#Scratch notation

[omophagic-beast]

thinking abt a d6 dice pool system where its pass/fail, but you could not only roll, say, one 6 to succeed, but could also roll two 5s, three 4s, four 3s, five 2s, or six 1s

im not sure how this would work out probability-wise, but do think it would be fun to roll a big handful of dice, see a bunch of 1s, and realize that you rolled so many 1s that you still managed to succeed

especially since rolling that many 1s is less likely than rolling one 6

thoughts? is there a game with this kinda thing out there?

[you-are-constance]

yay for 50% in one of my classes

[oathedking]

Tag dump 1: OOC

[girl-lostconnection]

i luv ur work and I'm just curious your thoughts on if bat reader got pregnant? Maybe a little clutch of 3 babies that are around 6lbs each so small but maybe most fruit bat babies are? Or since it's a hybrid of the one/all the boys maybe it's one baby but a little bigger and sweet reader is waddling everywhere constantly barefoot

Yk, anon, your idea is so cute I’m gonna give you a pass for pregnancy trope because god knows I’m not a fan of it. Don’t get me wrong, I have massive respect for people who decide to get pregnant but Jesus, if it’s not some prime horror material. Also I just personally don’t like pregnancies or kids

Okay, you will need to hold my hand with this one because the next thing will be wildly anti-scientific and borderline magical, but it’s fanfiction — we are gonna freestyle. No one can stop us from having fun, anon.

I can imagine Reader finding out they are pregnant and as soon as 141 find out, at least one of the boys is glued to their side.

Especially Price — Komodo dragons are incredibly protective fathers and he is no exception. The man would be patiently peeling and cutting all and every fruit, rubbing your legs and kissing your cheeks because you deserve it for working so hard.

Simon’s provider instincts would go haywire because your scent changes with pregnancy and primal part of him needs to make sure you eat enough, you are warm, you are safe, you are comfortable. He is slightly paranoid and doesn’t let you walk anywhere alone, just looming over your shoulder.

But he’s also the one who will relax once he sees that one of the lads actually come to take turn guarding you. Wolves separate responsibilities and in a wolf pack some wolves go hunting while others watch pups then they switch. So he’s okay if someone is nearby but he definitely feels more comfortable if he’s glued to your side and his hand is on your shoulder.

Man seriously doesn’t understand why can’t you all just move as the group of five if that would maximise the safety of you and the child. So what if it’s impractical? Doesn’t matter that he would look like he’s guarding a bloody prime minister, he will be advocating for you all to walk around together.

Kyle is relatively calm because he’s not velcro husband but make no mistake the man is velcro dad. Eagles are incredibly protective of their young and shield them from cold and heat and predators and literally chew food for them. Let’s hope Garrick holds himself together.

But he def would become more attentive, pecking kisses here and there, chatting you up before bed. I think it would soothe his human part that he can hear how calm and happy you are with everything and therefore it’s okay.

Soap is surprisingly the calmest of the bunch, he reads up a lot on bay hybrids and how long the pregnancies go and what to expect. He starts a journal with memories for the baby(-ies) when they grow up so they know how loved and cared for they were even before birth.

The man is there scratching and writing away, notating the side effects and doodling you devouring a melon all alone as he watches you in love. Soap would also be the calmest dad of them all but on the scale of 1-10 where 1 is protective and 10 is Simon Ghost Riley, he’s 11.

He’s all easy smiles and charm and then he just snaps his jaws when someone tries to touch the baby(-ies) or you without asking because hands the fuck off. Get your own, baby and mate, these are his.

He has no chill when it comes to this, I’m sorry.

And then there’s you, who starts sleeping exclusively head down and wrapping in your own wings and Kyle’s when he’s available. You get cold easier so you cuddle up to hot like furnace Simon and then you are too hot and snappy, scrambling back on your perch.

You start walking barefoot because cool is nice and because staying in half transformation is easier then wasting energy to be mostly human (Johnny blinks once, twice then his hind brain takes over and he’s grooming you for hours on end because omg, that’s fur, this is lovely, hen, come ‘ehe)

And then babies themselves arrive. In the scenario where there are multiple of them — like a clutch of 3 babies, they mostly all resemble only you in the first few months because they emerge as lil bat hybrids covered in bat fur.

They will loose most of it after the first year but before that — the only indicative of who might be the dad is the eye colour.

Doesn’t help that both John’s are blue-eyed.

In scenario where there is only one baby, which would be definitely rarer, I think it would be fun if the baby actually was a different hybrid, for example you have yourself a little seal!baby and Soap is ecstatic. I think his baby would be the oldest one and if you decide to have any more, the next would be Kyle’s, then Price’s and Simon’s twins would be the last ones.

[fanaticsnail]

Ease the tension

Masterlist here

Word Count: 4,500+

Synopsis: After an extremely long stint at sea, tensions were at an all time high aboard the Thousand Sunny. The one person that never seemed to let it impact the important work needing doing aboard was the ships cook, Sanji. Deciding he must be as pent up as the rest of the crew, you offer to help him ease it. What you didn't expect was how truly dominant being tense would make him.

Themes: Dom!Sanji x gn!reader, mdni, smut, 18+, NSFW, blowjobs, semi-public sex, kitchen sex, minor BDSM, top!Sanji, mean!Sanji (little bit, not much), coaching, praise, no prior relationship, mutual crush.

Notes: Massive shout out to @mermaniaa and @autumnnjoy for being a listening ear and beta reading this for me. Love you guys! Thank you for helping me out 🖤

“Just what the hells do you think you’re doing?” Sanji’s panicked voice called down at you as you knelt by his feet. The cool tiles of the kitchen met with your knees as you gazed up at Sanji with your eyes rounded and innocent. Your actions, however, were quite the opposite. Fiddling with his belt buckle, you effortlessly pulled the leather strap from its iron fastening while still peering up through rounded eyes and blinking nonchalantly at him.

It had been several long and grueling weeks of travel aboard the Thousand Sunny. Tensions had been beginning to arise in the comradery between the crewmates. Zoro was stuck in a bout of silence while only interacting with Sanji in an effort to bait him into a fight, Robin confined herself to her room to escape from the noise that was Usopp and Luffy bickering over who the captain truly was in one of the retellings of complete and utter lies, Nami was trying to balance her books before yelling up at Zoro regarding increasing the interest on his loans due to late repayments.

Chopper was more mopey than usual as he stated he was running out of medical supplies, while Franky was starting new projects left right and center to ease his ever whirring mind, and Brook was seemingly playing the same song over and over again. It was pure and utter nonsense, and the migraine forming in the back of your mind only eased up when the smile of the ship’s cook dawned on you like pure sunlight as he offered you tea.

Sanji has always managed to draw a smile out of you. There was never the moment of tension truly between you, and your friendship only seemed to grow more while you chronicled the journey of the Straw Hats. You pondered this more throughout the day spent etching in notes and cataloging memories from the last island you made port at.

However, each time you made a scratch in the notations, your mind always seemed to be drawn back to the ship’s cook.

The chef of the Thousand Sunny ran his kitchen like the commercial one back at Baratie. He got up at 5am to begin breakfast preparations. After breakfast was conducted in a varying schedule throughout the day, he moved onto several elements of preparing snacks for the next few days before the lunch meal was completed - all the while ensuring there were no dishes left behind to dirty the countertops in his work space. After lunch, there were further snacks. After snacks, there was dinner to prepare while dessert was being set in the refrigerator or baking in the oven.

Then he would do it all over again, each time the kitchen being more spotless and clean than the last.

As Sanji made his way back to the kitchen, you snapped your chronicler’s journal shut and hastily finished your tea. Your migraine had long-since left you with a newfound purpose forcing your momentum in every solid step.

Sanji was already doing the dishes, finally polishing the last pot with a dried tea towel before placing it on the overhead rack above his cooking space. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, rings left in a small dish beside the sink where they normally were when he would cook, and a him of a song he learned from the kitchens we're leaving his lips as he whittled down the wick of his cigarette to the edge of the filter.

You watched as he carefully began the routine of adding a moisturiser to his hands, ensuring the epitome of care to every nook and crevice of his greatest treasures. His hands were what formulated his art, and they needed protecting from any soaps and chemicals used in his duties. After the moisturiser came the rings. One by one, those circlets of beauty slid back on the pirate-chef’s lengthy digits down to the knuckles. The sight alone almost had you drop to your knees.

Which is where you found yourself presently.

“I’ll ask you again,” Sanji’s voice snapped you out of your momentary daze while your fingers set to work at his pant button, “What in the hells are you doing?”

All you could do was simply smile up at him while quickly flickering the onyx button outside of its fabric fastening. Before you had the opportunity to relieve him of his zipper, Sanji’s delicate hands gently grasped yours in a bid to stop them. You blinked rapidly while you wriggled your hands within his grip in a bid to continue completing what you set out to accomplish.

“Sanji,” you softened your voice and exhaled an exasperated sigh, “You’ve been taking such good care of us. You always seem to ease the tension with the crew by just being yourself.” You returned your eyes up to his and darted them between his shocked and partially disgruntled eyes. “I just… I wanted a way to ease your tension in return. If-... I mean… if you don't want me to-.”

“-I don't want you to,” Sanji hastily cut you off. Releasing your hands from his grip, he slowly reached down to take your chin in his thumb and freshly ringed index finger. Your breath hitched as shock and embarassment only had an opportunity to find you for a second before Sanji’s thumb tapped on your lower lip. Barely understanding what was occuring, the pad of Sanji’s thumb entered your mouth and pressed down firmly on your tongue as he did so.

“At least, not in my freshly mopped kitchen,” he uttered with a soft quirk of his lip. Your eyes continued gazing up at him while you instinctively began rolling his thumb on your tongue and gently bobbing your head at a very subtle increment.

Sanji’s eyes held an aura of command that you had only seen a handful of times: in battle with a foe about to be conquered, focussed on a dish that required extra handle and care, and bartering with a vendor to get the best price on the freshest produce. You had begun feeling like an enemy made from the best ingredients at the most fortunate price before Sanji removed his thumb from your mouth and gently rubbed your saliva over your lips and chin.

“And just what were you planning on doing to ‘ease my tension’, hm?” he quipped down at you, removing his hand from your face while the other fiddled with his belt. “Offer me a hasty relief with manic frivolity before I begin preparing the evening meal? Suck my cock in the kitchen, kneeling down before me at the sink and watch me unravel at your touch? No. I don't think so.”

The crack of his belt leaving the hoops lining his pants struck the air like lightning. He drew his other hand up to the belt and began fiddling with the leather and sockets. Butterflying it out to the sides, he nodded with his whiskered chin down at your kneeling body.

“Hands. Now,” Sanji ordered down at you. You gingerly rose your hands up in front of him with mild alarm ringing now in your eyes. He soothed you with a smile while strapping the loops around your wrists and tugs you closer to him. Leaning down towards you, Sanji tilts his head to the side and smiles warmly down at you.

“While I appreciate you taking the initiative to seduce me, darling,” he encouraged you with his smile still beaming down at you, “I don't want us doing anything like this in my kitchen. Contrary to popular belief, us chef’s from Baratie don’t particularly enjoy sexual acts in the space we work.” He leaned away from the sink, drawing you by your wrists to shuffle on your knees to follow behind him.

“It takes all the routine out of the kitchen, and throws everything off balance.” He aided you to your feet first, still beaming radiantly at you with a soft smile, he began leading you by the end of his belt towards the green sofa lining the circular port windows.

“Now,” he sighed out, turning back to face you and plonking himself down on the sofa while gazing up at you with a sweet smile, “Where were we, hm?” You rolled your eyes and slowly lowered yourself to kneel between his thighs. His knees straddled out beside each of your shoulders as you made yourself comfortable at between them.

“I was offering you a bit of stress relief because you’ve been taking care of us for far too long all by yourself,” you shrugged nonchalantly, moving your leather-cuffed hands to his parted fly and rubbing circles with your thumbs against his crotch. “You’re always so attentive to everyone's needs, working so hard to keep us happy and comfortable aboard in long stints at sea. I just wanted to give you something that I know you needed.”

“And how do you know what I need, hm?” Sanji leans down towards you, gently scrunching his nose and peering at you through the lengthy curtain of his bangs. He playfully. tapped your nose gently with his index finger. You initially frown before offering him a small pout to mask your hidden grin.

“Be so kind as to educate me, chef?”

A small spark bloomed behind Sanji’s eyes, blackening his globes as he leaned his back on the punctured sofa. Letting out a shaken sigh, he gently reached forward with his unoccupied hand and gently cupped your cheek while tugging on the belt.

“Alright then, chronicler,” Sanji mirrored your expression back at you, smirking while angling his chin upwards in a soft taunt. “Get my cock out for me and I’ll talk you through what to do with it.” He released your chin and leaned back against the sofa once more, gazing adoringly with his smile, but with that hidden fire in his eyes you can come to enjoy. You peer up at Sanji with a warm, tight-lipped smile and began to fiddle with his pants and reach gently inside his briefs.

Drawing your hands beneath the elastic waistband, your digits trail along the dark blonde patch of his neatly trimmed hair before finally reaching down and grasping his cock. He was already swelling with need as he twitched in your single-gripped hand. Slowly, you reveal his flushed tip and outwardly sigh at how beautiful he truly was. Sanji took care of his appearance, certainly, but his cock was smooth and simply almost sweet to behold.

“There you go, darling,” Sanji praised you, “That's good. Now, gently grip around my shaft and slowly pump it in your hand.”

“I have given a handjob before, Sanji,” you scoff while doing as instructed, gently fastening your hands around his cock. Gently rolling his velvety skin backwards and forwards along the ever-swelling shaft, you were surprised when he yanked the belt looped around your hands hard enough to hold you stationary.

“But you haven't given one to me, have you?” Sanji retorted with his smile turning more cheeky and mischievous, “And you were adamant about this being for me, right?” His smile grew yours on your face with a natural radiance, your own reflecting his mischief as he slowly released the belt to slack the binds.

“Yes, chef-,” you began, halting as he spoke over you.

“-It’s ‘Sanji’ here, darling. I don't want to be thinking about work when I've got you doin’ that to my cock,” he chuckled easily before his throat hitched with a small moan catching within, “Routine, you know?” You nodded as you moved your hands along his shaft, only ever gently caressing it in a soft tease in lieu of the hastened pace you were going to gift him in the kitchen, “That's it. Nice and slow. I… I like a bit of delayed gratification, you know? Like waiting for a souffle to rise in the oven or a brisket roasting over a low and slow coal in a barbecue.”

“I see why I don't call you ‘chef’ while doing this,” you chuckled as you moved your other hand to his inner thigh, “Comparing a handjob to brisket is very unsexy. ‘Souffle’, I don't mind. I could get behind 'Souffle'.” Sanji chuckled before a soft sigh flew from his lips while he hung his head back on the stippled backrest.

“H-hah. A little firmer and faster,” he gasped while his hips involuntarily twitched in a small bucking motion. You pressed firmly down on his thighs while you strengthened your hold slightly and focussed on drawing up your thumb to gently stimulate his frenulum with every up-tug. Sanji let out a breathy moan as he turned back to gaze at you.

“Th-That’s nice,” his soft praise was as melodic as those soft moans he was granting you, “Focus on my tip a little, darling. What you're doing with your thumb, I want it there. It’s sensitive, you know?” You bite your lip as mischief continues to grow in between the both of you. The thick air of lust was palpable as your own ignored need began to swirl in your abdomen and tingle in your pants.

Instead of using the hand pumping his cock, or the other bracing against his thigh, you leaned your mouth forward and lulled your tongue out and gently flickered the muscle over the small slit at the top of his mushroomed tip. Sanji’s whimper was unexpected, but he hastily recovered by reaching his hand to cradle the back of your neck.

“I don't particularly like teasing. Delayed gratification, yes. Teasing, no thank you,” his chastise was laced with playful admiration as he drew your lips closer to his tip, “If you're keen on sucking it, please suck it. Don't taunt me with just a little lick. Open up and let me feel that beautiful mouth wrapped around all of me.”

Sliding your lips over his cock, Sanji gently coaxed you lower with his fingers splayed over the back of your neck. Inch by inch, you focussed on swallowing around him while he eased you to take him entirely into your throat. You gulped a little, choking as the blunt tip brushed against your tonsils, but you took a few stabilising breaths through your nose and continued on deeper.

Once snugly fitting in the back of your throat, Sanji eased you back up to swirl your tongue over his tip. You followed the swiping motion of your thumb prior, swirling against his frenulum before bobbing greedily against his cock. At each pass of your lips circling his cock and swallowing around him, Sanji’s breath escaped him in small huffs and pants.

Contrary to his earlier notions, Sanji was as pent up as the rest of his crew. His work simply never ended, and his supplies were running scantily close to the end of its tether. He usually waited until his shift finished for the night, returned to the boys’ shared quarters, and viciously pumped his cock while his hand was clapped over his lips to halt his whimpers to relieve his tension.

It was just not working as much as it usually did. Not when you would always offer him a soft smile. Not when you would always offer him a gentle touch. Not when you would always offer, without fail, to aid him in the kitchen if it was simply too much to handle alone.

He could always rely on you, depend on you, and expect you as someone to lean on when travelling on the seas - likely why he was so keen on ensuring you had everything you needed. While you were not together romantically, you both had an unspoken familiarity with one another that had a small promise of more being possible to unfold.

The unspoken familiarity was further halted from speaking while your lips muffled themselves around his cock, humming and messily sucking around him as if his bliss was your life’s tether. Sanji let out a low groan as he felt his need reach its pinicle.

“Ffffffuuuuuck,” he whispered, gently massaging his fingers over your scalp and rocking his hips to meet your momentum. “That's it. Just there. Keep doing that. Y-You just keep doing that and you'll make me cum.” He tries desperately to keep his voice as even, commanding, and dominant as he began this small session together. As you hummed around him, vibrating your voice and flattening your tongue over your bottom lip, he simply couldn't help himself.

You gazed up at him and depicted simply need. A need to be filled, a need to be used, a need to satisfy, a need to ensure the Chef of the Thousand Sunny knew how truly valued and cherished he was by spilling his hot cum down your throat. He met your eyes with his own and picked up the pace of aiding you to gulp his lengthy down your throat and bucking up to match your bobbing.

“G-Gonna cum. Oh, fuck, I'm gonna cum. I-I’m g-gonna-!” He warned you, which only made you keep the pace and focus on your task. Molten rings of his viscous ecstasy coated your throat, forcing your parted lips to swallow around him to the best of your abilities. The thick gulping sound of you drinking him in only seemed to have him cum harder into your mouth, the tadte barely making contact with your palate as you greedily consumed him.

“Cumming,” he panted, holding your head down to the base of his cock, pressing your nose flush against his pubic hair, “Fuck. Fuck. Gnghhh-, shit. T-Take it. That's my good little thing. Swallow it all.” He gave a few shallow thrusts into your mouth while holding you close. Just as your eyes began to water from lack of oxygen, he pulled your head off his cock and gently held your chin in his cupped hand.

“Come up here, darling,” he gasped. His entire face was flushed with that soft glow of relief as he soothed over your skin. The hand behind your head moved to his belt and slowly removed the buckles from your bound hands. He eased you onto your wobbly legs, slowly moving you to sit on his lap. His cock slowly deflated at every moment, still limply lingering over his belt as you straddled his lap.

“How are you feeling, Sanji?” you asked him while bringing your hands over his chest and gently caressing the cotton button-up stretched over his torso. Sanji moved his hands to your hips, rubbing soothing circles against your body with his thumbs.

“Like my ‘tension has been eased’,” he parotted your words back at you with a charming smirk. You shook your head and clicked your tongue at him in a bid to scold him, only halting as he drew his head up to nuzzle his face into the nape of your neck. You move your hands over his shoulders and hold him close to you, gently reaching up and caressing his soft hair with your hands.

“I'm happy to be at your service like this whenever you need it,” you affirm to him with a small smile in return, “I mean it. Any time you need relief like this, I'm more than happy to be there for you.”

“Careful now, sweetheart,” he chuckled, rubbing his forehead into your neck before pressing a gentle kiss against your throat, “I'd never want you to leave.” He slowly moved up and blinked dotingly at you through a flurry of his lengthy eyelashes, “Although, what I'd really prefer is just this. Just a little bit of human contact, you know? Human contact that isn't me and the moss-head sparring while we yell at each other. Just… Just me holding you like this is enough for me to feel relaxed.”

“Just like this?” you asked him, tilting your head to the side. He smiled up at you as he gently nodded his head at you.

“Just like this. Are you… are you okay with this?” Sanji asked softly against your skin. He pressed a deep and soft kiss against your skin, slowly moving gently up to caress his doting lips over your jaw and up to your cheek. His actions were soft, an apology laden in every motion for his prior rough treatment. “I went a little overboard. I… I don't usually have the luxury of being a little bit unrelenting. I'm usually a bit more gentle and doting when I… I mean, I don't usually have people doing this act for me in the beginning. Personally, I like giving a whole lot more.”

“If I didn't want it, I wouldn't have let you do it. I trust you, Sanji,” You hum as he continues to worship your cheek, neck and chin, slowly moving his kisses to above your lips. He hovered over your lips and tilted up his head, asking for permission non-verbally to kiss you. You tilt your own head in return and raise your eyebrow at him playfully to encourage his words.

“Can I kiss you, please?” Sanji asked sweetly, his hands softly beginning to caress your back softer before lingering over your ass. You laughed and shook your head in disbelief at his question.

“Of course you can,” you smile down at him. Leaning closer, you draw your lips over his before pressing them fully against the skilled chef. He immediately parted your lips and needily explored your mouth with his deep and desperate kiss. Your tongues collided in a messy and enthusiastic kiss, flickering together and tasting one another as you added a deep intensity.

“I want to pay you back,” Sanji muffled his speech against your lips, “I need to make you feel good too. Worship your skin, feel your flesh warming mine, show you how truly sorry I am for getting rough with you just now.” His hands move to gently place you on your back beside him. You laugh against his lips as he adjusts his pants back up, doing the top button and moving to cage you beneath his form.

Just as he began snaking his hand down to your waist, the kitchen door flew wide and your Captain’s smile was what greeted you therin.

“Sanji! Cook up everything you can, we're heading to a new island to resupply-... Oh, hi down there!” Luffy halted his question to approach you as Sanji froze in his position above you. Crouching beside you, Luffy reached out his hand and passed you a sheet of paper, “Nami said this is the map notes for your chronicling journal. Took me a minute to find you. Tried everywhere before I got hungry.”

The both of you exchanged a flickering alarmed look before you addressed your captain and his unwavering grin.

“Did Nami give us an estimate on when we're arriving?” you asked him as you attempted to hide your fluster. Sanji shook his head and disguised his own smile by turning his head into the back of the sofa.

“Said it was all in the notes,” Luffy shrugged before standing up to full stature. “Well, get to it, chef. I'm hungry! Make all of the food we have left in the kitchen. I need everything!”

Luffy rolled on his feet before turning back and exiting the kitchen as hastily as he arrived without mention of the position you and Sanji were situated. Your momentary silent fluster was immediately broken as the two of you began to laugh with every inch of your diaphragms.

The return of joy overwhelmed the both of you at that severed moment crafted by the hands of your captain. Sanji shook his head and pressed a soft kiss to your collar bone before sheepishly gazing up into your eyes. His brows sorrowfully triangulated upwards as a pout warmed his kiss-blown lips.

“I would prefer to return the favor right now, but if you wouldn't mind waiting-.”

“-You and I both know the captain will continue to periodically check on his ‘everything’ until it's done, Sanji,” you shook your head as you halted his words. Gently leaning up, you brushed his nose with your own before gently pressing a hasty kiss against his lips, “Get me back when we get to town? I mean, you don't have to. I didn't do it for you to owe me one, Sanji.”

Sanji shook his head and leaned off your lap, offering his hand to you to lift you up. Taking it, Sanji aided you to your feet and welcomed you into his arms in a warm, fully engulfing embrace. You both sighed out as you felt the tension fully release from your shoulders at the promise of a new port.

Lingering like this for a moment, you both finally pull apart and gaze into one another's eyes. Sanji’s eyes drew half-lidded, swarming with devotion and adoration for you, alongside the lingering promise of new beginnings solidified within this unspoken moment. He leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours, closing his eyes and holding you to him as if you would vanish at any moment. In the silence, Sanji and you shared breaths to calm yourselves before he finally broke the moment.

“I’m going to make you another tea, and bake something suitable to accompany it,” he nodded as he finally raised his hand to claim your chin in his hand. Slowly rising his thumb to caress your bottom lip, he chuckled and added another note of apology, “Perhaps a little bit of honey and lemon to help with your sore throat. Again, I really am sorry about that.”

“And I'll say it again: if I couldn’t handle it, I could’ve stopped you at any time,” you confirm with him, raising both of your hands up to hold the back of his hand, “I like you, Sanji. In all ways you come, I like you. A bit of meanness from time to time is fine by me, pretty boy.”

Sanji shook his head with a small smile before you both finally pulled away from one another. Sanji pulled out the kitchen barstool for you and gestured for you to sit before assembling the ingredients to brew your tea for you. You hopped up onto the stool and began looking over the notes and charts Nami comprised for you, opening your journal and adding the next stop into your course.

Everything was purely organic and fluid in the way you both worked alongside one another in silence. He assembled a meal, you took note on every ingredient missing and used to restock in town. He brought you your tea, you exchanged your kitchen notes with him. Everything seemed to flow into one, with joy reverberating in every notion where tension was found moments prior.

Sanji was already delegating an entire banquet of what he was going to do with you in his mind, stealing glances and undressing you with his eyes as a soft shudder in every breath drew through every exhale. Where there was once a kind gesture from one friend to another, Sanji was hoping for more to come of this small exchange of stress relief. The lingering promise of what was to come at the next port added an almost giddiness to every action, and you were both anticipating the next chapter of this friendship with hidden smiles and soft kisses at every opportunity.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @mermaniaa @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @ane5e

[thewertsearch]

@wolygan asked: So just for context, most people categorize the two groups of kids as the beta kids, and alpha kids, with it being based on the version they played, just in case you have any confusing asks. I checked and Jane does say the sburb alpha, so this isn't a spoiler or anything. @krixwell asked: It's worth remembering UU's "A1 → A2 → B1 → B2" terminology, because while it's not really used much in the comic itself, the fandom latched onto this framework as useful shorthand. It's very common for Homestuck fans to refer to, for example, "the B1 universe" rather than "the pre-Scratch human universe" or "the universe John's team came from", etc. I'm sure you'll get asks using this in the future. There's another such set of shorthand terms (also from around this time in the comic) that will be useful to be aware of: The pre-Scratch humans played the Sburb beta. But Jane's introduction page said she was poised to play the Sburb alpha. Fans frequently use this alpha/beta distinction to indicate which set of human kids they're talking about – the "beta (human) kids" are the pre-Scratch players, the "alpha (human) kids" are the post-Scratch players. (The version history for humans goes backwards, apparently.) This terminology is also extended to the trolls when discussions about the hypothetical pre-Scratch versions of the ancestors come up, but it's slightly complicated by the fact that the trolls played the Sgrub beta. So the post-Scratch trolls we know are the "beta trolls", and those pre-Scratch ancestors get labeled as the "alpha trolls" by a reversed analogy with the human kids. So in summary: A1 alpha trolls → A2 beta trolls → B1 beta humans → B2 alpha humans. (Though "kids" is more common than "humans".)

Noted. The A1 -> A2 -> B1 -> B2 notation should serve as a convenient shorthand, but referring to the post-Scratch Players as 'Alpha kids' feels like it'd get really confusing.

After all, we're already working with an Alpha timeline - so when I mention, for example, an 'Alpha John', it's going to be unclear whether I'm referring to Poppop Crocker, or the Alpha Timeline's John Egbert. Plus, we're apparently using the term to refer to the first iteration of the trolls, but the second iteration of the humans, which adds yet another vector for misunderstanding.

tl;dr: I'll definitely be using those acronyms, but might avoid 'Alpha', just to ensure I'm communicating clearly.

[xximmortalkissxx]

Chicken Soup for the

Peredhel Soul ���

Ages ago, I read a post about Maedhros and Maglor absolutely falling to pieces when Elrond and Elros catch a cold. For the life of me, I can't find it again, but this is my cozy cuddles submission inspired by that. ❤️‍🩹 @rivendellwatch

Art by: silmaspens

Warnings: Mentions vomit...I'm so sorry.

Translations: Elia de! = Bless you! Eleninya = My stars Melin = Dear

Word Count: 2,050

✨ A03 Link ✨

Dividers by zaldritzosrose

It began with a simple sneeze.

“Elia de!” Elros replied, consoling his twin with a gentle pat on the back.

“Thanks…” Elrond responded with a sniffle, wiping his small nose against the sleeve of his tunic.

“Are you gonna finish that?”

“Mm-mm,” Elrond shook his head and nudged the bowl of porridge to his brother, who took it eagerly, and began shoveling heaping spoonfuls into his mouth.

Maglor set down his tea gently and glanced at the boys with furrowed brows. “Elrond, are you- Elros, by the Flame Imperishable, please, you'll choke if you don't slow down.” Their captor-turned-guardian scolded, blinking with disbelief at the lack of manners on full display. 

With a heavy sigh, he tried again.

“Elrond, are you well?”

“I'm just a little stuffy…”

“Stuffy?” Maglor turned to Maedhros, who merely shrugged, intently scouring the large stack of correspondence before him.

“Perhaps this is an affliction common among the Secondborn,” Maedhros suggested, his gray eyes continuing to scan the pages before him.

“Does it pass quickly?” Maglor asked gently.

“Mm-hmm,” Elros answered, his cheeks nearly bursting with porridge. 

Maglor released a long-suffering sigh, mumbling a prayer for patience in Quenya. Maedhros merely smirked. The scene reminded him of more peaceful days, under the light of Laurelin and Telperion. When seven boisterous brothers ate breakfast all together, caring very little for table manners.   

His pleasant reverie didn't last long.

Both Maedhros and Maglor nearly jumped out of their skins as Elros released a violent hiccup, then another, and another. His little body bounced with every spasm. Elrond stifled a laugh as Elros groaned, continuing to hiccup as he threw his head back dramatically against the chair.

“What…in all of Arda..was that?” Maedhros asked, finally lifting his gaze. 

“Ugh…I -hic- ate too -hic- fast,” 

Maedhros looked to Maglor, who gave an exasperated shrug in response, deciding instead to return to his tea, chalking it up to yet more surprising Peredhel quirks.

By late afternoon, Maedhros and Maglor had carried on with their daily routines, as had Elrond and Elros…or so they thought.

The eldest son of Fëanor moved with masterful precision in the training yard, testing the mobility of a new shield tethered to his right arm. He winced following a particularly punishing blow against a wooden dummy. The design was undoubtedly an improvement, but still chafed against his residual limb. 

“The weight distribution is still slightly off,” Maedhros sheathed his sword and turned to one of his master smiths, gesturing to the shield. “But if we adjust the straps here and here, it should reduce friction while still maintaining mobility.” 

He unclasped the buckles with his left hand while the smith assisted, lifting the heavy shield into his arms to begin sketching the proposed alterations.

“Have you seen Elrond and Elros? They should have arrived by now.”

“Can't say I have. Perhaps the young masters are still tending to their studies.” The smith suggested mid-notation, before offering a polite bow and departing.

Maedhros grumbled to himself and marched back to the main hall, determined to track down the tardy twins. He stumbled upon Maglor first, reclined in a rare moment of mirth, and engrossed in a heavily annotated book reading: Daeron of Doriath -The Definitive Collection. 

“Have you seen Elrond and Elros?” 

“Not since breakfast,” Maglor replied coolly, audibly scoffing as he scratched more commentary in the margins. There was a brief pause before his quill stilled and realization dawned. “Shouldn't they be on the training grounds… with you?” he asked, snapping the book shut.

The sons of Fëanor scoured the fortress, searching high and low for any sign of the twins. Just as panic began to seize their hearts, they heard two distinct coughs from the direction of the library. Skidding to a halt, they spotted two small figures huddled together by the hearth, wrapped tightly in their warm woolen traveling cloaks. Maglor approached first and kneeled beside them.

“Eleninya, why are you shaking?”

“It's so cold, how can you stand it?” Elrond asked through chattering teeth. Elros merely nuzzled closer under Elrond's arm, shivering, sniffling, and uncharacteristically quiet.

The flickering light of the fire illuminated the thin sheen of sweat glistening on their brows. Maglor frowned, lifting his hand to rest against Elrond’s forehead before moving to Elros’.  They felt wrong, clammy, entirely too warm. 

“They’re burning up,” Maglor's voice was tight, torn between wrapping the shivering twins in his arms and drawing them a cold bath.

Maedhros crouched on their other side, using a fire iron to separate the large stack of haphazardly placed logs. His eyes then turned to the twins, brows furrowed with confusion.

“Elros, you're turning…green,” 

“Green? What do you mean green?” Maglor leaned in closer, cupping the boy's chin gently to get a better look. “Elros, melin, let me see you,” 

Elros met his gaze with watery eyes, his little body lurched, an audible squelch left his throat… and then:

Pure chaos erupted.

The two Fëanoreans stood catatonic. 

Together, they had experienced true devastation and seen horrors beyond imagining. Yet what they had just witnessed… completely defied what they believed an incarnate body was capable of.

“Elrond didn't even touch his breakfast… where did this all come from?” Maglor asked, hesitantly lifting a vomit-drenched braid from his shoulder.

“From Utumno itself…” Maedhros replied somberly, brushing thick chunks of porridge from his tunic and onto the equally soiled floor. 

“We’re out of our depth Nelyo, for all we know, this could be some kind of plague…they could-” 

“No,” Maedhros fixed his eyes on his brother, the fire of the hearth burning in their reflection. “We’re not losing them Kano. I can’t- not again...” his voice choked back a rare sob, and Maglor hesitated only a heartbeat before wrapping his vomit-soaked brother in a tight hug.

“We need an expert, one of the Secondborn, or…” Maglor paused, then snapped his fingers. “Another Peredhel,”

“Erestor?” Maedhros’ brows furrowed. “Would he answer our summons?” 

“He may for them,” Maglor replied thoughtfully, nodding toward the corridor where the sounds of sickly coughs and water splashing could be heard.  

Maedhros sighed, his boots slopping across the ruined rug towards a lone writing desk. After pressing the parchment flat and dipping a well-worn quill, he began writing the urgent missive:

Erestor Morifinweion, of the House of Haleth, 

Nephew, I write to you in desperation. The sons of Eärendil and Elwing have taken ill, a plague set upon them by Morgoth to be sure. They burn to the touch, yet shiver as if gripped by winter's chill. Dreadful coughs rattle their small bodies and the fetid bile they spew…I will spare the details, but trust when I say it would break even the strongest among us.  

We among the Firstborn do not fall prey to mortal ailments. Thus, Maglor and I cannot fathom the nature of this illness. But you Erestor, you were raised among the Secondborn, and know more of their ways than any in our House. 

I understand your anger and resentment towards us, nephew. Since your father's death, I have abided your wishes and left you in peace, but these boys are innocent of our sins. Please, Erestor, if there is any hope, bring it swiftly to us. I implore you.- Maedhros Fëanorion, Lord of Amon Ereb

Maedhros sealed the letter with a dollop of red wax and the embossing of a star pressed with the firm weight of his ringed knuckle.

“Take this to our swiftest rider, tell them to put this letter directly into Erestor Morifinweion's hands, and to bring him straight here,” 

“At once, my Lord.”  The servant took the envelope with care and hurried down the hall.

“Should we not send multiple riders, Neylo?” Maglor asked with a furrowed brow. “He could be any number of places within Beleriand.”

Maedhros shook his head in reply and shirked his soiled tunic. “I've kept close tabs on Erestor and Tyelpë for years, one rider is enough.” 

Erestor Morifinweion arrived the following evening, red-faced and smoldering with barely contained irritation. Flanked by two attendants, he was brought before his uncles with the utmost haste. He had prepared a lengthy monologue on the arduous journey here, eager to berate his kin and their new-found penchant for abduction… 

But the scene before him stalled his wroth.   

The ordinarily intimidating sons of Fëanor sat attentively with Elrond and Elros between them. The twins were wrapped under a heavy woolen blanket, cradled within their caretaker’s protective arms. Maedhros gently pressed a cloth to Elros’ nose, who blew into it forcefully with a stuffed-up groan, while Maglor sang to them softly a song of peace and healing. 

“You summoned me uncles,” Erestor’s clipped voice cut off Maglor’s song, shifting their attention to him in an instant.

“Erestor,” Maedhros nodded in greeting, shifting slightly to prop up the drowsy twins. 

“Please nephew, we are at our wit’s end,” Maglor gestured for him to come closer. “Clear water, cooling cloths, songs of vitality…nothing seems to ease their suffering.” 

Erestor kneeled in front of the twins, his expression softening as he met their bleary gaze. “Not feeling very well, huh?” 

“Mm-mm…” Elros replied, nuzzling his head further into Maedhros’ arm.

“We threw up…everywhere,” Elrond clarified sheepishly. 

He stifled a laugh and, with a gentle hand, felt their brows. “Well, I have good news and bad news. The good news is, their fevers have broken.” 

“And the bad news?” Maglor asked, silently preparing himself for the worst.

“There is no miracle cure for this,” he replied coolly. “It’s a cold, goes away on its own after a few days; chicken soup, plenty of rest, lots of water. In short, you spun yourselves up in a whirlwind of dramatics and abducted me for the common cold…” 

“There was nothing common about this…” Maedhros muttered grimly, causing Erestor to roll his eyes. 

“Can-can you make us some chicken soup?” Elros asked timidly.

“Please,” Elrond added with large pleading eyes.

“Sure,” Erestor ruffled their hair affectionately and stood. “I’ll make you my mother’s old recipe, she used to say it could cure anything…even my father’s foul moods.” 

The smell of warm spices and roasted chicken filled the dining hall as Erestor carefully ladled the soup into five large bowls. Elrond and Elros held their spoons upright in eager anticipation, furiously blowing at the steam as soon as the soup was placed in front of them. Maglor was the first to take a slow sip, his eyes lighting up as he took in the rich flavors of the broth. 

“I can see how this would soothe even Moryo’s temper.” 

Maedhros partook next, chewing the tender chicken with a pleased hum before going back for more of the broth. 

“Moryo was always particularly fond of savory dishes. He used to beg our mother every day for the same dinner, braised elk and-”

“Leek,” Erestor cut in with a wistful smile. “He told us, mother often made it for him when the hunting was good.”  

As the dinner progressed, there was a subtle but noticeable shift. The tension between Erestor and his uncles eased little by little as they shared stories of their families during happier times. The lighter mood hit its peak as Maglor animatedly recounted a tale of a particularly humorous hunt, only to be disrupted by a duet of loud slurping. The three older elves turned, stifling their laughter as they found Elrond and Elros hidden from view behind two large bowls, tipping back to enjoy every drop. 

The twins then sighed, finally finding some semblance of comfort as the steam relieved their congestion and warmed their bones. 

“That was so goo-” Maglor and Maedhros froze as Elros’ stomach lurched. Elrond winced, preparing himself for the worst, only to be met with a deafening burp from his brother. Elrond cackled, and not to be outdone, inhaled sharply, forcing a burp of his own. The twins nearly fell out of their chairs in giggles, as they continued to see who could burp the loudest.

Maglor closed his eyes, but said nothing, relieved that the twins seemed to finally be on the mend. Maedhros’ eyes softened as he turned back to Erestor.

“Thank you, nephew.” 

“Y-you’re welcome.” Erestor replied, hesitantly optimistic that maybe, just maybe, he still had family after all... 

[hellfire-state-of-mind]

it’s hell on earth to be heavenly

pairing: security guard!Frankie x band leader!fem!reader

rating: E for Explicit

word count: 5.2k

warnings: 18+ content, reader has no physical description besides female anatomy and clothing, Frankie is able to lift reader, aggressive music festival crowds, mental health scare, Frankie is our pussy eating king, unprotected piv sex, creampie

a/n: my contribution to the Summer Lovin' challenge hosted by @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery, and @amanitacowboy!! i'm so excited to share this one, the story came to me immediately when i got the moodboard. i'm a huge concert girlie so i may have nerded out just a bit 😅 anyway, happy Frankie Friday, enjoy some filth 😘

You knew your lives were about to change the moment the festival was confirmed. You just weren’t prepared for how much.

The band had solidified by the end of your first year of college. You met Madison, the bassist, in your orientation group the week before classes began. She learned how to play in high school out of spite when an ex-boyfriend made a comment about how “girl bassists aren’t real” – her major was in English Lit. Tyler, the rhythm guitarist, was your biology lab partner in the second semester. He was a couple years older, already in his third year and still undecided on his major but like any other former teenage wannabe-fuckboi, he only learned how to play guitar as a party trick to pick up girls. Over Spring Break, he threw a party at the apartment he shared with his sister, Kate, who’d decided not to take the college route despite being the same age as you and Madison. You learned that she was on the drumline in her high school’s marching band, so you didn’t hesitate to snatch her up and round out the group as your drummer.

You had a bit more classical background. Your mom had put you in piano lessons almost as soon as you were tall enough to reach the keys. She tacked on voice lessons when you were in middle school. By the time you were 12, you had your heart set on being a composer and performing at concert halls around the country. Your uncle was the one to teach you how to play guitar; he had a side gig at a local sports bar playing crowd-requested covers and pulled some strings to book the restaurant for your 16th birthday. You were mesmerized by the way everyone would join in and sing along, would-be strangers bound by nothing but an invisible string of words and chords. You ached to know that feeling and suddenly your path was even clearer than before.

The four of you hadn’t intended to form a band. Your bond as friends came first, the music just came from goofing off at a frat party and earning some cheers from drunk bystanders. From there, you did campus events and open-mic nights at dive bars, all just for fun and a little extra pocket money. You even played a wedding for your roommate’s cousin. Your first original song was a by-product of a final poetry assignment for one of Madison’s classes. The four of you recorded yourselves, put it up on YouTube, and it went viral within 24 hours. So you spent that summer just writing music. Pooling together your money allowed you to rent out the campus music department’s recording studio and your first EP was born.

That’s also where you met Frankie.

He had just taken a job as overnight campus security, and it was his first graveyard shift. It had been expectedly uneventful, sweeping through each building and making sure they were empty. Until one wasn’t as empty as it was supposed to be.

He saw the light at the end of the hallway and his Army training kicked in. Soft, slow steps carried him to the occupied practice room. There you sat at the piano, plunking out experimental chords and scratching out notations on the sheet music in front of you. You were so focused that you didn’t even hear the very audible creak of the door as Frankie pushed his way in. He waited a moment for you to respond, assuming he had just caught you mid-thought but when you still didn’t acknowledge his presence, he cleared his throat a bit more aggressively than he intended. “Excuse me.”

You jumped and swiveled around the bench. Your eyes were wide and tinged red with fatigue. You’d been there for hours, insistent on getting the song right.

“Miss, this building is closed.”

You blinked, digesting his words. “Right. Sorry, um,” you squeezed your eyes shut and inhaled at the sting of their dryness, “what time is it?”

“Nearly 1am.” Frankie softened, sure you weren’t any threat, but still maintained his authoritative stance. “You’re not supposed to be here. Could I see some ID?”

After digging through your bag and showing him your driver’s license and student badge, the situation cleared itself up pretty quickly. You’d explained what you were doing there and even showed him the official email from the department head giving your band permission to access the building over the summer. This sparked Frankie’s interest and the two of you probably would’ve spent hours talking if it hadn’t already been so late.

Despite your band’s clear potential, you all agreed to finish out your degrees before pursuing the industry for real. While you were afraid of missing your opportunity, having achieved such a bright spotlight so early on, a part of you was grateful. For time. For structure. For Frankie.

The two of you grew close over those last three years of your undergrad. You exchanged numbers with the veiled excuse of being able to contact him if you needed to get in or out of a building late at night. This eventually became if you needed him for anything. And one night at the end of senior year, you needed him bad.

The university had a tradition of throwing an exclusive off-campus party for the seniors the night after final grades were due. Being the only two band members in school, it was just you and Madison. Classic story, she was invited out afterwards by a bunch of other English majors, leaving you with no ride. So you called Frankie, and he pulled up in the parking lot within minutes. Fueled by the sadness of leaving him behind post-graduation and a little bit of alcohol, you seized your moment as soon as he parked behind your dorm building. The two of you showed just how badly you were going to miss each other in the back of his pickup.

--

You’re pulled from your memories by the hotel room door opening. Madison and Kate come spilling in, all dressed for the festival. Kate bangs on the adjoining room door, signaling Tyler to come over, and flops onto the bed opposite from Madison. You do one last look over your hair and makeup and emerge from the bathroom to get dressed.

Madison ooh’s in admiration while Kate whistles. “Okay, baddie.”

You roll your eyes and start to strip. Your concert outfit is laid out across the armchair by the window. “Do you guys wanna go over the set one last time?”

“Yeah, as soon as Tyler gets his ass over here!” Kate raises her voice to be heard in the room next door.

“Is everyone decent?” Tyler’s muffled voice comes from behind the door just as you finish buttoning your jeans.

“Yeah,” you yell back and bunch up your top, pulling it over your head as the door opens. You adjust the hem of the cropped tank and sit on the armrest, and the final band meeting is in session.

Right on time 20 minutes later, there’s another knock on the door. Being the closest, Madison hops up to open it and returns with Frankie in tow. “Y’all ready?”

The four of you share nervous and excited glances and you turn to him. “Fuck yeah.”

You and Frankie had kept in close contact after the band moved to LA in pursuit of a record label. He became your security detail shortly after your first tour as an opening act two years ago, fitting into the position perfectly with his military background. You’ve never run into any real issues, still being a relatively obscure group, but you were certainly on the rise.

This music festival was proof. The first single from your second album had just dropped when you got the call: opening the third largest stage on the first day of the event. You were billed third on the promotional fliers. For a band so comparatively unknown, this opportunity would either make or break you.

Frankie drops you off backstage for soundcheck exactly on time. You’re all immediately swarmed by operators and technicians and Frankie disappears off to the sidelines. He listens intently as you all tune your instruments and warm up your fingers and voices. He even catches himself humming along as you play bits and pieces of your setlist to confirm everything is in order.

Frankie’s attention is yanked away by the growing sound of the crowd in front of the stage. The four of you catch on to it as well, Madison and Tyler giddy with excitement and Kate twirling her drumsticks to ground herself. Frankie watches as you fiddle with your hair for the hundredth time, tapping your guitar pick against your thigh. Squeezed perfectly into those jeans you know he loves. Cupping the roundness of your ass just right. The hem of your tank top ends just high enough to give a peek at your midsection that he knows will be on full display once you settle into yourself and start jumping around the stage.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until you’re right in front of him. You laugh when he still gets flustered at being caught, despite being a confirmed couple ever since he joined your team. You hook your fingers into his belt loops and tug him closer, careful to maneuver around the instrument strung across your front.

Frankie tucks a stray hair behind your ear, brushing your cheek with his knuckle as he does. “You ready, rockstar?”

You take a deep breath and nod. “As I’ll ever be.”

On cue, a voice crackles in your in-ear monitor calling everyone to places. Frankie cups your face, pulling you in for a confident kiss. You flash him a wink as you pull away and line up to climb the stage.

Frankie finds a vantage point off to the side of the crowd, their cries echoing across the fairgrounds as you strike the first chords. He knows your pattern: you’ll linger behind the mic stand for the first song and a half or so, only venturing out to interact with Madison and Tyler during the instrumental breaks. Finally, you’ll walk out to the edge of the stage, playing directly to the fans but just out of their reach. By the third song, you’ve got the microphone in your hand and you’re frolicking around the stage unburdened.

He holds his breath as you approach one particular guitar solo that challenges your playing ability, then cheers along as you nail it with a dazzling smile, the crowd going wild at your fingertips.

The air is hazy with smoke as your set comes to a close, both from the festivalgoers and the machines blowing onto the stage. Tyler, Madison, and Kate play an extended outro of your last song as you address the crowd, thanking them for watching and introducing the band one last time before ending with a final flourish of chords and drumrolls. Frankie makes his way backstage once more as you take your bows, picking up your setlists taped to the stage and tossing them into the crowd as souvenirs. He watches the other three descend the stairs as you blow one last kiss to the fans and follow behind. The area springs to life as the workers hustle to prepare for the next band. Once unburdened from your instruments and in-ear monitors, the four of you flock to Frankie, as practiced. You surge ahead slightly faster than the others to fling your arms around his neck and plant an ecstatic kiss on his cheek, right in the bare patch of his beard, breathing him in as you ride your high from performing. Frankie sets you down and shares a smile and laugh before switching back to business and the five of you come up with a gameplan for the rest of the day.

Everything goes smoothly right up until the end. You all stick together for the most part, migrating to different stages together but not too worried about being attached at the hip. Unlike you and Frankie. You know he prefers to linger behind where he can see everyone and you have no problem staying with him. Every once in a while, people will recognize you and get a group photo.

Frankie should’ve never let you go off alone. He got complacent. Sloppy. Even though you weren’t entirely alone, Kate and Madison accompanying you to the bar booth, Frankie can’t help but feel like he failed you.

He thought he had you in view enough. He and Tyler were talking but it shouldn’t have been enough to pull his attention completely. It’s only when Kate’s yell breaks through the back of the crowd in front of them that they realize the situation. The two of them launch forward, Tyler throwing his arm around his sister and Frankie shouldering through the mass of people, his deep voice and broad stature parting the way.

He finds you towards the center. The three of you had been on the way back with your drinks when a group of overly excited and intoxicated fans crowded you. Their volume attracted the attention of other attendees around and pulled them in, everyone suddenly scrambling for pictures and autographs. Being the lead guitarist and vocalist, you were slammed with the brunt of the energy, Madison losing her grip on your arm and Kate being pushed out to the back entirely, where she managed to call Tyler and Frankie.

When he finally reaches you, Frankie doesn’t hesitate to throw his arm around you and secure you against his body, shielding you from any more prying fingers. He quickly scans and spots Madison not far off, veering to her rescue as well. He tucks her under his other arm and rushes back towards Tyler and Kate. Frankie passes Madison off to them as he feels you slipping from his grasp and fully lifts you into his arms, ensuring no one can take you from him. You just bury your face in his neck, gripping his black t-shirt for dear life, and let him carry you away.

Festival security arrives as your group emerges from the crowd and escorts all of you to the security tent. You detach from Frankie briefly so that the on-site medic can check for injuries, but you resume your position in his lap as soon as you’re given the all-clear.

The drive back to the hotel is a blur. You know Tyler takes over as driver so that Frankie can sit with you. He holds your hand the entire way up to your rooms and only lets go to unlock the door to yours. Kate, Madison, and Tyler collectively decide to hide out in the adjoining room to give you time to recover.

You feel yourself coming down from the adrenaline, the chaos starting to settle in your mind. You go through the motions of your post-show ritual. Take your clothes off. Gather your pajamas. Pull your hair back. Take your makeup off. Shower. Bedtime.

Frankie monitors from the corner by the door, watching with a tightly creased brow that he’s definitely going to get a headache from later. You don’t acknowledge him as you move around the room on autopilot. He does his best to stay out of sight of the bathroom mirror as you scrub your makeup off with a wipe.

You open your eyes as Frankie slips back around the corner, caught in the reflection. “I can still see you, you know?” you mutter. You toss the makeup wipe in the trash and splash some water on your face.

You hear him sigh as he gingerly steps back into view, staying half hidden by the edge of the mirror. His eyes are full of guilt and concern, and you feel bad for snapping at him. “I know.” He leans against the wall, face angled down and away from you as he takes off his trademark cap, runs his fingers through his curls, and replaces the cap on his head. “I don’t mean to hover, I know you need your space. I just…” He pauses to take a shaky breath. “What happened was really scary. I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

You massage your face wash into your skin as you listen, letting it set for a minute before rinsing it off. “I’m fine. Promise.”

It all happens so fast. You hear the girls gasp, not unlike others had throughout the day. You’re more than happy to interact with them, just grateful to even be at the festival and be recognized by fans in the first place. Their squeals grate your ears as more people gather around. You’re suddenly blinded by a phone flashlight being shoved in your face and Madison’s hand leaves your elbow, her fingernails scratching slightly as she tries to hold on. You can hear her calling your name and Kate’s as the three of you are separated by pressing bodies. The roar is suffocating as you’re bombarded with phones and pens and papers and hands everywhere, screams everywhere, you can’t see, you can’t hear, you can't –

“Hey.” Frankie’s voice snaps you back into your body as you stare back at your reflection, tight and sticky as your face wash dries. You sniffle, shaking your head a little to loosen the memory’s grip, and bend down into the sink to rinse your face.

“I gotta shower, Frankie.” You turn and twist the knob in the shower, holding a hand under the spray until it reaches your preferred temperature. When you move to close the door and undress, Frankie is still there watching. Not just watching – observing. Taking in every minute detail and analyzing to determine the best approach. You start to slowly push the door closed, never breaking eye contact with your boyfriend. Just before the wood makes contact with his foot in the doorway, Frankie nods.

“Call if you need anything.” He disappears around the corner, and you hear his tired grunt as he sits in the armchair.

You try not to think. Try to focus on the steps. Shampoo. Lather. Rinse. Conditioner. Rinse. Feel the scratch of the washcloth on your skin. The burn of the hot water as it washes away any evidence of the madness.

But then it’s too hot, like the air as they all crushed you. It’s too scratchy, like their fingernails as they all tried to tear away pieces of you to keep as souvenirs. You’re blinded by soap in your eyes and you see spots that look too much like the endless sea of faces. You can’t see, you can’t breathe, and all you want is Frankie. Frankie can help. Frankie will save you.

Strong arms wrap around you and you snap, pushing and screaming and clawing to get away. You’re lifted out of the shower and collapse onto the cold tile, a familiar body under you.

“Alright, baby, I got you. It’s okay, just let it out.”

You let out a final cry of defeat and go limp in Frankie’s arms, letting him fill your senses. His smell, dirt and sweat and smoke with a hint of his cologne still underneath. His lips in your hair, the scratch of his beard against your temple. His chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as he holds you in his lap, a warm hand encompassing your thigh and the other tracing feather-light circles on your bicep.

“How did you know?” you manage to choke out in between gasps, fighting to fill your lungs.

“You called me.”

“I did?”

Frankie just nods and sits with you in silence, the static of the running water underscoring the stillness. He doesn’t care that his clothes are now soaked from plucking you straight from the shower. He didn’t think when he heard your choking, he just acted. Like he should’ve done before.

You’re starting to regain control over your breathing when you feel Frankie’s chest stutter. You look up to see his eyes closed, silent tears streaking his face.

“Hey,” you whisper, reaching up to swipe them away. “I’m okay, Frankie. I’m okay now. You’re here-”

“But I wasn’t then.” He fights to keep his voice level as his heart threatens to force its way up his throat. “I was supposed to protect you and I didn’t- I-I couldn’t-”

You trace his lips with your fingertips, interrupting his words as you calm him with a hush. “This was not your fault, Frankie. It all just happened so fast, it could’ve happened to anyone.”

“But it didn’t happen to anyone. It happened to you.” Frankie’s voice has an edge to it now. Angry. “I failed you.”

You twist in his arms, moving to straddle his thighs. Cupping his jaw with both hands, forcing him to look at you, “You have never failed me.” Then, you press your lips to his and it feels like your first breath of fresh air through the smoke.

Frankie reacts immediately. His lips move against yours, hungry, as his hands pull you closer. He needs to know you’re there in his arms and no one will ever rip you away from him.

A shiver runs down your spine and you’re not sure if it’s the contrast of his heat and the cold bathroom floor, or the way his tongue expertly works its way into your mouth, exploring and claiming. You grind down against his hardening length and he detaches your lips, arms tightening to support you.

Frankie shifts and rises from the floor, never once letting you out of his grip as he moves into the bedroom. He groans as you nip at his neck, crawling up the bed with you clinging to his front.

You feel the cool sheets press against your damp bare back and you gasp. Frankie immediately flips the two of you over so you’re on top. His eyes are wild, scanning your face for any hint of distress. You nod, letting him know you’re okay, and slowly slip his cap off his head, dropping it to the floor and clutching fistfuls of his curls with both hands. Frankie moans in relief and turns his head to pepper your inner forearm with kisses.

His mouth works up your arm to your shoulder, across your collarbone. He pauses to nip at your pulse point and fill his lungs with your fresh scent and you rake your nails down his neck to his chest, then his belly. You tug his t-shirt up, forcing him to break contact to pull it over his head.

As soon as it’s off, Frankie scoots forward slightly down the bed and lays back, his curls splayed out on the pillow as he shifts into position. Once settled, he cups the backs of your thighs, nudging you forward. He turns his head to nip at your soft skin as you nestle your knees on the pillow, caging his head between them.

He gazes up at you, a haze growing in his eyes. Stroking your leg with one hand, he traces his fingers up the other before reaching your dripping center. He cups your core in his palm, heat surging through your veins, then travels down. Fingers forming a V, he spreads your lips and a growl vibrates through his body, resonating through you as well.

Your head falls back with a moan and you grip the headboard with both hands. “Fuck, please, Frankie.”

He continues tracing your folds with his calloused fingertips, catching at your leaking entrance. “Please what, baby?”

 You look down to see him staring up at you, pupils blown with desire. “Taste me.”

The hand on your thigh slides up to your hip and Frankie practically shoves you down onto his eager mouth. Your head falls back once more and you lace your fingers through his hair, your other hand still gripping the headboard for dear life.

Frankie’s thumb plays with your clit with practiced precision as his tongue explores every inch of your pussy. You lose yourself in the sensation of his digit applying just the right amount of pressure while he eats away at you like it’s his last meal, the scratch of his beard as his jaw works supplying extra friction against your thighs.

You gasp when Frankie finally plunges his tongue into your hole, twisting and sucking down your sweet juices. You can’t help but move your hips in tandem with his strokes and your moans rise in pitch whenever the tip of his nose brushes your bundle of nerves. Frankie removes his thumb, cupping your cheeks with both hands and pulling them apart. You bite back a squeal as his tongue ventures back to your asshole and prods at the tight ring.

He retreats before exploring any further, thirsty again for your arousal. You’re fully riding his tongue as your pleasure reaches its peak. You look down at him between your thighs and find his eyes wide open, drinking in your euphoria, like he’s intent on never letting you out of his sight again. His piercing stare is enough to send you over the edge and you lose your grip on the headboard. Searching blindly for a hold as your back arches, Frankie reaches for your arm, fingers wrapping around your elbow and holding you down on his face. His groans ripple through you, prolonging your high, as his hips rut up into the air, begging for relief.

Frankie releases you as you come down from your orgasm, immediately sliding down his body, placing kisses along his skin until you reach his jeans. Your hands shake as you rush to unbutton them and pull down the zipper. He lifts and shimmies his hips to help you yank them down his thighs, flinging them behind you without looking.

You lean forward to kiss along the waistband of his boxers, licking and nipping at the skin and nuzzling your nose in the coarse hairs trailing below the undergarment. Frankie’s hips buck and he almost whines as he grabs at you. You finally free his cock from the tightening fabric, mouth watering as if in a Pavlovian response. He’s thick and heavy, twitching from the lack of contact. You move to take his leaking head into your mouth as he took you into his, but Frankie’s hands are too fast, too desperate.

He sits up and positions you above his lap, fingers massaging your hips as you grind your still dripping pussy along his length. “So wet for me, baby. I need to be inside you. Please,” he pants in your ear. He’s been apart from you for too long already. He needs to be close, as close as possible.

You nod and breathe out an “okay” and Frankie shifts up the bed to rest his back against the headboard. You lift up and reach behind you to grip his cock, taking a moment to massage his balls. Frankie lets out a strained moan and you guide him inside you, sinking down onto him.

You breathe deep and controlled as his tip parts your walls, practically sucking him in. You pause when your pelvises meet, his hair tickling your clit deliciously. He’s buried deep in your cunt, perfectly molded around him, warm and wet. Frankie mouths at your neck, leaving his mark, and massages your breasts with both hands as he gives you time to adjust. He rolls your nipples in his fingers and you clench around him, signaling that you’re ready.

You start slow, rocking your hips against his and feeling his tip nudge that perfect spot inside you. You start a slow pace, rising off his cock and dropping down. Inch by inch until only his tip is inside, then you speed up. Before long, you’re bouncing in Frankie’s lap with his hands on your hips guiding you. He loves to watch the way your tits move with each impact. Hypnotized, he leans forward and captures a nipple in his mouth, circling it with his tongue. You cry out unrestrained as he lightly bites down and your second orgasm of the night washes over you.

Frankie detaches when he feels your walls clamp down on him. He leans back and bends his knees, planting his feet on the bed. Grasping your arms as he did earlier, he braces you and begins thrusting at a fierce pace. You cry out again as his hips slam up into you, the clapping of skin on skin and his throaty groans filling the room.

You know he’s getting close by the way the veins in his neck pop with exertion. Frankie sucks air in through his teeth and drops one hand down to your clit, your freed hand flying down to latch onto his meaty stomach. Frankie chokes out a moan at the prick of your fingernails. “Come on. Come on, baby. One more. You can do it, give me one more.”

You mindlessly chant prayers of “yes” and “please” at the altar of his hips as you gush around him, soaking his cock and leaking out across his thighs and onto the bed.

“That’s it. Good fucking girl. That- fuck, that’s-” A subdued roar erupts from Frankie’s chest as he pulses inside you, coating your greedy walls with rope after rope of cum. The sensation triggers you to squeeze around him, milking him for all that he’s worth.

Frankie sits up and slides his hands up your back, gripping your shoulders from behind and locking you onto him. You seal your lips on his as your shared aftershocks subside.

Still holding you to him, Frankie leans back to rest against the headboard. He rubs your back with his palm as you both breathe heavily, heartbeats syncing and slowing.

“Frankie?” You murmur against his chest, peeking up through fluttering, sated eyelids. He looks down at you, humming in acknowledgement. “Tonight was not your fault.”

Frankie breaks eye contact, sighing and staring out at the hotel room. You reach up and pull his face back down to you.

“Don’t run away from me. Look at me.” You kiss him deeply again, then whisper against his lips. “I love you. I trust you. I-”

“I got you.”

You laugh softly. “You got me. But I got you too.”

The two of you stay curled into each other for a while. You’re just about to drift off when a knock on the adjoining room door startles you awake.

Frankie feels you jerk and squeezes his arms around you. “Yeah?” he calls.

Kate responds from the other side. “Hate to interrupt you guys but…can Mads and I just come grab our stuff real quick and we can camp out over here tonight?”

You bury your face in Frankie’s chest, still plugged with his cock and his cum, and chuckle. You move to get up and make yourself decent but Frankie keeps holding you. Raising an eyebrow at him, he flashes a mischievous smirk, untucks the sheets with one hand, and covers the two of you with a flourish.

“Make it quick!”

Kate and Madison fly through the room, grabbing their clothes and toiletries while dramatically shielding their eyes from you and Frankie. You can’t help but giggle against Frankie’s skin as you listen to their flurry of activity. Finally, you hear one of them exit the room and Kate calls from the bathroom.

“You guys know you left the shower running?”

[themiddleofmichigan]

As a math major, I am simply enchanted by the idea of Neil Josten, Math Major. Please enjoy this collection of headcanons I came up with to cope with studying mathematics.

Neil is a pure math guy. There are two big camps of mathematics: pure and applied. Applied math is about applying math to other fields (physics, engineering, finance, etc.), while pure math is like math for the sake of doing math (read: a lot less employable). Neil picking the math major because he's good at math and kind of likes it is a very Pure Math thing to do.

Neil has a whiteboard, possibly multiple whiteboards. Whiteboards are the ultimate tool of mathematics. Sometimes Neil gets stuck on a problem for hours; hunched over his mini whiteboard, working through it over and over again. His fingers get covered in the expo marker residue and it leaves a black mark when he scratches his nose. Andrew huffs that he looks like a chimney sweep and rubs it off with his sleeve (he absolutely does NOT find it adorable, shut up, Nicky). Also, around exams Neil will drag Andrew to the library so he can do his practice problems on the Big Whiteboards. The other people in the library stare at them because this little ginger is filling multiple whiteboards with weird symbols and greek letters; Neil doesn't notice because he's oblivious, Andrew notices and it makes him a smug bf.

One time one of the Foxes asks him for help with their statistics homework and he gives it a shot, because how different could it be? They both quickly find out that he knows absolutely nothing about statistics. "What IS that?" "That's a matrix, it has the variances in it." "Well then why does it have an apostrophe by it?" "That means you flip it around." "That's TRANSPOSING and you notate it with a T" "Aren't you supposed to be some kind of math genius? Shouldn't you know how to do this?" "This isn't math, this is blasphemy."

Aaron has to take calculus for the MCAT and puts it off for as long as possible because he hates math. His TA for the course sucks and he struggles through it for weeks before Katelyn manages to convince him to ask Neil for help. Neil pretends to be annoyed, but he's secretly kind of looking forward to it because calculus is fun and it's nice to do math you already know for a change. When you're an upperclassman in a math degree, though, your brain gets warped by all the theoretical math, and it's hard to get into the mindset to teach something like Calc I. This leads to semiregular hostile tutoring sessions in the dorm, we're talking real Dad Trying to Help You With Your Math Homework at the Kitchen Table type energy. "BUT HOW DID YOU KNOW TO DO THAT?!" "It's a vector space, Aaron, I don't see what you're not understanding here." "A vector WHAT" Andrew chain smokes through these. He has to start leaving the dorm because he's pretty sure the calculus is going to drive him to lung cancer.

The statistics incident gives Neil a totally reasonable grudge against statistics. He eventually gives it up, but only so he can take an elective about sports statistics, because he has exy brain worms.

[rainintheevening]

The day 19-year-old Peter Pevensie ships out for the Mediterranean, lieutenant's commission and a COs commendation in hand, he's all tall, golden boy in British khaki with a soft smile and a merry laugh and oddly old eyes.

His socks are hand-knitted, with his initials PWP worked in around the top. He wears a small golden lion on a leather string around his neck, tucked under his shirt alongside his dogtags.

In his kit bag he carries a Bible, new, brown leather, not too big to be jammed in a pocket. The writing on the first page is tidy, a little squared off, no blots: June 1943, Peter, my brother, my captain, my king. We are all held safe between the paws of the Lion. Ephesians 6:10-18.

Tucked in beside that is a small, chunky book of Spurgeon's sermons, with Prof. Digory Kirke in the corner of the flyleaf, and a loose-leaf of paper that Peter uses for a bookmark, precious though it is, covered in his father's barely legible scratch.

There's a hand-bound book of poems, copied by Lucy and collected with several of Susan's watercolours, all trees like old friends and flowers like stars and rolling English hills. It will take months for those pages to stop smelling like home.

Next to that is tucked a sturdy little journal, pencil attached and fat with empty cream-coloured pages. It will take only a week for it to lose its clean smell, and the many words scribbled there will make it fatter still.

Three others are piled in around those—a beat-up hardback novel stripped of its dust jacket and stamped as White Fang, a bright new George MacDonald novel with Be brave, my son, and may the adventure always bring you safely home. Mother penned inside, and another naked hardback identified along its spine as The Aeneid.

Some eyebrows get raised at the extra weight of that library, but Peter is charming and humble, and he'll be the only one to suffer from it anyway.

A little more than two years later Peter Pevensie will return with a captain’s epaulets on his shoulders, and the same soft smile on a leaner, browner face.

He will be wearing an entirely different pair of socks, but still ones that have PWP worked into the stripes along the top.

The leather string will be gone, and so will the little gold lion, folded into a shaking hand, given with a murmured prayer and a kiss pressed to salty fevered forehead, somewhere on the side of an Italian mountain.

The books will be nearly all there. The Bible, wrinkled with water damage, fingerprinted with little dark smears, it's cover scored with a smokey black streak. The poetry, cared for so carefully; the sermons, well earmarked and notated; the MacDonald novel now sans dust jacket, spine cracked, and with grit worked into its creases.

The Aeneid will still be there, though greatly altered thanks to the bullet buried in the upper half of it.

White Fang will be missing, left in the hands of a wildly curious, dream-eyed Arab boy, who will pick up English like a starving man picks up food, and will cry when the Fighting Fifth gets shipped back to Italy. There will be a black and white photograph tucked into its pages— four soldiers surrounding a tall, fair-haired one with a thin dark-headed boy standing high atop his shoulders, arms raised as if he would fall forward into flight, all smiling.

Peter will carry the journal home in his pocket, all muddy and smoky, all smeared with pencil lead and sweat, bloody fingerprints on a few pages, heavy with a thousand and one thoughts, the unburdening of his heart, all ready to be placed in his brother’s hands.

Peter Pevensie will return like his books, with dirt in the creases, a little worn, a little tattered, a little scarred. But his wise old (kingly) eyes... they shine the same way when he smiles, sun in his golden hair.

[sprout-gt]

thinking about borrowers

while borrower human interactions are very fun, i think its just as nice to imagine how borrowers live on their own. how their unique living situations influence their lives and what they do when no humans are around.

thinking about borrowers making connections with the animals that roam the house/apartment they hide within. a borrower taking a dog treat they need to handle with both hands in order to befriend the canine. a borrower creating a makeshift cat toy out of random scraps of fabric and feathers pulled from pillows. getting so close with the animal they are able to ride them around.

thinking about borrowers making art out of the bits and bobbles they collect, turning all the possessions they know won't be missed into their own creative expression. a borrower snapping of the graphite end of a pencil and tearing off a corner of a notebook page so they can sketch like they've seen a human do. a borrower learning they like to paint and draw and make and write.

thinking about borrowers having unique notation to communicate important information silently. borrowers scratching symbols into the wood of their crawl spaces to show what times are safe to venture into human territory, what kind of room it is, if there are any animals to look out for, directions to take. since light is a dangerous giveaway, borrowers will have to learn how to navigate these dark passageways relying on their sense of touch.

thinking about borrowers constantly wondering what the world is like when it is built for your size. a borrower gazing up and up at the elevated kitchen cabinets, almost being unable to think about being able to reach up to them without effort. a borrower seeing all the things that the humans have made for them, when everything they possess has needed to be made or taken. a borrower wishing that just once they could tower and stretch and fit into places.

thinking about borrowers making meals together, cramped in the small unnoticed spaces of the foundation, using recipies passed down for generations using bits and pieces of different foods whose absense wouldn't be noticed. borrowers laughing together over small mistakes and teaching each other the techniqes of how to properly heat something over candlewick. borrowers eating together with their hands, using bottlecaps as plates.

[tenderwatches]

summary: Viktor and Jayce get a little too close in the lab + a look at how viktor learnt the rules of surviving in Piltover as an Undercity transplant cw: this chapter contains ableist language (canon, self-referential) and descriptions of medical suturing

When Viktor first became aware that he’d die early, he’d been angry.

It hadn’t been pretty. He’d yelled at his mother, at his father, had thrown things—his cane, books, half-assembled inventions. He’d cried and screamed until he’d worked himself up so badly that his father had needed to sprint to a breathing station with Viktor on his back in hopes that the cleaner air would dampen his desperate wheezing.

After that, he’d been listless for days, lying in bed, trying to conjure up the motivation to work for anything when his time would be so short, so inconsequential.

And then he remembered Rio.

The waverider was a huge creature he visited where a strange man in a strange place beyond the ravine kept her. She was like a salamander glistening in shades of blush and blossom, with big eyes full of curiosity and a tongue that craved sweet nectar. Such a simple creature, but he still thought of her, even years after he’d last seen her. He still thought of her and of the man who was so determined to keep her alive that he had not cared if she lived.

He thought of infants, cold in their cradles, their lives snuffed out, breaths robbed by the Gray. He thought of children wasting away, disfigured by the slicks of toxic chemicals oozing from chemtech seams deep in crevasses, and how he, at least, knew sunlight.

Since then, Viktor has done his best to ensure that every moment of his short life contributes to something greater than himself. The people whose lives he’s saved in the Undercity will go on to have families; they’ll impart their knowledge upon others who will do the same, who will do the same, who will do the same.

Life, like an object in motion, stays in motion.

Energy can neither be created nor destroyed—it can only be transformed.

Viktor hopes that after his death, the energy that was once heat in his body will permeate into the ether, atoms ricocheting into the endless universe.

Until then, he’s resolved to stay in motion.

This determination presses his lips into a thin line of concentration as he makes minute adjustments to the dials on the microscope before him. Crystalline structures resolve into sharp focus, forming wild geometries that defy every principle of natural formation. Unlike genuine hex crystals with their orderly lattices, the synthetics’ birefringent patterns are irregular, and the arcane’s response is unlike anything he’s ever seen.

Viktor pauses to scribble a few words alongside one of Jayce’s diagrams, adding to the existing maze of their notations. They’ve managed to offset interference caused by the unexpected new compounds identified in their lab tests, but there is still residual output to deal with. He takes this moment to rest his forehead in his hand, momentarily closing his eyes. The urge to surrender to sleep swells slowly, like a building tidal wave, and he forces his eyes open before it can break over him.

One of Jayce’s hexscopes (an adaptation of one of his early designs) sits open on the table, tracking arcane energy as it moves through the crystal matrix. He stares hard at the pen attached to the end of its thin metal arm, scratching softly on continuously rolling paper as it records the waveforms. The resulting bonds are irregular with equally unpredictable chemical reactions—

Chemical reactions! Viktor straightens up so quickly that the momentum almost carries him over backwards. Head reeling, he stumbles to steady himself against the desk, pulling the diagrams in for a better look before jamming the microscope against his eye again, squinting hard at what he sees under the lens. These erratic bonds must be the cause of the arcane’s volatile reactions and inconsistencies. They’re brittle instead of strong, releasing energy in unexpected spurts. They’re illogical, full of contradictions. Only chemtech can force such incompatible combinations to hold.

Simultaneous thoughts fire off in all directions—what this means for the outputs they’re attempting to handle (harness? Eliminate? Neutralise?), the tenuous nature of these bonds, the undersized reactions sustained by the crystals—and the nagging feeling he’s seen this all somewhere before. Somewhere in Zaun, near the seams, where, in his youth, anger at the injustice of his life had gotten the better of him. Somewhere he'd nearly gotten buried in collapsing pipes, flashing fuchsia and green in the darkness of the sump.

He drops away from the microscope and back into his chair. Perhaps he should consider bringing some of this work back to the lab Heimerdinger had set aside for him. It’s closer to his Academy-issued apartment than Jayce’s lab is, and with the constant travel across the city, he often finds himself exhausted before he’s even really gotten started. Today, just like many other days, his leg aches as if he’s been standing for the entire morning, though it’s only been a couple of hours since he arrived. The considerations of the crystals, his small inconveniences, the way they all still stagger him, make the walls begin to feel oppressive. The clean lines and polished brass are a far cry from the corrugated metal and improvisation he was used to in the Undercity, and yet—he’s now facing the same kind of problem. These synthetic crystals with their arcane violations bear toxicity here, whilst below, poison is a by-product of unholy greed.

In both places, they stand to lose so much, and yet the eyes of the elite are perpetually closed.

Viktor’s teeth grind as he grips the edge of the workbench to pull himself up again, ignoring how his muscles protest. He begins recalibrating the containment field to account for an array of chemical reactions, instead of only the ones they’d adjusted for earlier in the week. If he can just isolate the unstable compounds, maybe apply some of the principles he’d developed during his academy years, they can counteract or capture the arcane fluctuations.

He’s so deep in focus that he almost jumps when Jayce walks in, chatting before he’s even crossed the threshold. “I thought you might want to see the latest stability readings from—” He breaks off, and Viktor knows his eyes are fixed on the modified containment field setup. “What are you doing?”

“Testing a theory.” Viktor doesn’t look up from the controls. The crystal’s glow intensifies, casting flickering shadows across his hands. “The synthetic crystals are made with chemtech. The instability isn’t a flaw—it’s a signature.”

“Testing a wh—wait, chemtech?” Jayce’s footsteps quicken across the floor. He unceremoniously drops his papers onto the desk, knocking the pen of the hexscope out of alignment. It continues to dutifully work through arching waves, up and down. “Hold on, you can’t just—we don’t even have protocols for working with—”

“We don’t have time for protocols,” he hisses, sharper than he intends. He forces patience into his voice. “It’s like Councillor Medarda told you—every day, Clan Ferros grows more restless—”

“Viktor, wait—”

The crystal flares with brilliant lances of blue-white light, shattering into shards that streak across the lab, acid green and electric purple tails in their wake. Viktor recoils from it and finds himself crashing first into the chair behind him, then the ground.

His breath leaves his lungs without being replaced by another—it’s a second too long before he can gasp again, sucking in air that smells of Jayce’s aftershave. Sandalwood mingles with the smell of sulphur and iron. Stars shrink and grow in his eyes.

“Are you—” When Jayce speaks, Viktor slowly becomes aware that he’s caged by a pair of smooth, sturdy forearms. His former partner is propped above him, but not so much that their bodies aren’t pressed flush together. Heat grows between them. Jayce’s chest heaves as his own gives, and for a moment, Viktor can’t speak.

A gentle furrow forms between Jayce's brows as he quickly pushes himself up onto one palm, the other coming up to cup Viktor's cheek. The motion is gentle and unthinking, fraught with the effortless care these kinds of gestures bore in their past. His eyes search Viktor's face with worried intensity, thumb brushing along the angular line of his cheekbone and coming away bright red and wet. “Hey, V—” he soothes, voice soft with an intimacy that makes Viktor's chest tight. “V-Viktor—hey.” The feeling dissipates.

Viktor pushes Jayce’s touch away and tries to sit up. He slides his hand back to support himself as he does, successfully forcing Jayce back on to his heels. Viktor finds the resulting breadth of air between them too cool on his skin, and wheezing feels like a flurry of knives in his chest. “I’m fine, Jayce,” he dismisses, muffling an accompanying cough in the crook of his elbow. He winces at the taste of copper in the back of his throat, hot embarrassment coursing through him. He can’t meet Jayce’s eyes; they are too bright with concern, honest anxiety spilling forth, unguarded. “You did not have to—” But both the words and his irritation die in his throat as dark droplets begin to dot the tiles at Jayce’s feet. “You’re bleeding.”

“Oh.” Jayce twists slightly to look over his shoulder, but immediately relaxes his posture when the movement elicits a wince. “It’s nothing. Besides, you are, too,” he points out, vaguely indicating Viktor’s cheek.

“A scratch.” Viktor feels nauseous. Not only did Jayce need to protect him like a helpless child, but he’d gotten himself hurt in the process. He leans forward, breath escaping him in a frustrated huff. “You’re bleeding on the floor. Let me see.”

“Viktor, really, it’s—”

“Take off your shirt.”

Jayce’s amber eyes turn into burning discs, his dark brows lost in his messy hair. Viktor feels the back of his neck flush with heat. “Your back, Jayce. Let me see,” he repeats, mortification sharpening the edges of his demand.

Viktor tries to ignore the inherent eroticism of demanding that Jayce turn around and strip—only to immediately fail when Jayce simply does it. By the time the two of them settle again (the lab’s robust first aid kit to one side of Viktor, Jayce sitting cross-legged in front), Viktor is dizzy. He wishes he could say it’s purely due to the sheer amount of bronze skin on display, but the headache blooming up from the base of his skull tells him otherwise. He concentrates on applying a local anaesthetic to the scattering of gashes across Jayce’s broad shoulders, then dabbing each with an antiseptic. “Well, the good news is you’ll live,” he jests, managing to thread a thin, curved surgical needle. His movements are slow but steady, and when he leans in closer to begin his work, the room rocks by only a small margin.

“Thanks, doc, what a relief.” Jayce turns his laugh into a soft snort, presumably so as to not disrupt Viktor’s stitching. Though he hasn’t needed to exercise this skill in months, the repetitive motions return to him with ease. They sit in stillness a while longer before Jayce hesitantly raises the question, “What… were you saying about chemtech?”

In spite of himself, Viktor smiles. What he wouldn’t give for the world to have the kind of insatiable curiosity that Jayce Talis has.

He walks his former partner through the process of his discovery, naming the impossibilities, the idiosyncrasies, and the ways in which he suspects the arcane clashes with the chemical compounds. Jayce is just as intrigued as Viktor, and Viktor can’t help but think that, had Jayce been in his position, they might have ended up in this same situation despite the other man’s usual adherence to safety precautions. Words of science, math, and discovery pass between them with the easiness of butterflies on a breeze, punctuated by an occasional excited exclamation from Jayce.

His progress on Jayce’s back is clean and methodical—habits formed from years of treating injuries in the Undercity, where wounds proved you couldn't stay out of trouble and seeking proper care marked dependency. He uses a pair of forceps to guide the needle through each wound, stopping only to tie off each suture as he moves from one cut to the next.

“When did you learn to do this?” Jayce has never been good at silences.

“Long ago.” Viktor keeps his eyes fixed on his work, feeling perverse as he notices the warmth radiating from Jayce’s skin, even through the sterile gloves he’s donned. “I have always fixed things. Mending clothes or skin, it makes little difference to me.”

His hands have moved now, lower down, from the broad muscle of the trapezius. He rests his fingers there for a second too long, and the name of the muscle floats through his mind, 'latissimus dorsi', as if the words are a subconscious effort to pull him from other thoughts.

“I had to learn some of this too, actually. In the forge—hot metal doesn't always go where you want it to,” Jayce offers, and Viktor’s hands still, his thoughts returning to the present.

The differences in their circumstances are not lost on him, but he recognises Jayce’s attempt to… relate to him. “I suppose we both learnt through trial and error,” he acknowledges.

“Not that—not that it’s, uh, the same.”

Viktor hears the uncertainty in Jayce’s hurried addition, as if he’s waiting for a sign from Viktor to indicate he’s irritated that Jayce has drawn the comparison. “You can relax, Jayce.”

Viktor pulls the gloves from his hands and sits back to survey his handiwork. He’s stitched four lacerations in total, covering each with neat squares of gauze taped down over Jayce’s tanned skin. The damage, thankfully, wasn’t worse than any of the other countless accidents they’ve had in the lab, but Viktor still feels that curl of shame at being impatient enough to have caused this one.

Silence expands to fill the gulf between their differences—Viktor’s skills hard-won through necessity, Jayce’s forged with the security of his family and promises of a bright future. And yet, an uncanny symmetry has brought them to this point, just as it had years ago; one extraordinary moment in which their paths converged.

“Why would you risk this?”

Back then, he’d told Jayce that he hadn’t aspired to be an assistant for the rest of his life—and that was true. But beyond that, he’d known he was running out of options.

Every action, every movement, all the things he’s ever contributed, has an impact, however imperceptible in the long line of the universe. But it’s not enough for him to simply have been; he wants to be remembered.

Though energy can neither be created nor destroyed, human legacies are far more fragile things.

𐡸.:𐫱:.𐡷

Summertime, 978 AN - fifteen years ago

Nothing tasted as bitter as cruel irony, Viktor thought, as he made his way up what had to be the seventh staircase between him and the first stage on which he’d have to parade himself like a show dog. Progress Day in Piltover arrived with fanfare, as always, and the usual thrum of city life had become more of a coursing roar.

From Glasswell Street to Sidereal Avenue and Incognia Plaza, crowds gathered around vendor carts and at the colourful merchant tents, blissfully caught up in the spirit of innovation and promise.

Not one seemed to remember that, centuries ago, this day had not been marked by celebration but by terror and half a city being swallowed by the sea.

In the four years since his arrival at the University of Piltover, Viktor had marked each Progress Day by lighting a candle in remembrance of those Zaun had lost in the disaster. Earthquakes, resulting from the blasts detonated to clear the way for the Sun Gates, had thrashed the streets of the Undercity, sacrificing thousands of lives to the ocean—all in the name of progress.

Now, here he was, prepared to submit himself to the judgement of those who had so greatly benefitted from the influx of trade the Sun Gates had ushered in. He had only two destinations in mind, but the journey to the merchant families’ tents was already enough to send pain lancing up his leg. Maybe it was his penance walking over those watery graves to attend their school, study their sciences, and pretend like he was one of them.

He felt that he was doing a rather shoddy job of it, by the way the artificers peered at him with narrowed eyes that flicked between him and his papers. This overt display of suspicion made him curse Professor Heimerdinger for forcing him into this lavish ordeal. Auditioning had never been in Viktor’s plans—he knew better than to fool himself into thinking he could join the ranks of Piltover’s apprenta.

Rule number one: They will not make space for you.

He could build bridges upon bridges over the work his classmates created, but the city’s artificers, ruled by the wealthiest of the merchant class, would sooner retrofit their workshops with last year’s scrap metal than take on a cripple from the Undercity, even when the dean of the academy and head of the council himself had singled him out.

Graduation loomed ever closer, and despite his time at the academy, the future felt uncertain. Piltover’s clean air and bright sunlight had undoubtedly improved his health (incredible what being able to breathe did for a person), and the prospect of returning to the Undercity daunted him. He needed an apprenticeship probably more than anyone else stood waiting in the chamber, and yet, he was certain that he was the least likely to receive one, no matter how sound his work was.

“Name?” One of the artificers asked as she handed back the paper that clearly bore his name. He tightened his grip on his invention in an effort to hold his tongue.

“Viktor.”

“Full name?”

“It’s… just Viktor.”

She treated him with the kind of disdain that only someone with a meagre amount of power could manage. He hated her for it, and then hated that he did. It was too petty to warrant such a response from him, but his entire body was sore now. He’d pushed himself through the uneven cobblestone streets faster than he should have dared. He’d even risen with the sun, well before he’d needed to. He wanted to give them as few reasons to dismiss him as he could manage, thinking his dedication to punctuality might also communicate his regard for their time and win some small amount of their favour.

From the placid way the artificers looked at him, he could see that was not the case.

Of course, he’d known this and had even explained such to Heimerdinger when the dean had urged him to take on the auditions. How difficult it would be for him to simply make the physical journey in a process that was designed to showcase resilience and determination; how his accent would immediately mark him as ‘other’, and how the inventions he was proudest of were things that would not sparkle and flash the way Piltover expected. His progress was for the Undercity, and thus, it might as well have been invisible.

Already, their attention drifted, and other hopefuls surrounding the tent seemed to bear down on him. He grimaced as he set up his contraption of pipes and dials that looked out of place within the sleek lines of the tent. It wasn’t until his machine began hissing shrilly and emitting puffs of Gray that the artificers paid him any mind. One of them started shrieking, making it very difficult to explain that he’d also released an aerosolised alkali to neutralise the toxicity—the whole point of the showy demonstration.

Rule number two: their grace is precarious.

Whilst he’d never been foolish enough to think that the artificers might like what he brought to the auditions, he’d not been expecting their fury. With stomach-piercing fear, he realised that they, in all their self-aggrandising glory, seemed to think that his audition was an assassination attempt of the mercantile family. The absurdity nearly made him long for simpler days, when people merely saw his mistakes as proof of unworthiness, and his greatest lament was how they judged his errors more harshly than his peers' mere learning experiences.

He’d packed his machine in a hurry and practically fled the tent, almost tripping himself like he’d not done since he was a child in his haste to slip into the crowd.

Rule number three: They will lie to you.

By the time the day ended, he’d attended only one more audition, though he was hardly sure that it counted. He hadn’t spent very much time at the Holloran tent, but the experience still clung to him like a stubborn mood, even as he sat in the safety of his favourite haunt in Piltover. The mechanical oasis overlooked the promenade level of the Undercity, waters running through the ravine below, where he’d played as a child. He’d always appreciated the serenity of this place, finding even in his youth that its quiet tranquillity suited him.

“Viktor, my boy,” called a reedy voice from behind him, and he lifted a hand off his cane in greeting without turning to look at Professor Heimerdinger. “How did your ventures go today?”

“I don’t believe it really ‘went,’” he responded wryly, easing himself into a seated position in the arch of the open-air window, legs relaxing over the ledge. “Can you say it ‘went’ if one family thought I was attempting a murder, and the other refused me at the door?” Heimerdinger’s poro scurried over his lap and around his back, which he found both ridiculous and… cute. It made his bitter remark come out with a slightly amused lilt, even if there wasn’t much to find amusing in being turned away, only to almost be knocked over by the next hopeful student when the Holloran family admitted them mere moments after.

The professor gave a soft hum, a gloved hand at his chin in the perfect pose of refined thought. “What will you do?”

Viktor rolled his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “I still have some time. I will need to finish the year, of course, and then… Well, then, probably the, ah, how do they say? ‘Crunch time’? Comes?”

Heimerdinger’s moustache twitched in a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, even though Viktor thought that his use of the colloquialism had been rather apt. When the professor spoke next, his words were soft and cautious, as if he thought that Viktor might snap. “Why don’t you consider being my assistant, lad? You could stay on at the academy, and though I’m sure you’d rather be doing something more ambitious, you’d have time to pursue your own projects.”

Silence hung in the air between them for a moment. Viktor tried to read the expression in Heimerdinger’s eyes but only saw a soft sorrow there. “I appreciate your offer, Professor,” he started, the words tasting of defeat even before he’d spoken of any decision.

Heimerdinger seemed to sense Viktor’s aversion and interjected before he could continue. “So you’re aware, Viktor, this isn’t mere charity.” The professor turned inwards, eyes downcast, a slight droop to his large ears. “I was… perhaps hasty,” he admitted, still looking at the cement floor, “in urging you to audition.”

Viktor had never known Professor Heimerdinger to be prideful, but the dean’s guilty posture struck him, even so. His kindness still burnt; Viktor’s stubborn independence made him reactive to the idea of being handed anything out of pity, particularly given the assumptions of other students who already believed his mere presence was an excess of anything he had any right to. “Thank you, Professor.” He found that he meant it. Heimerdinger had always believed in his potential, even when doing so set him at odds with the rest of the faculty. “Perhaps… give me some time to think it over,” he relented, looking back out at the city below. The streets still bustled with the activity of Progress Day, even as the sun began to cast warm, dusky shadows amidst the revelry.

“Take the time you need, my boy. The offer stands.” With that, the professor retreated at a quick trot, his ever-present poro shuffling along behind him. Viktor sat in the wake of their departure, contemplating the glint of mechanical contraptions dotting the landscape (so far as he could tell, they were only constructed as decor for the day, which was an awful waste, considering what you could buy in the Undercity after selling parts of just one). Perhaps it had been a blessing that he’d not managed a successful audition. Being the assistant to the academy's dean would mean he would have access to lab spaces and materials that most others would not, including unusual things that would need to be assessed for danger.

That could be interesting.

𓊈 first chapter | previous chapter | next chapter on AO3 𓊉

an: this chapter was SO fun to write - definitely one of the ones we were most looking forward to when we were posting on AO3!! i'm so bad at these tumblr updates im going to try to get a bunch of them scheduled at once and see what happens haha anyways tho we just posted chapter 23 yesterday on AO3! 🙌🏽 fic come so far 😭

[bullet-prooflove]

The Deepest Cut: Dean Archer x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @mandy426 @chicagotrio101 @Mysticcandymiracle @sweetdaytimedreams

Companion piece to:

The Study:

Part One: Courting Disaster - Dean realises Jack is courting you.

Part Two: Distance - Dean tries to discuss the distance between the two of you.

Part Three: Deserving - Jack tries to show you, you deserve better.

Part Four: Navy Shirt - You and Dean don't keep secrets.

Part Five: A Punch In The Face - Dean reacts badly to the news about Jack Dayton.

Part Six: Blow After Blow - Dean doesn't know how much more you can take

Part Seven: Cutting - Dean's surprised when Jack Dayton turns up on his doorstep.

Finish What I Started - Dean experiences an unforeseen side effect due to his dialysis treatments.

All Me (NSFW) - Companion piece to Finish What I Started - Dean gets a surprise in the shower.

The Wrong One - After a disagreement Dean is forced to confront his choices.

You’re in your office, when Dean tracks you down the next day, seated at your desk reviewing a stack of files for your upcoming court appearances. You don’t even raise your head when he steps through the door, instead you rub your temples with your fingertips, a sure sign that you’re agitated.

“I’m not ready to talk about it yet.” You say despondently and his gaze strays to the beat up couch in the corner. There’s a blanket folded on the arm along with one of the pillows from the on-call room and a small medical kit. Your dress from last night rests neatly on top, your heels placed alongside it.

“Did you sleep here last night?” He asks, his eyebrows furrowing into a frown and you rub your palms over your weary features.

“Elle’s been having a rough time of it since Sam left for New York and Jimmy’s in bed by ten thirty which ruled out Anita.” You tell him as the words begin to blur on the page in front of you. “The couch isn’t too bad.”

“You could have come home.” Dean asserts and you shake your head in response.

“No I couldn’t.”

The silence hangs between the two of you before Dean sighs and leans against your desk. You pick up your pen and scribble a notation in the margin and he can hear the nib scratching through the paper.

“Isobel…” He says, inclining his head to study the profile of your features. “I don’t want this to come between us.”

“And I want my husband to live.” You say, setting your pen down before you finally meet his gaze. “Apparently we can’t both get what we want Dean.”

“Isobel.” He implores. “You have to understand…”

“No Dean, you have to understand.” You snap, jabbing your finger at him. “Your renal failure? It’s not just happening to you, it’s happening to me too and I am trying to be strong, I’m trying to be supportive but my whole world is falling apart.”

Your voice catches then and your jaw clenches as you try to supress the frustration that’s surging through your body.

“And then last night Sean offers you this gift, this wonderful, perfect solution to the hell we’ve been going through the last few months and you turn it down, you turn it down without even discussing it with me. Do you understand how that makes me feel?”

“No.” He says because all of a sudden it dawns on him. “Because I’ve never asked have I? I rely on you, I depend on you but I’ve never asked how you’re coping with all of this.”

It’s an oversight on his part, one that he is bitterly ashamed of. His focus hasn’t been on you, it’s been on getting through the day, finding away through the exhaustion and fatigue that seems to plague his every step. His condition, it’s deteriorated quickly over the past few months and he’s trying to fight it with everything he has, and so have you. You’ve been there throughout the whole thing, soothing him, encouraging him, altering your life to fit around his, he can’t ask for a better partner

“How are you coping with all of this?” He says finally and you look away, your eyes stinging as you try to focus on anything but your husband.

“I’m back in therapy.” You tell him, toying with the wedding ring on your finger. “That’s where I’ve been going on Thursday nights.”

It’s a blow, far harder than any physical one you ever could have dealt him because Dean, he’s supposed to be the person you can talk to about anything. He’s supposed to be the one in your corner when the chips are down, not the one inflicting all of this pain.

“Are you…” He struggles to force the words out, because the reality of what he’s about to ask, it’s too overwhelming. “Are you cutting again?”

You don’t answer him, you can’t even look at him and his heart just breaks because it’s him that’s doing this to you, he may as well be the one holding the razor blade, slicing into your skin.

“Last night?” He whispers, his eyes straying back to the medical kit resting on top of the pillow.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You say and he can hear the exhaustion in your voice, the emotional toll this whole thing is taking.

“Isobel…” He tries but you’re shutting down, pulling away from him and Dean, he just doesn’t know how to reach you.

“I need some space to come to terms with the choice you’re making.” You say finally and it’s another blow, one that makes all of the oxygen rush right out of his body. “I need to figure out how to live without you.”

“Where will you go?” He says, his voice hoarse as he struggles to process this information.

“Sam’s apartment still has a couple of months left on the lease.” You tell him. “Elle says he’ll be fine with me staying there for a while.”

“Are you…” He trails off because the words they’re almost too unbearable to speak. “Are you leaving me?”

“No Dean.” You say quietly as you tilt your head up to meet his gaze. “You’re the one that’s leaving me.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[garadinervi]

Lyd på liv [Sound on Life], [on the life of the composer Else Marie Pade and her music], Directed by Katia Forbert Petersen and Iben Haahr Andersen, 2006

«Then came the Occupation, and from my fairy tales, I recognized all the cruel kings and tyrants and oppressed peoples. I got so furious that I reacted strongly to the occupation of Denmark. Especially when I was caught as a member of the Resistance Movement. We had agreed that if we were caught and interrogated we would whistle the theme of Chopin's Ètude in E Major. Nobody answered, so I tried a second time and then I heard a distant answer. It was Karen, who answered me, and I know then that she'd been caught. What revealed to me that we'd been betrayed was the fact that they knew everything. One night a soldier yells: “Did we tear your nails off today?”. “No”, I said. “Well, we may do so tomorrow, if you don't start talking”. Such things make an impression when you're alone and helpless. They can do whatever they want with you. After a whole day's interrogation, I had lapsed into a peculiar state between sleep and being awake or whatever. Suddenly I woke up screaming and not knowing where I was and what was happening and couldn't remember anything and I was beside myself with mortal fear. And suddenly something happens, which I'd call transcendental. In the small prison widow, I see a tiny star. Seeing that star, my entire childhood universe returned to me. All the characters from the tales, from the nice and fun things etcetera. Suddenly my cell was populated, and somehow I fell at ease and thought that if I survive this I'll try to tell it in music. Everything formed a synthesis in a melody that was tangible enough with a normal pitch. But it was surrounded with a perspective as if heard in a kind of impressionist way or blurred or… Well, the way you use slow-motion or something that wasn't social realism but which was some kind of fiction but also very much reality. After this vision, this warmth, this experience was over. I got the next morning: “I'm going to begin right now”. I got the idea to scratch the notation on the wall of the cell using the clip from my garter belt. And I did. I had to crawl on the floor so that the warder wouldn't notice. I managed to scratch a few bars of the pieces I wanted to write. I wanted to write dance music to finance my studies when I got out.» ― Else Marie Pade (Lyd på liv / Sound on Life, 2006)

The Frøslev Camp Museum, D.s.i. Frøslevlejren, Padborg

[fanaticsnail]

Chapter 1

Masterlist here, Mood Board here.

Sapsorrow Masterlist

Word Count: 6,020+

Song Accompaniment: La Petite fille de la mer

This is the first part to a multi-chaptered series. Thank you @feral-artistry for brainstorming with me and shepherding me into the right direction.

Themes: enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, forced proximity, lord and subordinate, one bed trope, apprehension, mutual pining, obligation, slow burn, eventual love, protective, "where is my wife" trope.

The cobblestone steps greeted your eyes with an iron and intimidating intensity, your future as uncertain as the words that were addressed to you regarding your newest undertaking. Two wards under the care of the Lord of Kuraigana were allegedly in dire need of training in the art of navigation as they began interacting with the upper classes. At risk of embarrassment, Lord Dracule Mihawk had humbled himself with his carefully and hastily composed words and sent them through to meet your eyes only.

Clasping firm the address within your fingertips, you reopened the rolled scroll to once again read over the words Dracule Mihawk had written to you. You smoothed over your formal title with the pads of your fingertips, reading the carefully crafted words beneath to ensure you did not misunderstand any minor detail:

“I hope this letter finds you well.

I will not dance around the issue at hand with formalities and fluttery words. I need use of your abilities as a trainer and governess.

Your resume speaks volumes, and your many debutants and young lords you have presented under your guiding hands have captured my attention with their attuned supremacy in handling all manner of circumstances. Although my wards are not of debutant age: both much older than the appropriate age of presentation, I find myself out of depths in training them to handle the upper class as fluidly as I know you are capable of doing so.

Two young adults: one young unrefined gentleman in need of carving down to size, and one young lady who I cannot donate my time to attune to her femininity.

I simply can’t - I cannot handle it. - Please can you – I need -

Should you desire to undertake such a challenge, I would humbly request – I expect you could – please find the disclosed location for my castle at Kuraigana.

To run the risk of sounding desperate, I once again reiterate: I need you, Governess.

I look forward to hearing your reply, and should you accept the position, I shall adjust wings accordingly for your stay along with discussing wages.

Kindest regards,

Lord Dracule Mihawk of Castle Kuraigana.”

Rereading his honest words, and smiling at his scratched and stricken notation, you began your ascension up the towering steps towards the large double doors of the keep. Having met the ex-warlord a handful of times at events held by the world government, you had never assumed he had paid heed to many of your accomplishments as a finishing instructor and governess to the upper class. Always professional, never swaying your gaze from your pupils and debutants under your watchful instruction, you could maybe recall a small amount of polite conversation between you and the Lord of Castle Kuraigana. 

Again, you found yourself recollecting the handful of times you had spoken to the warlord in the past. He had always been professional, and you had always reciprocated in an appropriate manner to him.

“Governess,” a smooth voice addressed you at your right hand side. Unmoving your gaze from the young gentleman you had been training for the past eleven months, you smiled and nodded your head in acknowledgement.

“Warlord,” you addressed him in return. Your pupil had finally worked up the courage to ask a young lady to dance, an action prompting you to sigh in both pride and relief.

“One of yours?” He asked, his voice quirking up at the end in question. Although it was deemed impolite to disregard a member of the upper class, you could not tear your eyes away from your young student as he was following the proper mannerisms of courtship. He extended his right hand, bowing politely to the young woman as she accepted by placing her gloved fingertips within his own.

“Indeed,” you drew out your response, cocking your head to the side to follow your pupil with your gaze more thoroughly. Your student began effortlessly twirling the young lady on the dance floor; swaying her to the melody performed by the stringed quartet. The twin violins began to swell, the viola accompanying their melody with harmony while the cello droned the bass notes effortlessly.

“He’s doing quite well,” he complimented with a polite expression within his tone, “I offer my praises to your abilities.”

“They always do,” you replied with a small smile tickling left hand side of your lips, “and thank you for your kind words, Lord Dracule.” Mihawk hummed in response, holding firm his yellow gaze affixed to your young pupil as he spun the debutant within his arms.

Both you and the warlord at your side allowed several moments to pass between you as you witnessed the successful maneuver of carefully articulated dance moves to be initiated by your student.

“Do you dance, Governess?” he asked you with a lazy air of curiosity about him.

“I have an array of many talents at my disposal, Warlord,” your smile broadened, “musicality, linguistics, formal ceremonies, and dance are a few skills I can call on from time to time. However,” you finally allowed yourself to look away from your pupil to focus on the awaiting gaze of the man beside you, “I find myself relishing in the propel of my students rather than to chase the thrill for myself.”

“Indeed,” he nodded, bringing his right hand to clasp the tip of his broad hat within his thumb and index finger, “until the next soiree, Governess.”

“Warlord,” you crossed your right leg behind your left, your toes curling beneath your foot as you bent in a low stooped curtsey. Your eyes shut politely before you rose, dragging your toes against the floor to brandish at your side and turning your back to the gentleman.

Stalking the perimeter of the dance floor, you once again found your pupil: he attempting to engage with the young lady’s chaperone to indicate his intentions of courtship. Another blissful sigh of the night fell from your parted lips, brimming with glee at another successful pupil finding a potential partner within the upper class. Unaware to the two amber eyes honing over your figure, you continued to fix your gaze on the young man, smiling further as he bowed lowly to take his leave and join once more with you.

Drawing the back of your knuckles upwards and rapping politely from the door, you stepped back and smoothed over the front of your formal governess attire. Hearing clangs, clashes and heavy laden footsteps falling in a thud towards the door, your eyes finally met with the warm, hazelnut gaze of a tall man with moss-coloured hair littering his scalp in an array of tussles.

“The fuck do you want-,” he began, halting as soon as a pale palm and slender fingers grasped his cream-coloured shirt and thrust him inside. Hastily closing the door behind him and stepping out into the foyer lay the towering form of the broody warlord who wrote to you.

“Governess,” he addressed you, sucking in an exasperated breath through his teeth. You took in the gentleman falling from the doorframe. His intimidating and intense aura was tainted with a slight amount of dishevelment.

“Warl-,” you halted your words, recognising his relinquishment of his prior status with a small quirk of your chin, “force of habit,” you smiled at him, lacing your fingers behind your back before correcting yourself, “my lord.”

“I will not hold it against you. It takes some adjustment,” he nodded. You bowed your head in a polite curtsey before again raising your gaze to beam against your new employer.

“Your latest protégé, I assume,” you nodded your head towards the door, eyes beaming with a small air of teasing.

“My latest project. As you can see,” he, himself, nodded his head towards the recently shut door, “his manners and language are of the highest priority.”

You hummed in response, looking over your latest recruiter with an intense and examining gaze. He took the opportunity to straighten his attire, rotating his shoulders back to adjust his posture upright and rigid, as was how you had come to acknowledge his stature through your prior interactions.

“Your letter-,” you began, halted by the palm of Mihawk’s hand presenting itself before your eyes.

“-I apologize for my hastily written words. I should have thought about them further before sending for you,” he commented, cutting off your sentence with a bored and dismissive tone. You clenched your jaw, displeased by his silencing of your words. Humming and straightening your own posture, you began looking up at him with a challenging intensity.

“I agree, my lord. Before you interrupted my words,” you coughed to release a small amount of agitation from your throat. “you currently have two wards in your care?” He roughly sucked in an air through his nose, shutting his eyes to rid himself of his own abrasive emotions. He reopened them, his pupils immediately narrowing in on your own.

“Yes,” he gruffly confirmed, his agitation not hidden by his rough words.

“And you require my help with rearing them?” you asked once more, stepping towards his towering form. He again inhaled very slowly to calm the simmer of his anger rising upwards.

“Yes,” he hissed from clenched teeth, again confirming his need for you. You smiled softly at him before turning your gaze towards the door once more.

“How wonderful,” you commented, stooping to reclaim your bags from the doorstep as Mihawk held his honeyed-gaze on your form, “I simply can’t wait to get started.”

“I would not be so eager, if I were you,” he reprimanded, reaching behind him to clasp the handle to reopen the door.

The ornate hall was decorated from the top of the roof floating all the way to the join against the floor with intricately painted designs. Angelic silhouettes or seraphim and cherubim floated at the highest point of the design, painted clouds parting to reveal the radiant beams of sunlight warming their drawn smiles. This was not a sight you foresaw, judging from the dark and gloomy halls and wings of Castle Kuraigana in the many rooms prior.

No. This room was special. Something truly holy and sacred to contain the vast accumulation of wealth displayed on the ornate, glass shelves and carved marble. Gemstones glittering with colors of the darkest of reds to the pastel hue of a magical and mossy green lay perfectly cataloged along the benches. The golds, silvers, coppers and platinum bands and bangles reflected the light beaming from the stained glass with drawn back, velvety curtains showcasing their majesty.

You should not be here.

Those were the words that you thought as your right arm lay laced within your pink-haired debutant pupil as she guided you throughout the beautiful halls, with your green-haired ‘gentleman in training’ lay sculking behind you with his left hand clutching the neck of a brown-stained beer bottle. You couldn’t hear a word she was uttering through her enthusiastic lips, no doubt informing you of the different historical properties and peculiarities lord Dracule Mihawk managed to procure over his time with piracy, and purchases he made under his former title as Warlord of the Seas. You were simply awestruck by the different paintings, musical instruments and finery fabrics that lay embroidering the perimeter of the room with their carefully attuned presence. 

“And this one,” Perona’s voice shook you from your trance as she escorted you to the center of the room, “This one is my favorite. I don’t know exactly why he’s put it on the cushion, but I enjoy trying it on from time to time.”

You drew your gaze to the plush, deep emerald cushion. Laying in the center of the plush object lay a small circlet of gold, the central piece being a smoked piece of moss agate with the green floating across the circular stone. Compared to the other pieces, this one appeared to be of far lesser value in its make and mastery. 

Perona pulled you towards the pillar the cushion was sitting comfortably atop, a wide grin pulling at her lips to beautifully decorate her cheeks. Unlacing her arm from within your own, she reached up to take the small ring within her slender fingertips; rolling it over in her palms before trying it on each of her fingers. The band easily slid off each of her long fingers, a small giggle falling from her parted lips as she did so. 

“Zoro,” she elevated her tone in addressing her peer, “Come over here, you try it.”

“I’d rather not,” he grunted, raising the beer to his lips and taking a swig. 

“And I’d rather you refrained from drinking alcohol so early in the day, young man,” you chastised him, gesturing to the glass bottle clutched tightly in his hands. His brows furrowed in a deep frown at your words. Making unblinking eye contact with you, he raised the tip of the bottle to his lips and hurriedly gulped down the yeasty brew to relinquish its presence within the container.

“I don’t have to do what you tell me, Governess. I neither need you, nor do I want you,” he spat in a gruff grunt, walking over to your place beside the cushion and taking the gold circlet from his peer’s hands. Unable to get the object over the first bended knuckle of his thumb, he tried three of his fingers with similar resistance while continuing to hold his frown against his brow. 

“There’s no way this thing is getting on my-,” he halted his words as the ring slipped over his secondary knuckle on his smallest finger; immediately lodging the small band atop it. Looking between you both, eyes now widening with a small air of panic, his words struggled to flee from his lips.

“I-It’s stuck,” he gasped, gulping back his stress within his throat, “I-I can’t get it off. Help,” he quickly darted his eyes between you both, looking down at his swelling pinky finger and back up, “don’t just stand there! Do something!” 

Perona, immediately sensing Zoro’s panic, lunged towards him and began pulling and tugging at his fingers. Zoro yelped as the young woman almost dislocated his finger under her strain. 

“For fucks sake, Perona! Stop!” Zoro yelped with his voice, cradling his left hand within his right and soothing over the back of his knuckles, “Governess, you do it!” 

You shook your head, a small sigh falling from your lips as you slowly drew yourself closer to the towering form of the unrefined swordsman. Clearly Mihawk was telling the truth in your abilities as a trainer and governess being of use to sculpt his wards into shape. 

“I thought you didn’t need a governess, Zoro,” you kept a stern air with your voice, presenting your right palm upwards as a gesture to collect his left within it. 

“I don’t,” he spat with a small tremble in his tone, immediately placing his swelling hand within your gentle grasp. You smiled and carefully inspected the digit with your examining gaze and the gentle and featherlight touches of your fingertips. 

“Clearly,” you jabbed back at him, allowing your touch to attempt to rotate the band circling his pinky finger. The ring had a large amount of resistance, unable to move the object under your gentle touch. You sighed, reaching into your pocket to trace over a variety of hidden objects within your collection. Small scissors, a single bobbin, safety pins, and spools of cotton string jangled around in your pocket as you finally collected the object you were searching for. Drawing it up, you rolled it over beneath the pads of your thumb and index finger and revealed the length of the dark, satin ribbon to Zoro.

“I need to lace this around your finger to tighten the swell,” you said, following through with the action as you informed him, “and should all things go according to plan, I will be able to-,” you heard an echoed footbeat click against the hall outside the large door. All three of your eyes widened as the calculated thump drew nearer and nearer to the treasury door.

“Get to it, then!” Zoro’s harsh whisper commanded you, prompting you to continue tightening the ribbon over his finger. As the area compressed, the ring began moving back over his knuckle and slowly drawing its way down to his fingertip. This is not how you imagined your introduction to the two wards to go, but something you should have prepared for regardless. 

Clearly Dracule Mihawk was not exaggerating your overzealousness in commencing your undertaking so hastily. The thumps fell silent as the crescendo of the steps fell in front of the large door. The shadow beneath the wooden frame halted its movement, a small rotation of the handle began to hasten your movements and increase the motion of your hearts rapidity. 

Finally, the object was unceremoniously flung from Zoro’s fingertip and rang in a bell-like jingle against the polished marble floor. 

“Pick it up, pick it up, pick it up,” Perona hastily whispered her commands to you with a frantic air to her words. 

As the door flung open, you backed your way towards the object with your eyes holding firmly against the darkened silhouette. Stooping low and quickly finding the object, you hastily drew back up to your prior, formal posture and held your hands fastened behind your back. Zoro immediately drew himself between you and Perona, his form attempting to shield the velvet pillow from showcasing its bare surface to his mentor. 

As your eyes met with the amber, calculated stare of the former warlord in front of you, all thoughts of sense fled from your mind. You immediately slipped the circlet onto the third finger of your left hand, holding it secured for safe-keeping. You were hoping to wait until his back once again turned for you to place it back on its comfortable position atop the dark, green cushion. But alas, not all things go according to plan.

“What are the three of you doing in the treasury?” his eyes narrowed, examining the three of you with a harsh and calculating gaze before immediately drawing his body closer in. He shoved the swordsman out of the way of the pillow, his eyes widening as his sights were met with nothing than the material of the plush pillow.

“W-Where,” he began, coughing slightly to rid himself of his panic, immediately looking to Perona, “where is the ring? Where did you put it, Perona?”

Before the pink-haired ward could answer and was unwilling to wait for you to offer an explanation, Zoro spoke up.

“She wanted to see it,” Zoro nudged his head to your form and laced his arms over his broad chest. You snapped your eyes over to the green-haired swordsman, clenching your teeth hard in anger at his words behind your thinned lips. You drew your eyes back to the lord of Kuraigana as he immediately sought out your forearm and harshly yanked it from its place laced behind your back. 

“What are you-,” you began, immediately halting your words within your throat as you witnessed all of the pale color draining from Dracule Mihawk’s face as his expression changed from panic to absolute terror behind his amber eyes. You sucked in a stifled breath as he immediately clutched at your fingertips with both of his hands. He gasped, bringing his eyes over the gold circlet firmly placed effortlessly over your wedding-ring finger.

“N-No,” he stifled out, gently thumbing over the gemstone placed on your finger beneath his firm hands. As his hands clutched yours within his, you could almost feel them trembling beneath your own, “Why would you-, how could-, why would you put it on.”

“I-It was an accident,” Perona’s voice squeaked from beside Zoro, prompting your eyes to look at her in panic. 

“You accidentally found yourself within the halls of the treasury?” Mihawk hissed at her, prompting her to cower behind Zoro. A pregnant pause fell between the four of you within the room, tension arising in a swell so suffocating you could tangibly feel it throughout the room. 

“I can remove it,” you offered in a small voice, drawing up your right hand and gently placing it over Mihawk’s knuckles. He drew his eyes from their place holding against the ring to your two orbs. A small softness threatened to peak through his intensity, before he sighed and furrowed his brows.

“We are well past that now,” he sighed, removing his hands from their place clutching yours. He moved his neck in a small rotation, relieving the tension with a small ‘click’. He sighed once more, pinching his brows between his thumb and index finger and drawing himself away from the three of you. His boots began rhythmically falling against the floor as he paced from side to side.

“I’m assuming you do not understand the significance of such an object?” He uttered, drawing his eyes against yours once more. You gently shook your head, furrowing your brows at his words. 

“All of us had one,” he spoke up, “the warlords and higher ups within the world government. I’m surprised at you, Governess.” Immediate realization hit you in the face with the intensity of a cannonball. You immediately drew up your right hand again to take off the small circlet from your finger. 

“If I’d have known-,” you began, stopping only as you felt Mihawk’s hands atop your own to halt your movements. 

“-As I said,” he again informed you, “we’re well past that.”

“Will one of you spit it out to clue us in?” Zoro’s gruff voice called to you both, “we’re in the dark here.” You let a shaken breath release from your lips as you looked down to your finger. The beautiful circlet of terror was truly an amazing piece, albeit not as spectacular as the other pieces within the treasury. 

“These rings were made specifically to hold a particular covenant,” you uttered darkly, shutting your eyes, “none were the same. Each attuned specifically to the individual who purchased or claimed it.” You shook your head and drew your hand back from within Mihawk’s.

“Why would you have such a thing, my lord?” you asked him, not drawing your eyes back up from its place affixed to the floor, “You do not seem the type to desire marriage or courtship.” Both Perona and Zoro’s jaws fell slack, looking between each other before falling their widening eyes back to their mentor and lord. 

“Which is precisely why I commissioned such a piece,” he commented, turning his back away from you and his two wards, “I will write to the appropriate channels to inform them of such an event.”

“I hardly see that as necessary,” you replied while drawing up your right hand to tug at the item attached to your left ring-finger. 

“You placed it on your hand,” Mihawk informed you, gesturing to the object attuned to your flesh, “and now, unfortunately, we must bear the consequences of such an idiodic undertaking.”

You sucked in another hissed breath through your teeth, your tongue placed against the back of your top two teeth. Never had you so much as thought about marriage, opting to remain forever in your solitude in training the upper class to begin their courtships with poise and elegance. You were content with working your way through singledom: first achieving the status of Spinster and well on your way to becoming a Thornback or Doomwitch, you had never considered marriage a prospect for yourself.

But this gemstone encrusted within a finely tuned band of promise held a different fate for you. This hand of horrors now held your fate clutched entirely within its circlet of destiny. What this ring was intended for, and was now holding you completely to complete its obligation, was for you now to join with the owner in holy matrimony. Whom shall ever place the ring on your joining finger, and have it fit perfectly beneath its band with no need for alteration, would find themselves committed to wedding the owner of such a prize.

You felt your eyes beginning to sting with a foreign sense of hopelessness as you gazed upon the mighty band atop your ring finger. 

“I will simply cut off the finger,” you declared, a rise of destiny swelling your chest alongside its solid intentions. 

“It matters not,” Mihawk declared, refusing to turn to look at you, “the sign has already been addressed. We are to wed and, unfortunately, there is nothing either of us can do about it.”

“And if I refuse?” you quirked your head to the side, affixing your eyes to the band on your ring finger once more. Mihawk halted his pacing, looking over his shoulder at you through his peripheral vision. 

“You know very well that neither you, nor I, can halt the ribbons of destiny,” he spat in an agitated breath. He was enraged, his thoughts and actions eclipsed with a fury he had not felt in a long time. You sighed, shaking hands drawing themselves down in front of you as you stepped closer to the former warlord before you.

“Fine,” you spat, rotating your shoulders back and affixing your posture to the most rigid state you could make it.

“Fine?” Mihawk questioned, turning to face you once more at his spot firmly placed beneath the door of the treasury. You immediately flung yourself into a trade of impossible circumstances to complete, one thought outrageously eclipsing the other with its demands. 

“I require three things in order for us to wed, former warlord of the seas,” you uttered in a low and serious tone. Drawing up the finger containing the moss agate ring, you placed it on your bottom lip to ensure the cursed item did not miss a single syllable of your demands.

“To wed, I require three items,” you narrowed your eyes and lowered your forehead to the floor. Glancing up at the World’s Greatest Swordsman, he ushered you to enlist your demands before the ring. Grasping at straws, you decided to list three impossible items that dawned on your mind, carelessly spitting them out as they dawned on you.

“For the ceremony; I require a dress that is as radiant as the moon. A dress that glows with a hue so majestic, it eclipses all else with its mastery,” you declared, drawing your irises up to meet the honey-hue of the man who was entrusted to fulfill such an obscure demand.

“And what of the other two, Governess?” he spat in a serious and low tone. Refusing to shy away from such a verbal challenge, you declared another outrageous demand.

“For the reception,” you quirked your head to the side, stepping yourself closer to his towing form, “I require a dress so magnificent, the stars are envious of its sparkling vibrancy. Deep and darkened material accompanied by dust and orbs of glimmering starlight is what I require.”

Refusing to draw down the ring from your lip, you drew yourself uncomfortably close to the lord of Kuraigana and maintained a serious air of propositional eye contact. 

“And the final demand?” He questioned, looking to your bottom lip lying flush against the cursed stone wrapped around your second littlest finger on your left hand. You took a moment to collect your thoughts, looking down at the piece clutched firmly against your finger. You sucked in a final, shaken breath through your teeth and parted your lips to release it from your chest with your last request.

“Sunlight,” you uttered quietly, drawing your eyes up to meet with the intense, narrowed gaze of the swordsman before you, “I require a dress that meets the intensity of the sun with its rays of gold and copper. An accumulation of material so outrageously forbidden, it be intended for your eyes alone with its intended purpose. A dress so scantily designed,” you stepped closer in proximity to the man before you, glaring up at him beneath his feathered hat, “that you will find none to ever match its equal in both color and provocative appearance. This be the final demand I ask of you, my lord.”

He sucked in a winced breath through his teeth and snarled at you.

“You ask me to meet three impossible circumstances for me to ever claim you as my bride?” He hissed, stepping closer into you. You felt his intense breaths exiting from his nose onto your face as he continued to snarl at you.

“Yes,” you nodded in confirmation. In your logic, if he was never able to meet those three impossible tasks - you would both get what you desired. Living forever in a dance of singledom, honing in to master your respective industries. 

“A dress akin to the glow of the moon,” he confirmed with a curt nod, “another that is as radiant as the stars that litter the night sky.” Stepping closer again to you, drawing the ring away from your bottom lip to claim within both of his hands. 

“And-,” he found the final demand catching within his throat. Watching the bob of his Adams apple brought you a sense of glee you did not intend of feeling on the first day you were invited to grace the presence of the castle; as you were initially hired to undertake the training of his two wards.

He uttered in a low tone, barely above a whisper; “lingerie that is as vibrant as the sun, cascading over your body with such radiancy that all those unintended to look upon it will shy away from its beauty.”

It was your turn now to click your neck under a graceful maneuver of rotating your chin. Extending your right hand out to him in a gentle and firm gesture, you confirmed his relay with a few words.

“Bring me such items,” you declared as he drew his hands up to meet with your own, “and we shall marry on the morrow the final demand is met.”

Clutching your right hand within his own right, he drew up his left hand to encase itself around it. Stooping in a low bow, he brought his face closer to your non-encompassed right hand and pressed his lips against the back of your knuckles with a chaste kiss; solidifying his promise to you with an utterance of confirmation.

“We will marry on the morrow.”

As he withdrew his face from your hand, you felt obliged to affix your gaze onto his retreating form. Relinquishing his hold on your hand, he looked to his two wards at his side and uttered a reprimand to scold the two of them.

“Do not think I will ever forget such a betrayal,” he hissed at both Perona and Zoro, swiftly falling his heavy feet against the polished marble towards the exit, “and you-,” You felt your heart rate quicken under his firm chastise, baring your unwavering gaze into his yellowed orbs. He sighed, taking a moment to collect himself before uttering a swift command; “get back to work.”

“Yes, sir,” you clicked your heels together and bowed lowly to the lord of Kuraigana, shutting your eyes to avoid his gaze as the great lord exited the treasury. The loud thump of your heartbeat echoed within the chasms of your hollowed chest, finality of the situation dawning on you.

You were now fixed to marry the former warlord of the seas. The World’s Greatest Swordsman. The never swaying gaze, the ever sought after bachelor of the four corners of the ocean. Something you had never desired; marriage. 

After taking a small moment to collect yourself, you turned to face both of the two wards falling within your care. You narrowed your eyes at Zoro, finding a small bead of sweat falling from his temple to drag itself down to his chin. Wordlessly. You drew your eyes over to Perona, watching as she gulped a dry mouthful of breath down into her throat.

“I hope you’re both well pleased with yourselves,” you monotonously informed them, relishing in the slump of their shoulders beneath your chastised words. Stepping forward, you reached your right hand over to Zoro’s, claiming the neck of the brown-stained beer bottle beneath your nimble fingers.

“You will now heed my every word.” you scolded him, drawing up your left hand to collect Zoro’s chin and elevate it for his hazelnut irises to meet your furious gaze. His breath halted in his throat as he was met with your complete ferocity and intensity. 

“My word is now law,” your tone continued to hold its low and serious air. Relinquishing your hold on Zoro’s chin, you stepped over to Perona and ensured her eyes would follow you, “Is that understood, pupils?”

Both of them enthusiastically nodded, prompting you to draw your thumb and index finger to your brow, pinching it below the pads of your fingers. 

“When I address you,” you warned them, relinquishing your hold on your brow, “You will respond with ‘Yes, my lady’. Is that understood?” 

“Yes, my lady,” they both spat out with haste, almost allowing a small stifled chuckle to find anchor within your throat, you hastily stifled it within your chest with a small, curt cough. 

“Good, pupils,” you praised them, turning to the door and walking swiftly over to it, “now, the real work begins.”

As Mihawk shut the iron-barred, wooden door behind him, he allowed himself to have a small emotional outburst as soon as he heard the ‘click’ of the hinges. The lingering warmth against his hands, the illusionary touch of your skin still pressed against his palms and fingertips continued to propel his fury onward. 

Why were you in the treasury? What possessed you to ever reach for such an item? Was it fate, or something else entirely?

These words flooded the brain of the dark-haired former warlord as his brows creased in the center with a rage he had not felt in some time. His lips curled back to bare his pearled teeth in a snarl, your demands echoing throughout his mind. He knew without a doubt you were challenging the curse carefully integrated into the moss agate ring. 

Were you aware that if he did not complete the challenge, he would die? Absolutely not.

After taking a moment to collect himself, he drew in a final baited breath and began listing the items you had demanded one final time. 

“A dress with the glowing hue of the moon, a dress littered with orbs akin to starlight, and-,’ his verbal list halted in his throat as he felt a warmth rise to taint his cheeks with a reddening glow, “-lingerie as forbidden as a kiss from the sun.”

He rotated his shoulders back to rid himself of the swelling tension from behind his new undertaking. Immediately, he began propelling himself closer to his personal wing with a sense of purpose now falling onto him. 

“If I am to take a bride,’ he uttered to himself, allowing a small breath of anger to escape from his lips, “she will want for nothing.” He, again, began calculating the price, location and availability of fabrics, seamstresses and designers from all corners of the seas. 

Once reaching his office, he stalked over to his desk and unceremoniously plonked himself into the studded, red armchair behind it. His elbows placed firmly against the desk, he cradled his forehead within his palms and allowed a shaken sigh to fall from his parted lips. After collecting himself, he withdrew a large amount of parchment paper and collected an inkpad and quill from his desk drawer. Beginning immediately with his undertaking, he was immediately seeking out the three impossible items. 

Reaching up his right hand and shutting his amber-hued irises, he ran his fingertips over his bottom lip as he recollected the smoothed back of your knuckles he caressed with them moments prior. Sighing out a shaken breath, he reopened his eyes and glanced at the parchment paper.

Chapter 2

“I will not fail you, my lady,” he uttered to himself, scratching his quill against the parchment with flourish.

Tag List:

@writingmysanity @gingernut1314 @since-im-already-here

[c-u-c-koo-4-40k]

Future Inlaws?

Next in the Severe Miscalculation storyline!

Previous Chapter Here:

Next Chapter Here: coming hopefully soon.

Edit! This Here!

For the madness that started it all click here!

Summary: We see some more of Khopesh's...family for lack of a better term. Another short interlude.

Warning: Swears! Other than that not many Karlsor makes a groaning statement about shoving an icepick in his brain. I guess that counts.

Tags: @kit-williams (Who let me use Anrir so Thank You!) @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan (Who let me use their sweary lad Karlsor, Thank you!)

@bleedingichorhearts @bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @passionofthesith @sleepyfan-blog @barn-anon

Scrtch scrtch scrtch scratch. The gentle sounds of a stylis on paper filled the dimly lit chamber with one sole inhabitant.

An ancient a terrifying being, with both wit and knowledge that spanned centuries, millenia even.

The Terran born Nightlord known as Anrir reviewed and continued to bonder over his notations. Some where simple paperwork relating to his position as Apothercary, others were more...personal pursuits.

The Nature of Warp Bonds and Their Affects

The top of the page read. Sprawling throughout the documents were testimonies, graphs, data and hypothesese about the strange phenomenon known as bonding.

Even before Anrir had achieved his own bond he'd been endlessly Fascinated with the concept. In a manner he saw it as the main driving force between All interactions that occurred in this bizarre version of Terra's timeline they'd been sent to.

Without bonds, the more...vicious of their brother cousins would have likely converted at least half the native population into bloody pulp for the Skull Throne.

With them, as well as the lack of resources making sustained conflict untenable, the foundation for the greater alliance was made.

And their Appearance. Anrir could not see it himself, but the Librarians and Psychers he had collaborated with told him they often took the appearance of plants and flora. The exact type varied heavily depending on the relationship in question.

Anrir hypothesized the continuity might be due to their minds visualizing the unseeable. A bizarre form of paradolia that gave form to the formless. He continued to review his latest additions to his notes-

CrrrAsh! "Mother fucker I Swea..."

Thud! "...have to Run faster than tha..."

Until a pair of Very Recognizable voices faded in and out of the background as they ran, interrupted his writing.

Anrir sighed, placing his stylus down....next to a cracked picture frame from the Last Time this happened.

The stomping footsteps became louder again. He turned, briefly calculating the distance in his mind.

Thump thump thump thump Thump!

Anrir casually flexed the unmarred digits of his right hand before-

"If I didn't know any better I'd day you're gettin slower Karlsi-EeK!"

Snatch! One Charmingly Taxing Nightlord scout scruffed in his hold. While more frantic (or perhaps furious) footsteps approached.

Thump,thump,thump,thump,thump,thump,thump!

"Mother fucker I'm gonna kill you! I'm gonna fucking kill- Fuck..."

Anrir turned his eyes to his Claw's librarian, Karlsor, who'd stopped a few paces away.

"N-now Anrir, we didn't fuckin break anyth-Hurk!"

Two, two little Charmingly-Taxing-Nightlords scruffed.

"What...have I told you two?" Anrir asked, his voice firm yet controlled. "About Running near my Research?"

"Dont fuckin do it?" "Don't?" They said in unison.

"And...What, were you just doing?" He posed further.

"That," "Yeah, but he fuckin Started it!"

"You left the glasses unattended! You're lucky Ghosk didn't decide to snatch em!"

"They're My Sun goggles and How Fuckin Dare You!"

As the two younger Nightlords started bickering back and forth Anrir took a deep steadying breath and gently, but firmly... Knocked their skulls together.

Clack!

"Owwww!" "Fuckin hell that stings!"

"Now..." Anrir began. "Are we ready to discuss things properly?"

"Yes..." "Fine! fuck..."

"Khopesh...return Karlsor's glasses." Anrir commanded.

"Fine." Khopesh grumbled, more at his fun ending than Actually having to give the shades back.

"Hrmph!" Karlsor snatched them back with a growl, before placing them back on his face.

"And What do we say, when we have done something Wrong?"

"...I am sorry for taking your sun glasses." Khopesh aquiesed reluctantly.

"Hmph! Damn right you're sorry!"

"Karlsor..."

"And I accept your apology." Karlsor added quickly.

"Good." Anrir released the youngsters from their scruffing.

Khopesh rubbed the back of his neck. "You gotta Know you don't even Need them in this part of the base, riiiiight Karlsy?" Khopesh teased, gesturing to the Very dim surroundings which were custom suited to the Nightlords dark adapted eyes.

"Don't fuckin call me that ya whelp! And so fuckin what! They're My Shades and I'll wear them where I damn well please!" Karlsor snarled, before turning to stomp away.

"You're going to run into things again if you do that." Khopesh pointed out.

"The fuck I-WoAhAAH!" CRASH! The impact of the armored Nightlord hitting the wall rattled the room. On the worktable the picture frame once again fell over.

Unluckily as Khopesh predicted, Karlsor indeed did run into something. Or rather tripped. Whether that was do to wearing shades in a dark room or him being too mad to notice his surroundings was up for debate.

The grouchy librarian righted himself, before turning back to Khopesh with a seething look. "Not - one - word."

Khopesh smiled. "Okay. I'll just laugh then! BWAHAHAAHAHAHAHAA!"

"You're a FUCKIN DEAD FUCK I SWEAR!"

"ENOUGH!"

Oh shit. Both the younger Nightlords flinched as they remembered exactly Who they were squabbling near.

"Sorry Anrir." "Sorry." They replied hurriedly quieting their tones. The older Nightlord had his back turned, simply righting the framed photo from where it had fallen.

Thankfully, not Off the desk this time. Anrir took a moment to examine it, as he often did throughout the day.

No New cracks, thankfully. But the large one down the middle...no that truly wouldn't do. He did not Enjoy how it stretched between him and his Kitty.

He'd find a new sheet of plastic or glass. He'd prefer to keep the frame. Cutesy and childish as a lesser man would have considered it with its numeral stickers and pom poms and finger paint, courtesy of his darling participating in one of her daycare charges' crafting activities.

Anrir placed the frame back down with careful reverence, before turning back to his Sons.

"Let us but the matter Behind us, shall we?" He questioned. Though there was no room for debate in his tone. "Onto more Important things. Khopesh, you mentioned an announcement over your vox?"

The mood shifted with the change of subject almost immediately. The long haired Nightlord began bouncing in place, practically vibrating.

"Yes yes yes! I have someone Very special to introduce to all of you And! A new Hunt for us to plan!"

Well now That did intrigue Anrir. Khopesh could be very eager to go on Hunts (some would even say too eager). But far be it from Anrir to stifle something that made his son truly happy And generally made the world a safer place.

"You mention these two things at once...are they related?" Anrir questioned.

"If they are it's not much of a hunt if you Bring the fucker to us, dumbass." Karlsor snubbed a bit. Still a bit grouchy about the glasses...and grouchy in general.

"NO!" Khopesh snarled, barring his full teeth to his battle brother.

Karlsor's frustration was replaced with shock. This display wasn't the most frightening he'd seen, but he was stunned to see it come out of Khopesh, at Him.

Given the stunned silence Khopesh seemed to realize he over reacted. "I mean, No no no no No...well Yes technically." Khopesh corrected quickly. "They are not the one to be hunted! They are the one who was Harmed by the one we are going to be hunting. And they'll be here soon! I Just Know you'll Love Them!" Khopesh went from frantic correction to...cooing like a lovesick Lamenter??

"I see..." Anrir paused. "And...may I assume that this person is...Special to you?"

"Very much so! They are my sweet Lullaby! And we'll be sharing our first meal together tonight!" Khopesh said excitedly, quickly pulling up his vox messages and other saved photos. "I want them to meet all of you and your bonded's eventually! I think they'd fit in very well here. See?"

Khopesh showed off a few picts. One was of his Lullaby riding in horse competition. Another was them helping a young child learn to ride a horse. The picts and videos were a selection Khopesh had found from their mother's business' noosphere media.

Originally he'd obtained them as part of his investigation into Lullaby as a person, when he'd first met them. Now he simply kept his favorites, and to have something to show his Claw for reference.

"Rabbit and them both compete in sports, And they have experience in childcare and teaching from their family business like Kitty!" Khopesh explained. "And they're so sweet I'm sure Claude will find them very calming, once he gets past his usual shyness and then-"

Anrir's focus trailed off, but not for lack of interest! One of his sons had found a partner, And yes he Knew it was a partner; the smell he'd walked on base with, the 'glowing' and 'bouncing' energy he seemed filled with, and the presence of the bruising marks known as 'hickies' were enough to tell him that much.

He apparently Really liked and was looking forward to spending time with them. And Anrir would support Khopesh in this endeavor whole heartedly, bond involved or not. Anrir was many things but he was Not an Absent Parent.

No...it was because something about those photos-

Shwoop!

Khopesh's vox pings and a notification pops up covering the screen.

Lullaby: Hey I've arrived...I think? But I'm not sure where to go. Also I'm not sure they'll just let me in?

"Oh whoops! One moment." Khopesh shoots a vox message back.

Khopesh Thing That goes Prank in the Night: You should be able to enter the main lobby as it is open to the public. Wait for me there please! I want to introduce you to my brothers! I'm so excited for you to meet them.

Lullaby: Oh okay...how many am I meeting?

Khopesh: Just the ones in my claw that are here now. Don't worry they're gonna Love You! ;3

Lullaby: Including the one you made angry enough to chase you?? You suuuuure he'll like me? 🤔🤭

Khopesh smiled as he typed his next reply.

Khopesh: I'm Certain of it. He'll probably like how mouthy and sassy you are!

He stopped but then added...

But he can't have you of course! You're mine.

Lullaby: pfft! You've pissed him off that much huh? Well either way I'm making my way into the main lobby. The building is so Biiiiiig. I'm not used to this kinda space.

A photo came in. Showing Lullaby standing next to one of the Astarte sized chairs near the main entrance. It did indeed dwarf them as an average sized human.

"And saved!" Khopesh trilled, doing exactly that with the new photo.

Khopesh: Excellent! I will see you soon!

Anrir and Karlsor watched on with fascination. Well Karlsor was more still stunned to see this range of behavior from his brother.

Anrir, having his own special someone, was more understanding. But Still something itched at his brain.

"I must go greet them now. I will be back soon!" Khopesh stated, turning quickly to leave.

To his credit he did start by walking normally...until his speed picked up and he Launched himself into scrambling running climb throughout the unique architecture of the Nightlord base area.

Again, specially designed for suit their preference for skulking and climbing.

Karlsor stood their bewildered for a moment, before turning to Anrir. "What the Fuck was that about?"

Anrir simply chuckled. "Ah...young love..." He shook his head fondly before returning to his notes. Best sort and put them away for now, after all he'd be greeting a new face soon, best to look Presentable and make a good first impression.

He said much the same to Karlsor. "I'm assuming he'll be bringing his 'Sweet Lullaby' to meet us soon. Best get ready for that."

Karlsor groaned. Baselines were...well they were Frustrating or deal with! They either Weren't scared or were too scared. Sometimes they'd scream way too loud! And worse sometimes they'd giggle and call him...Bleh. Cute.

And Khopesh had apparently found 'someone special'. "If it turns out he's fuckin found someone Just Like Him I'm gonna stab myself with an Ice Pick!"

"I doubt Khopesh could find someone Exactly like himself dear Karlsor." Anrir assured, his desk now clean. He turned back to the Librarian.

"Though...I Must admit I am curious about his... Lullaby." Anrir muttered to himself.

Why couldn't he shake the feeling he was missing something?

"What got you Fuckin stewing suddenly?" Karlsor asked, noting Anrir's change in demeanor.

...

"...Those photos...did you recognize the Baseline in them?"

"...no?? Did you?"

Anrir turned back to Karlsor, his expression was serious. "I'm Certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that I've Never," he emphasized. "Met them before in my Life."

"So why Do I recognize them?"

Next chapter will be Here: (hopefully soon pray for my sanity)