#cawing crows (ic musings)

[plagueismovingagain]

🎲-Wanna see what Livio and Caz get. >:]

@bone-pile-rp

33. A kiss to a scar, birthmark, injury, or other marking!

It was a shock back when Caz realized just how close she and Livio had been to meeting each other before she abandoned the GHGs. To think they'd both been assassins at some point, and even working for the same jerkwad plant at the same time--and yet didn't know a thing about the other? It was almost comedic.

But now, as they tiredly and cautiously exchanged stories of their respective experiences, it really drilled in just how fucked up their lives had been--and they were only children when it all happened. Caz at least got a taste of what being a kid was like before they were taken away. But by the sounds of it, Livio didn't even get that much; he and Nick had been completely robbed of their childhoods, and it absolutely broke Caz's heart.

And yet, despite everything they'd all gone through, they were still standing--more than that, they were actively choosing every day not to let their pasts define them and be better than people had been to them--even if people still feared and hated them. It was an incredible achievement for all of them, and Caz was especially impressed by Livio's growth.

They reached out to hug him before they even comprehended that's what they were doing. Caz pulled him close with arms around his neck, bracing and guiding the back of his head to lean into their collarbone.

"Im not really great with words, cuz they never feel like they do what I mean justice; but I'm fuckin' proud of you, Livio. An' I mean it. I'm infinitely impressed an' inspired by ye."

Caz angled their head down a little bit to gently place a chaste kiss above his left eye at the brow, over the mark of the Eye of Michael stained into his skin.

"You are so much more than they told you that ye could ever be--an' who you will be is always in your hands, no one else's. Don't ever forget that, yeah?"

[plagueismovingagain]

"My kind of birds."

[rhymamiehia]

Tags

[queer-francis]

Frank Morrison x GN Reader

((CW: dub-con, knife play, blood play, choking, reader death))

You had been fumbling with the damaged generator in the dark for a few minutes now, and it was nearly finished. The smell of metal, grease, and gasoline wafted through the air as it rumbled to life loudly, the pistons pumping and churning as the lights above it flickered on and illuminated the scenery around you. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, you felt a chill tingle your spine, and you quickly looked up over your shoulder. A crow cawed in the distance, making its disturbance known, and you knew something was coming. Someone. You hadn't seen the killer during this Trial yet, but you had heard the screams of one of your fellow survivors earlier, a sound that never sat well with you. It always left you feeling nauseous and fearful about whether or not you were next, and this time was no different.

Oh, how right you were.

You kept low to the ground as you crept slowly through the brush and away from the generator. You had hoped to cling to the shadows, maybe hide behind the tattered brick walls littering the landscape around you, but you knew from the way your heartbeat was acting up and the intensity of your fear that whoever this killer was was closing in and closing in fast, and you'd never make it if you tried to sneak your way over there. You darted up to your feet and started sprinting, eyes wide with panic as you heard someone behind you break from the underbrush, their breathing heavy from excitement and exertion. You chanced a look backwards and saw the smeared and bloody masked smile of The Legion behind you- Frank.

You felt ice in your veins as you remembered how he had raged at you in the last Trial you had with him. You were the last survivor that wasn't on a hook, and you strategically had distracted him with a throw pebble at a partially finished generator, causing it to get stuck in the motor and cause an explosion, while you unhooked Claudette who then helped you unhook Jake and Ash. He was worked up in a frenzy back then, coming after all of you, but you had a secret… you had woke from the fog laying right next to the hatch at the beginning, and you had a key. The tumble you took as you tripped over a tree root brought you back to reality and your current situation, and your mom's voice chuckled in your memories as your head cracked against the ground. "Silly goose, didn't you know you're not supposed to look back at who's chasing you?"

His body was on yours as he tackled you back to the ground as you attempted to get up, a snarl ripping from his mouth behind his mask, and you felt the sharp sting of his blade slash across your back, leaving a deep wound. You cried out and tried to scramble away from him, but his grip was too strong, and he ripped you backwards into him. He pinned you back down against the ground, twisting your arm behind you roughly as he straddled your hips, letting out a soft, breathy laugh at having you there beneath him. You squirmed, choking down a sob- something told you he'd just enjoy your pain anyway, and as if on cue, he pushed down on your arm a little harder as he hummed in a musing tone.

"You know…" he started, his voice amused as he trailed his knife teasingly over your spine, enjoying the soft gasp you let out as it left a thin line of blood beneath it's sharp edge. "You really fucked me over the last time we were in a Trial together… I think it's high time I returned the favor."

With that, he leaned down and chuckled darkly into your ear as he dug his fingers into the cut across your back, playing in the blood that was seeping from it. You hissed through your teeth, tears pricking the edges of your eyes, and tried to buck him off of your hips by rolling to the side. He grabbed your hair and jerked your head backwards, the silent threat made known by his knife that was now at your throat. Your body went still, though still tense, and he tilted your head back to where he could see your face.

"Huh, you're actually kinda hot in a desperate 'please don't kill me' kinda way," he said, and if you were in any other non-life threatening situation, you would have laughed. As it were, you couldn't help the soft huff that made its way out of your mouth, fear restricting any other noise from making its way out of your mouth.

You heard a soft thunk in the grass, and your eyes flicked downwards to catch the sight of his mask on the ground. At that moment you felt his lips brushing against your neck, and he drew his knife almost lazily down the front of your shirt as he reached around you, cutting through it with ease just as he had with the back of it. You whimpered softly as he pushed you back down to the ground, lifting himself up and off of you just enough to flip you over to face him. He was… almost completely normal looking, you noticed- attractive even. Wavy auburn locks were pushed back from his tan skin and out of his stormy blue eyes that reflected the faint light of the generator behind you. A pale scar decorated his nose, and another angled across the edge of his lips. His studded tongue licked over his lips that quickly formed into a feral grin, revealing sharp, wolfish canines. As he started to tug at your pants, the realization of what he wanted hit you and you found your voice.

"N-no, I-" you were cut off by his knife at your throat again, and his fingers finally got your button undone. You bit your lip as he slipped his knife down along your torso from collarbone to navel, leaving another narrow line of blood, and your back arched beneath him with a shaky gasp.

"No?" He asked, his grin widening as he cut you again- across your lower stomach now- and drew another sob from you. The wound as non-lethal as the others, but that didn’t stop it from hurting any less. "Here I thought you wanted to be my knife whore. Maybe this will be a lesson to not fuck with me like that again."

He finished getting your pants off of you, tsking when you attempted once more to wiggle away from him, and this time he sliced into your thigh. You didn’t try to fight him about it after that. He began to cut your underwear off, and once you were bare before him, he let out a hum of approval, his blue eyes raking over your bruised and bloodied body with obvious, sadistic lust. He kept his knife pressed firmly against your neck as he leaned forward, and you heard the tell-tale unzipping of his pants. He wasted no time in pressing teasingly against your entrance, enjoying the wide, teary-eyed look of horror on your face, and with a sharp, painful jerk of his hips he was inside of you. Your muscles clenched around his rough entry, but your scream was cut short as his freehand closed around your throat with a near crushing strength. He thrust wildly against you, not giving you time to properly adjust to his girth, nor would he let you get more than half a lungful of air before tightening his grip on your throat again. Tears were streaming freely down your face as he took you, pausing every now and then to catch his breath and keep himself from reaching his climax just yet. It was clear he was going to drag this out as long as he could, and he leaned down to lick the blood that was steadily running from the cuts on your chest and stomach. He bit harshly into your skin, drawing a weak mewl of pain from your lips, and he left a trail of messy bites from your abdomen to your neck, adjusting his hand so he could bite on you while still choking you. There he suckled at your skin, angling his hips to reach deeper within you, and the constant friction had your whimpers of pain slowly turning to deeper moans of pleasure. You were dizzy from blood loss and oxygen deprivation, and were teetering on the edge of euphoria. He finally released his grip on your throat, and you inhaled sharply, thankful to be able to breath properly again. He laughed softly and closed the distance between your lips, nipping and sucking at your bottom lip with a satisfied noise.

"Look who's enjoying themself now," he teased, not hiding the smug look on his face, and you felt your cheeks flush in shame.

You looked away from him, unable to meet his eyes. He was right, you shouldn't be enjoying it, but you couldn't help it- it felt good. He felt good, and he forced you to look back at him with a sharp tug on your chin. He caught your lips with his own, surprisingly gentle with his kiss, and his thrusts began to grow more erratic. You felt the coil of pleasure that had been building within your core winding tighter and tighter, and you hooked your legs around his waist, urging him onwards, rolling your hips against his. He growled in response, breaking the kiss to pant against your shoulder, and he slipped his arms underneath you to hold you closer to him, and the muscles of his chest and abs felt warm against yours. You squeezed your eyes shut as he brought you closer and closer, and finally, you were spilling over the edge, crying out his name again and again as you bucked your hips up against his. He dug his nails into your back as he fucked you through your orgasm before letting himself reach his own release. He buried himself as deep as he could inside of you as he came, and you shivered at the feeling of his warm seed filling you up.

Maybe it was sick, maybe it was fucked up, but you couldn’t help the way you were left wanting more. There was simply something about fucking someone so dangerous that left you with a nice adrenaline high, and something told you you’d become addicted to the way he felt. You always had the worst taste.

He sighed in contentment as he nuzzled his face into your neck, his bloodstained hand reaching up and playing in your hair languidly as he let himself enjoy the afterglow of his climax. You turned your face into his palm and pressed a soft kiss to ]it, and just at that moment the exit gates' sirens went off. He snorted derisively, tightening his grip on you in a completely possessive manner. 

"You're not going anywhere, sweetheart," he purred, and you oh so carefully draped your arms around him, not wanting him to think you were up to anything devious, and you tilted your head with a little smile.

"Who said I wanted to go anywhere?" You asked, and you rolled your hips suggestively against his. You met his groan with a soft laugh and decided to be bold, to take what you wanted just as he had.

You quickly rolled the both of you over while he was off guard and ground your hips down, bringing his softening erection back to life within you. You rode him at a quick and harsh pace that matched his earlier, cooing and moaning out your praises of how good he felt- ignoring how that normally would have embarrassed you, and his stormy eyes never left yours, his expression one of delight, yet also... hesitant. It didn't take him long to reach his climax again, and as you felt him spill within you again. However, you also felt a sharp pain between your ribs. Your eyes widened in shock and dismay, looking down at the knife in his hands that was stabbing into your torso. He twisted it, then pulled it free. Crimson cascaded down over the both of you, and you let out a soft, pained noise. Your body seized up at that moment and he caught you before you could fall, cradling you in his arms as he pressed soft but hungry kisses to your dying lips. His fingers tangled in your hair and he smirked down at you, watching the life leave your eyes. Your vision faded, and the last thing you felt was his warm breath against your ear.

"I'll see you again next Trial, doll."

[sankta-arya]

nothing burns like the cold

Killing the Night King comes with a price. Jon makes his greatest sacrifice to save the world, and her.

Written for Jonsa: A Dream of Spring, Day 1: seasons

Nothing burns like the cold.

It burns and stings and pierces every inch of Jon's body. At times it lessens to a prickling in his skin, his flesh, all the way down to his bones, until it hits him again, full force, and he wishes he could thrash and scream, reach out to grab, something, anything, to hold on to.

It's nothing like the cool, sweet slumber that pulled him under the first time he died. There's no release from the pain in this death. Somewhere in a faraway corner of his mind he wonders if that is what's happening to him, whether he is in fact dying again. He was the stabber, not the stabbed. Did he succeed? Is it over? Did he save them?

He needs to get up and find out. He can't move, he can hardly feel his body. There's only the cold and the heavy weight of the pain. He tries to wiggle a toe, a finger, channels all of his strength into the tip of the pointer finger of his right hand, and for a moment he thinks there's a tingle, a twitch, but he's still being held down.

All around him is a white, deafening silence. All he can see is an icy blue glare inside of him, chilling him to the core of his heart and the pit of his stomach. Once he believes he spots a flash of bright red, but it's gone before he can reach out.

He's become used to the pain, so much so that he doesn't even realize that it has begun to dull down to a bearable throbbing, a thud pulsing in time with his idle heartbeat. When he opens his eyes, he still sees blue, but when he blinks, the blue is staring back at him from a pale face, framed by flames. There's fear in her eyes, but also wonder and hope, he thinks.

He hisses at the first touch of her fingers on his cheek. Her skin is so hot it should sear away his flesh, but instead it awakens him, and he covers her hand with his own.

"You're so cold," she whispers.

"You're so warm." His voice is ice cracking open, but her answering smile is like the first ray of sunlight after his darkest night.

She entwines their fingers and lifts his hand to her face, pressing her cheek into his palm. "You're still you," she muses as she nuzzles into his touch. "Just a little different." She kisses the inside of his wrist, and hours later, he can still feel her lips.

The dead have been defeated, the Night King is gone, but his generals are still waiting for him, frozen statues standing sentinel outside the walls of Winterfell. They are calling to him. He can feel the pull in this new body of his. Their voices are shrill and grating, like the cawing of crows, the screech of steel on stone. When he closes his eyes, he sees their home. They want to return, but they're awaiting his orders.

He won't go. He won't, he won't, he won't.

Nothing burns like the cold. It's consuming him from the inside out. He hardly sleeps, but when he does, he dreams of the heart of winter. It's calling to him. Still, he won't go.

When he can't bear it anymore, he goes to her. "Please," he begs her. "I need you."

He's no longer a wolf or even a dragon. He's cold and empty, nothing left inside of him but a hunger only she can still.

She embraces him, and he pulls her flush against his chest, capturing her lips in a greedy kiss, his hands unwinding the tresses of her hair from her braid.

With every pull of his lips, every nip of his teeth and every stroke of his tongue he is draining her, feeling her warmth pouring into him, coarsing through his veins and permeating every last inch of his body. He vaguely registers that her hands are fumbling at the laces of his tunic. His own leave their place, tangled up in her hair and replace hers, ripping the piece of clothing from his chest.

Her hands are fire on his exposed chest. He is burning up under her touch, but he won't make her stop. He opens his eyes, and her gown pools at her feet with a soft thud. She's standing bare before him, and he surrenders to her heat.

He feasts on the flame between her thighs, drinking her all up to quench his thirst. He fills her up, and with every thrust, he drives the cold from his body. When he gives her his seed, he almost feels warm again.

Nothing burns like the cold, except for the fire she's aroused inside of him. It doesn't hurt him. He believes it's what's keeping him alive.

"You have to go," Sansa tells him. She's known it since he first opened his eyes and she found blue ice staring back at her.

They're tangled up in each other under the furs, and his skin is warm to the touch after hours of languid lovemaking.

He pulls her closer, spearing his fingers into the mess he's made of her hair, resting his forehead against hers before nipping at her bottom lip. He soothes the sting with a feathery light kiss, and he groans: "I don't want to leave you."

She slides her fingers up his chest, splaying them on his neck, fingernails raking his beard. His eyes flutter closed under her touch as he presses himself closer. She skims the tip of her nose down the bridge of his and brushes her lips against his, letting them hover over the corner of his mouth as she whispers: "I don't want you to go."

Still he needs to. Winter has lasted long enough.

"One more night," he pleads or promises, she can't be sure. He rolls on top of her, and she opens her thighs so he can settle in the cradle of her hips. He leans in to kiss her, and she tangles her hands into his curls to keep him close.

"One more night," she repeats, when they finally part for air. "And after that, you'll give me another one. And then I'll beg you for one more."

"Will you?" he chuckles.

She hums in agreement, keening when he sucks on her neck. "Nights will turn into sennights," she continues, tilting her hips to give him access. "Sennights will turn into moons, and before you know--" her words dissolve into a gasp when he enters her again.

"Don't tempt me, woman," he grunts, starting to move inside of her.

She wraps her legs around his hips. "One more night."

Nothing burns like the cold, the empty spot in her bed, the coldness in her heart. But she's a Stark, she will endure. She always has.

Jon returns and winter comes with him. She's bathing in the hot springs when he arrives. He sheds his cloak and boots, bit he doesn't have any patience left for the rest of his clothes.

He leaps into the steaming pool, water splashing over the edge as he closes the distance between them. She's in his arms then, and their lips and teeth and tongues clash in their desperation.

He's still cold as ice when he thrusts himself inside of her, but she doesn't care. She's wet and ready for him, and the water around her is warm enough.

All of their children are born in the winter, always within a year of his return. It's after ten years and two children, a boy and a girl, and a third on the way, early in their fourth winter together, that Sansa notes: "You haven't aged a day."

"Neither have you," he tells her with a smile.

"Liar." It's true, time hasn't affected her that much, but Jon still looks exactly the way he did when he was three-and-twenty.

She knows it scares him, which is why they never speak of it, until one night during their sixth winter together. She's mending a shift by the fire, pausing to rub her expanding belly, when he says: "I want to take you with me."

She puts her needlework aside and sighs. "You can't."

"I know," he says after a pause.

They're quiet for a while.

"If I could, I would though," he tells her. "Perhaps it's selfish,  but I want to keep you with me, forever."

She has wanted that since before they knew it was possible, but she can't. She won't. Robb is only two-and-ten, Lyanna seven and Cat four. She's expecting another child, another boy, the maester says. She wants to name him Ned.

"Some day, when they're older perhaps." She reaches out to take his hand.

"Isn't it odd?" he muses. "Time doesn't affect me anymore,  but it's my enemy in every possible way."

"Don't be silly," she tells him. "It's not easy, but when have our lives ever been simple? You're here with me now, and you gave me our children."

It's far from perfect, but she can't change it, and at least there's joy in her life now. She doesn't like it when he talks like this. She hates to see him sullen and sad.

He shakes his head. "You don't look seven-and-thirty, but you have changed."

She purses her lips. "Are you saying you won't want me anymore when I'm old and grey?"

"No!" His nostrils flare and he pulls his hand from hers. "I'm saying I don't want to see you die."

"I promise, you won't," she assures him, taking his hand again.

She almost breaks her promise when she gives birth to their last children, twins, when she's three-and-forty. He can't bear to leave her, not after almost losing her, so that winter is the longest one the North has known in hundreds of years. Sam and Brienne are seven by the time he returns to the true North.

"Next time I come back," he tells Sansa when they're saying goodbye, "I'm taking you with me. I can't do this again, not anymore."

She nods, wrapping her arms around his neck, and he pulls her flush against him. He presses his lips to her temple and murmurs: "I'll give you as much time as I can."

Sansa is one-and-sixty when she says goodbye to her children, but standing next to her oldest son, no one would guess her his mother, she could pass for his twin sister. He and his siblings have never questioned it, but his children and Lyanna's have often asked her about it.

"It's magic," she whispered each time with a knowing smile.

In truth she doesn't understand it either, apart from what Jon told her once, many years ago: "Fire consumes, but ice preserves."  It's all she needs to know, she's grateful for the time she's been given to spend with her children.

And now she will never be parted from Jon again.

Nothing burns like the cold, but their love burns brighter than any flame in this world.

[plagueismovingagain]

When do you gaze at your soulmate?

when they're sleeping

it's not just the way they're at rest. it's that they're at rest with you. it's not just that they're safe but that they feel safe enough to let you see them like this. it's trust and it's intimacy. and you're not sure you're ready for them to see the emotions in your eyes right now. they've been through enough. you both have. sometimes it scares you just how much you love them. it terrifies you that you feel happy as they lay there, eyes closed and hair a little messy. their features twitch and you know they're dreaming and it scares you because if you fall asleep too you won't have a nightmare tonight. you'll dream of them. or nothing at all. and either way it will make you need them more. and you're not supposed to need anyone but it's them. you want to hold them in your arms and never let go. you want to protect them but you know they want to protect you to. this is the kind of love you long for and it's the kind which will hurt if you lose it. but here you are anyway. it's too late now. you're glad it's too late to go back.

Snagged from: @bone-pile-rp

[altairsoffice]

muse name: Qrow Branwen trial number: 1 trial task: The Fields of Theama call for you. In their crystal city of ice, the reflections of things familiar and unfamiliar will rise to greet you like an old friend. Venture inwards and listen to your soul. You must brave the maze and return with something from your own world. Reach into the looking glass, abandoning riches and temptations. What you pull out will be your own, and only your own. link to trial thread/drabble: Caw. item or power?: Power requested item/power: Uhhh yeah can he uh, get back his ability to turn into a crow and back please? He really misses being a bird. Thank you.

In this land of ice and snow and sorrow, you have prevailed.

It is one step. Take care to remember that the path you take has an ending beyond your vision.

Pray before the statue of Her Lady within Her holy abode and reminisce about what you desire. The glass shines.

You can turn into a crow at will once more -- and back, of course. However, it seems your stamina is limited by the cold. The further you fly, a strong chill begins to grip you, making flight extremely difficult. If you wish to survive, you best transform sparingly.

May Diaidem bless you.

[authorellenmint]

Hawke entertains three children who approach her doorstep with four stories to scare the pants off 'em. And who should she use for characters in her horror stories but those companions she knows so well? Just a bit of fun and scares for this season of ghosts and goblins.

By the flickering of a blood red candle, three children approached the altar. Their traditional cloaks fluttered by an unnatural breeze as they focused upon the bowed brow of a woman. She was shadowed by not only the creaking eaves of the crumbling ceiling but a hood of darkest night pulled to the middle of her forehead.

"Come in," a voice cawed from below the cloak, and a hand gnarled like a bone chewed apart by wild dogs extended towards them. "Step closer, step closer," it continued, waving them onward.

Now these children were not afraid. No, they came prepared, their fingers holding tight to the bulging bags shared between the three. As one they stepped forward to the haggard witch. "What are your names?" she asked, the voice cracking like a hanging tree split by the Maker's lightning.

"Snips," the first said, wearing a mask of ocean blue that cut off to reveal his lips.

"Snails," the second answered, donning a mask the color of dried blood that shielded his nose, and circled the eyes and chin.

The hooded woman turned a moment to the last, her voice rising with a laugh, "Does that make you puppy dog tails?"

"No," the last stuck out her chin. "I'm Lyrium!" she crowed, her head tossed back to reveal her purple mask, that covered her entire face save the eyes, glittered like stars.

"That's a new one," the woman chuckled to herself.

"And who are you?" Snips asked.

"Me?" she jabbed a thumb back into the cloak that seemed to ring a bit as if it struck something metal. "I'm the witch." Suddenly, she coughed and lifted her voice back up to the cackling range, "I mean, I'm the witch of the woods, dearie. I assume you've come to try your luck?"

All three children nodded hard, their masks twisting upon the cheap twine their parents knotted on.

"Then..." the witch extended her hand over the table before her, "pay the tribute."

Reaching into their hard-won stash, Snips, Snails, and Lyrium each laid a piece of candy before their spot. A grin white as a sliver of moon rose below the cowl. Twisting her gnarled fingers around, three gold Sovereigns appeared out of thin air wedged upon her knuckles. The kids gasped in surprise; normally best they could hope for was a copper. But a whole sovereign each?

The witch laid them down before herself, each candy piece waiting to be exchanged should the bargain be met. "I assume this is an acceptable payment," the witch crowed before waving her fingers back and forth over the glint of gold a few more times for emphasis.

Nodding madly, the children all threw their shoulders back and stood tall. They were prepared to stand firm against anything this witch of the woods could throw at them.

Drumming her nails on the table, the woman mused, "Let's see. Where shall we begin? Ah, I know," her grin lit up stronger than Lyrium's namesake as she honed in on the children. "It was a dark and stormy night..."

~ * ~

Though, it didn't begin that way. Young master Bran, a man who likes to berate people because he thinks he's better than everyone, got it in his head to take his sweetheart out for a little boat ride on the Waking Sea. Few things more romantic than a gentle crest of the oars while beside the one you fancy with the shore full of people miles away. Or so Bran planned.

"I don't like the look of those clouds."

"Come come, Serendipity," Bran patted the wooden seat beside him, "there's nothing to fear. I'm here."

Serendipity raised an eyebrow at the young man's assurances, but gave into his pull. After all, he was paying for...er, he was wealthy. Sure, let's go with that. Wealthy. For a time the pair were too enthralled together, paying no heed to the rising rock of the waves, or the encroaching darkness of the skyline.

Why? They were playing a game of...Wicked Grace. Very cut throat too. Bran lost his shirt and Serendipity had him deep in the hole. Why am I laughing? Stupid joke for old people. Anyway...

By the time they both looked upward, the entire sky was blotted out. It seemed as if the shadows of death itself wrapped around them, the once soothing waves increasing to a thrashing rate. When the rains opened up to drench the pair, Serendipity cried that they needed to get back to shore. Bran, certain he knew what he was doing -- because he always thinks he knows what he's doing -- snatched up the oar and tried to paddle.

But this was a storm of cataclysmic destruction. The waves crested higher and higher, the caps white as an old dwarf's beard, rising to such a point the ocean itself could slap against the moon. Each pounding of the vengeful water sent the little boat skittering further and further into the endless void of the sea. Poor Serendipity was crying for them to come up with a plan, but Bran, he clung to that oar. He was certain it would get him back home.

Digging the scrap of wood through the water, he turned the boat around to face where Kirkwall should be. Only shadows and mists floated on their edges, leaving the poor souls unmoored from their surroundings. Serendipity wondered if they were even going the right direction, but Bran couldn't be stopped. He paddled with all the muscle in his body, which isn't much let me tell you.

Anyway.

Through the sheets of rain drenching Bran's clothing to his body, he spotted something on the horizon. A bolt of lightning zipped through the air, parting the shadows to reveal a glance of black sails fluttering like storm clouds upon a sequoia-like mast. But when he shook his head, the vision was gone. Only the endless sea circled them, certainly no pirate ship caught in the same storm.

With a laugh, Bran continued to steer the tiny boat towards Kirkwall. Wiping the downpour out of his eyes, he spotted a single lantern whipping back and forth in the winds. "There!" he shouted, struggling to rise his voice over the winds, "Land!" They were almost home.

A great crack thundered apart the very air, the taste of metal splintering Bran's world as the boat below him exploded. Screaming in his brain as his tongue fell slack, his eyes burned from the flash of white that swiped right before him. Pain overwhelmed his tender body and the lightning strike flung him up through the air. With a great splash to rattle his bones, Bran struck the vengeful seas and began to sink into the briny depths. Pain sundered his limbs from him, unreachable to his brain as he drifted ever further from life-giving air. The man's sight faded to darkness as he watched the shrapnel of his boat bob on the surface above.

When Bran awoke, he gasped in a great breath as if his lungs had been deprived of air for hours. Whipping his soggy head around, he found no more storm, not even a sign that one had been in the area. The sky was cloudless, all of the Maker's stars shining down on the man lost at sea. Clinging in his hand was the oar, which must have been what pulled his lifeless body up to the surface.

Where was his boat? There wasn't even a single plank left floating on the waves, only his weary soul. How far did the waves pull him? Twisting through the eternal chill of the sea's waters, Bran tried to get his bearings. All that surrounded him was the eternal, ever looming threat of death. Blackness to the left, the right, below, and above. If he guessed wrong, any attempt, any choice to move this way or that could end in his death.

He was truly damned to the sea.

Shadows shifted deep within the indigo horizon, a great grey mass cresting through the waves. Bran squinted, trying to get whatever it was into focus, when the mass turned and began to bear down upon him. "Oh Maker," Bran cursed, his arms struggling to paddle out of the way, but he couldn't compete with a massive ship coming to destroy him.

It moved unlike any other ship he'd seen, almost as if it floated above the waves and required no wind to fill its always bursting sails. He had no prayer to escape its wake, which was certain to drown him and batter his broken body upon the passing hull. Terrified of the future before him, Bran froze in place -- his entire body falling limp while the only thing keeping him afloat was his trusty oar.

Cresting closer, the great ship filled all of Bran's vision. His entire world was nothing but black planks of the hull beating apart salt water on its mission to rip and drown him. Gritting his teeth, he bared down for the inevitable.

Suddenly, the ship's ice-white, almost glowing against the backdrop sails shifted direction. Turning as if it followed no rules of nature, the great galleon twisted to the side, pulling up right next to Bran. "Hello there," a woman's voice called out from the darkness. "Looks like you need a hand."

"Yes!" Bran shouted, already swimming his way towards the bobbing ship. Hooking a hand onto the ladder, he scurried his way higher. Step by step, he felt the pull of the sea dripping off him. You failed in dragging another man to your depths, sea serpents, he laughed to himself while stepping onto the deck of his saviors.

A dozen men glared at the bedraggled man plucked from the ocean's heart and deposited at their feet. They snarled from jagged teeth, beady eyes glaring out beside pitch black patches, tattoos of every unseemly image that burned the soul were embedded deep into their flesh. Bran gulped deep as he stared at the assembled crew of brigands, his finger worrying the oar clutched in his hands.

"Welcome to my ship," a woman's voice reverberated from the perch beside the wheel. With a great smile, she eased her way down the stairs towards Bran. "I am Captain Isabela," she winked while doffing her mighty captain hat and taking a bow.

"Caw!" a bird called from high above their heads. Feathers flitted from the top mast onto the deck as the bird circled down to land upon the woman's shoulder. "All Souls Belong To The Deep."

She smiled at the bird with plumage as black as midnight, "This is Polly. He's a bit of a chatterbox. And look at you," she turned to Bran, "soaked to the bone and parts beyond, I imagine. Here, we should get you a change of clothes. Maybe something of the tattered knee and sleeve variety." Her ravenous eyes hunted over Bran's body while he kept glancing around the mysterious ship. None of the captain's crew were speaking, each eye shifting from her back to him. The night was silent save the creak of wood propelling itself above water.

"Madam..." Bran began, which she chuckled at.

"My friends call my Isabela," her eyes sparkled like gimlets and she seemed to smile as deep as a skull, "and my crew...well, you'll learn all about them soon enough."

"I, please, I need to return to Kirkwall."

The woman whistled to her men and shouted boaty talk to get them to haul anchor and do things to the sail. When she glanced back at Bran, Isabela chuckled, "Why would you want to head to Kirkwall?"

"It's...it's my home," Bran struggled to explain, when he felt every man lean closer. Their eyes never shifted off of him even as they pulled up ropes, and tugged on lines.

Polly broke into flight, black feathers tumbling from the sky as the bird flitted up to its perch. While trailing the vision, Brand spotted the flag wafting in the breeze. Dark as a heartless ribcage, the black sign of allegiance to no man, no shore whipped against the night air.

Pirates! He was rescued by the dreaded pirates who stalked the seas.

But Bran wasn't stupid. No, not our old Bran. He wasn't about to be keelhauled into some pirate gang, because he had connections, you see. "I am grateful for your assistance," he began, trying to not shuffle out of the Captain's unblinking view. Showing weakness was just as likely to get him killed. There was only one thing these pirates answered to, and that was gold.

"And, the Viscount is liable to be grateful as well. In fact, if you return me post haste I dare say he will reward you immensely."

He expected the Captain's eyes to gleam with avarice, but she cackled instead. With her head thrown so far back it was a wonder her hat stayed on, she laughed towards the night sky. "Gold? What do we need with gold, boys?" she shouted to her crew who all began to laugh as well.

 Pirates who cared nothing for gold? What madness is this?

"Don't you worry your pretty little head there, sweet thing," Isabela purred at him. "We get you into a proper outfit, strap a dagger to your thigh, and you'll settle right in."

"You are not listening to me," Bran thundered, "I am under secretary to the Viscount! He requires me at all times." The Captain twisted her head at that, her arms crossing against her heaving bosom. Stomping his foot in annoyance, Bran shouted, "I am very important!"

"All Souls Belong To The Deep. Caw."

The Captain tipped her head down, only the rim of her hat visible as she whispered, "Where do you think you are, sweetie?"

Bran stumbled backwards, his eyes darting around the deck, "A ship..." The eyes were staring, eyes of butchers and murderers, eyes that glinted like the coins on a dead man's lids, eyes that never moved, that never blinked. Maker's breath, why weren't they blinking?

A breath hitched in his throat, causing Bran to whip his head around anew. None of the snarling crew's chests were rising, none took in a breath. Almost as if-- As if they were all....

"A ship," Isabela smirked, her grin growing more toothy with each word, "of the dead." As she lifted her head the skin and muscle dripped off in oily rivulets revealing a smiling skull below. Black hair clung to nothing but a bleached skeleton, the clothes -- tattered to rags -- dangling off cracked bones.

"Andraste's Blood!" Bran shrieked, his feet scattering him further and further away from the monstrosity. His eyes whipped around to watch as all the other pirates shed their flesh to become a crew of skeletons, bones clacking through the air while they hefted the mainsail and raised anchor. A caw drew his eyes skyward and a skeleton without feathers tumbled out of the night's air to perch upon the clavicle of the Captain. She roughed a bony finger over the bird's beak and laughed, turning Bran's blood ice cold.

"This is a-a cursed ship," he cried, his eyes turning towards the sea waters below. He had to leap off, to risk the freezing cold and drowning, or else... "I will not die here!" he shouted, his hands digging into the sides of the ship. The oar that saved his life clattered to the hull while Bran tried to prepare himself.

He expected the cutthroat crew to rush towards him, for bony hands to lash onto his flesh ready to devour it, but no one moved. All of the eyeless sockets twisted towards the captain, who took one rattle step forward. "Sweet thing," she purred, the macabre smile never leaving, "you're a bit late on that."

"What?" Bran cried in confusion. They were going to kill him, slice out his organs, use his skin to make a sail! He had to defend himself. Fumbling down, Bran hefted up the oar he abandoned, when his eyes finally registered the shattered ends.

Lightning struck the paddle, ripped through not only his boat, but his body. The pain was immeasurable, like his veins filled with acid, his muscles were each diced into pieces inside his body, before he plunged deep, deep into the sea. And that's where he hung, his corpse bloating with salt water until the ship appeared and raised him out of the unforgiving depths.

Water erupted out of the Bran's mouth, a continual spray drenching the deck as he tumbled to his knees. His lungs, frozen inside his dead chest, forced out the last of the sea it tried to steal away. Watching in horror, Bran stared at his bloated fingers, grey as the grave. He tried to listen for a heartbeat, to feel a warm breath grace his lips, but none would come. None would ever come again.

"You're one of ours now," the Captain crowed, her hand once against coated in flesh landing upon his back. "And ours never ever leave because..."

The twisted bird, a raven of death itself, cracked open its beak, "All Souls Belong To The Deep."

[go-whump-in-the-night]

Numb (OC Whump Fic) ((part 1))

Warnings: Blood, torture

Hell wasn’t fire. Hell was ice. I knew that now. There was so much red in this world and yet all I could see was steely blue ice. Everywhere I looked.

I wasn’t shaking yet, but I would be soon. Water dripped down my face, along with an occasional fleck of melting snow. Lank locks of overlong hair hung down in front of my vision, blocking my view of the cell wall in front of me. It was dark gray brick, rust colored stains ground into the dark stone.

My arms were wrenched up and behind me, hyperextended nearly to the point of dislocation. I hung from the manacles, knees trembling as I struggled to support my own weight. My breath came out in hoarse gasps. Beyond that, I didn’t make a sound.

I could hear Falto’s footsteps behind me. They were methodical, precise. You could tell the time by them. I shut my eyes, tensing. Bracing. Any second now. He wouldn’t wait long. As soon as my reaction started to fade, he would-

I heard the murmured spell barely a second before I felt it. In an instant the heat was whisked away from my skin. It didn’t so much drain away or leach out slowly, it abandoned me with callous speed, leaving me shivering too violently to do much else. It numbed my face and my extremeties, my muscles numb stiff from staying still so long. Already my wet hair began to form ice crystals in front of my face, my breath coming out in a puff of wintery condensation in front of me.

“That one should last for an hour. Ought to give us plenty of time to work, don’t you think?”

Attilus Falto’s voice was the only thing about him that wasn’t cold. Quite the opposite. It was pleasant, friendly, even jovial at times. It was as warm as the sun on a cloudless day.

Not that I knew what the sun felt like.

I knew better than to stay quiet when I was asked a question. With Falto, no question was rhetorical.

I tried to force some words from my numb lips. My tongue felt useless, lips chapped and dulled of feeling.

“Y-y-yes, sir…”

“Yes, that’s right,” mused Falto, and his footsteps started up again. “Now, how are you feeling? Describe your sensations to me, if you please.”

I swallowed hard, shutting my eyes.Even my eyelashes had frost on them. No matter how warm my blood was, my face remained icy all the same.

I whispered, “C-cold…”

A pause, then a laugh. It wasn’t an unkind laugh, but it was a little too loud to be sincere. It sent a tremor of dread through my heart.

“I hope that wasn’t a joke, boy,” said Falto.

“N-no!” I stammered out, eyes suddenly wide open. I whipped my head around to look at Falto, hoping to catch his attention. If he could see my expression, my eyes, he’d be able to see the honesty there. Joke? How could I possibly joke right now?

I caught a glimpse of the wizard’s face: long, drawn features, pale skin and dark hair already beginning to show the whiteness of age. A cleanly trimmed goatee, dark coloured robes with red accents, and icy blue eyes.

Without warning, Falto slapped me across the face, hard. It didn’t make a sound, as he only clipped me with the tips of his fingernails; it left four clean cuts across my cheek.

“Keep your eyes to yourself,” Falto’s voice was a whisper, and I flinched, looking down at the stone floor. “I think you’ve become too accustomed to this spell. I’m not going to get any new results. I’ll try something new. Pay attention.”

I listened closely as Falto walked away several paces behind my back. I tensed, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

A hissing, dark word was spoken behind me, and there was a blasting sound of crystalizing ice. My eyes snapped open as I stared at the wall in front of me. A line of ice shards, several inches long each and razor sharp, drove into the bricks. But it wasn’t just ice. Huge globules of viscous red spattered and splashed when the knives of ice impacted the wall.

I looked down at my chest, inhaling sharply. Blood poured down my bare chest from the countless puncture wounds.The skin split as I gasped for air, crimson seeping from the fresh opening. My choked gasp became a sob of agony, ripping from my dry throat like the dying caw of a crow. The beam of ice slivers had torn though my abdomen like it wasn’t there.

“Describe how you feel, if you please,” I heard Falto say behind me.

My mouth hung open in a sort of silent scream, eyes wide as I stared at the ground.

“...Speak, boy.”

I finally forced my voice out, “It...hurts...I c-can’t...sir...sir, I c-c-can’t breathe…”

“Yes, you can,” Falto said, and I could hear the kindly smile in his voice, “I didn’t aim for your lungs. You’re fine. Go on.”

“It’s...f-freezing my...I’m bleeding s-so...s-so m-much, sir, please, it hurts, it hurts…”

“But you can feel the cold? Is it overpowering the pain from the stab wounds?”

I felt his hand on my shoulder. The comforting touch of a father.

“Y-yes, I can feel it,” I said softly. My tears left frozen tracks on my face.

Suddenly his hand moved from my shoulder to my face. Falto’s fingers wound through my hair and with a jerk he ripped my head backwards. I was looking straight up at the ceiling, but I could see Flato’s smile in my periphery. With a swift motion, he raised a vial to my mouth, pouring the contents down my throat. I coughed, sputtering, eyes widening, and Falto calmly pinched my nose shut. Now I had no choice but to drink as quickly as I could, and once the bottle was empty, I took in a raking inhale of air.

Falto let go of my head and it rolled forward again as I coughed; I opened my eyes just in time to see some of my wounds sealing shut. Magic, a potion. This would be a long session after all, just like Falto had promised. The blood which had been pouring steadily from my wounds was staunched slightly, but the cold from the first spell hadn’t gone away.

The cold. It stalked through me like a specter, driving needle-like tendrils into my chest, filling me with a fatigue that went all the way to my very bones. I was shivering, but I wasn't shaking as hard as I felt I ought to. Then again, Falto enjoyed the slow satisfaction of watching the body shut down. That was why he used spells of this nature. Fire was too quick. It burned away the nerve endings, destroying all sensation in an instant. Cold was patient. Once I began to shiver in earnest, a last ditch effort for my body to hold onto only a little bit of warmth, Falto might intervene.

Falto was silent now, but he still paced. I focused on his footsteps, trying to distract myself. My shoulders seemed to scream in agony, the weight of my body pulling on my arms as I struggled to stay standing. If my knees buckled, something would break, and that sudden pain would be enough to snap some sensation back into me. I didn’t want that.

The frost gathering on my sweat-drenched body drove into my skin, and I felt as if my heart was slowed to a crawl, my blood like sludge in my veins. Every knot of muscle was clenched tight, as if they might snap from the strain of it all.

Minutes stretched by. Ten. Twenty. My pained breathing became gasps, moans, an occasional whispered entreaty. None of it worked. And Falto didn’t cast another spell. He just watched as I slumped against my restraints, shaking like a leaf.

Finally, after thirty minutes (although it could have been an hour or a day for all I knew), Falto spoke again.

“I think we’re done for this morning,” he said brightly, his voice cracking through the silence.

I tensed. There was always a “but”.

Sure enough: “But I’ll need to punish you for your little indiscretion, won’t I?”

“Yes...sir…” my voice was barely a murmur, but Falto clicked his tongue, a noise of disappointment.

“Yes, I’m afraid I will. You’re old enough to know better by now. Now, then, I’ll give you a choice.”

I nodded. This was his little gift, his favourite form of kindness. It was how he turned his ministrations from an assault to a choice - my choice.

“You can either have another ten minutes of Unshakable Chill; ah- that would be the spell currently affecting your body as we speak,” my eyes opened, dread gripping me. Ten more minutes of this? Already I felt I could drop dead at any second.

“Or,” Falto continued, “Five lashes from one of the Knights you spat at before our lesson today.”

[mudskip-muses]

Closed RP - lovesiicknurse

@lovesiicknurse

In all honestly, Gundham hadn't noticed Mikan at first, which was a little sad considering they were the only two in the courtyard, save for the group of older boys that were surrounding the nurse. His attention was only pulled away from his intricate internal musings when Maga-Z let out a loud battle cry, trying to hop off his shoulder and to the ground. Gundham managed to catch the small ball of chaos at the last second, earning a few new bites himself as the Deva tried to fight him to get away. When he finally had it grasped in his hand, he began chiding it for trying to get involved in 'mortal affairs', but when he finally saw what had the hamster so riled up, he understood.

How deplorable to pick on someone clearly so much weaker than they were. As the future leader of the Tanaka empire, Gundham could not let this stand. Not to mention the Angel would most certainly have something to say about all this if he were to ignore someone so blatantly in need when he was capable of helping...

He strode over to the group with an overdramatic flourish, scarf and coat billowing behind him in the breeze that certainly wasn't there a moment ago. He stopped just behind the boys, giving a low chuckle as he struck a pose, hand partially blocking his face. "You fiends, establishing your false dominance over one so below even your power levels. If you were truly so powerful, you would try to fight someone stronger to prove your petty worth." This was met with jeers, one of the boys attempting to get in his face, but it didn't last very long.

It was like something out of a fairytale. Maga-Z, who had finally been allowed release from his hold, latched onto the boy's nose, the other hamsters following suit and leaping from Gundham's scarf to help inflict the most pain possible. Then there were crows that seemed to come out of nowhere, diving down from the sky and the trees, driving the ones that remained away while they screamed, it only rivalled in volume by the bird's laughter.

In the middle of it all, Gundham laughed the loudest, arms out and palms towards the sky. He didn't even need to raise a hand, and already the threat was gone.

"Fools, see what happens when you challenge the might of the Tanaka Empire!" He yelled to their retreating forms, everything returning to its normal set of calm as fast as the chaos had come. His hamsters returned to his scarf, and the crows gave a parting caw, one stopping long enough to land on Gundham's offered arm, dropping a colorful piece of ribbon into his hand before flying off with its murder.

He pockets the offering, it clearly not the first time one has been given if the bits of bright plastics and such peeking out from his pocket, and the outlines other similar caliber items in the fabric are anything to go by. Others would deem them simple trash, but Gundham keeps every single one. They mean the world to him.

He then turns to the nurse, what some would call a haughty grin on his lips, but a well earned one. "Fear not, Meek One. I, the Great Overlord of Ice have rescued you from your would be attackers. Rejoice on this day, for I have granted you a mercy not many will ever see in their sad mortal span of life." He doesn't offer the nurse a hand to help him up, but if one knows what to look for, he's there to help if needed, his stance loose and feet poised in a way that would ensure he would be quick to catch what falls. His touch may be poison to some, but his cold heart does still beat for those who need it.

[plagueismovingagain]

Cas relaxed a little, but still looked unsure.

"I'm sorry, that must sound real weird comin' from me." Cas sighed. "I sleep better when there's people around. My head plays some real nasty tricks on me when I'm alone."

Cas recalled briefly touching on the weird shadows and shapes that plagued her with Yang during their last heart-to-heart. But she had no desire to go in depth anytime soon. Tonight was such a night that she could see such things lurking in the corners of her eye, vanishing just before she looked at them. It made her uneasy.

Gently, Cas took Yang's hand.

plague-on-the-run​:

Cas stared at the hand through half lidded eyes. Rather than take it, she grabbed her other arm and awkwardly held herself; looking nervous. Cas opened her mouth to say something, closed it, and tried again.

“….You uh….you don’t have anywhere to be tonight, do ya?”

One eyebrow perked upwards. Now that was an odd question, which prompted Yang to tilt her head slightly while watching the other tired woman, hazel eyes bright and observant. “No, I do not. I’m free all night and tomorrow.” While there was a career she had, the songstress still did keep her own personal life and social life separated and chooses her own days or times.

That hand still held out wiggled, the glove still worn. Playful in the movement. But not once did the woman move closer. “So, you will have me all night, if that is something you wish.” Sometimes having someone there can help one sleep.

[offearitself]

✿

SEND “ ✿ ” FOR 2 HEADCANONS FOR OUR MUSES’ RELATIONSHIP. - Thanks @thestrangetravelingscientist! - Accepting

- Jonathan and Alouette go out for ice cream and pastries every once in a while.- Moses finds Yarbert to be an amusing man, thus the crow is likes to just land on Yarbert’s head, lean down, and stare into his eyes (and slowly caw). 

[plagueismovingagain]

@bone-pile-rp

Livio @ Caz

— one having to sit in the other’s lap when space is tight and them both blushing like crazy over it

— one giving the other their jacket / covering them with it when they fall asleep 

friends to lovers prompts ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🐚 ꒱

(( I AM COMPLETELY NORMAL ABOUT THESE TWO OKAY? 👀

You KNOW that Caz has had to sit in this man's lap in the back of the car when the party is all together. There's not enough room for 5 people to sit comfortably, let alone any more than that; and furthermore, not including someone as big as Liv! Vash never drives and probably wouldnt fuss over having to share a seat too much, but lord knows @knife-drawer-rp 's is trying to be the wingman to these two former assassins, so you KNOW he'd pull the strings in a way that Caz ends up having to share the seat with Liv. Caz wouldn't mind normally, but their brain tends to short circuit way more when it comes to the big softie. She'd try to sit on the edge of the seat to give him more room, sit stiff and take up as little room as possible, and avoid looking at him as much as possible because she knows she'd get flustered and stumble over her words. I'm sure Liv would be trying to let her have as much room as he could too, and trying not to think about having a 'girl' in his lap. It would be the FUNNIEST and MOST AWKWARD car ride the party has experienced in a long time....until Caz eventually falls asleep and curls up in Livio's lap ♡

Ok, so i know it's usually the dude who drapes his coat over a girl in this trope--but I think this would happen more with Caz between these two, actually! Caz has dreadful insomnia, and she's a light sleeper on top of that (not to mention the nightmares she frequently has). Livio seems like the kind of guy who could fall asleep anywhere, too, so I imagine Caz has found him konked out in all manner of seats and positions. Of course she doesn't want the big guy to get cold, especially during the desert nights when temperatures drop; she'd grab a blanket or drape her own cloak over him (whichever is available)....and depending on the situation and location, might ride out her insomnia leaning against him until she eventually dozes off ^w^ ♡ ))

[plagueismovingagain]

rpmusings-galore​:

           I am made of bullets; 

                             s h r a p n e l

                    You are solar flares

                                 &&  soft lips 

                     better creatures could love you, I know.

                       But, now, they’ll have to get through

                                              [ m e ]

[plagueismovingagain]

NSFW meme - Legato >:]

(( I see you, ya heathen xD Gonna go based off of the AU relationship they have, since no verse was specified :) ))

[NSFW] put a name in my inbox and my muse will answer:

How interested they are in having sex with them: "I'd be lyin' if I said I hadn't thought about it...i'm, pretty interested, y-yeah." How much they would pay (or have to be paid) to have sex with them:  "I really don't feel comfortable addin' monetary value to either of our uh...desirability. 'specially considerin' what we've both been through personally, yanno?" If they would rather bottom or top them: "I mean...i'm used to toppin', so i wouldn't mind doin' it again. I'm quite curious about how he'd do it, though..." How good they think they would be: "I don' expect it to be mind blowin', or anythin'--but I think he'd be good, yeah. God, this is so embarrassin' to say out loud--" If they’d prefer kitchen counter, wall, or shower sex with them: "I've never had shower sex before--lack of an abundance of runnin' water, yanno? But thinkin' about it...y-yeah, that one." If they’d fuck, have sex, or make love:  "I'd, uh....I-I would hope it's one of the latter two options.....////" If they were going to make it a threesome, the third person they’d pick: "God, I'm gonna get so much shit fer this-- Nick. If anybody tells him I said that, i'll kick yer ass...!" If they think there’s ever a possibility that it would happen: "Maybe one day? Physical affection doesn't come easy to either of us, an' it's taken time to even get to the point we're at now. As much as I'd like it to happen, I'm not in any hurry. :)"

[plagueismovingagain]

(( I need Caz to get a datemate, if only for them to smooch the glass container on their sternum that holds her trans-plant-ed heart to be all sweet and make her all flustered 🥰 ))