#i wanna draw her other forms too…but this is the one i did a while ago and never shared

[fleetways]

finally. the chimera baby super form

due to her particularly strong chaos powers, mira can obtain a mini super form with less than 7 emeralds. depending upon the number of emeralds, her appearance and personality can change quite drastically. this is her with either five or six.

obligatory poll link

[a-leg-without-fear]

Sweet Dreams, TN🩸🔥

shower smut with logan won the poll because of course it did. i love y'all, you horny bastards (affectionate)

Ship: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader🩸

Rating: 18+

Worcount: 4.7k words of pure sin

Warnings: cursing, shower sex, foreplay, choking, groping, fingering, grinding, biting, bloodplay, marking, Logan's dirty mouth, light dom/sub, overstimulation, unprotected p in v sex (use protection pls), uneven refractory period

Song: Sweet Dreams, TN by The Last Shadow Puppets

Hot water rained down on you from the shower head. Steam poured off your warm body, lavender soap washed away by the thin streams of water, hair plastered to your scalp and neck. A small hum came from between your closed lips. Something indistinct, a little off key, to keep your mind occupied while you rinsed off your arms.

It had been a good day in the mansion. Class went well, the students following your instruction on pinch pots to the T, hardly any children lashing out during your instruction. One of the kids, Shauna, had stayed behind after class to give you a drawing. A scribbled sketch of you, her, and a handful of other classmates drawn in colorful crayon. That had earned her a tight hug and a heartfelt thank you. The drawing was now pinned to the corkboard above your desk amongst dozens of other students’ drawings.

You loved your kids. You really, truly did. Having the good fortune of being able to teach them art was one of the best parts of your long life. Spreading the joy of artistic expression to the young folks around you, the calming aspect of coloring a sketch or the soothing feel of clay between your fingers, was what got you out of bed in the morning.

Just as you were reaching for your hair conditioner, the leaf-patterned shower curtain rustled and drew back from the wall behind you. You let out a hum of acknowledgement.

“Evening, Lo,” you said over your bare shoulder, a warm smirk turning up the corners of your lips. Your gaze was graced by the sight of a naked Logan behind you.

Warm, brown hair styled in two fluffy points, toned chest covered in dark curls, pronounced abs leading into more crisp, dark hair. You snapped your eyes back to his face to keep from staring. A cocky grin tugged on his lips.

“Hey there, doll,” he replied. Thick arms wrapped around your waist, gently tugging you backwards. Your back, covered in water droplets, collided with Logan’s chest. A breathy laugh came from your widening smile.

“Impatient, are we?” you asked teasingly. Your question was met with Logan trailing his lips up and down your exposed neck. An occasional nip with his canines here and there, scruffy beard scratching on your sensitive skin.

“You were taking too long,” Logan uttered as he nipped under your ear. Large, calloused hands began smoothing over your soaked skin. You shuddered against Logan, letting your head fall back against his broad shoulder.

“I’ve only been in the shower for ten minutes, Lo,” you breathed. You felt a puff of air brush against your neck as he huffed. 

“Still too long,” he said, snapping his teeth next to your earlobe. Logan’s hips rolled against your thighs. You could feel his half-hard cock grind between your legs. A choked moan leaked through your lips.

“Logan,” you whimpered under your breath. One of his warm hands traveled back up your body and wrapped loosely around your throat. You whined, high-pitched and needy, as your eyes fell closed.

His other hand continued its path south, smoothing water into your twitching skin, fingers pinching and teasing as they went. Sharp teeth scratched at the skin under your jaw.

“Tell me to stop and I will, doll. Don’t wanna interrupt your shower routine,” he whispered kindly into your skin. 

Your mind was utterly reeling. Consciousness split between a hand on your throat, fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip, Logan’s cock against the back of your legs, hot water pouring on your front. It was nearly impossible to form a coherent sentence with how wrecked you already felt. You cleared your throat, swallowing a knot the size of a baseball.

“All I have left is hair conditioner,” you said. Logan’s chest rumbled with a thoughtful hum. His hands retreated in their path to rest gently on your waist.

“Then don’t let me keep you,” he purred, thumbs massaging at your lowest ribs. His lazy grinding against your ass had stopped. You whined, nuzzling your nose into Logan’s stubble-covered throat.

“Please, Lo,” you uttered. You licked at the droplets of water gathering under his jaw, trying to tempt him back into touching you. Logan hummed again. His hazel eyes peered down at you.

“Once you’re done, doll. Then I’ll reward ya,” he said reassuringly. He used his shoulder to nudge you forward, practically prying your naked bodies apart. 

You huffed, frustrated and horny, as you leaned down to pick up your conditioner bottle. The white container sat mockingly in your wrinkling hand. Why should it control whether you get dicked down by the gorgeous man behind you? What right did this bottle of hair conditioner have to keep you from a good fucking?

“Staring at the conditioner ain’t gonna put it in your hair, doll,” Logan teased from behind you. You grumbled at his words, popping open the lid and squeezing the pale conditioner into your palm. You set the accursed bottle back on its shelf.

“It’s an asshole,” you said. That earned you a surprised laugh that shook Logan’s chest. The deep sound bounced off the tile walls and settled deep in your bones. A small grin pulled at your deep frown.

“And what did the bottle do to earn that title?” Logan chuckled. His thumbs continued to trace the lines of your ribs. You sighed while massaging the conditioner between your palms.

“It’s a fucking cockblock, Lo. How dare it keep your hands off me?” you griped, raising your arms to rub the conditioner into the ends of your hair. The flowery, clean scent filled the steam rising from both your and Logan’s bodies.

Logan’s fingers squeezed the soft flesh at your sides, earning a shocked yelp and an elbow to his ribs. He smirked at your response, “My hands are still on you.”

“You know what I mean,” you groused. 

Your fingers wove through your hair as you lathered the strands in cream-colored conditioner. You could just barely feel Logan’s chest brushing against your back. His hands smoothed up and down your sides, a hum of adoration slipping from his lips now and then.

When it came time to rinse your hair out, Logan’s grip on your waist tightened, keeping you from sticking your head under the water.

“Wait,” he said, hands lifting to rest on your shoulders. You cocked an eyebrow at him from over your shoulder. His brow furrowed, clearing his throat, “I�� Can I wash your hair for you?”

The pure, unadulterated affection that flowed from that question punched you in the gut like an MMA fighter. You were utterly stunned. Mouth hanging open, eyes wide, breath halted in your lungs. Logan shifted uncomfortably under your perplexed stare.

“Forget it, it’s not-”

“Yes!” you said loudly, cutting him off. He looked taken aback at your exclamation. You turned in his hold so you could face him, palms resting on his chest, “You can wash my hair, Lo. It’s just… The last thing I expected you to ask.”

“Oh,” he sighed, relieved. A small, fond grin grew across his previously grumpy expression. He used the grip on your shoulders to walk you backwards. 

You matched his movement, eyes tracing the crow’s feet around his eyes, until you felt the hot water raining from the shower head pelting your back. Your eyes squinted as water dripped from your scalp and into your face. Logan breathed a chuckle at you, then his hands traveled up your neck and buried his fingers in your hair.

An involuntary, quiet moan slinked up your throat as rough calluses scraped along your scalp. Your eyes fluttered closed. Logan’s fingers massaged between strands of soaked hair, hitting all the spots that made your eyes roll back beneath your eyelids.

“Feel good?” Logan muttered, breath fanning across your damp cheeks. His pinkies dug into a spot at the base of your skull that made your toes curl. You gnawed on your bottom lip to prevent any more embarrassing noises.

You felt the faintest brush of Logan’s lips on yours. A ghost of a feeling, like the whisper of a summer breeze. Your fingers twitched against his chest. 

“How do I know your hair’s rinsed?” he asked. The buzz of the words on his lips vibrated your own. A needy whine clawed at the base of your throat.

“Not- Not slick anymore,” was all you could murmur. Your back arched, chest pressing against his, when he started massaging at the tense muscles in your neck. Heavy, warm strokes that eased any tension remaining along your shoulders. Logan chuckled above you.

“Your hair, or your cunt?” he whispered against your chewed lips. Your thighs clenched together around nothing. Burning arousal pooled in your stomach, your spine shivering beneath your flushed skin.

“Definitely hair,” you replied, a breathless laugh leaving your clenched jaw. You felt the smirk dance on Logan’s lips against your own. His fingers pulled through your hair, ringing the last remnants of conditioner out of the soaked strands. A light groan rattled your throat as he pulled on your roots.

Satisfied with his work, Logan slipped his fingers out of your hair and placed his palms on your waist again. It took a lot of effort to open your eyes.

Some of the water showering down on you had apparently reached Logan, as his dark hair laid flat against his scalp, slicked back away from his face. Thick droplets of water dripped from his soaked beard. Fond, wrinkled eyes traced along your face.

“How’d I do?” he asked. You lifted a hand from his chest, the limb feeling a hundred pounds heavier, and felt along the ends of your hair. Perfectly rinsed. Not a spot of conditioner left. You grinned up at him.

“A plus. Top marks,” you answered. His chest rumbled with a fond hum as he pulled you tighter against his chest. Knuckles traced along your spine, the rough joints digging into your back every other vertebrae. 

“And what do I get for such a high grade?” he questioned, hands shifting from stroking your back to gripping the plush skin of your ass. A startled gasp burst from your closed lips. Your nails dug into the firm muscle that lined his chest. 

“I thought you were rewarding me?” you replied shakily. Firm, rough squeezes of Logan’s long fingers on your ass kicked the air from your lungs. You could feel your knees start to buckle.

Logan ducked his head to nip under your chin. Sloppy, open-mouthed kisses trailed along your quickly heating skin. Sharp drags of his teeth elicited quick, quiet moans from your lungs. His hot tongue trailed up the underside of your jaw and stopped just below your earlobe.

“I suppose I can make an exception this time,” he drawled in your ear, breath stirring the falling drops of water on your skin. Your hips bucked forward involuntarily. The trembling skin of your stomach rubbed against Logan’s fully hard cock. He groaned, pressing his cheek to yours, grinding his leaking tip into your abdomen.

“Logan,” you whined, nails scratching deep crescents into his skin. The grip on your ass tightened, pulling you impossibly closer to him, a deep growl rolling through his chest. Hot pants fell from his mouth as he continued to grind into you. 

The tile walls blurred as Logan spun you in his arms. Your back pinned against his chest, his cock wedged between your legs, his right arm wrapped around your throat, left hand gripping your hip. A startled moan punched its way out of your mouth.

“How many times do you think I can make you come, hotstuff? Three, four times?” he purred into your ear. The arm around your neck squeezed, choking you lightly, making your head spin. 

Gasping whimpers cascaded past your swollen lips. The heat gathering between your thighs spread through your whole body like a tidal wave. A sinful, aching need coursing through your veins. 

Logan’s fingers trailed down your stomach as he loosened his hold on your throat. The room around you swam amongst a sea of clouded desire. Your breath came back to you in brief spurts, your chest heaving and legs trembling.

“Hmm. Guess we’ll have to find out,” Logan said, then nipped at your earlobe while his middle finger traced a lazy circle around your clit. Your head flew back against his shoulder. Electric shocks of bliss radiated from where he rubbed at your bundle of nerves.

“God, fuck! Logan!” you exclaimed through clenched teeth. He placed a firm kiss beneath the hinge of your jaw. Your mind was short circuiting. It felt like your entire existence was focused on Logan’s fingers rubbing and pinching and lightly scratching at your clit. Your knees threatened to give out. You clawed at the arm wrapped around your neck.

“That’s a good girl. Shh, you’re being so good,” he breathed into your skin. Rough grunts filled your ear as he continued to grind against your ass. 

He shifted his hand, his palm digging into your clit as his fingers stroked up and down your folds. You squirmed in his tight hold. Nails scratching at the skin of his forearm, pinpricks of blood left in your scrabbling wake. Logan pressed his lips to your temple.

“I’ve got you, doll,” he whispered, breath stirring the hair along your forehead. 

The pressure from the heel of Logan’s palm lessened as his middle finger pushed inside you. Rough skin and bony knuckles hit every single nerve ending. The stretch of his finger was absolutely exquisite. Not nearly enough to dull the burning need inside you, but filling you just enough to leave you panting and wanting more.

He brushed the pad of his fingertip against that spongy spot inside you. White stars dotted along the edges of your blurred vision. Euphoria poured into your veins like a raging waterfall. The loud moan that threatened to escape your lips was cut off as Logan squeezed his arm, choking you. Your eyes rolled back in your head again.

The sensation of his finger sliding in and out of you was only intensified by the vice he had on your throat. Soft-edged pleasure filled your mind with nothing but Logan. His fingers on and inside you, his warm breath on your temple, his cock grinding against you.

He added his pointer finger on the next push inside you. You stretched around the digits, arousal coating them in slick. Logan grunted in your ear.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned. The grip on your throat lessened once again, humid air filling your strained lungs. His fingers glided inside you and brushed that spot, making you keen and whimper, then slid back out. 

A quick, brutal pace was set as he fingered you. Heel of Logan’s palm grinding against your clit, fingers pistoning in your cunt, arm squeezing and choking your neck. All you could do was cling to his forearm for dear life. That knot in your core twisted and churned with every shove of his fingers inside you. Unbridled ecstasy coated your bloodstream, shoving you further and further under the brutal waves drowning you with pleasure.

An enormous wave threatened to crash over you. The knot tightened, your breath hitched, your knees gave out. Logan cradled you against his chest as he continued to finger-fuck you. Delicate praise whispered through gritted teeth filtered through your swirling senses. You distantly thought of how lucky it was that Logan could support your entire weight, seeing as your legs no longer functioned.

The brief, wandering thought was quickly shoved from your mind when Logan added his ring finger inside you. Three thick, long digits fucking into you at a brutal pace. Every shove inside you brushing against the spot that held you beneath those waves. Warm, honeyed pleasure filled your lungs. That tidal wave crested over your helpless body. Your cunt clenched around Logan’s fingers. You felt a feral grin spread over the lips pressed to your temple.

“That’s it. Come for me, sugar,” Logan grunted into your ear. With one final squeeze around your throat, the wave came crashing down on top of you.

World-encompassing rapture flooded your senses. Violent swells of utter euphoria crashed into you, over and over again. Your mind exploded into fractured glass, your lungs stuttered behind your ribs, your eyes screwed shut. Loud, choked moans threatened to break through the barrier Logan built with his arm locked around your throat.

You barely felt alive. The destruction and devastation that lay in the wake of your climax left you shivering in Logan’s arms. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, your chest heaved when the vice around your neck loosened, your fingers gripping limply at Logan’s arm.

But he didn’t let up. He kept pounding into you at the same brutal pace, palm slapping wetly against your clit. You squirmed in his hold. Desperate pleas fell from your lips. You clawed and scraped at his forearm.

“Lo- I can’t- I- Logan, please,” you begged. Logan nipped at your hairline, shifting the arm around your throat down to grip around your waist, holding you flush against him.

“You can, doll. You can give me one more,” he said, biting at the column of your neck. The grinding of his cock on your ass ceased as he focused entirely on dragging you into another orgasm. You writhed against his chest, a sob rattling inside your chest.

The growing wave above you climbed higher and higher. Every pound inside you sent ripples of sharp heat coursing through your body. It was nearly nauseating, how quick the knot built up in your core. Almost painful how the surges of pleasure overtook your dazed mind.

Your orgasm rocked through you like a kick to the chest. Choked sobs wracked your trembling body, splashes of rapture coating your lungs and throat, leaving you a shaking and blubbering mess. Incoherent strings of curses and Logan’s name fell from your gaped mouth.

It seemed Logan had taken pity on you, as he withdrew his hand from between your thighs. A strained, relieved sigh broke through the incomprehensible noises and words streaming from your lips. He placed chaste kisses along the side of your face.

“Shhh, good girl. That’s my good girl,” Logan murmured against your temple. He rubbed soothing circles into your oversensitive skin. Heavy pants heaved out of you. The floor swayed beneath you, jets of hot water beating at you like hail on a window.

You gulped the steam-filled air into your lungs. Electric aftershocks made you shudder at each brush of Logan’s fingers on your body or his lips on your neck. The room around you returned to your vision in bits and pieces. White tiles lined in gray grout, yellow shower curtain decorated in painted leaves, silver handles and shower head, white hair conditioner bottle sitting on a clear plastic shelf.

“H-Holy shit, Lo,” you gasped. You felt a proud smile cross the lips pressed against your jaw. The arm tucked along your waist smoothed up and down your stomach. Gentle glides of his palms and fond kisses along your neck cleared the cloud that filled your mind. 

“Back with us?” he asked, setting you down on your unsteady feet. He held you upright as you found your footing on the slick shower floor. 

“Yeah. I think so,” you said as you turned to face Logan. As soon as your chest was pressed to his, a warm hand tucked under your chin and brought your lips to his. Gentle, sweet, relaxed. His tongue passed through your lips and licked into your pliant mouth. A light sigh escaped your throat and slipped between you.

“We can pause for a bit,” he whispered as he pulled back. A touch of concern furrowed between his dark brows. His thumb ran along your chin as he searched your eyes for hesitancy.

“No need,” you said, throwing him a lopsided smile as you carded your fingers through his drenched hair. You looped your arms around his shoulders, “I’m good to go. Wreck me all you want.”

The same feral grin you felt against your temple stretched across Logan’s lips. Sharp canines bared, eyes wide and looking at you like you were dinner. Excitement reawakened the arousal that had subsided in your abdomen.

Logan’s large hands scooped under your thighs and slammed your back against the slippery tile wall, your legs wrapping around his hips, as his mouth crashed into yours. His cock grinded into your oversensitive folds, flushed tip brushing at your clit. High, airy moans filtered from your throat and into the space your mouths shared. Your fingers buried themselves in his drenched hair.

A low growl left Logan’s chest when you tugged at his roots. His hips snapped forward, fingers digging into thick flesh, crisp hair at the base of his cock scraping the inside of your thighs.

“Shit, Lo, please just fuck me already,” you whined into his open mouth. Your hips moved in rhythm with Logan’s, desperation beginning to claw at your throat. Scalding waves of needneedneed coated your body in thick honey. 

Water cascaded down your bodies as Logan angled his hips to line up with your entrance. Anticipation burned away at your nerve endings.

The slow push inside, stretching and straining your soaked cunt to the limit, thick cock brushing against every bump and ridge. Your back bowed off the tile wall, pain and pleasure making an intoxicating concoction between your thighs. Blunt nails scraped at Logan’s shoulders. 

When, at last, he was fully sheathed inside you, he paused to allow you to adjust. His hazel eyes remained locked with yours, fingers squeezing at the skin along your thighs, gasping breath mingling with yours. 

He released his hold on one of your legs and directed you to bear your own weight. Your other leg remained hiked up over his hip. His forearm rested on the tile by your head as he leaned over you. The change in position drove him impossibly deeper inside you. Your eyes squeezed shut as you moaned.

“Ah- fuck, doll. Good?” Logan grunted next to your ear. You nodded, fingers burying themselves deeper in his hair. 

He tightened his grip on your leg as he pulled out. The slick glide overpowered your mind, sparks igniting on the edges of your vision. Logan wasted no time before thrusting back inside you to the hilt. A sharp groan shot out of your lips. His mouth crashed into yours as he set a slow, grinding pace. Hips barely leaving the inside of your thighs before rutting his cock against that spot inside you. 

“Sh-it!” you whined into Logan’s mouth. Every slow pull along your walls knocked the breath from your lungs. The skin above his cock, firm with taut muscle, rubbed at your aching clit. Shockwaves of pleasure centered on your cunt ricocheted through your body. 

You wouldn’t last long. Not with the remnants of your two previous orgasms hanging over you like a dense fog. You felt submerged in an ocean of sin. Dancing sunlight filtering through roaring waves above your head. Deep blue surrounding you on all sides. Thick, molasses leaden desire filling your lungs and making you gasp.

Logan’s teeth scraped at the skin above the artery in your neck. Canines digging into the flesh and drawing small droplets of blood. The arm he had braced above your head tangled in your freshly washed hair. He tilted your head to drink from the wine your body willingly provided.

This orgasm didn’t wash over you, it yanked. Grabbing you by the ankles and pulling your feet out from under you, sending you careening into a void of white hot ecstasy that coated you like black ink. 

“Fuck, yes, that’s a good girl,” Logan groaned against your throat as he withdrew from your cunt. Before you could blink you were spun in place, chest pressed against the tiled wall, knee hiked up by Logan’s hand. 

Tremors from your climax still rattled your joints as he pushed back inside you. His chest pressing into your back, lips wrapping around the cut in your neck, hand not supporting your leg squeezing at your breast. Rough fingers rolled your nipple between callused pads.

You could barely breathe after Logan started pounding into you. Cock ramming into you so hard you knew you’d walk funny for a week. Your hands scratched helplessly at the white tile. His teeth scraped at the thin skin under your ear, grunts thick with pleasure bouncing off the wall in front of you. You reached a hand over your shoulder and threaded your fingers in his hair, holding his mouth to your throat.

“B-Bite me, Lo. Mark me,” you breathed. He needed no further encouragement. His sharp canines pierced your skin and dug into your veins. You cried out at the intrusion in your flesh. Fresh, hot blood leaked from the bites and into Logan’s waiting mouth. You felt his breath hitch against your neck.

“God, vampire. I- fuck!” he panted. The hand holding your leg squeezed bruises into your thigh, the beginnings of painted blues and purples covering your flushed skin. Logan’s hips stuttered against your thighs. You could feel his chest heaving. It seemed the relentless fucking was absolutely destroying you both.

The large hand playing with your breast slipped between your thighs. Lazy, distracted circles rubbed into your overstimulated clit. You lurched against Logan’s chest. Head falling back on his broad shoulder, fingers squeezing damp hair, hips bucking to match his steadily slowing thrusts. 

A jagged groan stirred against your throat as Logan came undone, cock buried deep and spilling inside you. His heavy head fell to your shoulder. Heaving breaths gusted from his lips and blew the remaining water droplets off your heated skin. 

You only had a moment to breathe before he rubbed at your clit with new fervor. Cock still within your cunt, release leaking out of you and down your legs, teeth nipping at the underside of your jaw. 

“Gimme one more. C’mon, vampire. You can do it,” Logan said. He licked up the streams of blood spilling from the cuts in your neck. Your head spun, lungs feeling far too empty, cunt pulsing around his softening cock.

An explosion of stabbing, almost painful euphoria burst from your core and burned the rest of your body. Rubble crashed into your skin, fire burned at your senses, smoke filled your already heaving lungs. Your vision blacked out as your climax wiped your mind clean. 

You felt like you were drifting on a raft in a lazy river. Cool water ushering your limp body down a calm stream. An occasional wave rocking the raft to and fro. Warm sun streaming through breaks in the trees and heating your skin.

A light caress on your cheek broke you from your revere. Your eyelids peeled open, blurry gaze focusing on an incredibly hazy Logan sitting in front of you. When did you end up on the floor?

“There you are,” he said, breathing a small sigh of relief. You were both sprawled out on the floor of the shower. Logan must have shut off the water at some point as the steady stream wasn’t bouncing off the white tiles. Your tired gaze flitted over Logan’s seated body.

He was still naked. That much was delightfully obvious. Remnants of water from the shower head dripped from his soaked hair and down his face. Hazel eyes inspected your exhausted body from head to toe.

“Hey,” you mumbled, a weak smile gracing your lips. You felt utterly drained. It took everything in you to keep your eyes open and your head up. 

“Hey. You alright?” Logan replied while moving to kneel in front of you. Warm fingers brushed against the sides of your face. You gave him a tired nod. “Yeah, I’m good,” you said. Logan pressed a brief kiss into your hairline. You hummed in response, “Don’t know what I did to warrant all that, though.”

Logan breathed out a chuckle, “Nothing special. Just couldn’t deal with you getting all hot and wet without me.”

You weakly slapped him in the stomach. The attack was met with an amused sigh and another kiss to your forehead. A whisper of “asshole” left your reluctantly smiling lips.

i have been writing this for a solid eight hours now. enjoy

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[jazzyblusnowflake]

(If this was asked before, I swear to god.) FullCompany (NUziVJ) Headcannons?

aaaaaaaaa time to write once more- i missed being able to type away like the lil shit i am-

anyhow- okay lets see- gonna add some things here- tbh my ideas was mostly for Jenvy ideas mainly- but i guess ill fit Uzi in there lol

Some JeNVUzi HCs:

[once again- Drone au only, and maybe minor suggestive content but not nsfw]

The polycule is essentially formed around Uzi pulling them back together-

J's original reason for siding with Cyn which was rooted in fear- was on the basis that she still had her team on her side so she could keep them safe and so theyd have eachother to rely on even after Cyn destroys everything. she did not however, account for Uzi coming along and messing everything up and ruining her team's alignment while she was "dead".

the entire reason J tried to kill N or V at any time was cuz she knew a clone of them would be sent back anyway- she has basically become desensitized towards death in general given she had also died around 12 times herself [canon]- V and N try to help her through this- during which they also deal with Vs behavior and Ns trauma too.

to communicate with J they often had to spar with her- seeing as she hated talking about feelings- but this became their own thing they all did afterwards to unwind and communicate- as J opened up a lot easier after feeling like she was reached out to.

Uzi and J bond over anime and gaming- the latter being somewhere J could actually use her anger on more effectively XD

they all like reading books every now and then where one would read and the others snuggle or cuddle- they take turns. [this is from their manor days]

J is... unable to emote or show emotion easily and it eats her alive. she can't show the appropriate needed emotion to the mood of the room and it makes her have breakdowns- occasionally throw up- as though you are desperately trying to cry but the tears wont come so you try heaving it out- make yourself fit in and look normal by trying to FEEL something- but she cant. J is a dated business model drone- custom made for office work- she was made to be this way- Cyn didn't change her- and she grows to hate herself for it. so when a situation happens that she doesn't know how to react, she leaves or hides- until N,V or Uzi find her- usually disassociating or somewhat catatonic.

Uzi occasionally feels out of place with the group, as though she's just being a literal 4th wheel, since they have history together. the others try to show her that she is important to them each in their own ways-

addressing the elephant in the room- yes, it took a long time for N and J to come to terms with eachother- J eventually accepting that her original reason for hating N [him being better than her or preferred over her esp by Tessa] wasn't important anymore- and tries to appreciate him and V and Uzi more in whatever is left of her life.

make no mistake V and J are still very much bitchy on a surface level- just cuz they are all growing close does not mean they are all now lovey dovey with eachother or sweet and character-redemption-ed with everyone around them. therefore: "playful catfights" >:3 !

V and Uzi tease J alot- this is one of the reasons why J found more comfort with N- not gonna tell him to his face tho lol.

J teaches N to draw better and they bond over that alot-

Uzi and J like attention alot- and they wanna get it by being as wordless as possible- very cat coded.

Uzi, V and N like to drag J into doing more normal things that have less to do with work. so far J has mostly shown some interest in writing and maybe poetry but she WILL shoot your head off if you try to read her stuff-

J's first kiss was with Uzi- N and V having kissed once back at the manor being eachothers first kiss. J thinks V kisses the best tho lol.

N and V like to cuddle a lot- J and Uzi are usually dependent on mood-

V likes to bite- J likes to be bitten, N and Uzi like both- :3

J likes playing with N and Uzi's fluffy hair. V only lets N touch her hair.

during intimate cuddles- J has passed out the most lol. Uzi following a close second lol-

Uzi and J yap alot about tech work-

hmm this is all i can think about for NOW-

:"3

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Seventeen: brick by brick

tw: none

“So… we talking about Marco and Andrei, or…?”

Simon’s neck hurts. Painfully tense muscles plague him from spending the last handful of nights sleeping on the couch rather than in his bed. It’s a symptom of your skittish tendencies, he supposes. You’re still keeping an awkward distance from him, which he knows he can’t entirely blame you for. It’s a lot to soak in; his job, and the things he’s done, the things everyone has been hiding from you. You’re still talkative—at least, not any less than usual—but you’re hiding. Drawing away in order to make sense of this new mess that you’ve found yourself in. 

So, he gives you the bed—and your space. 

Rubbing at the back of his neck with rigid fingers, Simon swivels in the computer chair next to Johnny. If he’s lucky, he can work the knots out before they root deep enough to form a migraine. Tight tendons pull at the base of his skull, and they don’t seem to want to relent. The dim incandescence of the security room helps stave off the beast, but the question posed to him only pokes the bear. 

“What’s there to talk about?” Simon’s playing dumb. Even the mere thought of Marco is enough to make his brain throb uncomfortably within the confines of his skull. He’d rather snuff this conversation out before it ignites. 

“Aye, I see,” Johnny hums. He eyes the handful of monitors in front of him before spinning around in his chair. “So, we’re pretending I never saw anything on the cams?” 

“Would appreciate it,” Simon huffs. His hand falls away from his neck as he tilts his head to either side. There’s a sharp click! that accompanies the movement, followed by a sigh. “Don’t need this gettin’ out, yeah? I promised her that I’d keep it between us.” 

Johnny nods. “So, I suppose you wanna keep Price in the dark too?” 

The reply that burns the tip of Simon’s tongue hardly seems to come from a sound mind. Lie to John Price? The John Price? As if his family hasn’t been known for snuffing out undesirables for generations—for keeping the streets safe for those who would otherwise be crushed under steel toed boots? The same boot you’re currently pinned under? He thinks back to the other day, and the tears that pooled in your eyes; the fracturing of your voice as you all but begged him not to tell John. 

Or worse—Aelin. 

How did his allegiance switch so abruptly? So violently that an omission of truth suddenly comes easy if he does it for you? 

“Don’t mention it to anyone. Price included,” Simon confirms. 

Johnny is a good man. An honest one. So much so that his discomfort manifests in the minute clenching of his jaw at the thought of telling such a lie. “Is she safe at least?” 

Safe. Simon thinks about it. You. curled up in his bed wearing nothing but a plain t-shirt, burrowed beneath heaps of blankets. You’ve been sleeping non-stop lately, like you’ve got a deficit you’re attempting to catch up on. Though you owe a debt to Marco, you owe a larger debt to yourself and your abused body and mind. He lets you curl up like a cat and nap the days and nights away, because if you’re comfortable enough to sleep around him, then that must mean something. 

Something good. 

“She’s stayin’ with me,” Simon shares. “Probably will be for a while.” 

“Ah.” Johnny’s chair squeaks as he leans back. “So… you two official, then?”

Simon pauses, head tilting to the side. “You’re a funny man.” 

A cheeky remark flits across Johnny’s tongue, but the words are lost on Simon’s ears. His phone buzzes in the pocket of his jeans, and his heart skips a beat. There’s no hesitation in retrieving his phone and allowing the screen to illuminate his face with a text message from you. 

i’m learning new tricks (: 

Your message is quickly followed by a picture. You’ve captured an image of the string you always play cat’s cradle with, laid out flat on the coffee table in his living room. It’s in a design he doesn’t recognize. The form is fuzzy without fingers holding it taut, but he’s still able to make out the lattice-like rectangle that swirls in the photo. 

it looks better when i’m actually holding it. fun to do!

Simon tries to hide his smile. 

Looks great sweetheart. 

A playful scoff pulls Simon’s attention away from his phone. He looks up just in time to catch the tail end of Johnny’s rolling eyes before he twists his chair back around to look at the monitors. 

“Ay, right. I’m the funny one,” he mutters, sarcasm dripping from his words. 

Another message from you has him ignoring the man. 

it’s called jacob’s ladder

Simon has to blink several times in order to clear his vision. He rereads your message, convinced he’s seeing it wrong, but nothing changes. Each word is still the same—all the way down to the name. 

Didn’t know they had string versions of that. 

It’s impossible for him to hide his mirth. That sly chuckle that seeps from his chest as he stares at the screen, waiting for your response. Simon is a simple man. He likes his jokes, no matter how debauched they are. 

i don’t get it

Somehow, he’s not surprised. His fingers hover over the screen as he contemplates his answer. 

I’ll tell you when you’re older. 

Muffled music swells to a crescendo, only to quickly diminish into a hush as the door swings open and closed again. John Price enters the room with broad shoulders swaying, but it’s impossible for him to hide his exhaustion. He’s jetlagged. Enervation gnaws at the heels of his feet as he strides into the room, bags pulling at his eyes. Still, he manages a smile as Johnny swivels around to greet the boss. 

“Evening boys.” Despite his weariness, his voice is as gruff and sonorous as usual.

“Missed you, boss,” Johnny teases. “How was your holiday?” 

“Warm,” John chuckles. 

“Looks like you got a bit of color, too,” Simon notes. 

Laughing, John rubs the tip of his rosy nose. He pretends not to notice the slight peeling of his skin. “Like I said; warm. Warm, sunny, and a hell of a lot better than London in December.” 

For a short moment, his eyes flicker to the rows of monitors behind Johnny. Black and white footage of clubbers dancing illuminate the tight space of the room. The building is packed, almost alarmingly so, full to the brim of tired uni students with nothing better to do over their break as they dance the night away as the New Year approaches. 

“And you boys? Got some good R&R, I hope,” John asks, arms crossing over his chest. 

“Oh, you know me,” Johnny sighs. His fingers buzz, tapping his knees like he’d rather be clacking away at a keyboard than having this conversation. 

“Oh, I do,” John chuckles. “No broken nose this year though, yeah?” 

“Not yet,” he grins. 

“Of course. And you, Simon?” 

His phone buzzes just as the attention is turned on him, but he doesn’t dare look down at his screen. Instead, he nods as he adjusts himself on the faux plastic leather seats of the office hair. 

“Yeah. Good. Manchester was cold as hell, but we survived,” he explains cooly. 

“Chip like it?” John continues. 

“Her and Joey got along well,” Simon humors. 

“And your brother? Doing well?” 

He nods. “Happiest I’ve ever seen ‘im.” 

This feels like an interrogation. An uncomfortable insight into his life that he usually doesn’t offer up willingly. For a moment, Simon’s guilty conscience gets the better of him—has him feeling as thin as cellophane, and he nearly melts under the heat until he realizes John’s looking at him the same way he did all those years ago in that pool house.  Hidden away in the locker room, offering him a job. Earnest and amicable. 

This is the furthest thing from an interrogation. It’s rapport building. This is the man who has sent him to break jaws to keep children safe and spill blood over the smallest of cuts on women. John’s known you much longer than Simon has, and he’s simply checking in on the very man he helped save all those years ago. Muscles melting, Simon allows himself to take a proper breath. 

“Glad to hear he’s keeping clean,” John praises. “Either of you heard from Kyle?” 

Johnny chuckles. “Nothin’ but moaning and groaning. Still hungover from his night out with Lucy. Fucking lightweight.” 

“Surprised they gave her Christmas off,” John muses. “Last I remember, the hospital stiffed her with having to work every holiday, and then some.” 

Halfway through his sentence, John’s phone begins to buzz. Loud, obnoxious, incessant—a phone call. His sigh is heavy and tense as he retrieves the item from his pocket. His thumb nearly goes to ignore it until he reads the ID at the top of the screen. 

“Wife calling you home?” Johnny teases. 

“We’ll see,” he chuckles. 

His laughter dies in his throat the moment he answers the call and he hears Aelin sobbing on the other end. 

The world continues to rage around them as the room falls into silence. Aelin’s wailing cuts through the air like ice, bouncing off the walls like her voice is nothing more than a toy to be tossed around. Johnny and Simon share a look—wide eyes framed by furrowed brows—while John attempts to calm her. His head dips as his free hand rubs at the back of his neck; a stress response Simon has rarely seen in the man. 

There are a few words that cut through the static of the call, each of them framed by blood curdling cries: 

John—please—I can’t do this—not again—I can’t—

There’s an attempt made at diffusing the situation. Of gently cooing into the phone, of asking what’s wrong, but nothing calms her. It’s all tears and painful laments that he can’t seem to quell coupled with sharp hyperventilation. John doesn’t bother to give either of the boys a second glance before he’s ducking back out the door. Music swells, then quickly dies. Neither of them speak. They just sit in their chairs with Aelin’s cries echoing in their minds. 

“The last time I heard her cry like that was when her ex-fiance cheated on her,” Johnny mumbles to himself. He pauses as he looks at Simon—he’s still staring at the door. “Think everything’s alright?” 

“Yeah,” Simon responds after a pause. “If not, we’ll know soon.” 

His tone is even—strong and unwavering—but the truth is, Simon hates the sound of crying. It makes his teeth ache as if he’s scraped his fingernails on a chalkboard. He’s reminded of his mother. Even after all these years, her screams haunt him as she braces for the unforgiving impact of a closed fist against her face. He sees her crumpled form on the kitchen floor, a trembling hand covering her eye. 

It reminds him of himself as a child. Pathetic pules and sputtering echoing off the bathroom walls as he begs and screams. High pitched and prepubescent. Water sloshing. Feet kicking. His father always hated the sound of him—every sniffle, every blubber, every cough—and he eventually grew to hate it too until even the sound of his own breathing infuriated him. 

Worst of all, it reminds him of you. In the midst of your trashed apartment, hardly able to get a full breath in, tears streaming down your face—terrified. Prattling. Rambling. Hit with an unforgiving concoction of grief and fear; his stomach churns at the mere memory of you trembling against him. 

Pushing it out of his mind, Simon brings his attention back to his phone—back to you. Everything melts away—Aelin’s cries, the music pounding just beyond the door—and for a moment it’s just him and the notification flashing on his screen. 

i just googled it. the ribbon and woodblock toy, right? jacob’s ladder? i forgot those existed haha

It’s past three in the morning by the time he gets home. You’ve left the kitchen light on for him. He doesn’t know why, but that makes his heart wrench. 

You’re the first thing he checks on. He doesn’t even bother to take his shoes off at the door. The very moment the deadbolt latches behind him, he’s peeking into the bedroom through the gap in the door. Snug, you’re buried under his comforter, head hardly visible as you burrow your face into the pillow. For a moment, he stands there and watches you with nothing but a sliver of light seeping through the doorway to illuminate you. 

Safe. Comfortable. Sleeping. 

Retreating away from the door, Simon hides himself away in the living room. He’s forgotten to lay out clothes to change into, and he curses the idea of sleeping in his jeans as he sinks into the couch, but he’d rather that than disturb your sleep. The cushions are flattened. Morphed into the shape of his body after a near week of using it as a makeshift bed. A jolt of electricity shoots through his neck as if his body is already anticipating the ache. 

He tosses his arm over the back of the couch as he mindlessly flips through programs on the television. Usually, he’s able to sleep without white noise, but these days it’s hard to get any rest at all. There’s money to save up, debts to pay. A sharp pang echoes throughout his knuckles. It throbs like a heart quivering with memory, and he attempts to quell it by flexing his fingers. It’s a symptom of a larger beast. Of something that demands blood—thirsty for penance. 

An eye for an eye. 

He’s satiated this type of reprobate before, and he’ll do it again in due time. 

Anything for you. 

A nature documentary is Simon’s choice of white noise for the night. Auburn fur blurs on the screen as a red fox bounds along the environs of lush woodlands. Its thin snout pokes up in the air where a wet nose dances with short and sharp inhales. Simon smiles as the narrator—a man with an overly posh accent—drones on about the critter’s life. 

As he goes to place the remote on the coffee table, he spots a piece of string. It’s tied in a circle, just about as long as his forearm. Worn fibers fray with years of use, yet it still holds strong—well loved. Curious, he picks it up. He thinks about the pictures you sent him that evening, and how proud you were of the new trick you learned. 

How your first instinct was to tell him about it. 

Careful fingers wrap the string around his own hands as he sets up a round of cat’s cradle. It’s easy enough—a simple slip of his middle fingers—but he doesn’t know how to continue. Hazy memories attempt to surface in his mind as he thinks of your hands. How your fingers moved and danced to manipulate the string so effortlessly. Practiced to the point you can do it without proper thought.

He tries to move his thumbs. It’s what he recalls you doing, anyway. Weave them between thin lines of string until it feels firm and secure. 

When he drops his pinkies, he’s left with nothing but a knot. 

“Si?”

He doesn’t hear you approach—doesn’t hear the squeak of the bedroom door or the creak of the floorboards—you appear like an angel swathed in the light of the TV. Freshly woken and rubbing your eyes, he wants to lay you down. Needs to pull thick blankets over your body and let you get the rest you deserve. It’s an odd urge to feel; one he doesn’t quite understand. Instead, he pulls the string off of his fingers and places it back on the table where he found it. 

“Did I wake you?” he asks. 

Your prostration temporarily clouds your mind, forcing your brows to furrow at his question. He watches as you mull his words over in your mind, then shake your head. 

“No.” The fox on screen begins to cry out some melancholic tune neither of you can decipher, and still your eyes don’t leave Simon. You stare at him for so long he begins to question the state of your consciousness. “Will you come to bed with me?” 

Simon has to bite his tongue to keep his response from spewing out of his mouth too quickly. His hands reach for the remote where he kills power to the TV. A stillness stretches between the two of you—you swear you can hear him breathe. 

“Course.” 

Eager to get out of his jeans, Simon shucks them off in favor of sweatpants while you mindlessly climb back into bed. He’s hardly able to settle in next to you before you’re clamoring for him. Hands paw at his chest as you nuzzle against his side—he would chuckle if it didn’t make his heart swell to the point of bursting. Arm wrapped around you, he holds you close as he drags the blankets up where he tucks them underneath your chin. 

As you mumble quiet goodnights to one another, and your body goes still, Simon can’t help but think he could die like this. With you in his arms. With you here at his house leaving lights on for him to come home to. Sending him texts while he’s at work. Pictures of things you’re proud of; of things that make you happy. Perhaps that’s what he’s been missing all these years—someone to take care of. 

Or, maybe it’s just you. God, he could die like this—

—but really, he’d rather live like this. 

When morning dawns, and pale light seeps through the curtains, Simon is awoken by gentle fingers. Convinced he’s dreaming, he revels in the feeling. Nails carefully ghost the line of stubble on his jaw, working up, up, up into his hair, weaving between the short strands and rubbing into his scalp. He’s reminded of the way his mother used to wash him up as a child. Too scared to fit into the tub; leaning over the side instead as she rinses his hair clean of suds. 

Refusing to stir, he lays there for a while longer. It would be a lie to say he hasn’t had an appetency for this; for you. Your warmth against his side and your head on his chest, just like things were back in Manchester. That strange longing still has a hold on him. This strange affliction that not even sleep can shake off. It haunts him. Curls up tight at the side of his feet and sits with him like a cat that’s suddenly decided that his body is its home now. 

“You’re awake,” you note. 

He allows his eyes to flutter open when you speak, and his chest expands with a tired sigh. “Am I?” 

Movement ceasing, your fingers leave his hair and Simon almost reaches for you to put them back. “Your heartbeat changed,” you explain. 

Even the mere mention of it has his heart racing. You’ve been listening to it for quite some time this morning, counting each slow and steady beat as it drums against your cheek. It quickened the moment you started to caress the side of his face, lulling him back into the waking world. For a moment, it made you feel powerful; being able to change the beating heart of another person. 

“What time is it?” Simon asks. You feel his legs shift, long limbs stretching the morning ache out. 

“Dunno,” you admit. “Early.” 

“You’re not a very good watch,” he playfully grumbles. 

“Tick tock.” Things are quiet for a moment as you adjust yourself, head nuzzling further against his ribs as if you won’t be happy until you’re burrowed inside of his chest. “Were you playing with my string last night?” 

He’s glad you can’t see the odd smirk on his lips. “Was tryin’ to figure out how you play cat’s cradle by yourself.” 

You hum. “I meant what I said, you know. About teaching you.” 

Your words set off a reaction within him consisting of flexing arms and a fluttering heart. He pulls you closer, and he swears his breathing nearly ceases when he feels you melt into him. 

“Think I’d just like to lay here for now, sweetheart.”

So you do. Together. Your body lays heavy on the mattress as it holds you in place while Simon’s warmth radiates into your bones until you’re sure you’ll dissolve. You stay there laying next to him until the sun’s light transforms from a pale yellow to a glorious gold. Manna hangs heavy in the air as Simon’s thumb begins to gently caress the side of your waist—absentmindedly and sweet. 

This quiet moment ends by the fault of your stomach. It churns and protests with a pathetic growl, and despite how muted it is, Simon still hears it. Staying as still as humanly possible, you pray he doesn’t mention it—that he can allow himself to rest for just a bit longer—but of course, he stirs. 

Simon cradles your head with his palm as he moves you to the side, torso leaving the bed as he sits up, and you whine. It’s an unfamiliar sound that leaves your lips; this pathetic whimpering. It’s enough to get him to pause for a moment, body twisting as he gives you his full attention. He rests your head down on the mattress but he doesn’t retract his hand. 

“What?” he questions.

There’s a tight pull at the corner of his lips, and you’re suddenly aware of just how close he is. Hovering over you, fingers pressed into the back of your skull, his eyes locked on yours. Staring up at him, your tongue goes dry as you try to think of a response. How are you supposed to tell him he’s the first comfort you’ve felt that didn’t suffocate you? That removing yourself from him is like tearing a bandaid from your skin—epidermis removing with it? 

“Don’t go.” It’s hardly above a whisper. A susurrus that almost fails to drift through the air. 

He chuckles and it’s deep. His voice in the morning is always rough. “Gotta eat at some point today.” 

But he doesn’t move. 

Simon’s looking at you. Really looking at you. Not just into your eyes, but he’s soaking up the way the light filters through your eyelashes and the pressure indents on your cheek from sleeping. You find yourself doing the same thing; tracing every single faded scar that decorates his face and the subtle curve of his nose. His lips press together just as his thumb brushes along the apple of your cheek. You’re frozen. Forever caught in this moment. 

“Gorgeous.” 

The word leaves Simon’s lips without permission, but he doesn’t retract it. He isn’t ashamed of it, either. He refuses to play it off and be coy—he continues to caress your cheek, and you wonder if he can feel the heat brewing inside of you. Firing synapses, blood superheating to the point of sublimation—can he feel it? The way you crumble? How you melt beneath his touch? 

They say Rome was destroyed within a single day, but you know that’s not the case. Like all things, its destruction was systematic. Timed and viscerally demanded. Rome was destroyed the same way all things are—brick by brick. 

Simon takes you apart the same way with this kiss—brick by aching brick. His lips press against yours, setting you ablaze as if he’s lighting you for your immolation. Like he’s trying to burn you away until you’re nothing but ash and cinder. It’s heavy, but soft. A weight so unfamiliar yet it feels like home. It’s simple. Blithe. He neither gives nor takes with this kiss; he only speaks. 

You try to speak back as your lips perk against his, jaws gently moving in sync. It’s an insurmountable task. How are you supposed to pour out all the words you wish to speak into this single union? How can it be possible to convey to him that this is the first kiss that has not ripped you to shreds? How do you explain that you’re trembling out of ardor instead of fear? 

For once, love doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt, and it tastes like stale cigarettes. 

Simon’s shaped your lips into a shy smile by the time he pulls away. Still hovering over you, he brushes a kiss against your forehead. 

“Breakfast?” he asks, muttering the word into your skin. 

He kisses you, and instead of talking about money—like you’re so painfully used to—he speaks of food. Of sharing a quiet moment with you. You don’t know why, but you want to cry. The pressure builds behind your eyes, but instead of crying, you laugh.

For once, everything is quiet. There is nothing but Simon’s soft breath against your skin, and the pounding of your own heart. Your fingers do not twitch. They do not yearn for string. 

Only for him. 

“Yeah,” you smile. “Breakfast sounds good.”

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[nakylvr]

WAIT Mean Dom! megan with trans masc reader. RIDING HIS STRAP FJKHSFSFJDHKHSJKFD and whimpering and degrading him in his ear UHG im obsessed with my brain holy shit

-👅

god...yes...your brain is so big. this is so short but i had to write something up 🙏

warnings/tags: nsfw content, language, established relationship, tmasc!reader, mean dom!megan, sub!reader, choking, cumming untouched, not proofread

minors dni

"c'mon, you can do better than that, can't you?"

megan's eyes bore into you as she rides your strap, her hands resting on your shoulders while you stare up at her with big eyes. you could barely remember what she even asked of you, too enthralled by the way she rocks against you and how beautiful she looks like this even when talking lowly of you. "god, you can't do anything, can you?"

"huh?" you look up at her with curious eyes. "n-no i can– i can," your voice shakes as you respond.

"yeah?" she tilts her head to the side, her hand slowly trailing away from your shoulder up to your neck. "then be a good boy and sit there while i use you."

you gulp, nodding your head as you feel her fingers curl around your throat and gently squeeze, leaving you gasping lightly while she speeds up her movements. your hands grasp onto her hips in some attempt to ground yourself as your eyes peer up at her.

"fuck...you like this, don't you?" she pants into your ear, whimpering quietly. "like being used for your cock, hm? like me riding you? like all your good for is your cock?"

all you can do is nod as her fingers squeeze your neck more, your nails digging into her hips as you let out a strained moan at her words. "y-yes," you manage to get out. "'m a-all yours."

megan's lips curl up into a smile at your response. "i know, baby. you're always so good for me. my dirty boy," she pushes your hair out of your face with her other hand. "god you feel so good– shit!" she gasps when you accidentally thrust up into her, her hand tightening around your throat a bit more. "o-oh my god, baby. you wanna make me cum, be a good boy for me?"

quickly nodding your head, you can feel your oxygen depleting as she chokes you, but seeing the way her breathing is getting heavier and her moans are getting louder tell you that she's close, meaning you can't give up just yet. you're starting to feel lightheaded, seeing dots beginning to form in your vision when you hear a long whine come from the girl.

"oh fuck– oh my god!" megan throws her head back, her eyes squeezing shut as her body shakes, cumming over your strap. her grip around your hand tightens to the point you can't breath, resulting in you letting out a strangled moan and cumming from it, eyes rolling into the back of your head. her hand then loosens and lets go, allowing you to finally take deep breaths of air that you were restricted of.

your chest heaves up and down as you breathe deeply, slouching back against the couch as you lean your head back against the headrest. megan's breathing slows and calms down, one of her hands on your shoulders while the other rakes through your hair.

"did you really just cum from that?" she asks, giggling softly.

you weakly nod your head, your breathing going back to normal after a moment. "yeah," you say quietly, clearly embarrassed by it.

leaning forward, she presses a quick kiss on your lips before pulling away and smiling at you. "you're so cute, babe. my good boy," she whispers, her hand resting on your cheek with her thumb drawing small circles. "just for me, right?"

"just for you."

[messydoodlesyt]

SMG4 Crew Redesigns Part 1

Finally got them done! I saw some people do redesigns for the SMG4 Crew and I wanted to put my spin on it. So far I’ve done SMG4, SMG3, Meggy, Mario, and Luigi. I'm for sure gonna do the others at one point. But it was perfect timing since I did finally finish all the arcs in order (and the important episodes in between for the most part) so I at least have some better context then all the stuff from 2022+ and all.

So first up SMG4. I’ve seen people incorporate the glitch color pallet so I tried to put a little bit on the shoes and pant legs. That and I’ve seen him associated with stars. I don’t quite understand why people do redesigns with it; maybe it’s something in an old episode I haven’t seen yet or something but I thought it’d be neat to add. Added the number four roman numeral for him too cuz it felt off only having 3 have it. Shoulder strap off cuz vibes idk.

Next up SMG3! I’ve seen so many people give him long hair/ a mullet and dammit it was just too perfect to have. That with some ripped pants and gloves and earrings to add for his redesign. And of course the overall pocket for Eggdog because yes.

Up next Meggy! She felt like the biggest change to me but I think it’s mainly the hair being the reason. Originally I was keeping the long hair, but when I was watching the arcs and saw her inkling form didn’t have any tentacle things in the back just the front (forgive me idk if that’s what those are called a barely played splatoon) so I felt like after turning human she would first have the long hair but then cut it as a way to cope if that makes sense? Idk she seemed to have struggled for some time just trying to adjust to human form and at least she would have control over her hair. Then I gave freckles which I believe her first human model design did have them but it was so faded it was hard to tell so I tried to make em a bit more noticeable (though now that I’m looking at them maybe I should make em thicker idk yet).

Now friggen Mario. Good lord he was the last one I finished and it should not have been this hard. It’s all minor changed I feel like- I tried to make him still identifiable while still having some differences like the short sleeves, belt, and patches. That and I put his signature M on the gloves too to match SMG4 and SMG3. I was struggling with the mouth (not the cursed one just normal) because sometimes it would look off. Luigi I had more of a problem with though than Mario for whatever reason; maybe it’s the mustache.

Which speaking of Luigi as the final one for the list thing. He definitely gave me turtle neck vibes so I wanted to give him that, plus a belt that has those little bag strap things or whatever you call them to hold stuff like maybe some flower seeds or whatever he needs to. And I only did one of those little drawings with a mouth but when I tried doing it for the others it felt off. Probably for future drawings with these refs I’ll add mouths or won’t depending on the mood.

And yeah those are my redesigns. Definitely wanna do the others like Tari and Saiko for example. But some I know will be tricky because I don’t really know what I could add for redesigns like Mr. Puzzles and Karen for example. But we’ll see.

Part 2 of SMG4 Redesigns

[violetjedisylveon]

Shadowpeach Celestial Prince Macaque AU, when Wukong lost the battle against the Emperor + gets trapped in the mountain, the Emperor lies that 'Wukong is dead' to Macaque...

Macaque is heartbroken and runs away from the Celestial Realms...

Macaque travels all across the Mortal World, in the form of a mortal monkey...

Eventually, Nuwa asks Macaque to raise MK (Chaos Harbinger), Macaque says yes + Macaque gets a job at Pigsy's Restaurant...

When Macaque sees that Wukong is alive, he cries tears of joy! 😭

previous

Oh that's fun. (Lemme throw more fairytale and children into it, I can't help myself, must give the monkeys babies)

I've got two ideas with this

Wukong is under the impression that Macaque is being held against his will in the celestial realm with no knowledge that he's a prince, a misconception only stoked by Azure to rile Wukong up into attacking them to save his love, and the only reason Wukong thinks that is because Macaque chose not to tell him, and now he's dead!

The Jade Emperor put a spell on his ears to block him from ever hearing Wukong again, he's not going to loose another child to their foolish young love.

So Macaque actually thinks he's dead.

This is the tragedy route:

He's absolutely heartbroken and guilty over it, because he thinks he got him killed! He really did love him, he even confessed to him shortly before the rebellion started!

He's too inconsolable with grief to leave the fortified tower his parents put him in for his own safety during the fighting, he's hardly the strongest of combatants being a fairly sheltered youngest child. He can throw a mean punch, and has phenomenal powers but little control over them, and that's about it.

His parents do start to feel pretty bad for making him think the love of his life is dead, but they are committing to it because Macaque is just a kid in puppy love to them, and Wukong was a danger.

What if he dragged their little moon flower out of the safety of the celestial realm and down the mortal realm? What if he turned their son against them and they were forced to punish him alongside the other rebels? They couldn't so blatantly show favor to their son.

It was better this way. Their son was safe and wouldn't be tempted by the draw of the mortal realm anymore.

Macaque stays in the celestial realm for a couple hundred years, his parents were already devastated by Iron Fan leaving them, he couldn't hand them another heartbreak so soon. And the one he would leave the realm for is long dead.

On an unrelated note, he notices his clothes getting tighter around the stomach as the years go on.

He stays the good son he was before meeting Wukong, he doesn't have a thought of leaving the realm at all, he's the perfect prince.

He mostly stays more hidden away in the orchards, having become much more introverted since the rebellion.

But all is well in the celestial realm.

Until he has a visit with Guanyin, a goddess with maternity aspects, and she notices something amiss.

Turns out the perfect prince had a secret little roll in the orchards with the celestial realm's no. 1 annoyance if you catch my drift 😏

Macaque is obviously mortified! He didn't think they could make anything together, but

Macaque doesn't want his parents knowing about this, obviously he fears their overreacting to him carrying the child, children Guanyin quickly corrects, of their most hated enemy!

He knows what happened to his sisters who had children with mortals, and he knows what happened to Erlang's mother for doing the same, and while Wukong isn't a mortal, he knows he wouldn't be spared their wrath.

And since he still thinks Wukong is dead, he doesn't wanna loose him babies who could be the last thing he has left of his first and only love. (Don't worry I'm not killing them this time)

Guanyin comforts him and suggests he come to her realm in the southern seas so his cubs can be born in a safer place, though Xiwangmu as a mother goddess would obviously know when he gives birth, and would know one of her children is currently expecting.

And what do you know? She suspects exactly that and Macaque overheard her talking with JE about it, and thinks he's already been found out.

Macaque is panicking big time thinking he's in big trouble and then Nuwa comes to him like

She's decided the panicked pregnant celestial monkey is the perfect parent for the harbinger of chaos, and gives him a way to avoid his parents and have his babies + her harbinger, and she puts a spell on him that'll make him disappear to the eyes of the celestial realm when he accepts.

Macaque ends up traveling the mortal realm disguised as a normal monkey demon.

MK hatches around the same time as his twins are born, so it's easier for macaque to just label them triplets and call it a day without going into the whole "a snake lady gave your stone egg to me when I ran away from my over protective parents" bit.

He teaches the triplets how to hide their ears like him, and once they're old enough, he tells them about their Papa, who they must never mention by name or else they will be in big trouble, he heard his parents fury over his disappearance, he's playing it safe.

So it's just a single dad and his three kids traveling around until they come across Megapolis, and he decides this is a nice place to settle, he gets a job at the local theater as a performer, and his kids favorite restaurant is Pigsy's, and MK ends up working full time there, while the other two end up working with him at the theater, but learning a fair bit from watching the pig chef.

Macaque and Wukong do meet again, but due to the damage done to his eyes from the furnace, Wukong can't see him, and Macaque can't hear him, he's still got the spell on him.

Hear no evil, see no evil, and the kids are speak no evil cause they can't bring this shit up or their whole family is exposed and there will be bad consequences.

Shenanigans ensue.

In case you don't know, I'm taking some elements from the og Rapunzel, mainly the twin pregnancy and prince(Wukong in this case) character being blinded/suffering eye damage.

And this is the comedy route:

Where when fighting, Wukong says something about saving Macaque from the cruelty of the celestial realm while fighting the Jade Emperor and he's just like "you dumb boy, that's my son, the fuck are you on",

Things work out much better once Wukong explains that he was only fighting cause he thought macaque was in trouble, and while he did wreck shit, it does get him a few brownie points with his in-laws because he was willing to fight heaven for their son.

Wukong is still blamed for Princess Iron Fan eloping with DBK, and they get a little extra protective of macaque, but things eventually work out fine and Nuwa gives them a rock soon to be baby MK as a wedding gift.

The wedding is a bit rushed because the surprise pregnancy was found out earlier and the royal couple won't let their grandchildren be born illegitimate.

Thanks for asking!

[mcbride]

Daryl Dixon Rewatch S1E06 - Coming Home

it's the first ep with an English title and the last of the season. overall, i wanna say i was actually surprised how much i did enjoy watching. the complete focus on Daryl without all the background noise/storylines/characters, the way he still means what he says, but he's actually using his words and lots of sass instead of the typical nodding and grunting. good job!

but i gotta confess that if i hadn't known beforehand that Carol was going to be a part of this show, i probably wouldn't have bothered 🤷‍♀️. the fact Carol's not only back on screen, but she is such a great part of the whole vibe of the show, was actually unexpected. this show is straight up showing us Carol is the driving force in Daryl's relentless journey to get back home.

whoever tries to convince you Daryl is conflicted about where he belongs and where he wants to be is lying to you (pointing at you, Z!!). he literally spends 6 whole episodes reminding everybody he's got a home, people who love him waiting, a promise to keep, and a need to get back asap.

it doesn't mean Daryl does not form connections while on that journey. because he does - the strongest with Laurent, obviously, however, none strong enough to hold him back from his ultimate goal, which is going home to keep his promise to CAROL!

anyways, let's get to the season 1 finale:

the super!walkers fighting scene in the arena is pretty epic: from Daryl's super cool kill with the French flag to that Daryl/Quinn team up! the cherry on top being Daryl throwing that walker head at Genet. Loved IT!

Quinn eventually does help Daryl escape, and later, unfortunately, almost kills Isa, who is once again totally helpless against any kind of threat (killer nun, my ass!). in a scene eerie similar to the one in Daryl's underwater premonition a couple of eps ago, Daryl prompts Laurent to kill walker!Quinn with a "God will forgive you."

Laurent says something that sounds like it will be the whole point of Caryl's French adventure. "Sometimes you have to do horrible things, and no matter how bad you feel, if there is no other choice, God will forgive you." this feels like the key to breaking out of the cycle Carol has been stuck to since she was banished by Rick. (i'll probably post my s2 spec and theories next week!)

next, we see Daryl watching lovebirds Sylvie and Emile saying goodbye, they have to separate (i see what you did there, Z!), and reassures Sylvie that Emile will be alright before she asks him if he's ever been in love. BOY, has he ever!! Daryl's non response is quite telling. he knows what it feels like to say goodbye to the one you love without knowing if you'll ever see them again. and he's not alright, he's all the way in a whole different continent, separated by the Atlantic ffs.

we get some new insight into Daryl's origins when he and Isa share stories about their fathers. Daryl believes that his grandpa never returning home from war ruined their family for future generations and worries the cycle might repeat itself. has Daryl been reading about generational trauma? sharing this with her will bite him in the ass, later!

Isa's confession of her lie about the drawing gets absolutely no reaction from Daryl because it had zero influence on what happened next. Daryl didn't stay cause he believed in a new Messiah, he stayed because the kid was about to get in trouble, when Codron attacked his home; he stayed because it was a way of finding help getting him closer to a radio or boat to actually get him home; he stayed so he could take the kid to a place where he would be safe, and Daryl could finally leave without feeling guilty.

the great Daryl and Isa exchange looks compilation is trying too hard to show us, yes, Daryl has made a connection to these people, and is fairly content at the Nest with Laurent and the most mundane activities like peeling potatoes. they are showing us Daryl could stay here, make this his new home. why not? HE MADE A PROMISE! no matter what he could never be happy here, this is not his HOME.

Losang gives him a way out, but also tries to convince him to stay. "Sometimes, when a person leaves home, he comes to find he belongs someplace else." and it's true, if Daryl didn't know where, with whom he belonged. and it's not with Laurent and Isa.

it's really embarrassing how Isa tries to manipulate and guilt trip Daryl into staying with them using Laurent and Daryl's history. it has been like 2 months tops, and they acting like Daryl himself gave birth to Laurent, and wants to abandon his kid. bitch please, he has kids he actually raised and a wife back home!!

Daryl resents his grandpa for abandoning the family to fight in someone else’s war, and that's exactly what he would be doing if he chose to stay in France. that's what Isa will never understand - he had a whole full life with people who looked up to him, relied on him, loved him, before he even met her and Laurent. he wasn't lost. the connection he found with the people there isn't new to him, he has Judith and RJ, he has Connie and Zeke. but most importantly, he has a HOME (Carol!!!).

there's this beautiful emotional moment of Daryl quietly saying goodbye to a sleeping Laurent, and it's clear this kid means a lot to him. however, not nearly enough to make him stay. he still chooses to LEAVE. so many people trying to convince him he belongs with them, and he is still 10000000% sure he has to go back. there truly is ZERO hesitation.

i lost count how many times Daryl actually tried to leave, but it was always the kid's safety that kept him around again and again. he is so close to getting on that boat, literally fiercely fighting walkers to get to the beach, to get closer to HOME, and the same happens AGAIN. biggest FML moment for Daryl. Laurent, who is surrounded by walkers, is calling his name! FUCK ME!

and finally, we get to the highlight of this finale, Carol's badass entry. the way she's so absolutely calm with a big dude pointing a gun at her, PLEASE. she knows he's fucked around and is about to find out. no one takes Daryl's belongings and gets away with it.

"if you're lying, i won't be back." and she rides off on Daryl's bike. ICONIC. LEGENDARY. EPIC.

21 days left until the premiere of THE BOOK OF CAROL!!!!!

[trees-be-drawing]

Okay… so I started reading @annzy-bananzys-corner ‘s “Snettles” as I was scrolling through Snufmin fanfics to read on AO3 back in early December, and… holy cow is it good!!!

Not only did the art cover from one of my favorite artists drew me in, but the writing was just 👌✨ GORGEOUS!!

All the characters written had such good chemistry towards each other, and Snorkmaiden ended up being the funniest to me. I couldn’t stop laughing so hard at her trying to be the voice of reason to the two lovable idiots that are Moomin and Snufkin in the early chapters.

So as typical fashion, I felt a great need to draw it. Cuz honestly, long-haired Snufkin was not something I thought was going to make me go feral but hot damn does he look so pretty in long hair!

Okay so…

SPOILERS TO THE FIC!!!

It’s pretty blurry but 1. I don’t have the best camera quality, and 2. It’s a bit faded since it took me a whole month to do this. (Update: I got a clearer picture. Sorry, I was rushing to get this out for a whole month)

But anyway, I had absolute gender envy every time I drew Snufkin with long hair. And there was definitely a lot more I wanted to draw, and felt bad I didn’t draw Little My especially.

I’m actually glad for the cover art too, it acted as a perfect reference to use but unfortunately I’m not very good at drawing Moomin and I’m envious at how @hanekdrawsmoomins draws them! They’re so fluffy and pretty!!

I definitely had to draw Snorkmaiden calling Snufkin a twink. I couldn’t resist. What I didn’t intend was for it to be right next to Snufkin having a breakdown over the overpowering song in his ears 😅 I also decided in order to differentiate Moomin and Snorkmaiden, I gave Snorkmaiden more rounder and fluffier features like her tail and ears. It’s subtle but I was pretty happy with it.

I get giddy every time I drew Moomin and Snufkin, but Snorkmaiden and Alicia needed some love too. I wanted to try some perspective which… I’ll admit I’m not very good at, but I did my best. I normally don’t draw backgrounds but I wanted to give the scenes more character and it was pretty fun, even if it’s not perfect.

I also thought to myself “maybe the reason Moomin didn’t recognize Snufkin was because he’s never seen Snufkin’s hair deflate in the water” so I drew the comparison to Snufkin and “Snettles” for that one scene where Moomin realized how similar they were. I also imagined his hair gets longer in mermaid form.. hehe! :3

I was also very excited to do my interpretation of the Lady of the Sea but I’ll be honest… I did procrastinate on it for a while which is why it took so long. I know the description said “seaweed green hair” and not the fact it’s actual seaweed but… I hope you don’t mind but I gave her seaweed hair. Made of different types of seaweed too :3 I actually want to colour it at some point but if there’s any changes I should do to her design, you can let me know. I’ve loved to get an accurate idea on her :3 I also used the mermaids from the 90’s as reference to give her fins on her head, although Snufkin doesn’t have any but I’d argue it’s cuz he’s only half mermaid.

It’s a very scattered looking comic kind of page but man! There was so many moments that were genuinely so good I felt tempted to even draw a full comic book on this!!

But no… unfortunately I am very easy to lose motivation and I’ve been and will be pretty busy for the majority of my current life cuz of college and stuff so I’m afraid I can’t draw often.

Good thing I’m on break at the moment :3

But anyway, it was super duper fun drawing these!! I’m actually super duper proud of them :3

Actually…. You wanna know how much I loved my sketch of Moomin and Snufkin on their midnight swim?

I COLOURED IT!! GONE BACK TO MY DIGITAL ART ROOTS FOR THIS!!!

Honestly I don’t think I did that great but I did this on iBisPaint, and there was a version where he had brown hair… until I read a section saying he has red hair so I quickly changed it to how it looks currently.

I also realized too late that the scales on his cheeks weren’t actually scales but freckles… which…. You know what? Fuck it. His freckles turn to fish scales. And they’re shiny :3

I also decided to make his scales glow but then remembered that doesn’t happen till Chapter 13. But hey, I think it gave it a calm feeling with how warm it must feel to be snuggled up like that on the water. Heck even my sister agreed.

Overall, Moomin fanfics have really helped with my art block.

And sorry for the really long yapping session. I like talking about my thought process on these things, and I genuinely can’t wait for the next chapter whenever or if it ever comes. I understand you’re busy so I don’t blame you but… damn you really left it on a cliffhanger huh? Still love it though! :3

Also I’m not sure why the link for the fic isn’t working properly cuz normally it would be automatic but… I’ll see if I can fix it at some point (update, I fixed it!)

[casually-salad]

The time is ticking, for the both of them.

bonus content below :3

this is the layout of the room zecora is staying in!!!! inside of celestias castle there is a wing with some rooms for diplomats from other parts of the world to stay in, most notably cadence has a bedroom in the castle in that part of the wing. this was a sketch i did of her room to decide how i wanted to lay out the one celestia is in.

now for zecoras gear, its based off this cuuute dark red hazmat suit i had found that i cant find the image of again but i saved the one i based the rest off of, dosent it look kinda dumb? i love it

ANYWAY so with her experiments i planned on drawing a total of THREE????? pannels gruesomely describing it. but i decided it was showing too much and cut it, although i dont have those sketches anymore :/ it was one long poem basically and i think i was just having too much fun rhyming her speech. and SPEAKING of speech, i do try to give every pony a bit of differentiating speech patterns but these two (( three for discord )) so i had a lot of fun writing them. for luna i had to really simplify her speech because she would be talking like this "inlēten ich gī" and that might be more annoying to read than not. i decided to include fluttershy and discords sheets here because. you already know theyre there theres no point in waiting. and yeaaaaaah i changed fluttershy, the colors on my computer screen were so off id be coloring in neons when i thought it was pastels thats why the text was so hard to read for a while. i plan on shifting it around a bit more.

Fluttershy's infection is not able to spread because her cutie marks were removed, frozen in time so that they cannot progress. They eat away at the magic in a corner of the dimension where they can't damage anything or get any worse.

now as for something ive been asked to clarify about before! Lunas dreaming powers! how is she killing the ponies? as how is it works, she has a physical form and a dream form she can switch inbetween unlike most ponies who can only be in their dream form while dreaming, and awake form while awake. because she is in charge of keeping every pony from having nightmares - usually a ponys dream form never ends up dying, and if theres an accident luna can bring them back. but what happens to their physical bodies? usually they wont be able to dream anymore because they dont have a dream body, but if their dream form is purposefully killed.. both die. So as luna passes from dream to dream shes leaving behind a pile of corpses in the dream and waking world

also! because you read this far im doing an AMA, lemme know youre questions, theories, and what you wanna see!! you can send asks or reply to this post - if you send me an ask tho ill probably do a little doodle. ok thank you byebye

[viridian-dagger]

Seiðr of a Death Singer - Prologue

Rating: Explicit/Mature - 18+ only! Minors DNI

Warnings: named/minimally described oc, murder, non-explicit rape, sacrifices to norse gods, magical hysterectomy, evil nuns and evil priests, death, violence, physical abuse, seer!oc, kjartan is an absolute cunt but he's only in this one (and dies), underage mc for half, sex work, bastards, heresy, using religion to justify murder, oc is essentially poisoned and rendered effectively mute, stabbing... if i forgot anything please let me know!

word count: 10k lol

Author's Note: here begins my first stab at a last kingdom fic ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ this first chapter has a slightly different form than the rest, because I'm trying to get us through s1 and s2, but we abandon canon along the way. The POV timelines overlap so bare with me while we get to the start. Let me know what you think and if you wanna be tagged in upcoming parts! also this might end poly so i'm tagging all the potential ships until i decide. cross posted on ao3! beta read by @witchoftheewilds

Edit: I want to state unequivocally that I am anti-AI. I do not use it, do not condone the use of it, and will never change my mind on this. I do not permit anyone putting my works into AI for any purpose, nor copied into any other languages.

Series Masterlist | Next

1. Røskva  

Røskva always knew she was different. She could see it in her mother’s eyes when she was barely old enough to be trusted to run to the baker on her own. It was even more noticeable when her mother left her at her nan’s door just before her 6th summer.

Her nan had been kinder. Kinder than most. Definitely kinder than her mother had been. Her nan taught her to read and write, how to mix salves, make teas, and treat wounds. Røskva was set to be a proper hedgewitch, fit to take over for her nan when she chose to step aside.

Her nan had also understood the part of Røskva that had frightened her mother. Had warned her about how to stay safe and undetected as a seer. Her nan was a seer too, not a powerful one but a seer nonetheless. She’d warned Røskva about the things kings and chieftains would do to her in order to harness her power. 

“My sister was bound to a cruel lord, Røskva,” her nan told her one night. “He bound her to him in blood. He used her for evil, vile things. And when she refused — he killed her. You stay away from anyone who wants to use your visions for their own benefit.”

Røskva had tried to listen, and did her best to keep the evidence of her gifts to herself. But nothing could stop the vision of her village falling to ruin and flames. Blood spilled on the grass. She hadn’t been able to stop screaming while she watched it play out. 

It had been her undoing. Kjartan the Cruel came, hearing tales of a powerful witch who could stop the hands of death from reaching him. Of course he was mistaken; she was only a scrawny girl with knobby knees who hadn't yet gotten her first moonblood.

It had only served in making him more cruel. He forced her to watch as he slit the throat of her nan, and burned her village to ash. He sent his heir, Sven the One Eyed, after anyone who ran. 

Kjartan had bound her to him in blood that night. He carved the binding runes into the arch of her foot before stealing her maiden hood as she screamed. 

Røskva was sure she hadn't stopped weeping until they reached Dunholm the next day.  But it wasn’t until she had been tossed unceremoniously on the floor of a bedroom, and two pairs of  young, empty eyes stared back at her that the fear set in. Both of the girls were older than her, not by much, but both were round with babes.

That night, she had prayed to Frigga not to let a child quicken in her own womb. She sliced her palm open on the edge of a floorboard, drawing symbols on the floor in her blood before burning the bits of bits of birch and mistletoe she found in the pocket of her dress. She begged Frigga not to let her suffer the same fate. She pleaded to all the Gods she could think of not to force her to bear Kjartan’s child.

The next morning, she found herself wet with blood and weak as the two other women screamed for help. 

Kjartan’s hedge witches confirmed she would never bear a child. She couldn’t help but smile as Kjartan raged. She had barely even noticed when he took her again; the satisfaction that she would never bear him a child was worth the blinding pain.

Kjartan’s whores were kind to her after that. They knew she’d never bear him an heir, so they accepted her into their fold. She taught them and their children to read and write when Kjartan was off raiding with Sven. 

The visions came strongly when they were away. They always ended the same — both a little older, dying without honor. The methods changed frequently, though. Each brought satisfaction that knew no bounds. But in every vision, there was a man with bright blue eyes and a sword with an amber attached to the hilt.

Røskva itched to blend teas and make salves, but she wasn’t allowed out of Dunholm without Sven as her guard. Neither he nor his father trusted her not to run as soon as she was given room to breathe. She had sighed about it to Mylin while she cleaned the cut on the face of her son, Sihtric.

Not two days later, she had a sachet of mallow and ground ivy on her bed, and the mismatched green and brown eyes of the boy following her wherever she went. 

It took him six moons to gather the courage to speak to her freely, and another six to stop blushing whenever she looked him in the eyes. They spoke about what her life was like before Kjartan had stolen her, and about her visions. He had held her face in his hands as he tapped the tattoo into the thin skin of her her throat

She told him of the deaths that would befall Kjartan and Sven, and how she could think of nothing more thrilling than their deaths. Sihtric had smiled then, his teeth seeming to sharpen as he surged forward and kissed her firmly on the mouth.

“I swear, I will find a way to free you from my father. I don’t care what I have to do,” he whispered between breathless kisses. “I swear, I will never leave you to suffer here alone.” 

And just for a moment, she believed him.

It was only days later that Kjartan and Sven returned to Dunholm with a pretty redheaded woman named Thyra, and she didn’t need to ask to know that they had killed her family. The red rimmed eyes told her all she had needed to know.

Røskva had stolen away into the young woman’s room after Sven had grown tired of the woman’s wailing and found solace in one of his father’s whores.

“What are you doing here?” Thyra hissed when she slid into the room, eyeing her warily. Røskva did not blame her for not trusting her until she told her the blend of tea she had brought for the redhead. The whispered truth of tansy and yarrow, hidden with ginger and mint had Thyra collapsing into Røskva’s arms in a fit of tears. 

She did her best to soothe the poor woman, understanding her pain.

From then on, her and Thyra had become friends. Røskva snuck into her rooms when she could, surprised by the army of dogs that were steadily growing in numbers. 

Thyra told Røskva about her brothers, and about how they would free them from Kjartan’s wretched hold. “I promise, my dearest friend, when they come for me they will free you too.”

Røskva didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d given up on the idea of ever leaving Kjartan. Not when he came to her bed every night demanding prophecies of his greatness as he took her. Not when he would whip her for breathing a word of his dishonourable death. She knew she shouldn’t tell him, but the fear in his eyes filled her with glee whenever she said it. But he had bound himself to her in blood. The only way she would ever leave his service would be if he let her go, or if he died dishonored. And he was too cruel to ever allow her to leave.

It was only when Sihtric whispered his promise to save her that she dared to hope.

She learned to cherish when Dunholm was free of its lords. She and Thyra could speak more freely, the other women were less fearful, the children smiled and played, and Sihtric sought her out bearing herbs and asking only for payment in stolen kisses in the dark of night. 

“I swear on my life, I will find a way to free you,” he mouthed against her neck, teeth scraping over her pulse as she shuddered in his arms.

The night before her 15th name day, with Sihtric curled around her back as she slept, she dreamed of death. A man tied to the bow of a ship, steadily drowning as his friends were forced to row. A mother fading in her childbed from fever. A holy man with a bolt to the chest. A woman screaming as fire consumed her home. A man with a crown on his brow passing in his bed. Kjartan being stabbed repeatedly as his sword remained out of reach. Sven being devoured by dogs. Many others followed, too many to count. 

She awoke to the sound of screaming, a pair of mismatched eyes staring down at her in fear, and ice gripping her heart.

It wasn’t until the next morning that Mylin told her that the screaming had been Røskva's own. 

Kjartan returned a few days later after hearing word of the prophecies. Her head was splitting still and she couldn’t muster the strength of a lie. He’d whipped her till she fainted from the pain and sent Sihtric out on a mission after he protested her treatment.

Sihtric had stolen into her rooms later that night before he left. “If it is the last thing I do in this life, I will see that you are free again,” he sighed, forehead pressed against hers as twin tears fell down their cheeks. They had marked each other in ink that night, finishing when the light was creeping across the horizon. Sihtric slipped away with the dawn, swearing again that he would return for her.

She waited and waited, tracing the black lines on the back of her hand and her throat as she worried over him. And on the eve of her 16th name day, the doubt crept in. Mylin was gone by the next year and that was when she realized he had deserted her. And by her 18th, she knew she’d never see him again.

The visions worsened as she spent time alone, wandering between deaths like a ghost. It became harder to differentiate reality and the visions. With Mylin dead and Sihtric gone, the isolation began to gnaw at her sanity. 

Thyra had grown wilder and more haunted as time passed. She stopped speaking of her brothers, and her family. No coaxing or tales of Røskva’s own youth could break her from her melancholy. She begged Thyra to tell her what could soothe the pain in her heart.

“The only thing that would soothe me is the knowledge of their deaths. I want not for love, nor laughter, nor family. Only pain brought upon the ones who killed my parents.”

In a moment of weakness, Røskva whispered the prophecies of their deaths — that both would die dishonored and be made to wander Niflheim for eternity.

Røskva knew she had made a mistake as soon as the words passed her lips. The haunted look in the other woman’s eyes cleared as a sharp grin spread across her face as she pleaded to her friend to not breathe a word of what she’d said to anyone.

It was only days later that Sven took her out of Dunholm. She knew something was wrong when they didn’t stop at the meadow she usually gathered chamomile and wild garlic from. He walked her to the edge of the river and slid a blade into her gut.

“You’re released from service, witch. You hold no sway over our deaths,” he sneered before pushing her into the icy waters behind her.

She fought for air, fought for life, but darkness took her into its cold embrace.

2. Sihtric

Sihtric had never been so torn in his life. He’d sworn his loyalty and his life to Uhtred, who wanted to kill Kjartan and Sven just as much as he himself did. The first time he had seen the Dane-Slayer and the amber tipped hilt on his back, Sihtric knew he would be the best person to enlist to kill his father. Especially knowing Kjartan wanted Uhtred dead. 

His new lord had been inching them back towards Dunholm, stopping at every shithole along the way to get more men and gain alliances. Sihtric had thought that gaining the allegiance of a King would make things move faster, but Guthred was a slimy, slippery bastard and Sihtric seethed thinking about what he'd done. What he cost them.

Selling Uhtred and Halig into slavery had been devastating and infuriating. The little cunt of a king had hidden behind the priests when confronted with his treachery and had slithered back into his hall. Two years in the turd-king’s service had done Sihtric no good; all he had gained was a friend in the big Dane named Clapa, and gotten quite adept at drinking ale until young Ragnar had come and told them his plan.

The young earl had been single-minded in his search for Uhtred. And when they had finally found him, it had been a relief, even if the man was shattered, and Halig gone forever. But in his place, Uhtred had found Finan. The Irishman had warmed to Sihtric immediately after seeing Uhtred embrace him. The man was crass, and Gods, Sihtric didn't know how he'd ever catch game again with the man’s booming voice carrying like a death singer’s cry. But Sihtric was grateful for the man, and for Young Ragnar, Brida, and even the nun, Hild. It was because of them that Uhtred had returned.

It took time for Uhtred to return to himself, and even longer to fully gain his strength and his true smile. Lady Gisela and Hild helped the most in putting their lord back together. Finan joined him less and less on night guard, the Irishman was finally able to sleep through most nights. Things felt better in the two years that Uhtred had returned, and the arrival of the young Uhtred had been the last piece that seemed to heal him.

But Sihtric felt a weight on him; every night before he closed his eyes, he saw her staring back at him. He’d sworn her an oath, and many years had already passed. Four since he'd left, but nearly ten since he'd first sworn a vow to her. Surely she’d felt abandoned by him, and he couldn't blame her. He traced the black lines on his head and neck as he remembered her face, time beginning to distort his memory of her. 

He knew his mother had already passed on. She'd hid it well enough from the other girls, but he knew she wouldn't have survived the summer after he left. She had urged him to leave before then, to find someone who would rip his father from the world, root and stem. Uhtred had always been that man — Røskva had known this to be true without even realizing that the men from her visions were Thyra’s brothers. 

Thoughts of Røskva plagued him as he travelled — and when he slept, when he couldn't sleep, when he ate, when he laughed, when he saw the haunted look in Uhtred or Finan’s eyes. It was an ache in his bones he couldn't relieve. He could remember the way her breath caught in her chest when he'd sworn to find her. To save her. He hadn't realized how foolish it'd been until he'd sworn his oath to Uhtred. Sihtric was but a boy when he'd sworn to her. He was a foolish child, unable to fulfill the promise he'd made.

But she was even more a child than he’d been. Gods, he should have slaughtered his father and half brother the day they'd brought her home. They'd ridden off to collect a witch and come back with a screaming, helpless girl who hadn’t even grown tits yet. And she’d sacrificed any future children so as to not be tied to his cruel, heartless father, and did it without a second thought.

Røskva had always been stronger than him. She’d vexed him endlessly with her stubbornness. Every time he'd have to clean the whip marks on her back, she'd bear it in silence until he finally broke and asked her why she didn't lie.

“Because I'm not afraid of him. The worst thing he could do to me now is kill me, and it would be a welcome reprieve. So every time I tell him he'll die and spend eternity in Niflheim, and I can see the terror in his eyes, it is worth this pain,” she would say with a fire in her eyes that frightened him. 

He'd never told her, but Sihtric loved her eyes. Despite everything his father had done to her, everything she had endured, her eyes were so alive. If one looked into them, they could read every thought as it passed through her head. It was the only thing his bastard father hadn't taken from her; the life in her.

Sihtric feared more than anything that he himself would be the reason the fire in her eyes died.

It was those eyes that haunted him these past four years. Every step was to get closer to her, to freeing her. Uhtred was a good lord, a worthy lord. Serving him meant freeing Røskva. And if she wanted nothing to do with him any longer he'd bear the broken heart and leave her in peace. But she deserved peace. She deserved a life.

Riding up to Dunholm had filled him with dread, but Uhtred and Ragnar had a solid plan. Breaking in from a back door that only the slave women used while Ragnar sieged the front gate had been genius. And as soon as the battle had begun, he felt nothing but the hate he had harboured for his half brother and his father. He wanted the Ragnarssons to kill them, to make them suffer for all he, his mother, and the other women had suffered under their rule. But mostly he wanted them to suffer for what they'd done to Røakva. 

The battle had been won easily; his father hadn’t inspired loyalty like Ragnar or Uhtred. His men fled once they realized their end was near. Sven had been attacked by Thyra’s hounds, and his father had been dispatched to Niflhelm, disgraced and without his weapon; just as Røskva had predicted. 

He hadn’t been prepared for the savagery of Ragnar though. The desperation and hurt in the young earl as he hacked away at his father’s corpse had been shocking. It was enough for Finan to put a hand on his shoulder in support as they all watched in horror as the man collapsed into his brother’s arms and sobbed. Sihtric wondered if Røskva would do the same if she were able. To finally release years of pent up rage on his father. He found that he couldn’t blame Ragnar for it; it was justice. For all of them.

Watching the siblings reunite had filled him with fear at the prospect of reuniting with Røskva. Thyra had been so angry and hurt when Uhtred and Ragnar called out to her. But Father Beocca had gotten the woman to call off her hounds. Mayhaps he should bring the priest with him to speak to Røskva…

“Sihtric! What’s the name of the bloody lass you can’t stop mooning over?” Finan called out from the window of the slave house.

“Røskva! Ask them where the little witch is!” He called back and Finan smiled before disappearing again through the window.

Uhtred came up to him then, eyes red and glassy but the smile on his face was evident. “Thank you, Sihtric Kjartansson. I know it must not have been easy to betray your kin. But you will forever have a seat at my table, if you should choose to take it.”

Sihtric smiled back, grasping the man’s forearm, “My only kin here was my mother, who I know is dead, and Røskva. She…. she was my father’s seer, and the only person who ever struck fear into him,” Sihtric explained, pressing his forehead against Uhtred’s.

“You love this girl, yes?” Uhtred asked with a wry smile. Sihtric felt his face warm as he nodded and turned away. “Well then, I look forward to meeting the girl who made Kjartan the Cruel tremble in her wake!”

“She was still a child when I left. I swore I would return for her…” he admitted as Uhtred pulled him under his arm and they began walking. “I fear she thinks I have forsaken her for glory.”

“But you are here, and you are making good on your oath. My sister is also hurt, and feels abandoned, but she is already starting to forgive. Our women are not like these soft Saxons; their fury burns hot and fast. But Røskva will forgive you, Sihtric. Do not despair,” Uhtred smiled. 

He spotted Finan speeding toward him with a grim determination on his face, “Sihtric, we need to speak.”

“Where is Røskva?” He asked, feeling the tendrils of panic surge in him. “Was she hurt? Is she okay? What did he do to her?”

Finan opened his mouth to speak, but the hissing tone of Dagný cut him off. “She’s dead because of you, Sihtric Kjartansson!”

Despair shot through him like an arrow. He could not believe it. She couldn't be dead. She brought death, she did not succumb to it. His father couldn't have killed her; he was too fearful of her.

“Explain yourself woman!” Uhtred demanded, hand grasping Sihtrics shoulder.

“Sven may have murdered her on your father’s order, but make no mistake; she does not live because you left her here to rot.” She hissed again, before spitting at his feet and walking away.

“She went mad at the end,” another voice whispered, but he didn't turn to look at who was speaking. “Trapped in visions, she was. Screaming about death. Sven took her out one day, and he came back alone. About a year ago.”

Sihtric’s chest ached as his mind spun. A year. He could have come for her a year ago. He could have done more. And he didn't. 

And he would have to learn to live with the gaping hole in his heart that his failure had left.

3. Røskva

She woke to the hushed whispers of women. Bleary eyed, she could not differentiate between them and their grey forms. She tried to free herself, but was swept back into the current of darkness. 

She was swept from battle to battle. Hundreds and thousands of men perishing in pain. Women dying in childbirth. A man stabbed in the eye after an alehouse brawl. A woman dying at the hands of a cruel husband. Children dying from the cold or hunger. People dying asleep in their beds. 

The onslaught of death pulled her under and she could do nothing but let each one flow through her.

She awoke again days later in a haze. There was no more whispering. No more grey garbed women. She was alone, in a warm bed. The small room had nothing but a chair beside her bed with a pitcher of water and cup sitting on the seat, and a strange wooden ornament on the wall.

“Oh heavens! You’re awake!” A woman gasped from the doorway. “Sister, go fetch the Abbess. She’ll want to speak to our guest,” she ordered someone else before bustling into the room.

Røskva watched her as she tittered about, filling the cup and handing it to her, clucking like a hen until Røskva drank.

“Dear, we were frightened when you screamed like the Devil himself was chasing you! I’m sure you were afraid too, screaming like that. But drink now and recover your voice. The Abbess will want to speak with you.”

Røskva watched in silence as the woman fretted over her. The frantic smothering reminded her of her nan. The memory of her nan hadn’t found her in years, and it brought a fresh stinging pain and a tear to her eye. The grief was still sharp, despite the years it had been since Kjartan had slit her throat. 

Røskva didn’t have time to dwell on it as an elderly woman swept into the room, shooing the other women out.

“Alright child, no time for tears. Tell me where you came by such an injury and found yourself drowning in a river. Did your husband do this to you?” She asked simply.

The truth caught in her throat as she looked at the woman. Kjartan was her slaver, her captor. He was never her husband. He was too foul for the word. The only man who she’d even considered marrying and running away with had been dead to her for 3 years. It would be easy to lie; say her husband tried to kill her… But the lie caught in her throat all the same. 

“I haven’t all day, child. If it was your husband, we will report it to the church and render your marriage void,” she huffed impatiently, “I can see by the markings on you that you were claimed by a heathen. We can tell the church you were taken against your will, and you will stay here as a sister for the remainder of your days.”

The fragile piece of freedom she’d felt upon waking grew teeth in that moment. No, she would not stay, but she also did not owe this woman her truth, her life, or her freedom.

“Raiders,” Røskva rasped out, wincing at the pain it brought. “I ran. He caught me.”

The woman assessed her cautiously, eyes narrowing as she looked her over, eyes catching again on the tattoo on her throat. “How old are you, child?”

“19,” she rasped back.

“You are a child,” the woman sneered. “Are you pure?” The confusion on her face must have been evident because the drab woman scoffed. “Have you ever laid with a man!”

Her eyes must have given it away, because the woman was out of her seat in a huff as she called for another woman to join them.

Turning back to Røskva with a glare she spoke again, “You may stay until your wounds recover, but you will refrain from speaking to the impressionable sisters here. Either Sister Mildreth or I will tend to you, and when you are healed we can help you find a home in the nearby town. But once you are healed you will find no shelter here.”

With that, she left. The grey billow of her robes snapping as she disappeared down the corridor. 

A younger, sour faced woman swept in moments later. “I’m Sister Mildreth,” the woman said plainly. “I’ll be here to check on your wounds until you’re healed. What’s your name?”

Røskva narrowed her eyes. The woman had all the charm of a thorn in her foot. 

“Where am I?” Røskva snapped. “Why are you all calling each other sister?”

Evidently, it was a poor question. Because the woman’s sour expression turned to one of open hatred. “Heathen wench,” she hissed. “You’re in a house of God!”

“Which one?”

“The One True God!” She snapped in return.

Røskva sighed and nodded, remembering what her nan had told her about the Saxons and their God, their rules, and their holy books. It made no sense to her, but she figured she owed these sisters for not letting her die in a frozen river. 

“Give thanks to your God. I will heal and leave you all in peace,” Røskva promised. “I have no problem with you, Sister Mildreth. I am grateful to you.”

“If you were grateful you would give up your heathen ways and repent to the Lord,” she hissed. 

“I cannot. I am pledged to my Gods. I can not forsake them for yours,” she said softly. 

“Then to hell it is with you,” the young woman snapped.

Røskva sighed; she no longer feared Hel nor Niflheim. Death would be a welcome change compared to her life with Kjartan and Sven. Røskva ignored the woman’s muttering as she tended to her wounds. 

“This wound has no doubt made you barren,” she said harshly. “Tis a small blessing, as you will not give this world any more heathens.”

“I was made barren at 10. I prayed to my Gods and they answered. I revel in the gift they have given me by stripping me of a womb. I will never be a slave to a man who whelped a babe off me like an animal,” Røskva sneered back.

The sister fled with a gasp, leaving Røskva to her thoughts.

Røskva was… free. She waited for the fear of it to come, but it never did. All she could summon was a breathless relief. 

And the feeling gripped her with strong jaws and teeth that sank into her bones. She couldn't even find it in herself to be snappy with the Abbess or Sister Mildreth when they called her a wicked heathen or a whore. By the time she healed fully they had given up on insulting her and left her in silence after she had refused to take part in the Christian bathing ceremony.

The Abbess had kept her word on finding her a room in a nearby village after she healed. The Abbess had found an innkeeper who was sure she had no issue with an unmarried, Godless woman renting a room. 

The Abbess hadn't been amused when Røskva pointed out that she had more Gods than all the people in the room combined but the innkeeper had given her a wry smile and a wink.

But the innkeeper, Gunda, had welcomed her after the nuns left in a huff. She promised a room and daily food in exchange for help around the inn until she could find a wage. 

But Røskva had other plans. As soon as she'd been released by Gunda for the afternoon, she ran to the river’s edge and began collecting herbs. 

And that night in her room, she gave her offerings to her Gods and began her work. She dried herbs to make teas, salves, tinctures, poultices, whatever she could think of.  And the customers came fast. 

She found quickly that the village had lost their healer a few months before, and there were many people who were willing to overlook her heathen ways for her treatments.

Healing others was easy, but she wasn’t sure she could ever heal her own wounds.

4. Uhtred

Uhtred was sick of Mercia and all their problems. The screams from down river had been grating and kept nearly all of Coccham awake most nights. The sounds struck sympathy through his wife, blooming steadily with his child, fear into his children who were too young to be plagued by the fear of raiders and slavers, and unease into himself and his men.

It bothered Uhtred endlessly that he could do nothing but sit and listen to the screams while the Mercian king sat by and did nothing to end the suffering of his own people. Mercia was at the top of his ever growing list of problems.

When Alfred had given him permission to venture down river into Mercia, to help the villagers and stop the raiders from destroying everything while their king did nothing, he had felt a grim satisfaction but it was short lived. Not even his men’s jokes about Sihtric mooning over the alehouse whore in Witancaester or Clapa’s jokes could keep the rage at bay. 

When Uhtred saw the line of women and children in chains, following behind two men on horses, he saw red, cutting down the slavers without remorse. He knew he'd spend every night freeing Mercia from slavers if he had to, even if his wife would banish him from her bed for it. Alfred had been clear on banning the Saxons from slaving. The Mercian cunt failing to do even that was impossible to forgive. 

But coming home to Aethelwold and tales of a corpse proclaiming Uhtred the King of Mercia and Aethelwold the King of Wessex did little for his mood, and a summons to Wintanceaster for the Princess Aethelfled’s wedding, from the King himself, did nothing to help.

Not even a tryst with his wife on the road had helped, because it led him to meeting the princess’s groom, Aethelred of Mercia. The little shit had called his wife a whore and questioned who had fathered the babe she grew, and if it hadn’t been for her, the man would have lost his tongue for it before he could swear his vows to his bride. Finan, Sihtric, and the rest of the men were ready to demand blood for her honor. But it was only at Gisela's insistence that they were forced to let the insult go.

The wedding did nothing to help his mood either with Aethelwold whispering in his ear treasonous things about them ruling Wessex and Mercia together. Uhtred knew he would have to go see this ghost. The only pleasant surprise was the arrival of the baby monk, Osferth. The young man was Alfred’s bastard, raised in the faith but desired a warrior’s life. He was eager, and green, but Uhtred found the boy endearing and agreed to take him under his wing.

Gisela smiled and pressed herself up on her toes to kiss him after he strapped on his armor in preparation to leave, “Be kind to the new stray you’ve picked up; he doesn’t know what this life means yet. And tell Sihtric he can marry the girl if he does well tonight.”

“I won’t let him marry a whore who loves nothing more than his silver because he's broken hearted over the seer girl that Kjartan murdered,” Uhtred sighed, wrapping his arms around his wife’s waist. 

She frowned at him, “Did you not find love after Iseult died? She was taken from you, and you loved her. Why are you denying him the same thing?”

“Because you were not a whore; you were the sister of a king,” he reminded her.

“Is Aethelfled not a whore in a bridal gown? If you keep on like this, maybe you believe I truly belong to your uncle,” Gisela spit back.

“Even if she was not a whore, which I do not grudge her for, she does not love him. Steapa told me that she calls him a heathen and a fool when we are at Coccham.”

Gisela's eyes narrowed as she pulled away from him, “I will be confirming that with Steapa, you know it would not do you well to lie and pacify me.”

Uhtred laughed softly and wrapped himself around his wife again. “I know I am not the most honest man, but lying to my wife would end in cruelty I have yet to know. I would not dare to insult you this way.”

She softened and twined her fingers with his, “Do not tell him this, Uhtred; it will break his heart.”

He had ended up promising Sihtric if he could swear he was not trying to fill the hole the little witch he lost had left him, and he could swear to his whore’s loyalty, he would allow them to marry. Sihtric had initially been pleased, but by the time they were riding back to Witancaester, he hadn’t spoken about the girl again. He simply rode beside Finan in silence. 

When they returned, Uhtred was greeted by Beocca and Steapa at the gates of the city. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to kiss his wife before Alfred was summoning him to fix more of Mercia’s problems. This time, they were sent to Lunden, to handle something Aethelred should have been able to do on his own. The Mercian cunt had questioned his loyalty to Alfred openly, and it took every ounce of self restraint not to kill him. The little shit was lucky Beocca and Thyra had waited to tell him about Aethelfled’s treatment at her new husband’s hands; it was likely he would have cleaved his head from his shoulders in front of the Witan. 

The more he had to deal with the Mercian cunt the more surprised Uhtred was at finding someone who bothered him more than Aethelwold. At least Aethelwold was easy to ignore, and easier to threaten into silence. And there were those blessed times where he’d been too drunk to speak. But Aethelred seemed to exist purely to piss off Uhtred and his men.

The siege had been poorly planned and even more poorly executed. If he had known the Mercian cunt had brought the princess and Thyra with him to the front, he would have sent her back to Witancaester with Finan. Sihtric, and Clapa. It was only after they had ransacked the camp when Beocca screamed for his wife that Uhtred learned of the women being brought there. He had nearly seen red then but his men had kept him from killing the boy. That was when he learned that Erik and Siegfried had taken Aethelflaed.

Alfred had been livid and immediately sent Uhtred to try and get her back. He had pleaded for Alfred to reconsider, seeing as he would be gone for weeks and Gisela was close to her labors. But he was rebuffed and sent regardless.

He was grateful for Hild, Thyra, and Beocca who swore they would look after Gisela while he was gone. And even more grateful that his wife did not deem it necessary to kill him for missing the birth of his new son. 

The journey to Beamfleot was long and every hour spent in Aethelred’s presence grated on him.

“Lord, I say we get him drunk and leave his sorry ass out in the cold,” Finan suggested with a smirk.

“It would be a kindness, Lord. Men like him deserve to be put down like rabid dogs,” Sihtric groused from the other side of him.

“Unfortunately, we can do neither. Alfred warned me that I would lose his backing if I mistreated the Mercian shits in any way,” Uhtred sighed. “I want to be rid of Mercia and its problems, and return to Coccham with my wife and our children.”

“We all want that, Lord. Hopefully Alfred will see after this what a useless shite he married his daughter off to,” Finan agreed.

“We could only be so lucky,” Uhtred mused before turning to Sihtric. “Ride ahead to Baemfleot and warn them of our coming. Tell Erik that we desire to negotiate for Lady Aethelflaed, and warn him of her husband. But tell him I require to see her before we can negotiate. I will not make a deal for a corpse.”

Sihtric nodded and rode ahead without a word.

“Lord, I don’t know what you told him about his whore, but he hasn’t said her name in weeks,” Finan said lowly.

“I told him I would permit the union if he could swear he was not trying to lose himself in another to numb his loss, and if he could swear the whore’s loyalty. I believe I made him see the error of his choice in a bride,” Uhtred explained, but the guilt gnawed at him. “Maybe I was too harsh. Gisela and Thyra believe I was.”

“No, Lord. You saved us all from another problem. We’re already working our arses off to save a princess from the problems caused by one shite marriage. Who knows what another would bring us,” Finan groaned.

Uhtred knew Finan was right when they reached Beamfleot. Uhtred was ready to throw the princess over his shoulder and carry her back to Witancaester kicking and screaming when she begged him to leave her with Erik; they had apparently fallen in love. It had taken all of his effort not to lose his temper, but he couldn’t find it in himself to disparage her for wanting to rid herself of her husband. Uhtred promised to do what he could, but it would not be easy.

He had to remind himself constantly that she was little more than a child, but her outbursts and tantrums grated on him while she openly insulted everyone who would listen. He found that he did not envy Erik in the slightest.

He sent Steapa back to Witancaester with the terms of their negotiation and waited for the big man’s return. The waiting served to remind him of the time he was spending away from Gisela and his children. Stiorra would rebuke him in the way only 4 year olds could for missing her name day, and Young Uhtred would undoubtedly gripe about the missed riding lessons he’d been promised. But worse, he knew that each day that passed he chanced missing his new son’s arrival. Gisela had decided on Osbert and refused to be swayed. Despite his protests, he always smiled at the thought of her naming their sons after him.

The night Steapa returned, before he could even tell anyone that the offer Erik made was accepted, all hell broke loose. Baemfleot went up in flames with Lady Aethelflaed trapped inside. Erik had died at Siegfried’s hand, and the plan was in shambles.

When the dust of battle settled, both Erik and Siegfried were dead, along with Clapa and many other good men. And the ride back to Witancaester was a somber affair with Aethelfled still bound to Aethelred.

Alfred had met them at the gate of the city, giving his thanks before hastily sending him to attend to his wife, who’s labors had begun the day before according to Beocca. Uthred raced through town to Thyra and Beocca’s home, and the weight of the last few weeks lifted off his shoulders hearing the cry of a babe ring out into the open air. 

But it was Hild, not Gisela who greeted him at the door.

“Uhtred, my friend, she is gone,” Hild said, eyes filling with tears as she pulled him into a hug. “She fought, and she has given you a son.”

“She can not be gone, I must see her,” Uhtred cried, pulling away from the embrace, but Hild’s arms tightened around him.

“Uhtred, she is gone. But she wanted me to tell you that she will meet you in Valhalla when it is your time, and that you must live and find happiness while she waits for you.”

Uhtred could barely breathe as he collapsed to his knees, heart shattering in his chest. He did not know how to do what his beloved wife requested of him; he knew his happiness had died with her.

5. Røskva

The fall air was wet and dreary. Røskva had been excited at the turn of the season if only to get out of the hot, sticky summer, but the cold was worsening Gunda’s health. The older woman had become like family to her in the few years that she’d been living there. Røskva was worried about her stomach pains, but her offerings to the Gods never yielded a vision of Gunda’s death, so her fears were abated for the time being.

Gunda had learned of her visions, and had taken the news in stride. She dealt with the customers and let Røskva hide away with her visions and her herbs. The only times Røskva had to see anyone was when a truly sick customer came, and when she would deliver supplies to the abbey.

The years had also softened her relationship with the nuns from the abbey — the Abbess herself couldn’t deny the salve Røskva made to aid with the older  woman’s bone pains — and Røskva was happy to provide. 

The years had softened her own fears, but not much. She no longer woke screaming most nights, seeing Kjartan’s face in her sleep. He hadn’t appeared to her since the vision of his death came one last time. It was as if she was there, feeling the seax stab into her own wrist and the blade arc down into her chest. The man who wielded a sword was a Dane with blond hair, tied back at the nape of his neck, with a tattoo between his brows. She felt the rage in him and shared it, reveling in the fear Kjartan felt in his last moments.

She woke half the village screaming that night, but she woke knowing that he and Sven were dead. Gunda hadn’t asked how she knew, but never doubted her for a second.

It didn’t stop Røskva from sleeping with a dagger under her pillow even now. Dreams of Sihtric haunted her for years, but now she had dreams of grey rats descending on her with noose and flame.

It was another dream of flames and pain that woke her that morning. It had taken until the sun rose for her grip on the dagger to loosen, and then the sounds of Gunda bustling about had gotten Røskva to unbar the door and rejoin the world. Gunda had waved her off when she had offered to make breakfast that morning, not liking the look of the way the other woman's hands shook with effort when she picked up the kettle. But Gunda had argued that the haunted look in Røskva’s eyes and the bags underneath them were reason enough to send the girl on her way.

“You need the rest more. Kept awake with your visions all night, didn’t you?” Gunda asked with a shake of her head and a tut as Røskva looked at the table in silence. Gunda sighed and took one of her hands. “Go on and get your herbs. I'll be here with my old bones when you get back, child.”

Røskva had stopped to deliver salve and tea to the abbey when the vision came: Gunda dropping dead on the kitchen floor as the kettle screamed on the fire. Røskva came out of the vision screaming as the sisters fluttered around her like chickens. She hadn’t bothered to explain before taking off in a sprint toward the inn. 

She could hear the kettle down the street and knew the truth of her vision but didn’t want to believe it. It was only when she found Gunda curled up on the ground that she allowed herself to weep. She didn’t notice the gathering crowd, nor the way the sisters whispered between themselves. All Røskva knew was that she lost the only person who cared about her in this world.

The sisters arranged for Gunda’s body to be taken with their custom, and she didn't argue. She knew Gunda believed in the Christian God, but never held Røskva in contempt for believing in her Gods. It had been a nice change to the company of the sisters, but now she was forced back into their care.

The villagers scurried away from her like mice. They had begun to speak in hushed tones about their fear of her presence and said she brought death wherever she went. When the Abbess demanded she return with them to the convent so they could find her a new place to live, she didn’t fight.

But when the grey rats came riding up to the abbey with their crosses and their anger, a fear struck into her that she hadn’t felt since the day Sven had put a knife in her gut. She tried to escape through a back door, but sister Mildreth sneered and refused to let her pass.

“We knew you were a foul beast the moment we met you, but we were deceived by your appearance and your countenance,” the Abbess huffed as the monks had dragged her from the convent screaming, the other sisters looking on impassively. 

She was overwhelmed with memories of being taken by Kjartan as they rode. The similarities brought a sharp pain to her chest when she thought about losing her nan and Gunda. But she knew there would be no moments of reprieve or friendship to save her mind this time.

The monastery where the monks took her was only a day's ride from the convent. Her captors sneered at her and called her impure, and unclean; but it was their eyes that were glued to her and their hands that skimmed her. They called her a demon of lust as they scrubbed at her exposed skin in attempt to remove the markings that adorned her. When the marks refused to dull, they called her a whore and forced her to bathe in their rituals and repent for filling them with desire for her, a godless heathen, when they had taken vows of chastity. When she told them she was blessed by Frigg and Freyja for her beauty and to apologize would be spitting on the gifts they bestowed her, the monk in a small, wheeled chair deemed her possessed by the demon Lilith and told her she would be assessed by their leader, a priest.

A day later, the sour-faced priest arrived, dripping in finery. “We must test her wickedness,” he said, “We must strip her and gaze upon her naked form, and if I, the most devout among you, feel the unholy stirrings of lust, then it will be confirmed she is surely a demon sent to tempt us to sin and ruin with her heathen ways.” 

She was horrified; not even Kjartan had stripped her and left her to be leered at by his men. Røskva spit curses at them from dusk to dawn that day until two monks, the one in the wheeled chair and the other with lustful eyes, came bearing her meal; a simple broth and water.

At the first sip of the water she knew they were attempting to silence her. The burn in her throat was crippling and persistent. The lukewarm broth was no better. The acrid taste and the burning had her overturning the tray and screaming for help, but found she could no longer make a sound beyond a whisper. She recognized the effects — they had poisoned her food and water with cuckoo-pint.

The next morning, the priest appeared with a sharp smile as she glared and spit at him, “the demon is rendered voiceless and powerless after drinking holy water! We must now see if her wickedness pervades even while rendered silent.” 

She wanted nothing more than to scream at them that she’d been poisoned, but the ability to speak was still evading her. That morning they stripped her bare and stood her on a platform, hands tied above her head. By luncheon she was found guilty of demonry and sentenced to death by hanging. A stern faced monk escorted her back to her cell to wait until nightfall when she would be executed.

As soon as the monk disappeared from view, she fell to her knees and searched the floor for the shards of pottery that the remains of her bowl had left and grabbed the candle off the table. She wasted no time, slicing into her skin and letting the blood pool on the surface before drawing runes on the floor. Once again, time crashed over her like a wave and she felt 10 winters old again. It was as if no time had passed at all. Here she was again, pleading to the Gods for her life as she paid in blood and with the small bits she could find on the floor. A stray piece of straw, a holly berry, a strip of fabric from her torn dress, and when she could find nothing else, she dropped her own blood onto the flame and begged any Gods who would listen to free her from suffering.

Her jailer came at sunset, bearing a simple, scratchy frock and a cross for her to wear around her neck. She refused to take the cross, throwing it across the room without remorse. While the monk went scrambling for the necklace, she pocketed the sharp piece of pottery. She hoped it would be enough to grant her entrance to Valhalla; she figured the Gods wouldn’t look down on her choice of weapon. 

Røskva walked to the makeshift gallows with her head held high. She couldn’t resist the urge to slash out at the priest with the shard, snarling and smiling as he cried out in pain.

“The demon is trying to take us! Don’t get too close!” He bellowed, clutching his bleeding arm to his chest as she was hoisted to stand on a barrel and the noose was tightened around her neck.

Røskva felt the shard dig into her hand as she gripped it tighter, whispering a curse to Hel upon every accursed monk and priest in the courtyard. She felt at peace as the order was given, and the barrel was pushed out from under her feet. She was too caught in her thoughts to notice the rope going slack as she lost her footing.

6. Finan

Finan was tired. Tired of travelling, tired of Alfred, tired of Uhtred running them ragged to avoid his own misery, tired of Sihtric’s silence, tired of Osferth’s fretting. He longed for his bed in Coccham and the sight of a woman naked in his bed. 

Finan wanted nothing more than to knock the sense into all of them so they could return to their own blessed homes. But he knew the emptiness of Coccham haunted Uhtred, just as Sihtric was haunted by the oath he could not keep to his little witch, especially with the weeks they were spending in Dunholm. Finan had his own oaths he failed to keep, but they were a lifetime away from him now.

Uhtred had received a summons from Alfred while they were in Dunholm with Ragnar and Brida. Finan had been grateful that Alfred hadn’t demanded their presence back in Witancaester in the 9 months since Gisela’s death, he merely sent messages and missives through Steapa who had gotten adept at finding them on the road. But Steapa said there was discord in Wessex; a Dane by the name of Bloodhair was raiding and raping in the villages across Northumbria, Wessex, and Mercia, terrorizing the small folk. 

Ragnar and Brida had warned them that Bloodhair was a shade less than sane, and a coward to boot. And the rumour was that he was in possession of a witch who killed men for fun. Finan was already dreading having to deal with them, but he was grateful to be headed back toward Wessex. The longer they lingered in Northumbria, the more unsettled he felt, and setting off toward home, Finan felt a knot in his chest he hadn’t realized was there, loosened.

But the dark cloud Finan attributed to Dunholm hung over them still as they set out at first light the next morning. Sihtric remained sullen, Uhtred remained melancholy, and Finan remained annoyed.

“Sihtric, ride ahead and find a place for us to stop tonight. Be cautious of the Christians in the area; they will not take kindly to a heathen staying on their land, even if we are in service of Alfred,” Uhtred sighed.

Sihtric gave only a nod in return before galloping away. Finan shot Osferth a look which had the monk falling back in the line silently.

“Lord, is it not good tidings to be returning to Wessex and Mercia, where they cheer for the Great Dane-Slayer, Uhtred of Bebbanburg?” Finan smirked at his friend, who shot him an unimpressed look. Finan sighed letting the joking tone go, “Uhtred, I am your friend. I know returning is not… ideal. But your children, your sister, our home? They’re all in Wessex. You got a lad you have barely seen, lord and I know…” he rambled, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I know Lady Gisela would have your arse if she was here.”

Uhtred’s eyes watered as he stared into the distance ahead of them. “I know you are right, my friend. But I do not know how to face this without her. Our children preferred her to me, as did Alfred, and I know you have been known to take her side over mine. I just… I am not sure how I am to be the Lord of Coccham without her.”

Finan smiled at his friend sadly, “Aye. She was a good woman, better than any of our sorry arses deserved to spend a minute with. But you and I both know she would beat your arse bloody if she knew you were out here hiding from your life.”

Uhtred laughed, eyes crinkling into a genuine smile and Finan felt the knot of fear loosen yet again. “You are right again, Finan,” Uhtred nodded, sighing. “Did Hild tell you what Gisela said as she faded?”

“No, lord.”

“She told her to help me find happiness, and to keep living while she awaits me in Valhalla,” Uhtred said softly.

“She was the best of us, my friend, and we will never forget her,” Finan said solemnly, making sure to look Uhtred in the eyes so he could understand the sincerity of his words. “It will be good to return, Lord. Even if it is just to collect your wee ones and take them back to Coccham with us after we deal with this hairy bloodsore.”

Uhtred’s bright laugh rang out into the silence. “His name is Bloodhair, Finan,” Osferth called from behind them.

“Aye, baby monk! I’m just makin’ a guess on what this big ugly Dane is like based on the name,” Finan called back, earning another laugh from Uhtred.

But Sihtric riding hard back toward them had the jovial mood dropping quickly as Uhtred sat higher in his saddle. “Sihtric! What is it?”

“Lord! There is a church ahead, all monks—”

“A monastery,” Osferth supplied off-handedly.

“—And they’re going to hang a woman at sundown! They have a gallows set up,” Sihtric said, eyes panicked. “Some of the village folk said she's a healer.”

“Why would they hang a woman, and a healer no less? Osferth, have you heard of this?” Uhtred asked the baby monk, eyes narrowed.

The younger man frowned, “No, lord.”

Finan watched the determination set across his friend's face, and he couldn't help but feel relieved; “Then we go and see what this is about. Alfred will want to know of a woman being executed in the Christian name,” Uhtred decided.

The ride was short, yet Finan felt like it dragged on for months. The thought of a woman being hung, Dane or not, in the name of God turned his stomach.

Finan could see the fires burning around the monastery walls as they made their way up the road. He shared nervous glances with Uhtred and Sihtric as they came to a stop in a dense thicket of trees just before the clearing. He could see the lone noose hanging from the branch of a tree swinging ominously in the light of the setting sun.

“We will wait to see what they charge her with. When they drop her, I will cut the rope, while Sihtric and Finan distract them. Osferth, you will wait until I am back on my horse with the girl and you will give the signal to the others. I will go directly south from here, and meet you in Eoferwic tomorrow,” Uhtred ordered.

Finan smirked and nodded, sharing a smirk and knowing look with Sihtric before splitting away from Osferth and Uhtred. 

He and Sihtric skirted around the monastery easily, settling on the vacant side hidden by trees and overgrown bushes. “So… What are we setting on fire?”

Sihtric scoffed and shook his head, “You are as bad as Uhtred, my friend.” Finan laughed, grinning at the younger Dane. It was easy enough to decide what to sacrifice, a small field with little chance of the fires spreading. He watched and waited, perched in the tall grass at the edge of the field, as the monks began spilling out into the courtyard. They seemed far too excited, like Danes at the first sight of blood. 

Finan didn’t see her at first; he only noticed her arrival when the monks started falling over themselves, screaming about a witch and a demon. But then he saw her — dark hair spilling down to her waist, walking toward her death with her head held high. He could not deny he was impressed by her; even more so when she slashed the arm of a priest, a wicked smile set on her face as she was hoisted off the ground, noose tied around her throat.

He found he could not look away from her as she stared ahead, eyes blazing in the fires set up in the square. Something about her was magnetic and otherworldly. Finan had to tear himself from her gaze for long enough to toss a lit branch into the field as the priest read off her list of crimes.

The first cry of alarm couldn’t have been better timed, ringing out into the night as the barrel she stood on was tipped. He saw the glint of a sword and the woman disappeared.

Series Masterlist | Next

[blackheart-6]

dess-ember day 31/31

very long thoughts below the read more!

hi yall

woo-hoo, ive finished another month of dess-ember!! it really has been fun, if very time consuming, but ive made many pieces over this month ive loved and had a great time sharing them all with yalls 😄😄😄

but anyways, lets get to the final entry! its a bit of an unusual one :D

its some pixel art!! i have only done 2 other pixel things this month (i originally wanted to do more, but i am very slow at it 😔), so i felt like ending with it wasnt a bad way to go!

i took dess, noelle, berdly, kris, ralsei, and susie and made some different sprites of them, which were taking the way i draw them and making them into sprite version, and also me making omori style versions as well

i had a couple different versions of the art, layed out in different ways, but stinky tumblr only lets me have 10 images. unfortunate 😔.

but anyways, now weve got the main part, each individual character! you can skip past this if you dont want to hear my thoughts i had while doing the individual drawings, its kinda alot :/

i put them all in a format like this, hopefully it isnt confusing!

we can go in order of how i have them in the very first image, so we can start with kris :D

kris was a very fun one to do, they were actually the second one i made, and them turning out so well is what led me to making even more. i feel like im pretty much entirety happy with them, the omori style turned out cute, and the deltarune style isnt half bad either! i did forget to give them bangs though, like i normally give them in my art, but i was too much of a bum to go back and fix it after i finished :|. i feel like they translated very well ❤️

next would be ralsei, but im doing him last actually, because he has the most to talk about 😤😤

now weve got susie! her hair in her canon form was tricky to translate into the omori style, but i think it was worth it, cause it turned out well! and i think her canon dark world omori sprite might be my favorite i made, her outfit turned out great!! im not as fond of my versions of her design, they didnt translate that well into sprites, but it could be worse lol. her face was a bit difficult to do, since the omori head shape is meant for a human, but i think she turned out good regardless 💜

next is berdly, and im so sorry for him, he turned out roughhh. if i thought someone like susie, with her head, was hard to translate into the omori style, it was nothing compared to trying to turn berdly into it. with his beak and his head feathers and wings and his legs... yeah, it was not a fun time 😔. i tried though, and i dont think its entirely bad! the legs are probably the worst part, they are kinda hard to see, but the rest of it came together... kinda. dont get me started on turning my version of him into a sprite though, i dont wanna talk about it 😫. sorry berdly, if i ever sprite you again ill make it up to you 🩵

next is noelle! she was the first i did, and i feel like she turned out so cute 🥰🥰🥰. her dark world, my version, deltarune style sprite might be my second favorite one i made, i think it actually translated well to sprite art. her fur is a bit rough, gradiants are tough in pixel art, but i dont think its that bad overall. but yeah, im pretty happy with her 🤎

penultimatly, weve got dess! gotta have her, its dess-ember after all!! hers was hard to do, trying to take my own design and alter it to make it more canon (mostly, i just simplified some things, but i dont think it looks enough like a canon sprite :( ill keep trying with it), but i think she turned out cute as well! im not entirely happy with it though, as i said, i might go back to fix up the deltarune styled ones at some point 💚

lastly, weve got ralsei. ohhh ralsei, how cute you are, but how difficult you were 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫. to start off with, i had a goal in mind for the deltarune style sprites. normally, when you look at the canon ralsei sprites, you might notice they look a bit different. obviously theres the hat, and the fur color, but its more than that.

theres so many differences, and yet my goal was to make the sprites lose all those differences, and be more consistent with each other. i didnt think it would be too bad, but it was a rough time. i made his hatless version easily, and i was like, oh, ill just add a hat, change his color, itll be easy!! ...it was not easy 😶‍🌫️. i did that and he looked so wrong, it barely even looked like hat ralsei at all 😖.

i mean, that doesnt look right, right?? so i had to keep editing, and changing both versions, trying to make them better. i spent so much longer on him than anyone else, but at the end, i think it was worth it! i feel like he ended up adorable, but boy was it work 😂

the omori sprites of his were pretty easy though, once i had all the deltarune sprites down i just omori-fied them, took barely any time. i did make his outline purple though, like the headspace denizens, since hes a darkner 🩷

but thats it for that! this is where youd wanna skip if you didnt wanna read all that lol. now for me to yap about this month, and dess!

i feel like this was a pretty productive dess-ember!! i definitely ramped up my art from last year, trying to do as few small drawings as possible. was that a mistake? maybe lol. it was certainly difficult, and led to pretty much every drawing being late because most of them took like 8 hours or so, but i suppose a couple hours late doesnt affect much, and i still did all 31 entries!

and id say while it was a struggle, it was a good thing i did it! i enjoyed my time drawing, and sharing all my art with yalls is always a fun time for me ^^ and i really do like drawing dess, i think i made a pretty good design for her all those years ago (like 2) 😊

there is the question though, of 'what about next year? will you do this again??' and to that i say... i dont actually know haha. i would want to, even if im busy i could always do a smaller one, but the real thing that could affect it is that, in 2025 we are getting more deltarune!!! im more excited than i could ever say, but if we see dess in canon, then i dont know if ill do another dess-ember. there would be my design vs canon design, which would be strange to reconcile with, and i imagine someone would probably do an official month for her of art prompts.

but thats all if she even appears. if she doesnt, well, expect me back next december to do this! if she does, ill have to think about it, so we will see then ^^

anyways, ive had a good month doing this! it may be a bit before i post new art, to give myself a break, but ill be back 😄

bye yall, and happy new year 2025!!! 🥳🥳🥳

[novastar-creations]

Au(? Plot extension?) where Hueso is really understaffed post-Kraang invasion and Sunita has to help him out (she got the job through nepotism exploding frankie)

It was really fun playing with different proportions and styles of the uniform - I had a limited colour pallet cos both Sunita and the Run of the Mill uniform had set colours and I didn’t wanna stray too far from canon. I was also focusing more on the actual designs and pushing proportion so I didn’t flip the canvas (had to actually restrain myself from doing it but y’know) that’s why some of ‘em look janky.

Left: My friend really liked this one (something about the pants?). The whole idea of Waitress!Sunita actually originated with this one, cos I drew it (and another one I think) in my sketchbook. That kinda triggered an inspiration bought and I worked on these for like, two days.

Middle: At some point I got the idea to give her wraps bc (headcanon time) she struggles keeping her form for long periods of time. I don’t really like this one as much as the others though, and I think it’s because she hasn’t got a shirt on under her vest? Something about that annoys me idk.

Right: This one was really cute! I do like the idea of her having really long cuffs or using her wraps to ramp down her sleeves - I might reuse that in the final design. Also, the hair on this one really stuck out to me for some reason.

MORE DESIGNS UNDER THE CUT ;]

Left: Don’t ask her what the specials are or what her favourite pizza is. She will ramble for ages and you’ll never eat. Design wise, I really like this one, and I think it’s because of how the vest tucks into the apron and crosses over itself. Something about that scratches my brain.

Middle: This one’s probably my least favourite, just cos it’s kinda boring. It’s cute, yea, but it just needs a little more flair. One might even say it needs razzmatazz. Also the boys fighting over the last slice of pizza would drive her endlessly insane, especially cos she can’t whoop their butts while she’s working.

Right: I think she’d sometimes try and do things too fast and accidentally slip. Hueso would be very forgiving tho. The little braid is cute, but I don’t think it’s my favourite hair (goop?) style I gave her.

Left: After a bit of time, her workload would decrease and she’d have more breaks - giving her more time to mess around on her phone. Also, it’s not fair Leo’s the only one with a nickname from Hueso. I think he’d give most of the regular (teen) patrons nicknames.

Middle: Sometimes she takes her time with delivering orders to their tables (tho she mostly does it out of spite when customers are rude to her) and dances over. I think she and Mikey would get on really well (hence the friendship bracelet).

Right: She would probably get herself in trouble because she messes around a little, and she’d have to do some less fun jobs, like taking out the trash, as punishment.

Left: This one will probably be the final design if I make it into an actual au? It has all the stuff of the other designs that I like, plus’s some other flairs. I think I’d redo it just a little, maybe give her the wraps, cos I really like that idea (and the matching friendship bracelet with Mikey ofc)

Right: This one was the precursor to the wraps, with the idea in this post that she uses armour to hold herself together. I ended up scrapping this really early on because I didn’t like the armour design I made (too boring). I might reuse the idea later, idk. I did really like the little puff sleeves. I think this was the other one I did in my sketchbook?

Despite all her clumsiness, hyperactivity, and various quirks, she’d probably be better than most of Hueso’s staff, cos unlike her, they all run from the mafia bosses (and/or compete for unicorns, destroying the restaurant in the process).

Sketches in (more or less) the order I started drawing them!

[louiesselfshipramblings]

Straw Hat Headcanons! (And selfship eligibility cause like this is a selfship blog still)

Monkey D. Luffy: Nothing really major. Just darker skin to reflect his Fantasy Brazil heritage, and frizzier hair. I don't wanna say just what Iñaki Godoy looks like, but...yeh, what Iñaki Godoy looks like. Self ship eligibility...no shade to peeps who do, love ya, but I see my boy Luffy as AroAce king. Man was immune to a fruit literally EVERY man was vulnerable to, and he didn't even realize it! On the scale, 0/10 [for me personally].

Roronoa Zoro: Yeh similar to Luffy. Prob darker skin, but him being Japanese, I get a paler complexion. Also he is def a closeted gay man for Sanji. Gonna be so cool when they find the One Piece and the two make out. Very progressive and cool. Tho he's not my type; too emotionally unavailable, and passes it off as being "cool". Fuck you, Zoro! But I still love your goofy ass. Be silly again! 1/10

Nami: NAMI!!!! She should be FAT!! She should be BIG!!! She should be able to eat everything she wants now because she's a free pirate, goddammit!!! And she should still be seen as beautiful cause she's a Straw Hat!!! LET HER KILL PEOPLE WITH HER CLIMATE BATON, YOU LET HER DO THAT IN PUNK HAZARD AND NEVER AGAIN ODA WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!!!! (Can you see who I made this list for. Shush, it's a secret.) I was late on the Nami train tbh, but when I hoped on I hoped HARD. Nami is so wife...I wanna make her happy...I get it, Sanji...now move it and let me date her! You can have Zoro! Oh, and I could personally see her as pan. 11/10

Usopp: Please. Come on. You know what I'm gonna say. Usopp, my boy...he needs his melanin back even though he barely had it in the first place in both anime and manga but sshhhhhh. The boy's South African, and is explicitly played by the clearly black Jacob Romero Gibson. I suppose Oda is bad at coloring and all, but I see you Toei. I see you still keeping Blackbeard black while making Usopp paler. Racist ass studio...also, no donut lips. I'd still say he'd have thicker lips, but not exaggerated to that, and if it don't work with the style, don't have em, no biggie. And Oda CAN draw Usopp without them cause he DID when he drew Jacob AS Usopp in that promotional letter, SO WHY DON'T YOU DRAW USOPP MORE LIKE JACOB NOW, ODA!?!?!? Ahem...I feel Usopp could be a bi boy. Genderfluid, or maybe in a way to boost his ego. You understand. Personally, I feel I would have to be very lucky to get with GOD Usopp, but maybe, just maybe...6/10.

Sanji: Tbh, he got off most easy for the New World redesigns. Really only switched his bangs and grew some beard. Kinda ugly but in that charming way, ya know? No real changes, he can be the Straw Hats local white boy. Just...please tone down the pervness. I was joking with the Luffy-Iñaki stuff, but please, make Sanji like he is in the live action. I will say he's been on good behavior since Fish-Man Island, so...I'd say Sanji is bi, maybe gay, but I find it funny the hypotheticals that a bi Sanji would be useless cause he couldn't hit men or women. But anyway Sanji is the reason Zoro comes outta the closet and they kiss at the end. But for me...he's not my type, but less not my type than Zoro, so...2/10

Tony Tony Chopper: Oh, Chopper. Poor, poor little thing you. Salty was right; Enies Lobby was the last time you were allowed to be interesting. Tho, I agree, with all the New World upgrades, I suppose controllable Monster Point was the one thing he needed...I mean I feel accessing his other forms without the Rumble Ball is fine enough. Maybe like...semi controllable Monster Point? I dunno. I feel his New World design cutes him up too much...reduce the hat down a bit and keep the goofier face he had from Drum Island, aka the best damn arc in the manga, argue with the wall. Man, I really hope he gets some cool shit when his Human-Human Fruit awakens, RIGHT, Oda!?!? Oh and self shipping? Uh...that's a child. -1/10

Nico Robin: Robin...oh, I love you. Not as much as Nami as I've come to realize, as she's a bit more my type but gosh I love Robin. She's been gettin a lotta love recently, for obvious reasons if keepin up, which I like. Main things with her is bring her bangs back (which the manga is already doin for super emotional reasons), and like Usopp, give her darker skin! Doesn't have to be as dark as Usopp, but some darker complexion would be nice. "But it was a tan, she's Russian". A tan she had for TWENTY YEARS? And only lost over a TWO year time skip? There can be black Russians. Toei inadvertently cooked early on and they were cowards for reversing that. I make it secret I enjoy thicker women, but honestly I think Robin works better as a lanky beanpole. Not to the...proportions Oda draws but def lean and tall. Good contrast to her buff hubby Franky. For fits, I'd really liked to see her wear more mom-style fits, or back to Cowboy Robin. Cowboy Robin was peak, argue with the wall. I feel she could be pan, maybe demigirl? Feels right with her powers, oddly enough. And like yeah, she's my fave behind Nami for Straw Hat self ship. 9/10

Franky: Franky is already SUPER perfect as is, and even his New World style has grown on me. Buuuuuuut...ugh, the shoulder pads...too much. I get he's top heavy, but that's just a bridge too far. I like his forearms being bigger, those should be kept. And maybe less "meaty"/thick fingers; I like em big, but it's funny he has a second pair of small hands in em. Def some more mechanical detail over his bod. His default hair should also go back to the pomp. I like the gimmick he changes it each arc, but the standard buzzcut kinda sucks. Like actually. You gotta understand, I consider pre-time skip Franky perfect character design. Legit, Oda peaked with him. Franky, def bi, but I could see him being trans! Maybe a bit on the nose with the whole "rebuilt himself" background, but it could work! Robin too, tbh. They can be t4t. Not my preferred, but cute! As he is, Franky is def a hunk. I like em big, yeh, and would prefer him fat strong, but strong on its own is nice. 7/10

Brook: Oh, Brook. Poor, poor Brook. It would have been so much better had there been another full arc between Thriller Bark and Sabaody to really get you with the crew (whichyoucankindaachivebywatchingFilmStrongWorldinbetweenTBandSAbutanactualbreatherarcbeforethetimeskipwouldhavebeennice), but even then you are still the best Straw Hat. Again. The wall. Suppose it's made up for the fact he's with the gang for the whole arc even before officially joining, which hadn't been done since, like, Usopp on Syrup Village, damn. But yeh! Like Franky, I kinda consider Brook's pre-time skip design peak, and his New World fit...bad. I get what it's goin for, but it's too many ideas! I feel Oda realizes that cause a lot of Brook's fits have been just his old look (Dressrosa, Whole Cake, Onigashima), which is nice. Skeleton in a suit and top hat, it's a classic. I like the crown hat tho for the "Soul King" aesthetic, but maybe smaller. More top hat than crown. And maybe he can just have themed suits, ya know? And yeh...like Sanji, turn down the perv elements. Like, it was funny the first two times cause "Haha, a skeleton asked for WHAT!?" but it lost its luster after that. At the very least, he's been on good behavior; last he did it genuinely was Punk Hazard I think, but he also pulled it on Big Mom at the end of Whole Cake is a genuinely awesome way (makes sense in context). Also, I feel Brook should be black. I get he's a skeleton now, obvs, but I dunno. Feels right for the Soul King. I have a feeling he'd be asexual—not out of choice, but...ya know—and maybe some level of agender? He is a skeleton after all. Who knows what being like that does do your personal perception. As a partner...eh. I love him, but as a friend! I'd wanna be a string duet with him! I feel Brook should be with a very specific type of person, ya know? Not that he's not my type, just I'm not for him. 3/10

Jimbei: Honestly, I'm not as madly in love with Jimbei as everyone else is! Yeah, he's great. Great in Impel Down, Fish-Man Island, Whole Cake, Wano. He's great! But I'm not drooling over him like some peeps are. And hey, more power to ya! Not much I'd change about his design...maybe make him thicker? Like, fat fat! Around the arms and such! Make him look like a strongman; would contrast nice to Franky's more bodybuilder-inspired physique. Maybe show off him being a lil older too? Gray streaks in his hair, hair a lil frizzy? Idk, just rambling. Tbh, Jimbei is either gay or straight. Feels right for him. As for me...he'd be a decent catch. Get it. Cause. Fish? Heh...5/10.

And that's em all! Granted, I have a few other, bigger OP crushes. Not many more (Perona, Law, Lilith), and I could include some honorary Straw Hats like my daughter Vivi and the cool boy guy man Yamato and maybe Lilith again cause I have theories tee hee hee. But eh, wanted to cover the main crew, so if I do wanna cover the others, I'll do it in a reblog. Who knows.

[beperoncin]

DAY 5 ~~ A SHIP

hello extremely tiny circle of lemoncino shippers

look at my cookie yaoi boy

i added this prompt simply as an excuse to draw my bois doin a kith

i haven't drawn peperoncino as a human in a long time and never have i posted anything related to "humanized" lemon to the public besides in gacha life 2 edits

h. lots of headcanons and extra info below the cut because i love these boys. uhh there's also a slightly nsfw hc too but i added a warning

when i was drawing this i was trying to draw lemon's jacket but it turns out the outline color is the same as his hair so i had to invert it to get it correct but i liked the color so i kept it

the reason why peperoncino is in a wheelchair is unfortunately not because of lemon (i wish it was) but because of something too graphic to talk about on this post. long story short is he got torn in half by two pieces of metal in the ocean and survived three more hours before being found by lemon. i have a more in-depth explanation on a different post in the ship tag

apparently one of my hcs for lemon is he's a sentient robot so in the drawing he has a data panel on the back so in his cookie form other cookies could check in on him but because of the whole electricity becoming too dangerous and everyone becomes scared of him thing he was. kinda neglected by the scientists

another hc related to the previous one. orange wated to take a mechanics class once she found out that lemon was a robot because she didn't wanna see him deteriorate but lemon told her he was fine on his own

i would like to talk more about lemon but this isn't about him. boowomp.mp3

so a couple of headcanons about lemon and peperoncino's relationship. uh. so lemon and peperoncino spent a lot of time together in the hospital but during the first couple days peperoncino couldn't speak any comprehensible words because he was so tired but lemon magically knew what he was trying to explain to him and since lemon treated him so nicely and understood him he started to get really comfy around him and then lemon noticed that and started to have feelings for him but repressed them because he would probably just lose him (peperoncino felt the same and he repressed his attraction too)

usually both parties don't like speaking to others or physical touch but they just now reserve it for one another

sorry for headcanon dumping about lemon on a peperoncino post but i prommy this is relevant to the ship. so about orange using lemon to "recharge." how that works is orange just hugs lemon for a prolonged amount of time (which lemon does not like because of the previously stated headcanon) which kinda transfers energy from him to the other cookie which tires lemon out.

so what lemon does is he plugs himself in (there's a special charging port in between his legs where a reproductive organ would usually be) and when he rests he only puts himself on sleep mode (not completely shutting down because the energy transfer system won't work that way) and hugs peperoncino. triple win situation because he doesn't tire himself out while charging his bf and all the while he gets to cuddle with him :D!!!!!!!

(nsfw) uhhh do you think peperoncino ever stuck his fingers into the cha- *gets sent to the backrooms* but yeah. the charging port is really sensitive and it's possible for lemon to be at the stripped club. straight up "jorking it". and by "it"? haha well. lets justr say. his chargign port

tsunku ♂��� forbid lemon finds out peperoncino gets flustered easily because y'all know he's gonna use it to his advantage (spoiler alert: he did in fact find out)

uhhhh those are all of my headcanons for now uhhhhh gets in my clown car and speeds away and drifts and

[messydoodlesyt]

SMG4 Crew Redesigns Part 2

HOLLLLLY CRAP THIS TOOK FOREVER!!! And I wanna blame Desti and her stupid tentacle hair, but honestly I think after Tari and Saiko I started to slow down because of outsides forces and just no general ideas forming for Melony.

So alright Tari!!! At least in the SMG4 Verse. I still gotta watch Meta Runner (especially because I wanna do a redesign of Belle at one point but she doesn’t really show up much aside from the YouTube arc plus it’s the last Glitch Productions show I gotta watch). But for this redesign I changed her hairstyle a bit with an opened up hoodie to show off the tank top. Couldn’t take away the iconic socks with flip flops she was rocking so kept that, but changed the pants a bit. I should’ve done it in the drawing, but the back of the hoodie has the meta runner logo. Nothing too crazy with her.

Next up Saiko! So decided to change up the colors a bit with her outfit giving her a cool ripped up pink skirt with less beige and more reddish jacket color. Then I changed her necklace to a choker and put the skull as a pin on the jacket. Then some piercings, a spiked belt with a heart skull cross buckle, painted black nails, and some combat boots! Also loved the headcanon people had of her being ripped so I did my best to draw that. Definitely need to practice drawing muscles more.

Okay so Melony- honestly it was tricky with her. Was not a fan of her canon design and tbh I’m still on the fence with her character- idk the OwO types of characters can get annoying pretty fast plus the childish behavior. But I mean she does have her moments where I’ve liked her (really wanna see more of her and Bob interacting) but yeah design wise I changed up the hoodie while still keeping the watermelon design while also giving her some black shorts, kept the striped socks she had for the college fit, and gave her green shoes. I also gave her a watermelon hairstyle for what I’m assuming are meant to be leaves on the top of her head. Then I did a small drawing of her deity form and gave my interpretation of it; even changing the hairband to fit the style.

Going down the line, Axol! So I initially went into all the Axol episodes thinking he was just a one note character that was a simp for Melony, but when I was first watching the arcs I was pleasantly surprised. He shows up before Melony for one thing, but even when she shows up he doesn’t turn into a one note character. Wish I got to have more of him. But anyways back to the design- I actually did like his design so I didn’t change too much, with just giving a turtle neck ish vibe, a beige belt, pockets on the pants to keep his blank papers and sketchbook, and gave him a tail since axolotls have tails.

Lastly Desti- good god it took her SO FRICKEN LONG TO DO!!! And it was mainly because of the tentacle hair!!! Horrible, never wanna draw again but probably will because I have so many ideas with this character. Like man I wish she was used more before the anime arc incident happened. So the hair I didn’t really change much, just had it flopped the other way. Her hoodie has a blue flare on the sleeves along with the hood part, ripped baggy pants, black boots, and a blue belt hanging out.

And that’s part 2! I gotta do more of the main ones like Bob and Boopkins but Bob already looks perfect the way he is and overall anything that’s not human is not my strong suit. Oh well.

Part 1 of SMG4 Redesigns