#(stolen gold acquired)

[pirateshelby]

The Forgotten Cove is empty, and that is partially by design: if anybody could just sail in, then people who know the truth could slip right under Shelby’s nose to kill her in the night. There are rocks placed strategically beneath the waves to stop people sailing straight in, the open inviting bays more of a deception than a welcome.

Stratos is empty in a different way: it is simply so big that no matter how many people you stuffed inside, it would never be full.

Shelby slips between glistening quartz structures and hops over holes in floating bridges, thoroughly unnerved by how quiet this place is. The quiet is good for one thing, at least, and that’s for the lack of people who will spot her mining the large pile of gold just sitting out in the open. Why does Jimmy even have this, anyway?

She’s about half way through the orb (is it the Stratoshemisphere, now?) when a voice calls out, “Um, and what do you think you’re doing?”

Shelby squeaks and drops her pickaxe. It goes tumbling over the edge of the floating island, down to the ground far below. Welp. She’s never getting that back. She turns around slowly, shoulders up by her ears, and grins at the god staring down at her with a disbelieving expression.

“What makes you think I’m doing anything?” she asks.

He gapes at her. “You’re stealing my gold! I caught you red-handed!” he accuses.

“Well—hey now—stealing is a strong word—it’s not what it looks like...?” 

“Okay, then.” He folds his arms. “What is it, then?”

Shelby opens and closes her mouth wordlessly. Like a fish. “I’m, uh, borrowing it?”

“Borrowing it,” Jimmy repeats dryly. “And what would you be borrowing it for?” 

“Enrichment?” she tries.

Jimmy’s expression turns dark. Wrong answer. “Put it back. Now,” he demands.

“I really can’t do that—look, listen!” she yelps, when Jimmy pulls out an axe. “I, uh, look, I really need this, okay? I’m, um, I’m trying to impress a princess!” she blurts. Jimmy stares at her blankly. She takes a breath and forges on. “Just let me take it for a little bit? I’ll bring it back!”

“You’ll bring it back,” he echoes flatly.

“Mhm! I’ll even do you a favour!” she offers brightly. “An IOU, just for you. Redeemable anytime. Just, y’know, let me take the gold for a couple days! I swear I’ll bring it back.” She crosses her fingers behind her back. “Pirate’s honour.”

“That does sound like a pretty good… No.” He shakes his head. “Put the gold back, Shelby.” 

“How about I just take half of it! You keep this half, and I take what I already have, and then I bring it back in a couple days?”

“Or, better idea, I kill you and then I get everything in your inventory.”

“I’d like to see you try,” she mutters, and then, louder, before he can call her out on it, says, “how about I leave you something? As, as insurance, you know? You keep something of mine, I keep something of yours, we swap.” 

“Yeah? Like what? I doubt you have anything as important as this gold.”

Shelby reaches up and fiddles with her amulet, glancing off to the side. “This is my good luck charm,” she says quietly. “It stops you from drowning at sea. It’s the only reason I’m around right now, so… It’s pretty important to me.” She bites the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smirking. “I don’t really want to part with it… But I will if it means I can borrow the gold.”

Jimmy’s eyebrows crease. “This is really that important to you?” he asks, sounding a little baffled by the notion.

Shelby nods, reaching up and pulling the cord that holds the necklace from around her neck. “It is,” she says, holding it out to him. “So. Do we have a deal?”

Several emotions flicker across his face too quickly for her to read them. He sighs. “Fine,” he says. He reaches out and takes the amulet from her hand. “You better bring it back, Shelby.”

Shelby nods quickly. “Oh, I will!” she says brightly. “Pleasure doing business with you, uhh… your holiness?” she tries.

“Yeah,” he loops the necklace over his own neck, pulling a face at the decimated orb of gold. “I’ll see you in a few days for the handover. Be there.”

“Right.” Shelby grins, crossing her fingers once more. “I’ll be there.”

#lore #ic: honour among thieves #(for people not in the discord: our jimmy is dropping out of the rp so i have taken matters into my own hands) #(stolen gold acquired) #(this is not my best jimmy writing but i am so tired so it'll have to do)

[neckromantics]

Spoiling Astarion?

Bringing him back little things that remind you of him whenever he stays back at camp just so he knows you're still thinking of him while you're apart.

Astarion being so used to receiving little gifts from your travels that when you arrive back at camp, he's standing by your tent with his palm outstretched just waiting to see what you've brought him this time. The giddy little grin that's plastered on his face when you fork over the shiniest object you could get your paws on. All varying in degrees of monetary value, for sure, but all with a unique story of their own.

A couple of old coins from an ancient crypt. The entrance of which you'd all stumbled upon when Karlach punched a wall of a cave in victory after a particularly tough battle, only to come back with a handful of bones and cobwebs. The look of shock on her face when the entire wall came crumbling down on the group was enough to have you in stitches, entirely too weak from laughter to stand. You laid beneath the rubble for so long that Gale had assumed you developed a concussion and needed rescuing.

The PRETTIEST, crystal goblet that you'd stolen right from under a rich lady's nose under the guise that you were testing her drink for poison. You'd downed her ale in two gulps the second you exited the building. Was in the middle of patting yourself on the back for being oh-so cunning when you nearly fell on your ass. It was a sick, twisted coincidence that her ale did, in fact, turn out to be poisoned. But, at least you had a spare antidote on you that you gulped down before Shadowheart could find you in such a state. (And make fun of you, no doubt.)

A set of handmade jewelry– not stolen this time, if you can believe it. Wyll had pointed out the small shop to you while the two of you were out shopping for supplies. Said something about how it might be a good idea to pick out a new pair of socks since you'd been complaining about how holey yours had become after so much running around. Which was a good idea, truly– but the second you'd set eyes on the shop window, you knew what you wanted. A matching necklace and earring set, lovingly crafted with silver chain, so very delicate. So very understated that one could almost miss it among the rest of the more garish examples that sat alongside. Three, very small, opalescent stones shone so pretty at you beneath the sunlight that you could hardly look away. You would have given the shopkeep your left kidney just to see Astarion wearing them, but thankfully, it wasn't necessary. (You became so feral in your excitement to hear the very reasonable price that you nearly threw your entire gold pouch at the clerk's head and then kissed him on the mouth.)

You're an eager one. Astarion never has to wait– always receives his gifts before you can so much as slip your travel pack off of your shoulders. He goes real quiet for a moment. Has this far away look while gazing down at whatever it is, turning it over in his palm a couple of times to really study it.

The two of you sit together while you go through the rest of the day's spoils, and he listens while you tell him all about how you found today's special little trinket. Insists you spare no details in how you acquired it. (Unless any of those details are boring, dear. Do spare him of those.)

You know that there have to be some things he enjoys more than others. You know that there has to be some things you've given him that he outright dislikes. There have been a few occasions where he'd poked fun at you for bringing back something silly. Like "The roundest pebble you'd ever seen, Astarion, look at it roll!" or "This drawing of the two of you that you'd doodled on a stray sheet of parchment when you couldn't find anything else no matter how hard you tried!". BUT he has never refused anything you've chosen to bring back for him.

He thinks it's rather sweet that you've dedicated yourself to proving you still think of him when he stays behind. Wonders why you are the way that you are. Sort of loves you to death for it. Definitely does NOT invest in a bag of holding for everything once it all begins to stack up.

Definitely doesn't insist on you taking one half of the jewelry set so you always have a little piece of one another on you at all times. That would be ridiculous. (Earrings or necklace, darling?)

Sequel?

#bg3 #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #bg3 tav #astarion headcanons #gale dekarios #wyll ravengard #karlach cliffgate #shadowheart

[dailyadventureprompts]

Scragglmop the Destroyer

Once feared throughout the land, a great and terrible dragon grew tired of being endlessly hunted for his hoard and faked his death with the aid of a glory-hungry gnomish bard. Living on for centuries in the guise of a street cat, the dragon is now a hair's breadth from resuming his rampaging ways after the bard's descendants have lost the fortune he gave over to them for safe keeping.

Adventure Hooks:

A series of unexplained fires has wracked the city in recent weeks, which has both the guard and the populace on edge. Rumours swirl blaming arsonists, saboteurs from a rival kingdom, even an illegal duelling society of mages, but none have yet put it together that all of the workshops and businesses were all patronized in one way or another by the famed Candlebright noble family.

Coincidentally, Hignatta Candlebright, young head of that same noble house has sent an invitation to the party to join her at a famed teahouse to discuss a delicate matter involving the retrieval of stolen property. Hignatta has all but taken over the teahouse and its guestrooms since her own family home burned down near the start of the panic, and the party might begin to draw a connection when half way through their meeting the teahouse begins to fill with smoke, panicking patrons, and a booming, sourceless voice that demands "WHERE IS MY GOLD, CANDLEBRIGHT?!"

If you really want to mess with the party, consider introducing them to the fluffy street cat completely independently of the arson plot, making a nuisance of himself in the market while they're trying to shop, or catching mice in their store-room should they have acquired a residence in town. Have them befriend the cat as they might any bad-tempered stray, only to realize after the adventure is half way through that the mice he catches are always somewhat charred. Also imagine the looks on their faces the moment the party's home is broken into by an enemy and their housecat incinnerates a wave of intruders for disturbing his nap.

Background: Everyone knows the story about how the legendary hero Gailen Candlebright saved the realm from the tyrannical dragon Slaggrath, a beast known to devour whole armies and raze kingdoms in search of treasure. It's the ubiquitous tale against which all adventurers are measured against, made all the more ubiquitous thanks to the fact that the deed is memorialized in drinking ballads, children rhymes, and even a few folk operas. Gailen was a troubadour of not insignificant skill before he became a legend, and he had little trouble using that skill and hardwon fame to ensure his deeds would never be forgotten.

As with many tales told by the bards, Gailen left out quite a bit of the truth when concocting his tale: It was a late night in a roadside tavern and the young Candlebright was approached by a sourfaced man with a tangled beard and clothes that might have once been quite fine. Gailen had sung for his supper and then some, his hat was overflowing with tips from a long night's work and a greatful crowd, and the old man wanted to know how it was exactly that the Gnome hadn't yet been robbed; The roads were full of all sorts of rough types who thought that their strength entitled them to others' wealth, bandits yes but worse yet kingsmen, who took what they wanted sure that that they were above any kind punishment.

Seeing that the old man had fallen on rough times, likely having been robbed himself, Gailen spoke from the heart: He'd been robbed a few times yes, but he got by looking like someone that no one would bother to steal from, dressing in his fine clothes only on days he'd perform, and keeping most of his riches in the safe keeping of others, such as the caravan masters he frequently traveled along with.

The old man considered Gailen's words and the two sat up drinking through the night debating the merits of the Troubador's duplicity. Was it not better, asked the old man, to defend what was yours with strength and reputation, That everyone might learn from the failure of those that had trifled with you before?

Gailen looked at the many scars the old man bore and countered that fools never learned their lesson, they just thought themselves better than the last fool who risked it and they'd keep risking it till luck won out or they went to join all the fools that had come before.

It was dawn when the two parted ways, Gailen tottering off to bed thinking he'd given council to a reformed bandit chief, the old man slipping out of the inn and taking to wing thinking he'd concocted a brilliant scheme with the help of his newest, and perhaps first, friend.

i was a week (and one pants-shitting revelation over the old man's true draconic nature) later that the legend of Slaggrath came to an end: Gailen walking into that very same tavern bloodied, burnt, and with the broken off horn of the great wyrm held above his head as a trophy. The news spread like wildfire, the name Candlebright ascended to the shortlist of the realm's great champions, and not a soul questioned when the newly knighted Gailen comissioned the construction of an elaborate series of vaults beneith the castle he'd just been awarded. The bard had everything he wanted, and in return he and his family would hold the dragon's horde in trust, not touching a single copper and adding a little to it each year out of respect for the wyrm's generosity.

Future Adventures:

Even before he charmed his way into unexpected riches, Gailen was an ardent follower of Garl Glittergold, god of ambition, wit, and wariness. Genresavvy bard that he was, he understood that this fabulous windfall wasn't just some gift from his god, it was a test, and that to keep his good fortune going he'd best abide by the exact deal he'd struck in that tavern. Gailen kept Slaggrath's treasure under lock and key all his life and made sure his children did the same despite never telling them where he got it, in accordance with his pact with the dragon . Feeling that the Candlebright family has sat on its laurels for far too long (especially since practical and buisness minded Hignatta has been increasingly questioning why her late grandfather insisted on keeping a giant pile of money in their basement and never spending it), the god has seen fit to shake things up, ensuring that some long lost blueprints for the vault have fallen into the hands of a group of thieves, who broke in and cleared the vault though the very same secret passages Slaggrath used to pop in every decade or so and make sure the count was up to date. The dragon is pissed, convinced Hignatta has reneged on her family's deal.. and all the while the thieves get closer and closer to escaping.

Depending on how the party handles it this situation could break bad in any number of ways: The dragon could give up on being Scragglmop and go on a rampage forcing the party to put him down, they could intercede on Hignatta's behalf and ensure the treasure is returned possibly earning themselves a cushy position as retainers of house Candlebright, perhaps most dangerously they could earn the attention of Garl Glittergold himself and end up being singled out for their own unstable blessing.

In addition to being motivated by the prerequisite desire to get rich, the thieves were hired by an ambitious mage who has long desired to get his hands on Gailen's Horn, the draconic trophy the bard thereafter used as the sigil for his house and hollowed out into a heavy instrument through which he channelled his most showy magic. The mage has designs on the horn as the centrepiece of a ritual drawing on the object's history of power and triumph. Given that the horn is in fact the centrepiece of a giant con it's going to bring some very unaccounted for variables into the mage's ritual which is liable to set off its own chain of problems down the line.

Art

#adventure #mid level #dragon #town #city #dungeon #thief #garl glittergold #disaster #bard #gnome #I thought this was going to be a short one T_T curse you writers brain #monster hunt #patron merchant #patron noble

[bendycxmet]

Longing—Vash the Stampede

Summary: As a bounty hunter, you've lived a lonely life. That is, until you met Vash.

Word Count: ~2.3k

Pairing: gn!reader x Vash the Stampede

Content: kinda angsty, fluff

Solo traveling the world of Gunsmoke was familiar to you. As a bounty hunter, it was a known lifestyle. A preferred one. Chasing criminals for the monetary prospect meant you had to be ready to up and leave at a moment's notice, especially if you acquired a hot lead from the locals. 

This meant you had to live and travel alone. It made things easier. But still, there were cons to it. You had no one to talk with, laugh with, hell, even share a bed with if you were thinking romantically. You had gotten used to holding a pillow or blanket in your sleep, mimicking what it would feel like to hold someone to make a night’s rest pass easily. 

As you rested your feet atop a chair at your table, you swept your eyes over the rim of your drink, attempting to be discrete as you looked for your current bounty: Wild Rick. A filthy scumbag known for upselling stolen alcohol to thirsty locals. He had the chance to be a hero with his slick skills, instead opting to bargain for the highest price with a desperate citizen. Your lip curled at the thought.

The baker in town had tipped you off about the scoundrel you had been after, alleging that he saw Wild Rick head into the local bar. No doubt looking to steal some fresh bottles of liquor.

“Do you have any good alcohol in this joint? I can tell you diluted this gin!” You turned to look towards an angry man causing a scene at the bar, a disgruntled bartender staring right back at him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about bud,” the barhop said. The man reached across the countertop to grab the bartender’s collar, pulling him in. 

Now, you know the alcohol was diluted, but you couldn’t be bothered. Everyone in town was trying to make a living somehow, especially with the town’s plant going through some trouble. The water wasn’t coming out clean anymore, the town resorting to shipments from a town far away, the shipment often taking weeks at a time. Everyone was on edge, angry, and desperate for some relief. The room had gone quiet, customers looking on with bored expressions, nobody making a move to stop the altercation. As the man kept yelling in the bartender’s face, you spotted a shiny gold tooth peeking past his curled lip, the same tooth that’s been described to you by the military police. Bingo.

“Let me back there so I can find some real alc-” you had crept up behind the man, silent,  grabbing his hair and slamming his head down onto the countertop, effectively stunning him. 

“Think you should let go now, bud. I know who you are. Everyone knows you as Wild Rick, famous for being a petty thief and vendor. This is it for you.”

Rick coughed a laugh, spitting out his gold tooth onto the counter, blood pooling out the corner of his mouth. 

“Is this all you do? You think this bounty hunter life makes you hot shit? Running after lowly criminals like me? I bet you have nothing waiting for you back home, or wherever you stay. That’s why you have this life–to add some spice to your life. No one can love you, goody-two-shoes. You always go with the wind, slipping through towns that won’t remember you, faces and people that you won’t remember and that won’t remember you. I can smell it on your ass.”

He grinned up at you, acting as if he won this fight. Maybe so, with the way you stiffen at the thief’s words, clenching your jaw as he hit the nail on the head. You barely stay a night in the towns you come across, finding it easier to forget the sights of families and couples laughing in restaurants and bars, leaning against each other as they indulge in their daily habits. 

What you would kill for to have that comfortable life. To forgo your career as a bounty hunter. But you still have nothing waiting for you back home. No one to welcome you home.

You reach for the gun strapped to your hip, lifting the butt of it into the air and striking it against his temple. He gasps out, slumping more into the counter before you haul him up by his elbow, pulling him out the door to head to the police station.

“You won’t be laughing when you’re thrown in a cell. Say all you want, Rick, but count your days under the sun over. It would be easier to get rid of scum like you-”

In the moment your thoughts were becoming venomous, you caught sight of something red out of the corner of your eye. You immediately turned to look that way but saw nothing. 

That lovely shade of red pulled at something in the corner of your mind. You felt displaced in that moment, as if you weren’t in the present. You could feel simmering memories conjured up from that one glimpse, blurred, hidden from you. You felt warm suddenly, not a warmth you often felt as you walked under the suns. A warmth that bloomed from a feeling you couldn’t quite place, a feeling you had not experienced. This warmth was something you could only imagine people felt as you observed the happy families and couples in town. 

You stopped, your eyes becoming blurry. Reaching up with your free hand, you wiped at the wetness, staring down at your fingertips as the feeling only intensified. You gasped for air, grabbing at your shirt, trying to will this feeling away.

The material you were clutching seemed to breathe, the actual warmth of it seeping into your bones. You startle awake when you feel something wet touch your forehead. You open your eyes to a dimly lit room, the only light coming through the windows from the two moons. Your breathing is fast, uneven, as you come to terms with your nightmare. You clutch your eyes shut, hoping to bring yourself back to the present. You hadn’t felt loneliness like that in a long time, forgetting how empty you felt in your daily life.

“Mayfly…what’s got you so frightened?” Vash whispers, barely audible as if he was afraid that asking any louder would scare you back into your nightmare. His fingers pet your head, lips coming to kiss the crown of your head again.

Your arms hug Vash closer to you, fingers digging into his shoulder blades. Those lonely nights were past you, you tried to remind yourself. Vash was here, holding you back nearly as tightly as you were. One of your legs is thrown over his hip, the other trapped between his own. You curl your body further around his, then peer back up at him, wetness hugging your bottom eyelid.

“It’s nothing now,” you smile wistfully. You bury your head back into his neck, breathing in his natural scent. You feel his heart pulse beneath your lips, beneath your chest, and allow that beat to will your own heart to stability. 

Images flash through your mind. The day that you met Vash. 

On a particularly hot day, you found shelter in the local bar. Three drinks in, you definitely could tell this bar did not dilute their liquor. You chuckle darkly, that thought reminding you of the past week’s struggle with Rick, bitterness filling your body as you remember his speech.

“No one can love you.”

To spite him, you decided to extend your stay, trying to prove to yourself and him that you can stay in one place longer than a day or two.

You gulp down your drink in one go, your world swaying as your eyes follow one figure donned in a black turtleneck, bobbing about the bar as he laughed with the locals, checking in with everyone with flushed cheeks. You could tell he had indulged in a couple of drinks as well.

You felt drawn to him for several reasons. You could tell from your short time in the bar that he was kind, well-mannered, and always willing to help others and ease angry bar-goers from fighting one another. There was another reason, but your mind was too slow at the moment to think of what it was. The blonde met your eyes from a table in the corner, you quickly averting your eyes, feeling caught red-handed from following him around the room. 

You felt his presence over his shoulder before he spoke. “Hey there stranger. Drinking all by yourself? Why don’t you come join us over there? We’re gonna play some cards.”

You chuckled before glancing up at him. Your breath caught in your throat. He was prettier up close, and those damn orange glasses did him dirty in hiding those bright blue eyes that tracked your every move. 

“Uh, no that’s alright. Just came in to hide from the suns, yanno…” you trailed off, feeling shy from his unwavering gaze. He sighed. 

Nice going. He’s probably going to walk away now. You just lost your chance at getting to know the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.

A loud scraping interrupts your train of thought, looking over in time to see him pulling out the stool next to you.

“Ok! Mind if I join you for another drink?” He waved down the bartender, ordering another round for you both. 

With that, you got to know the kind stranger, laughing loudly at his stories until you had tears in your eyes, the rounds of drinks you two flew through affecting you both. With each round, you two got touchier, a hand on his knee while his prosthetic arm was wrapped around your shoulders, keeping you from falling off the bar stool. You two were caught up in your own world, his fingers from his other hand twiddling with your own, interlacing your hands together. 

“Yanno, I feel like I’ve known you forever! But you still haven’t given me your name. I feel like I should know now, especially with the way you’re holding me,” you clutched at his hand, giving him your best pleading eyes, pouting and begging him for this little piece of information.

“Hmm, let’s just keep that a secret for now,” Vash winked at you, feeling a rush of heat to your face. A loud commotion behind him draws your attention, two men cackling as they tussle near the front wall. Their movements lead you to stare at the bulletin board behind them that hosts all the current bounties. One catches your attention… one that displays the same dazzling expression that’s in front of you right now, the same face that’s attached to the man holding your hand. You feel yourself sober instantly, smile falling as you stare at him.

“Vash… the Stampede…” you manage to whisper, seeing Vash’s blue eyes widen before seeing the red of his signature coat fly over your head and block your line of vision. 

“Hey! Wait!” you shout, hands swiping until your vision returns as you see his coat whip out the door. You feel your feet moving before you register what’s happening, lungs heaving with the effort to keep up with the $$60 billion double-dollar man. You have never ran after a criminal this hard, not just because Vash is slippery, but because you feel that if you lost him, you would never feel the same way with someone the way you felt back in the bar. You had felt light, carefree. Warm.

“Vash, please wait!” you cry out, desperation cracking your voice. You hear a stumble, a crash, and a groan from around a corner. You come whipping around it, finding Vash’s feet sticking out of a pile of trash bins.

“...are you ok?”

“You’re not gonna turn me in?” comes Vash’s muffled response, before his head pops out, orange glasses atop his blonde hair, no longer obscuring his eyes. You see the sadness, the exhaustion clear in them. You sigh at him.

“As much as I would like to get that amount of money in my pocket, I don’t feel like it. Today, at least. Now come on, get up.” You extend a hand out to him. It is way too early to clarify why exactly you don’t want to give him up. You want to let yourself be selfish for once. To keep something for yourself. Isn’t it time you let yourself have something good? Vash may have a bounty over his head for crimes that are unforgivable to most, but after spending the day with him inside that bar, you began to separate him from those rumors. No way can the man in front of you commit crimes like that.

His face lights up, sliding his hand into yours. You feel jittery from your shared skin contact. 

“Let me properly introduce myself.” He doesn’t let go of your hand, only lifting it up to his lips as he places a soft kiss against your knuckles. “My name is Vash.”

You indulge in the softness of his lips against your hand, heart fluttering gently in your chest before answering him.

“Y/N.”

-

You close your eyes at the memories of your first meeting, smiling to yourself. Those nights spent alone, cold and unforgiving as you grasp at your pillows, hugging them closer. They all led to this moment where you can hug Vash, a living, breathing being, closer to you.

No one can love me, huh Wild Rick?

You feel Vash’s lips press against your cheek, nose, and then lips, reminding you of his concern. You kiss him back slowly, indulging in the open affection he always shows you. Separating from him, you move back to your previous position, nuzzling his neck again.

You exhale slowly, dispelling the old longing from the innermost part of your being out into the night air.

“It’s nothing now that I have you.”

A/N: and it was all a dream... lol kinda but not really. thanks for reading y'all hope you enjoyed this one. went the angsty route a bit but wanted to lead up to Vash being a bright light in the reader's life... as he is for all of us i bet

masterlist

divider by saradika

#vash x reader #trigun x reader #vash the stampede x reader #trigun #trigun stampede #tristamp #vash the stampede #vash #vash fluff #vash x reader fluff #vash angst #vash x reader angst #vash the stampede x reader fluff #vash the stampede x reader angst #bendycxmet writes

[heliads]

Hi! Could I please request a Nikolai Lantsov x reader where they’re childhood friends that fell out of touch (with mutual pining, no doubt :) but meet up again on the open seas, when he’s tailored as Sturmhond but wants to talk to them as Nikolai? I like the idea of a pirate reader, though I’d love to see where you go with the idea. Thank you so much! Love your work ♥️

the vibes of this request >> let me tell you anon i was THRILLED

masterlist

There was a time when you thought the world could only ever end, that you would live your life start to finish within the same four walls, or at least variations of them. You centered your entire being around insignificant things that could never last long— a wildflower left without water in the dry earth outside your home, a friend you made when you were just a child— and grew consequently hopeless when they all left in turn. 

What do crackling leaves and vanishing golden blond boys have in common, though? They teach you lessons no one else will. Lessons about how if you crave something not given to you, you must take it by force. Lessons about how although everyone leaves, it is far less painful if you are the one shipping out on strange tides. You did your time of learning, and now you push it further still on the bow of a ship you taught yourself to sail and master. 

Few people would expect someone who had once been a well trained Ravkan to trade their entire life for one at sea. Those who know you, though, wouldn’t even bat an eye. You have never been made for cages, and now you break them. It’s as easy as that. 

There were a few times when you wondered if you were making a mistake to cast off all your old ties for this. There had been moments when you swore your precious Ravka held everything you could ever need. There was a family, once, that promised you the world. There was a friend, once, who made you think that you could have it. 

Your childhood has long since disappeared, however, carrying with it parents and their fables as well as blond boys who know too much for their own good. You know what was expected of you, and you hated it. Too terrified of turning into those same people you saw every day, you fled. Let the gilded gates of Ravka wither with rust. You will not be there to see them fall. 

Thus a ship was acquired and a crew was found. It can be difficult to track down men worth trusting in any province, let alone one run by gold-drunk old men, but you make do with what you’ve got, you always have. Convicts and criminals may run with wolves every night, but they’ll protect you in a heartbeat, and rather do it above anything else.

That was where one chapter closed and another began. You’ve been on the seas for a few years now, staying afloat through odd jobs that have a miraculous way of paying you far more than they should. Interest runs high when there’s no one to check you. It would certainly be a shame if your men took more than their fair share from those who have too much money to ever miss it, wouldn’t it?

You’ve gained a name for yourself over these years as well. Among the lighthearted community out there on the sea, few could hope to have half the reputation that crowns your head. There’s one like-minded soul that you wouldn’t mind meeting, but then again, the list of people who’d like to meet Sturmhond could fill an armada. You’ve heard rumors that he’s talked of engaging with you as well, but you can only take those with a grain of stolen salt. Thieves of the sea forge truths as often as false documentation; until you meet the man himself, you’ll never know for sure if he truly wants to know you or not.

Still, when you’re out with your crew one day, heading out of the Ravkan harbor after another successful voyage, it isn’t beyond you to search the endless seas for some sign of another ship. And, when one of your crew stationed up in the crow’s nest for lookout shouts something down about seeing a schooner speeding up towards you, you can’t help a leap in your chest. Everyone’s heard stories about the Volkvony, but fewer still have actually seen it in person or lived to tell the tale.

When you stride over to the side of the deck to get a better look, though, your hopes are confirmed. It is indeed the Wolf of the Waves, Sturmhond’s flagship, and it is indeed approaching you. This close to Ravka, it’s hard to tell if the privateer could actually be gunning for you or just headed towards the coast, but they drop anchor soon enough.

You haven’t done anything to irritate the infamous seaman as far as you’re aware, so this meeting could be merely a passing pleasantry. All the same, you tell your crew to be on high alert. Sturmhond is notorious for narrow escapes and bold moves. It would be just like him to rob a fellow privateer just for the thrill of saying he could do it.

When the redheaded man first steps foot on your deck, however, you do have to wonder if he could truly be here for any nameable crime. His face is harsh, weatherbeaten and rugged as if carved into being by a blade instead of shaped by any Saintly hands, but it still holds a certain something that lends itself well to receiving stares. He takes his time getting a good look at the ship and the crew before he looks at you, so you have the pleasure of studying him before Sturmhond is ever able to consider you.

You take your time in it, too. You have never met the privateer, and would certainly remember it if you did, every detail down to the flamboyant teal frock coat, yet you can’t shake the feeling that something about him is familiar. You find yourself searching his face for some sign of recognition– perhaps a shade of muted green in his eyes that you’ve seen elsewhere, or a lock of copper hair that reminds you of a sailor you’d passed before, but can find no explanation anywhere in your memories.

At first, you think you must be confused, merely trying to delude yourself into thinking that you could have a connection with such a famous master of the seas, and then Sturmhond looks at you at last and you know you’re not making things up. He is careful to keep his face light, his expression sharp yet bright, but for a moment his demeanor slips. There is one half second in which you lock eyes and you swear that he recognizes you, and in that brief infinity, you know that you were wrong to ever doubt yourself.

The instant is over in a heartbeat, and then Sturmhond is back to his usual self. He claps his hands together, announcing for all the world to hear that he had heard of your ship in passing and wished to meet a fellow captain. He’s done this before, you’ve heard of Sturmhond evaluating sea captains to see if they’d fit in well with his fleet, so it’s not unusual for him to pay you this visit.

Still, when his eyes linger on you, you can almost convince yourself that there’s another reason for his presence here, something that he’s not telling you or at least won’t mention in front of the crowds of pirates surrounding him. You nod once and extend a hand towards the captain’s quarters.

“How about we speak somewhere in private? I would welcome any chance to confer with a fellow seaman.”

Sturmhond laughs briskly at the understatement of his title, and strolls over to accept your invitation. He keeps up his air of unconcerned bravado while all eyes on him. It is a different story once the door shuts behind you and the voices of the crew fade into the background.

You take a seat behind your desk and gesture for Sturmhond to relax as well. He makes a show of flicking his coat as he sits to show off rows of pistols, knives, and other weapons, but it doesn’t faze you for a second.

Instead, you steeple your fingers on the table in front of you. “Do you want to tell me why you’re really here?”

The privateer laughs again, and you swear that there’s something familiar in it, some sort of tone that you’ve heard before. “Can’t I just drop in on a friend?”

“We’ve never met before,” you counter, but add on something more when his face drops almost imperceptibly, “or have we?”

“I would hope that I’d make such a fantastic impression that you’d have no choice but to keep vivid memories of me wherever you go,” Sturmhond says pleasantly, “If that’s not the case, I’ll need you to keep that to yourself. I have an image to uphold, you see.”

You nod once, eyebrow raised. “Oh, of course. And how does that image relate to the fact that you’re being Tailored?”

Sturmhond’s face drops in a flash, although he picks up his charade a half second later. Still, even the momentary lapse is enough for you to recognize that you’ve seen straight through him. “I hope that’s your way of saying that I’m so handsome that I have to be the work of a Grisha, but it’s not the case. Many have tried to discredit my natural beauty, but–”

You cut him off with a raised hand. “But it’s true, isn’t it? You look at me like you’ve seen me before. That would only work if you’re wearing a different face than when we met. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You knew me as someone else and you want to see what’s become of me. Tell me, was it before or after I took to the seas?”

Sturmhond waits a second, two, and you’re just about to wonder whether you’ve colossally misread the situation and Sturmhond really isn’t Tailored at all when he sighs. It sounds like the dying breath of a god, all weighty pain and deep grief.

“Before,” he whispers, “long before.”

It is the easiest thing in the world for a pirate to lie; you’re all taught it at a very young age. Still, you know instantly that Sturmhond is telling the truth. You don’t know how you know, you just do. You know him better than you know yourself. It is something only many years of contact would teach you.

“How old were we when we met?” You ask tentatively. Pieces are starting to click together in the back of your mind, memories you haven’t thought about in quite a long time. His face may be changed, but his voice– something about his voice, maybe, his eyes, the way he looks at you–

The corners of Sturmhond’s mouth prick up into a half smile. “I don’t remember. Very young. We knew each other for quite some time too, and then I had to leave suddenly. I don’t even know that I was able to say goodbye. I was–”

You interrupt him again, this time with a shaky laugh. “Blond. You were blond and a prince. Saints, Nikolai, what have you become?”

It is a gamble to say his name like this, out of nowhere with little to no evidence to back it up. All the same, seeing Stumhond– Nikolai– and the way his face lights with some indescribable emotion the second you say his name is how you know you’re right beyond measure.

This is him, then. This is Nikolai Lantsov. This is the childhood friend you worshipped when you were barely knee height, the boy you grew up with until he disappeared one day without a trace. You had met him somewhere you can’t remember, on a street whose name is both the only thing you will ever know and also the first to vanish from your mind when you need it most. Nikolai had been your best friend, your truest friend, and the one whose absence hurt more than any blade when he left.

It makes sense now, of course. Nikolai was a Lantsov above all else. Of course he would be called away from you at some point, he had duties you couldn’t even begin to understand. You heard rumors that he was in the military, or studying in Ketterdam, and then some other grand plan that criminals like you wouldn’t be privy to in a thousand years, no matter how well you knew Ravka’s golden youngest son.

Here he is now, though, wearing a face that isn’t his and smiling at you like he has finally found the one treasure no pirate could ever dream of taking. You look at him, and although every facet of his face is changed, you see him. Nikolai. Your Nikolai.

You can’t help a smile. “What are the odds that we’d both pick this career path?”

Nikolai grins as well. “Surely very small. I didn’t think you’d recognize me this easily, though. I have to say, it’s making me doubt my own appearances, and I prefer to do that as little as possible.”

You chuckle. “I’ve known you for years, Nik, you can’t honestly believe that I wouldn’t see straight through you. What was your plan, then, if I didn’t recognize you? You would sweep up to my ship, engage in some idle chatter, and leave without telling me a thing? Would you really be so cruel as to let me go another few years without knowing that I’d met you again?”

Nikolai’s eyes shine at the nickname. “I didn’t know what my plan was. I had heard stories, but I didn’t dare connect your name with them until I saw you and knew for sure. When my men spotted your sails this morning, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay away unless I saw you again. It’s been too long, Y/N. Far too long.”

You nod in agreement. “What will you do with yourself now that you know it’s me? Pack up your things and sail off to another distant corner of the world just like you’ve been doing all this time?”

Your tone holds no malice, only the faintest hint of regret. Losing Nikolai had been like losing yourself when it happened all those years ago, and now you’ve got to say goodbye to him all over again despite just getting him back.

Nikolai, too, seems unwilling to part ways just yet. “We don’t have to separate,” he whispers, “I’m in need of a good captain in my ranks. Someone I can trust more than anyone. That has always been you and you know it.”

You let a small smile slip onto your face. “Are you offering me a job, Sturmhond?”

You emphasize the false name and he rolls his eyes. “Your old friend misses you,” he replies, “isn’t that enough? That and the promise of untold wealth?”

He holds out his hand, and you shake it without a second’s hesitation. “I’d follow you anywhere,” you say simply, “I would hope that you’d know that.”

Nikolai stands, and, crossing around the desk, pulls you into a tight embrace that leaves you breathless. Without his Tailored face hidden in the crook of your neck, you can pretend that nothing has ever changed, that you are both still children growing up on Ravkan shores that have yet to cast you off.

“I don’t want to let you go again,” he says against the top of your head, “I look forward to seeing you fly my colors, moi kapitan.”

You laugh. “Always the flirt, weren’t you?”

“Anything for you,” Nikolai says breezily, and extends a hand towards the door. “Shall we tell your crew of the good news? I’m sure they’ve been waiting long enough.”

You nod, but steal one last moment to stand here and look at him. You have your friend back, your Nikolai, your captain. Nothing could make you happier. At last, you walk to the door of your cabin and push it open. A wave of dazzling sunlight threatens to blind you, and through the rippling light, you see Nikolai by your side. Him and nothing more.

grishaverse tag list: @rogueanschel, @deadreaderssociety, @cameronsails, @mxltifxnd0m, @story-scribbler, @retvenkos, @thatfangirl42, @amortensie, @gods-fools-heroes, @bl606dy

#nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov imagines #nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai lantsov oneshot #grishaverse #grishaverse imagines #grishaverse x reader #grishaverse oneshot #shadow and bone #shadow and bone imagines #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone oneshot #grishaverse nikolai #grishaverse nikolai imagines #grishaverse nikolai x reader #grishaverse nikolai oneshot #sturmhond #sturmhond imagines #sturmhond x reader #sturmhond oneshot

[haggishlyhagging]

One asks the same questions again and again, over a period of years, in the course of a lifetime. The questions have to do with people and what they do — the how and the why of it. How could the Germans have murdered 6,000,000 Jews, used their skins for lampshades, taken the gold out of their teeth? How could white people have bought and sold black people, hanged them and castrated them? How could "Americans" have slaughtered the Indian nations, stolen the land, spread famine and disease? How can the Indochina genocide continue, day after day, year after year? How is it possible? Why does it happen?

As a woman, one is forced to ask another series of hard questions: Why everywhere the oppression of women throughout recorded history? How could the Inquisitors torture and burn women as witches? How could men idealize the bound feet of crippled women? How and why?

The bound foot existed for 1,000 years. In what terms, using what measure, could one calculate the enormity of the crime, the dimensions of the transgression, the amount of cruelty and pain inherent in that 1,000-year herstory? In what terms, using what vocabulary, could one penetrate to the meaning, to the reality, of that 1,000-year herstory?

Here one race did not war with another to acquire food, or land, or civil power; one nation did not fight with another in the interest of survival, real or imagined; one group of people in a fever pitch of hysteria did not destroy another. None of the traditional explanations or justifications for brutality between or among peoples applies to this situation. On the contrary, here one sex mutilated (enslaved) the other in the interest of the art of sex, male-female harmony, role-definition, beauty.

Consider the magnitude of the crime.

Millions of women, over a period of 1,000 years, were brutally crippled, mutilated, in the name of erotica.

Millions of human beings, over a period of 1,000 years, were brutally crippled, mutilated, in the name of beauty.

Millions of men, over a period of 1,000 years, reveled in love-making devoted to the worship of the bound foot.

Millions of men, over a period of 1,000 years, worshiped and adored the bound foot.

Millions of mothers, over a period of 1,000 years, brutally crippled and mutilated their daughters for the sake of a secure marriage.

Millions of mothers, over a period of 1,000 years, brutally crippled and mutilated their daughters in the name of beauty.

But this thousand-year period is only the tip of an awesome, fearful iceberg: an extreme and visible expression of romantic attitudes, processes, and values organically rooted in all cultures, then and now. It demonstrates that man's love for woman, his sexual adoration of her, his human definition of her, his delight and pleasure in her, require her negation: physical crippling and psychological lobotomy. That is the very nature of romantic love, which is the love based on polar role definitions, manifest in herstory as well as in fiction—he glories in her agony, he adores her deformity, he annihilates her freedom, he will have her as sex object, even if he must destroy the bones in her feet to do it. Brutality, sadism, and oppression emerge as the substantive core of the romantic ethos. That ethos is the warp and woof of culture as we know it.

-Andrea Dworkin, Woman Hating

#andrea dworkin #foot binding #female oppression #romantic ethos #male domination #human cruelty

[lucradiss]

For the kiss prompt, maybe 10 or 30?

Hihi!!! I think I'll do a mix of the two because they're mix and matchable. like legos Comfort + Desperate, An Outlaw Called Wyrm TW: Period-Typical Gun Violence, Kind of Graphic Depictions of that gun violence

Word Count: 2570

Send me more kissy prompts!

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Bilbo barely paid any mind to the hotel when they entered. Through his exhaustion, he saw only flashes of warm brown and gold from oil lamps, and perhaps the blue of the deepest night through the windows Gandalf spoke with who he assumed was the owner. He didn't know who he would be shacked with that night but he didn't very much care- all that he cared about, truly, was getting that warm bath he had been promised upon riding into town and getting some shut-eye in a bed that wasn't either bug-infested or a sleeping mat on the hard ground.  He stretched as he slowly followed the rest of the company, keeping his gaze down so as not to make eye contact with them. He had felt quite unable to speak to the rest of his party or even to meet their concerned glances for the entirety of the ride. Or, rather, the concerned glances that were also accompanied by the fleeting ire that seemed to be thrown his way every so often by the brooding outlaw riding at their helm. He sighed, feeling the new weight of the acquired revolver in its stolen holster. Not that the man he had taken it from would ever need it again, let alone report the theft. There was something about the presence of it that truly unsettled him; whenever he shifted a bit and felt it on his hip he shivered, remembering the events of dawn. Pulling the trigger had felt like the easiest thing in the world- the bullet had been right between the eyes. If you measured the distance between the brute's eyebrows and found the exact middle, there would be a bleeding hole where Bilbo's bullet had found its mark.

As he made it to the top of the stairs, he tried to banish the thoughts from his mind. The thoughts of that shocked, dead-eyed stare from the man he had killed before ever learning his name. Something about that didn't seem quite right, but he'd said nothing about it when Thorin found him lying there on the ground, propped up on his elbow and wide-eyed, blood spattered on his face like new freckles. He'd said nothing at all, really- Thorin's glares quieted anything he could say on the matter.  Glóin murmured to tell him what room he'd be in and he simply nodded before heading down to the baths. The basin had been filled and Bofur had told him to take the first wash and Bilbo felt like he was being coddled, but for now he didn't care. He simply entered, stripped his sweat and blood-stained clothing, left it out in the hallway for one of the attendants to wash (as he'd been told they would) and sank into the basin with a heavy sigh, allowing the warm water to wash away the tension as well as the grime. 

He felt a little bit more human the longer he stayed in the water. It had grown murky enough that he could not see below the surface; he pointedly ignored how, when he washed his face with the yellow sponge on the side-table, it came away a bit red. But this bath was something natural for him, something habitual. After the day he'd had... well. He rather thought he deserved a bath after all that.  He looked down at the water and the thought came to his head that it was the same color as the eyes of the outlaw he'd killed. Bilbo had caught those eyes- they were almost hazel, but more specifically a sickly, light brown. Perhaps in his more innocent youth they might have sparkled in the sun and been called gold, but he'd grown into something of a monster with his two brothers and the gold had lost its luster. And he would grow no longer.

The redness on the sponge came back to him then. The blood that was not his own, shed by his hand. He had not killed before. He had not wanted to kill before. That had been the one contingency for his coming on this quest- he did not want to become a killer. He did not want to create the same evil that had taken his mother from him. But he had, and then had been encouraged to take a souvenir to remember the experience- a beautiful silver revolver that Gandalf told him would fit his palm. And the worst part about it was that it did- the weight was horrifyingly comfortable, the grip fitted just to his hand. It was yet another weapon of death that he had to carry- first, it was his mother's pistol. That, he had been alright to hold- most of the time he could pretend it was nothing more than a keepsake. But this? This was a gun that had been pointed to his head and the only reason it had not been the metaphorical executioner's ax was simply because Bilbo's finger had squeezed faster.

He felt his lungs heaving and he realized that his breath had been coming too quick, too shallow. He bent over himself in the bath, paying little mind to the water or its filth, and put his hands through his curls to grasp them, to try and focus on that instead of the guilt of stealing another's life; of the fear of nearly losing his own; of the horror of wiping someone else's blood from his face and trying to pretend that nothing was wrong with that.  The panic put spots in his eyes, or maybe that was the lack of air. He tried to get a handle on himself but found that he could not. What was happening? His heart beat faster than it ever had, the blood in his ears too loud for him to hear the knocking at the washroom door. The edges of his vision went black- after all he had done to keep himself alive on that day, was he going to die to a heart attack in the bath? He felt like he was going to die. 

"Bilbo?"

The one word, through the door, gave him pause. His breath hitched but he turned his head, hearing it again. The owner's identity came to him slowly through thoughts that mixed and melded, exhaustion and panic weighing heavily upon him; Thorin. It was Thorin. And Bilbo suddenly had the awful, aching urge to be held in the arms of the outlaw once more- just as they had in their bedrolls under the excuse of sharing warmth, just as they had in the last hotel, and for the first time in the one before that. Because Thorin's arms meant safety, despite the glares and the lack of conversation throughout the day.  When night fell, he had come to realize, was when Thorin became how Bilbo knew him.

"Thorin," his voice was rough. "I'll- I'll be out in a moment."

There was a pause as if Thorin was considering something but simply called an affirmative. Bilbo, very shakily, stood and stepped out of the tub, pulling one of the hotel's robes off a hook and wrapping it around himself. He fumbled with the tie but was able to get it with some trial and error before taking a deep breath and stumbling toward the door. Everything about his body felt weak and useless. He felt like he had been the one shot rather than the dead man who now rotted in that clearing.  He shook the image from his head as he put his hand on the doorknob, flinging water from his hair. No. He would not spiral again. He could not spiral again. All the emotion that was building in his chest would be gone come morning, he was sure- it would not do to show this weakness, especially to Thorin or the rest of the company. No, he had been enough of a drag on this journey- he would not saddle them with his own woes born from his inexperience. 

He took another breath and opened the door. Expecting to see the hallway, you can understand his surprise when his eyes met the chest of Thorin Durinsen, who had, apparently, been waiting outside the washroom door. 

"You waited," he said, though that was fairly evident by Thorin's presence. The outlaw peered down at him, his icy blue eyes no longer full of malice but rather concern and scrutiny. He was no longer wearing his coats and furs, stripped to a clean-looking linen shirt and trousers. His belt and holster remained- Bilbo had slept next to the man enough to know that the gun didn't come off until he was ready to get under the covers. 

"And you look like shit," Thorin very astutely observed. Bilbo swallowed, not having the energy to make a quip in response.

"Yeah, well," Bilbo replied, his voice weak. He cleared his throat, but it did nothing. "What did you need me for?"

Thorin frowned, staring at him as if the answer to his question was obvious. "You've been in here an hour, Bilbo. I- We're worried."

"Worried?" Bilbo croaked, though he tried his very hardest not to croak. "Why would you be worried? I was- I was simply taking a long bath. It's been a while since- since I've had one, you know."

"Aye, this is true," Thorin said, "but you also killed a man for the first time today."

Bilbo blanched, feeling his forced easy expression falling. Thorin's brows twitched in response.

"And what of it?" Bilbo asked, feeling that panic rise once more in his chest. "I- what of it, Thorin?"

The outlaw's frown deepened. "Are... you alright?"

Stirring in his chest, the grief and anger and fear and panic created something of a perfect storm in him. One that was too much to reach his face beyond his eyes, and one that overwhelmed him so much that he needed something to stop it. Some balm that would freeze time and allow him to burn away some of it before it burned him first. 

So, on little more than reflex, he reached out, grabbed Thorin's collar, and pulled him down into a kiss. 

Kissing was nothing they hadn't done before. Sure, Bilbo had been rather shocked by the notion at first -- two men, he had been told, were not suited for such an act, but the way Thorin had pulled him close that first time made him think otherwise -- but in time he had come around to it. But this was something different. This was something urgent, something pleading, something desperate. He pulled Thorin closer and overbalanced himself, stumbling backward, but Thorin's hands were on his shoulders to steady him, then they were on his neck, in his damp curls. 

It wasn't pretty- it was all clacking teeth and uncomfortable angles, but it had the desired effect. For a few blissful seconds as Thorin's hands found their way to Bilbo's hips, his mind went blank of any of the day's horrors. As his hands let go of Thorin's collar and found their way to his chest, Bilbo found he could think of nothing else but Thorin's lips. He couldn't breathe- he didn't want to breathe. But then Thorin's hands were on his shoulders again and he was pulling back; Bilbo whined and chased his lips, needing the calm that kissing Thorin provided. But Thorin pushed him away before Bilbo could nip his lower lip back and stared down at him, slightly panting, with the most concern he had ever seen in his eyes.

"Bilbo, talk to me." 

A hand reached up to caress his face and a thumb swiped under his eye- it was then that Bilbo realized he had started crying, the tears rushing down his face in rivers.

"Oh," was all Bilbo could say before his breath hitched, he sniffed once, and then sobbed, curling in on himself. Thorin made a small noise and pulled him close, his hand on the back of Bilbo's head as the smaller man cried into Thorin's shoulder. 

"I know," Thorin murmured. "I know."

And Bilbo didn't feel like Thorin was lying when he said that. Thorin did know. He knew what it was like to take a life for the first time, how it felt, what went through one's mind.

"I don't want to-"

"Shh," Thorin whispered into Bilbo's hair. "I know." The smaller man choked on another sob. 

After awhile, Bilbo's cries abated and he pulled back, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He sniffed, and Thorin caressed his cheek again, causing Bilbo to drop his hands and look up. 

"What's going through your mind, ghivashel?"

And there was one of those words that Bilbo didn't know the meaning of but loved all the same because of the tenderness with which they were said. He sighed shakily, leaning into Thorin's hand. 

"I can't"- he swallowed thickly -"Can't we wait to speak on it? I don't think I..."

"I understand," Thorin said gently, rubbing his thumb along Bilbo's soft cheekbone. Bilbo sighed again, feeling the exhaustion catch up with him as he let his eyes flutter shut against the warmth of Thorin's palm. "You're dead on your feet. Let's go upstairs."

Bilbo nodded but felt cold as Thorin pulled his hand away. Still, he unsteadily followed his leader up the stairs and to the farthest room at the end of the hall, slightly away from the others. It seemed that it was Bilbo and Thorin together again that night. Not that Bilbo was complaining.

Thorin sat on the bed and pulled Bilbo to him, and with a gaze illuminated only by the high moon outside the window, he put his hands on either side of Bilbo's face and brought him down for a gentle kiss. One of tenderness and comfort. It was not a balm or something to wipe away the thoughts of the day- no, this was something that soothed them, a comfort not in the absence of his despair but in concern for it. It was like a damp, cool towel on a blisteringly hot day; like a mother holding a child through a thunderstorm, teaching them to count the time between a peal of thunder and the lightning that followed, listening as it traveled far away. 

They did not talk any more that night. The next day, they would hang back in the hotel and speak in hushed tones as the rest of the company no doubt dined or went about their day of rest before they had to embark once more. Bilbo would tell Thorin of his plights, Thorin would relate and tell him that it got easier with time, though Bilbo had a hard time believing that. He would ask why Thorin glared at him the day before and Thorin would, rather bashfully, admit that the anger had been borne from worry. "I thought I'd lost you," he'd said, suddenly hoarse. Bilbo kissed the sorrow away as Thorin had done the night before. 

But it was still night, and none of that had yet happened. Bilbo still sat on Thorin's lap, and the gentleness that gripped them in the darkness was necessary. Thorin's hands were kind, his lips upon Bilbo's were slow, and in spite of how the world had seemed to crash down around him, he felt at peace enough to lay within Thorin's arms and sleep. 

#not art #the hobbit #thilbo #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield #bagginshield #bagginshield fic #ficlet #kiss prompts #lucradiss fics #an outlaw called wyrm

[foone]

The rain was coming down in sheets, and it was clearly irritating Rudapedi, putting him on edge... Or keeping him on edge, I guess. It had been only minutes since someone tried to kill us, after all.

"why would they need to transport the stolen weapons across the country, if their final destination is another planet? Couldn't they just warp them out like they warped in?" asks Jay from the driver's seat.

Rudapedi answers with the tone of a college professor who knows they already taught this. "no. When you're going between planets, you have to make use of existing rifts, and they're in fixed locations on the planet's surface. Generally you'd just do a local teleport between them, but I imagine the moonstone caskets made that too difficult to manage, so they resorted to just driving them across the surface manually. Your world sure makes that easy, after all. You know half your entry in the compendium is about these 'automobiles' you're got?"

Rudapedi turns to the car window and all the raindrops pouring down it, looking out with an expression somehow mixing boredom and unease. "And you keep assuming they were stolen. I don't know the details but I would bet that wasn't how they were acquired. The Kalic Empire has deep pockets, Jay. They don't need to steal. I imagine they found whoever is in charge of these weapons and offered them more gold than they could ever spend, or a permanent vacation trip off-world away from the troubles of this rainy planet, to an endless beach where the sun never sets... Or maybe they offered health? I'm sure there's at least one upper commander in your military who is dying slowly of something you can't cure, or has a spouse or child in a similar situation."

Rudapedi is sitting up now, gesturing with a lot of jabbing pointing motions, most in Jay's direction. "I've been here long enough to learn about your medical techniques. Don't get me wrong, they're amazing. Brain surgery? Those... Magnet-things that can see inside people? And your drugs would shame any potion-maker back home. You truly are masters of this craft, far beyond anything in the empire or any unaligned world I've ever heard of.

But you know why we don't have those kinds of abilities? We've never needed them."

Jay doesn't let the bearded wizard's vaguely accusatory tone get to him. "No, I don't suppose you would. If you can just wave a wand and fix someone's broken leg, why invent the splint and the X-ray machine?"

Rudapedi, for his part, is back to looking out the window, with the expression of a cat that begged to be let out only to find it has snowed for the first time in its little life and the backyard it wanted to play in has been covered in a thick blanket of white fluffy nonsense.

The continual beating of rain against the top of the car has turned into sharp "pings" as hail bounces off. "what the hell is that? Why is it BOUNCING?" Rudapedi asks, and you can feel the fuzz on "hell", like the translation spell is underlining it with a red squiggle of inaccuracy in your mind.

"That's hail", you respond. "sometimes when it's cold enough the rain freezes into little balls of ice while they're falling. This is pretty small, all things considered. When they get bigger, they can cause a lot of damage."

Rudapedi's managing to combine his expressions into one only describable as "rapt disgust". He says nothing in reply, only muttering something under his breath that even untranslated you can tell is an oath that's vaguely blasphemous. You wonder how it can go untranslated. Is the spell skipping out on speech that's too quiet or does it filter swears?

The hail continues, only getting louder. With the conversation clearly over (and it would be difficult to talk over the hail without shouting, anyway) you pull on your headset and start reciting words to your tablet, not letting this magical gift of vocabulary go to waste.

#my writing #mundane kaya sona

[mostlynobutalittlemaybe]

One of my favorite headcanons, personally, is Reginald and Galeforce being friends.

Now, I don’t mean an angsty “we’ve chosen our paths now we must walk them” type friendship. I also don’t mean a “oh, technically I’m supposed to capture you but oh no look at that you escaped that’s so sad” type of friendship either. Both Reginald and Galeforce are EXTREMELY loyal to their factions. Reg can and will blow up Government buildings without hesitation, and Galeforce can and will arrest every living Toppat he comes across without remorse. No, I mean friends like this:

Galeforce learns that Reginald got a promotion so he writes a card of congratulations and leaves it in his pocket knowing the thief will steal it at some point during their conversation

Reginald learns Galeforce got a promotion so he breaks into Galeforce’s house one night and leaves him a card and a dubiously acquired gold bracelet that leaves Galeforce with a dilemma of “is this stolen and am I going to get arrested if I wear it” so he just leaves it in a display case because he can’t bring himself to throw it away

Reginald comes out at FtM trans and Galeforce spends hours going back through each arrest warrant and document with his name on it to change it to Reginald

Galeforce complains about his boss and two days later said boss is arrested for tax fraud and Reginald when asked just grins and says “his finances became more complicated than he’d planned for, is all”

Reginald breaks into a Government base to change his legal name and gender but Galeforce catches him and hands him a folder full of articles and resources to help trans people that don’t involve breaking and entering and identity fraud

“You’re no fun at all” “At least I don’t have seventeen different arrest warrants over my head at any given time” “We could change that” “NO”

Reginald “borrows” and crashes Galeforce’s car because he’s in the area and needed a quick getaway and Galeforce is rightfully pissed but then the next day there’s a nicer brand new version of the car in the driveway with documents in his name

Said car is also painted a hideous neon red color that cannot be painted over no matter how much Galeforce tries and Reginald just asks “what, is red not your color? That’s too bad, I thought you’d like it”

Galeforce sends three spy cameras into the airship but labels them 1, 2, and 4 so Reginald panics and spends the next three months trying to find camera 3 but never does

Reginald and Right Hand Man get married and Galeforce is invited to the wedding with a full mutual understanding that the Government will in fact show up to try to arrest everyone there but Galeforce waits until after the vows are complete to call in reinforcements

“Hey we’re stopping by for dinner” “Use the door this time you bastard” “Ha! No <3”

Galeforce saying “anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law” vs Reginald proceeding to infodump about a very random niche topic so that during the trial they have to listen to a two hour recording of him explaining the language and symbolism of deadly flowers in the 1800s because “what he says will be used against him in court”

Galeforce ranting about how insufferable Reginald is and someone agrees with him and misgenders the thief in the process and Galeforce immediately flips a 180 to lecture the soldier about respect and basic decency

Reginald kidnaps Charles for like a week but instead of interrogating him for Government secrets he just asks the pilot to help him plan a surprise party for Galeforce’s birthday

Thoughts?

#it’s just the vine “BETHANY I MADE BISCUITS #that’s their vibe #the henry stickmin collection #thsc fandom #thsc reginald copperbottom #reginald copperbottom #hubert galeforce #copperright #right hand man #thsc rhm

[girl-in-the-chairs-void]

The first time you met Bob's family was as his best friend. he'd been planning to go home right after your posting together in some desert and on a calm night when both of you were having your dinner in your respectful cabins, he had called you from the landline and asked you if you wanted to go home with him. Of course you said yes. He was a sweetheart and a gentleman and you thought it was you duty to thank the people who had raised him so well. so you went from one hot desert to another, at his family ranch. It was beautiful, the huge concrete house built on a step foundation, a stable just near by with acres of land for the horses and various animals to stroll in. his family had welcomed you like their own. You'd forgotten how good it felt to be admired by so many people, his grandmother was one of the first to greet you. "Ohhh, look at you pretty girl. You goaled a nice one here Bobby." ofcourse she thought that the first girl that bob had brought home after years was his girlfriend. but you were happy to explain to her that you both were just friends (desperately trying to decay the feeling in your chest that had first started when you started seeing him with other girls), to which she gave Bob a cheeky side eyed smile.

then there were his parents, his mom was the sweetest person, treated you like her own daughter the second you stepped out of Bob's truck and onto the rough, sandy road. She’d hugged you and said “so this is the famous Y/n you never shut up about.” Causing you to give Bob a look of bewilderment, the man beside you was neck deep in blush but dismissed it as a friendly gesture from his mother and said that she was only exaggerating (she wasn’t, he indeed never shut up about you). His dad. Contrary to popular belief (one that you had heard at least) that southern dads are scary, his dad was the complete opposite. You immediately knew where Bob got his manners from when you first set eyes on the older man, who simply took your extended hand that was ready to be shaken and pulled you into a hug, patting you on the back. “She’s a good one, son.” You’d overheard him later that night, speaking to Bob while you helped him mother set up the dinner table.

you most favourite part of it though, was meeting his sisters, Lindsey and Sam. Lindsey was older than Bob and had joined the Floyd family with her 7 year old daughter and husband for the holidays. Sam was the baby out of the three. both the sisters were an identical copy of their parents, having their dad’s soft blond hair and their mother’s gentleness, though Sam had acquired a bit of a sassy attitude from her grandmother, it made her even more likeable.

both had stolen you away as soon as you were done with dinner and taken you up to the guest room that you’d be sharing with Bob for the next few days. You knew what was to come, a million questions were to be asked about Bob and his dating life but what you didn’t expect was this: “so, how long have you loved our brother?” Lindsey had asked, a smirk creeping its way up her face as Sam muffled her giggles beside her.

You sat there, mouth glued shut as your eyes widened. "I-I, uhh... well..." You stuttered, struggling to utter out a single word that might difuse you anxiety in the situation.

"how...? how did you know?"

"call it sister intuition." Sam replied smugly; rolling over towards you from her lying position beside Lindsey. she sat up, moving to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear to reveal the one piece of jewellery that was so dear to you. They were a pair of small white dangling pearls, hung onto a thicker gold loop, dropping like rainfall from your ears. Bob had given them to you as a birthday present, saying that when he saw them, he'd thought of you.

"And that..."

"what about them?"

"when Robby was leaving for his last tour, he'd asked mom to give the family pearls to him, 'a special gift.' he'd said to us but we'd heard him mention your name when he was talking to gammy and mom about it." Lindsey explained. she wasn't entirely off from what Bob had told you, but he'd failed to mention that they were a family heirloom. It didn't sit right... why would he give you the family heirlooms? you both were just friends and if feeling were there, you were sure they were completely one-sided.

Later that night, as you sat with Bob on the floor. the amber light from the fireplace lit his face up like fire, he looked so damn beautiful and all you wanted to d-

"-you listening, Y/n?"

"hmm? shit sorry... what were you saying?"

"I said you have to draw 4. Also, I can see you hiding cards under your leg." He repeated, eyes scanning you mischievously as they lingered on a certain part near your legs. you shifted under his gaze, there was something in his eyes that was...

you shook your head, physically trying to let go of your chain of thoughts as you drew four cards from the deck of UNO cards in front you. Deciding that this maay be the best time to ask him about what Lindsey and Sam had told you, you began;

"So... I talked to Sam and Linds earlier...."

"mhmm" looking over his stash of cards before putting another one down.

"The pearl earrings that you gave me." that caused him to freeze, glancing towards you with an open mouth. taking his silence as a green light, you continued; "why did you gift them to me? i mean, they are your family heirlooms and...i guess they will be going to the person you want to-"

The realisation hit you like ice cold water being dumped on you on a chilly day. Bob sat there, eyes turned down, not meeting your gaze. As you tried taking up the new found revelation. How could you be this stupid?

"Bob..." you gulped, itching to ask him but the words were stuck in your throat, refusing to be let out. you moved closer to him, removing the cards in front you so they wont be damaged. taking his face in your hands as you sat on your knees, causing him to crane his neck as he was forced to look.

"Say it." You ordered gently, wanting to hear it from his mouth. "why did you give me the earrings?"

he audibly gulped at the question, you rarely spoke in such an assertive tone and whenever you did, it was a very different experience.

"because..."

"because what, sweet boy?"

“Because I love you.” He muttered, leaning towards your face as his eyes ghosted over your lips. Placing his hands on your hips to try and reach for your mouth.

“Hmm..” You dropped your hand from his face as they wandered onto his broad shoulders, keeping him down. Eyeing him up and down, you shifted forwards onto his lap, sitting yourself down. "say it again."

"I-I love you."

your hands came to dangled around his neck as his wrapped around your torso, keeping you in place. you leaned into his touch, forehead closing in to meet his as you both sat there, heavy breaths mingling into each other's. you closed your eyes, breathing him in. Being this close in proximity wasn't unfamilliar to you both, but this position was. but as you got more comfortable, you sighed, opening your eyes to see his closed ones.

"I love you too."

that caused his eyes to open. Looking to yours as if it held all the stars in the universe. he shifted his head to the side, trying to gain a better angle to look at you while your gaze shifted from his eyes to his lips. Looking hungrily;

"can i-"

"can I kiss you?"

you both asked in the same moment, which caused a giggle out of you. one of his hands wandering over your waist to the side of your torso just as he grabbed the column of your neck, caressing your jaw as your lips met in a ghost of a touch.

...

A/n; wellll, that was. let me know what you thinkkk <3333 @bussyslayer333 this one is for you babe, ILYSMMM. Bob is sweetheart and i am a sucker for him.

Taglist: @lemur46 @elicheel @arson-tm @blahblechblah @ravenhood2792

#bob x reader #bob floyd #top gun bob #robert bob floyd #robert ‘bob’ floyd #robert floyd x reader #lewis pullman #jake seresin x reader #top gun maverick #jake hangman seresin #hangman x reader #rooster x reader #rooster Bradshaw #Bradley rooster Bradshaw #Phoenix #natasha trace

[ltwilliammowett]

Good evening Lieutenant. My question came to me when I saw the picture of the cannon. Why can't they leave things like that where they came from? There is no need to salvage everything

Hi, I can understand that many people wonder why scientists are mining a lot of things. But there is a reason for that, because they try to protect these pieces. What many people don't know is that wracks are often looted, not only because of the supposed gold treasures, but also because parts of wrecks can be sold illegally on the art market. For years now, the market and the demand for unusual things has been growing, and traders and supposed salvage companies do not stop at simply taking them illegally. At the moment, WWII wrecks are very popular with the Chinese because of their metals. And if they can't get them legally, they just take them. Some guns or wooden parts are stolen because it's only a wreck, it is old and nobody needs it, so the motto, even if they are protected.

There are wrecks that are equipped with underwater cameras to protect them, or they are buried again and their positions are not made public. What is salvaged is only a small part, because there is not always the money or the capacity to salvage it all.

And this is not only true for wrecks but also for ancient sites, graves and so on. People steal directly from the excavation sites when they can and have no sense of what they are doing. For them it's just a souvenir or something for the art market. But what disappears is a part of the past and thus a piece is missing to solve the puzzle, to put it bluntly.

Why do you think great finds are no longer announced on a daily basis, because people read about them and then set about acquiring them. Even museums are no longer safe, signs like please don't touch, don't take photos are ignored. Objects from the museums are stolen, sold after pieces have been returned to their original country (has no cultural value for many people there) or even destroyed for a selfie and for what? Because it is old?

Maybe we should all ask ourselves what our past is worth - should it be preserved or do we want to forget it. I am in favour of preserving and understanding because that is the only way to avoid the mistakes of the past and to rediscover and understand a lot of things, history and our past and that is why we have to save and protect such things as best we can.

Sorry it was a bit long but this is a very sensitive topic that needs a lot more attention than many people realise.

[musemelodies]

𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐲𝐦𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮?

Clementine

In Chinese culture, clementines, known for their bright orange, waxy exterior, were symbolic of gold, and by extension, wealth, good fortune and abundance. Trees that bear clementines (or mandarins, as they're also known as) are often used to decorate the thresholds of Chinese households as a sign of good luck and prosperity. As lucky as Clementines may be, so are you and those around you. With a sunny disposition, and a knack for seeing the best in everyone, and the good in the world around you, you're someone who believes that the glass is always half full. Things can always be worse, and they will always get better, one way or another! Like the vibrant clementines you're known for bringing light to those who need it, and always bringing laughter to your friend group. However, such a bright exterior can sometimes hide a deep and lingering sadness. Remember: even the light sometimes has to dim, and even the sun has to set. Don't worry; it'll always come back.

Cherry

In popular culture, cherries have come to represent sensuality, sex, and seduction. In the cult classic, Twin Peaks, Audrey Horne expresses her sexual expertise by tying a cherry stem with her tongue. "Cherry" is also used to refer to the concept of virginity: why? I don't know to be honest, but here we are. Much like the cherry, you're a sensual person who enjoys all the creature comforts the world offers. You enjoy delicious food, dynamic relationships, passionate lovemaking and stimulating conversation; however, you may also come across a touch vapid or shallow, due to your quickly fading attention when something has served its usefulness to you. To quote some man on tinder: "you're here for a good time, not a long time". You can come across, at times, slightly tart, carrying a bit of a bite to you that not everyone can handle. That’s okay: you’re an acquired taste!

tagged by: stolen from the dash!

tagging: @somniaxperdita @thcsevoices @pcisondapple @deathxdefied @heedingcalls @wolfpackmuses @sheisthenorth @dreamsofalife @ofteaandmagic @castlesncandyapples and you!

#big doe eyes! (fawn) #bring along that jam! (sally) #meme!

[borisyvain]

(Detail from James Gillray's political cartoon Evidence to Character: being a Portrait of a Traitor by His Friends and by Himself)

Wip intro: Eight Grams of Gold

Genre: historical fiction, courtroom drama, elements of cosmic horror

Progress: 1st draft

POV: 3rd person limited

Setting: 1795 - 1796 in Ireland + some scenes in England and France

Content warnings: gore / death / abuse / a variety of place-and-time-typical forms of bigotry / cannibalism / etc

Things have not improved for the RRL characters. A stolen shipment of guns, a dead landlord, and now a bizarre personal feud sparked by one man giving another a guinea, which spirals out of control into an esoteric legal battle which threatens to consume everyone and everything. And of course, in the mean time, the spectre of rebellion is looming, and as it is now the year 1796, the clock is slowly counting down.

First, there is Sarah Connolly, a peasant woman, whose son, Frederick, stabs and kills the landlord during the family's eviction. Seeking preservation above all, she sells the body to the innkeeper at the local Essex Arms inn, and washes her hands of the business, content to not ask questions about what innkeeper Lazarus McClure, whose mental stability has been going steadily downhill since the conclusion of the last story, will do with the body and content that she and her family will be safe under their roof for at least another quarter. That is, until it comes out that the Englishman who was meant to inherit his wealth, Charles Nathaniel Maurice Irving-Hamilton, 4th Viscount of Drenning, was recently disinherited in a fit of rage on the part of the man who Frederick stabbed. And the man who will now inherit is a mere bookbinder, a nobody, a tradesman, who infamous aristocratic spymaster Lady Maria Whittaker is incensed to discover will soon be on the same social level as her if he is allowed to acquire the land and the title that would have been Charles' -- who is a bad inheritor, but a suitably titled one.

Whittaker digs up a will. It would seem that the title once came with a lot more land, was severed from it quite by accident in the 1740s, and should, following rather the spirit of the law than the letter, belong to the brother-in-law of the object of Whittaker's very mutual unhinged psychosexual obsession, William Rearden. It isn't too difficult to convince this brother-in-law to contest it. Everyone wants to be a lord, after all. Only, the man who is now a lord refuses to give Whittaker's puppet a thing -- save for a single guinea, handed to him outside church one day as a deliberate mocking gesture. And what's worse, Rearden, who despises his brother-in-law, told him to do it.

AKA: now that I've lured u in with a story about gun-running I will make you listen to me talk about the 18th century Irish legal system for a billion million words ❤️

Ask to be +/- from the taglist!!!

Main Characters

Anthony Franklin -- (he/him) a man of science and lover of liberty from Scotland. A genial family man who loves his friends and chafes at all forms of authority.

Lady Maria Anne Whittaker -- (she/her) a Jacobite-descended Englishwoman whose job it is to get supplies to France, no matter who has to die for it. Loves, apart from herself, her sister.

Eoin O'Donnell -- (he/him) a Defender leader, now on the run from the law. Considered "odd" and "not right" but liked for being very good at terrorism. Has a terminal case of Catholic guilt.

Sarah Connolly -- (she/her) an Irish Catholic peasant woman trapped in an unhappy relationship. Blames herself for a lot but blames other people for more and someday that's going to end very badly for them.

Frederick Craig -- (he/him) Sarah's 11 year old adopted son, recently hired as a drummer boy for the local regiment. Holds a confused ball of resentment within his chest. Has strange dreams.

Annie Craig -- (she/her) Sarah's 12 year old adopted daughter. Considered a touch odd but liked well enough. Determined to find some justice in the situation she finds herself in.

Charles Irving-Hamilton -- (he/him) a worthless Englishman who did not even want to come to Ireland for his uncle's funeral. But he is willing to stay if he can get some entertainment out of ruining this legal battle.

Lady Eliza Durham -- (she/her) a scheming landlady. Has been playing this game a long, long time, long enough to be sure of her ability to best anyone else on this list.

Edward "Lazarus" McClure -- (he/him) a resentment-filled, Derry-born, oak branch-wearing, sham-fighting inn owner. Loves his current fling and Winstanley; hates his father and the law.

Francis "Frank" Borden, Gerald O'Neill -- the new inheritor and Rearden's brother-in-law, respectively.

#wip intro #historical fiction #wip: 8gog #writblr #jory.txt

[mediaevalmusereads]

Civilizations. By Laurent Binet (trans. Sam Taylor). Picador, 2019 (English trans. 2021).

Rating: 4.5/5 stars

Genre: alternate history

Series: N/A

Summary: Freydis is a woman warrior and leader of a band of Viking explorers setting out to the south. They meet local tribes, exchange skills, are taken prisoner, and get as far as Panama. But nobody ultimately knows what became of them.

Fast forward five hundred years to 1492 and we're reading the journals of Christopher Columbus, mid-Atlantic on his own famous voyage of exploration to the Americas, dreaming of gold and conquest. But he and his men are taken captive by Incas. Even as their suffering increases, his faith in his superiority, and in his mission, is unshaken.

Thirty years later, Atahualpa, the last Inca emperor, arrives in Europe in the ships stolen from Columbus. He finds a continent divided by religious and dynastic quarrels, the Spanish Inquisition, Luther's Reformation, capitalism, the miracle of the printing press, endless warmongering between the ruling monarchies, and constant threat from the Turks. But most of all he finds downtrodden populations ready for revolution. Fortunately, he has a recent bestseller as a guidebook to acquiring power—Machiavelli's The Prince. The stage is set for a Europe ruled by Incas and Aztecs, and for a great war that will change history forever.

***Full review below.***

Content Warnings: violence, child death, animal death, incest

Overview: My book club picked this novel as our subject for November, so here I am, writing a review. I didn't know what to expect going in, but the premise intrigued me; after the first few pages, however, I was fully immersed and impressed by the author's understanding of history. While I wouldn't recommend this book if you're not a history lover, I would absolutely recommend it to those who are interested in historical thought experiments, such as what would have happened if the European colonization of the Americas was unsuccessful.

Writing: I'm reading the English translation of this novel, and since I don't have the original, I can't comment on whether or not Taylor renders Binet's prose faithfully. But I do think Taylor did a great job of making the text feel like the historical sources it was imitating. The novel is written in a somewhat plain, unadorned style that is common to things like sagas and chronicles, and though there were some modern expressions here and there, I think that on the whole, Taylor and Binet succeeded in infusing the prose with historical flavor.

I also liked the repeating imagery that held the disparate parts of the text together. For example, the color red shows up a lot, as does vultures, condors, and other birds that seem to signal auspicious moments. It made the book as a whole feel more literary, and it created through-lines that helped sell the idea that we were reading a continuous "history."

Lastly, I appreciated the ways in which this book defamiliarized things like religion by presenting Christianity from the Inca's point of view. There were a few moments when Binet would be describing something about religious custom and I wouldn't quite understand what was going on until the Inca overheard a key term (like "inquisitor"). The practice of considering what Christianity might look like to other people was a valuable thought exercise, and I think it did a good job of exposing some of the inherent cruelty of the 15th-16th century religious conflicts (and politics).

Plot: There isn't a plot to this book so much as there is a narration of an alternate history, but I'm also the kind of reader that finds history fascinating, so this narrative was highly entertaining for me. I really appreciated the level of historical knowledge required to write this book; one can see through all the details that Binet has a pretty extensive understanding of 15th-16th century Europe, and I loved seeing how the author imagined all these pieces working differently had colonization not happened.

I'm not sure, however, if the author had an equal understanding of the Indigenous peoples that are featured in this book. On the one hand, I can understand the purpose of wanting to imagine what a history of Europe might have looked like if the Inca had sailed to Spain and created a new empire there; on the other, it seems like the Indigenous peoples are a little less nuanced than their European counterparts. Maybe that's due to the fact that a lot of these peoples and cultures (along with their histories) were wiped out, so I don't know how much I can fault the author.

Characters: There are a lot of characters in this book, so I'm only going to focus on a couple of key players and broad themes.

Part 1 of this novel follows Freydis, daughter of Erik the Red, and imagines what would have happened if she and her followers had reached as far south as Panama. I really enjoyed how Freydis was fashioned to be the leader of the Viking band, rather than a mere instigator as in the sagas. I also liked that her story contained several nods to the literary conventions of Norse-Icelandic sagas, and it imagined interactions with Indigenous peoples that were more complex than just open hostility.

Part 2 follows Christopher Columbus and his failed expedition, imaging him as becoming a captive of the Tainos and living his life as something akin to a court jester. I appreciated the way Binet wrote Columbus as something of a religious fanatic who doesn't quite give up his faith, even when it's clear he lost. Binet also succeeds in presenting the Tainos not as cruel, but as rightfully defending themselves from a group of would-be colonizers who believe in their own superiority.

Part 3 follows Inca ruler Atahualpa as he sails to Spain and establishes a new empire in Europe. This is by far the longest section of the book, and I enjoyed the way Atahualpa was presented as both ambitious and generous. His advisers, too, were varied in their personalities which made them feel like real people (and not stock characters), and the relationship between Atahualpa and Princes Higuénamota was complex and fascinating, portraying a deep level of love and respect that felt different from a romantic or king-adviser relationship.

Part 4 follows Miguel de Cervantes as he navigates Europe after Atahualpa's death. I personally didn't get a much out of this part, and Miguel wasn't as interesting as his companions, but it was a nice snapshot of the empire, so I can't complain.

TL;DR: Civilizations is an impressive reimagining of history and constructs a complex view of what Europe might have looked like if the colonization of the Americas failed. The level of historical knowledge required to write this book is sure to satisfy history lovers, as well as the prose style, which imitates real-life historical texts.

[thenovelartist]

I’ve Captured an Impulsive Airhead - Beware the Villainess fanfic

So, the webcomic "Beware the Villainess!" just ended, and my friend @sereiaamy and I have been screaming about closure to Yona and Yohan's story. This is it.

Count once. Count twice. Halfway through her third count, and Yona still couldn’t believe it.

But maybe she should. Melissa had been paying her through the nose lately to join along on some… adventures Yona would rather not have been dragged along on, but for three times pay, she couldn’t disagree. Nor could she disagree with productive free time Melissa gave her because three times pay for as many hours as Yona racked up was no small amount. The gambling houses she’s visited, the black market deals she’d done, the information she’d sold and the payments she’d gathered, it had ended her up here: sitting on a pile of coin, gold, and even a couple magical items. And as she dropped the last coin, flicking the last bead on the abacus, she realized that this was it.

This was enough.

To have collected this much so soon—relatively speaking; it had been almost twelve years—was almost unimaginable even for her. But this was the result of a very, very atypical life.

No wonder no one wanted to be Melissa Foddebrat’s maid, emphasis on the “brat”.

But she supposed she should be thankful. If she wasn’t the maid for such an… interesting duchess, she would never have been able to end up here, with more money than imaginable for a mere maid.

After hoarding and collecting for so long, this didn’t even feel real. But it was. Rather, it almost was. Because, see, everything had to come in pure gold, meaning the gold objects and jewelry she still had had to be pawned or sold for materials, along with the magical items. She’d managed to sell things along the way, but with these remaining items, she wanted them out of her hands and replaced with coin as soon as possible. There was a shop down the street that would give her good funds for the gold objects, but the magical items that she still hadn’t found buyers for despite her many contacts in the black market were harder to get rid of. At this point, if she wanted to exchange these items for top dollar, there was one place to go.

“Yuri.”

Little blonde bob-tail looked at her with surprise. “Yona?”

“I know you just arrived. Melissa is out in the backyard playing with Nine and Chelsea. However, if I may have a moment of your time?”

That surprise didn’t remotely fade as Yuri gave Yona her full attention. “Sure. What is it?”

Not wanting to talk to Yuri in the hallway, Yona dragged Yuri through the house into her room.

“Should I be scared?” Yuri asked, hardly scared at all but certainly confused.

And with that, Yona pulled the magical items out of the bottom drawer of her dresser. “If I were to sell these to you, what would you give me for them?”

Yuri’s eyes widened even more, somehow. “Where did you even find those?”

“During our travels?”

“Where?” Yuri asked again, looking the items over. “Because I was with you during the exploration into the newly acquired werewolf territory, the raids of Peacock’s private and highly illegal warehouses on the border, and the black market bust of stolen royal family treasures. And those were nowhere to be found.”

Yona just shrugged. “Who’s to say. Now, would you be interested in them?”

Yuri frowned. “Don’t you think Melissa would want some of these?”

“I’ve offered them to her already. She’s taken what she wanted, but this is what’s left.”

As Yuri looked between the items and Yona, Yona could tell the gears in her head wre turning far too hard for her liking.

“Hey.” Yuri leaned in close. “We’ve known each other a while, yeah?”

“Sure.”

“Since back in the days you were trapped in the church.”

“And?”

“I’m just curious what happened since then? Like… how did you learn how to snag items like this and why are you collecting them. Never knew you were such a gold digger.”

Again, Yona shrugged. “I have my reasons.”

Yuri didn’t seem convinced, but she also didn’t end up pressing. “Fine. I’ll take all of them. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Yona smiled. “Thank you for your patronage.”

Yuri scoffed. “Geez. But I’ll pay only under one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You have something up your sleeve, don’t you?”

“If I do?”

“Will you tell Melissa?” Yuri said. “Obviously, I’m number one in Melissa’s life with that mangy dog taking a very close second, but she does care for you, too, you know? And since Melissa is my friend who is very worried about you, will you please tell her what you’re up to?”

Yona frowned. This was not how she wanted it to go. Frankly, the more Melissa kept out of her life and their relationship remained purely work-related, the better. But then again, Yona hated to admit that Yuri had a point. Melissa was, at heart, kind and caring towards her people, Yona included. And that had been a big boon to Yona in the end.

Ugh, she hated that blonde fluffball was right. “Fine.”

Yuri grinned. “Then negotiating on a price is all that’s left then, hmm? How about—”

They went back and forth a couple times, but in the end, Yona knew she got a good price for the items. That, and it had been just enough to top out the price of a certain freaky wizard’s bail.

Despite herself, Yona couldn’t help but smile.

~~~

“I’d like to use my vacation days,” Yona told her boss.

Melissa raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you ask for vacation days? Guess you could use one. Got any plans?”

Yona shrugged.

“Is it related to what Yuri promised you’d tell me?”

A dark cloud formed over Yona’s head. Damn that sorceress. Yona should have known Yuri wouldn’t keep her mouth shut around Melissa.

But then again, Yona also promised Yuri she’d tell her boss. “Yes.”

Putting her pen down, Melissa waited patiently for Yona to continue.

Yona took a breath. How could she say this succinctly? “I… have to bail an idiot out of jail.”

“Huh?”

Yona simply nodded.

“You can’t just leave it there!” Melissa blurted out, slamming her fist on her desk. “What happened? Who’s in jail?”

Yona sighed. This was exactly why she hadn’t wanted to tell Melissa. She was too good to her people for her own good. “An… old… friend.”

The word actually hurt to say. Unfortunately, it was the full truth.

“What’d he do?”

“Something freaky and reckless.”

“That doesn’t clarify anything.”

Ugh, she hadn’t wanted to get into details. “He… helped me when no one else would,” she continued. “So I’ve been saving to return the favor.” Maybe that would distract Melissa enough.

“Huh.” Melissa didn’t bother hiding her surprise. “Is that why you were always after bonuses?”

Yona shrugged.

“So that’s a yes,” Melissa murmured. “I’m assuming you collected the bail?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re going to go on your vacation days? That’s why you want time off?”

“Correct.”

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to go with you.”

The air left Yona’s lungs at that sudden punch in the chest. For a moment, her brain was scattered by the shock, but when its pieces started coming back together and ticking again, she realized she should have absolutely seen that coming. “What?”

“Yeah. In fact, I have time right now. I’ll go get Nine and—”

“That’s not necessary,” Yona countered. Please, let it go.

“Sure it is,” Melissa dismissed. “This person helped you, right? I want to meet them. Especially since I’ve been paying your bills.”

This was EXACTLY why I didn’t want to tell you. “Your Grace, is there any way to get you to reconsider?”

“Absolutely not.”

Dammit.

~~~

Yona told Melissa, Nine, and Yuri everything in the carriage. If it had been up to Yona, then no one would have known. Unfortunately, it had not been in Yona’s control that Melissa insisted and that two lovestruck brats competing for her attention demand to follow wherever she goes. The three of them had all been stunned silent at the news.

“How much was his bail?” Melissa asked for a second time once she’d regained her ability to speak.

Yona repeated the number. “But you’ve provided countless opportunities to collect this money.”

“How… legal were your methods?” Nine tentatively asked.

“It’s best you don’t know.”

“All this time,” Yuri muttered, staring blankly at the floor. “And you were helped by… him.”

“That’s why I wished you’d never known.”

With sympathy shining through her gaze, Yuri turned to Yona. “That’s not what I meant! I meant I didn’t realize that he’d actually helped you in that way. Everyone knows he was disowned by the Elizabeths, but knowing that now why he did what he did puts it in a different light. I had no idea…”

The carriage fell silent again.

“You really think they’ll accept the bail?” Melissa asked.

Yona shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. Though whether or not he is released right away is the bigger question.”

Melissa frowned. “If I’d known earlier, I would have—”

“Don’t bother,” Yona cut in. “The Foddebrat Dukedom need not get involved with a traitor as big as this airhead.”

Though it looked like Melissa wanted to protest, she didn’t.

When they arrived at the prison, Nine was the first to alight the carriage, followed by Melissa whom he assisted off. Yona could have puked at how preciously adorable those two were. It was sickening.

Next off was Yuri, who ignored Nine’s reluctant assistance and glared at him instead. No surprise the werewolf glared in return. Yona would have loved to run a betting ring over who would win in a fight between the two. She could have made a killing.

Yona was the last off. Normally, she would also ignore Nine’s polite assistance, but she took it this time. Somehow, seeing this place again with an absurd amount of money in tow made her a little unsteady. This was real. This was happening.

“I am Duke Foddebrat!” Yona could hear Melissa proclaim at the gates. “And I wish to speak to the person in charge around here.”

Yona could have grimaced. Her boss was going to make one hell of a scene, she just knew it. And yet, Yona was almost looking forward to it. After all, what was the point of a title if you couldn’t throw it around every now and then?

~~~

The head of the prison had his jaw on the ground as he looked at the money trunks.

Yeah, Yona was feeling pretty freaking smug right about now, but she kept her poker face on.

“Y-you can’t be serious, Your Grace.”

“I’m dead serious,” Melissa argued, glaring down at the man with an impressive look.

The man trembled under Melissa’s gaze. Yona felt like she should be the one negotiating with this man, but Melissa was more effective solely for the reason of having the power of the Foddebrat Dukedom behind her. If only this once, Yona would allow her boss to take this over.

That is to say, Yona had failed to convince Melissa to stay in the carriage and let Yona handle this before Melissa had pulled rank and ordered Yona to fall in line and keep quiet. Dammit, she really hated her boss at times.

“W-w-well,” the head of the prison started, looking at the money with panicked eyes while rubbing the back of his neck. “I… suppose we could work something out with the crown prince. We would need his permission to do anything.”

Melissa’s expression fell, along with Yona’s, Yuri’s, and Nine’s.

With that, Melissa slammed the trunk of money shut. “I want you to know something,” she began. “If I have to spend my time dragging my entourage and this crate of money around to get Ian’s—er, the crown prince’s approval, this trunk—” Melissa pat the trunk of gold, “—will somehow get a whole lot lighter when I come back. Am I clear?”

Beads of sweat now dripped down the man’s face as he eyed the trunk again.

“My lady, Duchess Melissa Foddebrat, is personal friends with the crown prince,” Yona added on, pretending to be the subservient servant. “She will no doubt gain his approval. I suggest you not test her friendship with him.”

The man was turning gray. A very sickly shade that shown bright even in the overcast day. “Well… you see…”

“If you’re going to make a comment about him being an Elizabeth,” Yuri spoke up, her eyes narrowing in a way Melissa must have taught her to do. “Then I suggest against it. He will not besmirch my family name even if allowed to go free.”

Yona had to temper her smile. This man was going to faint if they kept it up.

… Actually, she wished he did. Make her day, please. She’d just walk over him to get to that airhead she needed to give a punch to.

Whiter than a sheet by now, the man looked between the cash and the people surrounding him until he deflated, defeated.

The grin across Yona’s face terrified everyone around her. So much so the man finally passed out.

A dark chuckle escaped Yona at the sight. Well, maybe she would get to see that incompetent airhead of a wizard today. Once this fool woke up, that is.

~~~

Yohan had no idea what was happening. No one had ever come to fetch him or let him out of his cell. The forcible removal of his magic had been the most painful thing he’d faced, second only to killing Roxanna. But he supposed that pain and suffering, along with being locked away for years, was what he deserved for failing to save Grandma.

But here he was now, being escorted not just out of the cell but out of the compound. The day was overcast, but being able to step outside at all made this day the most beautiful day he’d ever seen in his life.

“Yohan Elizabeth,” the head guard of the prison spoke in a commanding tone. “You’ve been released into the service of Duchess Foddebrat.”

Released? He blinked a few times at the blurry figures standing behind the guard in front of him. He was no longer imprisoned?

The shackles fell off his wrists and ankles. Absently, he looked down at them, seeing that all that was left of the restraints were raw, red rings burned on his skin.

“Yohan!”

At the sound of his name, he looked up, only to receive a punch to the gut that doubled him over. Not so much at the pain—he only barely felt it—but at the shock of the sudden force.

“You impulsive, idiotic, stupid, infuriating, dumbass!”

The voice was one that sounded familiar. A sweet memory from his past. Standing up again, he looked down at the person before him. One with white hair and a killer glare that he rarely ever feared.

“Yona?”

“You two dunces couldn’t think of a better f****** plan than blowing up the f****** church!” she screamed before punching him again.

He was better prepared for it and didn’t buckle under the pressure, but that might have been because it wasn’t as strong as the first hit.

“You could have just run away like you said you were going to do!” she continued. “But NO! You had to go be an idiotic, braindead moron who couldn’t think of a better f****** plan.”

She hit him again, but it was barely more than a shove now. Her fist lingered on his chest, unmoving as she stood frozen with her head bowed.

Only then did the guilt of what he’d done hit him all over again. “Yona.”

“I hate you.” The words were barely a whimper at this point, and she still didn’t look up at him.

The pain he felt standing before her now was the most he’d felt in a long time. And while he liked the ability to feel something, he hated this weight. “I’m sorry.”

They stood like that a moment longer before Yona spun on her heel, refusing to look at him. “Get in the stupid carriage, you bloody idiot.”

Although those words were insulting, they held no bite, particularly considering they were from her. If anything, for the first time in countless years, he smiled. She was mad, but she would forgive him.

He could live with that.

“Okay.”

#beware the villainess #fanfiction

[swannposting]

What's every character's favorite bit of booty to get, either by directly stealing or acquiring on land later with the treasure they do get?

We'll disqualify rum just to keep things more creative.

Jack likes jewelry -specifically rings- or any sort of little knick-knack with which he can accessorize. He's been a pirate his whole life, he's seen all sorts of treasures. What's more interesting are the small, unique things that he alone notices and pilfers for his own keeping.

Barbossa likes to collect clothes. Some he wears, some he merely appreciates. Men's clothes, women's clothes- both equally eligible to catch his eye. On very rare occasions he gives clothing items away should he meet someone who would suit them better than himself, but nine times out of ten he hoards things he will never even wear.

Elizabeth likes art. Whether it's books or paintings or any sort of tangible art piece, she wants it for her library. While she does sometimes buy these things for herself, it is much more gratifying to take them from those who do not appreciate them and repurpose them to someone who will.

Will is not obsessed with treasure!!! ... unless it's a cool new hat. He enjoys acquiring things that are more functional than luxurious. Though it's even nicer to find things that are both- like a fine belt or a pair of boots that he would have never been able to afford as a blacksmith.

Henry loves when there is a large prize. It doesn't matter much to him what is stolen, so long as it amounts to plenty enough gold to buy new art supplies, especially new sketchbooks, since he's always running out of pages to fill. He makes his own treasures in the form of his drawings.

#rat's headcanons #jackie tag #icb i forgot that this was sitting in my drafts!!! #ty again for all these asks #<3 #can u tell im slow to formulate my thoughts lmao #potc headcanons