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quasi-normalcy · 1 year

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Which Star Trek series should you start with?

The Original Series: Advantages: + The one that started it all + Has some sophisticated and socially conscious science fiction that has held up exceptionally well + The lead characters all have really good chemistry and fun to see play off of one another + It's what most people probably think of when you say Star Trek (together with TNG) Disadvantages: - It can feel very dated and kind of sexist, particularly in its treatment of women - The sci-fi and social commentary may have held up, but damn it, the special effects really haven't - When TOS is bad, it's really, really bad.

The Animated Series: Advantages: + Basically just more TOS. Disadvantages: - Basically just more TOS, but substituting extremely cheap animation for bad special effects

The Next Generation: Advantages: + Probably the most popular one at this point + The crew is full of interesting characters and they're fun to spend time with + Just really smart people solving Space Mysteries + Socialist space utopia + Geordi-And-Data! + Lots of cool sci-fi concepts and social commentary + It's what most people probably think of when you say Star Trek (together with TOS) Disadvantages: - Although not in the same way as TOS, it can feel dated at times, particularly in terms of its treatment of women and it's near complete refusal to acknowledge queerness - Without wanting to bias viewer opinion, the first season is widely considered to be pretty bad - The series makes no bones about the fact that the socialist space utopia is better than every other society that has ever existed and will reiterate this point over and over again

Deep Space Nine: Advantages: + The most popular Trek series on Tumblr + Has a complete story arc, as well as arcs for all of its characters, including the extremely minor ones + Plain, simple, Garak. The humble tailor. + Garashir, if you're into that + Seriously has a really sophisticated treatment of things like post-colonial politics, anthropology, worldbuilding, and the horrors of warfare + Just the characters in general + Is the only Star Trek prior to the 2010s to even look meaningfully at queer representation Disadvantages: - Has an absolutely massive inferiority complex with respect to TNG and this drives a few poor writing decisions that seemingly exist just to poke the Socialist Space Utopia in its eye - Introduces a space religion and then just slowly turns it into Christianity with the numbers filed off - Seems to think that sexual harassment is just a quirky eccentricity - There's no women in its writers' room, and frankly it shows

Voyager: Advantages: + Probably the clearest instance of found family in space + Lots of really good episodes + Lots of fun new characters + Strong female role models + "Set a course...for home." Disadvantages: - Continuity? I never knew her! - Probably about 90% of Trek's reputation for technobabble comes from this one series - Even less queerness than TNG. - Only like...3 characters actually get arcs. - The first few seasons lean very hard into bullshit fake "Native American" spiritualism with one of the characters - How do these guys have warp drive but can't find any water?

Enterprise: Advantages: + Chronologically the first series + 90% less technobabble + The only series to plausibly frame our heroes as astronauts...on some kind of...star trek. + Still has probably the best production values of any series + Makes alien cultures of the week feel somehow richer and deeper than other series + Faith of the Heart is good, fuck you. Disadvantages: - Oh my god, the decon scenes - Seriously, if you've ever wondered what a "sexy" series written by a 14 year old boy who's only ever seen a bit of scrambled softcore porn on late-night cable would be like, this is the show for you - Somehow feels more sexist and racist than the show from the '60s - Seriously, the POC characters mostly exist to fill seats on the bridge; the women constantly have to undress themselves - Hellooooo, Bush II-era political analogies - Scott Bakula is a good actor but you wouldn't know it from this series - In season 3, they add a tambourine beat to Faith of the Heart and ruin it

Discovery: Advantages: + Noticed the lack of queer characters in the first 50 years of Star Trek canon and decided to make up for lost time + Seriously, the "Bury Your Gays" tally for this series is like...negative two + Just incredible representation in general + Some really good science fiction plots, particularly in later series + Some really fun, memorable characters + It's still running, so it has an active fandom on Tumblr Disadvantages: - Makes Elon Musk out to be one of the great visionary geniuses of history - Not really representative of Star Trek as a whole - The series swerves wildly in tone because of constant, behind-the-scenes churn in the writers' room - Offputtingly grimdark first season - Let's be honest, none of the season-long arcs have actually had satisfying conclusions - Half the cast feels like it's just there for exposition and to be killed for cheap drama

Picard: Advantages: + Has the best dramatic acting of any Star Trek series by a fair margin + Has the best musical score of any Star Trek series + Introduces a whole crew of fascinating new characters + Introduces all kinds of fascinating transhumanist concepts + AGNES. JURATI. Disadvantages: - You know all of those fascinating new characters that I mentioned? Yeah, it unceremoniously gets rid of all of them to bring back the old TNG gang. - You know that all of those fascinating transhumanist concepts that I mentioned? Yeah, it gets rid of those too so that to give us some generic action - Oh my god, someone teach the set designers to operate a fucking light switch - Grimdark - Nossssstalgia - Each season is basically unrelated to every other season - Depends so heavily on TNG that its final season is basically unwatchable if you haven't already seen a 30-year-old TV series

Lower Decks: Advantages: + It has probably the most efficient storytelling that I've ever seen; seriously, it's incredible how much it can fit into a half hour episode + It has a bunch of delightful, archetypical characters you get to know and love + You like hanging out with these people + The ship is kind of crap and you will learn to love it that way. + Basically a sitcom version of TNG. + Has a big fandom on Tumblr Disadvantages: - The art style is pretty Rick & Morty-ish - It takes most of its first season to really strike a good balance between being a sitcom and being a Star Trek series - The main character, Mariner, is kind of unlikable for the first season or so (she gets better) - Lots of callbacks to other series (though always either incidental or clearly explained) - Given that it's the first Star Trek sitcom, the comedy is honestly kinda the weakest part? Subjective I know.

Prodigy: Advantages: + Absolutely gorgeous to look at; the most visually stunning Star Trek by quite a ways + Lots of fun new characters on a cool ship + Gives you clear on-boarding notes to the Star Trek franchise if you're watching it for the first time + Can be watched on its own, but also works as a direct sequel to Voyager and a prequel to Picard (making both of them retoractively better, in fact) + Kind of like the Clone Wars or Rebels of the Star Trek universe, I guess? + Found family in space! The next generation! + Soon to be running on Netflix, so if you already have a Netflix subscription, you don't need to pay for another service + Written for a younger audience. Not necessarily an advantage, but nice if you happen to like family friendly animation or YA. Disadvantages: - *sigh* You basically need to pirate it. Thanks, Paramount. - Has a second season that we may or may not ever actually get to see even through piracy. Thanks, Paramount. - Isn't airing on the same streaming service as all of the other ones. Thanks, Paramount

Strange New Worlds: Advantages: + Basically what the original series would be if it were released today, rather than 57 years ago; all of the cool, socially consciousness sci-fi adventure, none of the weird 60s sexism + Fun, awesome characters you get to like spending time with right away + Incredible visuals + Nifty sci-fi concepts, mostly without the 90s-style technobabble Disadvantages: - A huge cast with only ten episodes a season, so many of them feel underdeveloped - Unfortunately, a bunch of its characters are younger versions of the characters from The Original Series, and they hog most of the spotlight; and the characters whose futures aren't locked in stone are kind of treated as disposable - In general, it needs to spend less time being a prequel, and more time being its own thing - "What if Starfleet ran into the Xenomorphs from Alien?" "Well, they'd probably kill them." "Okay, let's spend several episodes on this."

#star trek #tos #tng #ds9 #voy #ent #tas #dsc #pic #lwd #pro #snw

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n3on-graveston3s-calling · 11 months

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Dinner & Diatribes

Series: Think I Need Someone Older

Word Count: 4,840

Rating: E

Characters: Dracule Mihawk, Fem!Reader

Warnings: Smut. Pure smut. Mihawk is on his knees for you and he is hungry.

Tags: Smut, cunnilingus, eating out, squirting, fingering, Mihawk being a tease, cannibalism as an allegory for love and/or sex

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The island was larger than you had initially thought. With how Dracule had explained it, the picture you’d painted in your mind was something more akin to Windmill Village. But this- oh, this towering city floating in the middle of the sea was everything and more. Canals that traced through each level, making essential roads that yagura-led -gondolas wound through. Water 7, the legendary floating city full of shipwrights, pirates, and civilians alike. One of the very few places without a strong Marine presence- a relief for you.

The two of you had met a few years prior. One thing led to another, which led to a room in an inn, which led to you sobbing and begging for him to not stop. Now, anytime the two of you having been in the same place at the same time, hitching a ride hadn’t been much of an issue. A break from your own crew for a “date night” as your First Mate had put it, much to your annoyance.

“Here,” Dracule murmured, reaching a hand down to grasp your own, helping you step down onto the dock. The sound of laughter and yelling drew your attention away, gaze trailing over the shipwrights and dock yards. You’d heard stories of Water 7, but had never found a reason to seek out the aid of the legendary builders. Yet here you were; as he led you away from the ship, you found yourself distracted by the large galleons that were being built, repaired, or setting sail on their maiden voyages.

“This is… Wow,” you breathed out a laugh, shaking your head at the craftsmanship. “Now that I’m here, I can only picture what’s wrong with my own ship,” not necessarily a joke, though your tone made it sound as such. Dracule hummed as he dropped your hand, his own gaze sharp.

A target on the back- one for each of you separately, and a much larger one for you two to be spotted together. But who would dare encroach upon Dracule Mihawk? Haughty swordsmen who thought themselves better than the Greatest, that was who. Luckily, it seemed that reputation did matter in Water 7, as the two of you were given a large berth. “I’ve business I need to attend to before our dinner,” his voice drew you from your thoughts; you glanced up, meeting the keen golden eyes of your not so secret lover. “The hotel I’ve booked is two tiers up. Take the yagura to this address,” always demanding, he placed a slip of paper into your grasp. “I’ll be there soon.”

“What, no time to stroll along with me?” You teased, stepping closer. He tensed, but didn’t push you away- no, rather, he drew you even closer with a hand upon your waist, pulling you flush to his own form.

“If I remained with you, I would get nothing done.” He leaned down, lips brushing against your own in a ghost of a kiss. “And I would much rather save that for after our dinner.” A nip of his teeth against your lip had you gasping before he pulled away, adjusting his hat. He turned sharply on his heel and ducked down an alleyway- and within moments, you lost sight of him.

Not even a goodbye.

With a sigh, you turned to flag down a yagura to ride on. While you wanted to spend time exploring the city- the knowledge of what this night could bring was sitting at the forefront of your mind, making you adjust your skirt to cross your thighs a touch tighter. Even so, you did enjoy the sights you were able to see: a grand water fountain, plenty of storefronts that looked promising, restaurants that you were certain were above your normal indulgence range.

It wasn’t long before the yagura- a sweet thing that had more spots than you’d ever seen on one- pulled up to the front of a large hotel. Nearly four floors tall, you felt your heart stop as you looked at the people coming and going from it. You were almost- no, you WERE certain- some of these people were famous. With their clothing, the way they had their own security detail- oh, Mihawk, what did you do? You stepped from the yagura onto the sidewalk and reached over to offer it a gentle pet on the snout before turning towards the front. The door was covered with a black awning- and had a red carpet leading beyond golden doors. The outside architecture was elegant- older, speaking back to a time before you had been born, but beautifully attended to.

You felt under dressed. Clenching your jaw, you made your way inside, ignoring the sideways glances sent your way as you approached the front desk. “I have a room.” You stated with confidence, chin raised, gaze level with the man behind the desk.

“Name?”

“It should be beneath Mihawk.”

“You-… You are his guest, I presume?” Stumbling over his words for a moment, the concierge leaned down to procure a golden key with the room number etched onto the body. “You will be staying on the top floor. The Garnet Suite.” He rushed to explain, gesturing to someone behind you to take your bag from your shoulder. “Please- let us know if there is anything- anything- you desire.”

“Thank you.” You glanced to the bellhop curiously- a petite woman whose eyes were wide in awe as she followed you to the elevator. “How long have you worked here?” You asked as she rang the elevator.

“Only a few months,” she answered quietly, her cheeks rosy. “Sure must be important to be… His guest.”

“You think so?” You teased, watching the way her mouth opened and closed a few times before she bobbed her head quickly, dirty blonde hair swaying with the movement. “I think you’re right. I mean- if you can keep a secret?”

“I can!”

“He isn’t the only one with a large bounty on his head.” You winked as you stepped into the elevator. She followed after with an expression reading of awe. It took her a moment to close the door and to select the floor- but that was alright. “You aren’t used to pirates, yet?”

“No, ma’am. I’m still… This is all new to me. I’m not even from here! I just- I wanted to see more of the world, and Water 7 is the social hub!”

“Where are you from?”

“The North Blue, ma’am.”

“You certainly are a long way from home, then!” You couldn’t help but smile fondly; she was sweet, this bellhop. She still had a lot to learn, certainly, but she would do well. “What’s your name?”

“Liliana, ma’am.”

“Well, Liliana- I think I can handle it from here. But thank you for helping me,” you opened the coin purse that hung from your hip, fishing out a few berries that had her eyes widening even further, if that were possible. “For your trouble.”

“Oh, thank you!” Her grin was bright as you stepped out into the hall. “Thank you very much!” She reached out to grasp the door, shutting it once more. Turning, you made your way to the room; plaques hung beside each door with the name of the room.

Ruby, spinel, jasper… Ah, garnet. They must separate floors by the colors of gemstones, you thought to yourself as you unlocked the door. Stepping in, you had to pause to take in the sight. It was breathtaking; a large balcony separated by twin glass doors, covered with semi-sheer, off-white curtains. The bed was a four poster with black sheets; golden detailing was etched into the wood, but that wasn’t even the show stopper. No, it was the rest of the room. The walls were painted a rich garnet tone with ivory pillars set into the walls with decorative filigree carved into both stone and wood. As your head turned, you realized with a flush that it was one large room- the claw foot tub sat across from the bed, a shower tucked into the corner. Twin sinks were posed on either side, though a large mirror ran across the length, framed by gold.

How much had Dracule paid for this room alone? You were almost afraid to ask.

Closing the door behind yourself, the lock clicked into place. You set your bag down at the foot of the bed and crossed over to the large mahogany wardrobe, opening it, only to find that no, it wasn’t empty. A garment bag hung with a note scrawled in Mihawk’s hasty handwriting:

“Wear this for dinner.”

Curiosity piqued, you unzipped the bag and slipped the cloth off to reveal a stunning gown of ruby, silken in it’s make. Your size, you noted; draped collar with thin straps, the back plunging and crisscrossed with thin straps you knew were only there for decoration. A slit clear to what would be mid-thigh, too-

“Sweet Aphrodite, Mihawk.” You hissed, shaking your head as you turned away. Now it made sense, why he’d asked you to bring heels. Well, in the meantime- freshening up would be nice. You strolled over to the bath, fingers trailing along the ivory lip of the tub. This close to the mirror, you noticed that it gave a perfect view of the bed. Your lips curled in a mischievous smirk as you turned the tab on the tub. A glance to the left to the windows that offered a lovely view of the sky. No one could see in.

Perfect.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Someone had come to retrieve you- one of the waitstaff for the hotel. You’d had enough time to bathe, apply makeup, and dress before the man had arrived. The dress was, indeed, your size- clinging to your form in a way that could almost be considered sinful. The ruby tone caught the light regardless of which way you turned. You’d paired your lips with the dress, the red stark against your skin. As you entered the restaurant attached to the hotel, you felt eyes turn to take you in.

In that moment, you felt like the most important woman in the world. Your lips curved into a slow smile as you spotted your date, who was slowly rising to his feet. He’d forgone his normal wardrobe, though Yoru was leaning against the wall behind him. His own suit was black, tailored to fit him. “This was a pleasant surprise,” you greeted as he reached out, taking your hand in his.

He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your cheek. “You look delicious,” he murmured in your ear before pulling back to pull your chair out for you. A shudder threatened to dance across your skin as you settled down into the chair. Somewhere in the restaurant, a piano played live. “I hope the room met your expectations.”

“Met and exceeded,” you replied with a shake of your head. “This was too much- all of this-”

“Nonsense.” He waved a hand through the air as if to dispel your words. “For you? It’s worth it. I hope you don’t mind, I ordered wine for the table.”

“Perfect.” A vintage red, perfect to pair with dinner. As you glanced over the menu, you tried to ignore the prices listed. Expensive tastes; of course he’d have expensive taste. “You seem familiar with the island. How often have you visited?”

“A few times.” The dismissive tone had you rolling your eyes as the waiter approached. You gave your order- a pasta dish with white sauce paired with a side salad. Mihawk ordered a steak- medium rare, some sort of a pasta dish you weren’t familiar with, and informed the man that the desert would be to-go. You raised your brow at that, head tilting to study him. “To go?”

“Mhm.” He hummed as he sipped on his wine, gaze trailing along your bare arms, settling on your collarbones for a moment. He was right; the dress had been the perfect choice for you. “I don’t intend to linger here longer than necessary.” The hotel was perfect, one he was more than familiar with. He only hoped it was up to your expectations. “Why?”

“Just curious.” Your gaze slipped away, cheeks flushing under the intense stare. Your legs crossed under the table, thighs pressing closer to offer some relief to the pressure you felt beginning to build. “Did you finish whatever business you had?”

He nodded before settling his chin upon his palm. The hat was still on his head, hiding his features from most everyone at the restaurant- aside from yourself. “I did. Some repairs that I required to be finished tonight before we left in the morning.”

“A shame we have to leave so soon. This truly is a beautiful city…” You sighed, lip jutting out in a pout.

Across from you, Mihawk chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ve business to attend to after we finish here, you know that.”

“Some big meeting with the World Government, I’m aware. Tell me, what is so pressing?” No news had broken yet, but there were tensions that had certainly gotten the seas astir. “Or is that some secret you’d have to kill me for?”

“You know the answer to that, darling.” Mihawk purred, leaning back in his chair, a small smirk curving the corners of his lips upwards. He watched you squirm in your seat, affected by the threat and the rumble of his tone. Your fingers drummed upon the top of the table, a telltale giveaway of how much you were anticipating the events that would follow this dinner, much to his delight. “How did you like the room?”

“Oh!” Your attention returned fully, gaze sparkling as you gestured vaguely. “It’s stunning! The latticework was so intricate- and the filigree? Oh, Dracule, you outdid yourself this time. And don’t get me started on the way the room is set up? That four poster is simply to die for! And the bathtub? It was big enough that I couldn’t touch the other end- a perfect soaking tub.”

“So you enjoyed it?”

“Oh, certainly. The balcony is a fun touch. I had the doors open while I bathed to get that warm sea breeze…” You trailed off, worrying your lip for a moment before releasing it. “The mirror is interesting. Such a perfect angle for the bed…”

“So you noticed.”

“That hotel used to be a brothel, didn’t it?”

“Perhaps, once, many years ago. It no longer serves that purpose.”

“Tell me, Dracule- am I just a high priced whore to warm your bed?” You teased, foot settling on the inside of his calf. Slowly, you drug it up the inside of his leg, watching the way he tensed, the way his gaze darkened. “Someone who can take care of you? Take away all of those stressors-”

“The highest.” He interrupted, sitting up straighter as his gaze shifted to over your shoulder. Food. You smile as your plates are sat before you. “Thank you,” Mihawk dismissed the waiter with less than a glance.

You could have sworn you heard the boy mutter “prick” under his breath.

Conversation lapsed into silence as you ate. You had to hand it to the chef, he certainly knew what he was doing with his pasta. But your mind wasn’t on the pasta- it was on the way Dracule kept looking at you, as if you were the meat on his plate that he was devouring, rather than the steak that was rare enough it still bled, making its own gravy. How long had it been since the two of you had any time alone? Weeks, at this point. Between your own crew, your own plundering, and Mihawk’s schedule, finding any time to be alone had been difficult- until now.

A bag was presented along with the check as your plates were cleared away. “What did you order?” You whispered as he came around, pulling your seat out for you. You had a bit of a sweet tooth, something he was well aware of.

“Something sweet.” He replied as he left payment on the table before settling Yoru on his back once more. Once settled, he took hold of the bag in one hand while his other settled on the small of your back, leading you through the winding tables. Couples of all ages paused in conversation as you passed, shock and awe spread across their expressions.

You couldn’t help the rush of pride that swept through you. Yes, that’s right- Mihawk was yours. He was the one at your back. His hand was the one settled just above the curve of your ass. The one who had rented the hotel room, the one who had paid for your dinner, who had brought you here for time away from your crew- time alone with him.

You were his- and he, equally yours.

Crossing the lobby to the elevators, you shifted, moving his hand from your back to twine your fingers together. A soft hum pulled free from him at the movement, though you paid it no mind. He didn’t care, really- as long as he could touch you, that’s all that mattered to Mihawk. His hand gave yours a gentle squeeze as the bellhop opened the door for the elevator. A man this time, you noted as you two stepped in- and he stepped out quickly, face paling dramatically in a way that had you laughing.

Mihawk looked almost amused as he pulled the gate closed.

Alone, his hand pulled free to reach up, settling at the base of your neck, just above your spine. A gentle squeeze had your eyes falling closed, breath stuttering. “I believe I’m still hungry,” Mihawk sighed, tutting softly. “I suppose I’ll need to have my desert sooner rather than later.”

“Is that so?” You breathed out, features flushing as you reached your floor. You opened the gate quickly, stepping out ahead of Mihawk- who still had his hand on your neck, not allowing you to turn. Leading, guiding you to your room. “And here I was, thinking I had the sweet tooth.” You taunted, pulling the key free from your garter to unlock the door. An old habit- normally, a knife would have been there.

A gentle shove in had you stumbling forward. Mihawk kicked the door closed, already setting Yoru aside with great care. “Do you have any idea how delectable you are in that dress?” He murmured, turning as he clicked the lock into place. Your breath caught in your throat as he removed his hat, hanging it on the door handle- a habit you learned was to know if anyone tried to jimmy the lock to break in. “How I was tempted to cut dinner short just to rush you back up here? To feel the way your skin had warmed the silk.”

“No, I- I hadn’t realized you were affected that much.” He had a remarkable poker face, really. You stepped closer, meeting him halfway as his hands settled on your hips, tugging you closer. His fingers rucked up the fabric with how he gripped you in that moment. It was exhilarating as you reached up, cupping his cheeks as he studied you. “Then why don’t you do something about it?”

And so, he did.

Lifting you up with ease, hands gripping your thighs as he carried you to the bed. A squeal had escaped you at the sudden movement, though you couldn’t help the laughter that followed as he tossed you down. It was rare that Dracule became playful, but oh, how you relished it. The way he crawled over you, trapping you beneath his body- and within his kisses. Full of passion, you reached up to tangle a hand in his hair. One leg rose, hooking around his hips, tugging him down against yourself.

He hadn’t been the only one affected, after all.

“I could devour you,” Mihawk sighed into the kiss, trailing more down your jaw, to your throat, where he busied himself with making sure the world knew who you belonged to by leaving bruise after bruise. When he reached the juncture of neck and shoulder, he paused, teeth scraping the sensitive skin before biting down. A surprised yell escaped you, prompting you to tug on his hair. “May I?” He breathed against your skin, soothing the bite with a swipe of his tongue. “May I devour you? My dessert?”

“Mihawk,” you were panting already, heart hammering within your chest. His pupils were blown with lust, you noted; no doubt your own were the same. “Gods above, please. Please- I need you. I need you so badly, I ache for you.” You whined, shifting your hips as he sat up on his knees, tugging off the tie he wore, followed by the dress shirt- all but ripping it to remove it, tossing the ruined fabric aside.

He moved back off the bed, only to kneel at the end. You reached back, grabbing hold of the pillows to make things more comfortable for yourself- and for you, too. You tossed one down for him to kneel on, drawing a genuine smile from him as he shook his head. You placed a pillow behind your head, and one under yourself to raise your hips up. A better angle, you’d learned.

Carefully, he removed your heels, taking a moment to massage one foot, then the other. An appreciative hum pulled free from you as you settled back against the bed, eyes falling closed to enjoy the feeling of calloused hands smoothing across the smooth skin of your legs. A kiss was pressed to your right ankle, a nip at your calf that had your leg tensing momentarily. His hand settled behind your knee, prompting you to bend it, to settle it over his shoulder. And then- a gasp was ripped free at the feeling of his tongue laving a slow trail along the inside of your thigh. You sighed, eyes opening to study the ceiling, expecting for him to dive in-

Only to receive a bite on your left thigh. Your leg tensed once more before a surprised sound escaped as his tongue- his damned tongue- pressed against your core through your underwear. “Mihawk,” you whispered, hands fisting the lavish duvet beneath you.

“You’ve already soaked through your panties,” he taunted, turning his head to kiss at the juncture of your leg and pelvis. “What were you thinking about?” He mused as his fingers crept forward. Something clinked- you didn’t register what it was until cool metal pressed against the skin of your thigh. The Kogatana, you realized. “Was it this?”

“If you rip this pair, I’ll never forgive you.”

“I’ll buy you five of the same.”

“… That’s a good deal.” The sound of fabric ripping, of the flat of the blade pressing against your skin had goosebumps breaking out. He tugged your underwear off and away, the ruined fabric joining its predecessor- his shirt- on the ground somewhere. You’d find them later, it wasn’t important right now. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watched as he carefully slid the Kogatana back into its sheath before removing it entirely from his neck. He looked up, meeting your gaze as he guided your thighs to settle back upon his shoulders. With a tug, he had you laying back once more with a breathless laugh that morphed into a moan as his tongue licked a slow path along your core.

Once.

Twice.

Three times before his thumbs settled on your lips, spreading you for him. “It’s almost like the nectar of the Gods,” he murmured against you, tongue laving against you from entrance to clit in firm, broad, warm strokes that had you gasping for air quicker than you thought possible. “I could get drunk off the taste.”

“Dracule,” you whined, a hand coming to settle in inky tresses, tugging none to softly, drawing a growl out from your lover.

In retaliation, he turned his head and nipped at your thigh, though it only drew a startled moan free. He returned to his goal, licking like a man starved, as if he truly did intend on eating you. His lips settled around your clit, creating a momentary vacuum that had your toes curling and your back arching. He hummed around you, tongue flicking over your clit quickly, mercilessly. Where he’d learned how to pleasure someone like this, you would never know. But by the Gods, you were melting against his mouth. “Oh, sweet Aphrodite,” you whimpered, hips shifting to grind against him, craving more stimulation. You needed, wanted, craved more.

“Greedy girl,” Mihawk growled, pulling back from your pussy to settle an arm over your hips, holding you down in place. “You’ll take what I give you, when I decide to give it. None of this nonsense.”

“Oh, you fucker,” you huffed, but try as you might, you could never move his arm. As you looked down at him, you caught a glimpse of yourself in that damned mirror, giving you pause. The dress was rucked up around your hips, your skin flushed in the soft light that spilled through the doors. And Mihawk was kneeling between your thighs- oh, you could watch him. You could watch the way his head bobbed with each pass of his tongue, the way his other hand was between his thighs, moving quickly-

Touching himself.

The knowledge sent a shudder through your body. “Good girl,” he murmured against your core, voice ragged. How close was he? Too close- he turned his full attention back to you, his now-free hand settling on your thigh. “So fucking wet, all for me.”

“You’re- oh, fuck- vocal tonight, aren’t you?”

Instead of answering, one of his fingers slid in smoothly, clear down to the knuckle, drawing a loud moan from you in retaliation. Slowly, he pumped, crooking his finger on the draw out to brush against your walls in a way that had you seeing stars- only from one damned finger. “Should see yourself,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Greedy, greedy girl- already weeping around my finger. Do you need another one?”

“Please!” You cried out as he withdrew his fingers, only to replace one with two. The stretch was delicious; you thought you could handle three, but couldn’t find your voice- not with how he started fucking you in ernest, not with the way he focused his talented mouth solely on your clit suddenly. “Oh- oh, there, there, there!” You cried, tossing your head back against the bed.

Good, he thought to himself. If he played his cards right… Crooking his fingers, he pressed upwards, grinding his fingers in, deeper than you could ever manage by yourself. Tongue rolling against your clit in hard passes that had your thighs tensing each time, you felt that familiar ball of tension begin to form quickly. “Can feel you getting tighter,” he taunted, letting his tongue hang out as he lavished your clit in attention.

“Mi-Mihawk, oh fuck. Oh- oh my god, your fingers!” You whined, reaching up to palm at your chest, tugging on your nipples before raising it higher to settle around your own throat. “I’m close, so close, please-”

“That’s my good girl. Come for me,” he rasped, watching the way you rolled your hips as best you could, as your stomach tensed. It was like watching a living piece of art, the way your orgasm washed over you. How your jaw dropped open, how your cries spilled free as your release spilled over his fingers, onto the floor below. “That’s my good girl.” The praise fell upon deaf ears, your heartbeat racing within your ears. You shuddered as you began to come down, the feeling of his fingers still gently thrusting almost too much for you. Weakly, you reached down to push at his shoulder, the telltale sign. He sighed, leaning forward to press a kiss against your oversensitive clit as he withdrew his fingers.

“Gods, Mihawk,” you shook your head, chest rising and falling with deep breaths, trying to calm yourself as he rose to his feet. He used the shirt he’d ruined to clean his arm up before tossing it over the small mess made on the floor. At least it didn’t hit the pillow, he thought as he grabbed it to set at the head of the bed.

“Oh, I hope I didn’t tire you out,” he murmured as he rounded the side of the bed, leaning over to draw you into a slow kiss. You could taste yourself on his lips, on the brush of his tongue against your lips, against your own. His chin was drenched in you- in your essence. You rolled over, rising to your knees to reach him properly, dragging him closer, chest to chest. “Why’s that?” You breathed into the kiss, pulling back just enough to study your lover. His hands reached up, brushing your hair back from your face, his lips curving into a grin full of mischief. “Because, darling, I want seconds. I haven’t had my fill yet.”

#one piece #dracule mihawk smut #dracule mihawk x reader #one piece x reader #one piece smut #think I need someone older series #feel like I need to go to church tomorrow for this jfc [ is pagan ]#next up: Shanks #and boy are y'all gonna love that one #unholy scripture [ n s f w ]#x reader #kanon's writings

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kykyonthemoon · 2 years

Text

Two by the fire

— Paring: Diluc x Jean (Jealuc)

— Tags: short, soft angst, soft fluff, hurt/ comfort

— Summary: Diluc found Jean, wounded and faint after her quest on Dragonspine.

— Word count: 1641

— Requested by @jessiemai99 (please check out her art too :> )

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— Masterlist

— Ao3

— Hoyolab

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The strong wind could not stop the girl's but it made the wounds on her body sting. Jean tugged back on her jacket, rolling her eyes and glancing around. The Warming Seelie she had been hunting had vanished without a trace, save for a frail trail of warmth that had left before being carried away by the wind.

Jean had run out of spare medication after the last challenging battle with the Abyss Herald troop. She had to acknowledge that she had underestimated the opponents so she went alone, partly because she did not want the Knights to be fighting outside the city during their holiday. Jean had the tendency of doing all the work by herself. These little tasks she could handle on her own, and she did so with just minor scratches.

She thought to herself, I am the Acting Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius. I'm strong, and I'll get through this cold and my injuries. Everything will be alright after that. With a proud look on my face, I shall return to Mondstadt. Don't let anyone be concerned about me…

But with each stride, Jean's eyelids and entire body became heavier than ever. The sight in front of her became blurry. Then she collapsed onto the cold, rigid icy ground.

Each bitter breeze passed, followed by a flare of sparks that enveloped Jean in warmth and comfort. She felt her mother's hand gently stroke her hair, and a lullaby poured out of the corner of her lips. Then she found herself at supper with her father; the entire family gathered around the little table, with the fragrant dishes still emitting smoke. There were, too, Barbara and their flower garden. Her little sister placed on her lap a crown made of flowers... It was all beautiful, and warm. But that warmth gradually faded away as the darkness drew back, once again engulfing her in nightmares as everything she loved was destroyed.

“Barbara… Klee… Lisa… Please don’t…”

Jean blinked her eyes wide. The brightness from the fire in front of her caused her eyes to narrow. The surroundings remained black, except for her and another person who were being caressed by the warm glow. She was no longer cold, and there was a scarlet coat with a recognizable style and scent on her body.

At this time, Jean turned to look at the person next to her. His crimson hair hid part of his face. He was still sleeping on the straw that served as backrest for the two of them. Jean immediately realized who it was, and was startled that he was there, with her. With her powerful and abrupt movement, she accidentally awakened him.

"Senpai…"

Jean was puzzled. He had just fallen asleep close to her. It was his coat she was wearing. This was a similar situation to ones in the romantic stories Jean enjoyed reading, in secret. It was hard for her to keep a calm face like usual. She was struggling to figure out what to do next when the other woke up.

"Jean..." Diluc called her name, apparently still not fully awake. But he hurriedly sat up and pulled away a bit after seeing the perplexity in her eyes. "How do you feel?"

"I'm all right..." Jean responded, despite the fact that she was not. Her heart was about to explode.

"Well... My apologies for taking you here without your will. I could not transport you back to Mondstadt due to the blizzard."

Jean took a glance outside the cave where they were sheltering. The snow was still falling, and with the sound of wind she shivered. She began to recall something while she was half-awake. When she fell, she remembered to be picked up by someone and taken away.

"Did you find me, senpai?" Jean asked.

Diluc's nod validated what she had said. Jean noticed that her wounds were neatly bandaged. She raised her eyes to Diluc. He returned that contact for a brief moment before turning away.

"I'm sorry if I caused senpai any problems."

Jean spoke gently. It had been a long time since she remembered what it was like to be cared for. Since she became the "Dandelion Knight".

"You haven't changed at all, have you?"

Diluc's reply caused Jean to waver. He went on to say:

"You've always been the one who carries everything on your shoulders. You take care of everyone in Mondstadt, except yourself."

"I…"

Jean was speechless. Red flame. Diluc and she sat side by side. The scene was all too familiar. It sent her back somewhere in the past, when the younger version of themselves were sitting by the same fire.

"A knight must first learn to care for herself before she can protect others."

So Diluc said, after seeing Jean's hand bleed during sword practice. He helped her patch her wounds, and so every afternoon, she went to the training ground to practice with him.

Then, it was by the cold winter fire that she couldn't make Diluc stay in the Knights of Favonius.

"I've practiced a lot. I've improved so much. I have the strength to defend Mondstadt now... And I'll do everything I can to help senpai..."

Diluc only stared at her with hollow eyes. As cold as ice.

"You can't do everything, Jean. You have the ability to protect Mondstadt and the Knights. As for me, I'm no longer going to be a part of it."

Diluc turned and walked away, leaving Jean with mixed emotions and unresolved feelings. Their paths had turned in two different directions since that day.

If given a second choice, Jean would still choose Mondstadt, the Knights, and the task she was born to perform.

While Diluc had always claimed that his route was distinct from the Knights', their efforts were all about the same thing: safeguarding their homeland. The Knights were like the light, while Diluc lurked in the shadows, quietly assisting them under a different guise. Jean quickly realized what he was up to, and she quietly thanked him with all her heart.

Back by the firelight where Dragonspine was ever chilly, Jean sat crouched and rested her chin on her knees. Diluc had the Vision of fire, radiant, warming her as before. Many times she wondered, if she could make him stay that day, he would still be her senpai in the Knights. And what if their relationship would be different now? Was there any chance for her... When Jean looked to the side, she spotted Diluc's worried gaze on her.

"You don't need to apologize to me." He stated. "No need to think that you owe me this time. I just happened to be passing by the place and helping an old friend. That's all."

An old friend...

The words kept echoing in Jean's mind. As cold as the day he left.But she said nothing and merely nodded in silence. Unbeknownst to her, Diluc lied.

He did not have anything to do at Dragonspine at all. It was only because of Kaeya's sneer at the conversation that he learned about Jean being away to the snowy mountain on a mission alone. He was sure that Kaeya had intentionally let him hear that, and constantly emphasized how risky this mission was. Without hesitation, Diluc rushed to find Jean. Upon arrival, the Abyss Herald troop was already defeated by her. He traced the trail she left in the pristine snow and found she had just fainted. He was worried that something terrible might happen. Fortunately, he sought a nearby shelter.

Jean's nearly frozen and wounded body stiffened. Diluc kindled the fire and then handed her his coat. But that was not enough. He used his Vision to warm her up. He let her rest on his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her. At that moment, he did not think much, nor was he shy, all he wanted was for her to wake up. Then he, himself, fell into slumber as well.

When he woke up to find Jean very close, Diluc suddenly felt embarrassed. But most of all, he was glad that she was at ease. Jean sneezed suddenly, her body trembling slightly at the cold wind that had just swept through. Diluc leaned forward instantly, his hands clutching his coat and tugging it closer to her. Their breaths intertwined forming a thin puff of smoke. Jean blushed.

"I'm alright, senpai..."

The sight reminded Jean of any fiction she'd ever read. The male and female characters sat side by side by the firelight, so close that they could feel each other's breath. They then would confirm their affection by giving each other a warm kiss... Just thinking about it made Jean's face redder than the setting sun.

Diluc seemed to sense something too. He remained in place and looked into Jean's eyes for a long time. This moment could last forever, if she could hold on without sneezing again.

"Oh..."

Jean silently blamed herself for ruining the beautiful moment just now. Diluc merely smiled slightly and leaned back against the straw.

"You should rest a little more. When this storm passes, I'll take you back to the city."

Jean nodded and took a seat next to Diluc. After a time, he said softly:

"I know you do not seek my assistance. But maybe at some point, I'll be happy to share the burdens with you, if you let me…"

Perhaps Diluc did not want to make things worse, so he left it hanging. In the past, he himself had rejected Jean when she offered her help. Now he was expecting her to reach out to him when she was in trouble. Was he being selfish?

Jean's eyes flickered slightly. Her cheeks and nose were all bright red. She nodded and replied softly:

"Of course. Thank you, senpai."

-The End-

#jealuc #diluc x jean #jean x diluc #genshin impact #fanfiction #fanfic #genshin impact fanfic #genshin impact cc #genshin impact diluc #genshin impact jean #jean gunnhildr #diluc ragnvindr #dijean #voyage of the hearts series

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 16 hours

Text

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 1: Amethyst]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can't seem to get away from...

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don't like Titanic you won't like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @camsdaae @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

A note goes sharp, and you swim up through colorless currents—indistinct conversation, an iron-grey draft each time the front door opens, cigar smoke like fog over the ocean—and turn to the viola player. His eyes have caught on the place where your left hand rests on the table by a glass of pear cider, still cold from the icebox, misty with condensation. Rain pours outside. Logs fracture and hiss in the fireplace. Your gown is thick velvet, indigo like the night sky, and the ruffles of your sleeve have slipped back to reveal the evidence roped around your wrist: shadows of trapped blood, rubies that sicken and turn to sapphires and amethysts.

You hurriedly adjust your sleeve. Now the viola player’s eyes are on yours, an overcast blue and improperly direct, and something flies between you: his shock, your shame. You look away and pretend to ignore him. His horsehair bow finds its rhythm again, a tempo like a racing pulse. The quartet is playing The Wild Rover.

Daemon hasn’t noticed. He has ensnared the reporter entirely, here in O’Connell’s Bar in the heart of Galway, just across the street from Eyre Square and only a few blocks west of the Docks and the North Atlantic Ocean. The young man writes for The Irish Times and has traveled from Dublin to interview your husband, once a celebrated newcomer but soon departing and taking you with him. Five years ago a storm blew him in; now the gleam of distant treasure catches his eye and beckons him like the moon calls the tides. He has been this way all his life. You were mad to believe he’d change.

“Lord Targaryen,” the reporter says with his felt-tip pen hovering over his notebook, gazing at Daemon worshipfully, firelight dancing on both of their faces. You glance at the viola player again. He’s still watching you, and this is bad. “You’ve been described as a cowboy by numerous publications and business associates. Do you consider that a compliment?”

Daemon chuckles, smirking and imperious. He puffs on his pipe, elbows propped on the table. His eyes are a deep-set reptilian green, emeralds glinting from the mouth of a mine. Strands of dark blonde hair fall roguishly down over his forehead. “Oh, it’s a massive compliment, isn’t it? A cowboy eschews the safe and the predictable. A cowboy makes his own way in the world. My father was a duke, and now my brother is a duke, and one day my nephew will be a duke, God help us all. And so I always knew that if I wanted anything for myself, I’d have to go out and find it.”

The reporter is smiling, enraptured. He asks, already knowing the answer: “And what was it you found?”

“In the Wah Wah Mountains of Utah, we discovered red beryl.” Daemon talks with his hands, magnetic fields, incantations, spells that once worked on you. “It’s exceptionally rare and a gorgeous stone, high color saturation, not as hard as a diamond but durable enough for jewelry, essentially a blood-colored emerald. I was twenty-five years old and had just put together my first small mining expedition, and here we were sitting on the only known supply of red beryl on the planet. And it was then that I realized that there are these sorts of…natural monopolies that exist scattered across the globe, gemstones that can be found in only one location, and thus if you are the man who owns the mine…every single stone must pass through your hands before it ends up in retail establishments in London or Paris or Milan or wherever.”

“And so you took the lesson you learned from red beryl and applied it to other minerals,” the reporter says as he scribbles in his notebook.

Daemon grins, puffing on his pipe, exhaling smoke like a dragon. And how remarkable he is to have agreed to meet here in this pub like a common man, so unpretentious, so unafraid of the world’s dirt, effortless and yet untouchable, and this is why his miners love Daemon, why they will break their spines and poison their lungs for him. “We kept the Utah mine, of course, and bought up rights to thousands of acres of land surrounding it. I hired more workers. And then I investigated reports of mysterious, unnamed, brand new stones that had been stumbled upon in far-flung places, untamed by civilized men, the earth just waiting to be slit open and butchered like a fat hog. In Madagascar, we found Grandidierite, a bewitching blue-green, the Indian Ocean in miniature, crystalized form. In Tanzania, we discovered Tanzanite, halfway between an amethyst and a sapphire.”

The reporter nods to you as he says: “I believe Lady Targaryen is wearing some this evening, is she not?”

“Indeed,” Daemon replies without much interest. You touch your fingertips to your teardrop-shaped earrings and give the reporter a polite smile. You steal a glimpse of the viola player; he isn’t staring at you anymore—a blessing, a relief—but he frowns distractedly as his bow glides over the strings. “In Australia there was black opal, and in the Dominican Republic we were the first mining operation to encounter Larimar, and then…well, then I heard of Connemara marble.”

“Native to Ireland,” the reporter says proudly. “The lone quarry that’s still producing is right here in Galway.”

“So of course that intrigued me.” Daemon taps on the tabletop with his right hand, and now he is watching you, curling lips, taunting eyes. “And when I crossed the Atlantic to acquaint myself with this quarry and inquire into purchasing it, I was intrigued by the quarry owner’s daughter as well.”

His pen scratching against parchment; black rivers of ink filling up the page. “How would you describe the courtship?”

“Brief,” Daemon says, then laughs. He points to you with his smoldering pipe. “How about you, dear? How would you describe it?”

“Flattering,” you answer honestly, and the reporter makes his notes. “Daemon already had a reputation by then. A captain of industry, a staggering success story, a man who refused to rest idly on his family’s titles, which he could have easily done.” And a man who also refused to marry, rejecting Rockefellers and Morgans and Astors, duchesses and countesses, but asked your father for your hand in marriage after only a few weeks of tours of the quarry and dinners set alight with charismatic retellings of his travels. You knew the Connemara marble was part of the allure, but you took this as a common interest rather than the only thing Daemon wanted from you. Well…one of two things.

“You’ve resided in Galway ever since,” the reporter is saying to Daemon. “Barring a few trips for business. But that is about to change.”

Daemon sucks on his pipe. “I’ve received a very generous offer from Tiffany & Co. in Manhattan. They’ve been around for almost a century, did you know they supplied the Union Army with swords and surgical tools during the Civil War? Real patriots. Not afraid to get bloody. They want to expand into the sale of colored gemstones, not just diamonds and pearls and gold, the same unimaginative pieces peddled by their competitors. And after some long and arduous negotiations, Tiffany has agreed to pay a fair price for the exclusive rights to specimens originating from my mines, and I have agreed relocate to New York City for the foreseeable future to consult with them as a gemstone expert.”

“It’s my understanding that you have family in New York too, Lord Targaryen. Perhaps a reunion is part of the appeal of a move across the pond.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t assume that,” Daemon says impishly. “I haven’t seen Alicent Hightower or her children in years and years. I wouldn’t even know them if I passed them on the street.”

“Is that right?” The reporter’s pen hovers uncertainly over his notebook; he doesn’t think this is the sort of familial disharmony that should be printed in a newspaper.

“But my wife and I will have some company for the voyage,” Daemon continues. “My niece Rhaenyra and her charming husband Laenor will be joining us on Titanic. They’ve been on holiday in the Mediterranean and have several social engagements on the East Coast before they return to summer in England with my brother.”

“Viserys Targaryen, the 9th Duke of Beaufort.”

Daemon grins, not kindly at all. “One man earns a title, eight others wear it.”

The reporter shifts awkwardly in his chair. It’s not the sort of joke he’s allowed to laugh at. Changing the topic, he looks to the string quartet, which is now playing Danny Boy. The viola player’s eyes flick to you; you drink you pear cider and pretend you are unaware. “You’ll be sorely missed in Galway. But what a proper Irish sendoff you’re receiving here at O’Connell’s tonight!”

“Yes,” Daemon muses, the bit of the pipe in his mouth. “A week from now, tugboats will be hauling us out of Cork Harbor and into the Atlantic Ocean, perhaps never to return.”

You shudder as a man enters the pub and a cold draft blows through you. You are terrified of ships, tiny metal buckets at the mercy of bottomless blue, unnatural incursions into inhuman spaces. You have sailed twice before with your parents—once to Le Havre to visit Paris and again on a cruise of the Aegean—and both times you were consumed by visions of water rising up over your feet, bodies thrashing in the waves, bones turning to silt. You don’t want to cross the Atlantic. You don’t want to leave home.

“You look a bit familiar, boy,” Daemon says, and you realize he’s talking to the viola player. You startle, then are relieved to see that your husband has only a dim curiosity in the musician. The reporter has bored him, and Daemon’s eyes are wandering. He is a man of short and restless attention. You have learned this the hard way. “Have we met before?”

The viola player—early twenties, around your age, sandy blond hair and a beard trimmed close to the skin—pauses his fiddling as his three companions carry on. His accent is English, not Irish. “Well I’ve played all over Ireland, sir. All over Europe, in fact.”

“Were you by chance at the McPherson wedding back in February?”

You don’t believe he was, you think you’d remember him; but the viola player nods eagerly. “Yes sir, that was me.”

“Ah! That was a fine night. Excellent duck. Wasn’t the duck good, dear?” But Daemon only half-listens for your response. He has turned back to the reporter and is recounting how he and his expedition hacked through the jungles of Tanzania to reach the location of suspected gemstone deposits, how they endured attacks from crocodiles and chimpanzees and burned up from fevers.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” you say as you rise from the table. The reporter scrambles to his feet to stand as decorum demands.

“Yes yes,” Daemon replies abruptly, not looking at you, then continues his stories.

You escape from the pub through the front door and stand beneath the awning just out of the rain, watching the reflections of streetlights glow in puddles like stars. Across the street in Eyre Square, a public park established in 1710, shadows of ash trees rock in the wind. With trembling fingers, you fumble a Kerry Blue and your cigarette holder out of your black handbag, then realize you don’t have a lighter. Someone else always does that part for you. You sigh and stare out into the rain, taking deep breaths of Irish night, early April, cold and wet and green, the only air you know how to take painlessly into your lungs, blood, bones, the dark damp earth that built you. You cannot imagine living amongst metal skyscrapers and rumbling automobiles instead of verdant rolling hills dotted with sheep.

You hear the pub door open, and you assume it is one of the waiters or perhaps Rush—Edward Rushton, Daemon’s valet and bodyguard, ever-watchful and unwaveringly stern—bringing you the black mink coat you left inside. But to your horror, it is the viola player, carrying his instrument by its neck. You gape at him as rain continues to fall.

“Hi,” he says.

You are clutching your handbag, a cigarette and holder still tucked between your fingers. “What are you doing?”

“I just…I was…uh…” He spots the cigarette. “Oh, do you need a lighter? I have one, hold on…” He begins rooting around in the pockets of his olive green tweed jacket.

“No, I don’t need a lighter,” you snap, glancing anxiously at the door. “I need you to go back inside.”

“Wait a minute, I wanted to—”

“Why are you speaking to me?” Your eyes are wide and petrified, your voice is a sharp whisper. No musician has ever addressed you beyond pleasantries: Good morning, good afternoon, good evening, thank you ma’am, my pleasure ma’am. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Look, I came out here because…I just wanted to ask…” He struggles to find the words. His eyes fall to your left wrist, now fully obscured by the ruffles of your sleeve, then return to your face. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“Do you…you know…do you need some kind of help or something?”

It’s improper, it’s unthinkable, it’s dangerous. “You’re deranged,” you say as you breeze past him towards the door. “You’ve clearly escaped from an asylum somewhere. I wish you all the best in your recovery.”

He does not grab you—that would be absurd—but he does get between you and the front door of the pub. “Wait, please, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be rude or to overstep or anything, I’m trying to see if there’s anything I can do—”

“You will make it worse for me,” you hiss, and only then does the viola player go quiet and let you pass. You shove by him into O’Connell’s Bar.

Back at the table, Daemon and the reporter are engrossed in conversation. When you rejoin them, neither of the men take any notice of you beyond the reporter’s momentary rise to his feet. After a minute or two, the viola player returns to the quartet and slips seamlessly into the song they’re playing, Star of the County Down. You gaze into your pear cider, determined not to glance at him even once.

Daemon is saying as the reporter jots franticly: “I am reminded of something I read once in a French fashion critic’s guide from the 1870s. In the gloomy depths of the mineral world, stars are concealed that rival in their beauty those of the firmament. The fresh splendors of dawn, the sun’s incandescent rays, the magnificent sunsets, the brilliant colors of the rainbow, all are found enclosed in a morsel of pure carbon or in the center of a stone. Not everyone can see the potential, not everyone has the skill or the willpower to move the earth and free the treasures trapped beneath. But I found stars no one else knew existed. And my work isn’t finished yet.”

~~~~~~~~~~

At home in Lough Cutra Castle, your family’s estate since 1817, your parents are asleep and Fern is waiting up for you and Daemon, yawning into the back of her hand to try to hide it. She is your maid but she was hired by Daemon, and she scurries around the property like a mouse, eternally picking up toys and articles of clothing and papers that have slid off of tables, head bowed, footsteps so light you often don’t realize she’s walked into a room until she’s spoken.

“Care for some tea, my lady?” Fern asks as she takes your mink coat. Daemon goes directly to his study; you watch him leave with some feeling you couldn’t name, loss, relief, loneliness, resignation.

“No, thank you, Fern. I’m exhausted. Is Draco upstairs?”

“He is,” she says, but with hesitation, as if she is sending you into the lion’s den. You know what that means. You climb the staircase and find him in his bedroom sound asleep, four years old, surrounded by an army of teddy bears. Bears are his favorite animal; he likes the way they roar and brandish their teeth. He is named after the crest of Daemon’s family; Draco is the Latin word for dragon. His hair is white-blonde, a Targaryen trait. As they age it fades to an ordinary sand-like color, and by the time they are middle-aged—Daemon is forty, nearly two decades older than you are—their hair is a blonde so dark it’s almost brunette.

You stand in the doorway watching Draco for a long time. When you think of him, this is the image that comes to mind: your son across a room, or a lawn, or a garden, and you lurking on the periphery, longing to be a part of his existence, feeling so palpably unneeded. Already, he is becoming a stranger. He thinks it’s funny when Daemon insults people and breaks things. He stomps his little feet when he doesn’t get his way and rips flowers from the garden, tosses rocks through the windows of the greenhouse, hurls sticks at hissing geese.

“He’s asleep,” Dagmar says as if she’s scolding you. You whirl to see her behind you in the hall, glowering with those icy Nordic eyes, her hair grey and twisted into a tight bun, her face angular and cold-blooded. Legend has it that Saint Patrick expelled all the snakes from Ireland; you think he must have missed one.

“Yes, I can see that.”

“You’ll wake him.”

“I certainly won’t.”

“A boy that age needs his rest.” And this is how Dagmar has been since Draco was born: You can’t hold a baby like that, you can’t feed a baby like that, you can’t play with a baby like that, never showing you how to do things but only alienating you further and further until you looped around on some hopelessly remote orbit like Neptune circles the sun.

“Yes. Like I said, I won’t disturb him.”

But she does not leave; she only scowls at you with her bony arms crossed over her chest. She is ancient; she was Viserys and Daemon’s governess when they were boys, and your husband wrote to her immediately after Draco was born. She idolizes Daemon. The three of them are a family unto themselves, sardonic and spiteful and fiercely loyal, an oath you can’t figure out how to break. She wins this battle, as she’s won them all. It is not a war but an insurgency, a perpetual struggle for independence, sabotages and hunger strikes that amount to nothing. You retreat from Draco’s doorway and go to find Daemon in his study, bent low over his desk and sketching designs for jewelry men will buy for their wives, sisters, mothers, daughters, mistresses.

He glances over at you impatiently. “What is it?”

“You promised I’d never have to leave Ireland.”

Daemon shrugs, smiling wryly. “And yet…”

“Draco and I could stay here,” you say, as if this has not already occurred to him.

“And people would say my house is not in order. How am I to command the respect of American businessmen when my own wife does not obey me?”

You are desperate. “Half the year,” you plead. “I’ll spend winters in Manhattan and summers here.”

“Absolutely not.”

“What if I won’t go?”

“I don’t see how you’d accomplish that,” Daemon says, as if he’s already bored of this conversation. “You could throw yourself over the ship’s railing and into the Atlantic Ocean, I suppose. But that’s the only way you’re not ending up in New York.”

“You don’t even really want me there,” you reply, your voice quivering. “You don’t care where I am or what I do. Lots of men live separately from their wives, you can as well.” And even now—horribly, humiliatingly—you want him to contradict you, to swear that he does care, that he wants you, that he loves you in the sick brutal way he knows how.

Daemon picks up the dagger he keeps on his desk and uses it as a letter opener to unseal a piece of correspondence from one of his many mines, left in the care of managers just as your father’s Connemara marble quarry soon will be. The hilt is made of gold and has seven small gemstones imbedded in it, one on top of the other: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire. “You know,” Daemon says offhandedly as he skims the letter. “Draco is getting old enough for boarding school.”

“What?” You are shellshocked; it takes a moment for you to sputter a reply. “He’s…he’s four, Daemon. He can’t read more than a handful of words. He just learned how to write his own name.”

“I was only five when my father sent me away.”

“And you turned out to be so normal.”

“No,” Daemon says, a blade-sharp warning, his eyes burning into yours, ruthless green fire. He aims the point of his dagger at you. “I turned out to be extraordinary.”

Draco. Draco sent away. If I lose him now, I’ll lose him forever. He’ll never know me. He’ll never love me. “Please let me have a few more years with him.”

“Sure. In New York.”

“I’ll go,” you surrender. “Fine, fine, I understand. I’ll go. No more complaints.”

“Good.” He sets down his dagger and the letter and resumes his sketching. You’ve been dismissed, but you can’t look away from him: cunning hands that won’t touch you, blood that runs hot enough to scald.

What is this feeling, this hunger, this hatred, all gnarled up together, dark earth glimmering with flecks of jewel-tone light, constellations of subterranean stars? He has hurt you, but he has given you pleasure too, this man who is so impossible to know, to predict, the only man who has ever been inside you. It’s not that you want him, not exactly; you want what he can give you, and the cold truth is that if it’s not him it’s not anyone, never again for as long as he lives. You’ve never craved another body, another soul. If you ever took a lover, you believe Daemon would kill you.

He grins, mocking and cruel. And you are transported back to your wedding night, still euphoric and flushed and panting on the bed as Daemon sighed and got up to go to the washroom, the satisfaction and the shame, the inescapable sense that you have disappointed him. “Did you only come here to be vexing and disobedient, or did you have something else in mind?”

“No,” you say softly, turning away, leaving him with his drawings of rocks stolen from distant corners of the world.

At breakfast the next morning—Fern cracking Draco’s soft-boiled egg and feeding him careful spoonfuls, Dagmar reading aloud to him from The Three Billy Goats Gruff, giving him smiles radiant with warmth you’ve never received from her—you sip tea and spread butter over your soda bread, gazing listlessly at the mist that hangs cool and heavy beyond the windows. Daemon is at the quarry already. You are suddenly acutely aware of the absence of music.

“Hey, lassie?” your father says as your mother tries to coax him into eating his full Irish breakfast: fried eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, white pudding.

You look to him, clearing the fog from your skull. “Yes, Daddy.”

“I saw the luggage. Where are you going?”

You keep telling him, but he doesn’t remember; he was becoming forgetful five years ago but now he can’t work at all, can barely even carry conversations. You had a brother who died in infancy and a sister who was taken at eight years old by convulsions. You are the only child left, and there are no other evident heirs to the quarry. This must have been something that occurred to Daemon when he met you, seventeen and overwhelmed by the black magic of him. He had seemed like the right choice: dashing, capable, from an illustrious family, a man who could take charge of the quarry as your father’s health continued to fail.

“Daddy, I told you. We’re going to Manhattan.”

He is stunned, grief-stricken. “What? That far?”

“Yes, on Titanic. It’s the largest ship ever built.”

“Who the hell cares about the ship?” your father says. “When will you be back?”

Never. You and your mother exchange a heartsick glance. She tries to be strong for him; she tries not to show you that her world is ending as you and Draco are taken across the ocean like gemstones mined and smuggled away for cutting. “Soon, Daddy,” you lie. He won’t remember anyway. “We’ll be back really soon.”

And then again ten minutes later, and then again after a half hour, and then again at lunchtime:

Where are you going?

When will you be back?

~~~~~~~~~~

Titanic is not a ship but a wonder of the world, unbreakable like the pyramids, towering like the Colossus of Rhodes, beckoning seafaring travelers like the Lighthouse of Alexandria. It is too large to dock in Cork Harbor, and so two tenders—named, quite appropriately, Ireland and America—are used to shuttle the passengers to the anchored goliath waiting to carry you across the ocean. Aboard, a five-piece string ensemble greets the first-class passengers with The Sunny South, and beaming stewards distribute flutes of champagne, liquid gold freckled with bubbles of trapped air. The men are chucking and shaking Captain Smith’s hand and the women are sighing with soft, feminine awe at the soaring funnels and the sprawling Promenade Deck, steel overlaid with yellow pine and teak, and you stare vacuously back at the shadow of the shore, speaking to no one, noticed by no one, alone in a wonderstruck crowd on a cloud-covered, warm afternoon, April 11th, 1912.

Rush is giving bellboys instructions for the luggage to be taken to your rooms. Daemon disappears with Rhaenyra to inspect the accommodations, their steps swift and careless, laughing like children, Rhaenyra’s blonde hair—yellow jasper, yellow jade—streaming out behind her, her gown a shallow-water bluish-green like the Grandidierite Daemon found in Madagascar. Fern skitters after them to unpack the bags when they arrive in the staterooms and offer to make tea. Laenor, wearing a deep and dignified shade of blue, immediately makes the acquaintance of several Parisian passengers and sets about to stroll the deck with them, smoking their pipes and remarking on the ingenuity of the ship’s design, planning to enjoy the Turkish Baths together this evening. Draco is getting tired and ill-tempered; Dagmar merrily whisks him off to see the Grand Staircase and distract him until the rooms are ready.

Meandering, rudderless, you walk to the deck railing and look down into the water as the ship weighs anchor, unmooring itself from Ireland, stealing you away forever. Trying to distract yourself from weeping—tears burn in your eyes like a stoked furnace—you pretend to adjust your earrings. You wear amethysts to match your gown, dark mauve, a color not long ago only owned by royalty. One of the musicians has appeared to soothe your maladies, desperate terror and melancholy he perhaps mistakes for seasickness. But no, it’s not one of the men from the ensemble that welcomed you aboard; he is not wearing a pristine black suit but a pale green tweed waistcoat and unceremonious plaid trousers. He isn’t a crewmember of Titanic at all. He’s the viola player from Galway.

You jolt away from him, spinning around to ensure no one from Daemon’s party has reappeared to witness this. Then you whisper furiously: “What are you doing here?!”

The viola player stops fiddling and holds his instrument by its neck. His answer is amiable and innocent. “Playing viola.”

“No, why are you on this ship?!”

He shrugs, smiling, his hair blowing in the wind as the tugboats pull Titanic out to sea. “Heard it was the biggest one ever built, unsinkable, extravagant beyond compare. Seemed like something I’d like to experience given the opportunity.”

“You followed me,” you say flatly.

He winks, resting an elbow on the railing. His teeth are small and white; there are lines from the sun around his eyes.

“You overheard our arrangements at O’Connell’s Bar and bought a ticket for yourself? Crossed Ireland, travelled south to Cork, all to stalk me like some lunatic? A nautical Jack the Ripper?”

“Well…I wouldn’t say I bought a ticket.” He is playful, teasing you. “I found one.”

“How did you manage to by pure happenstance find a ticket for Titanic’s maiden voyage?”

“I ran into an aspiring passenger at a pub in Cork,” the viola player explains. “A very nice man, his name was Fergal. Unfortunately for poor Fergal, when the time came to board the tenders, he was…indisposed, and I found myself in possession of his third-class ticket. A strange coincidence!”

“Indisposed?” you say, squinting suspiciously.

“Perhaps he had a few too many pints in celebration and passed out somewhere. Perhaps he got lost on his way to the harbor. Or perhaps he was locked in the pub’s storage room and therefore unable to make it to the tenders in time to sail blissfully away on his trans-Atlantic journey. Who could say for sure?”

“So you stole a ticket.”

“I think that’s a cynical way to put it.”

You are incredulous. “How would you put it?”

“Fortune brought me a ticket. The stars aligned, the saints were looking out for me.”

“If you hold a third-class ticket, you are on the wrong deck of the ship.”

“Shh!” He holds a finger to his lips. “No one knows that, I just wander around playing songs for the rich people and they assume I’m supposed to be here.”

“You have to stay away from me,” you plead, staring out over the ocean. “Daemon can’t see us talking, he can’t know you followed me from Galway, he can’t find out that you saw…” The bruise, the evidence, the betrayal of you not keeping his secrets.

“Relax, I’m not here for you,” the viola player says, and of course he is lying. “I have family in New York City. I left home and haven’t been back in years, and I think now’s a good time for a visit.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah. Okay.”

He grins, slow and mischievous, and you are alarmed to realize some part of you wants to smile too. “You know what?”

“What,” you offer resentfully.

“I think you want me to be here for you.”

You turn away from the railing to make your escape. “I want you to leave me alone.”

“I’ll think about it,” the viola player quips. And when you glance back at him from the end of the Promenade Deck, ocean wind tearing your hair out of its pins and salt stinging on your skin, he’s still watching you.

#aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii fanfic #aegon targaryen x you #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen

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what-happens-to-the-heart · 4 months

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And finally some weekend time to go through and read and comment on the beautiful fanworks that have been posted for Cohen Fest so far!

If you are enjoying the angsty delights in this years Cohen fest, remember if you can to give the author/artist a comment or reblog 😉🥳

#you all should know how fantastic you are #every angsty treat fro. you all will get a lovely lil comment #merry month of cohen #what-happens-to-the-heart #star trek voyager #star trek enterprise #star trek picard #star trek ds9 #star trek strange new worlds #star trek prodigy #star trek #star trek the original series #star trek the next generation

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stitching-in-time · 4 months

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Finally caught up on Star Trek: Prodigy, and I truly think it's the best of the new Star Trek series. It has the strongest first season of any Trek show since Voyager, and it both respects the Star Trek universe and expands on it beautifully.

As an animated series, it has a grand scale and visual beauty that's unmatched in all of Star Trek. This show is breathtakingly gorgeous! All the design work is top notch; the character designs especially are truly different and unique and completely break the 'basically humanoid aliens with bumpy foreheads' mold.

For all that people seem to ignore it because it's a kids show, I think it has the strongest and most thoughtful writing of all the new Trek shows. The premise of child slaves escaping a mining asteroid in a stolen Starfleet ship is actually the darkest of any Trek series, and there's as many heartbreaking moral dilemmas to chew over as any Trek series ever gave us. But it captures the optimistic, humanist spirit of Star Trek far better than a show like Picard does, because unlike that show, it's not trying to be dark to be edgy or cool, it's trying to be honest and to find hope and light amidst dark circumstances. Hope that a better future is possible is what made Star Trek edgy in the first place, and as the world gets more cynical, holding onto that ideal is infinitely more punk than cynicism could ever be. Prodigy gets that, and it respects the history and lore of Star Trek while building on it. It was clearly made by people who've actually seen Voyager, and actually know and like Captain Janeway, because what we see of her here feels like the Janeway I grew up with. It's like getting to see an old friend again, having new adventures, while still being the same person she always was.

I do like all the other new Trek series, except for Picard, and I feel like for the most part, they've been very strong, and in keeping with the spirit of Star Trek. But Prodigy has this special mix of being tied directly to the old stuff while adding something entirely new. The epic scale of the first season's story arc was amazing, it is one of, if not the, best season finales I've ever seen in all of Star Trek. I'm grew up on the 90s shows, which will always have my heart, but Prodigy is such a mind-blowing expansion of that whole universe, I'm honestly astounded and grateful that someone used my old faves to make this epic new thing, which hopefully will bring an entirely new audience to the old stuff.

Despite the fact that there's lots of deep lore references that us grown up Trekkies can pick out with delight everywhere, the story of the main protagonists is self contained, and doesn't actually need any previous familarity with Star Trek to understand. Since the main characters don't know what Starfleet or the Federation even is, the audience can discover that along with them. It's such a genius concept, and it works so well! I honestly cried watching the season finale, it wrapped up the season's worth of story and character development so well, and set things up for an exciting new season. The characters are so well defined and lovable already! It has humor, it has adventure, it has heart, it's a classic Star Trek found family story!

I just can't rave about Prodigy enough, it exceeded all my expectations and then some. Everyone who loves Star Trek, please go watch it! Everyone who loves animation, please go watch it! Especially if you love Captain Janeway and Voyager, please go watch it! I want as many more seasons of this show as I can possibly get, so we need to keep streaming it so Netflix sees how popular it is and decides to make more.

I guess I'm in the category of old Trekkies now, so believe me when I say this show is what Star Trek is all about! Please please please give it a chance and you'll love it too!!!

#i really love this show more than i ever expected to #it's so so good #star trek: prodigy #star trek #captain kathryn janeway #star trek: voyager

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jmdbjk · 3 months

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Cannot wait...

Still a month away from watching these two be their adorable goober selves together:

I keep telling everyone around me I'm going to be insufferable for a while, with Jimin and Muse coming soon and then these two together, week after week ... makes me giddy. Sorry, not sorry.

We'll get teasers. I'm going to squee over all of those as well. Again, sorry, but not very sorry at all actually.

All of it takes me back to when I realized JK's 2022 Vlog was going to be centered around camping. Honestly? I was a little surprised. He has never come across as the outdoorsy type to me. But he'd never had the chance to express much of what interests him outside of BTS and outside of what we saw on various content through the years either!

This series of vlogs helped us see each member doing things they chose to do on their own and helped kick off the "solo" era in 2022.

Jungkook's delight in stopping at Korea's version of Buc-ee's and buying gas station food and eating to his heart's content was oddly satisfying. Maybe because I take great pleasure in doing such simple things too, after all, the best part of a road trip is stopping to buy snacks along the way, am I right? The service area where they stopped is called the Gapyeong Service area on the Seoul-Yangyang Expressway (60). These places are like a food court/mini mall. Just like Buc-ee's.

I am already laughing at the thought of he and Jimin stopping at a grocery store to buy deli pizza in Connecticut... IT'S GOING TO BE WOEFULLY SUBSTANDARD I FEAR!

In his 2022 vlog, Jungkook helped set up the camper he slept in and cooked and sat around the campfire drinking. And we know in past Bon Voyage seasons and other content, they've pitched tents and slept outdoors. All of these things he must have immensely enjoyed if we might be seeing them again soon with Jimin.

Then there's the recent story going around about someone spotting he and Jimin returning their rental car in Japan and learning Jungkook was driving... Jungkook got to drive on the "wrong" side of the road in Japan! He put that international driver's license to use finally!

From the preview clip the other day, it appears Jungkook also got to practice his motorcycle handling skills. Handling a Harley Davidson is a bit trickier than handling a smaller motorcycle. Those things are heavy. And it's a little different when you have a passenger sitting behind you. The two Harley helmets we saw sitting on the edge of his sofa last year... yep, he's had practice.

TMI: I was today year's old when I learned that motorcycles are banned on major roadways in Korea.

Are we going to see how Jimin scraped his knuckles while snorkeling on Jeju?

And that nekkid-in-bed live when Jungkook was begging him to come over and Jimin told him to look at the photo he sent... did Jimin get a black eye from being elbowed when they were sleeping?

And as I was running through my blog posts, I realized all of these things I previously said last year:

Me wondering if their trip to Japan was unstructured and spur of the moment...

I wondered if Closer Than This was a pre-release to an upcoming album...

I'm thankful to Tae for bringing JK along with his Wooga friends to that ski resort back in 2022. We can't know if JK had ever snowboarded before that but it appears he loved it enough to want to stick around long after they left him there. And now he had the chance to do it again with Jimin! I know they had so much fun together. At the beginning of this year, I pointed out some fun facts about Sapporo...

Skiing? Snowboarding? All of the above?

And save this for future reference, it's the onsen resort image we heard about and I mentioned in a weekly Bangtan report this past February....

Maybe none of the above will be accurate, but thinking about how much fun they had anyway has me very excited for August 8.

#are you sure?#is this right?#jikook #kookmin #jimin #jungkook #traveling with jimin and jungkook #can't stop smiling about it #the staff editors better be on their best game #insufferable will be my middle name for the foreseeable future

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alxtiny · 1 month

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Ad Astra per Aspera

Episode 1

Pairing: Pirate!Ateez x Navigator!reader

Genre: pirate!au, fluff, angst, maybe smut

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: blood, blunt trauma to the head, starvation, improper jokes, hate able characters

Notes: lets see if y’all can guess who is who >.<

Playlist : asleep by the smiths | the great gig in the sky by pink floyd | under the water by aurora

Series Masterlist | Episode 2 | Prologue

"Move it, slave!” a gruff voice barked behind you, “I ain't got time for yer dainty little walk," you felt the crude shove of a sword poke into your back, the dirty steel pressing through the thin fabric of your shirt like an icicle. You stumbled forward, almost tripping over the uneven planks of the dock.

"Stop poking me!" You exclaimed, spinning around to glare at your tormentor. The chains binding your arms come up to shield your body. Your eyes were bright with fury. "I told you already, I am not a slave. I am a navigator, and I am getting on your infernal ship of my own volition. Take me to your captain; I have a deal to—"

"Quit runnin' yer mouth, lass, or I'll run you through with my sword," the crewman growled, clumsily swishing his blade around, making his inexperience known. His breath reeked of stale ale and rotting teeth, a look of disgust plastered itself across your face. His sword came to rest under your chin, pushing your face up. Exasperated, you raised your hands in mock surrender.

"Alright, alright," you muttered, rolling your eyes. With a resigned sigh, you dragged yourself up the gangplank, your boots clattering against the rough wood. The unimpressive ship seemed to loom above you menacingly, its sails furled and its deck swarming with activity.

The ship’s deck was a cesspool of filth and debauchery. Men lounged about in various states of drunkenness, their eyes glazed and their movements sluggish. The stench of unwashed bodies and rancid skin mingled with the salty spray of the sea, creating a miasma that made you gag. You could feel a dozen pairs of eyes on yourself, leering and appraising, as if you were nothing more than a piece of meat.

Around you, other women were being herded aboard, their faces pale and eyes wide with fear. Some were weeping, clutching at their tattered dresses, while others stared blankly ahead, in acceptance of their fate. Your stomach churned with a mix of disgust and anger. It was a slave trader’s ship. You had been foolish, utterly foolish, to let yourself be tricked into coming here.

It had all started at the pub, a dimly lit hole-in-the-wall frequented by sailors and all that. You had been celebrating a successful voyage, your pockets heavy with the gold you had earned as a navigator. A group of men had approached you, claiming they so desperately needed your skills to guide their ship through such treacherous waters. It stoked your ego of course, you couldn’t resist.

But it had all been a lie. They had swindled you, drugged your unguarded drink, and taken you prisoner. You had awoken, bound and gagged, surrounded by the same men who now leered at you from the ship’s deck. The gold was all gone, except a few coins you had kept hidden in your boots. You clenched your fists, cursing your own naivety.

The crewman prodded at your back again, forcing you to keep moving. You glaring back at him, he laughed as if this was all just a fun game. He was a squat, greasy man with a pockmarked face, a half shaven beard and a cruel glint in his eye. His clothes were dirty and ill-fitting, and sweat dripped down the sides of his face.

"Where’s the captain?" You demanded, your voice trembling with barely contained rage. "I want to speak to him now."

The crewman snorted, a sound that was more pig than human. "You don't make demands here, lass. You do as you're told, or you'll end up in the bilge with the rats." He grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into your flesh, and dragged you towards the stern of the ship.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you were marched through the ship's dingy corridors, the air thick with the smell of salt and rotting wood. The two burly crewmen escorting you, stopped before a large, ornately carved door. One of them knocked twice, and a muffled voice from within barked for them to enter.

You were pushed into the room, stumbling over the threshold. The interior was a stark contrast to the squalor of the rest of the ship. Rich tapestries lined the walls, and the floor was covered with a plush, but stained, rug. At the far end of the room, behind a desk cluttered with a pile of maps and papers, and an even higher pile of dirty cutlery, sat the captain.

He was an unimposing figure in terms of height but made up for it in girth. His ample belly strained against the buttons of a once-white shirt now stained with the remnants of countless meals. Various condiments had left their mark, creating a painting of greasy splotches. His bald head glistened under the lamplight, a poorly matched toupee perched precariously atop his head. A smattering of fake gold jewellery adorned his fingers and neck, clinking as he moved.

The ‘captain’ looked up from his desk, a lecherous grin spreading across his bloated face. His small, beady eyes raked over you, lingering with a predatory gleam. "Well, well, what have we here?" he slurred, his voice thick with the effects of cheap alcohol.

You could barely suppress a shudder of disgust. The smell of rot and smoke wafted towards you as he rose from his chair, his movements slow and ungainly. He waddled closer, his breath heavy with the scent of decay. You took an involuntary step back, your skin crawling as he reached out to cup your chin with his pudgy fingers.

"Oh yess," he crooned, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "A rare beauty indeed. You'll fetch a pretty penny, my dear. Or perhaps... you might be of use to me in other ways." His grip tightened, and you winced as his grimy nails bit into your skin.

"I am a navigator," you said through gritted teeth, trying to keep your voice steady. "Not a commodity to be sold or used. If you have any sense, you'll let me do my job and not treat me like chattel."

The man threw back his head, a shrill laugh erupting from his throat. His greasy face twisted into a cruel grin, his yellowed teeth bared like a predator toying with its prey.

"Oh please," he scoffed, shaking his head. "A woman as a navigator? As if." He turned slightly, gesturing to the room around him, where the other men chuckled in agreement. "Women are bad luck on ships. You're lucky you're being sold, girl. With your looks, some rich man might buy you. Keep you as a little whore, maybe."

His mocking tone made your blood boil. You clenched your fists, feeling the heat rise in your chest, but you forced yourself to maintain composure. He was trying to provoke you, belittle you, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of crumbling under his words.

"Bad luck? You’re the one who's unlucky," you snapped, lifting your chin defiantly. "I’ve navigated through storms worse than your ship can survive and waters darker than that stain on your shirt. Without someone like me, you'd be lucky to avoid running aground before dawn. Sell me off if you want, but it'll be your loss when you're stranded out there with nothing but your ignorance and superstitions."

His eyes darkened, the amusement in them turning cold as he stepped closer, his breath rancid against your face. He laughed again, quieter this time, but more sinister.

"You've got fire," he sneered. "But fire snuffs out quick at sea. And I don’t need some chit telling me how t’ run my ship." He tilted his head, considering you for a moment, before his lips twisted into a nasty smirk. "Tell you what. Since you're so eager to prove your worth... If you can lead me and my crew to the next port—alive—I’ll consider giving you a job."

You felt a flicker of hope, but it was quickly snuffed out by his next words.

"Not that I believe for a second you can," he continued, gesturing dismissively to one of his men. "Put her in the chart room. Give her the old maps and tools. Let's see what she can do with those rusty relics."

His men seized you roughly by the arms and dragged you down a narrow corridor. The stench of mildew filled the air as they threw open the door to a small, dimly lit room. It was more of a storage closet than a proper chart room. Tattered maps lay strewn across a dust-covered table, their edges crumbling from age. Instruments sat in a pile on the floor, as if someone threw them in and forgot about them eons ago. It was an insult to your craft.

The door slammed shut behind you, and you were left in the damp silence. You glared at the mess in front of you, wiping your hands on your pants as you surveyed the room. Some of the instruments were so worn they might not even function properly anymore.

"These fools wouldn’t know how to chart a course if their fucking lives depended on it," you muttered under your breath, grabbing the least-damaged map from the pile. Your hands shook as you unfurled it, your mind already racing to piece together what little you could.

Your eyes traced the faded lines, the names of ancient ports barely legible. But you had no choice. You needed to find a way to navigate this ship to safety—not just for yourself, but because proving them wrong had become more than just a matter of pride.

Hours passed as you pored over the charts, plotting a course that would take them through the least dangerous waters. You marked out safe harbours and potential hazards, making notes on a scrap of parchment. By the time you finished, your head was pounding and your eyes were heavy with fatigue.

You leaned back in the rickety chair, staring up at the ceiling. The ship creaked and groaned around you, the sound of waves lapping against the hull felt like a little man hammering away into your skull. You closed your eyes, allowing yourself a moment of rest. You knew that the coming days would be difficult, but you were quite determined to survive, to find a way out of this hellhole.

As the ship rocked gently on the waves, you drifted off to sleep, your dreams filled with visions of making way to faraway shores.

Over the course of the next two weeks, you poured every ounce of your skill and determination into navigating the ship through open waters and rapidly changing currents. The vast expanse of the open sea stretched out before you, a canvas of endless blue under the watchful eye of the sun and moon, and the occasional dark clouds that wept above you. You worked tirelessly, plotting courses, adjusting sails, and ensuring the ship stayed on a safe path. You had already saved them from a deadly storm and a series of hidden reefs, but despite your invaluable contributions, you were more like a prisoner than a respected navigator.

Every night, you could feel the disgusting gazes of the revolting crewmen following you around as you moved about the deck, their crude catcalls and whistles echoing through the darkness. Their words, filled with suggestive taunts and vulgarity, went on with a break. You were tired of it all. You would quicken your pace, doing your best to avoid their lustful stares, but the feeling of being watched never left you.

Not to mention your living quarters were nothing less than abysmal. You had been given a tiny, fishy-smelling cabin barely large enough to fit a untrustworthy hammock and a simple, rickety chair. The walls were damp, the paint was peeling and mould hung around rent free. The cabin had no proper bathroom, just a cracked basin for washing, and you were forced to bathe with your clothes on to preserve some semblance of privacy and dignity. The limited water you were allotted was often murky, tainted by the ship's grime and filth.

Meals were a farce. The crew seemed to take pleasure in your discomfort, providing you with nothing more than stale, dry bread, hardened fish and tepid water, barely enough to keep you alive. Your stomach grumbled constantly, a relentless gnawing hunger that left you feeling weak and light-headed. You would sit in your cramped cabin, picking at the bread, trying to muster the strength to face another day. It was a test of endurance, a form of torture that gnawed away at your resolve with each passing hour.

Despite your dire circumstances, you knew you had no choice but to obey. Your earlier demands had placed you in a dangerous position, and any hint of defiance could tilt the balance against your favour. You walked a thin line, a weak rope that even a trapeze artist would refuse.

On your sixteenth day on the ship, you woke up earlier than usual, to the soft creaking of the ship, your senses still dulled by the fitful sleep that had become your nightly routine. The confines of your smelly, damp cabin felt more oppressive each day, the weak hammock beneath you barely providing rest. You stretched your aching limbs and splashed your face with the dull water from the cracked basin, trying to shake off the persistent lethargy that clung onto you like a second skin. The stale bread left from your last meal sat untouched on the rickety chair, your stomach too nauseous to consider eating.

You were in the midst of your daily routine, preparing for another gruelling day of work, the same work you once enjoyed now seemed like an unnecessary pain. You prepared to walk out of the cabin, dreading the unwanted attention from the others, when a sudden, deafening boom echoed through the ship. The floorboards shuddered beneath your feet, and the air seemed to recoil with the force of the explosion. For a moment, you stood frozen in place, your mind struggling to process the cacophony of sounds that followed—the clamour of footsteps, the frantic shouts, and the ominous creaking of the ship as it tilted to one side, making you stumble.

Your heart raced as you heard the muffled sounds of screaming and scurrying outside your door. Panic surged through your veins, and you moved to the door, only to find it locked from the outside. You cursed under your breath, tears welling up in your eyes. The realisation that you were trapped, powerless to escape whatever chaos had engulfed the ship, sent a wave of despair crashing over you.

“Pirates! Save yourself!” someone screamed, their voice raw with terror. The slurred shrieks of the slaver captain followed, barking out orders with a frantic urgency. “Abandon ship! No first- Get me out of here!”

Your pulse quickened as you grasped the small window set high in your door. It was just out of reach. You grabbed the chair, its legs wobbly and unstable, and clambered onto it, pressing your face to the grimy glass. You could see only a narrow slice of the chaos outside, figures darting back and forth in a desperate frenzy. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, mingling with the acrid smoke that drifted through the corridors.

As you strained to see more, a thud shook the door, and the chair beneath you wobbled alarmingly. You let out a strangled cry, gripping the edges of the window for balance. The sound of gunshots reverberated through the wooden walls, each one a sharp, violent punctuation in the symphony of terror. A thick, dark liquid began to seep through the crack at the bottom of the door, pooling on the floor beneath your feet. You felt your stomach churn as the realisation hit you—blood.

You screamed, a raw, primal sound that tore through your throat, and the colour drained from your face. You banged on the door, your fists bruising against the wood, but your cries were lost in the maelstrom of chaos outside.

Suddenly, a voice pierced through the din, smooth and chillingly calm. “Found a slave in here,” it called out, its tone laced with a seductive menace that made your skin crawl. You pressed your ear to the door, straining to catch a glimpse of your would-be captors, but your vision swam with tears and fear.

Before you could react, a hand slammed against the window, and the force of the impact sent your chair teetering. You lost your balance, falling hard to the floor, your head striking the rough wood with a sickening thud. Pain exploded in your skull, and your vision blurred. You could hear the blood rushing in your ears, mingling with the distant sound of voices and the echo of your own screams.

The last thing you saw before darkness claimed you was the vague outline of a figure moving past the window, and the door being wrenched open with a splintering crack. The scent of salt and gunpowder filled your nostrils, mingling with the coppery tang of blood. The voice, with its cruel, mocking lilt, whispered one last chilling phrase as consciousness slipped away. “This one will fetch a fine price.”

The voice, gruff and edged with impatience, cut through the haze of your fading consciousness. "Yeah, first we need to fix that nasty gash in the side of her head."

Everything went black.

When you finally stirred, it felt like an eternity had passed. Your head throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache, and your limbs felt as if they were weighed down with stones. You groaned, your voice a rasping whisper for water, as you struggled to open your eyes. The light in the room was blinding, stabbing into your skull with every tiny flicker.

Slowly, painfully, you turned your head, your vision swimming in and out of focus. The room around you was dimly lit, the walls rough and shadowed. The scent of salt and damp wood filled the air, but it was the figure by your side that drew your attention. A man stood there, dressed in a white tunic splattered with dull red and brown stains. You blinked, your foggy mind trying to make sense of it all.

"Where... where am I? How long was I out?" You croaked out, your throat dry and raw.

The man turned, and for a moment, all thoughts of pain and confusion fled your mind. He was the most striking man you had ever seen, with piercing brown eyes and a rugged handsomeness that made your breath catch in your throat. His hair was tied back in a careless manner, stray strands framing his sharp features.

You let out a disbelieving chuckle, your words slipping out before you could stop yourself. "Yep, I’m dead, and there’s even an angel here to take me away."

The man's expression twisted into a snarl at your words, his eyes narrowing in annoyance. "Ain’t an angel, lass. I’m a doctor. I fixed you up, but now you’ll be sent off somewhere, I guess."

Your mind stuttered to a halt, confusion crashing over her. You’re stared at him, trying to process what he had just said. Suddenly, panic flared in your chest, and you bolted upright despite the sharp pain that tore through your body.

"Wait, what?" You gasped,your heart pounding wildly.

"You heard me," he replied, his tone flat but certain.

"But why?" you questioned, your voice trembling with both confusion and fear.

The man approached you, his demeanour calm and seemingly harmless as he carried a box filled with strange bottles and vials and a glass of water. “I dunno. My job was to patch you up, doll. The rest is up to the captain to decide.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. "Wait, captain? This is a ship—are you pirates?!" you screeched, your voice rising in panic. Instinctively, you shifted further up on the bed, clutching the sheets tightly against your chest as if they could somehow protect you from whatever horrors awaited.

The man laughed, the sound a low rumble in his chest. “What, you thought you were back in whatever noble house you came from?”

“N-no,” you stammered, the denial slipping from your lips before you could even process it. “Of course not, but… what do you want from me?”

The man sighed, a trace of weariness in the sound, before a small awkward smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Let me put some ointment on your wound,” he said, gesturing to the box he carried. “Then I’ll take you to the captain. He’ll decide your fate... don’t worry, sometimes……. he’s merciful.”

A look of horror passed over your face, the weight of his words sinking in. But as much as you wanted to fight, to resist, you knew you had no choice. One again you were trapped. With trembling hands, you released your grip on the sheet and took the glass of water he held towards you. You took a few sips before gulping it down and allowing him to come nearer.

He moved with a practised ease, gently unwrapping the gauze from around your head. You hadn’t even realised it was there, there was dull throbbing in your skull because of whatever injury you had sustained. He dabbed at the wound with a wet cloth, wiping away the dried blood, and you flinched as the cold air touched the raw skin.

When he began applying the ointment, you winced, expecting the sting of pain to worsen. But instead, a soothing coolness spread across the wound, the pain ebbing away within minutes. It was as if the discomfort had never existed.

He finished wrapping your head in fresh bandages, his hands quick and efficient. You touched the side of your head, your mouth falling open in awe when you realised there was no more pain.

"You must have magic in your hands," you murmured, your voice filled with genuine wonder. "I barely feel any pain at all."

He smiled widely at your words, a touch of pride lighting up his eyes. “No magic, lass. Just a good bit of skill.” He extended a hand to help you stand, his grip firm and steady as he guided you to your feet .

You wobbled slightly, your legs feeling like jelly beneath you, but he steadied you with ease. With a nod, he led you out of the dimly lit room, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on your chest as you headed toward whatever fate the captain had in store for you.

Stepping out of the door, you were immediately hit with a blast of hot, humid air, the salty tang of the sea filling your nostrils. The sunlight, far more intense than the dim lights of the room you had just left, assaulted your eyes, forcing you to squint against its brightness. As your eyes adjusted, you took in your surroundings, following the man down a narrow passage that led out onto the deck.

The deck was expansive, far larger than you had expected, and meticulously maintained. The dark wood beneath your feet was smooth and polished, almost gleaming in the sunlight, a stark contrast to the grimy, weathered deck of the ship you had been on before. Men moved about with a practised, almost military-like precision, their movements synchronised as they managed the sails and ropes with an efficiency that belied the chaos you had expected from a pirate crew. Voices rang out across the deck, some shouting orders, others responding with quick, sharp affirmations.

Your gaze was drawn upward to the towering mainmast, which seemed to loom over you like a giant, casting a long shadow across the deck. "We must be on the poop deck," you thought, your mind racing to make sense of the ship’s layout. Ahead of you, you could just barely make out the bowsprit extending far into the distance, the very tip of the ship. The grandeur of the ship astonished you, its size and the sheer opulence of its upkeep making you wonder just how rich these pirates must be.

The man led the way, his footsteps silent on the wooden planks as you followed closely behind, your eyes darting around to take in as much as you could. Despite the flurry of activity around you, none of the crew seemed to pay you any mind. They were too focused on their tasks to spare even a glance in your direction, as if your presence was of no consequence to them. The lack of attention should have reassured you, it was a relief from the constant surveillance you had on the slaver ship, but it only deepened the knot of anxiety twisting in your stomach.

As you reached the main deck, the man remained quiet, offering no explanation or comfort. The tension in your chest grew with each step, your heart pounding in rhythm with the ship's creaking timbers. Finally, you arrived at a small staircase that led down into another passage. This passage, in contrast to the bright sunlight above, was dark and foreboding, the walls closing in around you as you descended. The shift from light to dark was jarring, and you found yourself instinctively trying to close in on yourself, away from the shadows that seemed to press into you from all sides.

The man stopped at the end of the passage, in front of a large carved, heavy door that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. “Wait here,” he instructed, his voice curt but not unkind. He pushed the door open and slipped inside, leaving you standing alone in the darkness.

You stared at the door, your breath coming in shallow, anxious gasps. "This must be the captain’s room," you thought,your imagination running wild with all the possible horrors that could lie beyond that door. The longer you stood there, the more your nerves frayed, each second stretching out into an eternity. Your mind conjured up images of what the captain might be like—cruel, ruthless, and utterly terrifying. You could almost see his large figure and barbarous appearance.

Your heart raced, the silence around you thickening like a shroud. Every creak of the ship, every distant shout from the deck above, made you jump. You fought the urge to flee, knowing you had nowhere to go, no means of escape. All you could do was wait, your ability to overthink seemed to have reached a new level, until the door finally opened and you would come face to face with the man who held your fate in his hands.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open, and the man stepped out, his expression unreadable. He gestured for you to go inside, but you hesitated, your feet rooted to the spot. The fact that he didn’t seem to be coming in with you made your heart pound even harder in your chest. When you still didn’t move, he gave you a gentle but firm push, and before you could protest, the door was closed behind you with a resounding thud.

You stumbled into the room, your breath catching in your throat as you took in your surroundings. The space was dimly lit, casting deep shadows across the walls, but you could tell it was large, much larger than the cramped quarters you had been kept in before. The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with books, maps, and various trinkets that glimmered in the low light—treasures from far-off lands, you assumed. One side of the room was dominated by a large window that offered a breathtaking view of the endless sea, the horizon glowing with the last light of the setting sun. Just how long had you been waiting.

But what truly caught your attention was the man standing in front of the window, his back turned to you. He wore a black tunic that clung to his lean frame, the edges wrapped in black bandages that extended down to his palms. His tight leather pants emphasized his sharp, angular build, and though he wasn’t very tall, he exuded an aura of power and intimidation that filled the room. His hair was striking—half black, half white, styled into a short mullet that gave him an almost otherworldly appearance. He was nothing like you had imagined.

You swallowed hard, trying to find your voice. "H-hello?" you stuttered out, your words barely above a whisper.

The man turned slowly, revealing a face that was both haunting and mesmerising. What puzzled you most was the pair of dark sunglasses he wore, despite the fact that they were inside a dimly lit room. His lips curled into a menacing smile, one that sent a shiver down your spine. And then he spoke, his voice dripping with a honeyed malice, the same voice you had heard just before you had lost consciousness.

“Ahh, finally, the sleeping beauty is awake,” he drawled, his smile widening as he took a step toward her. His presence was suffocating, every movement deliberate and calculated. “Tell me, go ahead. Negotiate your life, beg if you must. Then we’ll see what to do with you.”

He moved to the large table in front of the window, sitting down with a casual grace that belied the danger he radiated. He propped his feet up on the table, the heavy black boots he wore catching your eye. They were stained with dark splotches of red, the sight of which made your stomach recoil.

You tried to speak, but your voice came out in stammers, very much unlike the confidence you held when you talked to the slavers. Your mind raced as you searched for something, anything, that might save you.

He lifted his sunglasses, his eyes were a striking grey, like an uncontainable storm. Suddenly the room felt even more suffocating than before.

“I said speak,” he commanded in a ruthlessly calm voice, it sent shivers down your spine. This man was something different.

You didn’t want to speak but words came out anyway, as if someone had physically forced you to. “I-I’m a navigator,” you blurted, your words tumbling over each other in a desperate rush. “I can help you—I’ve guided many ships through perilous waters. I can be useful to you. Please, if you spare me, I’ll do whatever you need. I’ve helped with multiple voyages, charted courses, and avoided storms…”

Your words trailed off as the man laughed, the sound echoing in the room like a cruel mockery. His laughter was sharp, cutting through your rambling pleas and leaving you in a stunned silence. You stood there, trembling, as his mirth subsided, feeling smaller and more like an insignificant fly everytime he looked you over.

Just as you were about to try again, the door behind you creaked open. You froze, your heart lurching in your chest as you heard the sound of boots on the wooden floor. You turned slightly, your eyes widening as seven men entered the room, including the one who had patched you up earlier. They spread out behind you, their presence like a barrier between you and the door, it made your knees weak.

The room felt much smaller now, the walls closing in on you as you stood there, trapped between the intimidating captain in front of you and the intimidating crew behind you. Your mind raced, the weight of the situation crashing down on you as you realised just how dire your circumstances had become.

You looked around, your eyes darting from one man to the next, taking in their appearances and trying to read the expressions on their faces. Each one of them exuded a certain aura, something you couldn’t quite decipher. But the tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to make your skin crawl.

The man in the centre, the one you assumed to be the captain, spoke again, his voice laced with a poisonous edge. “So, tell me, what should we do with this young lady here?”

One of the men stepped forward, his height almost matching that of the captain. He had a permanent smirk on his face, a look that immediately filled you with a sense of revulsion. “I told you earlier too—we should sell her. We’ll get paid a hefty sum for a pretty face like hers.”

Your expression twisted into one of disgust, your heart beating deafeningly at the casual cruelty in his words. But before you could react, another man spoke up, this one taller and far more muscular than the others. His broad shoulders and imposing frame made him look like a man who was used to handling trouble with his fists. “Hey, I thought we didn’t do that anymore,” he said, his tone almost childlike as he pouted, clearly not taking the situation as seriously as you wished he would.

The first man, with his smirk still firmly in place, shrugged, side eyeing his friend. “I was just joking,” he said, though the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise.

Before you could process that, a third man cut in, his voice sharp and dismissive. “It’s all a waste. Just throw her into the water for the sharks. She’s more trouble than she’s worth.”

Her heart dropped at the suggestion, fear gripping you tightly, but then the man who had healed you spoke up, his voice carrying a note of annoyance. “Hey, then what did I do all that healing for if she was just going to become fish food? We could have thrown her in before I wasted my time.”

The men began to bicker among themselves, their voices rising and overlapping as they argued over your fate. It was as if your life was nothing more than a trivial matter to be debated, and it felt like a cold wet blanket had been dropped on top of you.

The captain, watching the chaos unfold, chuckled to himself. With a wave of his hand, he silenced the room, his voice cutting through the noise with ease. “Now, now, boys, let’s not be hasty. She said she’s a navigator, didn’t she?” He turned his gaze back to you, his expression unreadable. “You see, our last man accidentally tipped over into the ocean, so we’re in need of a new navigator. Why don’t you give it a go? If you fail, well…” He paused, an innocent look spreading across his face, though his eyes remained cold. “Maybe you’ll end up with him.”

You stared at him, aghast at his words. The casual way he spoke of life and death, as if they were nothing more than a game. This was not a man who valued life—at least, not the lives of those he deemed beneath him. And now, your fate rested in the hands of this man who would as easily toss you overboard as he would give you a chance to prove your worth.

Your mind raced, a deadweight pressing down on you. You had no choice but to accept his offer—if it could even be called that. But deep down, you knew that this was only the beginning of a difficult journey, you had to play your cards right.

You agreed hastily, your voice trembling as you thanked him for sparing your life. The captain laughed again, a sound that was more chilling than comforting, before turning his attention away from you. "Someone, show her the way to her cell—oops, I meant room," he ordered, a wicked grin stretching across his face as he returned to the window, sunglasses coming back down, cackling all the way.

As he stared out at the darkening horizon, another man, much taller and with a gaunt appearance, followed him. His hair was stark white, and there was something about his hollow cheeks and sunken black eyes that made you shiver. He leaned in close to the captain, whispering in hushed tones, their conversation too quiet for you to hear. you could only watch as the two men exchanged words.

The rest of the men began to file out of the room slowly, their presence still made you uneasy in the back of your mind. In the end two of the tallest still stayed behind, one of them placing a firm hand on your shoulder and pushing you forward slightly. He seemed friendlier than the others, and he quickly said, "Let’s go," in a tone that was almost reassuring.

As you made your way out of the captain’s quarters, you noticed that his friend, who had stayed silent, was indifferent and least interested in you. He kept flipping a small, gleaming blade in his hand, the metallic click of the weapon opening and closing sending a wave of anxiety through you. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was going to stab himself—or worse, you.

The friendlier man, walking beside you, began to speak quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush as he droned on about the different parts of the ship and the engineering behind them. He spoke so fast that you could barely understand him, but at least his upbeat demeanour was a welcome change from the coldness you had faced so far. His enthusiasm, however, was lost on you; all you could think about was the blade flicking in the other man's hand and the fact that you were at the mercy of these pirates.

After what felt like an endless walk, they reached a small room, on the opposite side of the captain’s quarters and suspiciously close to the main deck. The indifferent man, his voice surprisingly deep, said, "We’re here," before pushing you inside. You barely had time to protest before he quickly closed the door and locked it with a solid click.

The cheery one spoke up from behind the door, his face appearing in the small, barred window set into it. "There’s food for you on the table, and some spare clothes in the chest near the bed. The clothes might be big, but you’ll have to make do for now. There are also spare sheets in the chest, some paper and pencils, and water, of course. The room is locked for your own safety, and if you need help, just tap loudly a few times under the flower painting over the bed—someone will come to you. Good night!" And with that, his face disappeared, leaving you alone in the room.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the distant sound of boots echoing down the hallway until they, too, faded into nothingness. You stood there for a moment, shaken by the events of the day, unable to move or think. It was as if your body had finally caught up with the shock of it all, and you felt the weight of your situation settle heavily on your shoulders.

Slowly, you walked over to the table and saw the surprisingly good-looking food laid out for you. A nice bowl of hot stew, some fluffy bread, and roasted meat—simple, but more appetising than anything you had eaten in days. You sat down and began to eat, savouring every bite. You hadn’t realized just how hungry you were until now, and the warmth of the food filled you with a small measure of comfort. As you ate, tears welled up in your eyes and slowly started to drip down.

After finishing your meal, you opened the chest near the bed and found a white tunic and a pair of black linen shorts. The tunic was big, but you managed to hold it together with your own belt, and though the shirts were also loose and came down to your knees, you made do with what you had. You then lay down on the bed, the soft sheets a welcome relief against your skin.

As you stared up at the ceiling, your mind raced with thoughts of the day’s events. How easily you had been spared from death, or worse, and how it all seemed almost too simple. Was it all just to scare you, or was there something deeper going on behind the scenes? The uncertainty of it all terrified you, and you felt a pang of loneliness that threatened to overwhelm you.

But as much as your thoughts tormented you, the heavy exhaustion of your body and the gentle rocking of the ship slowly pulled you into a dreamless sleep.

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