#looted back what i sold

[bhaalsdeepbat]

I'm playing my struggle to resist Durge on tactician and we stormed Moonrise today. Jaheira apparently doesn't heal at all between Last Light Inn falling and storming Moonrise, so Grandma arrived looking like she had the shit beat out of her and had no higher level spell slots.

Jaheira spent the entire time cowering behind some barrels while maintaining Entangle. She single handedly kept a door effectively locked by the ogre being stuck in it, which let Astarion be the best little killer around. His killing spree in Moonrise will be a tale heard across all or Faerûn.

Astarion, equipped with Daddy's Favorite Bhaalspawn's cloak, took out the three cultists in the back room alone. He kept disappearing between hits with single hit shots. He took out four cultists on the main floor, then snuck up to the rafters and took out two of the archers before he finally got caught and the remaining cultists all rolled initiative. It was so funny.

I can't wait to give him a new bow when we reach Baldur's Gate. The Hellrider Longbow is going to decimate. He's going to be even deadlier I am SALIVATING. He's going to creep right up and shoot them in the face. If they have the luck of surviving that, he'll proceed to rip their throat.

Minthara was also there. She spent a majority of it twiddling her thumbs bc grandma had our choke point...choked.

Shadowheart didn't follow the corruption arc script, so she got to keep her radiant armor and learned some cool Selûnite shit (reclassed to light domain). She was a fucking beast with her divine intervention in the room she was defending alone. She had been the mvp of act 2 (after Astarion solo missioned stealing the Blood of Lathander without blowing the creche, and nailed it), and continues to.

Even if she is really mad at Ashe for killing Isobel.

[always-just-red]

I wanted a slightly suggestive fluff with the twins if that's alright👁️👄👁️

A scenario in which they're finally done with Sylus's tasks for the day and get to spend some time with MC

CRYINGGG anon I low-key did deviate from the brief but I had this idea and I just ended up running with it. I hope you enjoy, regardless! I went into this ambivalent towards Luke and Kieran but something just possessed me honestly. Also dragged Sylus into it because there's no way in hell I wasn't subjecting him to this dynamic!! 😇 (I made MC here separate from canon MC for plot reasons, but if you want a fic with the twins and canon MC, just let me know!)

Onychinus' Finest

Luke and Kieran x Reader

Summary: All in a day's work for Sylus's loyal and committed worker bees crows

Genre: fluff & shenanigans

Warnings/Additional tags: MDNI (not smut but it's a lil spicy and I'd rather play it safe tbh), f!reader, nonMC!reader, platonic Sylus x reader, humour, swearing, suggestion, kisses, the twins are just obsessed with your legs honestly and who could blame them

| Word count: 2.1k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Your call connects almost instantly.

“What?” Sylus hisses from the other end, and you get the impression he’s disappointed.

“Oof,” you groan, smiling, “what’s the matter, boss? Waiting on a call from a certain Deepspace Hunter?”

There’s silence in your ear, but not far from you, Kieran snickers. Your smile broadens. “You have three seconds,” Sylus seethes, with the precarity of a pot that could boil over at any moment, “to tell me what I want to hear.”

Three seconds is a bit of a push. You’re sat on a desk and Kieran is tapping away at the computer beside you, the light of the screen catching the sharp features of his mask; he looks like something from a horror story. You nudge his knee with your foot. He glances at you.

Wrap it up, you signal with a twirl of your forefinger.

His mask tilts downwards, almost imperceptibly, and you know he’s glaring at you from behind it. He flashes his middle finger back and you chuckle, watching him return to his work. “Files should be on their way shortly,” you explain to Sylus, because you know when to stop pushing your luck. “Ever’s upped the security on these damn computers. The device that guy sold you didn’t do shit.”

It’s also now pieces of a device, shattered against the floor from when Kieran had thrown it down and stepped on it in frustration. You’re not gonna mention that.

Sylus sighs impatiently, but there’s a hint of regret. “I knew there was something off about that deal. Do you think he tipped them off?”

You glance around the room and it’s littered with bodies. Not dead! Just… unconscious. At least, most of them, you think. “Yeah…” you muse. It was a lot more security than there should have been in a high-rise office in the middle of the night. “You might be onto something there, boss.”

Another sigh from Sylus. You watch Luke as he finishes looting— wait, no— checking the last of the security guards for anything helpful. He’s found a phone and he’s staring down at it, head tilted, reminding you of Mephisto. You briefly wonder what came first: the crow masks or the crow-like behaviour. Maybe you’ll ask Sylus one day.

Luke lifts the phone, holding it at arm’s length, and you realise he’s taking a selfie. He pivots until you and Kieran are in the background, and you lean into the frame, making a peace sign with your free hand. The moment is captured. Luke tosses the phone over his shoulder and it hits the floor with a crack.

“Are you all alright?” Sylus checks, and you know his eyes are burning with frustration, even though you can’t see them. He wears a mask too— most of the time— it’s just a little more figurative than yours or the twins’. You’re an expert at reading past them by now.

“Yeah,” you say, “we signed up for this, remember? You’ve got the best of the best, right here.” You glance between Luke and Kieran. “Well, the best of the best and her sidekicks.”

“Hey!” Kieran interjects. “You wanna have a go on this computer?”

“No,” you lilt back sweetly. What’s he gonna do— make you? Sure enough, he goes back to tapping away, his head sagging slightly, and you can tell he’s pouting.

Luke has wandered closer to the pair of you. “How much longer?” he whines, throwing himself into a wheely chair, setting it on a slow collision course with Kieran’s. You stop it with your leg.

“Shut up,” Kieran snaps. “At least I’m doing something.”

“I can do something,” Luke retorts. He captures your ankle, pulling it away from the leg of his chair, and rests a hand on your shin.

“Something isn’t in the mood right now.” You lift your foot from his grasp, inching it up his lower abdomen, and he groans as you plant it against his chest. “So unprofessional,” you tut.

You’d stifled your phone against your chest, but you can hear a deep voice leaking out of it. “Say that again, boss?” you request, bringing it back to your ear.

“How long is this going to take?” Sylus repeats.

“Not long. You know what they say, though…” You meet the eyes of Luke’s mask. Your tone drops: “All good things to those who wait.”

Luke’s chair squeaks, rolling back as you push him away with a soft kick.

“Fine,” Sylus murmurs, “Mephisto is with me. Stay on the line, and send the files through when you can. I’ll check them before you leave. If they knew we were coming, there’s a chance that—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get the picture,” you interrupt. You get Kieran’s attention again, then gesture between the computer and the phone. The beak of his mask dips as he nods.

Luke has used your lapse of focus to draw himself close to you again. He takes your ankle once more and guides it to rest in his lap, one hand tight— holding you in place— and the other deftly undoing the buckles on your boot. After a few clinks, he pulls it from your foot, the leather dragging down over your skin and leaving it cold. He throws the boot at his twin’s leg.

Kieran huffs as it tumbles to the floor. He doesn’t look away from the computer, but you know he wants to. Now that’s professional.

Decidedly committed to another priority, Luke draws shapes on your lower leg, his finger grazing over your shin and ankle. He’s staring down, fixated, and maybe they aren’t shapes— maybe they’re letters. Every stroke of his finger is deliberate. You could ask what he’s writing, but you really don’t care so long as it’s more than a word or two.

If it is, he doesn’t have the patience for it. His fingers walk higher, stopping only as they reach your knee. The fabric of your dress is draped over your leg and he pushes it aside, letting it slink closer to the floor. He looks up at you, head angled like a question.

“Any progress?” Sylus asks.

You’re holding your phone between your ear and your shoulder, both hands splayed on the desk beside you so you can lean slightly back. “Getting there,” you say, lips curving. You’re not looking at the computer.

You could swear you hear Luke laugh, but it’s ever so faint. He rests his whole hand on you, warming your lower leg with broader strokes, and whatever he wrote has been erased. Your breath catches as his touch moves above your knee, and it’s a tiny sound; no-one would notice.

Kieran’s mask turns towards you. “Oh, come on,” he sighs. “No fair.”

It’s an intimate art: seeing behind a mask. You have to notice everything.

“So hurry up,” Luke answers, his voice heavier than the last time he spoke. His chest rises and falls with every breath, just a little slower, a little deeper.

Kieran rolls his eyes—you guess, from the listless way his attention goes back to the screen— and you detect a huff. “Not fair,” he says to himself. He repeats it as he punches keys with his fingers: “Not fair. Not fair.”

Luke shakes his head gently: a fond exasperation rather than anything serious. He rolls his chair closer until he’s framed by your legs, then lifts your ankle to rest on his shoulder. His fingers curl, the pads of them brushing over the top of your foot idly, but it tickles, so you try to pull away. He grasps your ankle again. “Nuh-uh, kitten,” he teases.

It’s one of your favourite in-jokes; you laugh. Sylus can still hear you, and you’re glad he doesn’t know it’s at his expense. “Something funny?” he asks. Maybe he does know.

“Yeah,” you say. He could string you upside-down with his Evol and you’d still never tell him what.

Luke is chuckling to himself, and the sound changes as he lifts his mask just enough to free the lower half of his face. It’s not the first time, but it sobers you instantly. He turns to press his lips to your ankle, leans in— kisses further up. Leans in again— his mouth moves higher.

“Why so wriggly?” he speaks into your knee. “Stop.”

“You stop,” you counter, reaching forward to grab one of the horns peeking out of his hood. You use it to pull him away. Make him look at you. “Your little book on conquest doesn’t work on me.”

His lips widen into a smirk.  

“What book?” Sylus’s voice echoes.

You smirk as well. “Ask your pet hunter.”

You’re interrupted by a thud and your head spins. Kieran is standing up, slapping the top of the computer in frustration. “C’mon, work!” he urges. “So freakin’ slow.”

“Ah, ah, ah.” You shoo him away from the computer like you would a too-friendly pigeon from your lunch.

He flaps back in answer, his hand engaging yours in a brief slap-fight before he backs down. He slumps into his chair, defeated. “It’s almost there,” he groans, folding his arms. “Hey, Luke? Wanna swap?”

“No.”

“Do it,” you prompt.

Luke’s head rolls begrudgingly. “Yes ma’am. Jeez.” He plants a warm kiss on your leg again before clambering out from underneath it, pulling his mask back down over his face.

Another moment later and Kieran is in front of you instead. “You ok?” you wonder out loud.

“Bored.” He rests his head sideways on your thigh. His fingers find your bare lower leg and he runs them up, down, up, down, but it’s soft and purposeless. Soon, his head lifts— thin, red eyes staring up at you. The gaze doesn’t waver as he leans back in his chair and starts to unfasten your other boot.

“She’s gonna get cold,” Luke quips from the computer.

“Nah. She’s not.”

Your skin prickles as Kieran pulls away your boot, like a reflection of his brother, but tortuously more slow. He lets the cool air of the room set in. “Huh,” he corrects himself. “Maybe she is.”

You get the sense you’re being punished; both of them are petty. You’re pettier, though. “Sylus?” you speak into the phone.

“Mmm?”

“Did I ever tell you about the time that Kieran— ah!”

In a heartbeat Kieran has lifted his mask— not enough, but enough— and planted a kiss above your knee. His hand is around your leg, pushing it further from the other, and you can’t help but gasp again.

“What are you…” Sylus starts to ask, but then he changes his mind. “No. I don’t want to know.”

“You sure, boss?” you chuckle breathlessly. “It might surprise you.”

“Nothing would surprise me at this point, sweetie. Those files had better be on their way.”

You tear your gaze away from Kieran to glance over at Luke. He’s sat, propped on an elbow, his chin in his palm, and he’s definitely not looking at the computer. He sits up straight under your scrutiny. Turns to the screen. After a few more drums of the keyboard, he gives you a thumbs up.

“Got it,” Sylus chimes in, no doubt perusing the files already. “Nothing seems amiss. Nice work.”

“Thanks, boss,” you grin. “I’ve been working very, very hard.”

The phone is snatched from your hand. “She has, sir!” Kieran speaks into it. He stands, putting it on speaker before setting it down beside you. “I think she deserves the night off.”

There’s a crash as he shoves the computer from the desk, and Luke leans back, swinging his feet up onto the now empty space. He lifts his mask marginally to put two fingers to his lips, whistling in celebration. There’s a slow clap for good measure, too.

Kieran bows to him with a flourish. Then to you; you bow your head back.

“I’m hanging up,” Sylus states plainly.

“Ok,” you chirp, distracted. “I hope she calls you soon, boss!”  

“I don’t… I’m not…” your leader stutters. He reconsiders. “Thank you. Don’t think, however, that I’m—”

He doesn’t get to finish the warning, threat, or whatever else it was. Luke’s finger stands proudly on the phone, still connected to the ‘end call’ button. “What?” he dismisses as you and Kieran look at him. “I slipped! If boss asks, you saw me slip.”

“I did see it,” Kieran nods.

“I saw it too,” you add solemnly.  

There’s silence for a single moment, and there’s never silence with you three around. It lasts as long as it usually does.

You all burst into laughter.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: The illusion of Pain

“The monastery is secured.”

“Excellent.” Vil said over his shoulder. “What of the survivors?”

“We’ve gathered them in the main hall.”

With that Vil waved away his underling and returned his gaze to the outside. Situated atop the tallest mountain range on the planet Vil had to give the humans credit for a truly majestic location to build a temple. He was also grateful that it was so isolated which made raiding it even easier. The nearest terran league outpost was a system away and since his pirate crew disabled the temple’s transmitter in the opening volley no distress signal had been sent out.

Turning from the view the pirate captain began walking the corridors to the main hall. He strode past several of his men ripping tapestries from the walls or carrying several large golden artifacts under their arms. Vil was not concerned with gathering loot himself. Once all the loot had been gathered aboard his ship he would get first pick of the treasure, and if any of his crew had kept loot for themselves before he had his pick they would find themselves the guest of the airlock chamber.

A short walk later and Vil had reached the main hall. Gathered at the center were a dozen or so human monks. They had offered no resistance to his crew when they attacked and as such none had been killed during the attack; though some bore a few new bruises from his crew’s “encouragement” to comply with their orders.

“You have all complied with my orders and as such I will give you a chance to earn your freedom.”

The gathered humans looked amongst themselves in confusion at Vil’s statement. “We are going to play a game.”

Vil entered several keys on his wristband and an energy barrier appeared around his person. It was capable of stopping level three plasma energy shots as well as the occasional thrown knife. He had known a few pirates who had neglected that last feature and had paid the price for their carelessness.

“If any of you can reach through this shield and touch my person, I will set you all free and return your possessions to you.”

Several of the humans looked up at this but Vil raised a taloned finger to forestall them.

“However,” Vil continued, “should none of you be able to complete this task you will be sold into slavery for profit.”

The sudden jubilation at potential freedom was just as quickly quashed by this statement and Vil grinned. He may not be a vindictive pirate, but that didn’t mean he had other ways to enjoy a bit of sadism now and then.

“I will give you until the final setting of the sun to win; you may begin when ready.”

His crew watched the humans whisper between each other before one of them finally stepped forward. Like the rest he wore a simple orange robe and had his head shaved to the skin.

Vil stood silently and watched the human approach him. He stopped just outside of the barriers range and reached out with a hand cautiously. The moment his finger touched the barrier a shower of sparks erupted from the point of contact and the human withdrew their hand immediately.

The surrounding crew guarding the humans laughed at the foolishness of the human monk. Looking down at his singed finger the human was horrified to see the top layer of skin for his entire digit was missing. The red pulsating muscle surrounding his bones was now clearly visible and the monk wept from the pain.

Vil looked down at the monk and shook his head. “If this was an easy game it would be no fun.”

The first monk retreated back into the group nursing his wound as a second monk approached. He walked as close as the first monk and stopped, taking several deep breaths and closing his eyes. Reaching out with his right hand the monk touched the barrier but unlike the first monk continued moving his hand forward as the energy barrier began to spark. He had made it all the way to his wrist before he finally gave out and screamed in pain; retracting his now flayed hand and collapsing to the ground.

Vil grinned and turned to his crew. “Anyone want to start a side wager?” he chuckled. “I bet fifty credits not one of them will get past their shoulder.”

His crew laughed and joined in on the side wager, placing all sorts of bets from which one will be the first to die to which would piss themselves from pain.

On and on this went as the sun slowly set in the distance and the room grew darker save for the light generated by the energy barrier. Vil watched as every monk stepped forward and tried their best to reach him. Many could not handle the pain after mere inches; while others tried repeatedly each of their limbs had been flayed in some manner by the barrier. One had even gone so far as to sprint at Vil in an attempt to use his forward momentum to reach Vil. That human had lost their footing just as they leapt at Vil and had merely grazed the barrier, and in the process flay half his body as he flew by the pirate captain.

“If there are no more contestants,” Vil finally declared as the sun was just about to set, “I think we can end this game.”

Vil was just about to deactivate the barrier when a voice gave him pause.

“I believe it is my turn.”

Vil looked up from his wristband to see an elderly monk slowly make his way through the crowd of humans. His pace was slow yet precise as the old man finally stood before Vil.

“You are the leader of these humans?” Vil asked the elderly human.

“Yes, I am the master of this temple.” They replied in a throaty voice dimmed by age.

Vil tilted his head to the human in recognition. “A pleasure to meet you,” Vil began as he waved a hand at the injured monks, “but I must ponder the nature of a master who allows his students to come to harm before he intervenes.”

To his surprise the elderly human shook his head. “A true master will let their students test what they have learned, rather than deny them the chance of enlightenment.”

This was not the response he had expected. “Then tell me, wise one, what have your students learned?”

“They have learned the meaning of pain,” the human replied, “but have yet to master the means of overcoming it.”

Without saying another word the elderly human walked forward. He did not outstretch his hand or leg as his students had but simply approached Vil with his back upright and his breathing calm.

The energy barrier sparked to life as the master stepped through it with his entire body as if it was nothing more than a gentle stream of a waterfall. Vil’s eyes went wide as he watched the skin from the human be peeled away by the barrier from his head to his toes in an instant. Yet what was more astonishing was that the human made not a single sound aside from his deep breathing, even as his clothes burst into flames and fell from him in clumps of ash.

His crew stood silent as the elderly human reached out with a now shriveled hand and touched the forehead of Vil with a single finger. They had never seen any being perform such a feat before and watched with baited breath for their captain’s next words.

“How…..” was all Vil could manage as he watched the flayed man standing before him.

Through lidless eyes the master looked up at Vil.

“Pain is a great unifier amongst the many peoples of the star ways; yet only when you realize that it is an illusion can you truly begin to experience the universe.”

He motioned to his gathered pupils who were still nursing their wounds. “Our order has been persecuted long before we reached the stars and in doing so has taught us much of pain.”

“And yet you appear to be the only one who has overcome it.” Vil remarked.

The flayed old man looked at him and smiled. “That is why I am the master.”

[dazed-and-confused23]

Dear Hearts and Gentle People 6

Summary: There is only so much you can do for Cooper when the two of you are attacked, and the extra vials you carry are crushed. There is only so much you can do when Cooper’s stash runs out. The wasteland takes as much as much it gives.

Pairings: The Ghoul | Cooper Howard x Female Reader

Warnings. Pretty angst filled here. Plus some kissing.

Masterlist

Part 2 -> HERE

It's been a week, give or take a couple of hours, since the group of raiders had jumped Cooper and his trader. They'd been wandering through some ruins, sightseeing as you liked to call it, when they began to crawl out of the burnt out buildings like ants. You and Cooper had worked like a well-oiled machine, but that still didn't mean that either of you was perfect.

One of the raiders had gotten the drop on you, literally flinging herself from the second flood of a building and slamming into your back, and in turn, your backpack that carried your wares inside. You thrashed about, jerking back and crushing the woman against the concrete wall, trying to shake her off. You smacked her again against the wall, and finally, she lost her grip and fell to the floor.

Cooper had shot the raider before she had time to get up, gore splattering the wall, and then the fight was back on. The two of you were exhausted by the time the fighting was done, and after a bit of well deserved looting, Coop had made a small fire in one of the more preserved buildings and you began to sort through your wares.

While the ghoul sucked down a vial, you had found the crushed medical case, heart shattering when you'd opened it to reveal your sizeable stash of chems destroyed. Fear had gripped your heart, and you shifted through your shattered stockpile and found a single surviving tube.

You'd looked at your ghoul, who looked relaxed across the campfire. The two of you were deep in the wasteland. At least a two week journey to the next town, and it would be a gamble if they sold the chems Cooper would need. You'd swallowed harshly and called his name, voice cracking.

"Cooper. We've got a problem."

His gaze had sharpened, his eyes skating over your form and looking for any kind of injury. When he found nothing, he raised a brow, confused, but still weary of your fearful expression.

"What's wrong, Darlin'. You look right as rain to me," He rasped and reached for his canteen, taking a swig of water that he immediately choked on when you lifted up the single vial. He stands and crosses the fire, crouching down and shifting through the broken glass himself.

"When did this happen?" He demands, and you cast your mind back, thinking hard.

"That one raider. She jumped on my back. They were probably crushed in the fight," you say and hand him the surviving vial, "That's the only one I found."

Rage and fear war within his chest, and Cooper stands, kicking a rock as hard as he could, a snarl on his lips, "Fuck!"

Now, a week later, Cooper hardly had the strength to move. The caughing had started two days ago after he'd sucked down the last chem. He lagged behind you, shoulders drooping and hat covering much of his face as he focused on putting one boot in front of the other. The clinking of his spurs was your only comfort.

Another two days passed, and Cooper couldn't go on. His strength sapped from his bones as he lay across from you, posted up on an old bed in a dusty motel. You kneeled by his side, fingertips tracing his jaw and up his cheekbones. You sniffled heavily, and then leaned in to kiss his brow.

"Ain't gotta go cryin' over me, Darlin'," Cooper murmured and closed his eyes, wishing that he could feel the press of your lips against his flesh better. A tickle licked his throat, and he turned away from you to hack, spit flying and a wheeze echoing through the room when he flopped back in the bed.

You ignore his words and fish out a bottle of water to hand him. You watch, concern coating your features as he hand trembles, and Cooper ends up splashing himself. You hold it steady after he sighs heavily and hands the bottle back.

"Promise me that you'll still be here when I get back," you say after you've taken the water back and stowed it away. You've got a plan, and you'll be much faster by yourself, now it was the hard part, and that was leaving Cooper behind.

Your ghoul sighs and gives you a look. Coop thinks that the two of you have had a good run, and if this is how he's gotta go, then so be it. He just hates that the last thing he'll see is you crying.

"Baby girl. I can't make you a promise I can't keep," He rumbles and forces himself to sit up, giving his girl a weary grin and taking your hands in his own. He presses his lips to your knuckles, one at a time, "You can't let some old man like me slow you down."

You force back the tears that threaten to fall. Coop never liked it when you cried, and you would do your best not to now. You would save this stubborn bastard if it was the last thing you did. Using his hold on you, you tug him down and in for a kiss, so sweet and full of love that the ghoul's clutches you back before he has to pull away and cough harshly.

"I'll be back before you know it, Cowpoke," you say, and at this point, you don't know if it's to assure him or you. You push yourself to your feet and fix your pack, bending to kiss Cooper one last time, memorizing the rough feel of his lips against yours.

Cooper pushes you away after a moment, a fond smirk playing on his lips, "Get outta here, cowgirl. I'll stay right here."

You give a decisive nod and then march away from him, exiting the motel and starting in the direction of the closest town. You had a ghoul to save.

[animeaandp]

[Emptying drafts-87 left]

(Lost the direction I wanted to go in with this)

MHA Prompt

Warning: smut, swearing, violence, angst

Dabi x pregnant civilian reader

You're Dabi’s neighbor in the crap-box apartments he lived in before joining the league. You were homeless for a while before landing a job selling your quirk's essence. It's hard to produce and sell on your own at first, but big surprise that the criminal world was happy to help. So you became a milking cow metaphorically and sort of literally; you created a product for others to sell and in return you get some of the profit. It’s just enough to get by but without any other prospects or desires that’s fine with you. Nothing wrong with a simple life.

Whenever you’d cook too much food you offered it to Dabi, or on occasion asked if he wanted to join for a movie night; just trying to make friends with your neighbor. He usually brushed you off and if he wasn’t interested then that’s okay. You stopped knocking on his door so much.

The walls are paper thin though so he knew plenty about you without having a single proper conversation. He knows you grew up in an orphanage before aging out with no one and nowhere to go. Dabi learned your favorite movies and shows, that you were actually a really good cook who learned most of it from the cooking channel, your favorite color was green and apparently everything in your apartment was some shade of the color. You loved snakes and were allergic to strawberries. Your best friend was someone named Maddie and you always spoke too damn loud on the phone with her. Telling you to shut the hell up was one of the only reasons Dabi ever spoke to you.

One day you’re confused to see him standing at your door bc you weren’t on the phone or being loud in any way. He wasn’t here for that; it was his first time realizing what you did for work and wanted what you sold. Zero intention of paying for it of course, but before he can threaten you you’re shoving a bottle into his chest and telling him it’s on the house.! It just made you so happy he finally talked to you. Dabi manages a “thanks” then goes back to his apartment.

The stuff worked like a charm and became the source of your interactions with Dabi from then on. Usually you just gave him a new bottle but on occasion he’d throw some money at you before leaving. It was his way of ‘treating you well’ and making sure to never owe you shit.

One day there’s no answer, even though he knows you’re inside; he heard the door slam shut earlier. He pounds on the door shouting at you to open up but no response. The only reasonable option is to kick down your door and interrogate you as to why you’d ever ignore him. But he walks into a mess and blood. Dabi listens but can’t hear anything, and again there’s no response when he calls your name. Flames tickle his fingers just in case as he continues further into the space. The door ahead has a huge blood splatter on it and already cracked open. Dabi pushes through, it’s a bedroom, but still doesn’t see anything, “y/n…i know you’re in here….come on don’t make me start a fire to sniff you out.” The trail continued to the bathroom, and it had to be where you were. Closed but not locked, Dabi opens it and doesn’t understand what he’s looking at. ‘Is she dead.? Was she murdered??’ You’re slumped against the side of the tub, stripped naked, covered in blood and bruises. You’re not moving. Dabi’s not sure if he can see you breathing either, what’s in front of him is such a mess.

Should…

...should he leave you?

Or hide your body? If the police found out everyone would think he did it. There were enough bottles in the corner of your bedroom to last him forever as well. He could just close the door, loot your stuff, and get back to his own life.

He could leave

He could walk away right now

Close the door and never look back

‘Just leave’

“…This bitch is gonna owe me big time.”

.

.

You wake up the next morning tucked into bed with your injuries tended to and bandaged. The television is on and an overwhelming scent of bleach makes you want to hurl. You sit up coughing and cry in pain immediately. “Lay down idiot before your stitches-WHOA! TF!? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!!”

“!?!?….D-Dabi-??”

“Drop the fucking knife-you’re enough of a pain in the ass as is.!”

“Wha-AH!!?” You collapse to the floor gripping your stomach now that the adrenaline of the moment has subsided. Davi kicks the knife across the room and stands over you, “Looks like you’re back to being a helpless damsel in distress. Good. You’re a real bitch when you’re injured.” He tried to pick you up but you slap his hands away with whatever strength you have left. He snarls at you, "now what.?? What are you crying about?”

“Don’t touch me again…please.”

"??"

"..."

"…Ah, I get it…a boyfriend? Or some stray who couldn’t keep it in his pants.?” You clawed your way back towards your bed, trying not to cry anymore, “Please don’t make fun of me. Not right now.” He rolls his eyes walking towards you “You sure you don’t want help.? You look pathetic.” You ignore Dabi’s jabs while trying to pull yourself back into bed. Laying there you didn’t look much better; like a dying fish gasping for water on the sidewalk. Dabi crouches down beside you. “Feeling better puppy??” Usually you found his snarky comments funny enough to at least smile, but your eyes look right through him. “What happened; when did you find me? How? What did you do-?” “My my y/n, you’re awfully chatty when you're about to die. Maybe I shouldn’t have helped you.”

“Why then.?”

“…..I need your shit.”

“……ha, haha…”

“whatever. Don’t get up again, my sutures aren’t very professional but you should live. You might look like me, but…..that’s the part where you flatter me.”

“I’d rather bleed out.”

“Yeah, keep it up with that smart mouth then.”

Dabi opens a window to air out the bleach he used to clean up most of the blood. He’d found your medicine cabinet and gives you a handful of pills before going to lounge on your couch and watch tv.

A few hours later and Dabi’s freely going through all of your things again, taking advantage of your lack of mobility. “Remind me; why’d you try and slit my throat earlier.?.” You laid in bed staring up at the ceiling as Dabi ransacked your place there was nothing interesting to find anyways. “I thought you were him.” “The guy who did this?” “Mhm. It was just a reflex; sorry.” Dabi gives up his explorations to lay beside you You were right there wasn’t any good shit in your apartment. “Save it. I doubt it’ll be the last time. I’m still waiting for your answer; who was it?….no, no no puppy don’t start that sniveling crap again. Forget about it then. Just stop crying.” "O-Okay…"

.

.

Over the next couple of weeks, at least once a day, Dabi invited himself into your apartment to check on you. He always helped himself to whatever suited as ‘payment’ for his aid and you never bat an eye. But it’s been a month now and you weren’t feeling any better. Your body had healed well but you still felt like you’ve been hit by a truck every day. Dabi didn’t remember you being so crabby before your incident or remotely so emotional.

You were becoming a real pain in the ass but it's hard to take his insults to heart when his cheeks are stuffed with a third serving of the dinner you made him. You reassure him though, “I'll find a doctor to go see soon. Promise."

"Good."

Bad. Veryyy bad. The worst bad-nothing could be worse-the very worst very bad thing was happening and it was bad bad bad.

"You need to move. Now."

"Wha-No fucking way, I was here first; you move jackass!?"

"First you inconvenience me by getting knocked up and now you want to make me move??"

"No but just get over it!"

"I'm not listening to you and your bastard baby cry every day y/n!! MOVE.NOW.!"

"...."

"....I.."

.

.

You don't move but you don't see or speak to Dabi after that day. You barely let him hear you make a sound to prove that you were even alive. Dabi had the peace and quiet he demanded but it' too boring now. And he's hungry.

Eventually he bangs on your door and shoves a raggedy teddy bear into your chest, swearing that he wasn’t changing a damn diaper. You fiddle with the toy, still finding it perfect as is despite the damage. “I’ll call you Dabi.” Dabi growls at your little jest and pushes his way into your apartment, “just make us some dinner already I’m fucking starved.” “Of course” you steal a quick hug from him as he passed “I’ve missed you too” and he’s disgusted that he allowed such things from you.

His disgust grows as he finds himself walking with you to run errands, building furniture, and even reading a damn book on how to parent for dummies. “This is such bullshit, why do I have to read this crap to you” he tosses the book and rolls over to hug your pillow, too tired to keep looking at that boring book. You find it so cute how grumpy he gets when he’s tired. “Go home then. Get some sleep, you’ve been up with me all day.” He grumbles his usual swears at you while digging himself further into your bed, “I’m sleeping here. Deal with it.” “…happy to.”

A couple months pass by and Dabi is so full of it. You listen to him gripe on and on about how much pregnancy is ruining your body and what an ugly whale you were now, yet he can never keep his hands off your belly for more than a moment. He’s entirely fascinated by it all but every time you tease him he says something rude and snarky about what an eye sore you were. “These aren’t so bad though” “!?DABI..!!?” You flick his forehead but can’t stop giggling as he rubs his face in your cleavage. You didn’t mind it or anything about your life right now. Taking care of this freeloader made you the happiest you’d ever been.

.

.

People like you didn’t get to stay happy though. What a fool you were to forget that. You and Dabi.

.

.

Dabi woke up one morning to find a note saying you ran to the store and would be back soon. He looks out the window to see it’s raining before crumbling the note and setting it on fire with a sigh. He really hated how much of a not-completely-horrible-person you were turning him into. Sick. He snatches your umbrella and heads out to find you. “I swear if that whale catches a cold…”

His footsteps come to an abrupt stop. That last splash under his shoes wasn’t water. It was something thicker and red flowing out of the alleyway. Dabi follows the trail “son of a-“ and rushes to check for a pulse. It’s faint but just enough that you might live if he hurries.

Dabi wouldn’t be there when you woke up in the hospital but he was waiting once you got back home. He already knew what the doctors were going to tell you, that you’d be going home alone. A week later you trudge through the door but Dabi thinks he might be seeing things. Like a ghost you don’t make a sound, or blink. You don’t react to Dabi’s presence at all until he knocks your purse out of your hand and yanks you in by your neck. “Answer me when I’m talking to you brat. Tell me what you need already.” But your eyes don’t sparkle or look mischievous looking back at Dabi. You’d gone numb. So Dabi silently took care of you (to the best of his abilities) until you go from numb to grief stricken.

It was such a headache. The tears, crying and wailing over a half folded pile of baby clothes, or into Dabi’s shoulder once your crying woke him up and he needed you to settle down. He’d drag you into his arms, ignoring your shouting to piss off, and force you back into bed. Then keep you trapped in his full embrace until you exhausted yourself and passed out. Dabi complained constantly but regardless he was there with you.

Finally, Dabi walks in one day to see you packing up the last of the baby junk. He squats down beside you to start throwing in the last of it into the box. You no longer got sad or angry at him for doing such things, you knew it was his way of trying to help you move on. “It’s just…I found something that made me look forward to living…” Dabi rolls his eyes, “pleaseeee no more waterworks I JUST got here.” You chuckle and punch him in the shoulder, “You’re such a heartless asshole.” “and the only reason you’re alive.” He pushes you back and goes to place the box in storage as you plopped down on the couch. You recline comfortable and welcome Dabi slithering over on top of you. “Besides, at least now you’re not a whale anymore and, thanks to whatever fucked up god is out there, these two are still here.” You laugh tugging on his hair trying to pull his face out of your chest. “You’re too old to be acting like this!!” “Shut up and respect your elders you little rat.” He slaps your hand away but eases up; resting his head on your cleavage as his arms coiled around you. “You’re young. You have plenty of time to crap out another baby, assuming you can stay out of trouble long enough to.” You tickle his back with a fond smile, “If only I could.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…???….what are you doing??” “Smelling you.” “Uh huh, yeah I got that. Wanna tell me why though??” Dabi drags his face over your chest and up your neck, taking deep breathes all the way to your ear and into your hair. “I’m committing you to memory.” You grip onto his shoulders when he suddenly pushes up and his knees force yours to spread under him. “W-Why???” He scoffs in your ear and whispers “you don’t really expect me to stick around to help raise my own child do you?” “What are…nghh…Dabi wait…” He continues nibbling your ear though as his hands roam to places they haven’t been before. “Wait for what. You want a baby so I’m gonna give you one” “Wh-“ “Maybe two.” ‘Two’?!!” “Mhm. Depending on how good this is.” You feel a growing heat that you weren’t afraid of being consumed by. “This is a horrible idea” you whisper lifting your hips for him “what if I do expect you to stick around?” “Why would you expect that?” “I don’t expect anything from a person like you” you hike your leg up and shiver feeling his lips drag down it “but I’d want you to.” He furrows his brows trying to control himself but this is already more patience than he’d typically exercise. “I don’t want that.” “Do it anyways.” “I don’t wanna.” “Fine. Good luck finding someone else to put up with you, or feed you.” “Hmmm, good point” Dabi’s mouth moved hungrily down your thighs, digging his fingers into both as he went, “a few more and maybe I’ll stick around til their first birthday.” “T-There’s a Christmas turkey in it for you if you stick around for their second.!” “Where’s a rat like you finding something like that” he mumbles between licks before you tense up “From wherever a villainous lowlife like you can steal one from!.Fuck…” “ha ha that’s my girl.”

All your free time is spent rolling around with Dabi, listening to him growling and grunting in your ear, reminding you how he swears to never change a single diaper or be forced to do anything. You try asking him why he’s doing this then and finally he says “You wouldn’t stop crying about wanting a damn baby so I’m giving your needy little cunt one. That’s it.! Just feeding your greedy greedy body what it wants..” and he fucked you with that need. His hands and mouth are never not on you and it’s unsurprising how his lack of shame extended into the bedroom. You think once the pregnancy test says positive it’d all stop but “no way I’m passing this up.” You’re confused and trying to slow him down as he throws you on your bed. “Pass what up? I thought you’d never touch me again now that I got what I wanted?” “No. Because now it’s my turn to get what I want.” He pushes your body into the position he likes and wastes no time. “Nine months without having to waste my time and money on condoms? Absofuckinglutely.” “Wait that’s not entirely true and you never paid for-!?“ “oh shut up, I’m breaking in my new toy.”

True to his word you’re run ragged by his infinite libido. Even after he joins some villain group he comes running to get between your thighs every chance he gets, including when he shouldn’t. One day there’s some loud banging on his door and he slaps his hand over your mouth, refusing to pause his ascent. Then the banging is on your door and you panic hearing shouting for Dabi to open up. “Not a fucking sound” he barks down at you before picking up his pace, ignoring the person’s demands that he not be late to another meeting. You do as you’re told and bare his forceful climax by biting your pillow. Your voice shakes as you try to find it “I…I’m in no condition to be handled like that..” “You’ll take whatever the fuck I give you.” He pulls the sheets over you and dips his head to kiss your cheek goodbye before getting up. You’re too exhausted to care about the arguing and shouting when he finally opens the door to let in whoever it was. You close your tired eyes and just hope Dabi finds all his clothes quickly so they all leave. Then you get a well deserved break while Dabi ran off with his buddies to go do bad guy shit. “*sigh* not a bad life for us at all..”

[grandlinedreams]

|| this man is an exposed live wire in my brain ok

|| notes: uhh prequel to [this] and [this], semi Canon compliant, pre-s1 but mentions of pre-war Cooper, I love the dynamic 😔👌✨️

|| warnings: hopefully IC Cooper, asshole x asshole dynamic we love to see it, weapons/supply dealer!reader, Canon typical violence, mention of blood/reader is injured kinda, spoilers? Abt Cooper's backstory, kinda enemies to friends/lovers

He doesn't know why he's here.

No, that's a lie ㅡ he does know why he's here, he just doesn't want to admit it. To himself, or to anyone else, for that matter. That he needs help.

Those fancy little bullets for his gun are hard to come by, few and far between when he can't get them by looting and places like Ma June's enjoy extorting as much as they can for so very little.

There's a difference between business transactions and highway robbery, even now. Which is why he's here ㅡ he'd gotten talk about a place that sold weapons and weapon-related supplies at a fair rate, and necessity had made him swallow his pride to go and find out for himself.

Which is why he's not just turning around and fuckin' leaving.

The building is crammed between two others, as ramshackle as the rest being made of recycled tin and wood that's rotted by time and rain in places, but still suggests a stability that won't crumble if somebody breathes too hard on it.

Cooper's spurs jingle as he walks, lost momentarily to the chime of something over his head when he pushes the door open. He looks up, forehead creasing.

Is that a bell?

Rusted but still in working order, it clatters again when he shuts the door, looking around. It's about as put together as any other kind of shop, an eclectic organization to it ㅡ a couple of rifles, a pistol or two, along with an admittedly impressive assortment of knives ㅡ but it's the shine of something on the floor that makes Cooper stop.

His head cocks as he studies the stain, the still-slick shimmer to it that makes him crouch and drag two gloved fingers against it, studying the residue. Coppery, with a hefty dose of some kind of chem to clean it, but still unmistakable ㅡ blood.

Well damn. He doesn't know what's happened here and he's pretty sure he doesn't care to, much beyond the fact that if the runner of this place is dead, that puts a damper on things. Or maybe not ㅡ if nobody's here, what's to stop him from taking what he wants?

"If you're thinkin' of stealing," comes a call that snaps his head up as it echoes from further back in the building, "I'd advise you not to. Less you wanna meet your maker, then I'd be happy to assist."

It's a flat bravado that both amuses him and piques his interest, and he leans against the counter to rap his knuckles. "Not stealin'," he drawls, "just wonderin' what kind of business model you've got if you make customers wait."

"The kind where patience is still a virtue, that's what." Foosteps, unhurried ㅡ and then Cooper is staring at you as you round the corner. You've got a jumpsuit of some indistinguishable color opened to rest around your hips, dingy tank-top underneath ㅡ and a stimpak in your hand. No doubt for the mess of your other arm, bicep wrapped with gauze that's already seeped into a bloom of bright red.

Well now. Cooper wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but you still manage to surprise him. Enough that he's staring, which makes you scowl.

"I know that look," you challenge, "if you think I'm easy picking, you'll get a new place to breathe from, courtesy of the hole I'll put in your head."

Cooper's head cocks. "Well now sugar," he says, "that's not very nice now, is it? Wasn't even thinkin' of that." He turns, jerks a thumb at the half-assed cleaning of the mess on the floor. "That's your doin', I reckon."

You nod. "Don't get trouble much," you say, "but when I do, I make sure to prove a point." You jam the stimpak into your arm, and he watches the tension melt from your shoulders. "Now, what can I do for you besides point out the exit?"

Well damn, Cooper thinks again. You've got a pretty face, but it's at odds with the attitude coming from that nice little mouth of yours. About as welcoming as a rattlesnake and probably just as quick to anger, from the way you bristle as he eyes you.

"Need supplies," he says, and you snort.

"What a wellspring of information you are. What kind of supplies?" You eye him, brow furrowing. "You're a bounty hunter, aren't you? Get your kind in here all the time." You tap a worn boot against the floor, hands now on your hips. "Hope you got means to pay for shit, because I don't do tab and I sure as fuck don't do charity work."

Cooper isn't sure if he likes you or he hates you. Bit of both, he guesses. The like is tentative and the hate is more solid ground, because he hates just about everybody. Makes it easier to do what needs to be done.

"Well, sweetheart," he leans into the counter, tips his hat, "depends on what you got to show me that's worth buyin'."

You stare, unimpressed by whatever angle he's going for. He's handsome, you'll give him that ㅡ but not much else. He also reminds you of somebody, with that hat of his and the way he talks ㅡ the low, drawn out drawl that you've only seen in those movies you manage to scrounge up here and there for your amusement.

Rolling your eyes, you hold up a finger and shrug your arms back into the jumpsuit, though you don't bother to zip it up. "Gimme a sec."

You don't know why you're doing this. Entertaining the notion that if you show him good enough product, he'll become a regular. You like regulars, but most of what you get seem to run on about six months worth of visits and then vanish.

Probably dead. Such is the way of the world, and it's still enough to get by. But you like new faces.

To his credit, he doesn't flinch when you slap the first pack onto the counter, followed by a second, and then a third.

"This is baseline stuff," you explain. "Your usual grade of bullet. Black powder, the standard kick." You shove the first pack at him, let him inspect the bullets. "Then you've got these."

The second pack shoved over, thin fabric parted so he can eye the neat little row of what would be hollow-point bullets if they didn't end with a tiny, pointed bulb of red glass.

"Explosive rounds." Your expression is unreadable. "They do the job, but they need special packing. Unless you wanna be blown up before the damn things even get loaded into the gun."

Cooper hums, eyes the bullet he holds up, the barely there shift of powder in the glass. He watches as you push the third over. "And these?"

"Same, but they pack even more of a punch. I'd recommend only shooting them at shit you want up in smoke." You shrug. "Or people, deathclaws, whatever the fuck you do out there."

Cooper studies you. "Where did you get this stuff? Thought bullets were hard to come by."

You give him a flat look of annoyance. "I make 'em myself."

Cooper stares, then smirks. Another little tip to his head. "Really now," he says, watches you bristle like a viper, ready to strike. Wonders if those fangs of yours pack a punch, what he'd need to do to get you to spit at him. "How 'bout you show me, darlin'? Wanna make sure what I buy is good quality."

You should tell him to shove it. Tell him to get the absolute fuck out of your shop, take his fuckin' yeehaw personality to someone else in the mood to deal with it ㅡ but you don't.

Instead, you sigh and tug the packages back, moving away from the counter. "Well c'mon then," you prompt, irritated. "Don't have all goddamn day."

The back of your shop is half a home and half a workshop, sprawled mess of equipment rusted with time but otherwise well maintained, smell of grease and hot metal and gunpowder that clings to everything.

You don't have to look back to know he's followed you, the jingle of his spurs as he takes his time, eyes missing nothing. The boxes of empty casings and empty glass bulbs ㅡ and the Mister Handy that's slumped in the corner, sparks spitting from it.

"Poor thing got shot first with that...situation earlier." Your voice is quiet. "Gotta fix 'im if I can."

Kind of funny, you sound sadder about the damn machine than the fact you'd killed someone over it. Then again, they'd been trying to kill you, so...eh. Justified, in your book.

The rest of the room is a haphazard attempt at something like a house ㅡ a couch with blankets on it, a short stack of books gone yellow at the edges, a coffee table ㅡ and sitting on it is a shitty little television, staticy and without color ㅡ but that doesn't matter. What matters to Cooper is that he knows what it's playing.

Your flitting around fades a little as he watches himself on screen ㅡ forever ago, a lifetime ago. Before the bombs, before vault-tec ㅡ when he'd been happy.

He'd loved his life, his family ㅡ and they'd loved him too.

"I've got enough stuff to make another round of flash-baㅡ" You stop, blinking at the way he's staring at the television. "Somethin' wrong? I know this isn't much, but it's my way of living, soㅡ"

"Stop your yappin'," Cooper rasps, and you glare as he shakes himself out of whatever reverie he was lost in. You scowl.

"Look, I know this doesn't seem like much of anything, but this is my business, and my shop." Your eyes narrow. "So try to be a little fuckin' nicer if you want me to sell you anything."

Whatever patience he'd had left promptly snaps like a bowstring as he snatches your arm, grips it tighter than he should. "Listen, sweetheart," he hisses, "what exactly is stopping me from just takin' what I want and leaving?"

Something whirrs behind him, distracts him just enough for the cool, sharp kiss of metal at his throat.

"Do it," you taunt, expression unreadable, grip tight on the blade you hold to his neck. "You're not the first one to try, and you won't be the last."

And there, Cooper notes, are your fangs, ready to sink into his skin. The two of you stare at each other for a good, long minute while the Mister Handy spits and sputters. And then Cooper huffs something like a laugh. "Glad to see you've got some bite to you, darlin', but I still think I could handle you."

A threat and something a little less hostile all in one, even as you yank your arm out of his grasp. "You couldn't handle me even if I came with a fuckin' manual," you snap back, but there's a playful gleam to your eyes. "You gonna buy anything or just lookin' to be a pain in my ass?"

A crooked grin tugs at Cooper's mouth. "Both."

ㅡ

The truce between the two of you is tentative. An understanding in the barest sense, because neither of you are dumb enough to pass up a lucrative, beneficial deal. He gets his supplies, you get caps. Simple.

You won't go as far as to say you're even friends, up until the point that you greet him on a visit with, "You know, you remind me of somebody."

He eyes you. "Really now. And who would that be, sweetheart? You workin' with more ghouls than just me?"

You snort. "Careful," you tease, "you almost sound jealous." Your tone quiets as you drum your fingers on the counter. "Nah, you remind me of that one actor, Cooper Howard."

Cooper stills. Watches you warily, turning a spent bullet casing over and over between gloved fingers.

"He played a cowboy," you say, nodding to yourself. "Talked like you do, too. Good movies, at least the ones I've gotten my hands on." You eye him, playful light to your eyes. "Wouldn't happen to be a fan of him too, would you?"

Cooper debates. He's not sure if you've put the pieces together and if you have, you're polite enough not to say it. He appreciates that, makes that fleeting temptation of putting a bullet in your head all the more temporary. He likes you. Be a shame if he had to cut ties.

"No," he answers. "I can safely say he and I are nothin' alike." Not anymore. He lets himself lean over the counter, too close to your face. Intimidation, maybe, or perhaps just because he likes being able to look at you like this. "Got anythin' else to tell me?"

Your eyes flick over his face, down to his lips as you lean a little closer, the suggestion of your mouth just shy of his. "Yeah," you murmur, quiet. "Next time you come by, work on your fuckin' manners."

[petermorwood]

I was wondering if you could answer a question about armor, especially the solid/articulated types - how much did it need to be personalized or fitted? I ask because I often see people criticizing fantasy/gaming armor for being too heavy or cumbersome, but rarely for perfectly fitting everyone between five and seven feet tall regardless of whether they're built like Legolas or Gimli.

So I'm curious about whether and what kinds of armor might have been mass produced vs what needed to be customized. Was it easier to produce broadly applicable armor or to recruit your army by height and weight?

Non-custom-fitted mass-produced armour ("munition grade" as some modern repro makers call it) started becoming more common when workshops where everything ran on muscle-power became ones whose hammers, grinders and polishers were powered by a water-wheel.

Making armour to fit a range of average sizes now took less time, effort and wages, so could be sold for less and be afforded by more people.

It would have been made in the period equivalent of S, M, L and maybe XL, with buyers either paying extra for custom adjustments, or DIY-ing for better fit with padded liners to make it snug or extra holes punched into straps for more space.

*****

Top grade plate armour on the other hand was almost like a second skin - a common term is "exoskeleton".

This post from a few years back has a lot more information, including what was done to ensure a good fit when the wearer couldn't be measured in person: for instance sending close-fitting garments or even wax model limbs to the armourer.

It definitely wouldn't have fitted anyone but the original owner anything like as well. In particular, if a non-original wearer was longer or shorter in arm or leg, the armour's knee and elbow joints might pinch at distracting moments or simply not flex through their full range.

"Is increased protection better than reduced mobility?" was a question where the wrong answer could prove fatal.

*****

Perhaps that's why medieval art shows a lot of partial armour being worn:

arm-harness - sometimes just vambraces on the forearms, often all the parts from gauntlets to pauldrons (hands to shoulders);

brigandine - a cloth or leather jacket with small metal plates riveted inside; this wasn't concealed armour, the rivets arranged in rows or patterns were an obvious decorative feature;

haubergeon (or byrnie, though that's more a Saxon / Viking term IMO) - a short-sleeved, short-bodied mail shirt, usually worn under something else;

plackart - front or sometimes front-and-rear lower-abdomen torso plates;

poleyns - knee-guards, worn on otherwise unarmoured legs.

The one thing everyone wore is the first thing Hollywood armour leaves off - a helmet - while the archer below has not just a helmet, haubergeon, brigandine and poleyns, but also something equally important, a brayette or breech...

...which is a pair - or at least the front half where It Matters Most - of well-padded mail and indeed male underpants.

Full plate armours had full plate ones which were even more emphatic. Boob-plates may be (mostly) fantasy, but obvious gendered armour was A Real Thing.

*****

Flexible armour like mail, scale and lamellar wasn't tailored for fit; being flexible it didn't need to be. That said, if the size was really wrong one way or the other, it could be reduced or enlarged by removing or adding sections, similar to a modern tailor taking in or letting out a garment.

I have a vague recollection of a photo showing a late medieval haubergeon with tailoring darts inserted under the arms, but I can't remember where or when, so "vague" has more weight than "recollection". ;-P

Genuine mail is rarer in museums than plate armour, because at the end of its working life mail armour was often chopped into pot-scrubbers for the kitchen. You can buy the same sort of thing today.

Finally, while some looted high-grade armour, or at least parts of it, might fit the looter straight away, it's more likely that after any battle there was probably a brisk trade in swapping what didn't fit for what did.

Hope This Helps! :->

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Amazon Alexa is a graduate of the Darth Vader MBA

Next Tuesday (Oct 31) at 10hPT, the Internet Archive is livestreaming my presentation on my recent book, The Internet Con.

If you own an Alexa, you might enjoy its integration with IFTTT, an easy scripting environment that lets you create your own little voice-controlled apps, like "start my Roomba" or "close the garage door." If so, tough shit, Amazon just nuked IFTTT for Alexa:

https://www.theverge.com/2023/10/25/23931463/ifttt-amazon-alexa-applets-ending-support-integration-automation

Amazon can do this because the Alexa's operating system sits behind a cryptographic lock, and any tool that bypasses that lock is a felony under Section 1201 of the DMCA, punishable by a 5-year prison sentence and a $500,000 fine. That means that it's literally a crime to provide a rival OS that lets users retain functionality that Amazon no longer supports.

This is the proverbial gun on the mantelpiece, a moral hazard and invitation to mischief that tempts Amazon executives to run a bait-and-switch con where they sell you a gadget with five features and then remotely kill-switch two of them. This is prime directive of the Darth Vader MBA: "I am altering the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further."

So many companies got their business-plan at the Darth Vader MBA. The ability to revoke features after the fact means that companies can fuck around, but never find out. Apple sold millions of tracks via iTunes with the promise of letting you stream them to any other device you owned. After a couple years of this, the company caught some heat from the record labels, so they just pushed an update that killed the feature:

https://memex.craphound.com/2004/10/30/apple-to-ipod-owners-eat-shit-and-die-updated/

That gun on the mantelpiece went off all the way back in 2004 and it turns out it was a starter-pistol. Pretty soon, everyone was getting in on the act. If you find an alert on your printer screen demanding that you install a "security update" there's a damned good chance that the "update" is designed to block you from using third-party ink cartridges in a printer that you (sorta) own:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

Selling your Tesla? Have fun being poor. The upgrades you spent thousands of dollars on go up in a puff of smoke the minute you trade the car into the dealer, annihilating the resale value of your car at the speed of light:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/23/how-to-fix-cars-by-breaking-felony-contempt-of-business-model/

Telsa has to detect the ownership transfer first. But once a product is sufficiently cloud-based, they can destroy your property from a distance without any warning or intervention on your part. That's what Adobe did last year, when it literally stole the colors from your Photoshop files, in history's SaaSiest heist caper:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/28/fade-to-black/#trust-the-process

And yet, when we hear about remote killswitches in the news, it's most often as part of a PR blitz for their virtues. Russia's invasion of Ukraine kicked off a new genre of these PR pieces, celebrating the fact that a John Deere dealership was able to remotely brick looted tractors that had been removed to Chechnya:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/08/about-those-kill-switched-ukrainian-tractors/

Today, Deere's PR minions are pitching search-and-replace versions of this story about Israeli tractors that Hamas is said to have looted, which were also remotely bricked.

But the main use of this remote killswitch isn't confounding war-looters: it's preventing farmers from fixing their own tractors without paying rent to John Deere. An even bigger omission from this narrative is the fact that John Deere is objectively Very Bad At Security, which means that the world's fleet of critical agricultural equipment is one breach away from being rendered permanently inert:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/23/reputation-laundry/#deere-john

There are plenty of good and honorable people working at big companies, from Adobe to Apple to Deere to Tesla to Amazon. But those people have to convince their colleagues that they should do the right thing. Those debates weigh the expected gains from scammy, immoral behavior against the expected costs.

Without DMCA 1201, Amazon would have to worry that their decision to revoke IFTTT functionality would motivate customers to seek out alternative software for their Alexas. This is a big deal: once a customer learns how to de-Amazon their Alexa, Amazon might never recapture that customer. Such a switch wouldn't have to come from a scrappy startup or a hacker's DIY solution, either. Take away DMCA 1201 and Walmart could step up, offering an alternative Alexa software stack that let you switch your purchases away from Amazon.

Money talks, bullshit walks. In any boardroom argument about whether to shift value away from customers to the company, a credible argument about how the company will suffer a net loss as a result has a better chance of prevailing than an argument that's just about the ethics of such a course of action:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/

Inevitably, these killswitches are pitched as a paternalistic tool for protecting customers. An HP rep once told me that they push deceptive security updates to brick third-party ink cartridges so that printer owners aren't tricked into printing out cherished family photos with ink that fades over time. Apple insists that its ability to push iOS updates that revoke functionality is about keeping mobile users safe – not monopolizing repair:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/22/vin-locking/#thought-differently

John Deere's killswitches protect you from looters. Adobe's killswitches let them add valuable functionality to their products. Tesla? Well, Tesla at least is refreshingly honest: "We have a killswitch because fuck you, that's why."

These excuses ring hollow because they conspicuously omit the possibility that you could have the benefits without the harms. Like, your tractor could come with a killswitch that you could bypass, meaning you could brick it at a distance, and still fix it yourself. Same with your phone. Software updates that take away functionality you want can be mitigated with the ability to roll back those updates – and by giving users the ability to apply part of a patch, but not the whole patch.

Cloud computing and software as a service are a choice. "Local first" computing is possible, and desirable:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/03/there-is-no-cloud/#only-other-peoples-computers

The cheapest rhetorical trick of the tech sector is the "indivisibility gambit" – the idea that these prix-fixe menus could never be served a la carte. Wanna talk to your friends online? Sorry there's just no way to help you do that without spying on you:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/08/divisibility/#technognosticism

One important argument over smart-speakers was poisoned by this false dichotomy: the debate about accessibility and IoT gadgets. Every IoT privacy or revocation scandal would provoke blanket statements from technically savvy people like, "No one should ever use one of these." The replies would then swiftly follow: "That's an ableist statement: I rely on my automation because I have a disability and I would otherwise be reliant on a caregiver or have to go without."

But the excluded middle here is: "No one should use one of these because they are killswitched. This is especially bad when a smart speaker is an assistive technology, because those applications are too important to leave up to the whims of giant companies that might brick them or revoke their features due to their own commercial imperatives, callousness, or financial straits."

Like the problem with the "bionic eyes" that Second Sight bricked wasn't that they helped visually impaired people see – it was that they couldn't be operated without the company's ongoing support and consent:

https://spectrum.ieee.org/bionic-eye-obsolete

It's perfectly possible to imagine a bionic eye whose software can be maintained by third parties, whose parts and schematics are widely available. The challenge of making this assistive technology fail gracefully isn't technical – it's commercial.

We're meant to believe that no bionic eye company could survive unless they devise their assistive technology such that it fails catastrophically if the business goes under. But it turns out that a bionic eye company can't survive even if they are allowed to do this.

Even if you believe Milton Friedman's Big Lie that a company is legally obligated to "maximize shareholder value," not even Friedman says that you are legally obligated to maximize companies' shareholder value. The fact that a company can make more money by defrauding you by revoking or bricking the things you buy from them doesn't oblige you to stand up for their right to do this.

Indeed, all of this conduct is arguably illegal, under Section 5 of the FTC Act, which prohibits "unfair and deceptive business practices":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

"No one should ever use a smart speaker" lacks nuance. "Anyone who uses a smart speaker should be insulated from unilateral revocations by the manufacturer, both through legal restrictions that bind the manufacturer, and legal rights that empower others to modify our devices to help us," is a much better formulation.

It's only in the land of the Darth Vader MBA that the deal is "take it or leave it." In a good world, we should be able to take the parts that work, and throw away the parts that don't.

(Image: Stock Catalog/https://www.quotecatalog.com, Sam Howzit; CC BY 2.0; modified)

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/26/hit-with-a-brick/#graceful-failure

[clockwayswrites]

Bleeding Out, Bleeding In - the Start

This is the start of the resulting fic from the winning poll option of 'Crime Boss is a Dangerous Job'. And boy did it go places.

A solid 40 of you wanted to wait for ao3, but the other 59 are feral gremlins who want a part now! Those who want to wait, don't feel pressured to read. This might be up on ao3 this week or if not then next week! (Yes, that doesn't add up to 100, one vote is me so I can see the poll results.)

wc: 1059 Content Warnings: canon typical violence, blood, blood drinking, mentions of death and dying, brief mentions of human tracking, so much cussing.

-

Brainless motherfuckers.

Every single one of them, brainless motherfuckers.

One would think that eight heads in a duffel bag would have been enough.

One would think that people would learn his fucking rules. They were easy rules. Don’t hurt kids. Don’t sell to kids. Don’t hurt sex workers. Don’t traffic people. Don’t fuck with him.

And these motherfuckers had fucked with him. They had fucked with his rules.

Red Hood stared down at the lifeless eyes of the traitorous lieutenant.

Ex-lieutenant.

Brainless motherfucker.

Hood was insulted that someone that incompetent had managed to make him bleed, even if it had been eleven against one. And fuck if he wasn’t bleeding badly. Hood pressed his hand tighter to his wound with a hiss and let himself slump back against the grimy wall of the ally that he had slunk into. His hand became wet with warmth.

He must have already bled through the hasty field bandage that he had slapped on the wound.

Numbers slipped through Red Hood’s foggy mind as he tried to calculate about just how bad of a fact that was— about how heavily he must be bleeding out. Fuck if he wasn’t bleeding out.

Could he make it to his safe house in time? No. Could someone make it to him in time? Maybe, but who could he call? He wasn’t going to turn around and let another lieutenant stab him in the other side. B— maybe it would be better to just bleed out than deal with B and another lecture. As if this hadn’t been in self defense. As if he hadn’t acted to stop kids from being sold. As if a moment of hesitancy about killing a man he’d been working closely with for a year had been what got Hood in this spot.

And Dick was off world.

Dick was always off world when he needed him.

That wasn’t fair. What did Dick owe him? It’s not like they had ever been family. Dick had never wanted him. The last person who had wanted him didn’t even want him enough to stay sober.

Blood loss made him maudlin, apparently.

Dying by explosion had been easier.

“You know, not what I expected to find dumpster diving tonight.”

Hood’s hand dropped to brush over the grip of his gun. It was up and aimed before his head even had time to lull towards the voice. The hand holding the gun was steady even as his vision swam staring down the sight.

“Not that I’m doubting you can use that, Boss, but would rather you didn’t,” the stranger said, hands up in the air. One large duffel sat at their feet. Another smaller duffel was slung over their back. A hoodie at least three sizes too big swamped the slim figure— hiding both their form and face. The steel toed boots looked comically large at the end of stick thin legs.

Hood knew better than to think they weren’t a threat.

Anyone could be a threat in Gotham.

“Really, Boss, I’m just out here dumpster diving for supplies,” they continued, motioning to the warehouse district around them. “Not going to lie and say I won’t happily loot your corpse if you keel over right there, but would rather you stay breathing. I can help with that, if you let me.”

“And if I say no?” Hood asked, his voice a breathless rasp even through the modulation of the helmet.

“If you say no to the help, I’ll just be on my way. There are other dumpsters to go through like the feral raccoon that I am.”

His arm dropped down to hang limply at his side. He didn’t take his finger off the trigger. He shouldn’t trust this stranger. “Look more like a street rat to me.”

“We’ll compromise to possum then,” they said, slowly lowering their arms.

He shouldn’t trust this stranger. Did it mater if he did?

He was bleeding out.

The gun slotted back into its holster.

“There you are Boss, we’ll get you patched back up.”

Hood blinked. They were tucking themselves under his shoulder, leaning him up off the warehouse wall.

Hood blinked. They were disabling security on a heavy, cast iron door set into a concrete floor.

Hood blinked.

“Not going to lie, Boss, you’re in a bad way.” The words were distant— like listening to them through a thick wall. Static ran under the words. Static that burrowed under his skin and into his blood.

Static that burned at a part of him he tried to ignore.

“Think they got something pretty vital with that knife.”

He didn’t want to burn.

“Stitched you up but…”

He didn’t want to die.

“Oh Boss.”

Not again.

“I know, Boss.”

A cold hand brushed over his temple and he couldn’t hold back the whine at the sensation. He strained to arch up into the touch. He wanted it. He wanted to feel. He didn’t want to slip away again. He didn’t want that void of death. He didn’t want to die again.

The voice shushed him. “I know.”

He trembled. The static sang in his veins.

“There’s something I can try, Boss, but it will change thing.”

Things were always changing.

“Not like this. You’re not on the knife’s edge yet. You’re still living. If you die you right now you tip over to the other side.”

He’d done that before.

“I know, Boss. But if we do this, you’re not going to tip over anymore, you’re going to balance on that knife’s edge. Not dead but not alive. It’s a fine line to walk.”

Everything in his life was a tightrope: hero, villain; son, enemy; brother, stranger. What was one more thing? Alive, dead.

He didn’t want to be dead again.

“Okay, Boss, okay.”

The hand pulled a whine from his throat as it moved away. A soft coo hushed him quiet again. The sound rumbled in with the static untill the soothing noise sat inside him.

His head tilted up as something slid under his neck. Hands guided his head to lay back down onto a soft surface.

Something wet dripped against his lips. Spice bloomed across his tongue.

“There you go, Boss,” the voice soothed. The coo rumbled in his chest like a fluttering bird. “Drink up.”

Cold skin and wet warmth pressed against his lips.

Jason drank.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Adventure: Cracking the Snowglobe

As the dark closes in and the cold weighs heavy on us on all, it’s important to remember that there is light and warmth to be had, if only we seek it out, and share it with others. Stories round the fire, good food shared with those we love, songs of hope sung in defiance of the bleak, all these things give the soul the tender it needs to burn on through the winter until the days begin to grow long again. 

Setup:  Decades after retiring from a busy life of adventuring, the local wizard Hypatia has fallen into a depressed bout of isolation, raising a barrier of magical force around her manor in the hopes of keeping out distractions while she works on yet another project she hasn’t the energy to complete.   Her old friend Moroz the outrider is having none of it, tired of being brushed off every when he visits and concerned about Hypatia’s wellbeing, he’s journeyed around gathering presents from all their old friends and allies as a reminder of the good times they spent together, and a symbol that people still care about her. His grand display of affection has been somewhat delayed when a gang of hobgoblins ambushed him on the road, stealing the majority of the gifts and leaving him for dead. 

When the party stumble across the scene of the ambush and follow the scatteres of red snow (and Toboggan, the distressed reindeer), they find Moroz crawling his way out of a ditch, alive, pissed off, and in need of some holiday helpers.

 Background: It has been some score of years since the wizard Hypatia walked the roads of the realm with her friends, using her magic and more often her wits to mend what’d gone astray.  She settled, as she had always wanted, into the life of a country wizard, persuing her own studies in a manor just far enough from town that neither she or the locals would bother one another unless the cause was worthwhile. While every shy accademic is due their alone time, decades and distance have not been good for Hypatia. More and more she has sunk into the lony existance she has made for herself, losing the strength to keep up correspondance with old allies, to visit the market for supplies, to even leave the little island she calls home.  She says she is working, but her work suffers too, the grand tretisies and formulations she hoped to write stagnate along with her mind, and frustration at being unable to focus on one thing she was good at has inspired her to cut herself off further, raising a globe of magic around her home and denying all visitors.

Moroz knows what it means to be alone.  The dwarven outrider has spent most of his life carrying messages between settlements and outposts for weeks at a time. He also knows how dangerous that loneliness can be, and that a life without other people in it is a life without hope, and the winter is not kind to those without hope.  The last time he saw Hypatia, when she came to turn him away from her door and raise her barrier, Moroz saw a look in her eyes that reminded him of travellers he’d found stranded in the snow, the look of slowly forgetting your reasons to live. He knows he must remind her, or he won’t see her again come the thaw. 

Adventure Hooks: 

The party could encounter Moroz on any wintry road (A mournfully bellowing Reindeer is one hell of a hook), but If you wanted to run this adventure as a oneshot, consider having the heroes be part of a search party specifically sent out to look for him after a snowstorm delays the local mail delivery.  

The hobs have taken their loot and fallen back to a deserted fortress half buried in snow. While most of what they’ve stolen are keepsakes destined to be sold off or tossed into the fire if the party doesn’t intervene, a few of the more interesting presents have some wizz-bang magical powers. Hopefully Hypatia doesn’t mind some of her gifts being used as powerups to help the heroes survive the dungeon.  

After they’ve recovered the majority of the gifts, Moroz and the party still have to break into the wizard’s warded fortress. The globe of force is highly impressive, but careful perception could reveal a few careful weaknesses.   There’s a boathouse left abandoned on the isle that happens to contain a forgotten tunnel leading into the manor proper (which just so happens to have a local river monster hibernating inside of it).    An eagle eyed scout might likewise notice that the dusting of snow on top of the globe isn’t uniform, and that there’s a thin spot riiiight above the manor’s chimney in order to let out the smoke. 

Once inside the party have other hurdles to face: the phantom servants that manage the grounds are also programmed to repel intruders… but they don’t seem to notice the sinister, shadowy entities that now lurk in the Manor’s unlit halls.  They’ll find Hypatia in a sorry state, having spent several days staring into the yawning mouth of a dark portal she doesn’t quite remember calling up.  After spending so long cut off, so long failing to achieve anything with the work that gave her purpose, despair overtook the wizard’s heart and the shadowfell called to her… she was not that long from answering it when the party intervened. They chose to care, and they ended up saving her life, and the life of her friend besides.  

After their tearful reunion Moroz decides to stay to help take care of his old friend, but extends an invitation to the party: The winter holidays are coming up and it is better to spend it with friends, perhaps they could help him decorate the manor, cook a couple meals, maybe head into town for supplies and get caught up in a snowball fight.  When the Festivities are done, Hypatia will extend the invitation even further: being alone is evidently bad for her, and she has so much space in her home it’d be a shame not to give the party a place to stay every time they stop in.  The party will have a new home base and a new reason to go out adventuring: what with Moroz retiring for the time being and needing someone capable to take over his role as outrider.  

Art 1

Art 2

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

104/150 with lethal company?

104) I can hear it calling my name

.........

[Y/n], January 29th, [Log 001]

---I'm afraid this will be my last log. So I'm keeping this encrypted.

Everyone's gone, but I'm still here. And I'm terrified. We started on this job as strangers, and we became family. Now I'm all alone because of a stupid mask. A piece of scrap we should've just sold off.

But he thought it would be funny to wear. I don't blame him. He was always a jokester, willing to do anything to turn a frown upside down and make light of our dreary trips. I know he didn't mean to hurt us. He thought it was harmless. Honest to god we thought so too.

Until he started vomiting blood and tried grabbing me. He tore off my helmet, along with my tracker, but I managed to get away. I still don't know how. But I wish I was smarter about it, because I got lost.

Then I heard the ship's engines.

They must've thought I was dead. Or maybe they all died and the autopilot kicked in. I'm not sure. I don't even know the current time. But what I do know is that I'm stuck here now. Possibly forever. I could make an SOS but that monster is still outside. I had to barricade myself in this storage room and wait until it goes away.

It keeps knocking. I can hear it calling my name. But I know it's not him.

To anyone who reads this, don't pick up the porcelain masks. They aren't worth shit. It'll tempt you to put it on. Don't. You'll find better loot elsewhere. If you see anyone already wearing it, kill them. Stun them. Run. Whatever. Just don't let it take you.

And if you see me wearing it, put me out of my misery. I promise I'll understand---

Finishing what would likely be your final log, you sighed and slumped back against the wall, letting the tablet slip from your hands.

You don't know how long you've been stuck here--whether it's been hours or days.

But all you know is that the Masked on the other side of the door hasn't left. It was using your coworker's corpse, mimicking his voice as it pounded on the steel and tried convincing you to let it in, even shattering the window. For some reason it refused to leave you alone, and kept begging and begging until it began screaming unintelligently...

That would go on and on until eventually it would cease, weakly clawing at the door, only to rinse and repeat once it rested its voice.

You were starving, trying your best to ration the jar of pickles you were luckily able to find in this storage room.

Unfortunately, that's as far as your luck will go at this point. They were sour and made you want to vomit every time you ate one. But while you didn't want starvation to take your life, you weren't exactly sure how you really wanted to go out instead.

It sure as hell wasn't gonna be from that bastard who took away your friends.

"It's clear....all clear......come on out....the ship is leaving..leave....out.....COME OUT..!! COME OUT!! COMEOUTCOMEOUT-!!"

With your heart hammering in your chest, you curled up and covered your ears, squeezing both eyes shut. 'Fuck, it's losing its mind again...this is a nightmare..why did I ever take this job?' You tried not to focus on the screams so much, and instead prayed for some kind of miracle.

But in space, would anyone really hear your prayers?

Yet somebody must have, because the screaming abruptly stopped a minute later, being replaced by the sounds of heavy thumping and growling drawing near.

You only knew one other alien creature that made those.

And you knew it was pissed off.

Getting up and backing away from the door, you fearfully clutched a stop sign as you heard a series of terrified shrieks, roars, slamming and crashing sounds....before silence followed, save for the low growls you heard earlier and chewing noises.

Cautiously, you went back over and pushed aside one of the things covering up the window, and the sight on the other side was quite nauseating:

The Thumper was hovering over the Masked's body, teeth covered in blood and flesh as it tore into it, clearly wanting to savor this midnight snack.. But eventually it decided to drag the rest of the corpse away and to another part of the facility, only leaving behind a few shattered fragments of white dirty porcelain.

You couldn't believe it.

You were actually happy that a Thumper, of all things, saved your skin.

But you sure as hell didn't want it coming back for a second lunch. Now was your window of opportunity to get out of here. The adrenaline pumping through your veins was the only reason you were able to grab your loot and book it out of that storage room, being careful not to run into that Thumper again.

At least now you could go outside and (hopefully) send an S.O.S.

[heartfullofleeches]

Business Casual

Yan Hero + Villain-for-Hire Scientist Reader

Something something, villain reader in lingerie. G.N as always, but they are implied to be slightly muscular

Another explosion on floor three.

The ground quakes beneath you on level four; dragging the wide-eyed corpse flung over your desk to to its knees. Head cracking against the sharp edge as they spawn across the floor, their helmet rolls into your ankle. You step over it and gather the scattered stacks of paper into a large folder, using the guard's layard to keep them secure.

While looting their body, you take back the pen lodged in their jugular. Your bosses were idiots if they thought you'd leave behind your hard work and the supplies you bought with your own two cents. You have to plant your foot on their chest to get it out. Turns out they weren't fully dead yet, as when you yank it free blood gurgles from their mouth and throat - eyes bloodshot as their enfeebled limbs dart for the punctured hole. Your shirt was already drenched in enough of their blood you didn't need to stick around. You stand up and over their body, clocking out as you vacate the premises - chaos unveiled behind the glass wall of your office.

Bodies everywhere, most wounds self inflicted. The heroes had yet to make it to your floor and those in too deep knew there wasn't anything better waiting outside. Those hired under false pretenses scrambled for the exits like a wild stampede. The mass panic made up the minority of the casualties as they trampled each other and fought. The sprinklers going off to quench various fires raised the body count. By the time you left everyone was either dead or on their way to the lower floors. You stroll through the field of wasted flesh, checking your bank account with that spring in your step that amount zeros would give anyone. Getting that degree was good for something after all.

Reaching the flight of stairs leading to your salvation, a lone figure awaits you at the bottom; expression steeled with a glare that the press would've just eaten up. Banking on the notion they may not have seen your clothes, you use the rain of the sprinklers to play as your tears.

"Oh thank goodness you came- the evacuation alarm went off and then there were guns and-" Expressing your fright with incoherent words and sobs, you descend the stairs one step at a time. "I'm sorry, I really don't know what's going on since I just started working here. Thank you for rescuing me."

The hero is a little too welcoming for your liking as you fall against their chest.

"You don't have to keep up the act. It's just me here."

That voice. So familiar.

"Nobody else is alive. I'm taking you home this time. Where you belong. We both know you're better than this."

It reminds you of that little hero everyone's been talking about recently. The same one who's flyers kept appearing in your mail. The same one who investigated those disappearances at your old apartment. The same one you sold the information to. You've been paid off for information by so many their faces all blur together at this point.

"In that case."

Teetering back on your heel and planting your foot in the center of their chest, you pour all your strength into a kick them that sends them down the flight of stairs to the next. The hero willingly takes the plunge, but goes down harder than they expect; back breaking their fall and taking on the brunt of the damages. You grab the sleeve of your lab coat with your teeth as you drop down each step, ripping it from your soaked figure and throwing it over their head. If you had to fight your way out of this all the water weight retained in the coat would just limit your mobility. The hero pulls it off and springs onto their knees. They didn't want to do things this way, but their patience had run them. Wiping blood from their lips, they take a double look at you as you hover over them - certain they hit their head harder than they thought.

Eyes lose in confusion at their slack jaw expression, your lips retain a mocking grimace. "What's the matter, hero? Afraid of fighting a civilian?"

The hero opens their mouth, but nothing comes out. They point instead. You look down at your shirt. Oh...

The guard's blood and falling waters had eaten away at the cheap material of your shirt. Through the translucent fabric peaks the garments you wore beneath. A lacey black piece perfectly shaped to your bust with straps cross over your upper chest and cut off at your midriff. The strings of the matching bottom sit high upon your thigh, frills barely hidden at your waistband. You may have a few screws lose, but you wouldn't leave the house without underwear and this was all that you had - was the excuse you stopped using after showing up to work in lingerie two days in a row. The hero swallow the first breath in ages as you pop the first button.

"Like what you see, hero? Well I can show you more~" You take off your shirt and throw it at their feet. They scramble to pick it up as your leg falls onto their shoulder. You ease into a squat, pushing them down with you as you slide. Their hands slide up your legs. You tease them with a slip of your bottoms, fist clenching as they yank your zipper. The salvation of reaching their in goal drags them in too deep as everything goes dark.

-

The hero wakes up with a splitting headache traveling all the way down to their nose. The bloodstained walls of the laboratory had been switched with floral wallpaper. Your living room wallpaper. They were bound to a chair in the middle of the room giving them a view of different areas in your home. It takes them less than a minute to notice you laying out on the couch. You had changed into dry clothing, but they could still see the single string hugging your hips. They lick at their cracked lips.

"Anything...."

You toss their phone aside as you sit up. "You're awake. Afraid I knocked that nasty little brain of yours out when you fell like that. Looking through your phone I see you have a talent for photography. A hero and a stalker. What a combo."

They bite down until their lips start to blister. "Please.. anything, anything you want is yours if you take off your shirt. Please, I cant- I can't live off pictures alone anymore. I need you... I have since I first say you."

"Anything, hm? That's a mighty brod claim. We'll see if I can hold you to it, little hero."

[diioonysus]

creepy/messed-up history facts

the man in the booth across from lincoln was named major henry rathbone, and after booth fired the shot, rathbone tried to tackle him to the ground, but booth sliced rathbone in the arm with a dagger. after that night, rathbone was never free of guilt. he suffered from stomach ailments to heart palpitations, and on december 23rd 1883, he attacked and killed his wife clara, and attempted to kill himself. he spent the rest of his life in a mental institution.

in 1494, sailors returning from the new world brought with them massive outbreak of syphilis, which spread through an entire french army, and with no antibiotics to counteract it, the disease spread unchecked. the skin on victims' faces would essentially rot away from the grisly ulcers. in some cases, the noses, lips and other body parts of the affected people were essentially gone.

in 1890, thomas edison, using wax cylinder, produced a line of baby dolls. they had wooden bodies, procelain heads, and miniature phonographs in their chests. the phonographs would play back recordings of young women reciting nursery rhymes like "hictory dickory dock," and "now i lay me down to sleep." (here's the audio of them x)

dentures used to be made from the teeth of dead soldiers. they were ivory base plates with real human teeth attached, a lot of these were sold to dentists by scavengers looting corpses from the battle of waterloo. the dentists would boil the them down, cut off the roots, attach them to ivory plates, and sell them.

in 1929, a pair of scientists at princeton university wanted to test and understand how the auditory nerve percieves sound, and their test subject was an alive cat. they cut out part of its brain and attached one end of a telephone wire to its auditory nerve and the other end to a reciever. weirdly enough, many researchers think this helped lead to the development of cochlear implants. but the cat was killed after the scientists wanted to see if it worked on a dead cat.

in 1726, mary toft told doctors that she gave birth to rabbits, and doctors were fully convinced until they found pieces of corn inside the stomach of one of the rabbits, proving that it hadn't developed inside her womb. she instead was manually inserting the rabbits to make the delivery look as realistic as possible.

it was believed that babies under the age of 15 months couldn't feel pain, so doctors would instead use muscle relaxers that had a paralytic effect to stop the baby from moving. this essentially meant they couldn't move or cry but they could still hear, see, and feel everything that was done to them. this was accepted up until 1980s

there was a tiger in india named man-eater of champawat who became dependent on human flesh, which at the turn of the 20th century inflicted a seven-year reign, killing 436 men, women, and children. she was eventually killed in 1907.

there was a book called "how the mail steamer went down in mid atlantic, by a survivor," which tells the story of an unnamed ocean liner that sinks in the atlantic. the protagonist is a sailor named thompson, who grows concerned over the lifeboat shortage, and sure enough the liners collides with a small sailing ship in a fog. as the ship sinks, only 200 of the 700 people on board survive. the second novella "the wreck of the titan: or, futility" by morgan robertson, follows the fictional ocean liner titan, which hits an iceberg in the north atlantic and sinks. like the titanic, the titan was described as the largest ship afloat at the time, both ships had a shortage of lifeboats, and the titan was dubbed "unsinkable." when the accident occurred, roberston simply said he was knowledgabe about maritime operations, saying "i know what i'm writing about, that's all."

some books created in the 18th and 19th century were bound in real human skin which was called anthropodermic bibliopegy. most of these books that were bound with human skin instead of animal skin were mostly based on anatomy or erotica.

during the battle of ramree island, which was fought between january and february 1945, japanese soldiers were cornered by english troops seeking to conquer burmese island of ramree, forcing japanese troops to cross 10 miles of swamp. the japanese soon began to suffer the effects of tropical diseases, but the presence of large numbers of scorpions, tropical mosquitoes and thousands of saltwater crocodiles, the world's largest reptiles, was even worse. In its genre. very aggressive beasts that can reach 8 meters in length and weigh more than a ton. according to some survivors, during the night, they were hunted one by one, in which the crocodiles would ambush them from underneath. and the survivors said the worst part was hearing the screams and the breaking of bones in the dark.

there is a cocodile named gustave (or was if you believe he's dead), a large nile crocodile in burundi who has been rumored to have killed 200-300 people. he's never been captured, but it has been stated that he could be "easily more than 20 feet, and weigh more than 2,000 pounds." he was/is estimated to be over 100 years old, and was/is described as having bullet wounds over his body, and his right shoulder blade was found to be deeply wounded, but they don't know what could have caused it. it's been rumored that he would leave the corpses he killed behind. in 2019, an article revealed he was killed, but there's no photographic evidence which leaves people doubting it's true.

[hannahbarberra162]

Struck Twice By Lightning, Chapter 12

18+ MDNI on Ao3

Shanks would be annoyingly photogenic.

You’d eventually gotten Shanks to sleep by the usual method. Namely, scratching his back and ignoring him until he passed out. He kept sighing at you and trying to extol your virtues and beauty. You didn’t take it too seriously - Shanks had always been emotional when drunk. You tried to shush him and get him to sleep -you had enough to think about without Shanks’s drunk ramblings getting in your head as well. Finally, his light snores told you he was snoozing and you could relax. You laid on your back, thinking about the night and some of the changes you’d seen in Shanks. He’d never left a party before for you, but was that really all you needed from a partner? To want to spend time with you over drinking? Then again, it was Shanks, so it was actually kind of a big deal for him. You dozed off listening to the sounds of the party continuing in the distance.

You woke up in the early morning and were unable to go back to sleep. Restless, you left the cabin and went to get a cup of tea from the kitchen. You brought it to the deck and leaned against the railing, enjoying the early morning gray skies. It was a cool morning, the sun still below the horizon, the sea wind chilling your bare arms. You were zoning out, enjoying yourself when the door to Benn’s cabin opened. You glanced over to see how many of the ladies had made it onto the ship. Benn was a popular ladies man, you’d seen countless partners come out of his cabin after a night on the town. You didn’t slut shame, either Benn or his partners, it was just curiosity.

Benn came out of the cabin alone, scanning the deck. His eyes landed on you and he lit a cigarette. Uh oh. That was not a good sign. Lighting up before he talked to you meant something was on the horizon. You gave him a nervous smile and a thumbs up. Benn sighed. He walked up to you and handed you a cigarette, which you accepted. Oh fuck, what was going on?

“Bad news, kid. Look.” Benn handed you a newspaper. You unfolded it and glanced at the cover story. There was a picture of Shanks carrying you back to the ship when you were drunk, you looking up at him starry-eyed. Below that, there was a blown up picture of you and Shanks on your wedding day - the one that you kept in your bottom desk drawer at your house.  It showed you and Shanks kissing and holding up your rings to the snail, taken moments after the one Shanks had kept. Your mouth dropped open as you continued to read the article below.

EMPEROR HAS AN EMPRESS

Red Haired Shanks, all-powerful Emperor of the Sea, is no longer the New World’s most eligible bachelor! It seems Shanks is off the market, married to a gorgeous gal. Spotted at a bar together, this rambunctious beauty can hold her own against our favorite Yonko. Just who is this mysterious woman? Come find out with our exclusive interview with a beloved friend to the Emperor and his wife...

You couldn’t read any more. You’d broken into a cold sweat. Your life was ruined. Benn gave you a light for your cigarette. Mechanically, you accepted and put the butt into your mouth.

“One of the dames from last night mentioned it to me. I got a copy to see for myself. Tough break.” You didn’t answer, your mind was whirling. You couldn’t go home, you couldn’t continue your business, the photo meant someone had gone through your house, everything had likely been looted, all your hard work over the past decade was down the drain because stupid fucking Shanks had opened his goddamned mouth at one island. That was all it took for your life to go up in flames. That idiotic old man Archie must have sold the story to Big News Morgan - he’s the only person outside the crew who knew your connection to Shanks. Because Shanks point blank told him.

Benn watched you but didn’t say anything further. You didn’t have anything you wanted to say at the moment. You were so angry. You were livid. You wanted to burn the ship down and everything in it. You wanted to go to Buggy and cry on his shoulder. You wanted to start running and run and run and run until your legs and lungs gave out. But most of all, you were angry. 

“Can I have the rest of the pack?” you asked Benn with restrained calm. Benn handed it over without hesitation. You thanked him and climbed up the nearest unoccupied crow’s nest, taking the ladder with you when you got to the top. You sat there in your anger, chain smoking the remaining cigarettes until you ran out. Your fury hadn’t abated, if anything you became increasingly angrier the longer you sat there, stewing on the loss of your life. You couldn’t go back to your life of anonymity - you’d been publicly identified to the world as Shanks’s wife. Even if you divorced him, there’d still be a target on your back. Some shitty upstart pirate or Marine would try to use you as a hostage or bargaining chip against Shanks. You might even get a bounty on your head, just for being married to Shanks. You couldn’t have an independent life - you now needed to stay where Shanks and the crew could protect you. 

You kept reading the article over and over, the words blurring together into one big mess in your brain. You should have known that asking Shanks to help you in any way would backfire. He had the unerring capability to have things work out the way he wanted, and this was no exception. You assumed Benn said something to the crew because no one bothered you or asked to come up with you. A couple hours later, you wanted to get a drink to soothe your now scorched throat, and you came down from the crow’s nest.

Shanks was up by now, sitting and chatting with some of his crew in the galley when you came down. You knew logically that it wasn’t entirely his fault, he hadn’t meant for this to happen. But you couldn’t contain your anger towards him. You stomped up to him and the conversation went silent, the men looking at one another with nervous glances. Shanks didn’t seem to notice.

“Good morning sunshine! How did you sleep last -” You didn’t allow him to finish before you threw the newspaper at his face.

“This is why I didn’t want to come here! Everything I’ve worked for is gone! My whole life is gone!” You hadn’t meant to start by yelling at him but you couldn’t stop yourself. Shanks didn’t react at first, just opened the newspaper and saw the front page.

“Well, that’s not great,” he replied calmly, “I wasn’t the most eligible bachelor anyway, that’s Beckma-”

“Shut the fuck up! I don’t want to hear any of your fucking jokes! Now I’m stuck on this ship, I can’t go home, I can’t have my business license, I can’t do anything except stay here with you!” The other crew had begun slinking away. You balled your hands at your sides, your head starting to ache.

“I didn’t think -”

“ Of course you didn’t think! You only think about how things affect you !” you hissed at Shanks. He wasn’t get riled which only made you angrier. Why did he get to be calm when he’d destroyed your world with one off hand sentence?

“How did they get this picture?” Shanks asked, looking at the paper with a frown.

“By going through my house, how else? I’m sure everything I owned is gone or destroyed.” Thinking about your house being ransacked made you want to cry - you’d spent so long finding just the right decorations and making the space your own. You had loved coming home to your cozy little abode. Even if you went back, someone else would have been there touching all your things, taking what they wanted. All your sake was probably taken, your investment in equipment now worthless.

“How did you already know Archie when we went to that bar?” you asked Shanks. It had been bugging you since you read the article. Shanks hadn’t visited your island or the one next to it before, but had been to another worthless island nearby. You never told him where you lived and the big island you met him at the first night was known for its parties - something Shanks would have sought out.

“It’s my territory.” Shanks stiffened and crossed his arm across his chest but didn’t elaborate. 

“So you’ve been to that shitty island near me but didn’t stop by mine? Please, I know what that means. How long have you been keeping tabs on me?”

“Just to keep you safe,” Shanks replied testily.

“Is that how Marco found me? And why he visited me all those times?” You were on the verge of hysteria, breathing fast. You didn’t know if you wanted to laugh or cry. All these years you thought you were free and living your own life, but really it was only under Shanks’s supervision. 

“What do you mean ‘all those times’?! I only asked that asshole to visit once , when you were really sick. How often did he come see you?” Shanks’s jealousy was rearing its head and you wanted to scream. Now was not the time to deal with his insecurity. You actually hadn’t slept with Marco, but you had become friends with him. He visited you two to three times a year and was pleasant company. Apparently Whitebeard liked your Moby sake, so you brewed a huge container once for his birthday. Not that Shanks needed to know that.

“I don’t want to talk about your fucking jealousy! You and I weren’t together! I didn’t ask you what you did for all those years - because I don’t care! ” Shanks had no leg to stand on, so he backtracked.

“Listen, it’s not that bad, you can go back -” 

“You know I can’t! It doesn’t - it doesn’t work like that.” In the middle of your last sentence, you deflated like a balloon rapidly losing air. You didn’t feel like yelling at Shanks or arguing anymore, it wouldn’t help anything. It wasn’t satisfying, and you didn’t have anything more to say to him. You were suddenly exhausted but knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep. “I just…you won.” You walked away defeated, back to the cabin, leaving Shanks sitting with the newspaper. 

~~~

You laid down in the bed, curled on your side. You watched the sea out of the porthole window endlessly. Tears occasionally tracked down your face and you didn’t bother to wipe them away. You laid in the bed for hours, watching the light change on the water. Nothing really mattered, you were going to have to stay with Shanks on the Red Force. Sailing around to nowhere, doing nothing, wasting your life. Your snail had rang a few times but you didn’t answer. You didn’t want to hear Buggy telling you that he told you so, that he was right, that things never worked the way you thought they would with Shanks. You’d talk to him later but you didn’t have it in you right now.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, you heard the door to the cabin open and shut. The bed dipped behind you. You didn’t turn around.

“If you want to go back home, I can make that happen,” Shanks said softly.

“No, it wouldn’t work.” You had gone over every scenario in your head, but you hadn’t come up with a way for you to go back permanently. You’d always be vulnerable without Shanks around.

“I’m sorry,” Shanks said while putting his hand on your shoulder. A tear slid down your cheek. Sorry or not, your life was tied to his once more. You didn’t reply. After a few minutes the bed dipped again and Shanks left the cabin. Your eyes blurred with tears now making their way to the pillow below you. 

~~~

A few days later, you still hadn’t left the cabin. You knew you were sulking but you were too sad to care. Shanks came and went, bringing you food and drinks. You didn’t say much to him, and he left you alone for the most part. By the third night, you felt ready to face the world again. Or at least leave the cabin for some fresh air. You left the cabin quietly, trying to make as little noise as possible. You hadn’t spoken to anyone besides Shanks since the news dropped and you didn’t want to hear anyone’s pity or concern. You went to your favorite spot by the bow and watched the ship slice through the choppy waters. You wondered where you were sailing to - not that it really mattered anymore. Lost in thought, you didn’t realize how chilly it was outside, you were rubbing your arms to keep them warm. You felt a warm cloak settle on your shoulders, engulfing you in a familiar scent of pine-sap. You wrapped it around yourself, enjoying the comfort.

“Thanks,” you said to Shanks, who was standing behind you. The two of you stood there, watching the water. Shanks put his arm on the railing and leaned in, bringing the heat of his body closer to you. You didn’t object.

“If you still want to, I’ll divorce you.” Shanks was speaking close to your ear. You leaned your head back on him for emotional and physical support. 

“There’s no point in getting divorced now.” There really wasn’t. You weren’t getting a business license. 

“I didn’t want the month to end this way.”

“I know.” Shanks was a lot of things, but you knew he regarded freedom as the highest priority in life. He wouldn’t have forced your hand intentionally. 

“We don’t have to be together. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything.” You hummed. You hadn’t thought about what you staying would mean for your relationship with Shanks. You’d been too focused on yourself and your loss of identity. You’d enjoyed your recent time with Shanks but it had been tempered by the fact that it felt like a vacation, a break from reality. You didn’t expect for the entire course of your life to change, it just felt like having fun. The two of you stood together silently as the stars began to twinkle in the sky.

“Where are we sailing to?” you asked out of curiosity.

“Back to your island. We’re going to get whatever’s left at your house. It’s the least I can do.” You were surprised - you hadn’t expected to see your place so soon. You were unsure how to feel about seeing your old life but it was thoughtful of Shanks.

“Thank you. I’m not sure what’s there. If you’re worried, your vivre card is here on the ship. I brought it with me.” You had intended to give it back to Shanks at the end of the month, freeing you of the burden. It could be a powerful tool in the wrong hands, especially for an Emperor like Shanks. 

“I wasn’t worried. I saw it already.” 

“Such a snoop,” you said easily. You hadn’t hidden it, it was in one of his desk drawers. “Sorry for yelling at you,” you murmured. You’d felt bad about yelling at him and taking some low shots. 

“It’s ok, I deserved it.” 

“I never slept with Marco.” You knew he was still thinking about it, even after all these days. Shanks had some kind of childhood rivalry with The Phoenix - he loved and loathed the man in equal measure.

“I had completely forgotten,” Shanks said, a bit too quickly. You hummed a laugh.

“Liar.”  You lapsed into comfortable silence together, your head still leaning against his strong body.

“Let’s go back to the cabin, I drew you a bath.” Your eyes opened wide, and you spun around to face him.

“Why didn’t you start with that!? If it gets cold I’m making you reheat the water.” Taking a bath on a ship was an incredibly rare treat, something that you missed dearly from island living. Shanks kissed the top of your head. There could be worse places to be forced to stay, you supposed. 

~~~

The copper tub had been hauled into Shanks’s cabin and filled with luxuriously hot water. You added a few drops of lavender oil and bubble bath in the hope that it would relax you. You hadn’t been sleeping well, only a few hours here and there, so maybe the water would help lull you to sleep. You started taking off your dirty clothes when you realized Shanks was still in the cabin, watching you.

“What? Nothing you haven’t seen before.” 

“No, but something I thought I’d never see again. I’ll go,” Shanks said with a smile. His tenderness must have melted your brain because you hesitated. Normally, you’d sit in the bath alone until the water was ice cold. But maybe it was his sappy words, your exhaustion, or your emotional weakness, but you wanted Shanks to stay with you.

“If you want, you could…join me?” you said shyly. You had been trying to hide your need for Shanks, to protect yourself. But you just wanted - needed - him with you. For familiarity, for comfort, for stability, for affection, for tenderness, for love.

Shanks’s expression showed his mild surprise but he wasn’t one to turn down a good time. 

“Of course,” he said magnanimously. You fought the urge to roll your eyes - you’d walked right into that one. Dropping your towel, you dipped your toe into the hot water. Perfect. You gingerly got into the water, sighing happily as you submerged your body. Shanks wasn’t far behind you, getting in with less caution, causing some of the water to spill out. He sat in the far back of the tub, settling you between his legs.

“Oi, watch it. Or you’ll have to clean it up,” you said mildly. You leaned back against his muscled chest, eyes closed, arms drifting in the scented water. 

“Do you want some?” Shanks asked, causing you to open your eyes. He was offering you some sake in a small ochoko.

“Sure, why not. You must be feeling really guilty.” 

“Mmm, I am. I’m hoping between the bath and washing your hair, you’ll forgive me.” You snorted and accepted the porcelain cup.

“What do you mean ‘washing my hair?’ You don’t know anything about hair care. And how did you know I’d invite you to join?” 

“Benn and Yasopp taught me. And as you know, hope springs eternal.” You smiled, Shanks had always been good at anticipating your needs. He grabbed some bottles from the floor and handed them to you. He slowly poured water over your scalp using a small bowl, and asked for some shampoo. After you squirted it in his hand, he started massaging your scalp. You couldn’t help it - you moaned. You’d always loved having your scalp massaged and hair played with, and after a hard few days it felt like heaven. It must have been difficult to maneuver with one hand, but you appreciated his effort. 

You could feel Shanks getting hard behind you, and you were feeling a little turned on yourself. You “accidentally” rubbed your ass against him while shifting in the tub. 

“I thought you wanted to relax,” Shanks said sensually. He knew what you were after. He continued scratching and massaging your head.

“There are many ways to relax,” you answered, rubbing him again. Shanks dipped his hand in the water to stroke the inside of your thigh. 

“Would you like to try something new to decompress?” You nodded. You had an inkling of what Shanks was thinking and you were interested. Shanks picked you up in the water and angled you so his cock was nudging your opening. He started creeping upwards while pushing you down onto his length. You moved your legs so you’d be able to stay in place and take what Shanks was giving you. You groaned as Shanks bottomed out within you, stretching you over his cock. No matter how many times you took him, his girth was always something you needed to get used to. You got ready to ride him, but Shanks merely picked up the bowl he had been using before and started to rinse your hair. Oh.

“It can be difficult to unwind after bad news, but I’m here to help. Tilt your head back.” You did as he asked and Shanks rinsed the shampoo carefully, avoiding your eyes. He was incredibly hard within you but wasn’t acting like he was affected. You were aching, filled to the brim but unwilling to break the little game the two of you had going. Shanks’s deliberate attention to your hair along with his disregard of your pussy was increasing your desire, quickly. He was saying something but you weren’t listening, just focusing on the hard length of him in your throbbing cunt.

“I need some conditioner, please,” Shanks said, kissing your cheek. It broke you out of your trance, remembering the bottles in your hands. His leaning forward moved his cock within you, causing you to shift as well. 

“S-sure, here.” You squirted some into Shanks’s open palm, hoping he’d move again.

“So distracted while I work hard for you.” Shanks coated your strands with conditioner and piled your hair on top of your head. “Now we need to wait for ten to fifteen minutes. It’s really more of a mask. I’m sure we can find something to fill our time,” Shanks said, lazily rubbing your shoulder. He handed you another drink, which you took. You poured it into your mouth, then reached behind you, turning your face to the side. You pulled his face to yours and kissed him, allowing the drink to flow between your mouths. Shanks groaned, and his hand started to wander down to your breasts, taking his time in rubbing some of the soapy bubbles onto you. 

“Maybe I should wash your whole body,” Shanks rasped.

“M-maybe another time,” you said with a shudder. You wanted his hand to keep roving and make its way down but were enjoying the tease. He walked his fingers across your collarbones, causing you to lean your head over to grant him more access. He used it to kiss up your neck, bringing his hand down to your stomach, pulling you back into him. You started faintly panting with the movement.

“Mmm, so sensitive. Am I that good of a masseuse?” he said while trailing his hands to the apex of your thighs. You parted them, hoping he’d continue his journey. He was still kissing your neck, making small love bites into your skin. It’d leave marks for tomorrow, but what was the difference? The whole world knew you were married, might as well look like it. Shanks took mercy on you and gently rubbed the pads of his first two fingers right above your clit. It gave you some stimulation but not enough. You arched into his hand, seeking more.

“Oh please Shanks, please,” you whined at him, spreading your legs further. 

“How could I say no to such a polite request?” Shanks rubbed his fingers around your clit, circling it, continuing to tease you. You were panting in earnest now, feeling hazy between the water of the bath, the warm chest behind you, the sake in your system and the orgasm starting to build between your legs. You felt your legs starting to shake on top of Shanks’s strong thighs, he was stroking you quickly. After so many times together, Shanks had a wealth of knowledge on how to get you to come, at any pace he so chose. You could feel yourself pulsing on his still hard cock and hungered for more.

“C-can I - can you -” Shanks kissed the back of your neck and laughed lightly. 

“I know what you want, baby,” Shanks rumbled. “I’ll get you there.” He pushed you forward so you were leaning against the rim of the tub. With a strong thrust he surged forward, pressing himself even deeper within you. You’d already been close but the added movement had you tightening against him. He kept his hand nestled between your thighs, his attention causing the water to ripple with every movement. Shanks moved his hips in a measured rhythm, sloshing the water out of the tub. You moaned louder, pushing back against him. Finally, he set a faster pace, both with his hand and his cock, tightening the coil of pleasure you felt. Shanks leaned forward and bit where your neck met you shoulder and the coil finally snapped. You felt time slow as Shanks bucked within you, stretching out the intoxicating feeling. He was going for his own release, pumping hard within you. As you rode out your orgasm, you as he went tense and pulsed within you. You sagged against the tub as he finished his high.

“Shanks, I can’t - enough, please,” you mewled at him, almost reaching overstimulation. He removed his hand from between your legs and sat down once again. He pulled you back into his lap. You wanted to fall asleep immediately, water or not.

“Perfect timing, we can wash the mask off now.” You were enjoying the afterglow, and didn’t remark on his comment. Shanks washed your hair delicately and brushed it afterwards while you dozed off. When he was done, he got out of the bath and got a towel for the two of you, humming to himself. He wrapped you up and carried you to the bed, drying you off quickly. You got under the covers, warm, pampered, tired, and feeling a little better. You reached up and touched your hair - it did feel remarkably soft. He’d done a good job.

“Thank you, Shanks. That was really nice. Could get used to it.” 

“I hope you do.” He climbed into the bed next to you, pulled your back to his chest. Your life might be in shambles, but at least you had someone who cared. 

[maahtigor]

Okay. First of all.

WOAH THAT'S A LOT OF PEOPLE.

I did NOT expect 74 people to vote in the poll 😭🙏🙏🙏 (what the hell, where the fuck did y'all come from?????)

Second of all,,

TIME TO TALK ABOUT THESE FUCKERS 😈🔥🔥🔥🔥‼️💯

Just to state it here before I start yapping my ever living soul out, Shiver is an eastern tall-man, Frye is a beast-man (like Izutsumi) and Big Man is a kobold. I can get a bit more into their designs and headcanons in another post, but today I want to focus on the lore.

It allllllll roots back to Shiver and Frye's fathers, who were friends since lord knows when. They were a team of burglars, looters, thieves, whatever you may call them, but in the end of the day just let it be clear that they were BAD. And they engaged in BAD shit, like looting corpses in dungeons and stealing from people's houses.

One day, they hit a huge one, they got into the house of this really rich dude that turned out to traffic beast men and other illegal creatures. And the rich being rich and caring about their richness, the security was top notch, and let's just say they struggled to get out of the place alive. BUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! They left in NO WAY empty handed.

While looting the place, Frye's father found a kobold cub, chained up inside a cage in the corner beside other creatures likely being sold illegally. He brought the cub with him, and after almost getting their asses turned into kebabs by traps everywhere, the two companions were like "holy FUCK i ain't ever ever ever doing this shit again man.,.,. Wgart the ehll,,,,,, I'm getting too old for this, hell naw!!!!!!!" and decided to settle down as (this time legal) and functioning members of society. Shiver's father opened a dojo, while Frye's father opened a restaurant.

However, the rich guy who owned the house was PISSED (and also happened to be a black magic user......... woah how unlucky of them) and as revenge for stealing his wealth and freeing their beast men, cursed Frye's expecting father, mending the soul of his firstborn with the soul of a monster. And alas, that's how the critter was born😋🙏🔥💯😭

So yeah!!!!!!! Frye is a beast man just like Izutsumi is a beast man. They're the same typa monster, pretty much, except that Frye is a leopard instead of a housecat.

Anyway, back to the kobold pup; you guessed it, BIG MAN (or Big Dog?), being raised in the Onaga's restaurant, was always raised around the kitchen, both because he was genuinely interested in watching people cook and because he hoped to get food that fell from the floor lmfao-- as years went by, he started working as a server, apprentice, and eventually assistant chef of the family-ran restaurant. (So yeah, Biggie is the party's chef!!!!!!!!!!!!!! He also has an incredible sense of smell when it comes to cooking btw, both because of genuine talent and because of his race).

Ironic to his early years as a burglar, Shiver's dad grew to become quite the overprotective father once his daughter started growing up, wanting her to do anything but follow his steps and become a criminal before the age of 20. That backfired though, because she started running off to hang out with Frye causing all sorts of trouble (and eventually dragged Big Dog into it all too). The three were raised almost like siblings, and later on joined together as a party and continued to cause all sorts of troubles inside dungeons, where they eventually bumped into the other idols and started this whoooole story years later.

(They weren't all like their fathers though, instead of keeping the money they got from dungeons to themselves they gave it to the poor, much like their canon bandit dynamics.)

Anyway, that's the end of the yapping session, I hope y'all enjoyed (and if you did, please enjoy this page I doodled while blasting ToyBox in my headphones 🦄🙏 perhaps I'll outline and color this one day, but not now because it's 1:30 in the morning while I'm typing this out.)

[mattness]

useful things

Summary: Who knew that in the basements of abandoned houses there are such interesting and very useful things?

Characters: Sylvia Amarië/Astarion Ancunin

Genres: PWP, Humor, Romantic, Fluff

18+

Sorry for stupid mistakes in my translation, but anyway... Have fun reading!

There is full of abandoned basements and long-looted houses in Rivington. But despite this, they still managed to find precious stones or things that could be sold to local merchants. Money and good equipment were sorely lacking. However, she didn't really care about gold when she came across a good book on magic or other useful things among the old dusty junk.

In another basement of an abandoned house, where they had climbed under the pretext of helping some fool find an old magic lamp where gin was supposedly sitting, Sylvia was carefully examining a bookshelf. The shelves were covered with a thick layer of dust. Thin strands of cobwebs stretched from one book to another. Some of the spines have faded paint. Running her finger over them, Sylvia suddenly stopped at a book in a velvet burgundy cover with no title. Curiosity was immediately aroused. She opened the book. The pages have long faded and turned yellow. The ink is worn in places, but, in general, the text can be read. The elf's pointed ears instantly turned red. There was a blush on her cheeks. Scrolling to the very beginning, she was surprised when she saw the title, but she didn't really have time to read anything in more detail, hearing Shadowheart's voice.

“Did you find something?”

“No”, Sylvia said, slamming the book shut. A pile of dust hit her right in the face, unpleasantly tickling her nose. “Nothing special, some junk”, she muttered, sneezing loudly the next minute.

“God bless you, sweetheart”, Astarion's voice rang out from the other end of the basement. “I don't understand why the hell we have to rummage around here. That idiot probably lied to us about the lamp. Because if I were crooks and scoundrels, I would have stolen this lamp and sold it long ago. Before that, of course, using all the desires.”

“Well, he said that no one robbed the house. Only the ghosts came from somewhere”, added Gale, who was rummaging through a shelf with flasks and bottles.

While they chatted casually among themselves, Sylvia carefully stuffed the old book into her backpack, hoping that no one would notice and discover the strange find later. After a little theft, it became an impossible task to focus on finding the gin lamp. Her thoughts kept returning to the book in her backpack, waiting for Sylvia's curious nose to poke into it again. Fortunately, Shadowheart found the lamp, noticing it in a pile of junk next to a bookshelf. However, it turned out to be the same pile of junk, and no genie appeared in front of them when Astarion rubbed the edge of the rusty metal.

They returned the lamp to the unfortunate old man and received the desired money, after which they went to the camp. Dusk fell on the outskirts of the Lower City. A cool wind was blowing from the sea. Sylvia quickly retreated to her tent. There was plenty of time before dinner, so she couldn't wait to get back to the stolen book.

«Notes on pleasures and other love tips for the inhabitants of Faerûn» — that's what the book was called. Sylvia, who knew quite a bit about these very pleasures due to the lack of normal experience, flipped through the pages with the curiosity of a child and felt her cheeks blush every now and then. The author described in detail various caresses and ways how you can give pleasure not only to yourself, but also to your partner. She was reading excitedly, already wanting to check out some things on Astarion, but suddenly her purple eyes caught on a paragraph almost in the middle of the book. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. Cheeks instantly flushed, and the question arose in her head: "Is it possible?", and then another one: "Why didn't I figure it out earlier?"

She hunched over, buried her nose in the book, trying to absorb all the details and remember exactly what to do and how to do it. Without teeth, so as not to cause discomfort. Take your time to prolong the pleasure. Do not forget about the control. Control? Sylvia was embarrassed. It was hardly possible to think of any control in such a situation... If just the thought of it caused such a violent reaction now, then it's scary to imagine what it would be like for her directly in action.

“Are you going to eat?” Jaheira's voice rang out next to the tent.

“Yeah, yeah, now”, Sylvia muttered, but the book had to be immediately slammed shut and hidden under the pillow, because the tent flap opened. Jaheira looked at her reproachfully. “What?”

“Not "yeah, yeah, now," but now. Although we don't know each other very well, I've already thoroughly studied your habit of ignoring meals because of reading books.”

“Mo-om”, Sylvia drawled sarcastically, which made Jaheira snort. “I'm coming.”

Near the campfire where everyone was gathered, she sat down next to Astarion. They exchanged playful glances, and Sylvia poked him lightly on the shoulder. With a grin, he handed her the bowl of soup that Shadowheart had made.

As usual, the conversation was about anything but their most important problem — the tadpole in their heads and the fight against the Absolute. In the evenings, when their strength was running out, they all wanted to relax and not think about the worries that the coming day would bring.

After dinner, Sylvia clung to Astarion's palms and followed him as he led her to his tent. The only thing that bothered her was Gale's tent nearby. As if there wasn't enough free space. She smiled stupidly at the wizard, who noticed them, but didn't react in any way, and sat down on the pillows while Astarion methodically lit candles on a small table. They chatted casually for a couple of hours before bedtime, sometimes interrupting for gentle glances and touches. And with each gentle kiss, she was more and more impatient to come to him at night to conduct a little experiment. However, her stupid shyness didn't allow her to even hint at what dirty thoughts were on her mind.

Just as Sylvia was about to leave, she turned around and tilted her head to one side when Astarion, lounging impressively on the pillows, asked:

“Will I come to you tonight, Sisi?”

“Sure.” She nodded, and then added softly, “Are you hungry?”

“Madly.”

Sylvia, grinning, silently went to her tent.

Desire was slowly but surely creeping up. It inflamed her from the inside, and the book only enhanced the effect. In the tent, she plopped down on a bedroll, enthusiastically reading on and learning more and more details. Biting her lips, Sylvia wondered how it would go, would she ruin their evening with her inept attempts to diversify their leisure time, or would it be one of the best nights?.. Some excitement mixed with anticipation gripped her mind. Waiting only spoils everything. Thoughts were confused in her head, and vulgar images made her squeeze her knees together. At one point, she was ready to lean out of the tent and loudly call Astarion to her. Fortunately, he had already looked in, smiling slyly.

Noticing the book in her hands, he got closer and asked:

“What are you reading?”

Biting her lower lip, she held out the book. Astarion's curious gaze immediately began to study the text. After a moment, a sly grin appeared on his face. Ruby eyes twinkled slyly.

“You're a little mischief, Sisi”, he whispered hoarsely and ran his finger along her chin. Sylvia blushed. “Where did you get this?”

“In that old man's house.”

Astarion raised his eyebrows in surprise. He flipped through a few pages and read it again. Sylvia rested her chin on his shoulder.

“You're not only a mischief, but you're also a bad girl”, he added after a minute, and embarrassed laughter filled the silence. “Who did you get all this from? Hm?”

“I have no idea”, she smiled playfully. Taking the book out of his hands, Sylvia flipped to the right page and timidly admitted, “I want to try this.” Astarion, seeing only one name, chuckled. He doesn't need to read the descriptions and other details. Perhaps this book has nothing to offer him at all. He's too knowledgeable.

Sylvia put down the book, and Astarion stared at her for a long time.

“And how strong is your desire to try?”

After a moment's hesitation, she bent down and gently touched her lips to his neck, where the scar from the bite was. The hot tongue left a wet mark on the skin near the earlobe. Astarion laughed at the slight tickle.

“I really want to make you feel good”, her breath burned his ear. Her fingers gently slid down his neck to the collar of his shirt. Astarion looked into violet eyes full of desire and mischievous curiosity. “Of course, I have no experience at all, but I really want to try everything new with you.”

“How badly I influence you, darling”, Astarion grinned and kissed her on the lips. Sylvia mumbled languidly in response. “But who am I to stop you?”

The next wet kiss almost drove them crazy. Sylvia settled confidently on his hips, feeling how his cold palms immediately got under the fabric of her thin shirt. Goosebumps slid up her back to her neck. She exhaled into Astarion's lips, who pulled her closer to him, placing his palm possessively on her ass.

Without further ado, they leisurely stripped each other of their clothes. With each kiss and touch, Sylvia became more confident. Desire overwhelmed her. And tonight she completely took the initiative into her own hands, and Astarion obediently gave in and patiently waited for what she would do next.

Gently pushing him in the shoulders, she forced him to lie down on the pillows, and she began to make a path of kisses from his chin to his stomach. Methodically and enthusiastically. She enjoyed every inch of his cold, pale skin. The relief of the muscles made her head spin, and a knot tightened in the lower abdomen, requiring discharge. But Sylvia tried to remember what was written in the book, and enthusiastically continued to caress first Astarion's chest, and then his stomach.

His breathing became ragged and hoarse. Soft moans softly touched her ears. Sylvia circled his navel with her tongue and finally began to descend lower until she came across the fabric of his pants.

The besotted gaze of the purple eyes met his playful one.

Astarion, propping himself up on his elbows, watched with special delight as her deft fingers pulled his pants down along with his underpants. She did it carefully, taking her time. Her hands were shaking a little, just like on their very first night. Her excitement didn't allow her to act decisively. Sylvia tossed his pants and underpants aside and suddenly smiled shyly at him. At the last moment, she hesitated, not knowing how to begin.

“You don't have to do this if you don't want to, Sisi”, Astarion said gently, seeing her hesitation. “We can—”

“No. I want to”, she ran her hands over his hips, “just... a little shy.”

He lay back down on the pillows with his hands behind his head.

“Do not rush. You have the whole night before dawn. Maybe your shyness will pass”, he grinned teasingly, and Sylvia, wrinkling her nose, poked him in the side with her finger. “Ouch!”

The look of ruby eyes crossed with violet ones, in which truly devilish sparks danced. Astarion couldn't help but chuckle, and then bit his lower lip as she bent down again and began to cover his lower abdomen with kisses. Sylvia tried to push away all her embarrassment and excitement. Lines from the book popped into her head. Need to be braver. It must be remembered that Astarion will definitely like it. So she pulled back a little, took his aroused flesh in her hand and ran her palm along it a couple of times. In response, there was a languid moan, spurring to more confident caresses.

Sylvia's ears and cheeks were burning with excitement. She ran her tongue along the trunk, feeling how this minor action excited her more, and made Astarion exhale. Another groan rang out throughout the tent. Sylvia took his cock in her mouth and slowly began to move. Finally, the embarrassment receded, and there was nothing left but a burning desire to bring him to intoxicating ecstasy.

Sylvia pulled back to catch her breath. She looked at him blearily and smiled seductively, licking her lips. His chest was heaving heavily. His face was filled with languor, and his eyes shone with bliss. Astarion smiled at her, whispering:

“Don't worry, Sisi, I love it.”

Sylvia bent down, ran her tongue over the head and took the penis back into her mouth, acting more confidently, accelerating. Her fingers gripped his thigh. Everything was burning between her legs, and she wanted to be in a different position as soon as possible. To feel him inside. But she reminded herself with every friction that she needed to please him.

Suddenly, Astarion's soft, confused whisper began to reach her pointy ears. Her name was repeated over and over again, like a mantra. The moans grew louder and longer. His fingers dug into her golden curls, which tickled his hips slightly with every movement.

Instantly, the world around him ceased to exist. She concentrated on the rhythm, which she set herself, closing her eyes. Her heart was pounding loudly in her chest. Astarion's moans, like the most beautiful music in the world, caressed her ears. The knot in her lower abdomen tightened, demanding immediate release, but she tried to ignore her own desire until the last moment.

“Sisi, my sweet...” he whispered haltingly, and pressed his palm a little harder on the back of the elf's head, gathering her golden hair into a fist. “Yes... That's so good...”

Another moan, full of pleasure, escaped from his lips, and it seemed to be heard far beyond the tent. However, the pleasure is so great that Astarion didn't care at all if anyone else would hear them. Pleasant cramps passed through his muscles, causing the body to tremble as Sylvia accelerated. The highest point of ecstasy was inexorably approaching.

“Baby, wait”, Astarion breathed, and Sylvia somehow forced herself to pull away. Her cheeks were flushed, as were her ears, and her lips were seductively shiny. Her gaze is wild, besotted. Just the sight of her right now could drive him crazy. Astarion found the strength and sat down to pull her to him by the neck, biting into her lips with a passionate kiss. It was strange to feel his own taste, but Astarion didn't disdain. He only moaned again when he felt her palm on his cock throbbing with excitement. A few more movements brought him to orgasm. Astarion shuddered as he came. His sweet moan filled the entire tent. His heart skipped a beat.

Sylvia pulled back and looked into his eyes, full of true pleasure.

“Well, did I manage?” she asked slyly in a whisper. She wiped her hand, stained with his seed, on the blanket. Astarion took a deep breath with a blissful groan and smiled.

“It's not bad for the first time, darling”, he pronounced the verdict, as if he were a judge in a tournament, and pulled her to him, sitting her on his hips, which were still trembling a little from the pleasure he received. Sylvia ran her hands over his shoulders, which were covered with beads of sweat. “But practice doesn't hurt.”

She laughed softly.

“You're burning up”, Astarion whispered. His hand slid down her back and slowly moved to her stomach. Sylvia bit her lower lip and pressed her forehead against his. Another timid groan rang through the tent. Astarion's fingers shamelessly slid between her legs, starting to caress her clitoris. “Do you want me, Sisi?”

“Yeah”, she breathed languidly, “badly.”

The next moment, she was on the blanket, pinned down by the weight of Astarion's body, who didn't think to stop for a second. His persistent caresses and kisses made her heart beat faster, and moans burst from her lips again and again. Sylvia lost herself in an overwhelming languor, and she could have sworn that she had never experienced anything better before.

It got hot. Her breath was coming in short gasps. Her cheeks were burning again. A slight tremor ran through her entire body as Astarion showered her lower abdomen and spread her legs wider, digging his nails into the skin of her thighs. He wasn't going to leave her without a reward for such zeal. A hot tongue slid between Sylvia's wet labia, and she shuddered again, moaning.

It didn't take much effort to bring her to orgasm. Astarion watched with special delight as she arched and moaned loudly, for once not shy about being heard. Then, breathing heavily, she relaxed and met his gaze with red, full of passion, eyes.

To top it off, Astarion showered with kisses on the inside of her thighs and only then hovered over her, biting into her swollen lips. Sylvia groaned again. Hands settled on his back, gently stroking the scarred skin.

“I hope you will continue to read this book”, Astarion smiled maliciously, touching her nose with his in a chaste kiss. Sylvia giggled softly. “I really love your eagerness to experiment.”

“I'm ready to explore everything inside and out, just to please you”, she whispered and stroked his chest with her palm.

“You're just precious thing. Well, did you catch your breath?” he asked slyly, and Sylvia raised her eyebrows in surprise. The next moment, another groan filled the tent. The elf smiled languidly. A hot whisper burned her ear: “I suggest we do without experiments now and repeat the old-fashioned way.”

Of course, she didn't refuse and with great pleasure responded to a new passionate kiss, while the book, which had been found completely by accident, lay somewhere at their feet and waited in the wings. Who knew that in the basements of abandoned houses there are such interesting and very useful things.