humans. But no more. Kept in increasingly small tanks, barely fed, and unable to swim, I started to weaken. Eventually, I was dumped here. It was some kind of oddities collection. My owner had other humans pay to look at his strange assortment of items he had gathered from around the world. Then one day I encountered two strange humanoid creatures that resembled the Sun and the Moon and my life started to change for the better.

Two Hunters and a Bloodsucker: (tag)

My life is good for what it is. Except that I’m dead. Well, undead. I’ve been undead for about 15 years now, and I haven’t aged a day. Being a vampire hiding among humans can be difficult at times, mainly dealing with sunlight and avoiding mirrors, but I manage. I’ve been living and working in this little town as the town blacksmith for about 7 years now, and I’ve become a full-fledged member of the little community here. I thought I had been doing a good job hiding my presence among the humans, but one day two of the most well-known vampire hunters came into town. If they find out what I am, they will kill me, but both of them have become intent on becoming my friends and maybe more. How can I keep myself from being discovered when two hunters are trying to romance me?

Cosmic Detectives:

I skid to a halt, a brick wall blocking me in. Turning around, I hoped in vain that I had enough time to backtrack and take another path before I was trapped. Two sets of glowing eyes met my gaze as I faced the entrance of the alley. One set red, the other blue. It was too late. Two guns were leveled at me, ready to fire.

Blood and Stars:

Wedged into my little hiding nook up in the second layer of book shelves, I could hear Sun whimpering somewhere below me. Over excited as he was, he had tripped and fallen face first over the sofa on the main floor, giving me the chance to escape. I was currently on the upper balcony of the library room, hidden behind the reading chairs that adorned one corner, pushed up against the wall. The whimpering turned into sniffles and I could almost believe that he was genuinely injured but I knew better. He had caught me this way before, coming out of hiding to see if he was hurt from whatever fall he had taken, clumsy as he was. He was just toying with me, seeing if I would come out of hiding on my own. Sooner rather than later he would get bored and start his search for me, calling out for me to come play, he wouldn’t bite. He would. The boys usually did. Vampire AU. Sun and Moon have a thirst for blood.

Me and My Flirtatious Pirates (LateNight DayDreams):

Naked cuddling with pirate Sun and Moon.

Astrological Bullets (LateNight DayDreams):

A Wild West story. You’re tied to a set of railroad tracks somewhere in the desert. You’ve accepted your fate, waiting for either the heat or a train to take you, when a strange metal individual happens by.

Some of these won't be finished and some are OLD writing of mine. you have been warned. Please don't let that stop you from reading these and enjoying them <3

[inoreuct]

During a supply run with Zoro, a well-meaning lady tells Sanji he's pretty. Not handsome, no--PRETTY. "Your swordsman over there is handsome," she says, pointing at Zoro, who's examining liquor bottles over at another stall. "YOU are pretty." How does he react, & what happens next? 👀 (1/2)

he just laughs at first, if only to cover up how that one word from a stranger has hit him like a punch to the gut.

he looks like a man, and people don't call men pretty. rogueish, certainly. even charming; he's gotten that before at least, but pretty? he laughs some more, gives her a smile and a few words that he doesn't even register, and the merchant lady tilts her head. "you don't get that often, do you?"

"never gotten it at all, actually," he answers, bravado draining away to leave a mumble that he isn't even sure she can hear.

but she must have, because she slides his purchases to him and hums, "well, you're very beautiful. anyone'd have to be blind not to see it."

"maybe," he allows hesitantly, taking the bag with a nod of goodbye. he cannot help but feel as though he's realised something that he won't be able to ignore.

and sure enough, back on the ship, the words swim in his mind. they pop up in blinding white font against the dark of his eyelids as he tries and fails to get to sleep. you're very beautiful.

do i want to be beautiful? he asks himself, and halfway through he already knows, he knows the answer. feels it like an ache in his bones.

sanji's never let himself think about it, but once he starts he can't stop. he imagines himself in makeup, pots and pencils and brushes in front of a mirror, his hair fluffed to perfection, lips red as the dawn and a beauty mark beneath his eye. he thinks about what it would feel like to put on a dress, a proper one; cotton and linen traded for silk, starched dress shirts abandoned in favour of satin blouses and full skirts that nip in with ribbon at the waist. he thinks of the wicker wedge sandals that nami sometimes wears. he thinks about being a man, with a little something more.

he flips over and shoves his face into his pillow. he needs to stop thinking about things that he wants but can never have.

*

sanji's usually better at keeping his secrets, but eventually he slips. he should have known it was only a matter of time before the magnitude of it all became too much to bear and spilled out across the floor.

fortunately, his crew is there to catch him.

they take all of it in stride, even though sanji himself doesn't even know what all of it is yet; he figures things out as they go along. he finds clothes that aren't his in his closet, accessories appearing on his dresser. zoro keeps buying him silk blouses and it makes him want to laugh and cry in equal amounts. nami sees her chance to snag a makeup practice dummy and grabs it, which results in many a night in the girls' quarters, fooling around with makeup until they're either too tired or too giddy with laughter. the rest of the crew show their support in smaller ways, though no less significant—

and now, a year later and leaning against the bar counter of a vaguely familiar town, sanji suspects that he's somehow found himself. it hits him with all the grandeur of someone realising oh, it's stopped raining, or oh, tomorrow's tuesday— sinks into him honey-slow like the burn of the whiskey he sips, warm and comfortable, like a coat he hadn't realised he'd been wearing this whole time and had become his favourite without him even knowing. put like that, it sounds incredibly silly; sanji chuckles as he takes another drink, and a hand settles low on his back where the blue velvet of his dress dips down.

"hey, beautiful," zoro whispers by his ear, pressing a kiss to his cheekbone before leaning over his shoulder to order, and sanji smiles as he swirls his glass with a slow twirl of his wrist.

maybe he'll go look for that merchant lady again. he's fairly sure he owes her a thank you.

[snk-smartpass]

DISCLAIMER: This is a Repost of a Fan Translation!

TRANSLATION: @worldofchicken

SOURCE: https://aminoapps.com/c/attack-on-titan/page/blog/smartpass-au-good-night-sweet-dreams-mike/BVzL_EJuwuJo0g1mRY5Xx4e71ZWqMX7eQ3

• • • • • • •

Goodnight Sweet Dreams Dear Vol. 16 Mike Zacharias

[People say, dreams are mirrors that reflect the heart.

Does sleep bring the tranquility needed to forget the ruthlessness of the day, or is it an abyss harsher than reality?]

“We’ve invited the chief and the squad leaders. Please eat.”

At a mansion owned by a wealthy merchant in the suburbs, there appeared Survey Corps members in full uniform.

This merchant is very important, since he helped Survey Corps that lacked funds, and helps funds their expeditions.

“Please drink this glass of wine.”

“…Erwin.”

When he was talking with one of his comrades, Erwin ‘accidentally’ dropped his glass.

“Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s alright. Would Squad Leader Mike like some too?”

“I’m not a good drinker, water is fine.”

“Thanks, Mike. Was there a drug in it?”

“Ahh.”

“They probably thought the Survey Corps isn’t worth to invest in, so they wanted to switch to the Garrison. They were planning to make a scandal once I lose my composure. Seems like that’s it for our partnership.”

On the carriage that brought them back to town from the suburbs, Erwin and Mike talked about their views.

However, it’s different outside the walls, where mankind struggle together. In the battle against the hidden enemies and the titans, Mike’s smelling ability has an important use.

In the rocking carriage, Erwin gave out a bitter smile.

“Your smelling ability is godly, good for you.”

You even know what you didn’t need to know, Mike felt like he saw that look in Erwin’s eyes, snorted, and gave no answer.

…the sound of the rocking carriage, unconsciously turned into the sound of the horses he rode with his comrades.

“S, squad leader! We can’t use this route! There’s the smell of blood!”

“Shut up, Mike Zacharias. We haven’t got any info from the commander.”

“But, this smell, it must be the titans…”

“Don’t talk too much! There aren’t any smoke signals!”

When Mike had just joined the Survey Corps, Erwin hadn’t invented the long-range battle formation, all information was spread by the smoke signals.

“Damn… why didn’t anyone believe me?”

Even when he was young, Mike was able to tell the smell of blood and sense danger. He had detected the enemy’s territory, however, being a new soldier, his idea wasn’t accepted.

“My trainee class is in front of us, if I want to survive…”

At the end of the expedition, Mike lost some comrades. It happened many times until his ability was recognized and he got promoted…

“Mike, we’re arriving soon.”

The rocking carriage made a rocky noise.

“Did I fall asleep?”

“You’ve been asleep for a while.”

Mike sniffed around, and smelt his own tears. The tears flowing from his eyes, probably was caused by the nostalgia of the pain in his dreams.

Without showing it in his face, he looked forward, and casually said:

“You were saying I’m unfortunate.”

“Is it about the smelling ability?

Mike nodded and let out a smile.

“Now that I think about it… it doesn’t hurt as much now because I’m useful in the battles.”

Erwin looked at Mike, who’d suddenly become talkative, and let out a laugh after listening to him.

“I’ll count on you next time.”

“Ahh. As long as it’s within my ability.”

The two of them remained silent as the carriage passed through the town gate; they were the men that commands the Survey Corps.

[citruswriter]

The Call of a Lover

Pairing: Reader x Anakin Skywalker

Reader Is: Afab, gender neutral, former Jedi, firebender, trading merchant.

Anakin Is: Sith Lord, Uncharred (ik BBQ is tasty but still no crispy Anakin for you).

Citrus Rating: ✨Lemon✨

Warnings: They/Them pronouns, little to no paragraphs, sloppy writing (haven't written smut in ages), p in v, oral (f receiving), choking, mild degradation, not proof read, fluff at the end.

A/N: This is ✨part two✨ to my dream/fanfic. So enjoy.

Listen in with me! ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

Sunlight. Warmth. Cotton. Those are the first few things you noticed as you cracked your eyes open. Groaning in pain, you looked around. You weren't on the starship anymore. Slowly dragging yourself up to sit up, you looked around and saw you had been transported to a planet's surface. Rubbing your eyes you looked out the opened windows to see lush green grass and flower meadows. But you didn't get to admire their beauty for long, pain in your chest arising. Wincing you did your best to stand up and drag your way over to the simple vanity that was pressed up against one of the cobblestone walls. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you noticed the change of clothes you had been put in. A long baggy shirt and a pair of simple underwear. "Was this Anakin's doing?" You muttered to yourself, gently touching the shirt. It was soft... Clearing your throat you did your best to peel the shirt off and toss it to the side, leaving your body bare, minus the underwear you were still in. You winced at the wound on your chest. Although your body had regenerated quite a lot, it was still pretty nasty. Turning to view your back, you were relieved to see that at least the wound on your back had completely closed. Igniting a hand with your flames, you began to circle the fire over your chest wound, causing it to heal up faster.

♡⑅*˖•. ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .•˖*⑅♡

Anakin chewed his lip as the medic spoke to him. "They seem to be fine, no doubt due to the self healing properties their species possesses. The wound on their chest may need some extra treatment but other than that, they should make a full recovery." She stated in a soft tone, she could practically feel the anxiety rolling of the Sith Lord. He nodded, relieved. "Thank you, doctor. You are dismissed". He replied with a wave of his hand. The doctor nodded before making her way out of the small cottage-like house and to her tiny ship. Sighing, he perked up when he heard movement from the room you had been placed in. Standing up, he grabbed a glass and jug full of freshly squeezed orange juice. They'll prolly be thirsty... He thought as he poured you a glass. Running a hand through his hair nervously he shakily picked up the glass and made his way to the room. It had been so long since he had seen you. He always dreamed for the day that he'd see you again, although never under such dire circumstances. He parted the curtains to the room and almost dropped the glass at what he saw. You. Almost completely naked, flames over your chest as you healed your wound the rest of the way. Eyes screwed shut as you pushed through the pain, chest heaving as you painted, cheeks flushed red. It was a sight to behold and he had to duck back out of view and take a few deep breaths. Oh fuck. He thought as he felt his pants tighten. He felt horrible but he couldn't help but feel this way when you looked like that.

Taking another deep breath he quietly walked in and walked up behind you. "Feeling better?" He murmured, causing you to jump and shriek in surprise. Anakin couldn't help but laugh as you stood up and whipped around, arms covering your chest. "ANAKIN!" You shouted, both embarrassed and startled. He couldn't help it, you looked like a startled bird. He started laughing and you couldn't help but relax at the sound of his musical laughter. "Oh relax. It's only me." He said with a roll of his eyes, lifting the hand holding the cup of orange juice. "Thirsty?" He questioned, holding it up close to your mouth. You looked up at him through your eyelashes before nervously pressing your lips against the glass. Anakin tipped the glass up slightly, allowing you to drink as much as you wanted. You hummed and went to pull back, but Anakin didn't catch on soon enough that you were done. You gasped as the cold orange juice spilled, dripping down your chin and splashing your neck and chest. "Shit. I'm so sorry, princess". He muttered as he grabbed the shirt you had previously been wearing and using it to clean you up. "So uh, how have you been?" You asked, causing him to look up into your eyes with those gorgeous blue eyes of his. He smiled and shook his head softly, "Really, (Y/N)? We haven't seen each other in years and the first thing you ask me after all this time is how I've been?" You pouted at him. "Oh I'm sooooo sorry I couldn't come up with a better question, Lord Vadar". You playfully snapped. Anakin winced and began wiping your chest, silently remarking how well your wound had healed. "Don't call me that. I'm just Anakin with you," he muttered, grabbing your face gently so he could clean your face. "Just Anakin?" You echoed, lifting your gaze to see him. He was so close, you could kiss him if you wanted to. His nose was mere centimeters from yours. He drug his knuckles softly up your shoulder before leaning in to place his hands on the vanity behind you. "Just Anakin". He confirmed. Leaning back yourself, you lifted your head to brush your nose against his. "Well then, Just Anakin. How have you been?" You questioned once more, causing him to smile softly. "Hm. I've been ok. Could be better though". He replied honestly. "Oh? Anything I can do to help?" You questioned. Anakin let out a shaky breath deciding instead to drop his head to the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent like he used to when you were still Jedi. But it was different this time. You didn't smell like old Jedi scrolls or like the flowers that grew in the gardens anymore. You smelled like the stars, you smelled like home. "Maybe..." He replied after a moment of just nuzzling your neck. Heat crept up onto your cheeks.

"Ani?" You squeaked out. You went to touch him but he grabbed your wrist. "Fuck you haven't called me that in ages." He breathed and you clenched your thighs together at his deep tone. An action that didn't go unnoticed, smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. You tried to wiggle your wrist free so you could touch him, but he tightened his grip and growled softly. "Touch me and I won't be able to hold myself back," he warned, grip softening so you could free yourself if you so wished. "I haven't seen you in so long. I never thought I'd ever see you again. Touch me and I'll make sure you never leave my sight again". He was giving you a choice. You reached your hands forward, pulling him back so you could cradle his face, fingertips brushing his curls back. "Ani..." You whispered, causing him to shudder. You leaned in, mouth hovering over his. "I've wanted you since we were Padawans..." That was all he needed. His hands found you in an instant, pulling you up and into the air, clutching you close to him before tossing you onto the bed. "You're gonna regret this, pretty girl". He said, lust dancing in his eyes as he drank your figure in. "Then be my favorite mistake," you cooed, arms reaching out to him. He pounced onto you, lips bruising yours in an instant. He practically devoured you, lips moving across your lips and neck, nipping and biting as if he were starving. Hands gripped at your legs as he pulled you closer to him, clothed length grinding against your core. You hummed in pleasure, rolling your head back. Anakin took advantage of this, attacked your neck as his large hands gripped at your bare skin. He trailed his fingertips over your body before grabbing your waist and forcing your hips to smash against his. "Ani!" You whined out. You felt like you were suffocating. Head spinning as you just laid there and let him do what he wanted to your body. You were essentially high off his presence and you best believe that he knew it. Hands reaching for your underwear, he made quick work of taking them off before diving between your legs.

You cried out as you felt his tongue make contact with your core. You tried to wiggle free, lifting your hips in a poor attempt to get away. "Ah ah ah. I don't think so, princess. I wanna taste you," he said, arms hooking under your legs to keep you in place. You whimpered and Anakin kissed your inner thighs in reassurance before returning to his meal. Tongue circling your clothes as you whined again. He certainly knew what he was doing as he lapped at your folds that were covered in slick. Latching onto your pearl he began to suck, eyes drifting up to watch you writhe and moan. Desperately wanting to stop him before the orgasm you felt coming over came you, you grabbed his curls and tugged. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Ani. W-Wait, fuck. Anakin, I'm gonna-" "Gonna what? Cum? What you don't wanna cum on my tongue?" He taunted, kissing up your body. You moaned again, body reacting to every touch. He chuckled before dropping down to kiss your lips once more. Your hands slipped under his shirt, trying to peel off his clothes. "M-Maybe another time." You replied as you slipped his shirt off before grabbing at his belt. "Please Ani," You whined, getting impatient. "Please. Need you so bad, baby". He groaned at the desperation in your tone and obliged, stripping himself of his clothes before nestling in between your legs again. "You're so fucking beautiful," he cooed, kissing your neck as he grabbed his shaft in order to better guide his tip to your core. You whined again and desperation and threw your head back, throwing a mild tantrum. "Hurry uuuuuuup!" You pleaded. Anakin couldn't help but laugh at your desperation. "You see me for the first time in years and you just become my cock hungry whore almost instantly. How precious". You snapped your head up and glared up at him. "I've waited for this moment since we were both teenagers. If you don't fucking rail me til I can't speak, I swear Anakin I will-!" Your angry rant was cut off as the man above you thrusted up into you, him immediately setting a brutal pace in you. "Sorry what? What was that?" He grabbed your neck, squeezing tightly. Not enough to hurt, but enough to give you a buzz. "Sorry I can't hear your brattiness over the noise of your pussy squelching around my dick from how wet you are". He let your neck go, choosing instead to claw at your flesh, making angry red lines.

You cried out in pain and attempted to snap back at him but all that left your mouth was mindless babble, words refusing to form in your mind as you became more and more cock dumb. Trembling as he gripped your hips to angle them down, you yelped as he hit that spongy spot within your walls, causing your vision to temporarily whiten. A strew of stuttered curse words left your mouth as he kept pounding away within you. His chest was heaving, sweat beaded across his forehead as he focused on forcing you to come undone. "Fuck... So tight... So close..." He muttered, hot breath fanning against your neck, causing you to tremble. Ducking his head more to latch onto your neck. Moaning, you rolled your head back, a knot forming in your stomach. "Ani. Ani please. Please I'm so close". You whined out. He didn't respond to you, only pressing a palm to your lower stomach so you could feel his cock more as he bullied your cervix. You cried his name out as you orgasmed, him groaning and cumming inside you only a few seconds later. The both of you stayed there for a moment, catching your breath. "I love you..." You whispered. Anakin chuckled softly and pulled out finally, lifting his head to gently kiss you on the mouth. "I love you too, pretty girl. Now let's get cleaned up".

♡⑅*˖•. ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .•˖*⑅♡

BONUS

"Anakin Skywalker!" You yelled and Anakin sheepishly peaked his head into the bedroom, "Yes, my love? Am I in trouble?" He asked with a nervous chuckle. "Yes you are!" You said in an exasperated tone as you threw some sort of stick at him. Scrambling to catch it he held it up. It was a pregnancy test... A positive pregnancy test. "We have sex ONE TIME! And you've somehow already knocked me up!" You said with a nervous laugh. He stared at you with wide eyes before rushing over to scoop you up and spin you around. "This is amazing! I've always wanted to be a dad!" He beamed. "Oh really?" You mused. "Yeah. Hey I've got a new nickname for you". He replied mischievously. "Oh and let me guess, mommy?" You said with a playful scoff. "I was thinking Mrs. Skywalker but that one works too". He cooed, causing you to become all flustered but you smiled none the less before kissing him. He happily returned the kiss and the two of you stayed that way. Blissfully wrapped up in each other's arms with whispers of the future.

I'm sorry it took SO DAMN LONG to finally finish writing this. Work has burnt me out so badly. But I finally finished so hell yea! Sorry if it's shit tho, been ages since I've written smut. 😭

Tag List: None yet

[bipolarman2022]

**Title: "The Mirror of Past Lives"**

**Chapter 1: The Inheritance**

Raul had never paid much attention to the old mirror he had inherited from his grandfather. It was a large, heavy, and somewhat intimidating object, with a carved wooden frame that depicted scenes of ancient battles and forgotten ceremonies. The mirror had remained in the attic for years, covered in dust and wrapped in a threadbare blanket. Until that night.

Moved by an inexplicable impulse, Raul decided to take it down and place it in his room. Something in him, perhaps curiosity about his family's past, or perhaps the need to feel some connection with his grandfather, made him carefully clean the glass until it shone under the dim light of the lamp.

**Chapter 2: The Reflection**

That night, as he prepared for sleep, Raul stopped in front of the mirror. He looked at his own image, the familiar face he saw every day, but which now seemed strangely distant. It was then that the air in the room seemed to change, becoming heavier, almost charged with electricity.

Suddenly, the reflection began to distort. It wasn't a sudden movement, but rather a smooth slide, as if an invisible curtain was being pulled aside to reveal something else. The face in the mirror began to transform: the skin became darker, the hair black and curly, and a well-trimmed beard appeared where there had been only shadow before. The Raul in the mirror was wearing a brown robe that fell to his feet, instead of the t-shirt and jeans he himself was wearing.

**Chapter 3: The Awakening**

Raul took a step back, his heart pounding. He didn't understand what he was seeing. The man in the mirror stared back at him, but there was something else in his eyes, something ancient and deep. It seemed that the eyes of the reflection were wells of wisdom, bearers of memories that stretched across centuries.

Without knowing why, Raul felt the need to touch the mirror. He reached out slowly, and when his fingers brushed the cold glass, a wave of sensations washed over him. Suddenly, he was no longer in his room; the ground beneath his feet was warm sand, and the air smelled of spices and the sea.

**Chapter 4: The Previous Life**

Raul found himself in a bustling market somewhere in the Middle East. The colors were vibrant, people came and went, and everything seemed so real that for a moment he forgot this wasn't his life. He looked down and saw the same brown robe he'd seen in the reflection. His mind was hazy, but something inside him felt like he had come home.

Days, weeks passed, and Raul lived like a different man, as if he had always belonged here. He was a respected merchant, a family man, and even though it all seemed like a dream, he never felt more awake. Over time, he came to understand that the mirror was no ordinary object; It was a portal to his past lives, to identities he had lived in other times and places.

**Chapter 5: The Decision**

One day, while looking into another mirror, in a room that was already familiar to him, Raul felt a jolt. The image began to fade, and he knew that he was about to be returned to his time, to his true life. But now he understood the purpose of the mirror: it did not only show the past, but it offered him the possibility of learning from it, of integrating those experiences into his present life.

When he finally woke up in his room, the mirror was in front of him, but the reflection showed only his own face, dressed in his modern clothes. Raul smiled nostalgically. He now knew that, even though he lived in the present, he would always carry with him the traces of his past lives. And when he wanted to remember, he would only have to look into that mirror and let himself go.

**Epilogue**

Raul never saw the man in the brown robe again, but sometimes, as he passed by the mirror, he could feel his presence, like a whisper in the wind. The mirror had changed his life, had expanded his consciousness, and now Raul lived each day with the certainty that he was more than just a man of his time; he was an amalgam of stories, experiences, and lives that continued to resonate within him.

[smokeys-house]

The Cane King's Daughter

⭐️Art by @sator-the-wanderer, story by @smokeys-house ⭐️

⭐️Also available on ao3!⭐️

✨️Part two TCKD: A Story for Another Time available here✨️

Storms at sea are no rare occurrence. Squalls that sweep ships to their sides may be daunting, but no more so than the tumult of the lives of all folk, land or sea. Captain Whetstone, a self made pirate born on the coast of France, has made rather a name for herself. A large and fluffy brown moomin, she grew up hearing the stories of a free life at sea. 

She sat wide upon a chair in the cabin of her ship. The strain of a pirate's life wore heavily upon her brow. The early days were rife with plunder and excitement, raucous laughter and cheers. She'd made it, or so she would've thought. She'd got the merry life she'd wanted, as for whether it'd be a short one would be up to the rule of law. 

'Perhaps I've been at it too long.' the captain thought to herself. She sighed aloud, staring into the vanity mirror as if looking past herself. "Rouse yerself. Yer a captain, not some layabout on a fishing trip." She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and made for the deck. She'd grown weary of taking scores and the thrill of living on the run.

The crew still aboard The Honeyed Word were working diligently; hauling crates to and from the port, maintaining the ship, or otherwise making themselves useful. Marseille was bustling, lively, and lousy with merchant ships. The local law, while concerned about piracy, were not so eager to challenge those engaged in its splendors. Collecting a bribe was practically by the books in Marseille. It wasn't the pirate haven of Nassau, but at least here she could try to lie low for a while. 

The salted sea air mingled nicely with the smell of cookery and the commotion of working sailors as the captain made rounds amongst what crew remained on deck. 

"Cap'n." A grizzled old hemulen woman wiped the sweat from her brow. "Most of the crew 'ave headed into town. I assume you can simply follow the ruckus if ye be needing to find them." Her voice was coarse and thick, but with a sense of duty. 

"As it happens, I fear I may be in search of drink myself." The captain shielded her eyes from the sun with her paws. "Keep an eye on things for me while I'm gone." 

"Promise me ye don't be up to nothin' foolish. I seen that bored look you been wearin'."

"No foolishness here, Ruthie. Just a quick nip, and maybe a rest in a bed what ain't rollin' on the waves." She patted the hemulen woman on the back with a hearty thud, to which she chuckled mirthfully.

The way into town was fraught with people of all classes and lifestyles; merchants, traders, sailors, simple common folk, rich and poor. Marseille was a well populated city, and drew in people from all over. The captain trod a familiar path to her preferred local pub, one of the few she hadn't been run out of in recent memory. Despite the relative ease with which she carried herself, being spotted by knowing eyes would likely spell trouble, or at the very least more excitement than she was looking for. 

"Didn't think I'd see you in here again, after last time." The barkeep didn't look up from polishing his glass. 

"I'm not sure I remember the last time. Much to see around these parts I'm afraid, sometimes too much." She eyed a table of navy men in the corner as she approached the counter. It was a clean establishment, not necessarily upscale, but it did at least serve the more well-to-do in days long since passed. The place was littered with well crafted furniture and gave an air of high status, but the clientele quickly dimmed the illusion. The velvets adorning curtains and chairs had all faded, and some were torn in spots. 

"What'll you have, Whetstone?"

"That'll be captain Whetstone from you. Pour me anything what ain't rum n' cask-water, and you can call me whatever you like!" The two shared a laugh as the bartender filled two tankards with ale. 

"Word on the street is your boys are already wreaking havoc. Half my usual patrons have made themselves scarce. You've only been in town a couple of days I thought, but from the way folks are talking I would've thought the devil himself had popped up on our doorstep, and made himself at home." 

"Oh, how lovely." Whetstone sighed and eagerly watched the man pour. "I'd have thought by now the folks 'round here would've been dreadfully bored by that sort of thing." She paid for the two drinks and clinked glasses with the bartender. "Not like the navy men do it any different while docked. We're all fixin' t' crack Jenny's teacup!"

"Aye, but your 'Jenny' is more often than not someone else's 'Sally', ye damn dog."

Whetstone raised a finger as she drank deep from her mug. "So long as she's not your Sally I'd say I'd done no wrong. Not my fault no navy men know how to keep a woman in good spirits!" She had a charismatic and an almost musical way of speaking, it was as though everything she said was a line in a play.

"And how might that be, oh great and wise slayer of maidens?" 

"Spirits!" She motioned to the bottles on the shelf behind the bar, sharing a hearty cheer with a few eavesdropping barflies. 

"And what might it be that brings you to Marseille once more?"

"Naught but the wetting of m' whistle and the tireless search fer comp'ny I reckon. I'm not quite so sure, I think I just wanted t' see yer ugly mug once more!"

She spent a few coins and hours there, seemingly wasting the day away. She knew that she wasn't searching for much of anything, and that she was simply tired of the hardships she'd chosen for herself. 'What use is a free life if I can't live it quietly?' She thought. 'All the excitement out t' sea, and all I'm wanting fer is a quiet day indoors.' Perhaps she'd grown weary of her trade, but taking a day for herself surely wasn't what you'd expect if you'd heard the stories about her. 

"That's her right over there. The glum looking gal in the coat." Whetstone's musings were interrupted by murmurs rolling like thunder into jeers. The calm if somewhat gruff environment quickly became rife with tension.

"Seems our mutual friends have spotted a familiar fiend." The barkeep kept his paws busy, still cleaning glasses from patrons past. The captain appeared more tired by the idea than worried, propping herself up on the bar with her arms. 

"You've got some nerve. Swingin' your snout 'round here like it weren't still smellin' of my girl's perfume." The hemulen navy man tucked one thumb into his belt as he approached, glancing over his shoulder back to his fellows. 

" 'fraid I haven't seen your girl since she were someone else's. Last I checked, and likely still, she belonged to herself. Let's keep our paws in our pockets, shall we?" 

"She seems t' think quite highly of you." His words were dripping with venom as he looked the captain up and down. He either had a chip on his shoulder or something to prove. "Turn 'n face me you bilgerat. I'm fixing to see what she thinks is so special!" 

"Quiet over there!" A younger fillyjonk man spoke up from the corner, his face mostly obscured by a hat tilted over it. "Some of us are trying to drink in peace."

"What's it to you, boy? Shut yer gob afore I shut it for you!" The navy man leading the group continued to shout, tensions rising among the men behind him. He grabbed the captain by the collar of her coat. "Don't think even for a second I've not seen your face on them posters. Teachin' you a lesson and gettin' paid for it? Price on you's enough to split with these boys and then some." 

The captain's eyes darted to and fro, seeking any opportunity to turn this around. The navy men must've numbered at least a dozen in total, all surrounding her. Them aside, patrons flanked them on all sides, acting as likely obstacles. Just as the situation was looking its grimmest, a near full glass flew across the room, finding its target to be the head of the man nearest Whetstone. 

That one thrown drink began a large-scale brawl encompassing the entirety of the bar. The glass distracted the leader of the pack long enough for Whetstone to throw the first punch, square in the snout. The rest of the navy men, unable to tell the shouting of patrons from aggressors, and unable to tell who threw the cup, tore through the establishment. Skirmishes filled every corner of the room.  The bartender calmly ducked into a room just behind the bar as it all began to unfold. The captain danced among the crowd, dodging blows and delivering them herself. 

"This way!" Beckoned the be-hatted fillyjonk man, motioning to the alley entrance he was holding open. Whetstone fought her way through the flinging of paws at maws and more thrown drinks, toward the only friendly face in sight. 

Just then, the bartender returned from the storage room behind the counter with a flintlock rifle and pistol in tow. He fired the musket straight into the ceiling, the boom overcoming the sound of the raucous crowd. For a moment, everyone stopped. 

"Out of my bar." He spoke quite plainly, as though it were simply closing time. The navy men stopped their brawling and regained focus, looking about the room for their previously cornered quarry.

"Over there! After her, boys!" The sailors that still stood gave chase, stumbling over chairs and glasses underfoot. 

In all the excitement, the captain had only just made it to the door when the gun went off. Her and her new acquaintance darted alley to alley, their pursuers forcing them through markets and over fences. Though the chase felt to them as intense as any they'd ever seen, it must have been quite the sight to see that many drunkards speedily shambling across town.

The shouting got further and further away, and luckily the throngs of the afternoon crowd began filling the streets once more. If it weren't for the simple fact that the captain hadn't been at the bar for as long as the rest of them, they likely would have caught up to her. She'd wisely abstained from anything too strong while in public, but a belly full of beer hardly makes for good running. With her wits mostly about her, and her ego intact, she'd made good on her escape thanks to a kind stranger. 

Soon after, the busy dockside streets and afternoon sun quickly shifted into wealthy homes and a dimming evening sunset as the two evaded their would-be captors. Once they felt they had lost their assailants, the two caught their breath and the young man calmly led Captain Whetstone to a lovely gated garden bordering the wealthier part of town. It was well kept and filled with vibrant pinks, deep purples and reds, and a sweet floral aroma mixed with the salt of the nearby sea. Ornate metal bars formed a fence, wrapping the exterior of the garden. 

"There's a greenhouse here where we can lie low. I like to come here to get lost for a while." The young man's voice shed pretense for a moment.

"Fine work, lad! And yer sure no nosy gardener's eager to do some midnight pruning?" The captain idly rubbed the petals of a nearby rose as she took in the view. "Posh bit o' living, this. Real pretty, though."

"Didn't think pirates cared for flowers. No, no one'll turn up. This square belongs to a wealthy family, used to be the daughter's. Haven't seen her around here in some time, though."

"We've all got our secrets, lad." She winked as she meandered through the garden to the greenhouse. The moon's rise baked a soft light throughout the interior. She idly rummaged through a cupboard above a potting bench. "Bless me tail! Oy, lad! They've got booze in 'ere! Some fine drink by the look of it. Supposin' the young maiden kept a few secrets, too." She snickered as she uncorked the bottle. She'd sobered a bit since her midday jog, and apparently wasn't eager to continue that trend. 

"What's your name, anyhow? Ya know mine as it seems half of Marseille does these days. Why risk yer life fer a no good pirate?"

"Well… like you said, we all have our secrets, captain."  The young fillyjonk sat upon a stool in the corner, seemingly familiar with the space. Whetstone poured a glass for herself and another for her new friend. The two shared drinks for a while, swapping idle stories late into the evening. The liquor spilled forth as did the relaxation and courage that comes with it. 

"So… you're a pirate, ay?" The man swirled his glass in his paw, not looking up from his drink. "You'd know a thing or two about fighting with a sword, then?" He stood, walking over to the potting bench near where Whetstone sat against the wall. 

"Aye, lad. I'd say I know a thing or two about swingin' a sword. What're ye gettin' at?" She steadied her eyes as they'd just begun to spin, realizing only now the risk of getting too drunk to stand with strangers about. 

"Show me." He tossed her a wooden cutlass from beneath the bench. 

"Secrets, secrets, secrets. My my my..." She caught it deftly, laying it across her lap. "I'm supposin' that's not the only thing y' be hiding from me."

"It's not, but if you beat me, I'll tell all."

"Ha, it'll take more'an that to get me into playfighting a stranger what won't say his name with a wooden toy." 

"Scourge of the seas frightened by a youngblood after just a few drinks?" He used the point of his wooden sword to lift her chin and meet his gaze. Either he'd handled his liquor better than she did, or he was far more cautious than she was.

"Now yer just testing me patience, boy." She pushed aside the sword and finished her drink, rising to her feet. "Ye won't be needing t' set terms fer if'n you win. On account of ye won't. Take the first swing." She stood straight, sword idle in her paw, in an entirely unready stance. She took in a sharp breath, and exhaled slowly. She wasn't unfamiliar with the art of the un-sober sword, but she never did like to lose. 

The man swung, overhead and diagonal to her shoulder. She tucked herself to one side as it flew past and struck the ground. 

"Slow." Captain Whetstone teased. 

He swung again, from left to right, to which she back-stepped. 

"Clumsy." She continued her barbs with a wink.

He thrust at her belly in quick succession, the first one a narrow miss, and the second intercepted by the flat of the captain's wooden blade. 

"Not bad! Once more!" She taunted, now fully engaged. Her feet planted firm and knees bent, she parried blow after blow. He sent out yet another thrust, this time aimed at her chest. 

"Out you go!" She turned his thrust to her outside line and closed in. She turned her point down, pressing the pommel to his ribs, and pushed him out of the greenhouse door into the garden with a shoulder check.

"You're toying with me! Throw a cut at least!" The fillyjonk protested, panting, but on guard after managing to avoid falling flat on his face. 

"Aye lad, I am! But here goes!" She threw a cut at a downward angle to cross his chest, or so it seemed at first. She feinted high, forcing him to guard his head and swung low, giving him a gentle tap on his thigh. "How's that?" She smirked. It was clear he was embarrassed, and perhaps a little upset. His face was red from drink, exertion, and now frustration. He threw several wild strikes out in a vain attempt to land a blow, to which she ducked several. 

"Easy, lad!" She began deflecting his blows, hoping that he'd ease up. He brought his sword up as a club with both hands, over his head, letting out a tense shout as he swung. She blocked it static and right between the two of them, holding the bind. She turned her point under and went for a disarm, tossing his sword aside. Just as soon as his sword hit the ground, as did he, with a swift push on the chest from the captain. She stood over the fillyjonk, pointing her sword at his chest. 

The fillyjonk's hat tumbled back, spilling forth long dark curls, previously tied back with ribbons that had since gone astray. The moonlight soaked into the fillyjonk's fur and hair, cascading shadows from the flowers that she had tumbled into upon onto her muzzle. The contrast between the bright blue flowers, her dark, rolling hair and the soft brown of her fur mirrored that of the shore and a stormy sea. To the captain, she was the very visage of romance. Perhaps it was the light of the moon, or the thrill of the fight, or even the blur of the booze, but she became immediately enamored.

"Well strike me pink! Hell hath no fury, eh? Now the question is, who scorned a bonny lass like you?"  The captain lowered her sword, wearing a surprised grin on her face. "I'm supposin' now would be a good time to cash in on my winnings."

The evening stretched on into night, bringing with it the still presence of the full moon and the quiet breeze carried in from offshore. The night air was cool, and just comfortably so. 

"My name's Marion." The fillyjonk acquiesced, true to her word. "Marion Cartier. It's my rum we've been spilling all night." She crossed her legs as she sat upon the cobblestone amongst the flowers. 

"And this here'd be your garden then? The daughter o' the house as you'd said it. It's beautiful." She cupped the bulb of a flower in her paw. "If yer the daughter of a wealthy family, what business had ye in a bar like that one?" 

"Same business I had in having a private garden. An escape." 

"An' what was that bit afore I pushed y' down? Figure you'd take me in fer the bounty alive after gettin' me liquor'd up?"

"No… it's not that it's just…" Marion hesitated before answering, burning with embarrassment and the rum in her belly. Eventually she settled on telling the truth. "My father was right."

Captain Whetstone sat just across from her, light-heartedly rolling her eyes. "I'm supposin' that's got a story behind it. Night's young and I've nowhere better t' be, might as well let it out."

"He'd have me fall in line or sell me off just the same. If it's not helpful to his business, it hardly matters what I want." 

"Yer a grown woman, can't ye just use all that money o' yers to get yerself a place by yer lonesome? 'S what I'd do."

"The man practically owns me. I won't see any money that doesn't sit in his paws until I take up the mantle." 

"...And the swords?" Whetstone was quick to dismiss the woes of the wealthy and continued sating her curiosity with questions. Despite the blooming feeling in her chest, she still found it difficult to feel sympathy for rich folk.

"Father fancies himself a duelist. I'm… I thought I could get to know him better if I could get him to see me." She eyed her paws, rubbing the areas hardened into calluses by many hours of practice. "Told me it wasn't worth my time to wield a sword. Told me I'd be good for nothing if it wasn't for the family business."

The captain looked over at the wooden swords lying on the ground and cocked her head to the side. "Those ain't dueling swords, lassie. That's a cutlass."

Marion's eyes stayed focused on her hands despite the captain's piercing gaze and raised eyebrow. Silence filled the space for a moment.

"I've uh… I'm not quite sure how to uhm… it's rather embarrassing, I fear. Given present company, especially."

"Spill yer beans. I've drank too much t' sleep now fer fear of hangover. An' it's far too long a night yet fer keepin' secrets. B'sides, I won, remember?" Whetstone laid up against a tree and began picking her teeth with one of her claws.

"You must promise not to laugh."

"Miss Marion, I hadn't realized we were school girls! I ain't laughin' now, but I sure could use a good'un, out with it."

"I thought I could be a pirate. Or a privateer. Something on the sea that isn't in the navy. I'd take off as a stowaway on one of my father's ships with a few good men and strike out on my own."

"If that's yer cover fer trying t' claim my bounty it sure is the most… creative ruse anyone's drummed up against me." 

"I'm not trying to claim the bounty! Even if I was, you'd have killed that dream along with the one you're stepping on now." Marion paused for a short while, composing herself. The frustration in her voice was joined ever so slightly by the sound of tears beginning to well up.  

"Ah, I'm sorry lass, but it's a mite hard to think of someone like yerself at sea… y' need more'an just a few good men and some sword swingin' skills. It's a rough life out there."

"But it's a free one. The sea keeps men honest… in a way. There's bluster, sure, like anywhere else. But the sea asks that you prove it, and I aim to." 

"Aye… ye can't lie to her none, this I know." The captain looked to the sky, feeling a flutter in her chest. She was reminded of her youth, and the first time she felt the call to the sea. Though it hadn't been too many years, most pirates don't last more than a few. "You'll find yer way. The bold ones always do." 

The conversation bled into thoughtful silence, the pair quietly ruminating on past and future. The captain balanced a near empty bottle on her knee, watching the liquor shift and roll within. She examined the label, taking in the details. A mustachioed fillyjonk gentleman wielding a bundle of sugarcane like a royal scepter sat cross-legged upon a throne also made of sugarcane. In his other paw, a coconut prepared to be a chalice. 

"Cartier's Cane King rum blend…" Whetstone continued eyeing the bottle, comparing the fillyjonk on the label with her new friend. "Tell me, what did you say yer name was again?"

–

Captain Whetstone awoke with the early afternoon sun baking into her fur upon a makeshift bed within the greenhouse she had stayed the night before. Her coat had been draped over her like a blanket, and her head was pounding. She stood and stretched, remembering the night prior. 

"I swear I fell asleep in the garden, though…" She thought aloud as she surveyed her surroundings. A note penned in fine handwriting sat upon the potting bench, and was tented neatly.

Ms. Whetstone

I should think you capable of reading seeing as you're a captain. You've given me much to think about. I've many choices to make. I apologize for leaving you unattended, but it's as I said that no one visits my garden. 

I intend to convince my father to teach me about sailing. I'll tell him it's for to learn the family business, and that ought to be enough. Of course, you and I know the reasons why well enough. The next time you see me, it might be out at sea.

I took the liberty of coaxing you into the greenhouse for a more private rest. I've a busy morning to come. 

It was a pleasure meeting you. 

-M

"Coaxed me into the..?" The captain was much too heavy to lift. She imagined Marion rolling her on her side like a big fluffy barrel as she slept. She would've been beet red if it weren't for her thick fur. She donned her coat, shook off the embarrassment, and tucked the note into her pocket. With the morning ending and the afternoon just beginning, she thought it prudent to check in with the crew and nurse her hangover with a late breakfast. 

Rumors of yesterday's excitement had reached every ear, and just as quickly sank into the sand like waves upon the shore. The king's navy almost always had reason to cause a stir and rarely did it ever go quietly, but with such frequency it joined the day's monotony. A chilled breeze and shapely dark clouds portended a storm to come, though the warmth of the sun persisted for the moment. The docks were alive as always, folks walking shoulder to shoulder, hardly taking note of one another. The cacophony of cooking, trading, buying, and selling rang through the air. The cumulative hangover was just beginning to peak as Captain Whetstone sat down to eat beneath an awning at a dockside restaurant. Through the din of the crowd, she could almost make out the song of seabirds and waves lapping on the shore. She didn't take to being in public well, but the liveliness of the docks drawing eyes off of her bought her a modicum of peace. This peace was short-lived, as a garishly overdressed fillyjonk man cut a path around him through the crowd, speaking loudly and with no lack of self-importance. He moved dramatically, as though he was performing a dance, spinning and gesturing flamboyantly.

"What fortuitous timing, you wishing to take up the family business. As it so happens, I've dealings with a gentleman from Curaçao this very afternoon!" 

"Yes, well… I was hoping to start with more on the transportation side of things. Learning to sail ships and the like. I've been doing much reading on the subject." A timid, familiar voice followed shortly after him. 

"Hmm? Oh, of course. I'm sure he'll be just as happy with that if all goes well. Regardless, Marion, how does 'Cartier's Cane King Curaçao blend' sound to you? Bold? Alliterative? Lively? Perhaps, too lively, do you think?" His exaggerated manner of speaking sounded as though all must hear. It was difficult to tell whether he was advertising to the world or simply lost within himself. 

"Who will be happy with that?" Marion rounded the corner, catching up with her father. She was dressed in deep blues, in an outfit that portrayed her wealthy standing and matched her father. The duo stopped perpendicular to the restaurant Whetstone was eating at, looking out at a few ships along the dock. 

"That one there's a wild'un." The captain nudged a nearby patron with her elbow. "Drinks like a sailor 'n aims to be one." The patron patently ignored her idle musings upon seeing they were pointed at the wealthy young woman, assuming it to be a joke with no punch line. She snorted out a quick laugh to herself when comparing Marion's current clothes to her getup the other night. She decided it best to keep her nose out of it and went about finishing her meal. 

"The gentleman from Curaçao, my dear."

"And why should it matter to him whether I learn to sail?" Marion's confusion began to mix with her growing concern. 

"Well you are to be married, after all. I should think him quite pleased to marry a sailor if he needn't a homemaker." He removed his watch from his pocket and stared impatiently at it for a moment. The watch and the fob were both silver that shone bright against the deep blues of his shimmering waistcoat. He slicked his hair back with his paw as Marion stood dumbfounded. 

"Have you no shame?! Selling your daughter off for sugar and spirits! I would think a man of your status would at least have the guts to tell his own daughter about such an arrangement prior. We're done here!" Marion balled her paws into fists, turning to walk away. Just as she turned she felt a tug at the back of her shirt. Her father pulled her back forcefully, turning her to face him. 

"We're done when I say we're done." He scolded under his breath, eyeing passersby in the hopes they hadn't seen his family matters turned public. He placed his paws upon her shoulders, holding her in place. 

"Get off me!" Marion shouted, batting his arms away and making an attempt to flee. Just as she escaped his grasp, he raised his arm high. 

Slap

Captain Whetstone looked up from her breakfast in time to see Mr. Cartier backhand Marion, who stumbled into a stack of tin plates and other dinnerware atop some crates, sending them clattering to the ground. The ruckus drew everyone's attention. Marion's father stood over her and shook his head. He took a clearly practiced stance, placing his hand disdainfully upon his brow, with the other resting on his hip. 

Whetstone shook her head as she slammed her utensils onto the table. She stood abruptly, and threw her chair to the ground as she stomped over to the scene. Without so much as a word, she raised her paw and delivered a powerful open palmed slap to Mr. Cartier's cheek. He crumpled to the ground, both from the surprise of being slapped and from the sheer force of such a large moomin. 

"I'll not have ye befoul my breakfast. Treatin' a young woman, let alone yer own daughter like that. Despicable." She spoke at him gruffly as she helped the young fillyjonk up onto her feet. Marion, awestruck and utterly confused by all of the events that had just transpired, simply stood behind Whetstone. 

"I won't.. take that… from a brute like you!" He panted as he struggled both to speak and to stand back up. 

"Aye, I imagine ye won't. And I don't be takin' nothin' from some fop exceptin' what's in his coffers. Scurry off out, ye bilgerat. I've got a devil of a hangover and I won't be wasting my time on the likes of ye."

"I'll have you arrested! Assault! Assault!" He shouted to the crowd forming around the trio. Much to his chagrin, the group seemed far more interested in seeing a pirate shake down a wealthy man than they were in coming to his aid. 

"Guards! Gendarmerie! Somebody help!" The captain mockingly shouted in a pitiful voice. She spat to the ground near the man. "You think the law around here cares? Look around you. The people who carry your crates fer a coin. The folks who you exploit. Whingeing like that only works on folk what got food in their bellies." She stepped uncomfortably close to him, looking just down on him from a head above his height. "Anything left worth sayin', or are we done here?" The man could only look back at her with glassy eyes, stunned into brief silence. 

"That's what I thought." Whetstone began to walk back to her table when she heard above the shocked whispers of the crowd, the distinct sound of a leather glove being thrown to the ground. 

"A duel. You've thoroughly disrespected me and I'll not have the Cartier name besmirched by a ruffian like yourself." 

The crowd ooh-ed and aah-ed at the prospect. More folks gathered around, wishing to see what the gathering was for.

"What? Here and now? But I 'aven't even finished breakfast." She stopped only long enough to respond as she continued her stride to her table, not even turning to face him. Her gait was immediately interrupted by another leather glove, this one being tossed directly at the back of her head. 

"A coward and a glutton! Afraid to challenge the famed fencing of Jules Cartier! I simply must laugh! Aha! Aha!" He forced out an almost theatrical laugh as he puffed out his chest. It seemed to him the world was a stage, and the thing he feared most was losing the audience. There was hardly a moment he wasn't scanning the surrounding group for approval.

"You'll be wantin' to be careful with what you say next.'' Captain Whetstone growled as she balled her paws into fists, turning to face him once more. "I didn't come to Marseille to kill a rich boy. I came to make merry and sell the scores I took from ponces like you!" She stepped in closer once more, slow and with intention. "Y' have no idea who yer talkin' to, do ya?" Her gravelly voice rumbled. 

"From the smell of it, a drunkard. And from the look of it, a buffoon!" His confidence, though shaken, had returned as he began to shake off the slap. He dabbed at his cheek with a pocket square, and straightened his jacket. 

"She's a pirate captain, father, don't do this!" Marion pleaded. 

"Quiet, Marion!" Jules snapped. "This isn't one of your storybooks!" 

"From the papers! Must you embarrass yourself at every opportunity? She's wanted and very, very dangerous!" 

Whetstone shot her a flattered, knowing look. "Ha! Did y' hear that one, Jules?" She thumped her chest before tucking her arms behind her head with a cocky smirk. "Very… very dangerous." Her gaze was piercing, albeit smug. She was practically inviting him to hit her knowing full well that he wouldn't allow himself to be seen in such a light.

"A duel! I demand it! Face me or be branded forever a coward!" Jules' obstinations were increasingly childlike. 

"As you like it, sugarboy. If I win, yer daughter goes her own way. And you pay off whatever price they got on m' head in Marseille. We fight to first blood, I'm not killing a man in front of his daughter. You let me know the time and place, Cartier. Send someone a'callin' down near this here restaurant. I'll be waitin'." The Captain parted the crowd as she passed. She righted her chair and sat back down, continuing her meal.

"Three days time. When I win, I'll be taking your bounty, and whichever rotten tub you floated in on. Live it up while you still can, Whetstone. You're about to make me even richer." 

Captain Whetstone simply waved as he made his exit, her mouth full. Jules departed, entirely forgetting his daughter and the man from Curaçao. Marion, now the sole focus of a murmuring crowd, rushed to the table her would-be savior sat at.  

"You complete and utter fool!" She slammed her paws down onto the table just across the captain. "You can't just go around inserting yourself into any old trouble you like!" 

"That's a laugh right there." She swallowed her bite. "I seem to recall someone inserting themselves into trouble on my account just the other day. She looked a lot like you, matter o' fact... Took me fer a stroll in the garden in the pale moonlight." She took her last bite and set her utensils on her plate. 

Marion slumped into a nearby chair, placing her head in her hands as the previously interested onlookers began to disperse. There were a few disappointed sighs, and life seemed to return to business as usual. 

"You've no idea what you've done. Not that you'd care if you did, seems you've no thought beyond fun and fortune." She repeatedly cleared her hair from her face, looking into the table rather than across it to the woman now responsible for her fate.

"It's only to first blood, mate. I'll give yer dear ol' dad a good scratch and a scar to remember me by, and you get to goin' on whatever it is you'd like from then on. You've seen what I can do first-hand. It won't be but a quick bout." 

"And I've seen what he can do, as well. He's a liar and a no-good cheat, but a proper duelist through and through. If you win I'll be on the street, and if he wins I'll be married off and you'll be in prison or worse in no small part on my behalf." Her brow furrowed. Her life had capsized and was now in the paws of a scruffy outlaw.

The captain took a small pouch from her belt and laid a few coins on the table near her plate, then slid the pouch over to Marion. 

"I'm sorry, lass. I just can't sit idle 'round men like him. When yer out t' sea, aboard and abroad, y' get to thinkin' all manner o' things 'bout the way folks get on… Whole lot that don't make much sense. I don't know to make a social call by now. I don't know nothin' but me own code." She took a heavy sigh, pulling a long smoking pipe from her coat and chewing on the stem. "Take that there coin and put yerself up some place nice a while. It'll be a payday fer us both 'fore it's over, I promise ye that." 

Marion sat quietly, gripping tight the pouch of doubloons. She wasn't sure what else to say, let alone what else to do. Captain Whetstone trodded off toward her ship, head full of thoughts and ache. Marion followed her not long after. 

"Something more y'need from a… how'd you put it? A 'complete fool' like me?" The moomin turned her head over her shoulder at the woman sulking just behind her.

"You are many things. A rapscallion, a scallywag, a ne'er-do-well, but I fear I spoke unfairly of you in calling you a fool. One of the many things you are now, however, is responsible for me." She sighed deeply. "Whether or not you like it."

"Yer yer own woman ain'tchya? Can go as ye please, afore at least three days are up. I don't be needin' t' look after you." She chuckled. 

"Consider it the price you pay for today's events, and my penance for yesterday's. I hardly think it wise to be anywhere my father could reach me at the moment."

"Won't be fur off my tail. Yer welcome aboard as long as you can stomach it!" She slapped her on the back, knocking her forward a bit as the duo made way to The Honeyed Word. "Hardly the worst punishment I've seen in all me days, 'avin a lass like you aboard." 

The next three days brewed a strange energy for all around. Word got out about the incident at the docks, likely in part due to Jules' boasting. It wasn't enough for him to duel and beat a lowly pirate, nor befitting of his reputation. Whetstone's wanted posters had enjoyed a fearsome makeover, at Mr. Cartier's request. She now appeared monstrous, though devilishly handsome. Her bounty was attributed to both deeds she had done, and now tales some have told. Even in opposition, the fillyjonk could not be associated with the ills and ails of a true and "ugly" world. He did not just want to restore his reputation, he wanted to cement himself as a hero by defeating a villain. Criers, newsmen, even housewives and barflies were alight and giddy over the upcoming duel. A legendary scoundrel pirate versus a noble and upstanding upper crust citizen.

Word had reached the captain's crew by now, who were mostly uneasy toward their new found glory. Being a famous criminal still makes one a criminal, and being famous makes one a target. They'd watched as their normally steadfast captain had begun fawning over a rich young lady, while showing her the ropes as it were. Their new guest had been enjoying the captain's fineries and with none of the work to earn it. The pair spent much of the three days aboard romping about clad in silk, delighting in drink and distraction alike. If it weren't for the prize of having their charges cleared and paid off by someone with deep pockets, and the captain's usually fair treatment, a mutiny might've been in order. There'd been no talk of plans, and any crew that interrupted the captain were brushed off or turned away. It seemed as though their luck would soon run out if their captain remained lovestruck.

Tensions rose onshore surrounding the Cartier business as well, but as tensions rose, so too did the profits. The money minded men of Marseille had begun buying up as much Cane King rum as suited them. Some stocked up to resell and others to enjoy, but all were buying thanks to the sudden and fervent advertising of Mr. Cartier. He'd sent out servants swinging sample trays to swill all over town. The collective drunkenness among citizens alongside the excitement of recent events made for a city wide spectacle. It seemed duels and drinks drove sales and sail alike. 

The buzz surrounding the affair became the calm before the storm on the day of. A party sent by the challenger arrived at the docks in the early afternoon along with a parade of onlookers. The usual liveliness of the harbor was instead abated by prolonged eager silence, joined only by the lapping of the waves and the stomping of boots. 

"Captain Whetstone!" A pair of whompers shouted at each ship they passed, waiting a moment before moving on to the next. They looked for her at the restaurant as she had requested, but she never arrived. The challenger's party consisted of two whompers dressed in deep blues featuring ornate silver trim, a large and muscular hemulen clad almost entirely in leather, and a nibling carrying a long red velvet box. Down the docks they shouted, and down the docks more and more onlookers followed shortly behind. 

"Captain Whetstone!" The whompers cried, over and over above the murmurs that had begun to swell. The captain, still fast asleep in her quarters, awoke with a start. 

"Who wa- is… wha..whasit you want!" She stumbled to her feet, eyes squinted, an empty bottle tumbling from atop her to the floor. She quickly realized the voice was coming from outside the ship, and fastened a robe around her waist. Marion awoke from the commotion as well, following Whetstone's lead. The pair exited the captain's quarters to the sour faces of an armed and ready crew. 

The first mate of The Honeyed Word, an older hemulen woman by the name of Ruth, spoke up from between puffs on her pipe. "I imagine that's fer you Cap'n. They've like to come a'callin' on her account." She motioned to Marion. 

"I imagine so, too, aye. Worry not, I ain't steered you lot wrong yet, 'ave I?" Whetstone winked, and made for the deck, Ruth and Marion following just behind. The mood was tense, and not all of the crew were sure of their captain's judgements as of late. She arrived at the railing, rubbing the sleep from her eyes to see dozens upon dozens of folk, all waiting on her. The leather clad hemulen, who had presumably been hired muscle, shook his head at the sight of the supposed legendary pirate dressed in a frilly nightgown and robe. 

"What do ye want?" The captain shouted. 

"Captain Whetstone!" The whompers cried once more in unison. The nibling in the party opened his velvet case to reveal a long brass horn, about three times his size. He set up a tripod and rested the other end of the horn on it. The small creature drew a deep breath before filling the air with a short, but very very loud melody. The muscular hemulen covered his ears, and shook his head once more. "You've been summoned to duel the great Jules Cartier at his manor! We shall escort you!" The whompers bowed.

Marion appeared just behind the captain, wrapping her arm around the small of her back. She was similarly dressed in a silk robe and nightgown. In her other paw, she held a steaming teacup, and passed it along to Whetstone, who took a long, slow sip. 

"But we 'aven't even had breakfast!" The moomin protested loudly.

"It's past noon!" The hemulen mercenary shouted, palming his face, and shaking his head once more before storming off. He parted the crowd, grumbling to himself on the way out. The nibling took up his horn once more, apparently announcing the departure of one of their party, much to the dismay of the gathered crowd's ears. 

Ruth approached the duo, dropping on the deck just behind them their clothes, and the captain's sword with an unceremonious thud. "Don't be comin' back if ye don't win." She spit to the side.

"When I do come back, we'll be 'avin' words, Ruthie. Strong ones, too, I reckon. Mind yer tongue 'round yer captain." Whetstone began to put on her boots.

"If only ye could mind yers 'round whatever gal ye be fancyin' of late. Wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't fer you. Now the whole of Marseille wants a look at us, and the whole of the world wants the price on our heads. Keep yer promises, cap. Er I'll be keepin' 'em fer you." She headed below deck.

"Whaddaya reckon that means, Marion?" She looked around, puzzled.

"I imagine it was pretty straightforward, but you pirates are a bit hard to understand sometimes. Verbally, I mean." 

The captain wheezed and laughed loudly, wiping a tear from her eye. "That we are!" She continued to get ready. "Anyway don't ye be worryin' about her, either. Everyone's a mite worked up I imagine. She's stubborn, but she's a good'un." She tossed her robe and nightgown onto the deck of the ship as she hopped over to the side of the ship to the dock. 

The whompers were still in their bowed position, and a large chunk of the crowd had begun to disperse before hearing the captain's boots slam onto the wood. She had only dressed halfway up, boots, slops, a sash, a belt and sword. Her thick fur was disheveled and unkempt, an appearance apparently befitting the crowd's idea of a pirate. Ooh's and ahh's once more took shape, whispers and whistling as well. She began pulling her shirt on as she approached her would-be escort crew, coat draped across her arm. Marion shortly after hopped over, dressed quite unlike she had when she'd arrived. She rushed to the captain's side, attempting to avoid the gaze of the murmuring crowd for too long. The challenger's party parted a path as they beckoned the duo along quietly. 

Marseille was silent and empty, shopkeeps shuddered their windows and covered their stalls, passersby rushed indoors, and the captain swaggered through the streets en route to her duel. Deep blue ribbons and brightly colored bits of decor began cluttering their path to Cartier Manor. Though sparse at first, upon nearing the manor proper, the whole of the area was densely decorated. Rugs and flower petals lined the walkway, and whatever surface could have something hanging from it, did. Red roses and white lilies were bouqueted and affixed opposite each other. Even the balconies of houses unaffiliated to the Cartier name had wreaths hung from them. The early afternoon sun baked the clouds in front of it as they gathered, and it seemed as though the sky would open up any minute. The air was humid and filled with the scent of loose flower petals being crushed underfoot, alongside the distant rains. 

The nibling rushed ahead as fast as his little feet would carry him, horn in tow. He set up  his tripod just outside a bespoke iron gate. Just beyond the gate was a vast open courtyard, filled to capacity with all manner of folk, many of which were dressed in finery.

"I'm a mite hazy, but, is yer dad always this.. dramatic?" Whetstone covered her face as she whispered to Marion. 

"Seemingly more so than usual these days. This, I'd say, is less dramatic and more… absurd? Honestly I've given up attempting to understand the man."

 "This way, Captain Whetstone." The whompers once again spoke in unison. They led her just to the side as they ushered the rest of the guests, Marion included, in through the gates. The nibling blasted the same tune as before as each made their way into the courtyard. 

"So I'm not goin' that way?" The captain said, pointing across the fence. 

"No!" The whompers said, cheerfully. Their smiles almost perfectly matched one another, along with just about everything else about them. They seemed as though they were simply pleased to be involved. 

"Can y' tell me which way I am goin'?"

"No!" They cheered once more.

The trio stood for a few more minutes as the nibling welcomed more guests with his horn. 

"Can I go in now?" The captain scratched behind her ears. Her tone was playful, but she was starting to get impatient.

"No!" They sounded almost the same every time. Captain Whetstone gave up and leaned against the fence, arms crossed. She wasn't worried about being late to the duel, nor really very much about the duel itself. The whole affair was turning out far more posh than she had imagined, and with each decoration and each passing upper crust guest, she became less and less worried. She gave into idle thought for a moment. Her mind chose distractions of all kinds, but more and more her mind wandered back to Marion. Had she made the right choice to interfere when she did that day at the docks? Had she done right by her so far? What would become of her next?  

"Ahem" 

"Wah!" Whetstone shouted, recoiling from the sudden interruption. "Who'sat!" She caught herself on the fence. 

A muddler with very long droopy ears dressed in a most garish fashion held her paw out in front of her. Her hat was massive and had a large feather sticking out from it, along with several other adornments. She wore several pin cushions in various places, and a chatelaine of sewing materials hung from her hip. 

"Ahem." She continued to hold out a paw to shake in greeting.

"What? Am I in yer way, or..?"

"Ahem. It's my name."

"What's yer name?" 

"Ahem!" 

"What?!"

The muddler sighed. "My name. My name is Ahem. As in hemming garments. It's what I do. I'm a tailor." She motioned to her collection of sewing tools and accessories.

"Taylor? But I thought y' said yer name was Ahem?"

Ahem patently ignored her. "Mr. Cartier has requested that you come along with me for the time being. Preparations for the… un-seam-ly events to come."

"...right." The captain squinted. "And will there be more sewing puns?"

"We'll put a pin in that one for now." 

"Yer too quick fer me, lass!" She laughed out loud. She was beginning to enjoy herself. Things had taken quite the turn from the serious to the silly, and she was along for the ride.

"Quick indeed." She grabbed the captain by the arm, taking her to a room just inside the manor around the outside of the courtyard. The room was littered with fabric, tools, and mannequins of all shapes and sizes. One of the mannequins featured a fillyjonk-esque head with a familiar mustache made to resemble Jules. 

"Rich bastard's got his own uhh… what do ye even call a room like this? Sewing dungeon?" Whetstone fiddled with just about everything in her path as Ahem snapped back and forth with her measuring tape across the captain's moominous form. 

"Mr. Cartier has appointed me to make a coat for you. Something a little less stolen and salt soaked. He wants you to look flashy for his big day." She rolled her eyes. 

"Big day. Pffft." She blew a raspberry. "Also I'll have you know I bought this one." She said, putting extra emphasis on the last two words. 

"Pffft indeed." Ahem pulled aside a curtain revealing a tall and nicely rounded mannequin. Upon it was a coat fit for a pirate, though very well made and quite fancy. It was entirely black save for the trim, cuffs, and pocket covers that were a deep dark red, with shining gold buttons and an interior lining of red and gold paisley. A cutlass crossed with a rose was embroidered on the left breast. She snatched it off the mannequin and draped it over the captain's shoulders. "Go on, see how it fits. Your measurements seem almost exactly what I thought they'd be." 

"It's quite lovely!" She put the coat on, pulling the sleeves over her arms. She jumped and jogged in place, bent down to touch her toes and stretched her arms. Then she mimicked punching, drawing and swinging a sword, and climbing the riggings of a ship. She pretended to draw her pistol with a flourish and blew the smoke from its imaginary barrel, and then curtsied meekly.  "Fits great! Oh, one more thing." She walked up to the Jules mannequin and planted her feet. She drew her arm back and delivered a hearty slap just as she had the first time. "It's perfect, actually." The head of the mannequin tumbled to the floor.

"Three days is hardly long enough to craft something perfect. Let alone an entire ensemble that turns a ruffian into a posh pirate renegade as Mr Cartier suggested. So you'll have to make due with only the coat I'm afraid."

"Wait, three days? He asked y' to make a coat on the day that I slapped 'im?" She let out a single loud laugh. "I musta knocked something loose! How'd ye get m' measurements, anyhow?"

"Followed you around."

"But I hardly left m' ship after that business, how'd y-"

"You left four times, actually. Two of which you brought back food and wine."

"Ha! Typical. I like you, Ahem, yer fun! An' this coat is perfectly made t' measure, most folks miss just how big I am 'round the middle. You've got me thanks." 

"You know, I think that might be the first time I've gotten a genuine compliment the entire time I've spent under the employ of Mr. Cartier. Go give him hell, captain." She smiled, pushing the moomin gently on her back towards the door. "Oh, but do mingle a bit first. I don't think Jules is quite done making a fool of himself yet. I'm sure he'll call for you." She began packing things into a large trunk.

Not long after, the strange events at Cartier Manor continued to unfold. Captain Whetstone found herself in the courtyard, and Marion in turn found her as well. Refreshments were being served on trays carried by servants in bright blue vests. The pair sat at a table under a parasol, similar settings littered the yard alongside tents, rugs, and a veritable ship's load of furniture. All of this surrounded a large stage, adorned with deep blue ribbons and flowers. 

"That's a fine coat you've found yourself." Marion eyed the embroidery, sitting across from Captain Whetstone.

"Aye? A gift from yer old man I s'pose. Funny seamstress gal made it." She lifted it to show off the liner. "Yer house is massive! Just you lot live there?"

The captain made musings about this, that, and the other, chatting idly with Marion. Time stretched on, and the outing began to seem much less like a duel, and much more like a garden party. With each offered hors d'oeuvre, the captain took at least one of each thing, most of which she tried and set aside without finishing. She did, however, finish each flute of champagne that was brought by. 

The captain held a glass at eye level, staring at the champagne within, boredom getting the better of her. "Marion, how do ye reckon they get the bubbles in th–"

"Welcome, all!"  A voice boomed from the stage, commanding everyone's attention. "Today marks a momentous and fateful occasion." Jules' theatrical manner of speaking finally suited the situation. 

He had chosen an outfit of deep blues and bright whites, with silver buttons. Each article bore a motif of white lilies, trimmed with shimmering silver. The calves and sleeves of his outfit were tight and fitted, while the rest was loose and flowing. All of it was made of a shiny satin exterior, and he wore a large and gallant cape upon his shoulders. It was no doubt the work of the same tailor of Whetstone's coat. His hair was slicked back, and his mustache was waxed into perfect, symmetrical points. Behind him stood a short and portly older moomin, with a curly powdered wig. He was dressed similarly to Mr Cartier, though much simpler and with a brooch bearing the symbol of the King's navy. 

"Today, we bring a close to the scourge upon the seas. I, Jules Cartier, am to end the career of a pirate that has so long plagued the open waters." Not a word left his lips without some manner of posing added to it. Bravado seemed a natural calling for him. "But I, ladies and gentlemen, am no brute! We duel today only to first blood. I have called upon the aid of Governor Woodes Rogers, an experienced pirate hunter, to take down alongside me the infamous Captain Whetstone!" 

Gasps were shared by the crowd, most of whom had likely never heard of Rogers nor Whetstone before the last few days. Jules was building drama for a performance, and the audience was absolutely enraptured. 

"Should your hero prevail today, Miss Whetstone will voluntarily turn herself in at my behest. The streets of Marseille will no longer be subject to her whims, and its surrounding seas shall stand as an affront to all pirates who would dare approach!" 

Rogers, the moomin standing behind Jules, stepped forward. He unfurled an almost comically long document and cleared his throat. "Captain Whetstone, of her own free will, submits heretofore under the crown and will be granted clemency for all acts perpetrated during her stints as a pirate, and shall be pressed into service of the king's navy, or be jailed at once and in perpetuity remain. Here listed are her many crimes, and associated parties-"

"You needn't continue reading Mr Rogers. They can see how long that page is." Jules interrupted. 

"Am I going crazy?" Marion whispered across the table to Whetstone. "I mean I know it's been three days. But it's only been three days. A garden party is one thing, but to organize all of this?" She rested her head in her paws for a moment.

"I don't even think that there's the real Woodes Rogers." She squinted at the man from her seat. "Last I heard it, he were bankrupt or some such. Sued by his own crew. Ought t' be down n' out, not out n' about putzing around France." She searched her pockets for her pipe, remembering that she wasn't wearing her old coat. "That page he's got is like as any t' be blank I'd bet."

"Captain Whetstone, to the stage if you would!" Jules shouted, finishing his speech. 

Marion looked across the table, only now showing her fear. "Be careful up there. He's quicker than he looks." 

"It'll be over 'fore ye know it, lass. If yer dad wants to put on a show fer these folk, then I say let's give 'em a show." She picked up her champagne flute, and swaggered up to the stage. She took her place across from Jules.

"The fearsome pirate captain, Whetstone. Ruffian. Ne'er-do-well. Scoundrel and scallywag. You've plundered your way through the seas and sewn chaos among the citizenry, but that all ends today." Jules once again performed for the audience rather than speaking.

"Aye. All that n' more. And none of it could sate the devil inside me." She growled, mostly unconvincingly. She was, at best, unseasoned as an actor. 

"You're drunk!" Jules said, tugging on a pair of leather gloves. 

"An' yer annoying!"

"Name your second." 

"My what?" The captain shot him a puzzled look. 

"Your second. Someone you trust to bear witness to the duel. Have you never had a proper duel in your life? And yet how many have fallen to your sword alone? How barbaric." Jules rolled his eyes. 

"Ah. Marion'll do it. She's good like that, seems despite yer efforts t' the contrary, you've raised a very capable young woman."

Jules flinched, balling his hands into fists as the captain shouted for Marion to join them on stage. He swallowed his anger, and continued the show. The moomin who may or may not have been Woodes Rogers presented a velvet box, and a servant presented another. They opened the lids revealing one to have within it a set of ornate dueling pistols with pearlescent grips. The other box contained two sideswords decorated with gold engravings upon their blades. 

"The challenged may choose the weapons. The seconds shall inspect the weapons to ensure fairness and quality. Once we are all in agreeance, we shall separate ten or twenty paces, face one another, and the duel can begin in earnest upon the signal of each second." Jules delivered his clearly practiced lines to the crowd. 

"Well I meant what I said. I won't be killin' a man in front o' his own daughter. No pistols. First blood." 

"Swords it is, then. Ten paces instead." 

"I ain't usin' one o' yer swords neither. I made this cutlass and ye won't part me from it." She removed her sword from her belt, handing it to Marion, who had just arrived on stage. "You and yer second can inspect that'un." 

"Very well, captain. I suppose I should have expected no less from a pirate." His words were intensely venomous, annunciating each word with a pompous anger. He turned to face the audience. "The pirate has elected to use her own, crude blade even within the context of a gentlemanly duel!" This elicited whispers from the crowd.

Jules paid no mind to Marion as she presented Whetstone's sword to him and his second. They looked at it for only a moment and both scoffed, despite its elegance and craftsmanship. The captain and her second both carefully examined Jules' blade, finding no flaw or alterations. They agreed, and each took their sword as they took their place on stage. The crowd was silent, and the sound of thunder echoing in the distance was joined only by the footsteps of the two duelists as they took their paces.

Jules held his sword point up, taking a dueling stance as he measured each pace. The captain had returned her sword to its scabbard, and was still holding her flute of champagne. She took each step as though she were crossing stones in a river, occasionally pretending to lose her balance playfully as she watched the audience. 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. 

With each step Marion's heart raced, she feared for her future, and for her newfound freedom. She'd found a fondness these last three days and had mostly forgotten her anger to her father until she met with him once more on stage. 

Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. 

Jules gripped his sword tightly, eager to rewrite himself as a hero to the people of Marseille. He turned in his position, waiting for the signal from the seconds. The captain turned as well, sword sheathed, glass in hand. 

"At your will, Mr Rogers." Marion stood beside him near the rear of the stage, out of the duelists' way. Her voice was shaky.

"Begin!" Woodes Rogers shouted without hesitation.

Jules lowered himself, rushing into a full sprint. 

The captain tossed her glass into the air, straight. She drew her cutlass quick as lightning, and with incredible speed and precision, cut the stem from the bell. As the glass descended, she caught it in her paw. The audience gasped, a few even squealed as the base sailed far off into the crowd. 

Jules stopped in his tracks for a moment, on guard. It was too late to back out now, despite the impressive display. 

She took a long, protracted sip before gently setting the unharmed top half of the glass onto the stage upside down next to her, empty. "I hope y' brought yer dancing shoes." She extended her arm, the point of her sword idly aimed at her opponent. 

He rushed to strike first, despite his showmanship he aimed to end the duel as fast as he could. He thrust to the captain's side. She sidestepped, grabbing his wrist with her empty paw, and used his momentum to throw him to the ground. He landed with an anticlimactic albeit quite loud thud on his back. 

"That's disappointing, Jules. I thought y' wanted to give these fine folk a show." She spoke at stage volume. She stood over him, the tip of her cutlass resting just above his chest.

"It's to first blood, captain." He gripped his sword tightly, and swept at her ankles. "And I'm not bleeding yet!" He jumped to his feet the moment she was on the defensive. 

She back-stepped, narrowly avoiding his swing. The audience roared to life having been in rapt silence during their first exchange. They shouted and cheered, nearly drowning out the following clanging of steel. 

Jules ferociously delivered cut and thrust after cut and thrust, he was as well practiced as Marion had said. He'd not met an opponent yet that could hold against his onslaught, and yet the captain was calm and focused, dodging and deflecting each of his blows. 

Whetstone feinted high as she had done with Marion, then swung low at his legs, cutting just the fabric of his pant-leg as he changed his stance. 

She laughed. "Ha! Got yer daughter with that'un, too!" 

He snarled, lunging in and following up with several repeated thrusts. The captain knocked each of them aside. She bound her sword against his and closed any distance between them, using her weight to throw him off balance. Jules fell to the ground once more, but rolled off his back and onto his feet again. He rounded her, swapping sides hoping to gain an advantage. He threatened a cut, but dropped his leg and reached out for a long thrust to the captain's inside line. She had previously been neglecting it and stepping aside, and she wouldn't step aside if she had thought it was a cut. He drove his point home as fast as he could, and then-

Thwap!

Whetstone batted aside his blade by the flat using her paw! She charged in now that he was open, blade raised high. He managed to raise his guard just in time, barely withstanding the weight of an oversized moomin crashing against his sword arm like a heavy wave against a ship's bow. He rounded his opponent once more, returning to his side of the stage. 

Jules hated being on the defensive. He hated even more his opponent. He hated that despite his assuredness in his own skill and the effort he put into this display, he had not bested the captain as quickly as he had hoped. His off hand left his hip, abandoning his dueling stance. He abandoned his footwork, too, in exchange for a mad dash. He began throwing wild cuts in front of him as he charged, yelling the whole way. She threw all of her might into one heavy cut, knocking his sword off line once again. He reeled, regaining his composure. 

He realized that he could not beat her in a competition of strength, nor speed.  He would have to stay calm and search for an opening. "The leg!" He thought to himself. "She may be twice the size of your average moomin, but she's still got shorter legs than a fillyjonk!" He closed in once more, focusing in on waist level thrusts. He began changing his rhythm, repeating the same passing steps in his approach. He'd stab and wait for her to cut, then step and do it again. Biding his time until she went for something trickier.

Whetstone noticed the change in his attitude. He was lithe and by now much more warmed up. It was as though he'd settled into the flow of battle. She held both arms out to her side, as if to say "come at me!" Completely opening up her defenses. He threw a cut to her chest, following up on her opening. She took her sword by its spine at one end, and the grip with the other, and swung up as though she were forcing open a window. He reeled once more as his sword was knocked away, but the captain was wide open for exactly the kind of attack he'd hoped for. He readjusted, then swung for her thigh. 

Seeing this, she leapt back once, being caught off guard by such a near miss. She'd kept her cool through most of the fight, but she was beginning to worry that her fooling around might cost her new friend dearly.  She leapt back again, escaping his reach. She spun off her front leg. Jules watched, unsure of the captain's intentions with such a maneuver. He saw her rear leg swoop up midway through the spin, and then back down as she completed it, as if in slow motion. At first he was confused, but then he remembered. "Oh no." He thought. "Not like this!" 

Her back foot kicked the glass she had left on stage, sending it flying straight at his face. He brought up his sword to block it, or knock it aside, but it was in vain. It shattered against the base of his blade, sending shards flying past it. The collective gasp from the previously uproarious crowd would have sucked the air from the room were they not outside. Even the coming storm stood silent as a trickle of blood ran down Jules' forehead. He reached up and touched it gingerly, examining the aftermath upon his paw. 

"I believe that's first blood, Mr. Cartier." The captain flourished with her sword a moment before returning it to its scabbard. She faced the audience, curtsied meekly, and headed off toward Marion at the rear of the stage. Much of the crowd were confused, some even angry. There was cheering and jeering alike, booing and whistling. Jules remained on stage, utterly defeated as the rain began gently dropping. 

"Congratulations, Miss Whetstone." Jules said. His voice was much less performative, taking on a sinister tone. The captain continued her stride, merely raising her paw dismissively. "You have won the duel…" Jules rushed toward her. "But you will lose your life!" 

"Whetstone! Look out!" Marion cried as loud as she could. 

The captain turned to see Jules just behind her, and coming right at her head was the tip of his sword. She threw herself back, headfirst, but it was too late. His sword dug into her face and tore across her left eye, stopping around the middle of her forehead thanks only to luck and to Marion's warning. She shouted in pain, clutching at the wound on her face with one paw and drawing her sword with the other. 

"This isn't fair!" The wouldbe Woodes shouted, sprinting away. He stumbled into the table that had the dueling boxes atop it, knocking it over. "You didn't tell me you were going to kill her!" 

The audience bellowed with shouts of a similar kind. 

"The duel is over! Stop!"

 "You lost! Give it up!"

"He's lost his mind!"

 Many voices cried over one another.

Several members of the audience shrieked in fear from the sight of so much blood, and several others rushed to the stage in an attempt to stop him from continuing his assault.

"Y' cowardly bastard!" The captain growled, fighting as hard as she could with the use of only one eye. "Marion! Get yerself outta here!" She looked around in a half blind panic.

"Duel or no duel, she's a wanted woman! To the man who brings me her head, you'll claim the bounty and I'll make you the richest man in Marseille!" Jules drew the crowd into a frenzy. Those who weren't tempted by his offer began running to the gate, and those who were tempted began surrounding the stage. They were unarmed but very much outnumbered the two who were now stuck between Jules, the manor, and the gate leading back out into the streets. 

Marion rushed in the same direction as Woodes, shaking with panic. She had to act, and quickly. She picked up one of the pistols from the open dueling boxes, pointing it at her father. She tightened her grip, steadying herself. She'd never fired a pistol before, and despite everything, she'd never wanted to kill her father. "Stop! Stop attacking her this instant or I'll shoot you!" She shouted. Tears were streaming down her face, her hair and clothes now soaked with rain as the storm raged on. 

The captain backed off from the fight, holding her ground as Marion made her plea. Jules stopped as well, turning to face his daughter. The herd of newly made bounty hunters waited, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire. 

"Make sure you take that one alive." Jules pointed at Marion with his sword, gesturing to his makeshift militia. 

Click

Marion pulled the trigger, filled with an array of strong emotions that all burnt up in her anger. Jules paused briefly, seemingly offended. His eyes were wide and mouth agape. The flint struck the frizzen, yet there was no smoke, no flash, no bang. The rain had soaked the powder thoroughly, forcing her threats empty.  

The moment seemed to drag on, the clear line in the sand now drawn between Marion and her home life. She screamed, barely able to hear herself as she threw the gun at him, reaching next for the sword left in the box. The captain used this as an opportunity to rush to Marion's side, scooping her up in a bridal carry at full sprint, off stage. 

"After them, you fools!" Jules regained focus after his brush with death. He'd gone too far now to give up. He'd all but given up on raising his daughter to be the way he wanted her, but he refused to relinquish even the slightest bit of control, especially to a pirate. 

Captain Whetstone ran as fast as she could toward the gate. The path was clear and the only remaining bystanders had just made it through. Jules was the fastest among the duo's pursuers, quickly taking charge ahead of his group. The grass underfoot was slick, and the rugs placed upon it now waterlogged. Thunder crashed within the sky, bellowing throughout the humid air below. 

"Come back you coward! Blaggard! Face your fate!" Jules shouted above the racket of the storm as he ran. 

The captain stumbled, woozy from her injury, dropping Marion in the process. They both stopped only a moment, with Jules gaining on them. The gate was tantalizingly near, and their hope for escape pushed them onward. The pair righted themselves and passed the threshold, soon to be followed by Jules and his cohorts. 

"I have you now, you wretch!" Jules raised his sword, closing in. He chanced a cut at the captain's leg rather than attempting to tackle a woman likely twice his weight. 

tst-BOOM

A shot rang out, crushing beneath it for a moment the sound of storm and step alike. Smoke plumed from a covered balcony one floor up, just outside the gate to the Cartier Manor courtyard. Whatever onlookers remained nearby scattered at the sound. 

"I reckon I already told ye…" a hoarse voice spoke from behind the smoke. "Keep yer promises, Cap'n. Lest I be keepin' 'em fer ye." A rugged hemulen woman set her spent rifle to the side, lifting a loaded one from a row against the railing she was perched at. 

For the briefest of moments the world fell silent as those in the vicinity searched for the object of Ruth's aim. The silence broke with the anguished scream of Jules, his sword clattering to the ground as he clutched his arm where he'd been shot. 

"Ruthie!" The captain shouted, gleeful and relieved. 

"Put some wind in yer sails, kid! Ye promised me no foolishness. Ye get that girl outta here, an' maybe I won't be considr'in it foolish n'more!" She took aim, putting a shot between the wounded Mr Cartier and his thugs. The shot caused a few of them to rethink, running back into the courtyard. She once again set her empty rifle aside, picking up a fresh one. "Avast! I've got 'nuff guns up 'ere to take the lot of ye! What'll it be?" She asked the duo's pursuers, mounting her gun on the railing.

Captain Whetstone and Marion ran as far and as fast as they ever had before. Despite eventually making their escape, the two were in need of leave from Marseille. Jules' ire is doubtless to have stirred all manner of trouble, and he had a wound to prove his opponent's guilt. When they arrived at the docks that evening, out of hiding, The Honeyed Word was no longer moored at the harbor. The surrounding area was lousy with law, searching for the both of them. They spent that night together in a cove on the beach tending to Whetstone's wound, making plans for tomorrow and the tomorrow beyond that. 

–

"That's awful, Miss Puukko!" Moominmama had returned from the kitchen to the veranda with a tray set for coffee. She set it down upon the table, having a seat next to her husband. 

"Yes, quite! And what became of the two of you next?" Papa asked from his seat across the table. His agreeance to Mama's exclamation was betrayed by the excitement in his voice. He held a love for all things nautical as well as for a good story, and could not hide it. 

The fluffy brown moomin scratched at the underside of her snout, eyes fixed on the distance as she reminisced. It was a calm, and pleasantly warm evening in Moominvalley. The sun was beginning to set on the horizon and crickets chirped from their hiding places. She puffed on her pipe, exhaling deeply with a contented sigh. She bore a scar across her left eye, and the heavy brow of a long life. Seeing her dressed comfortably, swapping stories on the veranda,  you'd hardly believe she'd once been a fearsome pirate captain. Obscurity suited her quite well, as the last breath of a legend long past. 

"In my absence, Ruthie 'ad told me crew t' weigh anchor an' make fer somewhere near. I reckon I'd consider her t' be a hero, least by my account anyway..." She took another drag off her pipe. "Trouble were certain to have found them if she hadn't got 'em outta there. That was the last anyone saw of her. Sent some men that-a-way fer to go about findin' her some time later. Not hide nor hair. I think she aimed t' make the rest o' her life a quiet one."

"But you pirates are all flare and bravado! A life of excitement, and er, uh, and freedom! Why would you want to give up that?" Moominpapa gestured in his chair as he spoke. 

"Papa…" his wife laid her paw on his arm as if to settle him down. 

"It's a fine thing t' be sure, fer a spell. But it's got its rigors. I fear what I mean t' say ain't kind enough fer this valley. It's foul, and it's wretched. Turn folk into beasts and beasts into.. well I hardly even know what ye'd call it. Bastards 'n scoundrels. When ya find a one like the one I were sweet on, well… it's hard t' live a life like that seein' thems that you'd protect with their teeth gritted behind a sword." She dropped a sugar cube into her cup, watching it slowly dissolve beneath the dark waves of coffee. 

"And to think I'm the one writing memoirs." Papa mused. "And what happened to Marion?"

"After we made it back aboard me ship, I weren't in a way fit fer sailing. Without a first mate and without their captain and helmsman, the crew had t' band together. They fell in with Marion right quick. She'd read up on sailing her whole life, call to the sea an' all that. Just ne'er put it to practice. Did a good turn at the old bailiwick once more, plundered as many ships carryin' the Cane King stuff 'tween Nassau, Curaçao and near Marseille as we could. She learnt t' be quite fierce in a short while. A force to be reckoned with under my care. We became as tall tales walkin'... We got t' bein' quite close, too. Didn't ne'er get to talking out the particulars though, I'm afraid." 

She stopped for a moment, enjoying the coffee, company, and relative peace and quiet. Ever since she'd moved to Moominvalley she'd known more peace than she ever had. Even in her own childhood home,  there were always storms and turmoil. As no more than a pup on the seas apprenticing under good men, she knew even further strife and noise. From her start on the seas she thought she could earn the peace she had now, and never did. 

"It's funny how misfortune and heartache can get ye where ye need t' be goin'. We coulda stayed tall tales iffin things hadn't shaken out like they did. The thing about it is…" She took one last puff on her pipe before tapping it into the ashtray. 

"Whether or not ye tuck it when ye run, if ye made yer tale long enough, someone always catches ye by it in the end. But that's a story fer another time I suppose."

[collinrobinsonsglasses]

I see you're taking requests 👀 I would like to request a Izzyxreader where Izzy comforts the reader when they're struggling with dysphoria if you're okay with writing stuff like that <3

Izzy Hands x Reader (AFAB/non-binary)

Masterlist

A New Look

Whenever The Revenge docked, you avoided going ashore. The prospect of walking around, having to see the gaze of strangers, only intensified the feeling of misery within you. You didn’t hate the fact that you once saw yourself as a girl, but the resentment flared up whenever people still saw you that way. Feeling trapped by societal expectations, the world seemed insistent on forcing you into one of two rigid categories, even though you didn’t neatly fit into either. 

Stede Bonnet’s crew was special— they accepted everyone for who they were. Fortunately, Jim had already set an example for you. Once you shared your needs, they quickly started using your correct pronouns and treated you with genuine respect. The Revenge provided a sense of safety for you, and the thought of venturing ashore seemed daunting. However, Stede Bonnet insisted that everyone needed a break from the ship. 

The day unfolded predictably, yet uncomfortably, as it seemed like every glance and word from others onshore was a judgment. Merchants repeatedly addressed you as ma’am, casting a shadow over your mood. With each instance, a sense of unease settled in, and as the day progressed, you couldn’t escape the feeling of shrinking into yourself, grappling with the weight of others’ perceptions. 

You stared into the glass window of a shop, captivated by the reflection staring back at you, and a feeling of pain shot through you. Opportunities to see yourself were rare at sea, and you actively avoided such moments. Your fingers sifted through your long hair—a reminder of your mother’s insistence on keeping it that way throughout your upbringing. Even on the open sea, you had unconsciously followed her advice. There were many aspects of yourself you wished to change in that moment, but as you scrutinized your reflection, your focus fixated on your hair. Glancing up, you caught Israel Hands’ gaze reflected in the glass, his expression showing concern as he observed your inner struggle. 

Izzy had been your most trusted confidant on the ship, second only to Jim, especially during Blackbeard’s Kraken Era. In this vulnerable moment, the last thing you wanted was to be noticed. Swiftly averting your gaze from the window, you made a beeline for the ship, seeking comfort in the safety of The Revenge.  

Knowing that Izzy’s cabin had a mirror, you quickly hid there, setting the mirror before you. Time blurred as you locked eyes with the reflection, yearning for a different person to gaze back at you. The longing for change intensified, and with determination, you raised your dagger towards your hair, ready to sever its length. The moment hung in anticipation when the door swung open. 

“Stop,” Izzy demanded, halting your actions. He approached with a gentle stride, reaching out to firmly take the dagger from your grasp. 

Back within the secure confines of the ship, the emotions you had been suppressing erupted all at once, and tears cascaded down your cheeks. “I need to do this, Izzy.” 

Seated at his desk, you continued to gaze at the mirror, and Izzy bent down beside you. He gently guided your chin to meet his gaze, using his thumb to wipe away the streaming tears. “I’ll give this back,” he assured, holding up the dagger, “once you tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.” 

“I just feel wrong with long hair, Iz.” You tried to imagine how to express how you were feeling to him, hoping to find an explanation that he might understand. “It’s like sword fighting with your non-dominant hand. It feels faulty and exhausting. I just feel uncomfortable,” you whispered, your fingers unconsciously tugging at your hair. 

“How will cutting your hair make you feel?” Izzy asked curiously, devoid of any judgment. 

“Like me,” you smiled through your tears. As the words left your mouth, you realized the undeniable truth they held. This wasn’t a hasty decision; it was a desire you had suppressed in the past due to how unattainable it seemed. However, being part of Stede’s crew, forging your own path far from the pressure of family, made this once-distant possibility now attainable. 

“I’ve spent way too fucking long trying to make myself something I wasn’t,” Izzy whispered back. As he spoke, memories of the night of Calypso’s party flooded your mind, the night it seemed like Izzy was finally allowing himself to be true to who he was. “I want you to feel like yourself,” Izzy affirmed with sincerity, his gaze reflecting understanding and support. 

He rose to his feet, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, the dagger still in his grasp. 

“Then can I have my dagger back?” you asked, rolling your eyes. 

“Fuck no. If you’re doing this, you’re doing it right,” Izzy demanded, before exiting the room. 

He returned a short time later, with Wee John trailing behind him. 

“Izzy said you wanted a new look,” Wee John said with confidence, pushing past Izzy. 

You replied with an eager nod. Immense gratitude flooded you at the sight of Wee John. Among the crew, he stood out as the most artistic pirate, always sewing dresses, or crafting something new with his knitting needles. You felt relieved that Izzy had enlisted someone who knew what they were doing. 

Once you described what you wanted, Wee John responded with a casual “Oh, I’m totally down for that” and promptly began working on transforming your hair. 

"I'm gonna fuck off then,” Izzy declared, leaving the room to give Wee John the space to work his magic. 

Excitement bubbled within you as you observed each long strand of hair gracefully falling to the floor. Wee John, with skilled hands, orchestrated the transformation, and with every snip, the weight of the past seemed to fall away. When he finally lifted the mirror to your face, a wave of euphoria cascaded through you. In that moment, the reflection staring back at you was a blend of beauty and handsomeness, a testament to Wee John’s skill with scissors. In that moment, for the first time, you truly felt like yourself. A broad grin spread across your face as you lifted the mirror, and the smile on Wee John’s face mirrored your own joy. Overwhelmed with gratitude, you set the mirror aside and enveloped him in a tight hug, expressing your thanks profusely. 

You swiftly ascended to the deck, greeted by a chorus of compliments from the crew. Their words not only made you blush but allowed you to relish in their genuine praise, a rarity that, for the first time in a long while, you truly believed. Scanning the deck, your eyes sought out Izzy. When your gazes locked, you discovered a rare soft smile gracing his face. He approached you, gently running his fingers through your freshly cut hair.

"How do you feel?" he whispered.

"Like myself," you replied. The tears that earlier signified pain now transformed into tears of happiness. Once again, Izzy used his thumb to wipe away the tears, planting a warm kiss on your forehead.

"I can tell," Izzy replied warmly. You sensed his nervousness before he spoke, recognizing vulnerability is a challenge for him. "You should always be able to feel like yourself. No matter what you choose to change about yourself, I think you’ll always look perfect. I'm glad you are finally seeing yourself the way I see you. Perfect."

[monstersinthecosmos]

okay I think we should take inventory of what we learned about Marius's house.

In fact, the impression was one of comfortable messiness.

(i think the tiktok kids started calling ADHD clutter clustering or something LMAO marius de romanus cluster girlie i guess. thanks i hate it)

Here's some stuff that Marius had on his island!!!!!!!

stone benches

a lighted oil lamp on a stand

a pair of heavy wooden doors

a sarcophagus with a plain lid, cleanly fashioned out of diorite

The lid plated in iron and contained

a golden mask, its features carefully molded, attached to a hood made up of layered plates of hammered gold.

a pair of leather gloves covered completely in tinier more delicate gold plates like scales.

a large folded blanket of the softest red wool with one side sewn with larger gold plates

Magnificent Grecian urns on pedestals in the corridors

great bronze statues from the Orient

exquisite plants at every window and terrace open to the sky.

Gorgeous rugs from India, Persia, China c

giant stuffed beasts mounted in lifelike attitudes-

--the brown bear,

--the lion,

--the tiger,

--even the elephant standing in his own immense chamber,

--lizards as big as dragons,

--birds of prey clutching dried branches made to look like the limbs of real trees.

brilliantly colored murals covering every surface from floor to ceiling

a dark vibrant painting of the sunburnt Arabian desert complete with an exquisitely detailed caravan of camels and turbaned merchants moving over the sand

a jungle warming with delicately rendered tropical blossoms, vines, carefully drawn leaves

creatures everywhere in the texture of the jungle-

--insects,

--birds,

--worms in the soil-

too many monkeys in the jungle,

too many bugs crawling on the leaves.

thousands of tiny insects in one painting of a summer sky.

a large gallery walled on either side by painted men and women staring at me

Figures from all ages these were-

--bedouins,

--Egyptians,

--Greeks and Romans,

--knights in armor,

--peasants

--kings

--queens.

--Renaissance people in doublets and leggings,

--the Sun King with his massive mane of curls,

--people of our own age.

droplets of water clinging to a cape,

the cut on the side of a face,

the spider half-crushed beneath a polished leather boot.

a library, blazing with light.

Walls and walls of books and

rolled manuscripts,

giant glistening world globes in their wooden cradles,

busts of the ancient Greek gods and goddesses,

great sprawling maps.

Newspapers in all languages lay in stacks on tables.

Fossils,

mummified hands,

exotic shells.

bouquets of dried flowers,

figurines and fragments of old sculpture,

alabaster jars covered with Egyptian hieroglyphs.

comfortable chairs with footstools,

candelabra or oil lamps.

a forest of cages.

birds of all sizes and colors

monkeys

baboons,

Potted plants crowded against the cages-

--ferns and

--banana trees,

--cabbage roses,

--moonflower,

--jasmine,

--other sweetly fragrant nighttime vines.

purple and white orchids,

waxed flowers that trapped insects in their maw,

little trees groaning with peaches and lemons and pears.

a hall of sculptures equal to any gallery in the Vatican museum.

adjoining chambers full of paintings,

Oriental furnishings,

mechanical toys.

fine rosewood paneling with framed mirrors rising to the ceiling.

painted chests,

upholstered chairs,

dark and lush landscapes,

porcelain clocks.

A small collection of books in the glass-doored bookcases,

a newspaper of recent date lying on a small table beside a brocaded winged chair.

the stone terrace. where banks of white lilies and red roses gave off their powerful perfume.

a pair of winged chairs that faced each other

a dozen or so candelabra and sconces on the paneled walls.

brocade cushions

[html-nae]

T R A P S O U L

42!Miles x fem!OC

Part 2 of the 42!Miles x fem!OC series

WC: 1277

Nonviolent communication.

Nonviolent communication is based on historical principles of nonviolence.

The natural state of compassion when no violence is present in the heart.

It reminds us what we already instinctively know about how good it feels to connect with another human being.

It was just another night. Another fight for Miles’ attention.

But what do you do when you’re falling and you can’t find anything to hold on to?

Nothing.

It was also the night of Jefferson Davis’ promotion party.

‘For Aaron’, he would say. Anytime someone congratulated him on his accomplishment. ‘It’s all for my family and my brother. May he rest in power.’ Anyone could tell he missed his brother. Did he know Aaron was the prowler? Maybe. But he still loved him. So, in honor of him. He worked hard to become captain and provide for his family.

Miles promised to walk Harmony to the party.

So she got ready. A whole three hours before the party even started. She wanted her makeup to look good, she wanted her hair to look good, she wanted her outfit to look good.

Harmony wanted to look good.

For Miles.

Everyday she screamed for his attention. Sometimes it went unnoticed and sometimes it didn’t.

So she learned to count every blessing. There was no promise for tomorrow so she counted every second he dedicated to her. Even if it was small.

Harmony finished getting ready at 5:00.

The time Miles said he would get her.

Perfect.

5:10.

No Miles.

Soon 10 minutes turned into 20.

And 20 into 40.

And 40 into an hour.

And he still never came.

She decided to swallow her pride and not text him. Harmony wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe something came up, she thought.

Instead of saying anything, Harmony grabbed her bag and did a once over in the mirror before leaving.

The sun was setting and the city was alive. There was the well known traffic as well as the bright neon signs being turned on. Food merchants were still out, eager to sell whatever was left in stock before calling it quits for the night. Groups of friends walked past Harmony giggling about whatever joke was said as they passed her.

The fast life she was used to living was all going in slow motion. She got to appreciate the beauty of the city. By herself.

And she enjoyed it.

When Harmony arrived at the party everyone was there.

Except for Miles.

“Hey manmi mwen regrèt anpil mwen an reta.” Harmony said once she found Rio. (Hey mom. I’m so sorry for being late.”

Rio turned her head towards the girl with a bright smile adorning her face. She loved Harmony like the daughter she never had, always eager to speak to her and find out what was going on in her life.

“It’s no worries hija. We’re just glad you were able to make it.”

A smile made its way on the Haitian girl’s face, her eyes scanned the party hoping to find the Morales boy. Rio was quick to notice.

She knew. She knew the girl in front of her was crushing on her son. She also knew that her son was stringing her along. Rio scolded him about it many times, but each time she was met with a ‘It’s nothing mami. Honest’, and each time Rio would sigh and shut the door.

“We don’t know where he is. We checked his room and he was missing.”

The Jones girl nodded in response as the upcoming Captain slotted himself into the conversation. His glasses were slightly askew from the dancing his family dragged him into, but other than that he looked pristine. As always.

Conversations and congratulations were shared between the two, before they drifted off into Harmony’s studies and how her father was doing.

Then Miles came. With someone else.

Gwen.

Harmony watched them distance themselves from the rest of the party. She saw the way Miles looked at Gwen.

He never looked at me like that.

All the years I’ve known him. He never looked at me like I was everything to him.

“Who’s that?” Jeff questioned looking at the new girl that was hanging around his son. She was different. He knew about Harmony’s infatuation.

Everyone knew.

So he was just as confused as the next person when a new girl showed up with his son while he stood next to someone that would put their life on the line for him.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Her heart was racing. She was here. Next to him. And he looked happy.

Content.

He’s never looked this happy before.

Because it was Gwen. The girl that filled all the pages in his notebook. The same girl that he could spend hours talking about. The same girl that Miles was infatuated with.

Gwen Stacy. Not Harmony Jones

The two parents made their way towards them and ended up dragging Harmony with them.

The whole interaction lasted at least fifteen minutes. And the whole time

Miles never looked at Harmony.

He acted like she wasn’t there.

Even when Gwen dipped off and had to leave.

He never talked to her. His eyes were trained on where the blonde once stood.

Harmony finally met the girl that plagued her best friend’s mind. And she was right. She was the complete opposite of her. They shared absolutely nothing in common except for Miles.

But Gwen had Miles more than Harmony did. So they were back to square one.

Having nothing in common.

Because Harmony had to face the facts.

She couldn’t even say that they both had Miles.

Only Gwen had him.

The only thing Harmony had were distant memories that Miles probably didn’t even remember.

The Morales boy left long before the party was over. He went to follow Gwen.

Much to Harmony’s dismay.

This is what happens when Harmony thinks about him. Too caught up in her feelings. Reminiscing.

Next time I’ll be different.

She thought. She would wait on a sign and then come to the idea that it was time for a different prayer that somehow still revolved around Miles.

A boy that didn’t even see her the way she saw him.

She didn’t like being alone, but that’s exactly what happened when she went home. Thoughts of ringing his line flooded her mind as she laid down on her bed staring at her phone. Wishing that he would come home.

To her home.

Harmony wanted to balance her space. Protect her space. But Miles made it hard.

He gave her just enough to stay attached and hold onto him.

The Jones girl didn’t need the pain but with it stemming from Miles Morales, the hero of Brooklyn. She didn’t mind it all that much.

What’s left of us?

She remembered when Miles would tell her everything. When he was her best friend and would find comfort in her for anything. Now he makes promises that he doesn’t live up to. He ditches plans that he makes for them and says nothing but a mere apology if she gets one.

The same dorky kid that got humiliated on the first day of school. Is the same dorky kid thats humiliating Harmony without trying to.

He let her fall first while he stood dreaming wide awake.

And she’d do anything to be the person on his mind.

Harmony was in over her head and she couldn’t hold herself to be mad at Miles.

Because let's face it.

It was nothing but a state of nonviolent communication.

The natural state of compassion when no violence is present in the heart.

Taglist:

@urmotherswhor3 @not-aya @ihavenousernamewhyy-2 @erensbbg @reneuv @notsaelty @blackwxdo @bajadotcom

[tiredspirals]

Passing from shadow territory to arcane was not an easy journey.

Nestled between the two god's domains was the land of plague. The Scarred Wasteland and it's pestulant heart that beats kn the middle was not a place for the weak, it's denizens reveling in strength gained through strife. Disease and death was celebrated, at least in the sense that it uplifted those who survived the trials Plaguebringer inflicted on the land.

On the bright side, the skies had a consistent weather. Dry and warm, with no storms to contend with.

On the downside, being skybound did not save you from the constant wars that further scarred the wasteland. Beast on beast, dragon on dragon, leaving the sanctuary of a clan meant placing yourself on the forefront of an all out war. It truly was survival of the fittest, where wings of monstrous beings could easily blot out the sky as they descended on you. Indeed, brigands hungry for resources and plague ridden avians were constant threats to skyfairing ships.

Stars Aligned was by no means a fragile ship. She was sturdy, perhaps ready for war in another life, outfitted with a hard metal shell and a steel cage around her air balloons. Wing shredder ballistas lined the sides, ready for use against those who dared enter a dog fight with her. The weakness, Though, is her heavy set made her slower than lighter ships and slower yet compared to rogue dragons. She must be prepared.

The Sanctum of the Outcasts was the only stop for weeks around, and was one Rataskorn was fond of. In her days running wild with mirror packs, she could remember nipping at the heels of it's defenders when she was a spry pup, and recalled it's location well. Most would discredit the mirror's intelligence, but her memory was unmatched: she stood on the balcony of the ship, excitedly pointing every which way as she recalled even the smallest details of her life in the abiding boneyard.

So much fighting. So much blood. Good times.

The great airship touched down not far from the Sanctum, finding no trouble for parking in the endless space that stretched around it. Rataskorn bounded off, the voices of her peers making their to-do lists sounding like distant static to her. Her mind was long set. She knows what she must do!

She must find a suitable gift of the wastes for her beloved mate! This is more important than life itself. Yes, Hraes loved her sparklies and shinies. Shadow dragons enjoyed trinkets and curios, like the strange black birds that pecked at bodies. Yes, just like them! Like a strange black bird…

With dreams of Hraes wearing raven's wings, the mirror sped off across the arid land, the faraway cry of someone telling her to wait falling on deaf ears. Merchants of the Bazaar beware: a bull was coming for your glass shops.

[robinette-green]

Robin's Fantasy AU DCA Romance Fics

These are fics I’ve started that take place in fantasy settings! Pirates, Castles, fairies, princesses and knights galore!

Black Sea Glass: (tag)

Trying to escape from a group of mercenaries hunting you down to catch you and collect the bounty on your head, you stow away on what you think to be a merchant ship. Unfortunately for you, you end up on a ship flying under the king’s flag. The two captains decide that you can work on the crew while aboard. Over time you find yourself falling in love with the Captains. This is bad news for you. You have so many secrets to hide and the two captains despise lies. If they find out who you really are will they leave you? Would they turn you in?

The Queen and Her Knights:

Banished from her home, MC uses her immense magical abilities to heal a barren land, making it a safe haven for lost souls. The people of these lands name her queen, and all is right with the world until the kingdom that banished the MC decides they want the now flourishing lands for themselves. Lying about why they are going to war, the king claims that the evil witch is keeping the people in these lands as slaves and sends out a massive army. Desperate to find a way to buy herself more time, and in a panic, MC kidnaps the two knight commanders, and shenanigans ensue. Sun and Moon are humans Sun is Solaris Starr And Moon is Lucien Altalune

Jesters and Dragons: (tag)

The main character is the 4th princess of a large kingdom. Her younger brother, the golden child, is gifted two magical construct jesters modeled after the sun and moon on his 14th birthday. While wishing that they had been gifted to her instead, the main character ends up running into the jesters at every turn, turning her into a blushing stuttering mess as they flirt shamelessly with her. Fluffy fluff fluff fluff. With a smidge of angst.

Monster in the Sea:

Sun and Moon are human and go by Solaris and Lucien. The MC is a water dragon. Water dragon reader finds Sun and Moon lost at sea during a storm

Two Hunters and a Bloodsucker:

(tag)

My life is good for what it is. Except that I’m dead. Well, undead. I’ve been undead for about 15 years now, and I haven’t aged a day. Being a vampire hiding among humans can be difficult at times, mainly dealing with sunlight and avoiding mirrors, but I manage. I’ve been living and working in this little town as the town blacksmith for about 7 years now, and I’ve become a full-fledged member of the little community here. I thought I had been doing a good job hiding my presence among the humans, but one day two of the most well-known vampire hunters came into town. If they find out what I am, they will kill me, but both of them have become intent on becoming my friends and maybe more. How can I keep myself from being discovered when two hunters are trying to romance me?

Dreaming of Dancing Clocks:

Waking up in a ballroom filled with elegant dancers, you can't remember how you got there. Something if off about the others here but you can't put your finger on it.

Angel (LateNight DayDreams):

I’ve been avoiding going to the circus for years but when a curtain circus rolls into town, I can’t stop myself from going to see the show… to see him again. A Human Moon romance

Say Don't Go (LateNight DayDreams):

a human Sun and Reader romance A rich MC with her secret lover Solaris.

Some of these won't be finished and some are OLD writing of mine. you have been warned. Please don't let that stop you from reading these and enjoying them <3

[hannahssimblr]

“Clóda,” one stone. 

“Clóda,” another. 

“Fuck sake,” I murmur to myself, then throw a third, bigger one, which smacks off her window so loudly that I’m briefly paralysed with fear that it has broken the glass. Thankfully it hasn’t. She comes out onto the balcony.

“There you are,” she says quietly, peering down at me in her garden as I drop my handful of stones and wipe the dirt on my thighs. 

“Yeah, here I am. This is a bit Shakespearean isn’t it?” 

“Huh?”

“Like, you know, 'but soft, what light through yonder window breaks…. Defy thy father, refuse thy name', et cetera,” I pause before clarifying, “Romeo and Juliet, no?”

“Oh, I did The Merchant of Venice for my Junior Cert.”

“I thought you’d have still gotten the reference.”

She leans over the balcony to point to a precarious looking trellis against the wall, “If you climb up that thing you’ll be able to reach me.”

“Right,” I say, and press my foot against the flimsy timber to test my weight, “You know I’m like, nearly thirteen stone?” 

“You can try.”

“And if I break it?”

“Hmm, try not to,” she suggests. 

“Right,” I brace myself by slotting my fingers into a gap between some brick facade on the side of the house and I haul myself onto the trellis, and it groans but doesn’t give. “I’m good, I think I’m good.”

From there it’s not so bad. I nimbly move up the wall, grab hold of the sun room gutters and grab a hold of the balcony railings, where I find myself thrilled in the way a child is, having climbed somewhere he is not supposed to climb, the king of the castle overlooking his vast land, though I can’t really see much in the dark countryside, save a few car headlights in the distance, the lighthouse flashing over the bay. 

“Um, here,” Clóda hisses, and I realise I have briefly forgotten my objective, but the rest is easy, I just swing myself over the railing and I’m up. 

“Nice that you’ve a balcony,” I comment, “I don't know many other people who have one of these.”

“We built this house a few years ago, and for some reason I wanted a balcony in my room, I don’t know, I was like, ten, and it was a stupid idea because it’s mostly too cold out here to even make use of.” 

“Useful now though, huh?” 

She tucks her hair behind her ears and bats her eyelashes at me, “yeah I suppose it is.”

She pushes the door open and we creep into her room where the only light is from the glow of the television screen in the corner. It’s clean, very clean with no clutter or clothes lying around, which always freaks me out for reasons that I cannot explain. The idea that a person would have the interest or discipline to keep their bedroom clean is odd. If a person's bedroom is a mirror to the inside of their mind, then the lack of chaos in hers is foreign and unrelatable. 

While she switches on a pink fringed bedside light I throw myself down on the neatly tucked duvet just so that I can mess it up a little bit, to mark my territory like some kind of wild dog let loose in a palace. I peer at her CD collection and mess that up too by pulling one out and showing it to her, “Jesse McCartney, huh? You a fan?”

She goes pink and grabs it out of my hand, “Yeah I used to be, I dunno, not so much anymore, I don’t know why I still have that.”

I grab another, “Who are the Jonas Brothers?” 

“Oh, they’re-”

“That guy in the middle has a pretty wild haircut, would you fancy me with that?”

“No,” she giggles and takes that CD off me too, then slots them carefully back where they were, “I have some silly stuff, I probably shouldn’t have it all out.”

“Nah, well, look, you have some great stuff here, how ‘bout this? Black Holes and Revelations? I love this album, you know I saw Muse live last year.”

The mattress sinks as she sits next to me, “Really? Was it when they came to Ireland?”

“Nah it was in the states.”

Her eyes flash with intrigue, “like, America?”

“Mm, yeah.”

“That’s so cool.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, that you just, like, go to America and stuff. I don’t know anybody who’s gone to America yet, and I want to go so badly.”

I shrug, “well you should, then.”

“How often do you go?”

“Not often, I was there last year and then before that…” I try to remember, “I think I was maybe twelve. It takes a long time to get to where I’m going, you know, from here you can only get to New York and then you have to get a connecting flight and all of that,” thinking about the ordeal of it exhausts me, but Clóda is leaning forward in fascination, as hearing the words ‘New York’ come out of my mouth has sent a thrill through her. 

“What do you go for?”

“Just to visit family and stuff.”

“You’ve family there?”

“Of course, did you not know that my dad is American?”

She frowns, “Well you sound a little bit American but I thought… I don’t know, really, I thought you were putting it on or something.”

“What, like, for attention?”

“I don’t know,” she shakes her head, impatient, “where do you go?”

“Well… I’ve some family in California and some in New Mexico, which is like, a state in the southwest, kinda wedged between Texas and California, if you can imagine that on a map,” I leave out poor Arizona just to make it easier on her, because nobody here knows what the hell a New Mexico, (‘no, no not Mexico, New Mexico’) is so it’s best to keep it concise. 

Clóda is nodding vigorously, “California, like, LA.”

“Kind of. Like, my dad comes from a place called San Bernardino, which is-” I take her wrist and trace a line on the soft skin of her inner arm, “-to the east of LA, say, an hour or two away, depending on the traffic, yeah? And then his family, like his aunts and uncles and their parents, who we used to visit sometimes, they’re living in a place way up north,” I run a gentle trail all the way up to the sleeve of her t-shirt, “to the very tip top of the Sacramento valley in this rugged, gold rush town…” I lift my eyes to her and she’s staring at my hand, following the motion of my finger as I skim the tip of it over her shoulder and across the taut skin of her collarbone. I prepare myself to say more sexy things about the Sacramento river and the rolling hills and the central valley and whatever else I usually bang on about whenever someone asks, but she looks into my eyes and says: “Is there an Abercrombie where you go?”

“Huh?”

“Abercrombie and Fitch.”

I frown, “Yeah?”

“Oh, wow.” She pushes me onto my back and lays on top of me, gazing down at me with fervid glitter in her eyes, “If you go back to America this year, could you buy me something from there?”

I search in her eyes for some sign that she’s joking and determine that she isn’t. She really wants me to do that. “Yep, sure,” I say.

“Ah, that’d be amazing. You know the way they have those bags too? The ones with the black and white pictures of the guys' bodies on them? Well there was a girl in my class who…”

And I zone out and I stop listening to her as she talks about laminating the bags and carrying school books in them, and I wonder if she will even notice the glazed over look in my eyes as I let my eyes unfocus and stare into the middle distance between her and her pastel pink walls and ask myself some serious questions. 

Do I like her?

She’s pretty though.

Sure, she’s pretty but is she fun? 

She likes Muse.

She’s not even very nice though, is she? She’s said a few weird things in the past.

Yeah but I’ve had sex with her now.

I can’t really stop talking to her or anything, can I? That’d mean I’m a dickhead. 

But would I rather be a dickhead or be miserable?

Maybe both outcomes will make me miserable. Maybe I’m just pre-programmed to be a miserable person. Or am I just cursed?

I zone back in for a moment, “...and then Mr. Brennan confiscated all of them, and there was this whole thing where the parents council…” What is happening? 

“Uh huh,” I say, “Uh huh… uh huh, what? That’s crazy,” God she is really pretty though, the kind of pretty that’s hard to find, and it’s not like there’s anyone else around, is there? It’d be awkward to stop seeing each other now with two whole weeks left of the summer. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[spaghettificationandpretzels]

The Glass Merchant Part One

Masterlist

Contains: Fluff, mild angst, slow burn.

4.5K words

The beginning

Hydromora was an unfamiliar place to Kai; he thought he knew the whole universe, but since the Motherworld's defeat, a whole new trade stream had opened up, and so had his job prospects, all be it a little more moral than before the fall. He arrived at the market just as night began to fall, hopping off the steam transport ship at the dock as the water beneath him glowed blue with each movement.

The air was rich with spice, the sound of bartering and coins sliding across wooden tables floating on the wind as he walked through the stalls. It wasn't lost on him that he was drawing attention; the strange looks from stallholders and customers alike making him feel less than welcome.

"Kind stranger." He turned towards the voice, and an elderly man lifted two crocked fingers up to his face, moving them backwards as if to pull a hood away. Kai understood the message, pushing the hood off his face before walking to the stall. The man looked him up and down and smiled. "Can I help you with something?"

Kai nodded. "Ay, I'm looking for a stall selling pretty glass things, clocks to be exact."

The man pointed behind Kai's left shoulder. "Follow the broad path through the wooden wares, you'll see a sign to the glass seller soon enough." There was a coldness in the man's gaze, and he looked Kai over. "You should relax. You look jumpy, and we don't like that."

He got the sense that he was still being watched, even though most of the eyes on him had turned away once his hood was lowered. "Thank you."

The man smiled. "You best be on your way now."

He gave the man one last thank you and walked away, following the directions until he came upon what he was looking for. The owner had her back to him, her curly hair in a bun as she worked, bent over a desk. She clearly heard him as he approached, her head tilting ever so slightly to the side before she returned to her work. "There's nothing for sale here that you can buy."

He loved a challenge, and something in her tone provoked him in just the right way. "I'll pay you handsomely." He looked at her goods, and it was apparent why his employer wanted one of her clocks. Each piece was carefully crafted from fine, coloured glass, from tiny pocket watches to grandfather clocks as tall as he was, and jewellery, where the glass sparkled like stone and knives with their handles and scarabs, inlaid intricate reliefs.

She spun around, and he had to suppress his laugh at the sight, her strange glasses making her scowling eyes look huge. "I only sell to those who will appreciate my work." There was a thud as the glasses landed on the table, and she stood from her chair, her head coming to his chin as she met his eye. "So you see, your statement about paying me is a waste."

She looked like a dream in the warm glow of the lantern, and he remained undeterred. "You got a name?"

Her eyes crinkled with interest. "You don't already know it?" He shook his head, and she blinked up at him, and a rare prickle of self-consciousness came over him as she studied him. "You aren't here on behalf of Magnus Voytek?"

He huffed, offended at her statement as if he would do anything for a Motherworld banker. "No, I don't procure for him. I'm here for a man named Darius, he wants one of your clocks for his wife."

She lifted her hand to her face in embarrassment. "I am sorry for my rudeness. Since the fall, that man has been trying to put his money into whatever he can to keep himself from the gallows, and my work is just his lastest attempt." She extended her hand with a smile. "My name is Minna, by the way."

He took her hand and mirrored her smile. "Kai."

She gestured around as the mood shifted. "Do you have any ideas what your employer is looking for?"

He nodded and pointed to the clock hanging on the back wall. "He said she likes birds." The piece would be well worth her price. It was a scene of tiny bluebirds, fine pink flowers and lush vines for the clock hands.

She lifted it off the wall and held it before him, and he readied himself to start haggling. "Good choice. It's four hundred darams for the clock and a lifetime of repairs."

He sucked on his tongue and shook his head, leaning in with a smirk as he turned on the charm. "That's a bit steep, surely you can drop the price for a man in love?"

She shook her head. "If the man is that in love, he can come and find me himself, and then I'll drop the price. Four hundred is my price."

He pressed his lips together, that just wouldn't do. "Come on now, Love, three hundred and fifty, and I'll throw in one free job from me."

Her smile gave him some hope, he was getting somewhere. "I have everything I need right here, and I want for nothing. You offering your services is a waste of time. The clock costs four hundred; that's what your man will pay, or he'll get nothing."

He sighed and hung his head. "You drive a hard bargain, Minna. Three hundred and sixty."

Her shoulders fell as she shook her head. "I'm sorry, Kai, my price is my price. If there's nothing else you want, you'll have to move on, I have close soon."

He decided to be bold, taking her hand and laying it on his chest over his heart. She made half an effort to pull away but stopped when he placed his hand over hers. "I'm a romantic Minna, as sure as my heart beats. You can drop your price for me."

She wasn't sure what to say; between the heat coming off his rock solid chest and the roughness of his massive hand, it was hard to think. "Three hundred and ninety-nine, no less."

He grinned and dropped her hand, and he didn't miss how it lingered in midair, nor the way she wouldn't meet his eye. "You got a deal."

He reached into his pocket and unloaded a pile of coins, counting each one out as he slid them over to her side of the booth, but she stopped him when he was about halfway through. "Half now, the rest tomorrow, I don't have time to pack it tonight."

He was giddy; sure, he only got a single daram off, but he still won. Only when Minna turned her back to place the coins away did he notice that the market had begun to empty out. The thick panels of glass and metal emerging from the ground to wrap around the simple wooden booths was a strange sight, and he realised he may have misjudged the planet as much more backward than it was.

His suspicion was confirmed when the line of people leaving parted to allow two soldiers to walk through. While the expressions on their faces were pleasant, the guns they had slung over their shoulders told him trouble was not tolerated. "Relax, they only shoot at Motherworlders."

"Shite, this place is a little deceptive." He relaxed a little as he watched them help the citizens with their pack-up, and the symbols on their uniforms fussed at his memory as they drew closer.

"You should really have a look around, we are the most technically advanced planet in five systems. We just choose to live a simple life." She waved as the soldiers walked by, and they watched as the glass covering rose up over her stall, only moving away after giving Kai a thorough once-over.

"Ay, I guess I will." He watched her with wrapped interest as she pulled a small cookie out of her pocket and placed it in the lantern in her hand, and to his surprise, the light was not coming from a candle but a cluster of the softest looking creatures that grew brighter as they ate. "What in the bleedin' 'ell are those?"

"Lantern bees." She let one crawl out on her finger and held her hand out as it crawled around her palm, a little bit of cookie held between two of its tiny legs as it ate. It wasn't very large, only slightly smaller than her thumb, but she seemed to hold genuine affection for the creature. "They are wonderful little things. Everyone has a hive in their home; they make sure our crops grow, give us honey and light out lanterns, and in turn, we keep them safe when the storms hit."

She didn't part from him as they started to walk towards the boats, and he made himself comfortable in her company for the short time it would last. "I might be a bit late getting here, seeing as I have to leave my ship and take a shuttle." It was rare that he couldn't land on the planet, even rarer that he had to park on the outer edge and take transport, but with each passing moment he spent there, he realised it was because they had something to protect.

"I can take you to the inn. It's cheap, and you'll get a good meal. That way you won't have to do the shuttle two step." It was getting cold now, and she pulled her coat tighter around her as they drew closer to the water.

"Well that would be grand." Now that they had reached the docks, there were soldiers everywhere now, still just as pleasant and helpful as the first ones. "Why are there so many of them." He paused at her supposition look. "If you don't mind me asking, that is."

Her eyes twinkled like she knew a fun secret, and she pointed to a brightly coloured boat painted in the same style as her clocks. "Pray you never have to find out."

When they arrived at her boat, she hung the lantern on the pole at the bow but shook him off when he reached down to help her unlash it. She did, however, accept his hand when she climbed in and only let it go when he was seated opposite her on the boat's second seat. The blue glow in the water he noticed when he docked was even brighter now, so much so that it lit the paths of the boats as they made their way home.

"It's algae, it glows when the water moves." She handed him one ore, then used the other to push away, and they were off, rowing in tandem as she guided them through the water.

He snuck glances at her in the glimmer of the planet's moon, and the mix of blue and purple it gave off gave her big, dark eyes a shade of sadness. "So Minna, is there a fella waiting at home for you?"

She shook her head. "Nope, just my fisher bear. His name is Zephy. Is there a lady waiting on your home planet with the porch light on?" She knew by how he stiffened what she had just done. "I'm sorry, I didn't think."

He huffed, it wasn't the first time his lack of a home to return to had been inadvertently thrown in his face. "No harm done, Love. No, there's no one waiting for me anywhere."

The boat had slowed, and her hand landed on his knee. "We have all been touched by the Motherworld's cruelty, in one way or another."

It was such a simple touch, and despite it being far less intimate than the move he had made to secure the sale earlier in the day, something fluttered in his chest. He dared not question her when he finally pulled his eyes away from the water and gazed at her face; there was something there that was so painfully familiar. "Ay, but the war is over now and we have peace."

She smiled, and the boat went back to its original speed. "Yes we do."

They travelled for another twenty minutes, their conversation consisting of Kai's question about Minna's planet while she laughed and replied to him like he was asking about the colour of his own eyes. When he focused on the water, he could see the fish moving between the boats, large dark shapes occasionally shifting the water more as the boats rocked with their movement. In the distance, on all sides, he could see land and the faint lights, and he couldn't quite put a word to the body of water they were travelling on.

Eventually, the sea in front of them slowly lit up with the lights of houses, and he was in awe as they came into view. Many islands took over the landscape, and the glass-domed roofs of homes stood out against the square berry-covered hedges. There was a land border around each passel of homes, and the pathways were rimmed with more plants.

The boat slowed once more, and she angled the boat towards an island and into a channel. The waterway they moved down was only big enough for two boats, and he could see more of the homes as they moved towards the inn. Every front yard had a small garden filled with strange plants he had never seen, and he could see the glow of the lantern bees in little boxes next to every front door.

The boat turned into a larger house, its fourth level sticking out above the skyline of the rest of the domes. He noticed the inn sign as they went through the open fence before finally stopping next to the boat tie. "We're here. You'll get a good feed and a warm bed, and I'll pick you up bright and early tomorrow."

He held onto a post as he climbed out, finally happy he was back on solid ground. "Thank you, Love."

She smiled and began her journey home. "Goodnight Kai."

He stood leaning against a yellow fruited tree and waved as he left, yelling after her. "Goodnight Minna."

****

Kai hadn't slept so well in decades, he woke up to birds singing and the sunrise in his window instead of the hum of his ship and the endless darkness of space.

Knock knock

"Ay?" Being waited on for no reason other than being a guest was new too, and as the door swung open and the smell of pasties filled the air, a familiar longing swam in his chest.

"Kind stranger, can I offer you breakfast?" He walked to the cart, piled high with a variety of delicious looking items.

He plucked one of the cart, drawn in by the spoon of bright pink jam in the middle. "Sweet berry jam with butter pastry, good choice. Anything else from the cart?"

He shook his head. "No, thank you." Nevertheless, a steaming cup of tea suddenly appeared, and he took it with a smile.

The cart rolled off, and he headed to the chair by the window. He could hear children swimming in the canal, but mercifully, Minna's boat floated into his view before his thoughts had time to drift to the past.

He wasn't skipping towards the boat, or at least, that's what he told himself as he made his way down the stairs with a noticeable spring. He all but jumped into the boat, and Minna shot him a look as she steadied its rocking. "Well good morning, you're awfully chipper."

He made himself comfortable next to her and took the ore in one hand while he continued his breakfast with the other. "Ay, it is a good morning, Minna, it's been a while since I slept in a real bed."

The place was very different in the daylight; gone was the blue glow of the water, and replaced with it was the bright warmth of the sunlight pouring through the clouds. There were larger boats on the water, too, small sailboats with nets hanging from their sides and steamships moving slowly along while people looked out from the balconies.

"So do you row your way everywhere?" Judging by the lean muscles of her arms, the answer was yes.

She smiled and shook her head warmly as if his question was silly. "In winter, when all the water freezes, some of us walk, and we have transport on the larger islands, but yes I row most places. It's good for me."

He downed the last of his tea and looked at the boat. The floor was covered in little mesh bags filled with fruits and vegetables, and there was a pile of colourful embroidered blankets on the third seat. Without her long coat, he could see the forearms; she had the same strange line tattoos that he had seen on others during his walk through the market yesterday, and curiosity got the best of him as he bent his head towards them. "I swear I've seen those on half the people here, what do they mean?"

"Most of the adults have them, it's a tradition from the old ways." Her tone had shifted to something tinged with a distinctive coldness, and she was all of a sudden very interested in the fish swimming by the boat instead of his eyes.

Her evasiveness wasn't missed. "Ay, but that's not what I asked. I asked what they mean?"

She chuckled softly and shook her head. "I'm afraid you don't want the answer to that question."

He raised his eyebrows. "Alright then, keep your secrets. You said there's no fella at home, what exactly do you do in your spare time?"

She sighed. "Lots of things. Why the sudden interest in me? I'm just a glass merchant."

The charm was back on, his blue eyes looking over her as if to hint at his intention. "Ay, but you're a very pretty glass merchant."

Her head tilted, and her eyes wrinkled as she assessed his words, slightly incredulous at his continued boldness. "Does this work for you every time?"

He smiled as he fought the urge to kiss the chilliness from her plump lips. "I don't have a clue about what you're talking about, care to tell me what you're referring to?"

She huffed, and her grip tightened on the ore as she grew ever more doubtful. "You haggle me for my goods, you ask questions that you ought not to, and now you are trying to charm your way into my pants." He didn't respond right away; he was too stuck trying to decipher the expression on her face. "Well, what do you have to say for yourself, sir?"

His cheeks ached with restraint as he did his best to drop his smile. "I don't know; I'm worried if I say the wrong thing, you'll toss me overboard."

It was her turn to struggle away her smile, and she half glared at him. "I find you quite inappropriate." Despite her point, she didn't move away from him, and their legs still stayed pressed together as they rowed back to the market; when they docked, she still took his offer of an assisting hand and only sighed in protest when picked up her goods are carried them to her stall without asking.

It was a slow walk, and he found himself acting as her assistant as she traded the fruits and vegetables from her garden with the other merchants. When they arrived at her stall, he stood there watching, admiring her efficiency until she had him place the goods on the shelves that were empty when he was there the day before. "Are you going to pay me for all my hard work?"

She nodded. "Yes, in lunch." She swapped her workbench for one of the display tables to face him while she worked and sat down with a sigh. "I have a few things to work on before I pack your clock, you can go and explore if you like, or you're more than welcome to stay."

He smiled and took a seat, leaning his elbows on the bench as he watched her begin to work. "Ay, I think I'll stay." He looked around, nodding his head towards a pile of uncut glass and wooden stencils. "Is there anything I can do? I figure I should earn my keep if you're going to entertain me."

She puffed, although her exasperation was tinged with affection. "I'll give you some glass to cut." She showed him what to do, once again shooting him an unimpressed look as he suggested that she should use a more hands-on approach when he misused the tool, but nevertheless, her hand found its way on top of his as she guided him around the tight bends of the design.

She placed a small bowl of light blue squares before him, and the corners of her mouth lifted in a smile. "Bandages, you might need them."

She was right, but he blamed her for his wounding. Had she not looked so beautiful as she worked, he would have paid more attention to the blade in his hand. There was a pause in the work as a man walked by a huge plate of small glistening berries, and she waved him over with a smile. "Oh Kai, you have to try these."

They conversed in their mother tongue for a moment, and he found himself trying to pick familiar sounds from the melodic speech. Before he could ask for a translation, he was handed a small paper bowl filled with the treats as Minna passed the seller a coin. "I hope you enjoy, kind stranger."

When the man walked away, Kai leaned in as if to ask her a secret. "What's with the kind stranger thing?"

"Why, would you rather we call you distinguished guest?" Her tone was tinged with disgust.

He shook his head. "No, that sounds like something you'd call a Motherworlder."

"Exsalty, now eat your candy." He popped one of the red balls into his mouth a bit down, the crunchy crackly of sweet sugar giving away to the same rich flavour as the jam he had on his breakfast pasty. "Good, right?"

He nodded. "It's fucken grand."

That went on for the rest of the morning as vendors walked by with different foods, and there was something comforting about the way she continued to feed him, like he was visiting an old friend who worried about him just a bit too much when he was away.

He felt a flash of disappointment as she pulled the bird clock off the wall, and with all the glass cut, he busied himself looking at some of her wears, his attention falling to a pocket watch that had a rush of memories flooding his brain. The light yellow cascading blossoms were the same ones from his homeland that his little sister used to wear in her hair, and a lump formed in his throat as the memory of the smell of the flowers wafting over him as she hugged him.

He picked up the piece, running his thumb over the smooth glass face as his heart began to pound. He choked down his feelings enough to question her. "Where did you get the idea for this one."

She looked up from the clock, and his heart rate only doubled when he saw the look of sadness in her eyes. "The flowers are from the fields of Saaldorun. My father brought home a cutting for my mother, he never told us what they were called."

He placed the watch down and smiled softly. "True Loves Kisses, they were my sister's favourite."

She huffed and regarded him as if she sifting through her mind to find something to say. "My mother loved them so much she spent hours with tweezers and a magnifying glass trying to retrieve a seed, then a year getting it to grow. It's still going strong today. I have to admit, they do smell lovely."

"Ay, that they do." Butterflies dashed the walls of his chest as if they were trying to break through his ribs as the pang of grief swirled with something entirely different.

A beat passed before she spoke again. "I am sorry, it's a terrible thing to have nothing left to tether you to where you came from." She reached out, her hand opening and closing as she debated laying her hand on his before she decided against it and returned to her work. "It won't be long now, I just have to make sure it works then I'll have you on your way."

The disappointment was back. "Sure thing, Love." When it was finished, she held it in front of him, and he smiled, and it ticked away. "Ain't that pretty."

She packed it carefully and then placed the box on the bench before sighing, her eyes differing to the jewellery. She picked up a necklace, its tiny pendant displaying two, one grey and one bluebird, locked in a mating dance and placed it in a box before wrapping it. He looked at her, a smile on his face and one eyebrow raised, and she shook her head. "I, too, am a romantic."

He grinned at her, and she crossed her arms over her chest as she shook her head at him. "You are doing it again."

His tongue darted out as he leaned into her space. "Doing what, Love?"

Her eyes crinkled as if he should know what she was talking about. "Looking at me altogether too fondly for a man who has known me for less than a day."

He raised his hand in supplication and smiled. "Ay, perhaps I am altogether too fond of you." He picked up the pocket watch from early and held it up, the watch face dangling from the silver chain. "How much for this one?"

She smiled. "Whatever you feel it's worth."

His eyes drifted to her plump lips as he coiled the chain around his hand. "How 'bout a kiss."

Her hand found his cheek as she grew closer. "Yes, a kiss is a fair price." He closed the distance, sealing his lips to hers as she slid her hands into the loose hair at the nape of his neck. She pulled away, and he licked the kiss from his lips as he spoke. "I better make sure it works for you."

He passed it to her, and she tinkered for a moment, sliding a small pin into a hole before handing it back. "All done."

He placed it into the coat and patted the pocket as if to check it was secure before collecting the other packages and paying her the other half of what he owed her. "I imagine my employer will want to thank you for your kindness."

"Does that mean I should expect you again?" He nodded. "Well then Kai, until next time."

Despite the payday waiting for him a few systems over, he was finding it hard to leave, but he took a deep breath and took a step backwards as he began to walk away. "Ay, until next time Minna."

Part 2