#cow face paint easy

[princessbrunette]

HOLD ME, KISS ME ♡

♪ the little dippers — forever ♪

WANTED: JOHN BOOKER ROUTLEDGE - SUSPECTED MURDER - $1000 REWARD - DANGEROUS! IF SPOTTED DO NOT APPROACH!

pairing: outlaw!johnb + sheltered!reader ⋆₊⊹♡

synopsis: your wishes come true when a beautiful boy is found sleeping peacefully in your barn. much to his surprise, you don’t care about who he is or what he has or hasn’t done — you just want to ensure he stays forever.

cw: mentions of prayer, religion and god (for plot purpose) reader has two parents, western!au, innocence kink, slight manipulation, mentions of crime, breeding kink, smut ♡

“Please deliver me a man, save me from this loneliness. Make him kind, and strong, and handsome. I vow to make him the happiest man alive.”

Your forehead rests against your clasped hands where you kneel beside your bed, speaking out loud as there was no one else to speak to. Your parents had gone on a trip for two weeks, leaving you in charge of the farmhouse all by your lonesome.

Isolated didn’t feel like the correct term. You were grateful, happy to live off the fat of your father’s land in the middle of nowhere, but sometimes you wished you had someone to share it with. Someone your own age who was there to see you. You had become the perfect host, thrilled when your parents would bring home guests once in a blue moon. You’d tie ribbons in your hair and pick the perfect dress and set the table like your mother taught you. You often imagined setting the table for a family of your own.

Your own farm house. The thought sent you off to sleep each night, walking through the home in your mind as if it were really real, feeling the creaking of the painted wooden porch beneath your feet as you enter, the distant cooing of your baby being comforted by your husband in the next room. White shabby-chic panels across the walls with oak furniture and knitted throw pillows and lots and lots of warm light. The kitchen table would have the perfect lace floral embroidered table cloth draped across it which you’d serve the heartiest dinners on each night. The babies room would be painted mint green, no— maybe pastel yellow, with handmade toys and a music box that played your song and oh, the master bedroom… where you and your husband rest your head would be flooded with natural light. A haven. All yours.

The details to the decoration often changed, new inspiration plucked from the papers that father would bring home and new favourite colours integrating themselves into your home plans but one thing remained the same each time. Your husband. He never had a face, but it wasn’t important. He was warm, strong without having to prove just how macho he was, kind— you could feel his love from the next room on. That was all you really wanted. You could forget the house, forget the land, live in a barn for all you care — you just wanted to experience a love like the ones in the fairytale books stacked high in your room.

It had been a week already of this routine you’d grown used to. You wake up, feed yourself and then the chickens, come inside, clean yourself and then the house, paint, crotchet or read — however the mood takes you, eat lunch, tend to the crops, brush the horses, maybe milk a cow, come inside and cook dinner, bathe, think about your dream husband and grind your wet messy cunt into a pillow, feel guilty, beg for forgiveness and then sleep. It was an easy life, and you couldn’t complain— but you couldn’t help feel the world had more to offer.

Your mother often told you that gifts from above come when you least expect it, you just had to keep your eyes open. You always wondered how one might find these gifts with no idea where to look.

Your gift arrived bright and early the next morning.

Well, not technically as early as it should have been, infact you probably nearly missed it. The roosters calls at 6AM each morning, but on that very day you had decided to sleep in. A few hours wouldn’t kill them, you think as you pull a plush white pillow to lay over your ear— it’s not like the chickens would starve.

At 11:45AM, you stumble bare foot onto the grass outside, setting out on your walk to the barn a little way up the land. Your pert nipples harden, awakened by the cool morning breeze as the thin white fabric of your nightdress blows in the wind. With the sunlight shining directly on it, it was sure to be totally and utterly see through— and you suppose that was one upside to living in the middle of nowhere, yards upon yards from civilisation. No one would see you. Sigh.

You feed the chickens, totally blind before it even occurs to you that anything might be astray. Infact, you don’t even seem to notice that the barn door was left ajar, as opposed to how you usually leave it bolted by a wooden slab to prevent the animals from wandering off or being massacred by foxes. You suppose that’s the price you pay for sleeping in, you live in dreamworld for the next few hours.

The Earth seems to stop turning for a moment when you see him.

You’re more curious than anything, wide eyed, holding your breath as to be totally silent despite having been humming and speaking to the chickens only a moment prior. You tiptoe through the hay, shards of straw sprouting between your painted toes and pin-needling your sole as you draw closer to the man. A fallen angel, your first thought.

He’s half curled up onto his side in the hay behind the stable for your white pony. He has thick-ish arms crossed over his chest, his hat laying over his face seeming to be serving as a purpose to block out the light. You figure as you hadn’t woken up him before, a closer inspection couldn’t hurt. Unhurriedly, you sink down into a squat beside him, knees pointed upwards and feet taking your balance. A real man, in your barn? It couldn’t be. You chew on your bottom lip, goggle-eyed and inquisitive as you cautiously lift the hat away from his face.

He doesn’t wake and you’re for some reason thankful. It gives you time to observe him, the breath all but knocked from your body as you take in just how beautiful he is. He was perfect, and just like what you were hoping for when you wished to be delivered a husband.

Dark eyelashes kissing at the rim of his closed eyes, pale lips and freckles, sunkissed across his nose. Your eyes trail over and across him, now with his face in mind taking in account what he looks like as a whole. You were still in disbelief, a real man sleeping in your barn. But then again, as your eyes skim lower and you notice the blood seeping through his shirt over his stomach — you wonder if he was sleeping. Surely he wasn’t dead? Only God could be so cruel to deliver you the perfect man without a pulse.

So, you press two cold fingers to his neck, searching for the rhythmic beats signifying life. As soon as you do so, the man jolts awake — wide brown eyes meeting yours.

“Jesus.”

This is where the stare off commences— you were sat in a squat giving him a straight shot up your night dress with dome like eyes and parted lips, observing him like he was some sort of alien life form that had happened upon your barn infront of your very eyes. Your chest rises and falls, and his gender fails to betray him as his eyes fall there for a moment, subconsciously noticing the way your bare tits strain against the thin fabric with each exhale. Somewhere in the back of his mind he can’t help but acknowledge that you’re a pretty thing, totally his type. In any other scenario, he might’ve seen you at a local tavern and introduced himself, getting you tipsy and loose, making you giggle beneath his soft gaze and coarse hands in some dimly lit booth before realising he’s far too respectful to take advantage of you like that.

With his eyes open, the picture is complete — and he truly is as beautiful as you thought. He had a puppy like quality to his eyes, they were big and brown but from the sunlight streaming in you could see specks of orange which intrigues you. You wish to look closer, but you feel it’s not the time. His adam’s apple bobs with a thick swallow and he tears his eyes away from yours to look around, still disorientated from sleep. He touches his wound with gentle fingers and he winces, going to push himself up on his elbows.

You open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it, warm deep voice raspy from rest as he dives into a sequence of begging.

“Does anyone know I’m in here?”

“No, I—”

“Okay, that’s— okay, please — hey, please don’t tell anyone. I won’t lie to you, I’m in a little bit of trouble with the law, nothing super bad I swear just — I needed somewhere safe to sleep so I ended up here. Didn’t take anything and uh— and I’ll be out of your hair now that I’m up.” He rambles, continually glancing at the barn doors, expecting Sheriff Shoupe to bust them down and take him in at any moments notice. You say nothing for a moment and he pushes himself to his feet, eyes squeezing shut at the soreness of his injury. “Think it’s easiest if I just—”

He cuts himself off this time, because you slip your hand into his— stopping him from going anywhere. His eyebrows jump up and he freezes on the spot, staring down at your doe eyes with a wide and confused gaze of his own.

“…Hi?”

“You just got here? Why’d you have to go?” You sound sad, and he actually can’t believe what he’s hearing. Not only did he break into your barn, on private land — but he’d totally overstayed his non-existent welcome, and now you didn’t want him to leave?

“P—pardon me? Ma’am?” He tries to be respectful, when what he really wants to ask is along the lines of ‘What the fuck?’.

You scramble to stand up and he helps you using the hand that you’re grasping. “Well, you won’t get far with a wound like that. It could get infected. Maybe you could come inside, let me dress it. You can refuel… maybe stay a few days?” The last part sounds wrong coming from your mouth. He’s a stranger for goodness sake— everything your parents had taught you about safety went against this and plus you were practically begging. You might have been embarrassed, if there wasn’t such a nagging feeling in your stomach telling you that this was meant to be.

He scoffs out a chuckle, because he thinks there’s no way you’re serious— but when he sees your wide eyes bouncing between his own, searching for something he couldn’t quite put a finger on— he realises you’re being completely genuine and his expression melts into a more worried gaze, shuffling a little closer on his feet.

“Look, I really appreciate your hospitality, but you have done more than enough, really. Just the fact you didn’t have the sheriff busting in to drag me away is something I will be very grateful for. Believe me. But I can’t drag you into this. Anyway, don’t you have family? That you live with?”

You sigh, looking down at your intertwined hands that you had yet to release, staring as if you were trying to memorise the feeling of a man’s touch incase you really couldn’t convince him to stay.

“Well yes, but they’re on a trip you see — and they’re going to be away for another week and I’m not sure how much more I can take. I’m awfully lonely, and I know you’re a stranger and all but I could really use the extra set of hands… plus it’s the least you could do… for breaking in…” You feel you’re pushing it with that last part, but decide to proceed with it anyway, any means necessary to get him to stay. He bites his bottom lip in thought as you stare up through your lashes and he thinks screw it. He’s sure you’re not setting him up, a little thing like you would be far too weak to pull that off.

“Okay, I… don’t see why not then.” He doesn’t sound certain, but you make such a good offer he’d be a fool not to accept. He bends down and swoops his hat off the floor, holding it to his chest and you take his hand once more, guiding him out of the barn.

He presses his lips together in an awkward smile at the way you confidently lead him, almost having to break into a jog to match your eager pace. Once nearing the house, you tell him your name and he nods — taking in the scenery.

You’re sitting him down in the living room before he can blink, and he takes in the setting around him. A real cozy place, a family home for sure — with a pale blue couch, a scratchy patchwork blanket draped over the back and floral cushions. There’s photos of you in multiple spots around the room, an only child — he gathers. The main photo sits on the mantelpiece, framed, a set of parents curtaining your smiling face in the image. You seem to be a few years younger, fuller in the face, still cute as a button.

He doesn’t quite realise you’d gone anywhere until you’re returning — the contents of an old first aid box rumbling in your grip. You give him a reassuring smile and lower to kneel by his feet, opening up the container and fishing around for some cotton pads.

“Do you have a name, mister?”

He clears his throat, trying to gage your reaction once he speaks, attempting to work out if the name rings any bells. “Uh, yeah. John B. John B. Routledge. You might’ve… actually heard of me. If you have, uh— I’m sorry.”

You don’t seem to react in any kind of alarming way, a smile grazing your face as you pour rubbing alcohol onto a soft white pad.

“Heard of you how? Are you famous?”

“…You’ve never seen those big ‘Wanted’ posters up in town? Kinda got my picture up on one of them.”

You peel up his shirt revealing tanned, toned skin and a wound that had crusted over with blood. You press the pad to it and he winces, knuckles turning white in his lap and head lulling back against the seat for a moment.

“Sorry.” You furrow your brows apologetically before continuing to mop up all the dried blood. “Oh, and I’m not allowed up in town. Not by myself anyway. So, I don’t keep up to date with all that… stuff.” You pull away, rifling through the box for another clean pad. He nods, eyes jumping to look at his wound and then back to you, watching your face for any discomfort regarding his presence. Oddly, there was none. If it wasn’t clear before, it’s wildly apparent now that you’ve truly been sheltered your whole life. There was this innocence you carried that was hard to come by, a lack of judgement that was sweet but made him worry for you slightly. You were lucky he had a good heart.

“That’s… probably for the best, actually. You know, they like to tell lies. I’m being falsely accused.” He speaks a little slower, and enunciates the last part as if you might not understand, and as expected— you hang onto every word, lips a little parted and wide eyed. It’s pretty cute, albeit inappropriate considering he’s a stranger.

As he speaks, you wrap his wound, pressing the sticky part down onto his skin before gently pressing the cotton covering his injury. “Well I’m really sorry about that John B. You don’t have to worry about that anymore.” You chirp, before leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss over the dressing, pulling back to offer him a sweet smile. The lines on John B’s forehead smooth out, his concerned expression melting into his own gentle smile of disbelief.

He wonders what the odds are that he’d stumbled upon a real life angel. Well, it was that — or you wanted to chop his body into tiny pieces whilst he slept and add it to your cauldron. He couldn’t quite figure it out yet, but you were pretty — and he was a total loverboy, so stupidly he was willing to take that risk.

He pulls his shirt back down over his now dressed wound and you begin to clear your things back into the first aid box.

“Is there anything I can do for you? Like, anything you need help with around here?” He offers and you look up at him, brows furrowing with adoration.

“Goodness, no— I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“Said you needed an extra pair of hands earlier.” He challenges with a smile.

“I only said that to get you to come inside. With your injury, I couldn’t possibly put you to work.”

He scrunches his face a little with a half scoff, half smile and shrugs one shoulder. “Please, this thing? It barely even stings. Come oooon.” He croons with a smirk, and you really feel the full effects of his charm now— the warm timbre of his voice headed straight to your clit giving it a heartbeat of its own.

“Fine.” It comes out airy with a giddy smile and you take his hand yet again, almost getting distracted by the coarseness against your palm, the sight of bulging veins along the backs of them.

Your bare feet are treading lightly over soft wood chip once more as you lead him toward the destroyed fence round the left side perimeter of the farm.

“So… I suppose you could carry all the planks back from the fence that fell down in that awful storm last week. I was gonna wait for my daddy to get home to get him to do it ‘cus I’m much too weak for something like that.” You point, and John B’s brown fluffy head follows your finger to the destination at hand. He nods, a doable task.

“Well a girl like you shouldn’t be lifting a finger anyway.” He turns his head back to face you with a smile, eyes squinted in the sun. He looks radiant, no sign of pain anymore and you look down at your night gown, scrunching it in your clammy hands with an uncontrollable grin at the floor, harbouring such an innocent crush on the boy already that you didn’t know what to do with yourself.

His gaze stays on you for a tick whilst you step quietly and he speaks up again, tilting his head a little inquisitively. “I really, really hope this doesn’t sound rude… ‘cus I don’t mean to be. But… are you not… married?” He trails off, thinking of all the times he’s been walloped round the head in taverns for asking questions of a similar nature. Your smile doesn’t go away, your gentle nature not retiring for a moment.

“Oh no, no. I don’t meet boys often. Thats why I’m happy you came!” You chirp, hand reaching out to softly squeeze his arm. “Can be like husband and wife whilst you stay round.”

He just laughs in response. Not necessarily in a mean way, but the same way you laugh when a child tells you they’re going to be an astronaut when they grow up.

The brutal beating of the sun does nothing to stop the honest work you’d put the self proclaimed outlaw up to, he seems to be deep in thought often — carrying the planks to and fro. You slip inside for a while to change into something more appropriate, a sweet and floral sundress that ties up at the straps and hugs you in a more womanly way. You’d rubbed your lips together as you fixed your hair in the mirror before bringing him a sandwich in the early afternoon. “You are adorable.” He grins when you do so, and it wasn’t quite the reaction you’d hoped for on your dress but it still made you warm in the face. He simply brought out a true primal bodily reaction from you— that’s why you’d skipped the panties under your dress. He was making you excited and slippery down there and you just didn’t see the point. You stay out for hours at a time to chat with him. Your affections grow.

John B. Routledge finally returns back to the house when he’s all finished and you let him lay down for a nap on your couch, finally getting some real rest in. Whilst he does so, you spend hours preparing a hearty meal — the type you reserve for when mama and papa have guests round. As the pie browns off just a moment longer in the oven, you come to the man’s side, kneeling beside him and stroking his fluffy hair back.

“I made dinner. Sure you’re really hungry.” You whisper and his eyes flutter once more, the arms that were crossed over his chest stretching out as he wakes. You sit back to give him space, and when he opens his eyes you’re there with a smile — the orange beam of sunset haloing your head. Something about an angel drafts through his mind once more and he stretches.

“Oh boy, I slept longer than I was meant to huh?” He sits up and you shrug, leading him through to the kitchen where you’d laid the round table. Steaming seasoned vegetables in a bowl, freshly picked by you. Warm bread, baked and scored by you with flowers the centrepiece of the table. A jug of gravy there too. There’s a tray of mashed potatoes waiting, creamy and delicious looking. Routledges stomach audibly growls and he chuckles at this as he sits down, taking in the scenery you’d laid out. “You… have spoiled me. All this for someone who breaks into your barn?” He chuckles as he lowers himself into the seat.

You follow him round the table with a giddy smile. “Told you I like havin’ guests.” You perch your bottom on his leg, an arm wrapped around his neck as your feet swing. It felt right. You’d always wanted to sit with a man this way, you’d seen it before in the picture shows. Man and wife, domestic bliss. His brows jump up and he clears his throat awkwardly.

“Oh… sweetheart, you shouldn’t do that. I am a— a stranger, after all.” He tries to do the responsible thing, even though there was something about your innocent brashness that was turning him on beyond belief. Your eyebrows knit in the centre, a line between them and your bottom lip seems to have doubled in size from how it pushes out.

“But I like you?” You mewl, rejected. It all seems so simple to you, which is probably feels super unfair. No one had taught you how to address men because you were so sheltered, and now it was giving you all of these complicated feelings that John B would have to deal with.

“And I like you — a whole bunch. You know I’m super grateful for you taking me in and… all that good stuff. But sitting right here is gonna… make me excited. Because I’m a guy. Go ahead and hop off for me.” He taps your lower back gently and you huff, feeling upset and rejected about the whole thing. His eyes are all wide and hopeful as he stares at you, like he wanted to make sure you were okay. The way he handles you so sweetly made your stomach stir despite your current mope.

You drag your feet to the oven comically and he stifles a chuckle at how dramatic you were, despite his sympathy. You place your hands into oven gloves and take out the pie— perfect and golden. You walk it to the table and John B sits up a little straighter, eyes darting between you and the food.

“Did this all by yourself? You have got a real knack for cooking. Should put you on the TV.” He grins, switching on the charm to attempt to loosen up your silent sulk. You nod, eyes casted down childishly and he reaches out to touch your arm. “Thank you, pretty girl.”

A small smile slips out, and he flickers his eyes over to the heart shape you’d scored onto the pie, his own lips twitching up into a smirk. “That for me?”

“Maybe.”

“Hmm.”

You end up giggling, his smile too infectious and your bad moment is all forgotten as you serve him a slice, plating up for him and then yourself before you eat. John B digs in ravenously, it’s almost erotic — the way he’s groaning at how good it all tastes, gravy dripping from his lips as he licks more off his fingers. He was clearly less proper-mannered than you, but you liked that. Table manners were for boring old people anyway. Maybe everything about him got you going, but you had to really concentrate on getting some food inside you instead of just watching the show of eating he was putting on.

Once you’re finished, and he’s finishing up on his third helping — you let your giggles die down from the wild goose chase story he relayed for you, one where he of course wound up the hero which only made your heart beat harder for him. Your socked foot begins to prod at his ankle, sliding up his leg until it rests in his lap. He doesn’t seem to mind, the food having lowered his guard just that bit as he leans back in his chair, undoing his belt. He adjusts his hips on the seat as he does so and your thighs clench.

“So what did you think?” You ask, though you think it’s clear that he liked the meal from the empty plates and unbuckled belt. He lets out a long satisfied sigh, gazing at you for a moment with a kind smile.

“I think, whoever gets to marry you is a lucky son of a bitch.” He presses his lips together, almost like he was disappointed about the idea of you with another. You blink, the hands resting beneath your chin dreamily slowly falling to play with eachother on the table.

“Why not you, John B?” You question sadly, giving him those eyes again. The ones that tug on his heart and made him wanna give you everything and anything you ask for. He lifts a napkin, bringing it to his mouth as he shakes his head dismissively, closing his eyes with a frown.

“Mm—mm.” The tissue fabric muffles the sound. “You don’t wanna marry me, believe me — okay, I’m an outlaw. Your parents would never in a billion years accept me. Anyway you… you deserve someone less rough and tumble, you know? Like a prince from a storybook. A bubblewrap life. Not… whatever this is.” He gestures to himself, more so the browned blood stain on his shirt.

You sigh, determined. “My parents would understand. They’re — they’re generous people.”

“Really? ‘Cus they don’t even let you leave the house.” He quips quickly in response, smirking at your naivety and you fall silent for a moment. His face flattens just a tad from guilt. You were far too soft for that kind of tone.

When you look up at him again, your face is more solemn — wide eyes searching his for a shred of understanding. “You don’t understand, John B. There are actual scary, dangerous men out there that would take me and do terrible things to me.”

The outlaw leans his elbows on the table, his lips stretched into an amused smile at the irony. There wasn’t an inkling of threat about the gesture, pure amusement coursing through the energy between you from his side alone. “And how do you know I’m not one of those scary, dangerous men. Hm?” His voice is warm, it seems to rumble straight from his chest. You release a shaky sigh.

“Well you haven’t hurt me yet?” Your voice lilts out, and you engage in a long stare off. There’s a different kind of tension in the air now, it’s hot and feels heavy on you. It oozes into the nooks and crannies of your balmy skin and slithers between your thighs. You can’t take the heat and you stand, beginning to bring his dishes to the sink to wash. It’s quiet for a while, John B watching you with this thoughtful and almost knowing smile as you tidy up around him. Even he couldn’t run from how good ‘domestic bliss’ felt.

You let yourself indulge in the fantasy too. Wife cleans up, husband sits behind at the table and sips at the drink she poured him. You wanted nothing more than to experience this everyday, and your heart sinks sadly at the fact that this will probably be the last. You lose yourself to thoughts and daydreams as you scrub away, to the point you nearly don’t hear him stand up, slowly walking to lean against the sink beside you.

You smile at him politely as he eyes you, and return your gaze to the plate in your hand. You mustn’t dwell. He moves, and soon he’s behind you, a hand resting against the sink beside your hip, head craning round to look at you from the other side. “You’re really serious about this husband and wife thing, aren’t you?”

“Very serious, sir.” You bat your lashes at him earnestly and his cock stirs in his pants at the title, unexpected but not unwelcomed. Bless your heart, you were only being courteous. He presses his lips together in thought and the side of your face warms with his slow exhale. Turning your body, you face him fully now. “I just think it was divine intervention that you wound up in my barn. You’re like an angel sent to take away my loneliness.” You’re shy, a little bashful about your beliefs and without thinking he cups your cheek in reassurance, thumb swiping slowly over the skin.

His eyes take in your every detail, and your lips part with a wobbly breath, nervous. “May I kiss you, John B?” You address, just as his thumb strokes the delicate skin below your eye. He grins, slightly amused by your formality and simply nods his head.

You stand on tip toes to reach him, socked feet almost knocking at his boots as your body presses to his, lips meeting. You’re a little messy, inexperienced— which comes as no surprise to the boy as he tilts his head, welcoming your mouth at another angle and taking control in order to guide you. You’re mostly a quick learner, slowing your pace to something much more sultry and he nearly can’t contain his excitement. He wants to be a gentleman, but as soon as he introduces his tongue — you lose composure, needy and all but panting into his mouth right then and there in the kitchen. He pulls away and breaks the string of saliva that connects your lips with his thumb, stroking it over your moist bottom lip as you stare at him readily.

He tilts his head, eyes wide and almost innocent as he gestures away. “You… want me to show you what husbands do with their wives?”

You nod so hard your eyes nearly roll back like one of those baby-dolls.

John B is the one to take your hand this time, leading you slowly and carefully through the house. You partially think he’s giving himself time to rethink what he’s about to do, but from the way your pussy is drooling into your panties — it feels set in stone. He finally reaches your bedroom and you watch his head move left and right as he takes it in, cheek lifting with a smile at the China dolls on the wall and the frilly white bedsheets. It’s clear your room hasn’t changed since you were a little girl. The sun is just starting to disappear behind your lace curtains and he switches on the lamp, sitting you down.

The man joins you, easing himself down at your side and cupping your cheek as he begins to kiss you again. He takes it slow, but the passion and need only grows as the splayed hand on your back begins to slide upwards until its cupping the back of your head and he’s beginning to slowly lower you to lie down like you’re made of glass.

Naturally you shuffle up the bed and he follows, hovering over you and leading with his tongue this time — the wet muscles wrapping around eachother languidly making you moan, legs falling wider apart.

“I wanna make you feel really good, okay? That okay with you?” He asks gently and you nod, sucking in a breath. You’d waited for something like this since you knew what pleasure was, craved the touch of a man with strong coarse hands and a wet mouth. Routledges thumbs swipe across your tits through your dress, massaging them until your nipples were poking painfully through the fabric as he burrows into your neck, licking and sucking.

Your whole body feels like it’s on fire as he tugs gently at your dress, eyes meeting yours once more.

“Let’s get this off, yeah?”

He tugs the garment up and over, puffing out his cheeks as he blows air out his mouth, brows raised at the sight of your naked body. You look so soft, so pliable beneath him. He was already hard just from kissing you, but this made him feel like he might combust. “Took your underwear off?” He smirks, pressing kisses to your stomach and between your tits before bringing his face up to eye level with you, same kind but teasing smile on his face. “Have you been needing me aaall day? Hm?”

You turn your head to the side, flustered and clammy with a whine— eyes screwed shut. He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Oh, now you’re shy?”

“No, s’just — when you speak like that— n’say stuff like that… makes me hurt…” You’re breathless, hips twitching and bucking slightly as he grins, pearly whites showing.

“Aw.” Is all he manages before continuing his descent down.

He’s a real tease, spending an ungodly amount of time on your tits— sucking, licking and biting your nipples until you’re arched off the bed, teary eyed and wincing from sensitivity. It’s then, and only then he starts to kiss lower, pushing himself down your pristine sheets until he’s settling between your legs, gently easing your ankles upwards so that your knees faced the sky, your cunt fluttering and open right infront of his face.

“Well she’s very pretty.” He smiles up at you, thumbs coming up to spread you. He leans in slowly, hot breath fanning over your heat before he simply presses the softest kiss to your clit. He draws back again as you whimper, running the pads of his thumbs up along your spread folds. “Hear that? So wet, pretty girl.” He marvels in a whisper.

“Just want you to make it better.” You mewl and he nods slowly in understanding, tongue swiping over his lips as he observes you.

“That I can definitely do.” He confirms before leaning in, licking and sucking at your clit as his thumb automatically rolls downwards to massage your hole. You gasp, knees shooting up towards your chest as he eats you, similarly to the pure fervour and passion he only recently devoured the meal you cooked for him. You wondered how any appetite remained.

When he sinks his middle finger inside you, your stomach tenses — a high pitched noise of relief and utter devastation leaving you. You had no idea how badly you’d craved fullness to this very moment, and you weren’t even halfway there. He’s smiling against you, glancing up as you flutter around his single digit and make plenty of noise for him. “Yeah? Think you’ve really been needing some of that, little girl.” He nearly laughs at your extreme reaction. He had to admit, it was fun doing this with someone so inexperienced. Everything to you seemed like the best thing ever.

He eats and eats away, proving himself to have quite the monstrous appetite for your slick . Your feet rest on his shoulders at one point, lost in pleasure as you whine and writhe and to keep you out of the way, the outlaw pushes your legs up and pins them there, nose deep in your gloss.

“Feels too good— feels— hurts!” You cry, because you don’t know how to put that you’re simply aching to cum.

“Doesn’t hurt, sweet girl. Just let it happen.” He corrects in that low reverberation that you’ve grown to love. After a series of ‘Uh’ and ‘Mm’s, you feel yourself hitting that peak — the one you usually reach all over the soft cotton of your pillow, but ten times the strength.

As soon as he senses this happening, he doubles down and continues repeating the same action with his mouth over and over until you’re squealing and pushing him away, curling into a ball as your completion dribbles out of your quivering hole.

He grins, real proud of himself as he pushes up on his hands to near you, gently shushing you the same way you would to soothe a baby to sleep. “I know, that was a lot huh?” He coo’s, rubbing your back with his warm hand as you suffer the aftershocks, clenching and whimpering, a smaller clammy hand reaching out to his shirt to grab a fist of it.

He forces you softly onto your back, stroking a hand over your warm forehead. For someone so convinced the two of you shouldn’t be together, he sure did look at you like you were his entire world. By the gaze shared, you would never know the two of you only met that morning.

“What now, hm?” He smiles, quiet. You open your mouth to speak, and your voice rasps from the loud and explosive release that had you calling out.

“Wanna… make you feel as good as you made me feel, John B.”

He licks his lips, thinking over it. If it wasn’t already clear, his dick was throbbing in his pants just from pleasing you— and had you wanted to end things there he would be sure to take a trip to the bathroom to finish in his hand. Maybe swipe a pair of your underwear from the basin for inspiration, but that made his stomach tense with guilt.

“Think I can manage that, yeah.” He nods before reaching slowly for his belt. “Sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Good, good.”

His belt is still undone from after dinner so he slides the snakey leather from its loops with one hand, the act more attractive than you anticipated which made you clench once more with need. He sits on the edge of the bed and you usher up beside him, pressing your naked body to him and ghosting your drooly lips over his jaw line as he sighs, working his length out of his pants.

“Oh my.” You breathe, as soon as you look down. Now you hadn’t had much experience in dealing with the male anatomy, clearly — but you knew for certain John B had to be miles larger than the average man. His cock stood tall, straight — slightly mauve towards the tip with a beautiful blue vein drifting down his shaft like a river on a mountain. His balls sat beneath, heavy and pink — inviting in a way that made your mouth water primally.

“Yeah? This is… what m’working with.” He chuckles, sounding a little nervous.

“How do I…” You mutter after a moment and he’s quick to take your hand, pressing your fingers so that it forms a cup and bringing it to your mouth.

“You wanna spit for me, pretty? Right here.” He encourages and whilst you don’t understand, you do as he wishes, letting a bubbly glob of saliva drool out into the cupped crevice of your hand. You look up at him with wide unsure eyes, searching for praise or reassurance that you’d done as he asked. He presses his lips together at the sweet and submissive expression, shifting his hips a tad in excitement. “Mm, fuck.” He punctuates with an airy chuckle, ticking his head in a single shake.

He brings your hand down and begins to smear it all over himself, releasing a shaky exhale as he does so. “So, uh… you’re gonna wanna move your hand. Just like this.” He sighs as he works your hand up and down his shaft, slowly jerking him off. Your eyes flicker between his face and pretty dick to make sure you were doing it right. As you do so, he presses a lingering kiss to your lips, muttering a “So sweet, bubba.” Against your mouth.

This only encourages you to gain confidence, doing whatever feels right. You twist your hand— squeezing just a tad harder towards the tip as that seemed to be what made him release that heavenly groan, jaw constantly agape as he watches your hand.

“Theeere you go sweetheart. Easy right? Like milking a cow.” He kisses your temple briskly once more before his eyes screw shut, chest heaving with quicker breaths. You get carried away, fascinated by the pearly precum that seeps from his slit as you work him with your hand and following your own judgment you lean down. You figure if he used his mouth on you, you could return the favour.

His eyes open with a loud shudder when you tentatively wrap your plush lips around his tip, working your hand up and down to try and squeeze more of the interesting salty flavour from him. You let out a long drawn out moan of your own as you feel your clit throbbing with desire, liberating his precum from your mouth to let it dribble back down his shaft in messy bubbles.

He winces, placing a hand on your shoulder and removing you with such an abrupt speed that you nearly flew off the side of the bed. You sit up straight, slick mouth pouting as your eyes flicker between his, worrying that you’d done something wrong. There’s a second of just looking at eachother, before you stumble over some words.

“S—Sorry. Did I hurt—”

“No, no God no. I uh— I just wasn’t sure if I should make a mess all over that pretty face just yet.” His wide eyed expression melts into a reassuring smile, thumb rising to swipe lovingly at your cheek. You lick your lips, savouring the taste of him and nod — not quite sure where to go from there.

Your silence makes him question, and he eyes you. “Is there… anything in particular you want now?”

You think, blinking your doll-like eyelashes off into the distance before nodding once more— pushing off away from him and scurrying to the head of the bed where you lay yourself gently on the pillows.

“Hm?” He follows up in confusion, craning his neck round to watch you.

“Would… like a baby now, please.” You spread your legs a little, shy and bashful in your request like you wasn’t sure if you’d asked impolitely. His face falls as he stares at you for a moment before closing his eyes, rubbing over his face with an exasperated chuckle, elbows on his knees.

As you stare at him with with an upset little pout, already ashamed by your forwardness. “Like husband and wife?” You try to justify and he sighs out his nose, turning his body fully to you.

“Oh sweet girl.” He tugs you gently lower toward him by your hips, rubbing his thumbs at your waist. “We just met.”

You launch into full fledged begging, whiny and high pitched with tears threatening to dive over their trough. “I’ll make you so happy John B, I’ll make all your problems go away and you won’t have to run anymore. Please?” You were deadset on this man giving you your dream life, and you’d officially pushed shame to the side in order to get this. His brow is permanently creased, staring with those big wide puppy dog eyes, continually stroking your skin in hopes to calm you.

“Are you… sure that’s what you want? You’re still young. So much time for all that.”

“Just want it now. I’d never be lonely again.” You sound defeated, staring down away from him now. He felt bad, he’d always hated disappointing people. Once upon a time he was a fixer, always running to his friends aid to make their problems go away. That urge never died, just burned low and quiet like an old candle flame. He wanted to make your problems go away too.

“Okay.” He presses his lips together. “I’ll give you what you want, sweetheart.”

He watches your devastated expression lift into a radiant grin, and it was like watching the sun appear from behind a grey cloud after weeks of downcast weather. “Yeah?” You chirp toothily as he crawls over you, leaking tip grazing your tummy and then your folds as he buries his face into your neck.

“Uh-huh.”

When he pushes his tip inside, John B says a prayer for the first time in his life.

He’d never really followed any religion. His father had been the type to say it was all a bunch of ‘Mumbo jumbo’ and that he should believe in the human psyche instead, or something like that. But as your wet folds swallow him and you release that high pitched mewl at the inevitable stretch — he finds himself asking God — please, please don’t let me knock this young girl up.

There’s a warm blanket of chills that cover his spine as he slowly sheathes inside of you, feeling like he was pushing deeper and deeper into a black hole that would selfishly keep sucking him inside for the rest of his life. It felt too good, calming — like falling asleep. He was euphoric.

“So — so big inside me!” Your cry knocks him out of his thoughts and he kisses your shoulder before looking down to watch himself push in all the way to the hilt.

“Feel okay, gorgeous?”

You nod, a pained whine falling from you as you dig your nails into his skin, walls fluttering around him like they were constantly trying to accommodate for this thickness. “Fuck.” He groans, before sliding back a little and starting to thrust. Yeah, he wasn’t gonna last too long— he needed to get to work on you fast.

As he gently fucks into you, your plush tits recoil with the movement and he can’t close his mouth, sounds and sighs leaving him without permission. A hand slides between the two of you, the other pulling his shirt up to grip between his teeth— giving himself a better view of the way he strokes at your clit — your legs being spread exposing it, making it easier for him.

You clench, and shudder — that sweet face contorting with each time his tip ever so slightly grazes your cervix, careful not to bruise it. You really were beautiful, that type of homely beauty he’d thought of marrying in his lonely nights of travelling through desert and grass. The type of girl you work for, the type that deserves spoiling, princess treatment. The more he fucks, the more he’s convincing himself that impregnating you might not be the most awful thing after all. Why should he chase away security?

Your fingertips grace his chest, and he takes your hand — pinning it to the bed as your fingers intertwine, using the grip to aid his rolling thrusts— speeding up the pace and force now he knew you could take it like a champ. His mouth opens to speak, and his shirt drops out of it.

“Taking me real good baby. You like getting fucked, don’t you?” He coo’s and you can only nod, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes before rolling down to your temples. Poor thing, lost for words.

There’s a wet slapping sound with each thrust, your cunt equally gushing as it was thirsty — hungrily welcoming each inch of his, and even demanding more by locking your ankles around his lower back. Perhaps you did it for comfort, or perhaps because you suspected a hesitance, the threat of him pulling out last minute too much for your baby-crazed brain.

“Jesus. Sweet little puppy.” He breathes like it’s a revelation beneath your ear, the curly tuft of hair above his shaft tickling you as he continues to rub your clit.

“S’gonna happen again, John B. The big feeling.” You strain, eyes clamped shut and sniffling— too overwhelmed by your impending orgasm. He kisses each eye lid and watches you closely, experiencing you unfold once more.

“Thats my good girl. Let me have it, pup. Gimme a good one.”

You’re an explosion of whimpers and moans, thrashing under his firm grip once more— and he’s not sure when your orgasm ends, if it even ends at all— he doesn’t care, the release pushing him close to his own. He speeds up his pace, hand that was at your clit now wrapping around your lower back, forearm pushing your lower half up and against him, forcing you to just keep taking him.

He was like a beast from a fairytale book, fucking wildly into you with a primal determination that had you struggling to breathe. You’re crying now, full out crying because it’s just so much. There’s still one last thing you require, and only he can give you it.

“You wanna make me daddy, huh?” He demands, that gentleness in his voice gone. It’s nearly unrecognisable from him, and you preen beneath the rough touch.

“Mhm!”

“Words.” He barks. He didn’t mean to be mean, he just got a little bossy when he was close. You’d come to learn that.

“Please give me a baby. Please just — make you a daddy! Need it!” You’re squealing, voice shaking from the hard ‘plap plap plap’ of his balls slapping against you. You feel you might pass out if this goes on much longer.

He releases with a long groan, lips dropping to the centre of your chest and back arching upwards. You register his sounds before you feel it, hot slimy ropes of him— shooting up inside you, warming your walls. You moan too, because it feels so good to be full. It feels right, like this was what had been missing after all.

Everything is a blur for the next few minutes. It’s like you black out a little, because maybe you forgot to be breathing like you should have been. You briefly recall John B scooping you up and helping you through that, ignoring the gooey seed dripping from you to cradle you like a baby, humming a calm “Breathe, sweetheart. In and out. With me, c’mon.” Your gentle boy was back, and through your haze you smile.

Once you’re tucked at his side beneath a soft cotton blanket, his hand stroking over your head after cleaning you up, a whispered conversation ensues.

“Do you really like me John B? Like, you really think I’m beautiful?” You inquire, gazing up at him with stuck together black eyelashes. The question was so innocent, yet he could tell it was so meaningful.

His expression doesnt falter, a gentle smile sat comfortably on his lips as he continues to pet you. “Baby, I think you’re the ponds swan. Just… gotta get to know you a little better, okay? ‘Specially if I really did put a baby in you.” Only then his smile falters, brows knitting as the reality sets in. Oh Lord.

“Okay.” Your eyes flutter closed, happy to leave it at that, happy to fall asleep right by his side under his watchful eye. It was unnerving how safe a lonely girl could feel with a stranger.

“Okay. Good girl. It’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out.” He quietly reassures, watching you drift off. He’s not sure if he’s trying to dispel your fears, or his own.

[thedovesaredying]

Monsters in the Dark | Nikto x Reader | Part 3

Third chapter of the Cowboy!Nikto series. Nikto has some emotions and has no idea what they mean or how to deal with them. Original Cowboy concept based on the AU by @ghouljams

A/N: Finally got enough time to work on this chapter after weeks and weeks of hectic stress with work and university. Thank you to all of those still following along with the story, I'll hopefully have the next part out soon. Fun fact: The story of a horse getting hurt running into a fence because they were so excited to see someone is from one of the silly yearlings at uni lol.

Warnings: Minor medical proceedures, Nikto getting a little jealous.

Masterlist: CoD Masterlist

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Nikto can’t help wondering if there’s anything that can ruin your seemingly perpetual good mood. Even with your body dripping with sweat and elbow deep inside of a cow, you’re still somehow grinning brightly at the farmer standing beside you. Doing a part of your job that some would consider... unpleasant at best, you’re able to act as if it’s the most exciting thing you’ve ever done.  

One of the other farm hands, a man about your age, if a year or two older, is acting a little too interested in what you’re doing, however, and Nikto’s jaw is aching with how hard he’s grinding his teeth together. They make a soft groaning sound as they suffer under the pressure he’s subjecting them to, but unfortunately, it’s the only thing keeping him from snapping at “Darren” when the man crowds close to you with what he must think is a suave grin.  

“Alright, I can feel the cervix now,” you hum, and he can see the way your arm twists slightly within the animal, “it’s pretty easy to manoeuvre it around.” You frown to yourself, seemingly oblivious to the way that annoying brat leans a little closer, “the reproductive tract isn’t very heavy.” 

“And what’s that mean, darlin’?” Darren asks, and Nikto can’t decide what he hates more, the tone the other man is using to address you, or the way he thinks it’s okay to place a hand on your shoulder. The gelding underneath Nikto snorts, shifting uncertainly as he likely senses the tension brewing.  

“Oh,” you blink at Darren, as if only just noticing him for the first time, “normally you wouldn’t be able to move the cervix around so easily if she was carrying a calf, I’d be able to feel at least a little weight to it.” You reach a little further into the cow, taking a few moments longer before adding, “I can also feel the horns of her uterus, and there’s no fluid I can feel inside them.”  

Darren is nodding, but his gaze is far from focused on the animal or what you’re actually saying to him.  

You pull you hand slowly from the cow, removing the palpation glove and dropping it into the bin beside the cattle crush. “Looks like this girl’s open, I’m afraid,” you say, grabbing the can of cattle paint and spraying a bright green streak across the animal’s tail, “and that’s the last of the girls done.”  

Pulling the release lever, the heifer is let out of the crush and into the holding pen with the rest of the females you’ve checked for pregnancies. While most of them have little blue marks to indicate a successful insemination, a few of the younger ones weren’t lucky enough to take this time around.  

Darren looks as though he’s about to say something further (more than likely something stupid and obnoxious), but before he can do anything more than puff up his chest, Mr. Roberts is snapping at him.  

“Darren! Get your ass into the paddock, boy!” The old man has a scowl on his face that would have recruits shaking in their boots and a voice with a harsh snarl to it from years of smoking. “The hell do I bother paying you for?” he grumbles, watching as the younger man near enough trips over himself in his haste to get back to work.  

Nikto can’t help admiring the man for his no nonsense approach to his work. He’s friendly enough toward those who work for him, and when Nikto was looking for employment, took him on board with no questions asked. The elderly cowboy has made it clear that he could care less about where someone comes from, only that they can do an honest day’s hard work.  

“Well, thank you for giving us a hand with the ladies,” the old man’s tone softens drastically, and he offers you a firm handshake, “I know those big business farms have all that fancy new technology and blood tests to make checking for calves easier, but I much prefer the old method.”  

Although he would never admit it aloud, it’s rather… sweet, the way you beam at Mr. Roberts and nod along to his words. “Of course! A blood test would be useful for determining how long the baby’s been gestating for, but there’s nothing wrong with the palpation method to find out if they’re carrying anything.” 

Roberts seems pleased by your response, offering you an elusive smile, before giving you one final nod, “I’ll see you around town in a few days, and I’ll drop your payment off at the clinic.”  

There are a few final pleasantries exchanged, all of which Nikto ignores. He was supposed to be getting the horse tacked down and set out for the day. Getting distracted by you while doing your job was just an unfortunate happenstance. He urges the gelding onward with a gentle tap to the animal’s side, leaving you to the business of packing up all of your tools in peace.  

He dismounts once reaching the stable, giving the horse a firm pat on the shoulder before leading him into one of the nearest stalls. He can’t know for certain if anyone else will need Murphy before the end of the day, seeing as the horse belongs to Roberts, but the least he can do is ensure he’s comfortable until he’s turned out for the end of the day.  

While “Murphy” isn’t exactly a name that Nikto would have chosen for a horse, given it’s a little too human for his own tastes, apparently, the gelding was named after Murphy’s Law, seeing as the poor animal seems to constantly be getting into trouble. Anything that could possibly go wrong for him can and will. He’s only just recovered from a nasty gash he’d received to the front of his chest after getting a little too excited to see Nikto coming to greet him and crashing directly into a barbed wire fence.  

Nikto starts untacking Murphy, starting with the bridle and moving his way backwards. He gives the gelding a quick brushing down and picks out his hooves to ensure there’s no stones or injuries that’ve gone unnoticed. He leaves Murphy to his dinner while he works on cleaning off the bit of the bridle and applying oil where the leather has begun to dry out. It’s a difficult job with only one properly functioning arm, but he’s not about to ask for any assistance with such a mundane chore.  

When he gets back, however, he’s startled to find you standing there, stroking Murphy’s mane while the horse happily munches on a mouthful of hay. You’re cooing at the animal happily, giggling when Murphy starts trying to nibble at your shirt once running out of food.  

You turn and offer him a smile, face still a little warm from the sun outside and with several strands of your hair poking out in odd directions. He finds that the look suits you, oddly enough.  

It’s only when you call his name that he realises that you’ve been trying to speak to him and he’s just been there staring at your face like a complete idiot. He shifts his grip on the halter he’s holding and clears his throat. “What do you need?” He settles on eventually, deciding that’s the least offensive way of telling you he hasn’t heard a word spoken to him.  

Thankfully, you don’t seem to be too upset by it. “I was just asking how poor Murphy is doing, I know he had a nasty scratch recently,” you’re looking at Nikto, but your words are said in the same, high-pitched coo you tend to use whenever you’re talking to Sputnik, accompanied by a rather overdramatic frown.  

He rolls his eyes at you, but finds he isn’t entirely annoyed by the antics. “Fine. His wound has healed well,” he says while reaching over to try and guide Murphy’s head a little closer. He may not be a trained veterinarian, but Nikto has seen plenty enough injuries in his life to be able to tell when one isn’t healing well. Murphy, of course, decides not to cooperate, instead trying to press the side of his fluffy face up against you.  

Getting the halter over the horse’s head with one hand is rather awkward, especially with the way the animal insists on moving about. You reach out, and he’s about to snap at you for trying to do it for him. He’s had enough of people trying to treat him like an infant recently, as though he’s not a dangerous killer.  It was suffocating enough when it was hospital staff and physiotherapists, but even a civilian thinking he’s too incapable to perform such a simple task? 

But then, you simply grab the buckle in one hand and hold it in position for him to secure himself.  

It would be far faster and more efficient for you to take the halter and do it yourself, yet you stand patiently without comment, and wait as he pulls the strap over the horse’s head and fastens the catch in place. He’s not sure why the thought of you specifically treating him like a weak child had him prepared to lash out quite so aggressively, especially when he’s brushed off similar actions by other people with only a few choice words and a particularly icy glare.  

You return to eagerly cooing at the horse before he can force himself to offer any kind of thanks, and he quickly pushes down the uncomfortable tangle of emotions trying to crawl their way up from his stomach.  

“Are you finished for the day?” You ask after a few moments of silence. He gives you a nod and you’re quick to ask, “how’s your girl been holding up?”  

“Our girl?” he asks slowly, forehead scrunching up. Do you think he has a partner or some kind? Why would you think there’s a girl in his life? Has he done something to make you think he’s married or dating someone?  

“Sputnik,” you clarify, and his face must do something odd because you snort at his reaction. “Why, do you have another girl?” 

Nikto can’t help automatically scoffing at the question, shaking his head at the very thought, “нет, we have no one.” He sees your eyebrows raise slightly, as if surprised by that, but you quickly school your expression back into its normal, carefree smile.  

Your expression quickly turns into something playful, however, as you add, “really? A big, handsome man like you?” He’s not sure how genuine your teasing tone is, “surely you’ve got the ladies lining up.” You have this way of joking around with him and asking questions in a way that doesn’t make him want to immediately tell you to ‘fuck off’. It’s a strange feeling, and he’s not entirely sure he likes it.  

“You are just crazy,” he counters, going to cross his arms over his chest, only to realise he can’t and instead settling for just letting them rest in place. He sees your eyes travel down the length of his damaged arm, stopping at where it abruptly ends. You don't comment on it, however, and he’s annoyed by how glad he is that you don’t. You likely didn’t even notice his injury until now, given he’s been wearing his prosthetic covered by long-sleeved clothes and gloves every other time you’ve met.  

“Wow, so rude,” you grin, trying to playfully shove his shoulder, only to pout when he’s entirely unmoved by the action. He’s been called rude many times in his life, but this is the first time he’s ever found himself pleased to hear it from someone.  

The sound of the stable door opening has you pulling your attention away from him and toward Roberts, who has just entered. You give Murphy a quick pet to the side of the neck, and Nikto a final grin, offering up a brief, “I’ll see you around.” 

Roberts waves as you leave the stables, waiting for the large door to close before he turns to look at Nikto, one of his bushy eyebrows raised. “So, when’re you gonna marry that lovely girl?” The old man asks, leaning against the stall door with an upward twitch of his lips.  

Nikto near enough chokes on thin air, whirling around on the cowboy with a startled, “что?”  

The old man just sighs heavily, shaking his head, “just make sure you do it soon, yeah? We need another vet living out here on a permanent basis,” he ploughs on, “she already knows the area and she’s a lovely young lady.”  

As quickly as he arrived, Roberts wanders off again, heading back to work and leaving Nikto standing in the middle of the horse stall. He takes a long moment, just staring at where the old man had been a few moments ago while his brain slowly processes everything. Surely he wasn’t being serious, right?

-

Translations

“да,” - “Yes” 

"что?” - "What?"

[somedaylazysomeday]

Hooked

Billy Butcher x fem!reader

You're called to tow Butcher's truck. He's unsurprisingly offended by that. (Takes place before the pilot of The Boys)

Rating: Mature. Minors DNI

Word Count: 4,600

Warnings: Swearing, veiled threats, feelings of helplessness, mentions of alcohol, descriptions of injuries from a fight, insults, and frank discussions of sexuality. (Butcher is his own warning, tbh)

Next | Masterlist

---

When most people said they were on a run, it meant that they were getting some exercise. Or going to the store. Or maybe fleeing from enemies. 

For you, a ‘run’ meant that you were out to tow a car from an illegal space. Honestly, it felt like fleeing from enemies sometimes, but that was only because the customers of your Uncle Bo’s tow service and impound lot didn’t want his product. Like any customer service job, you had your share of unpleasant interactions. 

This particular one was an easy pickup. Some guy had parked on private property and the owners were having his car towed. Simple, quick, legal. Those were the best jobs, at least in your opinion. Bo tended to favor jobs where he could get a little extra for helping or inconveniencing the right people.

You didn’t need to pay attention to the familiar motions of placing the lift under the car’s front wheels. It was an older car with significant damage to the paint and body, so you didn’t have to worry that you and Bo would be sued for scratches or dents. In fact, there were good odds that the car had been abandoned on the property. 

Still, you kept an eye on the surrounding neighborhood as you worked. This wasn’t a good part of the city. Just because you could take care of yourself in a nasty situation didn’t mean you wanted to get in one. 

“Hold on, love,” an accented voice called. “That’s mine.”

You turned, already dreading the conversation. You had been helping your Uncle Bo long enough to not be cowed by many people, but that didn’t mean confrontations with angry vehicle owners were fun. 

Fortunately, this vehicle owner - dark-haired and wearing a long coat - didn’t seem to be angry… yet. He also didn’t seem to need any input from you to keep the conversation going. “I’ll need you to lower my car back down. I’m on official business. Agent Butcher, CIA.”

The skepticism was clear on your face, you were sure of it. “Do you have some kind of identification?” 

His eyebrows lifted, but not in disbelief. No, it was like he took your words as a challenge, one that he relished. He fished inside his black leather duster and retrieved a wallet. He flashed a shining badge at you, making sure you could see the identification card displayed in the opposite panel. “That all you needed?” 

“Yeah,” you agreed, climbing back into the bed of the truck you drove to pick up tows across the city. The parking brake was already locked, so engaging the lift mechanism only took the press of a few buttons. 

Your new friend was finally displeased. With a face like thunder, he stood outside of the truck and frowned up at your open window. You had already locked the doors, of course, but you were ready to start rolling up the window if needed. This wouldn’t be the first time you’d had a pickup get violent.

“Last chance, love,” he growled, accent thicker than ever. “Let me car down or I’ll have you charged with obstruction of justice and inconveniencing a federal officer.” 

That surprised a laugh out of you. The man looked equally surprised, though with a lot more displeasure than you felt. “It’s not a crime to inconvenience a federal officer.” 

“C’mon,” he urged, leaning heavily against the outside of your door. It was hard to claim that he was breaching your personal space through a truck door, especially when his expression changed to one of pleading. “Do me one favor. Just one.” 

“Fine,” you conceded with a sigh. The triumphant smile that flashed over his handsome face convinced you that you were doing the right thing. “Here’s your favor: get a new forger.” 

“Pardon?” he asked, frowning. 

“The CIA doesn’t carry badges,” you told him. 

He tilted his head at you, pulling out the wallet once more. He flipped it open to display the badge. “Hate to argue with a beautiful bird, but what would you call this?” 

“I would call that an FBI badge with ‘CIA’ written across the top.” You reached out through the window to tap on the identification badge with his face on it. “The CIA doesn’t carry badges to show the public. They just have these ID cards. Get a new forger or change your cover story.” 

You pulled your arm back into the truck for just long enough to retrieve a business card from the collection stored on top of the passenger sun visor. “Pick up your car here between six and ten pm, or anytime after nine tomorrow morning.” 

That face was darkening again, but you didn’t give him the chance to say more than a syllable or two before you were pulling away from the curb. His car on the back of the truck made it more difficult to weave through the heavy traffic of downtown, but you managed. You had been navigating these streets for most of your life. Nothing about this was any different than every other day. 

When you dropped the ragged car at the yard, Uncle Bo examined it with an expression of deep skepticism. “Tell me none’a those bumper scratches are from you.” 

You scoffed. “How long has it been since I scratched a bumper?” 

“Years,” Uncle Bo admitted readily. “You’re getting better.” 

“Admit it,” you jabbed, “you’re going to leave this business to me when you finally decide to retire.” 

Uncle Bo snorted loudly. “If you’re still around the tow yard when I decide to retire, sure. You’ll have earned it. But you better not hold your breath - I’ve got years of steam left in me.”

“I’ll remind you about that next time I catch you napping in the office.” You turned, patting him on the shoulder. “Speaking of, I’m going to go enter this in the books. The owner caught an attitude. We’ll probably hear from him again and I want to make sure all of our paperwork is in place.” 

“Good idea,” Uncle Bo agreed. “I’m heading out for the night, but I’ll have my phone if you need anything. And I don’t nap in the office. My poor old eyes need rest!”

You didn’t bother replying to the age-old argument. Bo was already gone, and you were working the late shift. The lot stayed open until ten most nights, and all of Bo’s other employees had the day off. All two of them. They were both mechanics, and since they had planned to service all of the company vehicles early the next morning, you were stuck at the yard alone that night. Bo would have to cover tomorrow night, his tired eyes be damned.

You weren’t proud to admit that you had zoned out while entering the crappy sedan’s information into the tow yard log. This wasn’t a bad job, but there had to be something more out there. Working a dead-end job at a towing company wasn’t how you wanted to spend your life. Maybe it was time to start job-hunting. Again. During a recession and a notable lack of jobs on the market. 

The groan you let out was slightly muffled when your forehead hit the log book. 

The rest of your shift was spent at the desk in the back room, scrolling through employment sites on your phone. Tragically, the shitty job market hadn’t improved in the week since you had last checked. It seemed like your options were to stay at the tow yard, work in another equally unfulfilling job, or go back to school and learn to do something useful. 

At two minutes past ten, you let your phone clatter loudly onto the table as you began to gather your things. You had chosen to wear a thicker jacket than normal that night. It wasn’t quite winter yet in the city, but it was close enough that the darker hours were unpleasantly chilly. The thick material was warm against your hand when you grabbed the jacket and started to put it on. 

And, of course, that was when the phone started to ring. 

You stared at it for a long moment, dismayed. It was almost five past ten by that point, which meant you were five minutes past any obligation to pick it up. But you couldn’t risk losing business for your uncle. And if he was happy with the work you had done, he would complain less when you left early the next day. 

Cursing your own work ethic, you picked up the phone. “Yeah?” 

“I’m here for my fuckin’ car.” 

You seriously debated hanging up immediately. It was close, but you managed to hold onto your temper. “We get a lot of that here. Wanna give me some details?” 

In a longsuffering tone, your charming caller gave you the license plate number. That information confirmed your suspicions: this was the same man whose car you had picked up earlier in the day. 

“I’ll meet you at the gate,” you told him. “Did you bring a form of payment to settle your bill?” 

“I’ve got your money,” he growled. 

“Great,” you said, then hung up. 

You were glowering as you stomped outside into the chilly night. Bo was going to have to pay your overtime. Family or not, you refused to work for free.

“Finally,” the man growled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Don’t wanna stand here all damn night.” 

You stopped, crossing your arms. “We’re closed.” 

“Now you tell me?” the man demanded. His accent was even thicker than it had been earlier, a rough British twang. His face was in shadows, but he was clearly irritated. “What the fuck are-?”

“I’ll help you get your car,” you interrupted tersely. “I’m just letting you know that I’m helping you when I don’t have to. Because I’m a great fucking person. You’re welcome. Now give me your ID and stop being an asshole or you can come back when we’re actually open.”

To your shock, he kept his mouth shut and held his ID out for you through the gaps in the chain-link fence. You took it, double checking the name against the one that the car had been registered to. An image labeled ‘Billy Butcher’ smirked up at you from the laminated card until you handed it back. 

“Give me your keys and the money. I’ll bring your car.”

Butcher huffed at that. “Not a chance. Let me in and I’ll get my own car.” 

“We’re closed,” you reminded, putting your hands on your hips. “I’m not letting you into the yard when I’m the only one here.” 

“Fine,” he gritted out, offering a wad of cash. A moment later, a set of keys was also slipped through the fence, dangling from his fingers. 

You frowned as you took the money and keys. Were his hands dirty? They looked dark around the knuckles… Quickly, you peeled off the correct number of bills and handed the rest back to him.

“Not taking a tip?” he asked, cocking a dark brow at you.

“I don’t need to steal your money.” With willpower, you managed to keep back a comment about how seeing idiots like him getting their cars towed was payment enough. 

“Be careful with her,” Butcher warned. “She’s temperamental.”

He stepped closer to the fence as he cautioned you, and you fought back a gasp. Butcher looked like he had gotten in a few fights in the few hours since you had picked up his car. One of his eyes was black, his lip was split, and one side of his face was beginning to swell. With that image in your head, you could see that his hand wasn’t dirty. His fingers were bruised, dried blood flaking at the joints of his knuckles.

“I’ll be right back.” 

Butcher didn’t say anything else as you walked off deeper into the lot, but it didn’t matter. You were lost in thought, trying to remember the signs of a concussion, and you were unlocking the door of his shitty sedan before you thought to wonder why you cared. 

Uncle Bo always liked to say that you were too soft-hearted to live in the city. You had always answered that with a snort and a rude comment, but you were starting to wonder if he may be right. 

A quick search on your phone brought up a list of symptoms, and you were keeping them fresh in your mind as you pulled the car up to the gate. As soon as you had thrown it into park, you slid from the stained seat and unlatched the chain. 

“No stupid moves.” You backed up slightly when Butcher stepped through the gates. “I’m armed.” 

Butcher looked you up and down, amusement on his face. “Whatever you say, love. ‘Sides, I don’t want nothing from you except my car.” 

You gestured invitingly toward his car. Butcher slid into the seat, caressing the steering wheel for a moment longer than you were comfortable with. He slammed the door, then rolled the window down. “See ya around.” 

Your reply - not that you intended to give one - was interrupted when he revved his engine and it promptly died. 

Butcher sat in shocked silence for a moment. He broke it almost immediately with a loud curse that he punctuated with a slam of his palm against the steering wheel. “Didn’t engage the battery disconnect, did you.” 

“Didn’t know you had one,” you said. “All the shit you said when I towed your car and you didn’t think to tell me you had a battery disconnect?” 

“Too busy findin’ out me badge is bullshit, weren’t I?” he hissed. 

“The disconnect couldn’t have been on when your car was towed,” you pointed out. “If it had been, it would have been on this whole time.” 

“I wasn’t planning to be away from my car that long.” Butcher whacked the dashboard for good measure. “Just needed to scope out the supes. Twenty minute job, then I was gonna be back in and driving away.” 

“The supes?” you repeated, frowning. “You were illegally parked in front of the Vought building. That’s why they called me to come tow you. You were spying on them?”

“Someone has to!” he snapped. “Everyone thinks those fuckers are up in their tower, waiting to protect the helpless and all of that shit. But they’re not. They’re a bunch of selfish cunts, and the only things they use their powers for is to get ahead or get off. And you’d better hope you’re never in their way for either of those, or you’ll be gone without anyone to ask what happened to you.”

The silence that fell after that was heavy and awkward. You nodded too many times, eventually finding the voice to say, “I need some coffee. Want some?” 

Butcher gave you a look so full of disbelief that you almost apologized outright, but he gave a slow nod. “Yeah.” 

You retreated to the office, filling two cheap paper cups with the pot of coffee you had unwisely brewed at eight thirty. Butcher hadn’t told you how he took his coffee, but he had answered one of your more pressing questions: he was definitely concussed.

Ultimately, that was none of your business, but it was still a little concerning. If you let him leave and he crashed his car, would it be your fault? Probably not in a legal sense. You could always claim that you hadn’t known he was injured. But would you be able to handle the guilt if he died or killed someone else? 

The moral questions tumbling through your mind kept you so focused on your thoughts that you handed Butcher his cup in utter silence, staring at him. Eventually, he swallowed a sip of the black coffee and begrudgingly said, “Thanks.” 

You blinked. “No problem. So, dead battery?” 

Butcher scowled into the open hood of his car. “Yeah. Does this a lot.” 

“I can get you a replacement,” you suggested. “As long as yours is decent and just needs charged, I can switch it out for another one for free. Or I have jumper cables if it’ll hold a charge long enough for you to get where you’re going.” 

With a slow shake of his head, Butcher said, “Nah, the battery is shot. And the alternator was holding on by a thread. This will’ve bumped it off for good. I’ll need a full replacement for both before I can drive this thing more than a mile or two.” 

Well. You sighed. “I can’t help you with a full replacement for either. I know a mechanic around the corner, but he’s not gonna be open this late. Best he’ll be able to do is tomorrow morning. At least it’ll be easy to get over there.” 

Butcher gave you a sidelong glance. “Suspiciously helpful for someone working after hours.” 

“I get paid overtime,” you replied, not missing a beat. “Besides, maybe I’m trying to earn a place in heaven.” 

“I know a faster way.” Butcher took another sip of coffee while you waited, brows lifted. “Get a drink with me.” 

The non sequitur made you blink. “What?” 

“A drink,” he repeated, exaggeratedly slowly. “Something better than shitty coffee. With me. In a bar - I’m not going to a fucking dance club.”

“How did we get from you threatening me to wanting us to get a drink?” you asked.

Butcher smirked, and you suddenly understood the expression ‘curl of the lips’. “I’ve never threatened you, love. Trust me, you’d remember. But it’s been a shit night. Shit week, actually. The only good part of it so far has been you. Best I can figure… you’re the only thing that can keep tonight from being a waste of my fuckin’ time.” 

“Flattering,” you said dryly. But you didn’t turn him down. You couldn’t claim to be interested in Billy Butcher. At least, not romantically. You thought he was interesting in a tragic comedy kind of way. More importantly, you thought - if you played your cards right - you might be able to convince him to see a doctor and make sure he didn’t have some kind of concussion-induced brain injury. 

“You know what?” you asked, watching Butcher brace for whatever horrible thing he thought you were going to say. “I could use a drink. But I get to choose the place.” 

He was quiet for much longer than you had expected, but he nodded at last. “Don’t choose somewhere shitty.”

You rolled your eyes, snatching the coffee cup from his hand. Despite his complaints, it was almost empty, and it sailed neatly into the trash can when you tossed it with an expert hand. “I’ll call my mechanic on the way.”

Butcher paused to lock his car before you left. It was a futile gesture since you would lock the yard’s gate behind you, but he insisted. Besides, it gave you a chance to call the mechanic. You even had time to find a route to your favorite bar that led past a 24-hour health clinic. All you had to do was make light conversation until you made it to the doors…

“Why do you work at a towing company?”

You blinked at the abruptness of the question, but gamely answered it: “My uncle owns it. I’ve been helping him since I was a teenager.” 

Butcher grunted. “Most people leave their first job.” 

“And what about you?” you asked, a hint of challenge in your voice. “Why do you do what you do? What do you do?” 

“I help keep supes from killing us all.” 

“Yeah,” you agreed awkwardly. “They seem like a real threat to society with all of the crime-fighting and donations to charity.” 

“Public relations, love,” Butcher told you, “nothing more.” 

“Of course they use public relations,” you replied, trying to ignore the little tingle that went through you at him using that pet name in that tone. “Most businesses have to do some kind of public relations. Especially big companies like Vought.” 

Butcher snorted. “They don’t use PR to neaten up their image; they use it to cover the mountain of shit their pet psychopaths get into. And that lot ain’t heroes. They’re a bunch of cunts with too much power and not enough people to tell ‘em to knock it off. They’re dangerous, and what makes ‘em that way is people like you who think they’re heroes.”

“Okay,” you said slowly, trying to decide between pacifying him by agreeing or antagonizing him so you could hear more of his ranting. It was fascinating and oddly entertaining, and you found yourself slowing down so you could keep talking before he got to the clinic. “But what about-?” 

“They ain’t good for society,” he insisted, interrupting you without seeming to notice. “You’re probably more of a hero than they are, and all you do is inconvenience good people.” 

“You were parked in a fire lane,” you reminded him, getting irritated. “If anyone was inconveniencing people-” 

“Have you ever thought about the people who are around for a supe fight?” Butcher asked, ignoring your excellent point. “Collateral damage, they say. Supes ruin a lot of lives, and it’s supposed to all be worth it.” 

“Sometimes,” you conceded. “But it all depends on the situation, right? If you’re just basing it off of lives saved versus lives lost, doesn’t it make more sense to sacrifice a few to save a lot of people?”

Butcher narrowed his eyes at you. “Spoken like someone who’s never had to see a kid crushed by a car or a couple cut in half by a laser beam.” 

“What are you doing about it, since you hate supes so much?” 

“Fuck-all,” Butcher told you. At your strange look, he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Seems like it most days, anyway.” 

“And on the other days?” you pressed. 

“The other days…” He frowned, staring at the dirty sidewalk in front of you both, but he didn’t really seem to see it. “Some days, I help people. Help ‘em from being the next statistic Vought sweeps under the fuckin’ rug, you know?” 

You didn’t, not really. But something about the weariness in his voice was familiar, and you felt its echo in your chest. “Yeah, I know.” 

Both of you fell silent after that, but it wasn’t uncomfortable or stilted. You were at ease beside him as you walked. In fact, you were almost a little sad when you saw that you were rapidly approaching your secret destination.

Halfway up the block, a small medical clinic advertised its services with signs in multiple languages and a well-illuminated caduceus symbol. The automatic doors opened at odd intervals to let patients in or out, spilling light across the sidewalk every time. It was staffed and reliable without being crowded, and everything in the clinic was ruthlessly clean. It was the place you took Uncle Bo, your coworkers, and yourself if something happened at the tow yard, or if someone was feeling under the weather. They had always been good to you, and you knew they would be good to Billy Butcher, too. 

“Maybe we should stop here for a minute,” you suggested, pausing by the door.

Butcher glanced up at the sign, dark brows furrowing. The next instant, his eyes were roaming up and down your body and face. “You hurt?” 

“No, but you might be.” Butcher sighed and started walking again, but you didn’t budge. “I’m serious! You might have a concussion and that can end up ruining your life.” 

Butcher rounded, now several feet ahead of you. “You really think I don’t know what a concussion feels like? Just call me a pussy. It’s faster.”

You rolled your eyes, but caught up with him as he started walking away again. After a block of irritable silence, he glanced sidelong at you. “Are you actually interested in a drink? Or did you just want to get me to a doctor?” 

“Bit of both,” you answered after a moment of consideration.

“Makes one of us,” he muttered. “Don’t know how much I feel like having a drink now. You’ve ruined my appetite.”

“Wanting a drink doesn’t count as an appetite.” You weren’t entirely sure why you were still following Butcher down the sidewalk. 

“Is this what you do?” he demanded, stopping short and rounding on you. His face was all righteous fury, dark brows stabbing upward as his nostrils flared. His hands braced against his hips, splaying his coat until he looked like a big creature puffing itself bigger with rage. “Nag people to make yourself feel more important? It’s annoyin’ as fuck.” 

You had stopped short to keep from running into Butcher, so it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing that you dropped your eyes to the bit of sidewalk between you. After a few breaths to get yourself back on an even keel, you met his eyes again. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologized freely. “I didn’t realize I was bothering you so badly. I’ll have one fo the technicians call you tomorrow morning with details about your car.”

It was your turn to whip around and start walking in the opposite direction. You weren’t entirely shocked when a second set of footsteps began to echo yours. You glanced up at Butcher. “You don’t have to come back with me. I’ll make sure your car gets to the mechanic shop tomorrow.” 

“Not gonna let you walk back there alone, am I?” he asked. “There’s too many dumb fuckers about for that.” 

There was clearly no point in arguing with him, so you didn’t bother. You wrapped your arms around yourself, even though it made you walk like a duck. The evening was just tipping from cool to cold, especially with the wind picking up. And the lack of conversation between you and Butcher somehow managed to be colder than the autumn night.

“If it makes you feel any better,” you started, breaking the silence, “I don’t think that you’re concussed. Not anymore.”

“Yeah?” Butcher pressed when he had finished giving a loud snort. “What am I then, doctor?” 

You stared him full in the face as you replied, “A conspiracy nut with a vendetta against supes. But you’re pretty harmless, all things considered.” 

Butcher laughed at that, loud and sharp. The joy made him look more savage, his teeth flashing sharply white against the darkness of his facial hair, and you needed a moment before you could pull your eyes from his face. “Can’t argue with none of that, love. But if you think I’m anywhere near as dangerous as an uncontrolled supe, you haven’t been payin’ attention.” 

“Maybe you’re not, but I don’t see any supes around here,” you pointed out. “Controlled or otherwise.” 

“Thank fuck for that,” Butcher muttered. “Well, seein’ as I’m not so dangerous after all, maybe we should go get a drink.” 

“Thought you weren’t in the mood anymore,” you said, a challenging little tilt to your chin. 

Butcher stroked his chin, thoughtful eyes on you. “I could be persuaded. That is, if you’re still in the mood.” 

“Not really,” you admitted, watching him deflate slightly from the corner of your eye. “But I have some energy and frustration to burn off. You interested in helping out with that?” 

It took a moment for Butcher’s parted lips to form words, and you watched the process patiently. “Are you propositionin’ me?” 

“Yes,” you confirmed. “Are you offended by that?” 

“Offended you beat me to it.” Butcher’s grin had gone from disbelieving to wolfish in less time than it took to get that sentence out. “And I accept.” 

“Good, we’ll go to my apartment,” you decided. “It’s close and clean.” 

“Had me at ‘close’,” Butcher told you, trailing close to your heels. “Lead on, love.”

---

Author's Note - This definitely isn't a substantial enough plot to need two parts, but I ran out of time to edit. Explicit part two coming tomorrow!

[heartfullofleeches]

May I request Apricot skinny diping with reader at the lake? Perhaps a reader who's afraid of water or just straight up can't swim, but apricot motivates and helps them.

(suggestive? Maybe? There is nudity so-)

A million times did he ask you to join him at the lake. Once did you agree.

To give him credit, the lake was a gorgeous at this hour. Quiet, tranquil; peaceful - Just you, the cow who treasured you most, and that big, luminous orb in the sky. The sand was dyed milk white, crystalized by the moon's glimmer and waves crashing at shore. The lake appeared bottomless from where you stood. It would seem that taking one step in would drag you to murky depth beneath its sparkling surface. Your legs tremble at the thought; a firm hand place center to your back. You jump at his touch. Apricot bites back at laugh at your reaction, coursing his reach up to your shoulder.

"Easy. We don't have to go in just yet. We're just going to walk over and stick our legs in - sound good?"

"Yeah..." You nod to confirm your answer, and assure yourself you're ready. Apricot leads you over to the docks, taking your hand as you cross over to the smooth wood. Your heart retreats to your stomach as they moan from the weight, but a kiss to your temple helps you a few steps further. As you sit down at the end, Apricot grabs your ankles and takes off your shoes for you. He sets them behind you and takes off his before facing the water, squeezing your hand

"Ready?"

You don't give him answer. Easing your feet in, Apricot follows right along. The dark water circles around your calves, frigid bite bleeding into coolness as you swish your legs through.

"I'm glad you finally came down here with me, Y/n. I do this pretty much every night and day, but it's always better with company - and you're the best in town. The whole world probably... I gets pretty lonely down here, but then I think of you and I'm back at home. I was have tempted to just throw you over my shoulder and drag you over, honestly!"

Apricot laughter dies out as your legs stop moving. "Sorry. Probably not the best joke to make right now. I would never do a thing to hurt you, but I wanna help you come out of your shell.... Is it cool if I take my clothes off?"

You look up to see if he's joking, but from tone alone you can tell he's serious. "Why?"

"I want skinny dip with you. It's my favorite way to unwind from a stressful shift, and the water on your bare skin might help you get used to it. Like a bath."

"But I can't swim."

"I know that, silly. I'll hold you the whole time. As long as I'm around, you'll always be safe."

You look back down at the water. A swirling abyss awaiting to swallow you, soul and all... but Apricot comes here everyday and he's still alive. He's the lifeguard. If there's another to trust in this situation, it would be him. You breath in - and out.

"Okay."

Apricot's tail flicks your side as he smiles. "You won't regret this."

He peels off his sweater and kicks off his shorts, catching them before they fall in the water and throwing them behind him. Underwear weren't an issue for him as never worth them unless the town sheriff got on him for public indecency. He helps you out of your shirt, holding the fabric up to his face as you work on your bottoms. He folds it and sets it down as he slides into the freezing water to cool his heat seeing you in this state of undress. Your body basked in the pale moonlight looked like something from out of a painting from his viewpoint. He waits for you to fully undress before raising his arms out. You grab onto one, nails sinking deep as you dip in the water. You glue yourself to his bare chest as the water rises up to your neck, bodies aligned as he uses his free arm to paddle backwards. At a fair distance, he brings his arm up to stroke your back once more and soothe your shakes.

"You're doing great. I got you. Just let your body relax and leave everything to me."

Apricot couldn't let you go. He wouldn't, not when he was so close to having you as his to hold and to keep for good. Your breathing his sharp against his collar and he swallows the groan the hot air brings, but you slowly loosen in his arms. You drift, his body your raft as you float out into the endless night. Apricot pours handfuls of water over your neck to fill the dead air and strides his fingers through your hair. His eyes are half shut, but you can feel him looking at you and you know that look of softness and tranquility is for you alone.

"How you holding up?"

You turn your head, switching to the other cheek as you plant your face in his soft chest. "It's...nice out here."

"Would you come with me again? Maybe every night - and the night after that?"

You laugh for the first time that night and it's the sweetest thing he's ever heard. "We'll see."

"Good enough for me."

Apricot straights out and scoops his arms under yours as his soaked locks fall over your shoulders and your lips connect with his. He hikes your leg up to his waist, parting with a smirk.

"Wanna see how long I can hold my breath when we get back to shore?"

"Definitely."

[whereireid]

Hello! How are you? (❁´◡`❁)

Do you think you can do something with this idea? A little role playing game, Miles wearing cow print lingerie "Come on cowgirl, milk me"

This is a drawing I did, I hope it inspires you.🤠🤠

I hope I don't bother you

I love your work <3

“Come on, cowgirl. What’re you waitin’ for? Milk me.”

A breathy moan slips past your lips and brushes against Miles’ ear. His teeth grind together as his jaw ticks, your cunt clenching around him, lewd squelching sounds echoing around his bedroom as you wildly roll your hips against him.

Your fingers brush against the collar which rides around Miles’ neck. You tug on it softly, the bell ringing as you do, the sound music to your ears. You’re in control right now, your fingers trailing over his cow-spotted lingerie, your ass bouncing and slapping against his thighs as you ride him, determined to make him cum.

Teasing him is the easy part, getting him to finish is the hard part. A pool of fire bleeds into your belly as his eyelids flutter shut, the gorgeous stripes of dark blue cascading across his face. He whimpers as you tighten around him again, an act of vulnerability, and the fire blazes wildly inside of you when you feel his hard cock twitch inside of you.

“I’m milkin’ you good, baby,” you drawl, a smirk on your lips as you tip down the cowboy hat to him in thanks, your moans growing breathy as you feel his hot cum paint your walls.

Teeth sinking into your lower lip, you listen to his grunts and the sound of the bell ringing in the air, a constant reminder that he’s yours to milk whenever.

[tothemeadow]

im CRAVING some rengoku x reader please 🛐🛐 ive read every single rengoku x reader, i need MORE.

if you can, can you make it nsfw?

this is based around the "housewife fucks the milkman trope," plus it contains 1950s suburban life but only the aesthetic

'milk and cookies' / Rengoku K. x Reader

warning: NSFW, infidelity, kitchen sex

words: 1,305

notes: AU, fem reader, PWP

-

“Here’s your milk for today, ma’am!” Kyojuro chirps.

You take the glass bottles from his outstretched hands, a smile curling the corners of your mouth. While you’re pleased with your delivery, you’re happier to see the neighborhood’s beloved milkman. Like the other housewives (and some husbands) lining the street, your affection towards the man is more than obvious. He’s wonderful at his job, yes, and it’s even better that he’s drop dead gorgeous.

Tall, broad, and muscular, Kyojuro is the very embodiment of the sun. With fiery hair and dazzling eyes, it’s hard to miss him rolling down the street in cow print truck. Plus, his uniform consists of a white outfit that molds to his form….

Leaning against the doorframe, you turn your smile into something irresistibly sweet. “Mr. Rengoku, why don’t you come in for tea? You deserve a break, too, you know. I even did a bit of baking yesterday, too. Something that would go perfectly with this milk, no?”

You don’t miss the way Kyojuro’s eyes linger on your cherry painted lips. His gaze flickers back upwards as a hand rubs the back of his neck. “Isn’t your husband home, ma’am?”

“Giyuu is at work,” you tell him, tone light. “Besides, I don’t bite.”

Not unless you want me to.

Glancing around, Kyojuro clears his throat. He then returns your smile, his teeth a pearly white compared to his tanned skin. “I guess a quick break wouldn’t be terrible.”

Hook, line, sinker.

Leading Kyojuro into your home, you shut the front door; the lock slides home with an audible click, leaving the two of you free from prying eyes. There’s no doubt that the other ladies would cause a fuss over Kyojuro entering your house, yet you know that they’d do the exact same thing if given the opportunity.

You direct him to the kitchen with a sway in your hips. Your heels click against the hardwood floor, and you hope it’s loud enough to conceal the excited beat of your heart. And, just as you’ve told him, a plate of cookies sits neatly on the kitchen table, looking almost like they were set up for this precise moment.

Kyojuro eases onto a chair while you put the milk into the icebox and place a kettle on the stove. “Your home is quite lovely,” he says, a start to pleasant conversation.

“Thank you, Mr. Rengoku,” you reply. Turning to him, you gesture to the cookies on the table. “Please, help yourself.”

And, if you want, you can have my other cookie, too.

It takes little convincing. Kyojuro’s face brightens as he bites into the delicacy, a pleased hum rumbling in the back of his throat. “UMAI!” he shouts.

You chuckle as his face turns a bright red. He stutters a sorry, didn’t mean to be so loud, but you quickly comfort him, telling him that it’s perfectly fine if he’s loud. His hand twitches at your comment.

“Tell me, sir, do you like milk?” you ask, voice sweet, innocent. At your words, you subtly push out your chest. “For your tea, I mean.” You cock your head. “And what about sugar?”

Bingo.

The chair scrapes against the linoleum as Kyojuro hurries to a stand. He’s on you within moments, hands on your hips while his mouth captures yours. You’d never think it’d be this easy to seduce Kyojuro, but here you are, knocking the hat off his head and running your fingers through his hair.

He gasps against your lips. “We… we shouldn’t be doing this. I apologize.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you purr. “I want this. Do you, sir?”

The name clearly has an effect on him. He kisses you once more, hands settling on your ass. You take this opportunity to run your hands over his body; he feels hard and warm under your hands, and a slight moan slips from his mouth when they land on the swell of his pectorals. He moans louder when you squeeze them. They feel so full, so plush. You almost believe that the milk he delivers come from him.

It’s easy work to strip him from his uniform’s shirt, leaving his torso completely exposed. He’s tastier than you originally thought, all rippling muscle and smooth skin. Pulling away, you direct your attention to his chest, smearing lipstick over his pecs, his nipples. His harsh breathing fills your ears, as does the slight moans rumbling in his throat.

“May I?” he croaks.

You tell him yes.

A yelp escapes your mouth as he grips onto the back of your thighs and lifts you onto the counter. Pushing your skirt up to your hips, he eases his way in between your legs, a hungry sheen covering his eyes. Warm fingers skim your inner thighs, yet they don’t dare travel to where you need them most.

“Please don’t tease me,” you tell him, rolling your head back. “I’d say I’ve been a good girl, hmm? Please, sir, give me what I want.”

It’s nothing but pure bliss when Kyojuro pushes your panties to the side and shoves two fingers into your quivering pussy. He curses when he feels that you’re already wet, your walls giving in easily to his touch. Your back arches into him, nails digging into his shoulders.

“So good,” you purr. “Give me more.”

High pitched noises escape your mouth as he fucks you with his fingers. The kettle is already whistling, but at least it provides a nice cover if any nosy neighbors decide to creep. However, with how fast his fingers plunge in and out of your pussy, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise if they could hear the wet noises.

You nearly cry when he releases his cock; it’s hot and hard, just like the rest of him. Your mouth waters the sight, and you wonder how the weight would feel against your tongue. He slips inside with a low groan, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he bottoms out. Your velvety walls flutter around him, urging him to move.

His cock pumps in once, twice. Your eyes threaten to roll to the back of your head as he gradually sets a rhythm. A mix of slick and precum slip from your puffy lips as Kyojuro thrusts into you, a hand on your hip while the other rests flat against the counter. With your legs hooked around his waist, you cling onto him desperately, the loveliest noises spilling from your painted lips.

Then oh, there goes his thumb, landing on your clit and rubbing it along with his harsh thrusts. Your walls squeeze tantalizingly around his cock; you want to milk him for his worth, have his knees go completely weak from your pussy.

Grabbing onto his hair, you force his head up. Worming your tongue into his mouth, you rock your hips steadily against him. Kyojuro moans, beautiful and deep, and he quickens his pace. A mantra of ah, ah, ah! fills the kitchen as he brings you closer to your climax.

Before long, you’re creaming around his cock. He sucks in a sharp breath as your walls clamp down around him. “Yes, fuck, baby, just like that,” he grunts. His hips move erratically, his panting filling your ear. He then pulls out abruptly, his hand closing around his cock as he brings himself to orgasm, his spend splashing on your panties and flushed pussy.

After a few moments, the two of you finally catch your breath and smile at each other. Kyojuro rubs the back of his neck again. “Do you… do you think we could do this again?”

You press a chaste kiss to his lips. “Absolutely, Mr. Rengoku. I’m always willing to take your milk.”

Before Kyojuro has the chance to respond, the sound of a car door slamming shut rings from outside.

Shit.

-

I'm sorry Giyuu but I love torturing you too much-

[exhausted-archivist]

Tastes of Thedas Lore Blurbs

Here are all the recipe lore blurbs for Dragon Age: Official Cookbook: Tastes of Thedas. Putting them below the cut due to length, there are 72 recipe blurbs in total.

Starters and Refreshments

Eggs à la Val Foret

Ah, yes. Tons of cream! Exactly what I've come to expect from Orlesian cuisine. Do I have any tips for creating the perfect poached egg? Well, ever since I heard that Solas's bald head was once likened to an egg, I simply try to make my eggs just as round and shiny! So far, it's worked wonderfully and never ceases to put a smile on my face.

Nevarran Blood Orange Salad

Although I knew that Divine Victoria left behind a life of wealth and privilege to join the Seekers of Truth, it wasn't until I was in Nevarra, seeing exactly what she'd given up, that I truly gained an appreciation for the path she'd chosen. The best way to describe my first glimpse of the gardens of Nevarra is that it was like seeing a painting come to life. For a long moment, I could only stand there, so dazzled by the richness and vibrancy of it all that I was half-convinced I was actually still napping in the carriage. Surely, there was no way such beauty could be found outside of a dream. And yet the beauty before me was very much real.

So, too, was the picturesque tableau that arrived later that day on a plate: perfectly cut slices of blood orange artfully arranged on a lush pillow of bitter greens. Was this a meal or a still life, I wondered. In truth, the answer was both. For Nevarrans, food is as much a feast for the eyes as for the mouth. But even if your arrangement isn't quite worthy of being displayed in a museum, this salad will sing a symphony on your tastebuds.

Fried Young Giant Spiders

Just as people on the surface raise cows and goats, the dwarves underground raise spiders. Yes, to eat. The legs are fried and served with a sauce, which, true to dwarven fashion, is made with some type of alcohol. The precise kind depends on the establishment where you're eating your spider legs. Unfortunately, I couldn't get an exact recipe from any of the chefs I spoke to. These sauces are apparently closely guarded secrets and have spurred many a nefarious plot to acquire them - the competition to be crowned Orzammar's Best Sauce is fierce. But I've been assured that lichen ale is generally not used.

I've therefore come up with my own recipe, based on the many varieties I sampled while in Orzammar. Given that sourcing the requisite spider legs above ground is not nearly so easy, and the demand for such exports is minimal, I've substituted them with crab legs. It's not a perfect match, but it's close enough to satisfy me.

Stuffed Deep Mushrooms

Though the mushrooms growing underground in caves and in many parts of the Deep Roads are all called "deep mushrooms," there is no singular variety. In fact, there are several! Some mushrooms are squat, with broad, flat caps, while others are long and spindly, reaching toward the sky like an old man's gnarled fingers. They also have a multitude of applications, used in the creation of everything from restorative potions to deadly poisons. But in Orzammar, mushrooms are farmed for eating!

I was able to sample some of these dwarven delicacies, prized for their unique flavor and intoxicating scent. After only a few bites, I was struck with inspiration. How delicious would one of these mushrooms be when stuffed with cheese and spinach? The answer is: very. Rest assured that I selected this particular variety of deep mushroom not only for its shape, which is ideal for holding the maximum amount of cheese (and spinach), but also for the fact that it does not carry the darkspawn taint. While certain dwarves will insist that a deep mushroom's proximity to lyrium and darkspawn can only improve its flavor, I am quite content to leave that particular question a mystery, especially where lyrium is concerned. Although I'm hardly an expert on the stuff, I can't help but think about Fenris and how much suffering he endured as a result of his lyrium-infused markings. It seems to me that, barring any natural resistance, lyrium and the body are two things that probably shouldn't mix.

Rivaini Couscous Salad

When I first encountered couscous, I mistakenly believed it to be a grain, like rice or the more familiar Fereldan barley. I was swiftly corrected. In fact, couscous is a sort of pasta, made with semolina flour and water, although it's far smaller than your typical Antivan pasta. Couscous has a very mild flavor on its own--maybe slightly nutty. But where it excels is in its ability to soak up surrounding flavors, making it a perfect base for any salad. I'd love to experiment further, but so far, this particular combination of red bell pepper and mint has proven to be incredibly pleasing.

Crab Cakes from Kirkwall

I love it when recipes add a dash of whimsy into the mix. Food should be fun. I, therefore, took it upon myself to put this into practice with a classic Kirkwall dish. After all, who hasn't looked at their crab cakes and wished they looked a little more like crabs? Okay, maybe I'm the only one who's thought this. But now that I've brought this possibility to your attention, I'm certain you're interested as well! Best of all, these extra-crabby crab cakes stay true to the original recipe's flavors, so nothing is lost--only gained!

Fluffy Mackerel Pudding

Can it really be Feast Day without fluffy mackerel pudding? No! In fact, there's no dish I associate more strongly with the holiday than this unique combination of mackerel, onion, celery, and eggs. Granted, I've heard stories that, several decades ago, someone once attempted a diet consisting entirely of fluffy mackerel pudding. Now, that I certainly wouldn't recommend. It stops being Feast Day Fish if you eat it every day, no?

Snail and Watercress Salad

When the Avvar can't get their hands on a gurgut or a wyvern, they turn their attention to smaller prey. Much smaller prey. Snails are found on many a hillside boulder, making them an abundant source of food for the Avvar. Now, while some would wrinkle their noses or cry out in disgust at the prospect of eating a snail, I am pleased to report that, when prepared correctly, the texture, and flavor are actually good! I could happily eat a plate full of snails dressed in butter and oil, but those still on the fence about a snail's place in Lowlander cuisine might prefer to sample them in conjunction with other ingredients. Might I suggest a snail and watercress salad? It’s not exactly traditional Avvar cuisine, but my hosts certainly seemed to enjoy it.

Cave Beetles

You think that, after snails, I'd balk at beetles? Never! In fact, I greatly enjoyed this dwarven dish, which involves roasting cave beetles in their shells. However, I recognize that many may not have a palate that's nearly so adventurous. If that's the case, the cave beetles can be replaced with whole prawns while keeping the rest of the recipe the same. That being said, if you do enjoy the variation with prawns, I really recommend giving the cave beetles a try. They're quite similar in both texture and flavor. If you were to blindfold yourself, I doubt you could tell the difference!

For the Road

Spiced Jerky

Preserved foods play an important role in many different cultures across Thedas. Not only do they help certain communities weather times of scarcity brought on by the changing of the seasons, but they also ensure that long journeys away from home are possible. Imagine how difficult it would be for Dalish hunters to bring back meat the clan is depending on if they have to be back for supper night - or, worse, hunt on an empty stomach! This spiced jerky ensures that all Dalish hunters are well provisioned whenever they set out on a hunt so that no one, either the hunter or the clan at home, must go hungry. I do wonder, given how well this food keeps, whether it’s used in offerings made by certain Dalish elves to Fen’Harel. Although his shrines are usually located well outside of Dalish camps, I can’t imagine that leaving behind food that’ll readily spoil is good practice, especially if the prevailing opinion about these shrines is to avoid them. Besides, he is the Dread Wolf. If any god would enjoy a good piece of jerky, it should be him!

Grey Warden Pastry Pockets

Unlike many of us, Grey Wardens often don’t have the luxury of sitting down for their meals. Instead, they’re off on patrol, usually in less-than-pleasant climates, which makes their work all the more exhausting. In their shoes, I imagine I’d be downright ravenous, well beyond what a handful of nuts could hope to sate. But a pastry stuffed to the brim with meat, potatoes, and onion? Now, that would keep me going, and the Grey Wardens certainly seem to agree! While the original recipe produces a much tougher pastry - mostly to keep the whole thing from falling apart in one’s pack - another variation, championed by newer recruits from Orlais, incorporates the far more delicate Orlesian puff pastry. Whether eaten hot or cold, the results are certainly delicious, but I wouldn’t recommend storing these pastries anywhere they might be jostled. Otherwise, you might open your pack to find a mess in place of a meal!

Pickled Eggs

Got a fever? A cold? An aching shoulder, perhaps? Ask any Fereldan for advice, and they’ll be quick to prescribe you a pickled egg, the Fereldan cure for…well, pretty much anything! Actually, no, I take it back. You don’t even have to ask. Looking a bit under the weather is prompt enough for most Fereldans to unleash a deluge of eggs, which is exactly what Commander Cullen found waiting for him in his office during the worst of his lyrium withdrawals. Whether the eggs really work is a completely different story, but I’d be the last person to complain if one was offered to me. I am Fereldan, after all. Still, next time you feel a bit of illness coming on, try one of these salty-sour eggs. You never know; it might actually work. And at the very least, you’ll have the opportunity to enjoy one of Ferelden’s finest snacks!

Unidentified Meat

Have you ever heard a tale so exciting that you decided then and there that you absolutely have to see the truth of it for yourself? That was me when I learned about the mysterious, impossible-to-identify meat that’s often served in taverns across Tevinter - usually with a heaping portion of Nevarran flat bread. Of course, sometimes, the truth is far less exciting. Because what did I find on my plate when I ordered a portion of this strange meat? Was it quillback? Dracolisk? Giant? No. It was chicken - chicken legs, to be precise. Ah, well. They were still delicious.

Seheron Fish Pockets

Alas, for all my desire to see every last bit of Thedas, there are still certain places where I simply cannot go. Take far-off Seheron, for example, a land that, according to the Hero of Ferelden’s companion, Sten, smells like tea, incense, and the sea. Sounds lovely, no? What a shame then, that all my knowledge comes secondhand - and this recipe is no exception. I learned of this recipe from a member of the famous mercenary band Bull’s Chargers. A group favorite, the fish is packed with flavor. On its own, this combination of spices might prove a bit too much for the more delicate Orlesian palates, but I find that the soft wrap and crisp vegetables temper the resultant heat a fair bit. Do note, however, that this dish has a tendency to fall apart if eaten haphazardly. I suppose that’s why the mercenary who shared this recipe with me emphasized the importance of sitting down properly. He seemed to think I might stand in my chair to eat it instead. Who does that?

Fereldan Hearty Scones

Traveling is tiring work, especially when circumstances beyond your control necessitate going by foot instead of carriage. Thankfully, I had these hearty scones from home to keep me going! Unlike their sweeter, more delicate counterparts, Fereldan scones are packed with cheese and bacon, making them certain to keep you full until your next meal. Unfortunately, this also makes the scones a prime target for any nearby mabari, who love cheese and bacon as much as any other Fereldan. Don't make my mistake! Take a moment to survey your surroundings before enjoying your first bite; otherwise, a four-legged someone might do the honors for you.

Crow Feed

You don’t see much rice outside of Antiva and its neighbor, Rivain. In fact, it’s an especially rare sight in Ferelden, where any grain is seemingly always either barley or wheat. Evidently, very little of the rice Antiva produces ends up being exported, making it relatively cheap compared to other grains. It’s no wonder, then, that rice is a key component in dishes favored by poorer Antivans. However, that doesn’t make them any less delicious! Take crow feed, for example - a simple dish of rice, butter, and onions named after the (in)famous Antivan Crows. Although it’s most certainly cheap, the taste is fit for a king!

Black Lichen Bread

No doubt your face is already creasing in trepidation. “But wait,” you think, “isn’t black lichen toxic?” And yes. Yes, it is. But high temperatures seem to largely neutralize the lichen’s toxicity, making it safe to consume. If you’re still concerned, you can easily substitute any surface varieties for the lichen used in this recipe. Just make sure to thoroughly dry it, as you would any lichen from underground. You can also use bark in place of lichen, but I think that defeats the point. This is supposed to be lichen bread, after all, not bark bread!

Hearth Cakes

Some lovely comfort food, courtesy of the Dalish. These cakes are traditionally made over the hearth on an iron griddle or skillet (hence the name). While the original recipe calls for halla butter, I’ve found that other types of butter work just as well. The resulting dough stays moist on the inside, but crisp and flaky on the outside. In other words: perfect. Although hearth cakes can be made plain, I recommend adding some dried fruit into the mix. Cranberries, raisins, and currants all work. I believe the Dalish simply use whatever is on hand. Of course, if you’re feeling a bit mischievous, you could mix in some hot peppers instead: Just be prepared to be cursed as loudly and vehemently as Fen’Harel, the Lord of Tricksters himself!

Peasant Bread

While traveling through Orlais, I spied this rustic and hearty bread being eaten by both Dalish and city elves alike. The recipe is very straightforward, calling for wheat, salt, and grease in nearly equal parts, and it produces a biscuit that feels like it would be right at home in any Fereldan dish. It does a wonderful job mopping up any last bits of stew left inside your bowl, but it also pairs well with a bit of butter and jam.

Soups and Stews

Merrill’s Blood Soup

In the same vein as Llomerryn red, this is not actually blood - it’s just red. The color comes from the beetroot, which gives the soup a rich, earthy flavor that goes well with the roasted chickpeas sprinkled on top. Some might find the vibrant crimson hue off-putting, in the same way many shun the practice of blood magic. However, as mages like Merrill have shown, I think it’s best to not judge by appearances or by what you think you know. Take the time to experience things for yourself, and you might find yourself pleasantly surprised!

Fereldan Potato and Leek Soup

Most people immediately think of Orlais when it comes to creamy soups, and I can’t blame them. However, as often as cream might appear in their cuisine, the Orlesians certainly don’t have a monopoly on it, whether in soup or otherwise. This dish is 100% Fereldan through and through, and the recipe I’ve noted here is actually Mum’s. Of course, I couldn’t help but put my own little twist on it. Instead of using a side of toasted bread to give the meal a necessary bit of crunch, I turned my attention abroad, settling on chickpeas from Rivain, toasted to crouton-like crispiness. In a way, this recipe is very much a reflection of me, now that my journey is coming to an end. While my origins are unmistakably Fereldan, my travels across Thedas have touched me in a lasting way, and I’m all the richer for it.

The Hanged Man’s Mystery Meat Stew

A famous dish from the Hanged Man tavern in Kirkwall - or infamous, I suppose, depending on your perspective. Personally, after having heard so much about it, I couldn’t wait to taste it, even if the establishment, as Fenris once so succinctly put it, smelled of sour ale, vomit, and desperation. Oh, yes. I can hear what you’re thinking. A Fereldan excited about yet another stew. How predictable. But this is the tavern’s feature dish! Why shouldn’t I be excited? It’s made from a different meat every morning. I suspect mine was pork, although after overhearing the waitress tell another patron that they hang people who ask stupid questions from the rafters, I declined to confirm.

Fish Chowder

As Antivan as it gets! A bowl of this thick, creamy soup will have you feeling like you’re in Antiva City. No need for any pickpockets, corrupt politicians, or Antivan leather to further enhance the experience - the word “enhance” being entirely debatable, of course. I can’t imagine that the smell of rotting flesh would do much for anyone’s appetite, though Zevran Arainai might disagree with me on that. Evidently, becoming an accomplished assassin can have a pronounced effect on one’s tastes. But if you ask me, this desire for rather unusual accompaniments is likely born of something much more universally understood: homesickness.

Sweet and Sour Cabbage Soup

This Fereldan staple is often more solid than liquid, filled to the brim with cabbage, tomatoes, and other vegetables. Paired with a thick slice of dark bread, it makes for a filling and satisfying meal, one guaranteed to leave you full of warmth for hours afterwards on even the coldest of days. A perfect fit for us Fereldans, you might think, but we aren’t the only ones who enjoy this soup on the regular. Apparently, there’s a troupe of actors in Orlais whose sole focus is a popular comedy set in the fictional Fereldan village of Wilkshire Downs. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to see it for myself, as the performance was sold out almost instantly. But in order to play their roles most convincingly, the actors went so far as to change their diets to match those of their characters. For example, there’s a mayor who specifically eats cabbage soup. Personally, I don’t think I’d enjoy subsisting only on cabbage soup for an extended period of time, but you can’t help but applaud them for their dedication to their craft!

Lentil Soup

Lentils and Onions - open any pantry across Thedas, and I’m certain you’ll find these two ingredients sitting on the shelves. They’re both relatively inexpensive and keep well for an extended period of time. Best of all, they go with pretty much anything! Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if these two Thedosian staples played a starring role instead of a supporting one. So I combined a recipe that’s popular in elven alienages with some classic Tevinter flavors to supply an answer to this question. And what a delicious answer it is!

Nettle Soup

I first encountered nettles as a child, when I tripped and fell face-first in a whole patch of them. Many tears were shed, along with a lecture from Mum to play elsewhere from now on. In short, it was far from a pleasant experience. So I was understandably dubious when confronted with the idea of using nettles as an ingredient in my cooking. How could something so painful to the touch be in any way edible, let alone pleasant on the tongue. Funnily enough, I didn’t even have to taste it to understand. Though I doubt she’d appreciate it, I immediately thought of Lady Morrigan. She is, in a word, prickly, much like a nettle. And yet, despite her oftentimes cruel manner, no one can deny that she’s done much for Thedas’s benefit, helping not just the Hero of Ferelden, but also the Inquisitor. She’s a perfect example of how first impressions are not always the most correct. So, yes, nettles are both incredibly nutritious and delicious, contrary to my expectations.

King Alistair’s Lamb and Pea Stew

Hearty, humble, and straightforward to make - the three key aspects of any good Fereldan stew. This is a dish so ubiquitous that it’s become almost synonymous with Fereldan cuisine in general. I’m certain you’ve heard many a clever quip about our stews, perhaps even from Fereldan! But let me be the first to assure you that, no, contrary to what King Alistair may have said, we don’t cook our ingredients until they’re all “a uniform grey color.” Throwing them into the largest pot we can find, on the other hand… …that much is true. If you’re going to make a stew, you might as well make a lot of it! Although Mum’s stews will always rule my heart, I’d be lying if I said this recipe - its namesake’s view on Fereldan stews aside - didn’t come close to stealing the crown. (Sorry, Mum!)

Main Courses

Stuffed Cabbage

Gathering is just as important as hunting for the Avvar. It’s like Mum said: You can’t live off only meat, and any meal without vegetables is a meal half-finished. Of course, I didn’t understand her reasoning as a child, especially one who was single-handedly waging a war against the green menace on my plate. But now that I’m older, I have a new appreciation for her words. Plus, with a bit of proper seasoning, and some meat, even the most unappealing of vegetables can be delicious.

Antivan Gnocchi

Phew! Antivan meals sure are something to behold - and, to think, for Antivan nobles like Lady Josephine, these decadent spreads are just another dinner! Every time I thought we’d reach the last course, another was swiftly brought out. After ten dishes full of ingredients like olives, truffles, pasta, and cream, it’s a wonder I didn’t have to be rolled away from the table! In retrospect, I probably overindulged in the gnocchi, which were dressed with leeks and a rich cheese sauce. While they’re delicious, these small lumps of wheat, flour, egg, salt, and potato are incredibly filling. Still, I cannot say I won’t repeat this mistake next time I find myself at an Antivan table - nor will I regret it if I do!

Antivan Paella

Bordered by the Rialto Bay to the east, Antiva is populated mostly on the coast. It’s no wonder, then, that seafood plays a  starring role in Antivan cuisine. There’s no dish that exemplifies this more than the classic Antivan paella. Rice, saffron, and a variety of seafood (from whole shrimp to cuttlefish to mussels) come together to create an aromatic smorgasbord of everything the ocean has to offer. Best of all, it’s all made in a single pot - truly a dish after my own stew-loving Fereldan heart, if King Alistair’s thoughts on Fereldan cuisine are to believed! Although paella is traditionally cooked in a shallow, wide pan called a paellera (or, more confusingly, a paella in certain regions of Antiva), it can be prepared in virtually any deep skillet. Be sure to pair your paella with a glass of wine - ideally, an Antivan vintage, according to Lady Josephine, whose opinion on such matters can certainly be trusted - for the full experience.

Grilled Poussin

The Chasind sure love their poussin. And who can blame them? I love it, too! It’s a great alternative to the roasted turkey one might normally trot out for guests - although, I admit, the length of the guest list will likely be the deciding factor here. A poussin is a significantly smaller bird, after all, and as much as we might love the kitchen, sometimes we must be economical in our choices. Still, for a more intimate dinner party, you can’t go wrong with this dish! Although the Chasind typically cook poussin in a large pot over an open fire for an extended period of time, a similar effect can be achieved with any other cookware of suitable size and an oven. Marinating and basting the meat to keep it moist. That’s the secret to a meat so tender that it practically falls off the bone!

Gurgut Roast with Lowlander Spices and Mushroom Sauce

It was spring when I trudged through the Frostbacks on my way toward one of the many Avvar settlements that populate the area. As this is the time of year when the Avvar begin preparing for the following winter by smoking meat, pickling vegetables, and drying fruit, I thought it an ideal time to visit and observe. Unfortunately, springtime is also the gurgut’s mating season. As a result, I nearly discovered firsthand why travelers are advised to keep their distance from these brightly colored beasts. Luckily, a nearby group of Avvar hunters quickly came to my aid, and I was spared the indignity of beating at the beast with a ladle. In an expression of my thanks, I shared with them several jars of spices from home, which they happily accepted. These Lowlander spices are prized among the Avvar and often reserved for feasts are rare delicacies. What unparalleled good fortune, then, that I later had the opportunity to dine on the slain gurgut, now roasted and seasoned with the spices I had gifted, at the hunters’ hold.

Nug Pancakes

Although some see nugs only as pets, they are edible. In fact, nugs constitute a key part of dwarven cuisine, so much so that Varen, the first dwarf to attempt eating a nug - albeit out of desperation - became a paragon for his culinary discovery! I'd liken the flavor to a cross between pork and rabbit. Very tender, especially when roasted. But of all the nug-based dishes I've sampled, my favorite is still the nug pancakes (with nug-gets coming in a close second). I've noted down the recipe here and recommend you give it a try! Of course, if you cannot bring yourself to eat nug, other meats can be substituted in its place.

Fish in Salt Crust

The Avvar are generally rather utilitarian in their cooking methods - lots of stews, which I can hardly find fault with. But holds by lakes and rivers have a unique way of cooking fish. Instead of using a pan, they’ll wrap the fish in pungent leaves and salt, then leave it baking all day over banked coals. Like a stew, this method of preparation does not require constant attention. In addition, the salt helps keep moisture inside the fish, which turns the flesh creamy and tender. Plus, there’s a great deal of fun to be had when cracking the salt open! It adds a level of drama that I’m sure even the Orlesians would appreciate.

Roasted Wyvern

Having made their home in the inhospitable Frostbacks, the Avvar live on whatever they can glean from the land, hunting all manner of beasts, from harts and rams to large creatures like lurkers and gurguts - sometimes even wyverns! But take care! Although wyvern can be delicious, if they’re not prepared correctly, they’re devastatingly poisonous, a consequence of their venomous nature. I’ve made sure to include detailed instructions. I’m no Antivan Crow like Zevran Arainai, after all; the last thing I want is for anyone to be poisoned via dinner!

Nug Bacon and Egg Pie

Ever since I heard about Sister Leliana keeping a nug as a companion, I’ve desperately longed for a Schmooples of my own. Of course, as adorable as nugs are, allowing them anywhere near a fully stocked kitchen is a recipe for disaster. You’d think that after seeing Mum nearly lose her mind trying to keep the Hero of Ferelden’s mabari out of her larder, I’d be a touch more aware of the security of my own roasts. And yet…that cute face… Suffice it to say, I discovered firsthand just how voracious these little omnivores can be. These days, the closest thing to a nug in my house is this traditional Fereldan farmer’s pie.

Starkhaven Fish and Egg Pie

In some ways, this famous pie mirrors its namesake. Not only is it almost oval in shape, but it’s also stuffed to the brim with fish from the Minanter River, lending the impression that it, like the city of Starkhaven, sits perched upon the river’s bounty. But where the city is crowned with solid rings of tall, gray stone, this pie has a light, flaky crust that, I imagine, is far kinder on one’s teeth –not to mention, far tastier! As beautiful as Starkhaven is, with its lavish estates and fountains, I’d much rather take a bite of one of its pies instead. Of course, if Starkhaven’s prince were on offer as well… just kidding! I’d still take the pie. Given Sebastain Vael’s popularity, though, I might be alone in this decision.

Cacio e Pepe

A classic Antivan dish that graces the tables of both rich and poor alike. Composed of three pain ingredients – pasta, cheese, and pepper – cacio e pepe is delightfully simple. And yet, it is also very easy to get wrong, as I quickly discovered. The sauce must be smooth, not clumpy, a surprisingly tall ask when your tools are dry cheese and water. But do not despair! This skill, like all others, can be learned, and with a bit of practice, you too will be able to make a sauce that even the most scrutinizing of Antivan grandmothers can’t help but approve of. And let me tell you, that nod of approval is worth every ounce of struggle. So let me be the first to offer it to you, as Mum did for me when I was a child helping her in the kitchen: I’m so proud of you for persevering!

Turnip and Mutton Pie

I already know what you’re thinking. A Fereldan about to extol the virtues of turnips? Of course! They’re a wonderful little root vegetable, capable of being prepared any number of ways–whether boiled, stir-fried, roasted, steamed, or mashed–and even eaten raw! Although they certainly make a great addition to any stew, for now, I’d like to introduce you to the wonders of turnips in pies.

This particular pie is a classic Fereldan dish served at taverns across the kingdom. Tender chunks of lamb and turnip are enveloped in a buttery crust that, together, never fail to put a smile on my face. It doesn’t matter how cold or miserable the day is. None of that is any match for a belly full of warm, rich, turnipy goodness. Even just the smell alone is a comfort that no other food could ever hope to match. And although you could certainly evoke it by throwing a bushel of turnips into the fire, as Cole once did, I think putting them in a pie is a much tastier idea.

Smoked Ham from the Anderfels

Contrary to what the rumors (or perhaps just the importers) would have you believe, this ham does not taste of despair - whatever flavor that might be. Although the Anderfels are largely ill-suited for farming, pigs do surprisingly well there, in spite of the notoriously inhospitable climate. As a result, ham from the Anderfels is generous in size and, when glazed, makes for a delicious meal. In terms of glazes, my personal favorite is made from a combination of apples and apricots. However, I’ve heard that one glaze, in particular, made from wildflowers, can turn a smoked ham as hard as jade! Not at all suitable for eating, but I imagine it would pack quite the punch, especially in the hands of a warrior like Divine Victoria!

Roasted Turkey with Sides

If you're attending the Prince of Starkhaven's birthday celebration or any dinner party in the Free Marches, chances are, you'll find this feast waiting for you. The roasted turkey, cooked to golden-brown perfection, sits surrounded by a host of different sides, creating a picturesque scene that's certain to impress everyone lucky enough to secure an invite. Unsurprisingly, this culinary tableau is far from a quick-and-easy meal. The chef who prepared the rendition I enjoyed in Kirkwall informed me - after much persuasion - that the turkey alone took hours to prepare. Add a few sides, and there goes most of the day, especially if you don't have a full kitchen staff to assist you! Unfortunately, I discovered this the hard way when I later attempted to put this recipe into practice. By the time everything was properly cooked and ready, it was late into the evening - well past dinnertime, even in Antiva, where dinner is usually a late-night affair. So take my advice, and budget more time than you think you need. Also be sure to invite some friends! This is definitely a meal that's meant to be shared, which, in my opinion, makes it the best kind!

Sides

Sera’s Yummy Corn

This recipe is simple, yet strict. No wraps. No non-yellow corn. Peel halfway, then wash and cook; peel again, and eat. Personally I think other varieties of corn would work just fine - I agree with checking for rot, of course - but the suggestion was met with such disgust from Sera that, well, I couldn’t bring myself to try it. Also, while the original recipe advises acquiring the ingredients through less-than-honorable means, let me assure you that merchant-bought corn is absolutely fine. Friends of Red Jenny can, of course, pilfer a few ears from an undeserving noble, as usual.

Stuffed Vine Leaves

The first thing I did upon arriving in the Tevinter Imperium was head for the nearest tavern and order this classic Tevinter appetizer. These tender leaves are stuffed with rice, herbs, and sometimes minced meat. When topped with a bit of lemon juice and a dollop of tzatziki sauce, they’re sure to leave you in a state of bliss with just a single bite. In my case, I was so enchanted by the delicious flavors that I didn’t even notice the commotion outside! Apparently, there was a disagreement between a magister and another magister’s son - about what, I couldn’t say. After all, I was too busy eating!

Honey Carrots

In much the same way as the Inquisition is to the Inquisitor, a meal is more than just a main course. Sides form an equal part of the equation and deserve just as much care and attention as the dish they’re served alongside. It’s a lesson Mum taught me long ago and one I haven’t forgotten since. So of course, I noticed when this Orlesian staple made an appearance. It graced my table not once, not twice, but every single time I dined in Orlais. And while I enjoyed the traditional Orlesian rendition of this dish - which is on the sweeter side, thanks to a liberal application of honey - those who prefer a level of sweetness more in line with a carrot’s natural flavor should employ a lighter touch.

Nevarran Flat Bread and Yogurt Dip

There’s something supremely satisfying about a tall stack of Nevarran flat bread - and I don’t just mean in an aesthetic sense. Of course, being pleasing to the eye is certainly a consideration. This is a Nevarran dish, after all. But the process of being able to go from dough to ready-to-eat bread in minutes reaches a whole level of satisfaction on its own, especially if you’re used to waiting hours for a loaf to finish baking! Best off all, this bread can be eaten in a variety of different ways, whether on its own, brushed with oil, or as a vehicle for an assortment of dips. Personally, I’d love to try it with a good stew from home one day.

Sweet Delights

Blancmange

When translated literally from Orlesian, blancmange means “white eating,” which, I suppose, is pretty accurate. This dish is a white pudding made with either milk or heavy cream that’s been thickened. On its own, it possesses a relatively mild sweetness–particularly by Orlesian standards. But that’s because it’s generally served with various toppings, such as a red grape compote, to amplify the dish’s sweet flavors. The toppings are also a great way to decorate an otherwise plain-looking dessert. I’ve seen everything from designs composed of toasted almonds to ribbons of fresh mango. There’s really no limit to what you can do!

If you’re looking for a particularly elegant option, you need only turn to Lady Vivienne for guidance. After all, she’s the veritable queen of style, no matter the medium. When it comes to blancmange, her preferred arrangement remains true to the dish’s name, offering a pristine white-on-white tableau of white chocolate curls and whole jasmine flowers. The result is gorgeous on its own, but when served on a dark plate, it looks all the more stunning!

As stunning as that is, I prefer to add a cherry sauce to top the dish.

Poison Stings

Traveling is exhausting, as I’ve recently discovered. Even if you’re just sitting in a carriage, it can often feel like you’re walking every step of the way. Thankfully, I’m not the first to take long journeys across Thedas. Dorian Pavus traveled all the way from Tevinter to Ferelden in order to join the Inquisition - and rather quickly, at that! His secret? Chocolate-coated orange peels, colloquially known as poison stings. They’re sweet and sour, crunchy and chewy, and are certain to perk you right up whenever you’re starting to feel a bit worn down.

Dalish Forest Fruit Cobbler

Mum always knew there’s no greater comfort than a warm slice of cobbler - and the Dalish know it too! The first time I had a bite of this dessert, it was like sitting in Mum’s kitchen all over again, letting the simple pleasure of her baking wash away the day’s troubles. Hard to feel the sting of a skinned knee or a lost game when your belly is full of warm, gooey goodness, no? Although Mum usually made her cobblers with strawberries and rhubarb - only the stems, of course, as the leaves are poisonous - you can follow the Dalish’s lead and use whatever forest fruit is currently in season.

Dwarven Plum Jam

One of the great joys of this journey has been the sheer variety of foods I’ve encountered. However, there are certain places that, by nature of their climate or simply location, offer little in the way of choice when it comes to locally produced foods. The dwarven city of Orzammar is one such place.

Though it is underground, the city is by no means isolated, and trade with the surface has ensured that foods from above ground have soared to great heights of popularity below. Jam, particularly that made from plums, seems to be in especially high demand. The price, however, was enough to make my eyes water! It’s no surprise that only the wealthiest and most influential residents of Orzammar can afford it.

That’s not to say the rest of the city’s population is doomed to live in a jamless existence! While in Orzammar, I spoke to a local jam maker who, rather than purchase the jams directly from merchants, has opted to import only the individual components. They hope that, by making the actual preserves themselves, they can sell their product for a much more reasonable price. And the results, I dare say, were very sweet.

Sour Cherries in Cream

Imagine that you, like me, are at a dinner party in Orlais. You’ve just finished polishing off the second-to-last course, the latest in a long slew of extravagance, and you’re starting to realize that perhaps you overindulged earlier in the evening. But how could you not? The food was just so good. Now there’s only dessert left, and your stomach feels like it’s about to burst. At this point, you cannot imagine how you’ll manage to choke down whatever tower of sugar and cream awaits you in the kitchens. All you know is you have to. You cannot be rude to your host, after all. What a relief, then, when dessert finally arrives, and you’re presented with a small bowl filled with black cherries dressed in sweet cherry sauce and whipped cream. Evidently, even the Orlesians are sometimes in need of lighter fare. And so the night ends, with stomachs still intact and no offense caused. A happy ending for all!

Treviso Energy Balls

As a Fereldan, I’m no stranger to hardship. The Fifth Blight took much from us, but the darkspawn are hardly the sole cause of suffering in Thedas. Take Treviso, a port city in northern Antiva, for example: Treviso was captured and liberated several times during both the Qunari Wars and the New Exalted Marches. As you can imagine, during times of occupation, food was scarce, and those living in the city had to make do with the limited ingredients they still had. Of course, people can be remarkably creative, particularly in difficult times. You need only look to the work Anders did in his clinic in Darktown to know that much. And so the Treviso energy ball was born, combining peanut butter, oats, and dried fruit into a bite-sized treat that’s just bursting with energy! Perfect for when you’re out sabotaging weapon caches - or just taking a hike.

Rice Pudding

I assumed a mercenary would be paid in gold. But according to the second-in-command of the Bull’s Chargers, this is not always the case! One time, he, the Iron Bull, and five other Chargers defended a village from fifty bandits, an awe-inspiring feat by anyone’s measure. I certainly listened in slack-jawed amazement as Krem recounted the tale. How incredible they must have been! If only I could’ve seen it for myself. Ahem. In any case, once the bandits were defeated and it came time for the Chargers to collect on the payment they were owed, instead of receiving a sack of gold, they got several bags of rice. When I asked what they did with all this rice, Krem only shrugged and said, “When life gives you rice, make rice pudding.” I don’t believe truer words were ever spoken!

Goat Custard

You’ll find custards all across Thedas in a dizzying number of variations. I sourced this particular recipe from Rivain, where it has gained great popularity as a dessert. The custard is made from goat’s milk and studded with roasted figs to add a touch of sweetness to the dish’s overall richness. If you’d like to further enhance the dish’s sweet flavors, milk from the Ayesleigh gulabi goat can be used, as it boasts a natural sweetness that makes it prized by custard connoisseurs everywhere.

Baked Goods

Antivan Apple Grenade

It’s no secret that I delight in creative presentation when it comes to food. Whether it’s a crab cake designed to look like a crab or a dish featuring a fish peeking its head out of a pie, the extra touches are all certain to leave me clapping my hands with glee. Thankfully, this Antivan dessert nails it on both counts! Its name comes from the fact it resembles the fire grenades reportedly used by the Antivan Crows assassins - not just in shape, but also in heat! I discovered that part for myself the hard way, when I bit into the piping-hot apple at the center of these sweet pastry bundles with a touch too much enthusiasm.

Found Cake

The Hero of Ferelden’s mabari is very good at finding items. One time he even brought back a cake! As I understand it, the cake in question was a chocolate cream variety, topped with white frosting and fresh strawberries. Of course, I had to try my hand at reproducing it, and I think the results are sure to delight. I did, however, make the decision to omit the few flecks of drool that apparently clung to the original. As much as we love our mabari in Ferelden, I don’t think their spittle makes for a very appetizing ingredient. Not even Teyrn Loghain, who, I would argue, is far more tolerant of mabari drool than I, is liable to enjoy a cake that’s become intimately acquainted with the inside of a mabari’s mouth.

Varric’s Favorite Cinnamon Rolls

When you hear the tales of Thedas's heroes, what you don't always hear are the silly names Varric Tethras called them. Some of them more fitting - Blondie, Curly, Ruffles, Broody - and others a little more...ironic. Tiny? Chuckles? I can easily imagine his amusement at the exasperation of those around him, but that's Varric for you. He can disarm you with his humor and charm (or quite literally, through his spy network). I'll tell you a secret, though-I think he has a soft spot for the soft heroes. "Daisy" for Merrill, "Sunshine" for Bethany, "Kid" for Cole. I've even heard rumors that there was a kind, appeasing hero he called "Waffles". And "Waffles" is just on short step away from him calling someone a "Cinnamon Roll," which I've heard is one of his favorite sweets. (Some of those heroes would decidedly deserve that nickname, too.) I whipped up a batch of cinnamon rolls while thinking on it, and I believe they're the perfect treat to have while listening to him spin you a tale. Warm, sweet, comforting- the kind of treat not for listening to Hard in Hightown, but for hours spent reminiscing.

Croissants

The Orlesians certainly know how to make a good pastry! It’s no wonder Lady Vivienne starts off her day with one of these, the most well-known of all Orlesian pastries and, in my humble opinion, the most delicious. But, by Andraste, these little crescents are a lot of work to make! In order to achieve that wonderfully flaky texture croissants are known for, the dough is layered with butter and then rolled and folded several times over before being rolled into a thin sheet. It’s times like these when I wish I had a strong companion like the Iron Bull or Commander Cullen to take over the duties with the rolling pin. Anything to spare my arms the indignity of being reduced to limp noodles!

Cherry Cupcake

These delightful little cakes are decadence in bite-sized form, as pleasing to the eye as they are the tongue. Although they were served alongside other sweets, carried from one private box to the next by a servant on stilts at the Tevinter theater, I was so enchanted by the pink color that I barely noticed what else was on offer. It was only after I’d had a cupcake (or four) that I heard these tiny cakes were once used as a vehicle for deadly poisons! Thankfully, my cupcakes were poison free, and so is the recipe I now pass on to you.

Chocolate Cake

I didn’t have to travel very far to get my hands on this recipe. In fact, I didn’t need to travel at all! This cake is actually one of Mum’s recipes. She baked it for the first time on my tenth name-day, and it made for a sweet celebration that not another name-day passed without me begging for an encore. Thankfully, Mum was kind enough to indulge me, even though, more times than not, she already had her hands full with the Couslands’ meals. And so whenever I think about her love for me, this cake inevitably sits front and center in my mind. It therefore seems only fitting to include here.

Varric’s Favorite Pastries

Leave a plate of pastries, fresh from the oven, to cool on a windowsill, and you might soon find a certain member of House Tethras lurking nearby. It’s unsurprising, given that the man’s first thought when it came to renaming the Bone Pit was apparently “the pie fields.” I can’t blame him, of course. I, too, love a good pastry, whether it be biscuit, roll, or bun. And after an extensive consultation with the famed arbalist himself, I’ve put together this sample, which is sure to delight! But whether you choose to leave them within dwarf’s reach well, that is entirely up to you.

Sugar Cake

There’s often joy in simplicity, as illustrated by this humble cake, which is topped with a sweet mixture of butter, sugar, and almonds. I purchased one off a surface dwarf merchant who assured me that it would be well received by any companion. According to him, even the Hero of Ferelden purchased a few for this very purpose. Of course, for me, traveling alone, this cake isn’t as much a gift as it is a perfect pick-me-up after a long day of travel. But perhaps one day, I’ll have a beloved companion to bake this cake for.

Lamprey Cake

The lamprey is one of Thedas’s more unique-looking creatures, with its long, slender body and toothed, suction-cup mouth. It’s also one that’s seldom found in the kitchen. Unless, of course, the kitchen belongs to Lord Norbert de la Haine, whose fondness for pickled lampreys was just as unfortunate as his desire to conquer the Free Marches.

Given that Lord de la Haine’s tastes were rather singular, it’s better, I think, to bring the lamprey to the dinner table in spirit only. Rest assured, you’ll find none of its noxious flavors in this cake. I’ve limited myself to merely borrowing its shape.

Tevinter Pumpkin Bread

Granted, I didn’t need much tempting to visit Tevinter. After all, how else was I going to sample Dorian Pavus’s favorites? But if I did require some convincing, these wonderful treats would certainly do the trick! Best of all, because the ingredients are so limited, I can share this recipe with more people than ever - provided, of course, I don’t eat the whole pan myself.

Drinks

Lichen Ale

Deep underground, food is easily defined. So long as it’s edible and capable of being scavenged, it’ll eventually find its way into someone’s stomach. That being said, the surface dweller’s understanding of the word edible may not exactly align with that of an Orzammar dwarf. The best illustration of this is lichen ale, the drink of choice among the dwarves in Dust Town. Put simply, it is toxic, and I do mean that in the literal sense. In sufficient quantities, it can even overpower the heartiest of dwarven constitutions. As a result, the rest of us must approach this drink with caution. Although most can tolerate a few sips without issues, I think we’d all much rather enjoy a full glass of any beverage–particularly when we’ve made it ourselves. I, therefore, took it upon myself to devise my own rendition of lichen ale, using the dwarven recipe as a base. Now we can all enjoy the look and (most) of the flavors of the original without fear of poisoning ourselves in the process!

The Hissing Drake

During my visit to the Gilded Horn, I chanced upon a group of young men engaged in a contest of sorts. The goal? To drink as many Hissing Drakes as possible in quick succession, with the person who drank the most being crowned victor. Evidently, they’d already had a few drinks before the idea occurred to them, as no sober individual would dare down more than a single glass of the stuff at a time due to its fiery effects on the stomach. In fact, when it comes to ill-advised drinking contests, I’d say this one is a close second to the game Admiral Isabela once played, with participants drinking based on the number of enemies they had. Suffice it to say, that one killed a man. Thankfully, in this case, no one died. But I think the young men managed only two or three servings before they were forced to rush for the nearest balcony, where they were promptly divested of all their pride and bluster. I have no doubt that next time the urge to compete takes hold, they’ll follow my advice and choose a soothing Fereldan ale instead.

Hot Chocolate

Varric isn’t the only one who loves sweets. And, no, I’m not talking about myself; I’m talking about the Iron Bull! Hot chocolate is a particular favorite of his, to the point that it’s practically a necessity. Although the cocoa powder he swears by is sometimes difficult to find, it’s well worth the effort. Add hot milk and some Orlesian guimauves like the Iron Bull does, and you’ll have a drink that’s certain to please. Personally, I’m partial to topping it all off with a bit of whipped cream dusted with cinnamon, but there are many ways to dress up a cup of hot chocolate.

Antivan Sip-Sip

I was warned that this particular drink packs a bit of a bunch. More than “a bit,” I’ll say. Anyone capable of downing an entire glass of this is made of sterner stuff than I! I could scarcely manage more than a small sip each time I brought this to my lips - and that was with the added help of a tall glass of water! Perhaps that’s why it’s called a sip-sip - because each sip of it must be chased by a sip of something else.

Dragon Piss

I really hope the name is figurative. It probably is - or, at least, that’s what I’ll tell myself now that I’ve sampled this less-than-enticingly-named drink. Perhaps the name Dragon Breath would suit it better? After all, it certainly burns like a dragon’s breath - both in the glass and on the way down!

Rivaini Tea Blend

A cup of tea is often the perfect accompaniment for any sweet treat, although it can certainly be enjoyed on its own. Personally, I’d still prefer the added biscuit on the side. Not just because I like desserts–I do, of course–but because it’s great fun deciding which to pair with all the various blends.

When it comes to tea blends, the most famous is probably the classic Rivaini tea blend, a mixture of peppermint, lemon verbena, oregano, and licorice root. It’s a wonderfully soothing combination that’s said to have healing properties. In fact, I believe Empress Celene Valmont I of Orlais takes it throughout the day to alleviate headaches. Given how messy Orlesian politics are wont to be, with chevalier cousins vying for the throne and elven handmaids turned both spymaster and lover, I imagine there must be a pot of the stuff boiling at all times.

The Golden Nug

From the name, I expected this drink to be gold, but it’s actually pink! Evidently, inspiration was drawn from the living creature rather than the golden statue I passed in Haven (of which I’ve heard there is more than one). A base of white Seleney wine sweetened with a splash of West Hill Brandy dilutes the color of the pomegranate juice and mulled raspberries into a softer, pinkish hue. The goal is to imitate the color of a typical nug, after all, not a severely sunburnt one!

The Emerald Valley

The sisters of the Chantry truly make some marvelous creations - namely, the spirit used in this drink. Distilled from over seventy different herbs and flowers, it has a complex, varied flavor positively bursting with all the freshness of an emerald-green valley.

Chasind Sack Mead

After having sampled some Chasind Wildwine, I wasn’t surprised to learn that their mead is equally strong. Some might even call it brutal. For me, the flavors are almost poetic. First, there’s a nearly overwhelming rush of honey, tinged with the sour-sweetness of apple blossoms, that fills the mouth with all the bright warmth of a summer’s day. But as the initial sweetness fades, there comes an unexpected bitterness, reminiscent of the slow decay into fall, then winter. In essence, the turning of the seasons, all in a single cup - well, sack (although you can certainly fancy it up with a stunning decanter, as I’ve done here).

[vulpes-fennec]

Prythian's Fantasia 🎪 (Ch. 3)

Summary: It’s 1889. Desperate to save her ailing mother’s life, Feyre strikes a bargain with ringmaster-witch doctor Amarantha. As the Archeron sisters join Prythian’s Fantasia and head for the World’s Fair in Paris, they begin to realize the circus’s magic runs far deeper than its enchanting nightly performances.

Previously: The Archeron sisters had a magical experience at Prythian's Fantasia. Will Feyre be able to bargain with Amarantha to save her mother's life? WARNINGS: References to past SA in Gwyn's POV

Read: Masterlist | AO3

Tuesday, March 12th, 1889

***Nesta***

Nesta was scritch-scratching her way through the pile of correspondence in the parlor when the front door snicked shut. Blazing irritation ruined Nesta’s train of thought. Where the hell was her damn sister going? 

Sure enough, Feyre’s cloaked form had just turned the corner down the street. Nesta ground her teeth, frustration fueling her quick steps into a light jog. She’d turned a blind eye to Feyre’s excursions long enough. As the eldest child, it was her responsibility to keep her sisters out of trouble. But Nesta hated running. Especially in such a layered skirt and dainty little shoes. 

“You, there. I’ll pay you five shillings if you follow that girl in the black dress down the street.” Nesta announced to a boy who happened to be driving an empty wagon past her. He could not be any older than fourteen, based on his short stature and pimple-covered face. But he nodded, even cowing slightly as Nesta hopped into the grimy wagon. “Be discreet. If she catches us, you’ll only get two.” 

The janky wagon rumbled and squelched over cobblestone and mud. The boy maintained a careful distance as they moved past soot-darkened gray buildings, ramshackle apartments, squalid beggars, and over the Thames River. They followed Feyre for a good half hour before she disappeared into thin air. 

“Where did she go?” The boy stopped, his confusion mirroring Nesta’s. Nesta, who had been keeping a close eye on Feyre the entire time, was at a loss for words. Feyre’s honey-brown hair was easy to spot, even amongst the throng of Londoners. She was even wearing a knitted cream shawl that made her stand out in the gray. But they had traveled far enough that Nesta was certain where Feyre was headed. 

The Prythian’s Fantasia tent rose tall and proud about a half mile away. The lines and colors were sharper in daylight, but the structure still evoked memories of that magical night. Nesta had not been able to stop thinking about how circus dancers pranced and spun across the ring, seductively contorting their bodies mid-air with silken ribbons. She would make the rest of the way by foot; Nesta plunked down the five shillings into the wagon before hopping out.

The circus gate was shut and the grounds were silent, which had Nesta wondering for a moment if she had guessed incorrectly. It seemed dead as a graveyard. But there it was…that faint jingle of music. Lilting notes and clear tones sweetened the air, beckoning her in. Nesta walked along the massive perimeter, following the music. She eventually reached the performers’ camp just behind the main circus. 

Sure enough, her sister was idling at the camp’s edge, wringing her hands and pacing anxiously as if she was working up the nerve to enter. A gold-painted sign propped next to the small entrance read: Prospective performers, seek Amarantha. 

“Feyre,” Nesta called out firmly. 

Feyre jumped, her blue-gray eyes widening in surprise. “Nesta!” Her expression pinched with sudden nervousness. “What are you doing here? Have you been following me?” 

“I should ask the same thing about yourself. Not thinking of running away to the circus, are you?” Nesta replied dryly. 

“I’m not running away…I simply must speak with the ringmaster.” Nesta groaned in frustration when Feyre strode away. Whatever business Feyre had with Amarantha, Nesta was not going to wait around for her sister to come back out. 

During the day, the circus performers were unrecognizable in regular garb, with women in plain linen dresses and men in standard brown pants and shirts. Nesta clearly stuck out, with her pale blue dress and embroidered silk slippers. Even Feyre looked more proper than usual, with her freshly cleaned lilac dress and carefully braided hair. 

Colored caravans were interspersed between medium-sized tents and practice rings. The performers barely paid Nesta and Feyre any attention as they navigated down the crunchy dry grass and towards the large plum tent with the words “ringmaster’s office” scripted on a hanging placard.

A tall, muscular man stood under the tent’s awning, and Nesta gawked at him openly. He was not like the sniveling, pale, weak-boned aristocrats of London society. Nor was he like one of those bumbling country boys who were all brawn but no brain. His golden eyes were like a hawk’s: sharp, intelligent, and…beautiful. Was he a circus performer, or personal protection? Nesta could not recall having seen him in the show, for she would certainly remember a man like him. 

“What’s your business here?” he asked with a half grin, in a deep voice that sounded like a song. Nesta clenched her jaw, trying to keep herself from getting carried away.

“We request an audience with Amarantha,” Feyre responded. The man’s crossed arms stretched and creased his gray shirt along defined muscles. Nesta’s eyes were fixated on the triangle of ruddy brown skin, like that of sailors who spent their days out in the open seas, peeking through the unbuttoned top of his shirt.

“What is the nature of your audience?” 

“I seek her aid for our ailing mother.” Nesta blinked in surprise. Running to a circus ringmaster for healing? Feyre must have lost her mind. 

The man’s hazel eyes snapped towards Nesta’s face, picking her steely facade apart and assessing every hidden, dark thought. She could have sworn his pupils widened with subtle desire. His chiseled face was rugged, as if a sculptor had failed to smooth down a marble statue before presenting their work to an art exhibit. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” His attitude had changed, and it stung, for some reason. 

“I don’t see why not?” Nesta blurted out. “You are not the ringmaster.” The man scoffed at her now, his lip twitching in condescension. 

“What you seek would not benefit you in the slightest.” Normally, Nesta would have wholeheartedly used the barring of entry as an excuse to drag Feyre away. But his self-righteous and dismissive attitude riled her. 

“Cassian,” a strong, female voice called from the interior of the tent. “Do we have guests outside? Do let them in.”  

So that was his name. Cassian. 

“Seems you do not have the final word around here.” Nesta allowed her lips to twitch in a simpering smirk as she walked past Cassian, who had gone rigid with fury, most likely. She could not banish the memory of his intense hazel eyes, which were surely pinned on her back like a target as she slipped into the ringmaster’s tent.  

***Feyre***

It was surprisingly dim inside the tent, and the air clung to Feyre’s cheeks like a damp fog. Ringmaster Amarantha sat in a large velvet chair, reading a book and sipping from a goblet of wine. She’d exchanged her bodice and breeches for a deep purple gown that made her alabaster skin appear bloodless.  

“Good afternoon,” Amarantha purred with a saccharine smile. “What brings such lovely ladies to my domain today?” It seemed the ringmaster’s charisma was not limited to the stage. Feyre took a step forward, dipping her head in a slight bow. 

“Good afternoon, ringmaster. I heard you possess…magic. And I’ve come to humbly request your assistance. My mother has been gravely ill for months.” The Archeron family’s fate hung upon Amarantha’s answer.

“My assistance does not come without a price. Tell me, dear, what is your name?” Amarantha tossed her thick, crimson hair behind a shoulder. 

“Feyre Archeron.” Confidence—keeping her voice steady—was crucial.

“And yours?” Amarantha’s dark gaze swiveled to Nesta, who did not balk at the sheer weight of the ringmaster’s stare. 

“Nesta. Nesta Archeron,” she replied. “I’m Feyre’s older sister.” Amarantha hummed in approval. She closed her eyes, tapping her fingers together in contemplation. 

“Feyre Archeron, I do not desire money or riches as a form of payment. I will provide a healing potion for your mother, as long as you agree to half a year of service with my circus: Prythian’s Fantasia.” 

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. But Nesta pinched Feyre’s arm hard before she could speak. 

“Please excuse us for a moment,” Nesta said roughly. Amarantha waved her hand flippantly, returning to her book. Nesta dragged Feyre to the side. “Have you lost your mind, Feyre?” she hissed lowly. “Join a circus? For some crackpot potion, when Mother is already on her way out this world?” 

Feyre’s blue eyes flashed angrily. 

“I need to try, Nesta,” she argued back. “I know that you are not fond of Mother. But imagine what Father will endure if she dies. And think about Elain! You may not want to get married, but are you willing to be her chaperone next year? Be my chaperone for another season?” 

“The ringmaster didn’t even inquire about Mother’s condition. How would her ‘potion’ be any useful cure?” Nesta asked, a little more loudly. 

“Magic,” Amarantha called out lazily. “Six months of service seems sufficient in exchange for a potion that acts as a general restorative for any ailment, don’t you think?”

“Magic does not exist. Healing potions do not exist,” Nesta rationalized. “You’re being foolish, Feyre. Save yourself from the embarrassment.”

“Magic does exist. I know it,” Feyre shot back, her voice a harsh whisper. She turned back to Amarantha. “My mother’s condition is too dire to wait six months. What if she passes before my term of service is completed?” 

Amarantha’s mouth curled in a wry grin. “You do drive a hard bargain, my dear. I will award you the potion after two months of service, but you must finish the six months with me before you are free to leave.”  

“This is a traveling circus, is it not? Where do you plan to go?” Feyre asked. 

“We will be making a touring loop around England before heading to Paris in May for the World’s Fair,” Amarantha responded. “Our stops will be in the main cities of Bristol, Birmingham, Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield, Cambridge, and Southend-on-Sea.”

Feyre chewed her lip. Her answer was still ‘yes’ but would two months be soon enough? 

“One month of service,” Nesta declared suddenly. Feyre stared at her older sister in confusion. “I will take part in the bargain, as long as you give us the ‘potion’ after one month of service.” 

Amarantha’s dark eyes gleamed with feral delight. “Very well, then. Come closer, ladies. All I need is a few droplets of your blood.” 

“For what?” Nesta blanched.

“The potion, of course.” Nesta and Feyre stepped closer to Amarantha, who produced a sharp needle. Amarantha grasped Feyre’s hand, her slender fingers icy cold and unusually strong. 

“A bargain: one healing potion, to be given after a month of work, in exchange for six months of Feyre Archeron’s work in Prythian’s Fantasia,” Amarantha intoned. 

Feyre watched with fascination as crimson welled from her index finger and dripped into a small glass vial. A prickling sensation raced from her fingertip to her elbow. Amarantha did the same for Nesta, handing them both linen bandages once she was done. The ringmaster pocketed the glass vial and smiled demurely at them.

“Thank you, ladies. Prythian’s Fantasia departs for Bristol on Friday morning. I shall see both of you here no later than eleven o’clock.”

“What will our roles be?” Feyre blurted out. Amarantha assessed them critically. 

“Feyre, our magician is in need of an assistant, especially for the World’s Fair. You shall work closely with him on his acts. Nesta, I see you have a dancer’s grace. You shall participate in our aerial silks act.” 

“Thank you.” Feyre smiled, feeling incandescent. Everything was lining into place: she would save her mother, go on an adventure, and become closer with the handsome magician. The magician! Perhaps by working with him, she could also find answers about her magic. 

She was so caught up in her joy that she barely noticed a glowering Cassian as they exited Amarantha’s tent. She was going to join the circus! Feyre’s finger throbbed with residual pain, proof that this was truly happening. “You didn’t have to strike a bargain with Amarantha,” she pointed out. “So why did you?” 

Nesta seemed lost in a similar wishful daze. “It’s a ticket to Manchester. The beating heart of the suffragist movement. I also couldn’t let you do such a foolish thing alone.” She gave Feyre a dubious glance.

Feyre froze. “Oh, damn us,” she gasped, glancing at Nesta with wide eyes. “What are we going to say to Elain?” 

***Gwyn***

Tears rolled down Gwyneth Berdara’s cheeks at the memory of her twin sister Catrin’s joyful face and pealing laugh. How many more times could she draw upon her recollections before they faded away? Catrin’s silver wedding ring hung on a chain around Gwyn’s neck, was the only physical part of her sister she had left—and served as a reminder of all that was lost. 

Her heart hurt, but at least she wasn’t in physical pain anymore. Gwyn squeezed her eyes shut and sobbed, pushing away the memories of the cursed brothel. The rank smells, the raucous laughter of drunkards. The clinking of coins before they began. The leering men who did not bother with “making love” to women. 

From what Catrin told her, intercourse was supposed to be a blissful and exciting experience. But Gwyn only knew pain. Pain from the bruises, the pulling of her coppery-brown hair, the chafing of skin between her legs. 

There was also a specific memory of warm, wet blood and the sounds of screams in the dark. And a fast-cooling body. 

Gwyn wiped her teary face and allowed herself one last sniffle before getting up from her cot. At least the bruises on her arms and waist had faded after a week with Prythian’s Fantasia. She’d sought the help of Thesan, the circus physician, who gave her contraceptive tonics without any judgment.

The caravan she shared with Emerie, Nuala, and Cerridwen was packed to the brim. Small windows ventilated the space, a small copper tub was shoved in the corner, and clothes and books were strewn across all available surfaces.

Gwyn was on kitchen duty today. The center of the camp served as the main area for meals and congregating, with food prepared in the open air. Tarquin and Daphne Vanserra were already there, baking bread in the clay oven and handling the wheels of cheese. 

“The vegetables are already washed,” Tarquin said, pointing to the crates of leafy greens, carrots, and potatoes. Tarquin cut a striking figure, with his turquoise eyes and long white hair contrasting with his dark brown skin. She’d only known him for a week, but his gentle smiles and thoughtful nature had put Gwyn at ease with her new surroundings. 

Gwyn picked up a sharp knife and began dicing the vegetables, placing the smaller pieces into large wooden bowls for stew. She was so engrossed with her cutting that when a man silently stepped up next to her, Gwyn jumped with fright. But it was only the dagger-thrower, here to assist with meal preparation. 

He was the same height as her, with a slightly muscled build. Inky black hair curled around the nape of his neck and fell in front of his angular hazel eyes, which softened slightly at her reaction.

“Apologies,” he muttered, his voice low. 

“It’s alright,” Gwyn responded quickly. “My name is Gwyn. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She smiled broadly at him.

“You’ve been crying, haven’t you?” Gwyn stiffened, her smile slipping away. 

“Azriel, don’t you know it��s rude to say such things to a lady?” Daphne tutted at the dagger-thrower. 

“Apologies,” Azriel said again. He picked up a knife and began expertly fileting the skin and bone off a slab of meat. Gwyn stared: pale scars streaked across his olive-toned hands. They moved with deadly precision. Smears of blood had begun to coat the tips of his fingers…Azriel met her gaze with a sharp look that had Gwyn glancing away with embarrassment. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” Gwyn replied. “I joined the circus right when it arrived in London.” 

“Why?” His words were short, and to the point. 

Catrin’s lifeless face, with sunken-in cheeks and chapped lips flashed before her. That horrible smell…those awful hands grabbing her, hurting her…Gwyn shrugged nonchalantly. 

“I needed to make some money. When did you join the circus?” Azriel’s brows lifted slightly at her returning question. 

“Almost five years,” he replied. The dagger-thrower did not offer any more words of conversation after that. Daphne and Tarquin chatted in the background, but between Azriel and Gwyn, there was only silence. Gwyn’s eyes began watering again when she started on the onions. Before she could reach for a second onion, Azriel wordlessly took the whole crate away. 

“Thank you. I suppose I’ve cried enough for today,” Gwyn murmured. She snuck a glance at the dagger-thrower, and was disappointed to see his face stone-cold at her attempt to jest.

✨

Tags: @velidewrites @reverie-tales @highladysith @shadowsxgwynriel @foxwithagoldeye @sunshinebingo @jealousveronya @corcracrow @fieldofdaisiies @the-lonelybarricade

[dutchessofcaladan]

Pirates of the Caribbean: Wrath of the Kraken

My 1st Pirates fic! And before you ask: No. I didn't abandon Ghostbusters: Soul Resurgence. My hyperfixation wheel decided to spin and somehow landed on Pirates of the Caribbean (I blame Geoffrey Rush).

Anyway, this fic (and possibly others, we'll see how this goes) will be a continuation of the PotC franchise (not a reboot like Disney so stupidly decided on) and will feature new and returning characters as well as take inspiration from previous films and the mobile game Tides of War.

And just like Ghostbusters: Soul Resurgence, a bit thank you to @phantomoftheparadise0002 for beta-reading this!

Summary: When Jack recruits Smith to help him find the lost relics of Cortez, their mission doesn't go as planned when they run into terrors and joys from their past, ultimately witnessing the resurrection of the Dutchman...and her beloved Captain.

TW: Some language

Jack smiled as his face became illuminated by the moon, its light shining through the parting clouds.

"Mr. Gibbs!" He shouted from the helm.

"Cap'n?" Gibbs responded, turning to Jack.

"Prepare the Pearl for docking!"

"But Cap'n, where be the dock?"

"Look through the mist, Mr. Gibbs." Jack smiled.

As if by magic, the mist faded, revealing the fortress that had been built into the side of a mountain.

"El Silencio en el mar Caspio." Jack all but sighed, as if he was returning home. "The Silence in the Caspian Sea."

As the ship got closer to the dock, Jack hopped down to the main deck, Cotton having taken the wheel.

"ALRIGHT STEADY! STEADY!" Jack shrieked as the ship aligned itself.

A terrified look covered his face as a loud snap echoed from the front of the ship.

Turning back to Cotton he shouted, "No matter! Everything's fine!" Pulling Gibbs to him he whispered, "Let's just hope she'll go easy on him otherwise we'll need a new helmsman."

Gibbs turned to him in shock. Before he could ask who they were here to see, Jack had hopped off the ship and started down what was left of the dock.

"Oi!" One of the guards shouted, blocking Jack's way. "What do you think you're doin'?"

Jumping back slightly, Jack looked at him in confusion. "Have we met before?" He questioned bluntly.

Before the guard could answer, Jack snapped his fingers, delight painting his face.

"I've got it!" He slurred. "You're one of those guards from Port Royal!" Leaning in close he asked, "Have you learned to swim yet?"

He jumped as the guard let out an angered huff.

"Let's just forget that last bit, shall we?" His eyes widened slightly, seeing that the guards expression hadn't changed. "How 'bout this: I'll go wait in that tavern over there, have a few drinks, while you go get your Captain for me."

Before the guard could answer, Jack pushed past him towards the tavern.

"Pirate, nay. Privateer."

"I'm disinclined to acquiesce your request. Means no."

"Aye. But that's a gamble of long odds, ain't it?"

"There's no guarantee of comin' back. Passin' on, that's dead certain."

"Too long me fate has not been in me own hands. No longer."

"Do ya mean grass? On a farm? Milkin’ a cow? Makin’ cheese? While they sink me treasure?! I'm a Pirate. Always will be."

"You know the first thing I'm gonna do after the curse is lifted...eat a whole bushel of apples."

“For too long I've been parched of thirst and unable to quench it. Too long I've been starving to death and haven't died. I feel nothing. Not the wind on my face nor the spray of the sea. Nor the warmth of a woman's flesh.”

“You best start believing in ghost stories Ms. Turner. You’re in one!”

"I'm the master of me ship. Not Blackbeard. I'm the master of me fate. Not Blackbeard. So I did what needed done. I survived."

"Nay, belay that! Let ‘er run straight and true!"

"Brace up yards, ya cack-handed deck apes! Dyin' is the day worth livin' for!"

"I feel...cold."

Smith awoke in a cold sweat to someone banging on her door. Standing up, she went to open it.

"What do you want, Mullroy?" She growled, glaring daggers at the guard who'd been banging on her door.

"Pardon me for awakin' you, Captain, especially at this hour, but," the look on her face told him to get to the point, "there's a man, in the tavern. He requested that I bring you to him."

Grumbling, Smith slammed the door, only to reamerge moments later fully dressed, motioning to Mullroy to take her to him.

As Jack downed his 4th mug of rum, the door to the tavern opened.

"Jack Sparrow." Smith smirked.

"Smith! It's been too long!" Steadying himself as he stood. "Hasn't it?"

"Aye." Her smile was strained. "9 years."

Heading to the table and pulling up a chair, Smith leaned close to Jack.

"What the hell are you doing here, Jack?"

Leaning forward, Jack slurred, "I've heard stories. Of a great treasure that lies at the bottom of the Atlantic. It's said to be one of the relics of Cortez himself."

Sensing she wasn't paying attention, he poked her in the forehead.

"'re you alright?" He asked.

"I've been having these...dreams." She sighed. "Every night for the past 9 years. Every single one about Hector. It's like he's calling to me."

"Tis not Barbossa who calls to you."

Swiftly turning in the direction of the voice, Jack aimed his pistol while Smith readied her sword.

Jack's eyes widened.

"Calypso." Smith's eyes narrowed.

"In de flesh." The Sea Goddess smiled, black teeth shining in the dim light of the rising Sun.

"What do you want?" Smith held her sword more firmly.

"Not'ing more dan to give you a gift."

"A gift?" Jack questioned. "Did you bring me a gift too?"

Calypso shot him an incredulous look, causing his smile to fall.

"Tis more of a...repayment, den a gift."

Smith's eyebrows furrowed. "A repayment? For what?"

Stepping closer, Calypso smiled. "In time, you and Jack will venture to dah sea. Dehn you will fallow Deh Map No Man Can Read. Dehr you will find your repayment."

"Repayment for what?" Smith repeated.

"You'll see."

As quick as she'd arrived, Calypso vanished.

"The Map No Man Can Read." Smith repeated, turning to Jack. "You don't think-"

"Think what?"

Before he could get an answer, Smith fled the tavern.

Placing her hands upon the wheel of the Queen Anne's Revenge, Smith let out a shaky breath. For the first time in 9 years, she stood at the helm of her ship. Her. Ship. Those words felt wrong. No. This was Hector's ship. He had been the one to take it from Blackbeard. He had been the one to make the Revenge what it was today.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled her sword from its sheath and thrust it into the air, the tip of it gleaning in the newly risen Sun. As she did so, the wine colored Sails were released from their bonds, the early morning air filling them. Thrusting the sword towards the bow of the ship, she watched as her crew tumbled down the deck at the sudden burst of acceleration.

Returning the sword to its sheath, she addressed her crew. "All hands! Ply to windward! Get crackin' ye bloomin' cockroaches!" She let out a laugh as her crew joined. "The Crown served me well! But now, by the Gods of sea and sky, make way for Tortuga!" Her crew cheered as the ship continued on.

Smiling as he heard the cheers of Smith's crew, Jack whispered to himself, "That's my girl."

[rennybu]

Hi there! Maybe this is a weird question, but as an artist and A D&D, I thought you might be a good resource! I'm wanting to commission a portrait of my D&D character for roll20 purposes, but I'm struggling with what refs and such I should gather for the artist. How can I make it as easy as possible for an artist when the character I'm wanting a portrait of isn't human? Would a written description suffice, or are images better? Thank you for whatever advice you have! --sincerely, a Loam enjoyer

DELIGHTFUL QUESTION, not weird at all!!! I hope its okay to publish this in case anyone else was wondering the same :']

Speaking as an artist who's done portrait commissions in the very recent past, a mix of images and written description is a sweet spot. Notes about specific features that the reference images might not show, or might not show accurately, help a lot to avoid retakes and corrections down the line.

Using Loam as an example, I have my own drawings of him I can crop and compile as reference, as well as a human model whose face proportions I like and make sure to include in case the realism is helpful at all to the artist. (The model is. EXTREMELY pale, ginger, and blue-eyed, so it really is just for like, Nose, Mouth, Jaw. FORM!) Then bolster what I've provided with additional reference - for Loam's ears, I have some pictures of cow ears saved for the overall shape and fur texture. AND all his jewelry afgkhfldKLJSHFGLSKD <3 Plus various armors, weathered fabrics, pieces of misc gear that complement and offer more options than what I've presented in my own artwork - to give the artist a range to work within, while still representing what I imagine suits Loam.

Simple notepad or Paint sketches also go a long way in conveying which details/features are most important to include in a given commission!!! Even scribbling over a reference image to be like, "this but PURPLE" is quick and easy. The power of the stick figure/smiley face with annotated doodles is never to be underestimated in communicating a bigger idea!!!!!!

SUMMARY?

Any existing artwork of the character

Any models/actors (or animals, for textures in fur/scales/eyes/teeth, etc etc) with features that are accurate to your image of the character

A simple doodle/sketch of the concept you have in mind

Written notes to consolidate the visuals you've provided and fill in any gaps that might still remain

BONUS? Links to the artist's own work depicting non-human features in a way you enjoyed seeing previously, that made you want to commission them for your character! (this has also helped me in the past with clients wanting lighting/rendering styles, hair, magic effects, etc. similar to pieces I'd done previously)

GO FORTH HAVE FUN!! i hope some of this was a little helpful :'D

[aziraphales-library]

hi!! your blog is literally a gem, tysm, ive found so many good fics bc of you guys!! i was wondering if you had any recommendations for comedy fics where they expand on the 'heaven and hell are the same building' or 'aziraphale and crowley lowkey work a corporate job'? i have a rec- in mixed company or the corporate retreat of heaven and hell by TheOldAquarian ( https://archiveofourown.org/works/22309822/chapters/53287501 ) thats an absolute banger and id love to see more like it!! :D

Hello and you’re welcome! You might be interested in this post where we recommended some fics featuring paperwork from Heaven and Hell. Here are some more corporate fics...

The Account by Pookaseraph (G)

Heaven forgot to cancel the Corporate AmEx. A Crowley is/was Raphael fic.

I Never Meant to Start a War (I Only Wanted a Piece of Cake) by StainedGlassSpecs (T)

It's several months after Armageddon failed. Heaven is in a state of chaos, Gabriel can't leave well enough alone, and one naive angel decides to sign up as a new field agent on Earth.

Aziraphale and Crowley just wanted to be left alone and attend a wedding. Accidentally kicking off a celestial civil war had not been on the cards ... nor had an infernal uprising, for that matter ... but nothing had ever gone according to their plans (especially not the Ineffable Plan), so why start now?

Field Day by nightbloomingcereus (T)

Welcome to the First Annual Heaven and Hell Field Day! There will be trust falls, a three-legged race, and all manner of corporate-mandated fun and games – what could possibly go wrong?

One Night In Bangor (And the World's Your Oyster) by Atalan (E)

"All right, I know I'm going to regret asking this," Aziraphale says. "What exactly does this wager entail?"

Crowley grins like the cat that not only got the cream but has absconded with the entire cow. He grabs the bottle and swigs straight from it despite Aziraphale's tut of disapproval.

"The pot goes to whichever demon can get an angel into bed by the end of the evening."

AKA The Fic That Tumblr Made Me Write. Heaven and Hell share a corporate party once per millennium. This time someone's had the bright idea of issuing a challenge to the demons of Hell. Crowley has no intention of missing the opportunity; Aziraphale's just enough of a bastard to make him work for it.

Improvement Day by Twilightcitysky (E)

The time has come for Improvement Day, Heaven's decennial work retreat. The angels posted to Earth are relieved of their terrestrial assignments and join middle management in attempting to improve organizational operations right across the board. Typical activities include name games, trust falls, client-facing skill role play, and miracle budget workshops. It's loathed by all the Earth operatives- but particularly by Aziraphale, who always finds himself unable to fit in (no matter how many icebreakers there are).

This year, an angel no one quite remembers seeing before is on a mission to befriend Aziraphale, but it seems that the odds are against him. He has to contend with a networking-obsessed Gabriel and an unabashedly flirtatious colleague; Michael thinks he might be the next big thing in parsimonious celestial energy handling; and Sandalphon is sure he's seen him somewhere before. Meanwhile, Aziraphale's angry with him for showing up, the gold paint on his cheeks is flaking, losing a contact lens would mean a quick discorporation at the hands of four dozen angels, and isn't this just the story of Crowley's life?

dearly departed by attheborder (T)

Finally, Aziraphale spoke. “You mean to say— you got us married?”

“Just as a precaution, I never really thought I’d end up discorporated again, it’d been ages, you just don’t get stampedes or assassinations like you used to —”

“You got us married, and you didn’t tell me?”

***

Crowley gets inconveniently discorporated. And it’s not like it’s ever been easy to get a new body, but this time around, things really aren’t looking good. His new innuendo-obsessed lust-demon of a coworker honestly isn’t helping things.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale has a dead body to contend with, and an occult mortician & his very normal daughter to fend off. What lengths will he go to in order to get Crowley back to Earth?

And the one you mentioned...

In Mixed Company, or the Corporate Retreat of Heaven and Hell by TheOldAquarian (E)

Every 300 years, Heaven and Hell share a company retreat on Earth during which angels and demons temporarily surrender their celestial powers.

Officially, it’s a time for fostering team unity and better understanding the needs of the client base. It’s definitely not a time for terrorizing the hotel staff with divine/diabolical showdowns, abusing the ethereal expense account, or furiously snogging your hereditary enemy. But when Aziraphale and Crowley are up for promotion, Hell breaks loose and Heaven might just break free.

- Mod D

[sweetbrier2908]

little things the demon brothers do for each other

silly little headcanon of mine, no proofread

lucifer: keeps something remind him of his little brothers on his office’s desk: a golden ring, a goldfish bowl (he enjoys watching the fish swims), a standing mini cat figure which you can put something on their arms/ legs, a pink glitter pen which magic ink he never use but still has it in his pen stand, a burger-shaped coaster and a cow-faced mug. silly, you’re right. too proud to say he love them and also too proud to let them see what he has on his desk. so that’s why his study is called secret study.

mammon: takes blame for his brothers’ actions (mostly belphie and beel because ya know, they’re the youngest) and always the first one who realizes if his brothers acting weird and gets panic (i mean they’re all weirdos but someday they’re just weirder than normal). also he’s sometimes the only one who can calm lucifer down so always try to talks it out first before lucifer punished his little brothers (which actually happened in memory card “paying back what’s owed”). one more thing that he tries to buy or win stuffs for his brothers: like levi’s concert ticket, asmo’s limited purse and so on.

levi: making his brothers handmade stuffs, fixing his brothers’ clothes (mostly asmo’s clothes or belphie’s pillows and plushies), inviting them over his room for a game-night. he actually spends time a lot with his brothers but he doesn’t realize. also, i loves that him really cherishes everything his brothers gave him - literally everything (such as beel’s drawing of ruri), he will handle them with lot of love! also he definitely is the one who orders most stuffs for his brothers, since he spends hours and hours on akuzon.

satan: prepares his brothers’ favorite dishes when he realizes they’re feeling down. helps them with their homework, makes sure they wake up on time. literally he does every single little things he can to take care for his brothers. remember when he was so amazing that his brothers started to propose him? yes, that’s my man.

asmo: picking out clothes for his brothers! asmo is the family’s stylish! his brothers entrust their clothes to him. he’s the one who notices which brother is lack of sleep, which brother is not having enough water and reminds them, which brother wears any different item than usual then makes comment about it. THE MOST IMPORTANT, HE PAINTS HIS BROTHERS’ NAILS. this is how everyone knows that they’re family. asmo and mammon are the two who plan every single party for the brothers.

beel: making sure they eat enough. beel does everything for his brothers (as long as they treat him food, but most of the time, because he cares so much about his brothers, he’s a gentle giant, he’s a sweetheart). asmo needs someone to carry all of his shopping bags? beel’s on it. lucifer needs someone to run errands? he can always trust beel. levi wants someone to play games with? beel’s always ready. he literally does everything: carrying belphie around (back and forth from HoL to RAD, to Demon Lord’s Castle,…),. go picking up levi when he gets lost (canon!). he’s the kindest of them all so everyone tends to ask him for help since he’s not gonna questioning.

belphie: the most spoiled brat. his brothers go easy on him and literally spoils him in every way they can. he complains about everything but in the end, just like his twin, he always help them out as much as he can. he let asmo dress him, he joins satan’s prank on lucifer, he makes sure to show up on every beel’s game and makes sure his twin can see him. you know that belphie sometimes is the one who gives the best advice ever.

[hellomyjoy]

happy birthday, mr. wen! (ღ˘ε˘ღ) based on @imagine-svt's super adorable prompt!

The third time it happens, you turn around to stare pointedly at a crown of unruly hair. “Excuse me, sir,” you say.

The tiny wheeze of mirth that escapes from him can only melt your heart so much, is mostly a cause for suspicion, and you watch as large, innocuous eyes peek up at you from beneath a dark sweep of lashes. The corners of his mouth twitch upward.

“Can I help you?” he asks, the light from his phone casting his features as some paradigm of innocence, and you take a moment to consider both the arsenal of replies at your disposal along with the defenses comprising the boy before you.

This lanky, barefaced boy, trying to hide an unnecessarily gleeful expression beneath a cowed head and the frame of his phone. His eyes flicker rapidly between his screen and your face, the archetype of an operative running reconnaissance, and whatever expression he uncovers from you is enough for his nose to crinkle, cheeks to scrunch higher in delight.

Disarming, you decide unwillingly. Much too disarming, the odds tipping far too much into his favor, and this is a skirmish your risk-benefit analysis cannot adequately justify.

And so, in the end, you turn back around. Walk a little more aggressively towards your destination, slippers planting firmly on the wooden floor with every step. Behind you comes the sound of his long strides keeping up much too easily.

One step. Two, three, and you think, unbidden: how did that saying go? Fool me once, fool me twice. But a third time?

From the corner of your eye, you see the tip of his sock-clad toes sneaking forward, a half-step too bold –

A fourth?

– and you spin around before contact can be made, all pretense lost as you tackle him.

Never let it be said that you were an easy conquest. Your hands find the cracks in his armor with practiced ease: the soft, vulnerable spots to his sides, beneath his arms, neck, shoulderblades, and a satisfactory yelp tumbles from him under the assault of your fingers. He stumbles backward, folding in on himself and then onto the ground, phone lost somewhere in the fray.

His words are half-lost beneath gasps and choked laughter, the helpless fluttering of his lashes the unfurling of a white banner. “Wait, wait – ”

Ah, but you do not wait, you take no prisoners, and only when he is supine, chest heaving with the efforts of fending off your attack, do you stop. There is a hummingbird living beneath the delicate surface of his wrists as you encircle them, and you stare down at him, a feline perched smug and calculating atop its windowsill.

“Well?” you demand then, close enough where strands of your hair intermingle with his, his face captured in a soft, entangled web. “Can I help you?”

He stares up at you, flushed, breathless, wide eyes reflecting amber in the afternoon sun, and between the lines of this temporary armistice, you find yourself discovering only breadth enough for the soft stillness of mutual wonder. In this moment, he is an art form hand-painted by the most lovelorn impressionist, the capture of an idée fixe in tiny, detailed thoughts and strokes: a scattering of sunlight across an expanse of forehead, the pulse thrumming against the curve of his neck, that single, familiar stipple of ink above parted lips –

You pause, grip slackening, and it is enough. Too late, you realize the fault in your defenses – a vein of affection resurfacing from forgotten minefields, the proverbial turncoat staring at you across from enemy lines wearing your face. The featherlight brush of his fingers against the back of yours in a claim of premature victory. 

Your tone is a poor semblance of stern and unyielding. “No – ” 

Too late. 

He surges upward, presses his mouth against yours, and you feel the vibration of his swallowed laughter, soft and intimate. He moves on then, his conquest spreading to cover the map of your cheeks, nose, eyelids, forehead, the entirety of your face, before returning to home base. He has long broken free in the fumbling of limbs, and the palms of his hands press warm against your cheeks as he goes in for the kill, one, two, three –

Before pulling back, satisfied. Stares at you with such a glowing look that you cannot help but shy away, and he laughs quietly into the small space between like some shared secret, moves closer to brush his nose against yours.

“Can’t help it. You’re too pretty not to tease,” he whispers, beaming, and now you are the one lying with your back flushed against the floor, one arm draped over your eyes, groaning as you are forced to listen to his victorious crowing above you.

But he is merciful, this infuriating, precious boy – as thoroughly bested as you are, face some unsightly shade that will surely serve as ammunition for weeks to come, you live to fight another day.

[wuffen]

The way you painted that last sheith painting... Holy cow, the hands?? The knuckles?!! SHIRO'S BACK MUSCLES?!!!? Istg every time I see 'wuffen' on my notifs my face lights up!

I sincerely hope your life takes a turn for better very soon, you deserve to be at ease and content my friend❤

aw thank, it was nice to paint again after such a long time!! i should do that more often, but making a mess is just... not something that comes easy to me lol

[whumpacabra]

Day 14 - Water Inhalation

Military setting, captured, torture, waterboarding, referenced isolation, blood, forced to watch

[Directly follows Rude Awakening]

Harrison choked, unconscious lungs unwittingly sucking down icy water as it poured over his face. His gagging coughs wracked his aching ribs, bruised skin cold against the metal chair.

At least it wasn’t The Box.

He groaned as the chair was tilted forward, clattering loudly on the concrete floor. His head hung forward, breaths still wheezing through the water caught in his chest.

“Good. You’re awake.” Harrison blinked, vision bleary as he made out the face of the man crouched in front of him. It was the new guy - dark eyes smiling, teeth bared as scar tissue warped across his jaw.

A wolf with its cornered prey.

“Good morning to you too, Russki.” Harrison wasn’t actually sure if he was Russian, but it was his best guess given the foreign accent to a foreign language he was only recently fluent in. Fishing for a reaction didn’t give him a hint.

“Glad to see they haven’t cut out your tongue, yet.” A rough hand patted Harrison’s cheek, the stranger’s dark chuckle echoing in the empty room. “Bring them in.”

He couldn’t tell if he was shivering from the cold or from the sight of the bloodied men dragged into the room. His spotty vision made it impossible to tell the extent of their injuries at this distance - but he could make out the overwhelming red painted over pale skin mottled with bruises.

“Harris…” The wheezing voice was cut off with a whimper, a harsh huff from the captors holding them cowing the prisoner. That was Elias’ voice. Harrison let his poor vision drift to the other prisoner, stoic in his silence. Merrick wasn’t talking, no more bared teeth and snarls. That was a bad sign.

‘Break if you need to.’ Merrick had told him, the older man’s eyes sunken with hunger and dull with pain. ‘But it won’t make them stop.’

How long had it been since then?

“Here’s how this is going to work, gentlemen.” The Wolf (Harrison decided it was an apt moniker) stalked around the metal chair, hands wrapping over his shoulders - too close to his fragile throat for comfort. “I have some questions. You have some answers. All you have to do is give them to me - they don’t have to be accurate, but do me the courtesy of giving me something to work with, and this will be practically painless.”

“Painless for who?” Harrison wheezed, feeling the hands on his shoulders curl tighter, biting into old bruises with new contusions.

“All of us, little pig.” The insult curled on the Wolf’s tongue, as though he wanted to say something else. Harrison couldn’t imagine what he was holding back from spitting in the face of helpless prisoners. “Less pain for you is less work for me, and I’m a lazy man. Make this easy for me and you can rest easy tonight - maybe I’ll be able to scratch together some decent food, hm? How does that sound?”

“Sounds like a fucking joke.” Merrick’s voice was wrong, strangled and broken, but fiery with hate. Harrison could hear cuff chains shivering, the sound amplified by the bare cold walls of the room. Elias’ breathing was hitched, a panicked sob caught in his throat.

“Hm? What was that?” The Wolf moved quickly - too quickly, too close to them - crossing the room to stand in front of the pair of kneeling prisoners. “What did you say to me?”

Harrison couldn’t tell exactly what shape they were in, but based on the blood he could see and the screams he had heard in The Box, they couldn’t take much more.

“Well, aren’t you a distractible interrogator.” He forced a hum of disappointment into his hoarse words. He needed to keep the Wolf’s attention, keep him away from the others, buy them what respite he could. “No wonder you idiots haven’t gotten anything useful from - ”

A sharp whistle from the Wolf and Harrison’s world spun. The chair tilted back, and he couldn’t think fast enough to draw a deep breath before a damp cloth covered his face. The water was cold, trickling into his lungs as he seized against his restraints, desperate to escape, to cough, to breathe -

Consciousness was growing thin, the world swirling with stars and shadows by the time the water stopped. He could hardly hear over his choked attempts to expel the water from his lungs, the Wolf’s words distant and soft.

“I asked you a question, little pig.” The growl of his voice reverberated in Harrison’s chattering teeth. “What did you say to me?”

[Directly before Collared]

(Part of my Freelancers: Swansong series)

[howieabel]

Gioconda and Si-Ya-U (*)

by Nâzım Hikmet Ran

Trans. by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk 1993

    to the memory of my friend SI-YA-U,     whose head was cut of in Shanghai. (GIOCONDA AND SI-YA-U: Si-Ya-U, Hsiao San (b. 1896), Chinese revolutionary and man of letters. Hikmet met him in Moscow in 1922 and believed he had been executed in the bloody 1927 crackdown on Shanghai radicals after returning to China via Paris in 1924, when the Mona Lisa did in fact disappear from the Louvre. The two friends were reunited in Vienna in 1951 and traveled to Peking together in 1952. Translated into Chinese, this poem was later burned-along with Hsiao's works - in the Cultural Revolution.)

A CLAIM

Renowned Leonardo's world-famous "La Gioconda" has disappeared. And in the space vacated by the fugitive a copy has been placed. The poet inscribing the present treatise knows more than a little about the fate of the real Gioconda. She fell in love with a seductive graceful youth; a honey-tongued almond-eyed Chinese named Si-Ya-U. Gioconda ran off after her lover; Gioconda was burned in a Chinese city. I, Nazim Hikmet, authority on this matter, thumbing my nose at friend and foe five times a day, undaunted claim I can prove it; if I can't, I'll be ruined and banished forever from the realm of poesy.     1928

Part One Excerpts from Gioconda's Diary

"15 March 1924; Pairs, Louvre Museum" At last I am bored with the Louvre Museum. You can get fed up with boredom very fast. I am fed up with my boredom. And from the devastation inside me I drew this lesson;   to visit   a museum is fine, to be in a museum piece is terrible! In this place that imprisons the past I am placed under such a heavy sentence that as the paint on my face cracks out of boredom I'm forced to keep grinning without letting up. Because I am the Gioconda from Florence whose smile is more famous than Florence. I am bored with the Louvre Museum. And since you get sick soon enough   of conversing with the past, I decided from now on to keep a diary. Writing of today may be of some help   in forgetting yesterday... However, the Louvre is a strange place. Here you might find Alexander the Great's Longines watch complete with chronometer, but not a single sheet of clean notebook paper or a pencil worth a piaster. Damn your Louvre, your Paris. I'll write these entries   on the back of my canvas. And so when I picked a pen from the pocket of a nearsighted American sticking his red nose into my skirts -his hair stinking of wine-       I started my memoirs. I'm writing on my back the sorrow of having a famous smile... "18 March: Night" The Louvre has fallen asleep. In the dark, the armless Venus     looks like a veteran of the Great War. The gold helmet of a knight gleams as the light from the night watchman's lantern       strikes a dark picture. Here in the Louvre   my days are all the same   like the six sides of a wood cube. My head is full of sharp smells   like the shelf of a medicine cabinet. "20 March" I admire those Flemish painters: is it easy to give the air of a naked goddess         to the plump ladies of milk and sausage merchants? But even if you wear silk panties, cow + silk panties = cow. Last night a window   was left open. The naked Flemish goddesses caught cold. All day today,   turning their bare mountain-like pink behinds to the public, they coughed and sneezed... I caught cold, too. So as not to look silly smiling with a cold, I tried to hide my sniffles       from the visitors. "1 April" Today I saw a Chinese: he was nothing like those Chinese with their topknots. How long he gazed at me! I'm well aware the favor of Chinese     who work ivory like silk       is not to be taken lightly... "11 April" I caught the name of the Chinese who comes every day:           SI-YA-U. "16 April" Today we spoke in the language of eyes. He works as a weaver days and studies nights. Now it's a long time since the night came on like a pack of black-shirted Fascists. The cry of a man out of work who jumped into the Seine rose from the dark water. And ah! you on whose fist-size head   mountain-like winds descend, at this very minute you're probably busy building towers of thick, leather-bound books to get answers to the questions you asked of the stars. READ SI-YA-U READ... And when your eyes find in the lines what they desire         when your eyes tire, rest your tired head     like a black-and-yellow Japanese chrysanthemum           on the books..           SLEEP             SI-YA-U             SLEEP... "18 April" I've begun to forget the names of those Renaissance masters. I want to see the black bird-and-flower         watercolors that slant-eyed Chinese painters             drip from their long thin bamboo brushes.

NEWS FROM THE PARIS WIRELESS

HALLO   HALLO   HALLO PARIS   PARIS   PARIS... Voices race through the air     like the fiery greyhounds. The wireless in the Eiffel Tower calls out: HALLO   HALLO   HALLO PARIS   PARIS   PARIS... "I, TOO, am Oriental - this voice is for me. My ears are receivers, too. I, too, must listen to Eiffel." News from China   News from China       News from China: The dragon that came down from the Kaf mountains       has spread his wings across the golden skies of the Chinese homelands. But in this business it's not only the British lord's gullet shaved   like the thick neck         of a plucked hen that will be cut but also   the long     thin     beard of Confucius!

FROM GIOCONDA'S DIARY

"21 April" Today my Chinese     looked my straight in the eye and asked: "Those who crush our rice fields with the caterpillar treads of their tanks and who swagger through our cities like emperors of hell, are they of YOUR race, the race of him who CREATED you?" I almost raised my hand and cried "No!" "27 April" Tonight at the blare of an American trumpet -the horn of a 12-horsepower Ford-       I awoke from a dream, and what I glimpsed for an instant       instantly vanished. What I'd seen was a still blue lake. In this lake the slant-eyed light of my life had wrapped his fingers around the neck of a gilded fish. I tried to reach him, my boat a Chinese teacup and my sail   the embroidered silk     of a Japanese       bamboo umbrella...

FNEWS FROM THE PARIS WIRELESS

HALLO   HALLO   HALLO PARIS   PARIS   PARIS... The radio station signs off. Once more   blue-shirted Parisians     fill Paris with red voices     and red colors...

FROM GIOCONDA'S DIARY

"2 May" Today my Chinese failed to show up. "5 May" Still no sign of him... "8 May" My days   are like the waiting room         of a station: eyes glued   to the tracks... "10 May" Sculptors of Greece, painters of Seljuk china, weavers of fiery rugs in Persia, chanters of hymns to dromedaries in deserts, dancer whose body undulates like a breeze, craftsman who cuts thirty-six facets from a one-carat stone, and YOU   who have five talents on your five fingers,     master MICHELANGELO! Call out and announce to both friends and foe: because he made too much noise in Paris, because he smashed in the window     of the Mandarin ambassador, Gioconda's lover     has been thrown out         of France... My lover from China has gone back to China... And now I'd like to know who's Romeo and Juliet! If he isn't Juliet in pants       and I'm not Romeo in skirts... Ah,if I could cry-     if only I could cry... "12 May"   Today   when I caught a glimpse of myself     in the mirror of some mother's daughter touching up the paint     on her bloody mouth in front of me, the tin crown of my fame shattered on my head. While the desire to cry writhes inside me         I smile demurely; like a stuffed pig's head       my ugly face grins on... Leonardo da Vinci,   may your bones     become the brush of a Cubist painter for grabbing me by the throat - your hands dripping with paint - and sticking in my mouth like a gold-plated tooth this cursed smile...

Part Two The Flight

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

Ah, friends, Gioconda is in a bad way... Take it from me,   if she didn't have hopes   of getting word from afar, she'd steal a guard's pistol,   and aiming to give the color of death to her lips' cursed smile,   she'd empty it into her canvas breast...

FROM GIOCONDA'S DIARY

O that Leonardo da Vinci's brush had conceived me     under the gilded sun of China! That the painted mountain behind me had been a sugar-loaf Chinese mountain, that the pink-white color of my long face could fade, that my eyes were almond-shaped! And if only my smile   could show what I feel in my heart! Then in the arms of him who is far away   I could have roamed through China...

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

I had a heart-to-heart talk with Gioconda today. The hours flew by     one after another like the pages of a spell-binding book. And the decision we reached will cut like a knife Gioconda's life         in two. Tomorrow night you'll see us carry it out...

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

The clock of Notre Dame       strikes midnight. Midnight   midnight. Who knows at this very moment   which drunk is killing his wife? Who know at this very moment   which ghost     is haunting the halls         of a castle? Who knows at this very moment   which thief     is surmounting       the most unsurmountable wall? Midnight... Midnight... Who knows at this very moment... I know very well that in every novel       this is the darkest hour. Midnight   strikes fear into the heart of every reader... But what could I do? When my monoplane landed     on the roof of the Louvre, the clock of Notre Dame struck midnight. And, strangely enough, I wasn't afraid as I patted the aluminum rump of my plane       and stepped down on the roof... Uncoiling the fifty-fathom-long rope wound around my waist, I lowered it outside Gioconda's window like a vertical bridge between heaven and hell. I blew my shrill whistle three times. And I got an immediate response to those three shrill whistles. Gioconda threw open her window. This poor farmer's daughter     done up as the Virgin Mary chucked her gilded frame and, grabbing hold of the rope, pulled herself up... SI-YA-U, my friend,   you were truly lucky to fall to a lion-hearted woman like her...

FROM GIOCONDA'S DIARY

This thing called an airplane     is a winged iron horse. Below us is Paris with its Eiffel Tower-   a sharp-nosed, pock-marked, moon-like face. We're climbing,   climbing higher. Like an arrow of fire   we pierce       the darkness. The heavens rise overhead,       looming closer; the sky is like a meadow full of flowers.     we're climbing,         climbing higher. ................................................... ................................................... ................................................... I must have dozed off -   I opened my eyes. Dawn's moment of glory. The sky a calm ocean, our plane a ship. I call this smooth sailing, smooth as butter. Behind us a wake of smoke floats. Our eyes survey blue vacancies full of glittering discs... Below us the earth looks   like a Jaffa orange     turning gold in the sun... By what magic have I   climbed off the ground     hundreds of minarets high, and yet to gaze down at the earth   my mouth still waters...

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

Now our plane swims   within the hot winds     swarming over Africa. Seen from above,   Africa looks like a huge violin. I swear they're playing Tchaikovsky on a cello     on the angry dark island         of Africa. And waiving his long hairy arms,     a gorilla is sobbing...

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

We're crossing the Indian Ocean. We're drinking in the air   like a heavy, faint-smelling syrup. An keeping our eyes on the yellow beacon of Singapore - leaving Australia on the right,   Madagascar on the left - and putting our faith in the fuel in the tank,   we're heading for the China Sea... "from the journal of a deckhand named John aboard a British vessel in the China Sea" One night a typhoon blows up out of the blue. Man, what a hurricane! Mounted on the back of yellow devil, the Mother of God   whirls around and around, churning up the air. And as luck would have it,   I've got the watch on the foretop. The huge ship under me   looks about this big! The wind is roaring blast   after blast,       blast       after blast The mast quivers like a strung bow.(*) *[What business do you have being way up there?   Christ, man, what do you think you are-a stork? N.H.] Oops, now we're shooting sky-high --     my head splits the clouds. Oops, now we're sinking to the bottom --     my fingers comb the ocean floor. We're learning to the left, we're leaning to the right -- that is, we're leaning larboard and starboard. My God, we just sank!   Oh no! This time we're sure to go under! The waves leap over my head     like Bengal tigers. Fear leads me on   like a coffee-colored Javanese whore. This is no joke - this is the China Sea... (*) *[The deckhand has every right to be afraid.     The rage of the China Sea is not to be taken lightly. N.H.] Okay, let's keep it short. PLOP... What's that? A rectangular piece of canvas dropped from the air         into the crows nest. The canvas   was some kind of woman! It struck me this madame who came from the sky would never understand     our seamen's talk and ways. I got right down and kissed her hand, and making like a poet, I cried: "O you canvas woman who fell from the sky! Tell me, which goddess should I compare you to? Why did you descend here? What is your large purpose?" She replied: "I fell   from a 550-horsepower plane. My name is Gioconda,   I come from Florence. I must get to Shanghai     as soon as possible.'

FROM GIOCONDA'S DIARY

The wind died down,   the sea calmed down. The ship makes strides toward Shanghai. The sailors dream,   rocking in their sailcloth hammocks. A song of the Indian Ocean plays     on their thick fleshy lips: "The fire of the Indochina sun warms the blood   like Malacca wine. They lure sailors to gilded stars,       those Indochina nights,         those Indochina nights. Slant-eyed yellow Bornese cabin boys knifed in Sigapore bars paint the iron-belted barrels blood-red. Those Indochina nights, those Indochina nights. A ship plunges on to Canton, 55,000 tons. Those Indochina nights... As the moon swims in the heavens like the corpse of a blue-eyed sailor     tossed overboard, Bombay watches, leaning on its elbow...       Bombay moon,         Arabian Sea. The fire of the Indochina sun warms the blood   lie Malacca wine. They lure sailors to gilded stars,     those Indochina nights,       those Indochina nights..."

Part Three Gioconda's End THE CITY OF SHANGHAI

Shanghai is a big port, an excellent port, It's ships are taller than horned mandarin mansions. My, my! What a strange place, this Shanghai... In the blue river boats with straw sails float. In the straw-sailed boats naked coolies sort rice,     raving of rice... My, my! What a strange place, this Shanghai... Shanghai is a big port, The whites' ships are tall, the yellows' boats are small. Shanghai is pregnant with a red-headed child. My, my!

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

Last night when the ship entered the harbor Gioconda's foot kissed the land. Shanghai the soup, she the ladle, she searched high and low for her SI-YA-U.

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

"Chinese work! Japanese work! Only two people make this - a man and a woman. Chinese work! Japanese work! Just look at the art in this latest work of LI-LI-FU." Screaming at the tip of his voice, the Chinese magician     LI. His shriveled yellow spider of a hand tossed long thin knives into the air: one one more   one   one more     five       one more. Tracing lightning-like circles in the air, his knives flew up in a steady stream. Gioconda looked, she kept looking,     she'd still be looking but, like a large-colored Chinese lantern,   the crowd swayed and became confused: "Stand back! Gang way! Chiang Kai-shek's executioner   is hunting down a new head. Stand back! Gang way!" One in front and one close behind, two Chinese shot around the corner. The one in front ran toward Gioconda. The one racing toward her, it was him, it was him - yes, him! Her SI-YA-U,   her dove,   SI-YA-U... A dull hollow stadium sound surrounded them. And in the cruel English language   stained red with the blood     of yellow Asia     the crown yelled: "He's catching up, he's catching up,     he caught-       catch him!" Just, three steps away from Gioconda's arms Chiang Kai-shek's executioner caught up. His sword   flashed... Thud of cut flesh and bone. Like a yellow sun drenched in blood SI-YA-U's head   rolled at her feet... And this on a death day Gioconda of Florence lost in Shanghai her smile more famous than Florence.

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

A Chinese bamboo frame. In the frame is a painting. Under the painting, a name:       "La Gioconda"... In the frame is a painting: the eyes of the painting are burning, burning. In the frame is painting: the painting in the frame comes alive, alive. And suddenly the painting jumped out of the frame   as if from a window;   her feet hit the ground. And just as I shouted her name she stood up straight before me: the giant woman of a colossal struggle. She walked ahead. I trailed behind. From the blazing red Tibetan sun to the China Sea   we went and came,   we came and went. I saw Gioconda   sneak out under the cover of darkness through the gates of a city in enemy hands; I saw her in a skirmish of drawn bayonets   strangle a British officer; I saw her t the head of a blue stream swimming with stars wash the lice from her dirty shirt... Huffling and puffling, a wood-burning engine dragged behind it forty red cars seating forty people each. The cars passed one by one. In the last car I saw her standing watch:   a frayed lambskin hat on her head,       boots on her feet, a leather jacket on her back...

FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTEBOOK

Ah, my patient reader! Now we find ourselves in the French military court in Shanghai. The bench: four generals, fourteen colonels, and an armed black Congolese regiment. The accused: Gioconda. The attorney for the defense: an overly razed -that is, overly artistic-     French painter. The scene is set.     We're starting. "The defense attorney presents his case:" "Gentlemen, this masterpiece that stands in your presence as the accused is the most accomplished daughter of a great artist. Gentlemen, this masterpiece... Gentlemen... my mind is on fire... Gentlemen... Renaissance... Gentlemen, this masterpiece-   twice this masterpiece... Gentlemen, uniformed gentlemen..." "C-U-U-U-T! Enough. stop sputtering like a jammed machine gun! Bailiff, read the verdict." "The bailiff reads the verdict:" "The laws of France have been violated in China by the above-named Gioconda, daughter of one Leonardo. Accordingly, we sentence the accused   to death   by burning. And tomorrow night at moonrise, a Senegalese regiment   will execute said decision       of this military court..."

THE BURNING

Shanghai is a big port. The whites' ships are tall, the yellows' boats small. A thick whistle.   A thin Chinese scream. A ship steaming into the harbor   capsized a straw-sailed boat... Moonlight. Night. Handcuffed,   gioconda waits. Blow, wind, blow... A voice: "All right, the lighter. Burn, Gioconda, burn..." A silhouette advances, a flash... They lit the lighter and set Gioconda on fire. The flames painted Gioconda red. She laughed with a smile that came from her heart. Gioconda burned laughing... Art, Shmart, Masterpiece, Shmasterpiece, And so On, And So Forth, Immortality, Eternity-       H-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-Y...   "HERE ENDS MY TALE'S CONTENDING, THE REST IS LIES UNENDING..."       THE END       1929