#dock beetle | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mandalhoerian · 4 months ago

Text

(2) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Eight years ago, during the worst summer festival of your life, you cross paths with a certain seal for the first time.

genre: fluff, comedy | wc: 4K | read on ao3

< previous | next >

note: YES, THIS IS A SERIES! I hope you'll bear with me as I'm not actively editing/proofreading my writing and am going with the flow for the most part. Rafayel will also stay as a seal in the next chapter which centers around how he came to be smitten with the reader, so PLEASE PLEASE HANG TIGHT WE'RE GETTING THERE. I hope you enjoy!!!!

Ah, sweet summer festival. You're fifteen.

The entire archipelago is in motion tonight — a grand spectacle brought to life in the unofficial capital Salverna, which is also where you were born and raised, by throngs of locals with visitors pouring in from the mainland for an evening of festivities. Decorated boats crawl like jeweled beetles across the bay beneath a moonbeam sky, torches flickering like amber blossoms amidst colorful lanterns suspended overhead, painting faces in warm splashes of light. Instruments are tuned to perfect pitch, ready to launch into jigs and reels once revelers spill into dancing rings. Children sprint around bonfires with cheeks flushed by sugar, laughter ringing like silver bells in the breeze. Farther along, games fill the streets — prizes stuffed inside balloons perched precariously atop slender sticks, targets waiting to be pierced by dart tips, bobbing heads eager for coins — competing for attention with the delectable aroma of spiced sausage, roasted meat, skewers, sticky cinnamon treats, and fresh fruit piled high for sampling. Even the night's salty breath tastes like sunshine, and despite everything feeling faintly familiar, somehow still manages to seem entirely fresh.

If only you'd been there from the beginning.

No, you were here. The whole day.

At the docks, which is the farthest away from the main event.

Hauling seafood and chasing down lost tourists like some unpaid festival guide.

The family ferry business consisting of multiple vessels is the only one making direct trips between the mainland and the archipelago. Usually, things run smoothly — your parents know this route like the back of their hands, and during normal weeks, the boats run on a fairly consistent schedule with only the occasional minor detour to accommodate delayed travelers. Renting smaller boats out to tourists helps maintain some steady income for maintenance expenses during quieter months, although the real money comes from transporting passengers year-round.

But big events like this summer festival change everything. The mainland port is overflowing with people packed like sardines in a tin, and everyone scrambles for transport space like sharks smelling blood. It's impossible to accommodate every arrival simultaneously, even though Dad doubled the ferry service to operate nearly nonstop — one boat shuttling incoming guests while its twin carries locals back and forth between islands, and even then it isn't enough. People are forced to wait hours for passage, which inevitably leads to chaos erupting.

And the locals ferry doesn't just transport passengers. It hauls festival supplies — crates of seasonal produce shipped to the islands via mainland distributors, stacks upon stacks of boxes labeled FRAGILE in thick black marker, paper fans for the parade, props for the pageant, a seemingly endless list of necessary items for the vendors, bands, food stands, street performers, the barrels of festival cider rolling onto the deck, stacks of pastries needing careful hands to avoid toppling, baskets of flowers meant for decorating stalls that nearly got crushed in the shuffle — you name it — the list of deliveries keeps growing by the hour. And no one has extra hands to spare to deliver all this cargo to its final destinations.

Well, actually, one person does. Namely, you.

It started small. Mom catching you right as you tried to slip away this morning, asking to help with boarding real quick, and if you could take some packages along the way... It was easy to agree, at first — help a few elderly tourists steady themselves as they stepped from the ferry, answer questions from confused festival-goers trying to navigate between islands, toss a sack or two over your shoulder for the vendor working nearby. But an hour later, you were hauling half a crate uphill when one of the wheels broke loose, scattering fireworks across cobblestones in glittering disarray, leaving you running through town chasing them all down under curious gazes of the locals who saw the explosion...

And the moment the ferry docked, suddenly it was all hands on deck. One trip in, another out. Then, next thing you knew, you were the one handling tickets and guiding stragglers toward their destination, organizing groups, shouting helpful tips about what to avoid and what not to eat so you are not about to have people get sick on board and clean off their vomit, answering questions about local attractions and restaurant specialties, calling out to Dad who drove the ferry like it was child's play, warning the older folks and kids not to fall off because the last thing your family really needs is to be sued by someone stupid falling overboard...

And the entire time, you were in the dress you'd picked out specifically for the occasion. Thinking one more trip, and you could finally join your friends in the festivities...

A whole shift later, there are no celebrations awaiting you. No bonfire parties with the music so loud and joyous you could feel it thrumming through the ground, no crowded bars filled to bursting with cheerful singing and dancing, no raffle stalls offering chances to win souvenirs and free meals for years, no fireworks bursting across the night sky so brilliant they chased away the darkness.

Just you with your dress ruined and ripped because someone couldn't watch where they were going while drunk and collided straight into you and left you soaked in cheap beer, and the hem of it torn apart from you desperately trying to fix your mistake after misplacing the boxes of merch you were supposed to haul, again. Your friends probably already enjoying every aspect of the event, laughing their asses off in pure delight without caring for what you missed or had endured all day, knowing you were supposed to arrive with them to witness the greatest part of the summer celebration together.

With angry tears gathering at the inner corners of your eyes, you let the bags drop onto the dock with a harsh thump, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Maybe you're expecting an argument. Maybe you want to pick a fight because the frustration had been stewing ever since you woke up today and demanded release. Or maybe you hope your father would give you permission to go enjoy your own life, rather than force you to suffer his. But none of those comes to pass. Instead, he merely glances up with a tired look, holding your resentful stare before sighing heavily and scrubbing his face wearily with calloused, wrinkled hands.

“You said it would be quick,” you snap, voice shaking. “You said I could go like hours ago. The day is over!"

You choke back the wobble in your tone, biting harshly into your lower lip, hoping it'll prevent tears from leaking out even though it hardly hurts enough to distract you.

"Look, we're in the middle of peak season..."

"Which means peak profit for our business! Couldn't you have just hired someone extra to fill in?! Why did it have to be me?!"

"No other staff is available on such a short notice, especially during a big event." Dad shrugs weakly in apology, the gesture lacking any defensiveness or remorse. He looks drained, exhausted. And still, his priorities remain firmly fixed elsewhere. "Sorry, honey. Next week I'm hiring additional staff permanently, but for now — just one more hour, okay? You know we don't extend our services after the night falls and that's why—"

“No!” The frustration spills over before you can swallow it down. “It’s never ‘just a little longer.’ It’s always one more trip, one more errand, one more thing! I’m always the one stuck here!”

Dad frowns and straightens his spine slowly like a looming anime villain, wiping sweat from his brow. "Don't raise your tone on me like that, I'm not one of your little friends. This is nothing. When you become captain, you'll have to endure far more work."

"I did everything you ask and suddenly my tone is the issue?!" You gesture wildly at your ruined dress, at the damp stains and torn fabric clinging to your skin. “Look at me! I was supposed to be there with everyone else, and now I can’t even show up like this—”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Dad's voice turns sharp, exasperated. “It’s just a dress.”

"And now everyone probably hates me because I've skipped yet another celebration and ghosted them!" you huff and puff like an enraged bull despite his interruption.

"What's going on?" Mom hurries over from the harbor shop, stepping between you and your father before tempers flare even further. She takes in the scene at a glance and sighs deeply — though whether out of disappointment or irritation, you can't tell — carefully setting aside several stacks of receipts. "Are you two seriously bickering about nonsense when you should both be working?"

“I’m not being dramatic! I’m sick of this!” You throw your hands into the cold, humid sea breeze as though casting your complaints upon the tides, unable to keep the tremble from your fingers or the tears from streaking down your face. Hot drops patter against the faded wood planks beneath your feet. "“I work just as hard as you do, I never say no, but the second I want something for myself—"

Mom immediately gets what's going on, and alerts you to lower your voice by pointedly widening her eyes and thinning her lips. The entire dock is witnessing the argument and turning their heads to listen in at this point, but you don't care. Everybody should hear about this injustice.

"Yes, honey, I know," Mom hisses, "And we appreciate how hard you're trying, believe me. But — just one more trip, alright? Your friends will wait a bit longer for you, won’t they? Don't forget this isn't just about you. The archipelago depends on us running our business steadily and reliably."

And there it is. That unspoken expectation, that quiet assumption that you’ll always choose responsibility over what you want. That you’ll always understand.

Your throat tightens, choking back the bitterness burning in the pit of your stomach, and for a long moment, neither you nor your mom break the silence, and her stare remains fixed somewhere above your shoulder. Only Dad says anything, grunting a vague affirmative that tells you nothing more than your mother did; work must come first, whatever personal sacrifice must be made for that to happen.

You step back. “Forget it.”

“Honey—”

“I said forget it!”

You're running hot and cold, the rush of blood in your ears don't let your parents' protests in as you rush into the only place where you can be alone right now, the ticket counter cabin with the "CLOSED" sign on it, slamming the door shut behind you loudly and letting the cool glass barrier isolate you from the rest of reality. It's just you inside. There's a desk, empty paperwork piled neatly at the corner, a cash register. An old computer screen covered by dust. Shelves crammed with stacked-up folders and manuals. A window overlooking the harbor. This is also the place to leave your belongings at before clocking into work, just beside the locker of where the attendant usually leaves theirs.

On a whim, you snatch up your jacket and backpack before fleeing out into the crowd again. It's so easy to lose your parents along the wharf because of the teeming masses.

Your phone is buzzing rapidly in your bag with Dad and Mom both probably threatening to drag you back by your ear, so you take it out and switch to airplane mode before tossing it back in with a grimace. You're not allowed to be out this late without supervision (much less sneaking away from work), but right now, there's not an adult in existence that could compel you to walk willingly back into this mess. Screw it. Being grounded for life isn't any worse than being imprisoned on this stupid island forever anyway, you think, huffing quietly in protest as you stomp down the street. Besides, if worst comes to worst, you can spend some time with Aunt Leen. At least she wouldn't judge.

The festival feels a million miles away. You can’t go there, not in this state, stains everywhere, smelling like fish and sweat and regret, dress ripped apart. So, instead, you end up wandering along the rocky beach near the outer edge of town, in parallel to the protected seal rookery islet offshore and well beyond the boundaries of the town proper. The bright, swirling glow of the firework display across the water glints in the dark, mingling with distant stars and overshadowing the full moon, reflecting off rippling waters like flickering embers dancing across a glossy obsidian surface. The waves roll gently across sand and stone in soothing rhythmic whispers whooshes that pull you onward through the night like invisible ribbons drawing you back into the present.

This was always your favorite place as a child — wild and beautiful. An unclaimed stretch of wilderness stretching beyond the public access point, filled with coves and tide pools that felt like hidden kingdoms tucked away from the rest of the world. Here, among the jagged rocks, washed smooth by centuries of ebbing currents, you sit on one flat boulder, bare feet lapped at by the high tide and shoes by your side, frustrated tears dropping into the sea, staring absently off towards the seal islet floating peacefully in the distance.

You remember trying to swim out there years ago, despite having been strictly forbidden from venturing close to not disturb them. What would it be like, to be out in the open sea instead of tied to this isolated little community? To see something other than the same faces, places, and names repeated ad nauseam for all eternity, as though nothing changed no matter how many seasons passed? What would it take to break free?

"Ugh!" The sound bursts free before you can clamp your jaw shut, a ragged groan against clenched teeth as your palms scrub fiercely across your damp, salty cheeks.

Before you can start ranting into the night like a madman, your turmoil is shattered by a sudden, piercing cry like metal scraping stone ripping through your tangled thoughts. Your head jerks upward, pulse quickening into a painful drum-beat. Something is terribly off. Someone's hurt, panicking—or worse—maybe drowning?

But where?

You blink frantically, scanning the surrounding coastline, but the thick curtain of night refuses to offer clues. So you rely on your ears and follow the keening through the beach, stumbling hastily across damp sand, uneven rocks and slippery seaweed patches alike, nearly slipping on slimy barnacles embedded in the crevices between each massive stone and fighting hard to balance every step, all the while ignoring the scrapes accumulating on your soles from sharp pebbles digging into tender flesh and flaring in protest at every bit of impact.

Then, unmistakably—

A high-pitched, squealing shriek erupts out of the ocean — like the frantic deflating of a balloon twisting violently apart in midair.

Your stomach drops. The sound is frantic, terrified. Unmistakably animal.

And it's coming directly from the water.

At last, you spot the source of the commotion — about fifty feet offshore, just beyond a tangle of blackened driftwood clogging the shallows: Moonlight catches on slick, gray fur, the seal’s body bobbing helplessly, its hysteric movements hampered by the thick snare of a fishing net and heavy with debris, the tangled mess constricts tight, dragging it downward each time it fights to resurface.

Seals can drown. You know that much. You’ve heard Elias muttering to Dad, thick with disgust, after cutting loose yet another pup ensnared by abandoned traps — relics of poachers who refuse to acknowledge sealing was banned around here nearly thirty years ago.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

Your mind stutters, paralyzed for a breathless instant. What do I do? What do I do?

There’s no time to think.

You’re moving before reason catches up, scrambling over slick, uneven rocks as brine stings the scrapes blooming across your bare feet. Your pulse slams against your ribs. In one frantic motion, you strip off your windbreaker, fling your bag aside, and plunge into the waves without hesitation. Salt explodes in a cool rush over your skin as you kick off from the seafloor, paddling hard, muscles burning with every stroke.

Next thing you know, your arms are locked tight around the drowning seal, grappling to haul it toward shore as it thrashes wildly, overwrought beyond reason and twisting all it can to land a blow with brutal strength you wouldn't expect from a round and inflexible body like that. Flippers beat against your chest, claws scrape at your arms, and its ragged cries tear through the night like something feral and furious. It doesn’t understand you’re trying to help — it only knows fear.

Somehow, impossibly, you make it.

Every muscle in your body screams in protest as you drag the tangled pup onto the shore, collapsing beside it in a gasping sprawl, limbs weak and trembling. Your lungs gulp down air that tastes like victory, the sweetest breath you've ever taken.

And then—

The seal’s shrieks reach a fevered pitch. It flails vigorously, flinging itself against the unyielding net, snapping, fighting, tearing at the fibers with blind desperation.

That’s when you see it.

The moon-desaturated dark liquid pooling beneath its body, sinking into the wet sand in sluggish tendrils.

Blood.

"No! Stop that, stop!"

You scramble upright, stomach at your throat, hands grabbing frantically at the writhing seal to keep it from thrashing itself into worse injury.

"Hey, hey — settle down! Stop moving — please! You're making it worse!"

It doesn’t listen. It fights harder.

Panic and instinct are what fuels its every move, and the more you hold on, the more fiercely it resists, wails cutting straight to the center of your chest, high and desperate, feeding your own fear in a vicious cycle. Its pulse is hammering beneath your hands, a wild, terrified beating of a bird's wings matching your own as its breaths come fast, erratic, interrupted by harsh snorts and shuddering yelps. The pup is almost one singular muscle beneath your grip, trembling and taut with the primal need to flee.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," you chant, the words spilling out in a frantic loop, cracking under the weight of utter desperation of not knowing what to do even as you're repeating you're there to helo. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Just let me help — please — fuck, what do I do — ow!"

Pain explodes up your right forearm before the scream even leaves your throat.

Teeth. Deep. Sinking into muscle like fire.

Your body jolts with the instinct to yank away, but you don’t. You can’t. One wrong move and you’ll scare it even more, maybe make it clamp down harder. Tears blur your vision, breath coming in ragged gasps as you bite your own molars together, forcing yourself to go still.

And then — so does the seal.

The aggressive lashing out ceases, replaced by eerie, frozen silence. Its nostrils flare against your skin, warm breath feathering across the bite, making the hairs on your arm stand on end. Your pulse pounds between your teeth, the sting of the wound dulling under the weight of something more pressing — its eyes.

Two inky pools, round and bottomless, reflecting your fractured likeness like tiny mirrors.

"Please," you whisper, shaky, but soft. "I just want to help. You're safe. I won’t hurt you."

The grip on your arm doesn't tighten. Doesn't loosen. The only thing left between you is the weight of your words and the fragile, fragile stillness.

"Let me go," you murmur, swallowing hard. "And we’ll fix this. Okay?"

There's a pause, a single, terrifying moment suspended in time. Then, the seal's jaws relax, and he releases his painful grip on your throbbing arm, and as quickly as the assault began, it ends. Blood rushes forth in a thin rivulet down your wrist and between your fingers. It doesn't really hurt, not compared to the dull ache in the rest of your exhausted body, and the relief that washes over you is so profound that you're momentarily dizzy from it. And yet... The fact that the seal has calmed down means everything.

"It's okay, it’s okay, don't worry about it," you say hurriedly, intended for yourself more than anything so you wouldn't freak out about it. "You were scared, that's all. It's not your fault."

But the pup isn’t looking at the net.

Its gaze is locked onto your arm, the blood pooling at the wound, round, ink-dark eyes impossibly wider, focused in a way that makes something in your chest tighten.

You stare at him, and for a fleeting, impossible second, it feels like he understands. Like he knows what he did. Awe prickles through you, pushing aside the pain, the exhaustion, everything.

Seals are intelligent — you’ve always known that — but this is so magical to experience how emotionally aware they are.

"Hey. Hey, I’m fine, buddy," you insist. "Look at me, look. I'm good, it’s just a scratch. Let's focus on getting that net off, yeah? Can't have you swimming away in that state. You’ll drown."

As you lean in to inspect, the pup shies away initially, clearly wary and distrustful, but eventually allows you to examine the tangled mess of knots and lines ensnaring his sleek, streamlined figure. The heavy, dense debris he's wrapped in like a blanket is making it impossible to unravel anything, and the more you try to remove it, the tighter the bindings grow. Your injured arm is growing numb, which is probably not a good sign, but there's no time to dwell on that now.

Frustrated and increasingly anxious, you search frantically for something in your backpack to use as scissors or a knife, but the jerky movements make the pup tense up, its tail slapping nervously in the sand, and you have to take several calming breaths to prevent scaring him further.

"Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to frighten you. I'll be gentler," you promise in a rush. "Just bear with me, okay?"

All you can find is your nail clippers, but they'll have to suffice. With painstaking care, you snip away at the individual strands binding the pup's limbs together, pausing every few moments to reassure him that everything is alright, that it will survive and go back to the rookery islet. Its fur is wet and matted with blood beneath the ropes, and the sight sends a fresh surge of anger through your veins at the thought of whoever abandoned such a careless trap in the ocean.

"Almost got it, buddy, almost, you're doing great," you sniffle, working steadily to free its front flippers. They're the most delicate and prone to injuries, according to Elias. "One last cut and..."

With a soft pop, the final strand gives way and the net falls loose, the release of pressure causing the seal to scramble sideways and flop awkwardly onto his belly in a clumsy roll. It lies there motionless for a brief second before letting out a piercing, mournful wail that stabs at the pit of your stomach.

You drop your tool and fall to your knees beside him, hands hovering uncertainly over its body. You don't dare touch, afraid of hurting it further. In a burst of energy, the pup pushes itself upright, body wiggling and coiling to propel it forward in a frantic dash towards the safety of the sea. You watch helplessly, unable to move or think or react in any way, until it pauses halfway to the shoreline and glances back at you, a low whine emanating from his throat.

"Go on, get out of here," you urge him, waving it onward. "Stay safe and take care of yourself, alright? You've had enough close calls today." A pang of dread hits you, realizing how much danger the pup was already in and how lucky it had been that you happened to be nearby to save it from a terrible fate. But now, all you can do is let it return to its natural environment. "Be free, cutie," you say quietly. "Live well and happy. You deserve better than this."

The pup hesitates, still watching you with those soulful, inscrutable black eyes. Then, in an act that leaves you speechless, it turns and galumphs back to your side, lowering its head and nudging its muzzle against the bleeding gash on your forearm. When it pulls away, his whiskers are slick with red, and a strange sense of gratitude overwhelms you.

"Oh, you angel," you manage, a lump forming in your throat. The urge to viciously pet his head is strong, but this isn’t a cat or a dog. Your arm really might get bitten off from the elbow socket. "Now scram. I'm sure your mama is worried about you."

This time, the seal does as instructed. It slides gracefully down the sandy slope and slips into the waves, vanishing from view in an instant. Only a small trail of blood remains, mingling with the foam and seawater that wash over the shore, evidence of the ordeal endured by this remarkable creature wiped away in an instant by the protective hands of the sea.

The shock of it all, of the stress and adrenaline, finally catches up to you and you collapse backwards in the sand, the pain in your arm flaring once again and only now feeling the cuts on the bottom of your feet.

Shaken to your bones in a way you can’t quite name, your fingers fumble to switch off airplane mode before you even realize what you’re doing. The moment the call connects, you’re babbling into the phone, voice thick with tears, words tangled and frantic. Mom struggles to make sense of you, but it doesn’t take long for her to find you — half an hour later, sprawled on the ground, your windbreaker haphazardly draped over your shoulders, backpack wedged beneath your head. The gash on your arm is wrapped in a makeshift tourniquet, one of your old bandanas knotted tightly around the wound.

If Dad’s ferry hadn’t been stuck in the harbor, he would’ve been here too. No doubt about it.

You get an earful the moment she kneels beside you. Irresponsible. Reckless. Running off without telling anyone. Dad would’ve had a heart attack if things had gone any worse. Yes, yes, yes. You let her words wash over you, nodding at the right moments, too drained to do anything else. Her hugs and kisses make up plenty for it.

Neither of you bring up the fight. Neither of you need to. Some things are easier left unspoken.

She doesn’t mention the festival, either. But you both know what kind of rumors will be swirling by morning.

For now, you're taken to the local clinic and given a rabies and a tetanus shot, and a lecture from the nurse who treated you, warning you to never approach a wild animal again because the next time, you might not be as lucky.

#love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #rafayel fluff #rafayel #lads rafayel x reader #lads rafayel x you #l&ds rafayel x reader #lnds rafayel x reader #lads rafayel #l&ds rafayel #lnds rafayel #lads #lnds #l&ds

273 notes · View notes

stellaspectral · 1 month ago

Note

Could you possibly write something about rise TMNT x a Big mama reader (or maybe her daughter) idk I just really like when they say big mamas name and her personality fits mine and would love to see your take on it 🥺 pretty please

A/N: Hello, anon! I decided to write a story about Big Mama’s daughter (essentially an OC, not Big Mama’s Assistant ofc) with the Rise turtles. I hope that’s okay! 😊 (Also, she/you refers to the turtles with their full names. Why? It just felt appropriate. shrug)

The Spider’s Gambit (action)

💚 ROTTMNT Turtles/Female Reader OC 💚

CWs: Canon-typical violence, forced bargain/cooperation (with a slight power imbalance), morally ambiguous reader/OC, and mild peril. All characters are aged-up.

You move through the corridors of the Battle Nexus facility with an air of someone who owns the place. Because, well, one day you will.

It isn’t just Big Mama’s glitzy, terrifying enterprise; it’s your future empire. You’ve inherited your mother’s keen eye for talent, her flair for the dramatic, and her charmingly ruthless business acumen. You’re currently on your way back to your office here after overseeing the final preparations for tonight’s championship bout.

And a lucrative one at that.

The carpet, stained with who-knows-what, but is always impeccably cleaned, muffles your footsteps. A polite nod to a gargoyle enforcer, a knowing smile from a djinn concierge, and you almost reach your obsidian-inlaid office door when—

Crashes and thumps echo from the hallway just ahead, followed by a chorus of shouting. You pause, one perfectly manicured eyebrow arching as you listen.

“Leo, I told you that shortcut was a bad idea!”

“Relax, Raph, it was a calculated risk. Besides, where’s the fun without a little dimensional oopsie?”

“My calculations indicate a 92.6% chance of ‘oopsie’ whenever Leo is in charge of portal navigation.”

“Hey! And whoa, this place is … kinda creepy. Awesome!”

You change course, your silk-lined capelet—a gift from your mother, spun from the finest Moon Moths—swaying behind you. The sounds lead you towards the employee-only section, near the loading docks for the arena beasts. You round the corner, heels clicking on the now-exposed stone floor.

Before you, in a tangled heap of limbs and brightly colored bandanas, are four turtles. Ones you recognize from the files your mother and her men compiled from previous run-ins but have yet to meet before.

Leonardo is trying to look suave while disentangling himself from another, larger turtle named Raphael. Donatello is tapping furiously at a device on his wrist, muttering while the youngest brother, Michelangelo, stares at a beetle the size of a compact car being prodded into a cage by two nervous looking tengu.

You step forward, hands clasped behind your back, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Well, well,” you say, your voice smooth as velvet, yet with an underlying edge that could cut glass. “What have we here? Lost little hatchlings, far from your pond?”

They freeze. Four pairs of eyes snap to you. Then Leonardo attempts a charming grin.

“Uh, greetings, totally not-intimidating-and-very-well-dressed lady!” he says. “We were just … admiring the … uh … structural integrity of your fine establishment?”

Raphael groans, facepalming. “Smooth, Leo. Real smooth.”

“You boys lost?” you ask, with just a touch of venom curled behind each syllable. “Because unless you’ve suddenly acquired arena beast handling licenses and backstage clearance, you’re somewhere you very much shouldn’t be.”

“Ooo! Are you Big Mama’s daughter?” Michelangelo asks. “Because you’ve got that same ‘I-will-sell-you-to-a-soul-eating centipede-with-a-smile’ kind of energy.”

You allow yourself a half-smile. “Flattery will get you … a three-second head start.”

Donatello raises a brow. “A head start on what, exactly?”

Your smile widens. “On running before I call security.”

There’s a beat of silence before they brandish their weapons and fall into formation, their gazes fixed on you. The tension in the area spikes, the air thick enough to spread on toast. And for a moment, you let your smile hold, taking in their earnest, battle-ready stances.

Then you throw your head back and laugh, pressing your hand to your stomach. It’s not a delicate titter, either. It’s a full, unrestrained peal of amusement that startles a nearby cage-rattling griffin and makes the two tengu jump.

“Relax,” you gasp, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of your eye. “I’m joking.” You wave a dismissive hand. “Mostly.” You lean forward, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Honestly, you should have seen the looks on your faces! Priceless!” You grin. “Absolutely adorable.”

Leonardo relaxes a fraction, his shoulders loosening as he lowers his swords. “So … you’re not calling security?”

You tilt your head, mock-considering. “Well, that depends. Are you going to explain why four unlicensed, questionably stealthy mutants just popped out of a portal and disrupted my loading docks like a bunch of underpaid gremlins?”

Donatello clears his throat. “Technically, it was a miscalculation in the temporal-anchor matrix. A small one. Like, decimal-points small.”

“Mhm.” You turn your gaze to him. “And technically, you’ve still invaded a high-security interdimensional venue with enough surveillance spells to make the Mystic Council weep.”

Michelangelo raises a hand like he’s in school. “Uh, in our defense, the portal was supposed to land us at a snack stand in Queens. So this is kinda your fault for having such … uh … snack stand-y architecture?”

You stare at him.

He grins sheepishly. “Yeah, okay, that was a stretch.”

You sigh, not out of exasperation, but amusement. “You’re lucky my mother’s not here. She’d have turned you into a marketing gimmick faster than you could say ‘battle bracket.’” You glance toward the beetle pen, then back at them. “Although she might still find a use for you.”

Raphael steps forward now, protective instinct flashing in his eyes. “We didn’t mean to crash your place, alright? Just leave us alone and we’ll be outta your hair.”

You raise a brow. “Tempting. But you owe me a favor now, and I do collect.”

“What kind of favor?” Leonardo asks, brow quirked.

You smile. This time, it’s less sharp, more thoughtful. “Well, since you are here, and since you’ve caused a bit of a stir, perhaps you can help me with something.” You pivot on your heel, motioning for them to follow as you lead them down a narrow, dim hallway.

“Wait, we’re just … going with her?” Raphael mutters behind you, skeptical but trudging forward.

“I mean, she hasn’t killed us yet,” Michelangelo says brightly. “That’s usually a good sign.”

“Yet,” Donatello emphasizes.

You glance over your shoulder with a sly grin. “I could still call security, if that makes you more comfortable.”

“Nope, no need!” Leonardo says quickly, catching up to walk beside you. “Helping you sounds great. Totally not suspicious. What exactly are we helping you with? Something glamorous? Dangerous? A dramatic betrayal, perhaps?”

“You watch too much reality TV,” you say with a smirk.

But inside, your mind’s already working. The idea formed the moment you saw them. They’re chaotic, skilled, and unpredictable. A headache, yes. But potentially useful. And in the Battle Nexus, everyone has a price or a purpose. Sometimes both.

You stop in front of a reinforced steel-and-obsidian door etched with glowing runes. With a flick of your wrist and a murmur in Old Spider-tongue, the runes ripple and the door unlocks. Inside is a private observation chamber overlooking the arena. It’s quiet now, the stands empty. But soon, it’ll be full of roaring crowds and bloodthirsty anticipation.

You step inside, gesturing at a crystalline projection hovering above a sleek black pedestal. The image of a towering, chimeric beast rotates slowly. Its name flashes beneath: The Star-Eater.

Michelangelo whistles low. “Dude. That thing looks like it eats nightmares for breakfast.”

“It does, actually,” you deadpan.

“Why would your mother import something that dangerous?” Donatello narrows his eyes, adding, “again.”

You grin, leaning on the pedestal with both hands. “Because she made a deal. One that benefits us … if we can control it.”

Leonardo crosses his arms. “Lemme guess. It escaped?”

“Not yet,” you say. “It’s going to. Tonight. During the main event. Right in the middle of a sold-out crowd with half the mystic elite watching.”

“Of course it is,” Raphael mutters.

“So,” you continue, straightening up, “you four are going to help me neutralize it. Quietly. Swiftly. Spectacularly.”

Leonardo arches a brow. “And if we say no?”

You tilt your head, allowing the human glamour of your eyes to fall for emphasis. “Then I call in a favor from my mother and let her decide how to market a band of mutant brothers as ‘next season’s exotic wildcard entrants.’ I can already hear the pitch: Half-shell, full ratings.”

A few beats of silence pass.

“… So what’s the plan?” Leonardo finally says.

You flash him a victorious smile, your eye glamour falling back into place. “I knew you’d see it my way.”

From a drawer, you produce a holographic schematic of the arena, marking off key breach points and the beast’s containment sector. Donatello steps closer instinctively, intrigued despite himself.

“Divide and conquer,” you explain. “I’ve got a few discreet agents watching the fail safes. What I need is someone to distract, someone to defend the control nodes, someone to handle crowd containment. And someone to lure it toward the stasis field when it breaks out.”

“Let me guess,” Raphael says. “You want us to be your bait?”

“Bait with flair,” you correct. “Think of it as a performance. Besides, if you pull this off, maybe I’ll ‘forget’ to report your little trespassing incident. Maybe even slip you a portal token home before my mother sends her enforcers after you.”

You let that hang in the air, allowing the weight of their choice to settle in.

Leonardo steps forward. “Alright, spider princess. We’ll play your little game.”

Your eyes gleam, pleased. “Excellent. Oh—and do try not to die. It would ruin the aesthetic.” You turn on your heel. “Time is a luxury we’re fast running out of. Follow me. And try to look like you belong. Or at least, like you’re too dangerous to question.”

You lead them out of the quiet observation chamber and back into a service corridor, this one less opulent, more utilitarian than the plush hallways near your office. The turtles exchange wary glances but fall into step behind you, their weapons kept ready but not overtly threatening.

Leonardo tries to match your pace beside you. “So, ‘aesthetic’ is important? Good to know. I do have a certain heroic profile to maintain.”

“We all have our brands to consider, don’t we?” you retort smoothly, not breaking your stride. As you navigate a labyrinth of backstage tunnels, occasionally nodding to a heavily armored guard who eyes the turtles with suspicion until your subtle hand gesture waves them off, you begin your assignments.

“Michelangelo,” you say, “you’ll be our primary distraction. On the schematic, you recall the catwalks, high beams, the larger light rigs above the arena floor?” You tap an almost invisible comm bead in your ear. “My team will ensure they’re accessible. Your job is to be loud, flashy, and utterly impossible for a creature like the Star-Eater to ignore. Think ‘piñata,’ but one that actively taunts.”

His eyes light up. “You want me to be annoying on purpose? Up high? With style? This is literally my dream job! Do you have confetti cannons?”

“Enthusiasm. Excellent,” you say dryly. “Just try to keep the property damage to a minimum. Some of those fixtures are older than your entire species.” You produce four small devices from a hidden pocket in your capelet. “Comms. Encrypted. Stick them behind your … whatever passes for an ear.”

You hand one to each of them. Donatello immediately starts examining his with intense scrutiny. “Fascinating. Yatchon-based encryption? A bit ostentatious for simple comms, but effective.”

“I appreciate thoroughness,” you reply, then turn to him. “Which brings me to your role, Donatello. The Star-Eater’s containment unit is, shall we say, ‘temperamental.’ It’s linked to the arena’s primary power grid, which also feeds the stasis field projector. You will secure the three main mystic-energy conduits that power both. I’ve marked them on the arena schematic I showed you. If those go down, or if the beast’s escape compromises them, we lose our only real countermeasure. Keep them stable. Keep them active.”

Donatello adjusts his goggles, already looking more focused. “Understood. I’ll need access to the primary junction boxes and a diagnostic feed from the containment cell’s integrity monitors.”

“Granted,” you say, making a minute gesture. “My system will flag you as authorized personnel for those specific nodes. Try not to ‘improve’ anything too drastically. My mother’s technicians are very sensitive.”

Next, your gaze settles on Raphael, who’s been watching the various denizens of the backstage area—a minotaur carrying a crate of weapons, two imps polishing a giant golden gong—with a frown.

“Raphael,” you say, “you’re on crowd containment. When the Star-Eater makes its dramatic entrance, panic is inevitable, and the main exits will become chokepoints. You’ll ensure they remain clear, prevent stampedes, and act as an unmovable object between terrified spectators afraid of becoming monster chow. My usual security will be indisposed, dealing with the more direct threat.”

Raphael cracks his neck. “So, I’m the wall. Got it. Anyone tries to trample anyone else, they go through me. Sounds like a plan.” His eyes flick towards his brothers. “Just make sure you guys give ‘em something good to run from.”

“Oh, we will,” Leonardo says with a grin.

“Speaking of which, Leonardo. That leaves the star role for you.” You stop before a heavy, rune-etched door, clearly leading towards an arena entrance point. “Once Michelangelo has its undivided attention, and Raphael is managing the ensuing chaos, you will be its dance partner. You lure the Star-Eater to the designated stasis zone. It’s a twenty-meter diameter circle directly in the arena’s center. Precision is key; the field’s effective range is limited. You need to get it there—and keep it there—until I give the signal.”

Leonardo’s grin widens. “So, I get to be the hero, face the monster, and look cool doing it? Spider Princess, you sure know how to throw a party.”

“I aim to please,” you say, a ghost of a smile playing on your lips. “My role, as discussed, is oversight. I’ll be in the central command spire, coordinating and ready to activate the stasis field the moment you have our oversized friend in position.” You press your palm to the door; the runes glow briefly, and the locks disengage. “This is your entrance, Leonardo. Michelangelo, your access to the upper levels is two corridors down. Look for the red glyph. Donatello, your conduits are primarily on the arena’s sublevel; an access shaft is just beyond that beast pen. And Raphael, you’ll take the main spectator ingress tunnel; it’ll put you right where you need to be when the fun starts.”

You meet their gazes one last time, your expression serious beneath the veneer of cool command. “The show starts in thirty minutes. Get into position. And remember,” you add, your voice dropping a notch, “failure won’t be just embarrassing. It’ll be messy. Very, very messy.” With a nod, you sweep past them, heading towards your own vantage point, leaving them to their assigned fates.

Time passes in a blink.

In front of you are screens, each offering different angles of the arena: backstage areas, the power conduits, and most importantly, the containment sector of the Star-Eater. Through the main viewport, you watch the stands fill. Yokai of every imaginable species, from hulking rock-skinned giants to gossamer-winged sprites, find their seats, their roars and chatter a rising tide of anticipation.

The pre-show spectacle—a rather dull bout between two over-muscled, under-skilled brutes—is winding down. You tap the comm bead, your voice a calm murmur in the quiet of the spire. “Positions, gentlemen.”

“Mikey here, ready to rock and roll from the rafters!” His voice crackles with an almost manic glee.

“Donatello?”

“Here,” comes the more sedate reply. “Conduit access secured. Primary power flow is stable. Integrity monitors on the Star-Eater’s containment unit are … well, they’re showing increasing stress fluctuations. Expected, I presume?”

“Naturally,” you reply. “Raphael?”

A grunt. “In position by the main west exit. Crowd’s packed in tight.”

“Leonardo?”

“Ready to make a new best friend. Just say the word, Spider Princess.” There’s an underlying nervous energy in his voice, but it’s overshadowed by a theatrical confidence.

You watch the main event champions take their bows, the crowd roaring its approval. Then, a flicker on one of your monitors. A visible crack spiderwebs across the Star-Eater’s pen. The show is beginning.

“It’s starting,” you announce, your gaze fixed on the monitor displaying the beast’s containment. “Michelangelo, on my mark.”

The crack widens. A guttural, dimensional shriek tears through the arena’s background noise, silencing the crowd for a heartbeat. Then, with an explosive burst of energy and shattered metal, the Star-Eater erupts from its prison. It bounds to the arena floor, shaking the very foundations. Panic, instantaneous, ripples through the stands.

It’s even more terrifying in motion: a vortex of shadowy tendrils, razor-sharp crystalline shards for a hide, and too many eyes glowing with malevolent cosmic hunger.

“Mark!” you snap into the comm. “Michelangelo, you’re on!”

Almost immediately, a flash of orange and green swings into view on the arena’s jumbotron feeds, which your systems patch directly to your screens. Michelangelo, true to his word, is using a lighting rig like a trapeze, letting out a whoop that somehow cuts through the rising din.

“Hey, Star-Brain!” he yells, launching a volley of what looks like water balloons filled with glitter paint? (And you wonder just where he got those.) They splatter harmlessly but garishly against the beast’s hide. “Betcha can’t catch me!”

The Star-Eater, initially disoriented, lets out an enraged roar, its multiple eyes swiveling upwards to fix on the small, taunting figure. It swipes a colossal, clawed limb, narrowly missing a catwalk Michelangelo somersaults off of.

“Good,” you murmur, watching the beast’s attention lock onto the orange-clad turtle. “Keep it busy. Donatello, status on those conduits? The energy surge from the escape might have destabilized them.”

“Already on it,” he replies, his voice tight with concentration. You switch to a view of a grimy sublevel, where Donatello is furiously typing on a holographic interface projected from his wrist, sparks flying from a nearby junction box. “Compensating for feedback loop … rerouting auxiliary power … Got it! Conduits stable. For now. This thing’s energy signature is playing havoc with the finer mystic circuits.”

“Excellent work. Keep them green.”

Your attention flicks to the crowd. As predicted, it’s chaos. Screams echo as yokai scramble for the exits. Raphael’s feed shows him holding back a surging wave of terrified spectators at the gate. He’s directing them, his voice booming, pointing towards secondary, less obvious escape routes you’d pre-briefed him on.

“Nice and orderly, folks!” he shouts, shoving a panicked ogre away from trampling a group of smaller imps. “There’s plenty of ‘getting eaten’ to go around if you don’t move smart!”

A small, appreciative smile touches your lips. Crude, but effective.

“Leonardo,” you say, your voice even. “The stage is yours. Bring our star to the center.”

“Showtime,” his voice comes back, confident.

You watch his feed as he drops from a lower gantry, landing gracefully on the arena floor. He draws his katanas, the blades glinting under the lights.

“Hey, ugly!” he calls out, positioning himself between the Star-Eater and the panicking crowd, drawing its attention away from Michelangelo for a crucial moment. “Heard you were looking for a dance partner? Hope you can keep up!”

The Star-Eater, momentarily confused by the new, closer target, lets out a growl, abandoning its pursuit of the elusive Michelangelo. It charges towards Leonardo, its tendrils lashing out.

You lean forward, fingers steepled, observing every detail. Leonardo moves with skilled agility, dodging, weaving. Redirecting the beast’s attacks, guiding its lumbering charges. He’s leading it, step by step, towards the giant, almost invisible circle etched into the arena’s center.

“Closer, Leonardo,” you instruct, watching the proximity indicators on your display.

Michelangelo continues his aerial harassment, drawing some of the Star-Eater’s fire, preventing it from focusing entirely on Leonardo. Donatello’s voice occasionally chimes in with curt updates about power fluctuations. Raphael is a steadfast bastion against total collapse at the exits.

The Star-Eater, enraged by Leonardo’s evasiveness, unleashes a torrent of energy from its maw. He dives, rolling, coming up singed but grinning.

“Playing hard to get, huh?” he pants. “Just a little further …” He feints left, then darts right, positioning himself just beyond the stasis circle’s edge as the beast thunders past him, skidding to a halt directly in the center of the target zone. “Now, Princess!”

With a press of your palm on the control console, you send the command. “Stasis field activating!”

Below, the circle on the floor flares with an intense blue light. Energy arcs upwards, forming a crackling dome around the Star-Eater just as it rears back to strike. The beast roars, thrashing against the sudden confinement. But it holds, solidifying, its wails muffling as the stasis field takes full effect.

You allow yourself a slow, satisfied exhale. A genuine smile spreads across your face as you look at the Star-Eater, now frozen mid-snarl. “Spectacular,” you murmur, leaning back in your chair. “Absolutely spectacular. Well done, gentlemen. The Star-Eater is contained. For now.”

Relieved sighs and cheers come through your comm.

“Woo-hoo! We did it!” Michelangelo hollers. “Did you see that triple flip off the light rig? And the glitter—it hated the glitter!”

You can’t help but chuckle. He’s kinda cute, you think.

“Energy signature stabilizing,” Donatello reports, a note of professional satisfaction in his tone. “The stasis field is holding at optimal parameters. Impressive tech, by the way. Did you design the primary focusing array yourself?”

“I had input,” you answer, a smile tugging at your lips. His intellectual curiosity is, you admit, rather appealing.

“Crowd’s mostly cleared,” Raphael says. “Few stragglers, but the panic’s over. Nobody got turned into an appetizer. Mission accomplished.” His gruff protectiveness stirs something unexpectedly warm within you.

“And looking good while doing it, if I may say so myself,” Leonardo chimes in, his voice still a little breathless but brimming with bravado. “One monster, neatly gift-wrapped. You’re welcome, Princess.”

His confidence, even when teetering on the edge of arrogance, has a certain undeniable charm. He truly did command the arena. You can’t say you don’t find him interesting.

You watch them on your monitors for a few moments longer. They’re a chaotic force of nature alright. And, against all your better judgment, you find yourself captivated. Each of them, in their own unique, exasperating way, has proven to be more than just a temporary solution to a problem.

“Rendezvous at the west arena entrance, the one Raphael was securing,” you say into the comm. “And try not to attract any more attention. The cleanup crew will be here shortly, and they’re notoriously bad at keeping secrets.”

You cut the feed, a thoughtful expression on your face as the adrenaline of the crisis fades. With a few quick commands, you start the Star-Eater’s transfer to a more permanent holding facility (one far, far away.) Then, you smooth down your capelet and head out.

By the time you reach the designated meeting point, the turtles are already there, looking a little worse for wear but undeniably triumphant. Michelangelo is animatedly recounting his aerial acrobatics to a skeptical-looking Raphael. Donatello is still fiddling with one of your comm devices, while Leonardo leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you approach.

“Well,” you say, stopping before them, your earlier commanding tone softening slightly. “I must admit, that was … remarkably effective. For a group of amateurs who stumbled into my domain uninvited, anyway.”

“Amateurs who just saved your very expensive arena and probably your reputation with the mystic elite, you mean.” Leonardo winks. “So, about that portal token home? And maybe forgetting this whole ‘trespassing’ thing?”

“Hmm, yes, the terms of our agreement,” you muse, tapping a finger to your chin. You meet each of their gazes. Michelangelo’s bright, expectant eyes. Donatello’s analytical, curious ones. Raphael’s guarded but steady stare. Leonardo’s confident, challenging look.

“You held up your end of the bargain,” you concede. “And with surprising panache.” Your gaze lingers on Leonardo for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes before he schools his expression back into a charming grin.

“Panache is my middle name,” he says. “Well, not really. It’s ‘Danger.’ But panache fits too.”

“Of course it is,” you say dryly, though a smile tugs at your lips. “The trespassing incident will be ‘administratively misplaced’. As for getting home …” You reach into your capelet again. But instead of just grabbing the portal token, you also produce an ornate data chip. “Donatello, I believe you were interested in the stasis field’s focusing array schematics? And perhaps the Yatchon encryption on the comms?”

His eyes widen, and he takes a step forward, practically vibrating with intellectual hunger. “You’d share proprietary Battle Nexus technology? Just like that?”

“Consider it a bonus,” you say, your eyes flicking to the others. “A token of appreciation for a job well done. And perhaps,” you add, your voice a little softer, “an incentive for future … collaborations, should the need arise.”

Raphael frowns. “Future collaborations? I thought we were done.”

“One never knows in the Nexus, Raphael,” you say smoothly. “Alliances shift. Favors are currency. And talent,” your gaze sweeps over them again, lingering perhaps a moment too long on each, “is always in demand.”

Warmth spreads through your chest, an unfamiliar lightness. It’s not just about business anymore. You genuinely enjoyed their company, their wild energy, their surprising competence. The thought of them simply never returning leaves you with an unexpected pang of something akin to disappointment.

“Besides,” you continue, a mischievous glint entering your eyes as you look at Leonardo, “I haven’t even offered you all a celebratory post-crisis meal. It would be terribly rude of me, as a hostess, not to.”

“A meal?” His grin widens. “With the Spider Princess herself? Now that sounds like a proper reward.”

Michelangelo bounces on the balls of his feet. “Ooh! Do you have those weird glow-y sodas they sell in the concession stands?”

“We can discuss refreshments en route,” you say, a genuine smile now gracing your features before you turn. “My private lounge is much more comfortable. And far less likely to be infested with disgruntled arena beasts.”

You start walking, not looking back immediately, but you can hear their footsteps and surprised murmurs following you.

“She’s actually being nice?” Raphael mutters, loud enough for you to hear.

“Define ‘nice’ in the context of a woman who threatened to turn us into a marketing gimmick,” Donatello says, though there’s a note of intrigue in his voice.

“Hey, free snacks and she called me ‘panache-y’!” Leonardo stage-whispers. “I’m calling this a win.”

You allow yourself a small, secret smile. The mission might be over, but this new relationship, you sense, is just the beginning. And much to your surprise, it makes your heart flutter a little faster. You glance back, just a subtle turn of your head, and watch them.

Yes, you think, this could be very interesting indeed. Your future empire might just have gained four very unexpected, very intriguing new assets.

Or perhaps … something more.

105 notes · View notes

worstgenerationloser · 8 months ago

Note

Need some fluffy tooth rotting luffy headcanons for Luffy please 🙏 🙏🙏

Fluffy-ish Luffy Headcanons! (x Reader? im superrr tired...)

look at this guy and tell me you dont love him..... (luffy haters DNI!!!)

Luffy is a handful in more ways than one, considering the fact that he has almost no concept of personal space, he can and will be slingshotting himself towards you at record speeds for a hug.

•❀━━•°•°❃°•°•━━━•❃°•°❀

You raise a brow, hearing what you think is the sound of an object shooting through the air, but the question was, what was it? Your eyes dart around the deck, failing to notice a familiar figure on the crows nest descending rapidly.

"Y/N!!"

Oh no.

"Wh- LUFFY?!" You screeched so loud you accidentally caught the attention of an enemy ship.

•❀━━•°•°❃°•°•━━━•❃°•°❀

Chopper was very worried when you seemed to magically appear infront of him with your captain wrapped around you like a snake, and a large knot forming on your forehead from where he collided with you.

Luffy is horrible at lying. You happened to stumble upon this little bit of information by closely observing the way he pursed his lips to the side whenever Sanji asked him where all the food went, resulting in Luffy having one too many knots on his head. Consequently, when he has small things planned for you, he just can't seem to keep his mouth shut, although he seldom tries to shut his trap, he tries for you.

•❀━━•°•°❃°•°•━━━•❃°•°❀

"Luffy? Why can't I go into my quarters?" You questioned, wrapped up in his arms yet again.

"Because... Theres.... A.... Big.... Snake!" Luffy began to sweat profusely, earning a eyebrow raise from you. Was he busted? He hoped not!

"...Really?"

"Uh-Huh! That's right, Y/N! And I definitely didn't ask Sanji to cook you your favorite dish! Also, I guarantee that—" His face goes pale as he clamps his hands over his mouth, eyes widening at the realization he blabbed a little too much, but you just smiled at him.

•❀━━•°•°❃°•°•━━━•❃°•°❀

Although Luffy can hardly stay still most of the time, his insatiable lust for adventure never stops him from mellowing out from time to time when it's just you two. He actually enjoys naps and sleeping alot more if you're there with him, resting his head on your chest, stomach, lap, your shoulder, all over you basically. He snores alot and he always has a little snot bubble coming up... He's so adorable.

Luffy is unapologetically himself, no matter who tries to put him down, he will always get back up. That being said, he often does get a little anxious when things get unpredictable, but his fears can be quelled the second you pop up, like clockwork.

The second you dock on a new island, he will always grab your hand and drag you off with him, no matter how eerie the island seems, he happily trots away with you, leaving the reasonable crew in the dust.

•❀━━•°•°❃°•°•━━━•❃°•°❀

You had zero clue where you had just docked, but there was no port, and zero signs of life. You peered into the dense jungle in the distance, spotting what seemed to be a giant swarm of beetles flying in the distance. Suddenly, with an arm around you, your captain appeared, eyes shimmering in awe at the sheer amount of beetles. If theres one thing you knew about him— He loved beetles.

"Y/N! Let's go catch beetles!"

Without another word, you were shot into the air while Luffy kept his arm coiled around your middle section, unfortunately flying into the swarm of beetles who just so happened to be some odd species that made Luffy break out in hives. Luffy was a knucklehead, but he was your knucklehead.

•❀━━•°•°❃°•°•━━━•❃°•°❀

THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING! i think i might actually rewrite this since its like 1am for me, and my brainis all jumbled, sorry, ik its sorta ass....

#luffy x reader #monkey d. luffy #monkey d luffy x reader #straw hat pirates #straw hat luffy #luffy headcanons #one piece luffy #mugiwara no luffy #monkey d luffy x you #luffy x you

200 notes · View notes

greenwitchcrafts · 4 months ago

Text

March 2025 Witch Guide

New Moon: March 29th

First Quarter: March 6th

Full moon: March 14th

Last Quarter: March 22nd

Sabbats: Ostara- March 20th

March Storm Moon

Also known as: Crow Moon(Ojibwe), Hard Crust on the Snow Moon(Ojibwe & Chippewa tribes near the Great Lakes), Hrethmonath, Lenten Moon, Little Sand Storm Moon(Zuni), Moon of the Whispering Wind(Hopi), Moon When the Leaves Break Forth(Pueblo), Moon of the Winds, Sore Eyes Moon(Sioux, Lakota & Assiniboine of the Great Plains, northern plains, & Dakotas), Sap Moon(Shawnee of Ohio & Pennsylvania), Spring Moon(Inupiat in Alaska & the Passamaquoddy of the northeastern US), Storm Moon, Sugar-Making Moon(Ojibwe of southern Canada), Wind Moon(Choctaw, Cherokee of the southeastern US & the Catawba of South Carolina), & Worm Moon

Element: Water

Zodiac: Pisces & Aries

Nature spirts: Air spirts, water spirts & mer-people

Deities: Artemis, Astarte, Athena, Cybele, Isis, Luna & Minerva

Animals: Boar, cougar & hedgehog

Birds: Sea crow & sea eagle

Colors: Pale green, red-violet & yellow

Trees: Alder, dogwood & honeysuckle

Herbs: Apple blossom, high John root, Irish moss, pennyroyal, wood betony & yellow dock

Flowers: Daffodil, jonquil & violet

Scents: Apple blossom & honeysuckle

Stones: Amethyst, aquamarine, bloodstone, moonstone, obsidian, onyx, red zircon & topaz

Issues, intentions & powers: Astral, banishing, beginnings, empowerment, fertility & purification

Energy: Balance, beginnings, dream work, energy breaking into the open, exploring, growth, inner development, prospering, spirtual debt & truth seeking

March’s full Moon is often called the Worm Moon. It was thought this name referred to the earthworms that appear as the soil warms in spring.

However, In the 1760s, Captain Jonathan Carver visited the Naudowessie (Dakota) & other Native American tribes & wrote that the name Worm Moon refers to a different sort of “worm”—beetle larvae—which begin to emerge from the thawing bark of trees & other winter hideouts at this time.

• Storm moon comes from heavy rains & gray skies abound — the earth is being showered with the life-giving water it needs to have a fertile & healthy growing season. This is also a time of equal parts light & darkness, so a time of balance.

This month's full moon is a blood moon which is a full moon that coincides with a full lunar eclipse. This moon can have an unusually reddish appearance

•There is a partial solar eclipse on March 29th

• There is a total lunar eclipse on March 13-14th depending on where you are

Ostara

Known as: Alban Eilir, Lady Day, Spring Equinox & Vernal Equinox

Season: Spring

Element: Fire

Symbols: 8-Spoked wheel, butterflies, chicks, decorated baskets, eggs, feathers, hares, rabbits, seeds, shamrocks, spring flowers & sunwheels

Colors: Green, light-blue, indigo, pink, red, silver, violet, white & yellow

Oils/Incense: African violet, apple blossom, columbine, crocus, daffodil, daisy, florals, ginger, honey, honeysuckle, jasmine, jonquil, lilac, lotus, magnolia, narcissus, orange blossom, primrose, rain, rose, sage & strawberry

Animals: Bees, boar, butterflies, hare, hedgehogs, horse, rabbit, ram, sheep & snake

Birds: Chicks, cormorant, hawk, robin, sparrow & swallow

Stones: Amethyst, aquamarine, bloodstone, moonstone, red jasper & rose quartz

Mythical: Pooka & phoenix

Food: Asparagus, dairy foods, dill, eggs, fruit, honey, honey-cakes, lamb, leafy green vegetables, mead, pine nuts, pumpkin, radish, seafoods, spring onions, sprouts & sunflower seeds

Herbs/Plants: Acorn, broom, ginger, gorse, hyssop, high John root, Irish Moss, lemon grass, olive, strawberry, woodruff

Flowers: Apple blossom, columbine, crocus, daffodil, dandelion, daisy, honeysuckle, iris, jasmine, jonquil, lilac, lily, linden, orange blossom, narcissus, peony, primrose, rose, snowdrop, tansy, tulip, violet

Trees: Alder, apple, ash, birch, dogwood, hawthorn, maple, yew

Goddesses: Aphrodite, Amalthea, Ariadne, Artemis, Astarte, Athena, Blodewedd, Coatlicue, Cybele, Demeter, Diana, Eos, Epona, Flora, Freya, Gaia, Guinevere, Hera, Idunn, Iris, Ishtar, Isis, Juno, Libera, Maia, Minerva, Ostara, Persephone, Rati, Renpet, Umaj, Venus, Vesta & Vila

Gods: Adonis, Aengus MacOg, Attis, Celi, Cernunnos, Coel, Dalon ap Landu, The Dagda, Dumuzi, Eros, The Green Man, Kama, Mithras, Odin, Osiris, Ovis, Pan & Thor

Tarot cards: The Empress, The Fool, The Magician, The Priestess, Strength, Justice & The Star

Spellwork: Altar rededication, beginnings, fire magick, new employment & new projects

Issues, Intentions & Powers: Agriculture, balance, beauty, fertility, growth, life, light, love, rebirth & renewal

Activities:

•Go on a hike/walk & look for signs of spring

• Add Ostara symbols to decorate your altar space

• Plant vegetable &/or flower seedlings indoors after blessing the seeds

• Color bight, decorate & hunt eggs

• Set your intentions for the weeks/months ahead

• Start a new class or hobby

• Create eggshell candles

• Make plans & new routines for the future

• Participate in rituals & ceremonies that connect you with energy & the life force of nature

• Have a feast with your friends &/family with sprouts & leafy greens

• Bake hot cross buns

• Clean & de-clutter your home

• Try a re-birthing/ renewing ritual

• Bring fresh flowers or plants into into the home

• Host a spring & floral themed tea party

• Make egg based food dishes & desserts

• Assist houseless individuals as most temporary shelters will soon be closing

Ostara gets it's name from Eostre, however the celebration isn't based on her even though she is said to be interpreted as the goddess of spring, fertility & the dawn. There is very little information on Eostre and none have shown up before the eighth century because of disagreements on she had Celtic or Germanic origins.

People tend to believe Ostara is an ancient holiday at it's core with an ancient goddess, but that may not be the truth. While most gods & goddesses have many myths & stories surrounding them, the same cannot be said about Eostre

It is still up for debate whether or not this goddess ever existed or if she was revered & celebrated the ways she's been in the more recent years.

•Like many other spring celebrations in other cultures, Ostara symbolizes fertility, rebirth & renewal. This time of year marking the beginning of the agricultural cycle when farmers would start planting seeds.

There is no evidence that the ancient Greeks or Romans celebrated Ostara, although they did celebrate their own spring festivals, such as the Roman festival of Floralia & the Greek festival of Anthesteria. It was a time to honor the returning sun, fertility & rebirth.

Related festivals:

• Nowruz: March 20h-

Nowruz marks the first day of spring & renewal of nature. It is celebrated on the day of the astronomical vernal equinox. It is also celebrated as the beginning of the new year by people all around the world for over 3,000 years in the Balkans, the Black Sea Basin, the Caucasus, Central Asia, the Middle East & other regions.

It promotes values of peace & solidarity between generations & within families as well as reconciliation & neighbourliness. Nowruz plays a significant role in strengthening the ties among peoples based on mutual respect & the ideals of peace and good neighbourliness.

Traditional customs of Nowruz include fire & water, ritual dances, gift exchanges, reciting poetry, symbolic objects & more; these customs differ between the diverse peoples & countries that celebrate the festival.

• Holi: March 14th-

Holi is a popular & significant Hindu festival celebrated as the The festival of colors, Love &Spring. It commemorates eternal and divine love of the deities Radha & Krishna. Additionally, the day signifies the triumph of good over evil, as it celebratess the victory of Vishnu as Narasimha over Hiranyakashipu. Holi originated & is predominantly celebrated in the Indian subcontinent, but has also spread to other regions of Asia & parts of the Western world through the Indian diaspora.

The festival has many purposes; most prominently, it celebrates the beginning of spring. In 17th century literature, it was identified as a festival that celebrated agriculture, commemorated good spring harvests & the fertile land. It's believed to be a time to enjoying spring's abundant colours & say farewell to winter. To many Hindus, Holi festivities mark an occasion to reset & renew ruptured relationships, end conflicts, & rid themselves of accumulated emotional impurities from the past

It also has a religious purpose, symbolically signified by the legend of Holika. The night before Holi, bonfires are lit in a ceremony known as Holika Dahan (burning of Holika) or Little Holi. People gather near fires, sing & dance. The next day, Holi, also known as Dhuli in Sanskrit, or Dhulheti, Dhulandi or Dhulendi, is celebrated.

•Easter: April 20th-

Also called Pascha or Resurrection Sunday, is a Christian festival & cultural holiday commemorating the resurrection of Jesus from the dead, described in the New Testament as having occurred on the third day of his burial following his crucifixion by the Romans at Calvary c. 30 AD. It is the culmination of the Passion of Jesus Christ, preceded by Lent (or Great Lent), a 40-day period of fasting, prayer, & penance.

Easter traditions vary across the Christian world & include sunrise services or late-night vigils, exclamations & exchanges of Paschal greetings, flowering the cross & the decoration and the communal breaking of Easter eggs (a symbol of the empty tomb) among many others. The Easter lily is a symbol of the resurrection in Western Christianity traditionally decorates the chancel area of churches on this day & for the rest of Eastertide. Additional customs that have become associated with Easter & are observed by both Christians & some non-Christians include Easter parades, communal dancing, the Easter Bunny & egg hunting.

Other celebrations:

• Festival of Luna: March 31st-

Is a feast day honoring the Goddess Luna who is seen as the divine embodiment of the Moon.

The Temple of Luna was a temple on the Aventine Hill in Rome, dedicated to Luna, the moon goddess. Its dedication was celebrated on March 31st, thus the celebration.

According to Tacitus, it was built by king Servius Tullius. However, the first confirmed reference to a temple to Luna dates to 182 BC & refers to one of its doors being knocked off its posts by a miraculous blast of air & shot into the back of the Temple of Ceres. That account probably places the temple at the north end of the hill, just above porta Trigemina. The temple was struck by lightning around the time of the death of Cinna, as was the temple of Ceres. After the destruction of Corinth, Lucius Mummius Achaicus dedicated some of his spoils from the city to this temple. It was destroyed in the Great Fire of Rome in 64 AD & not rebuilt.

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

Encyclopedia Britannica

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Encyclopedia britannica

Llewellyn 2025 magical almanac Practical magic for everyday living

https://www.learnreligions.com

Llewellyn's Sabbat Essentials: Ostara

118 notes · View notes

hellsitegenetics · 1 year ago

Note

This Valentine's Day I'd like to express my love for my favorite species, the common carp. While they aren't as colorful as other fish, they still have a place in my heart. Their majestic barbels, the way they eat popcorn off docks... they're just adorable. They may be invasive bottom feeders but they're just so lovable to me. The way they can adapt to everything. The way you can tell an ecosystem isn't in great shape if all the carp die off. Their lil faces that make them look like they've just bitten into a slice of cake only to find out it's expired. I love carp.

String identified: T at' a ' t at c, t c ca. t a't a c a t , t t a a ac at. T atc a, t a t at c c… t' t aa. T a a tt t t' t a t . T a t ca aat t tg. T a ca t a ct 't gat a a t ca . T ac tat a t t' t tt t a c ca t t t' . ca.

Closest match: Crioceris asparagi genome assembly, chromosome: 2 Common name: Common asparagus beetle

#tumblr genetics #genetics #asks #requests #sent to me #thatnostalgiccarp #valentines day #fish #carp #bugs #insects #beetles #common asparagus beetle

369 notes · View notes

tf-rechargeandrebound · 6 months ago

Text

Ok I redesigned them for the last goddamn time

TFR Autobot designs ^^ (I'm sorry if the colours look fucked up idk how to fix exporting stuff)

Character profiles beneath the cut

Optimus Prime

Allegiance: Autobot

Alt mode: Freightliner semi truck

Occupation: Autobot commander, current Prime

Likes: Cybertronian history, reading, Earth’s general vibe, long drives, peace and quiet

Dislikes: His position as Prime (he’s not very vocal about it though), snakes, icy roads, large social functions, taking breaks from all that gosh darn paperwork

Once a humble dock worker named Orion Pax, Optimus Prime is the leader of the Autobot Resistance, and is being counted on to save his home from the Decepticons. Any Autobot would describe him as wise, kind, stoic, somewhat stern, and a great leader who can sometimes get grumpy when stressed or tired. His most trusted officers and family, such as Elita-1, know that he’s also rather socially awkward and a bit of a bookworm. He cares deeply for every single Autobot under his command, and has grown to care for Earth as well. He generally dislikes needlessly reckless behaviour from those around him, as he can’t bear to see even more lives lost to the war. He often doubts himself, his role as Prime, and his actions, even if they were right. At the end of the day, Optimus wants nothing more than to live a quiet life with his loved ones.

Elita-1

Allegiance: Autobot

Alt mode: F-16 Fighting Falcon fighter jet

Occupation: Autobot commander

Likes: Astronomy, meteorology, flying, Earth rain, stargazing

Dislikes: Megatron (everyone hates him but she hates him on a very personal level), confined spaces, caves, snowstorms

Before she was Elita-1, she was Ariel, and before she was Ariel, she was a miner designated AR-1. After escaping the mines when she was young, she was taken in by an old dock boss named Kup who offered her a job at the docks, where she met a young mech named Orion Pax. Elita and Optimus Prime are both co-commanders and conjunx enduras. She’s much more of a social jokester than he is, and is extremely popular amongst the troops. She’s cunning, loyal, intelligent, and a fierce warrior who always stands up for what’s right and puts others before herself, all while being someone who’s willing to lend an ear to anyone who needs to vent. She’s truly the definition of an Autobot.

Bumblebee

Allegiance: Autobot

Alt mode: 2017 Volkswagen Beetle

Occupation: Special Operations scout

Likes: Earth pop culture (especially video games and 80s music), open roads, making friends, adventure, summertime, stories about pre-war Cybertron, carwashes

Dislikes: Being teased for his height, sharp objects, confinement, failing a task or mission

Bumblebee is one of the youngest and most promising soldiers in the Resistance. Raised by Optimus and Elita, he chose to join the fight against the Decepticons once he came of age, a decision that they respect but don’t fully approve of. His oddly small stature makes him ideal for espionage-based missions, and he’s nearly mastered using his size to his advantage while in direct combat. Bee is an extremely upbeat and friendly bot, and while he may be small, he has a big spark that cares deeply for everyone around him. He often recklessly puts himself in danger to protect others, which usually gets him injured, but the injuries are worth it, in his opinion. Overall, Bumblebee is a dependable, determined, and brave Autobot, just like his caretakers.

Wheeljack

Allegiance: Autobot

Alt mode: 2015 Chevrolet Silverado

Occupation: Autobot Science Division, Chief Engineer

Likes: Science, inventing, researching, stunt driving (he doesn’t do it much anymore, though), lab work, reading scientific reports, explaining things he’s invented or fixed, explosions

Dislikes: Listening to his body when it tells him to take breaks, not knowing about a subject, distractions from his work, long fights

Wheeljack is one of Cybertron’s greatest scientific minds. He’s a brilliant, eccentric engineer and a good-natured bot who others like to be around. He can easily become engrossed in his work, and has little regard for his own personal safety, as he frequently patches himself up and regularly visits the medbay after his daily experiment blows up in his face. He often looks out for the youngsters around him, and ends up fostering a strong paternal affection towards his human ally Sadie. While he’s not on the front lines as much as he once was, he’s still quite a capable fighter and a force to be reckoned with.

Ratchet

Allegiance: Autobot

Alt mode: MXP-170 ambulance

Occupation: Chief Medical Officer

Likes: Peace and quiet, napping, organizing his equipment, Engex, bossing people around

Dislikes: People or bots who annoy him, his equipment being disorganized, comments about his age (unless he makes them), hotshot young bots (except for Bee), busy cities

One of Iacon’s best and most dedicated medical professionals, Ratchet is an elderly, cranky old medic who’s constantly trying to keep his fellow Autobots out of trouble. He’s no stranger to wartime, as he's a veteran of the Quintesson War that took place before the majority of his comrades were even protoformed. Having raised both Optimus and Wheeljack, they’re two of the only bots who know that, despite his prickly exterior, Ratchet is actually quite a softie deep down. Still, Ratchet has a nasty temper, and he often doesn’t work well with others, preferring to do things “his way”. When the situation is dire enough, however, he’ll accept help from those around him. Occasionally, he’ll be relaxed enough to lightheartedly joke around with those he’s closest with, but overall he’s a tough, no-nonsense, hard working old bot.

84 notes · View notes

apollolabsworld · 3 months ago

Text

Green dock beetle in the light

#macro perfection #macro shot #macrophotography #photography #nature #cute bugs #bugs #photographers on tumblr #animals #naturecore #macro photography #photooftheday

36 notes · View notes

onenicebugperday · 5 months ago

Note

Hiii Onenicebug!!

I'm a really big fan of insects, but I live in a city! I used to live near the woods with all kinds of cute bugs, but now it's difficult to find much beyond the occasional silly grasshopper or trash-loving fly. The only thing interesting we get is cicadas in the summer! I dunno what else there is here in northern Texas..

This is all to say that I really appreciate your blog! I love being able to see silly bugs!! I'd also like to ask, do you have any bug finding tips? I'm certain where I live isn't completely devoid of cute creatures, so they gotta be hiding somewhere! If you ever go bug hunting, where do you search? :))))

Hello :) Certainly you can find bugs in cities, though it can be more difficult obviously and you're not going to find the diversity you might outside of the city.

Some places to look, though - during the day on sides of buildings, often the side facing the sun, and around window sills. These are especially good places to look for jumping spiders, but also some true bugs and beetles will congregate there to warm themselves. Look at the same places at night rather than during the day and you'll see different friends, often orbweavers and moths if there's a bright light on the building. Any lights around entrances or patios or balconies will attract friends. Hanging a white sheet outside and shining a bright light on it can attract all sorts of dudes if you want to get that into it. Different lights attract bugs better, so that's something you'd need to look into first.

Look in landscaping around buildings, especially if there's mulch or rocks or lots of plants. If you can do it without getting in trouble or causing any damage, lifting landscape rocks or edging bricks that line walkways will almost certainly reveal some critters - mostly isopods, snails, slugs, millipedes, and centipedes, but sometimes wolf spiders or other cool fellas. Obviously just be very careful when replacing the rocks so you don't squish anyone. Digging around in mulch or leaf litter is a good way to find the same pals.

In landscaped areas around buildings with flowers or in small city parks, check the tops of flowers and all over the stems and on the undersides of leaves during the day - but be thorough, take your time and look very closely, you'd be surprised who's hiding in and around flowers that aren't immediately noticeable. This is almost always how I find things like crab spiders and ambush bugs, but of course you'll also find all kinds of flower beetles and plant-feeding true bugs. Seed bugs, aphids, planthoppers, leafhoppers, froghoppers/spittlebugs, etc can all be found on flowering plants, or mantises if you're lucky. The taller/denser/weedier the area is, the more pals you'll likely find, assuming it hasn't been sprayed with pesticides.

In addition to the friends crawling on those plants, you'll likely find some pollinators flying around them. Bees and wasps and butterflies of course, but also lots of different flies - especially hover flies and long-legged flies, which are small but super pretty up close and fun to watch.

On trees pretty much anywhere, look all over the bark of the trunk, especially underneath any pieces of bark that are lifting, or on/under any fallen branches.

And of course water attracts all kinds of bugs, either to live in, drink from, or hunt near. Runoff ditches on the sides of roads are often full of all kinds of different bugs, but it may be difficult to get close enough without getting your feet wet. Stagnant water will tend to have different bugs than fast-moving water does, so check out both if you can. Sitting near the water and just looking into it is a good way to spot lil friends creeping around in the muck on the bottom or skating around the surface. If your city has a lake or a river, docks and piers are a great spot to find spiders, especially at night, and of course during the day dragonflies and damselflies will be near water, too.

Hopefully that was somewhat helpful! That was just a brief overview of some of the easier places to look, but if you're observant enough, you'll find friends literally all over the place.

#average-transfem-robotgirl #the more you know #bug hunting

81 notes · View notes

damneddamsy · 11 months ago

Text

renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part ii)

My friend, I am writing this to you from the depths of the forest behind the castle. A thrush builds a nest far over my head while a violet beetle strums a tune, and nearby, a brown hart crosses a brook with her doe. It rains more often, and I stroll in it, wet to my bones. I alone bear witness to the marvels of my home. I cannot sit idle in my chambers anymore when no one seems to care about my whereabouts. Write soon, I eagerly await your tales of voyages on Vhagar. Yours, Aemma.

You should've seen him, the way Aemond Targaryen appeared when he unfurled the little scroll. It was a habit now. He would read and read it, for hours, a single wistful eye going back and forth on the page, mulling over each painstaking word, tracing her name, inhaling the scent of the soil on Dragonstone, before rolling the paper and depositing it with the others in his wooden chest for safekeeping. This letter found him over three moons ago. He had written back, twice, all to be met with nothing. He took to heart the gloom that seeped through the paper, unlike the bewitching girl he had heard from ages ago. She used to speak of collecting dragon eggs, running off with a boat into the sea, and exploring the caves beneath the courts. What was she up to now? What did she look like now? What were they doing to her?

Far away, on Dragonstone, Aemma's days evolved into boredom, a mere observer of the storms that raged. She grew further apart from her still-devoted mother, biding in heartbreak and loss while the princess enabled the household with Prince Daemon. Aemma couldn't help but see her father, Ser Laenor, everywhere. In the salt of the sea, in the misty eyes of his dragon, Seasmoke, in the boats that were docked at the bay, and in the sea glass that washed ashore. She became more disturbed, more evasive, and similarly, more accustomed to her smarting headaches. You could tell the days of her girlhood and absurd adventures were behind her.

There were times when her dear brothers would find a way to shed some light in her life by taking her to the watchpoint to have her see them glide above the ocean, mounted upon Vermax and Arrax. She had once ached for a dragon of her own, but she had given up as the years rolled into others. It didn't seem to matter, nothing changed in the way her family saw her.

Other times, she'd think of her dearest friend, Aemond, across the reach, training hard, fighting battles, riding Vhagar—he felt like a distant dream. A wish that would never quite be. Writing to Aemond brought back serenity to the young princess' mind. The quieter times were behind her. Her getaways were discounted now, but she'd continue to search the island for new excitement just for him. He was a gentle reminder that it was never too late to take action on what she had once dreamed herself to be.

On the morning of her father's observance, Aemma was informed that the princess would like to break bread with her. She didn't know what to expect. So she dressed in her best silks and joined her mother at the overflowing table. Aemma engaged in silence, scraping her fork against the plate, unable to hold her mother's expectant eyes. She wanted to share her troubles, talk about the past, and remember him the right way. Nothing came out except—

"I've missed you," Aemma managed to speak. It was the truth, she'd missed her mother's presence around her dearly.

"Then why have you been shying away from me?" her mother returned, her voice gentle. "Tell me, Aemma. What have I done to receive your silence?"

She met her mother's gaze, stronger now. "Nothing."

Her mother breathed a sigh. "I have not forced it upon you to wed a strange lord. Daemon often prompts me on this, but I refuse it because I know your heart. It belongs to no one but you." She reached across to warm her daughter's cold fingers. "Your brothers worry that your woes have become too deep these days. I share this concern with them, my love. I know you ache for Laenor—"

And the whisper-thin weir broke loose. Aemma's face crumpled into distress, using a hand to muffle a soft cry. She hasn't heard that name around here. No one would dare speak it. This has been a long time coming.

"No, mother," Aemma wept.

"Oh, Em. Even after all these years." Rhaenyra stood up to bound to her side, pressing her daughter into a tight embrace against her chest. "I'm here. Unburden yourself."

"Why doesn't it hurt as much for anyone else?" she asked through her tears, her shoulders shuddering. "Not you, Jace or Lord Corlys. Why me?"

"You loved your father more fiercely than any of us." Her mother stroked her fingers through Aemma's braids softly. "In time, you'll learn to make peace with the memories. Just as we have."

Aemma nodded, eventually finding it in herself to take solace in her mother's careful words. She felt a soft nudge against her stomach, moving out of her mother's arms to touch her swollen belly. Another addition to the family.

"I still want you to take a husband in marriage, Aemma, at your own will and time," her mother said to her, more serious now. She brushed a finger over her tear tracks.

"It does not interest me, mother," Aemma confessed with a sigh. "I've said this plenty."

"Yes, I know."

"Spare me the argument then."

"At the very least a kind, respecting companion who will support you in upholding your duties and protect your ideals, just as your father did for me," she insisted.

"If I were to wed, you would make me a pillar in a dismal court at King's Landing," she tried to explain, but her anxieties piled up to rush out in a mess. "Name me heir to the throne, face all those vile aspersions with a stone heart, and have me mindlessly plough out babes which I don't think I'm capable of for the life of me. I will not be made into a husk of my—"

Rhaenyra caught her chin to interrupt and glared her daughter straight in the eye. "You will not be heir."

She blinked once. "Mother."

"You should be, as my firstborn. I don't deny it. I've fought the very Gods for this privilege my entire life." Her mother palmed her cheek, her expression softening. "But it does not outweigh my oath to you and myself when I first held you in my arms. That I would never subject you to what my father had me brook, a mere political headache until I couldn't see past myself on the throne. I see my misplaced youth in you, daughter, and I want you to prevail for the both of us. Live as you please, captain a ship, voyage as an explorer, and not a tongue will raise against you. I will see to it."

Aemma stared at her mother, her words dripping into her mind one by one. She hoped she heard all of it right.

"For that, Jacaerys will be named my heir," the princess affirmed. "Although, as your brother's kin, you have to take to husband. I cannot have Jace's claim questioned any further. I can only grant you so much latitude on this, not freedom. I am sorry, it's all I—"

Aemma leapt at her mother to swallow her in a delighted embrace. It felt like a warm sunrise after a cold, unclear night, and it carried all before anyone. She pushed her face into her mother's neck, squeezing her as close as to pour her graciousness into her. She would never forgive herself if she were to do wrong by the princess, someone who trusted their years of deprivation and defeat to her.

"Thank you, my princess," Aemma whispered.

Her mother exhaled a laugh, smoothing many kisses against her cheek. "I am all but worthy of you."

"But, mother," she drawled and pulled away to show her the confusion. "How am I to move forward with this?"

"We can do this slowly. I will soon send word to a few great houses in Westeros. Essos, too, if you'd like," her mother divulged, smiling. "You will treat with them until you find someone who agrees with you. I won't bestow you upon them as a broodmare, they will value you as a princess and a lady. Take all the time you need, and satisfy your discretion."

"You make it sound so effortless," Aemma muttered.

"It will be, Em. Don't think too much, speak your mind, if you must. Someone who does not squinch at your wishes is most suited for your hand."

She shook her head. "I am not confident about that."

Her mother kissed her cheek again. "Simply let it happen, my love. Good things will follow."

As it turned out, the word of mouth of insurgency and challenges of Prince Lucerys' claim to the Driftwood throne brought the Dragonstone Targaryens back to their home on King's Landing. The young princes and princess were to stay with the rest of their kin after a long period of separation. A union for the ages.

Soon enough, that word grew old and what delighted the realm was the pleasing news that Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen of Dragonstone was arranging matters with a select few houses to place suitable marriage prospects for her eldest daughter, Aemma Velaryon. At sixteen years of age, her flowering into maidenhood had made her more beautiful. She would eventually draw the eyes of many young lords in the kingdom. Hightower, Blackwood, Arryn and Stark were among the favoured handful.

This matter did not escape Prince Aemond's ears, but he remained impassive to it. It shouldn't bother him, why would it? He knew it was only a matter of time before Aemma would be within these castle walls and he would heed her words before all else. This must be foul play from his sordid half-sister Rhaenyra. The Aemma Aemond knew would never stand for this plight. She would stand before him and remind him of his promise all those years back, they would mount Vhagar together and take to the open seas. Of course, he remembered. He always knew this day would come.

The morning Aemma arrived at the Red Keep, Aemond stood atop the verandah past the courtyard with his brother and sister, his head held high to show his duty and not his deference. But his eye searched and hungrily awaited the sight of her again. What did she look like? Was she as nimble and reserved as they said? That she was the epitome of a true Targaryen princess? Or perhaps—

"Whose eyes does Aemond One-Eye seek?" Halaena droned quietly, taking his attention for a moment. That title irked him.

The carriage was emptied and already making for the gates. Had he missed her arrival? No, she was too hard to miss.

Halaena took his arm, leading him back into the entrance doors. Aemond wavered, his sights still on the courtyard. Why hadn't she come? Where had she gone?

"Come, brother. She'll join us later, I'm sure of it."

He was having none of it. People expected Aemond to simply go about his day as if Aemma's disappearance from the occasion was irrelevant. He was ushered to break bread with his family in a rather torrid affair and train with Ser Criston in the undern when all of his thoughts were linearly on the young princess. Where, where, where.

He sweated out his anguish, battling hard, swinging his sword in lithe twists until Cole's sword was knocked out of his fingers with Aemond's simple outmanoeuvre. While the sparse crowd clapped for him, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two of Aemma's brothers. The bastards of Dragonstone. The ones who cost him his eyesight. He'd been through a world of pain since that night. He would not let that slide, not so soon.

"Nephews! Have you come to train?" Aemond called out, hoping to get something out of them. Any one of them would know where Aemma had run off to.

Jace's gaze sharpened with a black stare as Aemond approached them in fleeting steps. Jace put himself protectively in front of Luke. Aemond scoffed through his nose and dropped his sword on the table nearby.

As if he'd venture to cut the throats of the princes of the realm. In front of all these witnesses. How unseemly.

"Aemma," he declared. Her name left his lips like a plea.

"What about her?" Jace sneered.

Oh, he was not making this easy. "The princess was missing this morning."

"Why would I ever—"

"She went to the stables to see her direwolf," Luke said instead, catching his eye. Aemond wanted to carve out his skin every moment the boy lingered unpunished. "She didn't arrive with us because... she didn't want the attention."

This piqued him. "Why not?"

"Seven hells, Luke," Jace hissed.

"You know how much sister cares for him," Luke mentioned.

Jace sighed, sensing his fairness, and spared Aemond an apprehensive look. "Aemma's not in the mood to speak to anyone. In fact, she should've stayed back. My poor sister had an unfortunate incident attempting to claim the Bronze Fury not long ago."

Aemond wasted no time in tracking down her chambers from her brother's directions. With bated breath, he burst through the doors—"Aemma?"

His dread intensified when he noticed her belongings still stacked in spotless trunks in the corner by the vanity as if she were planning to leave as soon as she came. No, he simply would not allow it.

He carelessly pushed the curtains of the bed aside to find it untouched. The room was freshly scented of lavender oil; she had recently taken a bath. Her cloak hung off the edge of her dining chair. Her gold jewellery was left scattered on the table. She had been here.

"Aemma!" he called aloud again.

"Aemond?" Aemma's delicate dulcet reached his ears.

From the short balcony, she finally presented herself before him, coming between the sunlight and him. Indeed, the rumours were true. Gone was the tempestuous little girl from his treasured memories and instead, in her place, stood a lady so impressive he couldn't believe it was Aemma. She had come into her own beautifully, in the graceful slopes of her breast, waist, nose and lips. There were still traces of that young girl which refused to give way, blessed in her doe eyes, sun-kissed skin and—her hair.

This was what her brothers had vaguely mentioned to him.

Her silvery-blonde hair, that usually flaunted intricate braids or hung in pretty ringlets around her waist, had been completely singed off by dragon fire, all the length and volume lost to a limp mess of curls around her neck. Her mother must have attempted to cheer her up by fashioning a delicate crown of braids around her head.

Aemond didn't care for any of it. She could've stood there with a third eye or a cock in her hands—this was his Aemma, in the flesh. Six years he had gone without her. Nothing could stop him now.

He couldn't contain himself any longer, he strode across the floor to bear her in his arms. As tightly, closely, and intimately as his strength allowed. This had not changed at all, she was as warm as the day she'd parted him.

"It's really you," Aemond exhaled with a faint, incredulous laugh. He spun her around in just as much elation as when he had first dismounted Vhagar and taken to her celebrations.

When he set her on her feet, Aemma had laughed in delight and taken his face into her palms, her dark eyes observing every tick of muscle in his features with a disbelieving smile. Even if his ghastly scar had startled her, she didn't show it.

"I've missed you every day, my friend," Aemma murmured. Gods, you could see his chest swell with satisfaction. It was exactly what he wanted to hear from her.

"How you've grown," he commended, warmly stroking her waist. "So tall and elegant... no wonder all the realm is vying for your hand."

Even the words tasted like poison in his mouth. His expression soured a little.

"And you! I never thought I'd live to see the day your hair was longer than mine own," she exclaimed back, overlooking his mood shift. She held his broad shoulders, measuring the distance between her hands. "You've come to be with the power of a true dragon-rider. I am proud. How goes Vhagar?"

"Insatiable." Much like him right now. "Come with me. I'll fly you over the bay for as long as you'd like."

He'd like to get the word out to the smallfolk, that the princess has been taken to another prince more deserving of her.

"Oh, no. I don't think I can even see another dragon without pissing myself," she told him, her eyes set on their feet. Discomfiture was evident on her face. "I tried to mount... Vermithor upon Daemon's guidance and my hair—" she sadly touched the soft trims around her neck "—I lost it in doing so. If it weren't for him, I would've lost my life, too."

Aemond's arms tensed under her touch. The thought of it was excruciating. What was his uncle thinking, putting such a hysterical little girl in front of a beast as large as Vhagar? And what was Aemma thinking, that such a ferocious beast would bow to someone with her merciful attitude?

She looked up at him, heavyhearted. "Do I look dreadful?"

Aemma could not begin to question that when he had been stricken by her fortitude all those years ago. No burned braids, dirtied skirts, or lost dragons could make up for that.

"I'm certain it'll alarm the lords but not me. You were always glorious to me, princess," he appreciated her, not-so-subtly.

She threw her head back to laugh freely. "Then I must tell my mother to cease this weary pursuit to find me a husband. At least until my hair has grown to an adequate length."

That sounded like a great strategy. It gave him enough time to plot a controlled plan to relieve Aemma of this pressure.

"Have you met with anyone?" he asked, his voice calculating.

She made a face. "Not yet. Lord Blackwood has written to my mother. But..." A lightness overtook her features. "After my stay has ended, I'll be heading north to treat with the Lord of Winterfell."

"Winterfell?" He made the word sound like filth on his tongue. "Those vulgar cunts will cut you up and stuff you in a pie before you can wish them good morrow."

She snickered. "Lord Cregan Stark, my mother tells me, is a gentle giant. No older than I am. I hear from my grandsire that he is an honourable king to his people." She twiddled her thumbs to hide a smile. "Lord Stark wrote to me a while ago. He is rather charming."

Aemond couldn't stand her growing fondness for that filthy northerner. "You write to each other?"

"It was only one letter," she denied. "To pursue familiarity? In any case, my family are thrilled. House Stark is an invincible, age-old power."

Aemond sneered under his breath. A mere word of mouth had swayed her affections to the cold deadness of the north. As if Aemma would last a single winter up there. Warm and beaming in that Stark's arms... he wanted to gouge his one remaining eye out and douse it in acid.

His vindictive thoughts faltered to the Aemma in front of him, who was lulling him to immodest thoughts at the way she stroked her finger down the long scar on his cheek. His eyes almost shut at the bittersweet sensation.

"Jace told me what happened that night with you and Luke," she professed, sadness enveloping her expression. "I never got to tell you how sorry I am, my friend. You must've been in great pain."

He gulped down the bile that rose to his throat at the mention, but he maintained his calm demeanour. Instead, he brought her fingers on his cheek to his mouth and, without thinking, lay a delicate kiss.

"Long forgotten," he lied.

He didn't miss the way Aemma's lips fluttered with a sharp inhale and slipped her hand to her side. She massaged the wrist with a flustered chuckle.

"The eyepatch is... different," she said breathlessly.

Aemond was affecting her, quite obviously. Just not enough. He glanced from the corner of his eye, smug, as she walked around him and toward the bed.

"You might not like what lies under it," he said. "Besides, I'd say we match for life now."

If only she read into what he truly meant. She knowingly touched the noticeable scar that cut through her eyebrow with an absentminded smile. "Yes, we do."

He couldn't wait on this any longer. The words were bursting at the seams, coming undone. "I must talk to you at once."

Aemond took her hand to hasten her to sit beside him on the bed. He entwined his fingers between hers and held it to his chest as he asked her, enunciating his words carefully. She watched him with all her focus.

"Do you truly want to be wed? Have they imposed this on you? You can tell me, Aemma, I will do anything in my power to stop this insanity. I will burn down that damned Sept for you if that's what it takes."

She smiled at him. "Don't fret for me. I am content."

"Surely you lie. 'Tis not good for you." They're not good for you, he wanted to say.

"My mother is right, my dear friend. If I can find someone who can understand what I want out of the marriage, I certainly couldn't ask for more. An honest relationship," she whispered intently. "It's all I want."

Her words burned him more intensely than any inferno in the world. Because she never saw him as a prospect. He would make her see him.

"Whatever fucking happened to fighting for your liberties? To not run in the face of adversity?" he snapped, dropping her hand from between his. "You said it to me, did you not?"

"I have done my part. I've deferred it fairly," she stated, slightly staggered at his tone. "This is a resolution."

"You've given up."

"I have not."

"They've turned you against me," he muttered.

"Oh, spare me the theatrics. Am I to remain a maiden all my life?" she asked, laughing.

He reached out to clasp her chin, but he made sure to be gentle how much ever he raged on the inside. Her smile fell to confusion, her gaze flickering to his fingers and then his eyes.

"You said we'd travel the world together. That we'd ride together on Vhagar, feast all we liked, row boats, build tents, see the world's wonders—am I to consign those ideals to nought? Have you filled my head with meaningless fiction?"

She breathed out a short gasp of incredulity before relieving his grip on her in sharp movement. She stood up to slant by a pillar, pushing her head into her hand. She was a picture of perfection toiled in a peculiar sort of misery. Beauty became her.

"We were children," she mumbled. "Priorities shift over time. I am a princess, a Targaryen no less, sans a dragon. I am without worth if not for my mother, and so are my ambitions."

He scoffed. "Maybe to you. I have counted on every letter, every fucking word, you've penned to me like a madman. You've grown a hunger in my heart and now you mean to crush it with your unfeeling hands."

"I don't understand what you want from me," she spoke, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"I want you!" he growled, pushing to his feet.

She turned to stone before him. Perhaps she had not heard him properly. Aemond took a calm breath inward. No turning back from this anymore.

"Wed me, Aemma," he said, surer of himself. It felt right to say those words aloud, in that exact order. He had never imagined saying it to any other lady except her.

Aemma eventually thawed and lifted her head to stare at him. As if she was waiting for something. He couldn't get a read on her. Her immense, dark eyes softened and smouldered and ravaged his mind.

"Wed me and make me yours," he persuaded softly. "I will protect your honour, our dreams, and our future together better than any foul-mouthed, fat swine lordling this realm has to offer. May the Gods help anyone who stands in my way."

"Aemond," she whispered with an edge of hysteria in her voice.

"Aemma," he murmured.

He sauntered closer to her, leisurely dragging his knuckles down her forearm all the way to her wrist. She had the softest of skin, unblemished, kissed by daylight. He elicited a shiver from her, an abrupt action pressing her closer to his chest.

"I've waited a lifetime for this. For us," he confessed. "I have known no other hope that was not you. Now that I have you, my hope is not misplaced."

The little vestige of control he had on his self-restraint began to splinter and then it would be damaging for him to be around her. It was only right to give her some leeway to consider his transparent proposal.

Aemond deliberately stepped away, tucking his hands together behind his back. "But I am a man of virtue. I will never push you to do something you disfavour."

Her lips parted as air shuddered back into her, a hand supporting herself over the stone pillar. She kneaded at her forehead, soothing away a headache.

"I... need to think."

He beamed brightly. "Yes, good. 'Tis a lot to fathom. A night's rest should do nicely. On the morrow, I shall revisit you, and we shall break our fast together."

Her brows furrowed when she understood. "You mean to court me."

"Apparently so."

"You will cause indecent speculation," she warned.

He pursed his lips, unable to contain his amusement. "Hmm. Why can't a prince and his dear niece dine together after all these years apart?"

Aemma uneasily bit her lip.

"We disregard their baseless whispers as we always have."

The hearsay of Prince Aemond and Princess Aemma breaking bread together and alone swept like wildfire around the Red Keep. It was said that among those the news had stunned, it was Prince Jacaerys who had taken this as a slight. Meanwhile, the Princess of Dragonstone and her consort, Prince Daemon, weren't certain of the positive response on this matter. One night, a thoughtful conversation in High Valyrian was heard from their shared chambers.

"Laenor had always sworn that Aemma was for Aemond," she pondered out loud to Daemon. "They've been following each other around since they could walk. We all saw this coming."

"She has hardly met with any other men," he said. "Offer her other options. Taste the local flavours. I hear Lord Stark has been quite pleased. He wrote to her personally, didn't he?"

"Aemond is what she wants," she sighed.

"She takes after her mother," the prince teased. "Seeking out her uncle."

"Daemon."

"Then make her see that the boy is not what he seems. Our girl has purposes that do not conform to his own. She intends to be like me," he chuckled, "and he is loyal to his sword."

"I will not twist my daughter's mind into submission," she grumbled.

"Gently dissuade."

The princess laughed quietly, stroking her pregnant belly. "Or it would do good for us to form an alliance with Alicent and the king. Protect our lineage from within. And with it, strengthen my claim to the throne."

Daemon hummed, mulling it in his mind. "He is only the second son after all. It is that drunken cunt who will be a threat."

"Precisely. I intend to hit two birds with one stone."

you can continue to read part iii here! and here's my masterlist!

hope you like the way this is progressing! do let me know what you'd like to see ~*

90 notes · View notes