#i am always over encumbered

[babymorte]

i may or may not have made the biggest offer mistake of my life

[paddlescuddlesbubblesgurgles]

Why?

I’ve done it. It’s over. 

I let out a deep breath that turns into a burp. My belly lets out a gurgle. 

Another gorging come and gone. A party sized fast food order completely inside my fat, burgeoning, hefty gut. 

All that remains outside are wrappers, a few empty bags, and an empty cup. 

I lean back in my chair. It creaks slightly. I’m so full I can barely keep my eyes open, my body devoting all my energy to digesting my oversized meal. I let out a long, breathy sigh. 

The buttons on my shirt are straining and it has ridden up. It’s my favorite shirt. Soon I’ll grow out of it. It bothers me. But I cannot stop giving my stomach what it needs. 

I let my shirt just roll up the rest of the way. My full, satiated belly softly plops out in my lap. There isn’t really any space for anything else. My stomach easily covers about half of my gigantic thighs. I rub my huge, sensitive, engorged gut. Involuntary moans escape me. My smooth skin is soft and warm, my squishy fat presses in with my hands as I firmly push and precede over the swollen, fleshy orb in my lap. 

I’m so tuckered out. My whole evening. My valuable and limited free time…gone. Just like the 1000s of calories of food, my needy, heavy, inflated gut has consumed that entirely too. I have no choice now but to sleep off this multi person gathering sized meal. I can’t remain conscious much longer. 

I must get up. It’s so difficult. My belly weighs me down. It all sloshes inside me as I stand. I’m so fatigued, and downright sluggish from the new contents of my stomach. My breathing is labored and short. I’m simply out of breath. 

I waddle out of my dining room. My heavy steps are slow, I can’t manage anything fast. I feel dazed, so encumbered, so overladen with delicious food. My belly doesn’t jiggle as much in this state. It’s so solidly filled. 

I stop to inspect the damage I’ve dealt in the bathroom mirror. My shirt is draped over my torso like a tent now. 4Xs don’t fit like they used to. I slide it off. My belly is taunt up top. My stretch marks more pronounced. Soft, squishy flab hangs off of me and sags low. My deep overhang shocks me as usual when I turn to the side. I am so wide, and even wider like this. I scoop my prize up in my arms, lifting it. This pushes out another burp. It’s a relief taking the pressure off my back for a moment, achey from lugging this enormous thing around all the time. 

Thoughts dance through my mind as I hold up my bloated stomach. 

Why do I do this? I eat so much food constantly. Entire evenings, hours on end devoted to consuming it all and digesting it and cradling this fat, overfed gut. 

I drop my heavy belly on the counter. A loud, meaty plop echoes off the walls. It has been sagging slightly into the sink. I use both hands to manhandle my squishy, overstuffed pride. Pure ecstasy. My bellybutton gaped more fully open. My thick, blubbery side rolls squished against the edge of the sink. My gut has become a solid, fleshy sack of pleasure. A bulging, globular trophy of unrestrained gluttony and hedonist overindulgence. It’s simply covered in decadent fat. My whole body is overladen with lard. 

Why? Because my belly always gets what it wants. It’s pampered. Spoiled. It needs to be filled until it no longer can be. I must oblige. I have no choice. It is a command. I must obey. 

Why? Because it feels so fucking good. 

This is why.

[ceilidho]

fear of god

prompt: There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 2 masterlist

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How am I hearing you?

That should be the first question out of your mouth, but instead what comes out is a meek trembling of words. “E-excuse me?”

His smile doesn’t waver. “Asked if you could let me in, love. I’m a bit turned around.”

You pause for a moment to take stock of the situation. A programming that has served your species since the dawn of time quietly whispers something to you, its voice unintelligible but meaningful. The instinct to help kicks in with the man’s plea, but your own confusion stays its corresponding response. 

There’s a man outside the ship knocking on the window and you’ve never seen his face before. 

“Where did you—where did you even come from?” you ask. 

He waves a hand and it drifts slowly beside his helmet, encumbered by the lack of gravity. “Around. Lost contact with my crew and I’ve been trying to get some help ever since.”

His tone is too blasé for the situation. You’d expect fear or urgency, but he speaks as though reassuring you.

“Was there another ship nearby?” You don’t remember Graves mentioning any other ships in this sector of the solar system. With many funded by private corporations or individuals, the team might not be always privy to all ongoing missions, but the commander would have known if there was a ship within a lunar distance. 

“At some point,” he says, still smiling. Too friendly. 

It’s been months since you spoke to a man your age that you hadn’t seen drink their own piss via the ship’s recycled water filtration system. Not to shame anyone—you’re part of that statistic too—but you’ve realized in the past few weeks how far that knowledge has gone towards dampening any burgeoning attraction to anyone.  

But it occurs to you again—a thought burrowing into the recesses of your mind, like a phantom of itself, a loon call over a still lake—that you are hearing someone from outside the ship. Sound traveling through nothing; the very absence of sound. 

The thought is too big for your head, but it fits itself in anyway. It stretches uncomfortably because material reality usually wins in the end. What you can see and hear, you can trust. You know the world through what appears in front of you; that's always how it's been.

This time though, there's something you can't quite fit in your head.

“Wait, let me…let me get some help,” you tell him, taking a step away from the window. Your stomach clenches when he frowns, brows pulled together in concern.

“You sure, love? I can walk you through opening the doors if you need help. Same as my ship, I bet.” He chuckles nervously. “Been out here awhile now; not sure how much oxygen I’ve got left in the tank, if I’m honest.”

That almost gets you, but you remember protocol. For all your shortcomings, you’ve never not followed protocol. Opening the airlock and letting anyone in or out is a process strictly monitored by the commander, and you have no authority to grant anyone access without express permission. You know the access codes, of course, for security and safety reasons, but despite the sudden urgency in his voice, you haven’t been authorized to let him in. 

And then there’s the matter of—

Again, though his frame fills up most of the porthole, when you look out into the depths of space around him, you see nothing out there. You wonder if perhaps Graves purposefully omitted any mention of receiving a distress call from a ship with a lost crew member. 

It feels less than likely. 

“I’ll be back.” You take another step back, heart fluttering in your chest. “Just…wait. I’ll—”

The rest of your sentence never comes, tucked beneath your tongue. Your feet are already taking you away.

The metal floor clangs under your feet as you stumble away and down the hall towards the cargo hold. You can hear the man yell after you, his voice growing more and more distant the farther you run, until its echo lingers only in your head. 

Down the stairs and through the main corridor, you pass the medbay on your way to the cargo hold, the room at the far end of the spacecraft accessible only by descending below the orlop deck. You come galloping down the stairs so fast that you nearly trip over the last one. 

The doors to the hold slide open at your approach. Though the cargo hold on the ship isn’t as gargantuan as some you’ve seen before, it’s still big enough for your footsteps to echo across the room when you make your way inside. Crates holding the ship’s sampling gear and equipment are tied down to the floor by fiber-reinforced polymer straps and covered by heavy-duty nets. The smell of fuel and ozone is pungent, thick in the air. 

The temperature in the hold is a degree or two hotter than the rest of the ship, putting you instantly on edge. Irritable; uncomfortable. Heat clings to the grooves of your skin, sinking past the epidermis. You tug your collar out with a finger. 

“Hello?” you call out into the hold, voice reverberating off the walls.

No one responds. Perhaps Farah did come for her brother, as she mentioned earlier. It wouldn’t do for you to linger in the empty hold then, the man outside the ship still a pressing concern. 

The ceiling is banded by metal beams, ferrous pipes running up the walls to the rafters, gurgling and whistling as water passes through. You can see the shoddy workmanship in the exposed scaffolding, areas that should’ve long ago been covered up or hidden away behind walls. A pipe in a far corner overhead drips onto the concrete below. 

“Looking for someone?” a voice asks from directly behind you, and your heart jumps into your throat at the sudden sound. 

When you whirl around, Hadir stands in the middle of the cargo hold, shoulders slouched and hands stuffed in his pockets. He lifts an eyebrow at the look on your face. Though he shares some features in common with his sister, his build is entirely different; stockier, slightly softer. Round jaw to her sharp. The same widow’s peak though, and the same nose. 

“Yeah, hi—morning, by the way.” You gesture with your thumb towards the door. “I, just…this is going to sound wild, but I think I just…I think someone’s outside the ship.”

The easy look falls off his face in favor of a more serious expression. 

“Outside the ship?” he repeats in disbelief. 

“Yes, I know, but I swear. Can you just—” Frustration makes you curt. Partial embarrassment too because you know how it sounds. 

There shouldn’t be anyone outside the ship because you’re in the middle of nowhere with no other spaceships around for hundreds of thousands of miles. There shouldn’t be anything other than carbonaceous and silicate asteroids drifting outside the ship. Rubble as small as grains of sand.  

He frowns. “Did someone get locked out of the ship? Why didn’t you go get Graves?”

“It’s not—” Again, you can’t seem to find the words, the right one getting lost in translation. “It’s not someone from the crew.”

Something shifts across his face, a micro-expression that makes your throat tighten involuntarily, but he nods and follows you out of the hold. 

Nerves plague you on the walk back to the porthole. Since you lead the way, you can’t look back and gauge Hadir’s expression, but you can feel his eyes heavy on your back. Skepticism still thick in the air, so rich you can almost taste it. You can hardly blame him. Were it anyone else, you’d think them delusional too. 

The walk back feels twice as long somehow. At the top of the staircase, you breathe quietly out of your mouth in order to catch your breath without letting on how winded you are. Hadir’s footsteps echo yours, a beat off the entire walk back to the corridor you left just a few minutes ago. 

When the porthole finally comes into view, you freeze, causing him to nearly walk right into you. Any apology for the sudden halt doesn't get off the back of your tongue.

A dark, empty nothingness perforated by light in the far off reaches of space. Your throat goes dry at the sight. 

“There was someone outside,” you say. It comes out whispery thin. 

You almost don’t need him to walk up to the glass and look out, knowing already what he’ll see. It’s immediately evident, the porthole free of anyone or anything obscuring the hazy band of stars off in the distance.

There’s no way to see Hadir’s expression as anything other than concerned. He peers out of the porthole again, twisting his head to the right and left in order to see as far as the view extends. 

“I, uh…I don’t see anything out there,” he finally admits, a tad awkwardly. He has a hard time meeting your eyes. 

“Oh,” you reply, nonplussed.  

You step up to the window alongside him. Stars leak out of the blackness of space; eternal night. It’s a long way from anywhere out here. 

“He might’ve gone to another window.”

For a beat, Hadir doesn’t respond. You’re both thinking the same thing. It’s unlikely that if anyone were out stranded in the middle of space that they’d float aimlessly around their only means of salvation rather than just wait for help. 

“Maybe you just saw your own reflection,” Hadir suggests. "It happens. Freaks me out too sometimes."

The tone of voice he uses irks you; it’s vaguely placating, like he’s trying to reassure you as well as himself.

There’s nothing wrong with you though. You saw what you saw and heard what you heard. There was a man outside the porthole hovering in space and he spoke to you. 

“Yeah, maybe,” you say instead. 

You stare at the faint, runny outline of your own face in the window. No matter how hard you stare, you can’t imagine her suddenly opening her mouth and talking to you. 

When the two of you finally part ways, you head for the medbay on autopilot. The mug that was in your hand is long gone—probably accidentally put down when you went looking for Hadir in the cargo hold—and you regret not stopping by the galley for a refill. 

It bothers you that Hadir went the other way, towards the cockpit instead of back to the cargo hold. You wonder whether someone called him up before you found him. 

The medical unit on this ship is smaller than what you’re used to for interplanetary travel. They’ve supplied you with the equipment necessary for simple surgeries and nothing more; anything more complex is left to chance and divine intervention. The operating table in the center of the room comes equipped with a scanner capable of medical imaging and diagnosing. 

It’s an incredibly insular room on top of that, having been designed without windows. Not atypical for a medical bay. Though bigger than your personal quarters, you often find yourself on edge when spending any prolonged amount of time in your work station. 

For all of its flaws, the ship is equipped with a rudimentary form of artificial intelligence. It mainly assists with performing diagnostics, assisting with determining the best trajectory for the spacecraft, and enabling autonomous navigation, the latter function being temporarily suspended after the impact from the day before, but it has some use. You’re especially lucky that every computer on board gives you access to the AI, meaning that you can stay cooped up in the medical unit rather than venturing back to the cockpit where your inquiry might wind up drawing more attention to you than you’d like. 

You lean forward in your chair, a leg tucked into your chest as you flip a switch on the dashboard on the wall behind the computer and then a button on the keyword, the familiar blip letting you know to speak. 

“Ship, please scan the perimeter for any nearby foreign objects.”

Chewing your nails and staring at the computer, you watch it light up, words and symbols flashing across the screen, buttons flicking on and off on the dashboard behind it. The ship rumbles around you as it scans the surrounding vacuum of space for anything with mass. The foot still touching the ground taps, a restless twitch running through your leg. 

The blip of completion makes you jolt in your chair. 

No anomalous objects detected around ship's exterior

You press the button again. “That’s—that’s not possible, Ship. I saw someone out the window.”

When you let go of the button again, the computer goes quiet, running through another round of calculations, performing the same diagnostic again. Another distended moment of anticipation. You hold your breath until the computer beeps, the perimeter inspection complete. 

Scan complete

No anomalous objects detected around ship's exterior

The secondary confirmation makes your stomach sink. 

It’s difficult to articulate the feeling in your chest. Halfway between disbelief and unease. Perhaps a simple error in judgment, but you can’t simply look past the voice you heard from the astronaut outside the porthole. In your life, you’ve made plenty of mistakes and bad calls; you’ve run the gamut of mistakes, everything from going back to old flings to nearly misdiagnosing a patient. 

You have never seen things that weren’t there. 

Still, the reading on the screen doesn’t waver. You stare at it until your watering eyes force you to blink. 

You chew the nail of your middle finger until it tears. Sweat slicks the small of your back and the soft skin under your arms. 

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Okay.”

[multifandomme]

Red-Eye

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Female Reader

Summary: For the first time in a while, you are partnered with your wife. What's the worst that could happen?

Genre: Smut, (strap ons, hair-pulling, marking, dry humping, multiple orgasms, praise kink, getting railed on the jet), not suitable for minors.

Word Count: 1.4k.

This piece is for day 8 of kinktober under the 'multiple orgasms' prompt.

More works from me here. || Masterlist here. || Kinktober 2024 Masterlist here.

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It was a rare occurrence for Emily to permit you the privilege of being her partner in the professional sense, often opting to pair you with another agent to avoid assumption. She was tightly wound where work was concerned, always anxious and hyper vigilant of prying eyes. Undeniably, she had a right to be worried, encumbered with the fact that she knew you intricately, knew that when those watchful eyes tore themselves away, you could not keep your hands to yourself. 

The setting never mattered, utterly enraptured by her ability to command, how she appeared in her natural habitat, her comfort zone, how it contradicted with the way she held herself at home with you. The jet remained the only place free of your sexual escapades, surrounded always by the entirety of the team or at least someone to thwart your advances. You had clear-cut plans to fix that. 

The continual vibration of the engine kept you awake, blackness engulfing the windows as you peered out to decipher what lay below, though you couldn’t quite make anything out of the gloom. Emily flicked through case files, pictures, intent on working up somewhat of a profile before you landed, unable to pull her mind from her craft as usual. The depth of her contemplation saw her lip held between her teeth, her ceaseless concentration hindered the moment she had noticed your unswerving glare upon her. 

“What?” She drawled, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You’re planning something, aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, partner,” you rebutted, defensively, betrayed by the growing smirk that broke out from your lips. “It’s just different, isn’t it?” You continued, observing as she set aside the case flies, submitting to blind curiosity. “We never work cases alone anymore, I guess I just miss it.”

A softened smile claimed her features, a subtle nod of her head signalling her understanding. You knew that Emily missed it too, knew that if policies and politics were not constantly at play then perhaps this would be permitted more often. 

“You know why that is,” she remarked, her brow quirking as she shuffled out from her seat and settled herself comfortably in your lap. “Besides, you can never behave yourself. I know you a little too well.”

An inquisitive hum reverberated, your thumbs brushing over her hips as you basked in the sight of her beneath the low lighting. 

“Worked up a profile on me, Agent Prentiss?” You questioned, facetiously as you gradually honed in, closing the distance between you, noses brushing against each other with discernible tenderness. “Do tell.”

Even in the dimness of the cabin, her dark eyes seemed to dazzle in contrast, destined to drown in her with no means of escape. Her hands clasped around the nape of your neck, her fingers securely intertwined as your body melted into hers, warmth radiating, persisting.

“Maybe,” she shrugged, coolly, her teeth piercing the murk with a bright, beguiling smile. “And you know I’m never wrong about a profile.”

Softly, you displaced the occluding strands of brunette, the pale skin of her neck revealed to you, a faint gasp falling from her.

“Tell me, Agent Prentiss,” you coaxed, daring to drag your lips along the side of her neck, your breath hot against her smooth skin. “What am I thinking about right now?”

Emily hummed in amusement, the rumblings of excitement finding home inside of her stomach as she craned her neck to allow further exploration of her, willing you into complete tantalisation. 

“Nothing good,” she husked, her voice low, exhilarating. “It never is.”

“You win,” you concluded, your smirk etching itself into her pulse point as you suckled a bruise into the porcelain, a menacing thrust of your hips revealing the toy that until now, remained concealed from her. “The question is, would you like to receive your prize here or on your back?”

The feeling of your lips against her neck had momentarily bewitched her, reality crashing down the moment she acknowledged something prodding into the junction of her thighs from below.

“You’re unbelievable,” she opined, rendered powerless against the tactics you had engaged and almost annoyed by her susceptibility. 

“And if my profile is correct, Agent Prentiss,” you began, her breath hitching abruptly from the re-emergence of your teasing ministrations, your tongue flecking across the scarlet mark you had branded her with earlier. “I bet you’re already wet.”

The brunette ducked in avoidance of your tongue, her palms enclosing around your cheeks, eyes trained on you with an expression you could not yet ascertain. But, you were certain that she would enlighten you. 

“Am I?” She countered, her lips tracing yours so gently that she nearly willed you into surrender, her power visibly restoring itself for a moment. “I guess you’ll have to find out for yourself, hm?”

The tension brimmed until it overflowed in abundance, Emily launching herself with unrivalled desire, her mouth aimless as she kissed you messily. There were no thoughts to be had, driven by carnal magnetism, your hands fusing to her hips to draw her nearer. Instinct began to overtake her as she gyrated against the shrouded bulge, expertly so, intent on extracting as much friction as she could. And, she succeeded as anticipated. 

Expletives sprung from her mouth, unbridled filth, so engrossed by the way her clit ground perfectly against the toy that reality slipped from her grasp. Desperation was an understatement, her fist thudding forcefully against your chest, each rigid blow punctuated by a lengthened moan, your hand lifting to encircle her throat.

“Just like that, baby,” you encouraged, your lips crushing into hers for a brief moment before a low groan tore itself from her. “Cum for me, that’s it.”

“Fuck, baby.”

Emily trembled with vigour, a series of whimpers escaping her as she regained clarity, her breathing staggered as she relaxed into you, coils unwinding. She met your stare with a knowing expression, cheeks tinged pink. 

“I can’t believe we just did that,” she admitted, shaking her head lightly as she threw a light slap to your arm. “I blame you.”

“Fine with me,” you chuckled, pulling her flush against you once more, your mouth dangerously close to her ear. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

In a swift motion, you yanked her into a standing position, her mouth agape in disbelief having barely been able to gather her composure. Adept fingers hooked themselves below the waistband of her trousers and dragged them down without a flicker of reticence, Emily left to fluster before you, perplexed. 

“What are you-“

“You can give me one more, can’t you, baby?” You asked, sweetly, a cunning simper fused to your lips as you freed the strap on from its constriction. “It won’t fuck itself now, will it?”

Emily sank her teeth into her lips once more, a sharp exhale emanating once her stomach had flattened against the table, a biting pang of cold sparking inside of her. With her trousers bunched around her thighs, you vaulted into position, a gentle hand of reassurance caressing the length of her spine before you aligned the toy with her pussy. 

“Oh, fuck,” she cursed, the feeling of the tip sliding into her only sending her into a spiralling state, pleasure ricocheting. “Yes, baby.”

“That’s my good girl,” you cooed, shoving in to the hilt of her with ease, her pussy glistening from the arousal that had gathered from earlier. 

Patience was futile, the lust that filled the air so suffocating that it appeared to possess you, forging a reckless assault as you pounded into her from behind. Her body rocked with fervour, unable to arrive at a single coherent word, a few stuttering syllables pouring out from her. Your hand lurched forward, sights firmly set on grasping a sizeable fistful of hair as you forced her to take you deeper, harder, her neck elongated from the strength you had exhibited. 

“So good for me, baby,” you soothed, wholeheartedly enamoured by her submission, her little sounds furthering the delight. “Taking my cock so well, hm?”

“Ye-s, yes,” she rasped, her lungs deflating with every forceful slam of your hips. “You’re gonna make me cum,” she cautioned, breathlessly. “Gonna-“

The sound that released itself seemed to echo long after its initial existence, the air noticeably warmer, sizzling with body heat, with passion. Softly, you drew her into you and sank down into the cosy chair with her nestled firmly into you. Her soft breaths stymied the silence, a mindless smile cloaking her lips. 

“Thank you,” she spoke, her voice muffled lightly against you. 

“For what?” You asked, peering to discern the expression that donned her face and fearful to find a strange twinkle of validation, of victory.

“For proving my point,” she reasoned, a finger directed at your face in jest. “We are never working a case together, ever again.”

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@ionlylikemarvelforthewomen ♡ @agenderrat ♡ @i-write-sometimes-maybe ♡ @sugaryspiciness ♡ @chiefemilyprentiss

[fanaticsnail]

Heartbeats

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 3,600+

Summary: You were friends first, only ever friends; until a night of drinking led to something more. After that one night, you decided to not speak on it and remain only as close friends; an outcome you both could respect as captain and crewmate. A small fluttered heartbeat complicates such an arrangement. 

Warnings: suggestive content but sfw, law x afab!reader, kisses, drinking, assumed unrequited love, drunkenness, pregnancy mentioned, unexpected pregnancy, feelings, emotions, angst, swearing, fluff. 

Notes: This was a little gift for mother’s day. I thought it might be fun to explore the concept of Law telling his friend they’re pregnant, but conflicted because he was the one to make them this way. Please read the warnings.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @feral-artistry @mfreedomstuff @writingmysanity @carrotsunshine @gingernut1314 @daydreamer-in-training @indydonuts @i-am-vita @since-im-already-here

Penguin’s birthday was an event aboard the Polar Tang that was anticipated greatly by the crew. Streamers, balloons, cake and music were flowing as heavy as the waves crashing against the hull. Not a care in the world, you all showered the dark-haired, hat-wearing man with affection and praise for his life lapping one more loop around the sun. 

And then Shachi decided to bring out the kirschwasser. The double-distilled, cherry flavored liquor that nightmares were truly made of for Captain Trafalgar D Water-Law. It was not because of the scent, nor the taste, but it was the fact that it rendered him the most defenseless and vulnerable to spilling his emotions that he was sure he had repressed. 

When Law drank kirschwasser, he remembered his mother, his father, and his sister: memories he thought he had long since forgotten came oozing up his throat, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and a subtle glisten in his eyes. He scrunched his eyes tightly shut, gripping the glass firmly in his hand, and grinding his teeth in a tight clamp. 

When you took another shot of kirschwasser with Ikkaku, you placed down the glass with a smile on your face and a laugh on your tongue. Looking over towards your captain, you cocked your head to the side as you studied his body language. Drawing your eyes over his tense body, you excuse yourself from the rest of the crew to assess the damage he was attempting to suppress. 

Approaching him, you gently place your hand on his forearm and soften your tone to a low and soothing tone. It was one simple question, one soft and pointed ask, that had him softly fold his hand within yours and thump his forehead on your shoulder. 

“Law, are you okay?” was the only question that fell from your lips that had him curl himself against you in a soft embrace. His cup hung limply behind your back as he locked his wrists after releasing your hand. He buried himself further into your embrace, sighing deeply into your neck as you widened your eyes and drew your hands around his neck.

As friends, you and Law had shared the odd embrace from time to time in your weekly catch-ups. Bepo was usually the one that the crew sought out for more warm hugs; that mink-bear was the best for encumbering holds. This felt more intimate than any moment you had ever shared, the smooth kirschwasser releasing you of your inhibitions and giving into sharing this soft moment.

As the night dwelled on, Law never left your side. His hands were always on some part of you, ensuring you did not get too far from his reach to pull you in closer as the night went on. Once the party had reached its peak and began to dwindle into the evening, Law pulled you into the hallway adjacent to the door and pinned you to the wall. 

Lips sought out your flesh, whispers of promises and confessed desires being branded into your neck, cheeks, jaw, shoulders and chest with feverish kisses. “I need you,” he whispered, “I want you,” his hands caressed your hips and began to find the zipper of your boiler suit. 

“We said we wouldn’t,” you smiled, your own resolve being chipped away at the aid of the kirschwasser and Law’s lips trailing against your skin, “We’re friends, Captain.” He groaned against your skin, enjoying the way your hands traveled to his hair and massaged the nape of his neck. 

“Friends,” he mocked his confirmation with a soft growl in his tone, “But I need more.” He nipped and bit at your neck, prompting a small whimper to flee from your lips as you elevated your head to give him more access. You closed your eyes, biting your lip as Law’s body continued to ravish yours. You groaned in frustration at your prior agreement, shaking your head as you pulled his lips and teeth away from you. 

“Not in the hallway,” you warned him, having a moment of clarity. Your eyes darted between his, glancing down at his lips and back up. Law’s eyes darkened as he elevated his hand with his thumb, index and middle finger raised.

“Room,” he whispered, leaning in closer to you, and hovering his lips over yours. As he twisted his wrist, he murmured before his breath tickled at your parted mouth, “Shambles.”

A night of passion, littering each other with marks of claim over one another, had you both sharing the captain’s quarters for the night wrapped in each other’s arms. Blankets over your waists, gazing up at each other before you fell asleep, you felt a pitter in your heart as his amber eyes stared almost lovingly down at you. This intimate moment had you captivated, feeling his emotions and heart tangibly beat with yours.

In the morning, your heads panged with the residue of the cherry liquor. Groans of regret at drinking the quantity of kirschwasser along with other mixed drinks had the night before a distant, blissful, and foggy memory. Looking down at your bare flesh and over to your captain’s, you snapped up in shock. He cradled his head with a soft sigh, only now realizing that you were in the bed beside him as he twitched back in his own shock. Both of your eyes widened, looking between your bodies and snapping your eyes up to meet with one another’s surprised eyes. 

Rambunctious, lazy laughter fell easily from your lips, both clapping each other’s hands against each other’s shoulders and arms in friendly touches. You tugged the bedsheets away from your body and began collecting your uniform from the floor, shaking your head with a smile spread up to your cheeks.

“I’ll go get started on clean up from Penguin’s party, captain,” you suggested, pinching your brow and cradling your swirling and soupy mind, “Might stop off in your office and grab some ibuprofen and electrolytes if you’ll let me rustle through your desk?” He growled and pinched his own brow, his eyes tightly clenched shut and feeling the dizzy fog eclipse his senses. 

“Rustle away,” he whispered your name in a soft voice. As you hoisted your uniform over your hips, slotting your arms into the sleeves, he reached out for you with his hand, asking the question you had both avoided since opening your eyes, “Did you-...?” he squinted his tired eyes up at you, “Should we-...?” he choked out, shifting his blankets away from his lap and rising to his feet, “Do we need to talk about this?” 

You shook your head, reaching down and zipping up your boiler suit before rubbing your face. Smoothing your skin beneath your palms and nursing your forehead, you blow out an exasperated breath and turn back to him. 

“Let’s just not mention it, okay?” you smiled at him with a soft, tight-lipped smile, “Was a moment of weakness on both our parts.” Law nodded, trailing his eyes over you to assess your posture and stance as you added, “We’re friends, Law. I don’t think revisiting last night would be in either of our best interests.” 

Law nodded his head in response, waiting until you left his room with a soft 'click' for him to sink back onto his bed and experience the full brunt of the wind being shot out of his sails. He cradled his forehead in his hands, the inked digits raking through his hair as he dwelled on your words. ‘We’re friends, Law,’ shattered his heart into shards, his hope that you might reciprocate his affections for you being ruined with those three simple words. 

As days turned into weeks, you and Law continued on as you had always been: captain and crewmen, leader and subordinate, friend and friend. You would catch up afterhours, enjoy reading with one another and discussing ailments and woes with rapport with the crew. After Penguin’s birthday party, comradery was at an all-time high, and everybody noticed as much. 

Over the next few days, Trafalgar Law took the opportunity to do as he always does as the current wielder of the ‘Ope-Ope no mi’. He takes the small luxury of concentrating on the heartbeats of his crewmen to wordlessly check in with any irregularities with their bodies and breathing, enjoying knowing that his crew is all safe and accounted for. The crew was aware he did this, and it was something each of you appreciated greatly to avoid a formal physical examination every few weeks. As he floated his attention over to you, focussing on your body as you spoke with Bepo about approaching land, his breath was caught in his lungs.

Heartbeats.

Plural. 

He rose to his feet, his eyes wide and in shock as his lips fell open. Fear overcame him, looking down to your belly and back up to your chest. Teeth chattering, he wordlessly excused himself to the hallway and began counting with his fingers while clawing at his hair. 

“Penguins birthday,” he whispered to himself, looking down at his fingers, “Three days to travel internally up to-...” he shook his head, his hands beginning to shake, “...It’s been seven weeks since-...” he joined his other hand in his hair, raking his fingers over his raven locks. 

“...Fuck.”

After speaking with Bepo, you turn to walk towards the mess hall and begin getting yourself something to eat for lunch. You had been abnormally famished, feeling drawn to spices and sweets over salt and savories lately. Eyeing off a dark chocolate ganache tart with chili-flakes, your mouth began salivating at the thought. As you reached for it, you felt a hand on your shoulder and a whisper in your ear.

“My office,” Law ordered quietly, “Now.” You snapped your head over to him before looking back to the tart longingly. He groaned, relenting with a roll of his eyes, “Bring the tart.” You beam him a wolfy grin full of teeth and joy, a smile Law has begun to yearn for each time you joined him in his office as friends. You claim the tart in your hands and, with a pep in your step, you trot along behind him to his office. 

For the short walk from the mess hall to his office, he was formulating a long speech to not only ask you if you know, but alert you if you don’t; to inform you carefully of your pregnancy, while not seeming to be overager at the prospect of you both rearing a child. He came to terms with it from the moment he sensed that small flutter. He wanted this child, wanted to parent them with you, and wanted to show it all of the love his parents, sister, and Rosinante had shown to him. 

Looking up from nibbling and enjoying the chocolate tart, you notice the tension in Law’s shoulders and additional pressure in the thud in his boots. You furrow your brows in a deep frown, unsure of what was going through his mind. Both agreeing to leave the prior experience at the door seven or so weeks ago was a mutually beneficial decision you both made. The way you rationalized it, you can’t give in to the emotions and feelings you had for your captain if you forbade yourself from sharing them with him. 

The truth of it was this: you loved him. Plain, simple, and as true as the fact the sun rose every day to illuminate the world in its glory. You started as friends, shared a drunken night together that opened a door to your heart - a door that you slammed shut as soon as it was revealed. To fall in love at sea, especially loving your captain as a subordinate, was a luxury you had both barred one another from feeling. You were friends, and you were okay with that. 

Ushering you into his office, you sat in your regular chair beside his circular table. You licked at your lips, the crumbling shell of the tart leaving a soft crust of sweetness on your mouth. Law had a whole speech finally planned out: his lips curling to attempt to relay them.

“I am so desperately in love with you. You are my closest friend, my best friend, someone I could spend the rest of my life with. I know you don’t feel the same, but considering my child is growing in your belly, I would hope that you could warm to seeing me in such a way. I want them, I want you. I love you, please learn to love me too: if not as a partner, then as a co-parent to our child.’

But instead of pouring his heart out to you, he sat at his desk and stared unblinkingly at your stomach, uttering a simple phrase with a quiet whisper of your name.

“You’re pregnant.” 

Blinking slowly, you place the half-eaten tart on the circular table in front of you, the base crumbling onto the clean countertop. You return your hands to your lap with a soft shake in your fingers. Reaching up to your abdomen, you press down on the pit of your stomach with a soft pressure. 

The Heart-Pirates had all received extensive medical degrees in specialist areas: Law being the 'surgeon of death', Shachi being an expert in fishmen biology, Penguin being an anesthetist, Bepo being proficient in naturopathic remedies, Ikkaku being the best for combat quick fixes on the battlefield, and so on. Your speciality in nursing had you explore anatomy within the midwifery sub category, your fingers settling above your uterus and using your thumb, index and middle finger assess the size of your abdominal growth. 

You looked down to your fingers, feeling the lump beneath your digging hand feel as large as a lemon in your abdomen. Using your unoccupied hand, you draw it up to your breasts and give one a gentle squeeze to test the ache in their swell. You snap your eyes up to meet with your captains, his eyes never leaving yours. 

“I am,” you whisper in shock, with a quiver in your lips and your eyes pooling in fear at the unknown. You could not get a read on him, glancing between his eyes and clenching your chattering teeth tightly shut to halt their nervous twitching. Your heartbeat tremors, your eyes beginning to swim in glassy pools as you anticipated his wrath. 

Instead of wrath, Law calmly walked over to you and sat on the couch beside you. With an unsure and soft hand, he drew your body into him and cradled you against his chest. He wanted to feel you safely in his arms, his heart crying and pleading with him to confess those unspoken words to you more fervently. You circled your hands beneath his arms and buried your face in his chest, your body caged within the clutches of anxiety at the prospect of shepherding life. Law held you like this, stroking your back with his tattooed fingers and holding you firmly against himself. 

“I’m not mad,” Law whispered, soothing your hair in his hand. Your breath hitched, your heart jumping into your throat and forming a solid lump. 

“You’re not mad?” you whisper your question against his chest, looking up into his amber eyes with shock, “But what if I am?” The small twitch in his wide eyes looked down at you in shock.

“Are you?” Law’s eyes widened with his question fleeing his lips as soon as you offered yours. His teeth clenched shut, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed in anticipation. You looked away, sifting through your eyes for regrets of the night you shared seven weeks prior. 

“I don’t think I am, no,” you admit with a soft nod of your head. You untangle yourself from his arms, sitting upright and lacing your hands in front of you with a frown on your features. 

“Talk to me,” Law ordered you softly, “Tell me what’s going on in there.” He whispered your name, humming over the syllables in his soft cadence saved for quiet moments together. You inhale deeply, exhaling with your eyes scrunched shut before reopening them again.

“I suppose I need to leave, captain,” you utter with soft sorrow in your tone, thinking about all the options you’ve explore internally and processing them orally, “Give up my life at sea, make a home for myself in some coastal town, offer my services as a medical practitioner to bring in regular clients, raise the child of a pirate alone-.” 

“-No.” 

Law’s bark shocked you, prompting you to snap your eyes up to meet his frown. His left hand shot down to yours in your lap, his right hand placed on the pit of your stomach and holding over the small, barely noticeable elevation. You fluttered your eyes between his, the seriousness in his expression beginning to cause you to run away with your thoughts. 

“I will not let either of you out of my sight,” Law whispered softly, raising his right hand away from your hands and cupping your cheek, “I want you here,” he ushered you closer by your chin towards his lips, “I want you home with me.” 

“What are you saying?” you ask him, allowing him to lead your lips towards his. Your eyes dart down to them before floating up to look at him through half-hooded lashes. His soft smile twitched up at the corners. 

“You said we shouldn’t mention it,” he teased you, mostly to make light of the situation you found yourselves within, “But I’m going to say now what I would’ve said then.” He leaned down, pressing his lips against yours in a soft, tender and loving kiss. He felt the shock in your whimper, the soft whisper of a sob in your voice, and smiled further into the kiss the moment you wrapped your arms around his neck.

Rubbing soothing circles into your cheek, he caressed your stomach as he raked his hand over your abdomen towards your hip. You clutched at his raven locks, finally allowing yourself to smile into the kiss and lean into his touch. His tongue darted out to dampen your bottom lip, softly coaxing you to open yourself up to him further. Before taking the kiss any further than just a simple expression, he broke away and pressed his forehead against your own.

“While I will always be your friend first,” he whispered, drawing his hand down to your chin and rubbing at your bottom lip with his thumb softly, “I want so much more from you,” he smiled at you, releasing your lip from his thumb and pinching at your chin, “I need you to know that I love you, and I want to do this right.” 

Overwhelmed with emotions, you slowly nod your head in his grip. Your wordless confirmation is all he needed to capture your lips in his once more and travel his hands to the front of your boiler suit. You gasp into his mouth, his smile morphing up more into his cheeks as he whispers. 

“Easy now, I’m not being funny,” he murmurs into the kiss, “Just need to feel for myself, alright?” His fingers reach below your boiler suit, hovering over your stomach as his lips break away from yours. He slowly, tentatively, presses down onto your abdomen and seeks out the firming ball of flesh against your cervix. He gasps, his eyes beginning to brim with emotion as you beam up at him with pride. 

“I feel them,” he whispers, looking down at your stomach, pushing a little firmly against you, “Perfect size for seven weeks gestation.” He hovers his fingers over your abdomen and activates his devil fruit to measure their fluttering beat and concentrating with his brows furrowed. After a few minutes pass, he looks back up to you, “One-thirty beats.”

“That's good,” you smile, pressing your hand against his knuckles, “Strong already for such a little lemon.” He cracks his face into a wide grin, his teeth showing and his eyes crinkling at the corners. This image was one you never thought you would see over his features, the purity of his joy fully on his face. 

Questions left unthought of and unanswered regarding the health of your child were flung from your mind. Would there be complications with this child being a half devil-fruit user, would Law’s hereditary blood disease pass from him to them, would you still be able to resist haki while balancing your own body and a foreign within you? So many questions that fled your mind the moment Law’s joy sprung to his face. 

You could be lost within his amber eyes forever, both of you feeling excited about exploring this new life growing and developing within you. Sooner or later, you would have to inform the crew of not only your new relationship, but ushering a new “Trafalgar D” into the era of piracy. For now, you lingered a little longer on Law’s couch, the chili-chocolate tart discarded for something sweeter found against the lips of your lover. 

[thatscarletflycatcher]

Thinking again about the darknesses that lurk underneath the surface of Sense and Sensibility (I have talked before about how Edward despite being the eldest is subjected to what we can argue is emotional and financial abuse by his family for years, and how the Dashwood women are disinherited on a whim of their great uncle), and this time specifically about the Brandons.

We get so little about them, and what we do get about them is all bad:

This lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father... At seventeen she was lost to me for ever. She was married—married against her inclination to my brother. Her fortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered. And this, I fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian. My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her... I have never told you how this was brought on. We were within a few hours of eloping together for Scotland. The treachery, or the folly, of my cousin’s maid betrayed us. I was banished to the house of a relation far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement, till my father’s point was gained... My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly.

Mr Brandon Sr is shown to us as being a greedy man, a bad administrator of his estate, and a cruel father. His first son seems cut of the same cloth, and his pleasures were not what they ought to have been is one of the most, if not the most sinister line between all the Austen novels. But there's more about him!:

Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to dispose of it for some immediate relief.

The Brandons were married for two years; the colonel returns to England and starts looking for her 3 years later. Young Eliza was then a 3 year old toddler. We are obliquely told that Brandon cut all ties with his brother:

It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I have discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her education myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was therefore placed at school. I saw her there whenever I could, and after the death of my brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the possession of the family property,) she visited me at Delaford.

Eliza is now 17, so the eldest brother died when she was 14, which is 16 years after his marriage with the older Eliza. In that period of time, he managed to squander the whole of her fortune, and put the estate in debt again, as we are told earlier on by Mrs Jennings:

Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know the truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her. May be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a notion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his circumstances now, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be! May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain.”

We know the Bennets, with five daughters, and without a saving mindset, still manage to live very comfortably with 2000 a year, and if they had had any mind to save money, they could have provided all five of them with decent dowries/money enough to keep them out of poverty when their father died if they were single. It is clearly not that the money isn't enough, or that Delaford is an unproductive estate; in fact, it is described to us as almost paradisiac:

Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so ’tis never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh! ’tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone’s throw. To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother.

One interesting character, though forgotten because only mentioned in passing, is the Brandon sister. On one of the quotes above we get that she's in Avignon for her health, and we know her husband is wealthy (and probably abroad with her) because it is his estate that the planned picnic is for:

A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to form a great part of the morning’s amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure.

It is implied that Brandon and his BIL are in very good terms (and we know he's not afraid of cutting ties with bad relatives), and one can safely guess that at the very least he cares enough about his wife as to have her travel for her health. Another guess can be made about her getting married about 10 years before the events of the book. Whether she lived at home before that, or was at school or somewhere else, it isn't said.

But this way you can feel there's a parallel in a way, between the Brandons and the Tilneys: a greedy, cruel father, a son that follows on his steps, and a younger brother and sister managing the toxicity as best they can. Talking about this with @bad-at-names-and-faces, she brought up the idea that in that scheme, Cathy would be Eliza (if it wasn't her not being an orphan, or a rich heiress, and how that connects with Austen's line about Cathy not being born to be a heroine at the beginning of Northanger Abbey). Certainly part of it is the romantic gothicness of the Brandon backstory, united with NA's commentary on Gothic tropes, but to me it drove home with even greater force how such a situation would break a man; losing Cathy that way would have definitely broken Tilney, and if we had met him 14 years down the line, would he have appeared to the unacquainted much different than Brandon appeared to the Dashwood sisters?

[djuvlipen]

When my father found out I am gay, he beat me brutally, but today I help other LGBT+ Romani people

Patrik Kotlár's coming out was not easy, encumbered as it was by discrimination and his own family's incomprehension. Instead of giving up, though, he decided to overcome those obstacles and use his experience to aid others.

He established the nonprofit organization Romany Art Workshop 13 years ago, offering arts workshops, educational programs to develop community activism and leadership, and sports activities in Tanvald, Czech Republic. He also collaborates with the ARA ART organization.

In November 2023 the two organizations opened a community club in Jablonec nad Nisou and will open another in Frýdlant. These clubs will become places for members of the LGBT+ minority to meet each other and give each other support, as well as places for Romani people from excluded localities to gather.

Patrik (36) is inspiring to those who want to overcome such obstacles themselves and become the voices of change. “As a schoolchild I myself was not aware of my sexual orientation. My schoolmates told me what they thought, though,” he starts his story.

The insults he endured were unpleasant and he believed his friends were absolutely crazy. He did not begin to realize what his sexual orientation was until the age of 16, as a high school student studying social work.

He did not decide to come out until two years later, when he began his first partner relationship. He met his then-boyfriend on a train.

It never even occurred to him that anybody around him might take a negative view of his being gay. “While I had been raised my whole life in the Christian spirit of a man belonging to a woman, I never worried about that for myself. I accepted my orientation as a fact and I never thought that it was supposed to be wrong,” he admits.

He began visiting a gay bar in Liberec after fully realizing and admitting his orientation. He and his friends enjoyed going to the disco there.

One day, however, a group of Romani people who knew his father saw Patrik leaving that bar and immediately informed his father. “Dad was unable to stomach it and he beat me brutally for it,” Patrik says, adding that it is still difficult for him to talk about what happened.

Being outed to his father by others was the beginning of the end for him, and he found himself in total isolation, cut off from contact with most of his family and former friends. The suddenness of the situation also had a negative impact on his studies because he was forced to drop out just before graduation.

“I was afraid my father might even kill me unless I left Liberec,” he says. He was on the run from his father’s aggression for more than a year, hiding in various locations all over the country, but his father always managed to track him down.

“Whether I hid in Plzeň, Brno, Pardubice or the capital, my father always found out where I was at the time. It was exhausting, I lived in constant fear that he would find me and harm me. In his eyes I had caused the entire family unreal shame. However, nobody else in my family reproached me for my orientation and accepted me without any problems,” he said.

A childhood without a mother

When Patrik speaks of his family, he does not mean his mother, because he got no support from her as he was growing up. His mother abandoned the family when he was nine.

Patrik says his mother was an alcoholic and, after disagreements with his father, who wanted her to stop drinking, she always left the family for some time before eventually returning. She never gave up drinking.

One day she left for good and the family never saw her alive again. “My childhood was sad without my mother, to this day I say I basically never had a childhood,” Patrik recalls.

“Dad was older when we were born, and he raised us with a strict hand. As children we were never allowed to go anywhere besides school and music lessons, we had no personal space,” he reminisces.

Patrik never managed to re-establish contact with his mother. He heard from acquaintances more than once that she was homeless in Košice, Slovakia, and another time that she was in Bratislava, but when he and his sister went there, they were unable to find her.

One day an older sibling who had long since flown the nest let them know they needed to meet in Brno and immediately head for Slovakia because their mother was dying and wanted to see everybody one last time. They did not hesitate and set off after her at once.

Patrik’s father’s health was also not the best. Since they had last been in contact he had developed symptoms of Alzheimer’s and other diseases.

“He asked my sister to send a message to me to come home and that he wouldn’t do anything bad to me. I obeyed and our relationship actually improved. It took a while for him to reconcile himself to my orientation and get used to my boyfriend at the time, but he didn’t shout abuse at either of us or attempt to harm us in any way. Ultimately my sister, my then-boyfriend and I took care of my father in his most difficult moments. He died nine years ago today,” he says.

Aiding others is the priority

His personal experience of discrimination in his family led Patrik to establish the Romany Art Workshop nonprofit organization 13 years ago. The organization concentrates on aiding adults and children grappling with social exclusion.

The NGO prepares primary school pupils to apply to high school, offers recreational activities and summer camps, and holds arts workshops which will be transformed this year into an academy for talented youth. The academy will concentrate on the arts and music and its instruction will be comparable to that of an arts school at the primary level.

The main aim of the NGO, however, is to lead local Romani people to emancipate themselves with the aid of community activism and leadership training. Patrik is convinced it is important to show Romani youth the opportunities that exist to engage in public affairs and to create new activities in the places where they live.

Patrik says he believes individuals can contribute to the better integration of Roma into society through such engagement. He himself is an example.

Before establishing the nonprofit, Patrik led Bengale Manusha, a professional, three-generational ensemble, for two years. On the sidelines, his NGO is working with the LGBT+ minority in the Liberec Region, the members of which are turning to them more and more often.

The decision to fully dedicate the organization to the subject was made after Patrik learned of a tragic event – one such 17-year-old Romani youth took his own life because nobody understood him. “I realized that even though we have personal experience with this, we lack deeper expertise,” he admits.

For that reason, he decided to collaborate with the ARA ART organization, which has long concentrated on the LGBT+ subject. Thanks to their collaboration, they were able to open a community club in Jablonec nad Nisou in November, where their volunteers had previously been working.

People from neighboring towns like Tanvald or Železný Brod seek out their services. Soon a club will also open in Frýdlant.

As in Jablonec, that club will provide expert counselling to LGBT+ Romani people. A psychotherapist is also available there to aid clients not just with coming out, but to also answer parents’ questions when they want to learn more about the LGBT+ minority.

The organizations currently have 200 clients, 50 of whom are LGBT+. “The community center is not intended just for LGBT+ people, but also for Romani people from socially disadvantaged environments. We provide various recreational activities and because they come here regularly, we believe they like it here,” Patrik boasts, adding that in addition they are endeavoring to build up mutual dialogue in a natural format about overcoming obstacles and creating a safe space for all.

“I am surprised by how the times are gradually changing and how the Roma are more open to same-sex couples or to people who are transitioning from male to female and vice versa. What has contributed to this are the different reality shows with gay people as the main protagonists, and we know figures like Jan Bendig. He speaks absolutely openly about his orientation and thousands of Roma from all generations follow him,” Kotlár believes.

Nevertheless, he does perceive differences between the various towns. In Jablonec nad Nisou, which is approximately 14 km from Liberec, Romani people are not disturbed to see two men dancing together during a social event.

In Liberec, on the other hand, there are many gay people who are still in the closet because they have the feeling that those around them are not open toward them. “We will do our best to change that for the better, step by step,” Patrik concludes optimistically.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

Hiiii Cal 💕💕💕

If you’re still doing the make me write

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

-❤️🪐

HECK YEAH!

75 for ➰:

---

"My god, I am so sorry this happened.”

“Not your fault,” Buck manages to grit out. 

“I’ll be right back!” She promises. “With ice!”

“You okay, my love?” Eddie asks after she leaves. 

“Fricking kills,” Buck replies honestly. “I never thought kayak related deaths would happen on dry land.”

“That’s not funny,” Eddie grumbles. 

“It’s a little funny,” Buck says. “And you have to say so because I’m hurt.”

“No need for the ER, though?” Eddie assumes.

“Nah,” Buck waves the thought off. “It’s 2024. We’re in Morro Bay. Biden is president. We’re all good.”

“Buck, it’s 2031,” Chris says. 

Eddie sighs. “I don’t know who is to blame for your sense of humor, Chris.”

“Literally you,” Chris rolls his eyes as Buck manages to laugh. 

➰➰

After icing his head for twenty minutes, Buck feels considerably better.

“We can go back to the hotel and take it easy,” Eddie suggests as they pack into the Jeep. Eddie drives this time. 

“No,” Buck shakes his head. “It’s our last day here. We wanted to go swimming.”

“Okay, Buck. Whatever you’re feeling up for.”

➰➰

They swim and enjoy the beach. It’s a really nice afternoon. His head is a little tender, but it’s not day-ruining. He takes a Tylenol, goes easy on himself, and basks in the beauty of the remainder of their vacation. 

Buck will admit, towards the end, he’s getting a little sleepy. Despite the later-than-usual wake-up call. Maybe it’s a symptom of the energy expended kayaking. Maybe it’s all the sun. He lays on his chest on a beach towel and closes his eyes, listening to the sound of the waves. Chris buries his feet in wet sand. 

Eddie squeezes a dollop of sunscreen onto his back without warning and begins rubbing it into his skin. Buck’s spine shivers at the cold goop. 

“You’re always doing this!” Buck complains as he writhes. 

Eddie’s hand pauses on Buck’s back. “What?”

“It’s cold, Eddie!” 

“No, I… What do you mean I always do this?”

“This is definitely not the first time,” Buck says. 

“Yes. It is.” 

Feeling heavy and encumbered by his own body, Buck lifts himself into a seated position and looks at Eddie. He can feel the glob of sunscreen running down his spine.

“I swear I remember you doing this exact thing.”

Eddie looks at him, expression very intense. 

“M-maybe I’m wrong,” Buck mumbles. He doesn’t understand why this is such a big deal. “I did hit my head.”

Eddie’s expression relaxes, but it looks like he’s forcing it to. 

“Just turn over and let me finish,” he instructs. “You’ll thank me when the shower doesn’t hurt tonight.”

Buck rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

He flops back down onto his stomach. As much as he complains, he feels very loved. Very cared for. Eddie is always thinking about him. In a way no other partner really has before. It makes sense. They knew each other forwards and backwards, even before they ever admitted to loving one another. 

“I love you,” Buck murmurs into the curve of his own elbow, where he’s resting his head. 

Eddie rubs a sunscreen-slicked finger in gentle little circles over Buck’s shoulder blade. 

“I love you, too.” 

[jvlianbashir]

i always feel alienated from other women because i've genuinely never experienced misogyny. i don't know why. it's not like i've lived in liberal havens all my life. even in the deep south i've never so much as had a man be condescending to me. i don't know what to do about this because it's not like i *want* to experience it but i have trouble connecting with women, especially in lesbian-adjacent spaces

as kindly as possible, anon, i am not sure what i can do to actually help here or give you direction. i'm not an expert on anything - i'm just someone on tumblr with a star trek blog.

what i will say is this: misogyny is not as simple as just the interpersonal interactions that we have in life. misogyny doesn't begin or end with being hit on by creeps or talked down to in the office, although those are certainly examples. it's also things like growing up on a diet of media that treats women like objects or bitches and constantly reinforces a very narrow image of what they are supposed to look like, act like, and value. or existing in a world where safety regulations and medicine/medical procedures aren't made or developed with women in mind because cis men and their bodies are treated as the "default". these are just a few examples, but my point is that misogyny can take many forms, even covert ones and different women may experience misogyny in different forms or compounded with other forms of discrimination.

that said - i'm not trying to change your mind on whether you've experienced misogyny and i am genuinely happy for you that you feel you've lived your life without really being encumbered by it. it would be awesome if all women got to experience that. but i am sorry that it has left you feeling alienated.

i also think that while misogyny is certainly something that most women are going to share experiences with and may bond over being able to discuss that with others who understand, i don't really think it should be the thing anyone should wholly define their womanhood or relationships with other women by. there are many other things with which you may be able to connect with other lesbians/other women about. your love of them, for starters. women aren't a monolith. find what the women in your local and online circles like - shows, hobbies, causes, etc. - see if you share any of them and i would start there!

[darklydeliciousdesires]

My time zones are all screwed up right now, so hopefully you’re still taking requests 😊

Can I pleeeease get 18 with Happy?

Unless I ever announce otherwise, my drabble requests remain open, lovely :)

"Baby, that you?" you call, hearing the front door opening. "I'm making lunch, what do you want?"

His keys tinkle into the bowl on the kitchen table. "Well, who else would it be, with all those locks you made me put on the front door." Sauntering over, he encircles you with his arms, kissing your cheek before resting his chin on your shoulder. "Whatcha making?"

"For me, swiss cheese and turkey, but you can have anything you want. So, what do you need? With you, it's always that you need food, not merely want it."

“What do I need? I need you. Just you, all over me, right now.” 

You arch an eyebrow. "That's very unlike you, not to be ravenous."

"I am," he confirms, lifting you up and placing you a little further down the counter, in a space not encumbered by food. "Not for turkey and swiss sandwiches, though."

Yeah. Lunch just got pushed back an hour.

[appledotcodotuk]

vertigo: an aminori drabble

yet another little drabble courtesy of the yuri shipping olympics! the prompt this time was 'I can't believe you talked me into this'. I'm bringing back an old favourite to appease my 16 year old self, and basically nobody else. aminori enjoyers if you are out there...

summary: minori is certain that she can finally see a crack in ami's cool facade; and all it'll take is a ride on whimsiville's supersonic rollercoaster: Vertigo! a flawless scheme which will certainly not backfire. not at all...

banner: screencap from Toradora ep. 6 "True Self"

pairing: minori kushieda / ami kawashima

no warnings required!

1,423 words!

'I cannot believe you talked me into this' Ami Kawashima, model student, model model, and model melodramaist huffs.

It does not surprise Minori - at least not a great deal - that the way in which her face scrunches with distaste is still beautiful; the sort of righteous disdain you'd see in a fancy book of fancy artpieces that cost an arm and a leg and weighed about as much too, and all without running the risk of a lasting wrinkle.

There's a hint of the unimpeachable to her which promised any attempt to test this stoic unrufflability would yield nothing but frustration.

Perhaps, were she one of those rational types, Minori would recognise this as the omen of futility that it was. It would be better, really, for everyone if she did.

But Minori was dedicated, and all she could see in those finely crafted features was a provocation. Ami was a challenge, or she was issuing a challenge, and Minori didn't stop to mull over the distinctions between the two. She was a bit more preoccupied with attempting to pry loose an expression which hadn't been made for TV from Ami's habitual smirk.

'What's wrong Amin? Scared of a bit of height?' She asks, opting to accentuate the extent to which she too, was entirely cool-headed and unbothered by the other's presence by slinging an arm over her shoulder.

Ami had opted for a breezy summer dress that day, with thin straps, and thus no fabric to shield her from Minori's totally casual arm-slinging. There was nothing to prevent her from feeling the way her exposed shoulder hardened into a taut tension under the skin.

Woah. Had she developed inadvertant powers of petrification in the last minute? Before she could inspect Ami's shoulder for any stray pieces of stone, however, her arm was smacking limply into her side; a consequence of its unceremonious dislodgement from its resting place. 'Ow!' She says, as if it had hurt, 'What gives?'

'I am not Taiga, I don't need to be encumbered with any extra limbs.' She says, and there's a familiar flash in her eyes and ah geez, she's totally about to- 'Whilst I'm sure that little terror could benefit from the additional weapon when she inevitably has another tantrum, I prefer words to brute force.' There it was.

Why did she always turn to Taiga? More importantly, how come she knew, with a precision that frankly unsettled Minori, just what to say to send an indignant blush a-blazing in her cheeks, and as an adendum to that, what malicious God had perfected her in the art of setting Minori's heart pumping anyway?

On second thought, perhaps a God was too pure a boon-granter for someone like her. A deal with the devil for quick wit, unshakeable smarminess, and perfect hair was decidedly not off the table. She wouldn't put anything past Ami.

Instead of responding with something that would have been, no doubt, utterly devastating, Minori opts to take the moral high ground and pictures the way that smug self-assurance would melt away soon - in approximately 3-5 minutes time, if the sign posted outside the start of the queue was anything to go by.

Ooh, maybe she'd even scream! Perfect, beautiful Ami Kawashima, shrieking as she hurtled across the track at world-record-creating speeds.

'What's the stupid smile for?'

'Hmm...?'

'Hey, snap out of it fluff-for-brains, we're nearly at the front.'

Curses! She'd been so caught up in envisioning her victory over Ami's snide professionalism that she'd almost forgotten to be present for the main event! Get your head in the game Kushieda - you're playing for keeps here!

'Aw, oopsie! I must've gotten distracted.'

They were nearly at the front now, which meant a first-class view of terrified fairgoers being lowered into Vertigo, screaming as they were whipped past at speeds that made Minori dizzy, just from looking, and sickly aftermaths: the victims of Whimisiville's finest, fastest rollercoaster.

Taiga had flatly refused. Takasu had muttered something about 'winning Inko-chan' from a stall that contained a bunch of slightly squashed looking bird plushies and disappeared. Kitamura was long-lost. It was just the two of them. Minori, Ami, and the terrifying rollercoaster. She had to make the most of it.

Especially when it had been so easy to convince Ami to come along with her for the ride. Who knew when this sudden fit of good-will would strike Her Imperious Majesty next? All it had taken was a few insinuations of cowardice here, a sprinkle of guilt tripping there…!

She was almost disappointed that she hadn’t been called upon to deploy her patented ‘Please-I-Have-Never-Wanted-Something-More-in-My-Life-and-if-You-Say-No-I-Will-Hold-You-Personally-Responsible-for-the-Lack-of-Fulfillment-that-Will-Plague-My-Every-Waking-Hour’ eyes! Although, perhaps that was for the best. She didn’t know if her heart could take her special-est of special moves quailing under Ami’s cold disapproval.

Better to just be thankful for the chance to absolutely squander whatever warm feeling had prompted this agreement as quickly as possible, right? She almost felt bad, meeting what could well be an olive branch with this. Almost.

‘Heeeey Ami.’ She turns to her victim, attempting to stifle a giggle. Really, it was all her fault: she should never have let slip to Minori that this was her first time in Whimsiville when they’d run into her by the shooting gallery.

Taiga had been less than pleased by the chance encounter but Minori was nothing if not optimistic. Or was that opportunistic? The possibility of getting a reaction out of a brick wall in the body of a high school student was just too tempting! ‘Did I mention that this thing can go 200 km/h and has three loop-de-loops?’

‘You did not.’ Ami says, glaring. Having made it past the barrier now, they're scoping out a free cart in tandem with the portion of the crowd who have finally escaped the drudge of the queue. They settle unanimously for a carriage towards the back. It’s neon yellow, with flaking flames painted on the side and there isn’t enough space for them to sit entirely apart from each other.

Instead, their knees keep grazing each other, and Minori jumps each time it happens, sending their legs flying away from each other like two magnets stuck facing identical poles. ‘But don’t worry, I’m used to compensating for your particularly severe case of scatterbrain.’

‘Hey!’ Minori leaps to her own defense, and it seems her knee also has something to say because it leaps too - settling firmly next to Ami’s who continues on, apparently unaffected.

‘For instance, I do know that you tend to get motion-sick.’

Huh? Since when had Ami been keeping such close tabs on her? That was confidential information, which required a Taiga-level clearance, and she referenced it as easily as if she had been there on that lazy afternoon when she’d been regailing Taiga with the misadventures of her family trip to Kyoto! Well, she supposed that technically she had been there, it had taken place in the classroom, but that was even more shocking!

Had she, Ami Kawashima, been eavesdropping? Surely not! The only eaves that were supposed to be dropped around here were by Minori, the super-sleuth!

Really, was there no integrity to be found in the subtle art of getting one over on someone? At least Minori, in her schemes, was willing to put her own body on the line - she was sacrificing her stomach so she could see Ami’s smug expression get turned inside out by this high-speed death trap!

‘And,’ Ami whispers - whispers! - as she draws closer to Minori, her breath warming the outside of her ear - what was that bit called again, the shell? Minori finds in that moment that she doesn’t really like the comparison. Shells were so hollow, a pale imitation of the setting which formed them, a memory of something distant, and displaced. Ears were much less nostalgic, surely. They didn’t hear only what they wanted to hear, right? - Ami was being very quiet all of a sudden. Minori bites down the urge to yell at her. What, what?!

‘Did you know that before we’d met, I had ridden Vertigo five times over? I’m a big fan of the part with the 50 meter drop!’

Click.

The bar that would keep their bodies from slamming into the ground below as they were shot along at really, very high speeds (and Minori, in all her arch genius knew that this speed was 200km/h precisely) snapped into place with the finality of a death sentence.

Oh.

She was totally screwed.

[ritueldelagneau]

TAROT 🜏 GUIDANCE

** This is a personal reading, all directed towards and reflected upon my own experience. Feel free to indulge in my advising with me, or witness them just as they are!

A lot has changed. Not all good things by any means, however I look forward with a positive mindset and a keen eye for opportunities ahead! I tend to only contact Lucifer when I find myself stressed and encumbered-- but today, I seek nothing more than guidance for what lies ahead.

I . . . QUEEN OF CUPS

Reversed. Insecurity. Disorder.

Before I seek further guidance, I must always reflect on where I have been up until now. A visit from a nurturing mother reversed speaks loudly to how I have been feeling as of late-- I lost my sense of purpose, my plans were displaced, and I have been struggling to gather my bearings.

The time for basking in the lows of my shortcomings is over--it is time to get up, pick up my pieces, and move on. I can turn the sensitivity of my current wound into empathy and aspiration-- all I need is time.

II . . . SIX OF SWORDS

Reversed. Transition. Resistance.

Unfortunately, I find myself guilty of being a brick wall in my own recovery. Such a change as I am facing now felt forced and harshly imposed, and I have a miserable habit of resisting anything that doesn't come to me naturally. It is time to put my hostility aside, and take a more willing approach to what I am going through.

I cannot control what fate does-- however, I can control how I react. Perhaps it is time to reflect more strongly on such reactions.

III . . . EIGHT OF SWORDS

Upright. Imprisonment. Restriction.

Finally, I find the answer to my future-- and funnily enough, it was something I had intuited from the very first card draw. Above all adversity I've been facing, the biggest threat to my improvement has been the limitations of my own beliefs. I can do better and I can move on-- however no one save for me can catalyze that.

Now is the time to feel empowered, and to make strong choices. Leave behind old fears and insecurities-- No one but Lucifer may judge me now.

[fanaticsnail]

Kind And Gentle

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 3,100+

Synopsis: Your shoulders and back ached with a pain you had attempted to cast aside as you went about your duties. The ache turned excruciating, your focus now being taken hostage between the gripping pain. Fortunately, the grip of two firm hands found your body and eased you through the torment.

Themes: Benn Beckman x reader, Friends to lovers, confessions of love, suggestive dialogue, massaging - reader receiving, pain, aching, yearning, small kiss, Shanks is a meanie, swearing, teasing, Beckman is a softie, Beckman is a gentleman, term of endearment "Darlin'" used - it's just what I associate him saying.

Notes: Pure self-indulgence fic, procrastinating while I should be going through my WIPs. My shoulder hurts, guys. Needed this to get out of my system and get through the pain. Art link.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @since-im-already-here @feral-artistry @writingmysanity @carrotsunshine @i-am-vita @gingernut1314 @mfreedomstuff @missbeckman @tiredemomama

Pain. White and hot, swelling and encumbering. This was what you were experiencing in the middle of your spine; just a little to the right side of your body.

The ache never eased, no matter what position you slept in, nor adjusting your posture throughout the day. It was unending, the torment which knit your muscles together and cemented them in place. 

You clenched your eyes tightly shut, bracing yourself against the wooden hallway wall as you rotate your neck in a circle atop your shoulders slowly. Arching your back, you winced as the knot continued to integrate itself in a woven entanglement of painful muscle beneath your skin. 

Biting back a whimper, you tried as you might to reach the cursed divot beneath your flesh, whining quietly as your fingertips barely brushed against the surface of the painful coil. The ache called to you, the burden causing a small tremor in your lips from the electric heat of the hidden wound. 

Shaking your head, you huffed out a breath as you attempted to soldier on about your daily chores. Ignoring the tight ache beneath your skin with a deep grimace written on your lips, you finally gave into your pain and balanced your hands against the wooden beam atop the deck of the Red-Force. 

The sea breeze hit your nose, relaxing you briefly before the pain eclipsed all your senses. Brain foggy with anguish, lips parted and panting, eyes frantic and wife: you could bear it no longer. You muted a cry, muffling it within your mouth while you tried to release the elastic coil in your back by twisting your torso. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you curse in a soft whisper, your brows rising in a pain-riddled peak in your forehead. You moaned out in a soft whimper, praying nobody could hear your weakness as you tried to reach for the spot a second time.

The band was bordering on excruciating, your mind contemplating whether or not to seek out Hongo for medical attention due to the intensity of the pain. Just as you began to turn on your way, two strong hands clapped over your shoulders: thumbs moving in rough circles against your skin. 

“I got you, Darlin’,” the gruff voice Shanks’ first mate whispered in a calming rumble, “Just tell me when I'm gettin’ close to it.” 

Benn Beckman. It was always Benn Beckman. Any time any of the crew needed anything, no task too small, no feat too great: Beckman was the champion you had all grown accustomed to rely on. Leaning back into his touch, you hung your neck low to grant him greater access

“Oh-... mmmf-... -‘kay,'' you whimpered, curving your back down to expose more of your spine to him, “It's not-... Hhah-... It's not normally this-...fucking, shit-... -this bad.” A small click of his tongue snapped at you in empathy as his thumbs brushed against the coil of pain. 

Although your friendship with Beckman ran deep, you had never engaged with him physically before. You respected one another, adored one another, and were as close as two crewmates could be. Two sides of a coin, twin edges of a blade, the gunpowder and the spark that lit the fuse - this was how you were described by your red-headed captain. 

But as his thumbs sought out your deepest pain, all your thoughts escaped you. There was nothing else, just: Beckman, his focus and his expert touch. 

“Just a touch to the right-... ahh, Becks!” you cried out as his digits flicked over the painful swell beneath your flesh. Huffing out pants of breath, you sobbed in strained relief as he continued massaging your body. 

“Oh, fuck. It's there, isn't it?” he whispered, the thumb of his right hand pressed firmly against the tight knot as his left hand braced you against the side-beam of the boat, “There it is, Darlin’. I found it. There's the spot.” You arched your back within his broad hands, your arms stiffening in firm pillars against the deck as he prodded the painful peak in your back. 

“Oh, that's it! Right there, that's the spot,” you mewled out, crying and gasping for him as he untangled your muscles with his rough, practiced hands. Just as he pressed his strength further against you, you winced out a strangled, “Fuck, not so rough! Be kind and gentle with me, Becks!” 

“Darlin’, this is me being kind and gentle,” he bullied his thumb into your skin, stapling you to the wall of the ship by his hips and holding you steady with his hand perched on your left shoulder, “You need a bit of rough treatment. Hold still, let me coax it out of you.”

“Becks,” you whispered out his name, lulling your head back on your shoulders as he continued to pry, paw and claw the knot apart with his right hand, “Becks it hurts.”

“I know, I know,” his gruff voice reassured you, the gentle hold of his left hand against your shoulder contradicted the right hand that bruised your muscles, “It'll all be over soon. I'm nearly there, I can feel your body moving it with me. Just hold on.”

His thumb pressed an intentional swipe up, directing the pain up your back and into the peaked corner of your shoulder. His brows knit low in deep concentration, prompting him to suck in an empathetic breath in anticipation. 

“Ohh… You're gonna hate me,” he whispered in your ear, kicking your feet apart with his heavy boots before anchoring his pelvis against your glutes to hold you firmer against the ship's wooden railing, “You need an elbow.”

“No, no, no! Not an elbow!” you cried, just as his right elbow drew itself against your spongy flesh, “Becks! It's-... nnmfph-... too much! Ahh! Too much!”

Attempting to break from his grip, you shook yourself away from his hands, only for your body to immediately betray you. Bent over the railing, your back immediately became unraveled by a firm grip and a strong elbow to the point that ailed you. 

“Oh hush, you need it,” he barked in a soft tone, eclipsing your concern with an intentional rotation of his elbow against your shoulder, “Be a good little thing and take it.” He was moving the vines of the entanglement away from the source point, breaking it down beneath his body and flushing it out with heavy swipes. 

Benn Beckman was experiencing the toughest battle he had ever had the displeasure in engaging with. He was trying to tune out how good you sounded calling out his name in pants and whines, his own empathetic huffs and groans mixing harmoniously with yours as he gripped your flesh.

“Benn Beck-...fuck-... It's right there. Right there, Becks! Don't stop!” you whimpered, your voice high and your desperation showcased in the soft pants of your breath. The release of your entangled flesh was just within Beckman's grasp, prompting him to switch back to using his fingers to expel the pressure beneath your skin. 

“I got you. There ya’ go,” he confirmed again, expanding the heel of his palm against the binding presence of the last of the entanglement, “Breathe through it with me, I'm not gonna stop ‘til you're done.” 

“Oh, fuck Beckman,” your eyes glazed over, your lips parting and crying out in bliss as his skillful ministrations cast out the pressure in your shoulder as a priest would cleanse unholy ground to make their sanctuary.

“Th-That’s it. Oh m-my fuck-,” you whined back into his hands, “You're so good. Your hands feel so good.” As the last of the knot fled your shoulder, a warm chuckle rumbled from behind you. Beckman's laugh brought you comfort, his softness depicted in this small moment as he held you in his arms. 

His firm hands turned soft, caressing your shoulders in tender, gentle touches. He molded both of your shoulders within his palms, your body becoming jelly beneath his rough and calloused hands. You moaned softly as he maneuvered your body in a perfect arch against his chest, the rumble of his chuckle reverberating within your back to vibrate within your chest. 

“Better?” he whispered in the shell of your ear, easing his body back to enable you to escape his broad cage. Instead of breaking away from his body, you relaxed into his arms, sighing out a warm breath of contentment. 

“Thank you, Becks. You're bloody amazing at that,” you praised him, feeling light and free of the bonds that confined you, “Why did you offer to help me with it?” 

“There was something in your face that told me you needed it,” he shrugged, huffing a small chuckle out of his nose and leant down to rumble out a whisper in your ear, “Always wanna help you, Darlin’.”

“Oh Becks, I could kiss you,” you turned in his arms, gazing through half-hooded eyelids up at him, “Can I?”

He smirked down at you, a small pink due flushing his cheeks with a subtle dust, bobbing his head in a soft nod to grant you permission. As you circled your arms over his neck and began to draw him closer to your lips, a chorus of barked laughter and an uproar of cheers echoed along the hull of the ship. Clapping hands, whistles and hoots erupted from your crew now surrounding the two of you. 

“Oh, Beckman,” your captain cackled at you, his right hand clapping over his heart, “In public, big guy? And you,” he pointed his index finger at you, his wolfy grin painted in a drawn-out taunting smirk, “You sly little fox. Gettin’ the big man to take you right on the deck?”

“What?” you questioned your captain in a warning tone, floating your eyes between the rest of the crew gathered on the deck beside him. Shanks’ playful twinkle fluttered beneath his weighty eyelashes. 

“Be gentle with me, Becks,” he mocked in a needy moan not too dissimilar from your own, before hardening his features and deepening his voice in a grunted, “You need a bit of rough treatment,” he commented gruffly. The color drained from your face, eyes widening and lips parting once again in bashful horrification. 

“Oh right there, Becks, don't stop,” Shanks continued his performance, a small warning began to rise within Beckman's throat in a rumbled growl. Breaking out of your embrace, he grimaced at the red-head in front of him. 

“Enough, Cap’n,” Beckman snarled, reaching within his pocket and pulling out his lighter with his left hand, fishing out a cigarette to follow, “Got out a knot, s’all. You know how shit they are.” Beckman ignited the end, taking a lengthy drag and exhaling a puff away from your face. 

“Really? That's all?” Shanks cried out a laugh, the crew echoing his unashamed and carefree joy at the notion, “I thought I saw some hips moving together, Becks. You were letting some of your own groans out too, mewling like a wh-.”

“-Or should I relay half of the bullshit you curse out when Hongo releases the knots in your own shoulder?” Beckman smirked, his eyes daring his captain to say another embarrassing quip. After a pregnant pause, silent tension only momentary before another uproar of laughter barked out amongst the Red-Hair pirates. 

“Yeah, yeah. I'm done,” Shanks waved his hand in the air, shooting you a small wink before turning to face his crew, “What say we make port, huh? Resupply with some fresh drinks, a hot meal, some good company, and a comfortable sleep on dry land?”

“Aye, sir!” the crew echoed in unison, your own confirmation falling from your lips as you began maneuvering around the first-mate to resume your duties. Just as you passed Beckman's shoulder, a firm hand shot out and gripped your forearm to hold you in place. 

“Beckman?” you asked, turning to meet his eyes. You floated your own between his, hovering your attention to fixate on him completely, “Everything alright, Sir?” 

“Goin’ back to ‘Sir’ again, after all that,” he murmured, barely above comprehension. Your quizzical feeling never left you, still hovering between the lenses of his glassy orbs. 

“How you feeling?” he asked as he pressed down the filter end of the cigarette beneath the pad of his thumb, placing the butt-end in the small drawer attached to the hull of the ship, “I get it all out, or the ache still hangin’ in there?”

Humming in thought, you rotated your right arm and felt the ghost of your prior pain simmer down and flee from your form. The small pinch only remained behind in memory, but the small remnants of the ache threatened to return. 

“It's gone for now, I think,” you uttered with a small shrug, “It'll likely begin the slow journey back up my spine in a pinch.” Beckman hummed in thought, nodding along as he checked over your body for any changes. 

After a small lull, you held your ground as the atmosphere once again fell into awkwardness. You shook your head to stifle your nerves, sucking in a breath to elevate your courage. 

“Can I buy you a drink or two when we get to port?” you ask him, eyes dropping to the ground and hands laced behind you, “An expression of my gratitude for you helping me out?”

“You askin’ me out on a date?” Beckman disguised his growing smile by arching himself away from you, loosening the tie in his hair and beginning to restyle it.

“And if I am?” you ask, still avoiding his gaze by holding your eyes firmly against the floor, “What then?”

“What then, Darlin’,'' he smirked, his eyes softening as his hands found your hips, “Is that I'd accept.” He pulled you flush with him, prompting your eyes to widen and search his gray orbs in your shock, “I wouldn't mind spending an evening with you, havin’ drinks in a quiet corner for a change.”

“It would be a nice change,” you confessed, eyes again falling soft for the first mate. He leant his hips back on the wooden railing, reaching up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. His index finger lingered on your chin, holding your eyes against his. 

“What was it for you? To have you finally make a move after all this time?” he asked, his eyes turning playful as he looked down at you through half-hooded eyes, “The hands or the elbow?”

“I think it was the words,” you confessed with a small laugh, “Not used to having the Great Benn Beckman whisper: ‘be a good little thing and take it.’ Wouldn't mind hearing that again, if I'm being honest,” a small choked pause fell from Beckman's lips, your own question now posed to him.

“What made you accept a drink with me?” you searched his eyes quizzically, pursing your lips as you continued, “We've served together for so long, what made you consider it now?”

“Oh Darlin', I've always considered it. More than considered it,” he huffed out a chuckle, bringing your face closer to his with the curl of his index finger, “Just didn't know how much I wanted it ‘til you started sayin' my name like that.” He hovered his lips over yours, his breath still scented with the sour, smoky tang of his last cigarette as he beckoned you in. 

“Wouldn't mind hearing that again, if I'm bein' honest,” he parroted your words back at you before finally claiming your lips beneath his own in a chaste kiss. The attention he gave your lips was brief, ending contact almost as soon as they touched. 

He pulled away from your lips, noticing your pout and slight agitation at the hastiness the kiss ended. Chuckling, he leant over your ear and confessed his intentions further. 

“Cap’n’s watchin’,” he nodded over to where Shanks’ taunting eyes and winning smile wordlessly teased you both, “Don't wanna give him more ammunition to tease you with, Darlin'. No matter how much I really wanna kiss you.”

“I owe you more,” you hummed up at him with a soft smile, tucking the loose strand of hair away from his forehead and behind his ear, “Anything I can do to repay my growing debt to you? More than a couple drinks later, a little kiss, or taking care of your duties for you today?”

“Just the promise of your company later will do for now,” he chuckled, leaning into the heel of your palm with his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your skin.

“Aye, Sir,” you smirked at him, giving his cheek two gentle taps before returning back to duty with a newfound rejuvenation. Your limbs felt lighter, your body felt freer and your head felt less foggy with the prior pain you felt. 

Shanks sauntered over towards his first-mate, smirking and kicking up his feet all along the way in a playful dance. Beckman shook his head, reaching for another cigarette and lit the end. Shanks leaned his head against Beck’s shoulders, uttering not a single word as he fluttered his eyelashes, wiggled his eyebrows and clicked his tongue at the broody, larger man. 

“Don’t even start,” Beckman growled under his breath. Shanks smiled wider, jolting his right index finger into Beckman’s side as he hummed up a playful mock at him. 

“But you finally made a move, big man,” Shanks chuckled, nudging him with his left shoulder, “How long’s it been now? Two, maybe three years of longing, yearning and lusting from afar, hm?”

“Four,” Beckman commented gruffly, inhaling a deep breath of smoke in his mouth and holding it still behind his lips, “And I remember saying: ‘don’t even start’.”

“Alright, alright. I’m going, I’m going,” Shanks held his right hand up in defence, an extra buzz in his step at the knowledge that Beckman and you had finally allowed a small crack in the door open to engage with one another this way. A small chuckle erupted in Shanks’ voice, his own amusement adamant over his features.

“Right there Becks, don’t stop,” Shanks’ voice whined again in a needy moan, before growling out a rumbled mock of, “I’m not gonna stop ‘til you’re done,” he laughed, turning back over his shoulder, “Honestly, Beckman. Show a bit of composure, man.” 

Beckman’s blush scorched scarlet on his features, prompting him to thrust the butt of his cigarette into the drawer and begin to charge at his Captain. Shanks shrieked out a giddy cry of amusement at his first-mate.

“Be kind and gentle with me, Becks!” Shanks laughed, turning tail and began running away in glee from successfully taunting his first mate. The barrelling boot heels of the first mate almost managed to catch up to the Captain immediately, but Shanks continued successfully darting away from Beckman’s disciplinary grasp.

[missmungoe]

I don't know if you've watched it yet, but I'm SO happy about the live action, and about Makino ? No spoilers, but I can't wait to hear about it from you ♥

I'm glad you're enjoying it! I have mixed feelings, some good, some not-so-good, but I...am unfortunately not a fan of how they did Makino, so if you were hoping for that, I'm really sorry to disappoint!

Thoughts under the cut for those who haven't seen the first two episodes (and remember that these are just my feelings, so don't let them ruin yours! If you liked her, that's what matters ♥):

First, I will say I was pleasantly surprised that she's in it, and even had speaking parts, but the actress just didn't feel like Makino to me. I thought she had a sweet moment with Luffy in the second episode, but beyond the costume, I struggled to find Makino in her. And it's not like she has a well-established character, but some things have always stood out to me, like how she acts as a barkeep, and there's a reason I write her as someone who enjoys her work. And in the first scene with Higuma, she just looks so...done? Like she'd rather be doing anything but her job, and maybe they're trying to imply that she's tired of the bandits, but her whole behaviour in that scene just felt off to me. Even in the scene with Luffy, the way she sighs and goes about her work - compared to the anime, where she's smiling and polishing her glasses like she enjoys the work just for the sake of it - rubbed me the wrong way. She just seems so encumbered, and feels so much older than she's supposed to be at this point in the story. Honestly, she reminds me more of how I write Emiko in Siren's Call. And I can see them changing it if they wanted to give her a more "world-weary tavern wench" kind of vibe rather than how she is in the original, but that's the Makino I love, and for me, she'll always be how I've written her in Shanties - a fresh-faced but determined 19-year-old who's immensely proud of her bar and her work. And that's my own interpretation, based on the few scenes she has, and by no means is it the only interpretation you can make. Netflix had a different one; I just didn't vibe with it.

Also RIP the scene where she runs out from behind the counter to help Shanks :') I was hoping we'd get that, but my main issue isn't even that they didn't get the little moment on the floor, it's that she just...stands there? And sure, Higuma didn't break the bottle over his head this time, although honestly, had I written this scene, Makino would have been even more distressed at him breaking a bottle on her polished countertop.

So yeah, while the actress wears the clothes and the kerchief, she didn't feel like Makino to me, but then I'm irrevocably influenced by the way I've written her in Shanties, and at no point was I expecting the live action to cater to my preferences. But I'll keep writing her as I love her, and then Netflix can do their own thing ;)

But oh, speaking of clothes - and putting aside my personal vendetta against her canon outfit, sans kerchief - I really didn't care for how dingy her clothes looked? Same with Party's (#NotMyBar, and I was so offended by that ugly neon sign I almost forgot that Makino looks like she hasn't bathed in a week). I get that they're going for a more ramshackle fishing village vibe, but here I also vastly prefer the original. I love Makino's tidy bar with its soft green walls and flowers on the shelves, so this was just a huge swing and a miss for me.

Things I am enjoying so far about the live action:

Iñaki Godoy

[homemadefantasy]

Taryn's Inquest - Cardan's POV

Summary: Taryn's inquest and the moments that follow - from Cardan's perspective.

Across the room, Jude appears, dressed as Taryn. She is in all of the Court’s finery, looking as much to me like her sister as she always has, which is to say she looks nothing like her sister. Sure, they may have the same physical appearance, but the difference in the manner in which they carry themselves is unmistakable. Where Taryn is demure and desperate to please, Jude is unapologetic and strong. I am amazed she is able to fool anyone with how straight she stands and how high she holds her head; Taryn would be sniveling with her shoulders slumped. 

I am at a loss as to why she would return this way, play-acting a part that could not suit her less. Nevertheless, I must assume she has come to me in this way for a reason. If she wants to identify as her worthless twin, I shall let her.

Despite my role as king and the image I must maintain, despite my resolve to protect Taryn, despite everything, it takes all the self-discipline, a skill of whose existence until very recently I was unaware, I can muster to refrain from running across the room and taking her into my arms. 

Soon, she is standing before me, deep within a curtsy that appears to cause her physical pain. It looks entirely unnatural for her to be bowing to me, to anyone, not even considering that she is the queen of the land. Oh, Jude. I just barely catch myself before saying the wrong name. 

“Taryn?” She looks up at me with reluctance. Her pupils dilate and her eyes glitter with barely contained anger. 

“Your majesty,” she says stiffly. 

I suppose she expects me to play my part as well. I suppose I shall. I hesitate for a moment, imagining with no small amount of difficulty that the sister before is the pathetic, sniveling travesty of Jude. 

“We recognize your grief. We would not disturb your mourning were it not for questions over the cause of your husband’s death.” 

Questions, I suppose, I now know the answer to, since she sent her sister in her stead. Although, many other questions take their place. My jumbled thoughts turn to my many unrequited letters, and I wonder at her return. She must never have planned to; I suppose Taryn’s impending execution alone lured her back. But, for the time being, I will exploit any opportunity to convince her to rule beside me. In Elfhame. 

I am pulled back to the present as Nicasia, with no small amount of malice, accuses Jude of Locke’s demise. Unbeknownst to her, it seems, she is standing before us. Am I really the only one who can see that this is very much not Taryn? I realize, with a knot of shame, that I alone pay the exceptional amount of attention to her required to uncover her slight so quickly.  

Her voice changes then, the silence of the room glinting off her voice as moonlight off the edge of a particularly sharp knife. “Jude is in exile.” Is she really? “And I’ve never hurt Locke.” If there were any doubt of her not being Taryn, it has just been expunged from my mind, as Taryn would never have shown such repulsion, however subtle, at the necessity of saying the name. 

Nicasia is too wrapped up in her own grief over Locke to notice. 

I am not so encumbered. 

“No?” 

“I lov… I loved him.” She says with no small amount of difficulty. I think back to Locke’s ridiculous party, of her obvious infatuation. Of the ridiculous and unexpected anger that seemed to overwhelm me at the sight of her in his arms. Of my own fury mirrored in her eyes when she glanced at me. Of the countless weeks that followed during which I tried, albeit unsuccessfully, not to think or care about Locke’s toying with the Duarte sisters. Of Jude’s defiance at that critical moment when Locke believed he would have both sisters under his control. Of the chaos that directly followed. 

“Sometimes I believed that you did, yes. But you could well be lying. I am going to put a glamour on you. All it will do is force you to tell us the truth.” Or at least it would, had she not foolishly bargained with the most abominable of my siblings. However, despite the idiocy of the choice, I cannot deny that it has ended up being quite a valuable little talent. 

“Now, tell me only the truth. What is your name?”

“Taryn Duarte.” Jude dips into an unnatural-looking, at least for her, curtsy. “Daughter of Madoc, wife of Locke, subject of the High King of Elfhame.”

As if. There wasn’t a single word that just came out of her mouth that was not a lie. That’s my girl. The thought comes to me unbidden and with sharp barbs that pierce through my heart. Because she’s not. She’s not my girl, is she? Regardless of what I thought before her exile, she chose to stay. She chose to stay as far away as possible from me. Nerves suddenly overtake me as I begin to consider just why she is here in the first place. 

“What fine courtly manners.”

“I was well instructed,” she says pointedly.

“Did you murder Locke?” The room goes silent as it awaits her confession. 

“No. Nor did I orchestrate his death. Perhaps we ought to look to the sea, where he was found.” I do not miss the implication, or the glance she shoots my former lover. 

Neither does Nicasia. She turns to me, likely believing she is imparting great wisdom and knowledge upon me. Little does she know that I only require answers from one person right now. “We know that Jude murdered Balekin. She confessed as much. And I have long suspected her of killing Valerian.” How did she know about Valerian? Perhaps I ought to keep a better eye on Nicasia. 

“If Taryn isn’t the culprit, then Jude must be.” Perhaps I will ask her myself. “Queen Orlagh, my mother, – ” Yes, I know who Queen Orlagh is, thank you – “swore a truce with you. What possible gain could she have from the murder of your Master of Revels? She knew he was your friend – and mine.” 

Debatable. In front of me, Jude appears to be having some sort of episode. After a moment of consideration, I decide to humor Nicasia. 

“Well, what do you think? Did your sister do it? And don’t tell me what I already know. Yes, I sent Jude into exile. That may or may not have deterred her.” 

“She had no reason to hate Locke. I don’t think she wished him ill.” I could think of a few reasons. I hate Locke for what he did to Jude; I can hardly imagine what she feels for him.

“Is that so?”

Right then, my mother decides to be… helpful. “Perhaps it is only Court gossip, but there is a popular tale about you, your sister, and Locke. She loved him, but he chose you. Some sisters cannot bear to see the other happy.” 

Jude regards my mother with veiled surprise before she counters her with – “Jude never loved Locke. She loved someone else.” I am on the edge of my throne. “He’s the one she’d want dead.” 

My brain locks up, unsure if it should key on her confession of love in front of the whole court or on her declaration that she desires my death. Either way, I know it is meant as a direct attack – both halves. She can lie, after all. Before she can rattle me further, I cut her off, needing the rest of the conversation to be private. “Enough. I have heard all I care to on this subject – ”

“No!” Upon registering whose voice interrupts my command, I nearly snap. A murmur ripples through the crowd at the sheer audacity required to interrupt the High King mid-decree. Nicasia shamelessly continues. “Taryn could have a charm on her, something that makes her resistant to glamours.” 

She’s already resistant to glamour. I want to scream. But if Jude is going to torture me in front of the whole Court, why can’t I? “I suppose she’ll have to be searched.”

Her shoulders subtly shift back as she stands a little straighter, stiffer. Hiding terror that I can’t quite understand, she counters me. “My husband was murdered. And whether or not you believe me, I do mourn him. I will not make a spectacle of myself for the Court’s amusement when his body is barely cold.” 

Very well, then. What a perfect excuse to get the answers I require. “As you wish. Then I suppose I will have to examine you alone in my chambers.”

***

She stands rather awkwardly across the table from me, her face fixed with an odd expression I can’t quite place. 

She’s back. She’s home. She’s here. I can’t repress a grin. I gesture for her to join me on the couch. Start with the question that’s been eating away at me since I saw her walk in, the one which may seem the most trivial to anyone else, but is the most important to me. I attempt nonchalance as I say it. 

“Well, didn’t you get my letters?”

Six unanswered letters. Six fragments of my heart that were never so much as acknowledged. Six attempts to understand what was going on in her head. 

“What?” Bewilderment flashes through her clever eyes. 

“You never replied to a one. I began to wonder if you’d misplaced your ambition in the mortal world.” She may well have. This may have been intended as a short visit. I will change that intention.

She appears to be genuinely confused. Is it possible she never received them? Does that explain her absence?

“Your Majesty,” she begins. Your Majesty? Does she really hate me so much as to resort to such formality? “I thought you brought me here to assure yourself I had neither charm nor amulet.”

Oh. We’re still playing that game, are we? 

I give her a look. “I will if you like. Shall I command you to remove your clothes? I don’t mind.”

Something in her snaps. Her facade, I realize. “What are you doing? What are you playing at?”

Did she really think I didn’t recognize her? I think back to our interaction in the throne room. Had she thought me beguiled by a simple wardrobe change? 

You mistook one for the other once before. 

The memory hits me like a punch to the stomach. “Jude, you can’t really think I don’t know it’s you. I knew you from the moment you walked into the borough.”

For some inexplicable reason, this seems to unsettle her more. Was she here on some agenda besides her own? The Council’s warnings of her potential allegiance to Madoc suddenly flood my thoughts. 

“That’s not possible.” She shakes her head; that same unplaceable expression returns. She seems to be trying very hard to figure something out. Her scheming face strikes me as bizarre. What is her angle? 

All at once, I become singularly aware of every inch that separates us. It’s worse, somehow, than when we were an entire ocean’s breadth apart, to be so close yet not touching. She’s not close enough for me to see the green in her hazel eyes. She’s not close enough that I can feel her breath as further assurance that she is, in fact, here before me. She’s not close enough that I could reach out to hold her hand, should she want that. No question of whether I want that. I want that more than I need air to breathe, in this current moment. She’s not close enough. I hate it. I stand up, needing to have her in my arms. “Come closer.” 

She backs away from me, an emotion I don’t want to recognize screaming from her eyes. The pain in my chest swells. I clench my fists to hide their shaking, but I need to confirm one thing. 

“My councilors told me that you met with an ambassador from the Court of Teeth, that you must be working with Madoc now. I was unwilling to believe it, but seeing the way you look at me, perhaps I must. Tell me it’s not true.” What will I do if it is? I cannot arrest her. She is my Queen. Every advantage is hers: her authority over the kingdom, her authority over my will, her authority over my heart. Should she be in an alliance with her adoptive father, the kingdom, along with its pathetic king, would be ruined. 

Initially, this accusation just seems to confuse her again. Then, she seems to understand, though she does not voice whatever realization she just had. “I’m not the betrayer here.”

Oh. I hadn’t anticipated that her continued absence would still concern my paltry attempt at humor. Alas, for this at least, I can make amends. 

“Are you still angry about—” Suddenly, as I study her body language, I come to a realization of my own. Her entire body is taut and shaking, and she seems to be wearing her anger as armor. I recognize this tactic; I’ve used it myself countless times. The tactic of using anger to disguise one particularly uncomfortable emotion. “No, you’re afraid. But why would you be afraid of me?”

She fears me. How could she possibly still think I harbor any desire to hurt her? Can she possibly still believe I hate her? I thought this lie had been dispelled long ago. 

“I’m not,” the quaver in her voice and the shaking in her body give her away. “I hate you. You sent me into exile. Everything you say to me, everything you promise, it’s all a trick. And I, stupid enough to believe you once.”

Every word she says is like a tiny sword aimed directly at my chest. Is it possible she never realized? I had thought I had made it quite clear how desperately I had awaited her return. “Of course it was a trick -” She clutches a knife to her. Madoc must have sent her to kill me. Her hatred is genuine, and my heart lies in shattered remains all over the floor. 

Before I can so much as utter another word, the whole world shakes. Or is it just my world?  No, Jude seems just as alarmed as I am. Ah, of course. She must have been meant to kill me, and the explosion meant to hide her escape. I am unable to do much else but stare at her, concealing my anguish as I always have: behind a glare. 

Her ears prick up as something akin to sword fighting echoes down the hall. With a muttered “Stay here,” she darts out of the room before I can react. 

No. Not again. Absolutely not. I am not losing her again. Even if her plan was to kill me, let it be so long as I never have to endure another second of her absence. 

She is already gone. When I make it into the hall, I am just able to make out Madoc’s figure as he carries Jude off down another corridor. A battle rages around me, and though I know I should be concerned about how close they made it to my chambers, all I can see is Jude’s absence. 

It seems that Jude was the prize. Although the contingent of soldiers that Madoc brought here far outnumbers my guards, they recede as soon as they see that she is secured. The renegades begin racing down and out of the hill. Well, all shall soon understand the price that is to be paid for such an act. 

Thorns and briars, vines and branches, commissioned by myself and empowered by all the cruel magic of Faerie, wind their way through the many corridors of the Palace of Elfhame after Madoc’s men like vipers after a meal. I fall to my knees and my vision blurs, every ounce of strength and every drop of energy pouring into the attack.

The Bomb finds me some time later, slumped against the doorframe to my chambers and surrounded by blood. 

“She’s gone, Your Majesty.”

The world goes black.

[chantsdemarins]

⭐️The Mischief of a Familiar Legend (Loki X Female Reader) ⭐️

Okay, this story just happened! So I am late posting updates to everything else because this solstice tale seemed to take over! It might be truly terrible! I’m sorry!!

It features Jötun Loki!

A lot of mischief and chaos, things Loki specializes in…

Summary: A winter solstice celebration on Asgard is crashed by a returning Loki, and you are faced with an ensuing identity crisis of epic proportions.

Smut Scale: Minors do not read! 18+ Old horny folks have at it! 🔥🔥🔥

Tags for people who might be interested?? (Please forgive if you aren’t!!)

@lokisgoodgirl @coldnique @holdmytesseract @simplyholl @huntress-artemiss @goblingirlsarah @kats72 @carlym @i-stand-with-loki @gigglingtigger @fictive-sl0th @kikster606 @michelleleewise @lady-rose-moon @eleniblue @peaches1958 @lokischambermaid @mochie85 @xorpsbane @sheris532 @cakesandtom @mjsthrillernp @lovelysizzlingbluebird @muddyorbsblr @mischief2sarawr

The gilded participants of the royal winter solstice court collectively held their breath as the thick wooden door swung open, blowing in the longest night of the year-and a face no one had seen in a very long time.

Prince Loki stood in the doorway.

His tall form-foreboding. Freshly fallen snow lay in the gray fur trim of his coat and eyelashes, which covered his muted vermillion eyes.

His skin was not the pallor moon color of the other Asgardian partygoers. Or anything like what you might have assumed it to be. The words “Blár himinn” escaped your mouth in a haunted whisper. You’d been studying Old Norse, and it was the first thing that came to mind as you tried to take him in.

He was one of the most exciting beings you’d ever seen in your entire life. You were so thoroughly shocked, much like the rest of the attendees. You scanned the room, waiting for someone from the royal family to speak up as you clutched your wine glass, still almost full to the rim.

Then a deep voice edged with emotion came from the back of the large banquet hall.

“Loki.”

He brushed a few errant snowflakes from himself that had yet to melt. He cleared his throat. Perhaps he had not spoken in a while, you puzzled.

“Father,” was his simple reply.

Somehow the palace became even quieter with the two words spoken by father and son. They seemed to absorb all the ambient noise further. Even the logs on the fire ceased to crackle. Frigga was the next to speak, but she had made her way towards Loki, leaving Odin standing near the silent roaring fire.

“My son,” she collapsed her arms around him, holding him tightly. She looked tiny, her crown diminutive.

“Queen Frigga, let’s not pretend with pleasantries. You know very well I am not your son.”

“Loki, you will always be my son. I am so glad you are still alive. I am so thankful you survived whatever recent toils you have encumbered.”

“I am not sure I did, mother.”

“I am not the man you last saw.”

“I see that, Loki,” Frigga said, scanning her son’s appearance. She had never seen him in his fully Jötun form. He was remarkable and frightening all at once.

“Do you prefer to be Jötun now, son?” Frigga’s words slowly escaped from her mouth as she touched his hair.

Loki scoffed. He could not believe his mother’s gall—her supposition.

“If you believe that is true, then you are a worse fool than I imagined, mother, like every last one of you.”

Loki’s callous tone was consuming.

By now, Thor, Odin, and the rest of the einherjar had gained the confidence to approach the returned prince.

With caution, they encircled him. Unsure if he was hostile, they were ready to take Odin’s orders should Loki be deemed a clear threat.

A thousand different possibilities merged in the minds of his family. Where had Loki been all these years? He had returned briefly when he could break free of the Chitari. The damage he had incurred in New York had been minimized, thankfully. Still, Loki felt deep remorse and embarrassment for being at the mercy of such a demented race of beings who capitalized on his weakness. He left Asgard as soon as possible and would not have returned tonight had he not needed their help.

He had run out of options.

Loki didn’t like the extra attention he was getting now. He didn’t want to stop his family's lavish event on his account. He had hoped for a less dramatic entrance. His timing was off.

“I am not a feral monster. Even though I may look it father, you can call off the einherjar.”

Odin waved his hand.

“Stand down.”

The royal guards nodded briefly and left the hall.  Odin turned to the stunned crowd and addressed them.

“Please keep the music going. My son has been gone for quite a while. We will take a brief leave as a family and shortly return,” he turned to Frigga and Thor and ushered them all to the adjacent serving room.

As Odin’s orders to recommence the party filtered through the crowd, chatter could be slowly heard again, along with the gentle sound of the ceremonial harp and drums sending rhythm into the air.

Thor’s normally steady appearance was dimmed. He looked like he encountered a ghost, judging by his startled expression as they all filtered into the busy room full of servants.

When they closed the door, you lost sight of them but moved closer across the room, hoping to hear something.

You were a mere Midgardian healer, but you were intrigued by the possibility of talking to Loki.

Someone you had wondered about since you were granted a research position in the court. You put your ear to the door as you’d seen on old sitcoms, and just like in a sitcom-the door soon swung open, hitting you in the side.

Loki filed out with his entire family trailing loosely behind him, trying to get him to slow down and listen.

He stopped briefly and looked in your direction as you rubbed your arm.

Laughing, he strutted further into the hall and said, “As the saying goes, you get what you deserve for being nosy."

You raced after Loki and joined the line his family was forming behind him. He stopped at the large food table and grabbed what looked like a croissant filled with brie and figs. He took a large bite and stood chewing while staring at you.

Something about his tone to you supposed a familiarity. It was disorienting.

You interjected and spoke, “Sir, I am sorry for listening in. I just was worried you were going to leave.”

“Now why would that worry you, pet?”

Pet? Again, a familiarity that was flummoxing.

You tried to speak quickly while you had his audience, “because I am here from Midgard, I am what you would know as a healer. I am looking for an element on Asgard that I feel, will help my fellow humans…I want to….”

Loki interrupted you mid-sentence.

“You wouldn’t be the first weakling human seeking the help of the gods, and surely not the last,” Loki sighed and moved on to pour himself a large goblet of wine from a crystal decanter.

You were somewhat taken aback. Perhaps you’d mistaken this god for someone benevolent…

“Weakling? I beg your pardon?” you said, feeling confused. Sure, he was in another form and looked very intimidating, but wasn’t he ultimately supposed to be at the mercy of humans?

Thor stood between you and Loki. Absentmindedly he continued the conversation they were having in the serving room.

“Loki, you can’t just show back up like this! We thought you were dead this time, for real. You must tell us why you have reappeared!”

Loki ignored Thor and returned his gaze to you.

“I think you might have mistaken the god of mischief for what you humans now call Santa Claus. I am not here to give you what is on your ‘wish list,’ especially if it is some ‘cure,’ and I do not care if you’ve been naughty or nice,” Loki laughed to himself.

He continued pointily speaking, “I hope you’ve been naughty. I’d more likely grant you one of your wishes if that were the case.”

“Naughty?” you mumbled nervously under your breath. Was he reading your mind!?

It was true. As you watched him devour food from the buffet table, a stray thought appeared like a singular meteor streaking through the sky. One could miss it if you weren’t incredibly fast.

But he was just that fast.

You had paid too much attention to the tight fit of his long coat. The way his dark hair fell across his shoulders. The lithe blue of his body seemed to be barely contained by the black leather he wore. No. You shouldn’t look at him like that, and you shouldn’t think these things. You had stopped yourself-but. It was enough for him to know. He turned his attention back to Thor, Odin, and his mother, who seemed on the verge of frantic.

He sighed to himself. Loki knew he must explain something soon.

“Fine. If I must explain, I am here because, for every god-forsaken year since the Chitauri intercepted me, I seem unable to keep my Æsir form during the winter solstice,” Loki explained with tinges of pain and relief for having explained himself a little.

As a doctor from Earth, you were now an invested part of this discussion, seeing as no one so far seemed to have the ability to shoo you off. And the fact remained, there was a familiarity. His casual tone with you, your peaked interest in him. The fact you were still standing alongside the royal family when other mortals would have fled.

Your mind raced with possible reasons for Loki's new problem keeping his Æsir form. Why did this problem only occur during the winter solstice? Had this alien race, which you only knew a small amount about, done something to him? Or was this a natural process now happening to him? Would it have happened whether he knew his true origin or not?

Odin spoke first. “You come back to your family for help. I see. This is where you belong.  I am glad you finally see the error in your ways….” Frigga moved closer between her son and king.  She quickly cut him off before he could perhaps anger Loki further.

Changing the subject, she said, “Loki, why don’t we bring you to soul forge and Eir? I wish you would have come sooner than continue to stay away like this,” her face crestfallen.

Loki went on, “Being in my Jötun form was not the only reason I stayed away, mother. Lies, deceit, and general malice inflicted upon me by my family might rise to the top of my reasons.” His smile was icy.  

Your next words were careful, continuing to feel the strange compulsion to stay in this obvious family-only situation.

But your time was quickly evaporating.

“Who is this woman again?” Loki said, stepping so close you could feel his hot breath on your head. His attention was so focused on you. You had trouble blinking your eyes.

Frigga grabbed your arm and spoke to you both, “son, she’s here researching….”

“Yes, yes, she told me. Some boring cure. Well, it seems, pet, we both need some leiðr. Perhaps we have business together after all.” He was smug and even more casual, with possibly more licentious double meaning between his words.  You tried to remain centered. Calm.

“Loki, yes, I think I could perhaps help you if you let me-and maybe yes, perhaps you can help me with what I am looking for,” you said timidly.

Loki continued to keep his ruby eyes on you. “Hmm, you do look rather familiar. Is this your first time on Asgard? Do we possibly know one another?”

You answered him quickly, nervously, tugging at your dress. “This is my first time on Asgard. I understand not many humans come here. There is no way we could know one another, sir.

Loki looked disgusted. “Please stop calling me, sir. Master might be more befitting, but we need to get to know one another just a tad more.”

Your flushed face was impossibly hot. You held your hand against it. You were both intrigued and offended, it was enjoyably distasteful.

Frigga seemed to agree that adding you to the royal entourage of healers was a good idea, even though she was not sure of her son’s true motivation. Surely enough, he did seem to recognize you from somewhere, from some place or time.

The winter solstice festivities continued, but Odin had moved you and Loki to the healer Eir’s compound. Thor had begrudgingly agreed to stay behind, entertain the guests, and receive the various offerings while his brother was being tended to.

Once Loki was situated with the healers he was throughly examined and placed in the soul forge.

You noticed Loki barely fit in while in his Jötun form. His long legs trundled off the bed of the quantum molecular device. He had stripped down to nothing but his black leather pants. The distinctive lacing at the front was very distracting. No belt was required, just a solid arm to pull the laces taut against his stomach.

You were careful to conceal your thoughts in an overarching mental picture of your Hippocratic discernment. He turned his gaze to you once or twice, and you quickly looked away.

“Loki, you can get up now,” Eir said as she held her soft, delicate hands to him. Eir and Frigga had carefully done all they could to try and understand the waning seiðr.

He sat up and ran his hands through his hair which was curling slightly. He then held on to his own body strangely. Was he possibly in pain, you thought to yourself?

Eir and Frigga closed their notebooks and asked the rest of the healing staff to leave. Frigga sat down next to her son.

“Loki, it seems that the stress of being under the mind control of the Chitauri broke our spell in a particular way associated with the calendar cycle of Jötun biology.”

“What does that mean, mother? Am I to continue to go through this year after year?”

“Son, I think so, until….”

Eir sat on the other side of Loki, placing her hand on his shoulder. She had practically raised Loki along with his parents. Having first held him when he was a tiny baby stolen for Jötunheim.

“Come out with it, mother, just tell me plainly,” Loki was perplexed and wondered why the long preamble to any discoveries that had been made.

You already knew what they meant, as likely did Loki. Jötun must have a cyclical reproductive cycle associated with the absence of the sun and the longest night during the winter solstice. They must become most fertile during this time away from the sun. That made sense, given the star, had any power over them at all.

It was just one of many suns that filled the nine realms, you marveled at the significance it could have. Your eyes averted to the still-dark night outside. You imagined there were perhaps a few hours left before dawn.

You walked over to Loki, watching his sullen face in the candlelight of the healer’s small quarters.

You finally spoke as tenderly as possible, “How long do you usually stay in your Jötun form when this happens?”

He looked at you with his usual caviler and shrugged his shoulders.

“It has never been the same once. That is why I am forced to come here now. I cannot live a proper life with this looming. I do not want to stay as a monster for any length of time.”

You couldn’t believe how he again referred to himself as a monster. He seemed the furthest thing. Except for his crass mouth, he was handsome. He was more than handsome in his Jötun body.

“Loki, I suspect perhaps if you, how do I say this, if you found a lover, perhaps that would shorten the time you spend in your Jötun form,” Eir suggested while looking at Frigga nervously.

She responded tentatively, “Son, we know you’ve never had a problem finding a lover. I am certain it should not be a problem now. This is worth a try if you haven’t already, um…tried this remedy.”

Loki responded quickly, hopping off the soul forge and magicking his clothes back on. He quickly walked towards the healer’s doorway and almost left before pausing briefly.

“Who would want me like this, mother? You continue to slay my already broken heart with your willful ignorance of the turmoil you and father have perpetuated. I am better off returning to Jötunheim to reclaim my rightful throne and leaving this world of lies behind me.”

With that final cutting remark, Loki left.

You felt you had no choice but to chase after him, leaving both Frigga and Eir flustered and saddened. Frigga’s delicate hands covered her face, fighting back her tears of regret. Eir was more curious about you and what would transpire next.  

“LOKI!” you screamed his name as you plowed through what felt like feet of snow. So much you could barely see the tops of your boots. You followed his snow steps and quickened your pace, calling his name repeatedly into the snowy solstice night.

“LOKI PLEASE!” you were breathless. The wanton desperation and lust of a woman had replaced the righteous doctor from Midgard. The thought of Loki finding himself repulsive in his Jötun form was so painful you could barely stand it. You wanted to help him, and you were painfully attracted to him. There was a certainty to it you couldn’t understand.

Finally, you made it back to the palace grounds, having traced every one of his steps until you arrived at the tower where his old room was likely located. You spotted a soft orange glow from the tallest window. He must be up there.

Contemplating the likely 400 steps, it would take to climb was another matter. Again, you called him, “LOKI, LOKI, it’s me. Can I come up? Or can you help me come up? I’m freezing down here.” It was true. You were almost frostbitten. You only had your thin coat over your gown, not a hat or gloves. The wind whipped around you and the palace. Just as you were about to leave, truly saddened and crazed that your curiosity had gotten you involved in such a mess-you heard the baritone of his voice cascade seemingly brick by brick down to you.

“Human, you are truly mad. You’re not coming up here.”

“Loki, were you not the one who was shamelessly suggesting I call you master just hours earlier?” your query blasted back at him.

“You found me attractive, or there was something you recognized, something familiar…I recognize it, too, or I wouldn’t be here freezing! Now please, can you bring me up? Just to talk even.”

“Fine.”

Loki had indeed had enough of his Rapunzel moment. He snapped his blue fingers, and you were in his room.

You both looked at one another for a brief moment before speaking more intimately.

Loki continued his protest at the thought of you helping him break this strange curse. He went on.

“We simply can’t...for one thing, human, I am twice your size.”

You laughed and sat on the bed, immediately grabbing his blankets around your shoulders. Loki saw you struggling and placed the white reynir fur around you. His hands lingering in a delicate slow motion, it seemed he was contemplating the possibility that neither of you might be clothed and blanketed for long…

“I am a doctor, Loki, and I am bound to heal no matter what by decree of an oath.”

“That oath does not count when you are visiting another realm.”

“It should!” you exclaimed as you patted the space next to you, seemingly inviting him to sit.

Loki did sit. There was barely enough room for the two of you. Suddenly both of your eyes were lost in the same thought. The bed was too narrow.

“The only way this is going to work love is if you get on top and ride me, if you can, that is. This bed won’t due.” He was sinfully smirking.

His mischievousness was resurfacing at a rapid pace. He had shifted his demeanor exceedingly fast.

Was he always so mercurial, you thought?

You took a deep breath. Both relieved he was not feeling so sorry for himself, but now that he was easier than you expected to convince, you had to make good on your offer. There seemed to be no way to go back. Not that you really wanted to rejoin the party. Not after this.

He leaned closer to you and grabbed your hair, pulling it out of your face enough for his lips to land squarely on yours. He didn’t take his time. His tongue plunged into your mouth, searching. His hands roamed your gown.

One palm took the back hooks and began unfastening so quickly your mind was buzzing. You pulled away for a moment and tried to think. You had wanted to talk to him before he was all over you…

“Loki, we don’t know if this will work. I don’t want you to be alarmed if you are still in your frost giant form after we, after you….”

“After I put my seed inside you lovely pet? Is that what you are trying to say?” his hands cupped your entire face as he stared into your eyes, laughing.

“I had wondered if you needed to or could just, you know, come on my stomach or something miserably quotidian like that.”

“Dear I think we both know how to break the spell. I must fill you with so much seed there will be no way you won’t leave my bedroom not pregnant with my child.”

You were now a little scared. His voice was harsh and raspy, crazed a little. He was hiding this carefully since he arrived at the winter solstice event. He was not entirely in control of any of this. This was why he was seeking his family's help. He was desperate.

You pondered the chances you’d get pregnant. You were responsible, you were a doctor. You could have a family. An Interspecies one seemed more daunting.

You considered if it was even possible for a human and a Jötun to mate? Your mind kept searching for examples in history. Had this ever happened before? While you were thinking and not thinking, in your haze, Loki removed the rest of his clothes.

You might have looked hesitant as he spun you around and loosened the rest of your fastenings. You stepped out of your gown, leaving the satin dress pooled at your feet for a moment before he lifted you into his arms. With a snap of his fingers, Loki lit the fire in the ancient-looking eldhús before laying you back down on a pile of furs beside it.

“What about the bed...?” you looked at him, slightly confused. You thought you had it all worked out.

Loki looked amused, “Dear, after more consideration I thought we might end up breaking it.”

You were smiling at his forethought into the impact of his Jötun virility.

“I want you. Will you have me? Even if I am a frost giant?” he mumbled into your ear, gently running his fingers over your nipples and down your stomach to your sex.  

“Yes, I will have you,” you whispered back to Loki, closing your eyes.

This was ridiculous but somehow you were following your instincts as antithetical to your best interests as they were at the moment.

Loki’s long fingers quickly pushed inside your wanting body. When he pulled them out again, he delicately held a single digit to his lips, tasting you, he seemed to let go of all decorum and niceties in his euphoria.

He was going to fuck you…now.

With acrobatic ease, he pulled you on top of him, your legs strained to straddle him properly.

Loki’s cock was bewildering. As it touched your stomach, you leaned forward to grab it. Loki’s head fell backward, and he arched upwards with every stroke and flick of your wrist, winding around its massive size. Loki’s eyes met yours before he quietly spoke.

“Are you ready?”

You smiled and gulped audibly.

“Ready as I will ever be,” you leaned down over him and kissed him passionately, with no reserve. This wild adventure pulsed through your veins with enough adrenaline to jump-start a tow truck. You lifted yourself and placed his cock inside you. You could do nothing but wince for a moment, but he gave you no choice to linger. His hips quickly bucked up, you yelped, and his arms came and wrapped around you, pulling you impossibly close.

“Min kærleik,” Loki seemed to repeat endlessly into your ear as he placed his head into the crook of your neck.

“Min kærleik, not long now,” he said as you continued to ride him with all your energy.

He was slightly aware that in this heightened state, he would not be the harbinger of endless hours of pleasure, at least not at this delicate moment.

You looked down at his cock inside you, wet, gliding effortlessly. How could this man have believed he was not beautiful in this form?

“You can fill me, Loki, do it, please,” you were truly lost in the moment, a little crazy.

Then he did.

It was like when he first stepped into the hall, the silence his presence afforded, the absence of sound. The same phenomena was occurring now.

You might have only closed your eyes for a second, but that was all it took.

You looked down again at the man beneath your spent body, and suddenly he was his normal pale, tall, wiry Loki.

“LOKI.”

“What, min ást,” his eyes were still closed.

“LOKI, YOU ARE CHANGED! WE DID IT!”

Loki’s now pale blue eyes opened, a sly smile etched across his face.

“I see. Well, thank you, my dove, for your contribution to both ‘science,’ as you say on Midgard, and the hopeful continuation of the royal lineage,” his hands found your stomach and stayed there rubbing small circles.

He was suddenly a little too calm perhaps for your liking.

“Loki, aren’t you relieved that you are no longer bound to continue transforming into your Jötun form every solstice? We did it! We broke the spell!”

“Oh, we sure did, pet,” Loki said as he rolled over on his elbow.

“Now, lay back down. I’m sure there are other curses and maledictions we could eliminate,” he said as he gently pushed you under him, kissing your neck.

It was as if you had awoken from a daze.

“LOKI, you need to stop for a moment,” you looked straight into his flashing eyes.

“Whatever is it, dove?” Loki looked aghast.

“Were you lying this whole time? Was there ever a curse on you?!” you said as you pushed him off you with a thud.

Dear lord. You looked down at your still naked body. You felt his come between your legs and shivered—that bastard.

You knew it wouldn’t hurt him, but you slapped him hard enough that he winced slightly.

“You didn’t have to make an elaborate lie just to sleep with me or breed me whatever it is we’ve done! This is more monstrous behavior than being a Jötun will ever be!” Loki held your arm back from possibly slapping him again, “I didn’t lie to sleep with you! I saw you right away. We know one another, dove. You aren’t the Midgardian doctor you claim to be either.”

“Yes, I am Loki! What in the hell are you talking about!”

“Come now. You were a part of this whole diversion. You were just playing along!”

“Playing along? Loki, you came inside me!”

He was getting a little miffed. He had recognized her. When she followed him to his tower, he knew their game was on. But what if she did not know who she was? It occurred to Loki, by the distressed look on her face, that she might have no idea.

Was she the one truly under a spell? She spoke of needing a cure but didn’t say it was possibly for herself.

“Dear, please calm down. I can conjure a contraceptive potion if you do not wish to have my child finally and for this mistaken identity or amnesia situation. Pet, I think you might not know who you truly are.”

“Loki, finally have your child? We only just met.” Tears were streaming down your face.

“If it was only that simple,” Loki mused.

With a wave of his hand, he produced a large book, which must have been over a thousand pages. He thumbed through each chapter carefully while simultaneously producing a tissue for your nose.

“Ah, here.” He placed the book in your lap and pointed with his long finger at a portrait on the left page.

“See, it’s you pet.”

You wiped your eyes and scrutinized the book before looking back at Loki.

“Loki am I this Valkyrie?” your voice so shaky you could barely speak, your eyes transfixed on the image before you.

“Yes, you are none other than Brynhildr.”

Thankfully, you read the accompanying text, which happened to be in English and not Old Norse.

“It says my love was Sigurd, not you, Loki.”

“The texts were all Christianized,” Loki scoffed.

“My dear, you had many lovers. The early Christians would have tossed themselves into the fire if they had even penned half the truth of how we were back then.”

“I’m sorry you don’t remember how this happened, and I am sorrier, I don’t remember either, dove. I lost track of you. You are back, though. That much is clear.”

You closed the book with a hard slam and looked at Loki. Some part of you remembered the familiar mischief. Some part of you knew he’d tricked you before, possibly endless times.

Something was just at the cusp of your memory but was unreachable. You felt your back, perhaps for the phantom wings that should be there or once were. You looked up at Loki, still crying, eyes wide with wonder and confusion.

In between your sobs, you said quietly, “Loki, what do we do now?”