#Satine week : day one jewel

[mercysong-tardis]

@satineweek Day One: JEWEL

For this promt I just HAD to draw Satine in the viral jeweled armor dress…

#obitine #satine kryze #obi wan x satine #fanart #duchess satine kryze #duchess satine #satine week #satine week 2024 #Satine week : day one jewel #armor dress #Star Wars #the clone wars

[spectral-musette]

I'm running a few days behind on Satine Week, but I finally finished a very short fic (just under 600 words) set during the Manadalore Mission (pre-Episode I) for the prompt "Jewel".

...

            Satine let out an exasperated huff as she set her data reader aside with more vehemence than necessary.

            “What?” Obi-Wan prompted. He also set aside the archaeology periodical he was browsing on his own reader, knowing from prior experience that if he ignored such displays she’d only sulk. After all, if the ruins of the temple uncovered by Master Cordova had waited centuries for discovery, his study on the topic could wait until Satine had vented her ire a little.

            She picked up the reader again, showing him the headline that had so offended her. He squinted at the thin, spiky Mandalorian runes, deciphering and translating as fast as he could before she grew impatient.

            “’The Jewel of Kalevala’,” he read aloud, demonstrating his growing fluency in Mando’a. She didn’t correct him, so he assumed he’d translated correctly. She was evidently too annoyed to be impressed with his intellect just then, and he tried not to be overly put out at the wasted effort. “That’s you?” he concluded, uncertain.

            “Oh, indeed,” she repeated, voice falsely smooth, the expression on her beautiful face deeply indignant.

            “That’s…bad?” Truthfully, he was perplexed. It didn’t seem like such a negative epithet. In fact, he thought it rather fitting, though he knew better than to say as much when she was making that face.

            “Of course it is,” she said, tossing the reader back onto the table.

            He crossed his arms across his chest, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his robe. “Then I suppose it doesn’t mean that you are… treasured, beautiful?”

            “In Basic perhaps,” she conceded a bit more calmly, showing forbearance with his ignorance of her culture despite her peevishness. “To a Mandalorian, the implication is…” She paused to gesture, her hand graceful even as she waved it about in frustration. “A sparkling bauble. Something frivolous, merely decorative, without strength or purpose.”

            “All that in one word?”

            She shrugged. “If Mandalorians excel at something besides pointless destruction, it’s insulting each other with economy.”

            He reached to unclip his lightsaber from his belt and set it on the table in front of him.

            She cocked her head, fair brows furrowing in a charmingly perplexed expression. “Are you going to fight the data reader on my behalf?” she asked with a soft snort of a laugh.

            He spared her a half-smile before he turned back to the saber, deactivating the power cell and starting to unfasten the casing. “Obviously not. I want to show you something.”

            Her intent gaze did distract him a little as he went through the familiar motions of disassembling his lightsaber. He slowed a little lest he fumble a critical component in self conscious clumsiness. Still, it only took a few moments to reveal the kyber crystal. He turned it a little, letting it catch the light. It sparkled, clear as ice, and seemed to glow from within.

            “When you say ‘jewel’, this is what I think of,” he explained. “That’s why I thought the word suited you,” he added, glancing at her quickly. He bit his tongue before he waxed poetic about the color of her eyes. She was clearly in no mood for flattery about her looks, even if it was genuine.

            “It is beautiful,” she breathed.

            “It is, but it’s more than that as well. It channels energy, amplifies the Light. It’s incredibly precious, remarkably powerful.”

            “I wish that’s what they meant,” she said sadly.

            “You will show them what kind of jewel you are,” he promised.

            “I will certainly try,” she agreed, reaching out to take his hand.

#Satine Kryze #Satine Week 2024 #Duchess Satine #obitine #(but just softly though) #I wrote a thing

[lis-likes-fics]

Sweet as Sugar

Pairings: Agent Whiskey x Reader Word Count: 11.3k Warnings: NSFW, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, pining, cunnilingus, blowjob, slight dirty talk, slight praise kink, cowboy rule, swearing (this is basic smut, I think), Whiskey’s a little confused but he’s got the spirit... A/N: I have a writer’s block toward the end of writing this, so what should have only take about a week took, like, a month. Hopefully, I’m back to writing again but I will make no promises bc it’s too gloomy outside for any good serotonin boost to write with. Thank you and enjoy this peace offering bc Pedro Pascal had found a way into my brain!

The mall was bustling with people, men and women coming and going, passing through to look at all the booths and tables showing off all the different organizations to one another as the convention continued on through the day. It was not just any convention, either. Secret services from all over the world, interconnected and soon-to-be, gathered that day to listen and learn and hopefully form closer partnerships to other companies. The entire building was rented out for this function.

Agents continued to pass by the big booth decorated with rhinestones and flowers, which advocated an elegant simplicity to represent the business they ran. Displayed on either side of the booth were two dresses: one a simple, yet fashionable wedding dress with intricate detailing sewed into every stitch, the other, a woman’s business suit with a flower pin carved from what looked like sapphires. Along the table were pieces of jewelry—watches, bracelets, rings, necklaces, just samples of what the company had to offer—and pamphlets of what exactly it was the business they were running.

And displayed proudly on the sign over their booth was a symbol, a renaissance style ‘Q’ that twisted and curved in classic cursive.

You sighed as you ran your hands along the sleeves of your blazer, your fingers grazing the cufflink on your wrist that matched the symbol of your agency. You had been standing behind your booth with one of three of your coworkers for about an hour now, waning the daylight in shifts between handling the booth and exploring the convention for food or company that was not the women running your station.

You looked over your watch as you awaited the return of your colleagues so you could switch off again, so you could leave the confines of advertising your business. Your outfit—a delicate gold satin button down that loosely tucked into your perfectly tailored white dress pants, which flowed along your legs and matched with white blazer to create your formal attire suit—was a perfect representation of your agency: distinguished and efficient. Your partner, though she wore silver and blue, stood beside you to match.

You smiled and shifted the clubmaster frames sitting at the edge of your nose as Pearl and Jasper returned, both women sending you nods and smiles as they took your places behind the booth for your switch. “We found the Kings just that way,” Jasper said, pointing in the direction they’d just come from before shifting the cloud of coiled black hair away from her face and securing it in a poofy ponytail. She then slipped her hands back into the pockets of her dark red suit, glancing back at Pearl as she spoke.

“They’ve got a nice booth. We might have some competition,” she quipped, smirking as smoothed her fingers over the thin chain of her necklace.

Opal, your own partner, laughed and shook her head. “Don’t we always have competition with the Kings?” she retorted, playful as she turned to walk with you. You agreed with her joke and headed in the direction Jasper had pointed in.

On the way, a pair of eyes spotted you and you offered a large grin. One of the agencies you partner with were the Amadoda Amafulege, the Flagsmen. They were a company set in Africa who you counted on for certain resources: information, jewels or gemstones, fabrics. They were reliable friends.

You and Opal approached them with wide grins, pointing them in the direction of your own booths to greet Jasper and Pearl. The interaction was short but warm hearted, and you were off again before you could be sidetracked by some other business you happen to work with. You both continued on walking, greeting physical bodies and holographic forms with waves and nods.

The large sign of the Kingsman symbol sat atop a booth as two well-dressed gentlemen with glasses stood behind their booth. One of them spotted the both of you, recognizing the likewise fashion choices as you came closer. Opal grinned, a mix of amusement and adoration in her tone at the company which both allied and competed with your own. “The famed Kingsman.”

The younger one smiled, offering a nod to you both. “Hello,” he greeted. When you finally stood in front of their booth, he reached out and handed each of you a pamphlet. You glanced over it, disinterested in absorbing information you already know. Both agents held their hands out for you. “Agent Galahad. This is Agent Merlin.”

The older man, Merlin, gave a courteous nod, “Pleasure to meet you.”

You nodded, shaking his hand confidently. “Back at you,” you responded. “We didn’t know if you’d be coming.”

Merlin gave a nod, smiling with a slight chuckle at your words. The Kingsman had not shown up to the last convention, business had gotten in the way and they were greatly missed. “We pulled some strings.”

You looked over their table at a few gadgets, some disguised as ties or watches, and then looked over at the two suits they chose to display similarly to your own booth. “Good to have the famous Galahad and Merlin,” you said, “and with a good booth.”

Your tone offered your impressed attitude toward their well-decorated station. Some of the booths here had not offered a lot of effort, simply their symbols on a sign and some pamphlets and gadgets on their tables. Plain. Boring.

“Some of these are severely lacking,” Opal said, practically reading your mind. She ran a hand through her hair, pushing the black curls out of her face so she could see as she offered her smile. “You’d think a secret service could put together a decent booth.”

Galahad extended a hand with his suggestion, "You should stop by the Statesman. You'd probably be impressed."

"We'll keep it in mind," you agreed, picking up one of the fancy watches on display. You examined it, the Kingsman symbol hiding under the glass, the gold lining on the band, the knobs and secret accesses embedded inside.

Merlin smiled, "In the meantime, we shall take a stop by yours."

Opal nodded, "Down by the Krispy Kreme. Can't miss it."

Your thumb pressed against the button on the side meant to wind the hour hand. It obeyed, pushing down and revealing a hologram of the Kingsman symbol once more.

"Very nice toy," you commented, pushing the button again to make the symbol retreat.

Merlin hummed, "You haven't found the kill button yet."

You shook your head, still examining the watch. "No, I have. You've got the poison dart here–" you tapped the near-invisible button on the side, "and the tranq dart here," you tapped the button next to it.

They raised their brows at you, impressed. "You've got them too close together, you should separate them a little more," you suggested. "Wouldn't want someone trying to knock an important target out and end up killing them instead."

The agents glanced at each other under Opal's watching gaze and your diverted one as you set the watch back down. Galahad nodded, "Right."

"Opal," you said as you turned to your partner. She hummed and you held your hand out.

"Oh, yes," she mumbled, lifting the lapel of her jacket to reach into a pocket. She handed it to you for you to present to both Kingsman. The box was lengthwise, a thin, golden thing housing a watch made by your agency.

"This is for Galahad—Harry—sent by our boss. She was hoping for us to run into you today. You'll give it?" You said, handing it over to the two.

"Of course," Merlin said, peeking inside of the box with a nod.

The two of you left again to go look at some other booths, or to find food. They sent you off with the directions to the Statesman, waving and wishing you farewell.

As you walked next to Opal, you recounted the booths you'd seen and the ones you hadn't on the way. You motioned toward the restaurant in the distance, smiling at the waft of good food as you got closer to it. You would all have to stop and eat there later today.

Your thoughts came to a halt when you heard someone's voice speaking to you, an unfamiliar voice that had you turning your head at the two figures approaching you.

"Hey there, sugar."

The voice had a Southern twang, smiling and confident as the owner slowed to stand in front of you. "Here we go," Opal mumbled beside you with an amused grin.

He was a handsome man, charming in the right ways. The black hat on his head accompanied his accent and his outfit, a suit that screamed professional cowboy. The mustache above his lip was kept and clean, and he wore it well, along with the glasses on the bridge of his nose.

He looked at you with his dark eyes, his tongue poking out to lick his bottom lip as he smirked. "How lucky am I to see a beauty like you in a place like this?"

There was a woman next to him with short dark brown hair mostly shielded by her own western hat, her skin shades lighter as her own glasses sat at the bridge of her nose. She held her hand out, "Hi, I'm Ginger Ale. This is Whiskey."

"Nice to meet you," you greeted her warmly, taking in the sight of her with a look that could only be described as an evaluation.

You turned to Whiskey, raising an amused brow as you held your hand to shake his. He grabbed it gingerly, bending at the waist to press a kiss to your knuckles.

"How do you do?" he winked, holding onto your hand a little longer before letting you go.

Opal chuckled, "He's cute."

He smiled at her, satisfied with her assessment as he grinned at her like some excited pup.

You tilted your head, nodding slowly. "Yeah… In a flirty toddler kind of way." His demeanor did not shift, your words were no dagger to his ego. "Just want to pinch his cheeks and pat his head," you chuckled, half-reaching like you would actually do it.

You might, his skin looked soft and you want to see his hair underneath his hat.

He winked again, licking his bottom lip, "You can do whatever you want, sugar," he quipped.

You chuckled. Cute.

"You think so?" you asked, tilting your head as you pitched your voice a few octaves to sound as sweet as the nickname he kept calling you.

He shifted so he was standing beside you, careful with his arm in case you didn't want to be touched. Thoughtful. He walked a little with you, leaving Opal and Ginger to stand next to one another and watch him guide you a few feet away.

"I know so," he chuckled. "What's your name?" He said "your" in that way only cowboys can say it: that slurred 'u' that made the 'r' slightly bleed into the last word.

You licked your bottom lip, offering a teasing gaze as you looked at him through your lashes. "Why don't you guess it?" You turned to him, setting your hands on his chest and playing with his tie.

He seemed charmed, entranced by your little gestures and looks. "Probably something pretty like that necklace," he smirked, motioning to your chest as his fingers brushed the golden locket around your neck, resting just between your breasts.

You took it in your hands, stroking the sides. "You like my necklace?"

"It's beautiful," he agreed, staring back at you with a gaze that matched the lovestruck puppy vibe he'd given you earlier. "Just like you," he grabbed your hand and kissed your knuckles once more.

"You wanna take a look inside?"

"I'd be delighted," he breathed, leaning forward just a little as his face huddled closer to you. You offered a tiny giggle as you undid the clasp, slowly opening the locket as you built the suspense of what could possibly be presented inside.

A bright light flashed quickly into Whiskey's eyes, there one second and gone before a full one could pass. Whiskey's hands rushed to his face as he made a slight groan, and he stumbled backward. You reached forward, pressing a hand to his chest, and watched him fall to the ground.

He made little sounds of discomfort, laying on his back as he brought his hands away and blinked rapidly. He stared in no clear direction, looking around blankly for…something.

Opal chuckled from her spot, Ginger stared with a mix of amusement and concern, and you just looked down at him with a smile as he tried to see.

You approached him, bending at the hips and looking down at him with a smile. You brushed some hair out of your face.

"This is my partner, Opal," you gestured toward her, though you knew he could not see. Your necklace had a device within it that temporarily blinded those on the unfortunate end of it—temporarily.

You pressed a hand to your chest, "My name is Diamond," you reached out and picked up his hat, which had fallen off his head. "Agents of the Queensmaiden."

You brushed the fabric of the hat, setting it over his face before straightening your back. You looked at Ginger Ale as you rejoined Opal's side. "Nice to meet you, Ginger."

She smiled and dipped her hat at you once, waving. "You, too. Feel free to stop by the Statesman."

You nodded, looping your arm with your partner's, paying the blind agent no mind as he struggled to his feet. "We were just headed there!" you smiled, amazed at the turn of events as you pointed it out. "We'll stop by later…when he can see again."

You turned with Opal, looking over your shoulder and grinning gently. "Bye, Whiskey," you giggled before taking your leave.

Whiskey reached out hastily, grabbing a hold of Ginger, just to make sure she was still there. The way she could have rolled her eyes and shook her head as a dopey smile spread over his lips. He motioned in the direction he thought you walked out in, sighing dreamily.

"I need her."

This time, Ginger did roll her eyes and shake her head. She took his outstretched hand and started pulling him back to the booth. "Come on, lover boy."

~

You did visit the Statesman’s booth—where you met Scotch and Tequila—but did so while Whiskey was away. You wanted to tease him, make him anticipate your arrival for you not to appear and leave him wanting more.

As the night waned, the booths were taken down to make room for the afterparty that had already begun. You were standing at one of the tall, narrow tables with Opal and Tequila, enjoying the music playing in the background as people mingled through the night.

As you laughed at a sarcastic comment made by Tequila, you heard the familiarly smooth voice of his colleague fill the space between you and couldn’t fight your smile.

“I see you’ve met my associate,” he announced himself, sidling up next to you as he leaned on the table. The look on his face held no defeat or upset, he was just as smiling as before as he took in the sight of you, once again entranced.

You chuckled, looking him up and down as you watched each other. “Oh,” you smiled, “so you can see again…”

He laughed heartily at that, amusement seeping into the sound and painting your stomach with butterflies, a light, airy feeling that bounced off the bones of your ribcage. He clasped his hands together, motioning with his head toward your chest, where your golden locket still lay idly by.

“Very nifty gadget, that necklace of yours,” Whiskey smiled, his eyes never leaving yours for long.

You picked it up, tracing your thumb along it like you had done before in a slight tease. “I’d like to think so. I designed it,” you confessed, setting it back down and looking at him, your head tilted up as you straightened your spine with pride. He tilted his head to the side, his grin deepening at your clear genius.

Tequila and Opal shared a look as they took in the interaction, chuckling lightly. “I’ll go ahead and step away now,” he said, doing just that and glancing back at your partner standing by his side.

She nodded her agreement, holding her hand out to the offered crook of his arm. “And I’ll join you.” She walked away with him, shaking her head and smiling as she left to go hang out with her own new plaything—of sorts.

Whiskey’s eyes looked you up and down as he thought over something for a moment before he simply spoke again. “Can I buy you a drink, sweetness?” he offered, holding his own arm out for you as Tequila had done.

You considered him, raising a brow. “I’m still sweet, huh?”

He flashed his teeth with his next grin, dipping his head down in a nod as a gesture with his hat. “Like sugar,” he hummed.

You sighed. “Okay.” Your arm looped through his own, and he smiled triumphantly as he gently tucked you into his side. You gave him a similar gaze to the one you’d given him before he ended up walking around blindly for an hour: your head tilted down as you looked up at him through your lashes, your smile soft, and your eyes teasing—the perfect demonstration of the less eloquently put “fuck me eyes”. “Lead the way, Whiskey.”

He walked you to the bar that had opened earlier on for the convention. The liquor was all top shelf stuff—they wouldn’t dare give low-quality alcohol to these highly respectable representatives of these agencies. He made sure you were sitting comfortably on your stool before he took his seat next to you—a true gentleman.

A bartender came down to the pair of you and smiled, waiting for your orders. “Scotch, neat,” you nodded, adding a “thank you” on the end as you looked away, anywhere but Whiskey while your eyes examined the many options behind the bartender.

“Actually,” Whiskey held his finger up, “I want you to try something.” You looked at him, narrowing your eyes teasingly at what he could be doing now. He turned to the bartender, pulling his hat off and setting it to the side to reveal the neatly kept hair underneath it. “Kentucky Statesman, whiskey,” he nodded.

They nodded back before stepping away to grab the bottle. You looked at him with a smirk as he gazed back at you, self-satisfied before you’d even tried the liquor he’d suggested. The bartender returned with the bottle of the amber liquid, showing off the label to ensure it was the correct one. When Whiskey nodded, they grabbed two glasses from under the bar and set it on the table, pouring the appropriate amount into each one.

You picked up the glass as it was given to you, swishing it around and examining it. You picked up the bottle in your other hand and looked at the label as you brought the lip of the glass to your nose to smell the heady scent of liquor. “Whiskey from Whiskey, huh?” you quipped, still only sampling the scent.

He laughed, sitting back with his glass in his hand, refusing to take a sip until you had. “Give it a taste.”

You smiled suspiciously, bringing the glass to your lips and sniffing it once more before finally tasting it. A sigh escaped you as whiskey lingered on your tongue before burning delightfully down your throat. It was magnificent, like liquid gold.

"Oh my god," you whispered under your breath, closing your eyes and shaking your head.

He smiled proudly, "Good, right?"

You looked at him, composing yourself once more as you straightened your back and too-slowly set your glass back down. You let out a long, calculated breath and just nodded too hard. "It's…It's good, yeah."

He finally drank from his own glass, hiding his chuckle as he beamed. "Go on," he said as he set his glass back down. "Have some more. On the house."

You looked at him, raising a brow. "I thought you were buying me a drink," you pointed out, taking another generous gulp.

He leaned back, motioning widely to the large selection of fine liquor. "Be my guest, get whatever you want."

You inhaled the intoxicating scent of the drink already in hand, your eyelids fluttering for a split second before you just shook your head. "I suppose I'll settle for this," you told him, sipping your drink and setting it down again.

Whiskey grabbed the bottle and refilled your glass. You looked up at him, narrowing your eyes playfully and smirking. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

He shook his head, "Of course not. Just tryna show you the plus side of a Statesman." He set the bottle down and winked at you.

You scoffed, anything but annoyed. "What, think I'll find you?" you swirled your drink around. "We'll hook up over some good liquor?"

His laugh was nearly explosive as he shook his head, seemingly amused in the deepest degree. "Oh, no," he said. "I intend to do more than simply 'hookin' up' with you."

You hummed your response, examining him for far too long and looking away before his dark gaze could override your self-restraint. You crossed your legs, turning your body to face away from him again.

"So," he breathed, "tell me about the Queensmaiden."

You took in a long breath and blew it out to think, reaching out and grabbing his hat discarded on the table. Feeling the fabric under your fingers, you tilted your head. "What do you want to know?"

He shrugged, "Where did it come from?"

"Well," you began, "It was formed some time after Kingsman, 1952, by a man named Bobby Gold." They way you said it, with reverence and sass, Whiskey's lips twitched in a smile. "He's like… in his late eighties now, looking good." You shook your head to get back on track. "He founded the Queensmaiden to be an all-women agency, picked a protégé to take his place and run it after he stepped down."

You turned to him with a boastful smirk, "She's the first Diamond—was the first Diamond, she retired. I knew her, worked with her when I first joined. I got her name, promoted from Quartz."

He nodded, deeply invested in the way you spoke as you played with his hat, made of sturdy, soft fabric. "Fascinatin'," he smiled.

You nodded. "Gold ran a really popular jewelry business of the same name, had a younger sister who ran a tailor shop for women's clothing with her husband. He founded it, she later partnered as co-founder. Now we're a boutique found in most countries…all over the world." You shrugged your shoulder so nonchalantly, like your boast wasn't a real boast. "It's very efficient, dare I say, more efficient than the Kingsman itself."

He snorted, "Don't tell them that."

You leaned forward, too close within his space, "They probably already know." You sidled up closer to him, a clear flirt as you smiled. You raised his hat to him and set it atop your own head.

Whiskey's eyes darkened as he watched you down his nose. "You know…" he said slowly, "there's this rule where I come from… Wear the hat, ride the cowboy."

You licked your bottom lip as your eyes flicked up and down his face. "Oh, I'm well aware." His hand reached out and grazed your arm, daring to bring you closer before you pulled away from him again with a sweet smile. "What about Statesman?"

It took a beat for him to recover before he was shaking his head. "Not as glamorous," he sighed thickly. "Agency in the south full of cowboys and rascals."

You traced the rim of your glass with your finger, picking it up again and bringing it to your lips. "Well, I love me a nice cowboy," you said as you looked at him over your cup.

"Lucky for me, huh?"

"We'll see." You took a sip from your glass.

Suddenly, the music which had been in the background shifted into something else. Country music blared through the speakers and caught the attention of everyone in the area. Some excitedly stood to go join the small group ready who may have recognized the music, but one look at the jukebox provided by one of the agencies here proved that it was, indeed, a southerner who'd started the music.

Tequila stood there with his hat on his head as he smiled, one hand held out and grasping Opal's hand as he spun her into his chest. He glanced up at Whiskey and nodded once before hopping off to the large space cleared to dance.

He was the one to determine what dance was being done as he twirled Opal around into a half amateur-half professional swing dance. People joined in with their partners and allowed themselves to be swept away into more amateur dancing—a dance Whiskey suddenly seemed confident to prove himself in.

"C'mon, I've never missed a swing," he smiled excitedly.

He took your hand and pulled you to the floor before you could protest. He swung you, making you stumble into his chest as you breathed quickly. "I've never swing danced before," you confessed.

He looked you dead in the eye, his own sparkling with excitement and hints of giddiness. "Just follow me," he breathed, his kissable lips forming the words in a way that made it impossible to deny him this.

You sighed, "You better know what you're doing."

He smirked, this one more sly than the last. "Trust me, sugar," he leaned in. "I know what I'm doin'."

You tilted your head, standing up a little more and placing your hands in his. Once you were situated, you smiled and let out a breath of courage. "Well," you whispered, "show me how a real cowboy does it."

Whiskey beamed before he pulled you into the music, quick steps and swinging arm making it impossible to keep up. He twirled you out, he twirled you back in, he switched you to one side and swung you to the other. He spun you under his arm and into his chest. Just when you thought he might slow down, he dipped and held you in his arms with heavy breaths.

He caught the hat as it fell from your head, lingering there and staring at your lips. You stared into the depths of his gaze, catching your breath as they mingled between you in soft puffs of air. He slowly straightened his spine, standing you up and setting the hat atop your head once more, admiring its place there.

You smiled, leaning forward oh-so slowly. His eyes fluttered until they were closed. He looked so calm, so gentle and pretty. You pulled his hat from your head and put it back on him, lingering there a moment before pulling out of his arms and missing his warmth.

He felt you leave and refused to watch you leave him behind. When he opened his eyes again, you were gone. When he turned his head to a mystified Tequila, Opal was gone.

A breath poured from his lips as he couldn't help but smile. He smiled at your charm, at the way you left him starstruck, at the way he'd slipped his number in your pocket in the hopes you called him, finding him again and leaving him with a little more closure as he looked down at his boots and shook his head.

"Fuck me," he cursed, chuckling to himself.

~

That was the last he saw of you for months, the last you saw of him for months.

You hated how much you thought about him—his puppy-like flirtations, his darkened gaze, his fascination, and the way he moved you like a tornado on the dance floor. You stared at the crumpled up piece of paper with his number scrawled on it all the time, considering, thinking, wanting to call.

But you never did. Never once did you pick up the phone and dial his number. Never once did you talk about him to your colleagues or your partners—not even with Opal, who was totally smitten with her own cowboy.

You missed him, but you were determined not to.

But that didn't mean a crossing of paths would hinder a good reunion.

You smiled at the receptionist at the front desk, who granted you a smile of his own with the tilt of his head. Walking up to the desk, you adjusted the purse on your arm and spoke. “Hello, I’m here for an appointment with Mr. Sullivan. I’m his three o’clock.”

He hummed, “I wasn’t aware Mr. Sullivan was taking appointments today. Name?” he asked, turning to his computer.

“Davis. We made an appointment together over the phone,” you stated in a sickly sweet voice. “Oh, I hope I marked the right day.”

He looked at you and just smiled, shaking his head. “No worries. I don’t see you in the database, but I’ll just give him a quick call to confirm. Alright?”

You nodded, thanking him kindly as you wiped your hands down your light suit. He picked up the phone and dialed the number to his boss’ office, giving you another large grin. When the phone was picked up, he began to explain the situation, and his reaction was full of wide eyes and stutters. “Yes, sir,” he answered, setting the phone back down.

He looked back at you regretfully. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Sullivan will not be taking any appointments today. You are welcome to reschedule, if you’d like.”

“Of course,” you nodded.

“Great.” He reached down under the desk to grab some papers before wincing. “I’ll have to go make some copies. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Not a problem.”

He disappeared behind a door behind the desk and you sighed, turning anyway to go up to the elevator on your right. As you were walking, you noticed a group of men walking down the hall, dressed in black with shades over their eyes. Security guards. You straightened your spine and merely kept walking. You were just at the elevator when you heard shots firing behind you. You groaned loudly and ducked for cover. Their gunfire was loud and thunderous, making couch stuffing and wood splinters fly through the air as you hid behind a desk behind a sofa in the cushy lobby.

You cursed under your breath as you dug through your purse. “No, no, no,” you mumbled as you selected which weapon you would use. You dug out a little silver disc and smiled. “Yes,” you declared as you pulled a little pin out of the side.

You threw it behind you where the guards were still shooting, and ducked down, waiting for a blow that never came as the gunshots continued. “Talc!” you yelled, shaking your head at the newbie in the weapons department and one of her faulty weapons making its way into your arsenal.

You huffed as you looked behind you before you suddenly heard a body drop. You looked over and your eyes widened in shock and surprise. Hiding behind a couch a little farther away from your own was a person who definitely was not on their side. He locked eyes with you, and your expressions became mirrors of the other.

“Diamond?” “Whiskey?”

The simultaneous ringing of your names only escalated the confusion as you stared at one another. “What are you doing here?” he questioned in as low a whisper he could manage to ensure you still heard him, holding a sleek, golden gun tight in his grip as he paid no mind to the small cavalry currently shooting at you.

“I’m on a fucking mission. What are you doing here?” you countered.

He shrugged, “On a fuckin’ mission.”

Shit. “Shit,” you huffed. You thought for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest. “What’s your objective?”

Whiskey pressed his gun to his temple, tilting it up as a gesture of his assassination attempt. You let out a breath of relief, pulling a drive with the Queensmaiden symbol on the side from out of your bra and showing it off to him. He sighed as well.

“Cover me?” you asked.

He smiled and nodded, sending you a flirty wink. “You got it, sugar.”

You grinned and counted down for him before ducking out of your cover and rushing to the elevator closest to you. Whiskey stood, grasping his gun as he shot. You pressed the elevator door button and glanced over your shoulder, gripping your gun tight as you waited impatiently for the elevator to open.

When you heard the ding, you had half a second to celebrate as a loud shot came too close to you. You looked down at the elevator button, flashing and sparking as it sat destroyed in the wall.

You pried the door open and shouted Whiskey's name over your shoulder as he retreated back. You got inside, jamming the button closed without missing a beat or waiting for him to get through.

The doors were already closing when he finally slipped through, a bullet missing him by an inch. In the safety of the elevator, you let out a breath and calmed.

There was silence, besides the breaths blowing through the space of the elevator. Whiskey looked at you as you raised your hand, looking at the clock face of your watch.

"You never called," he accused, looking at you with a raised brow and a look on his face that wasn't mad, but not entirely giddy with joy.

You shrugged, still not looking at him. "Been busy."

He chuckled, "With what?"

You missed his voice, that smooth Southern lilt that could lull you to gentle sleep or drive you insane with desire. With the adrenaline pumping through your veins, it was the latter.

"My job," you laughed, pressing a button on your watch as a hologram arose from it, circling the Queensmaiden symbol.

You turned to him, granting him a smile. You were more happy to see him than you should have been. "Did you miss me, lover boy?" you winked. "Tequila says you did."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "You've been talking with Tequila?"

You smirked, nodding. "Of course," you told him, swiping the hologram aside to pull up some files off of some computer. "He's with Opal. They hooked up after the convention."

He sighed longingly, leaning on one leg as he set his gun back in his holster. "And to think," he breathed. "That coulda been us."

You snorted, "Don't get ahead of yourself, cowboy."

You tapped away from the files you'd been scrolling through, pulling up some surveillance footage. There was a hall through the camera, one full of guards with more numbers than the ones downstairs.

"Aww," you muttered. "We have a whole welcome party waiting for us." You turned him with a grin, swiping away the hologram and returning your hand to your side.

He reached behind his back as he smiled. "How sweet."

Whipping his jacket to the side, he grabbed some sort of fancy handle, intricately detailed with gold and silver. You nodded, impressed as you looked at its design.

"Nice," you commented. You opened your jacket, sliding it off your arms and reaching behind you to grab a hold of a handle of your own. It was blue, a shining color that sparkled as Whiskey's eyes scanned over it.

The elevator dinged and you stood beside Whiskey with a smile. The sea of guards on the other side watched you with stern faces, ready for the inevitable fight as they stared down two people who didn't stand a chance.

"Well, howdy, fellas," Whiskey greeted, tipping his hat.

You tilted your head and smiled, "How do you do?" You pressed a small button on one end and the handle began to unfold, expanding into a dagger on one end of a strong rope and a heavy hammer-like weapon on the other.

At the sight of the weapon, the fight began. With drawn guns and angry glares, the guards were quick with their guns as they cornered you in the elevator.

The handle in Whiskey's hand extended into a lasso—a silver whip that he swung out into the small army. It wrapped around the gun of the man in the front of the group, holding on tight as he pulled it taut and sent him falling forward.

You took your rope dart and began swinging it, smacking a bullet out of the way as it hurdled toward you. You threw it and Whiskey watched, amazed, as it wrapped around some man's neck and the dagger embedded itself into his chest. You pulled it, and he spun around to the floor.

The other guards were distracted long enough for the both of you to retreat from the elevator and into the fight.

Ropes flew through the air, daggers pierced bodies, and electricity had them writhing in pain before dropping to the floor. Whiskey's rope wrapped around someone's neck as he pulled him in, punching him hard in the face and sending him to the floor.

He heard a pained yell behind him and turned to see some man falling to the floor with a blue knife in his back. You stepped forward, setting your foot on his back and pulling the dart out.

"That's cool," he said, admiring your weapon of choice.

You smiled, pulling a gun and shooting someone coming toward Whiskey from behind. "Thank you. It's made of sapphires."

"Oo," he smiled. "Duck." You did so, dipping down as he raised his own gun and shot another man aiming his gun at you.

He looked down at you, knelt on one knee in front of him, tightly gripping your rope tight. "What an interestin' position we've found ourselves in."

You scoffed, standing up too close to him. "Keep it in your pants, hotshot."

You turned on your heel, returning to the fight as the few guards who were left brandished their guns. The last of them were easy to take out, and you did. As you swung your rope at the last man standing you noticed a different rope do the same.

You turned your head to Whiskey as he smiled at you. "Looks like we made a connection."

You rolled your eyes. "Shut up." You grabbed your gun and raised it to the man, shooting him instantly and collecting your rope as he dropped to the floor.

You walked over to the body, bending down and wiping the blood from your blade before stepping over him and toward the grand office door down the hall. Whiskey was more than happy to follow you.

You take a card you'd snatched from one of the bodies and swipe it along the reader, the door sliding open to allow you inside. As soon as you crossed the threshold, you heard the sound of a gun click.

You both looked up at Mr. Sullivan pointing his gun at you, dressed in an expensive suit with hands that trembled only slightly with fear for his life. You sighed, looking back at him. "Well, you caught us," you said as you stood beside Whiskey. "Props."

"Question is…" Whiskey added, "who're you gonna shoot?"

Sullivan tilted his head. There was no amusement in his face, but he gave you a look that said "really?". He motioned between the two of you and raised a brow. "You've got some rope. I've got a gun. I can shoot both of you."

Whiskey nodded, agreeing with his logic. "Well, you caught us fair and square," he sighed dramatically. Then he smirked, "Pull the trigger."

Sullivan didn't like how calm you both were. He was holding a gun to your face, and you were telling him to pull the trigger. Why the fuck would you tell him to pull the trigger if he had the upper hand? Were you suicidal?

"There's just one little thing," you spoke, shifting on your side. "You brought a gun to a knife fight."

Sullivan missed the way you passed your rope dart to Whiskey, who took it with too much excitement and, with a few mighty swings, threw it at the unsuspecting boss. The rope wrapped around his neck, and he dropped his gun to grab it and force it away to no avail. The dagger came back around after its loops, and he had no time to process as it lodged in his chest.

Whiskey smirked before he pulled roughly on the rope, spinning the man round, unwinding him like a yo-yo. The dagger yanked from his chest and Whiskey caught it as it flung back. Mr. Sullivan dropped to the floor, choking on his own blood as it spilled from his wound.

You walked past him dismissively, stepping up to his desk and grabbing your drive. Sticking it in the computer, you began typing away as Whiskey admired your weapon.

"I needa get me one of these," he muttered.

"I've got plenty. I'll send you one," you suggested.

He looked up at you, his eyes glittering, "Really?"

"Why not?" You shrugged your shoulders. Leaned over the desk, you watched the loading bar slowly climb toward completion before you were able to withdraw the drive and stuff it in your pocket.

You grabbed a butterscotch from the bowl on his desk, helping yourself as you walked back over to Whiskey. You smiled at him and tilted your head. You hold your hand out to him, making a grabby motion.

"Can I have it back?" you asked.

He tilted his head up, smiling down at you with narrowed eyes. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" you questioned.

"Can I get something in return?"

You sighed and thought for a moment, continuing to smile at him as you returned your hand to your hip. "What do you want?"

He shrugged, pretending to think. "How about a pretty please?" he smirked, his eyes dark and inviting, his voice quiet and deep.

"You want me to say please?" you asked, standing too close as your eyes flickered to his lips for half a second.

Again, he shrugged, but his smile became more wicked. "A kiss on the cheek might suffice."

You chuckled deeply, standing on your toes as you leaned forward. You got closer, closer, and closer still until your breaths mingled. You shifted to his cheek, turning your head just enough so your lips nearly brushed his ear as you whispered to him. "You're going to have to try harder than that."

You took the rope from his grip and backed away from him, watching him watch you with lidded eyes. You backed toward a private elevator in the office, pressing a button on the wall as the doors opened. You looked toward the door you came in and smiled. "You've got company."

You stepped back into the elevator and the doors closed, shielding you from him as you waved.

Whiskey stood in the office, looking toward the door that was currently being beaten against by his visitors. Smiling and shaking his head, he laughed heartily. "Clever."

You stepped out onto the roof, taking the drive from your pocket and tossing it to the ground. You pulled your gun and shot at it once, destroying it entirely as you made your way to the jet waiting for you. You boarded it, climbing into the pilot's seat as you started it up and left.

As you flew away from the building, you glanced back at it and smiled when you saw a figure climbing up the side of the building to the roof. He looked over his shoulder at you, and you could make out the distinct sight of him waving his arm at you. Not to grab your attention, but to say hello.

You saluted him before departing for a second time.

~

Your next encounter with him was not so far in the future. In fact, it was later on that night.

You walked into the large house you were staying in after a long day out. Between your mission, your flights, and everything in between, you were about ready to pour yourself a drink and go to sleep early.

The house was owned by the Queensmaiden, a mission house for meetings or get-togethers or just a place for agents to crash after long days on missions. Since your trip today was done alone, your partner back at home serving as your tech that day, you were in this big empty home alone. You didn't mind much, it was a lot of space, you could turn on the stereo as loud as you want, there was plenty of expensive booze. You were all set for the night.

As you walked through the loud house, which was filled with the classic voice of Frank Sinatra, you made your way to the open bar. As you poured yourself a drink, you glanced at the label with a smile. Statesman whiskey.

"So you did like it."

You didn't turn around, but you smiled at the smooth tone of your cowboy behind you. You grabbed a second glass and poured him his own. You set the bottle down, picked up both cups, and walked over to him with a smile.

"It's alright."

You stopped in front of him, making a bad habit of standing too close. Passing the glass over, you looked up at him through your lashes. He wasn't wearing his hat, giving you a view of his tousled hair. Likewise, he was stripped down to a white button down with the sleeves rolled up, his shirt still tucked in his pants fastened with his belt. His tie was gone, and the top buttons of the shirt were undone. He saluted his glass to you, and you gladly clinked them together in a quiet cheer before taking a sip, your eyes never parting from his.

"You know," he sighed. "This disappearing act of yours is starting to get a little old, Diamond."

You shrugged a shoulder, "I can spice it up if you want."

He simply shook his head, "I think I'd rather pick a different act. It would put us in much different positions."

"Oh?" You smiled, reluctantly turning on your heel and stepping away from him. "What positions did you have in mind?"

You lounged on the couch, kicking off your shoes. You looked back at him with one hand on your glass and the other under your chin as you rested your head on the back of the couch.

He sighed once again, his whole body moving with him as he looked at you in that way that reminded you of a lovesick pup. He set his hands on his hips, leaning on the side as he contemplated.

"You never called."

His words from earlier pricked your heart in a special kind of way this time. You sighed and just shook your head, "No, I didn't."

The song playing through the speakers in the house faded out to welcome another. Sinatra's "I'm a Fool to Want You" was sharp in your mind.

You set your glass down and looked up at Whiskey again. You reached your hand out to him, wiggling your fingers in the hope that he'll hold your hand.

He did, and you smiled.

"I did miss you," you confessed.

That offered him some solace. "Honest?"

"Honest." He sighed, stepping closer. You sat up, settling on your knees as he still towered over you. He looked at you for a long time before suddenly smiling. He bent down, wrapping his arms around your body and surprising you as he hoisted you up, spinning you over the couch and setting you on your feet. You held onto him, laughing as he pulled you close to his chest. He slid his hand into your own, entwining your fingers as his other hand rested on the small of your back.

"Dance with me?" he asked.

You tilted your head, "Do I have a choice?"

He laughed and just shook his head. "No."

You laughed. He took a side step, swaying you in time with the gentle rock of the music. It was slow and steady, filled with too much emotion than should have been allowed for a couple who had only met once a few months prior. You rested your head on his chest, your eyes closed as you blew out a long breath.

His voice rumbled in his chest as he spoke, low and quiet. "How lucky am I to see a beauty like you in a place like this?" he smiled.

You chuckled, recalling those words from when you first met. "Am I still allowed to do whatever I want?" you asked, looking up at him.

He spun you out, twirling you before spinning you back in, your back pressing against his chest. He leaned down to your ear. "Never revoked the privilege."

You twisted your neck to see him, smiling at his face so close to yours. You leaned forward, your lips ghosting over his own as you considered it. For a moment, you considered it.

You swerved to hover your lips near his ear, "Catch me."

You stepped away from him, walking backwards as your eyes stayed glued to his. You watched him with the same dark, teasing eyes as you had used before. The naughty look on your face, the proximity at which you once stood, the tingling of your lips never grazing his but teasing him with the possibility of such a sacred union…the thought of never sealing that fate with you and leaving once again for another wild goose chase where he never knew if he would see you again due to the dangers of the lives you both lived. They were possibilities that made his heart ache in ways it shouldn't have.

He just shook his head, deciding then and there that he wouldn't let you have another swift get away, wouldn't let you slip through his fingers with nothing to remember you by but the ghost breaths against the shell of his ear where you exhaled your secrets. "Not this time."

He took a few long strides toward you, taking you in his arms and crashing his lips down upon yours. You gasped into his mouth, melting instantly into him as your legs turned to jelly. He held you close to him, supporting your neck with one large hand as he consumed you in a passionate embrace.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down and swaying gently as you finally kissed the cowboy you'd been craving for months. He bent down, wrapping his arms under you and lifting you to wrap your legs around his waist. He held you up with strong arms, walking you back until he was pushing you up against a wall.

When he pulled from the kiss, heavy, hot breaths were exchanged between the two of you. His hands roamed your body, drinking you in desperately. His mouth pressed against your neck, his tongue darting out to lick along your thumping pulse. You moaned, feeling the heat between your legs igniting with a fire.

His name fell from your lips as he nibbled on your neck. Your fingers tangled in his hair and you pulled on his messy strands.

He rolled his hips into yours, pulling a shaky breath out of you. Your leg tightened around him, bringing him closer as you mirrored his own movement from before, drawing out your pleasure with grinding hips and breathless sighs. He groaned as one of his hands gripped your waist to stop you.

Whiskey unwrapped your legs from him as he set you back down on your feet. When he sank to his knees, it was with a maddening amount of eye contact that he didn’t dare break. His hands smoothed along your sides, rounding to the front to undo the clasp of your slacks. He moved torturously slow as he pulled the slacks down your legs, revealing more and more skin to him as he went along. Your eyes fluttered when you felt his lips on your thigh.

You stepped out of the pant legs when they finally pooled around your ankle. Whiskey leaned forward to press a kiss to the inside of your thigh, his tongue darting out to taste the skin before taking it between his teeth in a gentle nibble. You stifled a moan at the feeling, watching his dark eyes drink you in.

When he finally fingered the waistband of your panties, he pulled them down in one swift tug to reveal yourself to him. He licked his lips and you bit down on your own. “Look at that,” he praised. “So pretty.” He looked up at you with a cocky smirk, holding the back of your leg up and setting it atop his shoulder.

He leaned forward and your lips parted so delicately when his tongue darted out to lick you. Your breath hitched, halting in your throat as his hot tongue delved between your folds. Like a fire, the warmth spread through your body as you melted into him. Your hips jerked, seeking his mouth.

His lips wrapped around your pussy, tasting you with an intoxicated moan. When he sucked on your clit, your breath trembled and a whimper managed to weave its way through your vocal chords. His talented tongue glided through your folds before retreating as he pulled back from you to look at your pretty face.

You looked down, whining lightly at him as he stared at you with eyes that glittered with praise. His hand trickled up your side before dipping between your thighs and into your warmth. “You taste sweet as sugar, sugar.”

You had to fight through your eye roll as you enjoyed the sweet stretch of his thick fingers inside of you. “You have very skilled hands,” you nearly stuttered. Your eyes fluttered as he curled the length of his fingers.

“Why, thank you, sweetheart,” he dipped his head as though he was still wearing his hat. He pushed his fingers in deeper, adding a third as he coaxed you toward a sweeter release. He was a lot gentler than you expected, treating you like a fragile lover. It warmed your heart, so used to the less patient lovers of one-night stands long since.

The sharp dig of dull nails into the flesh of your thigh contrasted with the prior feathery fingertips on your sides. You were breathless and needy, aching for him all over. With those same fingers still buried deep inside of you, he leaned forward and sucked on your throbbing clit.

The shocks of pleasure creeping up on you sparked along your skin—your fingertips, the very ends of prickly flesh. Your fingers gripped and tangled in his hair. Your hips stuttered forward, searching for his mouth in a desperate attempt to push yourself over the edge.

But he was doing it first, crooking his fingers in the perfect way here and digging the tip of his tongue into that sensitive bundle of nerves there as your pitch climbed higher and higher with the anticipation of a climbing buildup. The rubber band inside your belly snapped and your mouth dropped. What were supposed to be rises of whiny moans were just a symphony of shuddering breaths, arrhythmic and impassioned.

He was right there to ease you through the shocks, encouraging you with his tongue back down to the tingles that covered the expanse of exposed skin.

When he pulled away, his lips were still occupied with your body, pressing hungry kisses to your thighs and lower belly with a fervor that made you tug harder on his curling locks of hair.

He looked up at you with kiss-swollen lips, smiling like an idiot in love—no, not love. This was just lust. That's all. That was it. It didn't matter if that spark in your chest only pumped through your veins when he looked at you like that.

You smiled at him, breathless. "Take me to bed."

"Don't have to tell me twice."

He tightened his grip around your waist before he stood, tossing you over his shoulder and holding you with one arm. You yelped, dissolving into giggles as he carried you through the house and through the winding halls toward the bedroom.

On the way, you smiled as you passed by his hat sitting on a table along the walls. Reaching you, you had just barely grabbed it with your fingertips as you held it to your head.

He pushed the door open to reveal the room: a king-sized bed with golden sheets, a mini chandelier reflecting diamonds all over the expensive room, paintings and frames and shelves probably hiding more tools and gadgets than there are choices of liquor behind the bar in the main room.

He kicked the door closed behind him, admiring the room with a hum and a nod of his head before plopping you down onto the bed. You fell with a bounce, chuckling again as you held onto his hat. He smiled, watching you put it on your head and look at him with eyes that expressed far too much to be an innocent one-night stand.

Part of Whiskey hoped it was more than an innocent one-night stand.

So did you.

But if it was, he would rock your world. He stared down at you with darkened eyes, undoing his shirt and tossing it somewhere in the room. The rest of his clothes followed after until he was in nothing but his boxers. Then he did the same to you, except he didn't stop until you were bare before him, left in nothing but your expensive necklace and earrings to admire the way you still looked like the perfect reflection of the woman of his dreams. He left the hat. You looked perfect in it.

"Not fair," you complained with a grin. "I'm stripped bare, and you're still dressed."

You leaned up on your elbows, sitting up until you were situated on your knees as you leaned forward. You smiled up at him, hooking your finger in the band of his boxers to pull him forward. "Your turn."

He set his hand on your cheeks and nearly melted at the way you leaned into his warm palm, your eyes fluttering shut as a gentle breath blew through you. He shifted his hand so he pinched your chin, lifting your face to see better. "You're so fuckin' beautiful, sweetness."

"Oh, yeah?" you chuckled. "Prove it to me."

He leaned forward, bending down to your face and connecting your lips again. He licked into your mouth, tasting the remnants of whiskey on your tongue. You moaned, melting against him. You pulled away, your hand still hooked around his waistband. You tugged them down, ridding him of the meaningless article of clothing to reveal him to you.

Fuck, he was beautiful. Flushed tipped, thick, and throbbing. As you reached out and stroked your fist over his cock, he twitched in your hand and groaned. You bit your lip, leaning forward and giggling when his hat on your head bumped into his stomach.

He chuckled at you, tilting it up so he could see your face and you could move. You smiled at him before going back to his leaking slit. You leaned forward and licked him, flattening your tongue along his head to taste him. You moaned again, leaning forward to take a longer lick along the length of him. He breathed a curse under his breath, watching you lick him up as you worked your tongue along him.

His hand came to rest on the back of your neck, easing you forward without actually moving you. Your lips wrapped around him, slick and warm as you took him in your mouth. His head tilted back before he looked down again to see you, not wanting to miss a second of it.

"Fuck," he breathed, hips twitching. You smiled around him, working him deeper in your throat with the intent of taking the whole of him. "Fuck, you're amazing. How did I get so lucky?"

You whimpered, laving your tongue along the underside of his cock where the vein was throbbing. "You like that?" he asked. "You like when I tell you how fuckin' perfect you are?"

You nodded as best you could, wrapping a hand on the back of his thigh to pull him in some more. "You're so goddamn perfect," he promised. "Makin' me feel special like this. D'you feel special?"

You just moaned your response, suckling around him and pulling a rough moan from him. After a moment, he pulled you away, setting his hands on either side of your neck as he caught his breath. He looked down at you, smiling and pulling you forward to kiss you again. The way he kissed you this time was so much different than before, so much softer, slower, with more meaning behind it than there ever should have been. Fuck, you were drunk on it, craving his lips more and more with an impossible desperation, even while he was still kissing you.

He eased forward, moving you until you were laying on your back. His lips slipped on and off of yours, down to your neck as he buried his face there and suckled on the skin.

He settled himself between your legs, grinding down on you as you moaned into each other's mouths. You grasped his bicep, squeezing it tight as you stopped him. "Wait," you breathed.

He stopped immediately, looking down at you with a face etched in concern. "What? What's wrong?"

You smiled, "Wear the hat, ride the cowboy." Your hands flattened on his chest and you pushed him back with a huff, flipping him around so he lay on his back as you straddled him.

He smiled at you, setting his hands on your hips. "You scared me for a second there," he said, his thumbs stroking circles along your skin.

You hovered over him with shaky thighs. "Scared you weren't gonna get your cock wet tonight?" you chuckled.

He just shook his head, "Scared I hurt you."

Your breaths filled the rooms as your body slowed to a stop, staring at him. Your heart leapt and you allowed yourself, just for a moment, to succumb to its calling to him.

"You could never hurt me, Whiskey," you promised.

You only allowed him a moment to let it sink in before you were grabbing his cock in your warm palm, stroking him a couple times before guiding him to your soaked pussy. Sinking down on him, both your eyes shut as your breaths puffed into the air.

"Fuck," you moaned. You braced yourself on his shoulders, helping them guide you as you slowly rolled your hips atop his. His hands gripped your waist, blunt nails digging into skin and creating little crescent dents.

The sensations were amazing. His cock stroked along your velvet walls and sparked a desperate pleasure within you that had you forgetting about the little tingles of pain at adjusting to his length. You brought him deeper, your bodies connected indefinitely as you began your slow movements.

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt the blossom of pleasure deep within you. You leaned back, placing a hand on the hat to keep it there as you rolled your hips, faster and faster, chasing the euphoria you craved.

"Look at you," he groaned. "Fuckin' ridin' me like a true cowgirl."

"Lucky for you, huh?" you smirked, breaking off into a whimper as the blunt head of his cock brushed against a sweet spot inside you.

He nodded, "Lucky for me."

You rode him, and you rode him hard, ignoring the ache in your hips and your legs from the continuous motion, ignoring the breathlessness shocking your throat at all the air you were taking in, ignoring the pounding in your chest at the way he stared at you: lips kiss-swollen, eyes sparkling, hands gripping. It was so much, too much, you craved this man more than you'd ever craved anything before in your life.

"Whiskey," you moaned, stifled moans tearing from your throat as his name spilled from your lips. "Fuck, Whiskey, you feel so good."

He hummed. "Take what you need from me, sugar. Take what you want." You leaned forward, holding yourself up with your hands on his shoulders. You were desperate, fucking yourself on him like it was your last time. When his thumb brushed your clit, a guttural moan ripped at your throat and your hips jerked. "That's it, sweetness. That's it."

He was just as breathless as you, guiding your hips with one hand and circling your clit with the other. "Shit," you sighed. "More. Fuck, Whiskey, I'm almost there."

"C'mon, sugar," he urged you. "Cum for me, Diamond."

You didn't care to hold back, you couldn't. You came with a shout, dropping forward onto him and burying your face in his neck. You moaned into his neck, pitchy and breathless as you came apart on top of him. Your hand tangled in his hair, he held tightly to your hips.

Your cunt clenched around him, squeezing and spasming and bringing him to the edge as his release tumbled after yours. One of his hands flew to your hair, holding you there as his fingers carded through.

Your hips canted a couple more times, milking the last ounces of pleasure you could get before you fell against his chest. He held you as you both slowly floated down from your highs, falling into the other's embrace as you came to.

The stillness that followed was like something out of a dream. The air was heavy with the smell of sex, but light with the breaths blowing from the both of you. Every inch of your body tingled, your fingertips felt like pop rocks, your skin prickled with a mix of warm and cold. Whiskey's heartbeat resounded through you, grounding you as you traced your fingers over his chest.

You could feel his hand stroking through your hair, rubbing gently into the back of your neck and making you feel like putty. You could stay like this forever, resting atop him and feeling the life he breathed into you from his chest.

"Jack."

You took in a small breath, leaning up and shifting yourself so he slipped out of you. You sighed a little before looking up at him with a lovesick grin. "Hmm?"

He looked at you, smiling right back as he chuckled lightly. "My real name is Jack."

You smiled and shook your head, burying your face in his chest as you chuckled. "Jack Daniels?" you joked, recalling the name brand Whiskey.

The way he chuckled made you look up at him. "Yes, actually."

You looked at him, smiling so wide your face hurt. "Seriously? Your name is Jack Daniels?"

He nodded, "Yep."

You shook your head, laying your head back on his chest and reaching clumsily over to grab his hat, which had fallen off your head. You set it over your face, shielding you from the light shining from the chandelier.

You sighed slowly, tracing patterns into his skin. You whispered your own name to him, glancing up at him and then back out to the little lion figurine on the small stand against the wall on the other side of the room. It was bronze, standing proudly with one paw perched up and his mouth dropped in a mighty roar.

Whiskey smiled, stroking his hand down your back and then back up to your hair. "You've got a beautiful name, sugar."

You smiled slowly. "Sweet as sugar?"

He nodded, "Sweeter."

You leaned up, your face inches apart. "You're gonna get a cavity if you have any more of me," you kissed his lips, long and slow and wanting more.

"The sacrifices we make…" he replied, chuckling deep in his chest as he kissed you again.

Pedro Pascal taglist: ... Tag yourself here...

#agent whiskey #agent whiskey x reader #jack daniels x reader #jack daniels x female reader #kingsmen golden circle #kingsmen #whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x reader smut #agent whiskey fanfic #agent whiskey fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #kingsmen fanfic #kingsmen fanfiction #smut #reader insert #female reader

[gabessquishytum]

The year is 1889. Hob Gadling is a realtor in London who because of the death of his wife has drunk himself into a small amount of debt. One day a letter held closed by a wax seal picturing a raven in flight.

The letter explains that a Transylvanian Count named Dream is hoping to purchase Hobs most expensive estate for double the price. The only caveat is that Hob will have to make the journey to the Count’s castle to help him with the paperwork. While the Count gives many good reasons why he himself can’t come to London or simply have Hob mail the documents to him, Hobs gut reaction is to simply burn the parchment and carry on with his day. But the fare has already been paid for by his potential client and his coffers are nearly empty. So off he heads for the back country of Transylvania.

After a montage of travel shenanigans including: meeting an American cowboy named Ollie (who absolutely blows his back out), the inn keepers wife giving him a rosary, and a blond carriage driver with darkened glasses who seems quite comfortable with the pack of wolves that run along side the buggy, he finds himself stepping into the gloomy castle.

And on the steps of the grand staircase holding a tarnished candelabra stands a willowy figure, dressed in fine black clothing covering skin as white as a pearl, staring at him with eyes the same shade as the ruby jewel hanging around his neck.

The regal man speaks after a moment “I am Dream.”

“Oh” breathes Hob taking off his hat, his gazing transfixed on the ethereal creature before him “It- it’s really good to see you.”

“I bid you welcome.”

A sexually tense week later finds them sat in the parlor celebrating with cigars and wine for completing the paperwork, Hob begins to tell the Count his life’s story, why he became a realtor after being a soldier in the queens army, and how after the death of his entire family and then his wife his greatest wish was that he never had to die.

Suddenly Dream leans in close, lips mere inches away from Hobs own. “What if I told you I could grant you that wish?” Dreams nails begin to trace along the veins in Hobs neck “All ask is for you to stay by my side, fear me, love me, obey me, and I will be your slave.”

Enraptured by Dreams eyes Hob can do little else but nod. The next thing he knows Dream is biting into his neck, yet somehow with every mouthful of blood Dream takes from him he feels more and more pleasure consuming him. Just as he is about to die from blood loss Dream slices the palm of his hand and allows the black blood to trickle into Hobs mouth. That night, they consummate their unholy matrimony both covered in blood with Hob tied to the bedposts being made to come on Dreams cock over and over and over again.

Hob returns to London, having left a barely middle class man he now attends parties only available for the highest of society, dressed in full silk and satin white dress, arm and arm with a handsome gothic benefactor.

No one dares to question the litter of bite marks and scars that cover Hobs neck and shoulders after seeing how sharp the Counts teeth are. Anyone who tries shame or insult Hob about his choice in fashion are found dead in some dirty alleyway the next morning. And the one man who dared to try and flirt with Hob was found strung across London bridge with the words mine carved into his chest.

Dream couldn’t stop fucking Hob to reinstate his claim for a whole two nights after that incident, filling Hob with his seed and shoving a crystal plug in to make sure none of it could leak out during the opera they are to attend.

Hob is just happy to have found his calling as Dreams eternally devoted and throughly fucked spouse.

-☘️

I gotta say, I ADORE the way you've written this! Who doesn't love a Dracula AU! I love how you've stuck close to the book, it really does work!

I love the image of Hob is his beautiful white dress, enjoying the fanciest parties. Wearing long white gloves and glittering with diamonds. He never lets go of Dream’s arm for a minute, and Dream really does take care of him with the most devoted care.

At one of those parties, they happen to come across Ollie - no longer in his cowboy gear but dressed in his finest and making his way as a society artist. Although Dream usually hates it when any man pays Hob an ounce of attention, he seems quite taken with Ollie's southern charms. He even asks Ollie to paint him and Hob as a celebration of their anniversary.

It's the first time Dream allows anyone to get involved in the action of their bedchamber. Turns out, Ollie isn't quite as human as he might appear (if vampires exist, Hob realises, it only makes sense that there are other creatures of the night. I'm imagining Ollie as a werewolf, but he could be something else). He watches in rapture as Dream feeds Hob on blood and cum, fucking him so hard that Hob’s legs tremble when he tries to stand up afterwards. Ollie gets a chance to eat him out and lick the cool, delicious seed from inside Hob’s raw, sloppy hole.

But in the end, it's Dream who owns Hob’s newly immortal heart. They live in debauched luxury, feeding mainly from the criminals that lurk in the shadows of London. Hob likes to think that he's keeping the streets clean and doing the locals a favour. Dream frankly doesn't care - as long as Hob is his, nothing else matters.

#☘ anon #the sandman #dreamling #hoblethros #hobstruction #nsft #cw blood

[sagemonsters]

The Drider & the Shepherd's Daughter

Summary: a fairy tale where Malina, the shepherd's daughter, is tasked with begging a drider for silk for her sisters' dresses... and finds herself desiring more than just the silk.

Status: SFW

Pairing: cis female human x cis female drider

Word Count: 2,579

*

Long ago and far away, there was a shepherd who lived in the mountains with his flock, his dog, his wife, and his three daughters. His name is not important. His dog’s name is not important. His wife’s name is not important either, but his daughters’ names are. The oldest was Claudia, who was fair of face and had eyes more blue than the dreams of sapphires. The middle girl was Isolda, who was fair of face and had eyes more blue than a clear midsummer sky. And the last and least was Malina, who had a face you wouldn’t look twice at and eyes like fog, and who had killed her mother.

The shepherd and the two elder daughters often reminded Malina of this, because they had watched Malina’s mother die of childbed fever barely a week after Malina had been brought into this world.

She grew into a child of average build, weight, appetite, and sensibilities. She wore her sisters’ hand-me-downs and played with the wooden toys that they outgrew. She learned to hold her tongue rather than talk out of turn, and to observe others carefully. She watched the patterns of birds in the air and sheep on the ground, and feared the howling of the winter wolves. She dreamed the dreams of children everywhere who feel that they are neither wholly understood nor wholly loved; dreams of being spirited away to someplace where her real father and sisters welcomed her, a place where her hand-me-down socks didn’t have holes and her father called her by her name rather than “girl” or “you.” She was, in short, neither monstrous nor mad, and although underloved she was never outright rejected by her family as she changed from a child to a woman.

The local lord had three sons, all spirited young men who were fair of face and had eyes as blue as the faraway ocean. Sometimes they rode through the village on market days and gave flowers to the peasant girls in exchange for kisses.

The eldest of the three young men saw Claudia. He offered her a bundle of bright yellow jonquils, and Claudia kissed him. She twined the flowers into a crown to rest upon her golden hair, and told the boy that she would look much better with a crown of metal and a bridal veil. The eldest of the lord’s sons was already captivated by Claudia’s beauty, but knew well that peasant girls didn’t marry into nobility. Nevertheless, he could not deny her.

“Weave and sew your wedding dress, and come to me again,” the eldest son said. “If it is as beautiful as you are, I will marry you.”

So Claudia returned to the shepherd’s home, and carded and wove the bales of soft white lamb’s wool into cloth, and then cut and sewed the cloth into a dress. But she had no pearls or jewels, and she knew that a peasant’s woolen gown could never rival a satin gown made by a master tailor in one of the southern cities, so she called for Malina.

“Girl,” she said. “Go into the mountains and fetch me a bolt of cloth woven from spider silk.”

“Sister, I can’t,” Malina protested. “The drider will eat me from my toes to my head. It’s too dangerous.”

“You killed our mother,” Claudia reminded her. “Fetch the silk so you can atone for her murder.”

Malina hung her head in shame, then packed a basket with bread and cheese and salted mutton, pulled on her hat and shawl, and set out. She climbed the mountain trails, which grew narrower and steeper and stonier with every step she took, until she found a canyon crowded with massive spider webs. Antlers protruded from an equally massive storage cocoon beside the entrance.

Malina waited outside the canyon. Only the wind stirred the webbing, and dusk began to fall as the sun set behind the peaks. A chill descended over the mountains, and Malina pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders.

There was a chittering noise, followed by the sound of too many legs thudding against the ground. “Are you lost, my dearest?” asked the drider who loomed out of the deepening darkness. She had the torso of an elf and the lower half of a spider the size of a pony, with a multitude of glowing red eyes filling her gray face.

“I’m not lost, Mistress,” Malina said. “I came here looking for you.”

The drider paused, then asked: “What is your name, my dearest?”

Nobody had ever asked Malina her name before. She told the drider.

“Dearest Malina, what do you seek?” the drider asked next.

“My sister needs a bolt of spider silk cloth for her wedding dress,” Malina said.

“And what do you offer in exchange for a bolt of my cloth?” asked the drider.

Malina offered her the basket.

“Dearest Malina, I eat my meat raw and wriggling, and I take neither bread nor cheese,” the drider said. “Offer me something else.”

Malina offered her the promise of a lamb from her father’s flock.

“Dearest Malina, a single spring lamb, no matter how tender, is not enough for a bolt of my cloth. Offer me something else.”

“I have nothing else,” Malina admitted. “Unless you desire my life.”

“I do not desire your life,” the drider said. “Will you give me a kiss for a bolt of silken cloth?”

“I will give anything to make my sister happy.”

“Be careful what you say, dearest Malina,” the drider whispered, and approached on her many legs. Malina’s own legs wanted to tremble, but she held her ground. The drider cupped Malina’s face gently with her gray hands, and Malina’s eyes fluttered closed. The human didn’t know if her heart thundered in fear or anticipation, but she could have sworn that it stopped at the soft press of the drider’s lips against her own a moment later. When Malina opened her eyes, the drider presented her with a bolt of silken cloth that shimmered under the moonlight.

“Here is your cloth,” the drider said.

“Thank you,” Malina said. Her lips tingled. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Arachne,” the drider informed her, and sent Malina home down the mountain trails.

Malina arrived before dawn. Her father hadn’t noticed her absence, but Claudia was happy to receive the silk. She cut and sewed it into a dress, and this she showed to the eldest of the lord’s sons. Even with no pearls or jewels, the dress was so beautiful that the young man had no choice but to marry her. Claudia left the shepherd’s home to live in the lord’s castle. 

Malina dreamed of Arachne’s lips and hands upon her, and felt a pang of hitherto-unknown desire in the morning when she awoke alone in her bed.

Another market day, the second-eldest of the lord’s sons saw Isolda in the village, and offered her a bundle of bright crimson roses in exchange for a kiss. Isolda accepted, and twined the roses into a crown to rest upon her coppery red hair. She told the lord’s son how fine she would look with a crown of metal and a bridal veil, and this second son, thinking of his brother’s fortune in finding a beautiful wife, posed the same challenge as his elder sibling had done.

Isolda returned home. She did not bother sewing a dress of lamb’s wool, and instead summoned her sister.

“Girl,” she said. “Go into the mountains and fetch me a bolt of cloth woven from spider silk.”

“Sister, I can’t,” Malina protested. “The drider will not let me impose on her generosity a second time, and I fear…” She didn’t know what she truly feared, however, and could not continue.

“You killed our mother,” Isolda said, not noticing her younger sister’s hesitance. “Claudia may have forgiven you, but I haven’t. Fetch me the silk so you can atone for her murder.”

Malina lowered her eyes to the floor in what might have been shame—but her hands clenched into fists at her sides. The young woman packed her basket a second time, and donned her hat and shawl. This time, however, she took her mother’s wedding band and slipped it into her pocket before heading out the door. Once again, Malina climbed the mountain trails that grew narrower and steeper and stonier with every step she took, until she found the canyon. She waited, and dusk cloaked the mountains in darkness. Arachne emerged from among the webs.

“Dearest Malina, what brings you here?” the drider asked.

“My other sister needs a bolt of spider silk cloth for her wedding dress,” Malina admitted, “and I will do anything to make her happy.”

“Be careful of what you say,” Arachne warned. “What will you offer me in exchange for a bolt of my cloth?”

“Will you take my mother’s ring?” Malina asked, and fished the silver band out of her pocket. She held it out, and Arachne approached to inspect it. Malina’s heart once again began to hammer in her chest as she looked at the drider’s lips.

“I place no value in metal,” the drider said eventually. “Offer me something else.”

“Will you take another kiss?” Malina said. And then she surprised herself with: “I would be happy to give it to you.”

After a moment, the drider smiled. “I will take your kiss, but I will ask this of you as well: will you wear my favor, dearest Malina? Will you wear it always and visit me at least once a moon for a year? If this is acceptable, I will give you the cloth.”

“It is very acceptable,” Malina said, and leaned into the drider’s touch. Their lips met for a second time, and this time Malina knew that the thrill in her heart was something very different from fear. When they finally pulled apart, Arachne gave her the bolt of silk. The drider also gave her a shimmering length of ribbon, and tied it gently around her right wrist. Her hands were warm and soft as they brushed against Malina’s.

Malina returned home with the bolt of cloth before dawn. Her father had not noticed her absence, but Isolda was happy to receive the silk. She cut and sewed it into a dress, and this she showed to the second of the lord’s sons, and was married to him shortly thereafter. Isolda left the shepherd’s home to live in the lord’s castle, and Malina kept her promise to visit Arachne once a moon.

Finally, the youngest of the lord’s sons came to Malina in the village on market day. He offered her a fistful of daisies plucked from the roadside in exchange for a kiss. Malina blushed and accepted, but the kiss felt awkward and forced. Malina pulled away.

“Do you want to marry me?” the youngest son asked.

Malina hesitated, then shook her head.

The lord’s son didn’t seem to recognize this. He continued: “Your sisters’ wedding gowns were amazing dowries. They said that you gathered the silk from a man-eating drider in the mountains. Fetch me three bolts of this silk, and I won’t ask you to make a dress out of it.”

“Sir,” Malina protested. “I cannot marry you.”

“Yes,” the youngest son agreed, “you aren’t beautiful enough. However, you will fetch me the bolts of spider silk. I command this of you, as the son of your lord.”

“But I can’t,” Malina protested. “I can’t impose on Arachne’s generosity a third time, and ask for three bolts of cloth rather than one. It is too much.”

“Arachne?” the lord’s son asked. “It has a name?”

Malina froze into stillness. 

The lord’s son looked at the shimmering ribbon still tied around Malina’s wrist. “What’s this?” he asked, and reached out to examine her.

Malina pulled away again. “It’s nothing, sir,” she said. “I made it from a scrap of leftover fabric from my sister’s dress.”

“You’re lying!” the lord’s son declared. His eyes narrowed. “You’re in league with the drider! Did you enchant your sisters’ dresses so that my brothers would be made stupid with infatuation? They’re married to worthless peasant girls now! I’m no fool, though; I can tell you’re a witch. Guards! Guards!”

Malina fled the village as fast as she could, her eyes burning with unshed tears. She knew her father would offer her no shelter from the lord’s son, the village church no sanctuary, and so her feet took her along the mountain trails that grew narrower and steeper and stonier with her every leaping step. She did not wait at the canyon mouth as she heard the baying of the lord’s hounds, but slipped into the maze of sticky webbing. She slowed as she navigated between them, and struggled not to fall into the silken traps.

Arachne descended along the canyon wall on a silken line from the spinnerette of her spider abdomen. She looked down at Malina with her many red eyes, and listened to Malina’s panting breaths and the growing cacophony of the hounds and guards.

“Dearest Malina, why do you weep?” the drider asked in her soft voice.

“Arachne, Arachne, the lord’s youngest son called me a witch and said I used magic to enchant his brothers,” Malina said. “I think they want to kill me.”

“Dearest Malina, do you wish them to live?” Arachne asked. Her many eyes glowed bright as bloodied garnets.

“Yes,” Malina said.

“Dearest Malina, do you truly wish it so? Do you truly wish it after their cruelty to you?”

Malina hesitated, and the baying of the hounds and the shouting of the guards drew nearer. They had almost reached the canyon. 

“I wish it so,” Malina whispered.

“Then so it shall be,” the drider said, and spun more webs so that neither human nor hound could enter the canyon without Arachne’s assistance. The guards’ swords tangled and caught in the sticky webbing without cutting it, and the dogs refused to come near. After a time, the pursuers gave up and went away, their voices fading down the mountainside.

And now Malina was alone with Arachne. She could not return to her father’s home, or to the village, and she could not call upon her sisters at the lord’s castle. She was, for the first time, without a family, and her tears stung her eyes more fiercely than ever.

“Dearest Malina, what brings you such sorrow?” Arachne asked, and pulled Malina into her strong gray arms. Malina leaned against her.

“I am lost,” Malina said when she had mastered herself somewhat. “I have nothing. I have nobody.”

“Dearest Malina, you have me,” Arachne said. “We can travel far from these mountains, and make a home where none can harm or hate us. We will be safe. We will be happy. I promise you this with the breath in my lungs and the beating of my heart.”

Malina turned in the drider’s arms to look into her face. “Dearest Arachne, how can I thank you?”

“Will you wear my favor always?” Arachne asked.

“Yes, and I already do,” Malina answered.

“Will you kiss me?”

“Yes, and I already have.”

“Will you marry me, dearest Malina? Will you call me your wife and cherish me until the end of our days?” Arachne asked.

“Yes, and I always will,” Malina answered. She reached for the drider and kissed her a third time then, slowly and softly, feeling wholly loved and wholly understood.

*

You can also read this story in the April 2023 edition of the M❤️NSTER magazine, or download a nicely laid out PDF from my own itch.io page (both downloads are free, but please consider tipping where possible).

If you enjoy my writing, please consider buying me a coffee so I can have a warm drink while I write!

#monster romance #monster girlfriend #monster lover #terato #drider #monster x human #sage's portfolio #creative writing #original fiction #fantasy fiction #fairy tale vibes #original characters #queer fiction #wlw fiction #lgbt fiction #sapphic fiction

[satineweek]

SEVEN DAYS TO SATINE WEEK 2024

We're only one week away! In the lead-up to Satine Week, we'll highlight the prompts for each day of the week! This year, we chose a one-word prompt for each day and also included a list of dialogue prompts (listed above) that you can use whenever you wish.

Sunday, March 31st: Jewel

A fairly generic prompt that allows for lots of creativity, but here are some thoughts to kickstart your inspiration: Think about the jewelry we've seen Satine wear (or perhaps a piece we haven't). Where did it come from? Who gave it to her? Was it given as a gift? What significance does it have?

If you have headcanons or other ideas for this prompt that you'd like to share with others, feel free to share and add your thoughts!

#Satine Week #Satine Week 2024 #Satine Kryze #Bo-Katan Kryze #Korkie Kryze #Adonai Kryze #Obi-Wan Kenobi #Obitine #Duchess Satine #Star Wars #The Clone Wars #The Mandalorian #Satine Week 2024 Day 1

[fanfic-phoenix]

Satine Week 2024 - Day 1: Jewel

Rating: General

Word Count: 100

Read on AO3

One day, she promised silently, she would prove herself. Her voice alone would command their obedience.

It was expected - though Satine’s advisors had never specified who was expecting - that the Duchess of Mandalore be outfitted in a manner designed to show off wealth.

Satine had reminded them that Mandalore did not have any wealth.  Endless wars had devastated the planet; any funds available were being funnelled into hospitals, domes, things that were useful.  Not Satine’s dresses.

These protests did not sway her council.  One day, she promised silently, she would prove herself.  Her voice alone would command their obedience.

For now, she sewed polished glass into her dresses and dared them to call her a liar.

#Phoenix_Rose #SatineWeek2024 #satine kryze #star wars #star wars clone wars #100 word drabble #sorry that this is late #i am ill again :( #(the joys of teacher training XD)

[starryjuicebox]

Beloved (8) - Revelation

Summary: A necessary conversation is had.

Pairing: Ascended!Astarion x Tav

Word Count: 981 words

Masterlist | Ao3 Link | Next Chapter

Kythorn 1494

Astarion has secured a seat on the Council of Four. He came back to the manor and picked me up, spinning me around as he boasted of this victory. Then, he slipped a diamond ring on my finger. 

I, the Princess of Silevren, shall be joined in matrimony to the newest Council member. It feels more like a formality than anything else, as everybody already acknowledges me as the Lady of the manor. 

When I was a little girl, I had always dreamed of my wedding day. I just never expected it to be happening like…this. 

He does not understand my melancholy. I grieve the seven thousand people, each with families and loved ones of their own, that were damned because of my weakness. There were children included. Ones that will experience eternal torment due to my failure. Every glance in the mirror is a fresh reminder of my sin. Any time I partake in blood that is not his, I fear how it was obtained. I dare not share any of this with him. Astarion showers me in jewels, luxury, and affection. His ascension and my damnation was my folly to begin with. How could I complain? 

Last night, he had another nightmare and held me tightly. They happen so frequently. Astarion is somehow more afraid than he ever was before, and merely compensates with arrogance. It breaks my heart.

Astarion won’t let me out of his sight, for fear that something may befall me. If he leaves the manor to conduct business, he sends three servants to watch over me. I feel smothered. 

Last week, I had transformed into a dove to feel the wind in the sky. I thought he might burn down the entire manor in his consternation when he arrived home. I soothed him by lying that I was merely resting and hadn’t noticed his return. I was too late though, and the servants had already been killed. 

How can we heal from this? How do we move forward? Is it even possible? 

Stella Lunaris 

Love? Astarion knew love. The gravest crimes committed in the world were committed for love. A hunger crueller than bloodlust. He had told himself he would ruin her love, used it until she was nothing. 

And he had. Hadn’t he? Was that not the reason she no longer looked at him the way she had…before? He had succeeded in ruining her love. Over the past three centuries, he had been watching her waste away, slowly disappearing even if she was physically with him. 

It felt awful. 

Perhaps that was why he had wanted her to smile, why seeing her so hollow invoked anger and frustration inside of him. 

He just hadn’t wanted to admit it. 

Stella remained motionless on the floor, head bowed, but he saw the teardrops sliding onto the baby blue satin of her dress. Her hair curtained his consort’s expression from him.

For the first time in centuries, he was briefly at a loss for words. Was she telling him that despite the change in her behavior, she still loved him? 

He decided to latch onto something far easier to talk about and retorted, “You hate what I have become? Your hands are as bloody as mine, darling. Why would you go along with any of this just to pretend you’re innocent now?” 

“I know. I am not innocent at all. I’ve become a monster, and turned you into one too,” came his lover’s melancholic response, thick with tears. 

Astarion bristled, crossing his arms defensively. He desperately tried to ignore the foreign pang in his chest. “I have always been a monster. The Rite just made me a free one. But you? You are no monster. You are my dark consort. My treasure, and my most beloved.” 

How could she speak so poorly of herself? Had she been feeling this way the entire time? Gods, no wonder she had been miserable. These useless thoughts had to be banished.

He sighed, before guiding her to stand, and she buried her face into his chest. Wetness bloomed onto his expensive doublet, but that was of no consequence to him at all. He held her close, because that was surely what she wanted. It also somehow lessened the strange ache inside his own chest.   

“Thank you for saying that, but… I can’t take it anymore, Astarion. Seven thousand people died because of us. The guilt eats me alive. It’s been centuries, but I still can hear their anguished screams. And you - you’ve changed so much since that day,” her wails were muffled by the cloth.  

Gently stroking her hair, he said, “I have changed, for the better. I am so much stronger than I was back then. And those spawn would have unleashed incredible carnage upon the world. It was for the better that their lives were put to use.” 

His words seemed to cause her to pause in consideration. 

“That…may be true, but did they not deserve a chance to live? Just as you did?” 

Astarion sighed, before kissing the top of her head. “It’s too late for regrets, darling. They’ve been dead for three hundred years. Besides, I needed the power to best the brain. The pathetic weakling I was before could never have destroyed it on his own.” 

Stella finally tilted her face upwards to meet his gaze. “Seven thousand trees, for seven thousand souls. I…can’t take back what’s been done, but at the very least I can honor their memory. And their contribution to saving this city.” 

As much as he wanted to roll his eyes at her soft-heartedness and the pointlessness of it all, he supposed it was worth doing, if just to make her feel better. “As you wish, my love.” 

The tiniest ghost of a smile appeared on her face, and he felt the pain in his heart begin to ebb away.

#astarion #astarion x tav #astarion ancunin #bg3 astarion #bg3 tav #fanfic #fanfiction #angst #ascended astarion #ascended astarion x tav #depressed tav #astarion x oc #astarion fanfic

[linksthoughtbrambles]

Sunsensity

A free-form poem for Zelink Week 2022's 'One Last Look' prompt.

~~~~*~~~~

I didn’t expect that moment to be the last.

One last look at the world

The one without you in it

The world where I gave my love to knowing the exact shades in all the strands of my sister’s hair.

Its straw and its moist riverside earth

Its white peppercorn

Whole mustard-seed and thick-crusted wheat bread.

I could’ve told you the portion of each in the left third of her long plait

The middle strand, too,

And the right

They’re not the same.

.

Knowing all that is a kind of love

You can’t know a thing like that if you don’t see and touch

If you don’t brush her hair every day for so long it becomes part of you

If you don’t bundle the autumn bluegrass with Akkala rye and Tabantha wheat with your own hands

And answer her when she asks what it looks like today.

A new answer means her frog-catching giggles

And when you love her, you chase that laughter like she chases amphibians

So you find every last stream-smoothed pebble and fresh-milled grain-flour that gives each color a name

A twin for every fiber of her too-often-called-straw-colored hair

And you become a laugh-catcher.

That’s what I did,

Laugh-catcher Link weaving joy-nets spun from braid-brown vocabulary.

.

I can still tell you each of those shades, how much of each, and where,

But I’ve seen you now.

One moment, color meant dust, stones, boot-worn grass in tan-and-trampled-grey-green patches like five o’clock shadow,

The white-silver glint of sword-steel stealing all the yellow from sunlight

Gold gone, leaving a pale gleam, cold and sharp.

Then I turned my head

Looked up

You burst into vision, an entirely new spectrum of light

The shock of unaltered Sun

For the first time

Without change

No stolen gold

No pale cold.

And I know it’s not the man’s truth beside me

Or anyone else’s but mine.

This new rainbow is in my mind.

.

I comb your hair with reverent fingers.

My lips follow them.

I breathe, I scent, I taste the air disturbed by my own motion,

Tree limbs parting the mid-day Sun.

It dapples through them and I gather it with my other senses

As the forest floor

A garden starved, feasting on early spring light.

.

I give my love to knowing each and every gilded filament as I know the colors of bluegrass long since gone to seed

And white peppercorns.

My touch as river-stones in molten gold

Gleaming eddies swirl, ascend, dredged to sight, and still all glow alike

I lift, I bundle your hair above you and let it fall.

A cascade of threaded sunbeams caresses my skin.

Your thicket-eyes find mine,

Wondering.

But I can’t tell you the names of a thousand forms of life and earth to give voice to the color of each strand,

Not for you.

Each and every one glimmers pure extruded sunshine.

.

But I keep searching

In that new spectrum of light

In colors of softness, of movement,

So many terrains

Your satins, your kiwi- grape- and kumquat-skins

Your outspoken fingers, flickering, tapping,

Smoothing over each other in ritualistic pilgrimage,

The sharp sweeps of your written words,

So like your voice given form.

In the rainbow of heat,

Dull embers kindle solar flares,

Seared half-to-madness by your touch

But you’re cool stones and wet grass and earth-fed pools,

Clashing colors coexisting

A burn and a balm and both bury me.

.

I dig through memory

For what it was like

Before that one last look before seeing for the first time

The one last look before never seeing again

One moment blind,

The next blinded.

I can’t look away.

.

Your hair in my hands makes star-strand waterfalls.

There’s a hairbrush on a nightstand somewhere,

And it used to be mine.

But now, I’m yours.

I see only you, Zelda.

The matte black between the jewel-flecked summer leaves in your eyes

The sweet-salt scent where your hair meets the top of your spine

The rush of your breath as your lips sense mine

And it all shines.

I’d say I’ve become Sun-catcher Link,

But you’re not falling.

I’m just following you

A sunflower

A moon tethered to golden tides

Locked in orbit

While you rise.

.

~~~~*~~~~

@zelinkweekofficial

[Note: Sunsensity is meant to be an amalgamation of Sun, intensity, sensitivity and sensitization. It's not in the dictionary.]

Here's my Zelink Week 2022 fic post list.

Here's my fic masterlist.

#zelink week 2022 #one last look #poem #free-form poetry #poetry #botw #zelda #zelink #loz #breath of the wild #legend of zelda #adventure log+ au #linksthoughtbrambles

[prettybindings]

Still in Love with Rose

I'm not really still in love with Rose. I was never in love with Rose.

In spite of this, she's still in my heart, and she always will be. Rose was in my life for only a fleeting moment, long ago, and that moment was so brief that I think I shouldn't say she was in my life at all.

Thirty years ago, when I met Rose, I was poor. I lived alone, and I worked as a janitor at a movie theatre. I worked seven days a week, and even then, I could barely pay my bills.

A block away from my apartment, on the way to the theatre, there was a small store: The Bakery Thrift Shop. The Bakery Thrift Shop was an outlet store for a large company that manufactured baked goods: Breads, rolls, a few pastries and desserts. It was stocked with items that were perilously close to their expiration dates, or which had been slightly mishandled: donuts that had broken apart, cinnamon rolls with half of their icing plastered against the top of the package, jelly rolls with strawberry filling that had soaked through and stained their white cardboard trays.

I loved the Bakery Thrift Shop, because the prices were a fraction of what the unmolested items cost at Jewel.

The store's location, on a small street in a mostly-residential area, meant that it wasn't well-known, and that was obvious from the lack of customers. For me, however, it was conveniently located, and once or twice a week, on the way home from work, I'd stop at the Bakery Thrift Shop.

My visits to the Bakery Thrift Shop were inevitably preceded by an entire day picking up trash, mopping, cleaning bathrooms, washing windows. By the end of the day, I was filthy. On top of that, the clothes I wore to work were invariably old and ugly, and I was nothing much to look at to begin with. By the time I arrived at the Bakery Thrift Shop, I was a dirty, tired, skinny, scraggly-looking kid, and I probably smelled like Pine-Sol.

That's who I was, and that's how I looked, when I met Rose.

Rose, the cashier at the Bakery Thrift Store, Rose, whose face I can no longer remember. What color eyes did she have? Was she tall, or short? I don't remember. I remember that she was pretty, that her hair was brown, that she always wore a nametag that said "Rose." She was my roughly my age; I guessed that she was probably a student at Loyola or Mundelein, working part-time.

I wish that I could remember the way she looked now, so that I could say: Her eyes were like sapphires, and her smile melted the coldest of hearts. Her hair shone like satin and smelled like strawberries. Her skin was smooth, perfect, and, I imagined, very soft to the touch. The curves of her body, demurely but not completely concealed beneath the fabric of her uniform, beckoned a siren's song from far away, so far, barely audible.

I wish I could say those things, but I cannot say them honestly, because all of those details have drowned beneath the torrent of years that have come and gone. Rose was pretty, yes, but everything else about her, I've forgotten. Everything, that is, except one very important thing.

I remember the way she treated me.

Rose was polite: effortlessly, unfailingly polite. "Good afternoon, sir." "Will there be anything else, sir?" "Thank you, sir." Her voice was friendly and kind, and every word from her lips sounded natural. It wasn't the forced banter of a corporate policy, and it wasn't the product of a terse sign hidden behind the counter that reminded employees THE CUSTOMER IS KING. No, she was friendly because it came naturally to her, and she said "sir" because it was part of her nature to treat everyone she met with kindness and decency.

Although I cannot remember the color of her eyes, three decades later, I remember this: they looked at a filthy, exhausted, unkempt young man, and they reflected warmth, instead of disdain. She looked at a poor man who paid for damaged goods with the change he'd found on the floor of a movie theatre, and still smiled when she talked with him.

Was she married? Did she have a boyfriend? I never asked. No matter how lonely I was, I knew that Rose would never be anything other than the kind, pretty woman behind the counter.

If, if, if... If I had possessed virtues that she couldn't see, if I could have shown her that there was something about me that would have made me more than the shabby, skinny young man who bought smashed jelly rolls and broken donuts, and she had been kind to me...

That would have been less perfect.

If there had been a reason for her to be kind to me, then her kindness would not have been so memorable.

There was never any reason, and because of that, I remember her to this day.

Later, as I struggled to find something better -- a better job, a better me -- I moved, and the Bakery Thrift Shop was no longer on my way home. Many months later, walking through the neighborhood, I went out of my way to see the Bakery Thrift Shop.

The building was empty. The Bakery Thrift Shop was gone.

I cannot say that I felt any terrible sadness, or any great longing. I didn't drop to my knees in the parking lot, and call out her name. I just kept walking, because it was gone, over, finished. Rose was out of my life forever, and that was that.

I suppose that she's out there somewhere. I could let my imagination roam. Is she still in Chicago? Have I ever walked past her on the street? The pretty woman I saw on the train just a few days ago... could it have been Rose? Maybe she's a doctor, with a house in the north suburbs. Maybe she manages a chain of clothing stores, and goes home to a husband and three kids. Or maybe she's a writer, and someday she'll write a story that will begin: "When I was twenty years old, I worked at a small shop in Rogers Park."

Maybe, but probably not, and if Rose isn't the writer, then I get to be the writer. I get to tell the story, and it ends like this:

Rose, after all these years, I still remember you.

#prose #writers on tumblr #fiction #writing #love #memories

[kikiiswashere]

Children of Zaun - Chapter 2

Pairing: Silco/Fem!OC

Rating: Explicit

Story Warnings: Canon typical violence, drug use/dealing, dark themes, eventual smut

Chapter Summary: Silco and his mother, Enyd, go about their morning routine and discuss politics. Sevika comes to pick Silco up for work and they discuss a certain mine medic.

Previous Chapter

Word Count: 3.1K

A soft clatter in the kitchen woke Silco. Then tell-tale muffled coughing. A hand clasped tightly over a mouth so as to not to be heard. He squeezed his eyelids and took a long, sharp breath in and a steady breath out. His exhale cooled the puddle of drool that had collected on his pillow and had seeped under his cheek. He grimaced, sitting up and wiping his mouth with his forearm.

His bedroom was dark but the sounds of the Undercity beating against the window told him the day was already very much started. He swung his long legs to the floor and padded over to the covered window. He gently peeled back the thick cloth tacked there and peered outside, squinting against the hazy glare of the sun through the Grey. The markets below had already unfurled dingy but colorful awnings, sex workers called after people who were heading home after graveyard shifts, Conveyor cars slid noisily up and down their cables, and grubby children shrieked as they ran to and fro between alleyways and levels of the Sump.

A louder, raspier string of coughs pulled Silco’s eyes away from his city and to his bedroom door. He reached for the shirt at the foot of his bed, pulled it on and made his way out of his room. He ran his long fingers through his scraggly locks of wavy hair, trying to temper the cowlick at the crown of his head.

Once in the sitting room of the apartment, he paused, eying the several piles of folded fabric and clothes carefully situated on the floor and coffee table. Every conceivable color and texture of garment, from humble drab canvas to frilly cream lace to bedazzled satin jewel tones. A harsh throat clearing from the kitchen jolted his attention back.

“Mum?"

Silco carefully wove in between his mother’s organized work and peered through the kitchen door. Her back was to him, shoulders high to her ears and vibrating with the force of her throat muscles trying to dislodge the irritation gathered there. It was always worst in the mornings. Silco stepped into the kitchen and fetched an empty glass jar from a cabinet and filled it with lukewarm water. She took it, hands shaking. She took sips in fits and starts, eventually draining the glass. The last gulp went down in a phlegmy grumble and she placed the glass in the sink. Her knuckles were stretched white as her hands gripped the sink and she hung her head. Silco rubbed a large circle against her back.

“Thank you,” she hoarsely whispered. Finally, she looked up at her son with the eyes he had inherited. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Silco shrugged a shoulder. “I needed to be up anyway. Where’s that medicinal tea from the herb woman’s stall?”

Enyd’s thin face split in an adoring smile and cupped her son’s high cheekbones. “Oh, my sweet boy,” she ran her slender thumbs over the taut, youthful skin under his eyes. Her smile faltered almost imperceptibly as she said, “in the bag by the kettle.”

Silco affectionately squeezed his mother’s wrists before moving to gather the kettle and small paper bag. “Why don’t you go sit at the table. I’ll bring the tea and some bread over.”

Enyd did as instructed while Silco flitted about the kitchen. In no time at all, a steaming mug of green-colored tea and a chipped plate of bread Enyd had baked earlier in the week was placed on the table. The loaf was small, more crust than anything – which was why she hadn’t tried to sell it to her vendors in the marketplace. They only received her best goods and in return she received a hodge-podge of coins, wares, and favors. Silco placed one of the wares on the table next to the bread: a small jar of citrus jam, allegedly from somewhere far beyond the shores of Piltover and the Undercity.

Enyd brought the mug to her nose and sniffed. Tart. Acrid. Pungent enough that she could smell it. Years and years of working in the mines, having her nose and throat clogged by gases and explosive powder, had dampened her ability to smell and taste. Which meant if she could smell the stinging leaves floating in the hot water under her nose, surely Silco could. Her eyes flicked over to her son, who was tearing the burnt end of the loaf off and thinly applying the sunset-colored jam to it. She searched his face for any pinch of displeasure at the scent. She found none, and her chest tightened with adulation. 

Enyd took a small sip of tea and her face puckered. “Disgusting.”

Silco gave a small huff through the bite of bread and jam in his mouth. “I don’t suppose there was any hope of it tasting good, being medicinal and all. Does it help?”

His mother took another short sip. “I suppose it does. I feel less winded throughout the day.”

“Good.” Silco slathered a layer of jam over a hunk of bread that had the most softness to it and pushed it over to her. Enyd took it, thankful for the way the texture of the bread and brightness of the jam dulled astringent after-taste of the tea.

Silco watched his mother passively, his teal eyes traveling between her and the tea. It wasn’t actual medicine, but it was currently the best thing available to them. It dulled her symptoms of the blight consuming her respiratory system – an illness she and other miners sometimes developed - but it wasn’t clear whether or not it would slow the disease’s progress. Curing it was a hope too far. As far as Silco knew even Piltover’s doctors, with all their grants, education and technology, hadn’t developed a cure. Not that they could be bothered to find one since it wasn’t their people toiling away in the mines.

Silco took a too hard bite on the crust in his mouth and a sharp edge stabbed the roof of his mouth. He muffled a pained exclamation, slapping a hand over his mouth. Enyd looked up from nursing her tea, surprised and concerned.

“Are you alright?”

Silco gave a muffled affirmative and nodded his head. He rolled the crust to one side of his mouth and chewed more carefully before swallowing.

“Fine.”

“I suppose it’s a good thing its physical time at the mine,” Enyd mused. “Have the medical staff take a look at your mouth.”

Silco scoffed. It bothered him that she still remembered the mines’ schedule. Although, if he allowed his mind to not be colored with bitter emotions, he knew it shouldn’t be surprising. She was literally born in the mines, had labored there (in more ways than one) up until five years ago. She couldn’t forget the majority of her life so easily. He wished she could, though. They had worked so hard, planned so carefully to get her out of the mines after the first annual physical had diagnosed her with the affliction that was slowly eating her from the inside out. He wanted her to pretend that she had always had these odd, piecemeal jobs – baking bread for marketplace stalls and mending garments for various citizens of the Undercity who could afford such a luxury (mainly Promenade dwellers).

He wanted her to forget.

 To forget all the pain and hardship she endured underground.

 He only wanted her to know the surface.

“The physicals don’t do a damn thing. It’s all show so Piltover can feel like they’re doing something.”

Enyd fixed him with a hard stare, “It’s not nothing. People died in those caverns left and right before Bone was finally able to pass regulations that ensured miner’s safety and well-being.”

Silco knew his mother admired the Undercity councilor. He had never seen such hope wash over her face when the news had spread like wildfire in the underground that one of their own had been accepted to the Piltover Council Chambers. It had been well over fifty years since the last Trencher had been invited into those hallowed halls.

Silco bit back another scoff brimming at the back of his throat. Jarrot Bone was maddeningly passive. Got a seat at the table and did precious little with it. The Undercity was still in squalor. Enforcers still brutalizing them whenever the opportunity arose. Citizens from the Underground couldn’t just walk across the Bridge and into the other half of the city.

No. Nothing of value had actually changed since Bone had reluctantly been given his seat by the Council. The only thing he had managed to accomplish was passing meager sanctions and regulations for how workers were treated and compensated in the mines from which he had also come.

Yes. The Piltie owners and operators of the mines were now saddled with the responsibility of providing yearly physicals to the thousands of workers there. At best, these appointments alerted you to a serious problem (like Enyd’s had), and would then do nothing about it. At worst, it took hours of pay out of your check for having to miss work in order to be told “You’re fine. Get back to the mines”.

Yes. All workers of the mines were now monetarily compensated. Though not enough to guarantee roofs over heads and full bellies. But technically they were paid, and it was enough for Piltover to lord over them. Even the children who worked in the mines were paid, albeit even more minimally compared to their adult counterparts.

Doing away with the use of child labor wasn’t a concession the Council was willing to make, citing that there weren’t enough adults small enough to fulfill the number of Slippers operations called for. The ‘compromise’ was paying children and adjusting their work hours to better accommodate their need for rest.

Yes. Once Bone’s new oversight was enacted, the abuse of miners by their superiors diminished. Namely because of the paperwork and lackluster ‘investigations’ would follow an altercation. Piltover couldn’t tolerate anything that would slow down their insatiable want, so maliciously abusing Undercity workers was no longer a regular occurrence. The Council had added a nasty little foot-note to this particular clause stating that if a worker assaulted a superior, they would be immediately fired. Potentially sent to Stilwater, depending on the severity of the attack. Push come to shove, that wasn’t a risk many miners were willing to take because, despite the health hazards and insultingly low wages, the mines still had the most consistent work-offerings and some of the best pay in the Undercity.

A rock and a hard place indeed.

Silco knew there was no point in maligning the Councilman in front of his mother. She held an odd, misplaced torch for him, and Silco’s cynicism and pragmaticism wasn’t going to snuff it out. No. Best to drop it.

“I should get ready to go. Sevika should be by any minute,” Silco said as he stood. He took up the bread plate and went back to the kitchen. “You should go up to the Promenade today. Get some fresher air.”

“I planned on it. I have some finished garments to drop off.” Another sip of tea, another grimace.

“I’m going to The Last Drop after I get off tonight.”

Enyd looked back toward the kitchen, her brow crumpling. Tea in hand, she stood as Silco began to slip back towards his bedroom.

“It’ll be very late,” she said, her mind flurrying with images of Enforcers and their faceless masks, sturdy batons. “Why don’t you just come back home for the night?”

“Can’t. I told Vander I’d be there.”

“Sevika?”                                          

“She’ll be there too.”

“Silco,” Enyd urged, standing in his bedroom doorway.

“Mum, it’s fine,” he paused in gathering his clothes for the day. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll stay there overnight.”

His mother’s lips turned into a tight line. “What about Sevika?”

Silco couldn’t stop the laugh from bubbling out of him. “Sevika? She’d be more fine than I would be on the other end of an Enforcers baton.”

Enyd was not soothed nor amused by that statement. As if on cue, a sturdy set of knocks thumped on the apartment’s door. Mother and son’s eyes followed the sound.

“Can you let her in, please? I’ll only be a minute.”

Enyd nodded and shut Silco’s bedroom door, before walking down the hall to their home’s entrance. Although, it was most certainly Sevika on the other side of the threshold, she peered through the fish eye all the same. Out of habit.

Enyd unlocked the door and opened it. Indeed, the tall and burly fifteen-year-old girl filled the doorframe.

“Mornin’ Ms. E,” Sevika greeted.

Enyd cleared her throat and replied in kind. “Good morning, Sevika. Come in, won’t you? Silco will be out in a moment.”

Silco hurried around his bedroom, putting on clothes with a thicker weave as they held up better in the dank mines and against the rough rocks. Once dressed, Silco sat on the edge of his bed and pulled his boots on. He paused a moment, pointy elbows resting on pointy knees, before reaching down, turning up a loose floorboard and retrieving the slim wooden box hidden there. He opened it and pulled out the three knives and whet stone stored within. The longest knife was slid into one of his boots; another was fastened to the inside of his pants along his left thigh; and the last he tucked up his sleeve. The whet stone slid into his trouser pocket. Silco stored the empty box back underneath the floor and gave the board a firm tap with his boot for good measure.

He stalked over to his lopsided dresser and grabbed the swatch of cloth bundled on its surface. He tied it loosely around his neck, the folded edge cowling around his collarbones, and the pointed tip covering the top of his chest like a bib. Reluctantly, Silco’s eyes turned up to his reflection in the dresser’s cracked mirror. Thin lips thinned further as he pulled his mouth into a tight line. He ran his fingers through his lank hair again before pulling the handkerchief around his neck up to test it. The fold sat well just over the ridge of his aquiline nose and the fabric sat snuggly against his cheekbones. The rest of it draped down toward the hollow of his throat, covering his mouth and chin. It was a piss poor substitute for an actual respirator, but since Bone’s regulations and standards hadn’t managed to accommodate such things, this had to do. It was still better than getting a nose and mouthful of metallic shavings and ore dust.

Silco tugged the handkerchief back down around his neck and left his bedroom.

Sevika sat at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of breakfast tea (the dainty mug looking ridiculous in her large hands). Enyd sat across from her, still nursing the medicinal tea.

“Ready to go?” Silco asked as he returned, fussing with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Good morning to you, too,” the teen smarmed, draining her cup and setting it on the table. “Thank you for the tea, Ms. E.”

“Of course, dear.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Mum.”

Enyd rose from the table and walked over to her son, Sevika brushing past them for the door. She smoothed her hands over Silco’s shoulders, fiddling with the leather epaulette on the right side. Her teal eyes looked up into his matching pair, a small smile on her thin mouth.

“Be careful.”

“I will be.”

“Do not go traipsing around the Lanes. Stay at The Drop.”

Silco rolled his eyes. “Yes. Okay.”

“Have the medical staff look at the cut in your mouth.”

“Mum.”

Enyd’s lips twitched, conflicted as to whether she was amused by his exasperation or annoyed that he was trying to brush her concerns off.

“Give my best to Vander and Benzo.”

“I will.”

“I love you.”

Silco sighed quietly through his nose. “I love you, too.”

“Stop smirking,” Silco growled, as he and Sevika walked through the twisted green-lit streets of the Undercity.

“I’m not smirking,” she insisted. “I think it’s nice. Sweet. But, hey, if you want to trade families, I’m down. My dad is an asshole.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

In a few practiced steps and leaps, Silco sprang up onto a gangway arcing over the street he and Sevika were making their way down. She was quick to follow, although a little clunky and heavy in her teenage reflexes. She had had a growth spurt in the last couple of years and was still learning her new height and girth.

“So,” she breathed, “I was able to make sure that our physicals were with her.”

“I’ve never met the nurse.”

“Yeah, I know. But I worked with Katya for years before they stuck me in the tunnels with the rest of you. Also, she’s technically not a nurse –“

“I’m technically not a junior foreman, but those are the responsibilities I’m saddled with anyway,” Silco spat. Another insult provided by Piltover: giving workers the responsibility of upper-level jobs without the title, respect, or pay.

“She’s not technically a nurse,” Sevika pressed on, “but she knows what she’s doing with medicine and medical supplies, and she’s the one that does the . . . ordering.”

Silco hummed at the back of his throat as they clambered to a higher level of the Sump. It had seemed too good to be true when Sevika had told him, Vander and Benzo that the clinic officer she had worked under for years ran a side operation of scalping drug and medical supplies she stole from the mines to Undercity denizens. They knew someone with medical know-how and access to supplies would be necessary for what they were planning – a revolution against Piltover.

Injury was inevitable. It was already happening. While violence in the mines had dropped, Street Enforcers still beat any Sumprat within reach. The number of people that got dragged into the safe house in The Last Drop’s basement for patching up was not slowing down. It would only get worse once the revolution started in earnest.

Death was also inevitable. But if Silco, Vander, Benzo, Sevika and the rest of the like-minded individuals they had managed to quietly rally so far were able to have access to medicines and other necessary medical supplies, they would hopefully be able to keep their numbers up to stand a chance against their oppressors.

“Will she be agreeable?” Silco asked as the mines came into view on the horizon.

“That, I don’t know.”

Notes: Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment/reblogging. I'd really appreciate it :) I'm sending you all the love n' kisses!!

Coming Up Next: Katya and Sevika reconnect. Katya and Silco meet. And it goes about as smooth as crunchy peanut butter.

Next Chapter

#silco #silco arcane #arcane silco #silco x oc #silco fanfic #young silco #arcane fanfic #children of zaun #coz

[spectral-musette]

Obi-Wan and Satine in a pile of flowers, but this time they aren't white lilies. (variety!)

ficlet below the cut, ~850 words

“This one has been fallow for two seasons now, but it’s due to be planted with breadroot in a few days.”

Obi-Wan had arrived on Mandalore a few hours ago to determine what assistance the Republic could offer to ease the food shortages caused by the trade route disruptions. However, the tour of the agricultural domes had been extended due to the sandstorm preventing the delegation’s return to Sundari for a few hours. The Protectors from the Duchess’s entourage had gone back to the main dome for an impromptu cu’bikad tournament to pass the time, but Satine had offered to show Obi-Wan some of the domes off of the usual tour pathway instead.

The fallow domes were less climate-controlled than the ones frequented by workers and researchers, so Obi-Wan and Satine had shed layers at the doorway to adjust for the heat and the humidity, he to his undertunic and trousers, and she to the pale blue underdress of her gown. It was just the same color as the flowers growing thick across the earthen floor.

Satine smiled at him as she noticed his glance flicking between her and the flowers. “They are lovely, aren’t they?” she said, leaning to pluck one. “A Concordian variety. They restore nutrients to the soil faster than any of the other species we’ve tested. But I adore them. Our pollinators love them too,” she observed, indicating the tiny, iridescent beetle trundling out of the flower. It took flight, buzzing past Obi-Wan to land on the transparisteel dome behind him. The wind gusted outside, but they, the beetle, and the flowers remained tranquil, still, safe, almost like a fossil encased in crystal. “I know it’s all part of the cycle, but it still makes me a little sad to think they’re due for harvest as mulch.”

“So it’s all right to pick some?” he asked, kneeling on the stone pathway.

“I expect the harvesters would appreciate it, provided you leave them in the composter before you go.” She sat on the pathway beside him, stretching out her legs and kicking off her stiff, heeled shoes. The sight of her, barefoot and in her comparatively simple, sleeveless underdress, threw his memories sharply back to their year together so long ago… fleeing bounty hunters across the Outer Rim, young and frightened and desperately in love.

He gathered a handful of the blue flowers, carefully choosing only the most perfect ones, and shaking a few more jewel-like beetles free to fly up to their hive boxes suspended overhead. The flowers had long, tough stalks, so it was easy to begin knotting them together to make a garland.

She watched him work a little while, a soft smile on her beautiful face, flushed rosy in the heat. “Show me,” she finally prompted, gathering a handful of flowers of her own. She was quick to catch on, though her garland grew a little more slowly than the one spun from his hands. He looped it around her narrow waist, then draped it up over her shoulder, so that the petals caressed the dewy skin exposed by the deep neckline of her dress like the soft kisses he longed to press there.

The intensity of that desire caught him a little by surprise. His love for her had been steady as a heartbeat even during their long separation. Since their recent reunion, it had rarely been far from his mind. But evidently as little as a few weeks apart again was enough for him to be startled by how much he wanted her. She spoke before he could dwell on it too deeply.

“I remember when you made me a garland like this on … oh, I’ve forgotten where we were.” She furrowed her brow, tapping one of the flowers against her pursed lips as she tried to summon the memory.

“I don’t recall either, but I remember that I sneezed for about an hour afterwards.” They both laughed softly.

“No allergies today?” she asked, holding up a flower close to his face.

He leaned to breathe its light, sweet fragrance, then pressed his face against her hand, kissing her knuckles lightly. “Seems not. Even if there were, it would be well worth it,” he assured her. She moved her hands to his face, dropping the flower.

“It would be quite inconvenient for what I have in mind,” she said, and then startled him by kissing him, hard and reckless.

He sighed her name into her mouth after he caught a breath. She tugged him down into the flowers so that the tall stalks bent over them, enveloping them. He glanced up for a moment at the soft blue of the flowers all but obscuring the stormy sky as the wind and sand buffeted the dome. Then he looked back to her in his arms, her eyes soft and her golden hair becomingly tousled. She reached up to stroke his face, her fingers cool against his hot cheek. When she kissed him again, it was slow as a bud opening to the sunlight.

#obi wan kenobi #satine kryze #obi wan/satine #obitine #star wars art #my art #watercolors #i wrote a thing #if you want to look under the hood #bcbdrums asked me if I had drawn Satine in a dress inspired by a specific red carpet gown #and this is where I ended up #happy to watercolor again #its been a while since I got out the paint

[nymfaia]

an   in  -  depth  look  at  your  muse.

—    basics.

▸     is  your  muse  tall  /  short /  average  ?

     Alta is just shy of four foot, eleven inches tall (147 cm) - pretty average for a female Au Ra, but decidedly small among the majority of Eorzea’s races.

▸     are  they  okay  with  their  height  ?

      She’s neutral. Her height doesn’t necessarily bother her, especially given her magical prowess - multiple spells have her lifting off the ground mid-cast, giving her enough height to see around most comrades. However, it did prove to be a bit of an embarrassment in Ishgard. (She loves the Chocobo Haurchefant gifted her, but the beast is not built for a woman her size.)

▸     what’s  their  hair  like  ?

     Most Au Ra lack body hair, and Alta is no different. The hair on her head (and her eyebrows) is thin and slippery. If she were one to use cosmetics or bend to the whim of the aesthetician, she’d pretty swiftly learn her hair doesn’t lend itself well to harsh dyes, and breaks really quickly. It lightens quickly under too much time spent in the sun or on the first.

▸     do  they  spend  a  lot  of  time  on  their  hair / grooming ?

     At one point, she had. Upon arriving to Eorzea, she wore her hair in a traditional Steppe fashion, with ribbons intertwining her braids. As time went on, however, she spent less and less time on niceties for herself. It wasn’t until she returned to the Source after Shadowbringers, back to the satin reminders of those who loved her, safely tucked away in her chocobo bag, that she really picked back up with the habit.

     In regards to her usual grooming - it was definitely something that also waned with time. Eorzea lacked a lot of the products she used on the Steppe for scale care, and as the burdens of the realm began to weigh on her mind, she spent less and less time on simple self-care.

     She does spend time on her face paint. Depending on what she uses, it could be reapplied every day or every other week, and even during the depths of uncertainty it is something she holds onto.

▸     does  your  muse  care  about  their  appearance  /  what  others  think  ?

     No, not particularly - or so she thought. After the light corruption began to bleach her scars and sap the color from her hair, however, she did become... self conscious. There were very few and far between who would see her in her smalls, let alone in situations where her scars were on display. Those who do (or will) see her in such undress are likely adventurers, soldiers, or similar, and she highly doubts they would be without their own imperfections.

—    preferences.

▸    indoors  or  outdoors  ?

     Outdoors. Alta was born on the Steppe, sleeping on bedrolls on soft soil, soaking up the sun and the moon’s blessings. If she has to be inside, she prefers to keep windows open. (Unless she’s in Ishgard or Garlemald.)

▸    rain  or  sunshine  ?

     With how much her people worship the dawn father, a sunny day is always seen as a blessing. However, somewhere buried in her repressed memories, she has a fondness for frolicking in the rain and wrestling in the mud. Seeing Steppe children do the same during her return to Reunion comforted her more than she could ever express.

▸    forest  or  beach  ?

     Beach. Alta’s a big fan of warm, sunny locations, and is a sucker for hot sand. Unfortunately for anyone who might take her to swim, she’s far more likely to curl up and take a nap.

▸    precious  metals  or  gems  ?

     Gems. While they’re a nicety she doesn’t often afford herself, she really enjoys the sight of cut gems and jewels - after settling into the Firmament home the Fortemps purchased for her, she has more than a handful glittering in the windowsills inside.

     (For personal use, however, she does enjoy silver metals for jewelry.)

▸    flowers  or  perfumes  ?

     Flowers.

▸    personality  or  appearance  ?

     As someone who skims the line between pansexuality and asexuality, she decidedly leans into personality. Unsurprisingly, though, Alta doesn’t really imagine herself with anyone that isn’t a Xaela: not that she’d ever speak so aloud. Until she came to Eorzea, she knew very little of other races, let alone the concept of mixed-race couplings. Even seeing Raen and Xaela come together was rare.

      (I find this hilarious bc her ships decidedly lean into... non-Au Ra aknfkngk)

▸    being  alone  or  being  in  a  crowd  ?

     I think being in a crowd, but only if she’s able to simply be in one. Her entire life has consisted of groups in one way or another - tribes, to adventuring groups, to the Scions - and she is the most comfortable among company, doubly so if it’s quiet company. She can often be caught in the Rising Stones lobby, simply listening to Tataru and the others chit chat.

▸    order  or  anarchy  ?

     Alta comes from a people where laws don’t... really exist. There is a hierarchy that is followed, certainly, and consequences for attempted shake-ups, but she isn’t fond of cut-and-dry rules or morals as a whole. She struggles with doing the “lawful” thing, especially in places that abide so highly by them, such as Ishgard. She spent the first twenty years of her life in an area with rules written in time and in shades of gray.

▸    painful  truths  or  white  lies  ?

     Truths. She’s a terrible liar, for one, and respects those who are able to deliver news and outcomes to her without sugar-coating, especially in regards to the health of her comrades. However... as bad of a liar as she is, she has had to perfect the art of “everything will be okay” when healing those who, decidedly, are not going to make it back in one piece - or back at all.

▸    science  or  magic  ?

     She’s never had any form of schooling in any capacity. Magic is intuitive for her. Science and complex math are way, way out of her comfort zone.

▸    peace  or  conflict  ?

    Conflict, for fun and exhilaration and competition - for wrestling and battles of will, yes. Everything else - peace, for the love of Azim.

▸    night  or  day  ?

     Night. Not all on the Steppe worship the dawn father. She is one that finds comfort in the dusk mother.

▸    dusk  or  dawn  ?

     Dusk!

▸    warmth  or  cold  ?  

     Warmth. Alta detests the cold of Ishgard, but is comforted by the warmth of those within. She loathes the cold of Garlemald, a place that she never fully feels comfortable in, no matter the layers worn. It probably has something to do with her lack of body hair and the Steppe’s fairly warm climate.

▸    many  acquaintances  or  a  few  close  friends  ?

     I think, along the way, she’s developed the capacity for many acquaintances, but she counts those she truly loves on her fingers and is more than happy with that.

▸    reading  or  playing  a  game  ?

     Alta... is not the best at reading. The Echo’s blessing is the only reason she can read Eorzean at all upon coming to the shores, and has learned as time passed, but I think she would far more enjoy playing card games or other little things. She isn’t very good at Triple Triad, but Thancred has taught her more than one simple card game that she enjoys.

     (She does like being read to.)

—    questionnaire.

▸     what  are  some  of  your  muse’s  bad  habits  ?

     Not taking care of herself, lmao. Not asking for help. Being stubborn to a point that it probably hinders her. Tuning out Cid and Nero over magitek, falling asleep during Tataru’s stories, and falling asleep in hot baths.

     (She has a terrible history of holding onto broken staves. She has... a half dozen of them from years of learning her craft that she just... has hidden away. She struggles to throw things out that might be used again. She’s also awful at haggling - with her main city being Ul’Dah, not knowing when to question the price of an item has cost her many, many, many hundred of gil.)

▸     has  your  muse  lost  anyone  close  to  them  ? how  has  it  affected  them  ?

     lol. She can no longer recall the names or the amount of people who had been in her tribe, the memories shrouded by trauma and blood that it’s almost as if they never existed. She’s one of two or three people who remember the Hotgo at all, and is unable to honor them in any way due to the way she carries the lost. The memory of her parents, their names, their traditions - it’s like grappling with shadows. Trying to recall the good simply has her recalling the blood and viscera.

     (She handled her Elezen’s deaths much like she did as a child back then, with screams and inconsolable grief, their sacrifices bringing the corpses of her family back to the forefront after a dozen years of wishing to forget.)

▸     what  are  some  fond  memories  your  muse  has  ?

     Sharing her hair ribbons with Alisaie; picking up cross-stitching from Tataru; the warm hot cocoa that’s never been rivaled. Returning to Ishgard, every time, and the smell of cigars and wine in the Fortemps manor.

▸     is  it  easy  for  your  muse  to  kill  ?

     Yes. With her elemental affinity, she’s able to do so fairly quickly, and without much bloodshed most of the time. She’s had to do it too many times now for it to be difficult, unfortunately.

▸     what’s  it  like  when  your  muse  breaks  down  ?

     While Alta is already a quiet person, breaking down has her almost in a dead silence... after she loses her voice. She isn’t much one to cry over things or get strongly emotional, keeping her thoughts and feelings to herself, but deaths are a sure-fire way to shatter her quiet, reserved nature.

▸     is  your  muse  capable  of  trusting  someone  with  their  life  ?

     Yes. Alta is... incredibly, undeniably hopeful, something that has somehow not killed her yet. She forms bonds slowly and surely, but her love and trust comes with unwavering belief. Even with all Urianger has done, she would put her existence in his hands, and would do the very same for every Scion.

     Her trust is not easily broken and it is quickly earned, even if it’s not something she wears on her sleeve. Maybe it’s something she would blame on being a healer - that unspoken trust is required for her to be able to do her job and be shielded by others - or maybe it’s simply her gut.

▸     what’s  your  muse  like  when  they’re  in  love  ?

     Alta is someone who shows her love through her actions. She still struggles with her Eorzean - let alone any other language - and knows she’ll never quite be native to their traditions and beliefs. She’s a close listener, good at observing, and - being the healer in most party formations - is intimately aware of a person’s physical strengths and weaknesses.

     I think her biggest show of affection is her want to learn, and she does her best to turn her knowledge into something useful for her partner(s). She isn’t truly one to do public displays or dote on her lovers overmuch, but she’s consistent and thoughtful.

     (And you’ll get an extra regeneration spell thrown on you at all times.)

tagged by @darkflood​, ty my dude

#☄️ alta ; hcs. #long post tw

[mermaidmelodyedits]

Return to the Sea (Older Mel AU) Ch.24

Author Notes: This fanfic is a retelling of The Little Mermaid 2 Return to the Sea but with Melody at 19 instead of 12. This fanfic was originally posted on my deviantart, and as of 5-15-22 it HAS FINISHED WITH A PROLOGUE AND 24 CHAPTERS. You can also find it on fanfiction.net where it also has all 24 chapters and the prologue. I’ll be posting a new chapter to tumblr every week on Saturday, so look forward to that. Thanks for reading! Story starts below

P.S. Sequel scheduled to come next Saturday!

FINAL CHAPTER BELOW!

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

Chapter 24: Melody’s Beginning

“A choice to stay on land with your parents, or to come with me to Atlantica.”

Melody didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t feel right. She looked to her parents, her other was still a mermaid, but the Queen she knew nonetheless. Being a mermaid was a part of her, and her mom, and Melody knew how much her mother missed her own family. How lonely had it been for her mother to go through the years without seeing her father and sisters? Melody knew how hard for her it had been to not know her own family, but what about her mom and dad on land? Why did there always have to be a choice? Why couldn’t her mom be a human, and not sacrifice seeing her father, sisters, and possibly her own daughter? Why did Melody have to give up her own parents to know her aquatic family?

Melody saw her mother’s face fill with pain at Triton’s offer, Eric seemingly stopping her from sawing something. Her father offered his blessing to her, “It’s up to you Melody.” 

The Princess tore her gaze from her parents, standing and wrapping herself more elegantly in her thick blankets. 

With a shivering curtsy, she spoke, “With all due respect your Majesty, I don’t understand why it has to be one or the other. A part of me belongs to the sea, and another belongs to the shore. I can’t pick between them, and my family is proof the two worlds aren’t as different or separate as they seem.”

Melody was worried what her grandfather would think, what kind of first impressions she must have been making. She must seem like such a rude girl without manners, spoiled to turn down a generous offer, and what a know it all to tell a king what was right and wrong.

When she peaked at the King’s face, he seemed like he was nothing but overjoyed. With a hearty laugh he spoke, “You are assuredly Ariel’s daughter, and we are your family, there is no need to be so formal. You are a Princess of both land and sea, and I can think of no one better at uniting our two worlds.”

Ariel and Triton exchanged happy and proud smiles, before Melody ran up and gave her grandfather a hug.One Week Later

Melody threw open the pink satin curtains, the morning sun over the ocean looked so painterly. The Princess giggled at the sight of both dolphins and merfolk breaking the waves, having to peak over the soon to be gone castle walls. She twirled back into her bedroom, as she got ready for the best day of her life.

A gorgeous thin coral gown with seashell patterns sewn into the lace and shell shaped jewels. The Princess wasted no time slipping it on, along with the matching jewel sets. As beautiful as the whole set was, Melody was much more concerned with packing. As much fun as having a dress designed just for her for this occasion, designing all the fun tops she could wear in the ocean with human flairs was far better. 

She did a check through once again, swearing it to be the last one but it wouldn’t be. Her favorite ribbons, jewelry, hairbrush, and a few books her grandfather enchanted were all accounted for. Along with the newly tailored tops her mother and her had worked on together to make before she left. Melody had loved hearing her mom tell her all about Atlantica fashions, and they had spent hours together talking all about it while they designed clothes together.

Melody secured the golden locket around her neck before finally wrapping and tying off the matching floor length cloak over her shoulders. Slinging her woven packed bag over her shoulders and tying off her hair with a seafoam green ribbon, before busting out of her room like a tornado.

While her birthday had been a closed off event for the public, today was the opposite. Everyone from both kingdoms had been invited to attend, and the promise of food, festivities, and a national holiday were all enough for everyone to come. 

With the sun high in the sky the people of the land met merfolk for the first time, King Triton making a stunning entrance display. Casting a glorious rainbow before explaining to the humans ashore about Atlantica, his daughter Ariel the Queen, and how today was the day his granddaughter, the Princess, would be joining them in the ocean.

Melody had never seen such a wonderful sight, all the humans meeting merfolk for the first time. Swimming and playing music together, sitting upon sea rocks, talking, laughing, singing.

Kicking off her flats and charging into the water, Melody ran to meet her grandfather at the shoreline jumping into his arms for a tight hug.

With a smile he handed her the trident, and Melody took it with a thankful nod. It was light as a feather in her dainty hands, and with one confident swing over her shoulder the trident exploded with powerful golden rays. Instantly casting an enchantment over the massive walls surrounding the gorgeous seaside palace, letting the ocean flow against its surf freely again. 

With a curtsy Melody returned the trident to her grandfather, looking over her shoulder at her parents. They waved to her at the castle steps, her father getting a mischievous look before scooping up Ariel and leaping into the water with her. 

Her mom swimming in a full gown was a ridiculous and wonderful sight to the Princess. As she watched  her parents break the water’s surface giggling hysterically, she knew despite her worries they would be just fine without her.

“Melody, you are the first Princess of both land and sea, and as such both worlds are a part of you. You deserve to know what both of them are like, and while our two kingdoms will never be apart, it’s time for you to leave the shore and learn of the sea.”

A last look at her parents, and as they smiled their approval Melody turned back to her grandfather. 

“You will always have a home child, wherever you go.”

The trident lightly tapped Melody on the shoulder, and she felt herself floating in the air. Instantly she was enraptured with a cloud of glorious light and after a few moments of blinding magic, it faded as quickly as it came. 

Her bright coral tail was back, her dress suddenly a beautiful green shell top tied with seaweed interwoven with pearls. With a leap she jumped from the sky into the ocean, the water welcoming her to her new home.

As she broke the surface of the water for the first time of many as a mermaid she flipped her raven hair and looked at her old home, the palace. On the steps were her previous ladies and waiting, and many of the other royals her age she recognized from her brief birthday party. As she waved at them most of the ladies turned up their noses in a scoff, but  a certain servant woman named Carlotta happened to be walking by. With one swoop of her hips she pushed the gaggle of heeled girls off the slippery steps into the water. 

“Oh so sorry! Didn’t see you there!” The woman called as she winked at Melody and turned away.

The noble girls were sour at first, but the attractive merman rushing to their aid distracted them fairly quickly.

As Melody giggled and swam backwards she bumped into someone.

“Oh sorry! Still getting used to the tail.” Melody fell completely silent as she realized she had bumped into Alex.

An awkward but adorable smile spread over his face, “Uh hi Mel, er I mean your majesty.” He bowed his head to her, but the Princess just laughed and put a hand on his head. Gently pushing it back up from its bowed position.

“You don’t need to do that, just call me Mel.”

The Princess tousled the flustered boy's hair before swimming away with a smile, wave, and bat of her eyelashes.

Melody joined her best friend Lily, hugging the fish tightly and spinning in the water like a waltz. Her dreams had finally come true, in every way imaginable.

#disney edit #disney princess fanart #disney fanfiction #fanartists #fanfic #disney sequels #return to the sea #disney princesses #princess melody #princess #disney fanart #disney edits #fanfiction #the little mermaid #little mermaid #the little mermaid 2 #mermaidmelodyedits #disney AU #au fanfiction #disney

[downeypike7]

hermes pochette kelly 20

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[leupagus]

OFMD prompt: What if for Reasons, they need someone to pretend to be a woman, and so the obvious choice is Stede (look, Jim just isn't very convincing) (Stede played the heroine three years running in the school play, of course he knows his way around a skirt) And Ed is very interested in this look. Very interested.

-

The plan goes off without a hitch — Lucius gets the jewels back from the Widow Badminton, Oluwande sets the herd of criollos loose, and Stede is charming enough to prevent people from getting too suspicious whenever Ed grabs the wrong fork or steps on a foot during the fucking contradance.

"I did say you should pay more attention to your footwork," Stede laughs, his right hand measuring out one-two-three-one-two-three while his left hand gathers up the yards and yards of fabric that make up his dress. "It's just like fencing, you know. All in the tempo."

They're back on the Revenge; Lucius and Oluwande have already disappeared now that the ship is under sail and headed back into the open waters. Stede didn't bother changing while they'd gotten underway, so he's still wearing his complicated getup they'd picked up in Bridgetown last week — clouds of blue-silver silk satin with buttons and buckles that put any of Stede's hoity-toitiest outfits to shame. He's already tugged off his gloves and taken off the hat and wig, which came as a set; his hair, long enough to pull into a queue now, curls at his neck and his temple. He's beautiful and absurd and beautiful, just as he's always been.

It's been three years since Stede left him. Six months since he and the crew came back; five and a half since Ed forgave Stede; four and a third since Stede forgave Ed. Three months and four days since Izzy tried to kill Stede; three months and three days since Ed killed Izzy. Two and a half months since they agreed to sail on together. And in all that time Ed has kept his distance as well as he's able, telling himself that Stede deserved to take his time, that if all he wanted was Ed's companionship, that was fine. That would be fine.

But tonight was… confusing. "Mr. & Mrs. MacGillicuddy" needed to be arm in arm, and so Stede was pressed up against him for hours on end, his hand curled around Ed's elbow, pushing and pulling him in all the directions a man's body could go and more besides. Ed's been half-stalk in his trousers since the ballroom, and uncomfortably stiff since watching Stede take over the helm from Buttons while the quartermaster hunted 'round for his trousers.

All Ed wants to do is retreat to his own quarters and jerk off, but just as he's about to escape from the deck, Stede smiles at him and says, "Could you help me with this thing? Lucius's wandered off, and while it turns out I can do without a valet, it seems like this might require a few lady's maids." And he lifts his arms to demonstrate, smiling slightly.

Ed can say no; can scoff and tell him to get Frenchie, or Ivan, or the Swede. Can say that he's no lady's maid. He can do those things the same way he can dive into the sun, if he really wanted to.

The corridors down to Stede's quarters (always his; Stede's Revenge, a better name than anyone could've guessed) are noisy, the men riotous and gleeful that they've gotten the jewels and gotten away, two of the most important aspects to any successful plan. Stede returns the embraces and handclasps but continues on; Ed can't pay attention to anything but the glimmering silver-blue of him, though he thinks it might be a bit quieter, when they see him follow Stede inside.

"I have to say, there was a time I thought I might run away and join the stage," Stede's saying as Ed closes the door behind him. The candelabras are half-lit, shadows swaying lazily on the walls as Stede carefully places the wig and hat and gloves on his desk. "When I was at Eton, we would be permitted to see the occasional theatrical program. All terribly scandalous, but it seemed like good fun. Fortunately, it seems piracy has afforded me ample opportunity to hone my skills." He lights the candle behind his water-sphere, lighting him up from breastbone to navel, and turns to Ed, still smiling slightly. "I suppose I look completely ridiculous. I did try my best to wipe off the paint in the carriage."

Ed has no idea where to start. He's always thought of Stede as slightly bigger than reality; but even in his fanciest frock coats, the space he takes up is only so and so large, a few feet in every direction, a distinct line between himself and the rest of the world. Tonight, here, now — the dress billows out in every direction, making it impossible to see where Stede begins or ends, or if the whole room and the whole world is Stede Bonnet, cool silk in the warm light. If Ed steps forward he'll be swallowed up, consumed, taken into it and vanished without a trace.

He takes a step forward. "You'll have to show me what to do," he says — first thing he's said in hours, his voice half-rusted shut.

"Start here," Stede instructs, gesturing at the front. "It needs finer eyes than mine." There are pins, dozens of them, holding the blue-silver silk to the silver-blue corset. "It's actually the stomacher," Stede murmurs, from scant inches away. Ed finds another pin with his finger, flinches away before blood can soil anything. "The corset is underneath this bit, here."

Swearing under his breath, Ed unpicks another pin and places it in the little bowl Stede's holding out to him. "How you didn't get stuck like a pig with Lucius helping you—"

"Oh, I did," Stede laughs, his chest rising and falling treacherously. He did get most of the paint off, but there's still a bit lingering where the stomacher, whatever it is, runs along his chest, the white chalk fading to freckles. "Fortunately all on the left side, though, so no harm done."

Ed wants to smile; perhaps it's as simple as smiling, then. The last pin comes out and the stomacher slides loose — it's just a fancy bit of fabric, a long triangle that flutters to the floor before he can grab it. The rest of the dress — "Mantua, is the name for it, I stood on that dressmaker stand for long enough to hear the entire history of the blasted thing—" parts and half-slides off of Stede's shoulders, but it's too tight to fall without help. Ed moves around behind him and eases it down and off, the sleeves of a familiar loose shirt billowing up and loose from the silk as Stede shakes his arms.

"You wouldn't think such a beautiful thing would be so heavy," Stede says.

Ed's arms are full of the heavy, beautiful thing. "It's not so bad," he mumbles, turning away from the light.

"Next time we'll get you fitted for one, then," says Stede, grumbling behind him.

Ed puts down the dress and looks back at Stede, who's flapping uselessly at his back. He does look ridiculous, without the dress; he looks tired and happy and utterly at home. The whole room isn't really Stede; it's just that Stede fits here, like a marble in a peg-hole. "I'll need help for this too, I'm afraid," he says, "And these."

This and these are the corset and the petticoats, tied up and together in a hundred places, it seems like. Stede is fussing at the knots at his front, which leaves Ed to tug at the ones at his sides and back, until the mess of padding and whalebone and hoop and ruffle gives way with a thump onto the floor. Ed startles back, but Stede only sighs with relief and steps out of it, kicking it in the general direction of the closet. His shirt hangs loose to his thighs, now, wrinkled from where it was trapped under the corset. Ed can just see the blue ribbons holding up Stede's hose, tucked in neat behind the swell of his calves.

"Thank you, Ed," Stede says, stretching his arms out wide before letting them drop to his sides, facing him. "Couldn't have done it without you."

Ed draws the other chair close, sitting down before he can think too much about it. "Your foot," he says, gesturing at it. "Buckle could be a bit tricky."

"My — yes, of course," Stede says, blinking down at him. "Though—"

"What?" Ed asks. It's the hardest thing he's ever done.

"Perhaps you might be more comfortable yourself," Stede tells him, voice quiet and still. "If you wanted."

Ed shucks off the jacket — one of Stede's, the white one with blue trim, he'd picked it out to match Stede's dress but he'd really picked it out because Stede had worn it once, years ago now, to that party where they'd met Jagvir and set fire to the boat. He should be careful with it, but Stede is standing over him and he doesn't seem to mind. The vest is loose — he'd forgotten to tie it at the back — but the buttons turn slippery and mutinous in his hands.

"Here," says Stede, and Ed leans back in the chair, his fingers clenched tight around the arms of it. Stede is frowning down at the buttons, coaxing them open one at a time, and it's better than most sex he's had. "There we go."

"Stede—" Ed says — pleads.

Stede doesn't taste of paint; he tastes of salt and oranges and bergamot, of the sea in autumn and the moon in the summer. Ed gets dragged to his feet by the front of his trousers; Stede's trousers.

"I've been told on good authority," he protests, giddy and thrumming as Stede shoves him toward the bed, "That these were very expensive, and you oughtn't ruin them."

"Yes, yes, three cheers to you for sounding sophisticated," Stede mutters, "Get them off." But he makes it bloody fucking difficult, pressing in close to kiss him again, and again, bunching his hands up in Ed's shirt. "I wasn't sure you wanted—" he says. "I was afraid you didn't want—"

"I wanted you from the first time I saw you," Ed promises. "I'll want you until I'm dead, and probably after that too."

"That's very sweet," Stede says, breaking away to frown at him, "But I'd just been stabbed and hanged the first time you saw me, so that doesn't speak highly of your standards." He's tugging Ed's trousers down while he's saying it, though, so he's probably not mad or anything.

Ed sits down on the edge of the bed and kicks them off, then gestures for Stede's foot again. This time Stede obeys, planting the shoe neatly between Ed's knees, and Ed leans down to brush a kiss against his shin before undoing the buckle. Lifting Stede's leg carefully by the ankle, he slides it off, letting it clatter to the floor as he runs his hands up Stede's leg slowly, slowly, to the tops of his hose and the tempting little ribbon.

"I think my standards speak for themselves," he said, tugging the bow loose, the fine-woven wool pooling down, down, leaving his leg bare and glowing in the light.

"Oh, goodness," says Stede, and Ed slides his hand up further, under the fall of Stede's linen shirt until he can feel Stede's cock, can take it in his fist.

They tumble back into the blankets and pillows, pulling each other close — pulling each other close, Stede as hungry for him as he is for Stede, landing kisses on his chin and cheek and neck. "Come on, then," Stede whispers in his ear, his hands both fumbling at Ed's waist. "Come on."

Ed takes them both in hand, sweat and slick and heat between them and nothing else, and Ed was right, the whole world is Stede, and Ed is too, beneath him and around him and clean through his very soul, bound up in his heart. He says something, as he comes. He might have said everything.

Stede collapses, in a messier heap than the petticoats. Ed shuts his eyes and feels the weight of him, the undeniable fact of him, here in Ed's arms. He thinks back to three years ago, to six months ago, to two hours ago. He thinks that he was swallowed up and consumed; he disappeared, and only now is he starting to see himself again. It makes him laugh.

"What are you on about, you lunatic," Stede mumbles, trying to move off of him.

Ed holds him tighter. "Oh, I was just thinking," he says, and he can see Stede get there a half-pace beforehand, glowering even as he's giggling, "You wouldn't think such a beautiful thing would be so heavy, would you?"

eta: now on ao3!

#I definitely did not get the clothing stuff right #but I did TRY #and therefore no one should criticize me #ofmd fic #our flag means death motherfuckers #ficcage of interest #promptfest '22