#my first red dead reblog as I begin to play this game into full completion

[postmodernmulticoloredcloak]

I would love for you to talk more indepth about the montage. To me it feels so off and weird. Almost like a parody? So many scenes in it are "funny" moments that just don't make sense in the context of an emotional overview of the road so far... (Like all the scenes where Dean is eating, Donna with donut dust on her face, Sam getting hit during the game show.) I don't know. Isn't the montage supposed to make me nostalgic, teary-eyed? This one definitely doesn't do it for me!

Here I am! Yes, I absolutely agree. The montage is Weird(TM). It’s kind of a tone rollercoaster. It’s very full of funny/silly moments, with some serious moments smacked in. And it definitely looks like... there’s something about it.

For an easier consultation I will reference the gifs I have made of the montage sequence here.

[Gif 1] It starts pretty much like I’d expect a Supernatural goodbye montage to start. The two brothers meeting for the first time in the pilot, a reminder of their childhood with John, their banter still from the pilot, a couple moments of them driving in the car in the first seasons, Dean saving Lucas in 1x03 which is the first Dean-heavy episode and also an extremely symbolic moment for Dean’s entire journey - just think at how Lucas as a mirror was still relevent during the “drowning” Michael possession arc. Everything feels normal so far. We’re starting from the beginning! Now--

[Gif 2] Interesting and weird choices start here. Them pretending to be high school teachers from After School Special 4x13 - actually a very iconic moment for the fandom, remember that post of Dean in shorts from that episode that you had to reblog when it came on your dash? (Actually I’m not sure if I ever reblogged it lol.) Dean celebrating getting young again from The Curious Case of Dean Winchester 5x07 (and Jensen showing off his agility). The two of them showing their FBI badges to Jesse Turner’s biological mother in 5x06. Dean mowing the lawn of Mary’s house in the Djinn dream and immediately after Jess and Sam kissing also in the Djinn dream, from What Is And What Should Never Be 2x20. Then Dean after killing the witch when he was under the memory loss spell, in Regarding Dean 12x11. Sam happy when they celebrate Christmas in A Very Supernatural Christmas 3x08. Them being “lucky” under the effect of the rabbit’s foot in Bad Day At Black Rock 3x03. Sam also happy in Baby 11x04.

Again the present, then the montage starts again with the water-related ghost from Red Sky At Morning 3x06, a Bela episode, and then Bela herself from her first episode, 3x03 again.

What do these moments have in common? Not all of them, but for many of them I’d say reality being manipulated. The Djinn dream, the rabbit foot, Dean’s aging, the Antichrist... and it’s not over yet. Also, them pretending to be teachers, agents etc - not “real”.

[Gif 3] The tone suddenly gets more serious and relevant to current events: Chuck in The Monster at the End of This Book 4x18 (eh). Death in Two Minutes to Midnight 5x21 (the first appearance of Death, while now we’ve had Billie’s last and a very short-lived new one), and then two major moments from Lazarus Rising - Dean emerging from the grave and finding the handprint on his shoulder. Crowley’s first episode, Abandon All Hope 5x10. Zachariah’s death in Point Of No Return 5x18. Anna from The Song Remains The Same 5x13, where she is the antagonist having been brainwashed successfully by heaven. Michael burning and Sam jumping in the cage with Michael in 5x22, then another moment from 4x01 (the brothers hugging after reuniting). A moment from The French Mistake 6x15 (reality fuckery again!). Sam in Frontierland 6x18.

[Gif 4] Reality fuckery continues with Becky marrying Sam in 7x08. Funnily enough, this is the peak of Becky’s obsessive behavior which she went to therapy for and grew away of - it definitely emphasizes how far Becky has come. Donna’s first appeance in 9x13. That iconic shot of Dean in Bloodlust 2x03 because he’s pretty. Charlie’s first appearance in 7x20 while she dances to Walking On Sunshine (relevant?), Kevin’s first appearance in 7x21 when he becomes a prophet (lots of firsts). Abaddon’s first appearance in As Time Goes By 8x12. Then there’s the first appearance of the bunker, in the next episode, a couple shots in fact. Then more 4x01, Ruby pretending to mistake Dean for the pizza man (eh). Then more present...

This section seems to be mostly “first appearances” - including Ruby’s s4 meatsuit, i.e. Genevieve’s first appearance.

[Gif 5] We suddenly jump to more recent events with Kelly and Jack in heaven in Byzanthium 4x08. Jack’s iconic hello from 4x16 Don’t Go In The Woods. Dean teaching Jack how to drive in 14x07 Unhuman Nature. But then we suddenly go from Jack things to something completely different on the surface: two consecutive moments from Changing Channels 5x08, including the iconic Nutcracker scene, and Sully from Just My Imagination. We are actually back to the previous theme: reality fuckery. Gabriel’s episode was about placing them in “television shows”, Sully, while real, is literally a child’s “imaginary friend”. And then... a moment from the cartoon part of Scoobynatural! It doesn’t get more reality fuckery than that. Oh, wait! Charlie and Dorothy going to Oz in 9x04. That’s a pretty strong contender. Dean being hit in the face by a fairy in 6x09 - also about a realm Dean briefly went to. And, in case we felt like we hadn’t gotten enough 4x01 yet, Pamela’s first appearance (her last, albeit a hallucination, was about the whole “How come you only want what you can't have?” thing).

[Gif 6] We continue again with a mixture of firsts and weird things. Ellen’s first appearance in 2x02, Dean and Cas in 4x18 (we saw Chuck from that episode earlier), Jody’s first appearance in 5x15 Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid. Rufus in 6x04 Weekend At Bobby’s (not his first but a good episode...), Garth in 9x12 Sharp Teeth (not his first but the first in which he is a werewolf and is married... relevant to recent lamp events??), Missouri in 1x09 (her first appearance).

Then Gabriel from 13x21 Beat The Devil (an episode where he plays a trick on Lucifer) and Rowena from the same scene (in fact a scene where they’re flirting).  Then Eileen coming back to life in 15x06 and smiling at Sam. Jo flirting with Dean in 2x02 - her first appearance, again. Funnily enough, she had been introduced as a love interest, but ended up being repurposed as a sisterly figure. Tempted to say it’s relevant in an ironic way. Mary in 14x11 Damaged Goods, when Dean has a goodbye mother-son moment with her. Amara in 11x09 Oh Brother Where Art Thou when she was looking for her brother. Then Lucifer in two different vessels (12x07 Rock Never Dies and 12x21, when Lucifer regains control over the vessel).

Then Metatron doing the find a wife make babies speech to Cas in 8x23! Relevant??? Dun dun dun. Then Ketch for some reason (the first episode where we see his face, 12x08 LOTUS).

[Gif 7] Then Jo/Anael in 13x13, another first appearance. (I cropped these horribly I should have cut them when the present happens lol.)

Sandwiched between two shots from the present, Dean Sam Mary and John having dinner together in 14x13 Lebanon.

Then we start again with Dean riding Larry in 12x11, Dean and Cas dressed as cowboys in 13x06 (mini pattern here...), Asmodeus with the archangel blade in 13x13 (insert meta about Asmodeus in Christian lore here), and the really intriguing “Intermission” shot from the play in 10x05.

[Gif 8] To continue a certain pattern we might be tempted to see, Dean eating piecake from 14x06 Optimism (an episode about a distorted version of romantic love), then Dean eating noodles from 10x13 Halt & Catch Fire (the ghost is a husband that passes on thanks to his wife). Dean after his dentistry session with Garth in 15x10. Meg from 6x10 Caged Heat (the episode with the pizza man porn). Dean and Sam investigating in 4x12 Criss Angel Is a Douchebag (an episode about growing old poorly). Crowley in 10x16 Paint It Black (that episode). Dean playing that game in 14x17 Game Night (the episode Cas calls for God, and when Mary dies - the one playing the game was God...). Sam and Dean getting out of the car in 13x05 when they visit the traumatized kid (peak mourning Dean episode...). Then we go into reality fuckery territory again with 14x15 Peace of Mind, Sam under the psychic’s control and Cas disgruntled about it.

[Gif 9] Mick Davies from 12x16 Ladies Drink Free, when he learnt a lesson about monsters. Dean geeking out about the Hatchet Man - so heavy with mirror significances - in 14x04 Mint Condition. Belphegor - Jack’s dark mirror - in 15x03 The Rupture, the break-up episode. Donna’s first episode again, this time Dean and she eating donuts. Dean, Sam and Mary hugging in 12x22 after the confrontation in Mary’s head. Kaia in 13x09 The Bad Place, when Jack uses her to find the way to where Mary is (Mary pattern?). Claire&co rescuing Jody and Donna in 13x10 Wayward Sisters. Dean in 1944 dresses as a sailor in 11x14 The Vessel. Baby nyooming in 15x11 The Gamblers...

Aaand more Changing Channels, the genital herpes ad. It’s almost like reality fuckery is a theme. Followed by Sam drinking the anti-cold concoction at Garth’s in 15x10 and the two of them outside the monster fighting pit in the same episode. Then Cas, Dean, Sam and Jack on a video call with Ketch in 14x09 The Spear when they talk about the egg to trap Michael.

[Gif 10] We stay in the same episode with the four of them heading to Michael. Then the four of them celebrating Jack’s return to life (after Cas’ deal with the Empty). More present, and then the iconic “we’ve got work to do” [trunk closes] moment from the pilot.

So: some of these moments seem like genuine moments you’ll want to put in a montage, but there’s a weird predominance of characters smiling and looking happy or goofy. It’s kind of... not exactly representative of the show as a whole, you know? There are moments that fit as, you know, iconic steps in the story, but surprisingly few, and many moments you’d expect to be in a “final” montage are blatantly not there. Several moments with, let’s put it like this, suspicious meta connotations. Moments that, well, we don’t know what happens in the finale yet, but smell like they might be relevant to future developments. (Metatron’s speech to newly human Cas anyone?)

What really strikes me is the amount of moments connected to reality being manipulated or distorted in some way. Lots of Changing Channels, fantasy elements of various kinds (the Djinn dream, Scoobynatural, Oz, the imaginary friend Becky’s wedding to Sam, the fairy, ...), them acquiring luck (s3) or losing it (s15), and so on. It’s almost like the sequence is telling us something...

Thoughts?

[niksixx]

Number 73

~The 3rd and F I N A L part. Enjoy!~

Requested: Oh hell yes 

Pairing: Axl Rose x Female Reader 

Description: Sweet sex and revenge, baby. 

Warnings: Smut, language, a twist you may have (or may have not) seen coming. 

A/N: If you like dis, reblog dis :) 

*GIF isn’t mine. It was found on Google, so full credit to the owner!*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rain pours down on your car as you pull up in front of the GNR apartment. Shutting off your car, you clasp the keys in your hand, resting your forehead against the cool steering wheel. You had just come from what was possibly the worst sex of your life. No making out, no foreplay, nothing. Dry and meaningless.

Which is why you couldn’t wait another second to see Axl. He’d know how to make you feel good. He already had before. And plus, it was a beautiful day for some revenge.

You check your phone when it vibrates, grinning at Steven’s message.  

Stevie: Me, Duff, and Iz went out for happy hour. Slash and his wife are visiting her parents. Axl’s home. Remember what I told you. He wants to be friends. Use his words against him. Let us know how it goes! Good luck. Get that dick. ;)

Chuckling, throwing up the hood of your sweatshirt, and remembering to grab your purse, you rush out of the car and up the stairs, careful not to slip as the rain downpours. You knock twice on the door before letting yourself in, as the lock on the door was broken and none of the boys took initiative to get it fixed, and noticed how quiet the apartment was without the boys.

Shuffling down the hall, you stop just before Axl’s door. You try the door knob, knocking a bit loudly as you realize it’s locked and he won’t be able to hear over the sound of the blaring music thumping through his room.

Axl opens the door, bare chest, which is the first thing you see, but you manage to look him dead in the eye after a brief second of gazing at his pale chest. A red bandana is tied around his head, and black jeans hang a bit too low on his hips, giving you the perfect view of the beginning of a V-line.

“Did you come to stare at me or do you have something to say?” His voice has a bit of an edge to it.

“Maybe a little bit of both,” you say, letting yourself into his room. Clothes are thrown into a pile on the ground while CDs cover his bed, and empty water bottles and beer cans litter the windowsill. You crinkle your nose. “Do you ever clean in here?”

“Listen, shithead, I wasn’t expecting company,” he shoots back. Closing the door, he crosses his arms over his chest. “Care to explain why you’re here?”

The first thing to come off is your hoodie. As you have nothing underneath, Axl’s eyes lock on your breasts. He doesn’t do much, but his eyes narrow. “Nice tits. What the hell are you doing, Y/N?”

Tossing your leggings and underwear to the side, you stand, completely exposed, as Axl rakes his eyes down the length of your body. He smirks, but keeps his mouth shut. You saunter forward, tongue darting out to wet your lips, before you wrap an arm around his neck, the other trailing along his chest. “I’m going to give you another chance to blow me away.”

Axl’s voice thickens. “What makes you think I want you?”

“You haven’t kicked me out yet,” you said breathlessly, fingers grazing over his navel. His eyes darken. “And besides, I know what you said to Steven.”

He freezes, and you know you’ve got him. He plays dumb anyway. “I’d like to know what the fuck you’re talking about. I haven’t even seen Steven today. What are you getting at?” He flinches when your palm rubs against his clothed cock. “Fuck,” he whispers, and you bite your lip to hide your smile.

Sinking down to your knees, you work at the button and zipper on his jeans. “Me and you, we’ve always hated each other. It was fun, for a while,” His cock springs free as you release him from his underwear, softly licking the tip. He groans, arms above his head as you tease his length with your lips. “We’re too old for these games, Axl. I know it, and you know it. Steven told me what you said to him, about us,” Your lips close around him, sucking his cockhead before taking half of him into your mouth.

“Steven...needs to keep his...fuck...mouth shut.”

Removing your mouth, your hand wraps around his cock, squeezing the base. “Being friends? It’s going to take a lot of work. And you're right, we should at least try. But right now, we need each other. Badly.” Axl whines when you pull away from him and stand, inches away from his face. “Fuck me like you hate me, Axl Rose. One more time.”

~~~

The CDs were flung from the bed as you and Axl wrestled in the sheets. You gave into him, letting him pin you to the bed, moaning as his lips work your neck, your throat, your chest. Your hand dips between your thighs, lightly brushing over your clit. You were already wet for him, needy and panting under his touch. Your body responded to him like no other.

His tongue flicks over your nipples and you arch your back, pressing the hardened peaks further into his mouth. Axl’s hands find your hips and push you down in the bed, fingertips digging into your sides.

You cry out when he bites them gently, shockwaves of pleasure flying straight to your aching core. The good thing about Axl? He’ll take his time loving on your body. He’s an arrogant prick, but he knows his way around a woman’s body. A woman's pleasure is his own.

His tongue flattens against your chest, licking down the center, around your belly button, before his head dips between your legs. Your heart pounds against your ribcage when Axl’s tongue dips between your folds, and you instinctively cover your mouth with your forearm.

“Don’t fucking do that,” he spits, eyes blazing as his hands grip your thighs. “Move your arms to the side. I want to hear you.”

He owns your body. Right now, he controls you, and there’s nothing you love more. Unbeknownst to Axl, you have the upper hand. You’ll win in the end.

You obey his command, soft cries coming off your lips as he buries his face in your pussy, tongue assaulting your hot, wet flesh. Your hips buck upward with every lick of his tongue, and when his tongue delivers quick flicks to your clit, you damn near lose your mind.

“Let me come on your tongue,” you pant out, fists tangling in his long red hair. “Please, Axl, I’m so close.”

“Fuck that,” he groans, sitting back before situating himself at your entrance. He taps the head of his dick on your clit, and you squirm. The ache inside you is delicious, and you’re so close to getting what you want. “If you’re going to come, it’s going to be on my fucking cock.”

And he surges forward, not even giving you a moment to adjust, before his hips buck forward, dick sliding effortlessly in and out of your juicy core. Your legs hang lazily around his waist as he fucks you. Axl’s hands come up to cup your tits, thumbs rubbing over the pink nubs.

“So much for not wanting the same dick twice,” he teases, releasing your tits. He bends down to your face, quickly hiking your legs up further, before forcing his tongue in your mouth. Your hands grip the back of his neck, moaning against his lips. “Dirty little slut just couldn’t fucking resist.”

“You’re fucking me again after you said you wouldn’t,” you moan out, nails digging into his back. He hisses as your nails break the skin. “What’s that say about you?”

Axl draws his cock out of you slowly, slamming back in, claiming you. His teeth nip your cheeks, your chin, before sinking into the skin above your collarbone. Your senses are in overdrive, trying to focus on the shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your body.

You’re so close. So close to release. So close to your sweet revenge.

Axl’s fingers find your clit, rubbing harshly as his cock slams into you, never stopping. You squeeze your eyes shut, letting out a gasp when the pit in your stomach explodes. You writhe in place, legs quivering, gripping Axl’s forearms as he curses through his teeth, filling you to the brim. He holds himself over top of you, emptying his load in your pussy, before he collapses on the space beside you, both of you gasping for air.

And then you feel his eyes on you. You turn to look, and there’s something soft shining in his deep gray eyes. The faintest hint of a smile ghosts his lips, but you don’t return it. Instead, you smirk.

“Are you hungry? Do you want to order a pizza?” He asks, leaning back on his elbows. You snicker to yourself, sliding off the bed to retrieve your leggings. “No.”

He frowns. “Okay. Thai then?”

You fix your clothes, smoothing out your hoodie. “No.”

“Alright, fine. How about Mexican? There’s this restaurant right down the street--.”

“I’m leaving,” you say simply, biting your tongue as Axl stands, quickly pulling on his pants.

“Wait, what? Why?” He asks, retying the bandana around his head. “I thought--.”

“That you would be different?” You challenge, taking a step forward. “That I’d want to be friends with you? After all this?”

Axl stops, and you can hear the gears turning in his head. Finally, he narrows his eyes. “What the fuck are you up to?”

Reaching into your purse, your fingers brush against his book, which you and Steven had nicknamed Axl’s FuckBook. You pull it out, and all the color drains from Axl’s face. “Time out. Why the fuck do you have that?” He lunges forward to grab the book, and you push a hand against his chest, preventing him from moving.

“For the six years I’ve known you, I have watched you toy with girls. Play with their feelings. And then dispose of them as if they meant nothing. Girls are a game to you, Axl. And they shouldn’t be.”

“That’s not--That’s not true,” Axl stutters, fists clenched.

“Save it. You’re caught and you know it. You’ve kept track of all the girls you’ve had sex with in this fucking book, some of which are people me and your bandmates know. Ruby Thompson? Steven’s fucking cousin?” You laugh bitterly. “I had to stop him from almost ripping your head off.”

“Steven knew you had this?” Axl asks bewildered, pointing at the book. “They all knew I had the book, but only Steven knew where I kept it.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” you say innocently, shaking your head. “Who do you think helped me get it?”

Axl’s face reddens. You grin triumphantly.

“See, for two months, the boys helped me plot my revenge against you. For you know, fucking me and then tossing me to the side like every other woman you’ve ever met. Some might be fine with it, but I’m not. So for two months, I carried around this book. And when you disappeared at the bars, I showed every single girl you wanted to fuck, this book. For two months, I’ve been exposing you for the man you really are. And while you were craving sex, begging me to suck you off, which was incredibly pathetic might I add, I decided to have some fun myself and catch your body count. And boy, did I save the best body for last.”

“What are you talking about?” Axl asks, sitting back on his bed. “I’ve been stuck at seventy-three for the last sixty fucking days. There’s no fucking shot you caught me yet.”

“Oh, but I did,” you say, tossing the book aside. “You see, before I came here, I had sex. Disappointing sex, but sex nonetheless. He was number seventy-two,” You smile wickedly, and Axl’s mouth falls open. “Do you know what that makes you?”

And then it dawns on him. “You psychotic son of a bitch.” He sits there, utterly stunned, and you smirk. He knows. “All this,” Axl whispers, “All this to just get back at me? You’re no better than me, Y/N. You whored yourself out to a bunch of dudes, just so you could what? Fuck with me?”

“You do it, because you have nothing better to do,” you say, stepping closer, leaning your hands on his knees, lips barely brushing his mouth. “I did it to prove a point. That someone will always be able to play the game better than you.” You drop your eye in a wink, grinning as steam rises from Axl’s head.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Kissing and patting his cheek, you make your way toward the door, looking back over your shoulder. “We’re enemies, Axl. Our personalities clash. You’re a bastard that only wants sex and well...me? You may have invented the game, Axl, but I’m the bitch that played the game better than you ever could have. Our friendship was never an exception,” you give Axl a shit eating grin. “You were just number seventy-three.”

[drzenlin]

*Crawls out of the trashcans, a little wild eyed* 

Okay, okay, listen. Just listen. 

*Holds out new au idea*

I did it again. 

Bare with me, here. Okay? This is kind of the thing that I do. I make ideas. Do I complete them? No. Do I actually write on them and make scenes and junk? Not always. Okay, but listen. Hear me out. 

My latest obsession has been My Hero Academia, okay? I like it. It’s fun. We’re about to get the fifth season. It’s great. (I mentioned how many ideas I already had in the previous ramble post. We’re on twenty something. It’s getting ridiculous.) I’ve started diving into the fandom. It’s great. I like the fandom. Reading fanfictions and looking at fanart. Awesome. A+ good content. 

The thing is..... And bare with me here. The thing is I see a lot of fantasy aus. There’s quite a bit. (We can thank that wonderful end credits in, what? Season four was it? I can’t be bothered to look it up. The canon fantasy au.) But I don’t see the delve into a lot of monster ideas. I don’t see a lot werewolves or vampires or anything of that sort. I’ve seen a couple of “I see dead people” sort of aus. Particularly when it comes to playing in the putty that is Midoryia Izuku’s quirk and lack thereof. (Don’t get me wrong. I like playing in that same putty. It’s so fun to change it and make it fun and interesting with extra heapings of angst and pain and whump-ege.) Though that has to do with more quirk stuff than anything else. I’ve seen a few monster ideas but not a lot. And the monster lover in me just kind of.... wilts. Sadness.

I love monsters. A lot. It’s not a new behavior of mine. Some of you who follow me might have.... guessed that with some of the things that I reblog. (I’m not brave enough to admit it quite yet. Give me a few more ramble posts and we’ll see.) But, coming from The Witcher fandom, I’m seeing a vast lacking in the way of monster content in the MHA fandom. And that sucks. A lot. 

(Don’t make me be the one that fills that tag. Please. I’m not sure I can commit to that yet!!! I’m not brave enough!!!) 

So, in conclusion, I wanna see more monster stuff in the MHA fandom. Like, werewolves and fae (the dark kind, folks. I love those kinds) and dragons (not just from the fantasy au. We can have more dragons, I assure you. We can do that. It’s okay.) and vampires (I’ve seen a few. It brings me hope) and sea monsters (mermaids and sea monsters anyone? Oooo, sea monster mermaids!!!) and all sorts of other scary things that go bump in the night.

And it’s okay. You have my permission (for what it’s worth). You don’t have to make a whole new au idea. It doesn’t have to be a full au. Mix it in with canon. (I like doing this best. It gives you the flavor of canon but adds that spicy goodness. Werewolves, right alongside quirks, anyone? Just think about little, baby Izuku shifting in front of Katsuki for the first time. Just think about it. I’ll give you a moment with that thought..... it’s good, isn’t it? So good.) 

All of this has a point. I got side tracked by werewolves. (Not new. I love me a good werewolf. Always have.) But, the new au idea is kind of..... needs a lot of explanation. There’s a race I made and I wanted to play around with that in my newest fandom obsession. (Of course I did. I’m only human. Ish.) But I can say I like adding dark, fae type monster-y content into canon. Taking a world and melding it into something a little more wild and fantastical and playing with how people go missing or come out of the woods a changed person. I like playing with that sort of world that has magic, thinly veiled under the surface. Where if we don’t speak about it, it might not look this way. Everything is fine, when the sun is up and people are all around you but as the sun begins to set, people go indoors, other things slink around the corners of buildings, hiding away in alleyways. Do they want to consume you? Do they wish to play a malicious game? Are they just curious little critters that are not seen but once in a blue moon? It’s like urban fantasy and dark academia a little bit. Like..... *Snaps fingers* I know I have an example, somewhere rattling around in my brain. Like, traditional fairy tales, where Little Red Riding Hood gets eaten by the wolf but then turns around and kills him. Like ghost stories and haunting and, hmmmm. I don’t know if I’m getting my idea across here. What was that movie with Vin Diesel in it? The Last Witch Hunter? The Witch Hunter? Where he was a Viking cursed by the head witch to live forever and he had to fight her in modern times? That one.(I feel as though that one wasn’t talked about a whole lot. I enjoyed it, though I would have liked it better if there was more good witches and more content, honestly. Was it a book? Can anyone tell me? I think I’d like to read it if there was.) But like that, mixed up with traditional Grimm’s fairy tales and like..... whimsy. So, The Book of Cells and the other one they did. Song of the Sea? (I swear I actually know things. I’m not this much of a ditz. These are late night ramblings.) I like this type of world, universe, type thing. And I enjoy just, taking it and laying a fandom over top of it. So, this just kind of..... combines with my latest fandom. MHA. *Jazz hands* 

I swear there’s more specifics to this than just that. But I’ve rambled long enough, honestly. I’m not even sure how many people are going to actually read this keyboard smash of a ramble. (My sisters are required. They wanted me to post more content. This is all on you two.) I might actually go in depth about the actual au idea and about that race that I invented. (If.... we could call it that? It’s a complicated can of worms to open, honestly. That and I need to figure how to make read mores. This is a long post.) 

Anyway, the trash goblin has spoken.

*Crawls back into the trashcans, peaks over the lip. Hisses.* 

[unholyplumpprincess]

Seeker

Last of the survivor installments for @realityinspace featuring their OC Alex and his adventures in fucking killers.

Reblogs > Likes

!!!Minors and ageless blogs dni or you will be blocked on sight!!!

Fandom: Dead by daylight

Relationship: The Trapper/Male OC (Alex)

Warnings: R18+/NSFT, Dead by daylight normal violence, fluff, making love, mentions of scarring, twist ending?, gay shit man.

Words: 4.1k

__________________

The game of cat and mouse between survivor and killer had been going on for so long that some spice was needed. Planting the seeds within Alex had been easy enough, he had already started making his switch whether he knew it or not. His want for revenge through pain and agony meant he was no longer willing to just play the Entity’s little game of fix the generator; It meant he was actively seeking out specific killers and making plans if he could snatch their weapons and slit their throat.  

An interesting survivor he had been since he arrived, the Entity had tiptoed along the lines of what he would be at first. And yet, now he is showing them his true colors. Running may have been his strong suit, and helping fellow survivors, but when it came down to it?  

You could only be a toy for so long.  

~Rest under the cut~

Since the run in with the Wraith, Alex has been back on his feet and more focused it seems. Yet, even other survivors can note his distance. The seeds of doubt were sown in his chest after all. If a killer could treat him as gently as the Wraith did, and the survivors just used him-  

No, didn’t use him, he made his role this way-  

Wait, no, what if that wasn’t true? Was he forced t--  

No! That wasn’t true- was it? No. This is all...  

All so confusing.  

Alex’s mind is jumbled and stressed every night, flickers of the rights and wrongs, what was up, what was down, what was true? He can’t quite find it.  

Nor can he feel the flickering lights inside of his own body calling to him to come into the fog, to come play with the big dogs, to enter the loving spider-y arms of the Entity who would love and care for him.  

Just take the leap.  

Alex’s mind at night is plagued by whispers, whispers he doesn’t remember in the morning yet whispers he does once he closes his eyes. The warmth of the fog around him, the idea of warmth sliding down his hands. Sticky sweet- crimson over his bare hands. The idea of getting vengeance is tempting, the idea of hearing another person scream that isn’t his own-  

Now that was a thought.  

Perhaps it has something to do with an event that happened a few days ago between a certain grinning masked killer and the arachnid beast that haunted its very own playground.   

“I’ve been here since day one  doin ’ what  ya  asked of me. Haven’t asked  ya for one damn thing, have I?” A gruff voice is heard only to one specific being. It doesn’t show itself, merely a mash of oranges, yellows, and blacks. It should have come to life as your nightmare, but considering the Trapper was no longer just a mortal man, it can only show up in this torrent of energy floating in front of him.  

The Trapper stands in the thick, dark fog, arms crossed and waiting for a response. The being before him shakes, as if seeming to laugh, but then it pauses, waving to the left and then to the right before a booming voice enters the Trapper’s head. It sounds like twenty different voices talking in sync, all in different pitches and emotions yet the most being prominently like a smoky feminine tone, “And, what, my dear Trapper, is it that you wish from me?”  

“The boy. You know the fuckin’ one. Been givin’ ya  hell, hasn’t he? ” The Trapper begins  as if in a huff , watching carefully as the begin changes form into the very same one he’d been fantasizing about. Alex. Except instead of his lovely olive toned flesh and his red hair, the being is completely black with glowing yellow eyes- far too many, maybe six all blinking at him and a wicked grin aimed back at him.  

The Entity was toying with him.  

“Oh, this boy?” It speaks, running a hand over its own throat  up into  its hair with a sigh as if pleasured. “Ah, yes, Alexander was it? What a lovely body he has...” It continues,  running a hand down the curve of its toned body, only for its eyes to snap open and glare at him, “The one who has been distracting you and making you fail my little assignments?”  

The Trapper bites his tongue despite having no need when he doesn’t use it to speak. Shamefully, he casts his eyes down to the floor to the side and briefly nods. No lying.  

“This is not how this game works, my dear.” The voice continues, less angry and much softer now. When the Trapper looks back up, the being is shifting forms and is now one of more just spider legs outreaching down from the sky- a favorite of theirs. It reaches towards him, stroking over the mask’s cheek affectionately. “You are my favorite and most reliable, Evan, you must understand this,” It sounds so soft, gently, but then it turns to a low growl, all voices seeming enraged like a disappointed mother.  “But, this is my game, not yours.  Return to your realm and do as told. ”  

However, this conversation was not ignored, that much Evan could feel as he leaves the fog with his head held like a disappointed child not getting what he wanted.  

--  

Alex’s moods shift through each trial as if he can’t quite get a grip of himself. He avoids the other survivors, yet still feels affection for them as he normally did. He still confides in Claudette the same as she’ll do to him, finding comfort in her sisterly aura and the way she confides in him back. Nothing but the truth between them, a sibling’s bond, truly. He still feels the need to protect, but there’s something more...  

More primal about it.  

He’s gone from just taunting the killers from afar and running to running AT them. Making the moves he needs to get a hit or two on them. He’s becoming more emotional, reckless- hell he bit poor Michael last round on the HAND!  

So, imagine how Alex feels when he sees the familiar white face of The Ghost.  

It’s like a switch in him. All Alex sees is red. The feeling of his pride being stolen from him, the burn of the scar on his hip. One could say there was no point in his anger, considering it had just been a hook, he’d finally been caught, and yet...  

He’d been branded. He’d been claimed- by someone he had no interest in being claimed by. It had been stolen from him, this sort of pride and aching that had him running circles around the killers for sport-  

The Ghost is tricky to find, he moves quietly and sneaks up on his prey. Thankfully Alex is following footsteps and the wisp of a cloak. Only briefly losing him only to hear a scream to his right- Claudette.  

He whips around the trees just in time to see a knife going up and Claudette kicking, always the fighter.  

There were unspoken rules in this realm. A Mori was a special gift bestowed upon a killer, you were to not interrupt it. You were to allow it to happen or run off before you could be seen. That’s how the games went, you were forced to obey these rules- you had to.  

And yet, as if in slow motion, Alex finds himself darting towards the cloaked killer. Snatching him around the waist in a tackle and throwing his lesser body weight into the Ghost. There’s a cry from behind him of ‘Alex, don’t!’ in fear, but his ears are ringing as he struggles for the upper hand. Rolling once before slamming his legs on either side of the killer’s chest, knife in hand.  

There’s no second thought, just the loud humming of whispers of ‘do it’ ringing in his head tauntingly, as if excited by this turn of events. The world seems to shake around him, vision flashing oranges and reds as he stabs the knife straight through the Ghost’s neck with a cry.  

And just like that? The world around him goes black. Alex is left with his legs straddling no man, nothing seems to be underneath him. He’s on his knees, knife stabbed through nothing, and confusion buzzing through his now quiet head. Knitting his brows, he slowly begins to get up, turning his head this way and that as the foggy shadows seem to envelop him.  

A soft noise behind him that sounds like a skittering insect has the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Whipping around, he finds the spider-y legs hanging from seemingly nowhere reaching out to him as if beckoning him closer. Alex goes to move towards it, to take a swing, but it feels like his legs are walking through thick slime. He huffs, trying to open his mouth, but it feels like his jaw is aching and sore- like he was trying to break a jawbreaker for hours. His words are slurred, echoing as he tries to take another swipe at the leg that’s reaching out, aaaalmost touching him- aaaalmost able to hit it and then-  

A whirling sensation. Like he’s being ripped from the fog. Alex finds himself in a dark area, like a forest of sorts as he lands harsh on his knees with a gasp. His head whips around, lifting his body up so he can pat himself down to look for any injury. Nothing. Yet, also, no weapon. Frustrated and full of rage, he screams at nothing and slams his hand on the ground with a loud, “Damn it!”  

It takes a few moments to calm down, eyes whipping around at his surroundings.   

The sky was dark and cloudy, almost a dark blue shade like the moon was full somewhere. The wind is soft, rustling the trees overhead and surrounding the stone path leading to a. ..a  building nearby- a house. It looked like a  two story  house, almost like an old farmstead feeling to it. The porch had two lights lit on it with a rocking chair, the chimney churning out smoke and all the lights were on. It felt homey. It almost whispered to him to come closer.  

Hell, he hadn’t seen anything that comforting in months- or however long he’d been trapped here.  

Alex should have paid closer attention to the bear traps mounted on the wall outside or how he could see a deer head mounted inside. It takes him a moment to work himself up to slide up onto his feet, arms and legs aching and feeling out of breath. It takes him a moment longer to roll his neck to work out the aches only to freeze.  

Bear traps.  

The Trapper.  

What if this was a one versus one scenario? What if he’s playing into this game of cat and mouse? What if he had all this time for a  head start  and didn’t run?!  

Yet, the crunching of stones behind him tells him he isn’t alone. Alex’s breath is shaky, holding his head high to stabilize himself and to feel more in control. His fingers clutch into fists at his sides, hearing the huffing breaths coming from behind him much like an irritated bull.  

A feeling washes over him, as if someone is prodding at his mind and trying to find something before it clicks and he hears a voice breathe out, echoing around him, “I changed my mind.” It’s got this southern drawl to it, gruff and hardly used sort of tone. It sends a feeling over him he can’t quite describe- familiarity perhaps.  

Yet, Alex still whips around, taking a step back just as he sees a rough hand reaching out to him and the large, tall body of the Trapper stepping into the light. He bares his teeth, making a show of snarling the best as his mortal throat could allow before barking out a laugh to hide his nerves. “Changed your mind on what, huh? Not gonna fight me like a fuckin’ man? Going to just stand there and gawk?” He lets the taunts fly free from his mouth, trying to hide the way his hands shake.  

But, before Alex can take another swing with his words, the Trapper pauses. Doesn’t move any closer to him, just slowly reaches up and removes his mask much like someone would with their hat. He holds it at chest level, head bowing slightly to appear smaller and more at level with Alex despite being two heads taller. “I changed my mind on you just bein’ a passin’ fuck, Alex. ” His mind echoes the words, yet he watches as full, scarred lips don’t move.  

Even just the way that the Trapp—Evan says his name makes a shiver run down his body. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling weak and strained all at once as he swallows a lump in his throat. Alex briefly remembers confiding in the Wraith about being tossed around roughly like a toy and wonders if he’d had a chat with the guy in front of him for that reason exactly. Something Alex would have to thank Philip for another time.  

“Come inside,” Evan begins again, voice soft and taking a step closer slowly, as if Alex was a rabid kitten. When he doesn’t flinch or move away, Evan comes a bit closer until he’s  arms length  away. “I made dinner? I know that may seem strange- I don’t think y’all are allowed those comforts, right?” His voice is oh so soft, and even the word ‘dinner’ makes Alex’s stomach growl. Something they both hear.  

Evan just sounds so...convincing, that even if this was a trap? Alex still follows without much of a fight.  A hungry man was a hungry man, after all. Besides, he’d been put through worse than someone trying to invite him into his home only to get stabbed.  

Yeah, wow, these games were really fucking him up, huh?  

But as Alex is led inside and the smell of food hits him, he genuinely begins to wonder if this was even a trap. Evan is so kind, pulling out his chair for him and pushing it in. The plate is filled with home style cooking and Alex about drools over his plate. The whole set up was rather sweet, a small table that they could reach each other across, different sides and dressings set around a ham that looked too good to be true. Everything was delicious once he finally put some in his mouth.  

Evan the whole time is sweet, looking like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Alex quickly gets over the fact his mouth doesn’t move when he speaks, able to trace his eyes over Evan’s face and how his facial expressions change. Evan tries to flirt in little ways, which is rather sweet in its own way and a big surprise to Alex. Philip must have talked to him, it’s the only answer- something must have switched in him.  

Evan’s features are rough with chiseled cheekbones and a strong, sharp jaw. His eyes are piercing and heavy set, seeming to be a hazel gold color with flickers of glowing orange inside that must have been the Entity’s influence. His nose is strong, the bridge obviously having been broken a time or two in the past with his lips full and a scar going from the left of his chin, up over his lips, past his nose and ending at his blurrier right eye that must have been blinded in some fashion. Yellow and orange lines seem to cut through his skin, including on his face.  

He was rugged and handsome, but not in a conventional way. It was  kinda  nice, considering what a pretty boy Alex was IN a conventional way.  

Evan, despite all of his doings in the past and what he is, is fairly kind while he flirts. Alex decides to play along, absolutely endeared as he nudges his shoe at Evan’s calf and hooks it around in an act of footsie.  

It isn’t until after dinner where Evan gently picks up Alex bridal style, unlike the way he’d been tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes in the past. Alex laughs, feeling free and at ease for once as he’s carried up the stairs and to a bedroom. It looks well cleaned, just a regular bedroom with the bed creaking as he’s sat on it. It smells like blade oil and pine.  

He expects Evan to shove him down, ravish him- hell, Alex almost wants that to happen. But instead, he’s asked oh so softly by the huge man, “Philip lemme know ya had a bad run in with someone...left somethin’ ya don’t want .”Alex’s breath falters for a second, turning his head briefly but is caught by rough fingers gently grabbing his cheek and bringing him back to look up at Evan. “ Lemme take care of ya, pretty boy. I’ll be real gentle- know a thing or two about scars. ” It’s said so gently, a soft echo in Alex’s head that he can’t even sass.    

Carefully, Alex kicks off his shoes and socks at the words of Evan to get comfortable. He stands on command for Evan, shimmying his jeans down enough to expose his hips and hiking up his  torn up  shirt to show the ugly scarring left behind. Jagged words that made him irate. Left by a man who had no means to claim him as his own.  

Watching Evan sink to his knees should not make  Alex’s  heart twist like it does. He’s so gentle the way he traces the scarring, it was pink and flaked, but not as deep as Evan had thought it would be. Some salve and some deliberate marking towards that area should fix it to let it fade in due time.  

It’s quiet and soft. And once Evan raises onto his feet, Alex can’t help but watch him, watch as he tries to come up with something, watching Evan’s eyes flicker to the bed. “Do you wan- ”  

“Yes.” Alex quickly responds, nodding vigorously in approval.  

That’s how they wind up on the bed. With Evan’s overalls and boots thrown to the side with just his boxers on and Alex’s clothing having been gently and gingerly taken off until he was only his boxers as well. Evan kisses him like a lover this time, soft and gentle as he could be with his body weight lying on top. Alex’s legs are framing one of Evan’s thighs, who is brace himself on his arms on either side of his head. One large hand caressing Alex’s red dyed hair as if he meant so much.  

He felt it too.  

The kisses start to get hotter, heavier with Alex starting it by biting Evan’s bottom lip. His hips grind up shamelessly into the large thigh between his own, Alex making a lovely, soft sound that just spurs Evan on into growling. It doesn’t sound possessive or angry, it just sounds aroused, a noise Alex could get used to. Not to mention all the soft, yet heavy pawing on his body.  

When the kiss parts, Evan fits himself between Alex’s thighs to spread them apart. Alex’s cock is leaking onto the front of his boxers, a dark spot on the gray that makes his breath shake. His eyes are half lidded, lips rosy and his teeth biting at his bottom lip in desire. There’s no words, there’s no need for them right now as Evan slots his clothed cock up against Alex’s so they can both shamelessly grind together.  

Alex looks a pretty dream, toned body flexing as his hips push up to rock his dick against Evan’s. It’s heavy, dirty, dry humping. Fit with Evan cupping the side of Alex’s chest so he can thumb at a nipple and use his other hand to wrap a hand loosely around his throat. The noise Alex makes is worth it, a low whine and an arch up into his hand as if asking him to put more pressure. Evan doesn’t, just holding him right where he wants him.  

“I wanna consume every inch of ya,” Evan starts just as he works Alex’s underwear down. A fumble for lubricant left in a nightstand drawer and a generous amount on his fingers is Alex’s demise as he dissolves into soft laughter. It makes Evan’s heart constrict in adoration.  

“Inside and out,” Evan continues, a smile on his lips as Alex’s eyes flutter before shutting just as he works a finger inside of him. His hand that had been thumbing at his nipple traces down the curve of his body to his hip, squeezing fondly. “I want you to be mine. Mine and mine alone...Think I could share ya, if ya knew that. ” Making a note to remind Alex that even if he still wanted to be sexual with others, he wasn’t going to stop his fun. As long as he knew who he belonged to.   

The noise, regardless, is worth it when Alex chokes on a sob as two fingers push into him. Carefully working him open and quirking upwards to make his smaller cock jump against his abdomen.  So  cute. So pretty.  

“I think I love you.” Evan’s voice is an echo of sincerity in Alex’s mind. It makes him choke on another sob, this time for various reasons. He nods in agreement, one hand reaching down and patting until he can grip Evan’s wrist on the hand that holds his hip. Thumbing over his pulse point adoringly.  

It makes Evan about break.  

Fitting his cock inside of Alex is much easier than all the times before. With lubing Alex up as well as himself and taking the time to stretch, he slides in with hardly any resistance besides Alex’s harsh panting and whining telling him to hurry up. He’s only silenced by hard, bruising kisses with desperate thrusts inside of his body.  

Evan doesn’t take him like an animal, not this time. His thrusts are well timed and deep, making sure Alex feels every inch of him inside of him. Making sure that Alex is moaning against his lips only out of pleasure. Alex’s arms wrap around his neck, holding him tight in turn as his hips start to  cant  and hump with Evan’s. Trying to reach his peak without a care in the world. As long as Evan’s heat stayed on top of him.  

Evan’s voice is a sweet symphony in his head of praise. Calling him a pretty boy, that he’s doing so well taking him, that he’s going to be his sweet little boy  toy  isn’t he? And all Alex can do is nod furiously in turn, clawing at his back and grabbing onto a hook jutting from Evan’s shoulder as he  cums  with a loud cry of his name. Spilling all over his own abdomen as Evan smashes their bodies together to vigorously pump into him.  

Alex is left feeling full and exhausted. Vaguely, he can feel Evan cleaning him up and wrapping him in a blanket, falling asleep in his arms. For once, feeling safe.  

His dreams are plagued, however. As oranges and yellows spin around his vision. The spidery legs coo to him in their multi-voiced persona, “What a special day it is for you. I am sure you shall keep my favorite sated, yes? And in turn, I give you another chance, Alexander. You shall play for the other side.”  

Alex can vaguely feel the change in his system, hardly fighting against it as the legs reach out to him, stroking down his cheeks fondly. “You will be accepted and adored by the rest of my toys.” Its voice is sickly sweet, sounding like a delighted child getting a new toy.  

“Let the rage consume your heart...Seeker. ”  

--  

A scared, panting survivor darts around a new arena. Their eyes flickering all around the new map. It looked like a huge gym, darting into hallways of a  broken down  college. Equipment in the gym allowed them to hide and a huge locker room to boot. Yet, it was far too open, you had to be careful about the generators all tucked into dead ends.  

You had to be careful of the new bare foot killer with a beaming fox mask with a dangerous weapon of kukri. For if you made a sound, anywhere he could hear, you’d hear the rapid padding of his feet heading right for you.  

May the hunt begin, and let rage consume your very thoughts,  

O’ dearest Seeker.  

[ask-de-writer]

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 11 of 83 : World of Sea

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SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 11 of 83

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

copyright 2020

written 2007

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Users   of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may   reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information   remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in   my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  PART 1 is here

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Chapter 3a: Kurti

Captain Barad Maks brooded on his sybaritically appointed bunk.  At last, I’m finally going to get completely even, maybe ahead of the Longin.  It’s not so much that they’ve avoided my nets or even that they’ve tangled me in every net that I’ve cast their way — — — Skill I can admire.  It was almost getting me fed to the Strong Skins at my first Gathering as Captain.  Mord had nothing to gain by exposing my game.  He near got me killed and for what? Nothing!  He was already a captain and there were no other good candidates.  I chose my time carefully in that regard.

He rolled out of bed and began to dress.  His new cabin-girl, Kurti, quickly came out of the bed and helped him with his sleeves and the tying of his sash and neck-cloth.  She offered no word, out of fear. I wonder what really happened to Chena?  Nobody seems to know. One evening she was here and the next day the Captain chose me to replace her.  They say it was food poisoning but she was the only one.  Whatever happened to her, I don’t want it to happen to me!  She looked at the Captain critically and took a chance on speech, saying, “I think perhaps this hat, with the Wide Wing plume.  It will make a dashing appearance.”

Smiling tolerantly at the girl’s obvious fear, he replied, “By the Dragons, Ch … Kurti, isn’t it?  I’m only going about the ship for an inspection.  I need to see Master Selked on a small matter. That’s all.”

Kurti smiled tentatively in return and said, “True, Sir.  Ch … your previous cabin-girl did not dress you well.  I think that you will gain even more respect if you always dress well.”  She paused and considered for a moment before adding, “Unless the part that you are acting needs something else.”

Barad actually found it in him to beam, genuinely pleased, his vanity stroked.  He patted her cheek gently and said, “Very well, Kurti, I will let you decide my dress for most occasions, even the most trivial.  If it goes well for morale you will have my appreciation, which is no small thing.

“If it does nothing, it will be remembered to your credit as an honest try to help.  In spite of what you may have heard, I do remember those on my side.”

Kurti was afraid to ask what had happened to Chena.  The answer would have surprised her.  Captain Barad would have told her with complete candor what happened.  He was no fool to blab secrets where they could escape and he knew that she could not get away.  What few people, even those closest to him, understood was that he was not ashamed of or bothered by anything that he had ever done.  Nor did they understand how swiftly he could change course completely if he believed himself to be wrong.

As he walked the familiar grimy corridors of the Grandalor, going to the boat-shop, he felt a buoyant spring to his step.  He felt as good as he looked.  He had not paid much attention to casual dress before, and found that it did have an immediate effect on his own morale. His own mood of self confidence communicated itself to those who saw him.  Crew-folk who saw him coming sprang alertly out of his path instead of clearing the way sullenly.

The Captain knocked at the entrance of the shop and waited for Selked’s call of “Enter!” before he did.

Captain Barad looked approvingly about the meticulously tidy shop.  There were many kits of tools for every purpose on the sea, each bearing the marks of the Grandalor and Selked, piled neatly on every surface. From the overhead beams around the roof-skylight-hatch hung net bags filled with scrapers, bow-drills, and many other tools to be sold singly.

Selked, Master Boat-wright and tool maker, sat before his bench working on sets of sail stitching tools.  Each set was in a fitted box of glued Strong Skin lined with the Gula’s finest velvet.  Captain Barad admired Selked’s work and had never interfered with it.  Selked’s tools of all types were famous throughout the fleet for their uncompromisingly high quality.

The awl shafts that Selked was presently mounting to handles were all of the hardest, densest Wing Ray bone.  The light yellow striations alternating with a delicate brown running the length of each shaft told its origin and value better than any amount of sales talk could.  Noticing that there were three shafts more than there were handles, Captain Barad reached out to pick one up to examine more closely.

Selked’s laconic, “Shouldn’t touch that’un, if I were you,” brought him to a quick stop, fingers only inches away from the pointed shaft.

“I wanted to see it more closely.  There seems to be a defect in the bone pattern,” said the Captain mildly.

“There is.  That’s why I’m mounting this one instead,” said Selked. He pushed home the spike of the awl he was assembling, using a pair of special pliers to handle it, as he seated it into soft glue in the handle’s hole.  He carefully wiped the excess glue with a shaped tool to get a smooth fairing between handle and shaft.

He took his marking tool of Hag beak, wiped on the mordant bone marking ink and placed his mark onto it, slightly off kilter, and just a touch blurred.

Setting the tool into the last place in a kit box, he closed it and handed it to the Captain.

“This is the kit you want for your little scheme.  Sorry that it took as long as it did to make but, as you noticed, I had some trouble getting the Ord spines to take the dye properly.”

Casually, he added, “All the rest of the kit but the awl spike is Merk’s last bungled piece of work.  He tried to take one shortcut too many the other night.  Didn’t use the handling pliers on the very spine that you were reaching for when he poked it into Chena’s snack.  I found him when I opened the shop next morning.  Passed it off as blood poisoning from an infected cut.”

“Thanks for the timely warning.  This kit should be just what is needed and ready in plenty of time.”  Barad considered for a second and added admiringly, “Those spines must have been difficult to work with.”

“They were, Captain. — — May I ask what the occasion is?”

“This?” Barad gestured at his clothing and smiled, “It’s my new cabin-girl’s idea.  Kurti thinks that if I dress the part of Captain better, I will have more respect from the crew.  Speaking of which, choose who you will for your next apprentice.  I’ll see that you get your choice.”

Selked replied seriously, “My thanks, Captain.  You know, Kurti could be right about that.  You project more of an air of authority along with your power.  If she lives up to her other duties as well, she could be well worth keeping.  Pretty too.  You do have an eye for them, Sir.”

Lightly Barad returned, “I pride myself on it.  By the way, I am planning a game of Three Dragons in my cabin tonight.  Would you care to join?”

“My pleasure, Captain.  Tonight then!”

Captain Barad continued his tour of the ship.  It appeared that Kurti was right.  Obedience to his orders and suggestions was prompter and less sullen.  The lack of respect, even as the crew followed orders, that had plagued his captaincy appeared to be dissolving.  And for such a small thing!

He found First Officer Timms on the quarter deck seeing to the butchering a freshly caught four-ton Strong Skin.  All of the men were wearing full foul weather waterproofs and gloves.  A crew, similarly dressed waited by with mops and buckets to clean up. Mister Timms was applying spots of red weed paste to the fish and its skin.  Far too much of the paste was turning the sickly dangerous green that signaled Ord contamination.

“Mister Timms!  How goes the effort to find a use for the Ord in fishing?”

He looked up from his work and answered, “This one is the best so far. Out of ten fish, we have gotten less than fifteen tons of meat and lost over half of the hides to contamination.

“The toxin spreads so fast!  I have tried infusions in bait, Ord spine in the harpoon points and this… We harpooned it in the usual way and pricked it with a spine on a pole to kill it.  You can see for yourself.  We got the most hide, this time.”  He cast a glance at the lean form of the dead predator.  “Just over three-fourths.”

Barad actually looked pleased.  The wind played in the plume of his hat. “Give over the effort, Mister Timms.  You have tried all that could be reasonably be done.  I will want all of your notes to append to the log entry.”

“Very good, Sir.  Working around this stuff was making me nervous, to tell you the truth.”  He cleaned his gloves and sleeves meticulously in a bucket before he took them off.  He added a few notes to a small sheaf and handed them to the Captain.

Barad nodded his head solemnly.  “It was too good an idea not to try. It’s a pity that it didn’t work better.”  He walked to a companionway and went down into the ship.

The Purser’s scriptorium was his last stop.  The newly pirated Ephemerides were coming along nicely and some copies were already bound.

“Excellent work, Morgu.  If we can get twenty copies of each volume, I know just who will buy them and how to promote them.”

Morgu looked up from his high desk in the corner of the room and gave a rare, thin mouthed smile at the praise.  “We should have them done by the Gathering, though it will be a near thing.”

“Excellent! I need a small favor.  On these notes here, can you add a brief remark about the loss of one spine, apparently dropped overboard? You should have seen it happen to give credibility to the loss.  The note should be in Mister Timms’ hand.”

TO BE CONTINUED

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[kryptsune]

🌼Yes I know I said I needed a break but here is my proof that I love what I do. I spent today and yesterday crafting a little drabble for Felldritch. I am unsure if this is going to be exactly how this story is going to go but it’s a general idea. If it becomes a proper fic then I will elaborate more. Hope you enjoy it C: Tell me what you think and if you would like to see more.

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FELLDRITCH DRABBLE {1/3}: The Madhouse

Chocolate colored walls surrounded her day in, day out, though chocolate was something one would associate with something pleasant. This room. Was not. All appearances led one to believe in the fastidious nature of this place. This containment. This prison of foul-smelling chemicals of an unknown substance. The scent of something burning followed by screams for mercy. No…they never heard that. No. This was not a place one would associate with something sweet. 

It was a facade. A simple show for those that did not know any better. A dull green leather sofa sat along the wall. The rivets bolting it down were just hidden by an ornate rug of ghastly reds and browns. Some unknown crimson stain that was never able to be washed out was just covered by a wooden table. A few books here and there slightly worn decorated its surface. They were books one would not make an effort to pick up. The Nature of the Mind, An Essay on the Success of Electrostimulation, CareGiving, A Safe Haven. All books that might lure one into a false sense of security about this place. This madhouse of screaming lunatics and suffering patients. Ruttledge Asylum… The home for the Mentally Tortured and Disturbed.   

A large wooden desk, a full coat rack, a diploma hanging just over some gaudy floral cream-colored wallpaper. Giant books filled with fancy penmanship. A ledger and a quill. Meaningless. Small details that had no value or purpose other than to be eye candy. A pale face watched it all from above surrounded in a golden frame, “Frisk… are you even listening?” Chocolate eyes flecked with ruby stared down from that pale face. Its lips moved expressing a lack of thoughtfulness. A dull tone of acceptance, “I’m sorry Dr. Ruttledge. I will pay more attention.”

The voice that came from that pale face was soft, almost a whisper. One would question if they were truly there, to begin with. A kind of lifelessness that illuminated the tribulations of the past, present, and future. The face that stared back, mahogany hair cut in places haphazardly sticking out, a bandage around a pale throat, eyebrows furrowed with despair. This was her… 

A young woman lay on a lounge staring up into the mirror that the nurses and doctor had placed there. They had claimed it was a means of self-reflection. To be able to see one's own progress and health improving. To her, however, it was a wraith. Every time she stared back at that girl she could see herself being whittled away.  Every question asked left her more and more hollow. No one believed her and why should they? Her experience was something out of a fairytale. Something that only the mad would conjure up, “Frisk I am going to ask you once more and I want you to respond honestly. Do you understand?” 

Dr. W. D. Silias Ruttledge owned this madhouse. He was the presiding caregiver and psychologist to those that did not have violent tendencies. The rest were thrown in solitary beating their empty skulls against dirty white padding. Only hearing the voices of others through a bolted latch in the door. At night she would hear them pacing or talking to themselves. 

He had a suspicious voice. One that was soothing in understanding but he didn’t take that tone with everyone. She always felt he was hiding something. Of course, he would just add paranoia to her list of ailments if she even exhibited such an accusation. His black hair was neatly combed where she could just see a streak or two of grey by the side of his skull. A crooked nose had a pair of golden spectacles perched lightly. She noticed it was a habit of his to pull them off and clean them with this handkerchief when he was beginning to grow irritable. A faint scar ran from the bottom of his left eye and she could have sworn also the top of his right. He was properly groomed, a high white starched collar resting below his chin. An ebony and cream waistcoat showed how successful he had been in his career. The finery of a medical professional.

A set of hazel eyes were kept focused on the clipboard he had resting on one leg dressed in black slacks. A lapel pin of a deer rested on the fabric standing out very minimally. It must have been his lineage she guessed just from his British accent, “Yes sir, I understand.” He tapped the quill he was using to write against the inkwell gently ready to write down any notes that may implicate her level of delusion. It was hopeless.    

“Frisk, can you explain to me how you got here?” He replied, moving in his chair to find a more comfortable position before reaching for his usual cup of tea and taking a sip, “I want a full and complete answer, no one-word responses today.” 

She just turned her attention back up at the doppelganger in the mirror, watching it speak but not feeling anything about what it was saying. It could have been a doll or a dead body for all she cared. That was how hollow she had become. Was there even a soul left within her? Her eyes fell closed before he even asked. It was a typical procedure. Everyday, “Yes, Dr. Ruttledge. I promise I will answer completely and honestly.” Even answering fully wouldn’t put any emotion behind it. A soft sigh escaped her, “I was found wandering the woods late at night nearly seven years ago.

He nodded his head, never once looking up at her, “Yes and why is it you have found yourself in our care?” His quill scribbled something down as she responded, “I was confused trying to remember what had happened to leave me there. Alone in the woods...” The writing stopped, soft scratching absent from crumpled parchment, “You were found exclaiming that you came from a world of monsters. That you needed to help and that you made a promise. A promise to free them from their underground prison.”

Frisk swallowed thickly, “Dr. Ruttledge please I-” He cut her off, listing off her supposed illness calmly. She didn’t want to hear it anymore, “You became hysterical and physically aggressive when you were found and brought here. You begged to be released. So that you could return to them. You continued to talk about these demons… skeletons, fish people, dragons, and goat beasts.” He removed his spectacles and set them down on his clipboard, folding his hands in front of him, “Now tell me, is this due to some trauma or hallucination that you have had? Do you still believe in these fabrications?” 

Her eyes fluttered open to look off to the side, “Frisk? Did you not hear my question?” She took a breath but did not respond to the question. She could just hear that soft sound of metal folding upon metal, “I see. We shall skip that question for now. Now... tell me about these friends that you talk about. That you confide in.” 

She stared as he sat calmly looking down at her. He never seemed to move positions except for maybe switching the leg he crossed. His attention was back on his notes, but only for a second, “Let’s start with your ‘Best Friend’. You seem to talk about him quite a bit.” Frisk felt her body stiffen. Of course, he would ask about him, “Frisk, I want you to talk about him.” She didn’t want to. She never wanted to because she knew what would happen when she did. 

“He was one of the first monsters I met. He helped me and watched over me… protected me. We became close friends. He saved me. I would have had to sacrifice myself to save them all. They all told me that it wouldn’t be the same if I was gone. He begged me to leave my mission behind. Save myself.” 

Dr. Ruttledge just nodded his head, “Yes, as we have discussed before. I must ask if your analysis of this… situation is correct. To me, it sounds as though you possibly had feelings for this demon. Which concerns me greatly.” Frisk shook her head before bolting upright, “He is not a demon!” He raised a brow before shaking his head, “Is? As in present tense. Oh, Frisk, I thought we had made progress today. We will continue tomorrow. Rest up, I will see you in the morning.” He rose from his chair, setting the clipboard down on his desk with a soft sigh and opening the door. His gaze was locked on her, just waiting for her to leave his office, or the most likely reason: waiting for the nurse to “escort” her out. 

Of course, she was upset. He just called her best friend a demon. He was nothing of the sort, even if he was skeletal in appearance. His brother was not that way either. As much as she wanted to play the game to get out of here she wasn’t going to agree to that. Sans and Pap. They were her friends and family. Nothing would ever change that. Even as the nurse glared at her, grabbing her arm and leading her down the hall. 

She didn’t even bother to look around the room she was in. It was the room she had been in for nearly seven years. The soft clink of the lock reminded her that she was still a prisoner, regardless of her “ailments.” At least she had a small window to look out over the grounds. It was sad, really, to think that such a small thing was even worth mentioning. It was dark outside with the fire of the lanterns flickering back and forth.

Her hand slipped from the wooden frame only to make her way to the small bed she knew. All she could think of was her bed back in Snowdin. How she would cuddle under those warm covers, snuggled up with the boy's pet dog. Well, more like a wolf. Now she just laid there cuddling a plush she kept close to her. It was a rabbit. A white stuffed rabbit with little button eyes. She had painted them green one day with some of the paint from the rec room. A place she was apparently forbidden from for it would “worsen” her delusions. 

All she could do was close her eyes and try to rest, all while slipping into her memories of a better time. One that she wanted to return to. A place where she was loved and accepted. A place that withheld judgment. Home. She buried her face gently against the plush in her arms, her whole body shaking from the thoughts that clawed at her mind. It was at that moment she felt terribly alone and hopeless.   

Frisk could feel the tears slipping down her cheeks as she curled into a ball on top of the thin blankets. A few soft sobs caused her to choke on what little words she could get out, “I want to go home.” Would they even recognize her anymore? She was broken. A fragile thing putting up a smiling face in the jaws of adversity. That tightness was starting to constrict her chest before she let it out. Trails of tears poured from her eyes as she fell apart, slowly struggling to take in proper oxygen. This place was breaking her. If she just admitted that they didn’t exist maybe they would let her leave. Maybe she could live a normal life, but that wasn’t the one she wanted.

A few hours later and she was shaken awake only to be greeted by an old frowning face. The nurse. Frisk didn’t bother to remember her name. She was a crotchety old crone that treated the patients like dogs. The cup in her hand found its way into her cheek, squishing against her face and forcing her to take it from those leathery hands. It was her medicine. The kind that would make her sleepy. It was a feeling she hated; not being in control of herself properly. She took the pills and hid them under her tongue as the nurse walked away. Normally they checked to see if they were swallowed, but they had never caught her not taking them before. 

She spit them out before tossing them through the bars of the window. There were worse things here then not taking ones medication. Tortures she had been subjected to even though she was not supposed to. That was when she noticed a sliver of light coming from the hallway. The nurse had forgotten to shut the door. 

All that was running through her mind was that she could be free. She could escape this place. Adrenaline was coursing through her as her feet flew toward the crack in the metal. A promise of freedom and escape. There was no one in the hallway. 

She grabbed some of her clothing. The same ones that she had been found in and threw them on. The striped shirt that she wore in the Underworld for so long they had thrown away a long time ago. Now all she was left with was the patient clothing now hanging on her shoulders and a pair of boots and socks. She hated being stuck in that sterile smock, but she couldn’t waste any time. 

She grabbed what she found valuable from her room before creeping down the hallway, passing a security guard easily. The spare keys were kept in the office as she snagged one from the drawer before rushing toward the door. That soft click of the key being inserted into the lock caused her heart to jump, as she stumbled out into the night. Where was the mountain? She could just faintly make out the silhouette of Ebott from where she was. 

Frisk ran as hard as she could and as fast as she could, stumbling through the trees, climbing rocks, and doing everything in her power to reach the summit. She knew where she had fallen; it was all rushing back. A branch caught at her cheek, causing a thin line of crimson to bead from the wound. Just a little bit more. 'Seven years ago she had been here,' she thought as she stared down into the open mouth of the mountain. So long ago. 

It didn’t matter… she was going home.

A simple jump and she had flung herself into the darkness once more. Only this time she knew what awaited her. At least… she thought she did….

[dancing-deacon]

Let Me Be Your Lover Boy(Part 5)

BoRhap!Roger Taylor x Reader

Summary: When an undesirable meeting with Roger Taylor knocks you off your feet, the drummer will do anything to get you to fall for him.

(A/N) My computer is finally fixed so here’s the next part! This chapter is long and kinda covers a lot but I enjoy a lot of things in it. Inbox and all that is always open per usual, if you like leave a comment or reblog!! Thanks loves!

Warnings: smut, NSFW at parts, fluff, alcohol, swearing

Word Count: 2.7K

Get Caught Up! Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

You eagerly wait on the end of the ringing phone line. You decided to uproot and work for Queen. Travelling the world with the four of them would be exhilarating and new.

"Hello?" You hear from the other end.

"Hi, Freddie, it's (Y/N), I was calling about..." you say, interrupted not able to finish your sentence.

"(Y/N), this is Roger, not Freddie. How'd you get my number?" Roger has a smug sound to his voice.

That rotter, Freddie. He knew you'd call the number he gave you, which was totally not his.

You roll your eyes, "Roger, can you give me Freddie's number? Doesn't matter how I got yours." You state.

Ignoring your questions Roger continues, "So you decided to take the job?"

"Roger, the number please." You enunciate your words, showing a slight annoyance at his cockiness.

"Fine, fine." He recites the number and you promptly say goodbye, hanging up to give Freddie the official call.

Freddie was thrilled to hear from you, and your tale about Roger returning your watch. "He offered to take it, couldn't imagine why since he lives in the other direction." Freddie implies, making you think about more about the gesture.

Freddie was one to play matchmaker, and he knew. It was the same game to him upon giving you Roger's number rather than his own.

For this reason, all he could do was laugh when you say, "Funny Fred, how the phone number you wrote down wasn't yours, but Roger's. Can't possibly imagine why," you joke with him. Getting onto his game. "Listen, Roger seems to act in waves, highs and lows, if he can show me he is a good guy, maybe, just maybe he has a chance," you admit to Freddie across the phone.

"Hm." Is all he can say to that confession.

"So anyway, I called about the job. I'd love to work with Queen, Freddie." You smile big at the thought.

"Oh, fantastic! And we'll pay you double what you make now, no triple....no whatever you want, we just need you, darling!"

You can hear the excitement in his voice through the phone, which makes you feel truly wanted.

You get the final details of the job and when you'll need to move out by, Freddie offered a temporary stay in his home, since he lived alone. After hanging up the phone, you begin calmly packing up the rest of your life, eager for the next chapter. --- The first day in the studio you arrive early, John, Brian, Freddie, and Roger are already there, setting up the equipment in the booth. You walk past the window and give an eager wave to them, Brian and John give a small wave and a smile, Freddie is turned around warming up. Roger pretends he doesn't see you, even though you noticed him glance up from behind his drum set.

You hang up your jacket and drop your bag on the sofa behind the board. On the table are a bouquet of pink and red roses, and a note with your name on it. You glance at the boys in question, who are too busy setting up to catch your eye. You pick up the roses, the sweet smell enchanting your nose, bringing a smile to your face. You open the note,

Welcome to the Queen family!

You stick the note in your bag and place the flowers back on the table, running the silky petals of the biggest red rose between your fingers.

You walk over to the door and peak your head in, "Thank you guys for the flowers, you're all so sweet," You hold your hand over your heart in joy. "I'm so happy to be here." You give them all a giant smile.

"Flowers?" Deaky questions quietly, glancing sideways at Roger, who has his head down by his bass pedal, grinning to himself, face a light shade of pink. "Right the flowers, it's no problem, thrilled to have you here."

Brian and Freddie stare at you and nod in hesitative agreement.

"Alright, well, Freddie I'll be working on that list you gave me, if you all need anything just shout," you say to the rest of the guys, promptly leaving the room to work.

"I can tell you one thing Roger needs from her," Deaky teases, Roger shooting him an embarrassed glance. "Really, Rog? Flowers?"

Roger steps down from the risers his drum set stands on, "I thought it would be nice!" Roger states defensively. "Besides, she doesn't know they're from just me."

Brian peers through the window to the lounge where the flowers lay. "They're red roses for crying out loud, ‘nice' isn't the thought there." Brian emphasizes his point, air quotes included.

"Oh, piss off." Roger slumps, moving back to his drum set, ready to play, away from the teasing. --- Waiting at the bar, you glance over at the boys, the pre-show hype present in their demeaners. They were sat in the corner, waiting for you to arrive with their drinks, which you offered to grab. You enjoyed the past few weeks with Queen, everyone has been kind to you, even Roger whom you got off on the completely wrong foot with initially.

You spark up a basic conversation with the bartender while you wait. Taking your attention away from the band. When you glimpse back, Roger is away from the table, leaning against a wall chatting up a short blonde girl in a tight skirt. The big goofy grin on his face speaks numbers. Your face grows warm and your stomach starts to turn. Roger had been fairly nice to you, but he must not have felt the connection that you had been lately. Especially after that night in the studio a week ago, which he doesn't remember. --- "Another, please!" Roger yells, sloshing his half full glass towards you. The rest of the band left the studio hours ago, but you promised them to stay with Roger, who had already had a few too many sips to get home alone.

"Rog, you've had a lot, are you sure?" You top off his glass at his sloppy head nod, him giggling at the noise the ice cubes made against the side of the glass.

You can help but smile at this Roger, he was acting silly and full of youth. Unlike the first experience with drunk Roger you had.

"Finishing an album, we have to celebrate!" Roger raises his glass before knocking it back.

You close your eyes, listening to the smooth melody of the album play quietly in the background. You were proud of the boys, you saw how hard they worked every single day, in and out of the studio.

Out of nowhere, you're pulled up harshly by your arm. You collide into Roger's chest, eyes meeting his, blue as the ocean. "Dance with me?" He asks sweetly, giggling at your confusion.

"Alright Roger." His hand makes his way to your waist, as it did the first time you hugged him. The feeling of his chest on yours causes your heart to skip a beat. Noticing your hand fit so perfectly into his you give a light squeeze, to let him know you enjoyed his company.

You sway gently to the music, supporting him when he stumbles over his own feet. You smile and lean your head on his shoulder, his loose hair tickling your forehead. His scent familiar and comforting.

"I'm falling for you (Y/N)." He whispers this into your ear. Sending chills down your spine. "Like the love kind of falling." The slur of words make you question his honesty.

Pulling away from his embrace, all you can choke out of your dry throat is, "We should get you home, Roger. Get you some sleep."

Wondering if his words were true, frustration builds, realizing you were starting to feel the same way. --- You thank the bartender and bring the drinks over, roughly placing them on the table. You slide into the booth next to Brian, who gives you a questioning look. You can't help but glance at Roger, who seemingly knows it is bothering you.

Freddie, Brian, and John exchange an all-knowing look, understanding your distaste for Roger's antics, as well as your growing feelings for each other. But it wasn't their place.

"Roger, drinks." Freddie calls.

Roger turns his head, making eye contact with you. His smile drops, and he stares at the floor.

Roger slides into the booth next to you, staying as close to the edge as possible. You can't help but notice.

"Here, have your beer. Drink it...then you can go back to that girl." Your words come out as rude, though not caring. You slide him a tall glass, filled to the brim. His jaw clenches and he stares at you, tight lipped and dead eyed, his face turning a deep red.

"I don't want the fucking drink. And that was nothing." He spits out, rather quietly.

"Roger, I bought you the drink, it's what you wanted." You look at Brian, Freddie, and John, who have their heads down in discomfort, hands bringing their drinks up to sip. Out of the corner of your eye you see Roger roll his eyes and shake his head at you.

You shift your body to make direct eye contact with Roger, his eyebrows are furrowed. You burn with jealousy. "Fine, you can share it with that floozy then." You say, heart dropping, at the thought.

"That's it! I'm off!" He pushes the full glass back to you in frustration, some of the beer spilling over the side and onto your skirt. Roger slams his hand on the table and starts off down the hall, fists clenching.

You give an apologetic look at the rest of the band and rise up out of your seat.

You chase down the hall after him, following him into his dressing room. "Are you mocking me? Roger, you're a rock star. You drink, you party, you flirt with anything that walks, why do you have to make fun of me for not being like that?" All your thoughts are back to what he said to you a week ago., wondering if you’re just another pawn in his game. You slam his dressing room door behind you.

"I'm not mocking you (Y/N)!" He doesn't look at you.

"It sure does seem like it, Roger." You spit out, hurt. "You know, I had to grow up real fast after my dad left, even more so when my mom died, so excuse me if you think I have a stick up my ass. Not everyone can be a rich, reckless rock star."

"Is that what you think of me?" Roger spins around to face you, "You think that lowly of me?" Roger looks hurt. He knows you haven't noticed how hard he has been trying to get you to like him.

"I've had to act like an adult, I had no choice. And now it's hardwired into me!" Your anger is about to boil over. You clench your fists hard, nails digging into your palms.  

"But it's different now!" Roger shouts at you, "You're on the road with us, you're thrust into parties and, and travelling, and you'll get to fucking act your age!" Roger starts to stutter over his words, which he only does when he gets overly frustrated. "You need to just start living! You need to....to..." Roger clenches his jaw and stares at you.... chest heaving.

"I need to what Roger? Spit it out!" You scream out, on the verge of tears.

Roger lunges forward powerfully and smashes his face into yours, enveloping you in his arms. His mouth is warm, his tongue searching for yours. Your hands grab onto his hair, entangling it between your fingers and pulling at it, as if releasing it would end the moment.

Roger parts his lips from yours, hands cupping your cheeks. "You need to fucking realize what I've been doing to try to get you to notice me. The watch. The flowers. Not bloody drinking so I don't act like a piss flap again." He pecks a light kiss on your mouth between each sentence. "I didn't think jealousy would be the last straw."

Your stomach drops at his confession, feeling ridiculously stupid for being so oblivious and how his last time drinking a few weeks ago that his feelings expressed were real, not the alcohol talking. "Roger, I...I," you pull him in for another kiss, not knowing how to express your feelings in words.

You run your hands under his shirt, feeling across his abs and up his chest. Your other hand pulls up on the fabric, guiding it off his body. You wrap your arms around his strong shoulders, gripping your nails into his back as his tongue moves across yours in a hunger.

Roger grasps at your shirt, tugging it up, "Off. Please. Now," he begs. You pull away to let him remove your blouse, which you wore without a bra today. His lips are puffy and red, his piercing blue eyes burning as he takes in your naked chest.

Roger put his lips next to your ear, "You have no fucking clue how long I've been wanting you." His whispers send an electric shock down your spine, making your thighs warm and your stomach start to tumble.

"Me...too, Rog." You breathe out. Making Roger moan into your neck as he bites just below your earlobe.  He moves slowly down your neck, nibbling the skin as he goes. When he reaches your breasts he trails wet kisses across them. He flicks your nipple with his tongue, enjoying the view as he looks up your head thrown back in lust. Roger smirks to himself and lowers his hands to your thighs, gripping them hard, he hoists you up to straddle his waist. "Oh my god, Roger," you manage to moan out, begging him for more.

He turns around and presses your back against the door, his chest, covered in a hot sweat, leans hard against you. You can feel his large bulge as your bodies grind together against the door. You groan at the closeness, and how only a few thin layers of clothing separate you and Roger's cock. You focus on his appetizing lips, how they move in sync with yours, and how every moment he pulled away was agony.

"Roger! Rog!"

You hear shouts from the hallway, followed by frantic knocks on the dressing room door, making your back vibrate.

Roger jerks his lips away and nuzzles into your neck grunting, "fuck, I need you, (Y/N)," His frustration shows as the band members call his name from a few inches away. His breathing against your neck makes you shiver.

Roger slowly and resentfully lowers you to the ground, moving his face to rest his forehead against yours. Both your chest heaving in unison as you stare into his eyes. Both of you hungry for more of each other's bodies.

"I'll bloody be right out," He shouts to the guys on the other side of the door, obviously irritated.

"Princess." "Gotta make your hair look nice."

You hear from the other side of the door, smirking at their oblivion to what just occurred.

You manage to tear your eyes away from Roger's to look at your watch. "Fuck, Roger you need to go on stage soon."

He pulls at your waste, bringing your bodies together harshly. "I don't think I can play after that." He bites his lip, making your knees weak. You grab his biceps for support.

He leans over and kisses you gingerly. You keep your eyes closed, so his smolder can't distract you again, "Rog, you really have to go..." You pause, opening your eyes with a smug smile, "this isn't finished though trust me."

Roger blushes lightly and shifts you to the side away from the door. "I can't bloody wait," he moans, grabbing the door. "Oh and, I promise there was no mocking, just proving a point," he moves his eyes up and down your half naked body, "that you really can let go." He winked before slipping out of the dressing room to meet up with the rest of the band.

Alone, body aching for Roger's touch again, you slump onto his leather sofa, knowing you absolutely cannot mention what had happened to anyone. But now you know, the words he said to you while dancing, he truly meant.

taglist:

@emmadarling20 @sunnnymercury @roger-taylor-stole-my-heart @anita-e-taylor @mrs-rogertaylor @emma-worthington @jennycidesstuff @rogerswig @roger-taylor-owns-my-wigg

[pitifulbefore-a]

send ‘FIVE TIMES SMILED’ for five times your muse made mine smile. / I didn’t actually reblog this but @wontbelame is getting it anyways

ONE. Jeremy is nearing five years old, holding on tight onto his mother’s leg, positioned so he’s the closest to the door and she stands in between him and the rest of the classroom. Bolting briefly crosses his mind, leaving before the day can even start-- and he’s left behind in a strange new place full of strange kids he doesn’t know and strange adults he doesn’t know but he’s supposed to trust ( what happened to stranger danger? if you didn’t know an adult well, you weren’t supposed to trust them, and Jeremy didn’t know this lady so he definitely wasn’t about to trust her )-- but he isn’t sure where he could go, how to find his way home.

A soft hand in his hair is enough to pull Jeremy out of his thoughts, and he glances up to see his mother smiling softly, She bends down to his level and he reluctantly releases his iron grip on the leg of her pants. A kiss is pressed against his forehead, a whispered ‘ have fun, I’ll see you in the afternoon ’ and then she’s gone. His stomach begins sinking immediately, breath shaky the moment she’s out of view. The teacher smiles, introduces herself ( again -- he’s met her once before. does she think he’s an idiot? ) and begins some spiel about how much fun they’re going to have, and how excited everyone is to meet him. Jeremy isn’t listening, but he let’s her take his hand and pull him over to a table with an empty seat. 

He spends approximately three hours sulking ( it’s closer to 25 minutes, but time seems to creep by when you want nothing more than for the day to be over ) before someone comes to sit beside him. Doing his best to not pay attention, he focuses instead on picking at his nails ( his mom always got onto him for biting them, said it didn’t look good, maybe he should just to get back at her ), but the chair scoots and scoots and scoots ( this guy didn’t sit still, did he? ) and eventually the noise is enough for him to look up.

The new kid starts talking. Jeremy blinks and his posture straightens, as if he’s taken aback by the idea that anyone would actually want to talk to him while he was pouting. He keeps talking, eventually introduces himself ( Michael. Jeremy repeats it back to him, as conformation that he’ll remember ), and before long Jeremy’s talking too. And Michael smiles ; a big, toothy grin that can’t help but make Jeremy forget some of his frustrations with being left behind. 

“Hey, do y’wanna be my friend, Jeremy?” 

He nods, and smiles back just as brightly. 

TWO. Eighth grade is when he notices the new addition to Michael’s desk. It’s unassuming ; no telling how long it had been there before Jeremy had taken note, a little box settled among the papers and textbooks and notebooks and whatever else Michael had scattered on his desk. He picks it up and shakes it, surprised to hear stuff actually moving around in it.

It doesn’t take Michael long to return to his room, snacks in tow. Jeremy holds up the box and is told to be careful, there’s important things in there. He feels bad for shaking it ( decides not to mention that ), sets it down and asks about it’s contents. Michael is quick to explain-- it’s where he puts all the things he thinks are important from good days he wants to remember. Little things, like the ticket stubs to the concert they had attended earlier that year ( Weird Al, and for a moment the boys fondly recount the night ). Good things. 

The idea of it makes Jeremy’s heart skip a beat, makes him feel giddy and light with love for his best friend, and he wonders what he did to end up with a best friend like Michael. Whatever it is, he’s really, really happy he did it. He doesn’t say any of that out loud, of course-- just laughs, and nudges his shoulder, and calls him a sap. Michael laughs too, but then asks if he wants to look through it, together. 

Jeremy nods, and his smile could put the stars to shame. 

THREE. Exactly five days after Jeremy has started high school is the worst day of his life. The fighting-- the fighting had gotten worse, and things were bad, he knew that much, but he’s staring at the open door and the empty driveway and, jesus christ he can’t fucking breathe. She left. She just left, packed her bags, kissed his forehead ( just like she used to when he was a kid ) and slammed the door. He doesn’t know where his dad is ( he was in the house ; he’s pretty sure he’s in the house, but Jeremy hasn’t seen any sign of the man since the most recent bout of screaming had ended ), he doesn’t know where his mother is or where she’s going or when she’s going to be back ( she’s not coming back she’s not coming she’snotcomingback ), and he can’t breathe. 

He isn’t sure what comes over him, but he screams. Stomps his foot like a toddler throwing a tantrum, screams, and storms upstairs. Throws himself on the bed and sobs to the point it hurts, that he can’t catch his breath, that his voice hurts, his eyes hurt, his head feels like it’s going to explode. Sure the whole house can hear him ( wherever his dad is, he doesn’t make any acknowledgement of his son breaking down ), keeps going until every drop of red hot anger is expelled and all that’s left is a biting ache deep in his chest. Doesn’t know what else to do, so he slides off the bed and texts Michael-- Michael always has a plan, and while Jeremy doesn’t think anything can be done to make this better, he still wants him to know.

Phone is quickly tossed aside as the loneliness sets in, horrible questions ( was he not good enough? was he the problem? could he have made her stay? why wouldn’t she stay? ) begin to flood his mind. Head sinks into his knees, arms wrapped tightly around his legs as he begins to sob once more-- quieter this time, softly shaking his frame, he isn’t angry anymore. 

The Heere’s must have forgotten to lock the door in the midst of family tragedy, because before long Jeremy is aware of the sound of his door slowly being pushed open, of someone silently making their way towards him. Frame tenses, expecting the intruder to be his father ( he still cares, doesn’t he? ), but only when they’re right next to him does he finally look up-- wave of relief washing over him when he sees Michael Mell, two large slushies in one hand and a 7/11 bag containing nothing but snickers in the other. He smiles sadly at him, passes a cup and settles down, resting an arm around his shoulders. 

“C’mon. Let’s watch Ghostbusters.”

Jeremy leans his head into Michael’s shoulder and smiles. 

FOUR. High school is hell. It’s a conclusion Jeremy quickly comes to about midway through freshman year, when he quits musical. It’s eight hours of torture ( sometimes more, if you decide to partake in extracurricular activities. it’s why Jeremy starts saying he quit -- why would you add on more hours of torture ) for five days a week, in which about two-hundred teachers and nearly one thousands students coexists with the intention of making each other as miserable as possible. And it isn’t an us vs them, teachers vs students ; no, instead some sort of hellish free for all, every man for himself.  

Well, maybe not completely for himself. If you were lucky enough to have a best friend like Michael Mell, you didn’t have to face anything by yourself. 

It’s been a particularly rough day ( another sucky part about high school? you can’t pick your schedules, meaning Michael and Jeremy can’t be assured they have every single class together ), humiliation sheet crumpled and scribbled to near obscurity ( at least three mortification events, four refusal to return head nods, five snickers -- why did he even try again? ) and tucked into his back pocket. Jeremy’s counting down the hours until he can jump in the passenger seat of the cruiser and just waste the afternoon playing video games. 

Seeing Michael in the hallway is like seeing some of beacon of light. He’s impossible to miss ( at least if you’re Jeremy Heere, and you spend most of the time that you aren’t with Michael Mell looking for Michael Mell ). His red hoodie is the first thing to catch his eye, and then the movement ; Michael’s always playing music, whether his headphones are actually on his head or not. He moves to his own beat, always seeming to enjoy himself, even in the hellish hallway.  He doesn’t notice Jeremy, instead in his own little world. 

“Michael, hey!” 

Jeremy calls after him, smile spreading across features as he jogs to catch up. 

FIVE. Jeremy is sixteen now, and he thinks he has a new contender for worst day of his life. He wakes up in an unfamiliar room with blindingly fluorescent lights, briefly wonders if he’s dead ; the last thing he remembers is handing Christine the red mountain dew ( resigned to trade his clear mind for her own ), and then she started screaming, and then his head-- it was the most painful thing he had ever felt, blocking out all other senses as his mind filled with screaming electricity, electricity flowing through every nerve, trying to crack his brain into pieces while the squip howled his name, it’s final stand having failed. So, yeah. He’s probably dead. 

And then he moves, and one slight shift seem to set off every pain sensor in his head, and god, he doesn’t think his brain would do that unless he really screwed up, so. Back to being maybe not dead. Probably a good thing, he thinks with a groan. 

It’s enough to alert the other in the room to his presence. Rich tells him everything that’s happened, and then some-- he’s in the hospital ( definitely not dead ), the squip’s absence is cause for the migraine on crack he’s currently suffering from, an epiphany moment results in a weird but kind of touching coming out, and some kid ( Michael, his thoughts scream, throat going dry and heart pounding against his chest ) has been by to see Jeremy a lot. Rich is still talking when he hears the door behind him opening. 

Head snaps ( too fast, everything in him protests, the pain momentarily rendering him blind ) towards the source of the noise. Michael Mell, as if on cue. Logically, he  knows it’s no huge coincidence, knows he just heard them talking from outside, but he’s too overwhelmed by the wave of relief that washes over him just at the sight to think clearly-- he’s here, Michael’s here, despite every awful thing Jeremy had done in the past few months. He was at his side, by his side, here, still with him. 

For the first time in months, Jeremy smiles at his best friend.

[fromthedeskoftheminister]

Rise of a Region

Summary: A Friendly between three Quidditch teams becomes all the more interesting when a mysterious spectator joins the games.

Tags: Mysterious disappearances mentioned, suspected death mentioned, Whitebeard Pirates, Straw Hat Pirates, Revolutionaries, Quidditch AU, College AU, Modern World AU, Gen Fic, mild cursing, Entirely UnBetaed

AN: It is a time when tumblr is dead and Ive been sitting on this ficlit for a while. US Quidditch Cup 10 starts this weekend and Im going to be watching, so I figure its probably a decent time to post this. I’ll reblog it again before games start in the morning, but I want to post before I forget. Before I begin, Yes, Muggle Quidditch is a thing. Yes it is international. Australia won last year’s world cup. Yes, Brooms are used. Yes it is a full contact sport. No, we do not fly. The Snitch is a tennis ball in a sock velcroed to a neutral 3rd parties rear. It is only worth 30 points. Catching it, separating the sock from the person, ends the game. And I think thats all. If you have any sort of question about the story or quidditch, my inbox is open

                                                  Rise of A Region

The field was a nice one, Marco absently thought as he surveyed the grounds from his vantage point on the hill just behind the soccer goalposts.  Turf field, regulation size brooms, plenty of extra balls and a set of what looked like a set Peterson hoops were set up on one half of the soccer field he was overlooking.  Random joyous yelling drifted up to him as people greeted each other and he let the sounds wash over him.  He was going to sit here and enjoy the sunshine in peace and relative quiet before the rest of the team arrived and he had to go manage things, make introductions and generally figure out the plan of action.

The spring sun was bright, warming the day to a rather comfortable temperature that was just shy of being too hot.  It was negated by a very gentle breeze pushing the barest wisp of a cloud lazily across the brilliant blue sky.  Marco set his hands behind him and returned his lazy gaze to the people on the field below.  They had just started to set up their equipment and Marco checked the time.  He had an hour or so before the friendlies were supposed to start but if he knew his team, it would in reality be more like 2.  So what was he going to do to pass the time?  Marco was half temped to copy the guy he had spotted while searching for a dry spot to sit and just take a nap.

While it sounded nice in theory, he knew it would be a bad idea.  He wanted to be at his best for these matches.  Their region was new as were the two teams that had invited them here today, but they had already gained something of a rep.  Frankly, Marco decided, readjusting how he was sitting to see the field a bit more clearly he would be better served watching their practice and warm up in an attempt to figure out the team’s strengths and weaknesses.

He wasn’t entirely sure how long he was watching for before the squishing sound of a canvas shoe stepping into a particularly viscous muddy patch alerted him to the fact that he had company.  The arm that draped itself over his shoulder accompanied by a rather ridiculous red pompadour alerted him to the fact that Thatch had finally woken up and realized that they had arrived at their location.  Due to their prolonged friendship he was probably one of the only people that would take such liberties.  They watched in silence as the group of people below, which had only grown in size since Marco had started watching, completed a rather complex scoring drill.

“You’ve got maybe 5 minutes before the rest of the group starts arriving. ” he said with a yawn.

Marco raised an eyebrow at that. “You mean they’re actually going to be on time today?”

Thatch managed to look offended “Hey!  We totally get places on time!”

Marco snorted, clearly amused. “Only because I’ve been purposely telling the group the wrong start time of tournaments for at least a year or so.  Today’s the first time since that disaster that was our first tournament that I didn’t.”

Thatch gaped at him then rolled his eyes. “Of course you have.  I can’t believe I forgot how devious you can be.”

“So, how late?” Marco chuckled.

Thatch grinned as well. “Last car should be here in 30 minutes at the latest.”

“Right.” Marco said shrugging Thatch’s arm from his shoulders as he smoothly rose from his seat.  “I should probably go let them know then.  And introduce myself while I’m at it.  I don’t think I’ve actually ever met Sabo in person.”  He turned to offer Thatch a hand up, but his friend had already hoisted himself to his feet.

“Might want to hold up a second.  I see Haruta’s car.” Thatch said and Marco nodded in acquiescence.  They didn’t have to wait long.  The car had scarcely come to a stop before Haruta tumbled out full of their usual boundless energy and scampered over.

“Hey guys!” They cried out cheerfully as they attempted to scramble up Thatch’s back, clearly attempting to get a piggyback.  “Where are the others?”

“Not here yet.” Thatch said

“Whoohoo!” Haruta yelled “Its not us who’s last this time!”

“Impossible things have been known to happen.” Marco said dryly as Jiru, Izou, and Jozu joined them on the hill.  Haruta made a face when they caught the teasing tone directed their way.

“Yeah yeah.  Get lost one time…” They grumbled good-naturedly and Thatch snorted from beneath them as they settled themselves on his back.

“Once?  Try like ten or fifteen and then you might, just might be in the ball park” Marco teased.

Haruta stuck out their tongue in response before exclaiming, “Lets go!”  Apparently spurred on by the other’s enthusiasm, Thatch took off down the hill like a shot with Haruta whooping like a maniac on his back.  Jiru, the only certified EMT of their group took off a second later yelling semi-jokingly at the pair that they’d better not hurt themselves.  Marco rolled his eyes at the antics of his teammates before heading down towards the pitch himself at a much more sedate pace.

Izou matched his stride and after a moment inquired “So?”

Marco shrugged. He knew exactly what the other was asking.  “Not sure yet.  I’ve heard that The Strawhats have a stronger chaser lineup with fast breaks while the Revolutionaries tend to favor gaining bludger control and taking their time.  We should be able to beat them with ease but seeing as the two teams have been practicing together the entire time, I don’t exactly know who’s on which team.  This would also be a bit easier if I actually knew what Sabo looked like as well.”

“You still don’t know?” Izou asked incredulously.

Marco simply shrugged.  How was he supposed to know what the other man looked like?  He wasn’t on Facebook all that much and Sabo’s profile picture there was simply an icon of a Tophat.  The other captain had emailed him instead of using a chat feature and in doing the set up for this friendly they simply had never gotten around to meeting one another face to face.

“Ah, I can help with that.”  A new voice said cutting into the conversation. The source was somewhere near their feet and Marco looked down to meet a pair of curious silver eyes peering up at him from underneath a vibrantly orange cowboy hat.

“Really?” Izou asked, sounding skeptical. Despite the warmth of the day, the other man was bundled up rather seriously.

“Yeah.  You said you were looking for Sabo right?” The stranger said as they pulled themselves to their feet.  He adjusted his hat to get a better view of the field revealing a face full of freckles atop a deep tan. Without bothering to wait for an answer the other man continued.  “Ah, found him.  He’s the blonde one over there,” the stranger said making a vague gesture as he stooped down to grab a green zebra stripped bag with a rather intricately designed spade over one pocket.

“Well, that’s not terribly helpful,” Marco said, glancing in the direction that the stranger had gestured to before turning back to the other man.  “There are currently several blonds ‘over there.’  Can you be a bit more specific?”

“Sure.” The stranger said. “He’s the only blond with facial scars.  Here, why don’t I just introduce you?

Marco shrugged then offered out a hand. “Sounds good to me.  I’m Marco by the way.”

“Izou.” Izou offered with a wave of his hand.  The creased brow between his friend’s eyebrows was rather telling.  It meant that Izou was trying to remember something, though at the moment it probably came off as unfriendly.  It didn’t seem to bother the cheerful stranger who returned the introductions with a smirk.

“Nice t’ meetcha.  I’m Ace.” Ace said shaking Marco’s hand before the trio resumed their walk to the pitch. “Who do you play for?”

“Eh?  Oh, the Whitebeards.”

Ace looked rather impressed by that statement. “For real?  That’s the shit man. Thought you guys weren’t a part of this region though?”

“We are now.” Marco said with a smile. “With the Strawhats and the Revolutionaries joining up, the board finally decided there were enough teams in the area to qualify for a region of our own.”

“Sweet.” Ace said. “Though I hope you don’t think you guys’ll be able to just walk all over these two teams, Mr. Quidditch World Cup Champions.”

Marco simply shrugged and Ace laughed loudly, drawing stares from all over the pitch with rather amusing effects as a couple of people suddenly became recipients of bludgers to the face.  Another person, apparently startled by the laughter threw a quaffle a little too high and it sailed over the edge of the passing circle headed right towards them.  Ace snatched it out of the air and had returned the pass to another person in the circle.  That seemed to break whatever spell had come over the majority of the players except for two people in particular.  A small tan lanky boy wearing a strawhat exchanged some sort of look with a blond young man with a series of scars scattered over his left side, the most prominent one over his left eye. Ace gave a small wave and apparently that was all that was needed to cause the pair to run towards them, no at Ace, full tilt.

Ace’s eyes widened and he quickly took the bag off of his shoulder and held it out to Marco who looked at him with undisguised curiosity. “Can you do me a favor and hold this?” Ace asked, the words coming out in a rush.

“Sure.” Marco had scarcely taken the bag before Ace continued

“You might also want to take a couple of steps to the side.”

“Why?” Marco asked but the question was rendered moot as the answer came barreling past as twin blond and black blurs tackled Ace bringing him down with a lot of noise. Marco turned to Izou who was still standing beside him. “Are you as confused as I am?”

“Yes.” Izou said. “Though I finally figured out why the kid seems familiar.”

“Oh?”

“That’s Ace.”

“Im aware that’s Ace. He told us his name Izou.”

“I wasn’t done thank you. That’s Ace of Spades.”

Marco blinked. “As in the Merc team that made it to the final four of the Quidditch World Cup Championships 3 years ago? The team that was rumored to be able to give us a run for our money but ended up withdrawing due to injuries?”

“Exactly.” Izou said. “I wonder what he’s doing here. I thought all of the Spades had retired from Quidditch after that.”

“Most of us did.  The Spades as a Quidditch team no longer exists.” Ace said rejoining the pair, arms over the shoulders of the two people who had just tackled him. Strangely enough, the younger of the two the kid with the straw hat had tears running down his face while beaming like Christmas had come early.  The blond under Ace’s other arm didn’t have any tears but had a rather similar smile on his face. Marco’s curiosity was driving him crazy but he pushed it away.  He didn’t know any of these people well enough to ask about the strange series of events he had just witnessed. “And to answer your question, Im just here to visit these weirdo and play some Quidditch. Sabo, Luffy, meet Marco and Izou of the Whitebeards.”

“Nice to finally put a faces to the names.” Marco commented, hands in his pockets.

“Indeed.” Sabo said, ducking out of Ace’s hold. “Ya ready to get these games started?”

Marco looked around, and his eyes lit upon a familiar group of people that were just standing atop the hill he and Izou had just walked down. “Seeing as the rest of my team just arrived, I’ll have to say yes.”

“Great.” Sabo said. “Lets get this show on the road then.”

[ask-de-writer]

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : World of Sea : Part 11

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

copyright 2018

written 2007

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions. All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  PART 1 is here

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Chapter 3a: Kurti

Captain Barad Maks brooded on his sybaritically appointed bunk.  At last, I’m finally going to get completely even, maybe ahead of the Longin.  It’s not so much that they’ve avoided my nets or even that they’ve tangled me in every net that I’ve cast their way — — — Skill I can admire.  It was almost getting me fed to the Strong Skins at my first Gathering as Captain.  Mord had nothing to gain by exposing my game.  He near got me killed and for what? Nothing!  He was already a captain and there were no other good candidates.  I chose my time carefully in that regard.

He rolled out of bed and began to dress.  His new cabin-girl, Kurti, quickly came out of the bed and helped him with his sleeves and the tying of his sash and neck-cloth.  She offered no word, out of fear. I wonder what really happened to Chena?  Nobody seems to know. One evening she was here and the next day the Captain chose me to replace her.  They say it was food poisoning but she was the only one.  Whatever happened to her, I don’t want it to happen to me!  She looked at the Captain critically and took a chance on speech, saying, “I think perhaps this hat, with the Wide Wing plume.  It will make a dashing appearance.”

Smiling tolerantly at the girl’s obvious fear, he replied, “By the Dragons, Ch . . . Kurti, isn’t it?  I’m only going about the ship for an inspection.  I need to see Master Selked on a small matter. That’s all.”

Kurti smiled tentatively in return and said, “True, Sir.  Ch . . . your previous cabin-girl did not dress you well.  I think that you will gain even more respect if you always dress well.”  She paused and considered for a moment before adding, “Unless the part that you are acting needs something else.”

Barad actually found it in him to beam, genuinely pleased, his vanity stroked.  He patted her cheek gently and said, “Very well, Kurti, I will let you decide my dress for most occasions, even the most trivial.  If it goes well for morale you will have my appreciation, which is no small thing.

“If it does nothing, it will be remembered to your credit as an honest try to help.  In spite of what you may have heard, I do remember those on my side.”

Kurti was afraid to ask what had happened to Chena.  The answer would have surprised her.  Captain Barad would have told her with complete candor what happened.  He was no fool to blab secrets where they could escape and he knew that she could not get away.  What few people, even those closest to him, understood was that he was not ashamed of or bothered by anything that he had ever done.  Nor did they understand how swiftly he could change course completely if he believed himself to be wrong.

As he walked the familiar grimy corridors of the Grandalor, going to the boat-shop, he felt a buoyant spring to his step.  He felt as good as he looked.  He had not paid much attention to casual dress before, and found that it did have an immediate effect on his own morale. His own mood of self confidence communicated itself to those who saw him.  Crew-folk who saw him coming sprang alertly out of his path instead of clearing the way sullenly.

The Captain knocked at the entrance of the shop and waited for Selked’s call of “Enter!” before he did.

Captain Barad looked approvingly about the meticulously tidy shop.  There were many kits of tools for every purpose on the sea, each bearing the marks of the Grandalor and Selked, piled neatly on every surface. From the overhead beams around the roof-skylight-hatch hung net bags filled with scrapers, bow-drills, and many other tools to be sold singly.

Selked, Master Boat-wright and tool maker, sat before his bench working on sets of sail stitching tools.  Each set was in a fitted box of glued Strong Skin lined with the Gula’s finest velvet.  Captain Barad admired Selked’s work and had never interfered with it.  Selked’s tools of all types were famous throughout the fleet for their uncompromisingly high quality.

The awl shafts that Selked was presently mounting to handles were all of the hardest, densest Wing Ray bone.  The light yellow striations alternating with a delicate brown running the length of each shaft told its origin and value better than any amount of sales talk could.  Noticing that there were three shafts more than there were handles, Captain Barad reached out to pick one up to examine more closely.

Selked’s laconic, “Shouldn’t touch that’un, if I were you,” brought him to a quick stop, fingers only inches away from the pointed shaft.

“I wanted to see it more closely.  There seems to be a defect in the bone pattern,” said the Captain mildly.

“There is.  That’s why I’m mounting this one instead,” said Selked. He pushed home the spike of the awl he was assembling, using a pair of special pliers to handle it, as he seated it into soft glue in the handle’s hole.  He carefully wiped the excess glue with a shaped tool to get a smooth fairing between handle and shaft.

He took his marking tool of Hag beak, wiped on the mordant bone marking ink and placed his mark onto it, slightly off kilter, and just a touch blurred.

Setting the tool into the last place in a kit box, he closed it and handed it to the Captain.

“This is the kit you want for your little scheme.  Sorry that it took as long as it did to make but, as you noticed, I had some trouble getting the Ord spines to take the dye properly.”

Casually, he added, “All the rest of the kit but the awl spike is Merk’s last bungled piece of work.  He tried to take one shortcut too many the other night.  Didn’t use the handling pliers on the very spine that you were reaching for when he poked it into Chena’s snack.  I found him when I opened the shop next morning.  Passed it off as blood poisoning from an infected cut.”

“Thanks for the timely warning.  This kit should be just what is needed and ready in plenty of time.”  Barad considered for a second and added admiringly, “Those spines must have been difficult to work with.”

“They were, Captain. — — May I ask what the occasion is?”

“This?” Barad gestured at his clothing and smiled, “It’s my new cabin-girl’s idea.  Kurti thinks that if I dress the part of Captain better, I will have more respect from the crew.  Speaking of which, choose who you will for your next apprentice.  I’ll see that you get your choice.”

Selked replied seriously, “My thanks, Captain.  You know, Kurti could be right about that.  You project more of an air of authority along with your power.  If she lives up to her other duties as well, she could be well worth keeping.  Pretty too.  You do have an eye for them, Sir.”

Lightly Barad returned, “I pride myself on it.  By the way, I am planning a game of Three Dragons in my cabin tonight.  Would you care to join?”

“My pleasure, Captain.  Tonight then!”

Captain Barad continued his tour of the ship.  It appeared that Kurti was right.  Obedience to his orders and suggestions was prompter and less sullen.  The lack of respect, even as the crew followed orders, that had plagued his captaincy appeared to be dissolving.  And for such a small thing!

He found First Officer Timms on the quarter deck seeing to the butchering a freshly caught four-ton Strong Skin.  All of the men were wearing full foul weather waterproofs and gloves.  A crew, similarly dressed waited by with mops and buckets to clean up. Mister Timms was applying spots of red weed paste to the fish and its skin.  Far too much of the paste was turning the sickly dangerous green that signaled Ord contamination.

“Mister Timms!  How goes the effort to find a use for the Ord in fishing?”

He looked up from his work and answered, “This one is the best so far. Out of ten fish, we have gotten less than fifteen tons of meat and lost over half of the hides to contamination.

“The toxin spreads so fast!  I have tried infusions in bait, Ord spine in the harpoon points and this. . . We harpooned it in the usual way and pricked it with a spine on a pole to kill it.  You can see for yourself.  We got the most hide, this time.”  He cast a glance at the lean form of the dead predator.  “Just over three-fourths.”

Barad actually looked pleased.  The wind played in the plume of his hat. “Give over the effort, Mister Timms.  You have tried all that could be reasonably be done.  I will want all of your notes to append to the log entry.”

“Very good, Sir.  Working around this stuff was making me nervous, to tell you the truth.”  He cleaned his gloves and sleeves meticulously in a bucket before he took them off.  He added a few notes to a small sheaf and handed them to the Captain.

Barad nodded his head solemnly.  “It was too good an idea not to try. It’s a pity that it didn’t work better.”  He walked to a companionway and went down into the ship.

The Purser’s scriptorium was his last stop.  The newly pirated Ephemerides were coming along nicely and some copies were already bound.

“Excellent work, Morgu.  If we can get twenty copies of each volume, I know just who will buy them and how to promote them.”

Morgu looked up from his high desk in the corner of the room and gave a rare, thin mouthed smile at the praise.  “We should have them done by the Gathering, though it will be a near thing.”

“Excellent! I need a small favor.  On these notes here, can you add a brief remark about the loss of one spine, apparently dropped overboard? You should have seen it happen to give credibility to the loss.  The note should be in Mister Timms’ hand.”

TO BE CONTINUED

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