#tis a Beak!

[beaktube]

I decided to go and try out doing some animating with Beak again. This time I ripped some audio from Sleeping Beauty and tried out making a lip sync to that scene where Maleficent crashes that party where the baby princess gets shown to everyone in the kingdom.

Some things are not where I want them to be, but in time I figure I'll get better with animating. I figure youtube will kick my ass over this little animation test so I'll keep it here.

audio source: Sleeping Beauty 1959

[leucoratia]

Kraz, royal healer

Kraz (Razzy if they like you(but they like everyone)(except Jerry)) is a human (?) mage who voluntarily exiled themselves to the underground to follow monsterkind during the war. They are later appointed royal healer by the king and queen and has devoted themselves to the betterment of monster society ever since. They are the only human the royal scientist ever tolerated (although would you call sharing lab coats and beds tolerating or...something else?)

Information

-Species : mage (half monster, half human)

-Age : older than the barrier. As long as they will to live, it appears that a mage cannot age.

-Gender : apparently born a female, although it is unclear how sexual dimorphism develops in mages. Kraz does not specifically care.

-Soul : Green

-Height : 1.99m (6'5)

-Hair colour : Black (somehow iridescent ?)

-Eye colour : deep dark brown. Their sclera is grey as well.

-Build : sickly thin, actually skin and bones. They never eat much of anything, claiming that they do not need a lot of food. It worries people quite a lot, especially Toriel, but they have been like this for hundreds of years so... at least they're not dead ? Still, they scare the kids.

-Personnality : a sweet, calming presence. They exude an aura which makes anyone around them feel at peace. Although they are quite akward and generally anxious, they smile easily and brightly. Kraz is very friendly, caring, and kind to a fault. has quite an outdated manner of speech. A jokester. Always does their best to please people around them. Deeply devoted. Probably has some sort of attention deficit. Easily fascinated. Suffers from chronic bird behaviour (will bring you trinkets??).

-Likes : gardening, playing the piano, cooking, puzzles, collecting shiny trinkets, science, herbal medicine, cultivating bacteria, gift giving, late 1800's fashion, dark spaces, funny socks, Gaster.

-Dislikes : loud noises (especially clamoring crowds), being watched, sudden movements, bright reflective surfaces, small enclosed spaces, bitter foods.

Backstory

Kraz was born to a human mother and a monster father during the war, as mages often are. Abandoned by their mother, who could not endure the shame of their birth, they were taken under their father’s wing and raised amongst a small monster village. Early on, they manifested an extremely intense green soul and spectacular magical power, even for a mage. Although unequipped and unprepared to nurture such potential, the monsters in Kraz's community did their best to encourage the toddler's magical prowess, such as having them heal cuts and bruises, or speed up a few carrots' growth. But as war progressed, human armies swept through monster territory and eventually raided the child's village, pillaging and slaughtering everyone in their path. In these times mages were rare, being the product of monster-human relationships, but extremely sought after by humanity, who could only manifest minor magic potential. Stumbling upon the young Kraz and recognising in their physiology the traits of a "hybrid", human soldiers immediately identified them as a mage and took them away to be raised amongst humans. Their father, if he ever survived the attack, never stopped looking for his little bird until his dust settled on the ground. And so Kraz was raised in human war camps and settlements, amongst soldiers and other mages. Being so young, they only ever had vague memories of their time amongst monsters and soon put them to rest. As they grew, their healing powers grew with them, and it was soon clear to the commanders that Kraz may as well be the most spectacular healer that they had ever known, capable of rising men at death's door back on their feet and ready to fight in mere minutes. Suffice to say, as one of their greatest asset, they were sent from battlefield to battlefield, from division to division in order to rise the almost dead and reinforce the dwindling human forces. But they had a fault. Kraz, at their heart, was kind. Compassionate. Caring. And oh so, so young still, no more than fifteen. And the pain, the suffering inflicted by and to monsters broke their soul into pieces. See, despite all the propaganda, they could never quite bring themselves to hate monsters. Hate half of themselves. And so in the midst of the battle's confusion, in secret, they would slip a hand or a green bullet towards a bleeding frog here. A dusting lion there. They wished they could just run to them and pour their whole magic into the wounded, but the human soldiers watched them. Always. But eventually, as war was nearing its end, temptation was too great. They could take it no more. And so during a bloody battle, they slipped away from the soldiers surrounding them and ran to a fallen monster, who was already dusting away. A skeleton. The young mage fell to their knees, reaching for the monster's broken face with magic already at their fingertips and reassurances spilling from their lip, and poured everything they had left as the soldier tried to struggle and speak. He barely was able to call to them, in a language they didn't know, his bones just starting to reform, but fate is oh so cruel. Kraz could only slip their guard's attention for so long, and just as life started to flicker back in the man's face, they were torn off his bloodied body and promptly covered in his dust, their work undone by the fall of a sword. As the soldiers dragged the teen away, they could only claw down at the dusty floor to rack up the dust, and a nametag. Dingbats.

"Traitor", they were deemed. "An error of nature", "a freak", they were called. But a valuable freak nonetheless. Their magical abilities were still wholly unmatched through all of the land. They were needed. And so Kraz was beaten down, corrected, whipped back into shape. Into following orders. Royals spoke of banishment. Of a barrier. And they needed mages.

Finally, monsters were defeated. They were to be sealed underground. Kraz and the other mages assembled, staring down at a beaten monsterkind, a sea of eyes and bleeding hearts crying out at them as they chanted the words.

They couldn't do it. They couldn't.

They ran to them.

As the barrier rose up, this child fell to their knees in front of Asgore and Toriel and begged them to let them stay. To right this wrong. To help. They did.

And so Kraz poured their heart out. It wasn't easy, getting monsters to accept human help, even though they shared some physical traits. They slaved away for nothing in return, growing crops magically in dead ground and never taking even a grain of wheat for themselves. Endlessly imbuing water with their energy to create remedies for everyone. Only accepting the bare minimum of food to stay alive, even though they felt as if they were tearing this food away from the hands of the needy. They tried so, so hard to repair humanity's sins. Clear their name in the eyes of monsters.

And eventually, it somewhat worked. Instead of frowns, they were faced with smiles. Children stopped crying when they saw the healer's incomplete beak and started to spare them a smile. The elderly stopped refusing treatment from them. And even though they still had to face a seemingly unclimbable wall as they began further studies in medicine, biology and microbiology, chemistry, agricultural sciences, magical studies, anything to broaden their knowledge and help, they made it. (No thanks to the shy, awkward, standoffish and straight up rude engineering-chemistry-physics student which whom the king and queen pushed Kraz to hang out with. They said that it would "help the both of you, you kids would work beautifully together". Not that the mage minded, as a matter of fact they quite enjoyed his presence and always did their best to be agreeable and overall lovely company; but the skeleton never quite seemed to get over his absolute loathing of humans. Oh well, no matter. They'll keep trying anyways.). Eventually they did succeed and ascended to the position of "tolerable fellow student who I regularly hang out with" in the eyes of their adversary. When Kraz got their first doctorate, in medicine, WingDings even cracked a smile. And as the two completed their studies, the now mage-doctor was promoted to "acceptable collaborator". A win for the ages!

Kraz finally moved out of the derelict place they were practicing medicine in since the war to a more acceptable place (which was, well, their newly furnished house, courtesy of the royal family for their friendship and as a congratulatory gift for their doctorate) and kept working as always. But with an official title to strengthen their position, and what some may call a reluctant friend, things seemed lighter. Monsters were flocking to their office, business (which was still free but their patients insisted on leaving little somethings) was booming, their ties to their fellow "collaborator " deepening, and the doctor became sincerely appreciated in their community. Maybe not in all monsterdom yet, memories of the war never quite fading, but it was progress. Things were going well.

But it seemed that fate had other plans.

One day, plague broke out. The illness decimated monster populations, entire families perishing from an unknown condition.

And Kraz, oh Kraz, tried everything. Every spell, every potion, every cure they could think of. Nothing worked. They asked for help to the other healers, consulted with other scientists, even asked the engineers if they could think of something, anything. Nothing worked. They could only watch as the malady swept through monsters, powerless to watch them die, just like they did during the war.

No. No.

They would not stand for it, they would not STAND FOR THIS !! They will find a cure. At any cost.

They locked themselves in their laboratory.

One day. Two days.

Three days.

Six days.

Eight days.

Their colleagues had tried banging on the door, shouting at them to come out, to go home, they would not answer. They called for the doctor’s friends, to no avail. Eventually, it was WingDings Gaster, the royal scientist himself, to be at their door threatening them to “kick their feathery ass if it’s the last thing he does” in order to get them to open the damn door.

No answer.

But the royal scientist was a stubborn man. And when words failed, he proceeded to take the door’s security system apart and barge into the lab, only to be taken aback by the stench. He covered his non-existent nose with a sleeve and bit back the urge to let last night’s dinner see the light of day again, ushering the doctor’s worried coworkers away. It reeked of illness. It reeked of plague. The skeleton, being the only one without lungs and hence immune to all airborne diseases, made his way through the mess of papers, vials and…patches of blood and hair…to the form bent over his friend’s table. Kraz was staring straight at him with their big, beady dark eyes which seemed to be glazed over. They looked even paler than they usually do, which is to say whiter than snow, and seemed so frail that they could snap at any moment. Their face was also swimming in what seemed to be bloodied spit, over a mountain of papers scribbled with words that made no sense. Suffice to say, they looked like death itself. They looked dead.

It was as if Gaster’s bones were made of ice. Barely thinking, he grabbed his friend’s limp body, by Asgore were they TALL, and zapped away somewhere safe. Somewhere clean. His place, apparently.

He cleaned Kraz. Changed them. Laid them in bed. Listened to their delirious babbles, relieved that at least they were alive. In a moment of clarity, the doctor pleaded him to retrieve some instruments from their lab and conduct a series of tests on samples of their blood, which he was urged to collect daily.

“I need to help them Dings. Please. Please, I beg of you, do this for them. Or else I would have done this for nothing. Please.”

Eventually, the unthinkable happened. They got better, the little colour their cheeks normally had returned. As soon as the healer could walk again, they were out of their friend’s house and back in their lab (ignoring everyone’s admonishments). Barely a week later, there was a cure for the seemingly incurable plague.

Monsterkind was saved.

And everything was truly fine. Kraz was promoted to Royal Doctor (a fact they endlessly teased Gaster with, because Now you can’t boss me around anymore mister science man), was granted a whole department in the Hotland labs, and was now revered though the kingdom! Their promotion to head doctor was also accompanied by another, to the exclusive rank of “beloved special stupid idiot who gave themselves the plague” in the soul of a certain someone. They weren’t going to live that one down anytime soon. But well, when the royal scientist’s coworkers noticed that his lunch was packed daily in the common room fridge with “Do not forget nourishment today dear, I will see you tonight at our usual, -A stupid idiot “stuck to it, let’s say that the air in the Core labs was decidedly more pleasant. And Alphys, a young intern that the Doctor befriended during one of their numerous visits to their collaborator-friend-lover(?),  could barely contain her gushing to anyone that might listen.

Yes. Times were good.

Until a human fell.

[zonedelicious]

Every comic book character with more than 10 fans is an industry plant character

Us real freaks only enjoy obscure scrimbos that had a decent 40 issue run in 2004 before disappearing from the canon forever

[brick-rolled]

so uh TIES skybattle 😇😇

[mist-the-wannabe-linguist]

Silly Ra'zac/Lethrblaka headcanons? Let's just say that... baby Ra'zac? More sociable than you might think. Aside for their first instinct to try and *eat* you, if you manage to show them that you are not a prey (lil murder chicks, a resistant footwear will be enough to keep them in check until they give up trying to eat you) and not a threat (don't hurt them), they will try to hang out with you just to see, if you are not food and not prey, then what *are* you. Like, ever seen that puffin trying to befriend a photographer by showing interest in his camera? That. (Medical prescription: do not attempt with a grown Ra'zac, while in theory this can work, the average human is not nearly strong enough to survive the "can I eat that?" phase).

[myriad--starlings]

oh probably also would be helpful to remember that this time last year was the second worst time of my entire life. or maybe tied for the worst? idk I can't remember it well enough lmao. but worse for specific triggers that would show up more in my body than my brain without me noticing. so like maybe I'm having some real Moments about my bodily autonomy and general agency and just. aauuugghhhhh. I really hate this actually. I hate what I had to go through last year. I had what I was put through by my rapist 6 years ago. I hate what I was forced to endure growing up. so little control of myself and my body. and constantly fighting to get it back, now. constantly.

[stoopakoopa]

Day 8 - Reunion

Drew out a little snippet from @donze-trash's fic for @mesdelostrescaballeros2024!!

Part of a larger continuity being uploaded on ao3! Read it below ⬇️

Donald pulled up outside the apartment where Panchito was staying and took a deep, fortifying breath. Of course he was excited to see his friend again! Of course he was excited for The Three Caballeros to be once more reunited, even if only for a day. There was just that one catch—he felt bad even calling it a catch, like it was somehow a bad thing that he and Zé had finally professed their love for one another—but it would always be awkward telling Panchito. Surely, the duck thought with an internal groan, things would unavoidably change within the trio.

To make it all worse, José had been away on flight shifts when Panchito arrived in town, and Donald had agreed to only break the news when his new boyfriend had returned. He was a terrible liar about this kind of thing: his tongue got all tied up and his beak chattered when he spoke. How in the hell was he supposed to—?

The Donald Duck Pity Party was cut short as sharp, energetic chatter caught his ear from the street: Panchito was being seen off and heading straight for the car. Donald flung himself toward the back seat, toward the gift José had planned to hand over today, and hastily threw a spare blanket over it. The thick, scratchy wool did a decent job of concealing the obvious shape of a brand new guitar, at least if you didn't pay it mind. They'd give it to him when they were all together. That's how they were supposed to do things. Together.

Panchito appeared, waving goodbye to someone before bounding out of the apartment complex. His face lit up when he saw Donald, and before Donald could even get a word out, Panchito had leapt into the front seat, pulling him into a bear hug. His wide sombrero wobbled dangerously, but he didn't seem to care.

"¡Ay caramba, amigo! What took you so long to get here?" Panchito exclaimed, yanking Donald into his arms despite protest from his seatbelt, all to kiss Donald's cheek with his usual enthusiasm.

"'Ey, Pancho! How you doin' amigo?" The duck choked out, finding it a little easier to act natural amid the strangulation.

Panchito released Donald to pinch his cheek playfully. "Better with you here! I've been working on that new song I told you about last night! What about you? What have you been up to all day?"

"I'm doin' swell! And nothing much! Been taking 'er easy today." He lied, and not well—he was already talking too much. "Excited, though! Not every day I get to hang out with my two best pals!" Donald pulled away from Panchito's hold in order to return his attention to driving, feeling too awkward to linger in the warm hold, however much he usually would.

The charro clicked the seatbelt into place and leaned back in his seat, apparently unfazed by the duck's haste. "Ay güey, I'm just hyped that we are finally getting together again for a change. So, what are we doing this time? Are we gonna hit up the club so hard we get kicked out again? Or maybe reopen the Magical Mythical Monster Petting Zoo from Scrooge's secret vault? Or how about we raid the Anvilania embassy and get the ambassador drunk again? You know she still calls me." 

Donald nodded, absolutely not absorbing anything the rooster was clucking about in favor of focusing on the road. He was happy, of course; his friend's exuberance was infectious to say the least. It had indeed been too long since they got to hang out like this as a group… but a part of him still felt tense. He chanced another glance at the vaquero—oblivious, humming merrily, a long leg resting against the door as he propped up his foot on his knee and took up what little space his seat offered. He wished he could feel so carefree.

When they arrived at the little airport, Panchito's excitement was hard to miss. Before the car could even finish pulling up to the 15-minute zone, he'd unbuckled and bolted out of the car window, running ahead towards the tarmac and calling out for Zé at the top of his lungs.

"Yeah, don't wait up or nothing!" Donald called after him with a roll of his eyes. Crazy bird, he hadn't even put the car into park yet!  The lighthearted atmosphere Panchito had cultivated was at war with the impulse to complain bubbling inside him because he wanted see Zé first, to get a chance to hold his boyfriend first before they had to act respectably platonic in front of their none the wiser companion. It wasn't jealousy, not exactly, just…

One hug, one second to let the weight of the week melt off was all he wanted. But that wasn't happening. Not yet. Instead, he'd have to wait and keep playing the part.

"Great," he muttered, jerking on the car's parking brake. "Just act natural. Simple."

The airport, while always abuzz with people from all walks of life and from every corner of the globe, was relatively less hectic on a weekday like this, and José was all the more grateful for it. Deplaning the small jet from Panama was fairly routine and done quickly, leaving Zé with a little free time before he met up with his friends. He brought with him his single suitcase, loaded with more clothes than his usual amount, plus some souvenirs from Brazil and the several other countries he had stopped in during the work week. There were things for the kids back at the manor, plus a homemade gaúcho style poncho pala made by his vovó for Della (whom the old bird had assumed was still freezing from her time on the Moon).  Strapped to the outside of the suitcase (because it could not fit) and wrapped in cloth was José's gift to Donald, a new hammock for his houseboat. He hoped he would like it.

Walking to the exit, Zé attempted to steal himself for the reunion to come. Not so much for seeing Donald, though his blood ran quick with excitement for him to be sure. But Panchito, whom he had not seen since they met for that ill-fated holiday to Bahia that never came to fruition. They had kept in constant contact even after their break up, though it caused pain on both sides. They had been determined to preserve their eternal friendship even in the face of romantic disappointment. And though it took some years for Zé to be able to look the rooster in the face without the unbearable ache in his chest urging him to take it all back and try again, he never wanted to lose sight of what drew him and the other two Caballeros together in the first place. They were his family, no matter what happened.

Even when I act like a stupid teenager and run crying to my ex-boyfriend about my hopeless crush, which turned out to be not so hopeless after all because we're together now and— Merda!

Zé closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. It was very good that he had this spare moment to compose himself as he entered the airport proper.

The distant sound of a familiar crow cut through the din of the crowd, stopping Zé in his tracks. That voice—there was no mistaking it. And like the call to sunrise, it made his heart want to leap into the sky. Spotting a tall flash of red, and a hat that he insisted was too big for his head, standing tall amongst the crowd, Zé dropped his suitcase and his umbrella and ran forward like his tail was on fire. Before he even had time to think about it, he was launching himself into Panchito's arms. The rooster caught him instantly, just like old times.

"¡¡AAAAAAJAJAJAJAJA!!" Panchito's triumphant grito echoed across the terminal. His grip was tight, almost desperate, and his wide grin spoke volumes. Zé could feel the emotion radiating from him—Panchito had missed him more than words could ever say, that much was clear. His whole body seemed to hum with excitement. 

"José!! Mi cielo!" Panchito crowed, his voice overflowing with affection as he slowly, reluctantly, released the green parrot. 

Zé smiled warmly, returning the sentiment. "It is so good to see you, docinho!" His tone was as light and affectionate as ever. "It has been too long!"

"No manches, pendejo, it's only been a few months!" Panchito guffawed, his eyes sparkling with unfiltered happiness. His grin stretched wide as he shook his head in disbelief, the warmth in his expression unmistakable. The man was an open book, his emotions always worn on his sleeve.

The malandro chuckled softly, adjusting his hat. "Well, yes, but it has been twice as long since the three of us have been—" He stopped, scanning the area. "Espere, onde está o Donald?" 

Panchito's expression shifted briefly—a flicker of realization, maybe impatience. He glanced back toward the car, where Zé knew Donald must still be catching up. The vaquero's elation had clearly driven him to rush ahead, leaving their other friend behind. Zé could almost feel the mixture of emotions brewing under Panchito's playful exterior, a familiar tug of longing buried in the joy of reunion.

But Zé knew better than to bring that up. He simply smiled again, his voice calm, teasing. "Always in a rush, eh  mano?" 

"Life is too short to sit still," the rooster replied assuredly, and his hand which still rested on his waist in a half hug pulled him in for just an instant, a punctuation to the point. 

"Hey, ya found 'im! Over here, guys!!!!" a distinctive voice cut through the busy hum of the arrival hall and Zé immediately turned towards the sound, his heart immediately catapulting into the stratosphere.

"DONAL'!" he and Panchito shouted in unison, their voices echoing across the platform. The moment the malandro caught sight of Donald looking flustered and determined as ever as he weaved through the crowd, all the excitement, the nerves, the longing came rushing back to him. He broke from Panchito's hold to sprint to him with ever increasing urgency, his heart pounding not from exertion but from sheer jubilation.

Quickly he closed the distance between them, throwing his arms around the sailor and pulling him into a tight embrace. He fit into his arms perfectly, and for a moment he didn't want to let go. Donald absorbed the impact with ease and let Zé down safely, the rest of the world seeming to melt away in an instant. Zé quickly buried his face into Donald's shoulder, feeling the comforting weight of his lover's arms around him. There was relief, adoration, and an overwhelming sense of peace. Even for just a fleeting moment, everything felt right—like he was where he belonged.

"Meu querido..." Zé whispered softly, just for Donald, though he didn't linger on the words. He knew this interlude was fleeting.

Sure enough, as if sensing their private moment was up, Donald's voice broke through their quiet intimacy. "Panchito...?" Donald called, one arm still wrapped around Zé as he extended the other towards their rambunctious rooster to include him.

Zé was too distracted with cuddling up to his sailor's side to register the gleam in Panchito's eye, at first. As it was, it was only the loud, triumphant yell that signaled their impending doom, and the parrot felt he had little choice but to make sure he didn't endure it alone, his arm holding his duck in place.

"No, wait—!" Donald started, but it was too late.

Panchito came down hard from where he had launched himself into the air like a luchador delivering his finishing move. Elbow extended, he crashed into the two of them with the energy of a firecracker bursting on impact. Donald let out a choked WAK! of surprise, his arms flailing as he was knocked clean off balance. Zé, caught in the middle of it all, simply accepted his fate with a laugh, not even trying to brace for the collision.

They tumbled down in a heap of feathers, beaks, and limbs, Zé wedged between his two best friends, both of them piled on top of Donald, who lay sprawled at the bottom. He could feel Donald wheezing beneath him, dazed from the sudden assault, while Panchito—of course—was perched victoriously at the top of the pile, leaning on one elbow like he owned the world.

"Órale! ¿Que te pasa? You were supposed to catch me!" Panchito chortled, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he flashed a wide, playful grin down at the both of them. "I could have gotten hurt!" 

"God forbid…" Donald rasped weakly.

Zé couldn't help but chuckle, even as he lay squashed in the middle. Completely unconcerned by the chaos, he wiggled into a more comfortable position between them, his head resting against Donald's back. He could feel the frantic beat of his partner's heart beneath his cheek, could hear the shallow breaths as Donald tried to recover. There was no tension, no frustration. Just pure, unbridled affection. Even in moments like this—especially in moments like this—Zé felt nothing but love for the both of them.

This was how it had always been with the three of them. Chaos and laughter, roughhousing and tenderness, all tangled together in one messy, beautiful friendship.

"Well, caras," Zé sighed contentedly, "it is good to be back where I belong."

"Where, with all of ya on top of me?" the sailor beneath him groaned, barely able to get out a full breath with all the pressure bearing down on him.

Don't tempt me, the malandro thought before immediately shelving it for later.

[lyrablack1883]

I regret it

The moment the incomplete prophecy was delivered from the raven’s beak. The snake’s fate was sealed. Through a series of entangled words, the two was tied from then on. Because the snake believed the raven’s words as truth, because the snake believed the raven was his, through its words alone, the raven sentenced the snake to death.

It was laughable how he spoke coldly “I regret it” as he left the other’s body bleeding to death. How he regret having to throw away such useful instrument. How laughable it is to be revealed that the man was never his, despite possessing it, holding it, and using it for years. Just like how the elder wand was never his.

[viveela]

I'm curious about your Lucifer design, I'd love to read notes about it 👀

Thanks for asking! I actually would love to talk about it, I can include my concept art as well:

My thought process is I see all angels using birds as their basis for their comprehendible forms! So his is meant to play off a cockatiel since his cheeks and hair already remind me of one! I pushed that further with the tailcoat looking like feathers, giving him more feathery hair, and his mouth having curvature similar to a beak

But also I see him being visually stuck as a snake as a punishment for what he did before becoming fallen, a reminder of what he's done and why he's where he is now...so the two features mix into his look! His face and body have scales, his eyes are more narrow, and his coat's hood is meant to look similar to the one of a snake as well

As for the colors I wanted to go little further with it! I felt it'd make sense if he was more cream and brownish red to symbolize being the one to cause the 'bite of the forbidden fruit' aka 'the apple'. When apples are bitten and left alone they oxidize, so I took inspiration from that for the changes. Meanwhile his staff is a literal depiction of this act, his colors a more subtle one, it's all tied together ^^

[colourstreakgryffin]

Can you do fizzaroli and asmodeus comforting their teenage adopted child after she/he/they had a rough day today?

Ooooh! My second Helluva Boss request, that’s so exciting! I can’t wait to work on some Helluva Boss! Let’s give some love to best Achillean couple!

Fizzarolli and Asmodeus- Ruby in the Rough

Fizzarolli is an energetic and somewhat crude man, that energy is also applied to his parenting style. He is caring and affectionate but also energetic and can accidentally be oblivious about his child’s problems with his jokester attitude. Though, he will make up for his mistake and unconditionally spoil his child rotten

Asmodeus, on the other hand, is the most doting and considerate parent of this pair. He’s more calm and a bit playful, though. He loves chatting and bonding with his child as often as he can, cuddling his child and can recognise every problem they may have instantaneously. He is one of the best comforters and huggers in Hell

Fizzarolli and Asmodeus, together as parents, as a married couple, as a father and father tag team, for their adoptive young teenage Hellhound daughter. You. A cute fluffy red fox-patterned and red fox-coloured Hellhound; Fizzarolli absolutely adores you and Asmodeus wants to squeeze your little cheeks

Asmodeus is the first one to notice his and his husband’s daughter’s distress. The way your fluffy tail is drooped and dragging on the floor, your voice is softer, your attention is averted. Fizzarolli, unintentionally, doesn’t notice your problems until his husband points it out

Then. As the usual wholesome doting couple they are, Fizzarolli and Asmodeus let you go to your bedroom and speak to one another in how they’ll approach comforting you. Of course, Fizzarolli offers buying you a gift whilst Asmodeus proclaims they should just raise up your self-esteem

And since they can’t decide inbetween each… they pick both

Fizzarolli barrages into your bedroom and basically throws a new phone case present into your lap whilst jumping up onto your bed to hug you as Asmodeus calmly sits down and hugs you right away after his husband, brushing through your hair gently with his mighty claws

After a bit, both fathers respond to hearing their precious fluffy Hellhound cry at her parents’ loving hugs. Crying in relief that both are immediately coming in to help you. You already feel so much better with both Fizzarolli and Asmodeus silently waiting for you to speak and hugging you

Of course… your problem is that people were mistreating you for being a Hellhound, a species of demons considered as meaningless animals, not as people. Asmodeus and Fizzarolli are already psychically speaking to one another on hiring assassins to kill the demons daring to harass their beloved little gemstone

“T-they… he was just so rude” You mumble out gently, long dog-like snout pressed into Asmodeus’ mighty big feathery chest whilst he holds both you and his husband, Fizzarolli to him whilst Fizzarolli keeps his thin but metallic robotic arms coiled around his hellhound baby girl like rope tied around your waist. His long imp tail wagging, Asmodeus couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath at seeing his imp lover so excited to hold their child, even when she is so upset

Asmodeus then whispers out, his dark blue beak slightly brushing over your soft hair, inbetween your tall fluffy red fox-like ears. Fizzarolli is mainly there for physical support, having the right as your upbeat and cheering up father whilst Asmodeus is the King of Lust and the king of Emotional Support, speaking for the both of the parents

“Darling. Whatever those fools said. They are wrong, you’re not ugly, you’re not a useless gross canine, you’re not a pet. You’re a beautiful, unique young lady that deserves all the love and admiration in the Lust Ring”

Just hearing Asmodeus’ smooth, silky and comforting voice alongside Fizzarolli’s warm big hugs is a one-two punch of extreme love to your heart and make all the dread, heartbreak and image problems wash away… well, mainly all of it. Though, both can sense when you’re not fully happy and both are still hugging you. The Sin holds both his husband and his daughter to his chest whilst the Imp snuggles his daughter in his husband’s hold

“I-I… I’m not a flea-ridden gross mangy mutt?” You ask gently, almost like a little child. Not even like a fourteen year old. It’s precious, both dads’ hearts are melting and Fizzarolli openly expressing how cute he finds their daughter with a soft ‘awww~!’ under his breath, even with his deep raspy voice. Asmodeus then nods and speaks gently again

It doesn’t take a big pep talk for this dads to cheer up their child from any problems she has

“Never, babygirl. You’re gorgeous, you’re talented, you’re filled with loveable joy and you have much ambition. You’ll slap down those fools when you become successful”

As soon as Asmodeus finished, Fizzarolli chimed in. Unable to stop himself from stating what’s on his mind and what he’d considered comfort. Asmodeus doesn’t really mind and your fluffy long tail flicks in curiosity at your Papa for what he wishes to add in to his husband’s truthful statements. As classic Fizzarolli fashion; it’s energetic, playful and a bit silly but passionate

Both promise they will make sure you’re successful, wealthy and beloved when you’re a fully grown adult

“You’re warm as well! People should be pouncing on you for snuggles and affection, rosydoll”

[1800titz]

Hi friends! I’ve been sitting on this for about 3 months now and had the spontaneous urge to share. More lengthy authors note is over on wattpad. ٩(◕‿◕)۶

This one is going to be a long, chaptered fic, and here's the first chapter!

Also, big thank you to Miss @freedomfireflies for her help brainstorming <3

WC: 6.5K

Harry thinks that prissy, pretty little princesses stowed away in his cabin, tied up with ropes like haphazard, shibari interpretations, outweigh all chests, upon chests, of dainty sapphire emblems and chunky pendants of gold. This particular …treasure, in fact, is worth far beyond her weight in pure gold. A sight for sore eyes, too. Still sopping from the sea, her low-cut neckline clinging to her flesh and her skirt sheerly draped over her parted thighs. 

It’s a nice view. 

Seren doesn’t know how she’s ended up strapped to some horribly uncomfortable stool in a rocking room that’s wood, ceiling to floor. 

Well. 

She knows that the boat she was on was a victim of piracy. She knows that the ship, aimed for Holland, met an unsightly demise at some point, in open ocean, between Rotterdam and Harwich. She knows she’d been in a cabin of the Mary when the first strike landed, when flames erupted over the forecastle, when the deck turned to screams and a beautiful morning of calm skies, wisps of white she’d admired minutes prior, meant virtually nothing to the tightening in her chest. 

The pirate leans back against the wall. His eyes, like emeralds, wind over her shape. She grits at the balled fabric between her teeth, chest heaving. He’s a man — a man’s man, unlike in appearance to the men she’s used to spending her pastime around, back home. The kinds who wither at the sight of the wrong fork at the dinner table or something, and turn their noses up at the thought of carrying something heavier than forty pounds. The kind whose hair coils pristinely, seemingly solidified rock in place. The kind who carry umbrellas to ward off the glaring rays of the sunlight as they stroll through the courtyard of shrubbery in their fancy shoes and fancy garments. This man is not that type of man. 

He’s different, she can see it just in the way he carries himself. He’s not scared to get his hands dirty, he’s not scared to do the work. The crest of his left cheekbone wears a scar, a nick, so small she wouldn’t see it had he not stepped into the buttery beam of the daylight cast through the little window on the precipice of wall and ceiling, particles of dust dancing in the makeshift spotlight. His fingers, adorned with chunky rings, his hands — they’re calloused, like a laborer. She can see it from her view. His garb is simple, clad over his skin for purpose and comfort, solely. 

But simple isn’t the term she’d deem best to describe him, not with his myriad of accessories, from the trinkets glinting from his holster, to his plethora of rings, to the mysterious, rusted key that dangled in the glen between his pecs. That one’s highlighted against bare skin in the vale of his haphazardly unbuttoned shirt. From there, she can see ink over his torso, carved in shapes over swarthy flesh. All sorts of pictures; beaks, and wings, lines of careful shading and others of jet emphasis; thicker, deeper sketches in contrast.  

He’s clean shaven, which is unlike any pirate Seren’s ever heard tall tales of. His mouth is pink, cushiony in shape, and when the corners of his mouth turn up, dimples wink awake beside the curl. An even slope of a nose, and jade irises that brew with mischief. Seren can almost see the way that the flinty shade would brew with a storm, like the sea. If he wasn't a pirate of the boat that’d throttled her own, sent it spiraling into the ocean as nothing but husks of chipped wood and dying ember, maybe she’d find an alluring quality to him. But it’s not food for thought. 

“Should we try again?” he prompts, in his tantalizing cadence. 

When she’d heard him speak, for the first time, she was floored. An Englishman. An Englishman, youthful and spry,  sailing a pirate ship, and pillaging when so much more could be in the books for such a man. So much potential, wasted. What a crying shame. She’d heard of pirates, of brutish criminals from her homeland, but they were always, for some reason or another, older, unprepossessing, scarred and crude with unkempt beards and a lack of morals, too far gone to redeem. They had eyes much too hungry for riches, and lewd, groping hands that were much too focused on flesh. Seren eyes his hands. They’re colossal. He hasn’t touched her in that way, not like that, but the lazy smirk over his plush mouth, the way his irises rake over her neckline, down the meshified front of her dress — that practically urges her not to count her blessings too soon. 

When he squats just ahead of her, watching her in pause, his eyes glinting with this sort of condescension, because she’s indisposed and at his whim, Seren wishes her legs weren’t bound to the legs of the chair. She’d kick him, if she could. She’d scream, and kick, and claw, and—

“Are you going to start shouting again? Is that what you’re thinking about?” he murmurs, the corners of his mouth buckling. When she’s unable to respond, for obvious reasons, the man cups his palm over the shell of his right ear and twists his head a tad, leaning towards her a smidge. 

“M’gonna need an answer, if you’d like to me to un-gag you. M’specifically gonna need a no,” the pirate prompts, a jesting air to his tone that Seren would love to crush. Her chest is still heaving from the last screaming fit, from the first time he’d tugged at the rope pressing to her cheeks and pulled the smushed fabric off of her tongue. His mouth twitches wryly. 

He plants his forearms onto his thighs, casting his gaze to her as he weighs out the options, lips crooked, but eyes narrowed, just a bit, in a way that wordlessly suggests she comply. 

“Let’s give this another go.” 

When the man digs his forefinger under the abrasive rope and yanks it down, over her chin, and then plucks at the outside of the makeshift gag, Seren doesn’t nip at his fingertips. She’d tried that, the first time, but he’d retracted before her teeth could come into contact, his mouth jolting at the fire within her he’d underestimated. She expected a smack, she’d expected her neck to twist as her cheek bruised in response to the attempt, but he’d just stuck his tongue against his cheek, all mirthy, until she’d started to scream. Then he’d gagged her again. 

So. 

That was a failure. 

The second the back of her throat meets the air, rather than the garbling cloth, the young woman starts screaming. Again. He’d kind of expected it. It’s a very lovely attempt, she’s quite loud, and all, but unfortunately, her efforts are sort of moot. That kind of thing tends to happen when you’re miles, and miles, and miles out in the open sea aboard a ship of men who work for the opposing team. Harry would clap if he wasn’t putting on a show of tucking a finger into his ear at her shrill cries. Eventually, he just watches her, letting her scream for a bit, and she holds seething eye contact as her help rises in pitch. 

“Okay— alright,” Harry shakes his head, balling the cloth, daubed with her saliva, and shoving it past her lips haphazardly. She attempts to spit, but can only wriggle as he presses the rope back over her mouth like the task is effortless. 

For a moment, neither of them say anything. The princess can’t. Harry tuts. 

His tone carries notes of amusement when he tells her, “You’re quite pitchy. D’you know that?” 

Seren stares him down. 

“Have you got rocks in your head?” his lips nearly jolt up at the blunt nature of his own inquiry. They don’t. “I tell you not to scream,” he waves with an arm, “you scream anyways. I say, let’s try one more time, because— you know. Maybe you didn’t get the memo, the first time.”

The princess watches him talk, bemused. He gestures with his arm like a tired parent, stressed and lecturing a menacing, little child. 

“And you yell again. So I’m wondering, have you got rocks in your head?” 

Seren says nothing. She does wriggle in the restraints, like his question has insulted her enough to launch at him. But she stills when he squats ahead of her, once more, her heart hammering behind her ribcage. 

“Who’s going to rescue you?” the pirate asks. It’s obviously rhetorical, and he knows she can comprehend that much. When the roll of her chest slows and she settles back, he can see it in her eyes that his point has left her crestfallen. His mouth quirks, and Harry presses again. “Who?” 

When he knows that the message has sunk in, when she stares at the wall behind him, blankly, the only evidence of her consciousness being her glazed over gaze and the flare of her nostrils on every inhale, Harry sighs down at his palms and shakes his head. 

“I’d just like a chat.” 

Seren twists her head away. As much as the binding over her neck and face allows for, anyways. Harry tuts. 

“So glum. You’re alive, aren’t you?” he cocks his head, voice low, “You’re not at the bottom of the sea. Not like your little boat.” 

Those words hit a nerve, he can see it in the way she side-eyes him, the flame reignited, kindling in her scorching gaze. The pirate nods down at his hands, twisting a ring with a ruby red gem, like a shitty mockery of a moment of silence. 

“It can’t possibly be comfortable, sitting with your mouth full, like that. And you must be thirsty, what with all that saltwater you were gargling,” he raises a shoulder, a coy reasoning to his speech. 

Seren doesn’t want his stupid water. He’d probably poison her, have his way, and roll her off the ship, back into the raging waters he’d pulled her from. Harry blinks. She doesn’t offer an inkling to show that she’s willing to comply, but he stands and reaches for the rope, digging the pads of his fingers under the binding, over her cheek. His forefinger brushes the corner of her parted lips. 

“Third time’s the charm.” 

Though, he doesn’t sound the least bit convincing, not even to his own ears. He cradles the square of cloth between his fingertips and listens to her screams for a moment. 

And then he startles her when he starts to harmonize with her screeching pleas. The first one is enough for her vocal chords to stutter, for her to jolt back in her seat, alarmed. 

“HELP!” Harry calls, stretching the vowel outweighing her own scream in volume as the young woman’s own dies off, and the princess balks, startling in the ropes at the sound. He takes a pause for a deep breath, and screams again, “HELP!” banging on the wooden beams over the ceiling, bumping with his palm loudly, in an outrageous display that’s clearly meant to taunt. The sound of him striking it, alone, causes her to jump in her restraints.

He’s unhinged. Seren is convinced. Her spine straightens out like an arrow, and her shoulders square as she ogles the bizarre display, watching him strike over the ceiling, the walls, stamp the soles of his boots against the floorboards. After a second, he settles down. His hand is crooked against one of the beams overhead, and his gaze roves over her slowly. Purposefully. The corners of his mouth curl up sardonically. 

“It’s not a very nice sound, is it?” 

He’s deranged. His screws are loose, Seren decides, her eyes still wide as the racing pace of her heart settles in her chest — but any man who sinks ships for fun, in the open sea, who sails and pillages, and murders innocents with a hunger for riches, has screws loose. These aren’t insightful revelations. Maybe she’d just expected him to be less …bizarre, in their interrogation. He was going to get his answers out of her — they were his, they were going to be, and there’s no kidding about it — but the young woman is unsure of what answers he’s looking for or why. Why, why, why. Why did these pirates sink her boat? It was nothing but a small ferry in comparison to the opposing monster of a galleon. It wasn’t even a merchant ship, there were no riches to be stolen. Ironically, the pirate reaches a hand out, and Seren fidgets until his fingers clasp over her ruby pendant. He lifts it from her skin with prodding fingertips and a gaze of scrutiny. 

She won’t give him answers, the princess decides. Whatever dialogue he may want from her, she won’t comply. She doesn’t know what he has in store for her lack of subservience, but she doesn’t care. She will not bend her will for this mangy brute. 

“This is a pretty piece.” 

Loose tendrils, clumped wetly, sway as she jerks her neck to tug the pendant from his grasp. She fails. His digits twitch and flex over the pendant, and the chain digs into the skin at the back of her neck with the faulty motion. The corners of his mouth quirk up as the princess makes an mmph. 

That’s a pretty sound. 

“M’not going to steal it. What kind of a man do you take me for? We’re good men here, on this ship,” the pirate declares, a sort of vehement passion to his statement, but the crook of his mouth says it’s an unlikely story. 

So do the remnants of her boat, somewhere at the bottom of the sea, Seren thinks dryly. Maintaining eye contact, he lets the pendant settle back between her collarbones. It is a pretty piece, Harry wasn’t lying. Real gold, too — no princess would wear something less. But he’s got no need to pilfer it from her. Every molecule of her being, every cell, will pay out tenfold the cost of the necklace. It’s with that thought that he fixes the gag back into place and leaves her, trussed to that chair in the cabin. 

“Ta,” the pirate bids in his slow roam towards the door, a glance aimed over his as he tucks his fingertips into the belt holstering his array of daggers, one handle bejeweled. The look he fixes her is sure, the kind that’s relaxed, but showcases that his word is final and will be the outcome. “Chat soon.” 

Fun fact; being tied to a shoddy, little wooden chair for hours on end fucking blows. Especially when your hands are bound, in such a way where the rope weaves through the pegs of the back of the chair, keeping your joints wrung together tightly. It’s really aggravating to have a coarse rope, its weaving splintered with pinprick-y tufts, stuck up over your cheeks to hold some sordid rag in place between your teeth. 

It’s safe to say that the experience is not one of Seren’s most favorite past-times. She’s not sure how much time has passed before that heavy wooden door creaks open on its hinges, again. Only a few hours, it must be. The crack of a window behind her hasn’t broken with nightfall, though the light cast through its opening has dimmed, if only a little. 

It’s the same pirate as before. All glimmery jade and the bare vale of tanned skin from the unbuttoned sector of his shirt, where she makes out a faint dusting of chest hair, between his pecs. 

The princess is still a gorgeous view, in Harry’s opinion. Her thighs are still splayed, but her cream dress has dried some, now, and so has her hair. It’s wild, mussed and frizzy. A half-soaked clump rests over one of her eyes. 

“Hello to you, too, darling,” he says in response to the glare she fastens him with through the one that’s visible, like instant daggers. The corners of his mouth crook. He ambles toward her with a steel cup of …something. Something mysterious, something unknown, something she eyes warily up until the point where he’s towering over her. The young woman tears her gaze away, casting it up to his handsome face, instead. 

He pries and tucks his digits up under the rope that’s settled over her cheeks and drawn ruddy hues, but he pauses before he pulls it down. 

“Y’gonna get loud?” 

Seren doesn’t say anything. In fact, she sort of can’t, which is quite nice, Harry thinks, but she doesn’t even make a garbled sound to appease or amuse him. The captain is thankful for what little fragments of peace he’s been granted before he’s forced to endure her ludicrously grating screeching. He weighs his options for a moment, but ultimately, tugs. 

Of course, the second he’s pulled the cloth out, the young woman is screaming, of-fucking-course she’s screaming. And at this point, it’s so obviously a ploy to irritate him, and Harry would laugh if the whole display wasn’t so vexing. There’s a tick in his jaw when he sets the lip of the tin cup to her parted, strawberry mouth, roughly — and he wouldn’t be so rough if she wasn’t so fucking loud — and tips. Instantly, that shout is garbled by liquid. It morphs into a cough and a much more tolerable string of sputters, as water leaks over and drenches down her chin, her chest, the front of her dress. 

“There we go,” the pirate says, the smooth baritone of his cadence louder over the fit of her coughing, “Attagirl. That’s much better.” 

He doesn’t tip more of the beverage into her mouth — a ransom on a princess who’s drowned in her own lungs is worth virtually nothing — and lets her cough and sputter a little longer. She strings together a sequence of breaths he deems good enough, before he smushes the rim of the metal cup back against her bottom lip. 

“Drink,” Harry advises and nudges the tin back in a way, again, so that the liquid sloshes and spills out into her open mouth. 

This time, she doesn’t cough. She expects it, the water. The princess affixes her top lip lower to siphon the beverage and takes a few swallows. Harry watches her throat bob, and he watches a little rivulet escape, too, dribbling down the corner of her mouth in a little streak. It drips down her chin, down her neck. His pupils follow the trail. He gives her a little break part-way, once the tin is close to empty and her neck is craned back with the swallows. He draws it away. Good. That was good, nice and easy. As easy as it could be, given the circumstances. 

Except she fixes him with this horrible glare, again, as he pulls the cup away. This glare that speaks volumes, this glower that should warn him of his error before he lets it happen. Harry doesn’t catch the drift. Only a glimpse of her cheeks puffing before she puckers her lips and spits the remnants at him, coating the bottom-most half of his linen with a mist of the water. His belt too, and a bit of his trousers. 

And then her mouth is empty and she’s just scowling at him, head tipped down in a way so that the chunk of her frizzy tendrils settles back over an eye. Harry doesn’t waste a second before angling the cup, miffed, and flinging what little water is left in the cup right back in her face. 

And the way her eyes screw shut, the way her lips fall open in silent appall the second he returns the energy, (except, he’s far more polite, in his humble opinion. He doesn’t spit at her like an improper animal), when she’s doused in the chilled liquid, and it coats the face-framing layers of her hair, her lashes, and drips down her chin — that’s the highlight of his day. 

He doesn’t instantly fix the gag back into her mouth, or slip the rope back over her irritated skin. He watches her, his jaw set, and when the young woman opens her eyes, she sees that storm brewing, manifesting — the kind she’d only imagined prior, in the flinty green of his irises. Like he’s harnessing his own composure. But then he takes a step back, and just. Leans against the closed door. Like he’s scoping her with his gaze. Like she’s just this shiny thing for his sight to pore over. 

And Seren thinks that feels worse than if she were to face the bite of his skin against her own, the swat of his palm against her cheek. She’d rather that, honestly. 

Her skin is cold from the water. She’s still sort of reeling that he’d done that, to begin with. He’s drumming the pads of his fingers against his bicep, over the nearly-sheer, cream sleeve of his shirt when he asks, a serious note of authority to the molasses of his speech, “Do you know who I am?” 

Seren curbs parroting the question wryly. As much as she’d love to tell him her father will torch the ship he rides upon and hang every member of his crew, him and his stupid fucking dimples included, she’s sure that all she’ll receive in response is a grating twitch of his pink mouth. 

“Hm?” he prods, making a show of cupping a palm behind his ear and steering his torso forward a smidge, half-expecting her response to be a series of shrill cries, for the hell of it.

Her answer is not one he expects. Frankly, the man doesn’t expect an intelligible response, the history of her opting for incoherent shouts, considered. But she speaks, afterall. It’s soft in decibel, feminine, and pleasant — her voice, unlike the aimless yelling he’d become accustomed to. Even still, it carries that undeniable note of derision. 

Seren tells him, “Someone …terribly disturbed.” 

Harry almost can’t help the way his cushiony mouth quirks. 

Almost. 

“Disturbed?” he scoffs, sardonically mirthy, “She spits at me like a fucking …filthy animal, and I’m disturbed. Aye, I’m disturbed.” 

The princess makes daggers with the gaze she sends in his direction. He lets her simmer in the wake of the light insult, for a moment, just drumming over his bicep, his mouth twitching in a kind of way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“I’m the captain of this ship,” Harry supplies softly, jade narrowed. 

There’s a twitch to her face then, something that slots by and withers in the blink of an eye. Something like recognition. And, fucking finally, Harry thinks — he can practically hear the angels croon at the crumbs of reception, from her, to his authority. 

“That means,” he motions out with the cup, his other arm still crossed, fingers wrapped about his waist now, “I’m in charge.” 

His voice is soft-spoken, a croon that spells it out for her, if she hasn’t already caught the drift. 

“I’m in charge of this ship. This crew,” he takes a step forward, ducking his chin as his eyebrows tip up a bit, “And you. And that means I’m in charge of what happens to you. So don’t you think it’s in your best interest to behave?” 

If he expects her to bow down and kiss the toes of his scuffed boots, the young woman doesn’t bite the bait. 

“You’re nothing but a mangy sea brute,” Seren declares, then, her chin held audaciously high, despite the ropes binding over her breasts and the foreboding ocean that sways beyond, with ravenous threat. He could lug her off onto the deck and chuck her off the plank, tied just like this. 

He doesn’t.  

He just stays leant against the wall, arms crossed over his bare chest. 

“Mangy sea brutes,” the pirate weighs her words, nodding slowly as he purses his lips in deliberation. And then his brows pinch together, “that’s quite insulting, actually. I take pride in my appearance, I’ll have you know.” 

“Mangy,” the young woman confirms, venom in her tone. 

The pirate props himself up and off, taking a languid step, each syllable of his cadence laced with condescension, “Now, rugged—“ and open mouthed smirk, a nudge with his chin, “I’ll accept. You don’t think I spend time in front of the mirror, darling? Mangy. What a rude word. I wasn’t aware that Siren, Princess of Essex was so abrasive.” 

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes when they flash to him — something like sharp surprise, mottled with pique. Like she didn’t expect him to know who exactly he was harboring upon his ship. The corners of his mouth crook. She’s seemingly appalled that he’s done his research. The glint of shock is gone, as soon as it shows itself. 

“Oh,” the captain takes a slow step forward in this sort of way, as if his body language is entirely meant to taunt her, hand in hand with his tongue, “I see. You thought I didn’t know who you were. Just some nameless, pretty little thing on my ship.” 

It’s a purposeful dig — the mispronunciation of her name. It’s only a vowel off, it could be chalked up to simple error, but it’s blatantly to mock her. Really, it’s a funny little dub since she enjoys spending so much screeching like the nuisance of a blaring alarm that just won’t shut off. It’s meant to demean her, to belittle her, because not even her name, blue-blooded and all, is worth correct pronunciation. That’s what she seems to hone on from the whole revelation, Harry finds. 

“Seren,” she corrects with bite, that same glower she’d worn prior reincarnated. 

The man takes another step. He cups behind his ear, and Seren promises herself that the moment she’s freed, she’ll personally chop off his stupid fucking ear for all the times he’d cupped behind that shell of it that way, so condescending. “What was that?” 

“Seren,” the young woman scowls, “Seren, Princess of Essex.”

He pauses, a cinch in his brows with this patronizing nod, like he’s weighing her correction, and then he tells her, motioning with an arm as the cinch relaxes, “Siren, Seren. Tomato, tomato.”

He motions with his palm nonchalantly. She wants to bite at his fingers. She doesn’t. 

“How dare you?” the young woman says instead. 

Harry’s mouth quirks. How dare he? What a pompous inquiry, molded by prissy lips. 

“How dare I?” the pirate repeats, and then just lifts his shoulder in a casually apathetic shrug. He takes a third step forward, raspberry lips smug and curled, “I just… dare.” 

And before the princess can voice her obnoxious protest, he shoves the cloth into her mouth and tugs up the rope, plucking a garbled sound of anger from her in the process. 

The silence is wonderful. 

By the time Harry returns to her for the third time, it’s well past nightfall. Light stops leaking from the crack of the window. Seren watches the shift, the way it rolls as the hours tick by, in the room. It morphs from behind her, its bright gold slipping into a darker orange, mottled with pink, and then dimmer, and dimmer, and dimmer, as minutes leak away, until all that’s left is dusk and the glow of the moonlight. 

The door creaks. She almost doesn’t see it, but she hears the pad of his boots over the wood and twists her neck to catch the sight of his legs as he steps through the threshold. 

“Honey, I’m home,” the pirate calls. 

Her eyes strain their sockets to catch the moonlight cresting off his cheekbones as his head dips, the dimpling that rises awake beside the corners of his mouth as they turn up at his own jest. He’s holding something. The captain winds around her, through the coat of darkness, and settles somewhere she can’t see. A thump, like something being set onto a table. Then, soft breaths fill the void of the silence. A strike of a match. Her eyes are forced to adjust to a warm, buttery glow as the little beam of fire, merged to a lantern, and then another, sends gold bouncing wall to wall. 

That’s when Harry sees that she's managed to make a home for herself on the floor, the chair she’s been restrained to tipped on its side. He almost doesn’t think anything of it, for a split second, but then, as the pads of his digits work buttons through their slits to disrobe, the pirate casts his gaze up for a double take. A twisted coil of satisfaction blooms in his chest as he observes her, the thought that whatever faulty maneuver she’d made to escape had resulted in this, and, well. That makes something joyful and mean bud. 

Seren listens to his boots, the step of them slow against the floorboards, until she sees him towering over her, in her peripherals. Her pupils shift. 

“Comfortable?” his brows climb with emphasis. The work of his fingertips over the buttons on his shirt are sluggish. Tired. She notes that motion, too — that fact that he’s actively shedding clothes. Nonchalantly. And it must show in her eyes, then. Something vulnerable, something uncomfortable, something raw, and petrified, because, yeah, she’s a petulant, little princess strapped to a chair in his cabin, against her will, and she fights him tooth and nail in every instance that he comes to visit her. But she’s a princess strapped to a chair, against her will, and it’s nightfall, and his skin is growing more bare, square inch by square inch, as the seconds pass. 

He must note that — whatever that shows, because the quirk of his priorly mirthy, strawberry mouth slips a tad. And then his features shape something relaxed. Something tired, again. Like he’s too worn. 

The sarky comment has those same traces of exhaustion seeping into it as his dismissive gaze disengages, honing on the work of his digits as he loops the final button through, “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. You’re not my type.”

The cloth slips apart, showcasing more skin. A line of hair from below his belly button, in soft, dark wisps that melts off behind his belt. Sturdy muscles of his abdomen that ripple as he moves, chin ducked—

His palms cup over the belt of holsters, and that clinks as he discards it, too, winding around to, she assumes, set it somewhere. And then, more skin to pore over when he returns, the sharp cut of a V, decorated with laurels, emphasized by the low hang of his trousers. He cocks his head down at her, like he’s contemplating. Contemplating what, Seren’s unsure. He moves out of her line of sight again. 

Her arm aches. She’d tipped over onto it what felt like hours ago, and it’d taken the brunt of the fall, lodged against the side of the chair with the situation of her joints being married in the bindings, behind her. She’d managed to roll forward on her shoulder, just a tad, so that the press against it wasn’t constant, but it still fucking hurt. Her palms, down to the tips of her digits, were numb, she had this heinous crick in her neck, and she’s sure that the moment she’s able to stand her tailbone will hurt like hell. If she’s ever allowed to stand again. Maybe he’ll hurl her into the open ocean, strapped to this godforsaken chair, afterall. 

For now, he just hauls her up. His touch — warm — skims the opposite arm before his palm wraps over the beam over the back of the chair and tugs, leveling her with ease. The young woman squeaks against the gag as she hovers, terrified to drop straight onto the limb again. She doesn’t. The pirate sets her straight with a tired grunt. His sight scales her arm, the one she’d toppled onto, and Seren can’t see, but she assumes it’s not in the most pristine condition. And then his touch smooths over the ache, a crease over his brow bone as his eyes pry, and she bristles. 

His mouth twitches, but it’s tired. Tired after having to deal with her, tired from whatever he’d spent his time doing beyond the cabin. Tired after sinking her ship and taking her hostage, Seren thinks bitterly. How exhausting. And Harry takes his hand away. 

From her new, upright view, she can see that little metal cup — the same one he’d brought her hours earlier. He’s set it onto the table, and she knows it wasn’t there before, which means he’s brought it with new water. Seren turns her head to face it. It’s the most she can manage given that she can’t tell him what she wants, what with the gag and all. 

“Thirsty?” he notes, chin over his shoulder in her direction as he shimmies the sleeves of his shirt off. Seren eyes the expanse of naked skin as it expands, from cuts of muscle to ink sunk into the flesh of his arm. Certainly, if she wasn’t before. 

The princess doesn’t answer. She can’t, and she’s not going to resort to a string of pathetic hums to get his attention. The captain sets his shirt onto the table in a pile of disarray, beside his belt, and takes the cup. When he makes his way over to her, Seren’s eyes don’t follow his figure. And for a moment, there’s only a deliberative sort of silence. She doesn’t look until he talks, until his tone is far more serious than she’s heard thus far. 

“If you spit it at me again, I will personally make sure you lick it back up, off the floorboards.” 

And wisely, she doesn’t spit the liquid back up at him when he tugs the gag free and tips the rim of the cup against her mouth. Seren doesn’t doubt he’s the type of man to follow through on his words. But that’s not why she drinks — she drinks because she’s fucking thirsty. Her tongue’s gone dry, and the back of her throat pinpricks with an uncomfortable soreness, and because the lukewarm liquid feels good spilling down her throat. She cranes her neck back, throat bobbing, and doesn’t stop until he’s pulled the cup away himself, and a little rivulet of water dribbles down the corner of her mouth. She takes a big gulp of air and expels it. 

And then, with angry sorts of eyes, the princess declares, “I’m hungry.” 

“You’re hungry,” the pirate mirrors, but it’s only wryly amused — his tired, sardonic smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and he sets the cup back onto the table with little urgency to get her food. “We don’t offer room service.” 

“You haven’t fed me once today,” Seren declares indignantly when he winds behind her, out of sight. And then there’s a sigh and a creak, the kind that seeps from mattress springs compressing. “This is— this is cruel, I’ll have you know. This is torture, this is—“ 

“Thank you for your honest review, we’ll make sure to take your feedback into account,” Harry chimes at her in true, facetious fashion, scrubbing over his eyes with a palm as he knees his way onto the bed. And then the pirate tells her, with a more serious note to his drawl, before she has a chance to interject with another complaint, “If you’re going to talk all night, I’m going to put your gag back in until the morning.” 

Seren doesn’t say anything. Finally, she doesn’t say anything at all, and it’s splendid. It’s peace and quiet, and all he hears, for a perfect moment, is the creak of the wood and the subdued roar of the waves. 

“I don’t want to stare at the wall,” the princess speaks, eventually, like a petulant child. “Why am I staring at the wall?”

“Because …that’s the way the chair’s facing,” Harry responds, matter-of-factly and almost instantly, sure that a note of irritation has managed to teem into the words despite his best efforts. He will not let her know that her efforts of poking are chipping at his composure, he won’t. 

And for another moment, Seren doesn’t say anything. He lets his eyes drift shut. 

“I want to face you,” the princess says, eventually, and her tone implies she’s taken the bridge of silence to build the phrase up into something more demanding, something royal and authoritative. If he wasn’t so fucking tired he’d laugh. 

“You want to watch me sleeping?” she hears the pirate from behind her, his honey-smooth drawl grown raspy and lower from, seemingly, exhaustion, “That’s an odd request.” 

Her brows furrow as a scowl paints her mouth. The bed creaks in the gap of quiet. Every hair stands on end when, suddenly, he’s inches from her, his presence looming and warm from behind, with calloused fingertips brushing the side of her neck in their venture towards that godforsaken gag. 

“Just turn me!” Seren shrieks, “Just turn me, and I’ll be quiet!” 

He doesn’t put the gag in. He winds around her, hand still on the rope, his features shaped with apathetic seriousness, “If I turn you because you want me to turn you, what good am I at putting my foot down? Hm?”

Seren blinks up at him.

“Please,” the princess tells him, hushed and earnest, “I don’t feel …safe.” 

His brows twitch. There’s something that blooms in the jade at her admission, but it flits by, gone as quickly as it’d appeared. And then his brows furrow, and he looks absolutely exasperated, the subtle downturn at the edges of his mouth emphasized with the roll of that same jade. The pirate scoffs, and his boots stomp over the wood, each step an inclination that his frustration has leaked into his body language. 

“I told you—“ the legs of the chair screech against the floorboards — he doesn’t even grunt as he maneuvers her with ease, the motion rough like it’s a chore, “—that you’re not my type. Not everybody wants to fuck you, your highness.” 

Seren blinks, pupils poring over the priorly unseen sight of the opposite end of the room. A slit of a window, brushing the edge of the wall that merges into the ceiling. A bookshelf of literature and knickknacks. A dresser, a queen-sized mattress on the floor. The pirate still looks absolutely miffed when he walks toward the table with the lantern, bare shoulders squared and the muscles in his back rippling. He sets the light out, kicks off his boots, and falls into the bed unceremoniously. 

It’s a victory. 

And for a moment, Seren thinks he’s just going to wordlessly roll over to avoid her prying gaze. He doesn’t do that. They bask in the crash of the waves outside, the darkness, and their quiet breaths. He’s got this knack — Seren’s learned. This skill of morphing from sarcastic and teasing to broodingly serious, and it’s mercurial, sort of. She wonders if this brooding side’s what’s brought him to lead an entire ship. 

“Be quiet now,” the pirate drawls from the sheets, in that broodingly serious cadence, “If I hear another word, I’ll personally carry you out onto the deck, and you can sleep in the chair out there.” 

The man rolls over to face the wall. Seren doesn’t say another word for the rest of the night.

[leucoratia]

A smooch !

[welcomingdisaster]

“You need not come,” Finrod says, smiling in that half-secret way of his, as a fox about to dive beneath a fence, “I shall tell father I have gone entirely without your knowledge, and you certainly shall not be held accountable for my deeds.” 

He is holding up his dress-gown, and a very pretty mask shaped as a beak of a swamp-crane, to the wear to the masquerade ball in Formenos, where he is not allowed to step foot. 

“Of course I need to come,” Edrahil says, thinking of the red plumes of the eldest house, of sword bared in the courtyard, “what if something ill comes of it?” 

Finrod laughs. “They are my cousins,” he says, “nothing ill could come; nothing ill shall come.” 

* * * 

“You need not come,” Finrod says. All around them is a terrible darkness and the whistle of the wind. The starlight catches in his blond-white hair, in his eyes, grey-green, giving him a ghostly look, as a flower covered in morning dew. “My servant you have been, but you are my father’s man, and often your judgement lies with his. Stay, if your heart so cautions you.” 

Edrahil tries to picture the ice in front of them; tries to imagine walking over thousands and thousands of miles of frozen ocean. The smell of salt-water and blood will not leave him. “I am not afraid,” he lies, “of course I shall go.” 

* * * 

“You need not come,” Finrod says. The familiar halls of Nargothrond feel suddenly heavy, confining, their carved surfaces decorated with crystals as the walls of a tomb. “Tis not a thing I could ask of you, when near no other comes.” 

You could ask me anything of me, Edrahil thinks. I would cut out my own beating heart. 

“Of course,” he says, “of course.” 

[nevadancitizen]

-> PROLOGUE: THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA

synopsis: you meet with a mysterious woman on an old californian dock.

word count: ~850

ships: Arthur Morgan/modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: inspired by @heart-of-gold-outlaw !! go read their modern reader fic i really like it. also we'll be getting into the actual time travel stuff after this teaser lololol :3

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

It’s a bracing, misty evening – supposed to be spring, but doesn’t feel like it. The waves are choppy and the gulls are huddled on the pylons with their beaks tucked under their wings, their feathers ruffling in the cold wind. 

Three hulking great ships, all freighters, are tied up on the beat-up dock. This isn’t one of those fashionable wharfs with dockworker unions or passenger liners – no pretty girls on their balconies, clinking champagne flutes to celebrate the start of the cruise. Just a couple of red-faced salts in pea jackets tramping by, trailing cigarette smoke, boots crunching on dried-up gull shit.

They spare you glances as they pass by, surely wondering what you were doing here in the early hours of the morning. Were you waiting for someone to get off work? Were you waiting for a drug deal? Or were you just admiring the way the waves spray water onto the dock?

(In reality, it was none of those. You’re waiting on something much worse.)

A woman, sleek and modern in style and rugged and worn in looks, approaches you. She has a quiet intensity about her — something about the way she squints against the ocean spray mixed with the permanent-looking scowl on her face. 

She tilts her head toward you, and you nod. You walk towards her and meet her halfway, leaning in close on her insistence. 

“You’re the one in need?” She asks softly. You just barely hear her over the waves crashing against the dock.

“Yes, ma’am,” you say, just as soft. “It’s my sister’s daughter. My eleven-year-old niece. She’s… she’s in a really bad way.”

“What does she need?” The woman asks. 

“A pancreas,” you say. “She’s got acute recurrent pancreatitis. There aren’t a lot of affordable child-sized organs lying around. God knows I’ve turned not just California, but the entire Mojave upside-down trying to find one. I’ve called hospitals in Arizona, Nevada, even New Mexico. I – I’m not asking you to kill a child! I just… I need the money for the operation. It’ll put her on the waiting list, and… once we show the hospital we have the money, I’m sure she’ll be okay. Somehow.”

The woman narrows her eyes. “Why don’t you just take out a loan? Or take on debt?”

“I can’t,” you say. “None of us can. I foreclosed on my last house. My sister has thousands of dollars in credit card debt, counting all the interest. Please, just trust me when I say I need this money. I don’t think anyone has nearly half a million dollars in their junk drawer. If I did, why would I be here, asking you for it?”

The woman looks you over and tucks her jacket closer around her. The outline of a gun at her hip becomes glaringly obvious – she wants you to notice it.

“Ma’am, I’m begging you.” You clasp your hands together as tight as you can. “I come from a family of deadbeats and addicts. I was an addict myself, and I quit just to save money for her operation, but it’s just not enough. I need this money. I won’t misappropriate these funds – won’t use them to pay off other debts, won’t use them for drugs. Just… please, miss.”

The woman holds up her hand. “Stop groveling.”

What the fuck else am I supposed to do?! You shout in your head. I need money, and you’ve got the money! My niece is going to fucking die if I don’t get it!

Instead, you just nod politely and put your hands behind your back. “Yes, ma’am. My apologies. I’m sure you can understand my desperation.”

“Uh-huh,” the woman hums. “I can get you the money. Just give me your banking details and I can wire it to you.” 

You pull out a pre-prepared index card with your bank information written down. The woman checks that it has your full name, address, account number, and routing number before speaking again.

“Do you have life insurance?” She asks, as if offhandedly.

“Uh, yes?” You say, unsure. “It won’t come out to a lot, so I couldn’t have an “accident” at work. Maybe just under 200,000 dollars? Nowhere near enough to cover her operation.”

The woman hums and tucks the card into her pocket. “I’ll get you the money.”

“Thank you so, so much,” you say. “You have no idea what this means to me – no idea what you’ve done for me and my family.”

“I have some idea.” The woman’s hand lingers at her waist. It takes you a few seconds too long to notice that –

A loud sound. A raging pain. The bullet hit something vital, but doesn’t grant you the mercy of dying in that instant. 

You stagger back, holding yourself. “What…”

“You’re dumber than you look,” the woman says, her voice fading in and out. “I’m just helping your family.”

You inhale shakily and take a step back. There’s a sense of falling, and something cold surrounds you, but you can’t make out much of anything in this condition. 

The last thing you think before the black takes you? It’s May. Who the fuck gets shot in May?

[astracora]

A Mandated Holiday Break - Chapter 1

Characters: Sylus x gn!mc (poly lads)

Warnings: None

Word Count: 779

Written: 21st December 2024

Notes: This is the first fanfic I've posted, it's not proofread, I don't know how many chapters there will be. Pray for me. Post-relationship Sylus/MC-centric but poly LADs, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

Masterlist AO3

It's one thing to take their government mandated holidays, as a hunter. It feels wrong, they know they need to take time off. People need breaks. If they don't rest, they fray. As a hunter, being sloppy means letting someone get hurt.

They know that.

Still... they've never been good at taking time off. It was easier with their family around, if Caleb hadn't dragged them home occasionally, they'd have burned themselves out frequently.

Now they just face the disapproving looks of their dear doctor... who is far less enthused, but far too professional to do any dragging.

It's another thing when their favourite captain tells them to go home because they look like shit. Alright, maybe not in that many words, but the sentiment was there. They try to imagine Jenna cursing and while it feels right, they also feel like they've seen something they really shouldn't.

She's right though, they muse. Dark circles, clothing tattering, ache in limbs.

If they'd been asked when they last took a holiday... well they couldn't answer.

Tara nudges them, warm smile on her face, "I'll text you. Go sleep." And with a warm hand on their back, she pushes them towards the door.

They're tempted to look for Xavier to say goodbye for the day, but it's late and he could be anywhere. (Though they're willing to bet he's stolen a break room for a nap.)

Instead they leave the Hunters Association, standing in the street below, staring up at the holiday decorations lining the street. It's cold enough that their teeth chatter...

And they come face to face with the loneliness of being stood here, an empty home and the knowledge that all their loved ones are still busy, working, wrapping everything up.

They could go visit Zayne, but he's got such an important job they don't want to intrude. (The voice in their head that sounds a bit like his tries to remind them they could never intrude.) They could message Xavier, but if he's finally resting they'd had to disturb him. (They never could, he's pleased whenever they spend time with him or join him for a nap.) They could go check in on Rafayel, but he's preparing for an exhibit and they don't want to break his creative flow. (How could they when they're his muse? The reason he found purpose in a paintbrush again.)

Instead they stand and stew and struggle. Internally debating how much they can exist in a space, before a caw snaps them out of their shuddering. Arms wrapped around them through the too thin coat, not at all built for the snow and chill.

Mephie perches on their shoulder, his red eyes gleaming. They're hit with the strange feeling that the robot bird knows and sees far more than he should, before the non metal feathers puff up, snuggling into the crook of their neck.

In seconds all the tense strain in their limbs ease up, and they breathe out a long exhale. "Hey." They manage, forcing their teeth to stop chattering and their smile comes gently.

They're unsure if it's for the birds benefit, or for his owner, but they realise it doesn't matter. Both bring unrivalled comfort.

Their new companion, caws again, tone deaf and glitchy, before clacking his beak at them. Extending his foot, a small message tied to it.

Why Sylus doesn't send them messages in any normal way, they'll never understand. He enjoys phone calls, texts them constantly, but whenever he wants to be dramatic, in flies Mephisto with a letter or a note, on a blaze of feathers and metal.

Gently, they untie it, patting the pretty bird's head as they do so with one hand.

He preens and coos at them happily, glitchy static and very real pleasure at their attention.

'You have time off. I'm booking it for the week.'

They'd question how he knows, but he always seems to know. They should find it creepy, but they've since learned if he doesn't watch their back constantly, people who want them hurt do.

Perhaps they've grown too soft on him, his attentions, his affection, his constantly presence, but they find it more soothing than unnerving.

Still. They would like to know how many ways he's keeping track of them.

If only for the curiousity lurking under their skin, one of the traits he teases them for.

"I guess you're my accompaniment then Mephie?" The bird puffs up, proud and preening, and he looks far too much like his prideful master for a moment for them to not chuckle. As their guide kicks up into the sky, flying off, they follow him a little lighter.

[myriad--starlings]

having one of those nights where I'm staring at the ceiling like what if everything I'm doing is the wrong thing and I'm making every wrong decision ever and also in the back of my head going bitch what is this even About what is going on right now. you good??? hello?!