#I never know what order to tag people in ships help

[whathappenstotheheart]

Any Skinner/Scully or Skinner/Scully/Mulder of mine automatically includes Walter gradually picking up Mulder duty whenever Dana is otherwise occupied, without anyone really asking him to. Mulder can't decide if he's disappointed or if he's happy the chances of getting picked up in a timely manner have gone up.

"Get in the car."

"Wait, where's Scully?"

"It's 3 am, Mulder. She's sleeping. Now get in the damned car."

mulder will do shit like call scully from jail and be like hi I got arrested trying to catch homeless bigfoot in an alleyway. I know you’re a six hour drive away but can you come pick me up. and scullys problem is that she will come pick him up eventually

[bamsywrites]

And Comes Dawn.

Pairing: sauron/halbrand x reader, more pairings in the future to be tagged

Summary: In all beings, there exists darkness. when the deciver finds one who seems to defy this, he becomes obsessed with finding it within her. and if he can't find it, he will ruin her himself.

Tags/Warnings: clichés abound, opposites attract, sauron being evil but also hot but also evil, no use of y/n. This is pretty barebones. There's not much to tag, I don't think.

Notes: there was a lot of interest in this when I made a post. This is not super duper long and a Lil choppy but I wanna see what people think. Lemme know if you like it. If I should continue it. I have a lot of ideas. It's all written and edited on my phone so I'm sorry if it looks bad or mistakes were made.

Series Masterlist

The wind from the sea felt nice on his face. After so many years spent as nothing more than mud and slime, it was nice to feel. Feel anything. Freedom, independence, revenge. His plan to create order and heal the world would come to fruition. Being stuck on a ship with these men was worth that price. They were like bugs. If he wanted to, he could squash them and feel nothing. Though there was one who spoke to him kindly as a mentor would, and there was the ever so slight stirring of emotions he presumed were long dead. The old man was enough to make him question what it was he desired. Did he want to be good? Did he want a fresh start? What about his plans? The desire for order was there, the want to heal the world and bring peace, but would he get that through evil, through deceit and violence? Or could that be obtained another way? He continued to stare over the vast ocean as the wheels in his head turned, and he waged a war inside himself.

"It's beautiful, is it not?" A voice broke through the silence of the night.

He turned sharply, greeted by the image of a young woman. You were beautiful. He noticed it right away. Never had he looked at a human and thought they were beautiful. The thought was usually reserved for elves, but you were different. He could tell just by looking. You were soft, gentle, pure. There was a light to you that permeated all of your features.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. We have more food tonight than expected, and you had been on your own so long before finding us. I supposed you might be hungry." You held up a bowl for him, which he accepted with a nod.

"Thank you. I don't think we've been introduced. I'm Halbrand."

You smiled softly back at him, giving him your name and taking a few small steps towards him. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

He watched you. It was curious. Everyone here was gruff and rude, not wanting to help a stranger, yet you brought him a bowl of soup instead of keeping it for yourself. He watched as you looked up at the stars and how they were reflected back in your eyes. Humans didn't often intrigue him, but you did.

He leaned back against the railing of the boat with his arms crossed, but before he could speak to ask his question, you spoke.

"The stars are beautiful, aren't they? The light against the immense darkness. It reminds us that there is light in all things. Even in the darkest of times, there is hope."

"Your people were just slaughtered by orcs. You're on the run. Hope in the stars seems pretty useless." His eyes watched you with keen interest.

"Hope is never useless. Without it, all is lost." The earnestness in your voice further fueled his curiosity.

"And what do you hope for in times like this?"

"A new start. A place to start fresh..."

"Yes," he interrupted, "That is what all hope for, but what do you hope a new place or fresh start will do? What do you want from it?"

"I want a safe place to lay my head. I want to live without shame. I want fresh air and to grow my food and I want music and I want laughter. I want to drink tea with my friends. I want to love and feel the wind on my face. I want happiness. I want peace." You smiled and closed your eyes as you pictured this serene future.

He watched you, his brows furrowed. You were odd, but he wasn't sure if that was a bad thing as of yet.

"You have a lot of this hope. It's almost oozing out of you. I can almost taste it." He took a step towards you. "As if there is no evil out there."

"There is evil, yes, but there is good. Do we despair because there is evil or have hope because there is good? I do not think there is truly anything that is created evil. Evil is only when the good is taken from someone, and if you're able to take it, then it's able to be taken back." Your eyes had opened, and you looked up at him.

"I doubt you'd believe that if you knew the evil I'd done."

"Thousands of years ago, the people of the southlands sided with Morgoth. Our ancestors fought alongside the most evil being to ever exist. Most would say that the things our people did were deplorable and worthy of the worst shame. But I look upon my home, I look upon the people I have grown with, and I do not see evil. The people here, I am but a stranger to them. I have yet to meet most of them, but they took me in, as they did you. If my ancestors were evil, they could not have created such good."

“Whatever evil you did, it can be forgiven. You can do good, be good.” You moved closer to him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. The feeling brought a sense of warmth that he had not felt since before he joined Morgoth, when he went by a different name. His eyes traveled down to where your hand rested, and you dropped it back to your side. He'd found himself missing the feeling.

"Your ancestors did do evil, though. They did plenty of evil things. Just as I have."

"Did they do evil out of the desire to be evil? Or did they do evil to protect those they loved? Were they born that way, destined to be only evil? Were you made evil? Or was it thrust upon you in a moment of hopelessness? Does every being have the capability to do both good and evil?"

He was left stunned at what you said, it took longer than usual for him to come up with a response. He wet his lips, looking over the ocean for a moment before looking at you once more. Your hair was gently blowing in the breeze of the ocean and he found the sight captivating. His intuition told him you were telling the truth, that you believed the words you were saying with your whole being. How could that be? There had to be some darkness that motivated you, that tainted your soul.

Everyone had darkness.

His mind played over the interaction long after it had happened. He wanted to feel that warmth again. You were a puzzle, a mystery. He would not know peace until he figured out what darkness was inside you because surely there had to be something. It was one of the many things that plagued his mind late at night. He watched as you slept peacefully. You were rows and rows down from him, but he could zoom in on your form. He watched your chest rise and fall, the calm of your features. You were a mystery that he had to solve.

This was what was on his mind when the worm attacked. He needed to know you. Even now, he watched as you attempted to help an elderly woman stuck under a beam instead of rushing to safety yourself. He couldn't bring himself to save the old man, but his fingers wrapped around the relic, and as water rushed the ship, he lept over and shielded your body with his.

He couldn't let you die. He had to understand you, to know you, to find out what motivated you, he would find your inner darkness.

And if he couldn't, he'd ruin you instead.

next

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 6: Bloodstone]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus @chattylurker, more in comments 🥰

💎 Only 1 chapter left!!! 💎

You must not have heard him correctly. Down by the bow, third-class passengers are still laughing as they kick pieces of ice back and forth. Children who have been shaken awake are giggling as they dash around in their worn, patched coats. On the Promenade Deck, tycoons and aristocrats are flagging down stewards to fetch them fresh drinks. There is no more humming of the ship’s engines, although no one else seems to have noticed; they have quit and will never work again. In a few hours, they will be resting on the bottom of the North Atlantic Ocean. It’s just barely April 15th, and half the passengers aboard won’t live to see the sunrise.

Kill Daemon??

You’ve never even hit anybody, not unless they struck you first. “I can’t kill someone.”

“Yes you can,” Aegon insists. His tone is urgent; there isn’t much time left. “And you won’t have to do it alone. Like I said, I’ll help you.”

A drop in your stomach, a chill down your spine, wide-eyed primal fear like a prey animal’s. “Even if I wanted to, Daemon can’t be killed.”

“He’s not a monster. He’s just a man. He has blood and organs just like we do. I promise you, if we cut him he’ll bleed.”

“He’ll hurt me,” you whimper. “He’ll know what I’m trying to do and he’ll break my neck or push me overboard. You don’t know him, he’s…he’s…he’s relentless, he’s cunning—”

“We can have what we want,” Aegon says, grabbing your face with his hands, fingertips callused from years of playing viola on streets, in pubs, in small rented rooms, on the decks of ships. “We can leave Titanic together. We can stay with my family for a while in New York, and then we’ll go back to Ireland so you can be with yours, and when my father dies we’ll spend half the year in England and the other half with your parents, and you’ll get to keep Draco, and Daemon will never touch you again. You’ll be free, Petra. And you deserve that. But no one is going to give it to you. You have to fight for it.”

Is it possible? Is it really? You imagine having breakfast with your parents in Lough Cutra Castle, the table full: you, Aegon, Draco, Fern, everyone smiling over plates of fried eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, and white pudding, cups of tea breathing steam into the cool morning air. Are you willing to fight for that? Are you willing to murder? At last you say: “Daemon isn’t the only problem.”

“Who else?” Aegon asks, demanding, impatient, though his hands are gentle. “Rhaenyra? And the old woman, right? Draco’s governess. Dagmar.”

“And Daemon’s bodyguard Edward Rushton, we call him Rush. He carries a pistol.”

“Okay.” Aegon nods, his eyes distant, his thoughts whirling like Titanic’s colossal propellers once did and never will again. You know he’s devising a plan. We only have an hour or two.

“Aegon…I have to get Draco into a lifeboat first.”

“Right.” He kisses you, a quick brush across your cheek like a dusting of snow, and you think: I can’t lose him. “Over a thousand passengers are going to die tonight. Let’s make sure four of them are people who deserve it.” Then he takes your hand and together you descend the steps to B-Deck.

~~~~~~~~~~

Scarlet fever is named for the distinctive rash that marks its victims, tiny red dots like blood blisters, so itchy they are soon scratched raw, raised bumps of braille in the shape of ominous omens, corporal constellations of bad stars. Dagmar was reminded of them the first time she ever saw bloodstone, a dark green crystal freckled with red, a pendant that Dameon sent her from across the world where he was opening a new mine in Australia.

Valentin was the first one to get sick. He was the youngest, the only boy, and while perhaps mothers are not supposed to have favorites Dagmar knew in her bones that she did. She held him—three years old, white-blonde hair, loud and wild—as he grew quiet and weak and hot with fever, and then he was gone. After Valentin was Juni, and then Karin, and then Mikele, and finally Gunnar, a lumberman who worked hard and never complained, not even when he was dying of kidney failure. Dagmar was once a woman with four children and a husband, but then she was no one, untethered to the earth, unmoored from everything that had been, and people left adrift in the ocean are likely to drown and spend eternity in the crushing, sunless abyss.

She wandered for a while, too old to fathom a new life, too young to simply wait to die herself, and of course suicide is a sin. To keep from starving she took jobs as a governess; the only thing Dagmar knew how to do was raise children, and she was good at it. With each new household she found herself searching for Valentin’s eyes and hair and spirit, for a child that could make her believe he was alive again. But none of the temperate, blue-blooded little boys or girls of England—where Dagmar had fled to escape the memories of her homeland—came close to filling his footsteps, his handprints, the hemorrhaging puncture wound he left in her chest.

Then one brutally cold winter, Dagmar was referred to the 8th Duke of Beaufort Baelon Targaryen, deep in mourning for his wife Alyssa who had recently perished in childbirth and at a loss to handle his two sons. Viserys, the heir, was already eight years old and too set in his ways to ever see Dagmar as a mother. But Daemon, only four—so much like Val, Dagmar had thought as she lifted him from the floor—was sad and needy and vicious, furious at the world for stealing his mother from him, and this was something Dagmar could understand. She became his new mother. He became her reason for living.

Daemon grew up, as all children do if they are not preserved forever in youth by untimely deaths, and Dagmar drifted away to other castles and mansions, other families, other attempts to silence the ghosts that rattled doors and windows as she slept. But no one could replace Daemon, and each time she received a letter or a gift from him—photographs from his mining expeditions, bracelets and hair combs, taxidermied foreign beasts—Dagmar would write him a thank you note and always include the same postscript: Daemon my dear, my brave rogue prince, it would be the greatest joy of my life to one day help look after your own child. And at last, when Draco was born he summoned her, and little Valentin was alive once again.

Now unlike Daemon, Draco did have a mother, but she was young and easily managed, inexperienced with babies, eager to please her husband. Daemon was so sage and charismatic and renowned, and she faded into his shadow until all her colors were gone and she was black and white like a photograph, never knowing what to do or say, staring inanely from doorways. This was just fine as far as Dagmar was concerned. She could pretend that Daemon’s wife was dead like poor Alyssa Targaryen.

Here on Titanic, the baffling shockwave yanked Draco out of his dreams. He’s crying, soft disoriented whines, and Dagmar soothes him and reads him The Little Mermaid and tells Fern—also awakened by the shudder and now pacing restlessly around the staterooms—to make some tea. Just as Draco is finally dozing off again, there is a loud knock at the front door. Dagmar brings Draco out into the sitting room, leading him by one of his tiny pawlike hands, to find Fern speaking to a steward who will not come inside any farther than the doorway, as if he is in a hurry. Fern, puzzled, is clutching the white lifebelts he has given her.

The steward is explaining: “I’m sure it’s just a precaution, ma’am—”

“It’s not a precaution,” Daemon’s wife says as she sweeps into the room, and for some reason there is a man with her, a blonde man in a black wool coat. Immediately, Dagmar’s blood turns to dark viscid poison. What is she doing? Why can’t she disappear? “Thank you,” Daemon’s wife tells the steward briskly. “I’m sure you have other rooms to visit. You should be on your way.”

The steward is evidently too busy to be offended. He retreats into the hallway and vanishes, and the strange blonde man shuts the door behind him. Dagmar scrutinizes the intruder, and he glares back at her with eyes like deep water, a murky melancholy blue. He’s the same man she saw on the Boat Deck, the one who reminded her so much of Viserys when he was young, that solemn, grieving boy she could not coax into loving her.

Why can’t Daemon’s wife just die? Why should she live when so many have been lost? Why would God judge her more worthy than Valentin, Juni, Karin, Mikele, Gunnar?

“What’s going on?” Fern asks Daemon’s wife, her voice reedy and timid.

Instead of an answer, there is a question in return: “Is anyone else here?”

“No,” Fern says, perplexed. “Why? What’s happened?”

Daemon’s wife holds out an empty hand, not to Fern but to Draco, who Dagmar is still grasping with bony fingers gnarled by arthritis. She says: “Draco, please come with me.”

“Why?” he asks, but he has already taken a step towards her, tiny bare feet. Dagmar does not surrender him. She will not, she cannot. He stops when his arm is fully extended and then looks back to his governess, his surrogate mother, his pale eyes full of doubt.

“We have to go somewhere,” Daemon’s wife says. She is still reaching for him. “Draco, please. I need you to listen to me, we don’t have much time.”

“No,” Dagmar sneers. “You don’t know how to take care of him. You never have.”

“Can I go?” Draco asks softly, and Dagmar pretends she has not heard him.

“Draco,” Daemon’s brainless young wife pleads. Her eyes flick up to Dagmar’s, and there is a moment of terrible understanding between them, as if they are mirror images: neither can try to force him without driving him into the embrace of the other. He is not a child who is easily tamed; he is a wolf, he is a dragon.

“Dagmar?” Draco says, peering up at her, and he’s asking for permission but in another minute he might be stomping his feet and screeching loud enough for the entire hallway to hear.

Dagmar glances at the lifebelts Fern is gripping tightly. What’s wrong with the ship? Is it sinking? But no, Dagmar cannot believe this. Titanic is unsinkable; everybody in the world knows that. She tells the boy: “She’ll take you away from me. She’ll steal you. But she won’t keep you safe and warm and happy like I would.”

“I’m your mother,” Daemon’s wife tells Draco, and now her voice is choked and there are tears glittering in her desperate eyes. The blonde man looks at her like he would carry the weight of her anguish if he could, every last pound. Who is he? Why is he here? “I know it might not feel that way sometimes, but I am. And I love you more than anything. I would never hurt you. I’m trying to protect you. Draco, I need you to come with me right now.”

And horribly, unthinkably, he yanks his little hand out of Dagmar’s. She claws for him and he spins around to face her. “No!” Draco shouts. “I decide! Me! Not you!” She is stunned into silence. She watches him careen across the sitting room, and Daemon’s wife scoops him up as if he belongs to her. She holds him for a while, a minute or more, before she sets him down on the floor and quickly helps Draco get his socks and shoes on. The boy does not complain. Then she lifts him again and—with what appears to be great effort—passes him to Fern, who while bewildered accepts this task, now carrying both the boy and the lifebelts. Daemon’s wife grabs all the coats hanging from the coat rack and piles them into Fern’s already full arms.

“Fern, take him upstairs to the Boat Deck. Get to a lifeboat, do not wait. They will be launching them soon if they haven’t started already.”

“Lifeboats?” Fern repeats, blinking, stymied.

“Yes,” Daemon’s wife says, and she and the maid share a long, silent, meaningful look. Draco gazes worriedly around the room, gnawing on his fingernails. The blonde man watches Dagmar, his expression severe, hateful.

Fern asks: “How much time until Titanic…?”

“An hour or two. You won’t be in the lifeboat for long, a ship called Carpathia is en route. But she’s not close enough.”

“Oh,” the maid exhales numbly. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…”

“Stay with Draco. Don’t leave him for a second. Get into a lifeboat, keep him warm, wait for Carpathia. I’ll follow you as soon as I can, but…there are some things I have to do first.”

“Like what, ma’am? What could be so important? You shouldn’t wait either.”

Instead of answering, she says, low like a dire warning: “If you happen to see them, do not speak to Daemon, Rhaenyra, or Rush. Don’t tell them what’s going on.”

“Yes ma’am,” Fern replies quietly, and nods like she suddenly understands. She takes Draco and hurries out of the room. Now Dagmar is alone with them: Daemon’s idiotic little girl of a wife, her inexplicable companion.

“This ship can’t sink,” Dagmar says; but is the floor tilting? She has only just noticed it.

“Of course it can,” Daemon’s wife counters. “Any ship can. I kept telling everyone how terrified I was of the voyage and you all treated me like I was insane. But I was right. I wasn’t a coward and I wasn’t stupid. And you can’t make me believe that I am anymore.”

Dagmar is about to reply—something cutting, something cruel—but then her steely Scandinavian eyes snag on the stranger and all at once it hits her like a man’s knuckles. She gasps, shocked, ferocious. Aegon. Viserys’ son. A villain, a traitor, an unworthy beneficiary of a grand inheritance. “I know who you are. How the hell did you get here?”

The man grins menacingly. “Fortune brought me a ticket. Best luck I’ve ever had.”

Dagmar screams, hoping he will hear her: “Daemon?!”

Aegon lunges, catches her around her long thin waist, wrestles her towards the door to the private promenade deck. Dagmar isn’t strong, but she is fierce; she scratches at his eyes and bites his hands when they try to smother her howls. They stumble together through the doorway and out onto the pine planks, knocking over lightweight wicker furniture. When her teeth close around Aegon’s fingers, Dagmar tastes blood like warm copper.

“A window!” Aegon is telling Daemon’s wife, but she’s already there after slamming the door to the sitting room shut, franticly turning the hand crank under the nearest window. The glass opens, and freezing night air pours in.

They’re trying to kill me, Dagmar realizes. They’re going to throw me overboard.

She jabs a bony elbow into Aegon’s throat, and he collapses to the deck, wheezing and helpless.

“Daemon!” Dagmar shrieks again. If he hears me, he’ll save me. My savior, my son. “Help!”

But it’s his wife who arrives instead. She collides with Dagmar, strikes her with two open palms, shoves her through the window. Dagmar’s hipbone cracks against the windowsill, a dry brittle snap, and then she tumbles out into the darkness.

Her last thought as she sees the stars—before she hits the frigid water and is knocked unconscious, then dragged under by the merciless weight of gravity—is that if they were red they would look like the dots on the skin of a child with scarlet fever, like the crimson flecks in a bloodstone.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh my God, I…we…” You stare down into the black waves that swallowed her so effortlessly, a flash of her long silver hair as it came undone and then nothing. “She’s gone. She’s really gone. We killed her. We’re murderers.”

In reply, Aegon coughs and gasps for air, still crawling around on the deck. You run to him and help him stand up.

“Thanks,” he croaks.

“Are you alright? What can I do?”

“I’ll be fine,” he rasps. “Just need a minute.”

You look down to see blood dripping from his fingers, thick beads of crimson like teardrop-shaped rubies, like oil paint. You ache for him, you feel his pain as if it is your own. “Your hands, Aegon, your hands…”

“I’m okay,” Aegon assures you, smiling. “The bitch chewed me up, but I’ll live.”

“I want to save your paintings,” you say. “We can’t let them go down with the ship. We’ll take them to the Boat Deck and give Fern your portfolio, make sure she and Draco get safely into a lifeboat, and then…then we’ll…” We’ll finish what must be done. We’ll free you and me and Draco.

Aegon is nodding as he rubs his throat, already bruising. “Any idea where Rush might be? The guy with the gun?”

Before you can answer, you both hear it: the sound of a door swinging open and heavy footsteps inside.

~~~~~~~~~~

He likes that Daemon calls him Rush. It’s better than Eddie, which is who he was when he was a boy being kicked and backhanded by his stepfather, and laughed at by the other kids at school for not having shoes to wear. Now he is someone brand new, and that boy Eddie could be a character in a book or a song, vaguely familiar but not real.

Daemon has never hit Rush, never even threatened him. He has never stolen his laborers’ promised wages or cornered maids to violate them, impregnate them, ruin their lives. He goes into the mines he opens and periodically travels the world to inspect, descending into clouds of dust and chipping gemstones from the walls with his own tools. He is kind to his son Draco. He is brave, he is brilliant, he knows how to have a drink with working men and captivate them with his stories. Rush would do anything for Daemon, who saved him from a life of obscure, powerless poverty. He would overlook any number of sins.

Rush gusts into the bedroom and sets about gathering up valuables and stuffing them into a suitcase: business correspondence, jewelry, sketches of designs, bundles of cash from the safe. Daemon will regret having to leave the taxidermied tiger head, but it’s simply too large and heavy to bring with them. Rush hasn’t located Daemon and Rhaenyra yet, but this isn’t so unusual; they are always sneaking around, evading being found purely for the sake of it, the deception, the thrill, ravaging each other in ever more inventive places. God knows where they were when Titanic struck the iceberg, or if they are aware of the impending sinking. Rush is not panicking yet; there’s still time, though perhaps not too much of it. With each passing minute, the ship lists further towards the starboard side. He is just about to get Daemon’s dagger from the writing desk when he hears the door open to the private promenade deck. Rush turns to see Lady Targaryen peeking in from the threshold, pale blue dress, white coat.

He has never felt any loyalty to her. She is a thoughtless, mollycoddled girl, raised in a castle with parents who loved her, and what would she know of what the world was like for everyone else? Daemon only roughed her up when she deserved it, when there was no other way to make her listen, and never too badly: no split bones, no scars. In Rush’s opinion, it was just enough to give her a taste of adversity.

He sighs. “Well, unless you plan on drowning or freezing to death tonight, you might as well follow me up to the Boat Deck. I’m just here to collect some things. They’re only putting women and children in the lifeboats now, but I’m sure first-class men won’t be far behind.”

She says nothing, only watches him from the doorway. The old witch Dagmar isn’t here; she must have already taken the boy to the highest level of the ship, where affluent passengers are waiting impatiently and still in denial that Titanic will soon disappear beneath the waves, asking stewards to fetch them drinks and cigars, calling out song requests to the string quartet.

“You wouldn’t happen to have seen Daemon or Rhaenyra, I assume?”

“I thought they were with you.”

“No,” Rush says, smirking. “I seem to have lost track of them. They’re not in either of their staterooms. But don’t fear. Daemon is more than capable of looking after himself. He’ll turn up soon enough.” Perhaps I missed them up on the Boat Deck; it was crowded, it was chaos. Perhaps Daemon is already helping Rhaenyra into a lifeboat, his large rough hands steadying hers as she steps inside. He would save her first.

“I’ll help you pack the valuables,” Lady Targaryen says suddenly, and starts towards Daemon’s writing desk.

“Just keep out of the way,” Rush snaps; and then he sees something and stops dead.

A painter’s easel has slid halfway out from beneath the bed as the floor tilts. This is a peculiar enough item, but the paper clipped to it is stranger. The image is of Lady Targaryen, that is certain, but she isn’t alone; there is a man with her, and while nothing is shown below the collarbones, the activity in which they are partaking is unmistakable.

If she’s found a lover, Daemon really will kill her this time.

Rush gapes at the painting for several long seconds and then looks up at Lady Targaryen. “What the fuck is that?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Your hand hovers on the handle of the desk drawer. You can’t open it and take the dagger while Rush is watching. You know that beneath his coat he wears a shoulder holster containing a Colt 1911. Even with a blade, you are outmatched.

Aegon appears in the doorway to the private deck with a wicker chair. He hurls it at Rush as hard as he can, and as Rush curses and fumbles for his pistol, you seize Daemon’s dagger from the drawer and plunge it into Rush’s back, once, twice, three times, many more. You can’t help but scream as you stab him, because it’s horrible beyond description: the resistance of gristle, the muffled popping of organs, kidneys or a liver or a spleen, and Rush is groaning and contorting, dark blood spilling across the slanting floor. Aegon struggles with him for the gun, ultimately wrenching it out of Rush’s weakening, shaking hands. He’s dying, and while you harbor no affection for him and never have, you remember the children your parents lost. Life is not something to take carelessly. It is already so fragile, and each death creates mourners like heads springing from a hydra.

Over a thousand people will die tonight. Is that really possible?

Rush has stopped moving. You are kneeling with the gold hilt of the dagger in your fist. The gemstones are splattered with blood: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire.

“Here,” Aegon says, trying to give you the pistol.

You recoil. “I don’t know how to use that.”

He laughs, a half-hysterical little cackle. There is a smudge of Rush’s blood across his cheek like a stain of lipstick. “I don’t either!”

“Keep the gun. I trust you.” You turn to the easel that has slid out from beneath the ruffled bed skirt—once white, now speckled with red—and realize that stray blooddrops have been flung across the painting, dots of red turning tacky on the thin layer of oil paint. “I ruined it,” you say, soft and mournful.

“No,” Aegon disagrees, smiling. “You just added some more color.”

You use the bedsheets to wipe the worst of the blood off your hands and the dagger. Then you pull Aegon’s leather portfolio out from underneath the bed, open it, and store the new painting safely inside. In the meantime, Aegon rolls Rush’s body into the closet and entombs him in a heap of gowns you’ll never wear again. You stand, pick up the dagger, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the oval-shaped mirror…and instead of looking away, you stay there for a while. The woman in the glass—like silver, like moonlight—has frightened eyes but a glinting blade as well. There are massive maroon splotches on the belly of your ice-blue dress; you button your coat to conceal them. Through the open door to the private deck, frigid night air floods in like the seawater slowly filling Titanic.

What does water that cold feel like? Like knives, like fangs? A thousand people will soon find out.

“Ready?” Aegon asks. He puts the pistol in the pocket of his stolen black coat.

“Almost.” You find your handbag from yesterday, green to match the emerald-colored dress you wore before Aegon painted you, before he uncovered you like a rare gemstone. Within is Aegon’s small aluminum lighter; you tuck the dagger inside as well. You yank out a handkerchief and clean the blood from Aegon’s cheek with it, then peer down at his swollen, bloodied fingers and knuckles, ravaged by Dagmar’s bitemarks. They are trembling. “Are your hands—?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he whispers, pulling you in and kissing you, touching your face and your hair, his lips warm and soft in a haze of copper-scented glacial air. Would you do this again for him? For Draco, for yourself? Yes. I’d do it a hundred times. “We’re halfway done.”

Up on the Boat Deck, people are finally realizing that the ship is in mortal peril. First-class women, shimmering in their gowns and their jewels, are being hastily loaded into lifeboats along with their maids and their children. You spot Fern in one vessel; she is wearing two coats herself, and has bundled Draco in at least four from what you can tell. She holds him on her lap, and Draco is uncharacteristically hushed, compliant, fearful, gawping with startled blue eyes beneath disorderly white-blonde hair. They are seated beside Benjamin Guggenheim’s elegant French mistress, Léontine Aubart. Ben himself is striding back and forth on the deck with a number of companions, all in pristine black suits and puffing on pipes or cigars, assisting the weeping women as they flee to the lifeboats.

“We are prepared to go down as gentlemen!” Ben is trumpeting. Nearby, a string quartet is playing not an Irish song that you have known since childhood but the mellow, merry, please-don’t-panic melody of Samson and Delilah by Camille Saint-Saëns.

“I guess my viola is long gone, huh?” Aegon tells you. “Oh well. I hope the fish enjoy it.”

Ben Guggenheim continues: “Let it be known for all time that we stayed until the end to save the lives of the innocent, our beloved women and children, and that they survived because of us. Our bodies may fail, but our Christian good deeds will last eternally.”

“Hear hear!” other men are shouting drunkenly, raising glasses of brandy. Stewards and officers cast them brief, rather impatient glances. You wonder if any of the aforementioned gentlemen have considered the women and children of the third class, many of whom must have already predeceased them as they were drowned below deck, ignoble, invisible.

You think for the first time: Are they going to let Aegon into a lifeboat?

“Mam!” Draco shouts when he sees you, reaching out with both arms. You sprint to where he is still secured in Fern’s lap and lean over the side of the lifeboat, clasping his cold little hands and kissing the top of his head. Then you give Aegon’s portfolio to Fern.

“Take this with you. Try to make sure it doesn’t get wet.”

“Are you climbing in now, ma’am?” Fern asks hopefully. “There’s room for one more if we squeeze together.” Her eyes dart to Aegon. “Perhaps two.”

“I can’t,” you reply. “Not quite yet. But I’ll be back soon.”

“No, you have to come with us,” Draco says. The ship’s officers are signaling for the vessel to be lowered into the water. You spy other familiar faces aboard: young pregnant Madeleine Astor, the glamorous Countess of Rothes, the newly-wealthy Margaret Brown. Being a first-class passenger will save her life tonight.

“I’ll get in another boat. I promise.”

“No,” Draco says, and now he’s sobbing. He can’t understand the scale of it, but he knows something is terribly wrong. “Mam, we can’t leave without you. There’s room in the boat. Please get in. Please.” And you think: Maybe he does need me after all. Maybe he always did.

“You can go with them,” Aegon murmurs through your hair. “I’ll finish this. I’ll take care of Daemon and Rhaenyra.”

But he might need your help…and you cannot leave him here alone to freeze or drown or be murdered when Daemon discovers his lethal intentions. “You’re safe,” you tell Draco, one last touch of your palm to his hair, one last reassuring smile you hope isn’t a lie. “Stay with Fern. I’ll be in another lifeboat and I’ll see you again when this is over.”

“No, no, no!” Draco cries, still grasping futilely for you; but the lifeboat is lurching down towards the water and he is soon beyond your reach. High above, a flare explodes in the inky night sky, gleaming silver rain to tell any passing ships that Titanic is doomed. The North Atlantic is like black glass, smooth and reflective. Distant constellations are mirrored there, and you remember a passage from a book you gifted Daemon for your second anniversary when you still believed he might one day love you, an ancient tale from India about the beauty of the ocean: Its huge white waves looked like clouds; its gems looked like stars; its crystals looked like the moon; and its long bright serpents bearing gems in their hoods looked like comets, and thus the whole sea looked like the sky.

“Lady Targaryen,” Ben Guggenheim says as he marches over. He is swaying like he might be drunk. If he is, you can’t blame him. The truth is cold, and poison is warm: alcohol, smoke, a lover’s hands, a gush of blood. “Do you require any assistance, my darling?”

“No, thank you,” you reply swiftly before he can inquire further, and Aegon’s arm circles your waist as you hurry towards the entrance of the Grand Staircase together. You clutch your green handbag close to your chest. Where are Daemon and Rhaenyra? When will this be over?

From back by the lifeboats you can hear Ben Guggenheim shouting: “Tell my wife and daughters in New York that I love them! Tell them that I died a hero, and that I shall see them again when one day we are reunited in heaven…pray for my soul…tell the newspapers of our courage tonight…”

You and Aegon escape into the very top level of the Grand Staircase, the dome of glass and wrought iron above, the English oak wood steps winding below. As you enter, a frenzied crowd passes you on their way out to the Boat Deck: shipbuilder Thomas Andrews, J. Bruce Ismay, a number of others. And then, just as you and Aegon are beginning your descent, you see her on the landing below, frozen in place where she gapes up at you from beside the clock. Soon its ticking will fall silent forever. It will live on only in the memories of the survivors.

Rhaenyra is alone on the staircase. She is wearing a red and black gown and a white lifebelt; she is on her way to evacuate the sinking ship. You have intercepted her not a moment too soon. But she is not looking at you. Her Targaryen-blue eyes are fixed on Aegon, incredulous. It is the first time she has truly noticed him since she came aboard, and she remembers his face from photographs, from portraits, from awkward, frosty visits when they were both children.

“Aegon?” she says. “What are you doing here?”

In response, he removes the pistol from his coat pocket. Rhaenyra screams and bolts down the staircase, Aegon right behind her, flying like a phantom, like a shadow in his stolen black wool coat.

You try to follow, but they are faster. You slip on the steps, one of your blue shoes clattering away as you grip the banister to keep from falling. You reclaim your shoe where the staircase meets A-Deck; outside the illustrious Promenade Deck encircles the perimeter of the ship. You steady yourself against the bronze cherub statue as you slide your shoe back on, then resume the chase…but you don’t know where Aegon and Rhaenyra have gone.

Farther down the Grand Staircase? Out onto the Promenade Deck? Into the maze of hallways?

You try to listen for them, but the turmoil outside is growing louder. You hear a gunshot, but you cannot tell from which direction; the sound reverberates through the steel of the ship and melds with the chorus of failing machinery: groaning joints, snapping beams, steam vented from the massive funnels. You pause in the doorway that leads out to the Promenade Deck, black freezing air drawn into your heaving lungs.

Which way?

Now there are footsteps on the Grand Staircase coming up from B-Deck. You race back to the bronze cherub, but it is not Aegon or Rhaenyra who meets you there. It is Daemon, appearing on the landing like a fogbank or a thunderstorm, black suit, glinting deep-set eyes, towering over you; and once again you are a seventeen-year-old girl climbing into the marriage bed with him and hoping he’ll like you, once again you feel yourself to be entirely at his mercy, in terror of him, in awe of him.

Daemon grabs you by your coat and pushes you against the bronze cherub statue, its edges prodding at your spine. You yelp and he chuckles, and he asks, so casually he must know nothing about Aegon or his pursuit of Rhaenyra like a hound after a fox: “And what are your plans for this evening, dear? Dinner and dancing? Or perhaps a nice brisk swim? Good for one’s health, I hear.”

You can’t find your words. Your fingers that grasp your handbag are numb and useless. Daemon is inside you again, not your body this time but your mind, snipping threads and dissolving mirages. How did I ever believe I could kill him?

Slowly, Daemon’s grin dies. He releases you, and then for some reason—a trick?? a trap??—offers you his empty hand. “Come on,” he says, as if relenting. “I’ll help you get to a lifeboat.”

You stare up at him, and the shock must show on your face, the disbelief, the cautious wonder.

“I can’t take you away from Draco,” Daemon says, answering a question you don’t need to ask. He owns all of you; you have no secrets. “He’s so young. And I know what it’s like to lose a mother.”

Draco, you think with abrupt glass-sharp clarity. I’m doing this for him, and Aegon, and me.

You don’t take Daemon’s hand. Instead, you open your handbag and rip out the dagger. You slash at Daemon’s throat, and you almost cut him deep enough, a fraction of an inch from the carotid or the jugular or the windpipe. But Daemon pulls away at the last second and you only wound him, scarlet rivulets spilling down his neck and staining the white shirt beneath his suit jacket, melting rubies, hard soulless gemstones in the sockets of his eyes.

Daemon throws you down the staircase and you hit the oak steps hard, bruising, twisting, rolling, the thoughts jolted out of your skull. The dagger is knocked from your hand and is lost. You fumble blindly for it where you are sprawled on the next landing, halfway to B-Deck. Your vision is blurred by stars like those in the mirror image on the North Atlantic Ocean.

But I need the dagger, I need it, I need it, I can’t kill him without it.

And as you lift your head you see Daemon coming down to meet you, a gemcutter here to break you over and over again, until there is nothing left but glimmering dust, until you have never existed at all.

[glitter-stained]

Tumblr dc/ao3 tagging discourse is very wild to me because I feel like some of these injunctions are contradictory ?!! Like, not tagging a post with a character who isn't in there or who doesn't speak for more than a token sentence, i get it.

But some of it? "Good tagging etiquette" what do you mean by good tagging etiquette?

Because I saw a post saying that jaymia fans were great at tagging etiquette because they had no idea jaymia existed since jaymia fans didn't flood the mia tag, and they wished jayroy fans were as good at respecting tagging etiquette. And that threw me off, because now I have questions, because I was taught tagging is great for blocking. Say for example I didn't like Slade Wilson and didn't want to see posts about him. Slade Wilson has a lot of different ships. Say I'm scrolling and a fanart of Slade Wilson with his tongue down, let's say Mia's throat, shows up. I have the Slade Wilson tag blocked, but I didn't know that was even a ship people did (this example is fictional btw i've never seen slademia) so it didn't occur me to block the Slademia tag. Because, in order to avoid "clogging" the Slade and Mia tags with ship posts, they only tagged it as "Slademia", I'm seeing it. Now I can of course block the Slademia tag and not see it again and it's fine, I'll survive, but then I'll see a Sladejoey post and be like "shit it didn't occur to me to block this one either" etc etc etc. But if I have the Slade tag blocked and people tag their posts that include Slade with Slade, then I don't have to see Slade. That's more efficient! Coming in here, I was taught one of the most important functions of tags is to allow for easy blocking. That's why I get so annoyed when post aren't tagged with "character critical" or "anti character" because these are so useful to having a respectful enjoyable time; we all have different tastes and that's FINE.

But of course, this solution isn't perfect. Indeed, if jaymia is in the jason and mia tags, i'm gonna find jaymia scrolling. And as someone who doesn't like jaymia, but likes both the characters and thus have neither tags blocked, I'm gonna have to see it first before blocking the tag. I'm not saying that can't be annoying. I'm saying it's just not as simple as "clogging the tags". Tagging Mia in posts where she's not there is clogging the Mia tag, tagging Mia posts in which Mia is there and happens to interact with a character you're not interested in seeing her interact with in this way, why would that be clogging the Mia tag?

And also, would making a post about Mia and Steph hanging out as friends be clogging the Mia tag, or are we being arbitrarily weird about romantic relationships compared to platonic relationships again? What if I liked Mia but didn't like her relationship with Roy, would tagging a "Mia and Roy headcanons" post with Mia be clogging the Mia tag? Why are we assuming that a jaymia post can't be about Mia, that it can't be an exploration of interesting themes about her character, that it can't be anything interesting about Mia just because it's shipping.

This may be confusing because out of all the examples used here, jaymia is the only one I actually don't like¹, the others are fictional examples. But just because I personally don't like it, doesn't mean I'm gonna assume people shipping Mia with Jason is somehow not about Mia and Jason -like who would it be about. The intense, virulent jaymia and jayroy hate I've seen always stemmed from people who hate Jason or at least dislike him. And like, I can't help but feel like, if you dislike Jason, ship posts that include his character would be far more easy for you to avoid since you just need to block him and be done with it. And if you want to be able to block the jason tag, the OP is also gonna have to tag roy or mia in the post, otherwise you're being unfair and arbitrary by deciding that your blorbo is absolutely lovable and nobody needs to filter them out but other people's blorbo need a warning.

And the general sentiment i see of people complaining about this clogging being a recurrent problem with jayroy also confused me because like... I've never seen a jayroy post not tagged as jayroy? Just block it??? Being annoyed once at seeing art from a ship you don't enjoy when this could have been avoided is one thing. But the idea that it's a repetitive problem... Why not use the block function?

I don't understand. All of this is to say, I just don't understand what people want, what good tagging etiquette is supposed to be because it's so contradictory.

How am I supposed to simultaneously tag everything significant in the post so the people who don't like it can block and avoid it, and simultaneously not tag anything but the ship so it doesn't clog the tag? What do you want from me, tumblr?

Anyway, sorry for the rant but like, I am so confused. What's the correct dc tumblr etiquette riddle me this tumblr. This also works for ao3 tags and filters.

1. When I say I don't like jaymia i don't dislike it I just don't feel it, it doesn't personally vibe with me but I don't hate it hence why i don't have the tags blocked if you were wondering. Also because I sometimes look for art of them hanging out in the tag since I can't find art of them being just friends.

[likelytowritesomestuff]

DUCKTALES '17 TAG

'Sup party people!

It's been a while since I started a tag, but I want to try again. I'll tag @not-some-background-noise @miniaturecollectionwitchofsun @godfrey-the-chaos-duck @lettheladylead, but it's free for anyone...

1) Favorite character

Webby. I love how they managed to make her a lover of adventures and mysteries without sacrificing her femininity... she is also an eternal optimist and the heart of the family, and I love how she manages to help everyone around her in unique ways

2)Favorite triplet

Huey. I love his characterization and his arc (although every triplet is well written and I love them all)

3)Favorite villain

Magica De Spell: she isn't just voiced by the most important woman in the whole wide universe (I'm a whovian who started the series because of DT, imagine how happy I was when I discovered there was also Catherine Tate), but she is also a great villainess who is genuinely good at being bad in a way that everyone is always worried she is behind everything... I also have a soft spot for Mark Beaks because he is realistic in both a funny and a scary way

4)Favorite non canon ship

Weblena: I love the way Lena got saved from Webby and at the same time she had to do some work to save herself, while Webby was always there to support her... they have a beautiful dynamic together and even if they're not officially canon, they still are (Sam King said that)

5)Favorite canon ship

Fendra... I liked them in 'The Dangerous Chemistry of Gandra Dee' and I couldn't wait to see how their relationship could evolve only to find in 'Beaks in the Shell!' the cutest and most supportive lovestory ever! We need more male sunshine/female grumpy relationship in media and they were absolutely adorable (they deserved WAY more time together, but their canon interactions kinda make up for this due to their cuteness)

6)Favorite episode

'Nightmare on Killmotor Hill', I think. It's so visually creative with all the kids' dreams and it hits you right in the feels with Lena's arc... the finale is so powerful.

7)A character you came to like the more you knew them

Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera. I didn't know Lin Manuel Miranda back when season 1 aired, but by learning more about him I came to appreciate his character more, and by the end of the series he is probably one of my favorites

8)A theory that hadn't been canonized but you believe it as canon

Scrooge was actively searching for Donald although everybody believed he was on the cruise but he didn't want to warn both the kids and his twin sister (I wrote a whole meta about it back in the day if you're curious)

9)The one question you never stop to ask about

How Selene, THE GODDESS OF THE MOON, didn't know Della, (her possible former girlfriend?), was stuck on the Moon? She has powers over it, so why did she ignore it? Was her father fault? ANGONES, DT WRITERS, EXPLAIN TO ME PLEASE, IT'S BEEN 5 YEARS I KEEP TRYING TO FIGURE IT OUT!

10)What would you have liked to see in the (cancelled) fourth season?

MAGICSTONE CANON, an eventual Magica's redemption without Lena forgiveness, THE TRIPLETS DAD (I know they didn't want to explore the character in order to highlight how Donald was basically their true dad, BUT... it would have been an interesting plot), Goldie's backstory, Hortense and Quackmore, more moments between Donald and Scrooge, Daisy bonding with the family, June and May finding their own place in it, more Fendra, more domestic Scroldie, BRIGITTA (I know the writers would have handled her well just as they did with Daisy), Scrooge and Webby adjusting their dynamic as father and daughter, more lore about Fenton's dad, the kids interacting all together...

And that's it. Feel free to participate!

[ladylucksrogue]

Masterlist

Hey, I figured it was about time I sat down and put one of these together, as I have a lot of fics and it can be rather confusing, even for me.

I’ve split them into categories, gen, ship fics and series. I have also linked a few of my cosplay posts.

I am very much ship and let ship.  I realize that not everyone out there ships the same people.  I am too old and too tired to get into shipping wars and discourse.  I have literally about a thousand other things I would rather do than judge someone based on their shipping preferences.  I don’t block or blacklist or go through people’s profiles to see what they ship.  There is no DNI if you ship xyz or if I find out you ship xyz you will be blocked.  I don’t have time for that.  If I don’t like something I see on someone’s feed, I move on with my life.  That said, I’ll give almost anything a read.  I realize that is not everyone’s cup of tea and I respect that. 

I would sincerely appreciate the same courtesy.  If you see something I have written here and it is not your jam, absolutely fine, no hard feelings.  Please don’t be like, oh, I’d love to read this but it has xyz ship in it, eww.  We’re all adults here.  Fandom is supposed to be fun, let’s keep it that way, shall we?

GEN:

Fox:

A Rock and a Hard Place - Fox is just so done

Everything is Fine - written for Corrie Guard Week, prompt Eldritch

Sacrifice - The aftermath of Scipio

Bly:

Frozen - Bly deals with the consequences of his General getting injured at the beginning of the war

Chills - Bly ignores an injury on a mission

Rex:

Rise from the Ashes - Rex coping with loss during the war

Trust Issues- The aftermath of Umbara

Faking a Smile - Post Kadavo

Not Strong Enough - post order 66 - Rex buries his brothers

Black Eye - Rex deals with the realities of war

Cody:

Surrender- Cody is captured by the Seppies

Trembling - How Cody got his scar

Grieving - the fallout of Umbarra

Wolffe:

This Isn’t Going to Work - Post TBB season 3 - Wolffe’s fall from grace in the Empire

Phantom Pain - A recon mission gone wrong

Last Chance - aftermath of Wolffe losing his eye in the Battle of Khorm

Swept Away - an adventure fic after a mission gone wrong

Betrayal - Order 66

The Future is Blurry, The Past is a Trap - Wolffe has left the Empire. He doesn't have a plan. He knows Rex and more of his brothers are out there, but he doesn't have an idea of where to find them or where to start looking.  Will be continued at some point, I do have the whole story mapped out, I just need to write it. This one is super near to my heart.

Other:

Grief - featuring Fives and Rex

Miscommunication - a command batch cadet fic

No Way Out - Dogma’s fate after Umbara

Confrontation - Rex and Wolffe have a candid convo about Wolffe hiding those messages in Rebels

Broken- in the aftermath of Fives’ death, Rex confronts Fox

Cold Shoulder - the fallout from Broken

Balance - a command batch cadet fic - Alpha-17 meets the command batch

Dilemmas - Cody and Fox centric - both as cadets on Kamino and during the war

Fight or Flight - Set just prior to the Battle of Geonosis - featuring Fox and Wolffe and my explanation as to why Wolffe was stationed on Kamino at the beginning of the war

A Long Night - command Batch as cadets and Alpha-17

Ship:

Blyla (Bly x Aayla)

Lost Battle - set during the war

Left Behind - post order 66 - Aayla survives

The Ghost of You - post order 66, Bly’s chip wears off (PLEASE mind the tags here, this one is very dark)

Where The Lines Blur - A oneshot set during the war

On the Run - post order 66

Foxiyo (Fox x Riyo)

All is Fair - a slightly cracky oneshot featuring nerf guns (rated: E)

Bad Dreams- Fox has a nightmare, Riyo is there to comfort him (Rated: E)

Learning the Truth - Fox survives Vader post order 66

Never See You Again - the continuation and reunion after Learning the Truth (rated E)

Emotion -  A drabble that takes place after Never See You Again - Riyo is expecting

A Cry for Help- Fox deals with a fire in the lower levels

Sleepy Kisses - a drabble

Kiss to the back of the hand - a drabble

Tentative kiss - a drabble

The Stars We Can’t See - a Riyo and Fox get together story, multi chapter, incomplete but will be continued shortly

Trust Me - Riyo finds the idea of binders intriguing - (Rated E)

Date Night - set in the Unexpected fix it universe - Fox and Riyo as parents

The Best Defense - Foxiyo Week 2024, Prompt Self Defense, also the prompt sensory deprivation for Clone Kinktober (Rated E)

The Moon Festival - Prompt Cultural Traditions

Making History - Prompt Elections

Falling for You - Prompt Pick-up lines

Barely Holding on - Prompt support

Hunger - Prompt undercover.  Modern AU Alternate Universe - a vampire fic

Kiss to a scar- a drabble

Bittersweet - post order 66 (Rated: E)

Bells - a fun holiday drabble

Rexsoka (Rex x Ahsoka):

(Please note:  Everything I write of them happens either post Season 7 or Ahsoka is aged up.  In none of my stories is she underage)

Home Sweet Home- a cracky post war, happy AU oneshot (Rated: M)

The Reason - set Post order 66 - in the aftermath (Rated: M)

The Truth Will Set You Free - Pre-relationship (Rated: T)

Drained- set during TBB season 3  (Rated: E)

To Light The Path Forward - set during the Rebellion and features their daughter

Kiss out of Spite - A drabble

Kiss while someone watches - a drabble

Kiss while crying - a drabble

Stolen Moments - a oneshot set sometime after TBB season 3

Rough kisses - a drabble

Taste - Rexsoka Rebels Timeline

Codywan (Cody x Obi-Wan)

Lights - modern AU one-shot

Longing - pre relationship, Cody-centric, lots of pining

A Little Too Late - this one isn’t really so much shippy but I’ll put it here - it deals with the aftermath of Obi-Wan’s fake death and Cody sorting his feelings, unrequited love

The Last Time - post order 66, reunion on Tatooine

Accidental Kiss - a drabble

Kiss to a scar pt. 2 - a drabble

Kiss while being carried - a drabble

Wolffe/OC:

Rendezvous - a smutty oneshot at 79s (Rated E)

Kiss to the palm of the hand (Wolffe x Liri) - a drabble

Under the Moon (Wolffe x Liri) weird sithy magic, a werewolf themed fic for Halloween

Good Morning (Wolffe/Liri):

Wolffe/Ventress:

Dance in the Darkness - a smutty oneshot.  Hate sex.  There’s really not much other than that.  I wrote this because no one else had.

Tech/Phee:

Baking Cookies - a fun holiday fix-it on Pabu

Clone x OC Week

Bacara/Sariyah:

A Drink or Two On a war torn Outer Rim planet, Bacara's entire plan is to have a drink or two. He never planned to meet anyone, or that he'd actually end up interested in them.

The Path Beyond. The follow-up Story to A Drink or Two.A couple of months after that story, Sariyah contacts Bacara to let him know something that will change both of their lives forever.

Hardcase/Istra "Izzy"

Good Things

SERIES:

Holiday Drabbles - Many of these are set in my fix-it universe, or Unexpected-verse and feature family oriented feels, how the characters families grow.

Valentine's Kiss Drabbles

Valentine's Smut Drabbles

Unexpected-verse: 

This series centers on Wolffe and my OC Liri  There are other couples that make appearances as well as it is at times very ensemble.  This is very much a canon divergent fix-it series.

Official Timeline

Info about Liri

SFW Alphabet

NSFW Alphabet

Unexpected:

Fanart and character design of Liri can be found here and is done by the fabulous @anstarwar

Wolffe never expected to fall for anyone. It just wasn't something he'd do. Until it happened.

How does he deal with it? Not well. Meanwhile, everyone around him is trying to figure out what exactly is going on with him.  First of the series and introduces my OC Liri Arkay.

Next in the series, in order:

A Fine Line The prequel to Unexpected, this is how it all began, how Liri and Wolffe met in all the vivid steamy detail.

Spontaneous (Rex/Ahsoka, Foxiyo) Includes fabulous fanart by @nottonyharrison

Stunning

Revelation

Out of the Blue (Wolffe/Liri, Rex/Ahsoka)

Shockwaves

Stroke of Midnight (A Wolffe/Liri New Years oneshot)

Just A Chance Bly and Aayla centric

Darkness. After another blackout in the lower levels, Riyo insists on taking Fox to get a check-up. What they find in Fox's head will change everyone's lives forever.

Strategic Planning Set in the Unexpected fix it universe, post war. Wolffe has gotten the anti-aging treatment and is not having a good time dealing with it. As Liri cares for him, she decides to drop a conversation on him about the future.

Changes. Written for the prompt hurt comfort for my 200 follower challenge on Tumblr. Liri is gets her period and is having a miserable day. Wolffe is a bit out of his element but does his best to help.

A kiss while on or both parties is crying - Introduces Mira, Wolffe and Liri’s daughter and includes beautiful fanart by @sleepingsun501 of Wolffe meeting his newborn daughter for the very first time.

Cosplay

https://www.tumblr.com/ladylucksrogue/766899504463085568?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/ladylucksrogue/766899532991807488?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/ladylucksrogue/767116637980770304/why-is-it-that-the-first-thing-i-thought-when-i?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/ladylucksrogue/764700151164059648/and-the-first-fitting-still-some-minor-details?source=share

Dividers courtesy of @moosgraphics @freesia-writes @panda-writing and @saradika-graphics

[darklinaforever]

God help me...

First off, what the hell are you doing in Wyler tag ? What's your fucking problem with pissing off people who didn't ask for anything ?!

But let's see the rest of your bullshit in detail and tear it down as we go along.

But this ship is very much dead. There is hardly any traction towards it because the people who ship it make no sense when they defend it. They sound like they could be mentally ill...

Weird, Wyler is the most popular ship with Wenclair though. And for a dead ship, Netflix still took the trouble to make Wyler the first teaser for the new season...

And how do we make no sense ? It's you who had no interest in repeating things that the show and the show team have themselves contradicted for years now about Tyler's character.

And it's you who comes into Wyler's spaces to piss off and obsessively spill your venom. It seems that you are the one who is mentally ill...

I don't know how crooked you have to be to say that you're crooked to ship a canonical ship. Already, this is not even said for fanon ships, but even less canon. What are you trying to prove here ? You're shooting yourself in the foot by coming in to tag Wyler to insult us and try to seem like the smartest person when you seem like the stupidest.

By the way ; Do you think you're smart to say that kind of thing ?! That we are mentally ill ?!

Wow, for say that you must really hate the fact that Wyler is the first official trailer / teaser of season 2, otherwise you clearly wouldn't be here trying to impose your pseudo dominance...

I guess Emma Myers (Enid actress) is mentally ill then, since she says most of the same things we do about Tyler...

And not to mention Hunter himself who spoke of sexual compatibility between Wyler, that Wednesday had been Tyler's light during the events of season 1 and that if he had to imagine his character ending up with someone it would be her ?

You're really a piss of shit.

And I won't apologize for saying that.

You allow yourself to insult us with enormous condescension that you try to pass off as a form of kindness in the rest of your post ? Well, I will insult you in return, but head-on this time.

You are a big piss of shit. That all.

Tyler almost killed Wednesday and all her friends + he manipulated her like a professional and she felt humiliated because she never even suspected him and put a good person in jail because of him.

She will never forgive herself, let alone him.

Yes... and ? First, Tyler “tries to kill” Eugene essentially under the orders of Laurel, his master to whom he is forced to obey and who tortured him ? Note also that Laurel technically didn't tell Tyler to kill Eugene but to take care of him and that strangely, he's the only victim of Tyler who escaped death ?

Coincidence ? Maybe not !

And if you want an explanation for Enid, it is implied that the Hyde offers a second personality, different from the human version ? So, technically, the Hyde is not Tyler. It's a second personality. Why is everyone forgetting the recording of the psychologist that Donovan listens to ?! Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, you know ?!

Literally, these people are being dishonest on purpose.

Also... again, Wednesday doesn't blame Tyler specifically for nearly killing her friends. First, it would be bad faith, because she also did it in the show with Enid, but above all, it's a question of ego. No really justice in her anger towards Tyler.

She is mainly angry at Tyler because, yes, he managed to fool her and her intelligence. And she is deeply hurt in her ego and personal feelings.

But how would his anger on this subject be eternal ? On what fucking basis ?! Tell me !

Once this aspect calms down in her, everything will surely be better and she could potentially look again at the case of the Hydes whose research remains incomplete (which have always deeply interested her on the other hand), and therefore Tyler.

But to return to her friends, Enid and Eugene are fine. Wednesday can recover from what Tyler almost did to them. Especially since Eugene was under Laurel's orders (and strangely, Tyler who could have easily killed Eugene... strangely didn't do it ?), and that Enid explains it by the fact that Tyler was in Hyde mode, his second monstrous personality, that he doesn't seem to really have control over ?

But more than that, Wednesday is a person who generally takes those treated most unfairly under her wing. And Tyler is probably the one who has been in this sad situation the most.

That she hates him forever makes no fucking sense ; since although she is angry for the moment because her ego is hurt, she knows that Tyler had a shitty family life, was groomed by Laurel who woke up his Hyde thus forcing him to become her puppet and imposing a bond that makes Tyler want and love what his mistress wants.

Then again, it wouldn't make sense for Wednesday to be mad at Tyler forever...

Oh and... Just for pleasure : “Of course the first boy I kiss would turn out to be a psychotic serial-killing monster. I guess I have a type.”

Also... Wednesday didn't put Xavier in the cell because Tyler manipulated her into doing so ? Wednesday did this all by herself like a grown-up ! 😂 Because, for the recording, Wednesday is a narrow-minded and toxic person. And believe me, of all the people Wednesday could have upset and blamed herself for this, Xavier is the one she will get over the quickest. Because ultimately she just likes him as a classmate and childhood acquaintance. And again I'm being nice... because most of the time she actually just tolerates him.

Oh and Wednesday finally saved everyone at the end of season 1. Given her ego and her anti-heroine nature, I think she will eventually recover from her own mistakes / forgive herself. 😂

I get that some people are shipping them as some kind of kink ( monster serial killer with Wednesday addams) 😏. But this kind of shipping starts and stays in the dark corners of the internet.

This ship can't be acknowledged by a streaming platform to the general public ( which includes millions of kids).

Just... God, if you think Wyler is an impossible relationship to fix, then you've never read or seen a real enemies to lovers romance !

I literally read one romance where the guy almost killed the heroine forever by stabbing her in the heart ! And if it weren't for the intervention of other characters, she would have died ! And yet at the end of the story, they're happily married !

The enemies to lovers trope isn't as fragile as these morons think it is !

One mistake and the relationship is dead forever ? Wow...

Wyler is also so soft in that category too ! The antis seem like a bunch of fragile people when they talk about Wyler.

Literally every time these people try to put the Wylers down they just make fools of themselves. Because they just bring up arguments that have been contradicted a billion times or are comically weak, or they just say bullshit that is simply not true.

I repeat, enemies to lovers have existed since the dawn of time, it's literally one of the most popular and represented tropes in existence ! Whether in children's fiction or for a general audience !

What cave are you living in to dare to say that Wyler cannot be recognized by a general public ?!

Even in super popular books you have thousand times worse than Wyler ?!

“The general public can't handle Wyler” My god... hello Delena, Klaroline, Clarice & Hannibal, ect ?!

For information, as shocking as it may be The Vampire Diaries was seen by many children / teenagers in addition to adults in time. All my friends at the time and I were kids when this show started and we watched it, like so many others.

Hence children and the general public couldn't handle Wyler ? Wyler is as soft as fucking Reylo ?! Another great ship that the general public and children loved.

This is one of the biggest bad take I've ever seen ! The confidence you need to say this kind of stupidity ?!

Seriously, wtf ?!

Although he was groomed, Tyler was a willing participant in the crimes that he committed and he even told Wednesday that he enjoyed killing innocent people. Millar and gough folded the wyler book forever in that scene.

Tyler can never be trusted enough around outcasts to be released.

It's literally said in the show that the hyde is conditioned to like what its master likes and want what his master wants. It's not even ambiguous. It's said in the fucking text of the show.

And I remember that Tyler makes his fucking confession to Wednesday with tears in his eyes. Yes, what a great villain...

Oh and if you need to talk about the non-canon novelization of the show that most of Wednesday's audience hasn't read and never will read to prove your point about a canon scene and events from the show, we're going to have a problem.

They're the ones who sound like mentally ill repeating over and over again that Tyler absolutely loves killing without any fucking doubt... 🙄

And they go so far as to agree that the Hyde should be excluded ? While the show is literally about the treatment of the marginalized ? The excluded from society ?

And they think it's positive that there is a category of outcast among the outcasts themselves ?!

Clearly not.

The treatment of Hyde is something that needs to change in this show !

And for that, we first need to finish understanding how these creatures really work.

But hey... Not as if we had incomplete research on the subject, that Wednesday is interested in it and that she just happens to have a Hyde on hand to look into the subject... I wonder where this scenario could lead us ?!

But certainly not to a questioning of the treatment of these creatures by the society of this story according to the antis (#irony) ?! Of course, nothing will ever change for the Hydes ! They are too dangerous ! Long live the status quo !

This is driving me crazy !

Yes, what the hell would Wednesday who defends the oppressed and the victims, have to do with Tyler, the outcast of outcasts himself who was groomed by a psycho who triggered the Hyde in him to use him as a puppet and who has the equivalent of a mental illness by being a Hyde. Hyde by which she is fascinated, and who it is implied that she will complete the unfinished research on them ?!

Seriously, the writers racked their brains to write us a character like Tyler, a teenager with multiple problems, including family problems, a victim of abuse and whose hyde (the creature marginalized among the marginalized themselves, knowing that the whole message of the show is to accept the marginalized in reality) seems to be the equivalent of a mental illness, for people to be like “Yes, this guy is a pure villain who cannot have redemption ! He is rotten and the show is right when it says that the Hyde are too dangerous for the world ! Nothing must change and nothing aspires to a change of point of view on these creatures in a show where we are encouraged to accept the marginalized (and whose hyde is the marginald of the marginalized himself) through the only Hyde that we meet in person throughout the story who is only a teenager victim of abuse with the metaphor of mental illness !”

Seriouslly, the “Tyler will never be put back with the other outcasts because he's too dangerous” take it's so fucking stupid for a show about outcasts and injustices...

We present to you the outcast of the outcast, whose case in terms of creature has never been finished studying...

And you think Tyler will forever remain an outcast among his people and locked up for life ?!

WTF ?!

These people are tiring me out...

Because it lacks the "genuine" element: there is no love between Wednesday and Tyler.

I would like to understand how Wyler lacks romantic elements ? They literally have one of the most classic storylines in the world in terms of romance ? What the hell are you talking about ? Developed ? What would be missing ? My god, what bullshit. If you want analysis of the Wyler relationship you have my tumblr or those of @fullofwoe5321 @tylernation @wylerserver18official @ablatheringblatherskite @cosmic-lullaby @broken-everlark

Tyler and Wednesday only have one scene in season 2, according to the leaks we got. So this teaser is very much bait for the fans who still like them together 😏. Netflix is yet again giving false hope to fandoms about something that isn't going to happen.

Saying that Wyler will only have one scene in season 2 according to the leaks...

Are you aware that the leaks are not always true ?

Are you aware that it wouldn't make sense for Wednesday and Tyler to only have one scene together ?

Because a teaser is supposed to give an indication of what the new season will be about overall ?

Oh but am I stupid. In your stupid little shit head you think that Tyler will now always be locked up for life. In that case, why keep the character in the show ?

Fucking idiot...

You really have to be in complete disillusionment to say that this trailer / teaser will be the only scene between them in all of season 2 while a teaser serves to show the viewer what will generally be the center of the new plot.

Oh, and no official romance in season 2 doesn't mean no romance in the rest of the show, FYI. Especially since it is completely logical that Wyler (if these two were to end up together one day) wouldn't they go back into in love mode in season 2 ? They have a fucking relationship to repair first and also work on themselves each as an individual person ? Also, most Wyler fans, without even the announcement of a reduction in the romance being made, certainly did not expect the romance between Wyler to return straight away for season 2, simply because on a narrative level it would not have not been logical... Seriously, go find another hobby other than annoying people.

And even if Wyler doesn't end up together at the end of the show, despite all the logic of this romance, do you think that will stop us fans from shipping Wyler ?!

Obviously, you are clinging to Xavier when it is clear that nothing more will happen (since the character was removed from the show because the actor was accused of sexual assault) ?

Seriously, this person seems obsessed with the character of Xavier (who could have been an interesting character but who in fact remains generally average and a real potential ultimate shit boyfriend)...

But they got a slap in the face 🙂. since the teaser was met with massive backlash about the most unethical thing they did: dropping an innocent man and Convicting him of crimes he never committed...

Except the comments you showed don't show people being outraged that Xavier was sent to prison when he did nothing, just that they will miss Xavier's character.

You're thinking all by yourself, big girl (this is obviously a recurrence among the anti-Wylers).

And then “they did” ? What is she talking about ? Wyler fans ? Was it Wyler's fans who put Xavier in jail ? 😂

I repeat, you can only blame Wednesday for Xavier ending up in prison. Tyler has nothing to do with it, he never tried to accuse anyone to keep suspicion away from him. Wednesday suspected Xavier alone as a grown-up.

I'm so angry that this kind of crap is getting into the Wyler tag. Don't these people have anything better to do ?

I feel like I'm back in Reylo's time ! Because Reylo and Wyler are some of the softest ships in terms of enemies to lovers that I have seen and people act like they are some of the worst things in the world and that these ships are too hardcore for a general audience and calls us mentally ill for our thoughtful argument, which is ridiculous.

It's truly ridiculous and cheeky.

They just repeat the same bullshit over and over again, contradicted by the show itself and the show team !

At this point, we're not the ones who look ridiculous. It was them.

[martinblackwoodhater]

Martin Blackwood never really changed.

His attitude changed, sure - he went from "everyone I care about hates me so I must deserve it" to "I am terrible but so are these people and since they've been so mean to me I should take revenge, I'm not as weak as they all think". But his way of thinking stays the same throughout the whole series.

What I dislike about Martin and what stays the same even after his "character development" is that despite claiming to be a carer, he consistently fails to consider things from other people's perspective, and his fans overlook that part. I've always felt like his attempts at caring for people (bringing them tea etc) were somewhat clumsy, and that he never actually knew what they even wanted - i think he said so himself when he was in the Lonely that giving people tea when they seemed down was easier than discussing their problems and actually finding out what's wrong. It shows when he just jumps to sacrifice himself when Peter Lukas took over the Instutute - he was so quick to sacrifice himself and give himself away and he didn't even stop to consider that it might be unnecessary, or that there might be another solution, like discussing with his team. His help is less about actually helping and more about punishing himself and not being useless. Since he hates himself, that kind of help is not only "making up for the space he takes up" in his mind, but it's also kind of like self harm.

It also shows in season 5 when he straight up refuses to listen to Jon's explanations of the apocalypse and the statements in general.

Despite being so set on sacrificing himself for others, berating himself, and generally always trying to fix everything for everyone by himself, Martin has only ever considered his own needs.

It actually makes him feel very real as a character, but unfortunately most of the fandom has dumbed him down to two versions - season 1-3 "cutie shy softie boy with a crush on his boss awwww" and season 4-5 "hot sexy man that wants to take revenge on everyone who has ever wronged him and he is so in love with his monster boyfriend uwu❤️❤️ jon and martin are so cute together ❤️ " no they're not. Maybe Martin was fine with Jon before the apocalypse - admittedly i don't remember the safehouse ep all that well, and that seems to be what got everyone to ship them, but after the end of the wold, when they're travelling through the Fearscape together, they are so very not happy and healthy. There are so many problems. And Martin straight up refusing to listen to anything that Jon has to say about the Eyepocalypse is just the cherry on top.

Towards the end of the story, they use each other more as anchors that help them keep the remaining bits of their humanity. They ground each other, true, and they NEED each other, but their relationship is messy and tainted with the feelings of guilt, loss, and blame. They barely communicate their feelings and intentions. They stick together in order to survive, but the only thing bonding them together is shared trauma. They are broken by what they experienced. They actually don't know each other at all, just the idealized, pre-apocalypse versions of eachother. It makes me quite upset that the vast majority of the fans missed that very important aspect of their relationship.

It was literally spelled out for them by Peter Lukas:

So yeah, maybe they are canon in the sense that they were briefly in a "romantic" relationship. But the fanon version is sooo romanticized and warped and twisted and changed and made to fit into one of those neat "workplace-enemies-to-lovers" boxes like tags on ao3.

To sum up: i don't like Martin as a person, but he's written well and realistically as a character. I despise fanon Martin and Jmart. Jmart is canon, but not in the way most people seem to think.

ily xoxo you're always right this is why you're my favourite mutual (alongside all my other mutuals. you are all my favourites.)

[ghostmoon1]

You know what, to start the year off, Imma make this lil appreciation post.

Now it's only been like, less than a year since I joined Tumblr about, I've been writing and drawing for years before this point, but the community here, especially the CoD community which I am mainly apart of just made me feel amazing. Everyone I've met here are some of the nicest people.

I have gotten my old hobbies back, giving me reason to write and draw again which have majorly helped with my own mental health, and now I just wanted to give the amazing people a shout out to start the year off, to hopefully make peoples days, and to just let them know that I appreciate yall!

In no specific order :3 and if you don't wanna be pinged again by me, please let me know and I won't!! No harm done, I hope this is okay :) and this is prob gonna be cringe or smt.. all sappy but like.Yeah here yall are lmao-

Putting them under the cut as there are a few :3

@gomzdrawfr - You've been a massive influence since I joined the CoD community, I adored your art from the very start, and your just such a sweet and kind person, one that I'm so thankful to have met, and so proud to be able to call you my friend. You're the first proper friend I've made here, and I can't tell you how much our talks make me smile every single time. And I'm also so thankful for the community you have sorta helped me get into, you've helped me feel comfortable interacting with more people here :3

@shadeops21 - You were honestly the person that got me to join Tumblr! I was looking for something to try and make my own Konig cosplay (that's been given up on bc motivation and Tik Tok just. yeahhh) and I found you, and all your amazing work! I basically made my account to see if you'd make any more, cause I just love what you do so much, it's got to be so helpful for so many people!!

@sleepyconfusedpotato - After Shadeops, you were the very second person I found here! And oh my gosh how much I obsessed (and still do) over your art, especially Jade. You inspired me to write my first ever fic on here, actually, where I made my first CoD oc ship with Soap, your art and what you do honestly helped me feel comfortable making something like that for myself, cause some of the toxic people on Tik Tok made me uneasy and unsure about that lol- And now, I finally have an OC I'm working in depth on, and you're my biggest reason to thank for that.

@soaps-mohawk - Your writing has inspired me so much, and I couldn't thank you enough for making your wonderful fic. I may not be like, a OG, but I've been there since around chapter 20 I think? I could be wrong, but half way through sorta. You are the biggest reason I started writing again here, you just create masterpieces. And this is the first time I've ever been hooked into a fic so much, and what got me into liking the Omegaverse (you hooked me and I can't let go of it now...) Thank you for taking your time with your writing, and thank you for all the inspiration you have given me.

@on-a-lucky-tide - Oh my gosh how much you have yanked me into the Nikprice community. I adore every single one of your writing pieces, and honestly, you are another who has helped inspire me to write more. All your writing is so filled with emotion and love, I want to be able to do that as well. Your a wonderful person, I've seen you interact with this community and everyone, and I just adore you as a person and all the hard work you put time and effort into creating.

@rainyrambles-overcod - I adore your oc's and rambles so much!! And I couldn't tell you how happy it makes me to have a friend that is okay with the tag games, I never know who to tag for those sorta things, but I actually feel okay tagging you and they are so fun and always brighten my mood :3 Keep creating, I can't wait to see what else you come up with. Thank you for all the tag games and fun!!

@nekrosmos - Yet another that has helped drag me into the Nikprice community or cult ig that too. Your art is absolutely amazing, I truly want to be able to draw like you do. Just everything about your art has me in awe, the emotion, the style, the love everything. Seeing your art brings me so much happiness! Oh and your writing is BEAUTIFUL. That also brings me joy to take a little time out of my day to sit and read the time and effort you put into everything, and how kind of a person you are. I always hope you'll keep creating, and always remember how much joy you bring both myself and others.

@daredaredoodles - I know we don't interact a whole lot, but you honestly mean a lot to me still. You were my first ever mutual on this site, and I will be forever grateful for this. Personally its anxiety that stops me from barging into peoples Dm's and talking, but yeah. Thank you for that, even if it is only a small thing.

@cricricorner - you were my first follower, and I still see you in my notifications from time to time, which always brings me joy! It's wonderful to see your followers still interact with your content, and I couldn't say how grateful I am. I couldn't tell you how happy I was to gain my first follower here, so thank you for taking your time to read my writing and see my art.

@daydreamsareallineed - You were pretty much the first person to show so much interest in my main fic!! And oh my gosh I couldn't ever tell you how much joy it brought me to read your comments, to have someone so interested in my writing, that personally I didn't even think was that good. I haven't given up completely on the fic dw, I'll hopefully update it soon! Motivation just go brrr. Thank you so much for all your support, it means the world to me.

And another shoutout to everyone who supports me, who follows me, and to every single one of you that like and reblog my content. I look through every single note I receive, I assure you none of you are left out.

And my final shoutout to everyone that creates on this site. The community here is like nothing I've ever experienced before. I adore scrolling through everyone's art, it all makes my day. I've never felt so comfortable and unjudged before. Thank you to everyone who contributes to this, you all make my day <3

This turned out a lot longer than I meant it to be- but I just wanted to share how I felt with this new year. I'm sorry if you'd rather not be pinged-

But have a lovely day :3 I love you all!!

[kallie-den]

Rescue Hound Chapter One

Kione Monax, a mercenary pilot, is hired to rescue the captured, brainwashed Sartha Thrace. But getting her home and healing her mind prove to be very different things - and Kione's feelings for the hero threaten to pull her into the darkness when she discovers just how malleable Sartha can be

A new Warhound story!! The preceding stories can be found at this tag

If you enjoy my work and are looking for more, or you want to support me, I strongly encourage you to check out my Patreon! I  write erotica full-time, which means I need your patronage to keep creating, and my Patrons also get benefits like early access to my stories, extra stories, and the ability to vote on what I write next! So, if that sounds good to you, head over and join the couple hundred patrons I already have :)

---

Nothing makes Kione Monax feel good the way being saddled up in the cockpit of a huge mech suit does.

Cause it pays really, really well. Duh.

Provided you’re the best, of course. Kione doubts any of those fifth-rate Imperial grunt pilots they never seem to run out of get paid more than a pittance—not that they’ll ever live long enough to spend it, if she’s the one they’re up against. But Kione? She’s the best. Nowadays, at least. And that means she can name her damn price and the rebels will pay it, no matter how sour the looks on their faces when she comes to collect.

It’s not all about the money, obviously. Kione would be the first to admit that there is a very clear and distinct pleasure in being the very best. To ruling the battlefield like a queen. To tapping into the merciless rhythm of combat, and feeling the beat change when she decides it’s the moment - the moment to kick her Theaboros’s reactor into the red and soar, allowing herself just a single moment to drink in the stupefied, upturned, defeated faces of her prey before she puts them out of their misery.

Fuck, it’s good. It really gets her hot.

But it’s not better than money, because money was what had bought her the Theaboros and its wings, and its state-of-the-art systems, and its fresh coats of paint—for vanity, although sometimes she lies and calls it ‘branding’—and all the fancy drinks she buys for the very best hookers before she buys them too. That’s what life is all about. Not principles. Lots of people get big, stupid ideas in their heads once they’re sitting behind the controls of a sixty-foot mechanical god. If your ideas are big enough and stupid enough they start calling you a hero, and Kione is very, very determined not to end up as one of those. They always die bad.

That’s how scumbag mercenaries like Kione wind up as the best.

Hey, merc, comes a terse voice over a shitty, crackling radio, just as Kione finishes planting the charges, you better be in position.

Kione sighs quietly to herself before she answers: “I am. Plan B is in place.”

Good, says the girl on the radio. Get ready. And remember: no work, no pay.

Kione rolls her eyes. Why do people always feel the need to remind her? Contrary to popular slander, mercenaries aren’t cowards or turncoats. Any mech-for-hire who pulls that kind of shit just saw their very last payday. And besides, Kione refuses to help out the imperials. Just out of self-interest, of course—there’s no place for free spirits like her in the kind of world they’d like to build. She’s bloodied their noses more times than she can count, and you’d think that would win her some actual gratitude from the rebels she fights alongside.

Hell no. Kione had fought with unit after unit, recruit after recruit, and each one proves to be just as naively idealistic as the last. They all think they’re put here to save the world, and they hate that Kione knows she’s only here to make some hard cash. The girl barking orders at Kione over the radio is one of those. An idealist. A firebrand. She’d flashed Kione a nice, mean look before they’d shipped out. Stars in her eyes, hell on her lips.

Kione knew then and there she’d have to fuck her, once they made it back. It wouldn’t be hard. Girls like that always went for her once they saw first-hand how good she was. She went for them, too. She just loved to make them choke on her.

She’s here. Cut the chatter. Everybody focus.

At once, Kione lets go of her sleazy fantasies and gets herself back in the zone. Not for the first time, she wonders about the targets. How many? How well-equipped are they? Guess she’ll find out soon enough. Not that she can see shit right now, hanging from the underside of this colossal bridge.

It’s a good place for an ambush and a great place to get yourself killed if a thousand tons of reinforced concrete come down on your head before you know what’s happening. That’s why Kione’s there. That’s the truth of mercenary work: you get the real shit jobs. The ones they don’t expect you to walk away from.

Suits Kione just fine. She’ll groan and grumble until they pay her double, then prove she’s worth every penny.

For now, though, there’s only waiting. That gets to Kione the same way it does to every soldier. Eventually, her mech’s sensors pick up vibrations. Footsteps on the bridge above. Another machine. A pretty big one, too—but only the one, which prompts some serious fucking questions. Who the hell are they ambushing here? A high-value target, clearly. Maybe an imperial higher-up. But those don’t fly solo. A pilot, then? Some ace? It’d have to be. Kione can’t think of any other reason they’d pay her fees for a gig like this.

It has to be someone good. Someone only she can beat.

Kione finds herself grinning.

More waiting. The target is moving slow. A nice, steady march. It gets closer, and closer, and closer, until Kione can hear each step; can feel them reverberating through her body. Until the enemy is directly above her. The enemy mech’s footfalls are heavy and almost familiar. Despite everything, Kione is all but bursting with anticipation. She loves getting to put a rival ace in the dirt. Nothing better. But she knows she needs to be patient. She’s not the first wave. She’s the coup de grâce.

The radio crackles again. Now! Open fire!

An instant later, the air trembles with the report of a dozen guns. The rebels scattered themselves across the bridge, each pilot picking their ambush spot to secure kill zones and neutralize cover. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The rebels don’t have a lot of advantages over the imperials, but this is one of them: they’re good at this kind of guerrilla shit. As the barrage wears on, Kione’s grin starts to slip. She’s beginning to think they won’t need her after all.

Then, one by one, the guns go silent.

Kione can pick out each machine as it goes dark, just from the sound. No two rebel mechs are alike; consistent supply and production lines are a fleeting fantasy so each machine is somebody’s pet project, customized according to parts and needs. That makes it all too easy for Kione to count.

One down. Two down. Three down.

What the fuck?

It’s hard to believe, but Kione can hear it happening. Up above, the enemy mech pounds the bridge with its footfalls. That thing must be moving like a hound out of hell, dodging beams and missiles, throwing itself at one rebel after another. Its engine is deafening; an insane scream of tortured metal and unholy combustion that fuels the carnage. Screaming is just about all Kione can hear over the radio, too. The rebels’ comms discipline has broken down. They can’t make sense of how fast it's gone wrong.

Merc! Where the fuck are you?

That’s her cue. It’s the moment—and with a worthy foe, too. Kione can’t stop herself laughing nastily into the radio as she retracts the anchors keeping her attached to the bridge and slips into freefall.

And again, when she punches ‘startup’ on Theaboros’s flight system.

Mechs can’t fly, yeah? Everyone knows that. It just doesn’t make a lot of sense. You want to fly, you get in a plane. You’d need a stupid amount of thrust to get something as big as a mech suit in the air. A big engine won’t help. The tyranny of the rocket equation will murder you. Weight means fuel, fuel means more weight. The aerodynamics would probably be shit too. And that’s not even getting into the economics problem. Nobody can spare that much reactor fuel for just one machine. The best way to square the circle would be to build the entire thing out of some kind of crazy cutting-edge superalloy, but those are hell to get and worse to maintain. No; a flying mech would be a ridiculous vanity project. The imperials would never sanction it, and the rebels could never afford it.

Good thing Kione Monax has never worked for free a day in her life.

It helps that she built Theaboros smart—or at least, paid other people to. It’s a slender beast; tall, upright, almost human-like in its posture. It weighs a fraction of most of its rivals, and so when it spreads the six sleek, silver pinions mounted on its back, Kione can actually feel them catch the air. Every little helps when you’re fighting gravity.

But what really, really helps is the state-of-the-art antimatter reactor surging to life and pumping out a steady stream of anti-Fermion particles that singe the air around her mech a deep, unearthly red as they annihilate and, for just a fraction of a second each, keep the fundamental forces of the universe at bay.

With that on her side? Fuck yeah, Theaboros can fly. And Kione falls a little more in love with it every time.

It flies now, with her gripping the joysticks, gliding the unnaturally nimble machine between cables and tresses as she boosts clear of the bridge’s superstructure and tilts up, pulling a tight loop that brings her down onto the deck, ready to give her target the surprise of a lifetime.

Except, no.

Kione is the one left with her jaw on the floor when she sees who she’s up against. All at once, she realizes she was wrong before. It’s not someone only she can beat, because it’s the one person she never ever managed to beat, in all the long evenings they spent sparring together.

It’s Sartha.

It’s Ancyor, anyway. Or most of it. Actually, it’s more like Ancyor died and came back wrong. The base frame is still there; Kione can tell as much from that dragging, lupine gait as it lurches across the bridge. The exoskeletal armor is the same too. If anything, it looks even more beat to hell than usual. But beneath that, it’s all wrong. The reactor. The weapon systems. The raised, pneumatic hackles that augment those deadly claws. They’ve all been replaced. Upgraded. Imperial tech. It gives Kione the creeps. It’s like someone’s wearing her dead friend’s skin.

Whatever they’ve done to it, it’s clear Ancyor has lost none of its effectiveness. In its terrible, wake, Kione counts four of the mechs she shipped out here with lying in shattered, ugly heaps. They went down bad. Catastrophic kills. If anything, it looks like Ancyor’s pilot took special pleasure in plucking out and crushing each cockpit. That really gives Kione the creeps. Even Imperial pilots usually don’t sink that low.

At least she knows it’s not Sartha in there.

Unsurprisingly, the remaining three rebels have gone to pieces. They’re backing away, giving up the only tactical advantages they have—prepped positions and unit cohesion—and the radio channel is full of little more than panicked screeching. The squad leader, the girl who was barking at Kione earlier, is trying to instill some kind of discipline. It’s not working. She’s too young. They all are.

Take her down, damn it! she yells, when she sees Theaboros land. This is what we’re paying you for.

“You got it,” Kione mutters.

In all honesty, she’s weighing up the pros and cons of simply hitting the bricks and running. But she reminds herself: this isn’t Sartha. Just a pale imitation.

And besides, there’s money on the line. Duh.

In any case, the choice gets taken away from her when Ancyor turns its awful snout in her direction and starts barreling toward her.

“Shit!”

At once, Kione kicks her mech’s flight system into high gear. She manages to get enough thrust to pull up and clear—but only just. Ancyor is even faster than the last time they fought. Kione wheels around in the air to find her target, extending and clasping her long spear in Theoboros’s right hand. Once the weapon is deployed, its tip starts glowing red-hot as her systems reroute surplus reactor heat. Kione would prefer to keep Sartha’s hellhound at a comfortable distance, but CQC is the only good way to finish a fight sure and quick.

As soon as Kione sets her sights, she realizes that Ancyor has already turned to look up at her. Silently, four openings appear in its torso. An instant later, four wire-guided harpoons are coming right at her.

That’s new. Fuck.

Two of them, she manages to dodge. One, she bats aside with the flat of her spear blade. But the fourth, kept on target by tiny thrusters, buries itself in one of Theaboros’s long, slender legs. That’s not good. The damage itself is fairly negligible. What’s not negligible is Ancyor’s massive weight as it pulls the wire taut and starts reeling her in.

And, at the same moment, launches itself into the air with enough force to crack the concrete under its feet.

Kione’s display is filled with warnings she’s pretty sure she’s never seen before. She dismisses them with a furious gesture, but all she sees on the viewscreen afterward is the ruin of Ancyor’s face coming at her at an insane speed. No time to cut herself free, and no aerial maneuver Kione can think of is going to make a damn bit of difference with another mech weighing her down like an anchor.

So, stupidly, she does the only thing she can think of: she points her jets in the opposite direction and blasts herself straight down toward Ancyor.

Fifty feet in the air above the bridge deck, two meteors collide.

Ancyor has sheer mass on its side, but Theaboros has gravity and thrust. Kione is no rookie; getting her head knocked around in the cockpit isn’t going to ruffle her. She’s focused on what counts: getting this damn dog off of her.

It’s not easy. Ancyor is scrambling all over her, its wickedly sharp chain-claws working to find purchase. It’s clear whoever’s behind the controls knows Sartha’s style. They want to keep the two mechs bound together, grappling, where Ancyor’s sheer savagery makes it invincible.

All Kione can do is wield her long, elegant spear like a brawler’s stick, keeping it between them, leveraging them to try and force Ancyor away. Unfortunately, Theaboros isn’t great at this kind of contest of strength. It’s just not built for it. Desperately, Kione uses the flight system’s jets to throw the two of them into a series of loops, heads over feet, hoping the g-forces will destabilize the beast.

Of course, it’s just as likely that what happens is that Theaboros goes down face-first into the bridge.

Splat.

But maybe it’s working. Ancyor is starting to peel off. The harpoon comes loose and one of its arms slips, windmilling through the air. Kione presses the advantage, wrenching her spear around to make Ancyor’s grip untenable. After one last lunge that goes clean past her shoulder, Sartha’s mech is sent tumbling back down to earth where it belongs.

Wiping sweat from her brow, Kione grins. Get down, dog. The sky is all hers.

Then she notices the warning lights. She stops grinning as she realizes that last lunge didn’t go clean past her shoulder at all. It hit exactly where it was meant to. It ripped off one of her goddamn wings.

Ah. Well, that’s really not good.

Theaboros isn’t dead in the air. At least, not quite. But the thing about wings is: however many you’ve got, you probably don’t wanna be on less than that. Lest she choke her reactor to death, Kione is forced to ease off and touch down on the bridge. Once her baby has cooled off, she should still be able to pull off a trick or two.

Merc? You still breathing?

Kione’s glad radio girl is still here. Judging from the guns Kione hears, her surviving squadmates are too. Maybe they can still do this.

“I have a name, you know,” she grunts.

Yeah? Get us back to base in one piece, maybe I’ll think about learning it.

Kione cackles at that. She likes a girl who can keep her head.

“You can buy me a drink instead,” she tells her. “You already know my name. If you’re not careful, I’ll make you say ‘please’ when you use-“

She cuts herself off when she sees what’s about to happen.

Kione never takes her eye off the ball, but it’s taken her a moment to stop seeing white. Now that she has her sights on Ancyor again, she’s realizing it’s not nearly as debilitated by its fall as she’d hoped. It always was freakishly tough. And it’s doing the worst thing it possibly could. Worse even than coming at Kione again while her flight system’s cooling down.

It’s going after the easy prey.

In a single bounding leap, Ancyor hurls itself at the rebel currently spray-and-praying it with ineffective beam fire. The poor bastard freezes up, and Ancyor lands squarely on their shoulders.

It doesn’t need weapons. Its weight does the work. Even Kione flinches from the crunching sound.

No!

It’s radio girl. So much for keeping her head. Maybe she knew them well. Maybe it’s just one loss too many. Either way, because she’s one of those rebel idealists, she’s doing the brave thing. The stupid thing.

Breaking cover. Trying to save her comrade.

Idiot. That’s exactly what a predator like Ancyor wants

There’s some distance between the two of them, but nothing Ancyor can’t cross in the blink of an eye. It’s happening half the bridge’s length away. Theaboros has a rifle, but the stopping power is nowhere near enough. Kione can already see exactly what’s going to happen. Radio girl is going down. No chance her last squadmate sticks around after that happens, which leaves Kione trapped in a one-on-one. Not good odds.

So, the right move is obvious: ditch. Now. The mission’s a bust. Losing Kione’s pay is better than losing her life. As long as she takes off right this second, she should be able to make it out clean.

All she’s gotta do is outrun the other rebel, right?

Kione sighs. It’s an easy choice. But here’s the rub: she really was looking forward to that drink with radio girl.

So much for letting the reactor cool.

As Theaboros throws itself forward at her command, Kione punches the reactor straight back into the red. The thrust alone has her in the air; Kione works the flight system with a master’s touch, pitching her machine slightly off-axis to compensate for the wing she lost. It’s a rough ride. Her baby’s running too hot. The wingtips are starting to disintegrate. Antimatter annihilation’s a bitch. Kione doesn’t want to think about how much the repair bill’s gonna come to this time.

Instead, she just grins.

You thought your ride was fast, Sartha? Think again.

Ancyor lunges. Radio girl is right under its outstretched claw. Theaboros is hurtling toward them at a truly unwise speed. In the cockpit, Kione is rattling around like crazy—but she doesn’t let up. She only has a fraction of a second. No time to shoot, no time to strike, no time to parry. Only time to do something dumb.

Theaboros rams into radio girl shoulder first, shoving her out of the way. She raises her left arm in a feeble bid to fend off their attacker. The impact with the rebel mech wreaks havoc on Theaboros’s frame.

And then Ancyor’s claws rip her arm off.

Shit.

No time to take stock of the damage. No room to get her balance. No heat overhead to spend on a boost. Ancyor just keeps coming. It switches targets to Theaboros without missing a beat. Kione stumbles back just barely out of reach, wheeling her spear in a furious series of parries and ripostes.

Not furious enough. Nothing’s as furious as Ancyor. It matches Kione step for step, blow for blow. Only a matter of time until one of them lands home. Kione grimaces. At least radio girl is free and clear—not that that’s worth much. Can’t get paid if you’re dead, and she’s sure starting to feel dead. Theaboros has taken up too much damage to put up an even fight.

Kione snorts, despite everything. What, is she making excuses for herself?

That’ll look great on her tombstone. Kione Monax: it wasn’t fair.

It stings that it’s not even true. Now that she’s at the right distance to get a good look at Ancyor, it’s plain enough that it took a fierce beating in the rebel ambush. Radio girl’s crew wasn’t so bad after all. They took some mean chunks out of its armor. All over Ancyor, clouds of leaking coolant hiss and exposed electricals crackle. At least one or two major servos are missing. It must be handling like a pig right about now, but it’s moving like nothing’s happened. Whoever’s behind the controls is just that good.

Which begs the question, doesn’t it?

Who the fuck is piloting that thing?

Sartha Thrace is dead. Kione made her peace with that a long time ago, and she has no time for stupid rumors. But now she can’t help but wonder. Who else could handle Ancyor like this? From their sparring sessions, Kione recognizes all the little trademark moves. Hell, the only reason she’s lasted this long is because she has a sense of Sartha’s cadence. It’s like she’s fighting her friend’s ghost.

No, not her ghost. Something worse. Sartha was never quite like this. Never quite so heedless of herself. Never so proud she wouldn’t simply retreat from this kind of ambush. This animal ferocity—Kione has seen it before, but it was always a rare thing. It came over Sartha only when something drove her to her very limit. This pilot? It’s like she’s got all of that side of Sartha, and nothing but. Her rage and violence, distilled. Purified.

A shiver runs down Kione’s spine. It’s so wrong.

Merc?

That’s her radio girl. Kione rolls her eyes. She’d been hoping the rebel pilot would just run. If both of them die trying to save each other, she’s gonna throw up. That’s just too much.

“You clear of the bridge?”

Yeah.

Thank the gods.

Her distraction almost spells her end. Theaboros is driven yet another step backward and almost trips off the side of the bridge. Kione glances behind. She’s out of space. Shit. Shit! There has to be something left. Kione knows it. She feels it. This can’t be the end. Not of her. Not yet. She’s too good. There has to be something.

A plan B.

Oh, right.

Kione checks her reactor. Flight still isn’t on the menu. It’s gonna be ugly.

“Radio girl?” Kione calls out, as Ancyor brings its claws up for an overhead blow. She raises her spear to meet it. Sparks fly as the weapons meet.

Who- yeah?

“Plan B. Blow it.”

To her infinite credit, radio girl doesn’t hesitate, which means Kione only knows it’s happening when the ten thousand-ton reinforced concrete bridge under her feet suddenly isn’t.

In desperation, Kione throws herself over the edge. A drop is one thing. But getting crushed? That’s what’ll kill you. Unfortunately for her, the bridge is already falling. She can’t kick off cleanly. Best she can do is scramble at asphalt and rebar that’s quickly turning into little more than dust while she overboosts her flight system as far as it’ll go.

It’s good enough—almost. For just a moment, Kione thinks she’s threaded the needle. She’s going to glide clear.

Then Ancyor comes flying at her one last time.

How it managed a leap like that, Kione will never know. The way it screams as it comes at her almost stops her heart. It gets close. Way too fucking close. But Kione manages to wheel her machine around, kicking its legs up and out of Ancyor’s reach.

Not the wings, though. It gets another one of those.

That’s bad. Extremely bad. Kione suddenly realizes she ought to have been more appreciative of only being down the one wing.

Mercifully, Ancyor falls away and disappears into the bridge’s wreckage at the base of the valley. That’s a mercy. But Theaboros isn’t much better off. Spitting smoke and almost completely out of control, the best Kione can do with it is a crash landing.

But hey, any landing you can walk away from. Right? And Theaboros can still walk. It just can’t do anything else.

Kione lets herself throw up in the cockpit. That’s a first.

A minute or two later, while she’s slowly picking herself up, radio girl comes skating down the wall of the valley. Her mech is a bit shit—common enough, for rebels—but it looks a damn sight better than Theaboros right now.

Holy shit, radio girl calls out. You’re alive! You… you saved me.

She’s got that naive awe in her voice, like she’s talking to some hero. Kione frowns. Can’t have that.

“Don’t get used to it,” Kione retorts gruffly. “You die, who’s gonna make sure I get paid? Duh.”

She senses radio girl bristle a little, but it’s not quite enough to penetrate that thick coat of rebel sincerity. Thank you, Kione, she replies earnestly.

Even though it almost makes her throw up again, Kione laughs thickly.

“Told you. You already know my name.”

Now she senses the other pilot blushing.

Well, shit, radio girl says after a moment, as her mech’s head turns toward the ruins of the bridge. We really fucked this up. I don’t know how I’m gonna explain this to command.

Kione happens to disagree with the ‘really fucked this up’ part of that assessment. She happens to think she pulled off a goddamn miracle, actually. But then, she still doesn’t know what they were really after. Who they were really after.

Wait, radio girl says slowly. Is that… oh gods, I think that’s her.

Before Kione can ask, she’s dashing for something she’s spotted in the wreckage. Kione makes Theaboros limp after her. When she spots it too, her eyes go wide.

It’s Ancyor.

It’s almost in one piece. Almost. Tough son of a bitch. Kione half-expects it to come roaring at them again, but once radio girl shifts the bridge pylon that landed on it, she sees that Ancyor has finally given up the ghost. It’s not beyond repairs but the torso is cracked open like an egg, leaking oil and worse in a steady stream. Looks like the protection systems deployed OK, at least.

Which means the pilot might actually be alive.

Sure enough, as radio girl peels away one half of Ancyor’s ruined cockpit, Kione sees her—and for the first time, she’s completely and utterly lost for words.

Lying there, battered and bleeding and unconscious but very definitely alive, dressed just like usual except for what looks freakishly like a fucking muzzle strapped to her head—is Sartha.

Sartha Thrace. The hero. Kione’s friend.

“She…” Kione splutters eventually, overcome. “But… how did… all this, just for…”

Yeah, radio girl answers. All this was for her.

There’s something in the rebel’s voice. Something at once sorrowful and unbearably hopeful. Kione has never heard anything quite like it. But, uncomfortably, she realizes it was in her voice too.

She’s the objective. We’re bringing Sartha Thrace home.

---

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[dancinglikebutterflywings]

Pirate Life | Kim Seungmin 

Pairing: Pirate!Kim Seungmin x Reader

Request: No. This was a part of my Halloween celebration on my deactivated account.

Synopsis: Pirate Kim Seungmin encounters his childhood friend when his crew mistakenly capture her instead of their intended target.

Warnings: Pirate things.

Word Count: 832

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©️ 2024 CRAZYFORMFICS. No one has permission to copy, translate and/or repost my fics on here or any other site.

"Return me to my home at once!" Y/N groans as she tries to loosen the ropes around her wrists, the fibers of the ropes burning against her skin.  

"We're pirates, sweetheart. We have a reputation for not following the rules," a somewhat familiar voice comes from the staircase.   

The pirate guarding her, stands up from his post and moves away from the bars of the cage she’s being kept in. The figure of a man stands in front of the cage. Y/N’s eyes travel up the pirate's form, taking in everything about him. From his buckled shoes to his slightly-nicer-than-the-other-pirate's clothes, to his dirty but handsome face. It’s a face all too familiar.  

Her face contorts into surprise and confusion. She begins to question if it’s really him, her childhood best friend that had disappeared without a trace one day. He left her wondering if he had been kidnapped or worst, killed. Her life went on without but in a way, he was still with her. Not a single day had passed without her thinking of him or reliving the memories they shared in her daydreams.  

“Kim Seungmin?” She finally speaks his name aloud after years of not being able to bring herself to say it.   

“That’s captain to you, Miss!” the pirate that had been guarding her growls, his tone threatening and daring her to speak his captain’s name without his proper title. He’s been itching for a fight since they captured her.   

“Y/N?” he asks, his stern look now matching her shocked and confused one. He quickly turns on the other pirate, a frown on his face. “You went to the third house to the left of the Salty Sea?”  

“Aye, Captain,” the pirate nods. “Mr. Tang’s home.”  

“What were you doing at Tang’s home?” He turns back to his former best friend.  

Unbeknownst to her, Seungmin’s been keeping tabs on her since he found out she now lives in SKZ Port, Mr. Tang being one of his informants. It was known to all the pirates (and other shady people) that frequented the area that Y/N is well protected and isn’t to be touched or hurt in any way, shape or form.   

“He’s my boss,” she answers, her confusion and curiosity grow as she looks between the two men. "Why are you after him? What did he do?”  

“Nothing you should be worried about,” Seungmin tells her before ordering the other pirate to let her go. He does it right away with an annoyed expression. His captain ignores it and holds his hand out towards Y/N.  

Y/N takes his outstretched hand and allows him to help her to her feet. She’s unsteadied at first, having never been on the water before. Seungmin steadies her and leads her out onto the deck. The pirate guard follows behind them as Seungmin gives him orders. He quickly disappears back downstairs.  

“You’re living your dream, huh?” Y/N speaks as they stand beside the railing. She notices the port is slowly fading away in the distance and is stuck on a pirate ship with no way to get back home. Not that she’s complaining. She shared Seungmin’s dream of living on the ocean.  

“You’re not living yours?” he asks, looking at her. She’s as beautiful as he remembers. He too didn’t go a day without her in his mind. The many times he wanted to turn around and go back home so he could bring her with him are countless.   

“Yes, because working in a bar filled with grimy, seedy men and women is what I always dreamed of doing,” she replies, her tone sarcastic but the small playful smile on her lips let him know she’s teasing him.  

“I’m sorry I left without you,” he apologizes. The only thing in his life he regrets and feels guilty about is not taking her with him.   

“I’ve spent all this time wondering what happened to you, hoping this is where you ended up and not somewhere terrible,” she tells him truthfully as she turns to face the great big blue. She smiles as a faint gust of wind blows through her hair and the salty smell of the ocean fills her nose. “Now my mind can be at ease.”  

It takes him a few seconds to remember what he was about to say as he’s entranced by the sight in front of him. No amount of gold and jewels could compare. He swallows the lump in his throat and tries to keep the sudden bout of sorrow he feels out of his voice when he starts to speak. “I can take you home, if you would like to go back.”  

“Don’t you even dare,” her smile growing, she glances at him for a moment before looking back out at the sea. “I think it’s time we started living our dream together, just like we did back then.”  

A large grin makes its way on to Seungmin’s face, “I also think it's time we did just that.” 

Likes, Comments & Reblogs are welcomed and appreciated. 

TAGGED: @staytiny2000 - @dancelikebutterflywings - @kpopmenace143 - @alexxavicry - @jedi-dreea - @rainydayteacups - @tinyelfperson - @laylasbunbunny - @skz1-4-3 - @pinkies-things

[bakuhatsufallinlove]

No. Because I do not like ᴅᴋʙᴋ.

If I sound frustrated in this response, please know that it is because for two and a half years, I ran my meta blog and never received a single question about shipping dynamics. As soon as I specifically named myself as a member of a fixed ktdk/bkdk group, which exclusively releases works with that dynamic, I started getting questions and comments about the opposite dynamic.

My meta analyzes their canon dynamic, which does not go into sexual situations on-screen. I hold myself to high standards of being persuasive and compelling in my writing, and I had no interest in examining the language used in canon to illustrate the complexities of their relationship and then suddenly go "ANYWAY SO THAT'S WHY IZUKU TAKES IT UP THE ASS."

Would that be funny? yeah absolutely. But I wrote my posts to be informative, engaging, and interesting. I wrote them to help people understand more cultural and linguistic nuance in the storytelling and in their characterizations as shown in canon.

As a result, I am not surprised when people do not know my preferences regarding sexual dynamics or assume I might be a switch fan. I intentionally did not get into dynamic discourse for the entire run of my blog because people get really intense about it and take it very personally. It starts fights I have no interest in participating in.

That said, I am a fixed bkdk fan. I always have been. There was a brief period where I tested the ᴅᴋʙᴋ waters out of curiosity, but I discovered I disagreed with the interpretations of their characters, motivations, and desire for each other.

I have no judgment against other people's tastes. I'm happy if people enjoy my work and find it informative regardless of their own preferences. However, I have seen ᴅᴋʙᴋ fans post about my meta and then immediately twist my words and come to conclusions I did not advocate for, and I always found that baffling, but I decided it's not my problem and I can't control how some people simply hear what they want to hear.

If you look at my blog, you will actually see a number of my posts directly contradict interpretations and theories spread by some ᴅᴋʙᴋ fans. ᴅᴋʙᴋ fans were the biggest promoters of the "repressed Izuku/control your heart is about how he needs to accept his feelings for Katsuki" theory, which I criticized and deconstructed from a number of angles.

Another factor is this: ᴅᴋʙᴋ is not really popular in Japan. The exact number varies depending on platform, but at any given time, ᴅᴋʙᴋ content only has roughly 25% of the amount of content bkdk has.

Fanworks on jpn site Pixiv, graphed across the years.

Doujinshi listed for sale on Toranoana. Pairings in order: ʙᴀᴋᴜɢᴏᴜ ᴋᴀᴛsᴜᴋɪ x ᴍɪᴅᴏʀɪʏᴀ ɪᴢᴜᴋᴜ (3,051 doujinshi) ᴛᴏᴅᴏʀᴏᴋɪ sʜᴏᴜᴛᴏ x ʙᴀᴋᴜɢᴏᴜ ᴋᴀᴛsᴜᴋɪ (1,473 doujinshi) ᴛᴏᴅᴏʀᴏᴋɪ sʜᴏᴜᴛᴏ x ᴍɪᴅᴏʀɪʏᴀ ɪᴢᴜᴋᴜ (1,429 doujinshi) ᴍɪᴅᴏʀɪʏᴀ ɪᴢᴜᴋᴜ x ʙᴀᴋᴜɢᴏᴜ ᴋᴀᴛsᴜᴋɪ (1,274 doujinshi)

ᴅᴋʙᴋ doujinshi has a higher ratio than other kinds of fanworks, with 41% of the doujinshi bkdk has. This arguably indicates that ᴅᴋʙᴋ is not popular on a widespread level and instead has a small but loyal fanbase, since doujinshi involve more effort than other kinds of fanworks.

One could argue that ᴅᴋʙᴋ appears more popular, proportionally, in English-speaking fandom than jpn fandom, but no one really knows. Unlike jpn fandom, which is fairly well organized, the numbers for English-speaking fanworks are impossible to glean with any accuracy. Even AO3 tags don't tell the whole story, because not every fanfic on there specifies top and bottom, which jpn fandom never fails to do.

I bring this up because there simply aren't that many ᴅᴋʙᴋ doujinshi, and the number of new releases has dwindled since the series ended. Even if I wanted to translate ᴅᴋʙᴋ doujinshi, I wouldn't have a lot of material to work with. The opposite is true of bkdk doujinshi. We're having a goddamn renaissance over here!

And as I mentioned in my original post about translating bkdk doujinshi, in Japanese fandom, the separate spaces for fans of different dynamics is strongly enforced. A fan of one dynamic may have "landmines," which refers to things they never want to see or engage with in fandom. When you force someone to see or interact with content of the opposite dynamic they have expressed alignment with, you are being disrespectful of that person and the fandom space itself.

Every single one of my posts is tagged with bkdk, not ᴅᴋʙᴋ and not both tags. My bio says "bkdk triumphs." My sexy fanfic wips are top-Katsuki. My fanart is top-Katsuki.

I do understand if, up until my post about translating bkdk doujinshi, you did not notice the signs that indicated my preferences. English-speaking fandom is a mess and has no real respect for structure. People misunderstand tags and terms and misapply them all the time.

But both of these comments have come as a direct result of me specifying my preference, and it is impossible to read that as anything other than disrespect.

I apologize sincerely to anybody who's just chilling here. Please don't take this as an insult to you or your preferences. Again, I am happy people enjoy my work regardless of their taste in sexy fanworks.

It is worth noting that neither of the users who asked these questions follow me, and their blogs are empty, which I find pretty bizarre and don't know how to interpret. Perhaps it's just a couple people trying to circumvent my no-anon-asks policy. Who knows.

Anyway, please stop asking me about ᴅᴋʙᴋ.

[five-and-dimes]

Sunbeam

Part 2 of 4

Using the Dreaming Bingo prompt: Healing Touch

Rating: M

Ship: Dreamling

Warnings: Past abuse (not explicit, just implied past warprize things)

Additional Tags: Cat!Dream, Cow!Hob, King/warprize, hurt/comfort

Summary: King of the cow Kingdom, Hob is given a cat person as a warprize, and he'd give him the very sun if he could. But perhaps some sunbeams will be good enough.

Read on AO3

~~~

Dream needs more than just Hob’s milk.

The morning after Dream was given to him, he had called the palace physician to his room. She had brought several books with her, each bookmarked with any information on the health and anatomy of cat people that she could find, even if it wasn’t much. Doctor Constantine was never less than completely thorough in her job. It was how she had come to work in the palace in the first place.

It had taken her thirty seconds to kick the king out of his own chambers.

“I know you mean well,” she had huffed, her nose flaring in irritation that Hob could tell wasn’t really directed at him, “but this will be easier on him if he doesn’t feel outnumbered and cornered.”

Even after Hob left though, she hadn’t stayed in the room long. She had been jotting notes into the margins of one of her books as she spoke to Hob, explaining her concerns and how she wanted to address them in the coming days and weeks.

Now, even two weeks later, it hurt to see the way Dream’s body was suffering. While the malnutrition was their biggest concern, it was more than that. His fur was lank and dull, his skin sallow, occasional patches of skin red and irritated. Ideally, Hob wants to give him a bath, wants to let him soak in warm milk mixed with oils and medication to soothe his pains. But the very mention of a bath had brought Dream the closest to tears Hob had seen since his arrival, his body shaking and his voice cracking as he barely managed to choke out a shaking “Yes, master.” 

So. No bath then.

Still, Hob wants to help however he can, and when he looks out the window and sees the palace gardens bathed in sunlight, he gets an idea. 

It is early afternoon, and Dream has already been fed and woken from a fitful nap. He is now sitting, as he always is when Hob is in the room with him, at the foot of the bed, prim and proper. He thinks he’s seen soldiers standing at attention look more relaxed than Dream does right now, especially when Hob stands from his desk where he’d been reviewing his schedule. And luckily, there was nothing else on the docket today. So he casually walks around the room, collecting a small basket and filling it with a few select items. 

When he turns back to Dream, he just barely catches the moment that his eyes dart down to his own lap, as though he would be punished for simply looking at Hob. As always, Hob consciously pushes down his heartbreak, focusing on offering a gentle smile to try to ease Dream’s fears.

“It is a lovely day out,” he explains casually, “Would you care to join me outside in the gardens?”

Dream blinks, looking confused and caught off guard, but ultimately nods and stands, “Yes, m-… Yes. Sire .”

Hob smiled, and slowly reached a hand out to stroke Dream’s hair once, “Good boy,” he cooed. Hob had asked him not to refer to him as “master” and Dream clearly struggled with it. He was afraid of getting in trouble when he called Hob master out of habit, because to him it was disobeying an order. But he was afraid to not call Hob master as well, because to him it felt disrespectful. No matter what though, no matter what title slips out, Hob simply pets him, either while correcting him gently, or praising him for his bravery.

Slowly, he was flinching less at Hob’s hand.

He was getting a little stronger, too. As Hob leads him out of his chambers for first time since his arrival, Dream follows behind him on his own two paws, their journey marked by the heavy click of Hob’s hooves and the soft tapping of Dream’s claws. Certainly there is still a long road ahead for Dream to fully regain his strength, but for now Hob is proud that he is able to manage even the short to walk to the gardens.

Outside, the air is warm and bright, only the slightest of breezes to ruffle their fur. Hob gives a friendly nod to the various guards as they pass them, searching for the perfect spot to spoil Dream with sunshine.

Eventually, Hob finds a spot that he finds suitable, some fragrant bushes nearby but no trees to cast a shadow on them. He places the basket on the ground and removes a soft blanket to spread over the grass. He keeps his motions casual, even as he shrugs his shirt off in case Dream gets hungry later, and seats himself comfortably on the ground. When he looks at Dream, he finds him standing stiffly, ears flat against his head and staring at where his tail has wrapped around his ankles. 

Smiling, Hob pats his lap invitingly, “Could you come here please, Love?”` He is aware that Dream takes his every word as an order to be followed, but he hopes that maybe if he keeps asking, one day Dream might feel comfortable enough to answer honestly. 

For now, Dream answers expectantly, “Yes, sire,” and scrambles to do as he’s told. At first he moves to kneel between Hob’s thighs, but Hob halts him. He takes Dream’s hand gently, guiding him until he has Dream cradled in his lap, tucking his face against his shoulder and into the sun. 

He feels Dream shiver in his arms, and he pets down his back softly, “There we are,” he nearly whispers, “It’s such a lovely day. Thank you for joining me. It’s nice to enjoy the sunshine with some company, y’know?”

“...Yes, my lord,” the words are choked out, and he feels Dream relax, just a little against his body, the too-sharp bones sinking against Hob’s flesh.

Hob allows them to fall into comfortable silence, waiting patiently for the rest of the tension to slowly bleed from the cat in his arms. Eventually, Hob shifts slightly, reaching into the basket to retrieve a small jar. 

“Dream,” he asks softly, mourning the way he immediately tenses, “I have a salve that I think might help your skin and fur. Would it be alright if I put some on you?”

He feels Dream inhale shakily before nodding against his shoulder, “Whatever you wish, my lord.”

Sighing, Hob knows he will not get a better answer than that right now. He adjusts them just enough to gently push the robe down Dream’s shoulders, shushing him gently when he feels Dream’s breath catch in his chest. He lets the fabric pool in Dream’s lap, not taking it off completely, and then gathers Dream closer, shielding him with his body. He dips his fingers into the jar, coating his hand in the medicated oil, and then begins petting Dream.

He starts with the long stripe of fur running down his back, the black strands dull and dry from neglect. He strokes over where he can feel the prominent knobs of his spine, tangling his fingers down to the roots to rub the oil into where the skin is flaky and irritated. Hob keeps his movements slow and methodical, carefully working the medicine into each strand of fur, whispering soothing endearments and praise each time he feels Dream tremble and shake under his hands

Dream tenses when he moves on to the bare skin of his shoulders, whimpering when he feels Hob spreading the oil over the scars that litter his back.

“There, there,” Hob whispers, “Are you sore? The oil will help, but I can stop if it’s hurting, sweet one.”

He feels Dream shake his head, “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, “I did not mean to disobey.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, Love,” Hob reassures, moving his hand away from the scars. He will try there again later, for now taking more oil and working his fingers into the fur at the base of Dream’s neck, “Just relax, enjoy the sunshine. You’re safe, sweetheart.”

Dream doesn’t believe that yet, Hob knows. But he will reassure him however many times he needs until he does. It takes time, Hob occasionally shifting to ensure Dream is always facing the sun as it moves across the sky, the jar of oil slowly emptying as he pets wherever he can reach, wherever Dream is not too afraid to be touched, until his fur is shiny and soft from the medication. He keeps petting him afterwords, reveling in the way Dream has melted against him, the way his skin has warmed beneath the sun, the way his ears are no longer pinned back in fear, but drooping in relaxation. Dream has his chin hooked on Hob’s shoulder, face tilted towards the light, when Hob feels it.

A soft, stuttering purr. It is barely audible, but Hob can feel it where Dream is pressed against his breast. 

Hob feels himself tearing up. He had read about the way cats purr, the sound of contentment and relaxation. He looks down, and feels his heart swell. Dream has his eyes closed, his face tearstained but soft, the light making him look like he is glowing, and Hob decides that he will do anything and everything in his power to make Dream look like that every single day. 

Carefully, he leans down to nuzzle at the crown of Dream’s head, so much softer and warmer than it was this morning. Dream doesn’t move, but the purring gets just a little louder.

[dystopicjumpsuit]

No Sleep Till Coruscant

A/N: Written for the lovely @kimiheartblade. You know what you did 💙💙💙

Pairing: Captain Rex x Fem!Reader (reader has insomnia and hair that is long enough to pin up)

Rating: M (minors DNI)

Wordcount: 3k (Look, this was supposed to be 500 words. I had to stop somewhere. If people enjoy it, I’ll write another chapter.)

Warnings and tags: fluff; a little awkwardness/secondhand embarrassment; bumps up against consent issues due to power dynamics (Rex is the ranking officer, but the reader makes the first move and definitely wants this); SMUT with feelings; hair touching; talk of masturbation; heavy petting; suggestive dialogue; Rex touches the reader’s neck and throat, but there is no choking

Summary: You can’t sleep. You ask Rex to help you relax.

Suggested listening:

Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list

“Can’t sleep?” The deep, familiar voice rumbled close to your ear, and you knew without looking who it belonged to. He may have shared a voice with millions of other clones, but his was the only one that made your skin prickle with awareness.

You tore your eyes away from the Venator viewport as your captain stepped up next to you. You hadn’t even heard his approach, and his ability to move in total stealth while wearing half his body weight in armor and kama never failed to amaze you. His dark eyes traced your features a little too observantly, and you shook your head without speaking, turning back to the viewport and hoping he hadn’t been able to read your expression too closely.

“Something on your mind?” he asked.

“No more than usual,” you replied with a shrug. “I’ve never been very good at sleeping.”

“I guess we all have our faults,” he smiled. “I was wondering what yours was.”

“I suppose there are worse fatal flaws than insomnia.”

His lips quirked in a tiny smile, and he turned toward the viewport to gaze with you at the hypnotic blue swirl of hyperspace. After a few moments, he spoke again, quietly.

“Probably easier to fall asleep if you’re actually in your bunk instead of standing on the bridge hours after your shift ends.”

“Probably,” you acknowledged.

“Do I have to make it an order?”

You smiled. “I wish it were that easy. You could just comm me before bed every night and order me to go to sleep, and I’d have no choice but to comply. Insomnia cured by the power of the legendary Captain Rex.”

He turned his head minutely, and even without seeing it, you could feel his scrutiny. “Worth a try. Come on. I’ll walk you to your quarters.”

It wasn’t a request, so you fell into step next to him as the two of you proceeded down the silent halls of the Venator. You didn’t speak at first, content to walk with him in companionable silence. The majority of the ship was on sleep cycle, and the few troopers you passed merely nodded and continued about their business.

“What’s your excuse—”

“Got plans for shore—”

You and Rex spoke at the same moment, then stopped abruptly with quiet laughs.

“After you, Captain,” you said.

“Just wondering if you had plans when we get back to Coruscant for shore leave,” he said.

“Probably going to lie awake and wish I could sleep for most of it,” you admitted. “You?”

“I don’t think you quite grasp the ‘rest’ half of R & R,” he observed.

“Right, because you’re one to talk, Captain ‘Duty Never Sleeps,’” you teased.

“I never said that,” Rex objected.

“But you’re probably saving it to drop on the next batch of shinies they bring us, aren’t you?” 

His chuckle was so quiet you barely heard it. “What were you going to ask?”

“I was just curious what your excuse was for being awake in the middle of the sleep cycle,” you said.

“Duty never sleeps,” he said solemnly.

“I walked right into that, didn't I?” you laughed, allowing yourself the tiny indulgence of nudging him with your shoulder. Not that it did you any good; you couldn't even feel him beneath the cold plastoid armor, and all you got for your effort was a sore shoulder. 

Far too quickly, you reached your quarters, pausing outside the door. You didn't want to go inside, if you were honest with yourself. There was nothing in that room except an empty bed and four empty, gray walls that stared back at you through every endless, agonizing hour that you lay awake. Rex, too, seemed unsure of what to do now that you'd reached your destination. He fidgeted subtly, reaching up to rub the back of his neck.

“Do you want to come in?” you asked on impulse. His eyebrows shot up in surprise, and you hastened to add, “For safety, you know. If you order me to go to sleep, and it actually works, it would probably be best if I'm close to the bunk. That way I don't fall and hit my head or something…”

You trailed off, realizing you were rambling.

“Good point,” he said, his eyes flicking almost imperceptibly down to your lips. “Wouldn't want to have a medical emergency.”

“Kix would never forgive us for the extra paperwork,” you agreed, keying in your door code and motioning him into the room.

As the door slid shut behind you, Rex asked, “Speaking of Kix, have you talked to him about your trouble sleeping?”

“Yeah. He gave me some pills that made me wake up in the morning with no memory of walking to the mess hall and making a grilled cheese sandwich while the cooking droid yelled at me for entering a restricted zone. I never bothered to try them again.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” Rex said dryly. “How was the sandwich?”

“Apparently I threw it in the trash without tasting it. Damned waste of cheese, if you ask me.”

“If it was GAR cheese, you did the galaxy a service,” he said.

“When can I expect my commendation?” you asked.

“Best I can do is a heartfelt thank you.”

Your eyes crinkled with amusement, and Rex smiled, looking rather adorably pleased with himself at having made you laugh. You scrambled for a clever reply, but nothing came to mind, and the silence stretched out until it became awkward. 

At last, you managed, “I'd offer you a seat, but the only option is the bunk.”

Rex looked away. “I should probably go, anyway. Will you be able to sleep?”

Suddenly possessed by unprecedented audacity, you murmured, “If I say no, will you sing me a lullaby?”

Rex drew in a quiet breath and stepped closer to you. “How often is it like this for you? How often do you lie awake, tossing and turning?”

“Every night,” you confessed.

“And what do you usually do when you can't sleep?” Something shifted in his tone, his words coming out low and husky.

Your tongue darted out to moisten your dry lips, and this time, there was no mistaking the way his eyes dropped to your mouth.

“I—I'm not sure I should say,” you rasped.

He dragged his gaze away from your lips at last, looking up into your eyes. “You can trust me.”

“I know.”

“Then… Will you tell me?” he asked.

“Sometimes, I take matters into my own hands.”

His eyes locked with yours, his gaze sharp and intense. “You…”

You nodded. “Sometimes it works.”

“When was the last time it worked?” His words were quiet and rough, his eyes dark as he looked deeply into your eyes.

“Last night,” you admitted breathlessly. “Probably why there's no way I'll be able to sleep tonight.”

“What did you do?” he whispered.

Drawing a deep, steadying breath, you began, “If I describe it to you, will you—”

His eyes widened as you paused, tongue-tied. “Do you want me to… Touch you? The way you tell me?”

You nodded, your entire body feeling like it was aflame. Hearing him put it so bluntly, you understood the magnitude of your suggestion. This was such a mistake. What was I thinking?! Asking a superior officer to—to—Asking Rex—Rex! Of all people—to touch me like that! I must finally be losing my mind.

Before you could backpedal, though, he slowly pulled off his gloves and dropped them on your nightstand. Your breath shuddered to a halt as you realized you'd never seen his hands without gloves before. In fact, this was the most exposed you'd ever seen the captain: helmet and gloves removed, yet still covered in armor. You felt like a swooning maiden in some overwrought period holodrama, having a fit of the vapours at the tiniest sliver of skin.

“How did you start?” he asked, stepping forward into your space. 

Force, has he always been this big? You felt acutely conscious of the bulk of his armor, his pauldrons so broad that it seemed like all you could see was white and blue plastoid. When you met his eyes, though, you saw something else: a searing heat that burned away all your doubts—a hunger that made your blood race in your veins.

“I started with my hair,” you replied, your voice noticeably hoarse.

He moved slowly and very deliberately, raising his hand to the back of your head. You could feel the warmth radiating from his skin as he carefully and meticulously removed every single pin holding your hair in its tidy, regulation bun. You felt your hair loosen as he pulled them out one at a time, making sure not to drop any, and when he finished, he set them in a neat pile next to his gloves on your nightstand. 

He threaded his fingers into your hair, combing out the remnants of your bun, until your hair tumbled freely down around your face. He touched the locks gently, not tugging on them in the slightest: simply feeling the texture and brushing them softly out of your eyes.

“What did you do next?” he asked in a low voice.

“I touched my face. My cheeks,” you whispered, “and my lips.”

He tucked your hair back carefully before his fingers grazed your skin. The first brush of skin on skin was electric, and you stifled a gasp. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone as his fingertips curved under your jaw. His touch was light and gentle, his hand blissfully warm in contrast with the cool, recycled air of the starship, and you swayed slightly closer to him, leaning your face into the sensation.

He trailed his thumb down the line of your cheek until he reached the corner of your mouth. Your breath sped up slightly as you felt the calloused pad of his thumb brush over your lips, followed by two of his fingertips.

“Your lips are so soft,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on your mouth.

You brushed your tongue lightly across his fingertips, tempting him to slide them deeper between your lips. He hesitated for a moment, then slipped them into your mouth as you swirled your tongue over them. He rested his forehead against yours, his warm breath fanning softly over your skin. He raised his other hand to caress your cheek, his gaze fixed on you with an expression of pure fascination.

Slowly, he withdrew his fingers and traced them over your lips once again. For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you, but instead, he took a ragged, shuddering breath and spoke again.

“Keep going. Describe it to me. What next?”

“Next—” the word was inaudible, and you paused to search for your voice. “Next, I touched my throat. Softly. And very slowly.”

The warmth of his fingers as they traversed the short distance from your jaw to the collar of your uniform sent shivers racing across your skin.

“May I?” he asked as he reached the opening of your collar.

You nodded your permission, and he unzipped your jacket with his other hand, the pressure of his knuckles barely palpable on your torso as they descended the line of the zipper. Instead of immediately tugging off the garment, though, he simply continued to stroke and caress your neck, drawing his fingers down from the corner of your jaw to the notch above your sternum.

“After that, I… I traced my collarbones,” you whispered.

His fingers slid beneath your uniform to run along the ridge of your clavicle as his thumb rested against the base of your throat.

“What did that feel like?” he asked quietly.

You shuddered. “Good. It felt… good. But not as good as when you do it.”

At last he slid the jacket off your shoulders, leaving you in only your camisole. His eyes flickered down to your chest, and he swallowed audibly as he realized you weren’t wearing a bra. “What did you do after that?”

“I brushed my fingertips down the center of my chest,” you murmured. “Between my breasts, but I didn’t touch them yet.”

His lips curved into a small smile as his fingers followed the line of your sternum until they reached the silky fabric of your camisole.

“Is this regulation?” he asked in a lightly teasing tone.

“No,” you admitted. “Are you going to write me up?”

“I’m sure the general would be very interested in how exactly I knew that your underwear was out of reg,” he said with a quiet huff of laughter. “Do you want to keep going?”

“Yes,” you replied, somehow managing to keep your voice from betraying the fact that you thought you might actually die if he stopped touching you now.

Is it possible to die of frustrated lust? GAR lieutenant investigates. More at eleven.

Rex dipped his fingers lower, beneath the satin camisole, as his thumb traced over the plush swell of your breast. 

“Is this how you touched yourself?” His voice was low and gravelly, with no trace of laughter lingering in it.

“Yes,” you gasped. “Just like that.”

Your heart pounded so hard you were sure he must be able to feel it as he trailed his hands over your soft, delicate skin. His eyes were fixed on your body, pupils dilated wide with arousal.

“And what did you do next?”

“I think you can guess,” you replied, heat rising in your face.

He leaned close and whispered in your ear, his warm breath sending a wave of tingles down your spine. “Indulge me.”

You inhaled sharply. “Next… Next I touched my breasts—I cupped them in my hands and played with them.”

Rex froze. His hand stilled, resting against your sternum. Even his breath paused momentarily. He whispered your name, his lips barely brushing the silky skin of your neck.

“Rex,” you murmured in a low, husky tone. “Touch me.”

He dropped his head lower, his lips almost making contact with your shoulder, but he hovered a breath away from you. Both of his hands settled on your ribcage and slid up beneath your breasts, tracing your contours, before finally cupping your breasts through your camisole, squeezing you gently, capturing your nipples between his fingers and teasing them until they were stiff and aching with pleasure.

“Like this?” he asked, his harsh whisper hot against your skin.

You arched up, desperate to feel his mouth on your body, but he held that tiny distance between the two of you. “God, yes, just like that.”

He slid his hand down your abdomen until he reached your hip. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your camisole to tease the soft skin of your belly, and then curled beneath your waistband as he dragged his knuckles over your hip.

“What were you thinking about when you touched yourself here?” 

You dropped your head to his shoulder, burying your face against his neck, not wanting him to see the truth in your eyes.

“Tell me,” he said. His voice was soft, but every instinct you possessed screamed to obey his command.

“You.” 

The word was quiet—barely a breath—but you might as well have screamed it. Rex’s reaction was immediate and overwhelming. The hand that still held your breast released you, and his arm clamped around your body. His fingers tightened on your waistband and pulled you hard against him as he finally, finally kissed you. Lips, tongue, teeth descended on your shoulder, worked up your neck and across your jaw, leaving a trail of heated sensation in his wake.

When he reached your lips, he devoured you with all the passion he’d been holding back with such meticulous self-control. His kiss was everything you’d imagined for months. It swept over you like a wave, scattering your thoughts and making your head spin as his tongue slipped between your parted lips. He released your waistband and glided his hand beneath your camisole, up your bare abdomen, to palm your naked breast as he kissed and kissed and kissed you, until there was only one coherent thought in your mind: Is this really happening?

You clung to him, fingers gripping plastoid. You’d wanted Rex for so long, and now that you had him, it almost didn’t feel real. The thought galvanized you. You broke away just long enough to yank the camisole off over your head, dropping it to lie in a crumpled heap on the floor as you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him back into your kiss. His armor bit uncomfortably into your exposed skin, but you didn’t care; you were practically climbing him, frantic for contact.

“Wait,” he rasped. 

“Seriously?!”

He laughed at your impatience. “Seriously. I haven’t waited all this time to rush it now.”

Your breath caught at the implication: he’d wanted this just as much as you had. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Why didn’t you?” he asked pointedly.

“You’re my captain—” you began.

“And you’re my lieutenant,” he replied.

Ah. Solid point.

“You’ve—you’ve been waiting for me to make the first move?” you asked. “This whole time?”

“Since the minute you came aboard.”

“Damn,” you said, struck. “Are you sure I should be working in intelligence? I completely missed the signs.”

“In fairness, stealth is one one of—”

You cut him off abruptly with a kiss. You slid your hands over the back of his head, stroking the soft, velvety, close-cropped blond hair. His groan of pleasure rumbled against your lips, sending a jolt of arousal through your entire body.

“Captain?” you whispered.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” he murmured, nuzzling your face gently.

“Permission to remove your armor, sir?”

“Kriff, don’t call me that,” he begged. “But also yes. Please.”

You went to work quickly, helping him unbuckle and strip off the heavy plastoid.

“Not a fan of being called ‘sir’ in the bedroom?” you asked curiously.

“Just don’t need to be reminded that we’re breaking about forty-two regulations right now.”

You shot him a look brimming with mischief. “We’re going to break a lot more before we get to Coruscant.”

[starkittyzines]

i never forgot what you said - a collaborative zine put together by moi

tldr: here to read the zine

here to contribute to the next one

know more: keep reading

content warnings below line

content warnings as included on the last page of the zine: Abuse, Assuming someone’s gender/gender perception, Body image/Weight, Bodyshaming, Bullying, Death, Food, Manipulation, Misogyny, Physical violence, Psychophobia/sanism, Suicide, Toxic relationships

making the zine

this is a zine i started because i wanted to do something with some quotes that have been stuck in my head for years. things people have said to me that i've either written down, kept screenshots of if it was over text, or just fully remembered word for word.

but i didn't have that many, and it felt vulnerable sharing them as they were. i thought why not drown them among other people's similar quotes, everyone probably has at least one thing they were told one day, that they still remember. and so i made an online form to share anonymously. and it received enough contributions to make this little thing :')

the front and back covers are collages i made and scanned, i love them

your turn!

i need your help making the next issue!! please please share the link to the form, reblog this post, whatever you do to spread it so it can reach more people who might have their own stories to share 🫶

here's the form

i will keep making more of these every time i reach a sufficient amount of contributions so there is no deadline ever to send the stories you'd like to share. even once number #2 is out the same form will stay open for the next ones

want one?

i'm open to including physical copies in zine trades, or sending one for a price of your choice (all my zines are name your price with minimum covering printing and shipping, which can unfortunately be at least 5€ for international - i'm located in france) (and that would be via p4ypal ideally)

i haven't set up a way to conveniently order physical copies of my zines yet or to make this one easy to print and fold as it's meant to be

let's connect<3

you can tell me in reblog tags, reply to this post, or dm me (not weird at all i love talking about zines) what you thought about this zine i'd love to know!!

find me and some free zines on my ko-fi

[stenshale]

OC tag game

Tagged by @sidneysussex thank youuu ^_^ talking about my dearest lady Meduka Adaar because she's everyhting to me and i haven't talked about her in a while

Name: Meduka Adaar

Alias: Duka!! and sometimes she's Little Ram to the Valo-Kas

Gender: Trans woman

Sexual orientation: shrugs! She takes those kinds of things on a case-by-case basis

Age: Mid-late 20s during Inquisition

Spoken language: Trade tongue and Qunlat. She prefers to speak Qunlat when she can get away with it. You would think this would help her bond with The Iron Bull. And yet

Occupation: Former soldier, kinda-former mercenary (she'd go back in a heartbeat), Inquisitor (begrudgingly)

FAVORITE:

Color: A warm chestnut brown or a pale icy blue. Depends on the day and depends on who's asking

Entertainment: She loves music... she would love to sing along but her pitch is so bad. She also likes a proper dramatic story, especially if Shokrakar's the one telling it

Pastime: Oh god when she has free time she's got no clue what to do with herself. She mostly paces. Sometimes she reads but there's like five books in Qunlat in Skyhold and she doesn't like reading the Trade Tongue NEARLY as much. She will instigate sparring with Krem on occasion but that's. less about the sparring. and more about other things

Food: Big fan of a good hearty stew. Josephine once brought her these little flaky pastries with jam and she adored those too

Drink: She's a social ale drinker but otherwise if she can get clean water she's going with that. She is a little lame in this regard I'm afraid

HAVE THEY...

Passed university: Well. No. Not really the career path that got picked for her

Had sex: Yeah she's an adult woman who knows what she likes. She's in a good place with her body most of the time now so it's all good fun

Had sex in public: This really depends on how you define public

Gotten tattoos: So much of her reclamation of her own body has revolved around her tattoos. Shokrakar did the big one on her back and Sera, Josie, and Krem each did one but the rest are all her. She offered it to Cole but it was decided that he probably shouldn't be doing any stabbing quite yet

Gotten piercings: Yeah but it was less of a production. She just got em because she liked em

Gotten scarred: Let me tell you about the time it was decided she should be a soldier in the war against Tevinter and she was there for all of her life before going AWOL. and then she lost her arm (unrelated)

Had a broken heart: It does break her heart that she’s not going to be able to go back to the Valo-Kas again (not in the way she was before, anyways). She misses them. She still visits Shokrakar in Kirkwall sometimes

ARE THEY...

A cuddler: GOOD GOD yeah. Cuddliest woman alive. Haven was difficult for her because she’d never fallen asleep without being sandwiched between at least 2 other people before. Once she was a little more settled in Skyhold she had an open door policy

Scared easily: Not too terribly easy but still more easily than she would prefer. She masks it with anger when it does pop up, which isn’t great

Jealous easily: LOL no. There is truly not a jealous bone in her body. Sometimes if she gets left out of something she’s bummed but that’s the worst of it

Trustworthy: She is NOT a good liar so if you cannot trust her you will know. Generally she is tho

FAMILY:

Parents/siblings: Qunari don’t really do that, and she doesn’t have that kind of bond with anyone anyway. She has people she loves and people she doesn’t and the minutiae of that is so unique to each individual that trying to categorize it with broad strokes is pretty useless. The Iron Bull activates her cain instinct tho <3

Children: Absolutely not. She is entirely uninterested in being a mother and by the time she’s stable enough for it the ship would have LONG sailed, medically speaking. If she ever found herself in a caretaker position her first order of business would be finding someone more qualified to pass the kid off to lol

Pets: Not currently but she’d love to have a horse of her own… or something similar. she’s not picky. but she loves horses

tagging: @abyssal-ilk @sha-brytols @rookfeathers @andrewknightley @a-gay-bloodmage and whoever else wants to do it ^_^