#this is for stuffing us in a cage and box

[twilightofthesandwiches]

I'm starting to think that the soul we control is not actually Kris's, and is instead being held captive as a part of whatever plans Kris is wrapped up in. The phone call in the kitchen had a few parts that I found alarming, "police sacrifice," "need soul," "without it, Kris will..." The soul existed when we were creating the vessel, before ever meeting Kris, and Kris created a fountain while the soul was stuffed in the couch, so fountain creation is not what the soul is needed for. While being menaced with a hockey stick, we can eavesdrop that Kris acting odd is a recent development, so it's likely that before getting involved in whatever is going on, Kris was a normal human with a normal soul that was entirely theirs. We weren't creating an infant vessel, so it'd be odd if the vessel soul were somehow Kris's for their entire life, if sounding and acting weird is a recent development. Kris only shambles around when they know we are watching. Kris hides information from the player, such as refusing to read the books about humans and souls. In the s-room game, at first I thought Kris resisted approaching the shelter because they were scared. But Kris never resisted approaching the actual shelter. In the game we had the key, in the overworld, they do everything to prevent anyone from getting a key code.

Apparently wanting to help Susie save Undyne warrants getting punted into a box, pelted with a bottle of chocolate sauce, pelted with a hockey puck, and getting repeatedly beaten with a hockey stick. It felt like the soul was in a hostage situation, and we can't inform anyone because Kris can override the player choices they disapprove of. I've never done a weird route, but the videos I've seen look like the soul is instead turning Kris into the hostage who can't tell anyone.

Then there's the aftermath of dying; normally it's just Ralsei and Susie pleading with Kris to get up. Meanwhile, when trying to win against the roaring knight (against whom Kris only does 12 measly damage and is spared from getting k.o'd if you win) the voice that spoke to us in the beginning starts commenting on us the player, us the soul, refusing to concede the fight. Kris is fine, Kris tells us nothing about the knight, Kris smiles if you hold breath more than once, Kris kneels when they know their mother is gonna get abducted

I mean, yeah, there is a reason why Kris' 'Hero' Title in the Prophecy is "The Cage"

The questions at this point, what happened to Kris' real SOUL, and what sort of Grand Plan is worth it for Kris to allow themself to be both a puppet and a prison (... hey, here's the Spamton and Jevil parallels again) to an Amoral Time God.

Especially since, despite their anguish, they are still going along with it on the Weird Route.

What could be worth it?

[sukunas-wife]

Sealed 2

1 3

“Year after year after year the hours pass and it never ends, I’ve been here for millennia is Ryomen even trying?” You sat down onto the pile of bones, skeletons supporting you the best they could. The Prison Realm had become your domain, you’d molded every bone and skeleton to do your work. Your elbow resting on the spine of skeleton your cheek pressing against your fist as you stared bored.

Looking down the pile of bones and skeletons holding up your throne that you had formed to match Sukuna’s you saw two Skeletons battling for your amusement. Sighing you slouched back in your throne, watching the two headed four armed skeleton using sharpened bones as spears, fighting a towering 6 armed Skelton. His arms like vices ready to grab and shove whatever into its gaping rib cage to crush it. “This needs more!” The two skeletons looked up at you, before the rumbling of the skeletal centaur could be heard, a centaur of bone, his torso with 4 arms, it held an extended spine as if it were a chain. Lower two arms ready to grab at anything, more specifically rip off the head and spine of its opponents.

“YES! THIS IS what we need!” You smacked the skeleton who stood near you on the back. His bones shaking as you leaned forward, you’d find out soon which of your creations was truly the strongest. “Let’s get this show started-“ it was quick blur of red and black before you were standing head tilted to the side as you stared irked at the man in front of you. “Do YOU KNOW WHAT YOU JUST DID.”

“PLEASE FORGIVE ME! I BEG FOR MERCY I SPENT MUCH OF MY LIFE LOOKING FOR THIS TREASURE THATS BEEN hidden away heating the tales of how the sourcerer’s of old time had wrongly imprisoned a Diety of Fertility separating her from her son. I just come to beg and ask you give my wife your blessing to have a child were old in age but she’s always prayed and begged. I’ve run out of hope until i heard you tale, i beg and hoped you’d have mercy- Sit up” was all you said. The man went from groveling to sitting back on his heels. Sighing the conflict inside of you was great. You looked around tucking your arms into the sleeves of your worn Kimono. “Bring me your wife,” you looked up through the canopy of the trees you see the sun at mid day, “you have two sunsets and then I leave.” The man quickly bowed again at your feet thanking you before running off. You kicked the prison realm box “Damnit who won!” You snatched it up, the air was familiar, you started to look around. The reason it was so familiar was because it wasn’t to far from where you had been sealed. The skeletal remains of the sourcerers made you seethe. You found the remains of the man who sealed you grabbing his skull with your free hand making it look at you, “my child my husband,” you crushed it without fail, “you took it all from me and now everyone will pay.” Th tears falling down were hot. Dropping the remains you started your first technique “Reanimate.” A wave of purple radiated from you, hitting every border of the palace. Skeletal remains shaking and coming together to stand, “Get this place back into shape.” They started moving, you made your way inside the palace the inside help had been reanimated also, your ladies in waiting now remains, standing beside you as you enter “Find fabric I need new robes.” They rushed off and you made it to your old room, the massive bed your son had fallen off many times when he would try to sleep with you and his dad. The wardrobe filled with your husband’s old robes. The room was dusty and smelt humid, shoving the window open you tried not to cry, on the window sill was a talisman Sukuna had created for Yuji. Sniffling you turned your head, finding a small blanket and stuffed Tiger doll Yuji carried around that morning. A gift for his 2nd birthday that he loved and it showed on the tigers rugged appearance.

“My Yuji..” your faint whisper sounding so loud in the silence as you ran your fingers of the stuffed doll holding it close to your chest as you made your way around the room planning your moves. Your plans had always been to follow in similar steps to Sukuna. Except that you’d be known for good to balance out the evil perspective they had of your husband. First, fix your palace. Second, create miracles in the closest town or village to make profit and move into a bigger city to improve profits. Find wherever Sukuna had been sealed away, and break him free. Find Yuji and take him back from this cruel world.

❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️

It’s been over 100 more years and you’d grown accustomed to the changing in technology and times, passing the crowds into your shrine you smiled ruffling the heads of kids who smiled up at you, rubbing the plump bellies of pregnant women you passed and “blessing” the sick with instant health with simply laying a hand on them and smiling kindly.

Entering your shrine for the last time your Gentlemen in waiting was packing up what was left. The last thing left was the main room where your wide throne sat, you’d be leaving it being to your followers, the cushions you provided for your followers during your sessions. “Morí.” You called out and he came from the room he was in bowing and holding his hands out in front of him. “Yes Lady Y/n?”

“Morinozuka, we’re leaving tonight to Sendai City. The mark of my binding vow is burning more, but are you sure that’s where we need to go?”

“Yes Lady Y/n.” He spoke not looking up from his bow. You nodded, “then it’s final.”

❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️

“So this is the place?” You turned to Morí and he nodded. “It’s not as lavish but this is the closest we can get… Your excellency.. I strongly recommend you continue to hide your cursed energy until I suggest otherwise.” You nodded getting out of the car “Very well, I will.”

It was morning when you had arrived, standing in front of the door to the house you looked over an elder man was walking out of his house he looked over and you smiled at him and he had a very faint twitch of his lip. Until a man with pink hair came out, follows by a woman with black hair and you felt it. The pulse of cursed energy and instinctively you grabbed Mori by his robes and pulled him towards you, “That woman, she’s no woman that- is the carrier of your child.” You head snapped instantly to him, “The father of my child, that’s the sorcerer who knew Sukuna, and he is going to mother my child?” Your face showing your exact emotions Mori placing a hand over yours, “Lady Y/n, please recollect your thoughts. I can assure you he will NOT be mothering your child, and her husband will not be fathering him either.” Letting go of his robes you nodded. Looking over your shoulder you watched the couple get into a car the elder man scowling when they started to drive away.

Turning to look at you he tucked his arms behind his back walking over, “Good Morning I’m L/n Y/n.” You greeted bowing after you moved closer, he dismissed you with a wave of your hand. “Morning, Wasuke Itadori.” He cocked a brow and looked over at your house, “It’s been up for sale for a long time. Almost 3 years before someone has moved in.” You looked back at your house, “I moved in to get closer to work. I thought it was just a blessing for everything to line up so perfectly.”

He nodded, “Well, blessings only go so far here. My son’s wife is something I’d consider to be a curse.” You nodded, “oddly enough I wouldn’t disagree. I know a snake when I see one and from a brief glance I wouldn’t trust her at all.”

He nodded, “Have a good day moving in, if you need help my son and his wife will be returning soon. I’m sure either of them would be willing to help with any problems.”

“Have a good day Mr.Itadori.” You bowed your head slightly and you both went separate ways.

“Mori,” you sighed entering your house “count these days.”

[revelboo]

could we perhaps get some more Ironhide scraps when you have the chance??? fantastic work as always!!! every new chapter has my looking at my phone or computer like this:

Sure! 🤣

Hold Me Down Pt 5

Ironhide x Reader

• “You understand you’re just stealing from yourself, right?” That deep, rumbling voice makes you flinch guiltily, caught in the act of stuffing your pockets full of candy, packets of jerky, and granola bars from the big box he’d carried in after the bot with the glowing panels on his head had set up a little berth and a tiny bathroom on the corner of Ironhide’s desk for you. And you suppose it could be worse. Your tiny habitat isn’t in a cage at least, but you still feel like a prisoner. “That’s yours. Your food.”

• “Then I can take it,” you counter, chin lifting as he vents at you. You really think he doesn’t know what you’re up to? Loading up on food. And he’d watched you walk the perimeter of his desk while Wheeljack worked, looking over the edges. Already plotting escape and honestly, he’d be more than happy to allow you to run back to wherever you call home. Let you be someone else’s problem, except for the fact that you know about them and might run your mouth. And he’s sure you would just for pure spite. So unfortunately, you’re his to deal with.

• “Look, darlin.’ I’m responsible for you like it or not.” Planting a big hand on the berth near you, he leans in and you’re proud you don’t flinch back. “And unfortunately for both of us, I can’t just let you escape.” There’s an overwhelming urge to bean him with a candy bar now that you realize he can’t actually hurt you. It’s against the rules. And you grin up at him, eyes narrowing.

• “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say, chin lifting as you bare your little teeth at him. Feeling bold? Leaning closer to make your head tip back to not break contact with his optics, he prods you gently with a servo in the chest and still almost accidentally knocks you down. Not at all surprised when you slap his servo. “You can’t touch me.” But you don’t sound that confident anymore and it’s his turn to grin at you.

• “Darlin,’ you’re my ward. Mine,” he growls, poking you again and you grab onto his servo with both hands. And his grin falters some, optics drifting to your hands when you don’t let go to keep him from prodding you a third time and knocking you on your butt. “Whether you like it or not,” he adds. Like he expects you to just lay down and roll belly up. Admit defeat and play at being his pet. Ward. Whatever he wants to call it. Too bad for him you’ve dealt with much scarier people.

Previous

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[diejager]

New Ownership

Pairing: Dark!Krueger + König x doll!reader

Cw: DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, possessive behaviour, magic?, death, heartbreak, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1.2k

You used to watch people awe at you, expressing their shock, incredulous and pleasing, under the protection of your owner —your creator. You were an object of emotion; of melancholy. You were a life size doll made of porcelain and wax, of hohair and glass eyes, painted in the richest pigments and dressed in the finest fabrics, you were the epitome of treasure in your time. A doll made with utmost care and tenderness to heal a wounded heart. 

Your creator was a doll maker, building every doll with a special kind of affection, be it for his collection or for a client, he always loved his dolls. He made as much as he gave, the single joy of his life was the present his late-wife gave him, a daughter to call his own, someone soft and living unlike the cold bisque of his creations. You were a present for her coming-of-age, a mimicry of her person, made with love for the adoration he had for his daughter, and sadness for seeing her grow up and leave, to start a new life without him. Every stroke was perfection and every detail was imperfection, you were perfectly imperfect, a mirror to a human.

You were made as an object to remember him by once she left to live with her fiance, painted in the last moments before he saw her off. He dressed you up in a pretty dress, a voluptuous crimson for the passion and a deep black for the end of he past and the start of a new beginning. He made you into what he saw his sweet, precious daughter as, a dream that he was ecstatic to gift, but she was in an accident the week before her celebration. She died of it, passing in writhing pain and tearful agony. It broke the man who lived to care. Your tender creator who lived to love and give.

He drowned in the throes of sorrow and agony, paraliysed by his own fears and torn apart by his nightmares, and left the house you once loved to rot and waste away just as he was. Sobbing nights and depressing mornings, you were unable to do anything but watch as he spent his days rotting, his skin sinking, his hair outgrow and his complexity pale unhealthily, yet he still cared for you. Your creator —your father cleaned you, dressed you and incased you in a thin layer of wax and gel to protect you from the changing times. 

You gave him solace, something to live for after he closed his quaint shop and became a hermit, crazed and lonely, having nothing but you to talk to and spend his shortening time with. You wished you could tell him how much you cared, how much you shared his sorrows or how saddened you were to see him like this. And like his daughter, your father passed away, heartbroken and lonely, leaving you to watch over his cooling body dissolving in his bed. All the wasted years, spent seated in your chair, unmoving and unliving, never being able to reach out to him to show him how much you loved him. Life, however, ran its course, uncaring of any kind of self-sought fury or self-given agony, you were just a doll given conscience and memory. 

You were picked up by a relative, estranged and distant from yours. He was German, or Austrian from the rough tone he used, a deep growl as he appraised you, rough fingers caressing your face like he was admiring you. He was, this wasn’t admiration in his eyes, you knew it, that sick and twisted gleam in his brown eyes, it was obsession. It was a perverted kind of adoration, it made you fear what he would do to you.

And these fears, these demons that clung to your peripheral, weren’t unfounded, weren’t an illusion your conscience made up to fill the void in your empty core. You were carefully stuffed in a box, stored safely during the long move from your small town in Germany to a place in Austria, locked away in a loud and dark place and only brought out to be placed in another cage of gold. 

He laid you in a pentagram of sorts, a crooked thing painted in a dark red and terrifying runes that promised nothing but evil. He enacted this… ritual that would affect you in some way, his low chants and hisses while he stared you down with hungry eyes once he stripped you of all clothes, lathering your porcelain with markings. He scared you more, knowing that he had this planned out, and that he wasn’t alone. 

There was a shadow of a giant behind him, a man heads taller than most with cold eyes peeking through a fabric to gaze at you. He had broad shoulders and thick arms, seemingly swallowing the corner he stood from. He took up a lot of your attention, ripped between the chanting man and him from your chair, placed perfectly at the center of this ritualistic circle. You were a show to the giant and a project to your new owner, a spectacle to watch unravel and writhe in pain.

It hurt. Why did this hurt? Your skin tingled, an annoyance that grew to a boiling agony, this sacrilegious magic reworking your imperfect body to fit one of his whims. You shook in your chair, the red sinking into your skin, lining the inside of your precious porcelain with runes as your fingers and toes flexed, limbs jerking from the information overload on your new nerves, synapses snapping into place and building a circuit of sensitive system. You could blink and you could cry, tears springing from your fluttering lashes, lips trembling before you screamed, a shrill cry that wailed out of your lungs. 

Your chest burned, it felt heavy with an erratic pulse, beat after beat slamming into your calcified ribs, warm fat and strained muscles. You felt like you were drowning, your throat clogged with something sick and dying after you shriek, acidic to your tongue. It stole the air from your lungs and you had to fill it back, the nagging urge to do so. Your chest expanded with your first breath, it hurt - it burned, but you didn’t drown - but it seamed the first seed of life within you. 

You slumped forward, eyes rolling to the back of your head as the last words he uttered passed through your mind, a searing memory forever imprinted in your conscience. You fell into warm arms, a soothing warmth unlike the boiling pit of magma that raged over you, embracing you with a quiet coo from the man who brought you to life. He hoisted you up, wrapping an arm under your knees and another firmly pressing your naked chest to his. Yours limbs were strangers to you, new and uncanny that you couldn’t move or control just yet. You limply laying your head in the crook of his neck, burying your nose in a green veil smelling strongly of musk and metal, your legs too weak and arms too tense like a newly born fawn.

“Besorg mir etwas, um sie zu bedecken, König”

“Ja, bin gleich wiener da..”

“Welcome to the living, Rehkitz.”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

[bunnyb0ne]

Isolated Memory

A short story from the better days. Eng/Rus versions. Sorry for any mistakes, I am not a native speaker, feel free to suggest and correct me <3

Its name is Yarnaby.

It is a big toy with a colorful yarn mane, heavy clawed paws, charming round eyes, and a wide goofy smile. It’s much bigger than a dog, but not taller than a horse, at least that's what they tell—Yarnaby itself has never seen horses, only in pictures, and there they are no bigger than its paws. It lives in a large room with walls sewn from scraps of soft leather. It often tears them up, leaving large marks on the floor, walls, and even the ceiling; this way, it sharpens its claws. There is a large warm dog bed in the room, which has been worn out for a long time, but Yarnaby still sleeps on it. There are also lots of pillows, toys, a table that you can jump on and it won't break, chairs that you can't jump on, and to not be tempted by them, Yarnaby always pushes the chairs to the corner farthest from the dog bed, using his head and paws. Not far from a large iron door with a small window, there is a cage where Yarnaby can only climb in by crouching down. There are bowls of food and water. When it's time to eat, and it usually comes at the same time every day, the cage closes, the bowls disappear behind the wall and fill with food and water, then reappear, and the cage opens. This means that you can eat. Yarnaby eats meat; it especially likes to gnaw and smash bones, eggs with shells, vegetables, and berries. Sometimes there are pieces of sweet chocolate in a mix. Yarnaby licks the bowl clean, especially if there is some sweet syrup, yolk, or blood residue at the bottom.

His name is the Doctor.

He's the one behind the wall filling Yarnaby's bowls. He takes it out of the cell once a week to take it to a smaller room, where there is already a basin, colored bottles, and a towel on the floor, which the Doctor uses to wipe Yarnaby after washing. Before sitting in the water, Yarnaby always tastes it, then carefully jumps into the basin, trying not to wet the Doctor, although he, having learned from past experience, puts on an apron beforehand. He gently combs through the yarn fur with his hands and talks with Yarnaby, and even though many of the words remain incomprehensible, everything immediately becomes clear from the tone of Doctor’s voice. When the Doctor is kind, he talks softly, and often asks Yarnaby questions. "Who's a good boy?" is one of them, and Yarnaby doesn't know why the Doctor repeats it. He's probably checking to see if his stuffed animal has forgotten the answer. But Yarnaby remembers. It opens its toothy mouth and purrs in a long, hoarse voice: "...Ya-a-arnaby...". Then the Doctor smiles, and Yarnaby becomes even happier. When the Doctor is angry, he talks, but not to Yarnaby, but to someone who is not in the room - or maybe it is an invisible being, and the Doctor snaps, screams and hisses, pulls the yarn painfully and pushes, and Yarnaby always feels very guilty. Sometimes the Doctor comes to feed it personally. He throws pieces of meat and sweet and sour berries when Yarnaby does something right. The doctor likes to start with simple tasks: sit, down, stand, voice, fetch, roll, near. Then they become more difficult: divide the toys by color, get food out of a narrow glass, name the objects correctly, read the words, and count to a hundred. Sometimes they even go into the playroom, where there are many different boxes, grids, tunnels, and ropes, and Yarnaby climbs to the top, runs after a small squeaking toy, and then grabs it in its jaws and brings it to the Doctor, where he examines a chick, a bear cub, or a kitten and throws it back on the playground—this means that now Yarnaby can chase it down and eat it. The Doctor has his own room. When he's there, Yarnaby can be around, but it cannot run, jump, or make noise. Yarnaby tries to play quietly when the Doctor is working: he sits at his desk and writes something, writes a lot, and then writes not on a piece of paper but on a computer, calls, writes more, sighs, and turns away from his notes. When Yarnaby gets bored of playing, it sits in a corner and watches the Doctor closely. Even if the Doctor doesn't pay attention to it, Yarnaby likes just looking at him and knowing he's there. When the Doctor turns to it, Yarnaby begins to play a cheerful tune coming from somewhere inside its body, and the Doctor smiles. The Doctor is all that Yarnaby has. And Yarnaby is all the Doctor has. Yarnaby doesn't have anyone else to talk to, and the Doctor likes to talk with his pet. Yarnaby listens with great interest, trying to catch every word.

"Doctor..."

"What?"

"Ba...ball."

"Not now. I'm busy."

"Work?"

"Yes. Don't bother me."

"But...ball. Long time..."

"I said don't bother me, Quinn—"

The Doctor turns to Yarnaby, anger and... confusion in his eyes? The Doctor blinks and rubs his face with his palm. He is tired. "Quinn?"

The Doctor's lower jaw tightens. Yarnaby feels a pang of fear but decides to ask anyway.

"Who is this?"

When the Doctor hears the simple-minded question, he blinks again, but this time longer, and grins, shaking his head.

"Oh...nevermind. Ball?"

Yarnaby's pupils get even bigger, and it jumps up, bringing the slobbery ball to the Doctor's feet. They play and play, and the strange nickname disappears behind thoughts of how much the Doctor loves Yarnaby and how much Yarnaby loves him.

His name was Quinn. But only the Doctor remembers it.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Его зовут Ярнаби.

Он большая игрушка, с цветастой гривой из пряжи, тяжёлыми когтистыми лапами, очаровательными круглыми глазами и широкой забавной улыбкой на морде. Он гораздо больше собаки, но не выше лошади, по крайней мере, так ему говорят – сам Ярнаби никогда не видел лошадей, только на картинках, и там они все не больше одного его пальца. Он живёт в большой комнате со стенами, сшитыми из лоскутов мягкой кожи. Он часто рвёт их, оставляя большие следы на полу, стенах и даже потолке, так он точит свои когти. В комнате есть большая тёплая лежанка, давно потерявшая форму под весом Ярнаби, но никакого места уютнее он не знает. Ещё здесь много подушек, игрушек, стол, на который можно прыгать, и он не сломается, стулья, на которые прыгать нельзя, и чтобы в лишний раз не соблазняться, Ярнаби всегда отодвигает их в самый дальний от лежанки угол, толкая мордой и лапами. Недалеко от большой железной двери с маленьким окошком есть клетка, куда Ярнаби может забраться только пригнувшись: там стоят миски с едой и водой. Когда настаёт время есть, а оно обычно настаёт каждый день в одно и то же время, клетка закрывается, миски исчезают за стену и нап��лняются едой и водой, а потом появляются обратно, и клетка открывается. Это значит, что можно есть. Ярнаби ест мясо, особенно ему нравится грызть и крошить кости, яйца со скорлупой, овощи и ягоды. Бывают дни, когда его балуют, и прибавляют кусочки шоколада. Ярнаби вылизывает миску дочиста, особенно если на дне есть немного сладкого сиропа, остатки желтка или крови.

Его зовут Доктор.

Это он за стеной наполняет миски Ярнаби. Он выводит его из камеры раз в неделю, чтобы завести в комнату поменьше, где уже стоит таз, цветные бутылочки, где на полу лежит полотенце, которым Доктор обтирает Ярнаби после того, как моет, тщательно прочесывая руками всё, покрытое пряжей тело. Перед тем, как сесть в воду, Ярнаби всегда пробует её на вкус, потом осторожно запрыгивает в таз, стараясь не намочить Доктора, хотя тот, наученный горьким опытом, и так надевает фартук. Доктор что-то рассказывает ему, и, пусть многие слова остаются непонятными, но по тону голоса всё сразу становится ясно. Когда Доктор добрый, он разговаривает мягко, неспешно и часто спрашивает что-то Ярнаби. «Кто хороший мальчик?» - так звучит один из его вопросов, и Ярнаби не знает, зачем Доктор его повторяет. Наверное, проверяет, не забыл ли его плюшевый зверь ответ. Но Ярнаби помнит. Он раскрывает зубастую пасть и протяжно, хрипло урчит: «…Я-я-ярнаби…». Тогда Доктор радуется, и Ярнаби тоже становится ещё счастливее. Когда Доктор злится, он разговаривает, но не с Ярнаби, а кем-то, кого нет в комнате – или, может, это существо невидимое, и Доктор огрызается, кричит и шипит, больно дёргает за пряжу и толкается, и Ярнаби всегда чувствует себя очень виноватым.

Иногда Доктор приходит на кормёжку лично. Он бросает кусочки мяса и сладкие и кислые ягоды тогда, когда Ярнаби делает что-то правильно. Доктору нравится начинать с несложных заданий: сесть, лечь, встать, зарычать, принести мяч, перекатиться, идти рядом. Потом они становятся сложнее: разделить игрушки по цветам, достать еду из узкого стакана, правильно назвать предметы, прочесть слова и посчитать до ста. Иногда они даже уходят в игровую комнату, где много разных коробок, решёток, туннелей и верёвок, и Ярнаби забирается на самый верх, бегает за маленькой пищащей игрушкой, а потом хватает её челюстями и приносит Доктору, где он осматривает цыплёнка, медвежонка или котёнка и снова бросает на площадку – это значит, что теперь Ярнаби можно догнать его и съесть.

У Доктора есть и своя комната. Когда он там, то Ярнаби может побыть рядом, но нельзя бегать, прыгать или шуметь. Ярнаби старается играть тихо, когда Доктор работает: сидит за столом и пишет что-то, очень много пишет, а потом пишет не на бумажке, а на компьютере, звонит, пишет ещё, вздыхает и отворачивается от своих записей. Когда Ярнаби наскучивает играть, он садится в угол и внимательно наблюдает за Доктором. Даже если Доктор не обращает на него внимания, Ярнаби нравится просто смотреть на него и знать, что он рядом. Когда Доктор поворачивается к нему, то Ярнаби играет весёлую мелодию, исходящую откуда-то изнутри его тела, и Доктор улыбается.

Доктор – всё, что есть у Ярнаби. И Ярнаби всё, что есть у Доктора. Больше Ярнаби разговаривать не с кем, а Доктор любит говорить. Ярнаби слушает с большим интересом, внимая каждому слову.

«Доктор…»

«Что?»

«Мя…мячик».

«Не сейчас. Я занят».

«Работа?»

«Да. Не мешай мне».

«Но…мячик давно не…»

«Я сказал не мешай мне, Квин-»

Доктор поворачивается к Ярнаби, в его глазах злость и…смущение? Доктор моргает и трёт ладонью лицо. Он устал.

«Квин?»

У Доктора напрягается нижняя челюсть. Ярнаби чувствует укол страха, но всё-таки решает спросить.

«Кто это?»

Когда Доктор слышит простодушный вопрос, он снова моргает, но теперь дольше, и усмехается, качая головой.

«О…неважно. Мячик?»

Зрачки Ярнаби становятся ещё больше, и он подскакивает, принося слюнявый мяч к ногам Доктора. Они играют и играют, и странное прозвище растворяется за мыслями о том, как же Доктор любит Ярнаби, и как же Ярнаби любит его.

Его звали Квин. Но об этом помнит только Доктор.

[moodymisty]

Author's note: What are you gonna do? Kinkshame me?

Relationship: Mortarion/Fem!Reader (to call it a relationship is kind of a stretch you only have his last name cause the vet paperwork requires it)

Warnings: NSFW, Nonnegotiable pet play (hampter), Degradation, Dehumanization, Kidnapping(?) Stockholm syndrome, Brief mention of reader having enough hair to put into a hair tie, Collar and leash, I dunno this is weird, This is totally unrelated to the Morty and his hot wife fic as much as his (future)wife would be down for being his pet, Inspired by @lemon-russ and her Mortarion pet fic series <3 and by inspired I mean like half of this fic is the exact fucking same cause i had trouble with the last half

The festering, bloated form of the Imperium was good for something, Mortarion thought.

Logistical tasks were nightmarish beyond all belief, shipments of requisitioned goods sent from place to place in the thousands if not millions. Many shipments disappeared outright; A planet now without food, a desperate front line without weapons. Efforts doomed purely on logistical error due to the sheer amount of traffic having to be handled.

It made slipping things between the cracks quite easy, however.

The box in Mortarion's hands is small by his standards, but for a human it would be quite sizable. They had offered to bring it to his quarters but he instantly refused, and Garro reiterated to the serfs that no one- including his own men- were to be near let alone in his quarters.

Not anymore.

When he enters the privacy of his chambers his shoulders relax slightly, and he hears the soft jingle of thin metal. It's quiet now- it used to be far louder but now that your cage is a bright display of plush blankets and toys, only weight on the exterior of the cage, and the metal of your collar, create any noise.

He smiles at the wide, excited look in your eyes, your fingers wrapped around the thin bars as you rise to your knees. The little dress you wear is still clean but a decent bit wrinkled, an array of lace and frills.

He'll have to change it; Along with a myriad of other chores he'll need to go after leaving you alone for so long.

"How are you, my little pet?"

You perk up and eagerly watch as he comes to let you out, but not too eagerly.

He doesn't like when you yelp and rattle the bars. He always wants you to be quiet above all else, especially during living hours.

"I have some new things for you, excited? Sit, and I'll show them to you."

You obediently listen legs curled to one side and nod, watching as he lowers himself to the floor on one knee. He grimaces and his bones crack and pop, but he manages. You look at him a bit worried, but you know he'll be fine.

You always love when he gets new things for you; New blankets, new pillows, new toys. Whenever things break he's always quick to get you new ones. It's so exciting to see what wonderful and colorful things he gets you from all of the places he's been, stuffing your life so full of plushness, soft fabrics and pastels.

The corner of his bedchambers your cage is in far more filled that it was when you'd first arrived, stuffed with spare things and little lights. If you were to just look at him, it would be almost funny; How lively and cute your home is in comparison to himself. His desk directly adjacent to you is solid wood, covered in burns, stains, and various bottles and jars.

In the moment it's nice, the free food, the blankets, the security; But when you think about it, its...

It's humiliating.

Degrading.

You feel less than human, though you suppose that's his intent; If anyone you knew ever saw you like this crawling around on all fours like a-

If any were alive.

Your planet was vicious, unforgiving. How you'd survived as long as you had was a miracle. To live there was to scavenge and fight for day to day survival, no thinking of the long term. You don't know if anyone you knew has even survived in few months you've been gone.

Has it been months?

Here, you're showered in plush toys and blankets, bowls and bowls of food. By a primarch no less. You were plucked from the sky by a being that from the sparse teachings of your forgotten planet was a man of incomprehensible power, a military of thousands at his disposal.

You even have a heating pad; Mortarion keeps the switch within your grasp after you wouldn't stop whining for him to turn it on.

For all intents and purposes, you're pampered. You are his pet, but you're safe, well taken care of, and loved.

It could be worse.

...could it?

You are still fully cognizant of that past life, before him. But why would you yearn for it's return- to a nightmare of struggle and fighting- when here, you're pampered and pet and fed until you're plump? You don't have to worry about anything. Your primarch does it all for you. Here you can sleep in a warm bed, eat your food and wait until master he returns and you can get some time out to stretch and play.

If you're very good, and he doesn't have any duties that take away his time, he'll let you sleep on his bed with him- not complaining when you crawl up to lay your head on his thigh.

He's been busy for a few days now, multiple nights you haven't seen him leaving you alone in the dark. It gets lonely, but you're patient- napping in your bed or playing with the myriad of toys he's given you. They keep you busy, but your little mind always wanders back to worrying if he's left you forever.

Reaching for the latch of your cage he undoes it and chuckles as you eagerly crawl to the entrance, almost visibly vibrating from excitement.

It's been days, and now he's going to let you out! You struggle to contain the excitement.

He opens the box and briefly shows you a peek of the things he's gotten you, before he gets distracted by something else.

"Your hair is such a mess. Come out."

He doesn't put a leash on you, letting you come out and stretch your legs a bit before getting back down. He sits at his desk, and motions for you to come by hitting his thigh.

When you do so, he begins to undo the tie in your hair and try to redo it. You wince a bit and move, earning a grunt of displeasure from him that turns into a mild coughing fit. Once he's finished coughing and clears his throat, he speaks at you.

"Stop wiggling."

You try to hold perfectly still as he fixes your hair, styling it the way he likes it. Sleeping in your bed for the past few days has made it messy, and you didn't have the tools to fix it yourself. Master does it for you anyways. He does it the way it should be, same with your clothes.

When he's almost done, he gestures for you to turn around so he can judge his own handiwork.

Something on his desk however begins making noise, and he looks in it's direction with no small amount of disdain. When he looks back at you, he grips your jaw and mushes your cheeks upward. It doesn't hurt, but it is a bit uncomfortable.

"Be quiet."

You nod- at least as best as you can.

He lets go of you and reaches to touch the device, and a voice starts talking.

"My primarch, Lord Fulgrim is attempting to vox you."

He lets out a loud sigh, clearing his throat once again. The dry scratchiness of it is palpable.

"Is it important?"

The man on the other side makes a contemplative noise, while Mortarion's rough skin brushes against the little hairs just in front of your ear. You tilt your head in the hopes he'll keep doing it.

"Lord Fulgrim did not specify when asked."

Mortarion pets you just a bit harder.

"...Let him through."

There's silence for a moment, before the voice acknowledges Mortarion and cuts away. A different voice fills the air a few moments later.

"Leaving Terra so soon Mortarion?"

The voice is smooth, melodic, and amused at Mortarion's expense. You continue to kneel silently between his legs. You lean against his calf a bit, lazily looking up at him. He looks down at you as he talks.

"I have many things that require my attention far more than your stupid parties, Fulgrim."

The voice on the other side chuckles, smooth and music-like.

"Fair enough. Guilliman and Lion were the same." He huffs before speaking again. "You think any of them would even miss my presence?

You perk up, but remain totally silent.

You missed him!

You missed every moment he was gone. Your cheek pushes against his leg harder in an attempt to show your thoughts without words, wrapping your arms around his calf, and he rewards you with a brush along your cheek. You smile happily.

"Probably not, though I could say that about more of the primarchs than just you." The voice quiets for a moment before speaking again. "Safe travels, Mortarion."

The voice is gone now and Mortarion returns his full focus to you, so you assume it's safe to make noise; Though you don't just in case.

"Good girl. You behaved." He looks at you. "Want a treat?"

A treat? Everything he gives you is so yummy, you nod and eagerly await whatever he's giving you. He gets up for a moment to retrieve it, before handing it to you.

You've tried taking food from his hands before, but he prefers if you just eat it from his fingers.

You take the treat, the yummy flavor hitting your tongue the moment your lips pull away from his fingers. There's a small something a bit hard in the middle, but you just chew through it. It doesn't effect the flavor in any noticeable way.

While you do, he latches your leash on the d-ring of your collar. You don't complain, just watching curiously as you chew your treat. He stands a few moments later, the leash wrapped around his hand.

"Come here."

You move to where he's going before the leash has a chance to snap taut, crawling onto his bed and onto his lap when he ushers you there.

"Did you miss me? It's been a few days."

You eagerly nod, hands gripping the fabric of his tunic. His lap is too big for you to straddle outright, so you straddle one of his thighs instead. When he raises that thigh, you instantly whimper at the feeling of pressure on your core. He sighs.

"Only a few days and you're already pent up again."

He sounds almost irritated, but he's quick to push around the fabric of your little dress to press his fingers against your cunt.

He toys and fiddles with your folds until they're nice and slick, whimpering in his grasp and trying to grind harder on his hand. Once he's done playing with you, he undoes the ties of his trousers to pull out his cock. It's half hard,

He leans back, pushing you until you almost straddle his hips and his cock lays rising between your thighs.

"Go on, pet."

You're so beyond pent up, even the toys he gives you weren't enough in the days he was busy. So it isn't long of grinding your sloppy cunt along his shaft before you're desperately trying to shove it inside of you, your master watching keenly as you move about awkwardly.

After only a minute or so of sliding up and down his cock do you feel a shudder run through you as a small orgasm rides up your spine, whining and biting your lip. Just the act of slipping him inside of you and feeling the stretch was so much, sinking into your tight heat. Your hands grip the material of his clothes tightly as he coughs, trying to hold them in enough to not be too loud for you.

"Poor pet, do you need more things to keep you busy while I'm gone?"

He mumbles something under his breath, something about an implant, but you're too busy trying to fuck yourself on him to really understand what he's mumbling about through the wet, sloppy noises.

It probably isn't stuff you should care about anyways. He handles all the complicated stuff, you just enjoy the things he gives you.

He tugs on the leash once, and you feel the fabric dig into the nape of your neck as you're pulled forward. You're beginning to tire, hips aching and sore. You slow down and grind down on him, groaning between your breaths.

"Do I spoil you too much? Are you getting lazy?"

No! You aren't lazy, just tired. Your mouth hangs slightly agape open mouth breathing, as he watches you.

"Keep going, pet."

You try and gather enough strength to continue, feeling his cock shift inside of you. His groans are louder and he accidentally begins pulling on your leash as he tries to steady himself with his arms, pulling you a bit forward as he finishes inside of you. The warmth and the feeling of his hips bucking up into you and jostling you around is what pulls another orgasm from you, whining over the sound of his groans.

After a few moments he slowly pulls from you, and you clench around nothing at the hollow ache, and feel some of his cum slip from you and dribble onto his cock.

He's quiet for a moment, before he sighs. You perk up expectantly waiting for what he has to say.

"You can sleep out tonight."

Your excitement is explosive, stretching your back with a squeak he finds endearingly cute. He needs to clean your cage he says, after a few days of not letting you out, the blankets are wrinkled and food crumbs are dusted around. Some of your toys need to be refilled with whatever treat was inside of them or some of another variety cleaned entirely, a thought that fills you with joy.

He lays a blanket on the foot of his bed, one of yours, and you move to sit on it and watch as he goes to change his clothes for sleep. When he returns and climbs into his bed, you watch eagerly before crawling closer.

You curl up next to his left thigh, laying your cheek against it. You look up at him and see the hollowness of his features.

He's so ghostly, yet he treats you so well. You've tasted and seen things you never knew existed.

Life...

It could be worse.

You could be scavenging for scraps- now you're curled up on your master's bed.

He reaches down and brushes his hand across the top of your head a few times, petting you. You push into his hand in a way that makes him chuckle.

"Good girl."

[goodmiffy]

the decline of life as in everything used to be much more awesome and fun and imaginative and there was rock and roll and disco and cassette tapes and Walkmans and even iPod shuffles and people belonged to subcultures and a much larger variety of personality traits and styles were allowed and unquestioned and not boxed into diagnoses of mental illnesses and disorders and everything wasn’t made out of plastic and clothes didn’t disintegrate into 3 million microplastics after 6 months and much more of the general public had hobbies and interests and didn’t just spend 6 hours a day scrolling on a little screen or feel the need to record and showcase everything they spend their day doing to curate an impressive image to strangers because people lived life for themselves and books used to be good and porn was considered bad taste and shameful and architecture was beautiful and well considered and everything lasted instead of designed to intentionally breakdown within a few years and you could own media instead of paying a subscription and I’m sick of being advertised to and pacing back and forth in my cage and children used to have fine and beautiful teddy bears instead of flat polyester stuffed toys that get a hole and are thrown out in 3 months and they wooden train sets and Lego was more about imagination instead of building pre imagined sets that are never to actually be played with im thinking of writing a manifesto and becoming a terrorist

[cnidocyst]

various franky headcanons, real and fake, past and future. Notes I forgot to add: Is fully robotic from the torso down + rib cage looks like vents. Also by rubbery I meant elastic like but idc whatever

[ID: Multiple doodles of Franky from One Piece, pre time skip, with head canons about how he's built. First drawing is of Franky with his mouth open, internal view showing a gas tank in his chest connected to his throat via hose. Notes read: "The idea of him being homodontal is funny to me." "Bottom of mouth + bottom of tongue work like a flint sparker. Mouth is unusually dry / doesn't make enough saliva it's like gross." "Needs to stand upright a lot if he wants to use fire breath? (idk I'm having trouble finding information on flammable gas tanks that aren't acetylene or propane". A Franky squinting at a paper he's holding close to his face, noting: "camera eyes, comes with every problem you've ever had using a camera". There's also a doodle of Chopper pointing to an eye chart for Franky to read. Franky says "A" and fails. Franky with a normal nose with some of the skin peeled off, noting: "nose "skin" peeled off like a 2005 model furby's beak". A Franky with one of his hands torn up bad enough that stuffing is falling out, noting: "Doesn't bleed, stuffed with foam like a boxing glove? Not super thick, mostly for the appearance of muscle". There's also a doodle of him holding Chopper up, noting that his hand is comfy, and a doodle of Luffy wearing this glove hand and saying: "Franky's in the shower right now, who wants to play with his hand?" Chopper says "Cool" and Usopp says: "i know for a fact Franky doens't shower until he's really sweaty and gross, I am not fucking touching that, you are sick in the fucking cranium." A drawing of Franky pulling on his forearm, noting that it's rubbery with another note saying "ass area also rubbery." There's also an arrow pointing to his crotch with a note typed in tiny illegible letters. To the side are a Franky with both his arms and waist inflated labelled: "The scary mode" and a drawing of Nami trying to use a lightning attack but it gets redirected to Franky, noting: "rubber soles built into feet so he isn't a huge lightning rod". Rough doodle of Franky with his torso opened up in the front, showing that he has his heart in a tank hooked up to various wires, a vent like rib cage, and his tummy fridge is there too. Only note is "heart tank". Lastly, there's a doodle of Franky with a game controller hooked up to the side of his arm and Usopp is playing Doom, using Franky's star tattoo as a screen. Note says: "And yes, he can run doom." /END ID]

[stormblaze13]

Easter is coming upon us and that means that many people will be looking for gifts to buy their children. And in the Spirit of the Easter Bunny, what gift could be better than a real bunny?

A stuffed animal.

Animals, regardless of it being a bunny, a cat, a dog, Mouse, Hamster, Fish &co. Are not an Option to become a gift that will be holding the attention of your four year old for two hours and then become boring because it just hides all the time.

Well, Newsflash Barbara, its a prey animal and your screeching toddler is scaring the living daylights out of the poor creature.

Don’t believe me? Here’s some of the Reasons why bunnies are surrendered to the shelter I work at:

1. "The Bunny bit my child"

2. "Child has lost interest in animal"

3. "Financial reasons"

4. "Animal takes up too much time and space"

5. "No interest in animal"

Take a good guess at how much a pair of rabbits can cost you in a year, yes I said a "Pair of" not a singular, Bunnies should always have a partner, but back to topic.

Let me assume, you guessed your costs would be at around 300 to 500 euros/dollars now, right? Its a small animal, surely it can’t be too expensive.

Wrong.

You should put about 1500 - 3000 euros/dollars aside just for the rabbits. You will have weekly expenses of 100 - 150€/$ just for leafy greens, another 200 bucks for vaccinations (Vax. Your. Rabbits. Myxo and RHD 1&2 are not a Joke. Unvaxxed animals will die.) And up to 1000 bucks in vet visits - if you’re lucky. An MRI of the skull, tooth surgery, ear surgery, etc. Can quickly ammount to the thousands.

Then there's the space issue. A 120×80cm cage should be big enough, right?

Wrong again.

4 squaremeters is the minimum of space required to hold a pair of rabbits comfortably, its even written down in the german "Tierschutzgesetz" (animal protection law) as such.

Free roam rabbits are the happiest rabbits and cagefree makes them even happier. I'm well aware that not everyone can afford to give a bunny that much space, but if I'm honest, if you cannot provide for the animal that is 100% dependant on you, in a way thats good for the animal, then don’t get a pet. Or at least not one that is as care intensive as a rabbit. - I haven't even gotten started on the plethora of illnesses they can get, Myxo and RHD (Rabbit Hemorrhaging Disease) aside there's an amount of ailments and illnesses a bunny can get that could've come straight from Pandora's box.

With that said, Happy Easter, and don’t gift animals!

[anamelessfool]

Papa's Metamorphosis (pt 2)

An Interactive Adventure (hashtag #papas metamorphosis) Part 1

One morning, as Papa Emeritus IV wakes from anxious dreams, he discovers that in bed he had been changed into a tiny, evil little doll.

Hahaha, please I am just razzing you. It's the Dungeon Master in me. (And these options will come up again) OK, enjoy part 2. And Vote on what happens next. CW: Drug References

Onward to the Ghoul Den

Papa takes a small comfort in the fact that despite his predicament, his rats still recognize him. Two of his favorites waddle up to the side of their cage, rubbing their nose against his outstretched felt nub hand. It’s oddly heartwarming to see them at the size of small ponies. Worst case scenario if he never figures this all out he can at least literally cuddle pile with his rats at this scale. “Stay strong for me, my little potatoes,” Papa soothes, more to himself than anything. “I’m sorry your breakfast will have to wait.”

Papa steels himself with a fortifying breath, preparing for the journey ahead. His ghouls would know what to do. And would probably not laugh at him for whatever he looked like right now. He slips out of his rooms and into the hallway, flattening himself against the walls to avoid detection as he scurries towards the ghoul den. Luckily the ghouls lived downstairs and therefore he could simply throw himself down the steps, bouncing stupidly the whole way and remain relatively unharmed. Upstairs would be a tough climb stair by stair but Papa does what always has and looks on the bright side. The ghouls will immediately solve all his problems painlessly and he would emerge from this situation completely unscathed and able to climb stairs with ease.

Naturally.

Papa knew ghouls are nocturnal but as far as he was concerned this was an emergency situation that warranted an urgent wake up call. He’s now in front of their rooms in the basement of the ministry, preparing himself for one of the most impossible challenges he’s yet faced in his life: opening their heavy front door.

He gets a running start from across the hall, slamming his body against the door. He bounces back and skitters across the floor, the door still shut. Cazzo. He rubs his head and tries again, putting his weight into it and again he flies back, gasping.

As he dusts himself off and swears, his rats come to mind. He knows rats can squeeze under a place as long as their skulls can fit. They're very collapsible and resilient. He eyes the crack under the ancient door. It's quite large now that he looks at it. He presses his head in his hands, then holds them out to measure. Yes, he could do it.

And so Papa maneuvers his head under the door, and his plush body compresses as he slides through, groaning through gritted teeth as he forces himself through the vice made by the door and the floor. But he’s through. It worked. He makes a mental note to never do any major upgrades to the Ministry as long as he’s Frater Imperator. They really don’t make shitty, drafty doors like they used to.

All at once Papa is hit with the strong, pissy herbal scent of cannabis in the air, and he hopes it doesn’t leech into his stuffing. Merde, these ghouls need to get a grip, he thinks. Their common area is relatively clean except for several empty pizza boxes stacked beside the sagging couch. There’s a few towering water pipes and empty soda bottles on the coffee table. Papa sees three of his ghouls distorted through all the glassware, dozing across each other on the couch: Swiss Ghoul, Mountain Ghoul, and Aurora Ghoul.

“Ghouls! Ghouls!” yells Papa as loud as he can. “My Ghouls!”

Swiss blinks his puffy red eyes several times, assessing and reassessing his vision. Copia bounces in place by the couch, muttering the whole time. Swiss regards the mess on the coffee table, coughs, then taps the other ghouls awake. They all slowly come back to life, rubbing their heads.

“Am I seeing this?” Aurora asks, swiping at the air. Papa jumps back, narrowly missing her claws. “Like…is this guy real?”

“This is the wrong shit to be seeing tiny people with, Rory,” mutters Swiss. “Yeah. This thing is real.”

“Erm, this eh, thing, is your Papa,” sputters Papa. “Copia. Your summoner. You, uh…have to help me?”

“Holy shit he’s small.” Aurora Ghoul is shaking, drawing her knees up to her chest. “Or am I big? Am I like, super big now? Hoooly shit, guys—”

“Rory, stop being dramatic,” Mountain says, still leaned back on the couch. “You had like, half a puff of this. Honestly.”

Copia attempts to climb the coffee table, but the smooth wood legs slip under his little felt hands. “Don’t you ghouls em, know magic? You know…spells?”

The three ghouls exchange glances. They silently decide Mountain is the one articulate enough to break the bad news to their Dark Master. “Well…did you specify we’d be able to do magic? When you summoned us?”

“I don’t…” Papa frowns, stamping a little foot on the rug. “Listen, it’s not that important right now! Do you know spells or not?”

”I mean…thing about magic is, you gotta be real specific,” Swiss adds, with a shrug and a phlegmy green cough. “That’s kinda its whole bag. You wanted musicians and uh…well, you got ones.”

”With all the musical talents of Satan himself,” Aurora Ghoul adds with pride. “And I’m pretty good at making cocktails.”

“She really is good,” says Mountain.

“But that was that bartending course I did during off season, nothing magical about that.”

Papa feels the vibration of heavy, sleepy footfalls arriving from the bedrooms and Cumulus appears, bleary eyed and wearing a massive purple silk sleep bonnet. She already begins her tirade against the noisy ghouls as she enters the main room, crossing it to get to the fridge. “What the fuck are you going on about? I swear if you bought more of that gas station weed again—”

Swiss tosses his arm at her. “No, no, that was a single stupid mistake!”

“Yeah we test it all on Phantom first now,” says Aurora.

Cumulus rips open the fridge and removes the carton of orange juice, snatching a clean glass from the counter. “Yeah well, about that…” She is mid-pour when her eyes land on Copia standing by the coffee table and waving his little felt arms. Her face falls into a mask of confusion, and for a few seconds she forgets her glass is full and juice splatters across the floor. “Do we have…pests?”

“It’s me!” cries Papa. He hops up and down, attempting a friendly smile. “I’ve been cursed!”

“He’s been cursed, ‘Lus,” Mountain says helpfully.

Cumulus Ghoul places her glass on the counter, her brow furrowed, her head slowly tilting in bewilderment. There’s a tense silence as she studies the paraphenalia scattered across the coffee table, then her packmates, and then the impossibly tiny version of her boss fretting on the shag rug. She blinks, once.

“I’m going back to bed.”

And she does.

“You all are just….just!” Papa crosses his arms. “A real em—drag!”

“Sorry, Papa,” says Swiss. “That's fucked up. That's a total bummer, man.”

“You want to retrace your steps or something?” Mountain suggests.

“No, certainly not!” Papa is incensed and in his mind he’s done with these ghouls. He marches through the common room, his thin felt legs flailing in a determined and irritated goose step. “I'm looking for ghouls with er— brains! Some common sense!”

He reaches the hallway with its bathroom and three adjacent dorm rooms for the rest of his dark army. Certainly not all of them are lazy degenerates, Papa thinks as he adjusts the tiny hat on his head. One of them at least would have a good head on their shoulders…

Your vote contributes to how this story goes. As for the "Other" option I have a right to pick and chose what works for me personally. This story is PG-13.

The polls are 24 hours but I may not post every day.

Please reblog for maximum impact! Let's have fun here.

[omg-snakes]

Ooo I have a question

Do you have any (fun!) enrichment ideas for corn snakes

OMG yes there are so so so so many ways to enrich a corn snake!

They're curious and enjoy climbing, exploring, and digging, though each snake will have their own individual preferences, so try a few things and see what gets your snake moving the most and then tailor future offerings towards what they seem to react most positively towards.

Make sure all plant-based enrichment is safe for reptiles and fertilizer and pesticide-free!

In-cage:

Brown lunch bag, left open on its side, stuffed with hay, cut grass, leaf litter, a pinch of fresh herbs, flowers, etc.

Wiffle ball with a pinch of herbs, clean feathers, or used rodent bedding wrapped in a paper towel stuffed inside (if you ask a pet store employee nicely they'll usually give you a little bit of bedding from a rodent or bird cage)

Tennis ball rolled in something a little stinky (see wiffle ball above)

Climbing branches with something a little stinky hung on

Deep tray of dirt and sphagnum moss for digging in

A live plant in clean dirt (to dig up, sit on, and probably ruin)

Pie plate of sprouted grass seed

A tee shirt or sock you've worn

Bit of shed from another healthy snake

Change your cage layout, swap hides

Switch bedding or offer a dig box of different bedding

Hide f/t food items in a lunch bag or drag it around a bit to have your snake "hunt" their meal

Offer different food items, as long as they're appropriately sized! Quail chicks or eggs, Reptilinks, etc.

Out of cage:

Storage tote full of dirt/leaf litter for Serious Digging

Ye olde Laundry Pile (only if it's not super gross tho)

Outdoors adventures if you feel safe with your snake and have good control over them

Peg board for climbing

Stairs if you live in a two-story

Walk around with your snake and let them sniff things they seem interested in!

This is just scratching the surface of what's possible. As long as your snake is safe and you're both having a good time, feel free to experiment with different enrichment opportunities!

[cassiana-on-dark-side]

"This is an excerpt from my memoir, "Love and Truth”.

Roger Waters

This is a true story of My love for two animals Both wild in their own way Which I read to the audience at a Live performance of DSOTM REDUX At the London Palladium On the day after October 7th 2023. Yes, The Campaign Against Anti-Semitism Were outside the Theater that day trying to cancel me. Free Palestine! From the River to the Sea! ✊🏻🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸

So Chocolate Charlie Brown was my third brown Burmese cat. This is a drawing of him and his friend Lilly, an Abyssinian, above the skirting board on the wall of my youngest son Jack’s room in the early nineties. This story isn’t about Chocolate Charlie Brown, well, just this first little bit is, but the rest is about a Duck called Donald. First though a brief history of Chocolate Charley Brown, I got him through Keith Butt, the vet in Knightsbridge where I used to take pets to be euthanized on Sunday mornings if they were beyond repair. Like Cloudy for instance, my daughter India’s pet gerbil, she was beyond repair, cancer, (Cloudy that is, not India), poor little scrap. So into the Merc we jumped one Sunday morning after breakfast, Cloudy and I, well Cloudy didn’t exactly jump in, if truth be told, I had to help her in, in her little cage, just the two of us, the condemned Cloudy and me, and a cardboard box for later. Bloody hell, I’m getting a bit weepy. Off to Keith Butt, Mr Butt was already cognizant of Cloudy’s condition, so, look the other way, is it over? The trick before bringing the deceased home was to make her look comfy in her little cardboard box, arranged curled up resting in eternal peace with a garland of forget me nots. After lunch, down the garden, spade in hand, a not very heavy cardboard box, a little girl’s hand, held tightly in mine. Job done.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, Chocolate Charley Brown. The day he arrived he was a wee brown scrap and scared shitless, so I took him upstairs to the bedroom for a settle in. He ran straight under the bed and wouldn’t come out, so I took off my cowboy boots and got into bed in my jeans and dangled enticing things like feathers on bits of string in front of the dark places under the bed. Sure enough after about half an hour the hunting gene emerged and so did CCB’s little paw. I enticed him out into the open and then scooped him up and stuffed him under the covers next to my big warm leg. I was wearing a brown leather belt to hold my jeans up. I’ve still got it, it’s got a silver tip that always flops down. I was sitting up in the bed reading when I saw a tiny paw reach out and bat at the dangling silver bit on the end of my belt. We said hello, and we were inseparable after that. What a magnificent animal CCB was, beloved by all. Well obviously not all, all. He was not beloved by rodents or birds or Brian the gamekeeper from Kimbridge Farms next door. I saw CCB limping one day, favouring his off hind. I couldn’t find anything amiss, nothing broken, but, just to be sure I took him to the local vet for an X-Ray. Bugger me! Three #5 shot gun pellets in his rear end. I went to see Brian.

“Er Brian?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Happy Christmas Brian, there’s a hundred quid.”

“Thank you very much Sir!”

“You’re very welcome…….. Brian, If that big old brown cat of mine is still alive next Christmas there’ll be another hundred, and so on until he dies of natural causes.”

“I hear you Mr Waters, can I ask you a favour?”

“Anything Brian”

“Could you put a fluorescent collar on ‘im sir? Make my job a lot easier, that would.”

Anyway, one summer I hear the cat flap bang, and in comes CCB with, as usual, something dead in his mouth. He flops down in front of the AGA Stove, (half central heating, half cooking, much beloved in posh country kitchens) panting.

“What you got there Charlie?”

“Oh nothing much, just a newly hatched duckling, I’ve already eaten all it’s siblings and I’m a bit full. I’m just gonna rest here for a minute and then eat this‘un later and then I might go for a kip in the laundry room.”

“Jesus Christ Charlie, let’s have a look, oh for fuck’s sake it’s still wet.”

“Cats will be cats son”

“Jesus! Come on little‘un it’s the bin for you. Fuck me it’s still breathing, Jesus! Charley!”

“Oi! where are you going, I was looking forward that.”

So I put the wet scrap of baby bird, bits of shell and all, out of reach of the magnificent beast and went in search of a shoe box. Got one. Screwdriver for holes. Dap, dap, dap, dap, dap, dap, dap, dap, dap, dap. That’s enough, it’ll never live anyway. Where to put it? I know, guest bathroom on the radiator.

Next morning drinking coffee. Halfway through second cup….! The shoebox! I better go and clear up the remains. So, I run up the stairs and go into the guest bathroom.

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi”

Fuck me! Open the lid. Oh my god it’s a fluffy brown golf ball with a little yellow face and a line of mascara through its eye!

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi “

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi”

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi?”

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi?”

“Tsi Tsi Tsi”

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi”

Translation; Mallard to English.

“Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy,

I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I’m hungry,

Where have you been?

Where have you been?

I was frightened,

Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy.”

It was Donald.

“Fuck me! ……….. What do they eat?”

“What about milk ?”

“Milk! Don’t be stupid, when did you ever see a duck with tits?”

Ducklings should be fed a diet of mealworms and plant matter at an early age, though grasses tend to make baby ducks bloat. Wild ducks tend to stick to whatever bugs they find, and they will eat food that is fed to them by park visitors or guests. Bread has been long regarded as a bad thing to feed wild birds.

“Oi, no bread!”

I probably went out to try and catch bugs on the river that runs through the garden. Duh! Have you ever tried to catch a bug? Exactly! It probably didn’t take me long to read up on it.(Roger all through your life you’ll be faced with many challenges, my advice is to read, read, read, read. Thanks Mum.) Dried mealy worms mixed with crushed barley or oats, and water of course. Donald stayed in the guest bathroom for the first week or so, except of course at my bath time when he came into the master bathroom for bath time with me.

What bliss, my own duck to play with in the bath. Donald loved bath time, swimming about and then coming up onto Mummy’s chest for a snuggle and a bit of chin peck preen time, then back into the warm water.

What has always intrigued me is how can something that small produce that volume of duck shit? I mean, the guest bathroom floor was knee deep after a couple of weeks. I know you think I’m exaggerating; you’re thinking.

“How could it possibly be knee deep?”

“Ah, well that’s because you’re thinking Mummy knee deep, I’m talking Donald knee deep, which as you can see from the photo is only about half an inch.”

Anyway Donald grew and grew, I taught him to swim in the bath, even thought of buying him a plastic duck to play with……..no I didn’t!

The guest bathroom started to pong a bit, and it was a warm summer, so I decided to build Donald a run in the garden. We had a very small stream, only about a foot wide, that ran from a parallel carrier stream across the lawn under some cherry trees to the main river. Perfect.

I got some chicken wire and built an enclosure which spanned the stream. Running water, fox proof, enough bank for a snooze, in sight of the chairs on the logia, heaven. The long summer days of, what? 1993? Passed. Donald grew and grew, never losing his attachment to me, his Mummy. We used to go for walks together down the garden, never too close to the main river, I was always afraid of him falling in. Stupid I know. I was living at the time with Pricilla, my Jack’s mum, and we were in the habit of sitting on the logia at the cocktail hour with a very large vodka and cranberry juice each. I know, I know, but in those days we didn’t know any better. Anyway, Donald would always come and sit with us and preen a bit and quack-le quietly until bedtime. I’m not sure how many months passed before one day I looked at Donald and I thought, fuck me shouldn’t his head be starting to turn green? Christ almighty! Donald’s a girl! Well, too late to change his/her name now. Thank god, (NTTIAG) as far as we know, ducks don’t have pronoun issues.

One day, as September approached, I was looking at Donald over the rim of my vodka glass thinking, that duck looks almost full grown, when another thought occurred to me………………………..?

“Christ she can’t fly.”

So I called her over and picked her up and held her between my thumb and the four fingers of my right hand, half way between her lovely neck and her beautiful webbed feet, like a fat feathered paper dart, and pointing her slightly up, launched her forward. She didn’t even flap her wings, just nosedived into the turf at my feet, looked over her shoulder at me disapprovingly and waddled off to lick her wounded pride.

“Jesus Mummy! Why’d you do that?”

It was a conundrum, how to teach Donald to fly, until one day walking down the edge of one of the paddocks on my way to give Mossy Fern (Retired racehorse) some polos, I was going too fast for Donald who broke into a stumbling waddle-y run and then instinctively put out her wings and flapped and flew for about five yards before crashing. Eureka! We started to practice every day and before long if I broke into a run she would fly beside me at shoulder height,

“Look at me Mummy I’m flying!”

She didn’t fly away. Until one day she did.

“Where’s Donald?”

“I don’t know I haven’t seen her.”

I’m a bit weepy writing this………I mean it was great that she’d gone off with her friends to the barley stubble or wherever they went, but……………well it left a big hole.

Then a couple of days later, a few ducks landed by the bridge, below the top pool, near the house, when we were sitting in front of the logia with our Vodkas and cranberry juice, and one of them swam over, calmly climbed the steps out of the river, walked across the lawn and sat down next to us.

“Hello Donald.”

“Quack, quack,”

She did that several more times that September, until finally she didn’t.

I confess, though it pains me to admit it, before 1993, I would occasionally take the odd barley fed mallard off the river in September, delicious.

That was thirty years ago.

I never did it again."

via substack © by Roger Waters

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Are they on the Naughty List? Or have they’ve been good all year?Well that’s for you to decide.

Start:November 12

End: December 31

«timeline»

◇ day 1-7: {Nov 12-18}

Day 1: Luis Sera - Ice Skating

Day 2: Carlos Oliveira - “I can’t believe you did that to Santa…”

Day3: Raiden - “I made you some hot cocoa.”

Day 4: Peter Parker - we were going to a Christmas party but fuck if you don’t just look sinful in red, and you know what? Fuck that Christmas party || Insomniac Peter ||

Day5:Goro Takemura- Dancing In The Snow

Day 6:Johhny Cage-Sucking on a Candy Cane

Day 7: Peter Quill- “are you really playing christmas music already? it’s barely november”

◇ day 8-14: {Nov 19-25}

Day 8:Gale Dekarios-Watching the snowfall from inside a cosy house

Day 9:Sam Drake-“Carmel apples, leaves falling down. What could better then November?” “I don’t know maybe fucking June?”

Day 10:Peter Parker -we got a little too carried away with the Christmas lights, and now suddenly my hands are bound with the lights and oh my god are we about to have sex? || Insomniac Peter ||

Day 11:Nathan Drake- it’s holiday dinner with your family, and oh Jesus where are your hands going?

Day 12:Peter Parker-“Do you need help hanging up the Christmas lights?” || MCU verse ||

Day 13: Peter Parker-“HAPPY NOVEMBER!” “No one wishes anyone a happy November.” “Well I just did.”|| MCU verse ||

Day 14:Tadashi Hamada-one lending the other their scarf to keep them warm.

◇ day 15-21 {Nov 26-Dec 2}

Day 15:Jacob Seed-Handing their S/O a positive pregnancy test with a sprig of holly and a note reading ‘Merry Christmas’

Day 16:Spencer Reid-Baking holiday cookies.

Day 17:Alejandro Vargas-Reader wearing nothing but a Santa hat

Day 18:Loki-A naughty sleigh ride || Exhibitionism sex ||

Day 19:Alex Casey-Build A snowman.

Day 20:Chris Redfield-“Let’s do something that puts us on the naughty list.”

Day 21:Mike Schmidt-Santa Baby: reader has decided to dress as Mrs. Claus for a little more “adult” Christmas fun. Oh boy!

◇ day 22-28 {Dec 3 -9}

Day 22:Matt Murdock-I picked you for secret Santa but I wrapped the wrong box so now I’ve given you a very festive sex toy, and oh my god this is so embarrassing

Day 23:Halsin-“Breasts/thighs are my favorite part to nibble on.”

Day 24:Miguel O’Hara-“You know, tying the legs together keeps everything moist.”

Day 25:Ethan Winters-Christmas Morning.

Day 26: Johnny ‘Soap’ McTavish-Hanging Stockings.

Day 27:Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley-“The turkey’s not the only thing getting stuffed today.”

Day 28:Modern!Mizu-“Save some of that whipped cream for later.”*soon*

◇ day 29- 35 {Dec 10-16}

Day 29:Bigby Wolf-“You look even more beautiful covered in snow.”

Day 30:Harry Osborn-Christmas shenanigans under the tree, if you know what I mean

Day 31:Ethan Winters-“I’ll be content if you are the one stuffing my stocking.”

Day 32:Mike Schmidt-“Go on, open it.”

Day 33:Wyll Ravengard-“Did you decorate the tree without me? I can’t believe this!”

Day 34: Bruno Madrigal-Kiss Me Under The Mistletoe.

Day 35:Jordan Li-“Excuse me—where is my Christmas kiss?”

◇ day 36-42 {Dec 17-23}

Day 36:Mike Schmidt-"Why are there so many mistletoe?"

Day 37:Gojo“I’d like to be one of the unhealthy things you put inside your body this weekend.”*Soon*

Day 38:Luis Sera-“Alright, mister. I know you’re the one who keeps hanging up mistletoe everywhere."

Day 39:Chris Redfield-“Thanksgiving is for giving thanks” “And for body slamming each other during the family football match!”

Day 40:Aaron Hotchner-The scent of real Christmas trees

Day 41: Derek Morgan -“I’m going to have you stuffed better than the turkey by the end of the night.”

Day 42:Victor "Sully" Sullivan-“I’m not much of a cook, but I’m good at glazing.”

◇ day 43-50 {Dec 24-31}

Day 43:Leon S. Kennedy-Cabin Sex { Christmas Eve sex }

Day 44: Billy Butcher-“Merry Christmas, motherfuckers!”

Day 45: Bucky Barnes-“Did you spike the eggnog again?”

Day 46: Spencer Ried-“Will you make a gingerbread house with me?”

Day 47: Clint Barton- “It’s Snowing”

Day 48: Joel-Peppermint-flavoured everything

Day 49:Mizu-Snow/temperature play

Day 50:Johnny Cage-“It’s time for hand turkey’s everyone.” “FUCK YES YES!”

[lotties-ashwagandha]

What if Misty gets her AuDHD diagnosis just before Christmas and tried to mask and act cool while shopping for people so as to not put anyone off? Like what if she buys Nat a pretty shirt and Lottie cozy socks and it's thoughtful but like bland presents and her three girlfriends pick up on it and get her the most niche dorky shit to compensate and let her know they're all for her kookiness?

CALIGULA’S DREAMHOUSE

i love this request so much

pairing: misty x lottie x natalie x reader

word count: 819

notes: i did this w misty’s special interest being parrots/caligula

Nothing could compare to how excited you were for Christmas — you had bought an incomprehensible amount of presents for your girlfriends, and you’d spent the weekend putting up the tree together. Everything was perfect, but among the presents you’d bought, there was one you were particularly excited to give.

You and your girlfriends had found a three level bird cage for Caligula. It was as if the Barbie Dreamhouse had been reconstructed for a parrot. It was complete with mirrors and treats and toys in the cage, and to compliment it you’d gotten Misty a year long subscription to the most renowned bird magazines you could find. It was perfect, you knew she would love it. You’d gotten other gifts for your girlfriends as well, but you and Natalie and Lottie all unspokenly agreed that Caligula’s new cage would be the main event of all of the presents this year.

On Christmas morning, the four of you (five of you, if you count the bird sitting on Misty’s shoulder) sat on the couch together in the living room in front of the fire. Caligula’s cage stood wrapped awkwardly in front of the Christmas tree. You were saving it as the last present to give to Misty, the one she would enjoy the most.

“These ones are for all of you,” Misty said with a small smile. She picked up a series of small boxes and passed them out to the three of you. You exchanged confused looks with Lottie and Nat — you were always excited for Misty’s quirky presents, the three of you looked forward to them every year, and you could only guess what you were going to get this year.

“You go first,” you said to Lottie, and you and Natalie watched in anticipation as she began to unwrap the present.

The three of you stared at the results a bit confused. In Lottie’s hands were a pair of socks. Plain black socks, and when she turned them over she found that that’s all they were.

“Oh,” she said, and you could tell she was a bit confused, a bit disappointed. “Thank you, Misty.”

The four of you sat in an awkward silence before Misty spoke up.

“I didn’t want to go overboard this year,” she said cautiously. “With my diagnosis and everything I just thought… I don’t know, maybe my presents in the past have been a bit weird and overboard? So I stuffed everything I bought in the closet and got you guys some more normal presents.”

“Misty, we love your presents,” you said. “You’re the best gift giver I know. Holidays with you are always the best, your gifts are so personal.”

“Remember the heliotrope nutcracker you got me last year?” Lottie asked with a smile. Misty nodded, looking up at the mantle of the fireplace where the nutcracker stood proudly.

“Or the calendar you got me of cats in heavy metal bands?” Natalie added.

“We love everything you get us,” you said, and pulled her into a hug, causing Caligula to fly irritably over to Lottie, but you felt Misty relax in your arms and that was all that mattered.

“We want your real Christmas presents now,” Natalie told her. “We want the Misty presents.”

Your gaze suddenly flitted to the bird cage and excitement filled you. “Hold on,” you said. You exchanged glances with Natalie and Lottie, who understood instantly what you were proposing, and they nodded.

“We know you’ve been saying Caligula needs a better cage to sleep in,” you started, and used all of your strength to pull over the giant cage. “So, if it meets Mr Caligula’s expectations, we’d like to give you this.”

Excitedly, Misty unwrapped the present. She gasped upon laying eyes on the bird cage, handing the bird toys inside with care. You could tell she was almost in tears, and when Caligula flew happily over to his new enclosure all of you laughed.

“It’s perfect,” Misty breathed, and gave Caligula one of the bird treats inside.

“Merry Christmas,” Caligula said, and bobbed his head.

“Oh my god,” Lottie breathed. “I’ve been trying to teach him to say that for weeks!”

“Pretty pretty bird good bird,” Caligula said, and fluttered his wings. “Come on bird I’ll roast you in a purple pot and eat you in purple soup say it bird good god!”

“I didn’t say that,” Lottie grumbled, sighing. “Maybe just once, but I’d never really eat him.”

“I’ll eat you!” Caligula shouted. “Merry Christmas!”

“You know what? I might just let you keep the socks,” Misty said to Lottie a bit irritably. “The other two of you get my fun presents, though.”

Lottie stared disappointedly at the socks in her lap, and when you looked back to Caligula, he looked inexplicably pleased with himself.

Little did he know, one of your Christmas presents for Lottie this year was a brand new heliotrope cookware set.

[homestuckreplay]

try using your brain, numbnuts!

(Pages 131-133)

Well, I was on the fence, and this update left me with no choice. I watched Con Air.

I was really surprised by John's gift from TG - and he clearly was too, because this is the biggest smile we've yet seen on his face. TG has been so standoffish and uncaring up until now, and I was expecting either a gag gift or something seen as more typically 'cool' that would get John away from his weird, nerdy interests. It's a completely different side of him that'd go to the effort of getting John a genuine prop from his favorite movie - a stuffed animal at that, not typically a gift teenage boys would exchange.

Mostly I'm curious where the two of them are getting this money. This couldn't have been cheap, and it's implied that John bought TG a celebrity artifact for his birthday, too - 'EB: you do realize they touched stiller's weird, sort of gaunt face at some point.' (p.110) Surely John asked his dad for help with buying a gift for TG, and his dad agreed - which is a new side to their relationship, too. It's very sweet to learn that John will brave a Dad encounter if it means doing something thoughtful for his friend.

I definitely enjoyed the movie, it kept me engaged throughout and the tension stayed high despite the very obvious happy ending it was building to. I think the movie could be analyzed by itself through a lens of race, crime, and the role and power of law enforcement - but John as a sheltered 13 year old probably isn't thinking about it that deeply, which is fine. He's allowed to just quote "put the bunny back in the box" and pretend he's not attracted to Nicolas Cage, for now.

Perhaps more immediately relevant is the way Cameron Poe spends the whole movie trying to get back to the kind of typical American family life that John seems so constrained by. It's easy to see John wanting to lose himself in the life of a cool action hero for a couple of hours, and experience some vicarious excitement of taking down hardened criminals and stopping a plane hijack, but harder to see him identifying with Poe's overall motivation. I also noticed the word 'numbnuts' fairly early in the movie, and on page 26 of Homestuck we get 'EB: try using your brain numbnuts.' It's a specific enough word that I don't think it's coincidence, and we know John is always referencing his movies, so it really fits him to pick up specific words and turns of phrase from them too.

Unfortunately, now I've watched Con Air I feel committed to watching every movie John's got a poster of - which is eleven movies, and some of them look really bad. But I'm committed to my goals, and I love John, even if I'm wary of his taste.

MOVIES WATCHED: 1/11

MOST RECENT MOVIE: Con Air (1997) - Rating 8/10

[gav-san]

A Vintage Bouquet Chapter 2

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

A Vintage Bouquet Masterlist

Chapter Title: This Isn’t a Breakdown, It’s a Vineyard Length: 6.5 K+

Previous/Next

The heist of a lifetime set off with much less fanfare than books would suggest. 

You’d like to blame fate for steering you towards dangerous and unseen paths, but you are too frank to lie to yourself. There is something unnatural about your desire to seek your own path, and it always has been that way. 

The chaos of it calls to you—wild and unpredictable and free. Far more tempting than the gilded prison of a Celestial Dragon’s wife.

You’d rather drown quickly than suffocate slowly.

Leaving now felt like severing your fate with a butter knife—messy, irreversible. The weak had no place on the ocean. But you would face any storm or pirate just to feel your mother’s presence again in salt air and crashing waves.

There was no return once you turned your back on the Celestial Dragons.

Packing wasn’t suspicious—technically, you were preparing your marriage trousseau. Everyone assumed you were eager to leave the convent, even with a questionable fiancé. Girls before you had done the same.

So you went through the motions, packing silks and baubles you had no intention of taking. The real bag was hidden: a plain satchel tucked beneath your cot. It held your mother’s old hairpins, a fan bearing her ship’s forgotten sigil, a stolen dagger, and a small pouch of coins. Nothing extravagant. Everything meaningful.

Mother Superior was shrewd—she’d expected trouble from the day you arrived. So you packed carefully. Your second bundle was light, worn under your habit: clothes stolen from the donation box, hidden away during a chore you’d earned by purposefully spilling tea on your gown. Laundry duty had its uses.

While scrubbing latrines with a brush the size of your finger, your thoughts drifted—again—to the man in black.

Golden eyes.

You’d never seen eyes like that. Bright, not just from color, but something behind them. Intelligence. Awareness. He saw everything, like a hawk circling overhead. A predator.

You’d squirmed under that gaze, dissected and judged.

You’d had liked it.

The memory clung to you all night, curling tight in your stomach—part hunger, part nerves. You murmured old scripture under your breath like a warding spell to steady yourself. Eventually, your roommate hurled her prayer book at your head. Fair enough. You’d both vowed to ignore each other’s sins.

But she wouldn’t understand—not about the man or the heat crawling under your skin. Now, you know why girls traded those forbidden romance novels like secrets. You’d read them before, but they never made sense.

Now they did.

You brushed your hair until it gleamed, even knowing it would be hidden beneath a scarf. You would find your way onto Dracule Mihawk’s ship through wit, wine, or sheer stubbornness. Or someone’s.

You stuffed your bed with pillows, practiced hands shaping the illusion of sleep. Then you slipped into the convent halls like a ghost—something you'd rehearsed since childhood. The priest was passed out cold, snoring like a dying bellows. The wine casks sat in the corner of his quarters, forgotten.

You took them. Strapped them beneath your habit—not well, but well enough. The sisters were still at evening mass. You crept through the orange grove, into the garden, praying no one looked too closely.

The old gate still stood: warped, rusted, half-swallowed by citrus leaves.

There, you shed the habit. Underneath: plain shirt, trousers, bandana. You, unvarnished.

You shoved the robe under a bush and buried it in oranges and leaves. The bells would ring soon.

Working fast, you smeared dirt across your face, your sleeves, the barrels—anything too clean. You rubbed mud over the convent’s seal, masking its mark. You had to look like a grubby boy on an errand, not a girl fleeing a gilded cage.

The night watch snored softly, thanks to the sleeping draught you'd slipped into their wine. You passed them without pause, ducked into the bishop’s chambers, and tugged on the old man’s ceremonial robes.

The cassock dragged at the sleeves and you had to pin the hat to your braid, but it worked. The wide, heavy folds were perfect for hiding all manner of sins—ledgers, bottles, stolen keys.

Or, say, an escape.

You moved with slow, priestly grace through the corridors. A sleepy Sister blinked at you and crossed herself.

“Father,” she whispered.

“Peace be with you,” you said, pitching your voice low.

She didn’t question it.

By the time the real bishop woke—barefoot, hatless, and confused—you would be long gone. Hopefully with the last crate of your legacy.

And if not?

Well. You’d still have the hat.

You slung your pack over one shoulder, checked the road.

Empty.

The gate groaned as you pushed it open. Wincing, you slipped the barrels through, then followed, heart hammering.

You didn’t look back.

Bare feet slapped against the dirt road. Dust clung to your skin. Shoes would’ve betrayed you. The night hung thick and wet, fog curling low across the cobbled streets of Isla de Palma, shrinking the world to the next corner, the next breath.

You moved through it like a ghost in stolen robes.

The crate bit into your arms, a painful reminder of your rebellion’s cost. Your face was hidden beneath the bishop’s hood, but your eyes scanned every shadow.

The robe hung loose, shifting around your frame. You walked like a man of piety, slow and dignified, the picture of authority.

No one stopped you.

A few shuttered windows creaked open, but the townsfolk didn’t linger. One sailor frowned, suspicious, but he stepped aside.

"Peace be with you, Father," someone murmured.

You grunted. "Mmm."

You didn’t dare move faster. Speed was suspicion. Suspicion meant death. Each block was a victory. Each breath, a gamble.

The weight of the wine dug into your shoulders.

Still, you walked.

One block.

Then another.

And another.

It’s a strange kind of miracle. A series of small, unnoticed victories stitched together by careful, deliberate movements. And somehow, impossibly, you make it.

And then—

The bells rang.

Not the soft call to vespers or the reverent toll of morning prayer.

But the alarm.

Sharp. Repetitive. Panicked.

You flinch beneath the cowl, nearly stumbling. Your heart skips, and your pace falters, but you force yourself to keep moving. You know exactly why.

The sleeping Sisters had been found. Or worse—the Bishop had.

You’d slipped too much, crossed too many lines, but the Mother had always been sharp. Suspicious. Tireless. She’d know the moment she saw the empty cell and the missing robes. And she wouldn’t stop until she pieced it all together.

The crate shifts in your arms, the weight suddenly heavier. Every step is a test now, every movement a risk. You grit your teeth, fighting against the pain in your shoulders, the weight of your actions.

Too late, you think, and the words have a bitter taste on your tongue. You’ll have to run to catch me now.

The dock is just beyond the shipyard and it’s crates piled high. You can smell the salty air, feel the cold mist pressing against your skin. The fog curls around the moored ships like fingers, closing in, obscuring everything. Still. Waiting.

As if he’s known you’d make it.

Mihawk.

You don’t stop. You keep walking, even as your breath comes in ragged gasps. The bells behind you peel like thunder, filling the streets of Isla de Palma as it wakes, screaming in panic. The sound threatens to swallow you whole, but you push it aside. One step. One breath.

No one had seen through you yet.

“ ‘ello, Sister Gabriella. Looking a little small today.” A drunken voice called out. You flinced, recognizing Tallo. “Is that some of your famous, hidden wine?”

The docks reeked of salt, fish, and stale sweat—wooden pillars slick with sea-grime, crowded with the stench of sailors stumbling back from drunken misadventures. Mihawk barely spared them a glance. Common men held no appeal. They were unimpressive, forgettable—swatted from the sea like gnats when they irritated him enough.

And yet, here he was.

Lingering.

On this miserable little island.

He exhaled slowly, rolling his eyes skyward in a gesture of vague self-disgust. How had it come to this? A warlord, idling like a dockside cat, awaiting the next flicker of novelty. Perhaps it was that strange flicker you always managed to spark—the way your wit caught him off guard, sharp in a way most steel wasn’t.

He really must be bored out of his mind, entertaining fantasies involving a convent girl.

Another sigh slipped past his lips. The sun had nearly vanished below the horizon. He didn’t need to look to know time was running out for you. He’d overestimated people before—though in your case, it had been the faintest estimation possible. Still, disappointment had a habit of arriving early.

And then—there it was.

Your voice, cutting through the night air like a knife.

Followed by a metallic clang.

Steel meeting flesh.

He stilled.

“Surely not,” Mihawk murmured, brows lifting. Amusement unfurled slow and warm in his chest. You? Fighting? The convent girl brawling with half-feral dockhands twice your size?

Ridiculous.

Delightful.

He moved toward the sound without hurry, drawn forward like a hound catching scent. No need to guess who was at the center of the chaos. He already knew.

“Very well, convent girl,” Mihawk muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Unfortunately for me, you’ve piqued my interest. Again.”

You, of course, did not oblige.

Instead, you kicked Tallo square in the groin with a precision that suggested divine intervention—or years of pent-up frustration. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, wheezing and retching, eyes bulging as if he could see next week.

Unfortunately, Tallo wasn’t alone in his idiocy. Two of his equally dimwitted friends had decided you looked like easy pickings. A mistake.

You snatched a discarded pole from one of the fools and turned, grip firm. It wasn’t exactly a sword, but it’d do. Your movements were quick, a little rough around the edges, but efficient—like someone who’d broken up enough tavern fights to know the rhythm of chaos.

“For such prolific drunks,” you said, sidestepping a poorly aimed punch, “Shouldn’t you be better at bar brawls?”

One of the lackeys laughed and pulled a rusted blade—because of course he did.

You spun low, sweeping his legs from under him with the pole and cracking it across his skull as he fell. The thud was deeply satisfying.

“Are we done yet?” you asked, glancing at Tallo. He was backing away now, eyes wide, limbs twitching like a rat realizing the trap had already snapped shut.

But before he could stammer a reply, someone new rushed you from behind. His arms locked around your waist in a clumsy bear hug, breath hot and panicked against your neck. You grinned, half-wild, teeth bared like a feral cat.

Oh, this again.

You twisted, forcing a sharp wheeze out of him. Still, the bastard held on—tighter now. You raked your nails down his forearms and earned a satisfying grunt of pain, but no release. You shifted your weight, ready to slam your elbow into his ribs.

Then everything changed.

The air shifted—sharp and cold, slicing through the humid night like a blade through silk. The fog pulled back, reverent. Your instincts screamed.

Something moved.

In a blink, your attacker was gone. Wrenched away from you and flung like a ragdoll into the dirt. A gust of air followed, sharp and surgical, and the space where he’d been was clean and silent.

You froze, still catching your breath, pole gripped tight. That… hadn’t been you.

You turned, and there he was.

Mihawk.

Impossibly composed. Unbothered. The storm made flesh.

You stared.

“I didn’t need help,” you snapped, more breathless than you meant to be.

He regarded you with his usual unreadable calm, eyes gleaming with faint amusement. “You were late,” he said, voice smooth and dry, with a flicker of something almost smug curling at the corner of his mouth.

Then, as if bored, he lifted his hand—and with a single, lazy flick of his wrist, sent the remaining two goons flying. They crumpled like paper dolls, groaning where they landed.

“I am not late,” you hissed.

He raised a brow. “You’re not early.”

“I am on time!”

Mihawk’s golden eyes flicked toward you, that damned smirk tugging at his lips. “I expected a more discreet exit. But clearly, I overestimated your subtlety.”

You shot him a glare, breath ragged. “I had it under control.”

His eyes scanned the groaning bodies around you. One was still whimpering. “Obviously,” he said dryly. “Next time, straighten your whole arm—unless you want a fracture.”

“You were watching?” you snapped. “You could’ve helped sooner!”

He tilted his head, utterly unfazed. “You had it well in hand. Against drunks, at least. Your form’s decent. Rusty.”

You yanked the bishop’s cowl off with a frustrated grunt. “My mother didn’t want me to be weak. But convents don’t exactly encourage self-defense. They take away anything sharp in case we get ideas.”

Mihawk stepped closer, fog parting around him like he’d ordered it to. That look in his eyes made your pulse jump—cold calculation, the gleam of a swordsman sizing up something interesting.

“Oh, no,” you muttered. “Don’t you dare. We should be heading to your ship.”

Instead, he tugged the cross from his neck and with an elegant flick, drew the slim dagger it concealed. It glittered in the dim light—deadly and ridiculous all at once.

“Let’s duel,” he said, like suggesting tea.

You raised your pole, posture straightening despite yourself. The training you’d buried deep came clawing up, wild and imperfect—but still yours.

It didn’t matter.

He moved like water. No—like wind. Untouchable.

Your pole clashed against his blade with a sharp crack, but he barely seemed to feel it. He circled you with lazy precision, parrying your strikes like they were little more than a dance.

Then, without even breaking a sweat, he twisted and disarmed you, sending the pole skittering across the ground.

Before you could lunge for it, his hand caught your arm and pulled you flush against him.

“Still rusty,” he murmured, gold eyes bright with amusement. “But there’s potential. Once you stop making excuses, you might be fun.”

Your scowl could’ve curdled milk. You struggled in his grasp, but he held fast, as unshakable as a mountain—and twice as smug.

Then, as if bored, he let you go and turned, boots crunching on the dirt. “You’re welcome,” he called over his shoulder.

You barely had time to curse before a new voice rang out.

“Stop right there, criminal!”

Heavy boots thundered closer. You turned and groaned. Of course. A whole squad of Marines, swords drawn, eyes full of righteous fury. Probably bored out of their minds and thrilled for something to arrest.

“You’re under arrest!” the lead barked.

Mihawk sighed—loudly. Like someone had just asked him to fetch groceries.

You raised your pole again. “We can take them.”

Behind you, Mihawk gave a dark, amused chuckle.

“Well, you did insist you didn’t need help,” he said lightly. Then he bent, scooped up the wine crate you’d risked everything to steal, and hoisted it with one hand.

You turned. “Don’t you—”

“I’ll be taking this ahead,” he added, already walking away.

That. Bastard.

One blink and he was gone—vanished into the fog like a smug sword-wielding specter. The Marines surged toward you, and you did the only thing a sane woman could do:

You screamed after him at the top of your lungs.

“You son of a goat-sucking bastard and a whore’s afterthought!”

There was a brief silence from the Marines.

Then one muttered, “Damn. Who was that guy?”

You didn’t answer.

You just charged.

Because Mihawk may have left you behind—

But you were not about to let that smug bastard drink your wine.

A Marine lunged, seizing your arm in a grip like iron. You twisted, snarling, and drove your knee into his side. He staggered, and you spun, kicking another square in the chest before hurling your pole like a spear into the other three.

They scattered, and that was all you needed.

You vaulted onto a barrel, then kicked off it hard, grabbing the edge of the rooftop and hauling yourself up. Shouts echoed behind you as you sprinted across the tiles, boots slamming rhythmically. The wind tore at your scarf, your lungs burned—but you didn’t stop.

Mihawk couldn't have gotten far. Not with your wine.

Demon or not, predator or not—he’d been paid. And you would be collecting what was yours.

You leapt across a narrow alley, landed hard, rolled to your feet. Behind you, the clamor of the Marines grew fainter. You swung down a pole, muscles screaming from the effort, and hit the ground running.

The docks were close now.

You stumbled into the edge of the alleyway, chest heaving, blood sticking to your torn shirt. Lanterns flickered in the fog, and the sea air slapped your face like a wake-up call.

Your eyes scanned the street, wild and locked on target.

Mihawk. That bastard. That infuriating, elegant, blade-dancing ghost of a man.

He was going to give you your wine. Or you were going to break a bottle over his head and take it.

The men lingering in the street stepped back, eyeing you with caution. You looked like a woman who had nothing left to lose—blood-splattered, half-mad, determined.

You took another step.

And then—

A hand.

Heavy. Commanding.

It clamped down on your shoulder and yanked.

Your body jolted. You spun, instinct flaring.

And came face-to-face with Vice Admiral Jacobson.

You barely managed to mask your shock before his other hand gripped your jaw, turning your face side to side like you were some runaway curio.

“Well, well,” Jacobson drawled, voice like honey laced with venom. “If it isn’t the bishop’s arsonist.”

Your jaw clenched until your teeth ached.

He stepped closer, breath thick with cloves and smug satisfaction. “You made quite a mess tonight, Gabrielle.”

You didn’t flinch. Couldn’t—not with his fingers digging into your arm like he owned you.

Behind him, something glinted in the fog. Gold. Still. Watching.

Your pulse spiked.

Jacobson’s eyes lit with amusement. “Miss Gabrielle, of course. I was wondering when you’d pop up.”

You jerked against his grip, trying to twist free. He held fast, his grasp tightening until your shoulder screamed. It does take him long to haul you to the marine office, unfortunately, nearby.

“What exactly are you doing with that?” Jacobson asked, voice smooth as ever, though his eyes were narrowing at the bishop's robes. “You don’t strike me as the ‘steal and run’ type.”

“Just making a delivery,” you muttered, brushing blood from your shirt—and only managing to smear it worse.

He chuckled. “A delivery. How original.” He reached into his coat, pulled out a slim notebook, and flipped it open. “Funny, because I just got word from the convent. They’re in quite a state. Screaming something about theft, assault, and—you’ll like this—light arson.”

You swallowed.

“They also mentioned their missing wine. Which, incidentally, was bought using Church gold and intended for a Cardinal’s blessing ceremony.” He gave you a pointed look. “Not bribing pirates.”

“I’m not bribing anyone,” you snapped.

From across the room, his secretary glanced up from her book. “Shall I call the convent back, sir?”

Jacobson didn’t even look at her. “Not yet.”

He turned back to you with the kind of smile that meant he was about to ruin your life just for fun. “So? What are you really doing here?”

You crossed your arms, trying to fake calm. “Just delivering the wine. There were... complications.”

“Oh, I bet there were,” Jacobson said. “Last I checked, you were engaged to a Celestial Dragon. Shouldn’t you be somewhere getting fitted for a gilded leash?”

You froze. “I’m eloping,” you blurted before you could stop yourself.

Jacobson blinked. “Eloping?”

“Yes. With my—my secret fiancé.”

There was a silence. You regretted everything.

Jacobson’s face brightened like he’d been handed a comedy script. “Let me guess. The mystery man from those terrible romance novels you smuggle into the convent?”

“It’s not like that!” you hissed. “He’s real! I met him. We fell in love. At first sight. He saved my... my shoe.”

Your voice cracked.

Jacobson just blinked slowly. “Your shoe.”

“Yes,” you pressed, desperate. “We’ve already, um... consummated the relationship.”

From her desk, the secretary finally looked up again.

Jacobson leaned forward, delighted. “And what does this fantasy swordsman of yours look like?”

You took a breath and ran straight into disaster.

“He’s over six foot five, dark hair, yellow eyes. Carries a giant sword. Wears a black coat. And a hat. With a white feather.”

Jacobson stilled. “...Pardon?”

You nodded furiously. “His name is Mihawk. Dracule Mihawk.”

The secretary’s glasses slipped halfway down her nose.

Jacobson didn’t move. “Mihawk. As in... Warlord Mihawk. That Mihawk.”

“Yes,” you said proudly. “He fell in love with me. We’re soulmates.”

Jacobson’s face went slack, like someone had just hit him with a theology textbook. “You’re telling me... you ran from your wedding, burned down a convent, stole sacred wine—to elope with Mihawk?”

You gave a stiff nod. “That’s correct.”

The room was silent for a full ten seconds.

Then Jacobson let out a long, low laugh. “Incredible. That’s truly inspired. I haven’t heard a lie that bold since Garp tried to forge his vacation paperwork.”

“I’m not lying!” you insisted.

“Sure,” he said. “And I’m secretly married to a mermaid.”

His secretary muttered, “You wish.”

Jacobson ignored her. “Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of true love.”

You blinked. “Wait. You’re letting me go?”

He grinned wider. “Oh no, sweetheart. I’m not stopping you—because I want front-row seats when the truth catches up.”

He leaned back in his chair, hands folding behind his head like he’d just paid for premium box seats to a disaster. “Go ahead. Run to your terrifying swordsman. See how that turns out.”

Your stomach twisted.

The fog clung to the dock like wet lace—thick, cloying, and suffocating. Behind you, the cathedral bells howled like judgment.

You burst through the mist like a bat out of hell: breathless, robe flapping, looking only half surprised that he was still there.

Dracule Mihawk stood beside the moored skiff, arms crossed, his patience worn thin to a gleaming edge. At his feet sat the stolen crate—dusty, heavy, and reeking of wine and sin. It might’ve been worth it, if not for the circus you’d dragged behind you.

Lantern light glinted faintly off the crucifix-shaped pommel of his sword. It wasn’t drawn.

Yet.

“You were supposed to be subtle,” he growled as you staggered toward him.

“I was!” you gasped. “Mostly!”

“You brought a damn parade.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you snapped, yanking off the bishop’s veil, sweat soaking through the stolen robes. “You left me!”

His eyes, sharp and golden, flickered in the fog—like they’d been struck from stormlight. “You said you could handle it.”

“I did—”

The clatter of Marine boots cut you off.

You turned. Hard.

Vice Admiral Jacobson emerged from the mist like a smug omen—coat flaring, chin high, eyes already glinting with trouble. Two Marines trailed behind him, but he didn’t need them. He was the kind of man who carried consequences in his tone and let sarcasm do the rest.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said, voice dry as sun-bleached parchment.

He took in the scene—Mihawk beside the skiff, the wine crate, your soaked convent robes—and sighed with the soul-deep weariness of someone caught between paperwork and a diplomatic incident.

“Evening.”

Mihawk’s glare could have killed a lesser man.

Jacobson looked again: the sacramental theft, the woman panting like she’d outrun divine wrath, and Mihawk looking moments from violence. He exhaled slowly, visibly recalibrating whether to arrest you or simply let karma swing the sword.

“Miss Gabriella,” he said at last, voice tinged with pity. “You look like a scandal halfway through a cover-up.”

You gave a crooked smile, still catching your breath. “Vice Admiral.”

Mihawk’s jaw ticked. “I was just leaving.”

“I can see that,” Jacobson replied evenly. Then added—deadpan—“Leaving with stolen Church property and a nobleman’s bride-to-be.”

Silence.

“…It’s not what it looks like,” you said weakly.

“Oh, good.” Jacobson’s smile sharpened. “Because it looks like I’ll be explaining to the Fleet Admiral why the world’s greatest swordsman just eloped with a nun and forty thousand berries’ worth of sacramental wine.”

The silence stretched again, taut and dangerous.

Then came the smirk.

That slow, indulgent smirk Jacobson wore like a dagger. The kind that said, This is going to be a spectacular mess—and I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.

“Vice Admiral,” Mihawk said at last, voice low, level, and cold enough to bite. “You’ve misunderstood.”

His hand moved—just slightly—to your shoulder. Not enough to draw alarm. Just enough to say mine.

The air changed. Sharpened. His presence rose like a storm behind glass.

“This isn’t your concern,” Mihawk said, quiet and lethal. “And I am not your pawn.”

Jacobson raised a brow. “Is that so?”

His Marines shifted uneasily. One of them wiped his brow.

“No,” Mihawk said, cutting clean through the moment. “You don’t think. You gossip.”

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating.

And then—

You cracked.

“We’re eloping!” you shouted, hands flinging skyward like you were trying to block divine smiting. “There! Happy?!”

Jacobson blinked.

You heard it—the sound of Mihawk turning his head toward you.

Slow. Precise. Inevitable.

You winced. “…Maybe?”

Everything stopped.

Even the fog recoiled like it didn’t want to be involved.

Mihawk turned fully, as graceful and inescapable as a descending guillotine.

“…What.”

The word dropped like a blade.

The dock held its breath. Only the soft slap of waves against the pylons dared interrupt the silence.

Jacobson looked positively giddy, hands clasped behind his back like an executioner at the dress rehearsal. Mihawk stood behind you, unmoving. Vast. Cold. A storm wrapped in flesh. You didn’t need to see him—you could feel him, the weight of his silence bearing down like judgment.

His hand tightened on your shoulder. Not painful. Just... final.

You swallowed hard.

You’d said it.

Out loud.

In front of him.

Still, Mihawk didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His silence held a thousand unspoken consequences.

Jacobson gave a long, low whistle. “That man?” He gestured lazily. “The one who’s said fewer than five words to you in sequence? Who once attended a peace summit just to give an admiral an ulcer? That Mihawk?”

You hesitated.

Rookie mistake.

Jacobson’s voice sharpened with delight. “Slayer of swords. The walking massacre. The man who sliced an island off a map because someone insulted his coat. Warlord of the Seas.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Nothing came out.

Jacobson was on a roll now.

“Former Marine Hunter. Destroyer of fleets. Wielder of the Black Blade. And—just for flair—the man who once cut a cannonball in half because it was bothering him. The Greatest swordsman in the World, Dracule Mihawk?”

He leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

“Hawkeye. That Mihawk?”

You made a sound. It might have been a wheeze.

Jacobson pressed a hand to his chest in mock sympathy. “Oh, honey. You didn’t know.”

“He is the last thing arrogant men see. The proof that the gods abandoned us centuries ago and left him in charge.”

You swallowed.

Jacobson gave a smug shrug. “And you told him you were eloping.”

Behind you, Mihawk remained perfectly still.

The kind of stillness reserved for statues. Or predators just before they strike.

Jacobson folded his arms, utterly pleased.

“And now, legally speaking, it seems you might be engaged to a walking extinction event.”

Behind you, Mihawk hadn’t moved. He’d gone still in a way no living thing should. Like a drawn sword poised just above your spine.

You could feel his eyes. Sharp as steel. Cold as the grave.

You did not burst into flames on the spot, but you suspected Mihawk was thinking about it.

Jacobson tilted his head, watching with a mix of awe and clinical curiosity. “You poor, catastrophically naïve girl. You struck a deal with him?”

You briefly considered leaping off the dock and becoming a sea ghost.

Mihawk’s silence was no longer silence. It was verdict.

Jacobson blinked slowly. Then, as if struck by inspiration, looked past you.

“You know, this might be the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You turned—slow, terrified. Mihawk met your eyes, expression unreadable.

Then, after an agonizing pause, he raised a single brow.

You turned away so fast you nearly tripped on your own regret.

Jacobson chuckled, then leaned slightly toward Mihawk. “She’s very persuasive.”

“She’s an idiot,” Mihawk said dryly.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. But something flickered behind those gold eyes. Amusement? Annoyance? Possibly affection, buried six layers deep and wrapped in barbed wire.

His hand slipped from your shoulder—and you nearly sagged with relief.

But then his fingers brushed lightly up the back of your neck.

A touch too brief to be possessive. Too intimate to be accidental.

You froze. Tense. Caught between heat and dread. Then his voice, low and glacial, ghosted just behind your ear.

“You really have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”

The chill in his tone scraped down your spine like a drawn knife.

You swallowed hard.

You had never wanted to be arrested so badly in your life.

Jacobson, of course, had no intention of rescuing you. He looked positively delighted—like he’d been gifted front-row seats to the most elegant public disaster in naval history.

“I must say,” he drawled, savoring each word, “I didn’t expect you to be swept up in convent theatrics, Mihawk. It’s almost… domestic.”

He chuckled, thoroughly entertained.

Mihawk did not.

Without missing a beat, Jacobson slipped a battered leather folio from his coat and opened it with theatrical flair. Inside: an official parchment, sealed with the Church’s wax sigil.

“Well,” he said, as if he were reading out loud a recipe for divine chaos, “here’s the snag.”

You blinked. “Snag?”

Jacobson smiled with the benevolence of a man actively setting you on fire. “Unmarried convent girls can’t legally leave Church lands without formal release. Typically granted by a guardian… a husband… or—” he waved the parchment lightly—“via custodial transfer under maritime bond.”

You squinted, voice tight. “I’m sorry—the what clause?”

Jacobson lit up like he’d baited a bear trap with doctrine and sin. “Maritime Custodial Bond, Section Forty-Two: non-extraditable protection under witness seizure protocol. Rarely invoked. Exceptionally useful.”

“We’re not—” Mihawk cut in, voice sharp.

“—Yet,” Jacobson said, sliding the interruption aside like a minor clerical error. “But your little neck-touch and her unfortunate shouting of the word eloping? That creates a… legally compelling narrative.”

Mihawk’s eye twitched. “That’s not a real law.”

“Oh, it’s real,” Jacobson said cheerfully, brandishing a Navy rulebook that looked like it had been fished out of a sunken galleon. “Just… wildly unpopular. Like me.”

You stared at him. “Are you trying to marry us?”

Jacobson gave a scandalized gasp. “Marry? Goodness, no. This is purely bureaucratic. No vows. No rings. No doves. Just a clean, legal custodial transfer. Think of it as… leasing a disaster.”

You made a strangled sound.

Jacobson turned to Mihawk. “All I need is verbal consent from both parties. Miss Gabriella?”

“I—I—” you squeaked. “I… consent?”

“Wonderful,” Jacobson beamed. “And you, Dracule Mihawk—do you swear to escort this inconvenient young woman off this island with minimal injury to my men and at least the appearance of legality?”

The silence was absolute.

Mihawk’s glare could’ve soured wine.

“I’m going to kill you in your sleep.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Jacobson said brightly, producing another parchment. “Saves us all the paperwork.”

Mihawk’s voice dropped an octave. “You brought the paperwork.”

“I always carry a few,” Jacobson said, with the smile of a man who played chess against fate and occasionally won. “You never know when you’ll need to marry off a war criminal in a pinch.”

You choked. “Marry off—?”

“It’s figurative,” Jacobson said. “Mostly.”

He offered Mihawk the parchment.

Mihawk stared at it like it had personally insulted his bloodline.

“Sign,” Jacobson prompted, offering a pen.

Mihawk didn’t move.

The wind tugged at his coat. The parchment fluttered like it had a death wish.

“You said you’d take her,” Jacobson said softly. “On your word.”

And there it was.

The blow that landed.

Mihawk’s jaw locked. Not at Jacobson. Not at you.

At himself.

With a hiss of breath, he snatched the pen.

Signed.

Handed the parchment back like a cursed object.

Jacobson signed in turn, stamped it, and sealed it with wax. Then he handed over the finished document with the reverence of a man handing over a cursed contract—and the grin of someone who liked handing over cursed contracts.

“Congratulations,” Jacobson said. “She’s yours now.”

Mihawk stared at the paper like it might explode.

“By the power vaguely granted to me through maritime loopholes and my personal vendetta against Celestial Dragon marriage arrangements,” Jacobson declared, “I now pronounce you fugitives by holy bureaucracy. Mazel tov.”

Mihawk growled. “You bastard. You planned this.”

“I did,” Jacobson said brightly. “Because you said you’d take her. And if I don’t file this, it looks like I’m granting special privileges to Warlords. Again. That gets me yelled at by Admirals. So… enjoy your bride.”

Mihawk’s hand twitched toward his sword. The Marines flinched.

Jacobson remained perfectly still. Cheerful. Unkillable.

“I assume you’ll file for annulment somewhere that doesn’t smell like wet incense,” he added. “Though… stranger things have blossomed.”

“Did you just marry us?” you echoed, horrified.

You stood there like a stunned heron, still wrapped in damp bishop robes, clinging to a wine crate like it might absorb your shame.

Jacobson gave a crisp little salute. “Bravo. You fled the altar, stole the sacraments, and accidentally swore yourself to the deadliest swordsman alive. A romantic comedy for the ages.”

He turned on his heel and strode off into the fog, whistling a hymn.

Mihawk stood beside you, radiating fury so dense it had gravitational pull.

You dared a breath. “Did he actually—”

“Keep talking,” Mihawk said, voice low and dangerous, “and I will maroon you on a rock with a wedding veil and a church bell.”

You shut your mouth.

The dock fell silent.

Except for Jacobson—somewhere in the mist—laughing his head off.

People make mistakes. It’s part of life—circumstances shift, pressure builds, poor choices get made. Usually, you can fix them. Apologize. Try again.

But not when it involves Dracule Mihawk.

Not when the mistake is accidentally manipulating the most feared Warlord alive into a shotgun marriage, sealed by Church law and Vice Admiral smugness. That wasn’t a mistake. That was a catastrophic event.

Now you sat in the corner of Mihawk’s skiff, drenched and dazed, married to the world’s greatest swordsman.

It wasn’t the wedding itself that stung. It was his gaze—sharp and constant, like a blade laid flat against your throat, daring you to twitch.

You half-expected him to throw you overboard, and part of you would’ve thanked him for it. But instead of rage or retribution, Mihawk had chosen something worse.

Silence.

The paperwork had been signed. Two flicks of a pen. One glaring contest you couldn’t possibly win. Then Mihawk—without a word—threw you over his shoulder like a particularly inconvenient duffel bag and hauled you off the dock.

"Where are we going?" you’d squeaked, flailing slightly.

“Away,” he’d said, voice colder than seawater.

And so you went—wife, warlord, and a crate of stolen convent wine—drifting into the mist like the punchline to a political cartoon.

Now, hours later, the silence hadn’t broken.

The boat creaked with every ripple. Salt clung to the hull. Mihawk’s breath rasped like a whetstone in the dark—steady, patient, sharpening something.

You didn’t move. You barely blinked. You had escaped one marriage and fallen face-first into another—with a man who split ships out of boredom and made entire fleets rethink their contracts.

And you had called him your beloved.

Mihawk hadn’t spoken once since the dock. He sat rigid, gazing into the fog, the line of his jaw set in something worse than anger: calculation.

I’m going to die, you thought. He’s going to kill me and toast my ashes with the good bottle.

Then—he moved.

You froze.

He reached for the crate.

You flinched.

He opened it—calm, precise. Lifted a bottle, brushed off the dust. Opened it with the practiced ease of someone who dismembers things for fun.

A rich scent hit the air—dark, heady, sinful.

He poured a measure into a battered tin cup. Swirled it. Sniffed.

Tasted.

Paused.

You dared a glance.

He stood perfectly still, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable. Then he took a second sip.

Slower.

Finally, he set the cup down.

“…This is better than the first,” he said, very softly.

You nodded like your life depended on it.

He exhaled. “You forced me into your affairs.”

Nod.

“Humiliated us both.”

Nod.

“Married me under false pretenses.”

Nod.

“You lied to a Vice Admiral. Stole from a holy order. And dragged my name into a scandal that will require three separate reports.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

He stared at you a moment longer—then poured another glass and sat down.

“Fine.”

You blinked. “…Fine?”

“Fine,” he repeated, like a verdict. “You’re not worth killing. Yet.”

You swallowed.

“But you owe me.”

You nodded again, quieter.

He sipped. “I’m plotting,” he said. “Don’t speak.”

So you didn’t. You curled into your corner, a dripping, mortified monument to bad decisions. You were hungry, exhausted, aching—but you didn’t say a word. You’d rather chew your own hand off than test his patience again.

The skiff sliced through the fog like a knife. Isla de Palma vanished behind you.

Still, he said nothing.

You curled tighter into your stolen bishop’s robes—cold, wet, still smelling of smoke and incense and fear. The silence hollowed you out.

Finally, he set the cup aside.

“You want to be more than a firestarter and a ruined bride?” Mihawk asked, voice low, quiet.

You looked up.

His eyes pinned you like butterflies in a case. “You say you’re a vintner. Daughter of a Marine. Not some spoiled brat with a stolen name.”

“I am,” you said quickly. “Everything I claimed—”

“Then prove it.”

“…Prove it?” you echoed, unsure if he was serious or just cruel.

He crossed one leg over the other. Still as stone. “You’re alive. That’s your only achievement so far.”

You winced.

“I have no intention of keeping you,” he added, as if discussing unwanted cargo. “But you’re worth more alive than dead.”

That should’ve been reassuring. It wasn’t.

“Thank you, I—”

He scoffed. “Don’t thank me. Not yet.”

His gaze carved into you like a chisel. “My end of the deal is done. Your debt remains.”

“Debt?”

“You forced my hand. I signed my name. My reputation.” He stood, slow and deliberate. “You want freedom? Earn it. Restore my vineyard.”

You stared. “That’ll take years.”

“And the rumors will take just as long to fade,” he said coolly. “Poetic, isn’t it?”

Anger sparked in your chest. “If you’d kept your promise—”

He was on you before you could finish, one gloved finger tilting your chin sharply.

“You are now a target,” he said, voice cutting glass. “If you die under my name, I suffer for it. I don’t allow liabilities.”

Your breath stuttered.

He released you. Smoothed his coat. “You’ll work. You’ll tend. If you don’t ruin the estate, maybe you’ll leave with your name. Or at least your spine.”

You exhaled, shaky. “Fine.”

He handed you a crust of bread and a flask of water with all the ceremony of a contract. “Drink. I don’t need you collapsing.”

You did. It wasn’t kindness.

It was maintenance.

You rose to slip below deck. He didn’t stop you.

But just before you reached the hatch, he added without looking:

“You look miserable. Go sleep where I don’t have to see it.”

You stumbled down into the shadows.

Only once your eyes began to close did you feel it, coarse, but warm.

A blanket. Draped over your shoulders.

You didn’t turn.

You didn’t thank him.

Above you, Mihawk drank more wine, slowly, silently.

Like it owed him an apology.