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chaoticwriting · 5 months ago

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New Gotham Rouge

Okay, in Danny's defense, it sounds like a very good idea when he thought about it. Danny is currently laying on top of the clocktower looking at the smog filled sky. A few stars can be seen occasionally while he is staring and thinking about his decision.

When Danny is outed as Phantom. He ran away as his parents tried to capture and cut him open. He hid in a nearby cave for a few days as he thought of what to do when he suddenly had a brilliant idea. Let's fake his own death!

Danny stole a few parts and materials around Amity Park and made a makeshift bomb and rushed towards the GIW base. He freed all the ghosts and made a cinematic scene of exploding himself thus taking the whole building with him.

Danny also sends the ghost to set up a few bombs in his house after making sure Jazz, Sam and Tucker are not there. Just as he 'exploded' himself, the house also exploded destroying the portal and all the remaining research paper about anything ghost related.

Danny dove into the ground as the explosion distracted everyone and chose one direction to fly towards. A few hours later, he found himself in Gotham and surprisingly there is a lot of ambient ectoplasm in Gotham. He flies around invisible while looking for a place to stay and he lands on the clocktower to rest after flying for so long.

Now, Danny doesn't know what he should do because he realizes one key component in staying alive for him. Obsession. Contrary to popular belief (Sam), his obsession is not protection. It is love. Love as in any act of love will fulfill his obsession. Him protecting his town is an act of love towards his town people. Him loving and studying space is an act of love towards himself. Him not taking revenge against his family and people that wrong him is an act of love towards humanity.

So, long story short, he needs to find a way to fulfill his obsession. He is laying on top of the clocktower and suddenly a very good idea comes into his mind.

A few weeks later

-Batcave-

Dick: Are you still searching for the glitter thief?

Tim: Yes. And it's driving me insane how little clue there is of this thief. I even tried asking Selina and even she is impressed by this thief's MO.

Steph: Are you sure you need to be stressing about this thief? It's probably a group of kids stealing glitters just because they can.

Tim: Are you telling me a group of kids can do a heist better than Selina? And this thief or group of thieves for some reason only stole biodegradable paint and glitters from all across the city without us finding where they store them? There must be something I am missing.

Suddenly, an alert appears at the batcomputer and catches everyone's attention. A live broadcast is showing Joker standing in front of a switch as Commissioner Gordon hanging from a rope on top of a pool of acid. Every single batfam suits up and rushes into Gotham to find the Joker before anything can happen.

Joker: Hahahaha. Good evening Gotham and Bats! Today, I have a dear friend of yours playing my game. In front of me is a switch to activate a time bomb that will explode a whole district if not dismantled. You have 20 minutes to dismantle the bomb and with every minute that passes, I will slowly lower the Commissioner into the pool of acid.

Joker then walks slowly towards the switch and flips it.

Joker: Your time starts now! HAHAHAHAHAHA!

Batman and the crew rushes towards Gotham as they turn Gotham upside down for the bomb. 5 minutes passed and they become desperate enough that they even roped in some of the rogues like Penguin, Harley, Ivy and Croc. But no matter what they do, they can't find the bomb.

Just as the last minute passes, everyone expects a big explosion engulfing Gotham. Except there is no sound at all. In fact, it is eerily quiet. Everyone turns on Joker live broadcast to see even the man is confused. He turns around and sees Gordon having his feet inside the pool of acid like nothing is happening.

Suddenly a giggle appears. Everyone that hears the giggles starts to get goosebumps as suddenly, a kid with a half clown facemask at the bottom of his face, a green leather jacket, black jeans and white hair appears behind Joker. His hands are holding his stomach as his giggles turn into laughter that is eerily similar to Joker.

???:Hello everyone. I am Trickster. And I am here to crash the party.

Everyone: ????

Trickster: Hehehe, it's so funny to see everyone's confused expression. But no worries I am here to have fun. See, I even have your toys with me.

The Trickster phases his hand into his body and pulls out a very familiar brick. He throws it to Joker and the Joker runs away screaming and trips on his feet falling down the stairs.

The Trickster: Hahahahaha. Do you see his face? Hahaha. Oh boy, I should have recorded this. Hey this is a live stream right? Someone clip that. Anyway, I have defused the bomb. And the acid isn't actually acid. It's just colored water with a light beam at the bottom. I still can't believe he doesn't check the acid pool first.

The Trickster then goes towards Gordon and pulls him down from the rope. After Gordon touches the ground, he unties him and pats Gordon's shoulder.

Trickster: Well I guess this is good enough for the apology.

Gordon: Apology?

Trickster: *Rubbing his neck* Yeah, about that. I was the one that glitter bombed your office last week. I mistook your office for another corrupt policeman and accidentally placed it on your desk. I am also technically the cause of you getting caught today. In my defense, you shouldn't startle me like that.

Gordon: Wait, you're the kid that punched me.

Trickster: I'm not a kid. I'm 16. Plenty old if you ask me. Whatever, here is your phone. Go call Batman to pick you up. I want to go back to sleep after having fun tonight. Adios.

Gordon: Wait-

Trickster then disappears into thin air like he is never there in the first place. If not for his phone in his hand and later confirmation from everyone that watched the live stream, Gordon might have admitted himself into Arkham.

That is merely the start of the many incidents involving Gotham's newest rogue the Trickster.

Part 2

#danny phantom #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc #batfam #dc x dp

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ssour-apathyy · 3 months ago

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. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ between moonlight and you

caitlyn kiramman x reader, tooth-rotting fluff! very brief mention of blood, kissing, reader gets a small injury, use of y/n

word count; 1,249

summary; a routine that you aren't mad about starting: being snuck into Caitlyn Kiramman's bedroom

a/n; oh to be a young woman in the arms of Caitlyn Kiramman. also "hot chocolate" is what brits call cocoa (?) just an fyi. warm chocolate drink. that thing

The night air was cool and crisp. The moon hung high in the sky, casting a soft glow over the city of Piltover. The streets were unusually quiet, save for the occasional passing of an enforcer on patrol.

The Kiramman mansion was large and imposing, and there was once a time that it would send a chill through your body, and a twist in your gut. Recent events, though, had resulted in the building causing your stomach to flip for a different reason.

You had waited by the tall, imposing fence for what felt like hours now, your heart thumping wildly in your chest every time an enforcer got a little too close, causing you to dip behind the pillar. You squinted up at the moon, checked it's position with your hands, and made your move. The bars were a little slippery thanks to the dewey air, but you were becoming a seasoned pro at scaling the metal. Slinging yourself over the top, you winced a little as one of the spikes caught your thigh, tearing your pants and nicking your skin.

You let out a little hiss as you landed, quickly checking the damage before moving forward, re-tracing the all-too familiar path in your head. You dipped into a small space between two perfectly sculped hedges just as two enforcers passed by, waited 10 seconds, and continued on your way.

Once you got to the spot below the window, you took a little pebble from out of your pocket and threw it, the stone bouncing off the glass with a quick tap. You waited, and waited, shuffling your feet a little awkwardly as you glanced around to make sure the coast was still clear.

The sshhhhtt sound of the window sliding open caught your attention, and you looked up to see Caitlyn peering down at you. "You're late" she whisper-yelled, arching an eyebrow.

You gave her a sheepish grin, gesturing down at the torn material. "I had a... uh, mishap."

Her eyes gave you a once-over before she rolled them, a smile taking over her face as she leaned away from the window. She was only out of view for a moment before the makeshift rope-ladder cascaded down the side of the building. You grasped hold of it and ascended, taking hold of the hand she offered to help you inside.

She moved quickly, pulling the ladder up and sliding the window shut, the room falling into a comfortable silence after the soft thud of it closing. The room was dimly lit by the lamp to the side, the grand marble pillars causing long shadows to dance across the walls. The first time you entered it was intimidating, but now there was nowhere that you felt more comfortable.

You were drawn out of your thoughts by warm hands sliding around your waist, settling to wrap across your stomach. You smiled to yourself as Caitlyn hugged you from behind, resting her chin on top of your shoulder. "I missed you" she confessed, her voice soft and hushed.

You breathed out a soft laugh, leaning yourself back into her touch. "You saw me a few days ago" you teased, resting your hands over the top of hers and tilting your head to look at her.

She mirrored your movement, her nose brushing against your own as she turned to look at you. The look in her eyes made your breath hitch in your throat, the air growing heavier — as if the entire world had shrunk down to the space between you. Her eyes traced over your face, drinking you in as if she was committing every line and bend to memory, and in that moment — you felt infinite.

"A few days is too long" she murmured, lifting one hand to cup your face and softly drag her thumb across your cheek bone. She tilted upwards, and your eyes fluttered shut as she pressed her lips to the space between your eyebrows. It was sweet, tender, and caused every muscle in your body to relax as you basked in her affection.

She took a half step back and grasped your hand tightly in hers, pulling you with her as she led you to her large bed. She maneuvered you to sit at the end and knelt down in front of you, moving your leg to the side slightly so she can take a look at where the fence caught you.

Her eyebrows creased as she spotted the small dribble of blood, and she delicately swiped it away with her thumb. "Are you hurt?" she breathed out, the warmth from her palm seeping through the material.

You shook your head. "No. S'just a scratch" you mumbled, cupping her cheek with your hand and drawing her gaze back up to you with a soft smile.

Caitlyn slowly surged upwards and took your bottom lip between her own, kissing you with such softness that it caught you off guard. You held her face between both your hands as you flopped backwards against the soft sheets, pulling her with you as she took the opportunity to crawl up your body and settle herself on your waist.

The way Caitlyn kissed you was intoxicating. It was slow and steady — assured — like you had all the time in the world and there was nowhere else that she'd rather be than with her lips on yours. It was full of hunger, but not the hurried and all-consuming kind that you'd often find associated with foreplay, no. There was no expectation here. Kissing you wasn't just a gateway to something more, Caitlyn would happily spend hours like this, slotting your lips together like they were designed to fit perfectly.

She pulled away from your mouth to pepper kisses across your chin, pressing her lips to the underside of your jaw as you let out a breathy laugh. She mimicked your sound, pulling away from your skin to gaze down at you with a sultry smile, slowly leaning back in to—

Knock Knock Knock

Caitlyn pressed one finger against your mouth and bit her lip, sitting back up on top of you.

"Caitlyn" her mother's voice echoed through the solid doors, and your heart pounded in your chest as you prayed to Janna that they didn't creak open.

"Yes?" she called back without a single waver in her voice. It was always impressive how she could switch on when she needed to, as if she wasn't straddling a girl that she had snuck into her room, and wasn't just inhaling your soul through your mouth five seconds ago.

"There is hot chocolate ready for you downstairs, come and get some before it gets cold" Cassandra called out from behind the, thankfully, still closed doors. It was quiet for a moment, and you thought maybe that she had already left.

"and there is a spare mug for your — friend — too" she added, before you heard her footsteps fade down the hallway.

It was like slow motion as Caitlyn turned to look back down at you with a gleam in her eyes. Your lips were parted below her finger, eyes as wide as saucers as you choked out a disbelieving laugh.

"Nothing gets past that woman" she grumbles, her lips quirking upwards. You let out another soft laugh, firmer than the last, and she follows you down into a fit of giggles. Both of you laughing together, as she moves her hand from your face and leans down to kiss you again.

#𖤐 ssour-apathyy.#✧ katt scratch.#caitlyn kiramman x reader #caitlyn x reader #arcane #caitlyn kiramman #arcane fic

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winxanity-ii · 26 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 48 Chapter 48 | first mate lady⌟

╰ ⌞🇨��🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The next morning came quickly.

Too quickly.

The sky was barely awake, just beginning to blush with early light. A soft fog clung to the edges of the port, curling around ropes and crates and the low murmur of crew voices.

You stood on the stone pier, breathing in the sharp scent of salt and damp wood and tide—sea air heavy with gull cries and possibility. The ocean stretched out ahead of you, slow and endless, the waves lapping against the hull of the small ship like a quiet promise.

Lady sat pressed to your side, her body warm against your calf, tail flicking idly as her nose twitched at every smell. She sneezed once, snorting, then settled again—watchful and quiet.

Your sack was slung over one shoulder, heavy with only what mattered.

A clean set of clothes. Rations. Small, necessary tools. The wrap of your dagger belt, tucked just beneath your coat. And at the very top—cradled in fabric as soft as you could find—your divine lyre, sealed in its case, humming faintly like it knew it was going somewhere important.

You shifted the strap on your shoulder and exhaled slowly, watching your breath fog out in front of you.

Then—footsteps behind you.

Heavy. Steady. Familiar.

You didn't even need to turn before you felt Diomedes stop just beside you.

He didn't say anything for a long moment.

Just looked out at the sea with you.

Then he spoke, voice low and clear, the kind of voice that never needed to be raised to be heard.

"You know," he said, "when Odysseus left for war, he didn't say goodbye to anyone but Penelope. Left in the dark. No speech. No fuss."

You glanced at him, brows raised. "That a recommendation?"

He huffed. "Not at all. I've always found a good send-off matters. Makes the silence after feel less... empty."

You went quiet.

His arms crossed.

He nodded once toward the ship. "This isn't war. But you treat it like a mission anyway."

You opened your mouth to reply, but he kept going, eyes still forward.

"I've trained you to react. To hold your ground. To see what others don't. You know how to move now. How to listen. How to survive."

He turned his head and finally looked at you.

"But remember this: You're not a soldier. And you don't need to be."

The wind picked up, tugging lightly at your hair, fluttering the hem of your cloak.

"You just need to live."

You swallowed.

Then nodded. Softly.

"Yes, sir."

His mouth twitched—just barely.

He reached out, resting one massive hand briefly against your shoulder. His grip was steady. Strong. And in its own quiet way, it said more than anything else had.

"Have fun, little blade."

You blinked. The words caught you by surprise. Warmed your chest in a way the morning chill couldn't touch.

Your lips curled. Just a little.

You nodded again.

Then felt another presence beside you.

Odysseus.

He stepped forward with a softer weight than usual. Not as a king. Not as a commander. But as something... quieter. Older.

He didn't say much—he rarely did—but when he looked at you, it was different than before.

Proud. Protective. And something else, too. Something that tugged at the space where a father should've stood throughout your growing years.

"Be safe," he said simply.

Then his hand came to rest on the back of your neck, rough but warm, pulling you in without asking.

You let him.

His chin touched the top of your head for just a breath, and it was all you needed.

A goodbye without ceremony. A blessing without words.

When he let you go, you blinked against the sting in your eyes.

Then Penelope stepped forward.

Her composure cracked the second she reached for you.

"Oh, my heart," she whispered, pulling you in before you could brace. She held you so tightly you thought your ribs might bend, her cheek pressing to yours, one hand smoothing over your back like she was trying to memorize the shape of you.

Then her hands cupped your face.

She kissed your forehead, gently, the way you imagined she once did to Telemachus when he was small and brave and didn't yet understand what leaving meant.

"You come back to us," she said, her voice shaking.

"I will," you promised.

She touched your cheek once more, then stepped back—only far enough to let you go.

Callias was next.

He didn't say anything right away. Just gave you a long, up-and-down look, then sighed dramatically.

"You're going to come back cooler," he muttered. "I hate that."

You laughed.

He stepped in anyway and hugged you hard—muttering something under his breath about how he was keeping your room exactly the same, just in case you forgot what real friendship felt like while surrounded by mysterious sea captains and poetic goats.

Asta saluted with two fingers, her other arm thrown around Lysandra's shoulders, who simply said, "Bring back stories."

Even Kieran—cherry as ever—gave a quiet nod of his head and murmured, "We'll be here when you're back."

The pier behind you was full now—bustling with life and goodbyes.

Sailors moved about loading cargo. Children clung to their parents' waists. Lovers whispered soft promises near the ropes. The air was a tangle of salt and excitement and farewells, wind brushing past your ankles like it, too, was trying to hurry you along.

The ship rocked gently, moored and waiting.

With one last deep breath, you turned toward it.

Lady padded at your heel, her tail swaying back and forth—not fast, not frantic. Just... steady.

Like she knew.

Like she understood that this wasn't just travel.

It was the start of something.

It was time.

Time to go.

Time to see.

Time to begin.

☆

The first three days at sea passed more gently than you expected.

You and Lady shared a small, tucked-away room below deck—not far from the captain's cabin. It wasn't lavish, but it was yours: a narrow cot, a bolt of rolled blankets, a single porthole that opened just enough to let in the sound of waves.

Every night, you slept with the divine lyre wrapped carefully in cloth at your side, and Lady curled at your feet, snoring louder than some of the crew.

It was peaceful in a way you hadn't felt in a long time. No palace routine. No watchful eyes. Just the sea, the sky, and the creaking lull of wood beneath your bones.

By the second day, you'd already made a friend.

His name was Eben—a small cabin boy with salt-stained sleeves, hair that refused to stay combed, and a missing front tooth that made his grin impossibly wide. He couldn't have been older than ten winters, and the moment he laid eyes on Lady, you were forgotten entirely.

"She's massive," he whispered the first morning, crouched near your door with a handful of jerky. "Can I pet her?"

Lady, of course, gave him one sniff, decided he was a reliable treat source, and promptly sat on his feet like they belonged to her.

After that, Eben followed you both everywhere.

He helped show you around the ship, explained the name of every single knot and sail (even the ones you didn't ask about), and would sometimes sneak you sweet biscuits when the cook wasn't looking.

In return, you helped him with chores when you could—peeling vegetables, folding cloths, even sweeping the main deck when his arms got tired.

Lady seemed to thrive on the attention. She let Eben braid little ribbons into the fur behind her ears, accepted kisses to the snout, and growled protectively if anyone teased him too loudly.

By day three, half the crew referred to her as "First Mate Lady."

And you? You were slowly becoming something familiar again.

But the sky was changing.

You first noticed it late in the morning, when the air began to smell heavier. The wind curled tighter, sharper, the way it always did before storms. That's when you remembered what you'd heard the day before—quietly, as you passed near the captain's quarters.

The captain had been speaking low to one of his more experienced men, glancing at a spread map.

"Keep us clear of the slab near Graydeep," he'd said. "Old sailor said it eats hulls clean. Stone's too smooth to climb once you've struck. Ghost current drags the rest under. I'm not testing legends today."

You hadn't thought much of it then.

Until now.

It was nearing lunch, and you were crouched near a crate on the deck with Eben, helping peel a bucket of stubborn potatoes—your sleeves rolled up, your hair tied back, your fingers stained faintly with salt and starch.

Lady sat beside you, tongue lolling lazily in the warm wind.

That's when it happened.

A voice from the crow's nest cut sharply through the air.

"There! Off the port bow!"

The crew froze.

You looked up.

And saw it.

A shape on the horizon—dark, massive, unnatural. Not moving. Not bobbing with the waves like driftwood should. Just there, cutting through the ocean like a jagged tooth.

Storm clouds were beginning to gather behind it, curling in fast, dark and thick.

The sun slipped behind the cover—and the temperature dropped with it.

You stood slowly, potato forgotten in your hand.

Beside you, Lady's ears lifted. She growled—low and uncertain.

Something in the air changed.

Something old.

Something heavy.

It settled over the deck like a dropped curtain.

And then, in a blink—

The sky broke open.

Rain slammed down in sheets, so fast and loud it swallowed the sound of the ocean. The wind howled, sharp and angry, slapping against the sails so hard one of them snapped, tearing down with a spray of salt and canvas.

Crew shouted over one another, rushing to secure ropes, sliding across the slick deck as the ship tilted hard to one side. You grabbed Eben without thinking, tucking him behind you as water lashed your face, your cloak plastering to your skin.

"Gods—what is this?" someone screamed from the upper deck. "Did no one bless the damn ship?!"

There was a long pause.

A chilling kind of pause.

Then came the realization.

"...No one did," a sailor choked out, horrified.

"WHAT?"

It spiraled instantly.

Another sailor stumbled toward the helm, shouting over the roar. "We need a sacrifice!"

"No—we need to pray, offer something now!"

"Something living!"

Voices rose, panicked and rapid, until one voice sliced clean through the rest.

"What about the beast?"

You snapped around. "What. Did. You. Say?"

It was a younger sailor—barely older than you, wild-eyed and soaked through. He pointed at Lady with a trembling hand. "She's not a person. She's not crew. She's just—she's just an animal."

Your blood turned to fire.

"She's mine," you snapped, stepping between them. "I swear to every god listening, I will throw myself overboard before I let you lay a hand on her."

But he didn't back down.

He then looked at you—dripping, furious, a girl clutching a mutt—and suddenly something behind his eyes clicked.

"Wait... You're the divine liaison."

Voices shifted.

They looked at you now—not as a crewmate. Not as a girl helping peel potatoes.

But as something else.

Someone else.

"That's it!" the same man cried. "She counts. The gods already touched her—she's the closest thing we've got to an offering!"

"You lay a hand on her, and the royal family will string you up for treason!" someone else shouted from the mast, slipping as the boat lurched again.

"And if we die now," the man screamed back, "then what kingdom? What rules? We'll be bones at the bottom of the sea, with no one left to care!"

Another crash of thunder split the air.

Lady barked once, low and sharp—body tense, ears back, pressing against your leg like she already knew something was wrong.

You didn't speak.

Not at first.

Because for just one second—you looked at the storm.

Felt it.

The rage of it. The presence of it.

And you knew.

You weren't just in a storm.

You were seen.

Watched.

Tested.

And the sickest part?

You might actually have to do it.

You might have to offer something. Or someone.

And you didn't know if the sea would be kind enough to let you pick which.

Your voice was barely a whisper when you spoke. "...Alright."

Silence. Not from the storm, but from everyone else. The crew froze—lightning still flashing behind them, wind shrieking around the sails—but your voice carried anyway.

"If it's me or her..." You swallowed hard, feeling your throat shake. "Then let it be me."

"No!" Eben's voice cracked.

You looked up just in time to see him push forward, tears already clinging to his cheeks. "No! You can't—you can't—!"

Two sailors tried to hold him back, arms around his chest as he kicked and squirmed and screamed. "You can't let her! She's not—she's not just anyone!"

One man reached toward Lady's scruff—and she snapped. Hard.

Her jaws caught his wrist and��clamped, dragging him down with a furious snarl. She was wild, unhinged, fighting the hands that dared try to pull her away from you.

Then Eben broke free.

He threw himself forward—right over Lady's back, arms flung wide as he covered her with his body, shaking with sobs before any of the men could retaliate. "Don't hurt her," he choked. "Don't hurt her, please!"

The sight broke something in you.

But you kept moving.

Your limbs felt numb as the crew parted for you—silent, grim-faced, like watching someone walk toward the gallows.

The rain blurred your vision, ran down your chin, soaked the ends of your sleeves. Your knees trembled with every step as you walked toward the end of the plank, each footfall sounding too loud in your ears.

Behind you, Lady's howls tore through the storm.

She shrieked like her chest was splitting, like she could feel the ocean about to take you. Eben was the only one brave enough to hold her down now—curled around her, sobbing into her fur as she thrashed and whined and bucked.

You didn't look back.

Couldn't.

You stood at the end.

Shivering.

Shaking.

Your arms wrapped around yourself, head bowed, the storm still screaming overhead. You could barely breathe.

Your voice—barely a thread—slipped from your lips.

You were singing.

Softly.

Old words. Broken melody. A lullaby you couldn't place, but your lips remembered it anyway.

Just something to hold you steady.

Just something to hold you.

You shut your eyes.

And stepped forward.

The sea met you with open arms.

Cold. Crushing. Swallowing.

The world went silent in an instant—like the ocean had clapped her hands over your ears. The water folded around you, weightless and heavy all at once. You kicked once, twice, but your cloak dragged. You sank. Light above you blurred, then vanished.

But on the surface?

The storm broke.

Not gradually.

Immediately.

The wind fell flat. The waves stilled. The rain thinned into mist. The ship stopped rocking as if the sea had been caught mid-breath—and let it out in surrender.

Silence rolled over the deck.

Because the storm was never just weather.

And it had taken what it came for.

☆

The first thing you felt was weight.

Not the sea. Not the cold.

But gravity—pulling you sideways, dragging you out of some deep, drowning place.

Then came the voices.

Faint at first, then louder—blurred and frantic.

"—there she is! Gods—get her up!"

"Careful—don't let her slip again—!"

Hands gripped your arms, under your back, under your knees. Someone cursed as you were hauled from the water, clothes clinging like second skin. You gagged, sputtered, coughing up sea brine, your lungs burning raw as air clawed its way back in.

Everything was too loud and too far away.

You felt yourself hit the deck—lightly, but it still jarred your bones. Wood under your cheek. Rain-slicked and warm from the sun again.

Wait—sun?

The sky above was clear now.

Blindingly so.

"Move!" someone shouted. "Give her air—"

"Is she breathing—?!"

And then—Lady.

You didn't see her first. You heard her.

The bark that tore through the air like it had been waiting to escape her ribs. Nails skittering across the planks. Then fur, tongue, weight—her paws scrambled over your arm, her wet nose shoved hard against your temple like she could force you awake.

"Lady—Lady, off—off her, gods, you'll drown her yourself—!"

Eben's voice.

Cracking.

Panicked.

"She's breathing, she's breathing," he said again, over and over, like a spell.

You blinked, vision swimming, lashes sticking together.

Eben was right above you. Pale-faced. Tear-streaked. His small hands hovered just over your shoulders like he was too scared to touch you but couldn't look away.

"Don't do that again," he whispered. "Don't ever do that again."

The captain's boots stomped into your view, kneeling beside you with practiced steadiness.

"Turn her," he said. "On her side—slowly—there."

They shifted you carefully. The deck tilted slightly under you as your body adjusted.

You coughed again, harder this time, voice barely a rasp. "How long...?"

The captain's weathered face squinted at you. "Say again?"

Your throat scraped dry as you tried again. "How long... was I under?"

He didn't answer right away.

Just looked at you.

Then ran a hand down his beard.

"...Three days."

Your heart skipped. "What?"

"You were gone," someone muttered nearby. "Vanished. Lost at sea. We searched. Nothing. The storm passed, and you were just... gone."

Another voice—sailor, hoarse. "We thought you were dead. We held service. We—" he swallowed. "We buried you. In the books."

You stared at them.

Heart still. Chest tight.

Three days?

Not unconscious. Not drifting.

Gone.

The world tilted again—this time inside you.

The captain's hand came to your shoulder—gentler now.

"You're back," he said. "That's what matters."

But your vision was already blurring.

Lady whined and curled tighter at your hip, like she could pin you in place. Like if she touched you, the ocean wouldn't take you again.

Eben clutched your sleeve, his tiny hand shaking.

You didn't mean to close your eyes.

But you did.

And this time—you didn't drown.

You just let the world go quiet.

And slipped softly into the dark.

A/N: happy easter🖤 (read: me lookign for an excuse to update lol)

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talahsaudiobooklibrary · 11 days ago

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title: where it wasn't supposed to be (Part 1)

synopsis: a master thief runs into an unexpected someone in the middle of an assignment…

warnings: mentions & very very minimal use of a gun

a/n: and… here it is! thank you so much for all the support on this story!! this is my first time sharing my writing so any feedback is appreciated! This is my own original story so please do not repost as your own or plagiarize.

word count: 2.4 k

Rain poured over the city of Vienna. Clouds obscured the night sky and the streets were filled with silence except for the pitter-pattering of the rain against the cold, wet cobblestones. All the lights in the apartments were off, and the darkness cast its shadow on the empty streets. Everyone was asleep, and no one sane would dare wander in the dark, heavy, rain in the middle of the night. However, if anyone were awake in the apartments, they would have to have impeccable hearing to hear the slight disturbance in the quiet streets.

The loud taps of high heeled boots were drowned out by the rain. A single figure, wearing a long, black, leather coat held a black umbrella and walked through the Austrian streets alone. If anyone were looking through their windows and somehow spotted the figure through the rain, they would think the person under the umbrella was insane to be out in the cold. But then again, the figure wasn’t what you would consider a conventional person.

The dark figure walked through the streets, twisting and turning through the maze of a city. Finally, the figure stopped in front of the Schonbrunn Palace; the home of the famous Empress Elisabeth and Marie Antoinette. The gates of the palace were locked, but that did not pose a problem. The person under the umbrella was a master of breaking into historic places.

The figure pulled out a lock pick from their coat pocket and started picking the lock on the gate. After a few moments, the giant padlock on the iron gate clicked open. The figure creaked the gate open and walked across the huge courtyard to get to the palace entrance. At the base of the grand double staircase leading up to the yellow palace, the figure paused, staring up at the beautiful four-story structure.

A chain prevented anyone from climbing up the front steps but the figure easily ducked under it and climbed to the top. They used the lock pick to pick the lock on the main doors and finally entered the fancy palace where it was dry. The figure closed their umbrella and lowered the hood of their coat.

The woman’s wavy, dark, hair fell down to her lower back, her green eyes illuminating in the darkness. She had high cheekbones, olive skin, and a sense of intensity in her gaze; classic Italian features. No one would expect for the woman, Natalia Bernardi, to be a master of thievery.

Natalia walked down the empty hall and pushed open the golden door at the end of it. She emerged in a room with royal blue furniture and wallpaper, decorated with golden flowers. Natalia strode through the room to the other side where another door stood. She already knew what she was after and where it was.

She moved throughout the palace, passing through the elegant and grand rooms. In a matter of minutes, Natalia entered the Great Gallery; her final destination. The rain blurred the long windows and very faint slivers of moonlight streamed in. Natalia’s black leather boots echoed on the wooden floor as she crossed to the center, spinning on her heels as she soaked in the beauty of the room. She looked up and marveled at the grand chandeliers decked with diamonds. The diamonds were worth about a hundred thousand dollars each. And that is what she was after.

Natalia pulled her most useful accessory as a thief out of her coat pocket. It was a device that attached to walls and produced a long, thin, rope. She tied the rope around her and threw the device to the ceiling of the ballroom. The device stuck to the ceiling painting of cupids and Natalia pressed the control button. The rope pulled her off the floor, allowing her to be level with the diamonds. One by one Natalia took the diamonds off the chandelier and placed them in her black leather bag. Soon, the bag was full of diamonds.

Natalia hung the bag around her neck and brought out another bag filled with fake diamonds made of epoxy. She quickly filled the chandelier up with the fake diamonds, replacing the real ones. With her bag of jewels, Natalia lowered herself to the floor with a grunt, her heels clicking on the wood. As she untied the rope around her, the door at the exit of the Great Gallery slammed shut behind her.

Natalia froze in place, listening intently, her breathing controlled. Soft creaks from the wooden floor fill the room, confirming her suspicions. Natalia wasn’t alone like she thought.

As quick as a bolt of lightning, Natalia whipped around and grabbed her gun from her coat pocket. To her surprise, she found that her gun points at the man she knew all too well by now. The man who worked for British Intelligence, the one that she has been trying to shake off her tail. The man that has been following her for the past three years around the globe, taking note of every assignment she does. The man that has been trying to catch her everytime, but Natalia always outsmarted him. And now, in the dead of night, Damian Walker finally outsmarted her.

“Well well well, Nat,” Damian Walker says tauntingly in his British accent, slowly approaching Natalia. The floor creaked from the pressure of his steps. “After all this time, I get to say I win.”

“I’m surprised you’ve made it this far,” Natalia says, her Italian accent creeping into her voice as she tries to mask her surprise. She holds her ground, her eyes locked on Damian who, she noticed, wields no weapon.

“I’m not one to give up on catching a thief. You’ve committed crimes in 105 different countries and stolen countless, priceless artifacts. You are a threat to international security. And now… I’ve come to escort you to where you belong,” Damian squinted his blue eyes at Natalia. The same shade of blue as the waters of the Mediterranean that Natalia knew so well. The same eyes that have locked on hers so many times before. The ends of Damian’s lips ticked upward as a coy smile spread across his face. “Prison.”

“We’ve done this many times before so you should know by now that this night will end with me kicking your ass,” Natalia countered.

She clenched her jaw and fired her gun at the ceiling, sending bits of dry wall raining down on her opponent. With the distraction, she turned her back on Damian and ran towards the door she entered from. Damian shouts and makes his way through the cloud of dust just in time to see the end of Natalia’s coat disappear behind the door. He ran after her through the rooms of the palace.

Natalia sprints from one room to the next, not daring to stop. She clutches the bag of diamonds as her mind races with a thousand questions. How the hell did Damian find her? How did he know that she would be here tonight? Why did he wait to reveal himself until after she stole the diamonds? How long has he known that she was in Vienna?

Sure, she had encountered Damian so many times before, but never like this. Natalia was a master thief. She was never caught. And she planned to keep it that way.

Natalia burst into the Yellow Salon, panting. She could hear Damian not far behind her, crashing through the rooms. She ran towards the next door but tripped on the yellow, embroidered, footstool. Natalia curses in Italian as she falls forward to the floor, catching herself in a push-up position. Her gun flies out of her hand to the other side of the room.

At that moment, Damian barges into the room, his blonde hair disheveled from the chase. He spots Natalia on the floor, struggling to get to her feet with the footstool tangled up in her legs. He lunges to grab her, to keep her from getting away. Just as his hand is about to grab her arm, Natalia flips onto her back. Her heeled boot connects with Damian’s face as she kicks him. A stream of blood flows from his nose, preoccupying him as Natalia gets to her feet.

She turns and spots her weapon on the floor by the fireplace. Damian notices it too and he and Natalia lock eyes for a moment. Blue and green. Then, simultaneously, they both dive towards the fireplace. Damian grabs Natalia’s arm and shoves her behind him just as she elbows him in the ribs, driving him into a wall. He slides down against the wall, clutching his ribs while trying to manage the blood flowing heavily from his nose. The force of Damian’s push causes Natalia to fall backwards over one of the yellow armchairs, tipping it over. She climbs to her feet, eyeing the man slumped against the wall. Natalia lunges towards where her gun lay.

Suddenly, something, or more like someone, grabs her ankle. Natalia face-plants onto the floor, gasping, her fingers two feet away from her weapon. She slides on the floor, farther away from her gun, as Damian drags her back, still clutching her foot.

Her body aching from the amount of times she fell in the past five minutes, Natalia struggled to her feet, as the shadow of her opponent passed over her. Natalia straightens in time to see Damian crouch to the floor and pick up her gun. He turns holding the weapon in his hands, but not pointing it at her either. For a few moments they stare at each other silently, Natalia glaring at her weapon in her enemy’s hands.

All she knew was that she had to get out. She had to leave. There was no way that, after all this time, Natalia would go to prison. Sure, she’s stolen a plethora of things from different places, but she’s worked too hard, risked too much, to get caught now.

“Are you going to behave now?” Damian asks her, wiping the blood still streaming from his nose with the sleeve of his black leather jacket. “If you do, then I won't press charges against you for vandalizing a historic palace.”

“You think I should feel intimidated by you. Well on the contrary, you holding that does not faze me a bit,” Natalia says, slowly walking backward, preparing to make a run for the door behind her if she has to.

“You don’t have to pretend to be all brave you know, Nat,” Damian tells her, as his eyes rested on hers. Was Natalia imagining it or was there real concern and sympathy in his voice? When Natalia doesn’t reply, Damian continues. “Why do you steal things? Why did you start a life like this?”

“That's none of your damn business!” Natalia retorts.

“Technically it is since I’ve been following you for so long,” Damian counters.

“Don’t you mean stalking me for so long?” Natalia says, raising her voice slightly.

“I wouldn’t consider it stalking since all I am trying to do is my job and catch a thief!” Damian exclaims. “All I am asking you now is to come quietly so we can stop this chasing nonsense! I’m sure a few long years in prison will help you reflect on your actions. I mean… is this really the life you want?” Damian gestures at the turned over furniture, the bag of diamonds around Natalia, and the gun.

All that was going through Natalia’s mind was the fact that she had to leave. That she couldn’t afford to get caught. Her heart was racing. Maybe Damian was trying to sugar-coat it, but she knew she would have to spend way more than “a few long years” in prison. She’d be charged for life. And she couldn’t have that.

The room was dark, all except for the little wisps of moonlight streaming in from the rain covered windows. If it weren’t for the moonlight, Natalia wouldn’t even be able to see Damian, standing ten feet away from her. The taps of the rain outside and their heavy breathing filled the silence.

With the burning, impulsive, desire to get away, Natalia grabbed the closest chair and flung it in Damian’s direction, not even bothering to see if the chair met her target. Natalia sprinted out the door and into the hall. She could hear Damian’s scuffles as a loud crash sounded behind her.

She flew down the stairs, jumping down the steps four at a time, and entering the hall where she first broke in. She could hear Damian upstairs, his footsteps drawing closer to the top of the stairs. Natalia knew she didn’t have enough time if she wanted to escape. She opened the doors that she entered from and raced into the rain, not even bothering to collect her umbrella. She ran down the palace steps and sprinted into the courtyard, towards the gates.

She ran, not even bothering to look back at the palace where she left him. Natalia ran onto the dark streets of Vienna, ignoring the pains in her side. She twisted and turned through the streets randomly. All she knew was that she had to get as far away as possible from Damian Walker.

The cold rain soaked through her clothes and the cobblestones were slippery but she didn't care. As Natalia ran though, she couldn't help but think about what Damian said. His words rang in her head, loud and as clear as the diamonds she’d stolen.

“Is this really the life you want?”

Tears pricked her eyes as Natalia remembered that night when her life changed seven years ago. She stopped in the middle of the street, as the wave of emotions she has pushed down for so long threatened to drown her. The rain soaking her to the bone was as cold as it was on that night when she was fifteen years old. The screams and the sound of gunshots still haunt her.

Always traveling. Always running. That was the outcome of it all.

Natalia blinked back the tears threatening to escape and shook the sound of Damian’s voice out of her head. His words didn’t matter. Nothing mattered unless she let it. He didn’t know her. And even if Natalia could change, tomorrow she’d be more of a fugitive than ever. She’d continue to live the life of an outlaw.

And Damian Walker would always have to chase after her.

Thank you so much for reading! I really appreciate it 🫶🏻

tag list: @inkstainsonmysheets @ria-lina @caramelmiacchiato @violetvines @7975348473 @y2kinnow

#talah writes #where it wasn’t supposed to be #original short story #ocs #natalia bernardi #damian walker #damain x natalia #spy espionage #enemies to lovers

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gripefroot · 4 months ago

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Docked (Part 1)

Not even wooden shutters with rags stuffed in the slats to keep the draft out, charmingly framed by yellowed lace curtains, keep the noise out.

Curiosity piques with the patter of running footsteps past the musty old house, but you keep your eyes on your, hopefully, customer. The old lady picked up and put down every dish you’d brought over the course of the last half-hour. With a courtesy cup of tea you’d poured yourself at her command long gone, with only the chipped old cup left in your hand with the dregs of tea leaves, the blasting horn of a ship shakes the house on its timbers.

The old lady doesn’t hear. She hears very little.

“This does remind me of my wedding crockery,” she says, picking up a painted blue teacup again, holding it to a lamp. That’s all the light she allows in her house. The windows are stuck shut to prevent her from catching a cold. Yes, even in late summer, when you’re on the verge of heatstroke if you don’t feel a cool breeze soon.

“And this one—” a pink, flowery design “—is so like my late mother’s . . .”

The horn blasts again. A shiver goes up your spine, curiosity gone fevered. It sounds like his horn, doesn’t it? Could he have arrived? Could he be there? Used to hearing the horn from your cottage in the hills, hearing it from town right by the harbor makes it a deeper bray, nearer and more thrumming. There’s no way to know for sure if it’s him . . . besides going to the harbor to see.

“But I just don’t know which to buy,” the little lady frets. Her hands shake, the cup thankfully soon nestled again amongst the straw in the crate.

“Take your time,” you’d told her upon arriving, but that had been hours ago, and Law could be there. There would be no repeat of the reassurance.

Through the blocked window, people pass. Your ear tilts toward their conversation, hoping for a clue that it might be him, it could be him.

“—crane from the mill—”

“—mumblemumble new rope—”

What could that mean? What could that mean?

Scooting to the edge of the overdressed chair, you set the teacup on its saucer on the table holding your crate. Of all the days to be asked to bring samples to the house-ridden! She’s a dear old lady, truly, but her tug on your heart is nothing like Law’s. Even the thought of Law holds a firmer sway than anything else. That it could be him. It could, it could.

“Oh! I forgot that I made sandwiches for you.” The old lady primly brushes her skirt, gray curls bobbing around her face. “Would you fetch them from the kitchen? That’s a sweet girl, you are . . .”

It isn’t until the afternoon is nearly gone, with the crate under one arm where a receipt is tucked for the old lady’s long-awaited order, and a sandwich quarter in your mouth and two more in your hand, that you’re released from the stuffy prison. It could be days until the scent of patchouli leaves your nostrils, but that’s quickly forgotten as you dash down the dirt road toward the harbor.

No ships. Not a single one. Not even a dingy or a buoy, bobbing in the waves that drift into the natural harbor from the sea. Skitting to a stop, you swallow a bite of sandwich thickly, misery pricking your eyelids. Well, it isn’t the first time you’ve been disappointed, but it won’t be the last . . .

The bay is flanked on both sides by hills, reaching into the soft blue sky devoid of clouds. The summer greens the slopes like a painter’s brush, only the briefest tint of gold in the very tops of the highest trees hinting at change. It’s always been lovely, but then and there, it hurts like a weight in your belly. The horn could have been any passing ship . . . it could have resupplied and moved on twice over in the time you’d been delayed making a sale. If it had been Law, he would have stayed longer. So it hadn’t been him at all. Only a wish and a dream and now, it’ll be a lonely night on the bluffs with supper for one.

Well, it’s nothing new.

Turning from the barren harbor, you sigh, taking another bite of sandwich. It tastes of ash. And then your feet stop moving, stuck in place at the scene unfolding in front of your eyes.

The lemon-yellow globe of the Polar Tang: not in the harbor at all, but lifted by a crane and secured on the earth with wooden stakes and numerous cords of rope. The reason it was hoisted from the sea is immediately obvious. The outer shell bears a deep scrape, the long shape reminiscent of a cat’s claw defending itself. White-suited crewmen dot around the ship; some around the scrape and some using brooms to clean algae from the belly of the Polar Tang. But among them, you don’t see Law. Was he—could he have been hurt? Or killed? Was the scrape deep enough to have flooded the ship with seawater? Or had the gushing pressure pulled him out?

Sand drags at your feet, slowing your path to the Polar Tang until firm dirt and flattened grass replace it. Crockery clatters in your crate, which you set down beneath a tree for safekeeping, stuffing the last bit of sandwich into your mouth.

“Shachi!”

Shachi, mid-scrubbing a patch of darkened algae, stops, head turning until he sees you. He smiles, waving. “Did you hear the horn? Captain said you’d come and help clean up the ship.”

“Oh, did he?” Irritation—a fluttery, aching version of it—makes saying something clever or useful difficult. So he wasn’t hurt, or drowned. Relief overtakes the irritation. “Where’s Penguin?”

“Getting kerosene for Ikkaku to start welding this shut.” Shachi jerks a thumb at the giant scrape.

“What happened?”

“Sea monster.” He says it in a grim voice. “We were lucky to escape. Thought we were goners.”

“You must have been close to this island,” you say. “You couldn’t have gotten far in that condition.”

“Nope. We were headed here anyway. Captain had something he . . .” Shachi’s face goes visibly blank beneath his hat, as if thinking very hard, and apparently comes up short.

“He what?” you prompt.

“I’m not sure.”

With that helpful tidbit of information, you grimace. Shachi whistles too loudly and too obviously as he dips his broom again into a bucket of suds to resume scrubbing the algae.

“Where is the Captain, Shachi?” you ask in a drone.

“No idea.”

“Did he go into town?”

“Could’ve.”

“Is he on the ship?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Did you see him walking away?” Frustration makes your question shorter than intended. Shachi is likeable, as is everyone on the crew, but the vagueness of his answers while he was obviously hiding something tickles your temper.

“No,” Shachi says, and you can’t tell if it’s a lie or not.

You make it three stomps away, ready to start screaming for Law if he doesn’t magically appear, before Bepo appears, black eyes shining from his tufts of white fur.

“Help us!” he pleads, clasping his paws together in front of him. “Pretty please, oh, please!”

“How much will you pay me?”

“Anything, anything!”

Of course, Bepo wouldn’t pay anything. Pay was decided by a ship’s captain. And this Captain was nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be bargained with. Besides, flirting about payment was reserved for Law and Law alone. A burst of laughter broke out between crew members (one of which soaked the other and then got a bash on the head from a broom in return.) With a sigh, you unbutton your jacket.

“It looks like fun,” you tell Bepo. And sooner or later, Law will come back, and I want to see him.

Without the skill to repair the tear in the ship’s hull, you’re regulated to a broom and soapy bucket. Boots stick out from beneath the ship, where it’s lifted by the wooden supports. Algae must be growing there, too. But you find a place far from Shachi to start scrubbing, wondering what exactly is directly inside the ship from where you are . . .

Autumn might kiss the hilltops but the sun still beats the valley. Heat radiates from the metal ship, worsening the sweat that comes from hard work. The algae is stubborn, too, or the soap is weak. Other crew members work nearby, uniforms stripped to the waist in the heat; easy to talk to and easy to laugh with. Very few ask questions about you, and on the occasion that your eyes move from the ship to your companions, odd glints or curious tilts are visible in their visages.

They know who I am. Or, they suspect something.

But why be embarrassed? It’s Law that should be embarrassed.

With each portion of the Polar Tang back to shining yellow, you pick up your bucket and move to the next section. And the next. And the next. The blue of the sky darkens, the sun finally dipping beneath the hills to give some relief to your baked skin.

“Has anyone got a ladder? A ladder?” But all the ladders are in use. You puff out tired breath, staring at the patch of algae higher up on the hull. The broom won’t reach it.

He owes me for this. Big time.

It’s different from Law helping with Fire Night. You aren’t sure how, yet, but it must be.

“No ladder,” Bepo says regretfully, arms full of metal sheets meant for the welders. “But I can lift you up.”

“May as well,” you say, preparing in your mind a speech to ask for gold bars or chests of jewels or something else a merchant captain wouldn’t be able to afford, just so he can think he wins when you settle for something simple.

Bepo is a soft seat, mounds of warm fur around your legs where you sit on his shoulder. He holds your ankles in place, yawning loudly as you scrub, scrub, scrub the blasted algae.

For no other reason, I will never own a ship.

“It had giant yellow eyes,” Bepo says, a contented storyteller while he has the excuse of ‘helping’ in the basest sense of the word. “And I counted the fins on its belly—not two, or four, or six. Eight! Eight fins!”

“Did it bite the ship, then? Is that what happened? “Oh, no, it had terrible long arms and legs with claws longer than spears. Sharp, too. Fastest bugger I’ve ever seen. Couldn’t outrun it. Captain set a tricky little trap for it, but it barely worked, and if it hadn’t, we’d be halfway through the monster’s intestines by now.”

Bepo describes the trap; a sizable room that the monster had unwittingly swam into and consequently had its head severed from its body with its jaws wide open to bite the Polar Tang in half. It’s a gruesome scene, playing around in my mind, but with each close call fervently described, your stomach turns from what could have happened.

“—only a few injuries, too,” Bepo says. He categorizes each one, the injured crew members taken to the doctor in town as soon as they’d docked.

“Couldn’t your captain have healed them?” you ask.

“Usually, but this time he was injured, too.”

Injured?

Shachi had said nothing of injuries! Suddenly Law’s absence makes sense. Suddenly, your annoyance that he hasn’t made an appearance and you’ve been cleaning his ridiculous lemon of a ship isn’t so important. Without realizing, your scrubbing ceases, and it isn’t until Bepo glances up that you startle into the present.

“Uh, are you done?”

“Let her take a break already, Bepo.” A voice drawls from some distance, away, your heart skipping a beat. Bepo turns, taking your wobbly balance with him. Beneath the shady leaves of a tree, Law is stretched out. His hat lays on the grass next to him, fingers laced behind his head. Floppy, black hair hangs in front of his forehead and around his ears. Bandages stick out from his tank top. But he mustn’t be in mortal danger, if he’s snoozing beneath a tree.

“How long have you been there?” you squawk. Bepo lowers you to the ground, rubbing the back of his furry neck once you’re firmly on your feet.

“Long enough,” Law says.

“And you didn’t say anything?” The broom clenches in your fist. Much like a weapon, if you knew how to wield one. But you could wield a broom, and that might be threatening enough. Stalking toward the tree, you scarcely notice the hive of crew around the ship going on with the chores.

His eyes are slits, through which the gleam of his black eyes follows your approach. Something akin to a smile lifts one side of his mouth.

“I was taking a nap,” he says. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You are the doctor!”

“Well, I’d better take my advice, hadn’t I?” Law yawns, covering his mouth with one tattooed hand. He winces when he lowers it. But his injuries are driven from your mind when you see what he’s laying on.

“My pillow!” The shriek in your voice would embarrass you, another time, but fear and annoyance make those sorts of things seem unimportant. “Where did you get that?”

“From your bed, of course.” Law settles back into your pillow, against the tree. “An injured man like me can’t be expected to find bark comfortable, now can he?” He eyes the broom in your hand.

“But my—but my—” Your voice trembles. “Where’s my crate of crockery?” This is the same tree you’d left it beneath. It was nowhere in sight.

“At your cottage.”

“But—”

Now Law smiles, really smiles, but it isn’t the sweet smile that he gives you in private. It’s a wrenching, coy thing. “I thought you’d thank me for lugging that pottery up to your cottage for you.”

You snort. “You haven’t lugged a day in your life.”

“Well, I saved you from lugging it, then.” Law pauses. “I have a gift for you.”

“You owe me two,” you tell him. “I’ve been working for hours scrubbing your dumb ship.”

“Oh, I’ll pay you back for that.” The low tone of his voice skitters across your skin. “But I need you to be patient with me. You can be patient, can’t you? I’m a bit laid-up at the moment.”

“Your attitude seems to be in fine shape,” you say, dropping the broom.

“And yours is unusually snappish. Didn’t you like Bepo’s company?”

“I like Bepo just fine. But I didn’t come looking for him.”

“Oh?” That insinuation is in his voice again. “Well, I’m looking for something myself, too. Doctor’s orders, and all that.”

“Something? Not someone?”

He means to tease, and unfortunately, he succeeds. The smirk makes his features arrogant. “Doctor says I need a real bed to rest in.”

“There’s a hotel in town.” You bend over, reaching for your pillow—it’ll be covered in dirt now, the wretch—but Law pushes all his weight into it, and you try unsuccessfully to pull it free. His smirk is gone, eyes drifting to the neckline of your tank top.

Hmm.

Grabbing the pillowcase with both hands, you pull again, lighter this time to mimic real effort. The action pushes your breasts closer together, bulging over the neckline. Success: Law’s throat bobs, eyes gone half-focused. Some of his weight loosens from the pillow. The tip of his tongue wets his lips. Bingo.

One final yank frees the pillow. Law’s eyes widen when his back hits the trunk of the tree. Smiling, one hand on your waist and the other tossing the pillow over your shoulder, you laugh.

“You’re easier to best than you think,” you tease.

“I let you best me,” Law counters. He’s smiling, too, with a tinge of that secret sweetness.

“If you’re going to crash in my bed, which I assume you mean to, you’ve dirtied your own pillow,” you tell him. “I get the clean one.”

“I can live with that.”

You hold out a hand. Law stares, then reaches for it. With a heavy grunt he gets to his feet, swaying slightly as he clutches his middle.

“Was it the sea monster?” you ask in a low voice. You want to reach out and touch the bandages; to see what damage is beneath, but he grips your hand too tightly.

“No.” Irritation snaps his dark brows together. Then, grudgingly, he says, “A shelf fell on me while I was dealing with the sea monster.”

His obvious mortification turns your amusement into hilarity. Laughing, you wrap his arm around your middle (for support, no other reason.) He leans against you, lips tight in a sign of long-suffering.

“I won’t tell anyone,” you vow.

“Yeah, but you’re gonna laugh about it every day for a week.”

“I like to laugh. Thank you for giving me a reason.”

Law is here. The bubbling joy of it makes laughter easy. Matching steps so that Law isn’t jostled too much is a tricky dance, but by the time the main road through town comes into sight, the pair of you are making better time.

“Where will your crew stay?” you ask. “Or can they still bunk on the ship?”

“They can bunk on the ship,” he says. “Or beneath the stars—the weather is fair enough.”

“And the other injured?”

“At the hospital in town.”

“You didn’t want to stay at the hospital?”

“I don’t like watching other doctors work.” Law tries to shrug, but mostly he bumps you. “Telling them what they’re doing wrong makes them angry and angry doctors don’t take care.”

He pants in your ear, walking clearly an effort. His face is pale, paler as night spreads across the sky.

“Kinda glad that monster got us,” he grunts. The road grows rockier out of town, the path winding up the hills. “I was expecting to have to leave in the morning, but since the ship’s got to have her maintenance until she’ll sail smooth again, we’re stuck here a while.”

“Oh, no,” you say sympathetically. “I am so sorry. What a disappointment for your plans to fall apart like that . . .”

Law growls. You laugh.

“What’s my gift?” you ask.

“At your house.” A few more heavy steps up the hill. “I thought you’d be home. That’s why I went straight there. I wasn’t avoiding you.” The lack of harshness in his voice makes it more real—his sincerity. He’s trying to explain himself. Why you had to wait so long to see him. Why he wasn’t there when you were. Away from town, away from his crew—all that honesty comes easier out of him.

And that heals a lot of wounds.

“You don’t have to bring me presents, you know,” you tell him. “I only tease you about it because—because I only want to know that you think about me when you’re not here.”

“Of course I think about you.” Law says it like it’s obvious. He sees it differently. He’s not the one that stays in one place, reliant on the other to come back, time and time again. He doesn’t know the fear of not knowing if there will be an again.

But sweet words and tender assurances don’t flower. It’s not his way. But when his body presses against yours and his breath tickles your ear and his fingertips press into your waist—words aren’t needed. Not really. But words remain longer than touches, and he only visits a few times a year . . .

The cottage is dark. You hadn’t lit a fire before going into town early that morning, expecting to return long ago. Law sinks onto the edge of the bed with a soft groan. Starlight comes through the open window, making the angles of his face harsh. His eyes are closed.

“I have tea for pain,” you say. Sure that he won’t topple over, you go to the fireplace first, to strike a flint against tinder. Golden light fills the cottage, driving out the night.

“I’m fine.”

Rather than argue, you prepare the tea: carrying the kettle outside to fill at the water pump, then hang on the iron crane bracketed into the brick around the fireplace. Dinner will be needed, too. Law stretches out on your bed, punching the dirty pillow into place beneath his head before slinging an arm over his eyes.

“If you were in that much pain, you could have transported us here with that silly power of yours,” you tell him, crumbling willow bark into a mortar to grind into tea.

“Wasn’t in pain then. Walk did me in.”

“What kind of shelf was this, anyway?”

“Heavy one.”

“When I imagine you in my bed, I don’t daydream nursing you back to health.”

“Lucky you.” His head tilts, favoring you with a smile across the cottage. Weak as he was, his smile is as potent as ever, and you nearly grind your thumb into the tea leaves. “But don’t worry. I’ve already thought about how we can get around this.”

“Oh?”

“You can sit on my face.”

“Oh, I see,” you say. Steam rises from the kettle, flames licking the bottom of it. “You’re expecting me to do all the work because—am I getting this right?—a little shelf just grazed your ribs.”

Law’s laugh is hoarse. You dump the tea into a mug.

“I miss you when you’re not around,” he says.

Silence.

“You don’t have to leave every time,” you say.

More silence.

With a rag wrapped around your hand, you lift the kettle to pour a stream of water into the mug. Woodsy willow-scent fills your nose. Law doesn’t reply, not even when you carry the mug to the bed. His eyes are hooded, but they meet yours fearlessly. Stubborn man, but not so stubborn he refuses you. He sits up, face contorting in discomfort.

“Let it cool for a little while,” you say, and that’s that.

He’s out cold before the soup is done. Pity makes your stomach a heavy stone, watching firelight flicker on his pale face. One arm is draped over his middle, blankets pulled to his waist. His neck is kinked. What has he gone through, since the sea monster attack? Could this be his first prospect of uninterrupted sleep?

Yes, that’s most likely. A ship damaged as the shredded Polar Tang would need the captain to get it safely into harbor, not to mention his injured crew. Poor thing.

He doesn’t move, while you prepare dinner and eat. He doesn’t move when you close the shutters and curtains and bank the fire. And he doesn’t move when you crawl into bed beside him, taking advantage of his silence to lay close to him. Not so close to bother any part of his body that might be hurting, but close enough to feel his warmth and presence, soothing the ache in your bones; the yearning for him.

A/N: I have so much fun writing this pair that this particular "one shot" got out of hand lmao. The next part is half done already so it shouldn't be too long of a wait. LMK if you like it!

#one piece #trafalgar d law x reader #one piece fanfiction #trafalgar law x reader

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honeyhonest · 8 days ago

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okay whatever I keep saying I'm going to write this and I did. I guess. not editing any of this because it took like 2 hours to write. crowyuu overblot trauma comfort. indulgence. youredddjwelcome eee

✧˖°. death and absolution

warnings: gn!reader, fluff and hurt/comfort, reader is ADULT yuu, graphic depictions of injury (yay 💖), and physical trauma, and PTSD (yay 💖)

length: long, like 3k words or something

There's a paradox in weakness at Night Raven College.

It is something that both does not exist within the stone walls of the college, and yet something that the school and its scholars can not exist without.

Weakness is a commodity. Worth more than thaumarks (though no one has really explained the value of those to you yet), worth more than magestones, worth more than top marks or passing grades, which are much more valuable for the burnouts and flukes of NRC, of which there are so very many. It's like virginity, in a sickening sense; something to be bought and sold.

And yet not. Weakness is not something that can be done away with; something that one can lose in a game of cards or a night of poor decisions. It is a bottomless well, its waters disturbed by both desperate begging, wrinkled and wet fingers clawing at the walls, cold voice carrying but not far enough to breach the surface, and from nothing. From stillness, from silence, from the drip, drip, drip of your own mind. The waters will rise whether you cry or not. The only way out is with a hand, or a rope, something either warm or impersonal, thrown into the depths and into your waiting arms.

No student at NRC would reach out to you.

The well deepens, up to your waist, your chest, your neck, until your treading trepid waters, staving off the stench of depth and death. It cannot be traded away or given to someone as a gift; your weakness is infinite, filling your throat and wrinkling your skin.

You suppose it's more like love, then. Not like sex.

And there's quite a difference between a weakness of the body and of the mind- emotional, mental, spiritual weakness, that which makes you easy to manipulate, that which makes you naive, or desperate, or meek- stays beneath the surface, beneath the flesh, where it belongs, and where it can only be found by those who look for it.

Weakness of the body is more of an advertisement than it is a state of being. Easy mark, it says, Free meal.

You haven't been here for long, but you're sure of that.

Battered and bruised, beaten raw, with broken ribs and an abused sense of being, a limp in your left foot that aches with each step, and a pain in your lungs with each breath.

Your head had hit something hard. A rock? A wall? A person? Whatever it was, it left your ears ringing. Would you never hear again? Or walk? Both seem likely. But, here, your weakness spilling out of your side and nose and mouth (had you broken your nose? Lost a tooth? Numb is everything to the point of nothing. And now you're not making any sense) and your hands, both of which had been punctured, or impaled, you suppose would be the better word, the righter one, by black tendrils of blot, thorns which ripped through the muscles and flesh but didn't kill you, or, at least you thought they didn't. You could barely tell. Were you even breathing?

It had stung for a moment, muscles pierced through like your flesh was made of pillow fluff, like a needle threading through fabric, and the pain was unlike anything; the blot, black and thick and sticky, felt like poison beneath your flesh, staining where it stung, turning the raw, red viscera of your veins and muscles black, just black. Darker than the darkest night you had ever seen, a starless sky beneath your skin.

And then it was numb. Nothingness. You couldn't hear nor feel, and your eyes were only open enough to make out the shapes and colors of dirt and blot and rose bushes being thrown over you like toys.

You were going to die here. You were sure of that.

It wasn't necessarily a bad feeling. There was no cold rush of adrenaline, no attempt on your body's behalf to get you on your feet. No final chances, you supposed. No sinking feeling of dread. Your life didn't even flash before your eyes- there was just the darkened sky and the dirt.

You had taken a big hit. Your body told you so. Or maybe everybody had, and everybody was dead, and you were simply to be another name on the memoriam.

You were trying to protect Grim, someone (-thing?) you hadn't known for more than a few weeks. What a foolish way to die.

And that's what got to you most, you supposed: you should have felt like a hero, standing in front of certain death as if it were no more dangerous than a mouse in the kitchen, but you didn't. You felt terribly, terrible embarrassed, and afraid. Not of dying, but of dying in front of all these boys. Your mind fizzled and popped like a faltering engine, and yet you still thought of the memory; you must have looked pathetic, being flung back like that. How embarrassing, to be so weak. To die so easily.

You know you haven't broken your spine or neck, because you can feel the ache of your back better than anything else in your body, now. Sore and sorry but not broken.

Perhaps you'll live. The thought lingers with you. It's almost as disturbing as the thought of death.

No more dirt or dust. There's an absence of sound altogether, a great silence. Is this it? You're dying. This is death.

There is, then, a blue heel before you, and the back of someone's leg, and a blinding light, and if you could move you might have tugged on the stiff trousers and said "I'm here, I'm here", but you can't, and you don't mind, and it doesn't matter, because you think they know.

And then you're alone again.

Half-buried in dirt and debris, rose bushes and blot, it's almost impossible to tell that the sky had cleared of angry clouds some seconds before, and now a symphony of voices is calling out. Not for you, but for...

R...

...Rib... No, Rid...

Riddle, that's it.

He lived? You suppose you shouldn't be surprised; he's more powerful than he looks.

The voices soften to weak whispers and pleas of sympathy, for Riddle, not for you, though, again, you're not surprised. You're not even upset. You're a stranger, a passing someone, nameless. You only have a face when you need it, when you feel eyes peering into yours.

"R...iddle... okay...?"

"Mother?"

Whose voice was that? How valiant it sounded, strong yet soft, like a lullaby. Firm yet forgiving. You'd been forgotten in the sea of soft voices, and it cradled your manger, and you wanted to close your eyes.

"WHERE'S MY HENCHHUMAN?!"

You would have woken with a start if you could move a muscle besides the balls of your feet, which were digging into the dirt, and your eyelids, which were resisting your order to stay open.

That was Grim. Loud and demanding as ever- then you'd done something right. You saved him. There's a tense desperation, too, in his mewls, and the sound of disturbed leaves and debris.

The sun is back. It's bright, and uncomfortable. You almost miss the clouds of blot that had blocked it.

"Henchhuman!"

"Prefect!"

There's feeling in your shoulders now, a frightful shock of pain, a prying heat, hotter than the plasma spilling out of your side and your mouth and your hands and your nose. Though most of the stuff on your face is dry by now, entombing you in thick, black blot, and blood.

You don't want to be seen like this.

Those cries, those titles that aren't your name, they're shrill and shaky, and... scared. There's a crack in the voice of someone holding your hand, but theirs is blank and pale and bereft of even the tiniest bruise, and so with the waning strength in your shoulders, you pull away.

You don't want to be touched by clean hands. Not now.

"Don't touch," someone says, much clearer than the tear-soaked sounds of the others. "You'll only make it worse by moving them."

Them? Who? You, you suppose, but you're not sure how you could be any worse.

"They're not breathing!" someone cries, scared, and it's terrible. If you could scowl... but you can't, and your eyes are barely open, only enough to make out light and shadows through a shimmer of tears.

You don't want to be seen. You don't want someone to yell about whether you're breathing or not. You want to be alone.

"Yes, they are. See, there? Now, out of the way. Please bring Mr. Rosehearts to the infirmary, and I'll be with you tonight,"

Then Trey's voice. Your hearing is healing well. "Tonight? But-"

"Please see to Professor Trein for further assistance,"

"But Riddle-"

"I'll be with you both tonight,"

Two hands around your broken body. You bitterly cough up some blot, and the burning in your ribs makes you moan, but you hope Trey saw it and felt bad for trying to take him away from you.

Him. Who? The hands under your knees and around your back, but there's surely a body that goes with them, and a name with that, too.

You had recognized Riddle's voice, Grim's voice, and then Trey's, but not this one. You can barely keep your head up, and when you try to open your eyes, you're stung by tears and dirt.

"Stop that," he (who?) says, and you suddenly know you're alone with him, walking to somewhere, but not the infirmary, because that's where Riddle is, and he (who?) said he would be there tonight. Not now.

"Stop squirming, you'll only hurt yourself more."

Were you squirming? You can't tell. Maybe it was an involuntary twitch, a spasm of the muscles that had been torn and maimed. He's not scolding you, but his hold tightens, as if he's afraid you're going to squirm out of his arms. You can't feel a thing.

It's warm in here. Sticky, humid warm. There's talking, not to you, but about you, and then there's a slamming door and a muffled damn! But it's not the same man as before, not the one that laid you here, on something too soft for your beaten body.

Stinging. Numb, but bothersome, and wet, and sticky, and warm. Bandages around your hands. Something magic (some magic has a strange kind of smell, you've noticed) but not magic enough to undo the blot. Your hands are still blackened. Your veins are pulsing with something putrid and sick.

Something is forced down your throat, and for the first time in hours, you struggle. Your hands, black and bruised, still feel better bandaged, and you find the strength to beat them against the chest of whomever or whatever is bottle-feeding you bile.

Medicine. It tastes of black tar and bitter herbs.

But it also makes you better, in the sense that you can feel your body without pain, which is a feeling you had forgotten. Lithe, with the lingering ache of abuse and battery. A foggy memory.

Whatever it is, it's strong, and for the next few hours, or, as you would later find, days, your body and mind are divorced from themselves, separated by a plastic partition in fleshy pink, something dragged out of storage, no doubt.

Someone tends to you- well, more than one someone, but a someone all the same. They cloth you clean, they stitch your wounds and sooth your welts. You'd come to learn, as your head trauma mended and your hearing improved, that your legs had been covered in burns. Not bad ones. According to whomever kept coming into the room to brush over them with a cooling cream, at least. But they were there.

You also learn, later, that it wasn't your damaged hearing that hid your healer's identity, but your head itself. A concussion that did not go away, after days of doctoring you were still confused, lost in a forgetful fog of distant voices and violent feelings of fear.

It healed, though. The fear did not.

You had lost your balance, both from your brain injury and from your bodily injuries and from being bedridden for weeks. You had to be helped, which meant you had to relearn how to walk, which meant you had to rely on him. Crowley, that is. And, anyway, one day, while you were making your rounds in your room, in Ramshackle, where you'd been taken, you lost your balance and fell, and when met with the sight of his heel, blue leather, you felt quite certainly that you were back There, and you must have screamed, or something equally as startling, because the next thing you knew, Crowley had carried you back to bed (or dragged you, really) and stayed by your side for all of four hours, which is how long it took for the feeling to pass.

There would be more incidents like that.

You would also learn that, on That Day, it was him who had taken a protective position in front of you, and though he never said it, and you didn't, either, you both know that you would have died if he hadn't blocked the last few blot attacks.

You didn't want to think about it.

You were magicless. You couldn't defend yourself, like the others could- even the weakest, dullest, most disappointing first-years had been able to deflect. You took everything.

You fell into a fugue. You felt nothing, almost all of the time, until the fleeting moments where a sweet smell or a loud sound would startle you, and you would suddenly feel everything, the weight of the world and your wounds (healed) and your welts (fading) on your throat, crushing the air out of it, and even though you could see your surroundings quite clearly, and you could feel your bed beneath your feet, and you could hear the howl of the wind outside Ramshackle, you were There again, you felt the same fear, the same pain, the same humiliation and shame that tore you apart like your injuries, like the healed holes in your hands where you still couldn't quite feel anything, because of the muscles that had been maimed there. They would never wholly heal.

You did not return to classes. You couldn't. It wasn't Riddle's fault, and you weren't afraid of him, though everyone thought you were- it was, in fact, them. Everyone, that is. You didn't want to be around anyone.

Perhaps it was depression. Or some sense of shame and cowardice and shame for that cowardice, that clawed its way up your stomach and sat on your tongue and made you gag.

Crowley coaxed you with promises and bribes. He brought you books, and papers, and Grim, who was, perhaps, the only student you wanted to see, but never for long, because you didn't want him to worry. Which was pointless- he worried, anyhow.

You did not return. Crowley never forced you, which would have been suspicious if not for the weeks following, wherein it became more and more obvious that he was soft on you, that he favored you. Perhaps that was only because it was him you looked for when you woke up at night, trembling and numb from nightmares. Perhaps it was because you clung to his side and cried into his cloak when you needed to. Perhaps it was because you didn't want to see anyone else; you couldn't even look at them.

Perhaps it was because he paid his dues in your happiness, diligently sleeping at your side and dutifully making you smile, something that was usually only reserved for him, and sometimes Grim, when it was only the two of you.

Your body mended itself. Months went by. You still woke up crying, even from the mundane dreams, the ones where you're signing a cheque at the bank or waiting in line at the grocery store. And the happy ones, the ones with Ace and Deuce and sometimes Trey and Cater, and especially Grim. You never dreamt of Crowley; you supposed you had no need to when he was already in your bed, somewhere he absolutely should not have been, but he was sweet on you and never had the heart to say "no". He enjoyed it, anyhow. He wouldn't cuddle you, curl his body around yours and bury himself in the crook of your neck, if he didn't. You never asked him to touch you- that was something he did on his own.

You could suddenly walk, and talk like you used to, though there was always an impression of distance and disgust with the outside world, as if you were gesturing through a wall of glass rather than speaking. You returned to your classes, and you cooked, and you cleaned, and Crowley stayed in your bed, because you still wake up crying and clawing the sheets as if trying to escape something. That which could never go away, and so neither does he.

You feel afraid, most days, but you're never sure of what. There's always a tension, a tautness in your body, as if you're being hunted by something that isn't really there. Your mind thinks you're in danger when you're in bed, or in the bathroom, and your throat closes and your body goes numb and cold and you can't move, you can't speak. Some days it happens in class, and Crowley must be called in to take you back to your room, because you refuse to let anyone else come close. You shudder and cry and hold your head over your desk and feel humiliated, and feel afraid, but mostly humiliated, that you can't control yourself, even after all these months, even after your body had healed and your mind had mended, even after the brain fog of your concussion had faded and you could read your textbooks properly again.

And you are angry, but at yourself, not at anyone you know or knew, but at yourself, for being this weak. For needing someone to hold your hand and kiss your head and tell you you're safe, and you're well, and that he won't let anything hurt you. For needing someone in your bed at night, only to be with you, only to be there when you wake up, because you can't remember the last time you had a whole night of sleep.

And you are angry that you let yourself be so weak in a place that preys on weakness. And yet, you want to be weak, too, you want to be a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf, you want to be bitten and swallowed and digested in something's stomach, you want pity as much as you resent it, but you're not a rabbit, and you're not perfect, and you're not pitiful enough to deserve to be weak, and you're not weak enough to deserve to be pitied. But you are. Weak, that is. And you yell, and throw things, some nights, and break into sobs on broken glass and splintered wood, and you cry until you can't breathe, and you beg for it to go away, but no one can take it, and you don't really want them to, either.

And you are angry that your weakness is hurting others, that you had to push them all away for survival, so that you wouldn't become the predator that had preyed on you first. That Riddle won't look at you, his eyes soft gray with guilt, and you know he struggles like you have, like you do, but you can't ask him about it. That your friends are strangers again, that you've made them that way, because you didn't want them to see you like this, weak and sobbing and wet with tears of guilt in the Headmage's lap.

You want for something to work. You want for this weakness to go away with a flick of the wrist, like in a fairytale. You want to be brave like your comparatively younger classmates, you want the strength to bury your weakness like they do, until it comes bubbling and burning through their stomachs in a fury of rose thorns, sand, and poison.

But you're not them. You never were.

And you have to wait.

Time can't heal all. Or, it won't, since Time is selfish and fastidious and only comes to your door when it needs you, not when you need it, and you have to let it in. And months will happen, and you won't remember them well, other than the fragmented memories, foggy and floating in the far reaches of your mind, of moments where you fell or flew or lied in bed, buried under your blankets, sick with fever. And more months will happen, and you will start to remember things, mundane and important, phone numbers, shopping lists, your street address back in your home world, Crowley's favorite color, which he told you because you asked while you were crying, once, which is blue.

By spring, when you can hold a knife without your wrist wobbling, and there's no numbness in your neck, and if there is, you hardly feel it, you'll make dinner for the Headmage, and he'll compliment your cooking skills (haven't they so improved, lately?)

By spring, you'll sit in his lap, not because you can't stand for long, but just because you'd like to sit there, and he'll kiss the side of your head and hold you by the waist, and you'll smile and laugh like you do now, but not with that lingering miasma of fear, not with that smell of death that you had become so comfortable with to avoid the feeling of life.

And you will be weak. And that will be okay.

#dire crowley x reader #I GUESS #same cover image as yesterday's fic I'm lazy

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tunastime · 3 months ago

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47 and ethubs?

OOOH anon, you know I always want to write Ethubs :3 lets see what song it is!

OOOOOH. Man oh man. This was SUCH a fun song for them, and I really had to listen to it a few times to get the feeling that I wanted to convey. This was a top song of mine either last year or the year before, and my band of ALL TIME. I'm so glad I got my friends into them <33 anyway, here's ethubs! (595 words)

Bdubs has kept a very close eye on Etho. It's hard not to—he. He has to keep himself on a very short leash around Etho right now because/ Well. He's red. Etho is being nice, but he's Etho, and there's something just under the halting laugh of his tone when he tells him he has to stay on one side of the base that threatens as much as it does soothe.

He's Etho.

What does Bdubs mean by that?

The obvious answer would be that Bdubs loves him, much too much and much too easily at that. He has loved Etho for a long time, much longer than Etho has loved him. Much longer than the clouds continue to grey and much longer than the mushy snow walls they've encased themselves in will last. Whether or not Etho knows that is not the focal point of this discussion—it's almost irrelevant, actually, to the weight of his decisions.

Bdubs is spinning in his mind all the possibilities of his survival. Less so than, he thinks, Etho is. Etho’s survival hinges on Bdubs’ death—or it at least hinges on Bdub leaving him to his own devices. Bdubs’ survival hinges on keeping himself alive, obviously, and in the arms of someone who’s safe. For that reason, Bdubs keeps his eyes on Etho. He can’t help but wonder though.

It would be so easy for Etho, to press the sharp tip of his sword into his chest and split the skin. Would he let him? Would he even yell? He'd have to draw the sword against him. Bdubs knows he won’t. He can't kill the thing he loves even if it bites him. And Bdubs bites him, even when he doesn't mean to.

Maybe he does mean to.

Bdubs presses his forehead against the lip of the small window in the closed room he’s been telling all these secrets to. The stone is cold under his skin, but he can’t tell if it’s the abnormal heat of him or the weather outside that makes it feel so icey. Does it really matter?

Right—where was he again?

He has to keep an eye on Etho. Half because he loves him far too much, and half because Etho might kill him just to save himself. He’s still trying to figure out if he’s okay with that.

(When it comes down to it, Bdubs will still be upset. Because as much as Etho promised him that he would live, he never got anything out of it in the end. Etho plays a game that keeps people at arm's length. Or maybe they’re not playing the same game at all.

That’s what Bdubs will learn, but not today.)

Bdubs steps out of the room that feels more like a confessional feeling significantly more thirsty for blood. Etho turns as he notices him from the corner of his eye. His eyes crinkle playfully.

Jumpy.

“What were you doin’ in there?” He asks, tilting his head. Still Etho, afterall.

“Schemin’,” Bdubs grins, shaking off his anxiety. “What’s it to you?”

Etho snorts.

“Nothin’,” he says lightly, turning back to the fire he’s building. The sky is getting orange around the edges. If Bdubs squints, he thinks he might be able to see stars. Beside Etho’s foot rests a battered metal teapot with a short piece of rope tied through the handle. “I was just curious.”

“Right,” Bdubs says. He tugs his cloak a little closer to him. “Aren’t you always?”

Etho laughs.

Bdubs pretends like it doesn’t make the words clam up in his throat.

(send me a number from 1-100 and I'll try to write a fic!)

#ethubs #hermitshipping #ethoslab #bdoubleo100 #last life smp #llsmp #life series #fics #text #last life fic #asks #spotify wrapped asks 2024 #UGHHH they make me sick #back on my ll ethubs bullshit #i hope you allll enjoyyyyy <333 #finally posting this!!!!#anon #mcyt #mcyt fic

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the-californicationist · 1 year ago

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Riptide

Price/FReader for @glitterypirateduck's Oh, Captain! challenge 🩷

Challenge #2 (First time being intimate) and #91 (Snuggling under the stars)

TW: female reader, come play, a bit of casual exhibitionism

After a long mission, you’re slowly making your way back to England, hitching rides with local extraction teams to avoid Russian detection. Somewhere in the Mediterranean, you and the 141 make camp on an island beach and discover an old bottle of rum. Once the sun sets, the rum goes straight to your head, and you and your captain get tangled up in a hammock.

The captain was dressed in his boonie hat, a pair of running shorts, and nothing else, swaying back and forth gently in an old rope hammock. The sunset glowed ruby red, just like the tip of his cigar, and the heat of the day slowly surrendered to a cool, island night.

You’d never seen a pure purple sky before, and you watched it fade until the stars came out, twinkling on the horizon line just above the crashing waves. Your toes were being lapped at by the bright white foam, and every time the tide came toward you, it licked at your skin deeper and deeper, threatening to pull you into its riptide, taking you along with it, claiming you for the sea.

Gaz, Soap, and Ghost were chatting by the fire, nursing one of the bottles of rum they’d discovered amongst the old shipping crates. You’d been skeptical at first, but when Price took a big long swig right in front of you, proving it wasn’t poison, you followed him into the drink. The two of you had made half a bottle disappear before he grew oddly quiet, giving you a strange look and retreating to his hammock bed.

You peered over at him again. A steady flow of blue, milky smoke floated up from his full lips, tangling itself in his beard before blowing away with the night wind. You wanted to taste it. You wanted to feel that fire of his on your tongue. You wanted to be burnt by it, to smolder into glowing embers and ash right along with him.

You looked over your shoulder to make sure the men were distracted before changing out of your wet sports bra. You were wearing a white button down over your black bra and panties, every bit as utilitarian as you had been trained to be, but the damp fabric was making you cold. And perhaps, if he chose to take a look, now that your breasts were unbound, a certain captain might be able to peer into the gaping neckline to see your nipples. You wanted him to see them.

Trying to be very casual about it, you marched over to the roaring bonfire where the boys were sitting and hung your bra with the other drying clothes. You were all in some state of undress, but as you approached, their boisterous conversation lulled, and they watched you fidget once more with your top, choosing to unbutton it just one button further.

“Tsk… You got it bad, sergeant,” Gaz whispered, nodding over to Price, judging you shamelessly.

“Yeah,” you shrugged, “So?”

“Both of you,” Ghost shook his head, taking another swig from the bottle.

Before you could ask what he meant, Soap slung his arm around your shoulder and whispered in your ear,

“Just watch.”

Then, he let out a loud wolf-whistle and stood up with you, spinning you around the fire. The other boys laughed, understanding his game.

“Bonnie lass! You’ve got moves, hen, I’ll give you that.”

“Aye, she does. Been hitting the gym, haven’t you, babes. Quads are lookin’ tight,” Gaz commented loudly.

You realized they were trying to goad the captain, making him jealous. Sure enough, he was staring right at you, his bright eyes shining in the orange blaze of the fire, even though he was too far to do anything about it. He took another drag from his cigar, but he didn’t take his eyes off of you.

Ghost shook his head again and muttered under his breath,

“Gonna wake the dragon if you’re not careful, you muppets.”

You smiled, taking the bottle of rum from his hands and tipping it back, letting the sweet liquor flow down your throat. You wiped your lips with the back of your hand and returned it to Ghost, making your way over to the hammock.

Price watched your approach the whole time, and maybe you added a little extra sway to your hips as you tread through the sand, and maybe… maybe you let the wind billow under your button down, making the gap wider, showing more and more of your breasts until it was almost indecent.

“Got room for one more?”

He watched you from his swinging bed, making you wait for his response, puffing his smoke toward your bare belly where your shirt was knotted up. Then, in that deep voice of his, he nodded and said,

“Aye, if you’re willing to be the little spoon, Sergeant.”

“Sure,” you shrugged, sitting on the edge of the ropes carefully, putting your weight in the middle and lowering yourself until you were laying with your back against his hairy chest, feeling the stickiness of his skin, coated in salt and sand and sweat. Your feet tangled together. He did not move to untangle them, so neither did you.

He was quiet behind you, but you could feel his breathing. Every now and then, creamy bands of smoke would tumble across your cheek. You followed it with your nose, looking back at him, scooting down a bit so you could see his face.

“Can I try?” You eyed the cigar.

“You know how?” He asked gently.

You shook your head. It was a lie. You knew how to smoke cigars; who didn’t? But, you wanted him to feel like he was showing you something for the first time. More than that, you wanted to see how he would teach you. The butterflies in your belly railed against your nerves, fluttering like mad to see him make you into his student.

He handed you the stick, giving you his commands,

“Pull it into your mouth, but not your throat. Keep it on your tongue. Taste it. When you’ve had enough, let it all out.”

You stared into his bright blue eyes as you followed his instructions. You sucked in the smoke, feeling the heat and tasting the sweetness of the tobacco. You let it linger on your tongue, and then you blew it out, letting it coat his chin and flow around his neck like a smoky collar.

“Mm,” he murmured, disapproving, “Too fast, love. Like this.”

He took the cigar and put it to his lips, taking in a huge puff. Then, to your surprise, he leaned over you, putting his mouth in front of yours close enough to kiss you, but he didn’t. He let the smoke fall out of his mouth and into yours, watching it pool into your lips and beyond your teeth. It filled your senses, making you reel from its intensity. Price had a gleam in his eye, and you knew he was trying his best to get under your skin.

You smiled back. Two could play at this game.

After the smoke cleared, he pulled back, leaning away from you but still looking at your face, waiting for your reaction.

“It got cold quick, didn’t it?” You let out a little shiver.

“Sure did,” he nodded, smirking, “Maybe if you had more clothes on, you’d be warm.”

“Do you want me to put more clothes on?” Your voice dripped with lust, your desire for him wholly unmistakable.

When he looked down at you now, his pupils were blown wide, inky black, taking all of you in, memorizing you like there’d be a test. His gaze fondled you, making you feel like he was peeling you apart even though he hadn’t laid a single finger on you yet. His eyes traced down your neck and into your top, stopping to stare with wonder at your bare tits in the open fold of the shirt.

With the cigar still balanced between his fingers, he used his thumb to delicately lift the fabric away from your neck, peering inside like a newly opened gift, his eyes wide with excitement. You wanted his fingers to touch you, but he played with the buttonline of the shirt instead, making it gap more and more until your breasts were almost fully exposed to the cool night air.

You made a show of glancing over to the boys by the fire, whispering to him,

“They’re gonna see us.”

“Aye,” he said matter-of-factly, moving to untie the bow of the tail of your shirt, trying to peel it off of you like you were a ripe fruit.

Suddenly, he took a final drag of the cigar and tossed it forward into the sand. It smoldered there, half-buried. Your body prepared for him to squeeze your tits, to pinch your nipples cruelly, to satisfy his obvious hunger… but, it never happened. Instead, he lay his hand on your belly, using his fingertips to pet you, lazily caressing you in small circles.

It was making you squirm. You wanted him to go further. He seemed so hungry for your body and yet here he was, holding himself back. You rolled your ass into his crotch, hunting for the hard prod of his cock. You felt it, and he let out a gravelly sigh. Success.

Yet, it didn’t change his tempo. He kept caressing you, petting your ribs, never quite reaching the swell of your breast, but stopping short over and over.

You reached back and put your hand on his furry belly, full of rum and relaxed from his odd position in the hammock. Beneath your hand, his skin shuddered, feeling every movement that you made and responding to it eagerly. Inch by inch, you made your way to the elastic band of his trunks, reaching inside, searching for his hard rod.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Sergeant,” he whispered. His voice was soft and deep, almost too low to hear.

You needed him, and you were about to show him exactly how much. When you found his cock, you pulled it out of his trunks and shoved down your panties with your fingers, fumbling around with the fabric, trying your best to stay quiet. You rocked your hips back, allowing his head to slide between your legs and press up against your wet folds. Without his help, you couldn’t fit him inside of you, but you rocked against him anyway, smearing your stickiness all over his shaft.

Back and forth you rubbed him, working yourself up into a fever. Still, he did not help you. He didn’t even move to fondle you. His hand never plucked at your nipples, and he did not explore your swollen lips hidden behind your panties, the same lips his drooling dick was rutting through.

The elastic of your panties trapped him inside with you, keeping him close. Otherwise, he just went on with his sensual touching, brushing your hair from your face, running a finger along the curve of your rib cage.

“So wet. All for me, soldier?” He hissed into your ear.

“Yes, sir,” you panted.

“Shh. Slow down. Breathe with me.”

You were tucked in closer to his chest, and you matched his inhales and exhales, your own body rising and falling with him as the hammock swayed you back and forth. You watched the boys laughing and joking. If they had noticed you, they were giving you your privacy.

“That’s it. We’ve got all the bloody time in the world. What’s your rush?”

You looked back at him, pushing your nose against his scruffy jaw,

“Want you to touch me, Captain… please.”

“How do you want me to touch you, soldier?” He moved his hand beneath your shirt collar for the first time and you held your breath, “With my hands?” Before you could answer, his mouth closed over your earlobe, suckling at it, lightly kissing your neck, “Or with my mouth?”

“Yes, sir…” You let out a small mewl, trembling under his touch.

He chuckled darkly,

“Greedy little girl…”

When he finally ran his palm over your pert nipples, you jerked from the pleasure. It shocked you, and you felt yourself melt between your legs. His calloused hand was all you could think about. When he used his thumb and forefinger to lightly pull at your peaks, you had to stop yourself from moaning aloud. Instinctively, your body bucked into him, painting his cock with layer after layer of your slick joy.

You watched as he snaked his hand out of your shirt and licked his fingertips. Then, he returned them to your breast, slipping his spit over your sensitive flesh, heightening your sensations.

He shifted his weight and your shoulder fell back, twisting your torso until your breasts were freed from your shirt. You were fully on display, the light of the fire dancing across your skin. If the boys looked over at you, they’d see everything. They could watch how their sunkissed captain was craning his neck, knocking his hat back to lick and suck gently on your nipple, playfully plucking at the other one absentmindedly.

You had to bite your cheek so you couldn’t scream, but Price saw the panicked look in your eyes. He paused, reminding you,

“C’mon, love. Breathe for me. Relax. You’re alright.”

The only problem was when you did finally relax, you felt the bright, crackling sense that you were about to come.

“I can’t,” you hissed through your teeth, “You’re going to make me come. I’m gonna come. I’m… I can’t…”

“You can,” he suckled your breast deeper into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks, “Deep breath in, let it all out. Let it come. That’s it. Good girl.”

You knew he had felt you come. You didn’t even have a chance to hide it. You were bucking against him hard enough to make wet little noises from your grinding. Your panties were wet. You’d come so hard it had felt like you had a bruise deep inside of your belly, and your legs shivered, quaking from his barely-there touch.

“Beautiful…” He commented, returning to his delicate sucking, “So eager.”

You were beyond consciousness. Everything was gleaming and glittering in your vision, and you could feel the flush of blood moving up your chest and onto your cheeks, hot and full of sexual energy.

“You want me to touch you?” He asked quietly, hard as a stone but seemingly unbothered by your ecstasy.

You nodded, whispering your desperate yeses to him.

“In front of my men?” There was a darkness in his voice that felt like a hand gripping you around your throat.

Shame and erotic desire warred in your belly. You nodded anyway, too cock-starved to care. You’d never wanted anyone so badly in your whole life.

Price’s hand moved lower, flat against your skin, and his pinky finger dipped into the waistband of your underwear. His hand cupped your mons, finding his cockhead nuzzled beneath your clit, nudging the tight bundle. He used his hand not to touch you, but to instead hold his dick and draw little circles in your flesh with it, moving it against you rhythmically. The soft head swiped below your clit over and over, enough to tease and not nearly enough to soothe.

“Soaked, love. So wet that I can smell you. So sweet.”

You turned your head to look at him. You wanted to see his face, wanted to see desire painted there, and it was. His eyes were watching you like a wolf, witnessing you fall limp like easy, pliant prey.

“When you come,” he smiled, knowing you were getting close again, “I want you to look at me. Don’t look away. Show it to me.”

“Yes, sir…”

You struggled to hold his gaze. Your body was doing everything it could to fight you, to force you to close your eyes in the face of your pleasure. As you felt yourself approach that glaring point of no return, you locked eyes with him, pleading with him, begging him for help he couldn’t give you.

“Captain!” You gasped breathlessly.

“Don’t… don’t look away,” he growled from his throat with a half-moan that revealed his desire.

You were bursting from the inside out, and it felt like you had caught fire. Your skin was hot, and you broke out in a sweat, the salty sheen making your sunburnt skin glow.

“Good,” Price purred, “So good, love. So pretty.”

You rested your forehead against his neck. He hadn’t even put his cock in you, and you felt like you’d been through hell — or heaven. One or the other. Maybe both. You were dizzy.

You felt his heart slamming into his chest, and you could smell the tobacco lingering on his breath. He was still pushing his cock against you, and your body continued to make loud, sticky come for him, enough to drip and smear onto your thighs.

You looked out at the dying bonfire. The boys were quiet now, laying around, aiming for bed. As the fire lost its height, Price became emboldened.

He fisted his cock more vigorously, jerking himself against you, his huge hand bulging inside of the fabric of your panties.

“So fuckin’ messy, love. So wet for me. Gorgeous,” Price snarled, talking into your neck in a hoarse whisper. You could tell he was approaching his own charged bliss.

You kissed his neck, sucking on his skin, enjoying each and every sigh. Your body was begging for him, contracting over and over, wishing for something to squeeze. As if he could read your mind, Price sank a thick finger into your pussy as he jerked himself off onto your folds, finding some sort of punishing pattern, ripping another round of joy from you.

He moved his mouth over yours, letting it hang slack, sharing your breath and resting his forehead against yours. His eyes were watching yours, showing you his orgasm just as you had been made to show him yours. He was right. It was beautiful. You could see the sparking desire in his eyes, built up with a sort of intensity that was almost frightening. Price cried out under his breath, right into your open lips, his face full of serene relief.

Then, you felt something warm and slick coating his hand and your lips. You realized he was coming on your folds, painting your soft skin with his white, thick cream. It was everywhere; you were so sensitive, you could feel it. It dripped onto your swollen clit, and you could feel it slide down into your stretched hole where his fingers were making you tremble. Your panties were soaked through, and you realized he was using his hand to pull out more and more of your juices, letting them run down your legs and into the cleft of your ass.

He stilled himself, breathing heavy, still gazing into your face, his eyes full of longing. Then, he pulled his cock away, letting the wet tip loll against your ass cheek. His fingers slid out of you, one by one, ever so gentle, and he used them to rub his orgasm into your flesh like lotion, mixing you together in a lurid ritual. Carefully, he removed his hand from your panties entirely, replaced the elastic where it belonged, and began to massage your pussy through the fabric, making sure his sticky come was there to stay.

“That was…” Price sighed.

“So fucking good, Captain,” you smiled, petting his cheek, letting the sway of the hammock rock you as you came down from your high.

You looked down at your legs, gleaming in the low firelight,

“I better go wash off.”

“Don’t you dare,” Price snarled, hugging you closer to him, trapping you with his heavy arms. He grinned slyly down at you, taking an obvious glance down at your panties, teasing you, “You’re gonna keep me right here, love,” he shoved his huge hand between your legs, resting his palm over your clit, “At least until they start their snoring. Then…” You felt him teasing your pulsing hole through the wet fabric, “I’ll give you some more. Let you keep it nice and warm inside this time.”

If you liked this story, please consider reblogging! ✌️🩷

#call of duty fanfic #captain john price #john price #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price x you #call of duty #oh captain my captain #captain johnathan price #captain john price x female reader #john price x female reader #ocaptainchallenge #gpdrecs #captain price mw2 #cod fandom #captain john price x reader #cod fanfic

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s1llysmut · 11 months ago

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Aaaa i was the ine that requested the charlie x reader comfort:3 it was so good thank uuuu!!! Sozz if im overbearing w requests but!!! Lute x fem reader nfsw alphabet? :3 thankk uuu smm

A/N: Absolutely! I wasn’t sure if you wanted Lute as more dominant or submissive so I just wrote her how I see her. Also sorry for any spelling mistakes, I wrote this pretty late.

NSFW alphabet for Lute

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

I’m gonna be so real with you, she doesn’t mean to but she falls asleep ASAP. Can you really blame her though? She deals with Adam all day.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Her favourite body part on herself is her wings. She sees them as a very important symbol of her status in heaven. Her favourite body part on you is your ass. She hates to see you leave but she loves to see you go if you know what I mean ;)

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

She will ride your face and make you lick her clean. I’m return she’ll do the same for you, however, it might just make a bigger mess.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Her wings are really sensitive. She doesn’t tell anyone since she doesn’t want anyone to use her weaknesses against her. If you touch her wings she will let out the sluttiest moan you have ever and will ever hear.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

She knows a thing or two. Not super experienced but she still knows her way around a pussy.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

If she’s wearing a strap on she wants you to ride her. She wants you to work for your pleasure.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

She’s not goofy at all. Everything she does is done with focus, effort, and precision. There is no way she’d be goofy.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

She doesn’t completely shave it but she does trim it.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

It honestly depends on her mood. She can be romantic but she doesn’t really enjoy it. It makes her feel too vulnerable.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

If you’re not home and she’s feeling extra needy she is not above riding your pillow and pretending it’s your face. Of course she will never tell you and everything will be squeaky clean by the time you’re home.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Bondage. Seeing you tied up at her mercy makes her feel so powerful.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Your bedroom. She’s not freaky like that.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

If she’s stressed out her libido sky rockets. She also loves to see you in just a bra or a crop top.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Despite Adam’s pleas she is NOT inviting him to join.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

She much prefers receiving. She loves using your mouth as her own personal fuck toy.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

She is fast and rough. She loves when you’re at mercy, unfortunately she doesn’t have much of it.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

She’s neutral on them. She honestly just doesn’t care.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Yes but nothing public ever. She has a reputation to keep up.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

She can last about 4 rounds. She sees it as a challenge and she’s not about to back down.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

She owns a classic vibrator and a dildo for herself and you, but she owns rope and cuffs for you only.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

She is really unfair. She wants you begging for her.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Overall she’s not that loud unless she’s cumming or you touch her wings.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

If you own your own house together and she sees you walking around the house in just your underwear she is eating you out then and there.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

C cups. Not huge but not super small either.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Pretty high. We’re talking 3 times a week minimum.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Immediately passes out on your chest. Cleaning up can wait, just play with her hair and let the poor baby rest.

#smut #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin smut #smut fic #headcanon #smut headcanons #smut alphabet #hazbin x reader #hazbin lute #hazbin hotel lute #lute x reader #lute

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sky-forest-inn · 3 months ago

Text

Happy 1 year anniversary for the day we finally accepted our systemhood after 2 and a half full years of denial (february 7th) [AEST timezone]

As of now, we’ve gotten 108 headmates (as far as we’re aware…) with valkryie being our latest formed (💐YAY!!!! IM SPECIAL) shut up anyways hell yeah

Special thanks to our dearest partner system @luckyclovercollective for being there for us and being the safe space we needed after all our years being surrounded by extremely gatekeepy systems who made us struggle to accept the idea of being a system in fear of gatekeeping

It’s thanks to our partner system that we were finally given a space with no judgement or concerns, and to be loved both when we initially believed to be a singlet and when we finally figured out the ropes of systemhood. We’ve over like 25 relationships between our systems now, can you believe it? (I didnt actually count i just estimated LOL)

Anyway, shout out to our siblings, sysblings, close friends and moots (plural & singlets) who stuck around with us all the way through our long journey. Weve learnt so much more about ourselves than we thought we ever would, and as insufferable as many situations were, we wouldnt sacrifice a thing in our lives if it meant ending up where we are now

Thank you to our moots, followers and those we follow on this blog whove made posts and helped us with our systemhood even more, whether directly or not. You guys have really helped us learn about ourselves a ton and we’re thankful to get to know many of you

Terrified to @ directly, but especially thanks to okimi, the ellipses society, circular system, and anybody else i may have missed. The mentioned above are just the ones i can remember at the top of my head (i have the memory of a pebble please be nice) we love you all plenty lots very much and thank you all for being in our lives, whether directly or not

Massive thanks to those who were there during the transition of us figuring out our systemhood and still supporting us on our other side blogs, continuing to engage with us and even asking about our systemhood in curiosity to understand as better. You guys are real one, we love you guys a hell lot

Also huge sorry to anyone we also accidentally awoken a syscovery to via coming out as a system /SILLY

In summary, WE LOVE YOU ALL SO VERY MUCH and THANK YOU for giving us a space to be ourselves (bad faith hate sending losers not included xoxo) but you get the gist. Love you all and hope you all enjoy the rest of your day/night. \o/

-post written by chord (🎤) with small additions from aristris (💛), shotz (💙) and valkryie (💐) [Sky Forest Inn]

#plural #actually plural #plural community #pluralgang #plurality #plural stuff #plural system #endo safe #willo safe

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songsofadelaide · 11 months ago

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Hello! Recently read a few of your kn8 Soshiro x Reader fics and fell in love with your writing style. It's so lovely, and I really like your portrayal of him! If you're okay with requests, can you maybe write a Soshiro/female!Reader story where the two have a number of memorable chance meetings from childhood to adulthood, until they "officially" meet in the Defense Force? I'm lowkey obsessed with the idea of two people who meet as kids and are repeatedly separated and reunited during different stages of life, before reuniting for good as adults who can be together. Bonus points if the reader is Kafka's silly little sister!

Sorry if this is a lot, and thanks for reading it all!

I love your big brain, anon. The childhood friends trope is really at the top of everything for some reason! But soulmates, too? (Or something like that lol.) These are just a few of my favourite things to write.

Hope you enjoy this!

cw: (F) Reader/OC has a name in this fic, Hibino Mayari, and is six years younger than Kafka and one year younger than Mina. There may be some inaccuracy with the ages. Written with a generic (f) reader in mind. ✧ Mayari is the deity of the moon, night, war, revolution, equality, and strength in the Philippines. Since Kafka had a unique name, I thought I'd give his little sister one, too. Think of it as their mother being some kind of voracious reader and giving her children names they absolutely cannot find in souvenir shops. wc: 3.8k

✧ Stardust - Sakura Fujiwara

stardust

Lucky stars, a trick of the gods, destiny— you could call your meeting so many different things. Strings so intricately twined that you'd think it to be a single rope, raindrops from the same cloud falling into the same ocean, and shadows coming together as the sun reaches a point in the sky. There wasn't a single part of you that wouldn't recognise the soul that touched yours that fateful day.

What was it like to make a promise to someone? Your older brother promised you many things— sweets after school, a piggyback ride whenever you got tired of running after him, and taking you wherever you wanted. Such were the little sister privileges granted to you by your older brother Kafka.

In the wake of your home's destruction, you remember him making a promise to a girl— your next-door neighbour Mina, and how they both swore to rise above and become the coolest Defense Force Officer the world has ever seen. You wanted in on that promise, too, and Kafka agreed only because you were his younger sister, his only one in this world. And Mina agreed because there was no way she could refuse you and your eagerness.

"I want to be a Defense Force Officer, too!"

"Then let's race! Me, Mina, and Mayari! Let's see who becomes the coolest of them all!"

Not long after making that promise, you were caught amid a Yoju attack that separated you from Kafka and your mother. You screamed and wailed for your older brother, for anyone at that point, only to be rescued by a lone swordsman who swept through the field with his single blade. Your nameless saviour brought you to the nearest evacuation centre, where you reunited with your family and the rest of your community.

You only knew swordsmen from legends and anime and not even once in your life did you ever think you'd be rescued by one, but then you were. And you couldn't peel your eyes away from the older man, who was clearly flattered by how you followed him around the evacuation centre with your curious eyes.

"Is there anything I can do for you, little one?"

"I—! I want to be a swordsman, too!"

He chuckled at your declaration, calling it an admirable intention, but the light in your eyes revealed the depth of your earnestness— a rarity for children like you who have lost nearly everything in your life— mostly due to Kaiju attacks.

The old man in the familiar Defense Force uniform crouched down and held out his hand for a handshake with you. "Very well. If you wish to devote yourself to the way of the sword, you must be willing to sacrifice your existing way of life."

He scrounged a wrinkled sheet of paper and a pen and wrote down an address that your practised eyes could read. "Ho… shina?"

"That's correct. If you truly wish to learn more about swordsmanship, come to this place, and I will teach you all that our family knows."

That little scrap of paper became your most treasured possession. After weeks of pestering your older brother to take you to that place, he eventually relented and allowed you a maximum of 30 minutes before he came to pick you up again.

You were almost turned away from the dojo when the students mistook you for a lost child, but your saviour recognised you— and your eyes filled with hope. When you introduced yourself to him once more and reiterated your intention to learn the way of the sword, he acknowledged you with a deep bow, which you quickly imitated.

"I have a son your age. He will be the one to teach you the most basic yet valuable lessons when it comes to swordsmanship," he said before gesturing at a boy in the same haori and hakama as him. "Soshiro."

Rumours about the high schooler Hibino Mayari and her incredible sword arm reached even the ears of her older brother in college. While you remained his adorable little sister for the most part, it was clear to Kafka that you had a gift for the sword you had to continue honing. From his estimation, you won't have any difficulty passing the Defense Force Entrance Exams, but that will depend on your overall combat power and affinity for firearms.

At 23, he had already failed four times, while you had one more year before you could take it yourself. And while you didn't wish for your brother to lose hope, the way things were going for him did not bode well.

You were both home for the weekend, Kafka with his can of beer in hand while you practised your swings with your bokken in your backyard.

"Aniki," you started. "Mina nee-san will take the entrance exams later this year, right?"

"Yeah. Wish her luck when you can," he told you. "Speaking of which, didn't you say your friend will be taking the exam, too?"

"Shiro-kun has family in the Defense Force. Though I doubt he'd try to get in the force by family connections alone," you said with a smile. "It's been years since I last saw him, so I wonder if he's really going to take the exam this year like he said before."

As a child, you learned everything you could about swordsmanship under the tutelage of the age-old samurai clan, but after being assessed at the age of 13, the Hoshina patriarch declared you a shodan, an estimation which meant you already had a clear grasp of the basics of swordsmanship.

"It's a pity they had to let you go just when you were getting good, huh?" Kafka remarked as he drank deep from his can of beer.

"I know, but Shisho said Shiro-kun and I were quickly becoming big fish in a small pond and training with a single person for a long time would narrow our perspective, so we had to start training with others. At least that's what he told me," you replied to him as you rested your bokken on your stiff shoulder. "I'm glad the schools I went to had Kendo clubs with members of varying levels of strengths and skill, so I was able to make use of my knowledge while learning new things at the same time."

"Oh, come on. You learned swordsmanship from an elite dojo. We both know you just wanted to show off— ow!" He said with a small snort, to which you replied by lightly kicking his shin. "Mayari!"

"Well, maybe I do want to show off a little," you huffed at your older brother.

"They even gave you some tacky nickname, right? Crescent blade Mayari! Pfft!"

You kicked his shin a bit harder this time. "Aniki! I didn't ask for that! My kouhais thought it was cool, so…"

"So you ran with it," Kafka nodded at you before gently kicking you back. You could tell from the way he looked at you that he kind of wanted to cry. "I am proud of you, Mayari."

That can't be helped, you told yourself. Aniki is always so honest with himself, after all.

"Thank you, aniki. Don't go crying on me now. I'll always be your adorable little sister," you replied to him with a laugh and playfully batted your eyelashes at him. "Speaking of which, this adorable little sister of yours just saw this pretty dress in—"

"H-Hey! Don't get too ahead of yourself, Mayari!"

"Aniki," you said to him with a smile. "I hope you know I'll always be rooting for you, too, so don't give up, okay? I'm sure Mina nee-san will be waiting for you— and me— when she passes the exam this year."

"Shiro-kun!"

It was an endearing nickname that was even more endearing by the sweet way you said it. If he was being honest, Soshiro did not think much of you back then. For him, you were just a little girl his father invited to learn and train swordsmanship. You were different from him in the way flowers grew from the same bush. While they were equally tended to, some will grow larger than others and bloom more brilliantly, too.

He likened you to a grafted plant— one attached to him by the roots. And brilliantly did you bloom, indeed. A wildflower that thrived from the same water and sunlight as he did. For him, it was only a matter of time until you bloomed in fullness and outgrew him, but that never happened because his father uprooted you to the quick— for growing at a rate he did not expect from someone like you.

That, and he did not expect his sons to start fighting over you. And though you were one of his most excellent pupils, he didn't deem you worth the trouble his sons would stir if you did not permit them to tame you.

You parted your place of learning in good faith and had nothing but gratitude for the Hoshina Family, but there were times you thought it was unfair. He will continue learning under the best of the best while you have to carry on by yourself… But you were more disheartened by the fact that you would not see him again.

Soshiro was truly the best rival you could ever ask for. As you entered middle school and high school and razed through club after club and joined every tournament you could, you soon realised that no one else could ever come close to him— both in skill and in something else you couldn't quite put a finger on. You searched for him in every opponent you came across, only to be disappointed time and again that they were not even at your level.

In your final year of high school, during your school's long-anticipated cultural festival, the drama club needed someone with your skill, and they made you the centrepiece of their performance by teaching you a sword dance that drew spectators to your graceful form.

"She's a marvel."

For once in his life, Soshiro was glad to have let his curiosity win him over. He was glad he sighted you in your high school's silly-looking cultural festival poster— for never did he expect to see the most beautiful wildflower in full bloom, adorned with silk and grace that did little to conceal her thorns as she danced to the strong yet tender rhythm of an equally gorgeous piece of music played on a shamisen.

That was his wildflower.

When he came to see you after your performance, all you could say was his name. "Shiro-kun!"

And it sounded just as sweet as when he last heard it.

"Are ya just dancin' now?"

"Of course not! I was just helping the drama club!" You retorted with a smile. "If you wish to challenge me, all you have to do is ask."

Your wordless duel of wooden swords was akin to dance as well, both of you equally deft, your movements measured and graceful, almost like spinning before a mirror until your dull blades were pressed against each other's necks.

"I see time has not dulled your skills. That's good."

"It looks like time has been incredibly good to ya, too," he said, a familiar glint of mischief in his wine-dark eyes. "You've gotten prettier, Mayari-chan."

"Hmm. Not exactly the words I was looking for, but good enough, I suppose," you shook your head at him before breaking out into a smile. "It's good to see you again, Shiro-kun."

Mina's meteoric rise to the rank of Division Captain did not surprise you. Ever since you were children, she had always been more focused on her goals compared to Kafka, who only desired the coolness associated with being a Defense Force officer. She vouched for your potential when you took the entrance exams and passed with the help of her commendation, though she reassured you herself that your own skills brought you there to where she was.

And though you were subsequently assigned to a different division, she kept in touch with you as you both anticipated your older brother's arrival.

An arrival that never came.

When you last phoned your home, it was only then you found out that Kafka had moved out and started working as a monster cleaner. It was a noble profession for you, of course, but you couldn't help but think—

—of how lonely your older brother must have been to have received rejection after rejection from something he had wanted to do all his life—

And it pains you to think that behind his smile when he congratulated you for passing the exams and becoming an officer was the sting of dismissal.

When Kafka stopped calling to check in on you, you figured he might be busy with his job. Behind your stellar performance during missions was a strong sense of duty and a great fear of failure that allowed you to focus on the things you can control. You missed your older brother, but it was his choice to give up.

However, you sensed a change in the wind after receiving a summon from the Captain of the Third Division out of the blue.

"Captain Ashiro called for you again, Mayari. I know she's always looking forward to seeing you in joint training, but doesn't she realise how stressful it is having to travel to Tokyo so often?"

The Captain of the Fourth Division, Ogata Jugo, was a relatively relaxed man for the most part, but he was also incredibly insightful. He had no qualms about promoting you to a Platoon Leader despite your inclination to use swords in missions. He believes in allowing officers to use their own weapons of choice and that you would eventually use a gun when the situation calls for it.

Captain Ogata trusts your skills, but he trusts your critical thinking even more.

"I don't really mind all the travelling, Captain, sir," you replied to him with your usual cheer. Nagano to Tokyo wasn't a walk in the park but a three-and-a-half-hour car ride.

"Well, I do. You are my Platoon Leader, after all. You must defend this base when the situation arises," your captain said with a sigh. "I'm betting that Ashiro would do just about anything to have you transferred to her division."

"Nonsense, Captain. My place is here," you reassured him. "And while I do enjoy being the apple of her eye, I don't think I'll work well under the Third Division and its Captain."

"Why'd you think that?"

"Because Captain Ashiro would sooner lose herself in the battle than send me out," you said with a small shrug. "Sisterly instincts, I suppose. More importantly, I like working with you and our division, Captain, sir."

"You should tell that to her," your Captain chuckled.

"But for the record, Captain, I enjoy seeing her, too," you replied with an easygoing laugh. "I hope you continue to be lenient with me, sir."

"All right, all right. Go before I change my mind," Ogata stated as he shooed you away with a slow swatting motion. "And don't forget to bring me back some of that stuff you last brought."

You gave him a sharp salute and the same warm smile he enjoyed seeing on your face. "I'll be sure to bring home a bottle or two for you, Captain, sir!"

Tachikawa Base never failed to amaze you. You found it more of a marvel compared to Headquarters, seeing as it was at the centre of the busiest city in Japan, but it was a constant magnet of Kaiju attacks, too.

The entrance exams concluded Tachikawa Base's busiest time of the year, and with fresh recruits to fill in the ranks, more joint training sessions would soon be set to foster a warm relationship and camaraderie among the different members of the Defense Force's Eastern Divisions.

Mina received you at her office as per protocol, the one place where you could simply be friends and not Captain and subordinate.

"Fourth Division Platoon Leader Hibino Mayari at your service," you stated your name with a sharp salute and dignity tied to your esteemed position. "It's good to see you again, Captain Ashiro, ma'am."

"It's good to see you well, Mayari-chan," the older woman saluted right back before offering you a handshake. "I'll have to thank Captain Ogata for permitting your visit this time again."

"I'll buy his clemency before I head back to Nagano, Mina nee-san," you said with a laugh. "How did the entrance exams go this year, by the way? I only heard from Captain Ogata that something… strange happened."

Mina squeezed your hand and motioned for you to sit next to her. "This year's exams were nothing short of strange, I'll tell you that. But there's something I want to show you, too."

Having the Division Captain herself guide you through the many halls and walls of her base meant you had to return many greetings and salutations from younger officers. Mina was evidently well-loved by her division and adored by the masses for her levelheadedness that calmed whatever panic struck them during Kaiju attacks. After what seemed to be fifteen minutes of walking, you finally arrived at the base training ground, where most of the recruits gathered for their routine drills.

"One of these days, we'd like for you to visit again when we host the annual goodwill Kendo match," she stated, eyeing the state of her division's recruits from above the area's gate.

"I'd be glad to take part in…" You answered her, only for her to give you a small smile as she pointed down at one of the Third Division's recruits.

Lagging behind their laps was one older man gasping for breath, while a younger man slowed his pace to keep up with him.

"Aniki…?!"

Kafka turned to the direction of that endearment like clockwork, only to find you and Mina curiously peering down at him from the gate while the rest of his cohort eventually outran him.

"Mayari! And Mina, too!"

"Another 30 laps for calling your superiors by their names, Officer Hibino," Mina shot back at him, to which he replied with a small groan of protest. "You can catch up with Platoon Leader Hibino once you're done with your drills and punishment."

You managed to laugh off your older brother's misfortune over his excitement at seeing you, but your amusement was swiftly replaced by the same kind of shock that came over Kafka when you saw yet another figure in the same sleek black uniform approach you and Mina.

"Captain Ashiro! I didn't expect to see you here today! I was told you have a guest…"

"Ah!"

"Eh?"

"Sh-Shiro-kun?!"

"Huh. So you're that Shiro-kun, Hoshina? Mayari-chan told us much about you when we were young," Mina mused aloud, though you knew from the small smile on her face that she sewed everything seamlessly. "What a small world we live in. To think that one of my oldest friends knows my Vice Captain."

"I-I apologise for speaking out of turn, V-Vice Captain Hoshina!" You mustered a nervous salute directed at your childhood rival, now one of the Third Division's most prominent superior officers. "I-It's good to see you again, sir!"

"Fancy meeting you here, Mayari-chan. Or should I say Platoon Leader—"

"Fourth Division Platoon Leader Hibino Mayari at your service, Vice Captain, sir! I'm here at Captain Ashiro's invitation."

Hibino? He thought to himself. Same as the stand-out candidate from this year's exams— "Wait a second, are you actually Kafka's sister?!"

"I hope my older brother hasn't been causing you any trouble, sir," you let out a nervous little chuckle. "Truth be told, I haven't spoken to him in the last few years and I did not expect to see him here at all. Mina nee-san— I mean, Captain Ashiro only informed me about this today."

"I see. Then you two must have a lot of catching up to do," he replied to you with a warm smile, to which Mina responded by patting him on his shoulder.

"You two have a lot of catching up to do, too, wouldn't you agree, Hoshina?"

"Well, I— It's just that Mayari-ch— I mean, I simply thought Platoon Leader Hibino would like to hear about her brother's exploits so far…?"

"Make good use of your time while you're here, Platoon Leader Hibino. Seeing as Hoshina is here, too, you should discuss the goodwill Kendo match between our divisions as well."

"O-Of course, Captain Ashiro, ma'am!"

She gave your shoulder a quick squeeze as well, before eventually whispering in your ear, "Kafka-kun and I will be waiting for you, so make sure you two catch up well."

As Mina disappeared back to the base's main building, you were left to watch how Soshiro conducted drills and training exercises with his division's recruits. Nearly everyone cheered for Kafka as he finished the last of his additional 30 laps around the training ground before they all shuffled back to the mess hall, you and their Vice Captain trailing them from behind.

"Anything on yer mind, Mayari-chan?"

"How is Shisho? I hope he's been well."

"The old man's as stubborn as a fox, I'll tell ya that. I suppose I'll have to let him know that one of his most prized students made it here again."

"Does he still remember me?"

"'Course he does, even though we only knew you as Mayari-chan. You're one of his most dedicated pupils, after all," Soshiro stated with a grin. "One time he said he regretted letting ya go. But I'm sure he'll change his tune when he finds out how much better you've become, both with a sword and with yer guns…"

"You think I've gotten better with just a glance?" You teasingly asked him. "The last we met, you said I only got prettier."

"Well, pardon me for noticing your face before everythin' else," he shrugged at you. "And I wasn't jokin' about that, either. You did get prettier."

"And now? I can show you how well I've grown. If you wish to challenge me, all you have to do is ask."

Soshiro chuckled at your instigation, only for him to tell you with the most familiar glint of mischief in his eyes, "I think you're mistaken there, Platoon Leader. You're the challenger here."

"Of course, sir. How could I forget that I'm on your turf?" You said with a hearty laugh. "Shall we put on a show for your lucky recruits? It's not every day they see two blade masters battle it out."

Lucky stars, a trick of the gods, destiny— your meeting could be defined by so many different things. But one thing remained constant in your every coming together and parting…

"I'd like that!"

Rivals, friends, colleagues, lovers. The titles didn't matter much to you. This meeting once more proves you were meant to be part of Hoshina Soshiro's life in one way or another, just as he was meant to be in yours.

✦ Thank you for requesting! Nothing makes me happier than writing a request I know I can work with. 🍹 You can read more about requesting here

#songsofadelaidewrites💛#love notes to mari 💌#mari answers requests 🍹#kaiju no. 8 #kn8 #kaiju no. 8 spoilers #hoshina soshiro #hoshina soshiro x reader #hoshina soshiro x oc #starry divider by @/cafekitsune

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summerlovingbaby · 8 months ago

Text

Dr.

It was all over the news, most of the pro’s were dealing with a mass causalty event, and those who weren’t were pursuing a suspect who could stop it. He set up bombs all over the city, and buildings were collapsing around them, but those were just warning shots. Proof that he could do what he promised, because most of the buildings that fell were empty and abandoned, all but one. A public mall that was bustling with people that morning, but by the afternoon it was a pile of concrete and flesh, and most pro hero’s were attempting to save what they could only assume were very few survivors.

Though a few of the top heroes were tracking down the main suspect, and they found him in a matter of hours, hopping from rooftop to rooftop. Deku, Dynamite, Red Riot and Shoto had him surrounded on the rooftop, and it wasn’t until they say him that they knew the exact depth of his plan. His name was Evil Eye, and though his name was rather simple, it was true. Most people said he had the eye of the devil, able to see exactly what would go wrong, and how to manipulate it in his favor.

Evil Eye, otherwise known as Shayfer smiled and licked his teeth, “ well it took you guys long enough,” he breathed putting his hands behind his head and interlacing his fingers, “ finally caught me,” he smiled, “ are you proud?”

Bakugou let his palms catch on fire, not believing that he would allow himself to be so easily captured.

“ You should know,” he said coyly, “ that this is only the beginning, you make take me down now, but the carnegie has only begun,” he sucked in a loud breath and let a loud witch like cackle out of his mouth, “ children, such a precious thing, how society protects them, it would be quite the shame if something happened to about 34 of them,”

Deku’s eyes widened, and he lowered his fist, “ The bus!” he exclaimed, “ the bus that went missing this morning.”

A school bus went missing this morning, and while the pro’s spent the better part of the morning looking for them before the mall collapsed and hell broke lose in the city. They assumed the bus went missing in the chaos and when things settled the bus would appear, that was their hope at least. But now knew that this was a delicately crafted plan, to cause just as much chaos as he wanted, just because he could.

“ So what, we let you go, and you tell us where the bus is, or the bus blows up?” Bakugou asked.

“ That is if they don’t drown first,” he said with a bizarre smile, his eyes looked to the sky, searching through the clouds, “ well 32 of them will drown, the twins who can breathe underwater, they will suffocate as the run out of oxygen,” he said.

“ Where is the bus?” Todoroki asked calmly, he let his hand turned to ice, and it soon became clear that he would not be asking the question again.

“ Oh, no no no, that's no fun,” he smiled again, “ in the bus is a map, to where I’ve hid all the bombs in the city, and this morning there may have been limited casualties, but the rest of the week will look like the mall, but feel so much worse, and you will wish that you suffocated to death.”

Bakougo took a step foreward but found his feet stuck to the tar of the roof, his body felt rigid, only able to move his neck, he turned to his team to find them in the same predicament. Deku was gritting his teeth and activating his quirk to its full power, Red Riot turned himself to stone, but remained stuck, and all Shoto could do was build blocks of ice and shoot them in the air without having to move at all, a move he had been working on.

“ Well, I would love to stay and chat, but I’ve got to go,” he said looking up, it became evident what he was searching for because it was obvious that he was looking for a helicopter, he pointed to the sky, “ My ride is here,” he said.

Turning on his heels, he skipped to the edge and took a running jump to dive off the roof and caught the latter in his fingertips, he pulled himself up and hooked his heels on the rope latter, along with his elbow, to turn and smile.

Todoroki allowed one last large ice block to shoot from his hand, it collided with the tale of the copter causing it to spin uncontrollably. Shayfer lost his balance and slipped form the rope, and the pilot fell from the cockpit, and hit the blades of the of the helicopter, slicing up his stomach before the helicopter dropped from the sky along with Shayfer, and went up it flames.

Todoroki dived after them, being able to move and fireproof, using his ice to slide to the ground and sift through the molten plates of metal and bits of broken glass to pull a lifeless Shayfer one. He was barley breathing, and most of his skin was covered in hot blisters and boils that started to pop.

“ He’s still alive,” he said.

“ GET HIM TO MIDNIGHT MEMORIAL!” Bakugou shouted.

It was where the best doctors worked, and he had just the doctor in mind to help with this suspect. Shayfer could not die, not only did the lives of 34 children depend on it, but the fate of the city as well.

Todoroki built a tower of ice to the building roof and handed his body to Bakugou who tossed him over his shoulder and took flight in the direction of the hospital.

Y/N was splinting an arm, when the smell of burning human flesh invaded her senses, a smell she would never forget. She turned around to find her husband standing in the middle of the busy ER, with what looked to be a burned corpse over his shoulder.

“ Y/N,” he shouted, “ Y/N HELP HIM,” he shouted.

“ Someone bring me a gurney,” Y/N spoke, running over to Bakugou, she placed two fingers to the side of his neck, nearly flinching at the feel of his blistered skin on hers. “ BRING ME A GURNEY,” she said louder.

A nurse rolled one over to him, and Bakugou placed Shayfer on top of it. Y/N began to bark around various orders to nurses, who ran off in opposite directions, returning moments later with dangerous looking medical supplies.

“ Get him hooked up to monitors and prepare a crash cart, his pulse is thready,” she shouted out. She saw a nurse out of the corner of her eye, roll a set of monitors next to him, and place leads on his chest. “What happened to him, was he in the mall?” She said rather calmly despite the situation.

Bakuguo could only stare until a firm grip to the shoulder seemed to spark something in him.

“ I need you to tell me what happened.” she stated again.

“ You have to save him,” he demanded, “ you have to.”

“ I need a size 8 ET tube and a scope,” she turned to the nurse next to her, “ and type and cross his blood, we might need it,” she turned back to Bakugou and Kirishima, “ Glad you two are alive, now tell me what happened?”

“ Helicopter crash,” Kirishima said. “ You have to save him,” he added. She smiled, glad to see both her boys okay, minus a few cuts and bruises they seemed not to be dying, and she couldn’t help but smile. They had known eachother since highschool, and ave been in a relationship for 7 years, and she couldn’t manage to think of a life without them.

She hated their job, but understood. Understood the urge to save people, to help people, and she couldn’t ask them to stop because that’s what she loved about them. They saved people out there, in the harsh reality of the world. And she saved them behind the safety of the four walls of the hospital. Everyone helped best they could..

“ I don’t intend on letting anyone die, not in my ER.” she said with a challenging smile.

She was head of the ER and she took each death personally, whether they were her patient or not. She was a good doctor, and though she had no quirk, she still wanted to help people. Being a hero was out of the question so she went through 8 years of 6, and 6 years of specialized trauma training to become the best trama sergon in the nation, often operating on fallen heroes, and injured civilians. Being the capitol of most villians she saw her fair share of bad trauma, and though she could save most of them, she couldn’t save them all. She was a good doctor, but those deaths haunted her.

“ You really can’t let him die, he has hostages,” Bakugou said. “ 34 kids,” he specified, “ please don’t let him die,” he said again.

A loud beep sounded from the monitors, and a steady green line striking across the screen, let them know that his heart had stopped. Y/N looked at them with her calm eyes, and started to twitch slightly. One life under her knife was one, but 35 was an unatinable number to her, she gave them a spacy nod, and turned back to the burned body, still and lifeless, boiling blisters still popping out of his skin.

“ Start bagging,” she said to a nurse, “ and start comprsssions, light and easy, we don’t want his chest caving in, or those blisters peeling off the skin,” she said to another nurse who immediately began compressions. “ I need an ultrasound for his chest and abdomen, and call up for an OR,” she said.

His heart still didn’t start, so she charged the paddles and placed them on his chest. “ Charge to 200,” she said, “ CLEAR,” she yelled. Everyone withdrew contact with the body, and the paddles sent electricity through his body, giving it one sudden jerk, “ push 2 of epi,” she said, she watched the monitor, held her arms out, and a slow beep resumed on the monitor.

Using his arms she pressed arond his abdomen, it was rock hard, and blood was spilling from every oraphus. “ He’s bleeding out,” she said aloud. She pressed the ultrasound to his stomach and sucked her teeth.

“ Where?” said one of the nurses.

“ Spleen, liver, pancreas,” she listed, she moved the wand to his chest and shook her head with disappointment, “ his chest is rumbling, it’s probably been aggravated by the smoke, and his lung is filling with blood,” she said, “lift his legs,” she called out to know one, “and ready a chest tube, one airway isn’t enough we need to get rid of the blood in his lungs so he has a chance of getting oxygen to his stomach,” she said. “ We need to let some of the blood from his stomach before he goes into multi-system organ failure and dies of sepsis.” Using a scalpel she sliced a small line in the bottom of his stomach, causing it to bleed profusely.

The boys watched aimlessly and helpless. They were sore and their body ached, and if they could guess by Y/N’s tone things were not looking good.

Y/N cut a hole in his chest and blood spurted out of it with every heart beat, Y/N shook her head. “ Take him to a trauma room, we won’t make it to an OR,” she said loudly. Everyone seemed to understand, and nodded at her with a certain grim determination.

“ YOU CAN’T GIVE UP, THE CITY NEEDS HIM ALIVE,” Bakugou yelled, and Y/N ignored him, her eyes focusing on the tube in his chest, he flatlined again,

“ Gown and glove me,” she said, sparing him a second glance“ Get a portable CT, to scan his head, make sure he doesn’t have any brain injuries, I’m not gonna save his life for him to get a delayed brain bleed and croak,” she said, hopping onto the gurney and straddling, holding pressure to the wound, because he was bleeding out quicker than she anticipated, “ now move this gurney,” a nurse rolled the gurney to the nearest trauma room.

The boys trailing behind her reminding her of the fact that was pouding away at her skull. The city depended on him making it out of this alive, therefore they depend on her, and she didn’t need a single reminder of that upsetting fact. Shayfer was hanging on by threads, as Y/N ran through every possible situation in her head, and each was more dire than the last, each more bloody and ending in a quiker death.

Even if she could somehow stop the bleeding, she knew that most of his organs were severely damaged, and based on his ribs, which were poking out in every different , and probably poking holes in his lungs and based on the ultrasound, jagged piece was stabbing directly into his heart wall and shredding through the ventricle. Which each beat of his heart, tore it even more.

She turned to one of the nurses, and motioned to her husbands. Standing there, looking at her with love, care and a bit of desperation. “Get me 6 nurses and get them out of here,” she said.

She didn’t know if she would be able to stand the way they looked at her if she let this man die, because if he died, 34 children did, and they would no longer look at her the same.

“ You have to-”

“ I know I have to save him because not only is a bus full of children depending on me, but it turns out the greater city is as well, and I cannot focus on saving this mans life if I’m concerned with you, or worry about how you’re gonna look at me after if I can’t save him, because right now you’re not looking at me like I’m saving one man’s life, but 35, so please leave, because as long as you’re looking at me like that, as long as you’re staring at me, I can’t help but think about what happens if this man dies on my table ” she shouted, and before they knew it they were being ushered to a small room where a sweet nurse attended to their injuries.

6 hours later, Y/N staggered into the room, trauma gown covered in blood and skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat, she sniffled as she staggered into the room, and leaned on the wall, panting loudly. She leaned her head back on the wall, and bent at the knee slowly sliding down the wall, ripping off the blood soaked gown, and bursting into tears.

She clawed at her neck trying to breathe.

“ Is he-”

Y/N began to whimper, and Bakugou burst from the room and into the trauma room where Y/N operated to find Shayfar still covered in burns and stitches, upright and glaring at Hitoshi, who was demanding the location of the bus. Hitoshi was speaking over the radio, to a SWAT team, who was finding the exact location of the bus and the children, alive and well, along with maps to the still remaining bombs.

Bakugou stubbled out of the room, and back into the old one, where Y/N crawled into Eijors lap, trying to breathe.

“ You saved him honey, you saved him,” Bakougou said.

“ What if I couldn’t?” she asked, “ What if I couldn’t and all those kids died, he almost bled out on my table 12 different times, he flatlined 4 times, it was a miracle that hes still alive.”

“ No, you’re just good at what you do,” Bakugou corrected, “ you saved him because you are a good doctor.”

“ You would never look at me the same if he died,” she whimpered.

“ Nothing would ever stop us from loving you,” Bakugou said, stroking the top of her and rubbing her back.

“ We all do the best we can, we all save who we can,” Kirishima added, “ and as long as you try you’re best. We all just try our best.”

#mha #my hero academia #bhna #kirishima eijirou #mha x reader #my hero fanfic #my hero manga #kirishima x reader #kiri #my hero acedamia #kiribaku x reader

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starfall-spirit · 3 months ago

Text

Read on Ao3 | Part II | Part III

Summary: In a world were designation was everything, it was bad enough being caught in the middle as a beta. Strong enough, but never at the top of the pyramid, despite bonding a dragon revered among human and dragon kind alike and channeling a signet seen once in a century.

To present as an omega behind enemy lines... well that was an entirely different sort of curse.

AN: Fourth Wing needs more omegaverse, don't you think?

CW: Back on my 'omegas are property' line of writing. Dub-con next chapter.

Part I

Violet

Drip. Drip. Drip. All the pain and annoyances she’d faced in her twenty four years and a leaky ceiling was going to drive her to insanity. But then, the third member of their squad wasn’t exactly preventing the impending spiral.

“Honestly, people go on and on about how valuable you are. And what happens the first time you’re off that dragon’s back? A bit of land nav is all it takes to bring down the high and mighty lightning girl with your high and mighty dragon. If you have such a great signet—”

The door to the interrogation room creaked open and the ass finally stopped talking. Whatever loathing he had for Violet, Conor was loyal to Navarre and giving away the signet she refused to flaunt on her flight jacket since graduation was just about the stupidest thing he could do at the moment. Just starting her first year as an officer, never having seen combat against a true enemy, she was still an unknown. Small miracles.

Her commander wanted things kept that way. So did Violet. “About time,” Conor remarked when their interrogators stepped into the too-small cell. A dark-haired alpha, and a blond-haired beta, neither of which looked impressed with the situation. “Hey, cool knife you got there. Any chance you brought some food to go with it?”

Sure, start taunting the Tyrrish officers who hate them on principle. That’ll certainly make their torture session more pleasant. Raising his brow, the man who’d entered first continued absently flipping the blade with an ease that made Violet’s stomach twist, his blond counterpart hanging back slightly to lean against the door, blocking their escape with his body rather than the physical lock. Both moves were respectable intimidation tactics for a reason. Eyes darting, she saw Rhiannon raise her chin in challenge. Level-headed. Unflappable, even as they were very likely staring down their executioner. Violet had survived RSC and all of the brutal training that had followed it in third year. She was no stranger to pain. But despite that, and despite her dragons’ beliefs that she had no sense of self-preservation, she had enough sense left in her to know fear. Especially since she’d been particularly off balance the last few days.

She also knew how to fake it till she could make it. With that in mind, she mirrored her dearest friend and squad mate, raising her head and squaring her shoulders as best she could while her hands were bound behind her. Even without the best instructor, Violet had learned with Tairn’s help that she didn’t have to channel from the sky. That she could and would need to manipulate the focus of her power. If she could keep them busy until the drug they’d given her had worn off, she’d be able to singe the rope binding her and hopefully catch them off guard long enough to get her squad mates free.

The concept was half-baked at best, but Rhiannon was the strongest of them with a strategic mind to rival Violet’s, and her lightning had to count for something if her physical strength wouldn’t. As for Conor… He was impressive in the way most beta males were, packing enough of a punch to be considered an honest threat. Hopefully he’d hold his tongue long enough for them to take a step towards freedom before some quick comment had their blood spilled across the ancient stone beneath them.

“I trust I don’t need to explain what’s going to happen next,” the soldier wielding the knife said. “What becomes of those who get it in their heads they can infiltrate a place such as this? By the time command realizes—” His eyes snapped to hers, nostrils flaring. She couldn’t hide the shiver that ran through her when a low growl cut through his monologue. Nor could she muffle her startled gasp when the steel of his dagger whispered across her pulse points to cut her free of the rope. After so much time withstanding advanced interrogation in her second and third year, Violet was certain this wasn’t how an enemy interrogation was supposed to play out. “Little omega, just what are you doing out here in the thick of it?”

“I’m not an omega,” she hissed, doing little more than straining her shoulder when she tried to break from his grip around her upper arm.

“A late bloomer, it seems. Liam, take her upstairs while I get started here, will you? Xaden will want to see her.” Xaden.

The name clanged through her, only feeding the cold dread that had already sunk its teeth down to the bone. Xaden Riorson, the reigning King of Tyrrendor. Generous to his kingdom alone and unyielding to any foe. Even if their dragons were mated, she didn’t imagine she’d find her way into his good graces, considering the bad blood between their families. Too much had happened in all the conflict. They’d never been allies to start with, but by the time the Tyrrish broke away from Navarre each family had taken a life from the other.

Nearly a decade ago, it was her brother. What was Xaden Riorson going to take from her next? ~~~~~

Xaden

“Tairn has finally brought his human to meet us.” Xaden paused his assessment of the seemingly endless documents in front of him, dissecting Sgaeyl’s announcement. “One of the Navarrians being questioned?” That was going to be an issue, seeing as he had every intention of killing them after they broke under interrogation.

“She’s been removed from the interrogation cell already.”

“Under whose command?” he asked, incredulous that one of his people would break an order to contain the border spies. A sharp knock on his office door redirected his attention. “Come in.”

He scented her before the door had fully open. Freshly presented, terrified, and likely trying to hide it. An omega. That changed things. “Liam, who’s this you’ve brought?”

Liam had barely opened his mouth before the girl was snapping at them. “I can speak well enough for myself. You won’t treat me like I’m not present.”

He and his brother exchanged a glance. This he really hadn’t expected. Basgiath riders didn’t graduate, mouthing off like that. Honestly, Xaden was wondering how she’d even made it across the parapet to start training as a cadet. Her designation was never meant to serve as a healer or scribe, let alone on the back of a dragon. Even if she was late to present and strong enough to make it to Threshing, dragons sensed such things. She never should have been on Tairn’s radar for selection.

But she wore rider black. Having been stripped of her flight jacket for interrogation, Xaden could tell from across the room that the corset shielding her upper body had been designed by a professional with the purpose of protecting her from the sharpest of blades. He wondered where she’d gotten the dragon scales for the armor. Tairn was a protective bastard, he knew, but the way the garment glinted under the low lighting revealed a green tint, rather than black.

“Very well, Omega. Who are you and what made you stupid enough to cross Tyrrish soil?”

“Maybe you’ve never had to follow marching orders, Riorson, but the rest of the world doesn’t have such a luxury.” She paused, eying him suspiciously. “Our dragons are mated. How long are you going to pretend you don’t know who I am?”

Xaden crossed his arms, unimpressed with her response. “Tairn has made it no secret he chose to bond during your Threshing, but he’s never revealed your identity.”

That conversation with his dragon had been aggravating. He’d never managed to piece together whether Tairn had revealed the identity of his rider to Sgaeyl, but his dragon had certainly never bothered to inform him on the matter. Only that the rider was female and “nothing like Naolin”. He’d asked her why Tairn had been anywhere near Navarre during that year’s Threshing and she’d told him to mind his own business. The conversation didn’t come up again.

“Her flight jacket said Sorrengail,” Liam provided, mirroring Xaden’s stance from his position against the wall. “Considering Mira has several years of service under her belt and is a confirmed alpha…”

“Violet.” Fuck, this was going to be complicated. Unless, of course, he put her exactly where the world expected to see an omega. He had to admit, the idea of keeping this fiery little thing tied to his bed was far more tempting than it should have been. When it came down to it, no matter what power he held, he was no better than any other alpha when it came to a bratty omega. She’d be a vision on her knees for him.

Liam cleared his throat, a subtle signal from the beta that Xaden was letting himself slip too far into his instincts without an outlet and was being completely obvious about it. With his full focus regained, he looked to the omega once again, barely able to suppress his smirk when he saw the soft pink staining her cheeks—how she had started breathing through her mouth instead of her nose.

He only took a single step closer, but even that was enough for him to see her eyes had dilated. Newly presented, she didn’t have the slightest clue how to keep herself from responding to an alpha’s dominant energy, not that an experienced omega could do much better. There was very little that could be done to suppress the natural chemistry of an alpha-omega dynamic. He couldn’t begin to predict what kind of affect their dragons’ bond would have on them.

“Liam, where’s Aisereigh?” Violet narrowed her eyes, clearly trying to shake the haze of her arousal and place the name without the provision of a rank before it. “Still outside the wards?” And far, far away from where Violet could accidentally set eyes on him or Marbh.

“He won’t be back for a few days.”

“You intend on keeping the girl, yet you think you can keep her separated from her flesh and blood? Then both of them will want to tear your head off, boy.”

“Brennan will be made aware of his sister’s new residency the moment he returns. And her new affliction." The blue gave something akin to a mental snort. "Then it will be up to him if and when he reveals himself. It isn’t my place to navigate their reunion, Sgaeyl.”

“Perhaps.”

She retreated from his mind, putting a shield in place. He wondered how long it would take for her to tell Tairn where his rider had landed herself after being drugged to silence their bond. The black dragon would be tempted to test how much truth lied in the suspicion that Xaden and Violet’s lives were tied now.

Whatever the case, the fact remained that the bond had to be suppressed a while longer. He wasn’t about to let her fly right back to Navarre before he’d seen her through her heat cycle and put his mark on her neck. She had presented less than an hour ago, but he suspected in such a high-stress situation the urge to nest would set in quickly. From there it was only a matter of time before she was begging him to keep her filled up…

She was a tiny little thing. Some sick part of him was looking forward to watching her struggle to take his knot. But she would, all the same.

He finally closed the space between them, wrapping a hand around her arm. “I’m going to get her settled in. Tell the Assembly that Bodhi will sit in my place today.”

“Wait,” Violet demanded, digging her heels into the wood beneath them. “Let my squad go.” He chuckled. “If you keep torturing them I’ll only give you hell. If I see they’ve been allowed to return to our command center—” She grimaced. “I’ll do as you require.”

“You say that as if a brat is hard to handle.”

She glared right back. “I don’t fear you. And I won’t obey you, regardless of what sway you think you hold as an alpha. You will never control me completely.”

His hand tightened around her arm, making her wince. His people certainly weren’t giving out Tyrrish secrets during interrogation. And if he played this right, Violet would be singing for him within a week. He could humor her in this.

He looked up from her, catching Liam’s eyes. “Very well. They can return with a message, then.” What would General Sorrengail think, he wondered, when she learned of her last child’s fate? ~~~~~

Violet

She loathed this. Loathed him, more specifically. But mostly she loathed the undeniable craving inside of her. She’d just met the man—her enemy—yet all she could think about was the deep roll of his voice at her ear, his scent that was constantly caught in her nose, and the unyielding hold he kept when he’d escorted her out of the office and straight to his personal room where she was expected to spend her heat. She wouldn’t get her choice of an alpha to help her through it.

But then, omegas rarely did. With such an extreme ratio of betas and alphas in comparison, her dynamic was coveted. More often than not they were sold off to a nobleman or gifted to a high ranking soldier as a reward for years of flawless service. Objects to breed with the hope their children would present some fifteen years later with the same dynamic. She could only imagine what a king would expect. She was a prize twice over—a thing to breed and a taunt to throw back at Navarre. All she could hope for at this point was that Tairn would tear him to pieces in the end. And that she’d survive it.

The one mercy he gave her was that he didn’t hover as she acquainted herself with the space. While she had cleaned herself from the sweat and grime of travel, he’d called for someone to bring a few extra blankets and pillows—and turned out whoever had come to replace the current bedding. Seeing she was clean and dressed in the singular change of clothes from her pack, he settled in a chair set against one wall, eyes casually moving between the stack of papers in his lap and her progress in forming a decent nest. She was just trying her hardest not to think about what was going to be happening in that nest when this presentation spiraled into something more demanding.

It took over an hour for Xaden to speak to her, voice soft and even when he noticed her discomfort. “What do you need, Violet?”

she didn't need his help. Certainly didn't want it. But... “It’s wrong somehow. I need something else.” Her headspace was all wrong right now, too. She hated how she reacted to that softness. The craving would take her pride, she was sure. “I don’t know how to finish it.”

He gave her the slightest smile when she met his eyes, jerking his chin to his left. “Go see if anything in the closet will help. You can have your pick of it.”

The moment she entered the walk-in space her knees nearly gave out. She’d never been so reactive to scents before, but she had her nose buried in the fabric of a soft winter sweater a moment later, pulling it from where it had been meticulously folded and draped over a hanger.

That was where Xaden found her a while later, surrounded by a small pile of shirts, nose glued to a collar his scent gland had seemingly been pressed against. “Find a few things you like?” She blushed. “No need to be embarrassed, sweet girl. An alpha’s scent should be comforting, especially approaching your heat. Here.” He reached to unlace her corset and she stiffened before remembering their deal. He’d let Colin and Rhi go. Now she had to do her part. “Good girl.”

A moment later her corset and compression shirt were cast aside, the latter thrown to the laundry. The first sweater she’d selected was over her head before she had time to shiver. She shouldn’t have been surprised by the fit of it. She’d always been too small for her age. But that didn’t stop her from flushing again when she bunched up the long sleeves and stood to reach for his shoulders so he could strip her boots and pants, letting the sweater fall to her mid-thigh. There was a slight shake of his shoulders under her hands and his silent laughter did nothing to lessen her second wave of embarrassment.

“You’re alright, Violet. Most omegas are on the shorter side.”

Just not quite this short, went unspoken. And Xaden certainly qualified as taller than most. Twice as broad as her, for sure. She swallowed, pulling away from him and wishing she’d put up a little more fight about losing her leathers for the thin cotton she wore now. He didn’t give any reaction to her withdrawal, crouching to gather the shirts she’d favored so he could carry them out to the bed for her. His free hand didn’t wander, resting at the small of her back to guide her back to the bedroom. “Finish up, little one. I’ll be back with dinner in a moment.”

Violet gnawed at her lip, hearing the door lock behind him. She frowned, not that she had hoped she’d have a chance of sneaking out when he slipped away to do something. Instead she let her mind fall back to that urge that was starting to take over it. The shirts would do it, she knew. Her nest would be cozy and smell like her—she shook her head—like Xaden.

Was that how quickly she’d lose herself to this? Trying to claim her enemy as her alpha in a matter of hours? Why was it his scent that set her off anyways. The interrogator was the first alpha she’d come in contact with since presenting. She and Liam had passed half a dozen on their way to Xaden’s office.

It only took a few moments for a knock to fall on the door. Strange, considering this was Xaden’s space. He’d made it clear there would be no shutting him out. “Uh, come in.”

A moment later Liam’s head poked through the cracked door before he opened it wider to extend what appeared to be a plate of roast meat and rice. “Hey. I caught Xaden on his way out of the kitchen. I thought you might be tired of looking at the same face for hours on end. I know he can be a rude bastard.”

Xaden had been anything but rude since taking her upstairs, if a little high-handed in stripping her leathers. But she wasn’t going to voice anything that made her captor sound like a decent human being. “Yeah. Um, you can come into the room completely, you know. I’m sure that’s… awkward.”

He smiled. “Thanks.”

He was patient in letting her settle into her nest, averting his eyes until she’d covered her bare legs. “When is he gonna be back?”

“Shortly, I’m sure. He’s already pissed that I’m up here offering you food.” She cocked her head, brows furrowed. “Alphas are providers, Violet. Even if they thought you were a beta, surely your mother and siblings…”

“My mother was always cold, even before we lost Brennan and Dad. Brennan, he acted like most big brothers do. Sometimes he snuck me extra treats, I suppose. Before we lost him. Mira probably tended to me most. Braided my hair, gave me pointers where she could. I would have fallen off the parapet if it wasn’t for her, I think. I know it." She smiled at the memory of Mira braiding her hair before conscription. Brennan sneaking her extra sweetbread in the days before he started training for the front lines. Just like that, the melancholy settled deep. "I guess they did dote on me sometimes. I didn’t think it was anything special back then. But I’ve missed it, if I’m being honest.” He reached out to squeeze the hand that wasn’t fidgeting with her fork. “Thanks for bringing this up for me. I’m not really hungry, though.”

Liam frowned. “Take a few bites. You won’t be eating much once your heat takes over.”

She huffed. “I’ve been cooperative where it counts. I don’t need you people dictating my food intake too. Just—”

He reached up, his thumb sliding over her tongue to silence her protests. She could do nothing but watch as the friendly concern slid away to make room for something harder. Betas didn’t have the same raw dominance as alphas, but they could be plenty stern when they needed to be. Her nails bit into the skin of his wrist, but he didn’t so much as flinch. When had she become so helpless?

“Back to bratting us, is she?” Xaden asked. When had the door opened? “Why?”

“Doesn’t want to eat. Says she isn’t going to let us dictate her meals.”

Was Liam a part of this now? Next in line to fuck her when Xaden was bored of it?

“Is that so?” He waved his hand and Liam pulled back, retreating to the chair Xaden had occupied earlier with a little shake of his head. Xaden had her repositioned in his lap in a matter of seconds, the manhandling seeming to cost little effort despite her attempts to squirm free. Twin bands of shadow around her wrists and ankles were what finally stilled her. Despite their appearance, they were solid as iron around her limbs. The rumors about his signet hadn’t been exaggerated, then. “Any time you refuse a bite, you’ll earn yourself an extra swat.”

“Extra…” Her mouth fell open. “You can’t spank me! I’m not a child!”

“Could have fooled me, acting out. Don’t test me, Violence.” She sneered at the nickname, turning her attention back to the meal in front of her.

She was only able to choke down half of the plate they served before insisting she was truly going to be sick if she ate any more than that. Xaden assessed her for a moment, onyx eyes hard. “I’ll let it slide this once. Just know that the next time you backtalk one of us, you’re pretty little ass is going to be feeling the consequences.” She scowled back at him. “You can be as pissed as you like, but you’re going to follow the rules we set. If you can’t respect—”

The rest of his threat was lost to the earth-shaking roars beyond the walls of Riorson House, just slightly varying from one another. Serum or no serum, her dragons had found her. And they were livid.

#the empyrean #fourth wing #violet sorrengail #xaden riorson #riorgail #violiaden #liolet #omegaverse #a/b/o #liam mairi

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tanoraqui · 29 days ago

Text

Please enjoy this start of a fic for Tress of the Emerald Sea, which I wrote just after reading the book but stopped because I didn’t know where it was going, and now, several months later, I know even less.

Tress was just settling into a really good nap when someone knocked urgently on her cabin door and called for the captain.

It really would have been a really good nap. She'd stayed up late the night before testing crimson/rose spore blends, which as certain loved ones repeatedly pointed out was less advisable scheduling in her mid-forties than in her late teens. They were sailing west in winter through the Rose Sea, so the sun came in her porthole at just the right angle to make her bed optimally cozy in the late afternoon. And best of all, Charlie was curled up in that sunbeam with her—because even sleep, that most individual of activities, is most pleasant with someone you love at your side.

(And none of the kids were young enough any more to crawl into the bed and join them—sleep is improved by the addition of loved ones, but it does require both peace and quiet.)

Charlie, who still took his duties as Captain's Valet quite seriously, kissed Tress on the ear then slipped out from under the covers and went to answer the door.

"What's the matter, Elmer?" he asked softly. "Captain's napping."

Elmer the cabin girl did not take the cue to lower her voice. "Sorry to interrupt your conjugal time, Cap, but you gotta come up! These people just fell outta the sky!"

Half a step behind her, their younger daughter Lemina added enthusiastically, "Mr. Ford says they're sorcerers!"

Tress and Charlie exchanged the raised eyebrows of experienced ship-captain and valet and parents. But there was audibly some sort of hullabaloo on the open deck above. So Tress valiantly resisted the urge to shove her face back into the sunlit pillow, and instead tossed back the covers and pulled on her boots.

There was indeed a hullabaloo on the top deck. It was the sort only achievable by sailors who've been at sea for a long time without anything particularly interesting happening, and who haven't yet decided whether this sudden new thing is auspicious, ill-omened, or merely very entertaining. A few people were still doing their jobs—including, to their credit, the lookout and the helmswoman. The rest had abandoned scrub-brushes and ropes, and some ran up from below just ahead of or just behind the captain and her valet, to crowd around the center of the fuss.

And what a strange center it was! So far as anyone could tell, including the lookout, two people had dropped out of the open sky, in a swift but controlled fall that had ended with a smooth, feet-first landing upon the foredeck.

They were both on the tall side, with white hair, wide-brimmed straw hats, and a bizarre assortment of luggage. The woman was fine of feature and distractingly voluptuous of form. This was accentuated by her skintight, faintly shimmery top with only thin straps for shoulders, and the way the breeze blew her thin cotton skirt about her legs. The man was pointed from his nose to his knees, with special credit to his elbows and the finger he was just now jabbing at Ford's speaking board (the quartermaster having already been on deck when the Incident began). Aside from the straw hat, he was dressed in a subtly but notably more fashionable version of his most famous outfit on this world: a floral-patterned red shirt buttoned to display only a tasteful amount of chest, knee-length tan shorts and sandals without socks.

"Hoid?" Tress exclaimed. "What are you doing here? Where have you been?" She looked around at the open, rose-colored sea, and the sky with nary a cloud in sight. "How did you get here?"

"—still dangerously hacka— Captain Tress!"

Hoid swept his hat from his head as he turned with a glad cry, and used it to sweep a particularly extravagant bow. When he rose, he began ticking off on his fingers.

"In order: Yes, it is I! Well-spotted. I'm here for a vacation. I have been many places, most of which you haven't heard of, many of which I'll be happy to regale you with stories of. And I got here in a particularly clever way involving three faked identities, a barrel of Bilming gin, a borrowed spaceship, and... Actually, given your predilictions, I'd better not tell that one, either. This is Design, by the way. Design, this is Tress, Charlie, and..."

He cast around for more familiar crew, and indeed, there weren't many. Even with a captain as notable as Tress of the Five Cups, little at sea was permanent, especially not for nearly thirty years. Of her original officers, only Ford remained—Ann had gotten her own ship captaincy; Laggart had taken up the king's wages on the Rock and gotten married; and Salay's father had gotten too old to continue running around a ship, so she'd taken up a post in the Royal Naval Academy. Of the sailors, only Pakdaughter, Doug, and the unfortunately one-month-younger LIttle Doug remained.

(Hoid didn't look a day older than when they'd first sailed the Midnight Sea, all those years ago.)

Undaunted by the lapse, Design stuck her hand out with a wide smile.

"Charmed!" she said. "I've heard so much about you."

"It's nice to meet you," Tress said reflexively, returning the handshake. Charlie followed suit.

"Say, this is the right place to set up, right?" Design gestured a contraption that she’d already shrugged off her back, a folded jumble of metal rods and more shimmering fabric. She leaned forward with a conspiratorial wink. "It should be—they're deck chairs!"

Baffled, Tress defaulted to one of the many lessons she'd learned from Ford over the years.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but the Five Cups is not a free 'vacation' ship. Either you're a paying passenger, or you're part of the crew."

As though by magic, Hoid suddenly had a flute in his hands.

"I shall pay our way as a storyteller!" he said brightly.

"We already have one of those, and a damn fine one, too." Tress jerked a thumb at Charlie, who grinned.

"And!" Tress added in the tone of one realizing that she could finally only complain of an underlying grievance. "How do I even know you'd be good for it, in work or coin?" She returned Hoid's earlier jabbing finger with interest. "You disappeared without a word last time, in the middle of Kingsport! You didn't even wait to see if Charlie's curse was removed!"

(There was a susurrus from the sailors around them, as those who knew the full story of The Captain Versus the Sorceress leapt to inform those who did not.)

"Well, it was," said Hoid, gesturing at Charlie's notably humanoid form.

"It was not!" Tress cried. "If he doesn't take me home and poetry at me once a day, he starts to turn back into a rat!"

"It's alright," Charlie said quickly. He slid his arm around Tress's waist. "Tress and the kids are my home, as we are hers. And I've gotten quite good at poetry."

Hoid, about to be genuinely concerned, instead beamed. Tress smiled as well, because there are some things you just can't not smile at.

[Then Tress and Charlie catch Hoid up on what he’s missed, most importantly that they have three kids now ranging about 15 to 20 years old, one of whom may or may not technically be Charlie’s second cousin a prince who’s run away from home to join their crew; relatedly, they recently returned from privateering to piracy. Hoid and Design completely fail to explain who or what Design is, leaving the whole crew to bet energetically on whether they’re siblings, lovers, neither, or both. At some point, Hoid sorcerously saves the ship from a royal navy attack, which Tress concedes is at least partial payment for using it as a vacation spot. Teenage shenanigans and/or heroism?!?]

#tress of the emerald sea #my fic #ficlet #hoid #cosmere

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