#and a dozen ship art of them

[sweetbisscuit]

So deprived of fanfiction and fanart of my ship, I started making fanfiction and ship art

[lethality-of-dual-strike]

well well well if it isn’t the fankid that started it all

clearly going through lots of style changes (the last two were me trying to stay as close to the actual show’s artstyle) but anywayyy, I first designed Milan as a joke! fankids for crack ships are funny, but then they somehow spawned my TPT universe and now HP/Cupid is something I actually ship now 😔 they’ve only interacted in the Fairy Oddlympics but shhhh let me be silly

[aesadraws]

Just some silly drawings of some ships I love. That's all there is to it lol

[andejoe]

No one wanted to ask. Someone had to. It was terrifying. But it made sense.

Of course humanity finally abandoned its planet. Everyone was surprised they hadn’t abandoned it sooner. Still, the concern was there.

What made humanity abandon their planet in a mass event? What thing was finally found to scare them off their favorite death world?

Of course not every last human abandoned the planet, but enough did that Earth was no longer considered ‘inhabited’. Humans flocked to other worlds, most choosing death worlds with similar biomes to the ones they preferred. (And there was a suspiciously armored ship heading towards Disney planet.)

The concerning thing was the humans kept going back. Never landing. Never breaking the atmosphere. Just driving by.

Finally, a delegate was chosen to ask the human council member. Poor Laeri was nervous, but they had been called friend by council member Daryl before. Surely this question wouldn’t be an offense.

“Daryl, may I speak with you a moment?”

Daryl paused, and nodded, careful not to smile. He was well practiced in the art of not offending. “Of course Laeri. What is the matter?”

“Humanity has recently applied for habitation permits for a dozen planets. As soon as the permits were awarded, humans left very quickly.”

“Well sure. The permits took three earth years to be approved. Most of the planet had been preparing for over five years at that point,” Daryl explained.

“Yes, that is not my question. The question is why?”

“Why were they ready?”

Laeri shook their head. “Why did they leave Earth? Humans have made it a point to ‘stick it out’ despite better options being available. Why leave now?”

“Oh, that. Well.” Daryl paused. He knew he didn’t have to report officially yet, but his friend wanted to know. “Will you keep it a secret from the council?”

Laeri paused. The answer being a secret did not occur to them. What could the humans possibly be hiding? Would they be able to hide it as well?

“I do not think I can keep any dangerous thing a secret,” Laeri finally admitted.

Daryl nodded. “Nor would I ask you to. It’s not dangerous, just a little experiment more like.”

“If it is an experiment, then you should speak with-“

“No Laeri.” Daryl interrupted calmly. “This isn’t something we want help with. That’s why we haven’t mentioned anything to the Viyon Academics. We just need time to see if it works.”

Their curiosity finally got the better of them.

“If what works?”

“A new society. A new civilized species.”

Laeri didn’t speak, but either from awe or concern, they weren’t sure. Daryl continued.

“We believe a species evolves when they start to take care of their injured and impaired. It means they have compassion. Well an intelligent species on earth has been observed showing compassion. We simply want to give them the space they require to evolve.”

Laeri considered the intelligent species that lived on earth. They were suddenly very concerned. Had the humans been duped?

“The dolphi are showing compassion?” Laeri asked.

Daryl almost laughed. “Not even close. No, we wouldn’t break the agreement we made. They’re not escaping earth anytime soon.”

Laeri felt immediate relief. “Then which species is it?”

Daryl smiled. He couldn’t help it. He liked birds. “Corvids.”

“But, but they’re so small.”

“We know. That’s why some humans are still there, zoologist types to help them grow, learn, and show them the way.”

“What if another species wipes them out before they get the chance?”

Daryl shrugged. “Well that’s why we left some warriors behind, to help keep the corvids alive while they grow. And of course to keep the dolphins contained. We do take that assignment very seriously.”

Laeri was excited now. Another avian species may be joining the galaxy soon. They wanted to tell everyone.

“Promise you’ll keep the secret?” Daryl asked.

Laeri felt their excitement dash upon the cruel rocks of reality. “I will.”

“Good. Here.” Daryl held out a small computer drive.

Laeri took the drive. “What is this?”

“The live feed of the experiment. You really think we wouldn’t watch? As soon as they reach civilized status, I have to report them. Until then, they’ve been completing some very complex puzzles and problem solving lately. You’ll want to start at the beginning but they post new information all the time.”

Laeri clutched the drive to their feathered tunic. Suddenly the small drive was priceless. “I, must go now.”

Laeri took off as fast as would be ignored by others. Daryl watched his friend, surprised by how excited they were. His watch gave him an alert.

“Ooh, a group puzzle. Wonder if they managed it this time.”

Daryl walked off to his own private quarters to watch the newest update on the corvids.

[a-leg-without-fear]

Sweet Dreams, TN🩸🔥

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

Ship: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader🩸

Rating: 18+

Worcount: 4.7k words of pure sin

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

Song: Sweet Dreams, TN by The Last Shadow Puppets

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know what I mean,” you groused. 

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

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

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

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

“Forget it, it’s not-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[stra-tek]

One of the things I love most about Star Trek is that is goes on forever. You like a character? Beyond the episodes, there's more than likely at least dozen novels about them. Not enough? Have a ton of comic books where they go on even more adventures. Still need more? Here's a thousand fanfics. Here's a background graphic from an episode seen for 0.2 of a second detailing their education and qualifications. Horny for them? There's art for that, fic for that and maybe even naughty photos of the actor. Starships your thing? Here's a technical manual explaining how things work, and a set detailed floorplans. Want more? Here are books on the histories of the pretend starships, with endless variant designs and backstory for their creation. Still not enough? Walk around the ship on the laptop or computer as if you're there. You like the aliens? Here's a novel detailing their backstory. Here's a pretend travel guide to their planet. Still not enough? Here's an old Star Trek book with details about their anatomy. Still want more? Here's a fan diagram of the alien's penis.

[felassan]

Jason Schreier: "NEW: After the release of Dragon Age: The Veilguard, dozens of BioWare employees were told they were temporarily assigned to other projects within EA. This week, a twist: those temp assignments are now *permanent* transfers. And BioWare has shrunk. Story: [link] Dragon Age: The Veilguard was undeniably divisive, but to many who worked on it, it was a miraculous accomplishment to even ship a complete game after EA forced live-service into it, then reversed course. Now, their reward for the long hours and hard work is layoffs and transfers." [source]

Bloomberg article:

"Electronic Arts Slashes BioWare After ‘Dragon Age’ Sales Miss The studio has shrunk to less than 100 people following the release of Dragon Age: The Veilguard Dragon Age: The Veilguard missed EA’s sales expectations by 50%, leading to cuts at the studio"

"Hi everyone. Today we’re diving into the cuts at Electronic Arts Inc.’s BioWare. BioWare magic Late last year, after the release of the new role-playing game Dragon Age: The Veilguard, dozens of employees at developer BioWare were given some staffing news. Moving forward, they were going to be loaned out to other teams within their parent company, Electronic Arts, where they would work on various upcoming games like Iron Man and Skate. The logic made sense. BioWare’s next game, a new installment in the popular sci-fi Mass Effect series, was in pre-production and did not need the entire studio. There were no other internal projects for everyone to work on. Instead of getting laid off, they would stay employed, working on other projects until Mass Effect was ready for them. But this week, the group was informed that the loans had morphed into permanent relocations, according to people familiar with what happened. They were no longer BioWare employees who were temporarily on assignment elsewhere; now, they worked for whichever EA subsidiary had borrowed them. If they want to work at BioWare again in the future, they would have to look for job openings and re-apply. This was an unwelcome development for some of the employees, who now find themselves on brand-new teams at studios they’d never planned to join. Some had come to BioWare to work on storied role-playing game franchises and found the idea of working on action or sports games less appealing. But at least they got to keep their jobs. During the same reorganization this week, around two dozen other people at BioWare were laid off, according to the people familiar, who asked not to be identified discussing nonpublic information. Writer Trick Weekes and producer Jen Cheverie said on Bluesky that they were among the veteran workers who’d been cut."

"BioWare is now down from more than 200 people two years ago to less than 100 today, according to the people familiar. A small team will remain to work on the next Mass Effect game — led by company veterans who oversaw the development on the original trilogy as well as on 2019’s Anthem — in hopes of expanding as the game gets further into production. The company announced the reorganization on Wednesday, saying it planned to “become a more agile, focused studio,” without mentioning the job cuts and the relocation of staff permanently to other studios. A spokesperson for EA declined to comment on specific numbers. It’s been a rough month for EA. Last week, the company’s shares plunged 18% after reporting preliminary holiday-season results that missed estimates and lowering its forecast for the fiscal year. The poor results were largely due to the underperformance of EA’s latest soccer game but the company also said that Dragon Age: The Veilguard reached 1.5 million players, missing sales expectations by 50%. What may be most surprising is that EA, which has a long history of shuttering studios after a failure, is keeping BioWare around. The once-revered RPG studio, founded in 1995 by a trio of doctors, released a string of beloved titles throughout the 1990s and 2000s, including the first two Baldur’s Gate games, Dragon Age: Origins and the Mass Effect trilogy. But the studio has failed to release a hit since 2014’s Dragon Age: Inquisition. Mass Effect: Andromeda, released in 2017, received mediocre reviews and was widely criticized for its bugs and uncanny animations. BioWare then pivoted to a live-service shooter with 2019’s Anthem, which was roundly panned and killed after less than two years. Both games were plagued by management issues, brutal deadline crunches and a belief — called “BioWare magic” — that everything would work out in the end."

"With the single-player Dragon Age: The Veilguard, which had its own turbulent development cycle and was rebooted multiple times, the studio hoped to win back lapsed fans. Despite generally positive reviews, the game proved to be divisive among players, with some criticizing the writing, art style and linear level design. But many observers and staff blame EA for the situation they put BioWare in — canceling an early version of Dragon Age in favor of one that would be required to have a “live-service” multiplayer component with recurring revenue, only to then reverse course, reverting once again back to the single-player format. It would be difficult for most game-makers to release something great under those conditions. Now, BioWare studio head Gary McKay and Mass Effect executive producer Mike Gamble are essentially looking to reboot the company as they plunge forward on their next game. It will be a long road ahead, and what emerges will be a very different BioWare. But at least for now, the studio will continue.""

[source]

[zeropro]

Hi! I'm SOOOOOO sorry to be asking this because it's probably already been asked dozens of times. But should I be tagging your art as Trine Shipping? I genuinely don't know if the trio are just Bros or not, and I wanted to make sure. (⁠〒⁠﹏⁠〒⁠)

I have no problem if people want to ship my seekers, they are not at all related to each other.

I write them as brothers in the sense that I am thinking of the situation with Megatron from the angle of an abusive parent and three siblings, but that’s meta textual. megatron’s not literally their dad. I also don’t write them as being intimate with each other because I’m not super comfortable writing that sort of content. but like, if you want them to kiss thats valid. thundercracker and starscream could totally kiss. uwu

tag stuff however you want.

[vintagerpg]

Space Wreck: Ghostships and Derelicts of Space (1979), is the third volume of Stewart Cowley’s Terran Trade Authority handbooks. As with Space Battles, the art here comes from the portfolios of artists at the Young Artists and Sarah Brown agencies. This is my favorite book of the series (and also the last one I own — I’m not super interested in Starliners: Commercial Travel in 2200AD relative the prices I’ve seen it going for).

If the first volume is the ship sourcebook and the second the galactic history sourcebook, this is the adventure seed book. Story after story of things going wrong in space or on exo-planets, none of them really containing satisfactory explanations. All of the art is spooky. I love a skeleton in a space suit and this book is full of ‘em, but more than that, so many of the images play on that eerie sense of mystery I find in the story of the Mary Celeste. Space Mary Celestes! Dozens of them, with twisted hulls and rusting metal.

[littlefreya]

Neptune's Snare

Summary: She came to take revenge on the loathsome man who murdered her fiance, only to become his captive.

Read Chapter One

Pairing: AU!Pirate August Walker x Virgin OFC (for now 😏)

Word count: 3k

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI. Sexual themes, dark themes mentioned, historical inaccuracies, kidnapping, captivity, graphic descriptions of sex, intimidation, slow burn, sexual tension, foul language.

A/N: I was unsure whether I should do part 2, but @deandoesthingstome (💖) motivated me to do it, so I truely hope you will like it. Many thanks to @agniavateira, for beta'ing. I am no longer using my old tag list, but I will tag those who specifically asked to be tagged for this story via my new Writing Update Blog @littlefreyaslibrary.

Thanks for reading, and please reblog with a comment 🖤

Chapter Two

Hours had passed since the Captain left—hours of futile attempts to escape the cruelty of the heavy iron binds. By now, the ship was deep into the ocean, miles away from any harbour or piece of land. The notion that she’d been abducted by the most ruthless murderer known to authorities had only just begun to sink. 

As hot tears stung at her cheeks, Lizette couldn’t help but chuckle at the stupidity that led her to this fate.

‘Did you really think that a foolish girl could succeed where great men had failed?’ 

If Lizette had dared be honest, she would admit she never thought that plan through, not that it mattered much anymore. Soon enough, she would be yet another shiny trinket in Blackbeard’s gaudy collection.

Exhausted from a fierce yet futile battle, she leaned her head back against the plush, gold-paneled wall. Her weary gaze drifted through the open window, where the dark skies and black seas merged into a desolate void. No light shone through tonight; the darkness has devoured the stars and the moon. Lizette felt as if she was drowning in it too, sinking into a thick, tar-like liquid. With each breath, the collar around her throat grew heavier, the iron pressing into her skin and dragging her deeper and deeper until everything faded to black.

When she blinked again, it was still night but the cabin was lit in deep shades of honey and amber. Her heart skipped—once for the iron still hanging from her neck and twice as her bleary eyes caught sight of a shadow by the edge of the big table.  

It appeared that her host had returned. 

Boots flung across the food-abundant table, the Captain sat back in his royal velvet chair. One hand cradled a silver chalice whilst the other toyed with the edge of his thick whiskers. Silver trays of food, wine, and books were splayed before him, surrounded by dozens of fat, wax-dripping candles. The flickering flame guttered upon his eyes, painting them bright red while he observed the girl intently. 

The curiosity was mutual, at least to some extent. As loathsome as the pirate was, Lizette could not help but scrutinise. Never in her life did she see a man so crude and yet so regal at the same time, He looked like a washed-out king, holding himself to a higher status amongst the scum aboard his ship. Surrounding himself with fine art, books and scientific obscurities, one would assume that this low-life man was educated, or at least aspired to be. His appearance, too, was of some sort of false elegance,  with his moustache carefully groomed and his hair neatly combed save for an errant curl that fell upon his tanned forehead. However, the white cotton shirt that hung partially unbuttoned and loose from his shoulders exposed him for what he truly was as it revealed a myriad of tattoos, scars, and coarse hair. 

‘Nothing but a filthy scoundrel.’

“At last, sleeping beauty is awake.” 

Lizette kept her tongue knotted. The blazes on her stare answered on her behalf. 

August scoffed at the silent response. ‘Precious little thing,’ Had only she known how much he enjoyed obstinate women. The only thing that was better than bending a spitfire to his will was getting a nun to kneel before his cock.

A slight twitch tugged at his cheek; his smirk widening at the fond memory.  

‘Ah, Mary… you sure pray hard.’

Letting go of his whiskers and the chalice in his grasp, the Captain reached for a loaf of bread and split it in half. Steam rose and coiled to the air.  The scrumptious scent of the freshly baked goods quickly filled the room and wafted over Lizette in a tempting invitation. Absentminded, she suckled her bottom lip, almost able to taste the sweetness on her tongue. 

The pirate held out one piece of the loaf, an unmistakably provoking grin lighting his face. “Would you dine with me, pet?”

Weakness unfurled through her, reminding Lizette that it must have been hours, if not an entire day, since she last ate. Her empty belly flipped and gurgled so loudly that the pirate could hear it even from where he sat. Joy immediately cascaded about his glance; the impish grin between his cheeks further stretched. 

To his delightful surprise, the girl was a lot more stubborn than she appeared. Instead of begging, she offered a spiteful glare and turned her face away. 

“I’d rather starve!” 

“Suit yourself.” The Captain shrugged and bit on one of the pieces. Hums and moans sputtered from his mouth, all exaggerated to taunt his brazen prisoner. As he finished chewing, he sucked on each of his inked fingers. 

“Got a name, pet?”

“What matter is that to you?” The girl spat.

August shrugged again and returned to the chalice, dragging it on the table's surface in circular motions. A deep-red whirlpool briefly formed in his drink. He stared at it indifferently as he retorted, “Matters not, pet. But since you’ll be spending some time here in my quarters, I will require a moniker to approach you by. Question is, would you rather I choose a name for you myself? It won’t be a nice one. I can promise you that.” 

Keeping her eyes averted, the girl folded her knees and hugged them, a deep sigh sinking from her. She couldn’t even bring herself to imagine the horrendous name he would choose.

“My name is Lizette.” 

A touch of dark delight kissed his face—as if he had heard the enchanting hymn of a siren. Thoughtful, he stopped stirring his drink to the sound of her name, licked his lips, lifted the chalice and pressed it to his lips. “Ah, yes, you are definitely a Lizzy.” 

“It’s Lizette!” she vehemently corrected.  

“Oh!” The pirate abruptly twirled his free hand in the air, his brows lifting in a sardonically submissive gesture. “Forgiveness! Mercy, milady!” That had earned him the attention he was hoping to receive, as finally, Lizette snapped to glare at him. 

The pure ire on her face did nothing but feed his amusement. 

With a slanted grin and his thumb brushing his whiskers, he eyed her back. It’s been a while since a girl piqued his fascination, and this one was indeed something else. Fear seeped from her like dewy nectar from a ripe fruit. The sheen of sweat clinging to her skin and the throbbing at the crook of her neck gave away her true emotions. Yet, she exuded the unyielding fury of a harpy, the shackles around her throat barely deterring her brazen spirit.. 

‘Bold little thing. As ferocious as the ship’s cat…’ August thought and then frowned, ‘Where is that ungodly creature, anyway? Haven’t seen it in a while.’ 

“Lady Lizette…” the correct moniker rolled smoothly on his tongue in an inherently sinister sweetness. “Are you always such a rude guest to your hosts?”

“Guest?!” Lizette seized the chain that held her collar to the wall and lifted it in front of him—a deep frown decorating her weary face.  

“I am not a guest! I am a prisoner!”

“Ah! Ah!” The pirate lifted his inked index finger in an unbearably pretentious manner. "It was you who came aboard my ship willingly, and let us not forget—uninvited.” 

Lizette felt a chill in her chest, the same chill she always sensed when getting an answer wrong in her Latin lessons. He was right, and there was more to it. Pirate or not, doesn't every man deserve respect in his own home? 

That notion made her cheeks hot. 

“And if I may…“ the pirate drawled huskily and shifted into his seat. Lizette’s eyes followed his movement with the wariness of a skittish cat. Initially bemused, she realised his hand had snaked below the table and was now fumbling with his waistband. 

A deep, pulsating pang bloomed in her core as the primordial anxiety every maiden is doomed to suffer from awoke within her. Alarmed, she shook her head and blurted hoarsely, “Wait!” 

The pirate paid her no mind; either he didn’t hear or didn’t care. Then, his hand sprang back sharply with a pistol in his grip—the same one he had confiscated from her merely a few hours before. 

“Did you not attempt to murder me in my own home?” 

With those words, he slammed the pistol on the table, the dull thud booming through the cabin wall and causing Lizette to jump with a start.

Sinking back to his red regal chair, August crossed his fingers together and pressed his lips together with the contempt of an authority figure. The many golden trinkets around his fingers chimed as they collided. 

“Answer me, Pet.” 

Lizette regarded the pistol carefully. The golden floral embellishments upon the handle sparked with the candle's light.  For a fleeting moment, she wondered how fast she needed to be to grab the pistol and shoot him dead in his rotten heart. Instead, she simply nodded, much as she could with the heavy collar around her neck. The spots where the sharp edges grazed her flesh burnt as sweat dripped over the bruised skin.

“Dumb as your plan was, I do appreciate the gesture, las. It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to murder me, but it’s definitely the first time it was a beautiful young lady. Was all of this because of a boy?” He challenged, crooking one eyebrow. 

This time, Lizette did not hesitate to answer. 

“You robbed me of my future!” She corrected, and though she tried to maintain a fierce demeanour, the quiver in her voice gave away the rageful grief. 

Sympathy, sadly, was not in August’s books, especially not whilst being distracted by the way her breasts pressed against the confines of the corset with every fervorous breath. A small, almost inaudible groan left his lips. He wondered if she, indeed, was a virgin. Did he deny her of her wedding night? Were these lovely tits ever in the hands of a man before? 

Surely, he would find out. One way or another. 

With a glare still fixed on her cleavage, he grazed his dimpled chin and simply shrugged. 

“Pirate.” 

Lizette hissed in response. Defiant, she snapped her arms across her chest to hide her cleavage. 

‘Pig.’

“So I robbed you of your future,” August continued, mimicking quotation marks with his long, inked fingers. “And thus, you thought you should rob me of mine?” 

“And what future would that be? Murdering and whoring?” she muttered hatefully.  

The pirate swatted a hand over his chest, giving her a fake, exaggerated pout. “Now that pains me, love.” 

Lizette could sense the blood seeth beneath her skin. She was used to men belittling her, but never did she experience such sheer mockery and humiliation. Trembling, she yelled back, “Good! I wish you nothing but pain!”

“And so she continues to insult me in my own home.” August clicked his tongue and shook his head with sardonic disappointment. “You highborn ladies sure lack respect. ‘Funny thing is, no matter how uppity women like you act, they all want the same thing…” his voice slurred and deepened, coaxing a baffled look from the maiden who abruptly forgot her wrath and ate the bait. 

“And what would that be?” 

The pirate stood and calmly paced to the fore of the table, where he leaned against the edge to peer down at his prisoner. Lizette remained guarded. he was fairly far away yet close enough for his shadow to fall upon her face and for his manhood to be situated at the level of her mouth. She struggled to avoid staring at it directly, which only made that wretched smug smile light his face again.

“What you ladies truly want is to be violated by none other but us ‘lowlife scoundrels’,” August nibbled his bottom lip, a dry chuckle escaping him as more fond memories came to mind. “Truly, the lots of you are bored by the castrated virility of the poised gentlemen. All you fantasise about is to be fucked dirty like a whore by a brute who has no sense of propriety.” 

The pirate held his fist before him and mimicked a slow pumping motion. Although Lizette did not quite understand it, his words alone were enough to leave her gravely unsettled. 

“You are an animal,” she snarled, not realising that her nails were biting into her forearms as she clutched herself so protectively. 

But that merely fueled him.    

“Tell me, Pet, did your boy satisfy those dark desires before he left a delicious bonny lass like yourself all alone? Did he split open and plundered your sweet little cunt, ass, and mouth, or did he leave you wet and miserable?”

Heat crawled at Lizette’s cheeks, yet she wasn’t sure whether it was from outrage or shame. Never in her life had she even considered the possibilities he had suggested, and now those horrifying images poisoned her mind.  

Amused by her obvious mortification, the pirate tilted his head impishly. “No? Not even a finger or a tongue?”

“Stop it!” She implored, her voice cracking.

Ignoring her plea, he clicked his tongue. “Aw, sweet, tender flower. That’s the problem, isn’t it? He left you all alone and uncharted—that lonesome seal, begging to be invaded. Well, milady, you didn’t have to threaten me with a pistol in that case. All you had to do was ask.” 

The pirate reached for his bulge and squeezed it, much to Lizette’s dismay.

”Trust me, one night with me, and you’d forget you ever loved him.”

That was enough to send Lizette over the edge. Not thinking twice, she jerked to her feet, the chains around her rattling along a furious onslaught that sputtered from her mouth. 

“Love?! What do you know about love? You are a monster! All you do is kill and rape! You are incapable of love, and I’d be damned if anyone could ever love you!” 

All the candles in the cabin flickered with a sudden gust of wind as the pirate suddenly lunged forward. He moved so fast, too fast. Lizette hadn’t even had the chance to sway from his touch, and already he was upon her. Crude fingers dug deep into the hollows of her cheek, forcing her to face his terrorising stare. 

“You think this is a game? You think you know anything about me, little girl? About what I’ve done!?” 

It was not a question to be answered, and even so, Lizette couldn’t bring herself to speak; she was suffocating, drowning on the surface. All around her, the air stood dense with the scent of iron, wine, and musky sweat, whilst the weight of his body crushed as it clung to her. 

Closer, deeper. Layers upon layers of silk and wool separated their skin from one another, and still, she sensed the curve and firmness of his robust figure. The woven map of muscles that adorned his torso and the flex each muscle made as he tensed were evident 

But none of this came close to what she saw as he forced her to look into his eyesa wrathful maelstrom pregnant with sinister urges beyond her darkest fears. It felt as if it was trying to draw her into a deep sense of anger, and grief submerged her.

Dread began to spill into her veins. He was going to kill her.

Lizette sucked in a deep shuddering breath. She was not going to join her Edward. Not tonight.

“Let go of me!” She squealed and began to punch his shoulders repeatedly. It felt like hitting iron, every blow more painful than the other, yet she refused to stop. 

Indeed, she was just like that sea monster of a cat.

Stoic as an icy sea breeze, the pirate tilted his head at the girl. Despite her desperate efforts, her battle did nothing but vex him. Quirking one eyebrow, he released his grip from her jaw and swiftly reached for her hands. Lizette did her best to evade, squirming erratically, but to no avail. With a swift single hand, he seized her wrists and pinned them above her head with a booming thud.

The girl gasped out with surrender, strands of her hair blowing back and forth upon her face as she heaved and panted exhaustingly. With his hand around her wrists and his body slightly bent to meet her height, he stood  closer to her than any other man had before. So close that she could taste the wine and sea salt on his breath and study every freckle and every scar that marked his skin. He was nothing like her Edward, she thought; he was coarse and terrifying, and despite it all, she found him tragically beautiful. 

She hated him for that. 

“Listen to me now and listen carefully,” he finally spoke, tightening his grip around her wrists.

Liaette lifted her chin disdainfully; it took every ounce of self-restraint not to spit at his murderous, smug face. 

“You’ve mistook my hospitality and playfulness for kindness, but let’s get this straight; I am not a good man. Upset me, and I will pluck that little flower between your thighs without blinking and then throw you to my crew once I have my fill.” 

His words brought a stark shiver down her spine, yet it wasn’t just fear this time but something far more primordial. Between her trembling thighs, she sensed dewy wetness. A desperate gnawing need she had never known before. Trying to ease and brush it off, she squirmed and ground her thighs. 

August’s brow rose with realisation, an immediate knowing grin spilling upon his malicious face. He leaned closer, his lips and whiskers brushing against her ear as he spoke. 

“Seems like there won’t be much resistance from you, isn’t that so, pet? Soon, you’ll beg me to fuck y…”

His words were cut as warm saliva splattered on his cheek. 

He shut his eyes momentarily, releasing a deep, exasperated grunt and then moved an inch away to fish a silk handkerchief from his pocket. Lizette watched proudly as he wiped his face. 

The pirate, however, was not amused. Throwing away the handkerchief, he offered her a deadly frown. And then he leaned in, his mouth drawing voraciously closer to hers as if meaning to devour her.

“I warned you…”

“Captain.”

A low, sonorous call followed from the door, drawing both August and Lizette to turn their heads toward the uninvited guest. 

Lizette blinked twice. The man in question was almost the spitting image of August, though his hair was wild with earthy curls and his beard fully grown, pointy, and tended with wax. Indifferent to the scene before him, he drew a pipe from his pockets and lit it with the flame of a candle that stood on a shelf near the door.  

August regarded him with slight respect, yet not without annoyance:." What is it? I am busy.”

“I can see that,” the other pirate puffed out, grey lines of smoke following through his nostrils, “you are needed at the brig.”

“About?”

“Flint might finally speak.”

Eyes ablaze with sudden intrigue, August straightened to his fall height and drew a step back from the girl yet kept his grip around her wrists. 

“I assume your methods worked, brother?” He crooked one eyebrow at the other pirate curiously. 

‘Brother, of course,’ Lizette nearly chuckled. The men must have been twins, although she could tell the other sibling had far more grey in his untamed mane. 

“My methods always work.” He answered with dry arrogance. “Finish her off later. This is more important.”

August lingered, his fingers brushing over his moustache as he contemplated what to do with his sweet little prisoner. The possibilities were endless, yet the more interesting ones would take some time, and with the trouble she gave him, he definitely wanted to give her what she deserved. 

A deep, exasperated sigh left his lips. “A moment, Gus,” he requested, finally unhanding the girl. 

The man, now known as Gus, bowed his head and threw Lizette a quick glance before disappearing into the darkness behind the door.

“It seems like I have some business to attend to, love. Shall we continue our little fun later?” August teased, slight annoyance still lingering at the tone of his voice.

Lizette did not answer. Rubbing her aching wrists, she watched him cautiously while he searched within his pockets.  She wondered what new cruel method of torment he would inflict to her now. 

To her surprise, it was a small silver key.

He lifted it to her face and offered her a razor-sharp  stare." The water is close to freezing; sharks and eels are swimming within them, and every man upon my deck is probably plotting to use you as fuckhole since the moment you stepped onboard. I trust you won’t try anything stupid in my absence.”

“Like what?” Despite her physical and mental exhaustion, she dared to speak back, “Seduce one of your crew members to fornicate with me so he would betray and murder you?” 

Her weariness must have brought out the worst in her because she would have never thought of such an inappropriate, vile thing. Then she realised it was  him who, in less than a few hours, corrupted her soul. 

August paused and contemplated for a moment as if this was an actual possibility he did not consider. However, he brushed it off with a burst of taunting laughter while proceeding to unlock the collar around her neck. “I wouldn’t  recommend it, love. They all come with so many exotic afflictions on their cock s that no doctor has even heard of.” 

As the iron was removed from her little neck, the girl rested her hands around it, massaging the cuts and bruises that formed beneath. It ached even worse as the chill air of the night pecked at the raw flesh. 

The pirate waltzed toward the table, reclaiming the pistol in an obviously provoking manner. He sheathed it back at the front of his waistband and paced toward the door. 

“I won’t be long, love,” he promised, and with that, he left and locked the door behind him.

Lizette listened carefully to the sound of his footsteps, counting them one by one until she could no longer hear him. And then, she began to search around the cabin for anything, anything that can be used as a weapon. 

‘I will not be a pirate’s whore.’  She vowed to herself while absentmindedly grazing a palm over her cheeks where August had touched her. 

[soon-palestine]

Israel, the world’s most innocent country, fell victim to a horrific attack from Iran with zero reported casualties on the same day Israel killed dozens of civilians in Gaza.

Israel had been minding its own business, quietly bombing hospitals, schools, universities, mosques, and an embassy, when the Iranian regime launched their outrageous attack for no apparent reason. Thankfully, the US and UK scrambled jets to defend Israeli airspace because it’s wrong to bomb countries in the Middle East, unless your name is Israel, in which case you can do all the bombing you want.

Every British and American ship in the region is now in grave danger and the risk of terror attacks on our soil has surely increased, but you will be relieved to know our countries have not benefitted in any way from our intervention. Personally, I can’t think of a better way for Israel to spend our tax money.

Our leaders have condemned Iran in the strongest possible terms, which is confusing because I thought we were supposed to remain ambiguous and say we’re investigating the matter when such an attack occurs. Perhaps this is one of those rules that only applies to Israel though.

When informed of the attack, a calm and rational Suella Braverman screamed: “WAR! I WANT WAR!” and when she’d stopped hyperventilating, she added: “This must be the end of western backsliding on Israel,” because she thinks we have not been sufficiently supportive of their genocide. Anyone who is not on the same side of the argument as Suella Braverman must ask serious questions about themselves.

Iran’s unprovoked attack involved giving Israel adequate warning and launching 30-year-old missiles, 99% of which were intercepted, and then saying the matter is closed unless Israel escalates further. The fact Iran would consider retaliating to further escalation from Israel shows just extreme these lunatics are.

Among Iran’s targets was the Israeli air base from which the missiles that struck its embassy were launched, killing 13 on April 1. As of yet, we have no indication as to why Iran carried out the attack, but we’re going to tell you it’s because they want to start World War III. Psychos.

Conspiracy theorists have suggested it’s actually Benjamin Netanyahu who wants escalation, but it’s unclear why the man who faces political oblivion, and possibly jail, would be incentivised to draw his allies into the fight and cause everyone to forget his many war crimes.

Israel, the country that definitely does not want war, has vowed an “unprecedented” response against Iran which will probably kill many more than zero people. If Iran expresses disapproval at Israel’s next mass murder, it’s because they’re trying to destabilise the region. At this point, we’ll have no choice but to help Israel do to Iran what we’ve spent six months helping them do to Gaza - launch precision strikes that destroy 70% of the buildings in the country and leave survivors living in tents.

Worryingly, we’ve just discovered at the most convenient moment that Iran has enough uranium to build 12 nuclear bombs. If it were true that Iran had so much weapon-grade uranium, it would be incredibly stupid to attack them, but we’re going to insist we must attack them because we’re weapon-grade idiots - and we think you are too.

Please just switch your brain off and accept what you’re being told, you simpletons! What matters is rich people can afford nuclear bunkers if this all goes horribly wrong. In the meantime, you can look forward to lots of exciting stories in the media about bringing back conscription and describing how you are likely to die in humanity's final war. Are you looking forward to radiation sickness and nuclear winter? Because they sound like brilliant fun! x

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this outstanding piece of journalism as much as I did, you can support my work here:

[nicheshameless]

Niche Shameless: Intro Post

The goal of this account is to share and promote the parts of Shameless US fandom that tend to get less love and focus. Both by hosting events and reblogging creations (art, fic, vids, gifs sets, meta, crafts, etc.).

I want to encourage people to create more things about the niche aspects of Shameless. And, in return, to make those creations easier to find so we can support creators with reblogs, likes, kudos, and comments.

As a bonus, I'm hoping this account makes it easier for followers to find others who love the same character, pairing, sibling duo, etc. There's nothing better than finding people with the same obsession so we can hype each other up!

What do you mean by "niche"?

Currently, that means everything other than Ian/Mickey* as a pairing.

There's a great variety of events in the fandom, but all of them are focused exclusively on Ian/Mickey. It's similar when you look at the fics posted under the Shameless US fandom on AO3: 91.9% are tagged with Ian/Mickey (yes, I did the math).

So, as a result, the "niche" side of fandom becomes everything else. I wanted a place to talk about those aspects of the show where they wouldn't get drowned out.

*This account will still have some Ian and Mickey, but the goal is to focus on them as characters (not as a couple), and on their other relationships. Those relationships can be sexual, romantic, or platonic. They can be canon or not. So if you have fanart you've been dying to share for Mickey/OC Mexican boyfriend, that's welcome here!

Can you give me some examples?

A non-exhaustive list of "niche" topics:

Gen (as in: not focused on a sexual or romantic relationship)

Friendships

Mentor & mentee

Familial relationships (found family included)

Canon ships

Non-canonical ships

Plot-focused works

other? Maybe you really love that rooster mug from the Gallagher's kitchen and want to make a gif set about it? (To be fair, it is very cute.)

Wait, so no Gallavich?

Not here, sorry.

But there's tons of fun events specifically for the pairing sprinkled throughout the year. @gallavichthings has a calendar up in their pinned post for easy access.

And on AO3, there's currently over 18000 fics for the pairing. If that's what you're looking for, there's plenty to enjoy. (Don't forget to leave kudos and a comment!)

I have more questions / something wasn't clear.

If you have questions: great! The ask box is open. Also, I'll try to put together a FAQ in the next week or so.

If anything was unclear, please let me know and I'll see if I can clarify in my answer and/or edit this post to make it easier to understand. Small disclaimer: English isn't my first language. If anything is unclear, or if I use run-on sentences, I'm sorry. I re-read this post at least a dozen times, but grammar was never my strong suit. I'd love if anyone else wanted to contribute to the admin of the blog, even if it's just beta-reading my posts so they're clear to English speakers.

💙 🐓 🥱

If you've read this far, thank you. Here's a cute photo of sleepy-morning-toussled Kev and that rooster mug as a reward.

[thetidesthatturn]

Tides of Fire and Gold

Pairing: Pirate OT8, Captain Kim Hongjoong x freader

Warnings: violence, graphic descriptions, eventual sexual content/references, abuse, alcohol use - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and all characters are not based on reality

Masterlist

<< CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER THREE >>

CHAPTER TWO - THE UNDOING

The following day, the sea is unnaturally still.

It stretches out in every direction like glass, reflecting a sky bruised in shades of violet and deepening blue. No gull's cry. No wind stirs the sails. The Halcyon drifts quietly, as if the ocean itself is holding its breath.

Below deck, the air feels tighter, the wood groaning under the weight of something unspoken. Lanterns flicker against the walls like restless spirits. Somewhere, ropes creak in time with the pulse of the ship’s heart – slow, steady, waiting.

The crew had been scattered across the ship with one shared order: Find out who she is.

But it’s Wooyoung who works in the places no blade can reach – through shadowed ports and coded messages, through rumours traded in the dead of night for coin, or favours, or silence. He doesn’t interrogate. He listens. And listening, for Wooyoung, is an art-form.

By the time the moon is a sliver above The Halcyon, the first whispers begin to arrive.

Wooyoung sits in the dim light of his cabin, a dozen parchments spread before him—none with full names, all with fragments.

“Child of the Coil.”

“Not born Fang… bred to them.”

“She was taken, not chosen.”

One scrap, barely legible, is smuggled from a spy within the Red Channel Cartel, who deals in trafficked knowledge:

She doesn’t remember her real name, they erased it, along with any trace of her real life. But the old ones called her Pyra. The girl born in fire. The one The Viper couldn’t kill.

When Wooyoung brings the information to the War Cabin, it’s with a rare seriousness. He drops the parchment on the table, allowing the crew to observe his findings.

“The Serpent Fang didn’t raise her. They stole her. From a burned village. A northern coast no one speaks of anymore – black sand, vanished people.”

Seonghwa’s brow furrows. “Pyra. That is not a name from the Fang.”

“No,” Wooyoung agrees. “It’s older. Isle lore. She might be a key, or worse – proof.”

Yunho leans in. “Proof of what?”

Wooyoung looks at Hongjoong then, voice quiet.

“That the Isle of Gold doesn’t want to be found… because someone already came from it.”

Below deck, in the grim and unwelcoming atmosphere of the brig, you sit on your cot, still chained. No awareness of the piece of your past being discussed elsewhere on the ship. Not even an inkling that the crew is starting to whisper the name you’d been given by monsters, like a prophecy.

But in your dreams, you see fire. Rippling, unforgiving flames.

Most of all, you hear a woman’s voice calling you by a name you’ve never spoken aloud. Not the name the men upstairs are calling you, not the name the whispers are chanting on the ocean breeze.

Your real name. The name no one knows. The name that everyone believes you’ve forgotten. But the truth is, it’s the only thing that tethers you to reality, to a sense of life beyond the one you’ve been forced into. The name that hasn’t been uttered since you were ripped from your mother’s cold, dead arms.

The storm, it seems, is only just beginning.

~

The cold in the brig is different now. It doesn’t bite – it seeps. Into your bones, under your skin, into the hollows behind your ribs. You haven’t seen anyone of importance since yesterday, just the odd crew member shuffling in to provide you with scraps of food, not served as a kindness – no, this was merely to keep you alive. To keep you useful.

You sit against the wall, knees to your chest, when the lock clicks.

Your heart skips, not needing to see who is walking towards you.

His presence is felt before he enters, looming over your head like a death sentence.

The captain steps through the door like the night itself let him go. Candlelight follows him in faint flickers, casting long shadows that crawl across the walls. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you.

Then-

“Nice to finally put a name to a face, Pyra.”

Your breath catches.

It’s quiet, that name. A single word. But when he says it, it feels like something being dug up. Like someone reached into your chest and pulled it out with bloodied fingers.

You flinch visibly. And for the first time since this all began, something cracks in your expression. Not rage. Not defiance.

Fear.

Because that name wasn’t supposed to be uttered outside the elders of the Serpent Fang. That name, given to you by the people who made it their life’s mission to break you, to mould you into a weapon, to sear your past and present from reality

You press your back harder to the wall, eyes narrowing. “You don’t get to say that.”

The captain tilts his head, watching you like a puzzle he’s already half-solved. “It is your name, isn’t it?”

You glare. “It’s none of your business what I am.”

He steps closer, slow, measured. There’s no cruelty in his face – but that makes it worse. He’s calm. Too calm. Like he doesn’t care whether you scream or confess. Like he’s already made his choice about you.

“The Fang called you a key. What do you open, Pyra?”

You stand, chains clinking, eyes sharp. “I don’t owe you anything.”

He watches you for a long time, gaze unreadable.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But they’re coming for you. And if you don’t start talking, you’re not the only one who’ll burn.”

You swallow hard, the resolve you usually kept slowly simmering away, along with your fire.

The room feels smaller now. Too small for the memories clawing at the back of your mind – flashes of stone halls, the stink of blood and incense, that mark that burned itself into your skin while you slept.

You don’t answer.

You won’t.

Not yet.

The captain takes a slow breath, then nods.

“Suit yourself.”

He turns, his coat sweeping behind him like a storm cloud. At the door, he pauses. Doesn’t look back.

“When you’re ready to stop being afraid of who you are,” he says quietly, “you know where to find me.”

Just before he reaches the door, for reasons unknown, you speak.

“Wait.”

The captain turns, raising an eyebrow.

“Your name. A name for a name. Fair, is it not?”

His mouth curves upwards slightly, into a faint smirk. “Of course, where are my manners? My name. Hongjoong. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Pyra.”

Before you have a chance to press further, he’s gone.

And you’re alone.

But that name – Pyra – still hangs in the air like smoke.

And no matter how long you sit in the dark, you can’t breathe it away.

No one else comes, your presence remains uninterrupted until sleep finds you once again. Another day, another night, in this damp, stench-filled hell.

You sleep fitfully, curled against the wall, brow furrowed in a silent war with dreams you do not understand. The ship’s rocking isn’t enough to soothe you anymore. Not since the whispers started. Not since the name was spoken aloud.

~

The sky outside is streaked in bruised amber, the sea catching the first light in broken shards. On The Halcyon, dawn doesn’t come with silence – it comes with steel.

Boots hit the deck hard. Voices rise and fall like tide and wind. And down in the war cabin, the core of the ship’s mind and muscle, the crew gathers – early, sharp, hungry for answers.

The long table is cluttered; half-eaten bread, tin mugs of black coffee, old maps curling at the edges, and the residue of tension no one bothers to wipe away. The scent of salt and oil mixes with roasted meat and the raw bite of expectation.

Hongjoong stands at the head of the table, his gloved hands resting on the edges like they anchor him there. His eyes are darker this morning. Quieter. He hasn’t said a word yet. His mind silently retreats back to his conversation in the brig the evening before, one that he’s gone over countless times since the moment it transpired.

Seonghwa is already seated, arms crossed, expression unreadable but cold. He’s watching the captain – not the door.

Yunho leans back in his chair, rolling a coin over his knuckles absentmindedly. He’s trying to stay relaxed, but his knee keeps bouncing. Uncertainty, his kryptonite.

San is pacing. He hasn’t touched his food. Every time someone shifts, he looks up like he’s expecting trouble to break through the floorboards.

Wooyoung lounges in a chair at the far end, eyes half-lidded, but listening very closely. His network gave the name. He wants the rest of the story.

Jongho slices into a thick wedge of nectarine with unsettling precision. Observing, waiting.

Mingi is the first to break the silence. He slams his mug down onto the thick oak. “So? What did she say?”

Hongjoong doesn’t flinch. He lifts his gaze, sweeps it across the table, lets the silence press down one more breath before answering.

“Her name is Pyra.”

The room stills.

Seonghwa is the first to react. Not visibly. Just a shift of his eyes, a tightening of the jaw.

Yunho murmurs, “So the rumours were true.”

San stops pacing.

Wooyoung straightens in his seat. “The Fang couldn’t have named her that. The name’s older. It’s in the old Isle records – they wiped it from the trade routes over fifteen years ago. She’s connected to something ancient, maybe something buried.”

Mingi scoffs. “Ancient or not, she’s hiding something. If she’s got answers, she should’ve given them by now.”

Hongjoong speaks calmly. “She’s not hiding. She’s surviving. There’s a difference.”

The crew quiets again.

“Whether or not she’s revealed anything thus far past the confirmation of a name, I know one thing with utmost certainty. She’s a map.”

Jongho finally looks up. “To what?”

A long pause.

“The Isle of Gold,” Hongjoong says.

That name doesn’t fall like a stone. It detonates.

Even Seonghwa exhales sharply. San mutters a curse. Wooyoung’s smile sharpens at the edges.

“If what you are saying bears any truth, then we are not just harbouring a ghost,” Seonghwa says grimly. “We are harbouring a storm.”

Hongjoong nods once.

“Then we better learn how to steer it.”

The room shifts. It’s no longer a question of if Pyra is dangerous. Only how much longer they have before everyone else finds out she’s aboard.

“Her name is Pyra,” Hongjoong says again, quieter this time, as if anchoring it to something deeper. “That’s all she’s given me, or more so confirmed it. But curiously, she asked for mine.”

That catches the crew off guard.

Yunho tilts his head. “She asked?”

Seonghwa’s brow furrows. “Not for information. For your name?”

Wooyoung mutters, half to himself, “That’s not interrogation. That’s… connection.”

Mingi grumbles, “Or manipulation. Asking questions doesn’t make her harmless.”

“No,” Hongjoong agrees. “But it means she’s not broken. Not yet. And that matters more than you think.”

A quiet settles again. The crew isn’t just parsing a threat anymore – they’re gauging a person. A girl who gave them only a name, but in doing so, gave them a piece of something real. Something unguarded.

San leans forward, knuckles against the table. “So, what do we do now? We can’t wait around for her to spill everything. The Fang won’t.”

“We plan for both outcomes,” Seonghwa says. “One path where she helps us. One where she does not.”

Jongho nods. “We relinquish control a fraction, barely. Keep her watched, but give her air. She’s not going to open up with a blade at her back.”

Wooyoung adds, “I’ll tighten the network. See if anyone’s heard of a girl called Pyra before she landed in Fang hands. Someone’s always seen something they weren’t supposed to.”

Hongjoong stands a little straighter.

“We earn her trust in pieces. No demands. No threats. Just consistency. If she’s been treated like a weapon all her life, then the most dangerous thing we can do…”

He glances around the table, voice steady.

“…is treat her like a person.”

The crew doesn’t respond right away, but no one argues.

“If the Fang comes, we’ll be ready,” Hongjoong finishes. “But for now, we let her breathe. Let her choose.”

He turns to leave, and just before the door closes behind him:

“And no one else speaks her name unless she gives it to you herself. Dismissed.”

And for the first time since this began, the crew understands, this isn’t about a girl with secrets. It’s about who she might become if someone finally stops demanding them.

The door shuts behind the captain with a quiet, decisive click. But the air in the war cabin doesn’t settle. If anything, the silence that follows his departure is heavier than before.

Mingi is the first to speak, voice low and edged with unease.

“You all heard it, right? The way he said her name. Like she’s not just a prisoner anymore.”

San exhales slowly, arms crossed. “He’s always had a soft spot for strays, you know why. But this isn’t the same. She’s not some deck rat who lost her crew in a storm. She’s Fang-raised.”

Yunho frowns. “And asking for his name? That’s not something most would risk unless they were playing the long game… or starting to trust him.”

“Or trying to get close,” Mingi cuts in sharply. He leans forward, both hands braced on the table. “You think the Fang didn’t train her for this? For manipulation, infiltration, deception? She’s not shackled because she’s helpless, she’s shackled because she’s dangerous.”

Seonghwa has been quiet, but his voice now carries weight when he speaks.

“It’s not her I am worried about.”

The others glance at him.

“It is the captain,” Seonghwa’s gaze lingers on the closed door. “We’ve seen Hongjoong bend before – for strategy, for survival. But this? This could become personal.”

Wooyoung raises an eyebrow. “You think he’s getting attached?”

Seonghwa doesn’t answer right away.

“I think she is the first person in a long time who has looked at him and asked something real. Not about his ship. Not about his crew. About him.”

Jongho shifts in his seat. “So, what do we do? Watch him?”

“No,” Seonghwa says. “We watch her. If she is genuine, we will know soon enough. If she is not…” He folds his hands. “We step in before it costs him more than his judgment.”

Mingi mutters, “Or his ship. And crew.”

Yunho sighs. “Let’s just hope she’s not the kind of fire that spreads.”

A heavy beat of silence.

Then Wooyoung, quiet now, adds one final thought, “Or worse. The kind that burns slow, until you don’t feel the damage until it’s too late.”

They don’t speak again after that.

The crew disperses one by one, each carrying the same quiet question: Is their captain seeing Pyra as a threat to navigate – or something else entirely?

And if it’s the latter…

How long before it gets them all killed?

~

Word spreads fast aboard The Halcyon. Faster than cannon-fire, faster than the winds that carry the sails. Within hours of the war cabin meeting, the ship’s rhythm begins to change.

Orders are given. Quietly, precisely, and without room for hesitation.

On the upper deck, Yunho drills the crew with renewed intensity. Every blade is sharpened, every gun cleaned twice. Lookouts are doubled at night. The Quartermaster scrutinises watch rotations to keep the crew alert and rested. They may not know when the retaliation will come, but they know it will.

“The Fang doesn’t lose quietly,” Jongho says grimly, fitting new bolts to the ballistae mounted along the aft rail. “We’re a symbol now. We hurt their pride.”

Seonghwa oversees the ship’s escape routes – map reroutes, dummy trails, hidden drop points where they can lie low or leave false evidence. His mind is a blade in motion, cutting through uncertainty with preemptive grace.

“If they strike, they’ll come fast and heavy,” he warns. “We don’t fight unless we choose the ground first.”

Meanwhile, below deck, a subtle shift begins. The brig is still guarded, but the energy has changed. Fewer taunts. Less suspicion in the guards’ eyes. Still watchful, but not cruel. They don’t look at you like a weapon anymore. It’s disconcerting, surely a measure to throw you off balance. To tip the scales in their favour. And it wont work.

Then one morning, the door opens. And it’s not a jailor who enters.

It’s Hongjoong.

He doesn’t bring chains. He doesn’t bring questions.

He simply states, “You’ve spent enough time in the dark. Come.”

You hesitate. Of course you do. But his tone isn’t one of command.

It’s an offer.

So, you rise, with the knowledge that this is all part of a bigger plan tucked safely away in the confines of your mind. You have the upper hand, you always will. Or so you think.

He leads you not up to the deck, but inward. Past the war cabin, through a narrow corridor lined with carved beams and weathered symbols etched into the wood. Until you reach a small room.

Modest. Clean. A cot against the wall. A small desk. A window. Light floods in – sunlight, real and warm. There’s a pitcher of water. A simple linen tunic folded neatly on the chair.

“You’re still under watch,” he says, turning to face you. “But this isn’t a cell. It’s your choice what you do with it.”

You study him. That strange intensity in his eyes. Not pity. Not weakness.

Something sharper.

But still, you don’t speak. You nod once.

Before he leaves, he pauses. “You asked for my name,” he says quietly, “why?”

This time, you speak, compelled by forces you don’t understand. “I don’t know.”

Hongjoong doesn’t reply, just observes. He tilts his head slightly, as if this small motion could subconsciously tip the answer from your own.

“Familiarity. I don’t know anything about you, or this ship, or your crew. Beyond the chatter outside of this vessel, the fear that spreads simply from the mention of the Halcyon, I know nothing real. Real is all I have.”

Stupid, stupid girl. Allowing yourself to open up, even just by a crack, was dangerous beyond comprehension. Your whole life as you knew it was built on the foundation of never showing weakness, never letting anyone in. The crew of the Fang had made sure that any sense of empathy or personality was beaten out of you by the time you were five years old. You knew better than this. But something in Hongjoong’s eyes, his demeanour, had punctured a hole in the impenetrable armour you had enrobed yourself in for the past thirteen years.

Whilst you were silently battling the storm that raged within yourself, Hongjoong was your twin. He had not expected such a response, and the one you had given had rattled him to his core. Underneath it all, you were just as he had theorised; a vulnerable, scared girl who had experienced a life of horrific pain. He didn’t know the full extent of your story yet, but piece by piece, he was determined to break down your walls.

“Thank you for the explanation. I’ll leave you to get comfortable. If you need anything, please just ring the bell outside your room.”

And just like that, he departed once more.

Elsewhere on the ship, the final preparations were underway. Wooyoung’s informants began to vanish. One by one. The Fang were mobilising, and fast.

The crew sat around the oak table in the war cabin, another night of strategising until the early hours underfoot.

Wooyoung leans forward, pushing his mug aside. “They’re coming, and they’re not bringing sails. They’ll be hunting through shadows.”

“San has loaded the gun deck with enough powder to sink a fleet. Let’s give them something to choke on.” Mingi growls from his seat.

Yunho, watching the sea through a spyglass, mutters, “They won’t stop until they get her back. Or burn trying.”

Seonghwa glances at the closed door to Pyra’s new quarters.

“Then let them come. We’re not the ones who should be afraid anymore.”

~

The door shuts with a soft thud. No lock clicks behind it. Just wood on wood.

For a moment, you don’t move.

The room is still. No dripping water. No rusted bars. No damp stone. Just the faint creak of the ship as it breathes on the tide.

You step in slowly, as if testing the floor beneath your boots might collapse. It doesn’t. The wood is worn, but solid. Clean. Someone took time to scrub the corners, smooth the splinters.

Your eyes land on the cot.

It’s nothing. Rough wool, thin blankets – but to you, it looks obscene in its softness. A place meant for rest. Not for punishment. You cross to it on instinct, then stop. Hovering.

You sit on the edge, but don’t lean back. You keep your spine straight.

The room smells like salt, linen, and something almost sweet. It’s disorienting. You’re used to metal. Blood. Stone. Even the silence feels wrong. You glance at the small desk. The pitcher of water. You approach it slowly, pour a glass. Your hands are steadier than you expect.

The window – gods, the window. You stare out. Not at sea, but sky. And for the first time in years, there’s nothing between you and the clouds. Just light. Just air.

It unnerves you more than darkness ever did.

You place your hand against the frame, fingers tracing the curve of the wood. You imagine a younger version of yourself, smaller, wilder, pressing her face to that same glass, wide-eyed and full of questions.

She feels so far away now. Almost fictional.

You close your eyes, and for a moment, the only sound is your breath.

And then—

A whisper of a thought. He told you his name.

Hongjoong.

It’s the first time you’ve let your guard down enough to consider the weight that a name bears. The silent reasons why you needed to know his name that day. And how he now knows those reasons.

You let the name settle in your chest. You don’t know why it matters. Maybe it doesn’t. But still, it lingers. Softly. Like a spark refusing to die.

You open your eyes again.

And for the first time since the raid, you are truly, terrifyingly alone.

No chains. No commands. No eyes. Just a room, and a door you haven’t yet tested. And the question burning quietly in your ribs: what now?

The answer to that question reveals itself immediately, just as the thought had appeared. A soft knock – not rushed. Not demanding. Just a single, almost polite tap against the doorframe.

You don’t respond at first. You don’t need to. Whoever’s out there already knows you’re awake.

“You’ve been quiet,” comes the voice. Smooth. Amused. Unbothered.

You turn your head slightly. No footsteps. He’s leaning.

“Most people snoop,” he continues. “Test the walls. See how far the leash goes.” A pause. “You? You’re playing the long game. That’s smart.”

You rise slowly and move toward the door, stopping just short of touching it.

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

“Permission to enter, fire girl?”

You blink.

He’s testing you. Toying with you. But the name… it hits something just under your ribs.

You open the door just enough to see him leaning against the frame, arms crossed, one brow arched with devil-may-care charm. But his eyes? Not smiling. Watching. Calculating.

“Wooyoung,” he offers, like it’s a secret you’ve earned. “I’m the ship’s problem-solver.”

You say nothing.

“Just wanted to see what kind of problem you are.”

Still, silence.

“Not much of a talker,” he notes, glancing around the small room. “Can’t say I blame you. Brig was a dump. This is… cosier.”

He steps back, giving you room.

“I’m not here to threaten you. Not here to beg, either. Just one question.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Are you going to be the storm that sinks this ship?”

There’s no menace in his voice. No heat. Just the question, laid bare between you like a blade on a table. You hold his gaze for a moment. Long enough that he sees the flicker behind your eyes.

He smiles, slow and sharp.

“Didn’t think so.”

He pushes off the frame and begins to walk away, hands tucked into his coat pockets. But just before he turns the corner, he calls back without looking.

“Don’t wait too long to speak, fire girl. Secrets rot faster than corpses at sea.”

And then he’s gone, leaving behind only his name, his warning, and the unsettling realisation that someone on this ship might already see through you.

~

The sky burns with the last light of day, amber and crimson bleeding into the sea. Most of the crew is gathered near the mainmast, sharpening blades, coiling ropes, tending to tasks with half an eye cast toward the quarterdeck.

Like the crack of lightning across the moonlit sky, Hongjoong’s steps slap across the deck, his coat whipping in the wind, boots heavy against the boards. He doesn’t shout to summon Wooyoung – he doesn’t have to. His presence demands attention.

Wooyoung looks up from where he’s leaning against the rail, a sly grin already ghosting across his face like he expected this.

The crew quiets. One by one, heads turn. San straightens from where he’s been coiling rigging. Yunho steps closer, alert. Even Seonghwa pauses mid-conversation.

Hongjoong’s fist slams down into the railing, the wood cracking and splintering beneath his knuckles. The sound ricochets like a gunshot.

“You said what to her?!”

Wooyoung doesn’t flinch. But his smile fades, just enough to show the seriousness he hides behind smirks.

“I asked if she was the storm that’ll sink us,” he replies coolly, “Not exactly treason, Captain.”

“Don’t play clever with me,” Hongjoong growls, voice low but deadly. “You don’t get to prod at her like some game. Not after I told you to treat her like a person.”

The crew looks between them, eyes wide. The words aren’t just heat, they’re personal.

“You didn’t say to coddle her, either,” Wooyoung counters, stepping forward, tone harder now. “You’re not thinking straight, and everyone here knows it. She’s not a crew member, Joong. She’s a Fang. Or did that slip your mind when she gave you a name and made you forget the blood on her hands?”

The deck holds its breath.

Hongjoong doesn’t move for a moment, but his eyes – they seethe. Not just with anger, but with fear.

Because Wooyoung isn’t wrong, and that, perhaps, is what enrages him most.

“You don’t get to question my judgment,” he says, quieter now, but with a finality that cracks like thunder. “You’re not the one carrying what happens if we’re wrong.”

Wooyoung’s jaw sets. He doesn’t look away. But he nods once.

“No, I’m just the one who cleans up the mess if you are.”

Hongjoong turns on his heel and storms off the quarterdeck, leaving behind silence.

The wind picks up where words left off. Tension clings to the rigging, thick as storm-air.

The crew disperses slowly, like a flock unsettled by a hawk’s shadow. Eyes still flick toward the quarterdeck, where Hongjoong disappeared. Whispers stir. Doubts, sharper than blades.

That’s when the Quartermaster steps forward. Not rushed. Not loud. But deliberate.

He walks to where Hongjoong’s fist cracked the railing, glancing once at the splintered wood. Then he turns to the crew. No raised voice. No demand for silence. He just speaks, and the deck listens.

“You all bore witness to that conversation. You all felt it’s impact.”

Some nod. Others stay stone-still.

“That was not just mere anger. That was fear.”

The word lands hard amongst the crew. Seonghwa lets it sit for a beat.

“You forget sometimes – he carries more than we do. He is allowed to fear. But do not mistake his fire for weakness.”

He looks around the deck. Eyes locking with Mingi’s, then San’s. Then Wooyoung’s, who now stands, arms crossed, silent but unrepentant.

“Captain Hongjoong makes the calls because no one else has the strength to carry the weight when they go wrong. And if you think he is blind to the risks of her-”

He doesn’t say your name. But everyone knows.

“-then you have not been paying attention. He sees more than any of us. And if he is still watching her, it is because there is something worth seeing.”

A murmur, somewhere near the mast. The Quartermaster raises a hand. Calm. Firm.

“You do not have to trust her. But you will trust him. Or you do not belong on this ship.”

That lands harder than the captain’s fist ever could.

He takes a step forward. “We are heading into fire, one way or another. We need to be solid. Unbreakable. United. You want to question him? Do it in private. You want to mutiny?”

His tone sharpens, just for a moment.

“Then jump. Now. Before we reach open waters.”

Silence.

Then slowly, the crew returns to their tasks. Not relaxed. But grounded.

Because Seonghwa didn’t offer comfort.

He reminded them of who they are, and exactly who it is they follow.

~

Noticing it seems quieter in your quarters than usual, you decide to take a walk, one that was hopefully without prying eyes. Perhaps you’d venture up to the deck, feel the sea air on your face for the first time in what felt like eternity.

Just as you were reaching for the doorknob, commotion began outside in the corridor. Hushed tones turned to blazing words, and the unmistakable sounds of boots hitting the planks with haste.

“Y’know, Wooyoung will throw you overboard for telling the captain about his little chat with the girl.”

“I’d rather that than be accused of mutiny, my allegiance lies with the captain, not with his trickster.”

The two voices scuttled off down the corridor, and once you were sure they had left, you made your way up to the deck.

The atmosphere was thick with animosity from the moment you surfaced above deck. Ensuring you remained uncompromised, you ducked behind a few crates stacked just below the quarterdeck, just close enough to observe from a safe distance, and listened as the situation unfolded.

As far as you knew already, one of the lower-level crew members had let slip about Wooyoung’s conversation with you earlier in the day, to no other than the captain himself.

Pulling you out of your musings immediately, was a sound similar to a gunshot. The way it rang out across the deck put unease in the pit of your stomach. Slowly, you lifted yourself up just enough to peak over the crate, enough to witness the aftermath of Hongjoong slamming his fist into the railing on the port side.

You flinch when it happens – his voice, raw and electric, rolls through the planks like thunder in your bones. You clutch the edge of the crate, breath shallow.

You wait for the mockery. The doubt. The betrayal. But it never comes.

Instead, you hear him defend you. Demand respect for you.

You duck back down, forcing your mind to quiet enough for you to listen. And listen you did.

“You don’t get to prod at her like some game. Not after I told you to treat her like a person.”

The statement almost sent you stumbling backwards. Did you truly have it wrong? Was this not all part of an elaborate plan to get you to crack under false pretence?

The sheer fury in his voice couldn’t be faked, this was not a calculated ruse in an attempt to win your trust.

“Treat her like a person.”

As if he believes you are one. Still.

Despite everything.

Despite who he thinks you were.

Despite who you actually are.

You swallow hard. The air tastes wrong. Too sharp. Too close.

Then Wooyoung speaks – and his words cut clean. “She gave you a name and made you forget the blood on her hands.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. That should sting. That should make you angry. But all you feel is fear. Because part of you is afraid he’s right.

But then comes Hongjoong’s reply. Quieter, but heavier.

“You don’t get to question my judgment… You’re not the one carrying what happens if we’re wrong.”

And just like that, something cracks inside you. Not like a snapped chain. More like… the slow thaw of frost.

You pull your knees up to your chest, pressing into the shadow of the crate. The wood is cool against your back, but your skin feels feverish. The silence that follows gnaws at you.

You’re still crouched in the shadows when the sound jolts you – boots. Heavy. Purposeful. Slamming across the deck with no effort to hide the rage behind them.

You freeze.

The thud of each step seems to echo inside your chest, matching the sudden, erratic rhythm of your pulse. You press yourself tighter against the crate, shadows cloaking you like a second skin. You couldn’t be seen, not now. Not like this. If anyone caught you out of your quarters, especially after that, it would unravel everything.

Your breath hitches.

And then, he storms past.

Hongjoong.

His coat billows behind him like a black sail in high wind, fury radiating from every inch of him. His jaw is clenched, lips drawn into a hard, unreadable line. But his eyes – gods, those eyes. Still burning from what just unfolded. Still carrying too many truths.

He doesn’t see you. But you see him.

He disappears into the corridor, toward the captain’s quarters.

And you, against all reason, against all instinct

You follow.

Step by step. Silently.

You keep to the shadows, heart hammering. You don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know why. But your feet keep moving, like the gravity around him has shifted, and you are no longer immune to it.

The door closes behind him, and you hesitate at the threshold, staring at the thick wood as if it might catch fire from your indecision.

You shouldn’t be here.

You should turn around.

Return to your quarters. Pretend you never heard anything. Pretend you didn’t feel anything.

But your hand lifts.

You hover for a breath, then you knock once. It’s a quiet, almost uncertain tap. The kind of knock that betrays how much it took to lift your hand at all.

Silence.

You don’t know what you expect – an order to leave, perhaps. Or for the door to remain shut, forever dividing the strange pull between you.

But then you hear the latch turn, and for the first time since your capture, you choose to step across a threshold. Not as a prisoner, but as Pyra.

The door creaks open.

Light spills out, warm, and gold-tinged, casting long shadows across the corridor. He’s standing just beyond it. Hongjoong, backlit by lantern-light, coat half-unbuttoned, hair slightly disheveled, jaw tight from everything he’s holding back.

His eyes find yours instantly.

They search you – quick, sharp. Like he’s not sure if you’re real. Or worse, like he’s afraid you are.

“You shouldn’t be out of your quarters,” he says. Not cruel. Not commanding. Just…tired.

You meet his gaze, but say nothing. You’re not even sure what you could say. But you don’t look away.

He opens the door farther, a silent invitation, so you step inside.

It’s the first time you’ve seen the heart of the ship’s mind. The Captain’s Quarters are nothing like the brig. No iron bars, no leaking ceilings. Instead, there’s maps unfurled across the table, books lining the shelves, a sword resting within arm’s reach. There’s chaos in the order. A reflection of him.

He closes the door behind you, and silence falls again, thick as the sea fog.

You turn slowly, eyes scanning the room, hands hanging uncertain at your sides. You don’t sit. You don’t know if you’re allowed to.

“You heard all of it, didn’t you?”

His voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. There’s no accusation in it. Just weary resignation.

You nod. Once.

His jaw flexes.

He moves past you, fingers brushing the edge of the chart table. Not looking at you now.

“I didn’t mean for you to hear that.”

“I know,” you say softly.

It’s the first thing you’ve said to him since your confession, the reason behind why you asked for his name, and when his eyes meet yours again, something flickers there.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says again. But it sounds different this time.

Like he’s not talking about his quarters anymore. You shift your weight.

Then, without fully knowing why, you ask, “Why are you fighting for me?”

The question hangs between you like lightning yet to strike.

He exhales slowly, like he’s been waiting for it – dreading it. He walks to the table, sets both hands down on the edges of a map that’s seen too many battles, too much blood.

“Because I know what it’s like to have your name used against you.”

You blink steadily.

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to. You understand in a way that frightens you.

You take a slow step forward.

“You don’t know who I am.”

His eyes cut to you. Not with denial. But with something dangerously close to trust.

“No,” he says. “But I think you want me to.”

That stops your breath in your chest. Because he’s not wrong. Not anymore.

You don’t answer right away. Because your first instinct is to lie. Or evade. Or lash out with something sharp enough to wound and hide behind the blood.

But this time, you don’t. You just breathe.

Slow. Shaky.

“No one’s ever asked who I am,” you murmur, your voice low, almost too soft for the room. “Not really.”

Hongjoong doesn’t speak. He just watches. The air feels different now – thinner. Like the ship itself is holding its breath.

You don’t look at him when you continue.

“They called me Pyra because I came from the fire. Because I survived it.”

Your fingers curl slightly, nails digging into your palms.

“But that name wasn’t mine. It was theirs.” You lift your chin slightly. “The Fang gave it to me. Because they didn’t know the real one. No one does.”

The confession tastes strange in your mouth. Like ash, or honey, or something in between.

“I held onto it,” you whisper, more to yourself now. “Because if I let it go, I’d stop being me. And I didn’t know who that was anymore.”

The silence that follows is not cold. It’s reverent.

He takes a step closer, and you feel the shift in the floorboards, the warmth of him. But still – he keeps a careful distance.

“What would happen if you told someone?” he asks quietly.

You blink, startled.

“Told them your real name.”

Your throat tightens. “I’d lose control of it.”

“Or you’d take it back.”

His words settle like an anchor in your chest. You look at him finally – and this time, he doesn’t look away.

“You carry it like a blade,” he says. “But it’s a part of you. Not your cage.”

And then, even more gently “I’m not asking you to give it to me, I’m asking if you’ll let me earn it.”

There’s a beat of stillness. No wind. No ship creak. Just the steady drum of your heart in your ears.

And maybe, just maybe, for the first time, you believe that might be possible.

You lower your head, almost in disbelief at the moment you’re standing in. Your voice, when it comes, is barely a breath.

“Why do you care?”

Hongjoong’s gaze softens. But it doesn’t falter.

“Because you’re not a prisoner anymore, Pyra.You’re a storm on the horizon, and I want to know which way the wind’s going to blow.”

You step towards him unconsciously, a step too close. The distance between you is now palpable. A mistake you couldn’t recover from. But instead of recoiling, he too takes a step closer.

“Hongjoong…”

Slowly, tentatively, his hand reaches up to your face, brushing along your jawbone, and his fingers linger there, just for a second too long.

The touch is feather-light, deliberate in its softness, in its restraint. You feel the warmth of his hand against your cheek, the calloused pads of his fingertips betraying the quiet violence of his life… and yet, in this moment, he’s gentler than anyone has been with you in years.

You don’t breathe.

Can’t.

Because you know this is dangerous. Not just because of what he is. But because of what it makes you feel.

You, who has lived in armour and ashes.

You, who forgot what it meant to be seen.

He draws back slightly, but he doesn’t move away. His eyes are still on you, dark and searching.

“Pyra…”

There’s something in his voice now. Something rough. Something unraveling. As if your name tastes different on his tongue than it did hours ago. Like it means more now that you’ve stood your ground… and let him near it.

“I didn’t bring you here to break you,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to tame the storm.”

His hand falls back to his side, but his presence doesn’t.

“I just want to survive it.”

You swallow hard, your heart a riot in your chest, warring with itself.

You should walk away. Say something sharp, clever, distant. You should remind him what you’ve done. What you are. But instead, your voice slips through the silence.

“You’ll drown.”

His lips twitch. Almost a smile. But there’s no amusement in it.

“Maybe.”

A beat.

“But I’ve already jumped.”

With that, his hand finds your face again, and he closes the gap between you. Your heart hammers in your chest as you too, lean in. Closer and closer, until you can feel his breath on your face.

And in that fragile space between one breath and the next, the door bursts open.

Seonghwa.

You jolt backwards, heat rising to your cheeks like a flame exposed, shame and adrenaline colliding in your chest. Your breath catches in your throat, pulse thundering as if your heart might betray you aloud. The air is thick with the ghost of what almost happened, what nearly slipped past your guard – and now Seonghwa stands in the doorway, eyes sharp, taking in everything without a word.

His eyes scan the room, landing on you first, then Hongjoong. He hesitates. Takes in the charged silence. Something sharp flickers behind his calm expression.

“We have a problem,” he says tightly.

“The Fang’s ship was spotted near the outer reef. They’re not running.”

He meets your eyes as he says it.

“They’re waiting.”

And just like that, the fragile moment between you and Hongjoong collapses under the weight of war.

But something has changed now. Not broken.

Shifted.

And the storm, at last, begins to move.

~

The map table is littered with ink-stained charts and rough-sketch battle plans, the wood still warm from the heat of too many hands. Seonghwa wastes no time as he strides into the war room, flanked by Yunho and San, tension simmering beneath every movement.

Hongjoong stands at the head of the table once more – Captain, commander, storm contained, only just. Whatever softness existed moments ago is gone now, tucked away like a secret. His gaze flicks briefly to you as you linger near the door, but he says nothing.

He can’t afford to now.

“Confirmed sighting of the Fang’s crest off the western reef,” Seonghwa says, planting a marked stone onto the chart. “They are not pursuing. They are anchoring.”

Yunho leans in, brow furrowed. “They’re not hiding either. That’s a challenge.”

“It’s bait,” Wooyoung mutters, arms crossed, eyes cold. “They want us to come to them. Probably think we’re dragging our feet because of her.”

No one looks at you. But the tension tightens all the same.

“Doesn’t matter what they think,” Hongjoong says sharply. “We meet them. On our terms.”

He moves to the side of the table, dragging a finger along a different route on the chart.

“We won’t charge head-on. We use the shoals here—” he taps a jagged patch of reef, “—to mask our approach. San, you’ll lead the infiltration team from below deck if we board.”

San nods, already calculating.

“And Pyra?” Wooyoung asks, tone edged in something unreadable. “What happens to her while we play hero?”

This time, Hongjoong does look at you.

The room quiets.

His voice is even.

“She stays here. Watched. But unharmed.”

A few eyes flick toward Seonghwa, who says nothing. Just studies you carefully.

You say nothing either. Not yet.

“We sail at dawn,” Hongjoong finishes. “Tell the crew to ready the ship. And the guns.”

The others nod, filing out one by one, already falling into the rhythm of preparation. Orders shouted, boots clanging against the deck above, sails being checked and weapons drawn from storage.

You’re left with the echo of it all. The shift from intimacy to inevitability.

And with the truth you can no longer ignore, they are preparing to risk everything for a war you were born from.

You’ve barely made it past the roar of preparation – the clanging of weapons, the barked orders echoing up the walls—when a voice stops you.

“Pyra.”

You turn.

Seonghwa.

He stands with his arms crossed, posture rigid but eyes calm. He doesn’t look like a man preparing for war, not in this moment. He looks like a man with questions.

“A word?”

It isn’t a request.

You follow him into a side corridor, lit only by the glow of oil lamps and the occasional gleam of polished steel from the weapon racks. The noise of the deck fades behind you.

He stops, turns, and studies you in the silence.

“You’ve unsettled him.”

You blink.

“Hongjoong?”

He nods once.

“He would not speak it aloud, but it is there. In the way he hesitates. In the way he is… different around you.” Seonghwa’s gaze sharpens, a subtle edge creeping into his voice. “You have pulled something loose in him.”

You stay silent.

Because what can you say? That you feel it too? That it scares you?

He steps forward.

“You need to understand something,” he says, his voice low. “He carries more than this crew knows. The choices, the ghosts… he cannot show weakness. Not even once.”

You stiffen.

“And you think I’m a weakness.”

“I think you could be,” Seonghwa says plainly. “Or you could be something else entirely.”

There’s no threat in his words. Just careful honesty.

“So, I need to know, Pyra—”

His voice drops, barely above a whisper.

“What are you really doing here?”

Silence.

Your pulse thrums like a warning drum, but this time… you don’t recoil.

You meet his gaze and answer, honestly:

“I don’t know yet.”

It’s the truth, but it’s not the answer he wants, and it’s the only one you have.

After a pause, Seonghwa exhales slowly. Then nods once.

“Understandable.”

He steps back. “But if that answer changes…”

A flicker of something – not quite menace, not quite mercy, passes over his face.

“Let me be the first to know.”

Then, without waiting for a reply, he turns and walks back toward the sounds of war.

~

Yeosang moves among the cannons with measured precision, sleeves rolled up, hands blackened with powder and grease. Where the others are loud and burning, he is eerily still water, a quiet force of clarity in the chaos.

Hongjoong approaches him, flanked by Yunho.

“You’ll handle the ranged strategy,” the captain says. “San leads boarding. I want our first and last shot coming from you.”

Yeosang doesn’t even look up from the mechanism he’s calibrating.

“They won’t see us coming.”

Hongjoong nods, satisfied.

“Make sure of it.”

Yeosang’s hands pause only briefly – his gaze flicking across the deck toward you, where you’ve just emerged from below.

There’s no judgment in his eyes.

But like Seonghwa’s… there are questions.

And for now, you have no answers.

The sea beyond the gunports gleams gold, restless beneath a bruised sky. Yeosang wipes his hands clean on a worn cloth, double-checking the alignment of the starboard cannons. Around him, the crew moves with purpose, voices low, tension thick. Everyone can feel it: the storm before the strike.

Everything must be exact.

Yeosang doesn’t allow for guesswork – not with lives at stake.

“You’re quiet,” comes a voice behind him.

Jongho.

The youngest crew member leans against a crate, arms crossed, eyes tracking Yeosang’s movements. His brows are knit, not from frustration, but something closer to… worry.

Yeosang doesn’t look up. “I’m always quiet.”

“You’re quieter.”

That earns a glance. Jongho’s gaze isn’t on him, though.

It’s fixed on a small figure across the deck. You, standing alone near the rigging, head lowered, shoulders braced like you’re expecting a wave to hit you at any moment.

Yeosang studies Jongho, then returns to his task. “You’re not the only one who’s been watching her.”

Jongho shifts uncomfortably. “She looks like she doesn’t know whether to run or jump.”

Yeosang’s movements slow. His voice is careful. “Would you blame her?”

Silence. Then Jongho pushes off the crate, restless.

“I just… I don’t get why everyone’s so sure she’s dangerous.”

He swallows. “She looks more lost than anything.”

Yeosang doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he walks over to the cannon closest to the gunport and lifts a small, hinged panel in the deck. Below, a hidden cache of smaller explosive rounds, his invention, nestle in canvas.

“Lost things can still burn,” he says finally.

Jongho frowns. “So can we.”

That draws Yeosang’s eyes up sharply. Jongho meets his gaze, unwavering for once.

“But someone gave us a chance, didn’t they?”

Yeosang holds his stare for a long moment. Then, slowly, he lowers the hatch.

“Keep your eyes open,” he murmurs, a little softer. “But keep your heart guarded.”

Jongho only nods once and steps away, heading toward you. He doesn’t approach, not yet. But he’s closer than he was before. Watching. Guarding.

Yeosang returns to the final cannon, gaze fixed out on the horizon, the gears within his mind clicking and whirring with an emotion he can’t quite place.

The wind has softened, leaving the sails whispering secrets to the sea. Most of the crew is below deck, sleeping or preparing for tomorrow’s strike in silence. Up here, the stars burn sharp and bright. Distant, unreachable.

Jongho leans on the railing, jaw tight, eyes cast toward the dark waters below. The creak of wood behind him doesn’t startle him. He knows the sound of San’s boots.

“Can’t sleep?” San’s voice is quiet, like it belongs to the night.

Jongho shakes his head. Doesn’t answer.

San joins him without asking, forearms braced on the same rail. For a while, there’s only the ocean and the rhythm of sails breathing overhead.

“You’ve been watching her.”

Jongho tenses slightly. But doesn’t deny it.

San continues, his tone unreadable. “I have too.”

Jongho glances at him then. San’s eyes aren’t accusing – they’re reflective. Tired, maybe.

“She’s not what they think,” Jongho says, voice rougher than usual.

San nods. “No. But she’s not harmless either.”

They stand in silence again, the kind that doesn’t press, just fills the space between unspoken truths.

“I don’t think she knows who she is yet,” Jongho murmurs eventually. “But she’s trying. And no one else seems willing to see that.”

San exhales through his nose, something like agreement crossing his features.

“Hongjoong’s walking a line no captain should have to.”

He straightens, looks directly at Jongho.

“So maybe we help keep it steady. Quietly. From the shadows.”

Jongho studies him.

Not a command. Not even a suggestion. Just truth.

He nods. Once.

“Watch her back.”

“And if she turns on us?” San asks softly.

Jongho looks out at the sea, the darkness stretching forever.

“Then we’ll still be the first to see it coming.”

They don’t shake on it. They don’t need to.

In a world of pirates, shadows, and shifting tides, the quiet pact between them is solid enough.

As San walks away, Jongho lingers—just for a moment longer—eyes flicking toward the faint silhouette of the captain’s quarters.

Because even storms deserve someone willing to weather them.

~

The sea is oil-black and still. No gulls. No breeze. Just the creak of the Halcyon’s rigging, and the soft rustle of her sails barely breathing.

She cuts through the water like a knife.

The crew is silent. No laughter. No murmured wagers. Just eyes, focused. Weapons, checked. Blades glinting cold beneath layered coats. Muskets loaded. Pistols primed. The kind of stillness that only comes before war.

San spots the ripple first. A cut in the fog. The unmistakable shape of a mast. Then another. And another.

The Serpent’s Fang.

Without a word, Hongjoong raises his arm.

The trap springs.

Sails lurch. The Halcyon pivots sharply, flanking the convoy’s edge with brutal precision. At the same moment, fire bursts across the line – Yeosang’s explosives detonating on contact, setting one of the Fang’s smaller ships ablaze. Chaos erupts before a single command is shouted.

Cannon fire rips across the water. Chain-shot splinters masts. Hooks bite into hulls. Then come the screams, the clash of steel—chaos.

San launches himself from the rigging like a shadow with teeth, crashing onto enemy decks. His twin blades flash in the morning light, every movement brutal and precise. One down. Another. He doesn’t pause.

Wooyoung’s firebombs spark to life from within the enemy’s cargo—he’d hidden aboard one of the merchant-styled supply ships during the night. When his fires detonate, a chain reaction ignites the lower hulls. He leaps overboard just before the flames reach the gunpowder hold.

Back on the Halcyon, Seonghwa moves like a commander possessed, directing reinforcements across the rails and through the tangled melee with mechanical precision. His sword is sheathed in red already, but he barely flinches—until a flaming arrow pierces the main sail above.

Jongho is on the port side, hauling wounded back and forth under cover. A younger crew-mate screams, pinned beneath fallen rigging—Jongho throws it off with raw strength, shielding them with his body as an enemy blade barely misses his spine.

Yeosang, perched in the crow’s nest, releases a barrage of miniature incendiaries down onto clustered attackers. His bombs explode on contact, ripping through enemy formations.

Amid the smoke and fury of the fray, Mingi is a force of nature – less a man, more a storm with a broadsword. He crashes into the enemy’s front line like a wave, swinging wide and wild, unrelenting. Two Serpent Fang pirates charge him at once; he doesn’t falter. His blade arcs, and one drops. The other he grabs by the collar and hurls into the sea. Blood streaks his cheek, his coat torn, breath heaving with each strike. But he’s laughing, fierce and reckless, driving the enemy back step by step. He doesn’t see the skiff. Doesn’t see the quiet shadows slipping aboard behind him. His focus is locked forward, unaware that the most dangerous battle is no longer ahead.

The Halcyon is cutting through the Serpent’s ranks like a blade through silk—but it comes at a cost. Shouts ring out. Smoke blurs the lines between ally and enemy. The main deck becomes a battlefield of fire, blood, and steel.

And in the chaos, they come.

A low skiff, black as night, coasts silently along the shadow of the Halcyon’s hull. Too fast. Too quiet. Grapples bite into the lower stern. Figures slither aboard like smoke.

The Viper’s men.

Three of them, hooded and masked, moving in formation with practiced silence. They slip through the lower levels, bypassing the main hold.

They know exactly where to go.

One pauses by a door, your door.

Meanwhile, across the smoke-choked battlefield, Hongjoong lifts his head. His eyes lock onto the movement. That feeling. Cold, electric, wrong.

His heart slams against his ribs.

No.

He breaks rank. Barrels past startled crew, ignoring the shouts for retreat. Vaults over fallen beams, slashes down an enemy who lunges in his path. Breath coming hard. Fast.

This isn’t happening, this couldn’t happen.

~

Pyra, knowing wars like these all too well, already knows how this will end.

Not in glory. Not in victory songs. But in blood, smoke, and knee jerk choices that no one walks away from clean.

While the ship shudders with distant cannon fire and the crew shouts orders above deck, you slip from the room they’d told you to stay in. Not a cell, not anymore, but still a cage. You move like a whisper, barefoot and sure, the floorboards cold beneath you. The Halcyon’s belly trembles with every broadside blast.

You find a belt in the crew’s quarters. A small dagger on the desk. You take both. Your hands are steady.

They will come for you. Of course they will.

You are the loose thread, the secret untied. And the Fang always cuts loose ends.

You descend two decks, keeping to the shadows, breath shallow. The smoke is heavier here, filtering in through the cracks in the hull. The scent of blood lingers, familiar. Almost comforting. You’ve lived through sieges before. You know how they move. Where they’ll breach. How they’ll hunt.

You station yourself behind a column near the cargo hold, eyes locked on the hallway ahead. Silent. Waiting.

Then—

A sound.

Not boots.

Gliding steps. Too quiet for a man who belongs to this ship.

A flicker of movement. A flash of a black hood. Another. Then a third.

They’re here.

The Viper’s men. Just as you knew they would be.

And they’re heading straight for you.

You tighten your grip on the dagger. You told yourself you wouldn’t fight. Not for them, not against them.

But something has changed.

You’ve seen the way Hongjoong looked at you. The way he ran for you.

And maybe it’s foolish, but you are tired of being a pawn.

This time, you’ll choose who you bleed for.

~

Hongjoong is running blind.

The battle above still howls behind him. Shouts, steel, the crack of cannon fire, but it’s muffled now, drowned beneath the thrum of blood in his ears. He barrels through corridors like a storm barely holding itself together. His boots slide on the smoke-slick wood, shoulder crashing into walls as he takes each turn too fast.

His only thought: Get to her.

The sight of those hooded men slithering aboard, their path too direct, their purpose too focused. It burned into him like a brand.

They’re not here to sack the Halcyon. They’re here for Pyra.

He shoves open a bulkhead door. Darkness swallows him. The belly of the ship is quieter, colder, thick with smoke and the iron tang of blood.

“Pyra!” he calls, low and sharp.

No response.

Panic curls up his spine. He rounds a corner, seeing a flicker of movement ahead. A glint of steel. A shadow passing. Too fast.

“Pyra!”

He doesn’t see the figure step out behind him until it’s too late.

A blow crashes into the back of his shoulder, hard and deliberate. He stumbles forward, off-balance, and a second attacker slams him sideways into the wall. Steel glints near his throat.

They were waiting.

He fights to breathe, twisting against their hold, drawing a dagger from his belt – but a third figure is already there, wrenching it free and slamming him to the floor with brutal precision.

A knee pins his chest.

One of the masked men crouches beside him, blade at his throat, breath hot through the fabric of his hood.

“You should have stayed above deck, Captain.”

Another hand closes around Hongjoong’s throat. Tightens. His vision begins to blur.

But then – a whistle of air. A dull crunch.

The attacker above him jerks, then topples, collapsing in a heap beside him. The second doesn’t even get a chance to turn.

She’s there. A blur of movement and violence.

Pyra.

The third man lunges for her, but she ducks under his blade, pivots, and drives her dagger upward into his ribs with horrifying precision. A twist. He crumples without a sound.

Silence crashes down.

Hongjoong coughs, dazed, staring up at her.

She’s panting, blood on her hands—not hers. Her chest rises and falls with lethal stillness, eyes wild, glowing faintly in the dark. A shadow of something long buried, now unearthed.

He realises, in that heartbeat, that she didn’t need to be saved.

She chose this. She chose him.

And now nothing will ever be the same.

Your breath rakes through your lungs, harsh and unsteady. Blood drips from the tip of your blade. You don’t feel it, feel anything but the thrum of adrenaline still pounding through your limbs.

Three of them.

Dead at your feet.

The oath you swore long ago – the one they branded into your skin and soul, now lying in pieces beside their cooling bodies.

You don’t look at them. You look at him.

He’s still on the floor, half-propped against the wall, blood on his lip, eyes wide and dark with disbelief. But not fear.

Not of you.

That’s what undoes you.

“Pyra…” His voice is low, hoarse. “What… what did you do?”

Your fingers are trembling. You hadn’t realised until now. You curl them into a fist, force the tremor away.

“I made a choice.”

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. And gods, they feel heavier than steel.

“They were your people,” he says, not quite a question.

You don’t answer.

He presses anyway, more gently this time. “Weren’t they?”

A beat of silence.

“They were,” you say, finally. “Once.”

It’s all you give him. And yet it’s everything.

His eyes search yours, uncertain, still trying to piece together what it means. A girl once captive aboard his ship… now a killer in its defence.

“You didn’t hesitate,” he murmurs. “Why?”

You could lie. You could say it was instinct. Survival. But something inside you rebels at the thought.

So instead, you give him the only truth you’re ready to admit.

“Because I didn’t want to lose you.”

Silence falls again, heavier now. The fire of battle replaced with something raw, something unfinished.

“I ran down here to save you, I broke rank,” he says, voice low, like he’s only just realising the irony. “And you were the one who ended up saving me.”

You sheath your blade, hands-stained red.

“They taught me how to fight,” you murmur. “They just never expected me to choose someone else.”

His lips twitch—a half smile, pained and reverent. “You’re not what I thought.”

You reach for him, hesitating only a breath before helping him to his feet. He stumbles slightly, and your hands stay at his arms longer than they need to.

And he doesn’t let go.

His grip is steady. Warm. Trusting.

Too trusting.

You hold his gaze, your voice low and sharp, the edges honed not from anger, but warning.

“You couldn’t even begin to fathom what I am, Hongjoong.”

The words cut through the stillness like a blade.

“If you knew what was best – for you, your ship, your crew… you’d stay away.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

But his expression shifts. That reverence dims, not into fear, but something heavier. More dangerous. More determined.

“I’ve never done what’s best for me,” he says quietly. “And I’ve never once regretted it.”

His hand loosens, but only slightly.

“You still think you’re the storm,” he adds. “But Pyra… I’ve weathered worse seas than you.”

Your breath catches.

Because part of you wants to believe him.

Part of you wants to fall into the safety of his certainty. Wants to believe he could carry the weight of you without sinking beneath it.

But you know better.

You shake your head and step out of his release, severing the fragile line that had stretched between you.

“No,” you say, voice low but clear. “You don’t understand. You couldn’t.”

He opens his mouth, but you cut him off before he can try.

“Why do you think the Fang removed all traces of me from existence?” Your words come steady now, each one a nail hammered into truth. “Why would they go to such depths to keep a girl concealed from the world?”

You keep your gaze on him – not cold, but unwavering. A challenge. A confession. A warning.

“I’m not some secret weapon they misplaced. I’m the mistake they were afraid to name.”

The silence that falls isn’t empty. It’s thick. Charged.

Hongjoong looks at you like he wants to ask a hundred questions, but understands that now isn’t the time for any of them.

Instead, he decides to ask only one. Quiet. Careful.

“What did they do to you?”

And for the first time, something cracks.

But not enough to break.

You blink once, slowly, forcing the flood back behind your eyes.

“That’s not the question you should be asking.”

His brow furrows. “Then what is?”

You take a slow breath. Let it burn on the way out.

“What I’ll do to you… if you don’t stop looking at me like that.”

Like you’re worth saving.

Like you belong here.

Like you haven’t already made the choice that will damn you both.

The silence between you stretches, heavy with words unsaid, when the sound of boot-steps suddenly pierces it – rushed, echoing off the corridor walls. Not measured like before. Urgent.

Seonghwa.

You both register it at once. Hongjoong tenses, jaw tight, but doesn’t step away.

The door swings open, unannounced. Seonghwa storms in, breath sharp, gaze immediately locking onto the two of you. His captain, and their captor, far too close.

His eyes narrow.

“There you are,” he snaps, storm barely restrained in his voice. “What in god’s name are you doing down here?”

Hongjoong straightens slowly but doesn’t flinch. “I had to make sure she was safe.”

“Safe?” Seonghwa strides fully into the room, eyes flicking between you both. “We were attacked. You vanished mid-battle, Hongjoong. Do you have any idea what that did to the crew? To morale?”

“I knew she was the target,” Hongjoong says, flatly. “I couldn’t risk—”

“You’re the captain.” Seonghwa’s voice rises, then levels again with cold, deliberate clarity. “You don’t get to vanish when your crew need you.”

He pauses, chest rising and falling with the restraint of a man who has fought too many battles for someone else’s recklessness.

Then, quieter, his gaze shifts to you.

“They came looking for her, didn’t they?”

You don’t answer. Neither does Hongjoong.

But Seonghwa is no fool. He sees the way your hands are still shaking slightly. The way blood stains your cuffs, Hongjoong. His eyes narrow further.

“You fought them.” he says slowly.

Still, silence.

Hongjoong finally exhales, brushing a hand over his face. “She saved my life.”

Seonghwa stares at him. Then at you. Something shifts in his expression – still sharp, still distrusting, but more cautious now. Measured.

“You,” he points a long, slender finger towards you “Should not need to be saving anyone.”

The Quartermaster turns to you now. “I am not sure what kind of game you’re playing, but saving him does not erase the fact that you were them not long ago.”

He turns back to Hongjoong. “You will need to decide soon, Captain. What you are willing to risk. I cannot keep making justifications for your reckless behaviour.”

His words hang thick in the air. A warning.

Then he’s gone – leaving the door half-ajar, and the echo of the war still rattling the bones of the ship.

You and Hongjoong remain, a breath between storms.

[ineffablepenguin]

Once Upon a Time (three years ago)…

I did a physical print run of this little fairytale au Good Omens fanfic that I wrote. It was intended as a just-for fun art project, but ended up selling so many books that we got a bulk discount, and raised some money for the Trevor Project. Huzzah!

Over the years I’ve had a lot of people ask if I’d ever do another run, and I’m happy to say that I finally have the time! So without further ado, the final pre-order will be opening TODAY, in my BigCartel shop, to run for two weeks. Ending June 18!

This new edition will also include the current two continuation ficlets on AO3, as well as a bit of new art from the amazing cover artist Martina 💜 I’m also going to be doing the same “Raven Post” packaging as before (see story hilight for example), with an added themed bookmark or some similar merch item.

The down side is, the books are more expensive than last time. Between tariffs and the general state of the world, production costs of everything have skyrocketed. I hate that, but there’s no getting around it. To do a reprint as nice as before with the same spot-UV cover detail and 13+ color illustrations inside (and since the book is over 500 pages long) it now costs $36 USD per book, so that is how much I will be selling them for plus shipping.

To be clear, this is still a zero profit venture! I’m doing this just for the fun of it, because I love bookish things and I think we could all use a bit of whimsy right now. In the unlikely event that we sell so many again that I get another bulk discount, the profits will go to a LGBTQ+ charity like last time. And of course the original fics are still available to read for free on AO3.

✨📖 BOOK DETAILS 📖✨:

▪️Paperback

▪️Matte cover with spot gloss detailing

▪️6”x9”

▪️595 pages

▪️More than a dozen color illustrations* from different artists inside (including a couple brand new pics in this edition)

▪️2 continuation ficlets included at the end (‘Touching Fire’ and ‘Finer Things’)

▪️I will be including the “Raven Post” packaging from last time, as well as some kind of Villainous themed small item(s) such as a bookmark or similar, TBD

[jetii]

It's OC Sunday, and we've gotten far enough along in Event Horizon that I feel ready to start releasing some of the concept art of my boys.

I’m working on some art of my own, but I've been sitting on this amazing art I commissioned from @astral-veil for too long, and I need to get it out. Thank you again for bringing him to life!!

Please allow me to introduce Commander Booker of the 419th Brigade 🫡 Some background below the cut:

Clone Commander Booker - CC-8411

Booker is a 2nd generation clone commander, part of a new batch of clones intended to be "more capable of independent thought." The men joke that he was left to cook in his tube a little too long.

His first real combat experience was the Second Battle of Kamino.

During the battle, he and General Soma "Goldie" Anathorn repelled waves of droids thanks to Booker’s plan to use a downed Trident-class assault ship as an explosive.

His armor is painted with the arms of the Trident to commemorate the incident.

Booker was hailed as a hero after the battle, and General Anathorn placed her recommendation for his promotion. Neither of them knew at the time that the 419th Brigade formed under his command would be helmed by the two of them together.

The name "Booker" was given to him by his brothers. As a young cadet, he had a keen interest in wrestling and martial arts, and this interest lead him to organizing several fights under the Kaminoans’ noses to figure out who was the strongest.

The secret tournament plot was ultimately foiled after he was caught with dozens of protein bars that were being used as bets underneath his mattress during inspection.

Before the Battle of Kamino, Booker was continuously held back from promotion for flagrant rule-breaking and recklessness.

Not much has changed, but General Anathorn's own brand of rule-breaking and recklessness has forced him to take his responsibilities more seriously.

Booker is charismatic and easygoing to a fault, and his cheerful demeanor is a useful foil to his general’s grumpiness when dealing with the men and the Council.

Prefers his modified DC-15A blaster carbine to a pistol and is known for his deadly accuracy. Though he’d prefer to settle his problems with his fists if he could. And does so often.

A bit obsessive over his hair/mustache, and he keeps a hand mirror in his kit at all times.

He wants tattoos, but he's lowkey terrified of needles. The 419th's chief medic Wise has to trick him into his shots.

If he had any credits, he would definitely have a gambling problem 💀

Rex is his idol, though he quickly gets over that once he sees how hard the captain fumbles over General Anathorn

Booker is fiercely protective of his men and his general, and he considers her a sister and close friend. His closest brother is the captain of the 419th's Maelstrom Company, Snap.

You can read more about Booker and the 419th Brigade in my Rex x Jedi!Reader longfic Event Horizon 💙 And if you ever wanted to request a fic with him…………

[unlawfulgames]

SOOTY BEARDS IS OUT! Come get your dwarves and your beard oil! Help us slow fund a physical release! https://plusoneexp.com/pages/sooty-beards

What is Sooty Beards?

A setting zine about a fantasy dwarf-hold crossed with a decaying American coal town. People are leaving and things are falling apart. If something doesn’t change–if things can’t change–it’ll become a ghost town soon.

Sooty Beards Features:

8 Run-down urban and wilderness areas complete with “What Used To Be Here?” And “What’s Here Now?” tables to bring out the weight of ages.

8 Strange, Dual-Statted Creatures to populate your dying coal town with, whether your game uses d6 or d20.

Dozens of quirky, narrative items to discover, from screaming lanterns to steampowered ballistic sportballs.

A “Why Did You Even Come Here?” table to give your characters quick, easy, and miserable motivations for visiting the crumbling city of Vesallberg.

More than 20 evocative pieces of art and a beautiful map of Vesallberg by Charles Ferguson-Avery.

CREEPING DEPRESSION

Instant talking canaries! Just add booze!

A glossary of useful terms to get you speaking like a native ‘Berger in no time.

A supplemental bonus book with d66 backgrounds for Vesallberg locals, compatible with TROIKA!

What People Are Saying

“An evocative portrait of community decay in the form of a TTRPG setting -- the troubles of these dwarves in their failing mine resonate strongly with the concerns of the modern day. Bleak in the best way. One gets the sense that this text is just the tip of the Vesallberg, as it were; hints lurk throughout that there is much more going on beneath the surface. (What is up with those *cats*?)”

- Dr. Mac Boyle of The Maniculum Podcast and Marginal Worlds TTRPG

The Creators of Bridgetown have done it again. They’re created a grim, nay whimsical–nay grimsical – setting that makes me wish I could grow a beard.

– Asa Donald of Backwards Tabletop

Ah, Vesallberg, miserable rock, “titanic triumph and miscreation”, a dying city stripped of resources, but full of beards (and the ecosystems within them). A wonderfully horrid place to visit, from the Slag Hills to the Deep Delvings. Come for strange misadventures among the Koljar Dwarves, Big Folk, and Scrawny folk. Stay for the deep, dark, hilarious writing; the whip-smart Politics(™); and the amazing illustration. Once you arrive you may never be able want to leave.

—Adam STATION, An Infinity of Ships, Make 100 Bastards

"How do you communicate background and lore in an RPG without it becoming a slog through a textbook? Quotes, cool tables, beautiful maps, and evocative art. This book makes it easy to picture the dwarf-hold of Vesallberg!”

-Joshua McCrowell of His Majesty The Worm

“This is like Veins of the Earth but with more life and less crunch. I really dig it!”

-David Schiduan of Technical Grimoire

“Welcome to Vesallberg, the Phoenix of the Wetlands™! … How’d that sound? Too corny? It’s too corny, isn’t it. Oh, that’ll send ‘em running away even faster. Stupid, stupid…!”

-Dent Pigiron, Newest Head of the Visitor Center

From the Team

From Furtive Goblin

Like most of my projects, what would eventually become Sooty Beards started as a half-joking mashup of X and Y shared with my friend John. In this case the “X” and “Y” were “Khazad-dûm” and “a dying coal town”, which turned out to be the magic words. For the next year he and I threw ideas back and forth and built the doc up, but soon I found myself in my first ever leading role with final say on what our team did. A fun idea became my first test as a game designer. And if you find yourself interested in picking up a copy of your own then hey, thanks for helping me pass.

From John Gregory

Just like Bridgetown, Furtive Goblin came up to me and said “Hey, I’ve got an idea!” And I responded, “I shall assemble The Team.” And, well, once again some of the Very Vilest Viziers have come together to give you something weird and bleak, a mix of dark humor, social commentary and dwarves being dwarves. Pulling from somewhere between my Appalachian coal-town ancestors and Furtive’s literal experience living under a rock, I’d like to think we’ve made something that will speak to that yet burning coal in your soul.

From Tony

I had 2 people message me asking if I could help Furtive get a zine published. I was already interested and then… they mentioned beards. At one point they tried to give me a “developer credit” but really Furt, John & Charlie did all the work and it’s beautiful, grimm & whimsical all at the same time. Each level of design layering on the next, to create something more than the individual parts. At the end of the day, unlike Vesallberg, I think people will flock to this project because of the earnest love that the creators have for what they have made, and each other. It’s great to be the 1st fan of a project, but it’s just as good to be the 3rd fan.

Follow Up

If you have additional questions, would like to schedule an interview, set up a time to play with us, or have any other questions please feel free to reach out via email to Tony@PlusOneExp.com