#she knows what’s in a ship from its design and smell

[paper-enigma]

First meetings!

.

.

@potatoeofwisdom I didn’t plan this one out so the panels aren’t that funky but I LOVE THEM SO MUCH!!!

Imma ramble about it in the tags

[delulujuls]

the other one | jacaerys velaryon

hi, here comes the 2.7k of i don't know what, really. its for sure intense, so fasten up your saddle and enjoy the ride. i enjoyed making aegon such a cutiepie in my two last shots, but this man is designed to be a menace to humanity so yeah, i believe im gonna lose it in the next shots. prepare for chaos.

summary: heart want what it wants, and y/n's heart belong to young prince from dragonstone, not to the future cruel king of westeros.

warnings: targaryen brothers being mean to velaryon boys AGAIN, aegon is such a meanie oh god, fighting, arguing, threatening with a sword, last scene is smelling a bit like a rap3, so feel free to skip it. your comfort is the most important

pairing: sister!targaryen reader x jacaerys velaryon (ft. jealous, possesive and dark!aegon targaryen)

Two young princes stood at the gates of the castle, awaiting guests. For several minutes they kept glancing at the sky, looking out for dragons. However, only the sound of wind and waves crashing against the rocks could be heard, with no indication that any winged beasts would soon appear before their eyes.

“Do you think they’ll come at all?” Lucerys asked his older brother, glancing at him. The cold wind chilled him to the bone, and the youngest of the Velaryons longed to return inside and sit by the fireplace.

Jacaerys did not get a chance to answer because shortly after, a muffled roar reached their ears, and something flickered in the low-hanging storm clouds. The heavy sky was pierced by the massive body of Vhagar, who was the first to emerge from the clouds and flew towards the beach. Close behind were Vermithor and Sunfyre, who looked dainty in comparison to those two giant dragons. Aemond, Y/N, and Aegon had arrived at Dragonstone.

Soon after, all four appeared at the castle gates. Helaena was flying with her older sister on Vermithor, choosing not to sail by ship with their mother, father, and grandfather. The youngest of the siblings still couldn't bring herself to travel alone on the back of her Dreamfyre, but felt confident with Y/N, now walking hand-in-hand with her sister towards the castle.

Lucerys took a step back, seeing Aemond and Aegon confidently striding towards them. The youngest Velaryon swallowed hard.

“I hope they don’t sit close to us,” he whispered, prompting his brother to discreetly nudge his arm.

Jacaerys smiled at the sight of the siblings. “Welcome, it’s good to see you here,” he said.

Aemond, leading the way, wore his characteristic grimace, nothing like the smile the young prince offered him. The last thing he felt like doing was feigning politeness. In silence, he merely glanced at them, bypassing them and pushing the heavy gate doors.

“My favorite, strong nephews,” Aegon said sarcastically, with a mocking smile. Passing by, he nudged Lucerys in the shoulder, who was about to turn and say something when his aunt’s voice reached his ears. Y/N smiled joyfully at the sight of Rhaenyra’s sons.

“Luke, Jace,” she extended her arms, hugging them both at once. Hearing the girl's joyful voice, Aegon glanced over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. He thought his sisters were too lenient with those bastards.

“It’s good to see you, Y/N,” Jacaerys smiled, embracing her and catching the smell of her lavender-scented hair. While he sincerely disliked Aemond and Aegon, he was very fond of their sisters. Helaena was shy and harmless, often speaking little and nodding more. Y/N, on the other hand, often reminded him of his mother, unafraid to speak up or defend her position. She was also wise and very pretty, and he was genuinely pleased to spend a few days in her presence.

“Are you coming, or are we going to freeze out here like a bunch of idiots?” Aegon asked sharply, seeing Y/N hold onto older Velaryon a bit too long. The young princess gave him an amused look, tousled Lucerys’ hair, and linked arms with Helaena. The four of them briskly walked towards the castle.

Rhaenyra was celebrating her thirty-second name day, so the entire family from King’s Landing had come to Dragonstone. Viserys wanted his daughter to celebrate her birthday in the capital, but she wished to spend the day her way. The ailing king, still battling illness, had no intention of arguing with his daughter, lacking the strength and health to do so. Even to the Targaryen seat, he chose to sail by ship rather than ride on the back of one of the dragons. After Balerion’s death, he had given up flying and now didn’t think about it at all.

During the evening feast, the dining hall filled with people. Despite it being Rhaenyra’s day, Viserys sat at the head of the table. To his left was his eldest daughter, beside her Daemon, Joffrey, Lucerys, Jacaerys, Rhaena, and Baela. On the king’s right sat his wife, next to her the Hand of the King, then Aemond, Aegon, Y/N, Helaena, and Rhaenys Targaryen, next to whom, at the other end of the table, sat Corlys Velaryon.

The feast went on in a calm and surprisingly pleasant atmosphere. Previous feasts often ended in arguments before they even really began. The main instigators of all disputes, Aemond and Aegon, sat quietly, not speaking much. Many might have thought someone stuffed hay into the dragons’ bellies to prevent them from breathing fire.

Aegon, however, increasingly clenched his hand around the wine goblet from time to time, hearing Y/N happily talking with Jacaerys across the table. His blood boiled hearing her so delighted with the conversation with him. He felt like slapping that fucking son of a bitch.

Helaena was also having a good time, shedding her shyness piece by piece with each sip of wine. She chatted lively with Rhaena and Baela, who were already slightly tipsy themselves. Rhaenys sent an amused look to her husband, who tightened his grip on the wine jug and pulled it closer. The Sea Snake had to be vigilant to prevent his granddaughters and the young Targaryen from getting too drunk. Helaena, however, had more to celebrate than just her half-sister’s birthday.

Since Viserys and Alicent’s daughters reached reproductive age, the Hand of the King and the Queen Mother began looking for potential suitors for them. While there was no trouble finding suitors for Y/N, who, besides her wealth and possessions, had a strong character and good disposition, finding a husband for Helaena was problematic.

From birth, the princess showed signs of abnormal development. Though she grew as a girl should, her mind seemed not to keep up, still trapping her in a world of childish dreams. Helaena was quiet, read a lot, and spent all her time in the garden, not burdened with unnecessary duties.

The Hand decided that when the time came, that is, when Aegon was to take the throne from the ailing king, he would marry Helaena, and Y/N would marry Forrest Frey. The plans were made at a Small Council meeting, which neither Helaena nor Y/N attended. Probably neither would have known about the plans to marry them off if Y/N hadn’t accidentally overheard their conversation when one of the doors unguarded by sentries was ajar.

“I don’t agree!” she said firmly, pushing the heavy doors and entering.

“Y/N, you can’t be here-,” Alicent stood up, wanting to calm her daughter, but she sharply pointed her finger upwards. “And you can’t do this to Helaena! I don’t agree!”

Aegon, who was one of the people at the table, also didn’t support the Council’s idea. However, he was too drunk to make any objections. Only his sister’s intrusion somewhat sobered him up. If he had to choose, he could marry Y/N since she wanted to fight so hard for Helaena’s better fate. Frankly, he didn’t care either way.

The guards first wanted to remove the young princess, but she began presenting her arguments. The Council didn’t think an eighteen-year-old’s arguments could make any sense, but many underestimated Y/N’s negotiation skills. In the castle, by Aegon’s side, she could be more useful than in the Riverlands beside Forrest Frey.

The Council decided that Helaena would marry Frey when the time came, and Y/N would marry Aegon. The young princess didn’t want Helaena to spend her life in the castle, locked in chambers and bearing children. She wanted her to break free from King’s Landing and experience a life different from the one she had lived so far. Y/N knew that unlike her sister, she could handle an incestuous marriage and an unwanted husband, who Aegon was to become in the future. Helaena might have been driven to suicide.

But for now, these were just tomorrow's problems, or who knows, maybe even further. Helaena, in a sudden burst of joy, stood up and climbed onto a chair, much to Alicent’s horror.

“To my beloved sister Y/N,” she said, swaying. Rhaenys held the chair to prevent her from falling. “And to my sister Rhaenyra, who celebrates her birthday today. I love you!”

Alicent, Otto, Aemond, and Aegon looked at her indulgently, raising their goblets. All the other guests eagerly toasted, applauding the young princess’s words. Rhaenyra stood up from the table and hugged her sister; Y/N also rose to do the same.

“Helaena needs rest,” Alicent whispered, gripping her daughter’s shoulder before she stood up. “Escort her to bed.”

Y/N shook off her hand and got up, embracing her sisters. However, when she felt Helaena’s heavy body in her arms, she held her close around the waist.

As soon as the sisters left the dining hall, Jacaerys, sent by his mother, joined them. Young prince apologized to Y/N and with a single, confident motion, picked up Helaena, who laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed his cheek, admitting that she would let such a handsome man whisk her away without hesitation.

Jacaerys only let go of Helaena when he placed her on the bed in her bedroom.

"Will you stay with her until morning?" he asked as Y/N began removing the rings from her sister's fingers.

"Helaena usually sleeps like a mouse under a haystack, but after wine, she sleeps like a rock," Y/N replied, smiling slightly at the sight of her sister's flushed face. "Wait outside, I'll change her for bed and join you."

The young prince nodded obediently and left the chamber. He stood outside the door, straight as a string, feeling like a guard. Shortly after, the princess joined him, quietly closing the door behind her.

"She'll sleep like a baby until morning," she assured, laughing softly.

"It's nice to see her with a smile on her face," Jacerys admitted as they slowly began walking down the corridor. He quietly offered his arm to Y/N, which she gladly accepted.

"I've noticed she smiles much more when she's here. I feel like the capital is suffocating her."

Jacaerys lowered his gaze. He had recently learned about the marriage plans for the young sisters.

"I heard she'll leave King's Landing sooner or later," he said, glancing at her. He didn't know how delicate ground he was entering.

The young princess sighed and nodded. She spent the whole way telling Jacaerys about everything that had happened in the past weeks. In the company of the boy, Y/N didn't feel like his aunt, as their relationship would suggest, but like a friend. After all, they were only a year apart in age. They had always had a good relationship and, unlike her hostile brothers, Y/N really liked Jacaerys. She cherished every opportunity she could spend with him. This was one of those moments.

The pair didn't return to the feast; instead, they went to one of the terraces. They sat on one of the benches, and Y/N involuntarily rested her head on the boy's shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her waist, hugging her close.

"You deserve more, Y/N," he said quietly. "Both you and Helaena deserve more."

"I know I'll manage, I'm strong," she said, watching the remnants of the day dance on the horizon. "But I'm so scared for Helaena. She deserves the whole world, not what's waiting for her in King's Landing."

The young princess wasn't sad; at this moment, she could even say she felt a lightness in her heart. Jacaerys' body warmed her pleasantly, and the cool, salty air chased away the heat caused by the wine from her cheeks.

"You're the bravest dragon I've ever known," he said with a smile, looking at her face. The girl smiled at his words. "I don't know stronger people than Targaryen women."

"Do you really think so?" she asked quietly, looking into his eyes. She didn't know if his cheeks were flushed from the wine or the cold wind. Nevertheless, his dark eyes looked at her so gently that the young princess never wanted to look into any other eyes again.

Jacaerys smiled and nodded. He cautiously lifted his hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He touched her cheek and gently stroked it with his thumb.

"I would take better care of you than they would, you know?" he said after a moment, his whisper lost in the whistle of the wind. Y/N heard his words clearly, just as she clearly heard the snort of disdain that came from somewhere to the side.

"I don't know which of you is more pathetic," Aegon said, looking at them with drunken eyes. He could barely stand, but his fists were clenched. Aemond remained silent, standing in the entrance and blocking it with his body. Unlike his brother, he didn't look drunk.

"What is your problem?" Y/N asked angrily, standing up. Unintentionally, she shielded Jacaerys with her body, who also rose from the bench.

"That you act like a complete whore," he spat through his teeth, causing Jacaerys to step around the girl to stand in her defense. She grabbed his hand and pulled him back when Aemond drew a dagger and stepped forward, defending his brother.

"Watch your words," Jacaerys said angrily. He didn't care that he was addressing the future king. In his eyes, Aegon wasn't worth anything, and he certainly didn't deserve to be Y/N's husband.

"Or what, bastard?" Aemond asked calmly, looking at him intently.

"We haven't done anything wrong," the young princess said sharply, though her voice trembled. She knew that her brothers were unlikely to hurt her, but she wasn't capable of protecting Jacaerys from both of them. She had only her hands, feet, and teeth at her disposal. "Get out of the way."

"Oh, really?" Aegon smiled. His drunken eyes were shiny from alcohol and dark-circled, his skin ashen. Even despite the fire of hatred burning in him, he didn't have a bit of a blush on his face. "I see a fucking dog clinging to my future wife."

"You wish she were your wife," Jacaerys said without thinking much about the words that left his mouth. Aegon lunged at him with his fists, to which the young Velaryon responded in kind. Aemond sheathed his dagger and grabbed Jacaerys by the shoulders, holding him and exposing him to Aegon's blows. In the commotion, the young princess managed to draw her brother's dagger and without hesitation, grabbed Aegon by the hair, pulling him back. With tears on her cheeks, she pressed the sword to his neck.

The four of them froze in place.

Aemond still held Jacaerys tightly, blood was trickling from his lip. Aegon's heart was pounding, not from fear but from adrenaline and, at that moment, also from excitement. His sister's small hand was firmly gripping his hair, forcing him to tilt his head back. Blood flowed from his broken nose, running down to his grinning lips.

"She's a dragon, see?" Aegon said, addressing Jacaerys. "You couldn't handle her, fool."

Y/N pushed her brother to the ground, releasing the dagger from her hands as well. She grabbed Jacaerys' hand and pulled him from Aemond's grasp, who would have lied if he said his sister's behavior didn't leave him speechless. In shock, he wasn't even able to oppose her.

"I'm so sorry," she began tearfully, pulling him away as far as possible from that place. "I should have killed them when I had the sword in my hand."

Jacaerys pulled her by the hand, causing her to turn around suddenly and fall into his arms. Without a word, he kissed her, feeling her salty tears mix with the blood from his split lip. Y/N returned the kiss but looked at him in shock. Jacaerys smiled warmly at her.

"Don't apologize to me," he whispered, cupping her cheeks in his hands. "You are a dragon, so be a dragon."

The pair didn't return to the feast. Instead, Y/N went with the young prince to his chambers. Jacaerys initially protested when she said she would help dress his wounds. Eventually, he agreed to her proposal, lying on the bed in just his trousers. The girl carefully cleaned his cuts, placing a cold compress on his abdomen. She sat beside him, looking at him tenderly.

"I'm so sorry, Jace," she whispered, squeezing his hand. The boy, however, seemed to be in a good mood.

"If every fight with them means I get to spend time with you, I'm ready to fight them every day."

The young princess smiled and shook her head at his words. She felt her heart swell when she was with him.

Their eager lips exchanged a few more kisses before Y/N quietly left his chamber, returning to her own. Helaena was still sleeping soundly, snoring softly. She lay on her side on her half of the bed, not even stirring when her sister began preparing for sleep. Dressed in a nightgown, she let her hair down and carefully combed it. She put the brush away and blew out the nearby candles, lying down on the bed.

As soon as she covered herself with the quilt, she felt someone sit on her, pressing her into the mattress, and a cold hand covered her mouth. The girl wanted to scream but felt a blade against her neck. The attacker leaned over her, his hair tickling her face. The young princess smelled alcohol.

"Every time you raise your hand against me," Aegon whispered, tightening his grip on the dagger's hilt, "I'll have one of your fingers cut off, understood?"

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. For the first time in her life, Aegon truly frightened her. She felt her heart leap into her throat.

"And that fucking Velaryon dog," he moved his hand from her mouth to her hair, gripping it tightly. "I never want to see him near you again."

"Aegon-" she whispered with difficulty, clutching his wrist to push him away. She felt herself running out of breath, and the cold blade pressed deeper into her skin.

"Is that clear?" he growled, pressing her harder into the pillows.

"Yes," she said tearfully.

A moment later, she felt her brother's alcohol-tainted lips forcefully and brutally kissing hers. Aegon stood up shortly after and left the sisters' chamber, closing the door behind him. In the darkness, the young princess found her sister's body and hugged her from behind, trying to suppress her tears. She was terrified.

How much she wished she could hide in Jacaerys's arms at that moment.

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

☠️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Thirty-Eight

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: Little Bit of Angst.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~3.6k

Previous | Masterlist | Next

You’re hungover and in misery as Perona excitedly chatters about wedding dresses, hair styles, and flowers.

Your head throbs with the remnants of last night’s indulgence, each pulse a reminder of the fun and chaos that followed. You drag yourself to the small dining table, squinting against the bright sunlight streaming through the porthole. The smell of coffee promises salvation, but it does little to dull the ache in your skull.

Perona, vibrant and energetic despite the early hour, prances around the room. Her voice is a high-pitched melody that grates on your sensitive ears this morning. “So, I was thinking about wedding dresses! Have you ever considered a mermaid style? It would look stunning on you.”

You mumble something noncommittal and sip your coffee. The bitter liquid scalds your tongue, but at least it distracts you from the pounding in your head. Perona continues unabated, flitting from one idea to another with boundless enthusiasm.

“And flowers! Oh, we must have roses. Red roses would match Shanks’ hair perfectly! Don’t you think? And maybe some lilies for contrast. Oh I know! White lilacs!”

You force a smile, though it probably looks more like a grimace. You won’t ever be caught, not even dead, with roses. “Sure, Perona. Whatever you think is best.”

She claps her hands together, her excitement growing with every word. “And hairstyles! You could wear your hair up with some delicate braids woven in. Or down with loose curls cascading over your shoulders.”

Your head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise as she describes intricate hairstyles that sound more like torture devices than beauty enhancements.

You take another sip of coffee, feeling a slight sense of clarity return. Perona's enthusiasm, while overwhelming, is endearing in its own way. You take a deep breath and decide it's time to share your thoughts on the wedding dress.

"Perona," you say, trying to catch her attention amid her flurry of ideas. "I appreciate all your suggestions, but there's something specific I want for my dress."

She stops mid-twirl, her big black eyes locking onto yours with curiosity. "Oh? What do you have in mind?"

"I want the dress to be flowing," you begin, choosing your words carefully. "Not heavy and definitely not form-fitting."

Perona's face lights up with understanding. "Flowing! Like a gentle breeze on the sea, right? Something that moves with you?"

You nod, relieved she seems to understand. "Exactly. I want it to feel light and free, not like I'm being weighed down or restricted. I've already had one wedding dress I absolutely hated cage me, I am not doing that again."

She taps her chin thoughtfully, then snaps her fingers as if an idea just struck her. "I know just the thing! We can use layers of soft chiffon or silk. They’ll give you that flowing effect without adding any weight."

"That sounds perfect," you say, feeling a bit of the morning's tension ease away.

"And for the bodice," she continues, clearly on a roll now, "we can make it simple and elegant, maybe with some delicate lace details but nothing too tight or constricting."

You smile genuinely this time. "That’s exactly what I was hoping for."

Perona beams at you, her excitement contagious but no longer overwhelming. "I can't wait to start designing it! We’ll make sure it’s everything you dreamed of."

Your heart swells with gratitude for her enthusiasm and understanding. "Thank you, Perona. It means a lot to me."

"Of course!" she says brightly. "This is your special day. It should be perfect in every way."

You finish your coffee and feel a sense of relief wash over you as the headache subsides a bit more. The thought of a light, flowing dress feels like freedom compared to the heavy burdensome wedding dress your mother had ordered.

Perona claps her hands with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Alright, let’s get started on that dress!"

Before you can ask what she means, a chill fills the room. Your breath catches in your throat as you watch ghostly figures materialize out of thin air. Translucent and eerie, they hover around Perona, their eyes glowing faintly.

You step back, your heart pounding. "What... what are those?"

Perona laughs lightly, clearly amused by your reaction. "Oh, don’t worry! These are my little helpers."

The ghosts begin to move with purpose, gathering materials from seemingly nowhere. Bolts of chiffon and silk float through the air as if carried by an invisible breeze. You watch in awe and slight terror as the spectral beings work seamlessly together.

"How... how is this possible?" you stammer, unable to tear your eyes away from the surreal scene.

Perona tilts her head with a proud smile. "It’s my Devil Fruit power. I ate the Horo Horo no Mi, which allows me to create and control ghosts."

You blink, trying to process what she just said. The concept of Devil Fruits isn’t foreign to you—being on a pirate ship has exposed you to many strange abilities—but seeing it in action is something else entirely.

"Devil Fruit power," you repeat slowly, still watching the ghosts as they cut and sew with otherworldly precision.

"Yes!" Perona says enthusiastically. "They’re super handy for all sorts of things. And today, they’re going to help make your perfect wedding dress so you can be ready for tomorrow!"

One of the ghosts floats closer to you, holding up a piece of delicate lace for your approval. You swallow hard and nod, still feeling a bit overwhelmed but beginning to see the magic in it all.

"This is... unexpected but appreciated,” you admit softly.

Perona beams at you, clearly pleased with your reaction. "I knew you'd come around! Just wait until you see the final product."

The room buzzes with ethereal energy as the ghosts continue their work. You watch in fascination as layers of chiffon and silk come together, forming the beginnings of a dress that seems to float like a gentle sea breeze.

Despite the initial shock, you start to feel a sense of excitement build within you. The ghosts move gracefully around Perona's guiding hands, stitching together not just fabric but also a piece of your new life—one filled with freedom and adventure.

As you sit there, witnessing this ghostly ballet unfold before your eyes, a smile tugs at your lips. You had been wondering how your wedding dress was supposed to be magically finished by tomorrow. Your previous one had taken months. You turn your mind back to the ghost, they now seem busy with different bolts of cloth.

The delicate lace and soft chiffon seem to float together, forming a dress that embodies the freedom you crave. The odd beings dart in and out, their translucent forms creating a swirl of shifting colors.

Perona stands nearby, directing the spectral seamstresses with a confident wave of her hand. “Make sure the hem is even,” she instructs, her voice carrying a note of authority. The ghosts respond immediately, adjusting the fabric with care.

Your eyes trace the intricate patterns taking shape. Each stitch appears perfect, guided by an unseen hand. The dress begins to resemble a dream made tangible—a flowing creation that seems to capture the essence of your newfound freedom.

“I am never going to look that these ghosts the same,” you murmur, unable to look away.

Perona turns to you with a bright smile. “I told you they were useful! Just wait until it’s finished.”

The ghosts continue their work, adding delicate touches here and there—a subtle lace trim, a gentle pleat in the fabric. You can hardly believe your eyes as the dress takes form before you, each detail more exquisitely simple than the last.

One ghost hovers near you, holding up a piece of ribbon for your approval. You reach out tentatively, your fingers brushing against its cool, intangible form. The sensation sends a shiver through your body, but you nod in agreement.

“That’s perfect,” you say softly.

The ghost seems to understand and swiftly integrates the ribbon into the dress design. Perona watches with satisfaction, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

“You’re going to look absolutely stunning,” she declares with certainty.

As the final touches are added, you feel a swell of emotion rise within you. This dress isn’t just fabric and thread—it’s a symbol of your journey, your escape from a life of confinement into one of adventure and possibility.

“Thank you,” you say, turning to Perona. “This means more to me than I can put into words. I never thought I’d find myself willingly put on a wedding dress again.”

Perona waves off your gratitude with a dismissive flick of her hand but smiles warmly. “Just wait until Shanks sees you in it.”

The mention of Shanks sends a flutter through your heart. You imagine his reaction when he sees you walking towards him in this dress—free and unburdened by the past. It was a difficult thought because he had already seen you in a wedding dress and a picture of perfection. This time would be different. No desperation. No panic.

The ghosts finish their work with a final flourish, and Perona steps back to admire their creation. “There,” she says proudly. “All done.”

You gaze at the dress in wonder, unable to believe how quickly it came together yet how perfect it is in every way. It’s everything you hoped for—a reflection of your newfound freedom and the life you're building for yourself on the open sea.

Perona claps her hands together, breaking through your reverie. “Alright! Time for a fitting!” Your head throbs and you sink into your seat, wishing you could disappear into the furniture just from the scheming look in her eyes.

Your hangover had disappeared but you were decidedly finished with standing front of Perona while her ghosts fluttered and fussed around you. You wedding dress just had to look nice, not be perfect. The first chance you had you had darted out of the room and disappeared from her sights.

You'd spent the better part of the afternoon hiding from Perona and the ghosts she sent to find you, mostly successful in your endeavor. You finally find a moment of peace in the atrium, the tranquility of the flowers and foliage calming your frazzled nerves. Just as you’re about to lose yourself in the serenity, a ghostly figure materializes before you. Its eyes glow faintly, and it hovers with an almost impatient air.

“Dinner is ready,” it intones, its voice echoing softly. “Neg-a-tive!”

You sigh, knowing there's no escaping Perona's ethereal messengers. “Alright, I’m coming.”

You follow the ghost back to the dining room where the crew has already gathered. The table is laden with an assortment of dishes, and the lively chatter fills the space with warmth. You take your seat next to Shanks, who gives you a knowing smirk.

“Managed to escape Perona’s clutches, did you?” he teases, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Barely,” you reply with a wry smile. “She’s relentless.”

Dinner passes in a blur of laughter and several tales of how Shanks and Mihawk used to butt heads and clash swords. The food is delicious, you expected nothing less with Roux in the kitchen, and for a while you forget your earlier stress.

When dinner wraps up, you retreat to your bedroom, grateful for some solitude. You change into your nightgown and settle onto your bed with a book. Alone for Shanks has been banished to the bachelors suite by your crew. Benn and Hongo had seemed all too eager to drag Shanks away from you. The soft glow of the lantern casts gentle shadows on the walls as you lose yourself in the pages, your mind struggling to calm itself from the lack of sea and ship noises. Too quiet.

A creak at the door pulls you from your reading. You glance up to see Shanks slipping into the room, his movements surprisingly stealthy for someone so tall and broad-shouldered.

“Shanks,” you hiss in a whisper. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

He closes the door quietly behind him and leans against it with a roguish grin. “Since when do I follow rules?”

You can’t help but giggle at his audacity and place the book to the side. “And what if someone sees you?”

“They won’t,” he assures you, crossing the room and extending his hand to you. “Besides, I wanted to see you.”

Your heart skips a beat at his words and the endearing smile on his face, and you reach to take his hand. As he pulls you from the bed and twirls you against his body, you raise your eyebrow.

“I thought we agreed on no sneaking around,” you say softly, though there's no real reprimand in your tone. You expect nothing less than him sneaking into your room.

Shanks leans his forehead down to yours and brushes his nose against your own. “And I thought we agreed that I’d do anything to make sure you're happy.”

“You’re impossible,” you laugh.

“And yet,” he says, his voice low and teasing, “here I am.”

Your lips morph into a gentle smile and you slide your hand from his grasp to wrap your arms around his neck. Shanks jumps at the opportunity to then wrap his arm around your back and pull you against his chest.

Your fingers find their way to the back of his neck, threading through the red strands as you savor the moment. It’s intimate and charged with unspoken emotions, a silent exchange that speaks volumes more than words ever could. Foreheads pressing together, you bask in his embrace for a few more seconds before opening your eyes.

“Shanks,” you whisper, your voice barely audible above the soft rustle of fabric.

“Hm?” His eyes meet yours, filled with a mixture of tenderness and desire. Oh he wants to have all of you, he would if you'd let him.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself.  “You need to go.”

His brow furrows in confusion. “Go? But treasure—”

You place a finger against his lips, silencing him gently. “We agreed no sneaking around. You’re not supposed to see me until I meet you at the altar.”

A playful pout forms on his lips, making him look almost boyish despite his rugged features. “That’s not fair.”

You can’t help but giggle softly at his expression and pat his cheek. “Fair or not, it’s tradition. And I want to do this how I want.”

He sighs dramatically but relents, loosening his grip on you. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave.”

But just as he begins to pull away, he steals one last kiss from you—soft and lingering, filled with all the promises of what’s to come. Your heart flutters in response, making it even harder to let him go.

“Shanks,” you warn against his lips.

“I know,” he whispers back, finally stepping away. The warmth of his body leaves an almost tangible void in the space between you. "You're just too irresistible, treasure."

He walks to the door reluctantly, pausing for a moment as if contemplating one last act of rebellion. But then he turns back to you with a resigned smile. “See you at the altar?”

“See you at the alter," you promise, holding your hand against your chest while you lips yearn for the return of his. With that, Shanks disappears, the door clicking softly behind him. You let out a sigh and reach up to brush your fingers over your lips.

You return to bed after Shanks leaves, the warmth of his kiss lingering on your lips. Sleep comes surprisingly easily, the day's excitement and anticipation finally giving way to exhaustion. Hours pass in peaceful slumber until a gentle but firm hand shakes you awake.

"Linaria," a deep voice murmurs in the darkness.

You blink, groggy and disoriented. "Mihawk?" you whisper, recognizing the silhouette of his lean frame against the dim light filtering through the window.

He nods, his hawk-like eyes glinting. "I'm here to complete the bride kidnapping ceremony, should you be inclined," he states matter-of-factly.

A giggling snort escapes your lips before you can stop it. “A third time, huh? Why not?" you say, amused by the absurdity of it all.

Without further ado, Mihawk scoops you up effortlessly, hauling you over his shoulder as if you weigh nothing. Your laughter bubbles up again, echoing through the quiet room as he strides out into the hallway.

As you hang upside down and your lavender hair swaying with each step Mihawk takes, you can't help but find the situation hilariously surreal and continue to laugh.

Suddenly, a voice pierces the night. "Mihawk! What do you think you're doing with my bride?"

You lift your head to see Shanks emerging from another hallway, his eyes wide with alarm and fury. When Mihawk increases his speed you burst out laughing yet again when Shanks' eyes bulge. Before he can reach you, Benn and Lucky Roux appear out of nowhere and tackle him to the ground.

"Let her go!" Shanks roars from beneath the weight of his friends.

Benn's laughter mingles with Lucky Roux's hearty chuckle as they pin Shanks down. "It's tradition, Captain," Benn says, barely able to contain his amusement.

"Tradition or not," Shanks grumbles, struggling against their hold, "that's my bride he's carrying off!"

Mihawk doesn't break stride or even glance back at the commotion behind him. You wave playfully at Shanks over Mihawk's shoulder, your giggles infectious even to those watching from afar.

"See you at the altar!" you call out cheerfully as Mihawk carries you away into the night.

As it turns out, Mihawk had prepared his coffin ship with a special bottle of your favorite wine and simply planned on sailing off the coast until morning. So you sit in the ship, dressed in your night gown with a glass of wine in your hand as Kuraigana Island sits off in the distance.

You take a sip of the wine, enjoying its rich flavor as the gentle rocking of Mihawk's coffin ship lulls you into a sense of peace. The moonlight casts a silver glow on the water, and for a moment, everything feels surreal.

Mihawk sits across from you, his eyes observing you with a quiet intensity. The silence between you is comfortable, filled with the shared understanding of what tonight represents.

He breaks the silence first. “How did you meet Shanks?"

You smile, recalling the day that changed your life. "I met him at the port. I was fleeing an arranged marriage, dressed in my wedding gown and desperate for escape."

Mihawk's eyebrows raise slightly, intrigued. "And he just took you in?"

You nod, setting your glass down. "Yes, he saw I was in distress and decided to help me despite knowing it would bring trouble."

Mihawk leans back, considering your words. "Shanks always had a soft spot for damsels in distress," he muses.

Your smile widens at that. "He may be a pirate, but he has a good heart. He took care of me when no one else would."

Mihawk's gaze softens just a fraction. "And now you're to be his bride."

The weight of those words settles over you, bringing with it a mixture of emotions—joy, anticipation, and a hint of nervousness. "Yes," you say softly. "And I wouldn't have it any other way. We didn't get here without argument or difficulty, we've had plenty of arguments and tiffs. Also silent treatments, he—doesn’t care for those.”

Mihawk's gaze remains steady on you, his hawk-like eyes filled with a rare softness. "Linaria," he begins, his voice low and respectful, "you are not a fool for wanting to marry Shanks."

You blink in surprise, the words unexpected but deeply reassuring. "Really?" you ask, searching his face for any hint of insincerity. "Because you wouldn't be the first person to have told me that."

He nods slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "It takes great strength and confidence to choose your own path, especially when it goes against everything you've been taught."

"You really believe that?" you ask, your voice soft in the night air.

Mihawk nods, his eyes unwavering. "Yes. And I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

You let his words sink in, feeling a newfound sense of validation. The moonlight dances on the water's surface, casting shimmering reflections that seem to mirror your own turbulent thoughts. You take another sip of wine, your fingers playing around with the stem.

"Thank you," you say again, more firmly this time. "For everything, and your hospitality."

Mihawk simply nods, his gaze shifting to the horizon where Kuraigana Island sits in the distance. "You should get some sleep, the night will not last forever."

You take Mihawk's advice to heart and decide to try to get some rest. You finish your wine, setting the glass down gently on the small table in the center of the ship. As you rise from your seat, Mihawk stands as well, his movements fluid and almost predatory in their grace.

"Thank you for this," you say, offering him a grateful smile. "I needed a moment away from everything."

Mihawk nods, his expression unreadable but not unkind. "Rest well, Linaria."

You head below deck to the small but comfortable cabin Mihawk had prepared for you. You slip under the covers and relax from the familiar sensations of being on a ship. Your thoughts drift back to Shanks and the life you've built together over the past year and a half. You’ve fought tooth and nail to get here, but is panic going to surface when you put your wedding dress on?

Date Published: 8/23/24

Last Edit: 8/23/24

Previous | Masterlist | Next

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Kara gets roped into the RenFaire scene one summer as a face painter because a) she's an art major, and b) she's an art major who needs money. Her friend Nia has worked concessions there since she was old enough to get her workers permit, and swears to Kara that its a great place to work if she doesn't mind the occasional heat wave.

Which, to Nia's credit, is true. Except what Nia forgets to mention is that the resident RenFaire fiddler will make Kara feel like she's living in a permanent heat wave.

The fiddler's name is Lena, and she's gorgeous. Long raven locks and skin like ivory, wearing frocks of green leaves and shimmering wings, she looks like something out of a fairytale.

There's an invisible threshold between the summerbounders and those who have made the Faire their home, marked only by how naturally they fit in their medieval, fantastical roles. Summerbounders, like Kara, throw themselves into it with all the good-hearted cheesey pomp they can muster. The others, well-- they simply are their roles.

Lena is of the latter group. She was raised in the Faire, after all, spending her summers flitting between booths while her mother sold charms to enchanted patrons. But even when her mother passed, Lena didn't want for love. The Faire is her family too.

For her part, Lena immediately takes a shine to Kara, quickly noting her kindness towards children while she paints whimsical designs on cheeks and foreheads. But when Kara seems to clam up and shut down any time Lena comes anywhere close, Lena learns to keep a relative distance. Kara isn't about to approach Lena herself, so they fall into a pattern of mutual admiration from afar.

Until Nia asks Kara how she likes Lena (bc Nia lowkey shipped them when she suggested the job to Kara), and is surprised to learn they have yet to have a single meaningful conversation.

All right. That's it.

Nia invites Kara to a sleepover at the faire grounds overnight, for those who camp there-- among which is Lena. Surely, with the glitter wiped away and the lack of wings Kara will be less blinded and more... personable.

Except that after getting some mead in her system, Kara is even more entranced by Lena. How could she not be, with a speck of overlooked glitter on Lena's neck, glinting merrily in the firelight, and her long dark hair let loose around her shoulders.

But now, mellowed by said mead, Kara can't bring herself to look away when Lena catches her staring. Their eyes lock, and Lena's surprise soon gives way to a blush, then a smile as warm as the fire between them.

Lena doesn't play her fiddle this night-- everyone is pleasantly tired, and content to lounge on their logs and stumps. But someone does pull out a lyre, and Kara does notice that Lena softly sings along to the tune most everyone seems to know.

When Nia and another of the folks seated next to Kara rises to fetch a refill of their tankards, Kara blinks to find a new figure filling their empty seats.

"Hi," Lena greets, her voice low in her throat. The sound is heady, buzzing deep in Kara's core.

"Hey," Kara returns. Thankfully, the drink has smoothed her tongue, eliminating the stammer that previously caught in her throat had Lena approached her at the face painting station.

"You've been avoiding me," she's told.

Kara grimaces. "Kinda... I'm sorry."

"Well, so long as it's not because I smell bad...."

Though of course now Kara breathes in, and her lungs fill with the scent of woodsmoke and pine, and something floral. The floral, she surmises, is Lena.

To be sure, Kara leans in and inhales once again, this time with her nose just brushing the side of Lena's neck. The floral is in fact Lena. Kara notes the jumping pulse point in before her eyes and the catch in Lena's breath.

"Nope," she pulls back languidly, letting a goofy grin spread across her features. "You don't stink."

They're still perilously close, and Kara watches how Lena's gaze jumps from her eyes to her lips and back again. How has she missed this, Kara marvels at herself. To have missed Lena's interest in her is... a travesty.

Lena's head is turned towards her like the rest of the group has fallen away, and perhaps they have-- Kara takes little note of them.

"You're very smooth for someone who's been scared to be within ten feet of me."

"What can I say?" Kara shrugs. "I know to be wary of the fair folk."

"Fair or faire?" Lena teases.

Kara smirks. "I'm sure both are equally dangerous."

"Then you're doomed, considering I already have your name."

Suddenly Kara's brain shortcircuits as Lena leans in, eyes slipping shut as their lips come near enough to brush as Lena speaks.

"Kara."

[petermorwood]

Crisps / Chips again

Associated with this post, here's an artefact, two anecdotes and an opinion.

The artefact is a slightly dented but still remarkably airtight "Charles Chips" tin.

It was bought, full, many years ago from the Vermont Country Store, from whom we subsequently bought reflll packs - given their size, "sacks" would be more accurate - which were shipped to Ireland in sturdy cardboard boxes.

VCS no longer carry Charles Chips in either tin or refill. I know. I checked. BUT...

The Charles Chips company, which per Wikipedia was doing just fine in 1990 then got sold and went bankrupt twice in less than three years (gosh!) is Back In Business, and note has been taken, with considerable interest - oh, you bet - that they do international shipping...

*****

Anecdote No. 1 is from when @dduane lived in Bala Cynwyd near Philadelphia, in what was known as "The House of Dangerously Single Women" (ahem). She tells me that the household used to get Charles Chips delivered to the door about twice a week, by the company's own vans.

Speaking as a long-time crisp fan, I found that both very neat and a source of mild envy. :->

Anecdote No. 2 is from 30-ish years ago, when we were in New York for something or other and, being rather jetlagged with our internal food clocks out of whack, did our usual thing and went out for a walk.

Curiously enough, this involved visiting several food stores and supermarkets where we bought a lot of Interesting Foreign or Much Missed (i.e. American, in both instances) junk food for grazing on back in our hotel room.

In one of them DD was about to lay claim to a huge bag of Wise potato chips (its bag would have been the design in the middle)...

...while nattering to one of the shop staff how much she missed them. He told her that a new delivery was expected in about 20 minutes and if she wanted to wait, she'd get much fresher chips.

And So It Came To Pass.

Well done, that guy!

*****

Finally, while Saratoga Springs may have been where potato crisps / chips were popularised, standardised, commercialised or whatever, it's definitely not where they were invented.

Even the oft-repeated "creation myth" frequently has its hard-to-please celebrity demanding to have his potatoes sliced and fried really thin "The Way I Had Them In France" - which kinda sorta suggests they were, um, being made there just like that well before the Saratoga thing happened.

Myths are okay, even marketing myths - so long as they're recognised as myths and not shilled as true by places with reputations like the Smithsonian.

*****

It's a bit like the still-current nonsense about spices being used in medieval kitchens to disguise bad meat. As far as I've been able to find out, this originated with a historian called J. C. Drummond in the late 1930s - yup, just before World War Two - simply because he didn't know his period terminology.

"Green" meant fresh - even nowadays, an inexperienced or immature person is "green" - so green cheese was newly made, and green meat was newly slaughtered, unaged and consequently tough and flavourless.

Just ask any steak fan the difference between a fresh steak and a 30-day dry aged one.

Drummond, in his overspecialised-scholarship wisdom, assumed that "green venison" meant meat which had gone off, and that a recipe to improve it with spices was to cover the bad smell and taste.

In fact it was somewhere between a marinade and a rub, meant to improve the tenderness and flavour of fresh meat as if it had aged for a while, thus shortening the waiting time between killing a beast and getting it to the table of a hungry court.

As I've said before, it's always easier for no-proofs-given pop history to dismiss medieval people as (insert derogatory observation here) than take the time needed to explain why and how they in their time were not that different to us in ours.

*****

PS: when looking for that previously posted stuff about green meat I found a post where, with even less evidence than Saratoga Springs inventing crisps, a Brit poster claimed Brits invented curry.

Snrk.

Among other more or less pertinent observations, I mentioned that what Brits invented was BRITISH curry, and anyone who has read "Nanny Ogg's Cookbook" will know what I meant by that... :->

[kon4ka]

Challenge: Drawing D&D classes - Topic 9 - Inventor

⚙ Inventor Artilleryman - Reese ⚙

Race: Human Origin: Aristocrat (Noble)

If anyone guessed where I mentioned it before, give yourself 5+ for intuition.

📒Background: Yes, she is the same “daughter of the duke”, at whose request Kenku the Squall Priest was ransomed from the pirates. All her life she grew up in prosperity, but she was restless and poked her nose everywhere. Her father is a Duke, who rules a small port city and especially its shadow and illegal world. He doted on his daughter and spoiled her very much. When Reese was a teenager, her father was framed by his rival, who entered into an agreement with one of the devils. Reese's father was executed, and she herself was saved because Kenku, who understood much earlier, that smells like something fried, forcefully dragged her onto a pirate ship and they left the city before they were captured. For a very long time, Reese was angry with the whole world, especially with Kenka, because he did not let her stay and beat up the killer on the first day. Moreover, she was suddenly thrown out of her luxurious life and found herself in the company of illiterate pirates… For a long time, For a very long time she was withdrawn and very suspicious; she was distrustful even of Kenku, whom she had known since childhood. But after a while, she perked up and decided to work with what she had, gather strength and return to get even with her father’s killer once and for all and reclaim the city.

Her skills were very useful to both pirates and ordinary sailors, she was an excellent map drawer, and as a result, she and Kenku, who became the priest of Valkur, traveled around the world in search of unique treasures and accumulated strength for the uprising. She also sold several of her inventions, and the harbor in which they established a base began to look like a tawdry monster, where the genius of the design coexisted with the inept implementation. Kenku helped her to the best of his ability and seemed to enjoy bringing her ideas to life with the help of “stealed” skills of copying and imitation. She created a windsurf that can fold down to a very small size and does not always require wind to sail.

✒ Personality: Cheerful, a real “lighter” who is for any boiling and drinking, fearless in a sense. Literally obsessed with drawings and maps, constantly striving to optimize everything. Can draw almost anything, from a map and the structure of a distillation apparatus, to a ship and a tower. Does not like and cannot sit still, constantly forgets about that not all people are “cute and fluffy”, and still believes in people. She is a little selfish, not used to caring about others or herself (in everyday matters at least). She is artistic and loves to show off, for which she would get a punch in the nose if Kenku weren’t around. Her kindness, bordering on naivety, often wins others over, but in disputes he does not give concessions and can even get into a fight for his ideas.

🪢 Skills: Very flexible, knows how to windsurf and feel the wind. He is able to draw and draw, showing the internal structure of almost all things in the world, and even those that he does not know very well from the inside. Since she was an aristocrat, she learned manners from childhood, etiquette, playing instruments and other such things. She sews well.

Features: Wears blueprints of things that might be useful under her skirt. Almost all of her drawings, especially those that she made only when she ended up with the pirates, were burned or carved into the skin, because paper drawings were not the best material at sea and did not last long. Dressed in old clothes A dress altered twenty times, in which she once ran away. A pince-nez with a sight, in a bun in the hair there is a broken powerful artifact that looks like a hairpin (these are local references).

RU

⚙ Изобретатель Артиллерист - Риз ⚙

Раса: Человек Происхождение: Аристократ (Благородный)

Если кто-то догадался, где я раньше её упоминала - поставьте себе 5+ за интуицию.

📒 Предыстория: Да, она та самая "дочка герцога", по просьбе которой Кенку Жреца Шквала выкупили у пиратов. Всю жизнь росла в достатке но была неугомонна и везде совала свой нос. Её отец герцог, управляющий небольшим портовым городом а особенно его теневым и нелегальным миром. Души не чаял в дочери и очень баловал её. Когда Риз была подростком, её отца подставил его конкурент, заключивший соглашение с кем-то из дьяволов. Отца Риз казнили, а сама она спаслась потому, что Кенку, который гораздо раньше понял, что пахнет жаренным, силой затащил её на пиратский корабль и они покинули город раньше, чем их схватили. Очень долго Риз была зла на весь свет, особенно на Кенку, что он не дал ей остаться и нако��тылять убийце по первое число. К тому же её вдруг выкинули из роскошной жизни и она оказалась в обществе неграмотных пиратов… Долго, очень долго она была замкнута в себе и очень подозрительна, она относилась с недоверием даже к Кенку, которого знала с детства. Но через некоторое время она воспряла духом и решила работать с тем, что есть собрать силы и вернуться, чтобы раз и навсегда поквитаться с убийцей её отца и вернуть себе город. Её навыки очень пригодились и пиратам и простым морякам, она превосходно чертила карты, в итоге она и Кенку, ставший жрецом Валкура путешествовали по свету в поисках уникальных сокровищ и копили силы для восстания. Она так же продавала несколько своих изобретений, а гавань, в которой они обосновали базу стала походить на аляпистое чудовище, где гениальность конструкции соседствовала с неумелым воплощением. Кенку помогал ей в меру сил и кажется получал удовольствие, воплощая её идеи в жизнь при помощи "сворованных" навыков копирования и подражания. Создала виндсёрф, который может сложиться до совсем небольших размеров и чтобы плыть на котором не всегда нужен ветер.

✒ Характер: Весёлая, настоящая "зажигалка", которая за любой кипишь и пьянку, бесстрашная в каком-то смысле. Буквально одержима чертежами и картами, все время стремиться всё оптимизировать. Может начертить почти что угодно, от карты и устройства перегонного аппарата, до корабля и башни. Не любит и не может сидеть на месте, постоянно забывает о том, что не все люди "милые и пушистые", и всё ещё верит в людей. Немного эгоистична, не привыкла заботится ни о других, ни о себе (в бытовых вопросах по крайней мере). Артистична и любит выпендриваться, за что получала бы по носу, если бы рядом не было Кенку. Её доброта, граничащая с наивностью часто располагает к себе других, но в спорах не даёт поблажек и за свои идеи может и в драку полезть.

🪢 Навыки: Очень гибкая, умеет плавать на виндсёрфе и чувствовать ветер. В состоянии нарисовать и расчертить, показывая внутреннее устройство почти всех вещей на свете, и даже тех, которые не очень хорошо знает изнутри. Поскольку была аристократкой, с детства училась манерам, этикету, игре на инструментах и прочим подобным вещам. Недурно шьёт.

✨ Особенности: Носит под юбкой чертежи того, что может пригодиться. Почти все её чертежи особенно те, что она делала только оказавшись у пиратов были выжжены или вырезаны на коже, потому как бумажные чертежи не лучший материал в море и не жили долго. Одета в старое, двадцать раз перешитое платье, в котором когда-то сбежала. Пенсне с прицелом, в пучке в волосах сломанный сильнейший артефакт, выглядящий как заколка (это локальные отсылки).

[mydetheturk]

Title: In A Circle 'Round the Kitchen Table Author: mydetheturk Rating: T Word Count: 1,653 Warnings: None really; Vash is sad about Knives and Wolfwood's more high-strung than usual, but its just soft times at Home

Summary: It's Vash's fault they're here at Home, where everything has Nicholas on edge. Making him food is the least Vash can do, then, to make Nicholas feel better.

~~

Author's Note: Just some soft stuff for day 4 of @mashwoodweek; I chose the prompt "comfort food" and I just really wanted to make Vash cook for people. It's also a direct sequel to Hell, I'm Dead Already, which will provide some context as well. Enjoy <3

(You can read on AO3 here)

Title from Big Houses by Squalloscope

~~

Vash convinces the others to go Home, to Ship Three. He hasn't been since Meryl and Wolfwood dragged him there after Wolfwood found him again. Wolfwood is still breathing odd to Vash's too sensitive ears and it worries Vash. Wolfwood's cranky about being here, on strict “No you're not allowed to smoke, not even if you're outside, we're trying to heal you, you idiot,” orders.

(Wolfwood won't talk about it, but Vash knows he's on edge because of the doctors checking up on him as well. There's an edge to his nightmares and he's barely sleeping deep enough for REM cycles.

Wolfwood doesn't talk about the Eye of Michael, only speaks around what happened to him. What was done to him.)

Wolfwood is dozing in Vash's bedroom and Meryl is out in one of the biomes with Luida.

Vash is in the kitchen making stir fried rice for someone else for the first time in a hundred and fifty-two years. He doesn't think about the exact number of months and days, nor who the rice was for. He's made it for himself countless times over the years, quiet and alone, but hasn't shared this with anyone else.

The motions are rote, Vash going through them via muscle memory as his mind drifts. Chopping vegetables, waiting for the rice to cook, all of it brings back a nearly-forgotten laugh and a hint of the geraniums Rem loved so much.

Vash is just pulling out the oil and heating the wok when the door for the kitchen opens.

“Oh!” Meryl is on the other side of the door frame, surprised to find Vash here. “I smelled rice,” she says sheepishly. “Are… are you cooking?”

“Yeah,” Vash says. “Want to go wake Nicholas? By the time you get him and get back I should be closer to done.”

“Sure! What if he's actually asleep asleep, though?” Meryl hovers at the door, staring at Vash, who doesn't stop his movements.

“I… don't think he's slept well, Meryl,” Vash admits. It's why he's making this. He can't do much else, really, except be here for Nicholas when he wants to open up.

“You mean he's being worse than you and you don't think he's slept at all, got it. One cranky undertaker, coming up.” The door closes behind Meryl as she heads to Vash's room. He trusts she'll get there and back with fewer problems than Nicholas by himself.

The rice is finished and Vash is starting in on the eggs when Meryl brings Wolfwood through the door. He looks worse than he did when Vash left him alone in his room a couple of hours ago. Like he hasn't actually slept and instead tossed and turned the whole time.

Vash pauses in whisking and steps lightly over to the door and looks at Nicholas for a moment, head tilted in a question.

Nicholas sighs, leans forward, and settles his head on Vash's shoulder. Vash tips his head onto Nicholas's and chirrups, reaching out the way he would one of his sisters. He only leaves a slight impression from his Plant markings when he pulls back, a hint of shimmer in Nicholas's hair.

“When're we gettin' out of here, blondie?” Nicholas asks. It's not desperation in his voice; it's resignation.

“I could ask my sisters, see what they think?” Vash says. Nicholas grunts. Vash kisses Nicholas's cheek, and between him and Meryl they make Nicholas sit at the tiny kitchen table. It's not a space designed to be eaten in by more than one person, but it's alright. It’s a tight squeeze, but they’ve had tighter ones. Meryl grabs plates and silverware when Vash directs her, setting the table as he continues cooking.

“What're you making?” Wolfwood finally asks. Vash glances at him over his shoulder, taking in his partner. Bruises instead of circles under his eyes, several days of beard growth, his nails bitten to the quick, and a small hint of blood in Nicholas's cuticles from it – Nicholas is in agony here.

Vash turns back to the rice, tossing it in with the vegetables. “It's a recipe my – my mother taught me,” Vash finds himself saying. Nicholas sits up straight and Meryl nearly drops the plates in her hands. “The last time I made this for someone other than myself, we found the remains of our sister two weeks later.” Not long after that, Nai orchestrated the Great Fall.

“Vash,” Meryl breathes.

“Damn, blondie.”

“She'd been experimented on. We were lucky we hadn't been.” He doesn't – doesn't know why he's saying these things. He needs to close his mouth, shut himself up, make himself small so he can't burden them with the fact that he cares about them enough to make Rem's rice, the rice she taught Vash and Nai how to make together.

Vash flicks the wok. The eggs go in slowly, coating the rice.

“Your mom taught you how?” Meryl says, breaking the silence.

Vash is grateful she didn't ask after Tesla. He knows she will at some point. He knows Nicholas had – has – had the means to find out.

“Yeah. Me and Nai.” Vash stirs the rice, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Brothers are fucking difficult,” Nicholas says. Says like he has experience, and Vash knows he does. The name ‘Livio’ in a broken, rattled tone is one that still rocks around Vash's mind when he dreams.

“Don't have any brothers,” Meryl says.

“Would not recommend having any, either,” Nicholas says immediately. Vash privately agrees, though he supposes his own history with his brother is more... homicidal, than most. “They're a pain, they always want to stick around you, they get you into trouble, and you're stuck with them. They go missing, and you can't stop wondering if it's your fault.” There's a sound like the rattle of metal on metal, but Vash knows the difference between gunmetal and Home's silverware and Meryl's chair getting shoved back faster than the chair would like.

Behind Vash, Nicholas's breathing catches. He's trying to not cry over his little brother Livio again. Nicholas has been on edge and paranoid the entire time they've been Home, and it's Vash's fault. He was the one who suggested here, convinced Nicholas to let the few doctors Vash trusts look at him; this is Vash's fault.

The handle creaks under Vash's grip. He relaxes his hand, purposefully does not think of his own brother any longer.

“I'm fine,” Nicholas says.

“You're such a fucking liar,” Meryl hisses. “It might, actually, kill you to tell us what's eating you, wouldn't it?”

Vash wouldn't go that far, but he agrees.

Oh. Rice is done.

Vash flicks it once more, inspecting the food. It looks the same as usual. There's nothing different about it.

It feels different, to make this for someone else again.

“Dinner's ready,” Vash says. He clicks the burner off. Turning to face his partners, who are in each other's faces with matching irritated expressions once more, Vash relaxes. “No more talk about brothers tonight. What's everyone been doing?”

Meryl sits down with a pointed thump. “Luida's been showing me the biomes. They're beautiful,” she says.

Nicholas sighs, sitting back and closing his eyes against the lights. “Brad says the docs should be able to synthesize something to heal some of the damage. Might have to convince the Plants, though, is what one of the grumpier docs said, apparently.”

Nicholas is not the washed out, ashen shade of when he'd downed too many ampules in Vash and Meryl's defense, overworking his body and almost killing him. He hasn't been sleeping since Home picked them up, and he's been stewing in a cocktail of nicotine withdrawal and anxiety the entire time.

Vash can still see how the serum cracked him, can smell the bile that forced its way out of Nicholas's lungs and stomach. Can hear the way his heart has to work that littlest bit harder now.

Vash wants, so very badly, to know what his brother did to Nicholas.

Vash does not think he will ever get to know, not from Nicholas, and absolutely not from Knives.

“So we talk to the Plants!” Meryl says. “They'll listen, right?”

Vash scoops a large spoonful of rice into Meryl's plate. “They'll listen.” His sisters are very good at listening. Vash has to focus, but he can always feel them, just beyond his senses.

Another scoop, slightly larger, ends up in Nicholas's plate. Nicholas narrows his eyes at Vash, but picks up his fork and pokes at it. A third scoop onto Vash's plate and Vash sits in the remaining chair.

“Eat,” Vash says.

Meryl doesn't need prompting twice, but she gives Nicholas a kick in the shin to get him to do more than poke at his rice. Vash takes a bite of his own and swallows it before Nicholas starts to eat his. Paranoia, then, as well, from the lack of sleep and his nerves. Vash will have to lay on him tonight, keep him warm and safe.

Out of the corner of his eye, Vash notes Nicholas's hackles slowly relax further than they have since arriving Home. Vash'll suggest they make a swing past Hopeland when they're done here. Vash will beg his sisters for their help if he has to. He doesn't want to lose Wolfwood, not to this.

“It's really good!” Meryl says, breaking Vash out of his reverie.

Nicholas nods. “Yeah. Thanks, Vash.”

He really means it. Vash smiles.

“We should talk to my sisters tonight,” Vash says. “While the others are asleep.” He hasn't shown them his favorite spots in the Plant room, though Vash thinks the only one of them who might fit into a couple of them now is Meryl.

Nicholas and Meryl start chatting, Meryl holding most of the conversation while Vash watches. They're too good for him, really.

He's glad they chose him anyway. Given the choice, he'd choose them again too.

[nimble-stuff]

Dehumanization || Hamato Brothers - Pale Room, Part I Splinter has instilled a fear of humans in them since they were kids. The brothers find out why.

FANDOM: ROTTMNT

@badthingshappenbingo​

<< PREVIOUS || NEXT >>

They all reacted differently. Leo wanted to crawl inside his brothers’ minds, to pull apart their psychologies, to see how they were wrapping their heads around the current problem. It was the least he could do to understand them. To fix things. To ease tensions. Especially when he’d been the first to go down.

When he’d felt the tranquilizer dart pinch his neck, he knew they were in for a bad time. Raph took charge the moment Leo’s legs went wobbly, but he’d had a feeling even as his face hit rough concrete that it the control Raph exerted was a figurehead in an uncontrollable situation. Leo woke up later to a grimy ceiling and his brothers around him, no weapons, and four walls in a dank room no larger than a shipping container. The walls were smeared with grime and age, too small to accommodate all four of them, a heavy metal door separating them from the outside. Little lighting, no windows. A foul smell. The distant sounds of screams and struggling, too indistinct to place. Nothing except the tinny echo of their voices.

Leo settled his arm against the door, glaring at the metal and hoping that his silent rage would put off whatever monster-of-the-week had locked them in the cell. There really was no other term for it other than cell, but for now he avoided saying it out loud. Donnie didn’t have any of his gear, not even his Battle Shell, so that limited their options, however he kept busy probing the walls for weak points and hidden cameras. He found two in the first ten minutes.

For the rest of them, there was little they could do except pace around and hope Donnie came up with an escape plan. Brute force hadn’t worked. Raph had pounded on the door for close to an hour before he gave up, and it hadn’t even dented. Whoever was keeping them here had either built the room specifically to hold them, or it was designed to hold something much, much stronger than they were. Neither option bode well.

“How’s it going, Donnie?” Leo asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Donnie pried a small black object out from between two panels in the wall. “Camera number three.”

“Any idea who’s behind this?” Raph asked.

“It’s human technology,” said Donnie, rolling the camera between his fingers. It was only the size of his fingertip, and snapped when he applied enough force. “So I’m guessing humans.”

“Great, that’s great, really makes me feel better,” said Leo.

“Don’t be down, that means they have human weaknesses,” said Mikey. “Remember what Dad always says: a human’s greatest weakness is…”

“Their stupidity?” Donnie offered.

“Poor muscle mass!” said Raph.

“Daytime television?” said Leo.

“No, no, no.” Mikey shook his head. “A human’s greatest weakness is their stomach. We win them through food.”

“Oh, Mikey wants to play fetch with a human, brilliant plan,” Donnie drawled.

“It’s gonna work this time. Mikey came prepared!”

Mikey pulled out a bag of chips from his shell, a knock-off brand that tasted more potato than chip. The bag matched the expectations, crinkled like an old man’s flabby skin.

“I have a reward system all planned out,” said Mikey. “Once we make friends with them and teach them a few tricks, we make a break for it.”

“Mikey, that’s never going to work,” said Donnie.

“Didn’t you try that on April when we first met her?” Raph asked.

“Yeah, actually, that does ring a bell,” said Leo. “As I recall, April had you playing fetch and shaking hands within the hour, Mikey.”

“She had gummy worms,” said Mikey. “I didn’t even know worms could be gummy, I thought they only came in slimy flavour.”

“Excuse me, this is a bit of a wild idea, but perhaps could we focus on escaping?!” Donnie shouted. “Being imprisoned lost its novelty a long time ago! There isn’t even a bathroom in here!”

“I went before we left,” Mikey said with pride.

“Okay, nobody think about waterfalls,” said Raph.

“Or water parks,” said Leo.

“Or hoses,” said Mikey.

“Or rainstorms,” said Raph.

“Fire hydrants.”

“Sewer water.”

“I want out!” Donnie yelled.

In the end, Leo would could able tell what got the door to open, unsure if it was them annoying the hell out of their captors or Donnie’s insistence that he wanted out or if it was just a regular, scheduled visit. Either way, the door swung open so fast that he leapt back to avoid getting flattened against the wall. Armed soldiers swarmed inside, dressed in black, their entire bodies obscured except for the lower halves of their faces.

“Oh, hey, finally!” said Leo. “Hey, we think we took a wrong turn somewhere, would one of you mind telling us where—wow, that is a big gun. Could you point it somewhere else?”

No answer. The soldiers were movie caricatures caricatures rather than living, breathing humans in front of him. Leo saw the disdain in their scowls. Circling the exit, Leo realized it wouldn’t be as simple as overpowering them, yet he searched for the opening anyway.

Once the soldiers felt secure, a woman with steely eyes stepped into the cell. She wore a lab coat, flanked by a young intern who openly gawked at the turtles.

“Okay, cool, you look like you’re an authority figure,” said Leo. “Could you let us out? We’re getting bored.”

The woman scribbled something on a clipboard. “We’ll start with blood and tissue samples. We can save everything else until after they’re finished processing A-12.”

“So cold. Hey, lady, I’m talking to you.”

The woman didn’t look at Leo, like he hadn’t spoken at all. Leo only knew that he was making words people could hear because the intern kept flinching with the rise and fall of his voice.

“Hey, fetch!” Mikey called out. He tossed a few chips at her.

That got the woman’s attention, gaze sliding over the chip fragments on the floor. With a nod to one soldier, the armed guard step forward and snatched the bag out of Mikey’s hand.

“Aw, no fair,” Mikey whined.

The woman scribbled on her clipboard, while the intern wheeled in medical equipment on a cart.

“Since you four possess language skills, you should know that this room is designed to flood with a paralyzing agent in the event of an escape attempt,” said the woman. “All personnel are armed and authorized to use lethal force. For your own safety and the safety of our staff, you will comply.”

“That’s pretty extreme,” said Leo. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

She sighed. “I’m Doctor Gabrielle Paccioretti. You’re currently in protective custody in a facility run by the Earth Protection Force.”

Behind him, Donnie let out a few low swears.

“‘Protective custody?’ We’re in a prison cell, and it smells weird in here. Where’s our lawyer? I plead the fifth!”

“The American government backs the EPF, but even if it didn’t…” She snapped on some rubber gloves. “The law doesn’t apply to nonhumans.”

Paccioretti nodded to the intern, who picked up the largest syringe Leo had ever seen. Maybe his internal panic was exaggerating the size.

The moment the intern took even a fraction of a step towards Mikey, Leo’s vision blurred with intense and overwhelming rage. He punched him in the face. Teeth and jawbone shattered under his fist.

Leo should have been relieved that he wasn’t shot dead right away. Movement and shouts and activity exploded all around him. He glimpsed his brothers rising to his defense, then swearing and the loud clicks of the safety coming off of guns. Strange hands seized his limbs. Leo fought the whole way down to the ground, clawing, biting, swearing, struggling. It felt like a long way to the floor. A whole ass group of soldiers pinned him, his jaw bouncing off of hard concrete.

“If any one of you makes another move, we shoot this one dead,” Paccioretti announced. Somehow, her voice rose above the loud outbreak of noise.

Raph, Mikey, and Donnie froze. Raph had a hand wrapped fully around the neck of a soldier, Mikey had another in a headlock, Donnie was wrestling another for his gun. No movement, all quiet. The cold metal of a gun barrel wedged against the back of Leo’s head and the fight in his brothers bled away.

“This is your only warning,” said Paccioretti. She nodded at the soldiers. “Continue.”

Raph released the soldier in his hand and raised his arms up in surrender, and Mikey’s hands were wrestled behind his back. Donnie bolted up and backed into the corner of the cell, closed in on three sides. From his position on the ground, Leo could only see Donnie’s feet skirting left and right. He saw the anxiety in every step, the heightening tension in his voice.

“Don’t you dare,” Donnie warned them.

Leo never heard what the threat was before the soldiers jumped and Donnie let out a piercing scream.

It sounded like he was being murdered. Full-body terror sliced its way through Leo, bisecting him in half. Donnie’s feet scraped against the concrete, Leo saw thin hairline cuts appear in the raw flesh, shouted his name although it was lost under the undercurrent of the full-body howl that went and went and went.

“Ignore it, it’s just trying to get attention,” Paccioretti told the soldiers. She knelt by Leo’s side, fully extended his arm, and sliced off the wrappings.

A second shriek accompanied Donnie’s. “FUCK, IT BIT ME!”

“Then break its jaw,” one soldier said.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Paccioeretti shouted. “I will not have the dental exam compromised by impulsive, stupid decisions. If you can’t handle one screaming mutant, find another job!”

Donnie’s scream was so physically painful that Leo wasn’t even aware of the ache in his arm until Paccioeretti withdrew and there was a fat, ugly mark where she’d taken a chunk of flesh out of his arm. The soldiers pulled back and Leo scrambled up, prepared to take a swing and damn the risks. The soldiers had him covered, held him at gunpoint as she gave Mikey the same treatment. Paccioeretti possessed the cold composure of a seasoned scientist, immune to flinches and gasps of pain as she first took a blood sample, then used an intimidating device to slice a coin-shaped chunk from Mikey’s arm. When she was done, Mikey hurried to Leo’s side, crushing his hand.

Leo knew the look of Raph keeping a close eye on each of his brothers, but he couldn’t keep the fear out when their gazes locked. The soldiers didn’t have to force Raph to extend his arm. He did it for them, accepting the treatment, more worried about the rest of them than he was about himself. The only moment Raph flinched was when Donnie’s scream reached a particularly high note Leo was sure he hadn’t heard him reach since they were kids.

Paccioeretti moved to Donnie last. It took four soldiers to hold him down while he struggled. Leo struggled to see around the wide expanse of their shoulders.

Donnie suddenly went quiet.

A moment ago, Leo had been praying for Donnie to stop shouting so he could hear his thoughts, and now he wanted it back. The only part of Leo that he could see past the mass of humans surrounding him was his rigid leg. It didn’t move again until Paccioeretti stepped back and stared down Leo as she left. He saw nothing to indicate humanity.

The soldiers waited until the last minute to let Donnie go, like a turtle paralyzed with fear was the biggest threat in the room. The intern wheeled out the cart, then the soldiers backed out of the cell one-by-one.

“Hey, there’s no washroom in here!” Leo called after them.

The reply came in the form of a metal bucket thrown inside. Leo ducked to avoid it, and it rung a hollow tune as it rolled around on the floor in a circle, and the last Leo saw of the outside was the disgusted glower of a soldier slamming the door shut and locking it with a thick clunk.

The adrenaline tasted salty in the air. They were all panting, holding the fresh wounds on their arms, staring into nothing. Donnie jumped up from the floor and stood with his back flat against the wall. The pressure Mikey put on Leo’s hand was intense.

“…Donnie?” Mikey said. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t,” Donnie barked. “Just don’t.”

Mikey left Leo’s side and reached for Donnie. “But are you okay?”

“I…I need to keep checking for cameras. I need to check for cameras, don’t distract me.”

Donnie shifted away when Mikey approached. Whatever Mikey was thinking, he seemed to think better of it and pulled back.

Raph sat back on the ground, his face in his hands, more confused and worried than hurt. Mikey curled up beside him, and Raph set an arm on his shoulder. His and Leo’s eyes caught. Since they were kids, Raph had always been the strong one between them, yet he could see the small vulnerable fractures in his irises, see Raph gather his strength with the rise of his shoulders.

“Wow, that was awful!” Raph finally said, like he was talking about a movie.

“Yeah, they were kind of cranky, weren’t they?” said Leo.

He picked up the bucket and held it in his hands. It smelt strange.

“Psh, they didn’t even provide reading material,” said Leo. “I can’t go unless I got the comics section.”

He looked around for a smile and found none. Tough crowd.

Leo set the bucket upside down and sat on it. “Hey, at least we got furniture now!…Until someone needs to use it. So, who wants to play a game to pass the time? And no, Donnie, ‘Find the Cameras’ doesn’t count.”

Donnie didn’t even look over his shoulder. He didn’t even appear to be inspecting the paneling anymore. He knelt with his back to them, rubbing his arm.

“How about Word Association?” Raph suggested.

“Oh, I’m gonna nail this one,” said Leo.

“You can’t make words up this time.”

“Fine, but I get to keep sitting on the bucket.”

“Deal. Mikey, want to go first?”

Mikey picked out dirt from under his fingernails, not quite rising his head.

Finally, he said, “Pillow.”

“Sleep,” Leo offered.

“Dream,” said Raph.

“Flying,” said Mikey.

“Birds.” Leo.

“Big Bird.” Raph.

“Sesame Street!” Mikey added with a fist pump and a more familiar smile.

It went on like that, a simple distraction. In the corner, Donnie tilted his head towards their voices, hands running steady over the wall. The distant screams and struggling Leo had heard before from beyond the cell had gone quiet.

[evolvingchaoswitch]

Freakshow-Chapter 1 Hanging by a Thread

evolvingchaoswitch

Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories:

F/F

F/M

Other

Fandoms:

Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)

Marvel's Guardians of the Galaxy (Video Game 2021)

Five Nights at Freddy's

Relationship:

Rocket Raccoon/Original Female Character(s)

Additional Tags:

Game Theory Lore

Hurt/Comfort

Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Canon-Typical Violence

Body Horror

Implied/Referenced Torture

Mental Health Issues

Implied/Referenced Suicide

Slow Burn

Body Dysphoria

Non-Consensual Body Modification

raw dogged by an anthropomorphic raccoon

Eventual Smut

Summary:

Tinkering with my design, twist and turn my feral mind Play with me 'til you've found another toy Let me be your freak show, I could be your favorite monster Rattle my whole cage, remind me why I can't be fostered Let me be your freak show, I could be your favorite monster Lock me up, don't let me out 'cause you know I can't help myself.

Notes:

This is my first in a few cross over OC's I've created over the years and my favourite to pair with Rocket. The song I reference in my summary is from Sub Urban it is a very good Rocket themed song. I base inspiration for this character from Game Theory's coverage of FNAF. Happy reading looking forward to your thoughts.

Chapter Management

Edit Chapter

Chapter 1: Hanging by a thread

Chapter Text

The ship was in rough shape but hopefully not so fucked that Rocket wouldn’t be able to find some useful materials to repair his own ship that he had hobbled together out of scraps. His enemies had been getting smarter when it came to keeping him locked up, opting to shunt Groot off to a prison further away from him hoping that would be the key ingredient to keeping him caged. Rocket would laugh at the audacity of the thought process if it didn’t cause so many flarkin annoying troubles for him. Once his makeshift ship was patched up a bit better he’d go looking for Groot and most likely a more structurally stable ship along the way, this one’s engine was fucked in a way he couldn’t fix with his current tool set.

Rocket hummed a wordless tune as he went to work stripping the ship of what was valuable as he moved further into its hull. Rocket could hear the faint sound of a dog whining, had Cosmo found himself on this ship? Rocket may have had his issues with the stupid mutt but he wasn’t going to let him be trapped here if it was Cosmo making the noises. So tentatively Rocket made his way towards the sound to see if it was Cosmo or not, and he was right it was a dog just not Cosmo.

In a cage over in one corner of the room was a dog circling around desperate to get to something just beyond his view, something that was hidden in the shadows adjacent to this cage. The dog's fur that appeared to be white was now strained with dried blood and the general grime of the cage, a pair of piercing blue eyes locked with his own cognac coloured ones as the creature looked frightened. Then terrifying as metallic panels opened up all over the animal, showing pieces of exposed internals along with other modifications, Rocket wanted to hurl. Was this a new creature from Him? Was this a new abomination from Halfworld? Either way he couldn’t leave it there whimpering like that, Rocket may be a professional asshole but he did have a bit of a soft spot for his fellow mammals.

“Keep it down I’m getting you out” Rocket got to work opening the cage and he was relieved to see that the action seemed to calm the animal down, maybe it was intelligent not his level but enough to follow orders. The smell in the air was putrid. Something was undoubtedly rotting in the second cage in the room if Rocket was going to make an assumption it was probably the person the dog was so eager to get to. The dog came to sit near the cage door anxiously waiting for it to open. Rocket could see on the purple collar around its neck hung a small silver coin that read Bianca. The dog was a she apparently.

Rocket watched as Bianca bolted over to the other cage before pawing at the door while whining for him to open this one as well which Rocket started on while sighing. Groot in his life was starting to make him go soft, Rocket was hoping once Bianca saw that her owner was dead it would be easier to drop her off somewhere safer. Rocket paid no mind to the body on the floor as the corpse appeared to be one of the former members of this ship and not Bianca’s owner. Rocket didn’t care for paying any respects to the dead crew of this ship, he had looked up some of the shit these people had gotten up to and lets just say he didn’t give much care to traffickers. The door slid open a moment later and Bianca bolted over to the figure that was hanging in restraints in the middle of the cage.

The figure looked to be from Terra, coppery red hair that was cropped short to the head, pasty white skin dotted with an assortment of freckles and an easy to enjoy feminine form. One problem ,Rocket had never seen a Terran with a chest cavity open like theirs and still alive. He could hear the heart still faintly beat from behind the metal that surrounded it, though it was difficult to see the organ, what with the power cord obscuring it from view. Two thoughts that hit Rocket at the same time, this person was still alive and had been used as some form of power source for this ship.

Those sicks fucks.

As soon as Rocket disconnected the power cord and stepped away to lay the cord on the ground Bianca sprung into action placing her muzzle on the exposed powercell that worked in conjunction with the heart. Bianca seemed to let some form of energy pass from her internals to her owners slowly recharging the girl till slowly the chest started to seal up protecting the organics behind. This girl wasn’t like any make of android that he had ever seen before and he certainly wanted to know more about this Afton Robotics place. Rocket might have a few bones to pick with them over their design choices.

Rocket could hear soft cries coming from the newly renewed girl in the corner at first he thought she was just crying over being chained up and used as a power source.Made complete sense to Rocket if that was the case but as Rocket took a second to listen a bit closer he could hear the repeated phrases of.

“I’m so glad you’re safe Bianca” “I’m so sorry” “You’re ok, you’re ok, you’re ok”

Rocket felt an unwelcome tug on his heartstrings before he felt obligated as his current state of employment as a professional asshole to ruin the moment.

“What’s your name?”

“Ѐabha Tinsley and Bianca Del Barko the finest bitch in the land”

The last part was stated as a fact rather than a flippant statement.

“I’m Rocket and something tells me that you didn’t leave Terra willingly, want to hitch a ride back?”

Ѐabha was trying to figure that out right now too much had happened since she had forcibly been put into sleep mode as they drained her for power. Now that she had gotten the first thing out of the way, making sure her beloved Bianca was safe it was now time to reacquaint herself with what was going on in the moment. Now it was time to sort through all the intrusive messages that had popped onto her internal log once she was back online. Most of them as per usual were about update permissions that she made sure to quickly dismiss. The organic within her would forever fight with the inorganic. The scars that her maker had left on her all those years held long lasting effects on her but none so aggravating as her update protocol that wouldn’t be satisfied until she was perfect.

She could already tell that over the miscellaneous time that she was out that her body had moved from sixty-percent organic to fifty-eight percent which didn’t seem like that much of a drop in percentages but to her it was.

Your savior appeared to be some kind of talking raccoon but after everything you had been through over the years it hardly phases you. Hell even the corpse rotting away in the corner of your cage failed to stir up a response from you. At least this one still had all its internals. At least it wasn’t a six foot plus animatronic with dead kids inside. Fuck your life was weird.

The anthropomorphic raccoon appeared to be your savior or at the very least the guy that took pity on you enough to free you. You could live with that easily, though looking at the little bit of metallic that showed on him you got the idea that he had gone through some similar shit. Looking down at Bianca the two of you had a brief vibe check discussion via eye as you typically did before you responded.

“Can she come too, I don’t go anywhere without her” Savior or not like hell you were leaving the only member of your family behind.

“Oh course, though things will get a little cramped when we pick up a friend of mine hopefully we’ll have another ship ready” Rocket took a moment to think out his next question “You any good with striping ships for scrap” Rocket didn’t really expect a yes but if there was one it would make life easier for the next few hours. Rocket watched as you nodded your head before you started to strip some of the room you were in for useful materials, stepping over the corpse as you went to work. Rocket was fairly sure he saw you plop a few scrapes of non-useful materials into your mouth like a snack though that wouldn’t be the strangest thing he had seen in space for a long shot.

They both finished their work within the two hour mark before heading back to Rockets ship to continue on. It wouldn’t take Rocket long to get all his shit together in order to grab Groot. Groot was going to be thrilled that he picked up a couple of strays along the way, the Flora colossus did enjoy meeting new people even if all they understood was I Am Groot.

Rocket could see that his two new passengers had fallen asleep in a small out of the way corner on the ship. Rocket elected to leave both alone as he plotted out the way he was going to get Groot back.

One way or another. @elegant-fleuret @aliasrocket @momahoneypleasesugar @honeypleasesugar

[quietwings-fics]

by accident or design

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Gen (Castiel & Hael) Additional Tags: Car Accidents, Blood and Injury, Episode: s09e01 I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here (Supernatural), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angelic Possession (Supernatural), Fear of Death Wordcount: 798 Summary:

Castiel’s plan to crash the car goes horribly wrong.

Notes:

For day 22’s prompt: vehicular accident

The car swerved like Castiel planned for. He couldn’t have expected the sudden lurch in his gut as they ran off the road. He couldn’t have known they were going so fast. Being in a car almost felt like standing still, without even the wind rushing past to orient him. The trees came at the car between one blink and the next, and then metal screamed around him as the car came to a brief and sudden stop. 

The seatbelt yanked on his chest as his body careened forward. Only the air in his lungs escaped.

He had a second to look to his left, but Hael was gone, the windscreen shattered.

And then the car was in motion again, unsatisfied with its first impact. It warped itself around the tree it had first hit and rolled, taking Castiel with it. The world he was only allowed to see through fractured glass tilted, faster and faster as the car picked up speed one last time. Its engine gave a death rattle as it turned him over, throwing him up — or down — before rolling again and slamming him back into his seat.

The seatbelt kept him firmly in place, holding tight despite his bodies protests. He heard something crack, and vivid pain, so much louder, more physical, than anything he’d ever known as an angel, exploded up his body. His chest convulsed, and the pain grew worse as he tried to pull in a breath. Something warm bubbles at the back of his throat, a metallic smell filling his nostrils.

The car gave one last groaning heave before it settled on its back. Castiel hung helplessly in his seatbelt. He kept trying to choke in air, but he couldn’t fill his lungs without it hurting. 

Deliriously, through the pain, he realized that the Winchesters would never know if he died out here. He wasn’t an angel anymore. He wasn’t someone they could pray to, or summon, or track. He would disappear from their lives the way countless others of their friends had, without even a last word, only a promise that he’d find them soon.

And he would never know if Sam was okay. That somehow scared him worse than being forgotten on the side of the road.

He heard a pained cry from beside him. Blood was rushing to his head and dripping down into the roof of his mouth. He rolled his head to look through the shattered window on his side of the car to see Hael, broken, dragging herself to his side.

She couldn’t heal a vessel that was rejecting her anymore than he could fix his own mangled insides. 

She forced herself to look up at him. “You’ll kill us both,” she yelled. “Is that what you want?” He couldn’t tell the difference between blood and furious tears streaking down her face.

“You’ll find another vessel.” He had to spit out blood to say it, and more welled up before he’d done, faster and faster with every passing moment. His vision seemed dim around the edges, but he forced himself to stay for as long as he could. Where did an angel go after death, one with no grace and no soul? Would he cease to exist at all?

“I barely found this one!” He could hear the desperation in her voice. “We don’t have anywhere to return to, Castiel!”

Angels without vessels, losing themselves amid the chaos humanity had created, dead satellites and radio waves and television broadcasts. Angels caught like birds in telephone wires, tangled and strangled. All his fault. Every last death. All his fault.

“I wanted to see it,” Hael whispered, and he believed her. “I made things once. I just wanted to remember.” Castiel didn’t want to die. He did all of this, only to end up hurting them both more, as though he hadn’t learned his lesson yet about fighting the inevitable. His good intentions only ever made things worse. 

“Hael.” He choked, but he had her attention. He only needed to say one word. He could do that before his whole world went dark. If it meant living.

The man who gave him his voice, the body he now bargained with, spoke to him like a ghost, that’s not living. Castiel would have laughed if it didn’t hurt so much. Jimmy’s sacrifice had been selfless. Castiel was just scared to die. 

“Yes,” he told Hael. She stared at him.

“What is wrong with you?” He spat blood up against the car’s ceiling. He couldn’t get enough air anymore. The world was spinning. His chest was burning, too full, too heavy. 

She pulled herself closer to the car. The last thing Castiel saw was the blinding light of his sister’s true form before it sank under his skin.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[the-sycophant]

FFXIV Write 2023 - Prompt 01 - Envoy

Words| 971 -------------------- The creaking and groaning of the vessel was rhythmic, calming. She could imagine Llymlaen's arms rocking her to sleep. It was a comforting feeling, but an odd one. How gentle the sway was, yet so easily could turn nasty under the right circumstances. She could only imagine what Oschon might have seen in her. Still, it made her eyes heavy. Even more so sitting, sinking into a surprisingly plush cushion of a too elaborate chair. A chair meant to impress guests, surely. Finely carved wood uneven, done by hand, and adorned with gaudy buttons in the tufted ridges of the fabric of the back rest. Scrapes, scratches along the floorboards where the legs had been dragged recently, a bit of extra oil polished on the abrasions. She picked at the little tassels on the arm.

Dominique slapped her hand when their host's back was turned, and she glared at him.

"Tea, for you both?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Milk and sugar, please!"

He gave her a look, and her lips drew down into a pout, pulled her down further into that chair. "I said please..." She grumbled to him. His following expression was a dare, one she didn't take.

Their host was ever so gracious, giving them both teacups also meant for special guests, spoons meant for special guests. She couldn't stop her lip from curling up. It would have pressed less on her nerves if everything in the room had matched. Their host's own seat was used. Worn. Soft leather sunken in from where the Hyur had sat for gods knows how long. Molded to the shape and weight of his ass, the color rubbed raw. Perhaps not even real leather. Regardless, it had stories. Probably even came with the ship.

Marlowe sniffed.

She could smell the smoke clinging to his skin, contrasting to the fresh linen scent of his sleeves. She wondered how nervous he was when he set down those little teacups, her milk and sugar. Wondered how many cigarettes he smoked before they boarded, trying to hide the stink of his anxiety with a change of wardrobe. Marlowe also wondered why he even bothered. Dominique was not a man to be impressed by such things, or annoyed by such things. She wondered how the other man could try to arrange a meeting like this without doing a little bit of research on a potential business partner. Even paying off a maid to know something simple like that Lord Dominique Cartier did not, in fact, enjoy tea, but favoured coffee. That he liked antiques and old furniture, things that were lived in. That he was not like his wife.

Marlowe leaned forward, pinched a sugar cube between her fingers, popped it into her mouth. Their host frowned as she left her tea untouched, dropping one, two, three cubes into the small creamer. Drank from it. That frown turned into a grimace. Marlowe ignored his attempt at judging her tastes, or lack of. 

Dominique was much more graceful, well practiced as a proper lord should be, long fingers taking the handle. Admired the design of it, the craftsmanship. Flattering the man's choices despite them being the wrong ones. Sipped politely, gave an equally polite compliment to the blend.

Marlowe tried not to chortle. It was difficult, and she had to take another swig of sugared milk to stifle herself. He could lie so easily, so charmingly. She was envious of that.

"Why, Miss Morning will be our envoy, of course."

The new business associate looked her over. She did the same to him, too lost in her thoughts to recall what it was they were talking about.

"Miss Morning...?"

She hated the way her name sounded on his tongue, how heavy it dipped in tone in shouldering his disbelief.

"Indeed." Dominique patted her hand absently, adoringly. "Miss Morning is the lucky charm of the Larme d'argent Trading Company. She will watch over your merchandise and see to its delivery. We have not been raided in months with her assistance. Our business has had no loss of product since her arrival, and we would like to extend our good will to your company, as well, as part of our agreement." The spoon tink tink tinked against the side of his cup as he spun the fluid around absently. Still giving the tea his attention though he did not wish to drink it. "The manner in which she works is a trade secret, I'm afraid. My wife would certainly end me were I to spill. You understand, don't you?"

The man did seem to understand, curiously enough. Marlowe perked up at that, wondering what sort of run in he had with the Lady Cartier. No one quite seemed to like her. Not even her Lord.

"Very well." The Hyur huffed. "The girl and one attendant. Should she need another--"

"She will only take the one, I'm afraid." The cup was set down, and then the Elezen was standing. Quickly. One smooth movement as his hand went to the polished wooden buttons on his jacket to redo them about his slender waist. "I'd like to see the blueprints of the vessel she will be on now, if you do not mind. I will be sharing it with her companion. I hope you had copies prepared, as I asked."

Marlowe hummed, legs swinging under the chair that was too tall for her, sinking into the seat. She could sleep like this. She could. Needed to. She had been awake for far too long to accompany Dominique into the afternoon. She was tired of traveling, of being amongst traders. She wanted to go to the city...perhaps buy something new...eat something warm...And she let Llymlaen lull her consciousness down deep, lower and lower as the sound of the conversation of the two was swallowed up.

[atangledfate]

The White Wolf made her way across the base by phasing her way through wall, after wall. Like a ghost she dashed past security, ignoring them for the most part. As she zipped through in a straight line. While blaze had to look the hard way and figure where her point of exit would be. She easily found her way to the air strip where a small automated chopped was waiting for her. The chopper had no markings, on it and no pilot. It was a simple pick up and delivery drone designed for this sort of mission.

Specter dashed across the run way as fast as she could muster aiming to jump into the Chopper and evac before anyone could track her down.

This was what she was trained for... She was a ghost, and no one would ever know she was ever here.

===============================================

Amy jerked her head away at the smelling salts and shoved it away from her nose as she instantly regretted moving. She sunk back down onto the concrete and winced her hand touching the side of her head. She was dizzy, nauseated and confused by what had happened. Her eyes struggled to focus but slowly the belle bot came into view which confused her more for a moment.

She took the ice pack placing it on her head and wincing as she glanced around. She slowly started to remember. She and blaze arrived and split up. she wanted to mobilize Restoration Security forces to repel Clutches ship, and deal with GUN. But then--- she had a huge blank in her memory. She knew she got attacked but the details were fuzzy.

" Save what you can... ugg, i don't think i should move right now..."

she mumbled out

" Be careful... who ever attacked me could still be close by... i just--- don't remember what hit me. But it was fast... its all a blur... i'll be ok. If they wanted me dead i think i'd be dead..."

She didn't know that for sure but those funds were VITAL, more so then her well being. She couldn't tell Belle that though, so she kept her mouth shut.

Luckily for Belle Lanolin came around the corner skidding across the pavement and dropping down Next to Amy looking worried at her. But at least she was awake which was a good thing. but she looked awful, and there was blood. She looked at Belle not knowing what was going on but wanting to get Amy to safety. She barely got to say anything before Blaze split up from her and she had no idea where she was now either. Hopefully she was able to find the assailant.

" Amy, are you alright? "

She had other questions but right now that was the most vital question.

" Belle? is that you? ah, nevermind! i'll get Command Rose to the infirmary... i can't believe anyone would attack her, or better yet take her out... i hope Blaze is ok on her own..."

Blaze was less then pleased to hear that someone attacked Amy, though was confident this individual couldn't have taken her head on. "Then I shall find them and ensure they don't escape and they shall regret attacking one of my friends." The feline may not know her way around the base, though if they were to escape they had to do it above ground so that's where she'd look.

"And if it was GUN behind this then I'll have more than a few choice words for this Commander." Blaze then dashed off, leaving a faint trail of flame as she began running all around the base looking for anyone attempting to leave or out of the ordinary. Though it was certainly bigger than she thought so she stuck to the outer area. Hopefully she'd find the attacker before they managed to escape.

===========================================================

Belle Bot would walk over to Amy, an compartment opening on it's left arm which it reached into and pulled out some smelling salts. The bot would rub it under the hedgehog's nose to wake her up. "Amy, are you okay?" Belle's voice aske through the robot so it came a robotic tone to it. "You might have a concussion so try not to stand up too quickly." Vitals seemed stable, though she'd certainly have a headache for a few hours.

An error sign then appeared on Belle Bot's eyes. "Oh dear, someone just wiped our servers. Thank goodness I hadn't attached Belle Bot to it yet or it would've fried her systems." The most Belle managed to do is to give access to the bot, though didn't fully sync it with the servers. Another compartment then opened up on the bots right arm which it pulled out an ice pack. "This should help with your head a bit."

Belle Bot then stood back up. "I can try and go save what I can from the server's and copy it to Belle Bot if you want. Not sure what I can, though if I'm fast enough I could save the funds. Do you want me to try?" Belle wasn't sure what Amy wanted her to do, though felt like trying something couldn't hurt. Though she was also worried about the hedgehog as if the attacker was working for Mimic they could double back. Then again they didn't try to kill her, though that only left GUN.

[atozphantomsquadron]

XIX - Acrimony

Our lovemaking bliss lasted into the next morning when we awakened slowly, cuddled tightly in each other’s arms.  He had a gentle smile on his face as he took the final breaths of his slumber, opening his eyes to my face.  I kissed him gently, just as the door to my room opened up.

“Guys, let’s go, we’ve gotAAAAAAH!”  Kitty had been trying to get us up and out of bed, but was not prepared for the sight that greeted her: the two of us tangled up in each other’s limbs, naked and unaware that we had lost my blanket sometime in the night.  Kitty quickly turned away, her hand on her eyes.  “Goddamn, warn a girl next time!”

I giggled.  (I couldn’t remember the last time I’d giggled.)  “Sorry, Kitty.  We’ll be out in a bit.”

“Yeah, please do,” was Kitty’s acerbic reply.  “And try to keep it in your pants, you two!”  She walked out of the room, but for some reason left the door wide open.  I guess she figured there were no secrets left to hide behind it.

Once we were dressed and ready to go, Cyrus passed along to us our mission profile, in addition to our travel vouchers which sent us to Diego Garcia, a very small foot-shaped island in the dead middle of the Indian Ocean.  The island had been in use for years as a fueling station for the Navy, and was known for being one of the worst stations in the entirety of the U.S. armed forces.  When we arrived there 20 hours later, it was no surprise why the place had gained its reputation: it was seedy.  The whole place felt like it had been coated in a layer of used diesel oil, and smelled worse.  Almost all of the sailors stationed there were male, and many had not seen younger women for months, which led both Cole and Cyrus to kind of surround me and Kitty protectively.  That was kind of cute, but wholly unnecessary, since all either of us would have to do was turn off our HoSIP and scare the hell out of them.  Kitty would have probably gone one further and beaten them up, too, so perhaps Cyrus’s protecting her was more that he was protecting them from her.

Eventually we made our way from the island’s miniscule airstrip to our designated ride for our hunt for Pak, the submarine U.S.S. Patriot, under the command of Captain Gary MacEwan, who could be charitably described as an uptight captain and protective of his ship.  As it turned out, Cyrus and Kitty had previously dealt with him, during the mission which had transformed Kitty: Cyrus has come with Ken in order to debrief her after the incident occurred.  MacEwan, though, knew all about us:  he had not only received dossiers on all of us but he had read many news articles about the Jerzaanian civil war and put two and two together.  I still remember our first encounter with him, at the Patriot’s gangplank.

When we approached, Cole stopped and saluted just as we got close to the walkway.  “Lieutenant Commander Cole Sharpe and party, requesting permission to come aboard.”

MacEwan grudgingly returned the salute, smirking.  “If it were up to me, Sharpe, you and your little entourage of spooks here wouldn’t be allowed within two clicks of my boat.  Thanks to some sweetheart deal you’ve got going with the DoD and the CIA, now I have to host you people.”  He narrowed his eyes at Cyrus.  “Don’t think I forgot about you and the commander’s daddy, Salem.  I don’t know what the hell is going on here, or why you just had to have my tub, but I can guarantee you if you get me or my crew into any kind of serious trouble I will keelhaul your asses quicker than you can say ‘court-martial,’ am I clear?”

I could see Cole visibly bristle at this dressing-down by the captain.  Kitty was almost in a blind rage: she dropped her HoSIP body and nearly lunged.  MacEwan gave her a dirty look.

“I remember you too, Lazarus.  I remember them bringing you back aboard the Buffalo, just like you are now.  You aren’t scary, cat-bitch, so get over yourself.”

“Respectfully, sir, you should get over yourself first,” Cole finally rebutted.  “Your orders stipulate that Patriot is to be at our disposal, not the other way around.  If you have a problem with your orders, captain, you can take it up with the Director.”

MacEwan got into Cole’s face.  “I’m taking it up with you right now, son.  I’ve seen the reports from Jerzaan.  I saw your files.  I know what you and your little freak brigade did there, and I’m damn sure not happy about having said freak brigade aboard my ship.”

“Jerzaan was a necessary operation, captain, one that secured U.S. interests worldwide.  I’m sorry you may disagree with our tactics, but we got the job done.  That’s what we do.  If you’ve got a problem with that, tough.  We’re here.  We’re going aboard your vessel.  Deal.”

MacEwan’s words had been getting to me, especially talking about us as the “freak brigade,” but Cole stood his ground and eventually it was MacEwan who blinked, stepping aside to let us board.  As we walked up the gangplank to the main hatch, I took Cole’s hand in mine and squeezed it, as a show of thanks for standing up for us.  Soon after we were aboard, the sub slipped her moorings and we were on our way into the Indian Ocean, searching for Pak.

(Transcriber’s note: I was able to locate information regarding the two ships mentioned in this conversation.  U.S.S. Buffalo [SSN-715] is a Los Angeles-class attack submarine, still commissioned, which has primarily run as part of the Pacific Fleet and has been used as a staging point for SEAL teams; as all SEAL operations remain classified, information regarding Kitty Lazarus’s particular mission originating from the Buffalo is unknown.  U.S.S. Patriot [SSN-788] was a Virginia-class attack submarine reported lost four years ago, around the time Alastair Abaster disappeared.  The submarine was attacked by unknown forces, leaving just a single survivor, the aforementioned Captain Gary MacEwan who was shortly after his recovery remanded to a mental institution.—DAM)

Unfortunately for us, Pak was closer to Diego than we had initially thought.  Within 36 hours, the sub received sonar contact with the stolen missile sub, which turned to engage.  It was launching torpedoes at a preternatural speed, not usually capable of a submarine (I learned this firsthand from the Patriot’s weapons officer afterward), and we were left in a vulnerable position.  It was Cyrus who informed us that we should take Cole down to the torpedo bay and put him in a tube.

This probably sounds shocking.  It’s not so much when you realize that the Guardsman’s nature is constantly in flux, depending on what the Swordbearer is equipped with.  Before he went into the torpedo tube, I was tasked with locating a scuba tank and regulator for Cole.  Before he put the regulator in his mouth I kissed him for luck, then closed the torpedo tube on him.  He later informed us of what he had done, and what had confused the sonar operator: he drew the Sword once he was launched from the torpedo bay and had destroyed all of the incoming torpedoes by blocking their path both with the weapon and with his body.  Because the Guardsman himself is invulnerable to most weapons, he was able to shake the impacts off and keep the sub from getting hit.

While Cole was fencing with torpedoes, however, we had our own problems inside the sub.  Cyrus, who had been covering the fire-control panel while Cole was outside the ship, went stock-still in his seat, petrified.  We were not sure what was happening until he raised a hand and immobilized the entire bridge crew, myself included.

He had been possessed, this time completely, by Pak.  Pak even had him inform us of this.  He jumped down out of the chair and calmly went over to the ship’s dive control station, clearing its ballasts and forcing us to surface.  As the ship was starting to surface, Kitty emerged on the bridge and saw what Cyrus had done.  She quickly pulled her gun.

“Don’t move!”

Cyrus grinned at her, an evil grin of demonic origin.  “Or what?  You’ll shoot your precious Cyrus?  I’d like to see you try, tiger of Durga.”

This wasn’t the first time I had heard Kitty referred to this way, but it still shocked me every time to think that she had encountered a Hindu deity firsthand.  My thoughts on this topic in my immobilized state were interrupted by Kitty’s screech.  “Don’t make me kill you, Cyrus!”

I saw the small wizard’s face strain against whatever possession was holding him captive.  It wrinkled even more than usual, forming a grimace.  Through this, his voice croaked out to Kitty.  “Pull the trigger … remember your promise … please!”

Kitty’s usually sure-handed grip on her weapon faltered.  She brought the other hand up to hold the gun steady.  In her face, her struggle showed.  Her voice became a whimper.  “Please, Cyrus … don’t make me do this …”

Tears ran down her furry cheeks.  Cyrus’s face, though, regained its demonic appearance as he lifted up a hand and cast a concussion spell which knocked Kitty backward and out of the bridge.  With Kitty down and everyone else immobilized, he climbed the ladder to the conning tower hatch, opening it and running out.  Shortly afterward we heard a splash as Cyrus jumped into the water.

Kitty, for the next day, was distraught.  She raged at us.  She raged at the crew.  She punched MacEwan out.  At one point, we even feared for our own safety as she started frantically checking and rechecking the chambers on her myriad of weapons she had brought aboard with her.

Eventually it came down to me talking to her.  This was not a task I had looked forward to, but it had to be done.  During her twenty-ninth check on her pistol’s action readiness, I approached her.

“Kitty, please take it easy.  Everyone is concerned about you.”

She looked up at me, a frightening fire in her eyes I had never known before.  “Take it easy?  Cyrus is God-knows-where, having God-knows-what done to him as Pak’s possessed trained monkey, and YOU are telling me to TAKE IT EASY?!”  She flung a shoe at me that I ducked quickly.  “Get the hell out, Ariel!”

I stood my ground, but I think I was starting to get angrier than I really should have.  I felt the smoke start to pour out of my nose.  “No, Kitty.  If we’re going to get Cyrus back, it’s going to take all of us to do it.  You included, in sane mode, not this crazy rage monster you’ve turned into.”

She growled.  “I’ll show you ‘rage monster,’ you bitch!”  She lunged at me.  I reacted on instinct and firecasted, blasting her away from me.  She came away from the blow singed but still alive, cowering against a wall as I stood over her.

“Not to be cliché, but the enemy is out there, Kitty, it’s not me!  I want to get Cyrus back as much as you do!  We need you to snap out of this, get back to being the soldier rather than the animal, and do your job.  The sooner, the better, because the sooner you stop losing your damn mind, the sooner we can get to rescuing Cyrus, and the better the chances are that he’ll survive this.”  My aggression level had risen to extreme levels.  I marched across the room and punched the cat woman.  “Snap out of this.  Right now!”

Kitty rubbed her jaw where my fist had landed, a stunned expression on her face.  She looked up at me.  “Did you just seriously hit me?”

I nodded, kind of fearfully.

She stood up, and oddly enough she was actually smiling.  “Hey, don’t freak.  That’s exactly what I needed.  Thanks, girl.”

Much to my surprise, the next thing Kitty did was to hug me.  I was a bit too stunned to return the embrace, but it was still a bit of a relief.  Later, Kitty would tell me that this incident increased her sense of respect for me, made her realize that I was for real and really cared about all of us, enough to confront and physically take her on.  In the moment, however, she released the hug and led me out of the small stateroom, intent on rejoining the team and back to being the professional soldier she was.  That newfound resolve would be what was necessary to defeat Pak.

[witchofthesouls]

This was a weird crossover thought, but hey, it’s a rare pair:

Grandmama Frump has no idea how, what, when, and where the ancient grimoire had dumped her, nor the spellwork that pushed her into a metal body, but the entrails did say she will be on quite a transformative journey. Meets up with the DJD by intercepting on their List. Not her fault if the mechs were stupid enough to bother her and joins them after admiring their skills. Grandmama Frump and Vos would get along like fire on a gasoline-soaked body.

She can fully appreciate a being that can fully transform into a sniper rifle. Granny Frump prefers to go down and bloody close to the target, so she tries to convince him to get a bayonet attachment.

Nothing says romance than a personal stab, together.

Just as nothing says “I love you” so much to an Addams than causing chaos, mayhem, and murder with a partner, especially if they could literally use their partner. How intimate…

Vos and Grandmama would croon sweet nothings full of murderous intentions to each other. Unfortunately, they do all the time, especially during meals.

No one understands what the hell they’re saying since they’re speaking in the respective dead language of Primal Vernacular and Ancient French. Except for Tarn… and he’s dying from the horniness.

The leader of the DJD feels beyond uncomfortable, but Tarn can’t turn away when Granny climbs into Vos’ lap, face to face as she steadies herself with his shoulders. The romantic locked deep in his untouched spark practically swoons as Granny tenderly cradles Vos’ mask and simultaneously recoils from what Vos purrs back.

There are some things a mech is not meant to know. Please stop playing with the ruffles and seams of her armor.

Actually, everyone is dying from the horniness. They may not understand, but even the blind mech could feel that raw tension.

There’s many strange sounds in Vos' habsuite. It’s screaming. A lot of screaming. Not of terror. Sometimes agony, but it’s mixed with pleasure. With laughter. High and demented that leaves scratches over a brain module, like rusted nails shoved deep into a helm.

Once it stops, the door opens to dreamy Frump swaying to invisible music as she heads to the shower rack.

The way she moves is reminiscent to the artistic bodily freedom of the Golden Age music underground and the famed courtesans of the High Towers and Primal Palace: strangely sensual and oddly provocative in its fluid grace of free-form steps and twirls. The armor she uses doesn’t help, it sways to her movement.

Vos, in berth and completely enraptured, watches on, smoking a cygar.

Tarn and Kaon gives him hell for it since the ship has designated smoking areas and the communication officer hates the smell leaking to his hab.

Grandmama had commandeered the kitchen and refuses to let anyone else into it. Not even if it causes the fire alarms and toxicity sensors to blare. She has it well in hand, sonny! There are at least three cauldrons always on the flames from a sweet simmer to furiously frothing to the point the lid will become a deadly projectile. The smell can be absolutely delightful or completely atrocious -far, far worse than Tesarus not properly deep-cleaning his most inward blades.

Tarn has no idea if Granny Frump is trying to kill them by an obvious poisoning attempt since whatever she heaved over to the shared table is... ghastly vibrant with a sludge-like consistency. And possibly in its dying throes as she smacks the cauldron insides with a spiked ladle. And he’s absolutely not imagining that muted shriek-

Between Nickel’s medical programs, Tesarus’ ununtrium-coated tank, and Helex’s ability to heat his own internals to a deadly scorch to kill everything, they can take on whatever malice she wields.

Luckily, there’s the usual Energon dispenser in the mess hall, but Tarn can only watch in mute horror as everyone else eats it, even the Pet enjoys it.

Helex and Tesarus wolf down over half the cauldron with large doses of aluminum flakes and cobalt swirls. Kaon eventually switches to the dispenser, but only because the smell overrides the lovely taste. Vos eats his extra blended portion with a straw. Even Nickel is in on it: sipping on her bowl with a side of boron biscuits.

He is not the weird one. He is not-

[lys1]

Congratulations! You waited so patiently <3 This is another Asra x fem!reader for you. NSFW. 5218 words. 

Playing With Potions

—————

The late spring morning air was warming up to be a balmy 75 degrees. You had your skirt pulled down and up, tucked in the back of the waistband, forming makeshift shorts. The shop was somewhat quiet, yet the din from the streets made its nimble way through the open windows.

You descend the ladder to the box of ingredients you were unpacking. They had come in the previous evening and Asra had promptly asked you to “organize them later”. Of course you said yes, the two of you shared this shop after all, and the work that came with it.

Asra himself was bustling behind the counter, sweeping the wooden floors free of the dust and fallen ingredients. He stops momentarily to pick up his cup of tea and take a long sip. The jasmine tea's steam billows into his face as he sighs with content pleasure.

The floorboards creak as you step down and Asra looks over at you, gaze soft. "How's the supplies look, dear?" He asks curiously, returning the cup to it’s coaster.

"Ah," you muse, counting the small containers in your hands. "Looks like we will be all set on lizard toes for a while, I think our supply captain read 1000 instead of 100." You can't help but chuckle, it couldn't be helped, at least you wouldn’t have to order more for a while.

Asra's eyes open a little wider, "oh my." He laughs, "I suppose we won’t". He sets his broom to rest against the counter and bare feet pad over to you, his deep-purple eyes examining the products.

You feel his hand settle on your waist subconsciously; a side effect of being close to one another. You breathe in lightly, smelling the sweet scent of coconut and honied biscuits wash over you. Asra's breakfast choice was apparent.

"Mm," you say, turning so the two of you were face to face. "You smell delicious."

Asra smiles, box in his hand now a little less important. "Care for a taste?" He teases, eyes falling to your parted lips. He sets his lizard toes aside and joins his other hand at your waist. You look up at him through your eyelashes and nod.

He is a mere millimeter from sealing the gap between you when the bell of the shop jingles merrily.

"Ah jeez," you huff good in good nature. "I forgot we have jobs and responsibilities."

Asra laughs at your obvious disappointment and steals a small peck. "Unfortunately, we have to eat somehow." He then turns away and walks back to the counter to greet the customer.

The man is short and has a little round face. He looks extraordinarily nervous, and this catches your attention. Yours and Asra's shop is well known in the city and the townsfolk trust their magicians. You hadn't seen anyone come in here looking so nervous, and maybe even a little embarrassed.

"What can I do for you, sir?" Asra asks charmingly, resuming his position behind the counter. Briefly you let yourself admire how nice he looks, comfortable in his shop and expertise, before turning back to the box you were supposed to be dealing with. Not, however, letting your ears miss the conversation.

"I," the man starts, already fumbling with his words. "I, well look. I need help." He finishes plainly, nervously clutching his shirt between his pudgy hands.

Asra smiles kindly, "many do." He says, tilting his head and examining his new client. "Are you here for a card reading? Need to get some answers?"

The man groans as though he is already exhausted with the conversation. "No, I already know what I need. I have the answers. I've heard about this place. The ways you can help people. I live an hour out of the market and I made this trip just to see you."

"We're flattered, for sure." Asra says calmly, you can hear slight annoyance in his tone from all the ambiguity. The visitor is none the wiser though. "To help you though," Asra continues. "I'll need to know what you need."

"Alright I need a potion," the man finally reveals. "One that will help me... with performance." His cheeks are redder than a bell pepper in the sun.

Asra raises a white eyebrow, "performance? Are you an actor?"

"No!" The man's voice came out in a strangled whisper, obviously trying to keep it down. You roll your eyes, chancing a glance over your shoulder. The shop floor wasn't that big, of course you were going to hear everything.

"No," he said again, this time a little more composed. "What I mean is... my sex life performance." The truth comes out. Your visitor wipes his forehead with a dirty rag from his pocket. "My wife and I well.. we've hit a slump," he explains. "And I've heard of potions that can help with that kind of thing. Stuff that will completely change the game." His eyes are shining now, imaging life post-performance potion.

Asra looks uncertain at best. "I see," he starts, shooting you a glance. "That.. does exists. But it takes awhile to make. And the price isn't cheap either."

You shove the last of the crow feathers into their designated drawer while listening. You have never heard of such a potion, but you were also still learning. Asra sounds a little unsure though.

"Price isn't an issue," the man sounds desperate. "I'll pay anything."

Asra sighs, he feels bad for the man wringing his hands before him, practically crying for a cure. "Alright," he finally concedes. "I'll make it, but you'll have to come back in the morning. This kind of thing takes all evening to brew."

Your customer nods vigorously, "I can wait." He says. "Tomorrow morning, yes! I'll be here!" His excitement apparent, he bows a few times while backing out of the door, tripping over his own feet.

The door closes with a sharp bang and the bell rings furiously. Asra blows air out of his mouth so that itf ruffles the curls between his eyes.

"Well," he says after a moment. "A sex performance enhancing potion was not what I was expecting to make today." He rubs his temples, eyes closed and looking thoughtful.

You grin at him from the shelf as you pick up the empty shipping box and rest it on your hip. "That's quite the name, I've never heard of a potion like that."

Asra laughs and opens his beautiful eyes to look at you. "Yes, you'll have to forgive me for not teaching you that kind of magic, it's not the.. safest." He ends uncertainly. "I don't even know how this guy found out about it. It's not talked about much amongst us magicians.. and it's certainly not a common one."

Immediately more questions than your mouth can keep up with flood your brain. "So how did you find out about it? And why isn't it safe?" You ask the two more important ones, eyes following Asra as he finds a piece of paper and quill to use.

He dips his quill in the register's ink well and starts scratching down what you presumed to be ingredients. "I've been studying magic for years, my love." He says simply, "and before you ask, no I haven't used it on myself." He looks up at you, mischief dancing in his pretty eyes. "I'd like to think my sex game is up to par." He adds innocently, licking his lips seductively when your ears tinge pink.

You brush imaginary dirt off your shirt sleeves and huff. "I suppose it's pretty good." You mumble. It almost feels like a lie to just describe it as "pretty good" but Asra doesn't need you to stroke his ego right now. You do that enough falling to pieces beneath him every night.

Asra is well aware of your attempt to keep him humble and laughs lightly. "And to answer your other question," he says, turning back to his ingredient list, "messing with ones body like this can be dangerous. You have to be very precise."

You nod as he explains, it makes sense.

Potions are always brewed in pots over a magic fire so you put yourself to work, removing a medium sized iron pot from a hook on the wall and carrying it to a fire stand. Asra is busy himself, opening various drawers and adding seemingly random ingredients to a basket he has looped over his arm. Iris petals, newt eyeball, and some shimmering gold flakes. You smile watching him, your gorgeous magician; smart and able.

In no time at all Asra has a bubbling pot of sweet smelling liquid stirring before him. You stand beside him, observing curiously.

"Why are you wearing gloves?" You ask, taking note of the large leather gloves that clad all the way up your lover's forearm.

Asra continues to stir and looks over at you, happy to hear your eagerness to learn. "I can't risk even a drop of this touching my skin. It's so strong, and will immediately absorb into anyone's skin, leaving them..." He shakes his head and trails off, amused. "That's why it has to brew so long, to burn off some of the potency."

Your mouth opens in amazement, taken aback by the idea. This is the real deal you decide, stepping back a couple inches in precaution. After watching the potion bubble for a couple more minutes you stretch and grab the watering can sitting by the floor of the door.

"I'm going to water the plants," you inform Asra, waving your hand briefly until the can is full of cool, crisp water. Gods knows there are at least three dozen inside and outside of the shop.

Asra is humming in confirmation that he heard you as you open the shop door to the plants hanging outside. You don't get very far before you're blindsided by a streak of purple darting through your legs.

Escape!

"Faust?!" You yelp, dancing around the squirming snake as she winds her way under and into the open shop. A loud, booming bark makes you jump again. This time a large hound dog is rounding the tight corner from the side street and barreling full speed towards you.

All hell breaks loose. The water can is up in the air, crashing wildly into the side of the building. You are thrown back onto the dusty floor and a mass of fur and teeth race past you, paying no mind to your yelling.

Help!

Faust is racing around the floor, narrowly avoiding the jaws of the angry dog she seemed to have aggravated. There's a large crash from inside and you cringe, hearing bottles break and wood crunch. You look back, scared at what you might find.

The shop is a disaster, papers strewn, vials broken, and potion pot toppled. Asra is groaning on the floor, obviously doing no better than the rest. You glance at him worriedly, taking quick notice of the potion he had been making spilled everywhere, even on him.

You snap your fingers and the dog's growl, who was cornering Faust by the bookshelf, turns into a whimper as you lift him up with your magic. "I'm sorry pooch," you sigh, "but we can't have you eating our friend." With a wave of your wrist the hound is out the door and down the street in an instant. The hinges creak and bell rings as the door is once again closed to outside.

Thank you!

Faust wriggles happily, red eyes glowing in relief. You guess she got up to some trouble with the local fauna. She slithers up the stairs quickly, leaving you to look around at the ruined shop.

"Ah, fuck," Asra's words cut through your thoughts like a knife. He's laying flat on the floor, chest heaving as though he just ran a marathon. Sweat glistens on his tan skin, covering him from head to toe.

You step over the broken bottles and kneel at his side. "My love?" You ask, unsure of what to do. It was obvious what had happened, it didn't take an expert. The potion that was supposed to be for your customer was now soaked into Asra's glowing skin.

Asra opens his eyes and you swallow hard. You know that look, and it nearly makes you start trembling where you sit. Lust is prevalent, clouding Asra's eyes until they're a dark amethyst color.

"You-" you start to speak but are cut off by Asra sitting up abruptly. His face is close to yours and his breath washes over your lips, hot and wanton. He looks positively desperate, just the sight of you sitting before him doing wonders.

"Please," Asra's voice comes out low and husky, he watches your chest rise and fall quickly as a result. "Can I please have you, right now."

You could almost call him asking like that soft and innocent, if it wasn't for the raw, hungry look he was giving you. His eyes were traveling everywhere across your body, leaving an invisible line that you could almost feel burning into your skin. Your lips parted and you let out a soft gasp, the power that kind of look had over you was astonishing. You shifted your legs under you subtly, feeling the result of the hot atmosphere low in your stomach.

"Tsk, tsk," you had to tease for a moment. "Closing the shop at midday for some fucking?" You reach up and cup Asra's cheek, feigning uncertainty. His skin on your fingertips burns white hot and you have to hide your amazement.

Asra's eyes narrow, he knew you too well. With a quick flick of his wrist you hear the deadbolt on the door slide into place. It's only a second later and both of his hands have found a place on either side of your hips.

"Why do you torment me?" he asks, pulling you close so your legs straddle him. "Can't you see I'm getting enough of that from this damn mistake of a potion?" His words are almost shaky, as though he can barely speak anymore. He presses his hips up to meet yours, and a soft sigh escapes his lips as he finally gets a little friction.

You dig your nails into his shoulders and gasp, the feeling of Asra so obviously in need is enough to make anyone go wild.

You can't resist grinding down lightly and Asra's eyes practically roll back at the sensation. "How can I say no to such a pretty face," you whisper, completely in love with his reaction.

That was enough for Asra and without added words he gathers you up in his strong arms and lifts you both. Your head falls back pleasurably when his lips find your neck. It only takes a few quick steps on his part to bring the two of you into the plush back room.

The purple cushions lining the cozy futon sink in gently as your back hits the mattress. The room has a slight pleasing haze as sandalwood incense burns at the table. The smell washes over your senses and a new wave of sensuality comes over the room.

Asra's hands hold you firmly as his lips continue to press lovingly into your skin. He hovers over you, one leg pressed between your legs, causing your hips to involuntarily move along his thigh.

"I need you out of these clothes," Asra groans, lips being stopped at your chest where your shirt has suddenly become a hindrance. He's already tugging at the hem, untucking the loose fabric from your waistband. You raise yourself to your elbows and help him pull the shirt over your head. At once it is thrown over Asra's shoulder and his eyes are set on your bare skin, drinking in the sight of his lover.

You smile at his admiration and lay back again, stretching your arms above your head and arching your back. You feel his hands on your stomach, traveling up to rest on your breasts. Your skin prickles with desire, flesh lighting on fire from his ministrations.

"How did I get so lucky," he breathes out, looking down at you with a look filled with love and passion. He rests the tips of his fingers on your nipples and swirls them lightly, leaving you to twist in torturous pleasure beneath his touch. "Everything about you is beautiful." Asra continues to flatter, lowering his head so his curls tickle your stomach. He licks a long line from the dip of your hip up to the valley between your breasts.

After a few moments of tasting your supple skin he moves his hands to the top of your skirt and tugs. You lift your hips in compliance and the fabric slides down your legs easily. Asra licks his lips as your body is finally fully presented to him.

"I could feast on you," he announces, voice lowered with need. "And I wouldn't go hungry in a lifetime." These words he whispers into your inner thigh, they tickle your skin softly.

You watch with bated breath as the man before you adores his lover. It's hard to keep your moans controlled as you feel his sinfully good tongue lick you in a way that can only be described as ecstasy.

Asra shifts into a more comfortable position, lying on his stomach and he brings your legs to lay comfortably over his shoulders. You shudder as you feel his hot breath flutter over your dripping slit. He doesn't waste anymore time and lowers his face to enjoy you.

Your thighs squeeze his head lightly as your body arches in response. Asra is devouring you as though you were a feast and it was the only meal he is to have in a lifetime. He grips your legs tightly to keep you from moving and covers your slit with his mouth, sucking for a moment on the tight nub at the top. He groans happily into your skin before moving down to lick your hole.

"Oh please, yes," you run your trembling hand through his hair and raise your hips up to meet his greedy mouth. He laps short, quick strokes first, stimulating you into madness.

After a moment he slows his tongue down to swirl languidly, looking up at you. You make eye contact and groan at the erotic scene of him eating you out. "That mouth of yours is too skilled for its own good," you whisper, fingers digging into his scalp, trying desperately to savor every swipe of his tongue.

Asra smiles against your folds. "I live to make you feel good, my dear." He says, pausing a moment. "You intoxicate me. Your smell, your taste. I couldn't get enough even if I had all the time in the world." He presses his lips on each one of your thighs with hot, open mouth kisses.

You blush at his words, feeling amazing under his praise. "Come here," you command softly, pulling on Asra's hair lightly to guide him back up your body. He kisses every inch of skin he passes before finally reaching your lips.

"Mm," he hums, taking your face in his hands. "But these lips, are like the finest honey in Vesuvia." He lifts your head so your mouths meet. It's a hot and feverish kiss, full of staggering amounts of love.

You press your body into his and relish in the feeling of kissing Asra. Your mouths are opened to one another and your tongues meet in fiery unison. While you enjoy the kiss you allow your hands to roam. Your fingers find his shirt buttons and you start to undo them as best you can, only a little distracted. It takes just a minute and you sigh happily into his mouth when you finally remove the annoying clothing.

You part a moment to admire the divinity of his body; prostrated before you. He was calling himself the lucky one, but you could probably make a pretty good argument for it being the other way around. He looked absolutely glorious in the hazy glow of the room.

As you reach for the waistband of his pants and rest your fingers playfully on the skin above it Asra breaks out in goosebumps at the fluttering feel of your touch.

"Ah," he breaths out, raising himself to his knees and closing his eyes. Clearly, he's enjoying the attention finally being on him.

"You are the one with the potion affecting them." You say, drawing a line from one hip to another. "It'd almost be criminal to ignore you for any longer." Your eyes fall to the bulge straining under Asra's pants, just begging to be free. A smile plays across your lips as his breaths quickens significantly.

"I.. wouldn't complain." He finally manages to say in a strained tone.

You smile, maybe a little too satisfied, and hook your fingers under the band. "I know." You chuckle, pulling. The trousers catch a moment on Asra's hardened length before slipping down to his knees. You take time to admire the sight before you, licking your lips. Asra is panting slightly, looking down at you lustfully as your eyes graze over him.

He grabs your head on either side and looks into your eyes. "Please," is all he can croak out.

You swallow thickly and you feel yourself dampen even more at his begging words. “I’d like nothing more" you say; need dripping heavily from your words. You lean forward and kiss the tip of his leaking slit lightly. Asra's body shivers with pleasure when your soft lips meet his aching shaft.

You take a breath before closing your mouth around his tip. Your cheeks hollow and you suck in deeply, enjoying the small sounds of pleasure emitting from Asra's lips. He groans even deeper as you finally swallow down his whole length, tip sliding down the back of your throat.

"Ah fuck, baby," he stutters through gritted teeth, fingers threading through your hair. He thrusts into your mouth without hesitation, reveling in the way you feel around him. The pace is fast and vicious, leaving no time for extra room for breathing.

You choke back your gasps and feel the involuntary tears prick at the corners or your eyes. Your hands fall to your sides as you let Asra use your mouth how he pleased. Licentious noises ring around the room as he sinks his member into your mouth relentlessly, moaning at each stroke and the salacious feelings that come over him.

His grip tightens in your hair as he pounds into your face. You open your mouth as widely as you can and take him in, ignoring the slight pain of labored breathing. The feeling of being used so mercilessly is intoxicating, and you close your eyes, enjoying the pleasure that overtakes you.

With a loud pop he pulls out of your drooling mouth, leaving you to be the one groaning in disappointment.

"I'm sorry love," he huffs dazedly, need heavy on his features. "But if I don't stop this now I'm cumming in your mouth."

"That doesn't sound so bad," you complain, sticking your tongue out so Asra can view how much you want it. His eyes darken considerably and he looks ready to break.

He takes a breath in sharply, steadying himself before holding your face gently in his hand. "As much as I want you fuck your face, that pussy of yours I know is dripping for me and I have to comply." He chuckles, running his thumb along your lip.

You whimper at his words, practically climaxing at the suggestion. You meet his eyes in a needy manner and nod. "Oh, Asra," you start, already seeing excitement flit across his face at the mention of his name. "I want you more than I can even describe to you."

To this Asra inhales sharply, thumb still hooked in your mouth. "Tell me how you want me," he says, barely able to contain his own desire.

"I want you to fuck me from behind," you begin, knowing exactly how to please his ears. "I'm going to cry and moan, and beg you for relief but you will know better." His eyes widen in ecstasy but you continue anyway. "I want you to give everything you can to me, without holding back."

Asra seems to snap right in front of you. His features immediately seem to plead for consolation. "You'll get what you ask for." He growls, fingers tightening in your mouth. You lick his thumb seductively and the action throws him over the edge.

Asra's hands fly to your waist and hold you firmly, you're flipped over; ass to the heavens greeting him. He swallows at the sight and digs both palms into the flesh, enjoying the feeling immensely. "So needy and ready for me," he groans, finger finding your entrance and slipping in easily. You gulp at the warmth of having fingers enter you. Asra is unrelenting and curls them cruelly against your walls.

"Just fuck me already!" You cry, unable to hide your desires anymore. You hear Asra laugh behind you, yet despite this you know he is dying to sink himself into you.

"Alright, alright." He concedes, taking your hips in his hands. "If you insist."

You feel his tip slide against your slit and shudder, craving the feeling of him inside you. It doesn't take more than a moment before you feel him start to enter you. You lay your head down, turning your face so you can watch Asra take you from behind.

His lips are parted in a silent moan as he relishes in the feeling of your walls around him. You sigh softly as he fully sheaths himself in you, a small tremor passing over your body from the pleasure. One moment, two moments pass as you both bask in the feeling of being connected.

"Give me your hands," he commands, slowly sliding in and out of you, giving no care to his agonizingly slow pace. Soft gasps are falling from your lips as you try to register his request.

Carefully, you cross your arms behind your back. It's no use to keep the blush at bay as you take in the dirty scene. Your face is pressed to the pillows, unable to move much as Asra takes your wrists and pins them to your back. Your ass is raised in the air to meet his rhythmic thrusting.

Asra grips one of your thighs with a free hand and quickens the pace a little. Your eyes shut tightly as your body responds. You can feel his tip hit deep inside of you with each snap of his hips. It's unrelenting and you have to catch yourself from begging for more.

You feel the fingers around your wrist tighten a bit as Asra's breathing speeds up behind you. You know that he's set on giving you as much painfully slow torture as he can manage himself, but you also know that potion is working against him. There's nothing he wants more than to let go and pound you into the mattress.

"Baby," you choke out, words bouncing along with your bodies. "I know you want to fuck me so good right now." Your voice is deep with seduction. "Please just fill me up like I know you want to." You finish your plea, watching his face with satisfaction. His eyes are darkened with desire. He takes just a few more strokes before slowly to a stop inside you.

"You asked for it," he warns. He only takes a moment to let go of your wrists and flips your body so you're facing him. He cages you in on either side and licks his lips as he stares into your eyes. His hungry mouth meets yours in a kiss full of fire. You can melt into it for only a second before you feel him grab your hips and pull you flush against him; Your cries drowned by his lips as he sets an erratic pace, skin meeting with loud slaps.

"Fucking hell," he groans, still kissing you between words. "You feel like heaven on earth. You're so hot, and I can feel your insides squeezing me." He explains, hot breath falling over your face. Your cheeks burn at his descriptions.

You loop your arms around his neck and press your chest into his. Your skin meets, shining with sweat and burning from love. Asra presses back, savoring the feeling of your nipples brushing against his.

You start to feel that familiar blossom of unreleased pleasure pool in your lower stomach. Asra's shaft is hitting you just right, sending jolts of satisfaction right to your core.

"Oh-" you stop and whine pleasantly when he shifts angles. "Fuck. Please yes, don't stop!" Your arms drop and nails dip into his biceps and you grit your teeth from the hot delight searing through your body.

"I couldn't even If i wanted to," Asra answers, words strained as his grasp on himself starts to crumble. His breath is leaving his lips in short pants now and you can almost see the resolve to hold on slip away before your eyes.

He falls into you, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and thrusts into you with all of the strength he can muster. You bury your face in his neck and take hold of his hair. You can feel Asra's body shuddering to not let go.

You bring your lips to his ear and bite his lobe. "Won't you come for me sweetheart? Please empty yourself in me." You whisper.

Asra takes in a sharp breath and you hear him choke at your words. They were enough to push him over the edge and he rams into you with a low, strangled cry.

Your head falls back and your mouth opens in a silent scream as Asra lets himself go in you. Your legs shake violently of their own accord as you feel your orgasm wash over you, leaving your body in euphoric fire.

Asra's lips immediately find yours as you ride out your orgasms together. You kiss him passionately, all of your senses in overdrive. His kisses are soft, and sweet, a clear declaration of his love. Happiness rushes in like a flood as you enjoy the afterglow. After a minute Asra removes himself from you and joins you in laying down, sides still heaving from the activities.

"My dear, how I love you." He says with a smile, running his fingers in slow, soft circles on your stomach.

You turn on your side and look into his eyes. He looked content, and his cheeks were dimpled from his growing grin.

"I love you too," you return, hand falling into his. His skin was still warm. The two of you lay there for a while, out of breath and simply enjoying the presence of one another.

Eventually, Asra sits up and looks down at you with humor in his eyes. "Well, I think I can tell our buyer that we did an extensive review of his product and it does, in fact, work."

Your face breaks into a smile and you laugh at Asra's words. "Oh goodie, I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear all about it."

[aglaecan]

Berúthiel tilted back her head, gazing upward into the comfortably dim vaults of the canvas ceiling. Her eyes traced out the many patterns in the carven ribs of the tent; and she was not surprised to find them oceanic in nature, to match well with the pelagic light. The man who sat with her was a man of the shore-people, was he not? A prince of the haven, of Nen Umbar which had once been An Ambar. Sakalthôr, he was also called. Sakalthôr, which was son of the shore.

As she was queen of anger.

Her eyes found and rested upon a carved crescent moon, there among the roof-ribs. Her husband had been Falastur, lord of the shore. Was it some irony, some bitter doom laid on her by the Power whose very name meant Gaol, that she should have hated one of these shore-men so viciously only to find herself here in a willing duress to the other?

Falastur had cast her out. Had put her into a ship beneath a crescent moon, had exiled her. And it was the single deed of his which she would not curse bitterly, for it had freed her of him.

“You do not know what our destination means to me,” she told Aphanarû, but her tone was gentle enough, not censorious. It was only truth, after all. 

Upon the brazier, water heated in its chased metal ibrik, of a design traditional to the region, a fusion between the kettles more common to the north and west and the ewers and pitchers of the local peoples. She could smell the bright sweetness of the mint he was measuring out, could hear the low roil and bubble of water coming to a boil in the pot.

Her eyes were on that little moon, so that they were not upon the princeling. The princeling, who had sat at her side, and not across from her. She could feel the heat of his body, could scent his skin and his hair. She could turn now, put her lips on his, climb upon his lap, and have him. She was quite certain of that. Quite certain he would not push her away but would want it, would welcome her with a passion gratifying in its intensity.

She kept her eyes upon the carven moon.

“I feel tired,” she told him softly. “I seldom ride for as long as we have already, and we still have some ways to go.”

At last she looked at him. “Have you traveled this route before, my princeling? Through the mountain pass, to where the arid lands become desert in truth? You are a creature of the shores. You might find it quite strange.”

    The canvas overhead gives no quarter in the face of the wind trying to either pitch itself below, or knock it over should it fail. Neither happens; he and Berúthiel remain sheltered from the elements. The sun equally fails to pierce the heavy weave — just as well, for that means the centre of the yurt ought to offer that sought after shelter. Between the entrance and the pillar in the middle lies a smattering of pillows, divided by a low, nigh square table. A pot of hot water alongside four cups, green tea and fresh mint sit on a platter in the centre.

      Behind the pillar stands an easel with a map laid out across it — not meant to pore over when strategising as they would in war, but only to aid the planning of the next leg of their journey. For now, a lone figurine sits tacked onto the sheet along the ridge of the mountain range splitting the desert in twain.

      From it sprout several carpets that overlap at several junctions, all of various sizes and made of lighter materials than what decorates his palace. The paraphernalia seeded throughout the rest of the space is minimal ––– just as it should be, for a stop meant to be as brief as theirs. This refuge offers little in terms of luxury ( if one was to consider the shade and cooler atmosphere as a necessity, rather than comfort ). Apart from the wooden skeleton of the tent’s carvings and the patterns woven into the tarp ( involving sailboats, seagulls and hints towards the moon and its hold on the tides ), this space remains simple in essence.

      Inevitably, his eyes depart the structure surrounding them in favour of the sight of Berúthiel, her magnetic pull on him unyielding still. Upon finding her seated already, though, he laments only having seen her move to the pillows from the corner of his eyes moments ago, rather than having truly watched her. It feels as if he has missed out on something extraordinary by giving precedence to assessing the tent.   ❛  Ah, of course.  ❜  He could interrupt a servant’s rest to fulfill the request, but instead he hastily joins her alone, wishing to maintain what privacy they have whilst they still have it. The result of split-second contemplation ( or lack thereof, perhaps ) is that, rather than sitting opposite to her as he usually would, he takes a seat on the side of the table adjacent to hers.

      He only recognises the risk attached to his cautious attempt at closeness once his legs cross underneath each other. His body does not quite freeze, but it stutters in its movement to acquiesce Berúthiel’s request, like he has been caught doing something he should not — and then neither proceeding nor withdrawing, not exactly. Instead, he remains where he is, sitting in his uneasy anticipation, all whilst moving to prepare that coveted tea.  ❛  How do you feel? Apart from thirsty,  ❜  he inquires, a modest amount of tongue-in-cheek drawing up the right corner of his mouth as he works. What he alludes to, however, is not at all laughable. The near immediate straightening of his features attests to it as he peers up at her, his ( his? ) sapthêth, through his eyelashes.  ❛  I ask, considering we are moving ever closer to our destination, and knowing that it means … much to you.  ❜