#thread. the tailors apprentice

[saintmeghanmarkle]

JAN MOIR on fire: Meghans become just another pay-per-view plugger turning her high profile into high profit by u/Von_und_zu_

JAN MOIR on fire: Meghan’s become just another pay-per-view plugger turning her high profile into high profit Between not launching her lifestyle brand, not being invited to A-list events and not visiting the UK with her husband, where does Meghan find the time to be an international businesswoman, that is what I want to know.This week, the Duchess of Sussex interrupted her trade and industry schedule to give an interview to the New York Times. How unlike her, is what you are thinking, and I agree.Meghan breached her ongoing quest for privacy, piercing that pearly shell of seclusion and confidentiality, to talk to one of the few publications in the world — along with People magazine, her trusty in-house trumpet — that she knows will treat her waffly pensées and latest commercial undertakings with respect and deference, rather than openly laugh in her face.And so it came to be.\**Meghan would not tell the newspaper how much she put into the brand, nor what ownership percentage she now has in the company, but Cesta confirmed it was a minority stake.So I am guessing that it was sixpence, a free jar of jam and a signed photograph of the Duke and Duchess being presented with their Golden Grifters of 2024 award.Why are we all here? I've lost my thread. Oh, yes — to salute Meghan's 'ability to move merchandise', a talent which was breathlessly admired by the NYT, as if the Duchess were a shiny fashion truck barrelling down the highway of hip.Which, as it turns out, is exactly how she sees herself.\**However, the exiled Duchess has had to wait until now to fully monetise that regal power and fully invest in herself — while also helping struggling fashion brands establish themselves, of course. Of course.'I support designers that I have really great friendships with, and smaller, up-and-coming brands that haven't gotten the attention that they should be getting,' she said.Unknowns such Oscar de La Renta and Givenchy, along with St Ella of McCartney and an obscure apprentice tailor from Milan called Mr G Armani, are all so grateful for her help. As, indeed, are Cesta.\**The Duchess also told the newspaper that, when it comes to being a businesswoman, she is a dolphin, not a shark.And also that she is better than you, but you knew that already.\**Like all influencers — which is what she has become — Meghan always seems to be invested in the higher purpose of self-valourising while imposing her superior taste on the scabby masses for clicks and cash.Look. Plenty of celebrities and even some royals get clothes and accessories for free — but that is not enough for the Sussexes. I imagine long Montecito nights of the soul when Meghan and Harry just burn with pure fury at the thought of anyone else, from handbag maker to napkin embroiderer to dress designer, making money out of them.So perhaps it should be no surprise to anyone that she seems to be turning herself into just another pay-per-view professional plugger, a walking billboard in a perennial marketing campaign for herself, a duchess who has transmogrified her high profile into a high profit, with a price on everything from her ethical diamond earrings to the soles of her shoes.The problem is that, collectively and individually, Harry and Meghan haven't got any actual talent to monetise — all that is left to milk is the very fact of their celebrity itself.For he is a prince who will never be crowned and she is an actress who will never get a part. And it was always, always coming to this sad point. https://ift.tt/2Yd3cUs post link: https://ift.tt/J8CvZrl author: Von_und_zu_ submitted: August 30, 2024 at 04:27AM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

[chernabogs]

This was originally meant to be put out in October for Halloween but what is time management anyway?

SORTIGER

Inc: The Dark Mirror, Crowley, The Fairest Queen, some Draconia's sneaking in there (can't escape them) WC: 1.9k Warnings: Some depiction of violence Summary: He was as he had always been, and he knew no other way—for the concept of anything other was quite beyond his comprehension. (or: eldritch horrors your dark mirror <3)

He recalls the time before. 

In the vast expanse of black in which he dwelled, corporeal but conscious of such, only the dim glow of suns thousands of years away guided him forth. The hum of the void was his calling, and his presence was a mere brush of stardust in the night. He was as he had always been, and he knew no other way—for the concept of anything other was quite beyond his comprehension.

It was within this vast expanse of black that he first witnessed the event that is the unexpected, and frankly quite messy, act of creation. The world of Twisted Wonderland was not crafted by hands in a slow, harmonious fashion; it was shoved into being with a flash, a bang, and a disruption of the peace until suddenly it was there in its spherical form. It startled everyone who was capable of being startled, as it was something that happened in a realm where nothing ever really changed at all. 

He did not approach it first. That was one of the other hidden ones. They slithered forth in their serpentine form to taste this new offering, to feel what would become known as soil and inhale what would become known as air. In the beginning, Twisted Wonderland was a time of opportunity—a time of new growth that those who had existed so long now had forgotten. After the serpent, another crept down, and then another, until only he was left alone in the darkness. His form turned, and writhed, and debated what would be best to appear as until he finally descended in the shape of a figure like the denizens of the land, with a porcelain mask upon his face. 

In the time that it took for him to settle, the others who had come prior had already left their marks upon the land. ‘Age of the Gods’ did the occupants so accurately coin it in their fables and tales. He bore witness to the ones he had never seen before now parade themselves as superiors, claiming that the gift of magic they had bestowed upon a few now let them hold a debt over their bodies. Considering this, he avoided direct involvement with either party, choosing to be more of a vagabond than anything else. The only time he interacted with anyone was when he told them truths. 

Sortiger, he was called. Deliverer of prophecies to the masses—so long as one knew the right words to use.

He didn’t consider himself a prophet, but rather just a being that knows truths. He wandered area to area, devouring experiences he was deprived of for so long, and which this land was now giving to him in abundance. It was a liberating experience that he would not trade for any luxury that the others so hounded for. 

Sortiger, as odd as it was, also served to be the chains that bound him in the end. Magic was a gift granted to a few to provide them the tools for easier living. Unfortunately, man is as cunning as he is ambitious. If one were to hear tales of a travelling prophet, what else would there be to do then try and bind them to you somehow? There is power in knowledge, and infinite knowledge means infinite control.

___________________________________________

It was a tailor’s apprentice who tricked him, in the end. A young woman with her needle and her thread who clothed him in a false sense of security. He was unaware that she was one of few blessed with the gift of magic. Or perhaps he was aware, and he simply chose to ignore that intuition in place of emotions, instead. It mattered little in the end—she had lured him into her trap like a spider in wait, and then paralyzed him when the moment was exactly right. 

There’s magic in mirrors. 

There always has been, even before the idea of Twisted Wonderland was born. He recalls vaguely the shimmering reflections of dust in the stars; it was one of the few times he was able to see his form—a writhing, black mass, dripping ichor with a burning heart that pulsated with each bit of life that crept through his veins. The sight always unsettled him because there is no hiding who you are before an item that is meant to show you in full. 

He had fought. 

Naturally, he had fought. He was a being of unmeasurable power that was not meant to be confined to a singular realm. He had screamed unholy screams and tore at the glass with nails until they broke, and split, and bled that ichor that so dripped from his body when he was unbound, and he was free. He had spewed curses and words with a blackened tongue, his porcelain face warped in rage and, worst of all, heartbreak. 

This ire and this power are why, in her cunning, the tailor’s apprentice did not confine him to one place. There is a concept that humans share known as a panopticon; a circular platform meant to serve in prisons so one guard can keep an eye on everyone at once. 

He was not trapped in a singular realm. He was instead trapped in multiple at once. He was held stagnant with thousands of mirrors surrounding him, showing the thousands of lands that he could have walked had he listened to his instincts instead of falling into the honeyed trap of gentle words and gentler touches. There was no ceiling, there was no floor—it was as though he had been returned to that void from whence he came. 

So it goes that even gods fall prey to the whims of love. 

He considered it a mercy, then, that he did not remain in her possession for too long. After all, if one were to hear tales of a prophetic mirror, what else would there be to do then try and steal it somehow? 

But it was not a mercy to bear witness to the destruction that followed henceforth. Villages consumed by flames, steel finding more familiarity in the bellies of innocents than a blacksmith's forge. The tailor's apprentice had been slaughtered to gain access to his mounted form; if he had been free, he would have saved her, he would have wrapped her in his power and carried her to the stars above. Instead, all he could do was look in the mottled face of her killer as bloated lips tried to coax a story out of him. 

It went like that. 

From soldier, to merchant, to captain, to priests. He found himself meeting the most privileged in one moment and the most deprived the next. At one point, the term mirror, mirror, became synonymous with his existence and the prophecies he was meant to give. It may have been initiated by the woman that held onto him the longest. He met her when she was still a young girl, the crown on her head not as grand as the one yet to come. The fairest of them all—until her heart became warped with a combination of both paranoia and hate. She was as stunning as a portrait right up to the moment she met her end. 

___________________________________________

This all has little relevance. 

If one see’s enough faces, they begin to lose the ability to discern them. He has been bound in this panopticon for so long that he no longer has a comprehension of time, or of the worlds he examines. At one point, his mask begins to change—from smooth porcelain to one with a lace patterning upon his brow.

There was a princess he had met once who had a similar pattern on her face, though hers was of scales and not lace. He had not received her name, nor had she asked him any questions. She had stared into his reflection, her crown wrapped around the proud horns on her head and her eyes reflecting a sense of exhaustion that ran deeper than surface level, before she had simply turned away.

No mirror, mirror. No demands. Only a glance, and then she was gone into the night. 

He considers that encounter the reason he ended up at Night Raven College. He sees that woman once more in the form of a boy who approaches him, a pair of proud horns on his head and his eyes reflecting a sense of anxiety that runs deeper than surface level. He considers it fate to be here once more—even though fate is but a vague manipulator to a being of his stature. 

He considers it fate, too, when he encounters the human. 

“Are you certain there’s no way home?” Crowley murmurs when the students all depart to their dorms. He studies the equally masked face when asked this question. Eons of existing has allowed him to recognize one who deceives without much effort—not that it’s his place to call the man out. He must be asked the right question to do that. 

“Again.” He responds, voice lower and colder than the one used for the students. A small mercy. Crowley’s golden eyes narrow with their own darkness, which so often hovers just inches from the surface. 

“Mirror, mirror, born from the unknown—is there a way to send the student home?” Crowley then drawls out, his voice dripping with contempt at each word he utters—such a stark contrast from the usual upbeat man he presents himself as. He must keep a smile from touching those porcelain lips as he affixes a blank gaze.

“We are not the ones who have the ability to do such an act.” He replies, the answer as blunt as ever. 

What many do not know is that a mirror is not only a means of accessing a different location. Although he has serviced hundreds before to travel from one place to another, many remain unaware of his ability to let them travel from one world to another. He can never leave himself—the tailor’s apprentice made sure of that—but that doesn’t mean he can’t guide others. 

She knew that—the woman who looked like the boy with the proud horns on his head. Not the princess, but instead someone older—someone who knew him when he was still with the fairest queen. 

Queens are cunning—he has come to learn this over time.

Crowley clicks his tongue in disagreement. It’s a sharp, jarring sound that echoes in the empty chamber as he turns away to march back to the door. This inconveniences him. He has a plan that he’s attempting to follow, and the presence of an unknown variable is throwing that all off. 

Is it pitiful? The mirror considers it quietly as the chamber door slams shut. The bubbling of the green fountain at his base remains the only source of noise left. The unknown variable may construe Crowley’s plans, but he knows that it would benefit him in the end. The woman had known that too. It was why he had let her do what she had asked. 

He pulls his face back from this mirror and turns his attention towards the thousands of others that surround him. All of these lives, all existing with the freedom of movement, of choice. 

He will join them soon. The lace on his face feels more prominent then ever, and he knows, he will join them soon. 

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

The gift of his fairy tales is wisdom and appreciation and heartfulness is always embedded in them, unlike many ordinary fairy tales, at least the ones passed on, and the way they were passed on…

“Hans Christian Andersen was born April 2, 1805 in Odense, Denmark. His parents were poor, but his father, a cobbler, read to him from The Arabian Nights and took him to see plays. He died when Hans was 11, and the boy was sent to a school for poor children where he worked for his board, first as an apprentice to a weaver and later to a tailor. Only in his late teens was he able to attend grammar school. A shy young man, he felt like an outsider who didn't fit in with his younger classmates, and he began to write as a means of escaping his situation. After he published a story, he gained several benefactors (including the king) who paid for his meager education; in 1833, he received a small travel grant from the king, and he set out for Italy and elsewhere in Europe. By 1835 he was writing fairy tales for children, and by 1837, many of his best-known tales had been written, including The Little Mermaid, the Emperor's New Clothes, Thumbelina, and The Princess and the Pea. By the early 1840s his reputation was well established. The Danish government eventually paid him an annual stipend as a 'national treasure', and he continued to write and publish plays, novels, poems, a book of travel sketches, and more fairy tales until his death at age 70 in 1875.

In all, Andersen wrote 156 stories, most of which were based on his own ideas rather than existing folk tales. His writing style was simple and direct, so the stories could be read aloud. Many of his stories reflected conditions of his early life. A common thread was the outsider who wants to be understood and accepted for himself as he is. Many of his characters were very poor, and they had to try to overcome great odds. A famous Andersen story that combines those two threads is The Ugly Duckling. The last sentence of that story is: 'Then he rustled his feathers, curved his slender neck, and cried joyfully, from the depths of his heart, "I never dreamed of such happiness as this while I was the despised ugly duckling!"'

(Leila L’Abate)

[feyhunter78]

Hey it’s me El! Can I have another Aegon apprentice story where the reader is an apprentice Dressmaker for Helaena and the children (she has them with aemond in this) and aegon ruins a piece of clothing he likes so he complains a lot so to stop it Helaena refers him to the reader. Only he takes a liking to her and begins to ruin pieces of clothing he has to see her. She jests saying oh these are such clean cuts how did you do it? And he plays along saying oh how he got into a battle with a knife but with my targaryen genes I could dodge before it hit my skin! They playfully banter and build a friendship which goes into flirting and so forth. Not really sure on an ending so I’m leaving that to you on whether they fully get into the relationship

Hey El!!! So sorry this took me forever to get out!!!! I hope you like it!!! Also, I changed it from Aemond to Jacaerys bc they're the only Targcest I'll write, but no worries! I know it just slipped your mind <3

The Dressmaker's Apprentice HC

Before Princess Helaena discovered your work, you ran a small shop that was on the verge of closing. You refused to work with anything but the best of materials, preferring to take your time and make sure each garment was not only perfect, but comfortable in all situations.

This meant your prices were too high, and you never had enough time to fill bigger orders. Your main source of income was mending garments, your own, or others it didn’t matter, your hands flew over the damage and repaired it in mere seconds. It was an easy thing to do and required less creative effort.

After Princess Helaena discovered that your garments were the only ones her and Jacaerys’ children would wear without throwing a tantrum, she immediately plucked you from the streets of Fleabottom and had you declared her personal tailor.

You, obviously, were grateful for the opportunity and went out of your way to make sure the royal family was outfitted in your grandest creations, one of which Helaena had gifted to Aegon. He constantly complained that his tunics were itchy, or the collars choked him, and just like with her children, your work ceased Aegon’s whining.

Aegon is content for a time, then during one of his Silk Street escapades he tears the tunic. He bugs Helaena to sew it up, but that’s cut off by Jacaerys, who tells Aegon to ask a maid. He does so, but the stitching is wrong, it rubs against his skin, and soon he’s back complaining to Helaena.

Helaena directs him to you, and you hold your hand out for the ripped tunic, expertly plucking out the stitches and quickly stitching the tear up with silk thread and handing it back to him. Aegon is amazed. You pay him no mind and go back to sewing a dress for Helaena, not even glancing up as Aegon leaves.

Soon you find the prince in your chambers on a weekly basis, each time with a new excuse. “I tripped while I was playing with my dear nieces and nephews.” You’ve never seen Aegon do more than hand toys to them, before pestering you with questions, and watching over your shoulder as you sketched new designs.

 “I was helping the kitchen maids and ripped it while carrying four wine caskets.” Four caskets were three times the weight of Aegon himself.

“It was a dueling accident.” Was his latest excuse, and you couldn’t stop yourself from calling him out.

“My prince, I’ve noticed these tears are quite clean, were you injured?” You asked, holding the obviously cut cloth up to the light.

“No, I am much too skilled to be injured in a mere practice round.”

“Then how did your tunic get cut? It sits so close to your skin.” You prodded, biting back a smile at the way Aegon scrambled to come up with an answer.

“I am a Targaryen prince; I was able to doge in the proper way to avoid injury. My tunic, though well-made, is not the same caliber as I.”

You put on an exaggerated pout and held the tunic close to our chest. “If my work is not to your standards, then I shall not embarrass you any further and continue to force you to wear it.”

Aegon shook his head and took your hand in his. “Your work is impeccable, Lady y/n, please do not mistake my foolishness for distaste. I must admit, I may have been altering the garments in an attempt to see you more often.”

You smiled at him and handed him the fixed tunic. “I had a feeling that was the case.”

His face tinted pink. “You did?”

You nodded and kissed his cheek. “If you wish to see me, all you must do is ask. But be warned, I will not be happy to see another one of my creations ruined.”

Tag list: @nyctophilic0vitnir, @svtansdaddyx, @fan-goddess, @dc-marvel-girl96, @shintax-error, @bellameshipper, @the141bandicoot, @the-phantom-of-arda, @haydee5010, @partypoison00, @serrhaewin, @issshhhaa, @pax-2735, @malfoytargaryen, @sahanna, @dellalyra, @mxrgodsstuff, @jkhomes, @unusual-raccoon, @boofy1998, @kravitzwhore, @caribbeangel, @krispold, @issshhhaa, @afro-hispwriter, @ryswritingrecord, @prettykinkysoul, @elissanatok, @sahvlren, @its-sam-allgood, @happinessinthbeing, @8e-h-e8, @feyres-fireheart

Slashthrough means I can't tag you

[jortschronicles]

Dragging a Viscount into Early Period

My first hack at more elaborate men's Rus has been prompted by a favorite Viscountess of mine dragging her fighter into early period.

I was given a pile of fabric for pre-determined aspects: a chenille upholstery fabric for the body, a buttery yellow linen for the facings, and a cream linen for the pants. For full disclosure, this piece is a commission that I'm doing at a reduced rate in hopes of getting my name out there on a pretty prominent figure in my region.

I used the calculations for measurements and layout given to me by Dvorianka Anastasiia which are derived from the patterning work done by Mistress Talana the Violet of blessed memory. It is similar to a variation of the style 5 tunic as categorized by The Renaissance Tailor, with trapezoidal gores in both the skirt and armpit, leading to an overall sleeker fit to the body than the standard square armpit gore. As some measurements had changed since Anastasiia last took them, I stressed myself out until I realized I have unlimited power at my fingertips: basic scripting. I wrote a short program to take hard coded measurements and spit out the exact dimensions of the pattern pieces, which felt a little bit like overkill and also not impressive at all.

With pieces patterned, cut out, and (mostly) serged, I delved into construction. I have learned from experience my preferred method of construction is starting by attaching the two body rectangles at the shoulders, attaching and turning the neckhole facing, and then assembling everything flat as follows.

This makes lining up and turning the facing significantly easier for me to do, and hides raw edges within the seams. Starting with the neckhole, however, means there's less fabric for me to fight while I turn a particularly annoying facing.

With the facing laid out on the body fabric, consultation with some of my apprentice siblings determined deep burgundy is the way to go for all the accents. I decided on split stitch around the neckhole and buttonhole stitch around the edges of the neckline, but quickly decided I prefer the split stitch for the rest of the decorative stitching on the garment.

For the sleeve cuffs, I pinned them in place, ran a quick line of running backstitch along the tops of the cuffs to secure them in place, then did split stitch at the top of the cuffs and a running stitch around the opening to keep the edge tidy while still not using visible machine stitching.

One thing the recipient of this garment expressed is that the striped facing secured with buttons or toggles is an ideal look, and luckily I have a significant quantity of the Vindheim buttons from Bad Baroness in stash. I do not have sufficient woven or braided trim in truly appropriate quantity or style for this garment to be aggressively period, but with the fabric we're already taking liberties and the ribbons look nice and appear to be a popular substitute for strips of silk tape performing the same function in our area. I laid the ribbon out at inch and a half intervals and made sure my lines would be straight on both sides. I turned the ends of the ribbons in and secured them with a whip stitch in a matching thread.

With my facing done and the worst of the neckhole dealt with, I seamed the rest of the garment into an actually clothing-shaped piece of fabric and let it hang for a day while working on other projects.

I decided to use a "looped cord" method of button loops, using a cord from an old site token that happens to look an awful lot like the cord used for an award the recipient has received. Starting from the bottom of the neckhole, on the wearer's right side, I've tacked the cord down under the edge of the garment, securing the loops aggressively.

Sometime soon I will get clearer pictures of this garment on the recipient.

The more I look at this garment and all other Rus-ish garments i've made and seen, I think I may need to round the gores into the "skirt" of the tunic more dramatically. I can no longer find the artistic depiction that originally gave me the impression, but until this point i've been letting the right angles of the skirt remain as initially cut, giving an angular overall silhouette but the rounding may be necessary for the right look.

[kristal]

Scared Shirtless (A illustrated Legacy of Kain OC origin story)

A origin story for Cambriel, my Legacy of Kain (Zephonim) OC. Also Crossposted to Archive of Our Own for easier viewing.

Mature rating and setting written in First Person (Cambriel's POV) until the end, where it swaps to 3rd.

Content tags:

Violence, Blood, Death, Horror, Don't trust vampires. Mention of bugs/insects

Characters:

Cambriel (OC) , Zephon, Raziel (for a bit), unnamed Zephonim

SUMMARY:

Being a human in Nosgoth during Kain's crusade is suffering. Being a human tailor no less. Supplies are low, your family's prized source of sericulture is dead and gone. Things are starting to get desperate... But this lonely tailor suddenly gets a mysterious benefactor one night. And Cambriel quickly learns that this becomes the one client he wishes he *never* agreed to.

My name is Cambriel. I’m a tailor and a weaver. Sericulture and tailoring been my family’s trade for centuries even before the vampires came. It is a delicate art that was passed down to me, and… i'm the last. My family and my apprentices I had trained years prior had all been killed long ago by those monsters. 

I’ve been told that I should train another…but i’ve already lost 3 of them in my 25 or so years of business in this village to those blood sucking vultures. It’s honestly been a miracle that i’ve made it this long. As life is fleeting in this world. Making it to the age of 35 and not being horribly slaughtered or enslaved is a miracle…But I rather not talk about my losses and instead focus on my stitchwork... It helps me keep my mind at ease between all the chaos outside.

Materials have become harder to come by for my village. Deliveries are rare due to vampire raids outside the village’s walls. Cotton is scarce as more and more crops fail each year. It’s gotten so dire that we’ve started to use scraps of older clothing. A tear along the seam? An easy fix with a needle and thread. A hole? I’ll patch it. I’ll try to make it match, but beggars can't be choosers. 

I wish I could get my hands on fabrics other than cotton…but it’s become impossible. My loom has been collecting dust for about half a decade now. And my family’s trade secret of farming silk moths had failed twenty years ago. I tried my best with what I had. I tried to keep their favourite food alive, but all it took was a disastrous crop failure to seal their fates. 

When the last of my silk brood died, many did not make it to pupation for me to harvest their cocoons or even breed them. The last of my moths died mid metamorphosis. They were so small… It had created it’s cocoon, but it never emerged. I tried finding more in the wild, but it was impossible. They were wiped out decades ago along with their food source. I just had to accept it. So I placed that small silk cocoon inside of a glass jar. Sealing it shut to keep its remains away from the elements and potential scavengers as a memento mori of my family’s history.

I hate to admit it; But their sudden loss hurt me more than losing my apprentices.

So I was left all alone to my own devices. The sounds of my sewing machine stitching together patchwork patches. I was at ease in my home, my monde.  

Every night I had a strict regimen. I locked my doors, shut my windows with shutters and locked them from the inside as soon as the sun started setting in the smoke filled skies. Vampires lurked in the night and I refused to answer my door. I’ve heard the yells and screams of unfortunate victims who had fallen prey to them. I’ve even had one slam against my own door as I covered my ears in my bed or pushed the pedal of my sewing machine harder. Hoping the noise would drown out their screams. I wished that the nights were not full of such terrors. 

But everything changed after that one night. 

It was just after 10 when I heard a loud knock upon my door. Such knocks at this hour only spelt trouble. I ignored it at first until they knocked again. 

And again

And again…

“What is it?!” I yelled at the stranger on the other side of the door as I walked over to my desk and grabbed my sharp shears for protection.

“You’re a tailor, are you not?” The stranger spoke. 

“I'm closed. Come back tomorrow morning.” I replied with a yawn.

“No. It’s urgent. ” The stranger interrupted me. “My lord requires your services. I need it by tomorrow night.”

“ Tomorrow night?! Do you realize that ill need–” 

“I brought the materials.” They interrupted me again. “It is in this parcel. Along with the commission fee.”

I raised my brow. They caught my attention with the mention of a commission fee.

“Fine. Leave it hidden by the door.” I demanded the stranger. “I will take a look at it in the morning, and it will be done by dusk tomorrow. Just get out of here, before they arrive.”

“Of course, of course…I’ll watch my back. I’ll be back tomorrow night.” I listened as the stranger dropped the supposed parcel onto the ground and walked away.

-----

I awoke at dawn and opened my door…This stranger was true to his word. There was a small wax paper parcel wrapped with twine thread. A small letter slipped underneath the twine as I took it into my home. I placed it upon my work desk and carefully opened it. Cautiously peeling back the wax paper as my eyes widened in shock at the sight.

It was silk.

My eyes and my hands couldn’t believe it. It was perfect. I’ve never seen silk this perfect…It had no imperfections and it had a golden sheen when it was caught in the light. Inside was also a spool of white thread and some gold coins. Who the hells was this mysterious benefactor? I thought as I eagerly opened their letter, which contained their request.

“Please embroider my master’s coat of arms onto this silk.”

That was it. Nothing else was written except a drawing of this mysterious benefactor’s sigil. I didn’t recognize it at all. Was this from another colony far away in Nosgoth? I shrugged as I got to work.

I didn’t complain. Embroidery was a simple task I missed doing. I had to stop to conserve my threads as it got harder and harder to get materials. I was finished by mid day as I placed that luxurious silk back into the wax paper and tied it back together. Just before dusk, I placed it back outside of my door before I locked everything away.

The clock struck 10, and once again there was a knock again at my door. I grabbed my shears and held it tight. 

“It’s by the door. The parcel.” I yelled at the stranger as I heard them pick it up and unwrap the package. As I heard them let out a gasp.

“It’s perfect! Your stitches are so clean…my sire would be impressed at your work” 

Sire? How odd.

“Hey.” I asked the stranger outside. “Where did you get this silk…?”

There was a long pause. 

“Would you like to know?” the stranger’s voice seemingly changed at such a question. I felt my heart skip a beat and sweat between my fingers holding my shears.

“My master has a whole collection of fabrics, threads and silk. Would you like to see? ” The stranger asked me. “ I can bring them to you. My master has been looking for a tailor after all.” 

“Has he?” I was still on edge with this stranger and his master. “…then bring them. If he pays as well as he did yesterday. I will do any of his requests.”

I wish I didn’t say that. I wish I could take that back. 

“Perfect!” the stranger giggled with glee as I heard their heel turn in the dirt and begin walking away from the door. “I’ll return tomorrow night with his requests, Cambriel.”

Wait…

How the hells did he know my name…?

-------

Every night for two weeks straight at 10, they would knock bringing more silk, cotton fabrics and precious thread for his projects. Their master’s requests got more and more complicated as the deadlines grew closer. My hands ached. My eyes twitched at the lack of sleep as I tried to keep up with their demand. I tried to take small rests, but my anxiety was running wild.

Whatever this….person was. Or their master…I wish they would let me rest. As i’ve caught a glimpse of them–or someone peeking through my window rafters in the night. Watching me sew for their master or toss and turn in my bed. Whatever it was, it was watching my every move at night. It had gotten to a point where I was beginning to hallucinate. Days and nights weaved together as the clock ticked away. I’d see bugs on the side of my vision or a crawling spider on the fabric. I’d try to swat it away but it never leaves. 

Shirts, coats, pants, garments, drapes, some capes… the list goes on and on as I place my head down on the kitchen table, between my arms only for a moment’s rest. 

Only a moment…

I still have 5 hours…

---------

“...Cambriel.”

SLAM!

“Cambriel, this is highly unprofessional of you to not talk to us.” 

SLAM!

“After all we’ve given to you, I thought we were friends.”

Huh…?

I raised my head, blinking in confusion as my blurry vision finally made the connection of the noise of splintering wood to my front door being bashed in. 

It’s 10 at night. It was them.

Adrenaline shot through my veins in panic as I reached out and grabbed a sharpened pair of scissors–my only way to defend myself as the door was finally breached. Falling to the ground with a thud as the moonlight poured into my home. I finally saw who this mysterious stranger was.

“Oh, Cambriel. it’s not smart of you to avoid us.” The stranger stepped into the room. He was lithe, had short, jet black hair and stood tall. His ears pointed and his hands only had 3 digits. Oh gods…

It was a vampire.

I was dealing with vampires.

A second one walked in standing taller than the other and barely wearing some strange type of armour. It barely covered his skinny chest and connected to a shoulder plate. 

“I’d even brought my sire–”

Fight or flight. I didn’t dare listen to that vampire or let him finish. I dashed towards the staircase, knocking down anything in my path to potentially slow them down as I ran into my room and quickly shut the door. 

I began pushing my drawer over to the door when a voice was heard right behind me.

“You don’t need to do that, Cambriel.” The mysterious voice laughed. As I turned around. watching that second vampire from downstairs easily open and crawl through my window. How the hells did he get up here?! I thought I locked it. I– 

“You’ve just trapped yourself in with me. Human.” The vampire smirked. “You should be proud to get my attention. It’s rare for you human cattle to show talent.” He teased me.

“Step back!” I threatened weakly with my scissors. The days without sleep had taken a toll on me as I watched him walk closer towards me. I blinked and he was suddenly in front of me, grabbing my wrist and slamming my body towards the wall as the scissors fell towards the floor.

“Do you really think a pair of scissors would hurt poor old me, Zephon? One of Kain’s sons?!” He hissed. “Come now, you’re a smart human. You should know better than to threaten your patron, and your savior.”

“What the hells are you talking about, vampire?” My eyes narrowed at his words.

“Oh! Good, I must have arrived early. Lucky you.” Zephon smiled. “This village is going to be razed to the ground. And all you humans who can still function will be used for blood letting, breeding and if you’re lucky, slavery.”

“How the hells is that lucky?!” I hissed at him as he rolled his eyes and grabbed my neck. Pinning me to the wall with a ‘shush’ like one would to a troublesome child or pet.

“But that’s with the other clans. I see your potential, Cambriel. The others do not and would waste it. You would make an excellent tailor for my clan; the Zephonim. And we have all the tools, fabrics and threads you need…” His spare hand reached beside my head to ‘pull’ something from behind my ear. Like a child’s magic trick.  “...and some friends.” 

He opened his palm to reveal a white silk moth. Fully formed and healthy. My eyes were wide in shock, tears forming at seeing one alive after so, so long. The sounds of glass breaking and screams outside my window shook me back into reality. The other vampires like Zephon had warned have finally arrived, and began their carnage in the village. 

“Time is running out, Cambriel. What will it be?” His claws are still holding my neck in place.

“You can either die here, become a slave to the other clans…or join us Zephonim. We will take care of you. Your every whim and request granted. I will promise you protection and that you will be a slave no longer. I will elevate you.” 

It was a deal with the devil. I bit my lip in frustration, peeling some of the dried skin as I debated internally on my lack of choices. 

“....I’ll go with you.” I mumbled.  Resigning to my fate to a vampire.

“Excellent choice, Cambriel.” Zephon applauded as he finally let go of my neck. “To get out of here, you must believe in me with what I'm about to ask of you next.”

“What is it?” my voice hoarse as I rubbed my sore neck, now marked by Zephon’s claws as I watched him carefully. 

“Put this on as a blindfold.” As he pulled out a familiar piece of silk from a pocket. It was the same one he first worked on weeks ago. That cursed piece of silk that damned him into this situation. I grit my teeth as I put it on to block my eyesight. The rest of the loose silk covered the rest of my face.

“It has my sigil on it. The other vampires will know not to touch you, unless they want me to execute them for killing his new favorite.” I stood still. Listening to him as he placed his clawed hands upon my shoulders. Leading me forward towards something.

“One. Two. Three paces forward Cambriel.” Zephon whispered close to my ear as I followed his words. I felt a breeze hit my chest. “Now turn.”

“Where are you moving me towards?” I asked him.

“Hush.” He placed one of his claws upon my veiled lips to silence me. The lieutenant looking towards the window. “Remember what I told you, to trust me for a moment? Well…”

He shoved me back, the back of my legs tripping and–

Oh gods!--

FWUMP!

“I lied.”

----------

The sickening noise of a body hitting the ground caught Raziel’s attention as he looked over to his left towards the tailor’s home. …It was indeed the poor tailor’s. Cambriel’s head had cracked open and blood pooling out from his fatal wounds after hitting the cobblestone path leading to his home. 

“Did you really have to do that?” Raziel groaned as Zephon crawled out of the home's window to look down at his handiwork.

“Well yes , and no.” He laughed as he crawled his way down. “He barricaded the way out. I'm not going to show him the way with a blindfold on–or have him whine or complain as I take him home. So having him temporarily dead is just easier to carry back.” 

Raziel rolled his eyes at his brother, pinching the bridge of his nose as he exhaled loudly. “Right…May we begin with the rest then?” looked over to the village below.

“Of course, brother dear.” Zephon looked down at Cambriel’s broken corpse as he grabbed the tailor’s arms and hauled him up. “I held my part of the promise. The rest of those humans I don’t want. So you can keep those and do what you’d want with them. As i'm sure you’d like more blood for your banks.” The skinny vampire chuckled as he inspected the tailor's fatal head injury, fresh blood still dripping down from his crushed skull as the Zephon patted down his bloodied hair.

"As for you.." Zephon mumbled to the corpse. "You're going to have a bit of a headache, But you're going to one of my star fledglings~" He giggled as he began dragging Cambriel back towards his new home.

----------

[hautevaux]

Anonymous Asked : Do you know Sephiroth well? MENTION : @sephaeroth

"I don't, particularly." Vaux's eyes remain temporarily fixated upon the machine before him, deft fingers removing pins just as the fabric is fed through, his ever neat lines and perfect precision evident even at such a late hour of the evening.

"That isn't to say I wouldn't like to - quite the opposite. I'm sure I'm not alone in that--" A light chuckle narrates his motions, words silently pondered for a few moments more as he cuts off excess thread and sets aside the piece to be pressed shortly. "-- but it isn't as if one can just ask him out for a drink. "

"Besides--" He continues, hand reaching for the now cold tea he had prepared far longer ago than he had realised, the taste now too bitter for his liking but he was too tired to fuss around making another. "-- I'm just a tailor: an apprentice, still, technically. And our knowing one another is entirely through work, my employers would soon toss me aside if they found out I'd been asking friendly questions or something. That isn't my job." And as much he detested that lack of a personal touch, Vaux didn't have much choice nor leniency on the matter.

"Although, even if we did talk, I'm not even sure what it would be about or what I would ask." He hums, eyes briefly glancing towards the pile of shirts he had yet to press and hang for the coming morrow, heaving a sigh at the mediocre work he was constantly given." A favorite film or book - that tends to tell a lot about a person. Or colour. "

Though such questions were rather basic and could be bland. But he also didn't want to touch upon subjects that he didn't doubt hundreds of others had enquired about: it likely got so utterly boring, answering the same things constantly.

"Perhaps something daft - like, what three things he would take with him if he was to be deserted on a desert island. And what two people." It was a laugh, if naught else: lighthearted and fun.

[the-down-upside-finch]

Happy WBW! What are the sacred professions in your world? I don't necessarily mean religious-- but of course they can be. Just what are the high ranking, prestigious, and/or powerful jobs?

Oh this is the perfect opportunity to ramble about The Astrals' Weapons in Stained Integrity! >:} (I'll also talk about Master Alchemists because those are pretty important too.) Thank you for the ask!

So, in the world of Stained Integrity, there is what is literally known as "the faith" because it's so widespread. The Astrals are the main 3 that are prayed to (and The Wyrds are the ones you plead to).

There is one specific being that is known as the Diviner, who delivers The Astrals' Will to the three beings that are known as The Astrals' Weapons. A lot of people refer to the Diviner's power as "seeing into the future," although it's a bit more complicated than that.

(CW below cut: mention of death, mention of poison)

The Astrals (Méni Lune, Heló Sol, and Aura Stell) each have one Weapon that they are the benefactor of. There's Lune's Blade, Sol's Bow, and Stell's Spear (AKA the Moonblade, the Sunbow, and the Starspear). The purpose of the Weapons is to carry out The Astrals' Will, which is usually just a specific task told to them by the Diviner.

For context, these are the only beings that are bowed to by kings, queens, sovereigns, and other leaders of the skylands. That's how important they are. They each have very specific cloaks that they wear at all times, which makes them easily recognizable.

The exciting part about all this is how the successors are chosen. The Diviner will receive a vision about the successor, and the Weapon is then sent to find this particular individual to train them as a successor until they die. (Yes, they basically get their impending death foretold, although they aren't told how or exactly when they will die, just that it's going to happen.)

Once the Weapon's thread is cut, their literal weapon (the sword, bow, or spear) basically dematerializes and reappears in the Diviner's shrine, which is where the new Weapon will travel to retrieve the weapon and be given their first task from the Diviner.

Each Weapon is also given a specific power by their benefactor that is tailored to their own personal abilities. In the current timeline, Malina (Stell's Spear) has the ability to sense magic and trace magical residue back to its caster, which is in tangent to her ability as a practitioner to sense the presence of souls. She also has heightened healing powers, since stellar magic is based around healing.

At the start of the story, the current Moonblade (Jeyen) has the power to polymorph natural materials into different natural materials (so he could literally turn lead into gold) for various periods of time. The current Solbow (Tache) has the power to augment their own strength to a certain degree, which means pretty much what it sounds like it means.

And I'm going to shamelessly self-promote because I've drawn Malina and posted it here, and I've also drawn the new Moonblade that is Jeyen's successor.

Okay, now about the Master Alchemists!

Basically, the Master Alchemists are those that have learned every single recipe that there is to learn. The reason this is such a feat is that, by law, an alchemy apprentice must ingest anything that they learn to make, before they learn to make it. This includes poisons, potions, and more. The only exception to this is tickerbane, since the poison is so powerful that there is no lower dose that someone can take to make it nonfatal. All other poisons are either diluted or given in a small enough dose that it's just really really painful instead of deadly.

In the current timeline of the story, there is only one Master Alchemist left, since no one has wanted to take on such a difficult apprenticeship.

That's all from me! Thank you again for the fun ask!

[brotherslayer]

I was thinking and maybe it is such a boring idea but in "death is the only end for the villainess" where are the aus where Penelope is not adopted by the Eckarts? Hear me out, an au where some else took Penelope in- doesn't need to be a noble, could be a peasant or anyone else- and Ivonne is still there.

Time flies and Penelope opens her shop. She has a killer fashion sense and all is well...except, the shop is getting such suceess the nobles want to take a look, in special Ivonne who wants a new dress.

She enters the shop and sees...how the owner looks like her. How funny. She tells this to the family. To her brothers and...things can go from there.

An au where Penelope is never adopted by the noble Eckarts but still has them in her life. Ivonne wants a new dress... and It's not as if she can say no. Derrick is lurking, always lurking with the excuse of keeping an eye on her "what if she steals smth?"

Like this...is smth I was thinking.

In this AU the tailor knew Penelope's mother because she was repairing the costumes for the theatre troupe that Penelope's family used to travel with. She feels guilty about what has happened to her family and takes her in. At first Penelope's job has nothing to do with tailoring. She cleans the shop and scrubs the floor. It's dirty work but Penelope works so diligently that soon the tailor trusts her with more important tasks like helping picking up the goods or running errands. Her wage increases because the tailor is now worried that someone else who notices that Penny is a strong and relieable girl will make her a better offer, now that most male workers have been drafted into war. In the evening Penelope practices sewing with the fabric remnants that she picked up from the floor and was supposed to throw away. Her first paycheck is used for food entirely, her second paycheck for fabrics (she gets a discount too because she knows the workers at the dye house who love chattering with her). When her employer finds her work, at first she thinks Penelope was stealing from her shop and and a big fight ensues, but then she notices small mistakes in the piece of clothing that only a beginner would make. But still it's so well done and the mistakes are so well hidden, that she can't help but admire her talent. And she thinks "oh now I can absolutely not let her go. I have to teach her" so she begins to make Penelope her apprentice.

Years pass by, Penelope has been adopted by the tailor after she has lost her husband and son in the war against Delman and made herself a name after she took over the family business. She is known throughout the city as one of the most promising tailors in Eorka that even nobles sometimes stop by to take a look at her newest projects out of curiosity. Ivonne, who doesn't care for the big names of conceited dressmakers who only accept commissions from nobles, visits the shop and is not shy to order a dress made by that pretty orphan girl who looks so much like her. She's delighted by their likeness and a few months later, after it has become apparent that Penelope's shop has become her favourite and she would go to no other for her dresses, asks two dresses to be made with the same color and cut from the same cloth. Ivonne pretties Penelope up and takes her to an outing where she plays a little prank on her father and her friends who confuse Penelope for Ivonne for a moment. This incident makes Penelope known in high society, the noble girls compliment her killer fashion sense and ask, practically beg to be put on her list of customers as well.

Derrick and Penelope's acquaintanceship doesn't start too bad. At first he thinks she is a noble and attempts to make a conversation with her, wondering from which noble house she might be the daughter of and why he has never seen her before. When he learns that she's just a dressmaker he turns a bit colder, but remains polite since he knows his sister adores her and appreciates her talent with needle and thread. He's still a creep though and lingers around her shop pretending to be the overprotective brother of Ivonne. Having grown up as an orphan with no male presence in her life, Penelope remains obvlious to the red flags he has been waving and just comments that it's sweet that Ivonne has a brother who treasures her so much and that she's kind of jealous. Ivonne might pick up on Derrick's weirdass behavour but she's young and naive and thinks her brother can do no wrong. She'd be shipping him and Penelope and would be trying to play cupid for her big brother and best friend. There's a good chance that Penelope would eventually give in to Derrick's advances, he's persistent, she feels that she owes the Eckarts something and cannot turn their invitations down since they made her famous, plus her best friend has been constantly talking about him with the highest of praises and is always trying to set them up on dates. There's also the Cinderella rags to riches appeal to this romance (though I doubt Derrick would have any honest intentions. I don't think that he would marry a commoner. He'd want to keep her as his mistress and Penelope would feel utterly betrayed.) Alternatively: Penelope would listen to her gut and reject Derrick but he wouldn't take no for an answer. He'd stage chance meetings (he has her daily schedule memorized and stalks her) or call her to the Eckart mansion under the pretense that it was Ivonne who asked for her when in reality Ivonne was out with her friends. He'd invite her to drink tea with him or eat something while she'd be waiting for Ivonne's return. In the beginning he'd just try to make a conversation and spend time with her but as the months pass by and his patience runs out I can also see this eventually ending in assault where Ivonne would probably side with Derrick.

[bluberimufim]

Find the Word tag

I was tagged by @stesierra (see her find words here), so let's go! My words were sympathy, cruel, kind, and rough.

Sympathy

The two siblings didn't take long to get used to the circus. In truth, it was as if they had been born to be there, dancing and spinning among its tents. To them, the work was as natural and comfortable as breathing. They couldn't imagine themselves without it. August found that Johann was actually a great person, all sympathy and grace. He couldn't even believe he'd once thought he was just like Nikolaus. He saw it was impossible now.

Cruel

He took a deep breath, laying his hands flat on his desk to stop them from shaking. He tried to look her in the eyes. "I want a divorce." Barbara looked at him with an undecipherable expression. "May I know why?" Had he been too cruel in his declaration? Should he have opened with something else? "Because I found someone. And I want to be with her." "Someone? She must be very special to make you void this marriage..." "Why do you say that?" "The Johann I knew wouldn't go against his parents' wishes if it saved his life. You were so obsessed with their plan that you couldn't even see what was in front of you. Who is she?" "It's Anna. Vogelmann."

Kind

"I don't need to inform you of all my hobbies. Besides, you should already know. I do card tricks all the time." Hugo searched through his memories, looking for times in which Darius had performed any kind of magic for him. He remembered, some months ago, that he'd bought a new card deck, which had increased his excitement towards the subject. He remembered seeing him doing strange but fascinating things with those cards, something he'd interrupt him with while he was reading the newspaper in the evenings. Just like now. He also had a memory, although rather distant, of Darius doing a magic show in one or two bars the two frequented. "Ah, yes... you're right... But why now? Why didn't you pursue this career before becoming a tailor's apprentice?" "Well... I didn't think it would pay very well. I was scared I wouldn't find a job. besides, I never had a chance." Hugo arched an eyebrow. "And you have a chance now?"

(I want you all to know that, in this discussion, Darius is saying the equivalent of "I can become Gordon Ramsey's sous chef with 0 cooking experience on my resume and I WILL", and Hugo is telling him that no, he can't) (spoiler alert: he did)

Rough

(this is another encounter with the Man in Black and White! Hooray!!!)

He walked quickly, but only because his legs were extremely long. In truth, his gait was slow and relaxed, as if the sway of his patchwork cloak was setting the rhythm of a lullaby. Even so, the distance between them seemed to be widening. No matter how much she walked, she couldn't catch up to him. In a moment of strength, she jumped ahead and reached out her hand. After grasping at empty air, her fingers met something solid. She caught him, feeling a rough fabric brush against her hand. She stopped walking. He did too. She'd grabbed his cloak. Between her fingers, she was holding a fistful of his cloak. She was so close she could almost see the individual threads and stitches. She was breathless. She didn't know what to do. It was then that he turned around. It was slow, as if the movement had been slowed down a thousand times until it became impossible. And he stared at her. He looked at her with his endless eyes and she looked into them, inside of them. His black and white mask held no expression, but she felt there was fury hiding behind it, born from the pits of darkness that were his eyes. He tilted his head, as if examining her, dissecting every part of her being to see what was inside. He stretched his hand towards hers and removed it from his patchwork cape. Then, he disappeared into the streets.

Ooooh this was my favourite Find the Word so far! I just really like the snippets I ended up with!

Anyway, I'm going to gently tag @squarebracket-trick, @sm-writes-chaos, and @words-after-midnight. Your words are dangerous, rain, knowledge, and skip.

[lynnarang]

Puppy-dolls, on sale now!

There's a little doll-shop on the outer edge of market square, a quiet mostly empty shop that still found itself favored among enthusiasts and magic-inept doll-owners such as yourself.

As was your routine, you stopped by after your Sunday errands with your doll eagerly trailing.

The shop was devoid of customers save yourself, the counter manned by a bored looking witchling, probably an apprentice or daughter of the witch that owned the place.

"…welcome."

She reluctantly muttered as you stepped inside, boredly twirling her wand between her fingers.

"Can this one look around?"

Your doll was peering over a paper bag full of groceries that was as big as it was, always excited to frolic amongst the aisles of the doll-shop.

"It may, but remember, no touching anything okay?"

It nodded happily and ran off into the store.

While it was by no means a large store, you were fairly certain the interior was bigger than the outside dimensions of the building.

The shop carried just about everything a doll-owner could need, from magic thread to doll-tailored dresses.

Of course, it sold actual dolls too.

Dormant prior to purchase, dolls lined the walls of the store, each paired with a lengthy parchment describing the make of the doll, its parameters, what would be needed to maintain it, so on.

Today you noticed a new line-up on the wall nearest to the entrance.

There would be indistinguishable from the others were it not for the floppy ears atop their heads and the fluffy tails peaking out from the backs of their dresses.

"Puppy dolls?"

You gave the witchling an inquisitive glance, prompting her to sigh and recite a sales pitch.

"Our latest line of dolls, with the finer qualities of man's best friend. Playful, eager, always excited to see you. They'll do their best and mess up in the most adorable ways possible."

"That's… That's just a normal doll isn't it?"

"Yes but these ones have dog ears."

You clicked your tongue and looked at the puppy dolls again. She made an excellent point…

"Do you have any wolf ones?"

"Those are the combat doll models, you'll need a license for them."

"Do they.. do they need to poop like dogs do?"

"…why the fuck would they do that?"

You shrugged your shoulders and rummaged through your pockets to see what was left after your errands. Just enough to purchase one but.. Did you really need a second doll?

Ah, but their ears were so flumfy… You placed the crumpled notes on the counter.

"I'll take one please!"

The witchling gave you a look of bemused derision and gestured for you to pick one out. You took a little blonde-haired one that was probably modeled after a Labrador, letting out a soft yelp as its tail immediately sprung to life.

"Play? Are we going to play?!!"

The puppy doll was already beaming at you, tail threatening to knock something off the shelves if you didn't immediately place it on the floor. It then ran around you, sniffing at your shoes and then your butt, then finally nuzzling its head into your hand.

"Play!!!"

The commotion drew your other doll back, and you wondered for a brief moment whether your doll would be upset that you had purchased another doll without asking it first. The worries were swiftly dashed when the two immediately started chasing each other in circles around you.

"Hey you two, don't break anything now…"

"We won't!"

The two chimed in unison, immediately taking to one another.

A few instructions from the witchling and a broken tea set later, you were on your way home, your pockets a little lighter but your heart much warmer.

You just hoped that tail wasn't genuine fur, otherwise your allergies would-

ACHOO

…oh well, still worth it right?

[twothpaste]

fic snippet. lucas & isaac boating hours, feat. worldbuilding, flashbacks within flashbacks, and layers upon layers of remorse.

Lucas' kayak was carved from red cedar. Gold in the morning. Vermilion by sunset. Thread it deftly through any tide, like a needle mending a torn shirt. He learned to paddle when his arms were still made of sticks n' twigs, n' his scars were still cleft in crimson. As were Nowhere's. Weaving the channels between ruptured cliffsides. Dodging grisly swaths of surfaced bedrock. Perilous was the word after - at least, upon first glance. 'Til the Dragon's shadow draped down, to temper the waves. Kid grew into his strength. Sturdy biceps, sure. Muscles not so lean. Ain't your arms that get ya there, though. You row from your core. This vessel was - and still is, in his lonesomest hours - his home away from home. It's his heart that carries it.

Bronson did the bulk of the handiwork. Whittling away the chilly mornings, while kiddo slept off tears n' terrors. "But really," he'd insisted, come Christmastime, "It's a gift from all of us." Jill had beamed her best ear-to-ear grin. Abbey n' Abbot, in their matchin' holiday sweaters, gave meek waves. Tessie'd done a fine job wrapping the goshdarn thing. Leder, from his mile-high vantage, had picked the perfect tree. Lighter lent his axe. And so on.

A hero's greatest thanks, apparently, take the form of smiling sobs.

"It's wonderful. Really. Th.. Thank y'all."

To his left strode Isaac's big ol' canoe. Beige as could be. He'd mentioned need of it, offhand, the spring after. Gruffly resigned himself to the task. Takin' clumsy bites out of a fallen trunk, with an unsharpened carving knife. While jetsam surfaced, and shifted about, in his aching head. Again - the guy was indeed a woodsman. Friend to the trees, n' creatures that be. His role was aptly set. But he was no lumberjack. N' far from a shipwright. In his dreams - to this day - he roams the desert-dry creeks and lakebeds of Appalachia. Searching in vain, for survivors of any clade.

Lighter found him there (or rather, not there at all) on the Sunshine Forest floor. Chipping haphazard pieces. Tree rings laid bare. Scattered about, in choppy chunks.

"… Yer goin' about it all wrong, y'know."

And Isaac leered up at him. Squinting through the crack in his glasses.

He could growl back, if he wanted. Proclaim otherwise. Or shrug it off. Say not a damn thing, n' wait for him to leave. The hermit could tell his forsaken neighbor to go to hell, for all he cared. Made not a lick of difference. His protests were for less than naught. Before he knew it, Lighter n' his boy were at his side, salvaging his wreck. Showin' him the craft. Teach a man to fish. N' all that.

He didn't deserve it, then.

Maybe he does, now. Who's to say.

The vest he had tailored was snug to his chest, and almost familiar. Lucas' was all but identical. "Mm… Maybe make it a size up, if ya could," kid told Tessie. "I'd prob'ly outgrow it in a few months, otherwise." And he'd've been right, by his next birthday. 'Til then, his vest hang slightly loose over him, ruffling in the breeze. Such thoughtful foresight had always distinguished him from the rest.

Isaac wore a badge, as well. Courtesy of Bronson, n' Fuel's apprentice metalwork. It weighed him down. Like every other ounce of generosity. Perhaps this too was an exercise in penance.

They made another for Lucas. He kept it at home. Stowed away, in a little bedside drawer. Ranger or not, never again would he dare pin anything of the sort to his vest, nor jacket, nor any breast pocket.

Call it what you will.

Both boats twined the Murasaki-Highway border, upon this fine 11 AM. Both Rangers kept their eyes peeled. Roving the myriad islets which splattered the Mapson's handiwork, in search of their quarry. A cluster of pink snouts. A ragged, weedy sprout.

Got a tip from the locals, see. An ex-militant encampment, takin' up residence in the asphalt ruins. The Pigpen, they called 'emselves. Proudly. Colonel Hox used to reign as their Napoleon. Three years prior, she n' they had stood in rebellious opposition to Tazmilian civility. Like a gang o' rowdy Lost Boys. But with Peter Pan in prison, and their winter stockpiles dwindling, separatist resolve seemed an increasingly fleeting fantasy. Offers of aid, a less damnable prospect.

"We're overgrown with the little hellions," Hox's guys told Isaac. Barkin' up at him, like tin toy sergeants. "Can't hardly breathe, what for all the spores. You can bash 'em all ya like, but they just puff out more of the shit! N' then five more sprout in their place! If you bleedin' hearts think you can help, be our guest. Here."

Neither soldier would even grace Lucas with a glare. A pair of hoggish masks found their way into Isaac's hands, instead. Battered to hell n' back. Calamine pink. In contrast with the cobalt blue that stared him down.

"Don't get it twisted, now, private. Colonel's only lettin' ya borrow these 'cause of your service history. If it were up to me, though? Heh. I'd let ya both choke to death."

"Noted," answered Isaac . His frown unwavering. "Thank you, Tyson. We'll be back by sundown."

And Tyson froze, for a sec. Sputtering vaguely. Surprised the craven hillbilly oaf had remembered his name. The Rangers took his hesitation as an opportunity to skedaddle. Head back shoreward, n' get to work.

Thus, their first outing had 'em relocating Pigtunias off the sundered Highway flats.

Their latest has 'em on a pontoon. Layin' out a crescent of netting, 'round the Harbor's periphery. Catch whatever garbage may float astray, before it's lost to the wild blue yonder. The motor revs n' rumbles at their ears. Lucas is a stiff, peculiar, not-quite-Lucaslike kind of quiet. In for four counts, through his nose. Out for eight. Teeth barely ajar. Eyes kneading the horizon line. Just as dirty nails knead calloused palms.

He bore the same silence then, too.

Isaac, the selfish prick he'd always been, would carve any quiet into klutzy splinters. Bustling banter was his bane. Small town gossip n' coworker rapport drove him reeling back to the shade. Lips curled, head spinning. A stark reminder of un-belonging. But quiet? Oh, he could hardly hold the peace. Find a clearing, and barrel right in. Fashion a goddamn therapist's couch, on the spot, with his gruesome carpentry skills. It's why he'd said such awful shit to the kid - made a total ass of himself - back before. Why he found himself rambling like a maniac to a goddamn fourteen-year-old, fishin' by a ripped-to-shreds river, about ye olde Forest Service. How his whole pitiful life story had to precede his apologies. And how, therefore, Lucas of all people was the only hapless sap who got to hear either.

"It's alright," the kid had told him. And meant it. At the time, how could he not? With everything that'd drifted up from the depths, in lieu of Leder's bell? Most everyone had lost a mother. A brother - for real, n' for good. N' a few undeserving billions besides. So, who was he to wield a cudgel? To bear grudges down upon clueless traitors, and their countless burdens? "Nah," he'd said. "It's fine." It was fine.

Even though it wasn't.

On the canoe, Isaac broke the silence with a story. That one from the Bible. His namesake. He'd carried it with him since he was small. It tumbled outta some tangential pocket.

Lucas said, low and brittle, he was glad to hear it at sixteen. As opposed to six. The nightmares wouldda been ceaseless.

On the pontoon, Isaac breaks it with a request. Not for his own sake. Someone else's. Progress comes in increments. ...

[zorilleerrant]

You're transported into a magical land full of wonders. Creatures you've never seen before - that could never exist in the world you've always known as real - roam before you, shimmering in a sunlight that seems too careful, too perfect. The streams are clear and burbling, the forest verdant. All around you wildflowers dot the ground artistically, noticeably alien only from the spark they emit from time to time, attracting tiny fairies to harvest their pollen. You're surprised, but not that surprised. You know the genre, and you know you should get to the castle.

The castle is just as beautiful as its surrounds. The stone is carefully carved to catch the light, gleaming reliefs of shields and beasts and runes. Banners color the walls and, while you don't know the signifiers yet, you can see the hand stitched embroidery, how even faded in the sun, the dyes on cloth and thread are still bright. You're welcomed in with a clank of the gate retracting.

A lady knight greets you. "I know what you're thinking," she says, "you think it's odd for a woman to be a knight. Well, we don't have sexism, here, we don't even understand your esoteric gender roles from the world of your birth, and so, even though most women would choose more gentle arts, a woman is just as allowed to be a lady knight as a man is allowed to be a regular knight."

You follow her as she enters the castle. She points to you the servants, in their carefully tailored pants or equally frilly dresses, very neat, very exact in two rows. They can get you anything you need, she informs you. The serving girls serve noblewomen, mostly, and the serving men serve the noblemen, but, of course, there's no strictly gendered order to it, so you might see exceptions here and there. She points to you the noblemen and women, in their fancy, brightly colored formalwear, the men in dramatically embroidered vests, the women in ballgowns.

"Magic is very important," a lady sorcerer informs you, as the lady knight hands you off. "In our lands, magic can mean the difference between life and death, not just in warfare as my counterpart could avow, but in the areas of life that affect women and children, the weak and helpless. Magic can mean the land lives or dies, that there's enough to eat or that men beat each other over scraps to bring to their families. It's important to learn."

She takes you to a room, and begins to show you around. "This is a simple bedchamber, since you are new here. It's just like mine, except mine has a bed for my apprentice in the corner. You may be allowed to take an apprentice in time. If only I were a regular sorcerer, I would be allowed to have a separate room for my apprentice. A door locked between us would prevent scandal, you know, thought then of course I would have to deal with rumors between myself and every young lady that I trained. I suppose I could simply train boys, in that case, though then they wouldn't give me the extra room, so it would all be the same in the end."

You enter the dining hall next, empty between mealtimes, mostly, and a nursing mother scrambles to cover herself and bow. "Oh," she says in relief, allowing her child to feed again, "I had thought you were my son. He would be so embarrassed to see his mother naked - he's getting to the age when he can notice a woman's body. Not that we treat them any differently than men's, of course, and he's just as welcome to notice men." She gives you a smile and leans out the window, covered again, to wave at her son, who is training at swords with two shirtless men. She brings you something to eat, and it glows, and you wonder what creature it was.

You explore the halls once you finish, alone this time. You peek into rooms full of scrolls and rooms full of paintings, empty rooms and storerooms, bedrooms, rooms with purposes you didn't have back home. Eventually you see the King and Queen, but you step back out of that room immediately, hoping not to disturb them. In your haste, you run into a young noblewoman, judging by her colorful dress. She glances at the room you just came out of.

"Bothering our monarch and his wife already?" she says, with a laugh, and takes you by the arm, outside, to a courtyard filled with those strange glowing flowers again. "The Queen is just as much in power as the King, of course, as we have gender equality now, and it just happens that there is a King of this land, and not a Queen. But almost a third of the lands around us are ruled by a Queen, so it's very equal!" She pats the grass next to her.

You go to sit. A songbird with a too long tail darts in front of you, does a dance, and alights on your shoulder.

"Woman to woman," the noblewoman says, "I'm glad we live in a world where sexism doesn't exist anymore."

[whiteswarm]

Artica's Family is made by:

Uncle Brendan Neivers: Farmer and seller

Aunt Arianna Neivers: She weaves and sells wool threads to the local tailor.

Cousin Safie Neivers: She wants to become a seamstress, excellent at knitting and crocheting

Gigi: Artica's Familiar, a goat

And now the "extended" part of the family:

Bakhur Nabih Boswell: an Egyptian boy, once a slave in a mine, Artica saved from the Cult and brought home so he could start again, he's a goldsmith and married Safie

William Boswell: the town's blacksmith. He adopted Bakhur, first employing him as his apprentice, but then he started caring for the boy and took him in his house. He calls him his son now.

Fadi and Isra: A couple of Church Grims, spirits who guard graveyards and drive away evil spirits and thieves. They're two black Irish Setter dogs as big as wolves with red eyes and got attached to Bakhur during the journey back to her town. They can meld in shadows and even jump from a shadow to another to travel fast and undetected

[onoirferal]

. The Tailor’s Apprentice .

         It was long awaited — the day he finally mustered up the courage to even step foot inside the mystical shoppe. Graham swallowed hard, eyes wide with wonder as he peered in through the darkened glass of the front window. No surprise as to why some might say he was  m a d  — Jefferson’s work was quite brilliant, to say the least. The way he turned yards of fabric into gorgeous works of art in just a day or so was astonishing; so were the rumours that he could eyeball anyone’s measurements with spot on precision.

         Graham’s jaw nearly dropped in awe when glimpse of the mad man, so focused on his work, caught his eye. Clearing his throat, he straightened his stance, adjusting his tie. With one last glance upon the window, he flipped through his portfolio, so desperately hoping that his work would be enough. Something that would catch Jefferson’s eye — that it would even be considered something special.

          He cleared his throat again, swallowing down the hard lump of anxiety that had been brewing in his throat. ‘I can do this,’ Graham said to himself under his breath. Lids fell to a moment’s close, and he finally came to open the heavy wooden door, sounding the jingle of an old, worn bell. There was no backing out now.

          Footfalls slowly trekked across hardwood floors, eyes taking in all the wondrous garb. He shook his head:   f o c u s   . Fingers tightened their grip on the leather bound portfolio. With a few more steps, Jefferson came into view — ‘twas such an honour to catch glimpse of the mad man deep in his work.

          Graham let out a low, polite cough, “Uhm . . . Excuse me,” he began, forcing confidence to wash over his nerves, “I want to be your apprentice, Sir.”

@hatteir

[silvers-d-me]

Where has my Underwear Gone? OP Edition

Shenanigans on the Red Force. Bad Shanks! Wicked Bad Naughty Shanks!

Notes: Nicknames are used, Sunshine, Darling, etc. Probably smut. Yeah smut. AFAB reader so female parts are mentioned as well as that dick tho. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Crossposted on AO3

You searched through your chests of clothing with increasing frustration. Shirts, pants, sashes, skirts. Things to sleep in, things to sunbathe in, things to swim in. Shirts stolen from the love of your life and captain, Shanks. Stupid capes you didn't want to admit you actually liked. Stockings, hats, what Shanks lovingly referred to as 'ho wear,' that fancy coat you stole from Beckman. Not a thread, scrap, lace, or remnant of your underpants.

Your expensive, made to order, finely woven, unbleached cotton underpants. Cut to your specifications to protect your delicate bits from chafing in your preferred leather trousers, underpants. Only made by two tailors at the far ends of Emperor Shanks' wide territory, underpants. Completely missing from every chest, trunk, and drawer dedicated to clothing in the wide cabin you shared with your captain.

The captain you suspected was behind this Mystery of the Missing Underwear.

"SHANKS!" You bellowed your sweetie's name as you hit the main deck of the Red Force. Around the ship your crewmates froze, shoulders hunching against the strident tone of your voice. "Where are you, you sneaky thieving greedy pirate!" Sweeping your gaze across the deck, not a set of eyes met yours. Everyone was suddenly Extremely Busy fiddling with ropes, retying sashes, peering out into the distance with exaggerated concentration.

"Uh huh. Well GOSH I guess the Boss is GONE what a SHOCKING SURPRISE!" Once again you eyed your crewmates. Bonk Punch was ostentatious tuning his worn guitar, brows (or where he should have had brows) furrowed in peering concentration. Limejuice, Hongo, Yasopp, and Rockstar were huddled around a broad barrel playing Liar's Dice, drinks to hand and Definitely Not Noticing You. You turned in place, hands resting on your hips and quite close to the hilts of the twin long knives that always rode there. Lucky Roux was in the galley, cooking or hiding.. Gab and Building Snake were on maintenance..  one of the young apprentices was busily scouring stains out of the main deck, another was sitting in the shade of a sail practicing knots.. No Shanks, and oddly no Monster. Hmm.

Bootheels tapping you made your way to stand by the boy. You could actually hear him gulp when you slid a glance his way. Big wide eyes under a floppy bucket hat met yours. "Kid. Everyone sure is busy today. How are those knots coming?" You knelt on one knee, reaching out to inspect his work. Under your breath a mutter of "a hundred beri if you tell me where to find Boss" was met with a startled glance at you then up towards the back of the quarter deck. "Fine work, Kiddo, keep it up."  You stretched, squinted up at the warm sun, ran your fingers through your hair, the very essence of Nonchalant Pirate. Who you? You were just hangin' out, nothing suspicious here. Quietly you worked free from your boots and set them down as soundlessly as you could manage, then climbed carefully up a stack of crates -- you were pretty sure it was all booze --  to slip over the polished handrail and onto the quarterdeck.

Yep, there was your one true love, Redhair Shanks, Chief of the Redhair Pirates, a man with a bounty of over a billion beri, the man who could cause entire crews of bloodthirsty violent men to faint from his simple presence. Shanks, famed for his generosity and charm, and for the way he treated those under his care. Shanks, on the way to becoming an Emperor of the Sea, ruthless in his intentions and implacable when moved to fury. Shanks, two out of three sheets to the wind and it was barely past noon. He sat in an honest to gods chaise lounge. That's what the man who had given it up as tribute called it, anyway. It was oversized which was fortunate, a pretty red-toned wood making up the sweeps and lines of the piece, the cushions a plush deep amber with gleaming bronze hardware holding it together. Pity Benn had nailed it to the deck but such was the way of furnishings on the everchanging and temperamental seas of the Grand Line. A spare sail had been rigged up to form a pleasant shelter while still affording the lounge's occupant truly breath taking sea views. Not so much of area directly behind Shanks' luxurious perch which was exactly where you landed, crouched on almost entirely silent feet to seize your lover in a surprise grip. Who were you trying to kid? This was Shanks. He'd probably known what you were going to do before you decided to do it.

"There's my Sunshine!" Shanks had set down his sake cup to slide his big hand around the back of your neck, planting a warm but somewhat uncoordinated kiss to the side of your face as he 'helped' you over the lounge to sprawl on his lap. You glared up at him, huffing at the hair than now slid over your face in your less than graceful position. Shanks literally beamed at you, his eyes almost closed with the sincerity of his flashing smile. This was one of the best sides to Shanks, all warmth and affection and goodwill. He called you Sunshine but you called this particular mode Sunny Bunny Shanks. Not today however. "I thought I heard you calling for me," said Mr. Innocent as if you hadn't been shouting his name loud enough to be heard over a gale. "What can I do for you, my darling? Moon of my night, flower of my heart?" He brought your face to his and kissed you gently between each compliment, sweet from the melon-flavored sake he preferred, a trace of salt from the sea air, and the taste that was uniquely Shanks. No! No distractions! Bad shanks!

"It's no use trying to distract me, Shanks. Bad Shanks!" This as you batted away his hand from the tie that held your Honestly Truly a Pirate Shirt closed, saying the words from your internal dialogue. "You don't deserve titties!" That brought an actual gasp of horror as his hand stopped momentarily, ruddy eyes widening as much as possible at such a terrible thought. You struggled to sit up and get up out of his lap but appalled as the no titties comment had made him, he hung on to your waist and really.. it was surprising what he could manage with that half an arm. "You are a greedy bad stealing greedy bad man. Where are all of my underpants? The real ones not the thongs or those strings you and Benn thought counted as actual panties. Where are my panties Shanks??" 

Oh yeah, floated through the pirate captain's buzzy brain. She did find out, who figured that? Oh Benn had. Pfft, stupid Benn. Shanks started mouthing at the soft skin of your throat both to distract you and because he just loved the taste and feel of you.  The press and soft suck of his lips and the scratch of his stubble had you stuttering, he super loved that so much. Now his mouth wandered up your chin to latch to your lips, maybe he -was- greedy with the way he suckled at your plush lower lip until your mouth parted in a gasp and he could slip his tongue inside. Mmmmm so much better, and who needs panties? Not us. He listened to your protests as your shirt was undone and somehow, without you registering it, slipped off and tossed away, giving him access to your breasts. Shanks took advantage of that opportunity gladly, deftly sliding you under him into the firm cushions, their smooth satiny texture adding to the sensations causing your skin to shiver. Warm mouth to one breast, tongue teasing gently then pulling hard to make you cry out and arch against his sculpted chest; the other breast in his large capable hand, the callouses of sword play and hauling rope just rough enough to make you wriggle against the two contrasting pleasures. You both still had pants on, for the love of loot, and you were no longer in control of this conversation that wasn't actually happening.

Shanks was a force of nature. Whatever he turned his considerable mind and implacable will to received his full attention, and like most of the world, you were simply pulled into his aura and clung on for dear life. He loved you, he truly did, he cherished and valued you, he respected you. All of those strong emotions communicated to you not just in his murmurs of adoration but in the way he touched and teased you. Shanks was a romantic and while he had every intention of bringing you to undone pleasure and ruin beneath him, it wasn't to conquer and pillage. You were his pirate queen and his greatest treasure and he loved little more than bringing these cries of pleasure and shock from your panting mouth, as he was now.

"Sh-shanks!" You hands on his shoulders didn't actually do anything to his large frame or the wonderfully solid press of his weight against you. "I'm not.. I'm not done fussing at you!" Your protest was a weak pro form at this point as his lips moved to plant firm kisses down your stomach. Ding dong you are wrong, suddenly you were laughing and the blush staining your face wasn't just from lust as Shanks blew a loud raspberry against your twitching skin. That was one of the best things about sex with Shanks: he never lost his sense of joy. Of course he never stopped being a cunning pirate either since the raspberries were a distraction for him to strip you of your trousers, slick as anything. His shoulders were simply too large for your thighs to do anything but spread wide for him, and he absolutely did that on purpose, scooting down the lounge to smile fondly at your exposed pussy like it was his best friend. (It sort of was.) You twisted your fingers into his profoundly red silky hair and pulled hard to make him look up at you. "Shanks for real! I need those underthings. They keep me from getting chafed and sore when we're running around fighting. I don't want sore skin there!" It was your last chance to put any kind of sane reason into his airy head.  Those slanted eyes, their light red hue that always entranced you, caught on yours for a moment and you saw that thread of clarity run through the sake and sex haze that was piloting 99% of his brain.

"Oh no, we can't have that," the pirate agreed far too easily. He nudged your thighs even wider apart and bent to brush the softest of kissed against the skin in question, soft and stubbly caresses to the tender skin where the line of said panties would sit. "Poor Sunshine, we have to take good care of you." He hoisted your leg over his shoulder and bent to his task. A lingering swipe of his hot tongue against your folds had your grip shifting from demanding to simply finding something to cling to, skillful strokes of that wicked tongue leading into gentle nips at the your hooded pearl. Shanks had spent the last dozen years manwhoring up and down the Grand Line and he was very pleased to put the talents he'd gained to good use. Alternating between swirling his tongue around your swollen clit and biting into it tenderly, he had you straining against his face as your first orgasm rolled right on through and over you, holding you to him as your body tensed and shook. So beautiful. He used that moment to shuck out of his pink-with-pineapple-print-breeches off and kick them away. Then he slid his fingers along your thigh and over the clipped curls of your mound, parting the wet pink folds as he placed a kiss on your other thigh. He couldn't help suddenly sucking a span of your flesh into his mouth with hard pull, biting onto it to leave mark to match the ones littering your throat and chest like a leopard's rosettes. Your cry of surprise and enjoyment choked off when he slid two thick fingers into, savoring the way your tight muscles gave just a little as his digits stretched and pressed into your cunt.

"I'm so sorry for any offenses I've committed against this pretty pussy, Sunshine." He timed the strokes of his fingers to his words, sounding so sincere that only when your opened your eyes to glance at his face did you see the lust and power glowing there. "How will I ever make it up to you?" As if the steady stroking and the curl of his fingertips wasn't apology enough. Your hips twisted against his body, hands both pushing at his shoulders and pulling them closer as he worked your tensing frame up towards another giddy peak, the sheer gravity of the man pinning you under him. "What can I ever do to make it up to you?"

"Just fuck me already!" Quite a bit of exasperation and fondness both from you as you dragged at Shanks, pulling his face up towards yours. His laughter was loud and bright, vibrating through your chest as he settled atop you. One thing about this damned fancy couch: he could lean his quarter arm comfortably and prop over you with no accidental acrobatics. His mouth grazed against your panting one, tastes of sake and yourself in the long tender kiss you shared. "Anything for my pirate queen." You felt the thick tight head of his cock nestle against the flutter of your eager hole then sink in, bit by bit, the familiar ache and stretch just delicious and making that heated juncture the absolute center of both your attention. Shanks held his breath, eyes closing as he buried himself in the welcome sear of your cunt. It was nearly communion, the way you locked into each other, muscles shivering and nerves fizzling with delight, skin sliding against skin as once again you and your lover tried your best to become one being.

Then he started to move, hips thrusting smooth and sinuous, one hand gripping your thigh to pull you into the exact perfect angle to grind against that one spot perfectly. Every time his dick wedged solidly against the end of your silken tunnel the little cry you gave made him swear and move a little faster, the glide of thick hard flesh into hot slick flesh becoming a wet slap as your pussy flexed around him, your arousal just adding to the sensations of Shanks pulling you towards climax, Shanks' mouth at your throat and lip and ear,hoarse voice muttering curses amid the string of praise and your name falling with love into the heated scant space between you. Your hands were all over him, tangling in his sweaty hair, smoothing down his neck, gripping his shoulders, nails dragging down his gleaming skin, hands kissing down his straining back to clasp his hips hard and urge him to more, more.. when your greedy hands clapped his ass loud enough to be heard over the pants and cries he muffled a laugh in your hair and moved faster, stronger, fucking you into the lounge like he meant to drive you through to the deck. One particularly sweet thrust spilled you right over into an intense peak, Shanks holding on for dear life as your body writhed and tensed in its bliss. Shanks shuddered above you then in you, hard pumps of hot seed flooding you as you pulled Shanks into orgasm as well, joined bodies straining to pull tighter and shove away. One climax slid into another as overstimulated nerves were pushed past endurance with the rocking of your locked forms, waves of sparking joy all-consuming.

Several moments of your hearts racing together, pace gradually returning to normal as your breathing eased, sweat-stained skin cooling in salty ocean breeze. This was when Shanks was unfailing sweet and tender, no matter how high the alcohol content of his bloodstream, kisses all over and strokes down your cheek, holding your jaw so he could murmur endearments into the corner of your lips. His weight was so good pressing you down, your legs tangled with his heavier ones, just feeling everything as your bodies relaxed from the incredible high you'd just shared. "Mmm. Shanks." Your soft voice in his ear made him shiver, hand fondling one of your breasts like his favorite sake cup. "Amazing as that was, and it was amazing, I still need my clothes back." The pirate sighed against your throat.

"Do you just hafta have underpants?" His words were muffled and just a bit plaintive, almost whiny. You laughed and hugged him, kissing his temple and gently pulling at the silky red that gave your crew its name. "Fraid so, lovey. Time to man up and give me the panties." Shanks lifted up to pout down at you, somehow still boyish for all his power and the fact he was bare-ass naked and still buried in your cunt.

"All right all right. I'll get Monster to fetch them from where he's got them hidden in the shrouds."

Your voice rang out again, this time filling the air not with passionate cries of love but one word in that gale-shattering tone.

"MONSTER!"