#OC: Assistant Shrub

[blackwoof008]

Pokemon NPCs for my Pokemon D&D reboot.

Some familiar faces, some new.

#pokemon ttrpg #pokemon trainers #pokemon 5e #character designs #bw doodles #digital art #artist on tumblr #pokemon #OC: Whittaker #OC: Assistant Shrub

[owlespresso]

northern sum. volo. pokemon: legends arceus

long time, no see. it's been literal months since i posted here. i've been recovering from when i got sick in october still. i wrote this in that time. it's my oc (Theos)/Volo, not a reader insert. third person, present tense, but the name isnt used that much. there's spice in this. be warned. trigger warnings: manipulation, dubcon, volo being mean, obsessiveness

The dirt is packed tight and hard underfoot. No snow in the area, not today. Atypical for this time of year. Theos huffs, lips already chapped behind her scarf. She keeps a tight grip on the sleek wood of her bow, quiver rattling quietly behind her, strapped to her back with cloth and leather. The midmorning sun climbs to the sky’s apex, noon crawling closer.

Today’s patrol is not a patrol. It is a hunt. Irida had been hesitant to hand her the job, fraught with danger as it is, but the threat present will make it impossible for her to make her regular patrols anyways. A feral rapidash, afflicted with frency, has been plaguing the area for nearly a week. In its wake are slaughtered pokemon native to the area and charred wilderness. It’s only a matter of time before it kills a human. The Pearl Clan’s children oft venture into the wilderness to explore and play.

No casualties thus far, and it is her mission to keep it that way. Her arrows, laced with an herbal paralytic agent, will stop the beast in its tracks and kill it with hopeful efficiency. Her companion will slow and distract it, allowing her to aim and fire safely. It is a cruel day when she must lay one of the Almighty Sinnoh’s creations to rest. Precious little is to be enjoyed about the killing, but the Pearl Clan lack the manpower, time and resources to put it down themselves. Thus, the grim duty falls upon her shoulders as the Iceland’s sole ranger.

Hisui is at peace, but absence of war hasn’t led to a change in how both groups view pokemon. Fearfully, with doubt and suspicion. A shame, truly. She can’t imagine what she would be doing without their assistance. Xeno is her oldest companion, her strongest. The only one strong and quick enough to take on such a dangerous trip. What would she do if he were not here?

Xeno’s ears twitch, head raising from his hunched position to stare eastward, where the tracks had begun to vaguely veer. He glances back to her, a warning in his crimson gaze. The zoroark cannot speak, but he regardless tells her that their prey is close, and the time to close in is now, before a snow squall can sweep in and wipe away the trail.

Though, it might be difficult for even the Alabaster's ruthless weather to erase the proof of the invader’s existence. Several trees on the path are singed, burnt branches crumpled near their roots. That says nothing of the damage to the foliage, bushes trampled. Patches of tough shrub and ferns are seared beyond recognition. Plants crucial to the production of certain medications and the subsistence for several species of native pokemon utterly destroyed.

As she treks further on, the damage grows more apparent. More of the same, but fiercer, all the trees in the area smoldered into pitch charcoal. The scent of fire, thick and burdensome, lingers in the air. She cringes as she breathes it in.

The earth sharply raises from the ground at the foot of the nearby mountains, offering shade and cover. She slinks in the shadows, content to trust Xeno’s expert nose and intuition. He follows the trail of damage and death, lumbering on all fours. The vivid crimson of his mane would glow if he stepped into the shade, but he keeps his distance, mindful of that fact. He takes shelter behind boulders and other natural structures. She pauses as she nears the edge of this particular facet of the mountain.

The woods are eerily silent. Not even the wind dares break it. No, all she can hear is the telltale thud of heavy hooves. Her quarry lingers on the other side of the rock wall, painfully close to her hiding spot. The end of the rock curls inwards, formed into a rugged semi-circle. She peers around the corner.

The creature, despite its horrid madness, is reprehensibly beautiful. Its mane of fire rolls from the back of its head to the bottom of its broad neck. Brilliant plumes of red gradient to a gentle grey. The sun catches off its tanners coat, the fire above its hooves shining and resplendent and impossibly bright. The fur above those hooves and on the end of its snout is also pale grey. It’s an older creature, or perhaps this is a standard pelt coloration for the species. She can’t tell. She’s never seen one so close, before.

A shame, then, she thinks for the second time that day. The moment it was afflicted was its death sentence.

Yet, all of the world’s empathy cannot change the fact that she has to see this through. She nods in its direction and Xeno disappears, vanishing in a plume of dark purple. He reappears in front of the beast, prompting it to startle and rear on its hind legs. It’s massive, spanning half the height of the close pines. Its frame is caked with bestial muscle.

A column of fire jets into the air from its mane, looping around to its front to reach Xeno in a writhing, snake-like column. He rolls to avoid the scorching ray of heat, rushing behind a patch of dead foliage in a blur of white and crimson.

With the monsters sufficiently distracted, she pulls back the first arrow and lets it fly. Her heart pumps in her throat, stomach churning with horrified nausea, but her movements are still smooth and practiced. Going through the motions, hearing the whir of the string and feeling the slide of the wood grounds her.

Despite its large size and muscular bulk, the rapidash moves quickly. The sharp head of the arrow buries in its flank, prompting it to jolt and shriek horribly, a noise of feral pain. The air shudders with a roll of impossible heat. Its huge head swings around, looking at her with a single, hateful eye. It’s horrid, lips pulled back as though snarling, as though all of the world’s malice has compounded into a single, beautiful creature.

Xeno, bless him, sends a sizable Shadow Ball hurtling in its direction. The mass of writhing dark energy hits it square in the head to send it reeling, tearing its focus away from her.

A second and third arrow lodge into its hide, embedding in the corded muscle of its back leg and haunch. It charges for Xeno, stabbing at him with its massive horns, flailing its hooves and flames. It stomps through discarded, charred lumber and flattens all of the plants in its way, gaining on him in its enraged haste. He hasn’t a scratch oh im yet, but the merry chase he’s leading the beast on draws them further away, perilously out of her firing range.

She mutters a small curse, inwardly says a forlorn prayer, and rushes after them. Her arrows soar through the frosted air. Only one hits the mark, but the toxin is already beginning to take effect. The creature grows clumsier, beginning to trip and amble every which way. She keeps firing, cold wind burning the back of her throat, lungs desperately pushing and pulling on the frosted air. Her shoulders burn, her hands cramp, but she presses on. The hunt rests for no one, and a beast this large will require a dose of poison proportional to its size. She does her best to spread the arrows across its body, but locations matter little in comparison to hitting it in the first place.

The tip of her boot snags on a gnarled root, nearly sending her sprawling. She curses again, bow clattering to the ground beside her. Her knees drag against the ground, palms scraping against a few errant pebbles as she scrambles to her feet. The sounds of the battle, cacophonous and terrible, ring in her ears.

An impossibly loud noise somehow rises above the auditory mess, a noise she doesn’t place until she looks up, just in time for a thick tree limb to be flung into her side. A crack of horrible pain strikes her right side, ricochets up and down her spine. She’s flung to the wayside, sent sprawling Sinnoh knows where. She’s pretty sure she’s hit the back of her head on something, maybe a rock. It’s impossible to tell when her vision swims and her ears ring. Black specks crowd the corners of her eyes. She can’t get up, no matter how hard she wills her body into action.

All she can do is breathe, chest rattling with each pained exhale. It hurts. It’s so cold. Xeno still needs her help. Somewhere, far off, the rapidash whinnies and groans louder. Everything smells like fire. Through her fingers, her consciousness slips from her, leading her into the blissful empty of sleep.

Between the inky void and the space above, she hears frantic voices and the thundering of boots. Fleetingly, she sees a few rays of sun, spots the Gingko emblem on a flag or a shirt. There are no faces. Every person she sees or hears bleeds into the next, lost to primordial fatigue. Her body heeds the swan song of its need for rest now that she is no longer able to stay awake too late or awaken too early.

The dreams, at least, are pleasant. The view from her cabin’s front window during snowfall. The crack of the ice underneath her feet. A large, warm hand pressed to the small of her back, a soft voice teasing her. A single, silver eye and swooping, blond bangs. Volo. Volo.

She wants to see Volo.

The world returns to her in dimmed colors and sparks of pain on her side. She stares up at an unfamiliar, wooden ceiling, fingers curling around the downy fabric of a quilt that is most certainly not her own.

“Oh. You’re awake.” A familiar voice, low and rich, remarks gently. Her hands press to the mattress, jolting upwards. The right side of her body immediately howls in protest, groans in protest. She’s in a sparsely decorated bedroom, but that’s the last thing she can focus on. Volo sits up in a rickety chair at her bedside, a figure dragged from her vague, aimless dreams. He’s out of his typical traveling jacket, instead clad in a button up shirt with those same, thick pants. His sleeves have been rolled up to his elbows.

The topmost buttons are undone, revealing a slender neck and a set of sharp collarbones. Her mind snags on the show of skin, leaving her to stupidly gape at him, blinking as memories of the hunt return, swarming to her like a fleet of hungry basculin to a fresh, waterlogged corpse.

“Your zoroark is alright, by the way,” he says after a long silence, tilting his head to the side as he studies her inquisitively. He stands, puncturing the stupor she’d been mired in. The floorboards creak underfoot as he approaches, kicking her sluggish brain back into working order.

“Thank you,” she says, casting him a look of genuine gratefulness. Her throat feels painfully dry, voice raspy. Knowing her partner is alive and well soothes most of her fears/ The tight squeeze of her posture relaxes somewhat, allowing her to ease back into the mattress. “And the rapidash?”

“All taken care of,” he assures her, plopping into the chair at her bedside. He swings it around, sittin in it backwards, long legs scrunched on both sides, arms resting on the back. Theos has a hard time believing he’s very comfortable. “Though, shouldn’t you be more worried for yourself?” he inquires, resting his cheek on the palm of his elbow. “We patched you up as best as he could, but you’ll be feeling it for at least a week.”

“Thank you,” she replies, for lack of anything better to say. “How long was I out? Am I cleared to go home?”

“Aha!” He snaps his fingers, ending in a point. “There we go. It’s about time you start asking about yourself. You’re much too selfless, you know? Always rushing to solve everyone’s problems without a single care for yourself.”

The words themselves are scolding, but his tone is light and playful. It leaves her more puzzled than anything. Theos never thought him the type to be so thoroughly concerned—their interactions had always occurred under the pretense of a merchant-customer relationship, all manner of personal inquiries limited. Knowing he might genuinely give a shit unsettles her, but he fortunately doesn’t press the matter further, nor does he let it stew between them.

“We found and brought you here by noon, so you haven’t been asleep for long. And your injuries weren’t terrible. Blissey healed you as much as possible, but you’ll still be bruised and sore for at least a week. You should be able to go home, though.”

It’s a massive relief to know that she hasn’t been out for more than a few hours, but even more of a relief to know she won’t have to depend on their hospitality any longer. The success of her hunt must be reported to the Pearl Clan as soon as possible, lest they realize her absence and grow concerned. Theos’s thoughts run so quickly that she doesn’t realize that Volo is still speaking to her, staring at her with a lax expression.

“—If you want to head home now, I must insist on accompanying you!” He chirps. She stares at him with wide, blinking eyes.

“You—you don’t have to—” she stammers, only to be silenced by his pointer finger mere inches away from her face.

“On the contrary, I very much have to. My conscience would be haunted for the rest of my life if you fell or got lost or got in any other kind of trouble on your way back. You’re my favorite customer, you know. I can’t afford to lose you!” he wheedles, words cherry sweet enough to sway her. She’s never been good at saying “no” to him in the first place, not when he’s always so polite and helpful and happy to see her. It’s the part of her that craves affection and attention that indulges him.

“Alright, them,” she agrees, making sure she sounds as hesitant as possible, lips tightly pursed. “It’s a bit of a walk, though. Just warning you.”

“Fortunately, my career is mostly walking, so I’m quite sure I’ll be fine!” he chimes. And what else can she say to that? She raises her hands to her face, rubbing her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. Despite the fitful rest she’d gotten it’s still a struggle to pull herself from the warm, comfortable covers. The promise of returning to her own home is what convinces her to get back onto her own two feet. She slips on her boots, ushered from the room by her self-appointed guide. Volo ensures her belongings are returned to her, Xeno collected from where he’d been patiently waiting outside.

You’re in the middle of thanking one of the guild members. Volo’s hand rests heavy on her shoulder, warm arm curled around her in a gesture she can’t quite decipher the purpose of. He towers over her, the sheer difference in size invoking a primordial kind of anxiety, a bidoof too close to the talons of a starraptor. It’s silly, but a part of her cannot help but remember that humans developed these fine-tuned instincts for a reason.

Her side throbs and aches with each step, but far from the worst pain she’s ever endured. The temperature has begun to drop with sundown’s approach, but Volo acts as a barrier against the cold. The gates swing open to let them free, the fresh air sobering against her numbing cheeks.

“We don’t have enough time to stop by the Pearl Clan,” she sighed. “They’ll need to know that rapidash has been taken care of.” she sighs, adding it onto the pile of things she’ll have to take care of come the morrow.

“I’m sure they can wait a few days,” Volo insists, lips curling into a bemused smile. “It’s the very least they can do in return for all your hard work, you know? Though, you do seem to like to serve.” he tacts onto the end, a tinge of purposeful cruelty. He mocks her, sometimes, in corners of conversation, smile drawing too tight, eyes glinting in with an intimate kind of cold. Strange as it is, Theos doesn’t entirely mind it. The same part of her that should sizzle with indignation instead remains dead and numb, or thrums with a bizarre sort of excitement. “Sorry. Was that too far?” he inquires, as though he’s taken her silence for exasperation. He says it just a bit too sweetly to fully believe, just a bit too artificial to go down right.

“It’s fine,” she assures him monotonously. Her thighs begin to strain as they reach the first of three inclines. Her cabin is further north of the Pearl Clan’s settlement. It was a choice she made of her own volition. The idea of living in a community unnerved her in a strange, intimate kind of way. No matter how long she remained with them, no matter how many favors she did, she would always be viewed as an outlander—someone who depended on them in her hour of need. Any contributions would be attributed to her paying back their good grace. Keeping her distance was keeping her independence and sanity.

“Is it?” Volo inquires loftily, breaking the silence. Stacks of smoke rise in the distance, billowing and furling against the pale sky. “It’s almost like you want me to tease you.”

“I don’t,” Theos scoffed. Xeno growled at her side, detecting her agitation.

“Just kidding,” he soothes, bemused. His arm slips from her shoulders and she inwardly bemoans the loss of his warmth. “But not about the part where you get plenty of rest. The Pearl Clan depends on you to the point where they’ve forgotten how to function on their own. A few days away from you might do them well.” he remarks wryly and conspiratorial, voice low in her ear, like he’s imparting a precious secret upon her.

“Volo!” she scolds, narrowing her eyes. “They’re one of your biggest sources of income. What’ll they think if they hear you saying that?”

“What? Are you going to tell?” There’s delight in his voice, hints of a mischievous laugh.

“Of course not. I don’t like them that much,” Theos grunts as she clambers over a patch of gnarled roots. This is where the terrain gets more difficult. Her legs shake and throb in protest with each apprehensive movement—a consequence of taking the shorter of two paths that lead to her home. Her entire body aches, and she’s so caught in concentration that she doesn't realize Volo is shifting closer.

The space between her brows wrinkles in concentration, teeth gritting as she pushes past the pain. She’s felt worse, she reasons, she can get through this minor block in the road. This, at the very least, she can surmount… until one of her boots catches on an odd knot in the wood, the other slipping on an errant patch of ice. For the second time today, the trees themselves bar her way. Her heart is sent thudding into her throat. The dwindling sky fills her vision, all manner of oranges, yellows and pinks. Her lungs pull in a sharp breath, body tensed and braced for a painful landing.

It never arrives. An arm curls around your shoulders, the other neatly tucked underneath the crooks of her knees. Volo holds her close to his chest, cradling her not unlike the way he holds his togekiss.

“Might we take the usual path, now?” he asks, but he’s already turning around. The shock at the near fall wears off. Theos’s cheeks flush peach pink, voice caught in her throat, unable to decide if she should thank him or demand he put her down. It’s demeaning, to be carried like this. But her aches and pains make walking the rest of the way home even more intimidating a prospect, even if she’d been prepared to make the journey mere moments ago. She’d forgotten, she thinks, how it feels to receive kindness.

“I’ll take your silence as a resounding ‘yes’. And as thanks for catching you.” Volo says cheerily. It takes all the resolve she has left to not get sassy with him. He’s helping her. His people saved her life. The least she can do is tolerate a little ribbing. He takes care to not jostle her as he continues up the slope, mindful of any upturned roots or rocks on the path. His strides are long and his pace admittedly faster now that he doesn’t have to accommodate her. To think, she would have made him stay out in the cold longer just to avoid wounding her pride.

“Thank you,” she sighs, resting her cheek against his shoulder, soaking in his warmth. Her eyes shut. She misses the way his visible eye widens, before he laughs, and refuses to elaborate when she shoots him a curious look. He’s always been difficult to read, and she’s in no shape to try.

Beginning flecks of snow dance from heavensward. They settle in her hair and on her cheeks and clothes, the temperatures dipping. Hopefully, the fall will be steep. The moonlight still manages to reach through the canopy of clouds, allowing her to make out landmarks—familiar rock formations and errant clusters of evergreens. A few, unlit torches straddling the edges of the path as it grows narrower.

“No need to thank me. I’m just doing what any good samaritan would!” Volo chirps, hair bright underneath the last rays of the dying sun. The light disappears, pulled behind the steep mountains which surround them on all sides.

“Or you’re just buttering me up,” Theos supposes quietly, halfheartedly. “If you want another look at the lates, you can just ask. You’re not annoying me or anything.” A part of her hopes he will, wants to indulge in his company as much as she can without earnestly asking for it. The fascination he has with legends of eld is a perfect guise for her genuine longing.

“You’re too kind,” he tuts. A prickle of agitation leaks into his voice, but it’s nowhere on his face. “Though, I must confess, that’s an offer I can’t refuse.”

Her cabin, tucked to the side of the path, becomes visible up ahead. It’s decently-sized, harboring three stories including the attic. Wooden stairs lead up to an elevated porch where two old rocking chairs rest. The kindly old woman who owned it prior loved to sit outside with her husband, the Pearl Clan’s previous ranger. Both are still fortunately alive and in good health, having decided to move back to the Clan’s settlement after retirement. They’re well-taken care of, she’s sure, surrounded by people who love and appreciate them for their lifetime of service.

They’d handed her the keys with a smile, glad that their decrepit home would not fall into decrepit abandonment.

How nice, it must be to know there are friends and family waiting in the wings, ready to receive them. Theos shuts her eyes and ignores the cold beginning to take root in her chest, content to lay back and listen.

Heavy boots crunch climb cautiously up the stairs, each wooden step creaking. He fiddles with the key, Xeno grunts and shifts and somehow, some way, the door is opened. She doesn’t know how, but she doesn’t care to ask. Warmth from the hearth immediately encompasses her. The flame, supervised by Aalto, her vaporeon, crackles humbly at the back of the living room. The pokemon in question squeaks delightedly at the sight of her, turning into fretful little whines as Volo sets her atop the couch.

“Home sweet home~” Volo chimes. “Is there anything else you need? Come to think of it, you haven’t eaten anything since this morning, right?”

“I’ll make myself something soon,” she sighs, cradling Aalto’s cheek with her palm. He nuzzles into the touch, brushing his warm tongue over her skin. His whines don’t quiet, sounding unmistakably devastated at the sight of her in pain. Her heart crumples, the space between her eyebrows worrying with wrinkles. “It’s okay,” she soothes, rubbing the spot underneath one of his outstretched fins with her thumb. “It’s okay. I’m gonna be fine.” She glances back up at Volo, who perches both his hands on the arm of the couch, head cocked in inquiry. “I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

Surely a merchant of the esteemed Gingko Guild has better things to do than play nursemaid. The thought strikes her heart like a bitter barb, longing for a time when she didn’t crave his company or attention.

“It’s not like I have anything better to do. And sunset is, well, right now. There’s hardly any business on the barren roads this late.” Volo insists, pushing himself off the couch. Aalto sits, haunches wiggling before he launches himself. He avoids her injured side by a hair to occupy the slender crack of space between her at the back of the couch. He kisses her all over her face, prompting her to sputter and shift upwards, neck stretching and head tilting backwards to escape.

“Ah! I’m fine, I’m fine,” she grumbles and rolls onto her side, ignoring the throbbing pains. Aalto clambers atop of her lap regardless of her reaction. She wheezes when one of his little paws lands on a particularly sore spot. “Ow, ow, ow, c’mere you—” she hisses, scooping him up and holding him to her chest on the opposite side. She pats his little cheek with her palm, humming reassurances. In the meantime, Volo fiddles about in her kitchen, combing through her pantry and drawers.

There’s an implication there. Normally, she would be bothered by someone rifling through all her belongings like they owned the place, but she can’t muster the righteous anger for Volo, even though he hadn’t asked permission first. He entered her life in subtle ways, slipping into her home, her occupation, her lifestyle without making her bat so much as an eye. It always felt natural, with him.

“You can cook?”

“Of course. When you travel alone as much as I do, you need to learn how to feed yourself. Are you allergic to anything?”

“No,” she replies, numbly settling against the cushions, shutting her weary eyes. She dances on the precipice of sleep, nearly lulled to it by the sounds of his cooking and the tantalizing smell of whatever he’s preparing. It’s impossible to dip below the surface of her consciousness whilst she is so painfully aware of his presence. Pans and utensils clatter, ingredients sizzling atop the stove. It’s something savory and delicious, something that calls to the age old instinct to be fed and cared for.

A memory far-flung from her grasp, a time when she was cared for, when she felt so small, as small as she feels right now.

Her moaning stomach breaks her solid train of thought, a pang of hunger so intense it borders on painful making her grunt and roll onto her side. Aalto squeals indignantly and hops onto the ground, trotting to the kitchen. Mercifully, dinner is finished and served within the hour. Volo brings it to her, insisting that she not move from her current seat. He’s cooked up a simple yet effective stirfry, with vegetable and chopped meat. The flavor pours over her tongue, likely the best thing she’s tasted since she arrived in this godforsaken place.

She’s… oddly self-conscious. While this isn’t the first time she’s eaten with him, it’s the first time they haven’t been around a campfire, shielded by the cover of night. This is intimate, somehow. Domestic, doubly so because it’s his home cooking.

“Good?” he goads, lips curling into a cheshire smile, chin resting on the palm of his hand. He’s piled a smaller portion onto his plate, chopsticks absentmindedly toying with the noodles and vegetables. Has he even taken a bite? Her gaze briefly catches on his hands, slender yet large, pale skin marred by scars of unknown origin. The flesh has clearly been burnt away in some places… she quickly averts her eyes, looks back at her plate.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, gently picking up another modest bundle of noodles. “It’s great, Volo. Thank you. You’ve done so much for me, today.” How could she ever hope to repay his boundless kindness? Volo, who saved her life, walked her home and fed her. He’s comfortably squared away, tucked into the heavy cushions of the armchair. The food sits warm and heavy in her stomach, blessedly sated. A hefty helping remains on her plate, and after a moment of internal struggle, she grasps her chopsticks to finish, gulping down the remnants, sure to savor every last bite.

“I’m glad,” he says, mirthful. “I can’t remember the last time I cooked for someone else. Being a traveling merchant doesn’t often give me much time to spend with others.” Volo sighs, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Always ferrying goods from place to place… always on the road. We travel far and wide, befriend countless people, yet never do we get to know any of them.” His lamentation curls with sarcasm, but Theos has a distinct feeling that his words hold more than a hint of truth. She’s never truly thought about what his day to day life must be like. The Icelands are her home, and the people who live here are her neighbors, acquaintances, and patrons.

“You can come visit me whenever you want,” she offers absentmindedly. She can’t change the way his job functions at its core, but she supposes she can at least try to be a stable presence in his life, if that’s what he’s lacking. If that’s what he’s looking for.

“I hope that invitation applies to tonight? It’s already so dark out,” he sighs, casting a forlorn gaze out the window. The starry veil of night has settled over the icelands, constellations hung above the peaks and pines. The snow typically reflects the moonlight and casts most of the region in an ethereal sort of glow, but there’s none to be seen today. She can’t send him back onto the trails in good conscience.

So, he stays.

He thanks her with a knowing smile, one she decides to not read into. He collects her plates before she can even think of doing so, nudging her away with his hip when she tries to help wash the dishes. After a moment of indignant glaring, she gives up and retires to her room, gathering a modest change of clothes and stumbling into her bathroom for a shower.

The saintly warm water makes her aching body sing with bliss. The aroma of sweet rose washes over her as she scrubs clean. Her sore spots throb where she pokes at them, but she ignores it, intent on scrubbing every inch of her body. She works until the steam that’s gathered in the room starts making her light-headed. It’s a good kind of haze when coupled with a full stomach, a tender stupor.

She hardly remembers Volo is still present as she stumbles out of the bathroom, clad in a loose sleep shirt and shorts. The wooden floor is freezing against the bottoms of her feet. She internally bemoans her lack of house slippers as she enters the living room and nearly smacks into Volo’s chest. He’s removed his baggy brown coat, tank top clinging tight. He’s… broader than she expected him to be, arms thick and pecs heavy. The jeans he typically wears have been replaced by a pair of black sweatpants.

“Oh. Sorry, didn’t see you down there,” his hands are big and warm as they settle onto her shoulders to steady her. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” she says numbly, stupidly. She blinks up at him with wide eyes, making a concentrated effort to keep her focus on his face. Aalto and Xeno are already curled asleep on the couch, close to the extinguished fireplace. “I’m gonna go to bed.” She can already feel the heat of his body through his tank top, broad chest mere inches away from her face. Goosebumps cover her legs.

“I’ll take the couch then… or, I would if it weren’t already occupied,” Volo remarks wryly. “I guess I’ll settle for the chair, then.” he hums, grip slipping from her shoulders. He maneuvers around her, headed towards the corner of the room.

“Wait!” she blurts out, hand gently grasping the back of his sleek, black shirt. He looks back to her, one visible eye gone wide with surprise. “I—the chair won’t be comfortable. You’ll get a crick in your neck.”

“I’m aware,” Volo replies, just a tad too pleasantly. “What do you suggest, then?” he prods, turning to face her entirely, arms curling underneath his chest.

“Well, I—” she begins and then goes quiet, swallowing. She could ask him to sleep in the bathtub—if she had one. The only other viable option is her bedroom. The mattress is beyond big enough for the both of them, large enough to accommodate the both of them plus several pokemon. Every survival instinct she has shudders at the thought of him occupying such a sacred and personal space. He’s already in her home, sorted through her pantry, seen her as casually as she’s ever dressed. Does she really need to give him more?

“Well?” He leans down, curling into her space. His lips curl into an indulgent smile. “Skitty got your tongue? You can be honest with me, y’know.”

“Well, it’s a bit embarrassing,” she says, suddenly feeling out of depth.

“I won’t judge you,” he assures her. She remains quiet, momentarily frozen as she debates her next course of action, ponders what she should say. He sighs at the silence, cocking one of his hips out, lips curling into an exasperated frown. “Haven’t we known each other long enough? You shouldn’t be so shy. I’m the only one around who knows what’s best for you and actually wants it.”

“Uhm, what?” She fumbles, eyes blowing wide in the face of this sudden, audacious claim. Where on earth did that come from? It’s wrong, she thinks, he has to be wrong. Regardless, combing through every person she knows only corroborates his claim, smug and mean. His eyelids droop low, lone visible eyebrow arched in silent challenge. Up close, she can make out each lush eyelash. He’s the most beautiful man she’s ever seen, and it’s upsetting that she can still think that after what he just said.

“Go on. You were going to offer me a space in your bed, weren’t you?” he tilts his head to the side, derision giving way to gentle inquisitiveness. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, which hang low on his hips, exposing a thin stretch of pale skin.

Her jaw clenches, lips pressing into a thin, straight line.

“Well.” She swallows the dread slowly stirring in her stomach, ignoring the desperate thudding of her heart. “Since you already know, there’s no point in saying it.”

“Ah, you’re just no fun, are you?” he gives a winsome sigh, but it’s too late. She’s already turned back, casually plodding towards the stairs. His footsteps thud on the polished wooden floor in her wake.

That’s just how they both end up on her mattress. Volo rests on his stomach, chin atop a pillow as he stares at her. The bed rests close to the ground, practically floor level. There are no extra sheets, only a massive comforter and at least ten pillows, meticulously arranged to her liking. The rest of the bedroom is colored in creams and pale pinks, with the occasional splash of green in the form of a few indoor plants. A small table sits south, piled with books and pens and pieces of paper. The only item on her pitifully short nightstand is a vintage lamp and a box of tissues and a half-empty glass of water.

Fairy lights strung at the top corners of the room cast it in shades of dim pink. Volo’s hair glows where it catches the light, freed from its bun and cascading onto the ivory sheets.

“And none of your memories have returned to you, yet?” he asks softly, a far cry from the menace he’d acted downstairs. He’s looking at her with a newfound tenderness, an inquisitiveness. She doesn’t know what he’s searching for in her, but she hopes he’ll find it, hopes she can live up to whatever expectations he harbors.

“No,” she replies, a fuzzy emptiness she always feels when her memories (or lack thereof) are brought up swarming back to her, reminding her of all she’s lost. Knowing she had a life before all this—people and places she’d left behind—is no easy burden to bear. Every day, she wonders if those she knew before are searching for her, if they mourn her absence. What is she missing in that strange, unknowable place?

“Poor thing,” Volo’s voice is this time sincere. He presses his cheek to the pillow, “You must be so lonely when I’m not around.”

“I have Xeno. And Aalto,” she reminds him, a bit brusquely. She doesn’t need his company. If she were truly that desperate, she would have already moved further north, to Snowpoint, and gotten a job there. There’s no shortage of positions available, surely. They always need folks to lug around cargo and shovel snow from the major pathways.

“Of course you do,” he says with a knowing smile, as if humoring her. “But surely you know that pokemon can’t satisfy your every need?”

“I don’t need anyone else to get by. All I need is the person who signs my checks,” she retorts, sharper now. She’s fallen for his bait, she realizes, but she doesn’t retract her statement.

“Humans are social creatures by nature, Theos. They need each other to survive,” Volo insists with absolute surety, as though he’d heard it first hand from the gods. “They” he says, like he counts himself as something entirely different. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, and it’s alright if you won’t admit it, stubborn as you are. Don’t worry. I’ll be here for you no matter what.”

It’s a promise. It is a sacrosanct truth. There is no other way she can interpret the undercurrent of sincerity in his voice, a resoluteness that is near frightening. The comforter shifts, plush cushioning of the mattress dipping underneath his weight as he flops onto his side, beginning to inch closer. Theos swallows, turns onto her side to stare at the wall, at the blackout curtains drawn over the windows, sealed shut to shun any semblance of sunlight. Her knees curl into the pillow that she’s clutching, face smooshed into it. Her stomach churns, every nerve raw and on edge as she feels him settle behind her, caught between eager anticipation and mounting horror. Who exactly did she invite into her bed, tonight? Who is this stranger suddenly spouting platitudes about devotion?

Volo, large and encompassing, takes up so much space in the sanctum that is her bedroom, lounged across her sheets like he has a right to be here. The line of her shoulders is bunched taut, nearly reaching her ears.

It’s silly, she thinks, because Volo wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt her, not after all he’s done for her, all they’ve been through together.

“Why?” she mumbles, nearly a whisper.

“Hm?”

“Why me?” she posits gently. She doesn’t want an answer.

“Because I’ve found you to be so incredibly endearing,” he begins dryly, like he’s explaining a simple concept to a child barely old enough to understand. “Because we have similar interests… because you make me see things in a new light—whether they be ancient texts or modern political discourse.” Each point is stated as wistfully as the last, reason after reason piled on in a way that makes it so hard to believe. For Theos has been many things, but never has she been wanted. It’s terrifying, the mortifying concept of being intimately known struck so suddenly into reality.

She’s fantasized about it once or twice, about him. But being faced with the possibility, on the precipice of what she’s only dreamt about, makes her embarrassingly nervous. So much has already happened today, she can’t possibly take in any other information or sensations. She needs to be left alone for a week, for two weeks, alone, alone, alone in the sanctuary of her solitary home.

“You don’t have to say any of it back. Frankly, I’m surprised I said any of it myself. It’s not like me, you know?” He says with a touch of wry amusement. Never throughout the time you’d spent together had he opened up in such an intimate manner, spilled his motives and feelings out so explicitly. What’s changed? Why all of the sudden?

There’s an ulterior motive at play, a quiet voice says, a pinprick trying to jolt her from her exhausted haze.

He shifts further forward like a minnow through a stream, the distance between them swallowed by the breadth of him. Those long, scarred fingers curl around her hip. His palm, stiflingly warm, rubs small circles through her shorts.

“Volo?” she murmurs, heart thudding in the high reaches of her throat. It doesn’t sound like her voice, small and stifled. The tip of his thumb slides underneath the hem of her shirt, rugged scar tissue somehow cold against her balmy skin. A shudder rolls down her spine, a trembling breath off her lips.

“What are you doing?” she asks, but doesn’t because the words get caught up in her throat.

“You know, if I were any other guy, inviting me into your bedroom would have been a terrible idea,” Volo begins, voice coming low from behind her. The hand on her side slides to rest over her stomach. There’s a bit of softness there, natural insulation paired with a taste for sweets. “You’re lucky it’s me.”

“Volo, I…” she began. This—this isn’t what friends do, she realizes, perhaps a bit dumbly. This isn’t right. “What are you doing?”

“You’re totally inexperienced, aren’t you?” he huffs. She can practically hear him roll his eyes. One of her hands rests atop of his through the fabric of her shirt, anxiety tousling with arousal. “Don’t worry! We have plenty of time to fix that.”

“I don’t—” she stutters, body tensed, fingers curling.

“You mean you didn’t expect this?” His lips press into the crook of her neck, making her jump. “You really are chaste, aren’t you?” He sighs, woesome. “If it isn’t obvious enough, I like you, more than I like most other people.” The confession strikes her like a whip, her eyes going wide as she at last turns to look at him. His expression is schooled into a careful smile, eyes nearly shut, a fondness there that makes her lower tummy squirm. At the same time, there’s something plastic in it, something painfully artificial that she can’t exactly name.

“You… you—I wasn’t expecting that,” she admits, licking her lips. It made sense, she guessed. Friends didn’t invite each other to bed, right? Friends didn’t cuddle like this, didn’t kiss.

“Do you not believe me? Truly? There’s no problem with that. I haven’t been very forthright with you. Allow me to prove myself, then. In the purest terms possible.”

“Volo. I don’t know if I would call this ‘pure’.” she says flatly. For a moment, she can pretend that this is a normal interaction, that they’re just bantering whilst sitting around a crackling campfire, idling over skewers and s’mores.

“It is,” he nudges aside her denial with a relaxedness that nearly offends her, but the notion of that anger promptly disappears when his knee nudges in between her legs, thick thigh pressing up against her clothed cunt. She cuts herself off with a gasp. “The body doesn’t lie. All of your natural reactions are sacred and true. You can’t hide it from me.”

Blooming sparks of sanguine pleasure make her cunt throb, rationale beginning to fade as he rubs his leg bag and forth. The cotton cloth of her panties drags against her clit, spreading the slick that’s started to gather up against the fabric. It’s much too hot, all of the sudden, a problem Volo seems to realize. His hand slides back down, grasping the hem of her shirt to suddenly tug it upwards. The process of disrobing is so sudden and chaotic that she hardly grasps it, torso bare within a matter of moments.

Goosebumps sprout across her arms, nipples pebbling in the cool of the room. The comforter is haphazardly tossed back with the rest of her clothes. The breath is all but stolen from her when he grabs her shoulder, rolling her onto her back. He tracks the sway of her breasts as they move with the abrupt motion, expression hungry and hollow. No one’s ever looked at her that way, before.

His eyelid dips as he looks her over, slow and appraising, looming over her.

“Who’d of thought you’d be so soft?” he sighs, trailing cold fingers up her side. It’s getting hard to think, now. She feels her lips open around the half-formed beginnings of a retort, but the will to speak fizzles out with the rest of her thoughts as he grabs her breast, prompting her to yelp and arch her back. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes blow wide. His calloused palm grates over her nipple, long fingers indulgently squeezing the plump flesh. “So big, too. Even though you’re so short.”

A sudden flare of indigence causes her to sink her elbows into the mattress in an attempt to sit up.

“No, stay like that,” Volo says, voice devoid of the affection he’d showered her with mere moments ago. The dread that’s been coiling low in her hindbrain jolts to the forefront, that overwhelming sense of wrongness prompting her to push back against his hands. Like this, so up close to him, he has the size and strength advantage, a surprising amount of muscle built underneath that sleek tanktop. Her back meets the sheets. He swoops down upon her, soft lips running over her chest, making her breath stutter and sigh.

It feels good. It feels good, and Volo has never given her a reason to mistrust him.

The world tips and turns under his ministrations. She hardly feels the drag of her pants over her legs as he tugs them down with her panties, working them off her legs only halfway before settling back atop of her. The fabric bunches awkwardly up around her knees, and she kicks a few times to properly dislodge them.

Shivers roll up her spine, goosebumps sprouting along her pale thighs. The pad of his thumb presses up against her throbbing clit. Molten heat rushes up her spine and through her body, tears rolling down her cheeks as he slides a single, thick finger inside of her. She clenches around the intrusion as he nimbly nudges it past her thick walls, assisted by how wet she’d become.

He sighs against her lips at the feel of that lovely, silken heat. He kisses her once, twice, three times, again and again until she’s dizzy and breathless and gelled to the sheets. Her breath seizes as he slides in another finger, whining at the sudden stretch.

“Hush,” he coos, fucking her with his fingers. Shlicking noises, embarrassingly lewd, fill the quiet of the room. Gross heat rises to her cheeks, skin already slicked with sweat as her hips begin to roll into his hand. The big swathe of his palm grinds up against her clit.

To her astonishment, it takes nearly no time at all for heat, tight and incessant, to mount in her lower stomach. It’s a continuous, churning that makes her toes curl and her eyes shut tight, body lost to the whims of pleasure as it seeks the feeling out. Her velvet walls pull on his fingers tight. His pace is relentless, fingers curling up against a far spot that makes her wail and arch, far beyond articulating any competent thought.

“Volo!” she gasps, eyes snapping open as he adds a third. He steals her breath from her, the air in her room thin as she drinks it in. Tears break from the corners of her eyes, fat droplets rolling down her cheeks as she tries to speak, trying to tell him to slow down. The words never come, all of her body’s effort on breathing as he bullies her into lightheadedness. In a desperate bid to tell him, one of her hands grasps at his wrist, shaking fingers attempting to hold him in place.

“No,” he tells her, casual and chiding as he uses his other hand to shove her back. “Don’t be like that. You can take it—see?” he purrs, cherry sweet in his cruel denial. He scissors his fingers, drawing looping patterns along her walls to make her head spin. Even so, he gifts her with reprieve in the form of a few shallower thrusts, before beginning to fuck her again in earnest, pad of this thumb toying idly with her clit. Her cries linger on the right side of pained, her body helpless and writhing as she cums hard on his fingers.

Her wet arousal coats his hand and spills onto the sheets as she hits that blinding peak—yet still, he doesn't stop. He works her through it, coaxing her orgasm into stuttering ripples.

“Just like that,” Volo encourages, his smile thin. The bottoms of his eyes curl, cunning and pleased. “See? Even you can manage it.”

The warmth works her over heavy and thick. The haze that coats her thoughts is sticky, encasing her in that bubble of ecstasy. Her throat goes hoarse and her voice doesn’t sound like hers, anymore.

Her legs feebly kick out, feet scrambling and slipping up on the smooth sheets.

“Stop,” she finally rasps. She makes another weak grasp for his wrist, pads of her fingers pressing against his lukewarm skin.

“Oh? I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.” he says with an air of nonchalance, pointedly looking away from her. The pad of his thumb presses tight to her clit, rough on the oversensitive nerves. She makes an abrupt, frantic sound, hips jolting in his hold.

“Stop, Volo.” she groans, peering at him through teary lashes. Her own voice is pathetically feeble, head falling onto the mattress, lungs squeezing around labored breaths. She can’t manage anything more cogent than that, thoughts tossed and turned as they are.

“Stop…?” he echoes back to her, an eyebrow raised like he’s expecting something. Fucked out as she is, she can’t put his finger on what he could possibly want. He tsks at her, has the nerve to actually tsk at her, and ducks down.

“Volo?” she asks, voice wavering. She cuts herself off with a scream, his tongue rasping against her swollen folds.

Her spine snaps straight, throat choking on air and beginning to sob in earnest as he works her towards yet another peak, jammed haphazardly between pained and pleasured. The sanguine thrill washes all the way to her toes, hot and heavy in her tummy as he dragged her through another orgasm.

“I was looking for a ‘please’, by the way,” he helpfully informs her, pulling out of her with an embarrassingly wet schlick. “But there’s always next time.”

She struggles to get ahold of herself, chest heaving with each laborious breath. She’s been frayed raw, both physically and emotionally, all the space typically allocated to thinking taken up by the assault of different sensations. None of it makes sense, anymore. Why is he doing this? What does he really want with her?

This…this is something people do when they love each other, right? People who love each other become intimate after dating for a little while–has she been dating Volo? Has her impression of their relationship been erroneous this entire time?

Nothing here matches up with what that looks like in her head.

It feels good, though, doesn't it? Each clever tweak and caress sends another shudder of open delight down her spine and through her body. He plays her like she’s a beloved instrument, pets her like his favorite companion. The gesture dulls the sting of his pointed jabs, any objections she could make washed away by that generous gratification.

And even if she could muster up the moxie to respond, she knows she likes it when he talks to her like that—with that disrespectful, smooth swagger, with that sacrosanct superiority. The pride she holds and touts so openly is meaningless here, in the dark corner of her room, stolen away by a few pretty words and a few dexterous fingers. She hardly even tried to resist.

Does she even have any right to protest when she’s already fallen so far? Everything he’s done so far has felt good. Humiliation washes over her and makes her gut go cold, life returning to her leadened limbs as she realizes she’s still naked.

“You’re really out of it, aren’t you?” Volo inquires, having sat back on the mattress. She stares across the room, at the opposing wall. Several stuffed toys sit on her dresser, staring emptily back at her. A metallic sort of jingling comes from next to her, and it takes a moment for her to realize he’s unbuckling his belt. Those large fingers work the strapping with nonchalant skill, sending the belt loose before shucking off his trousers and boxers. He struggles with the thick fabric for a moment, cursing his insulated layers as he kicks them off. She’s too out of it to laugh, too listless to react until she realizes what his disrobing implies.

“A little,” she answers, unsure of how much time has passed since he asked. Another wave of nausea assaults her from all fronts. His cock sits tall and proud against his toned abdomen. It’s long, which she should have expected given the rest of him, but its thickness could in no way be understated. As thick as a can of coke, she thinks to herself, numb and removed in her disbelief. It’s not going to fit. There’s no way in hell that’s going to fit–

She feels dizzier than before, breathing fast as she begins to panic. This—this shouldn’t happen. This can’t be happening. Everything she’s known and expected still catches on what’s happening, unable to fully digest it. “Volo, I don’t think—”

“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” he says. The mattress creaks and the comforter shifts as he moves, swinging a leg over her to straddle her. “Don’t tell me—this is your first time?” His voice is sweet, but there’s rhapsodic glee to the question. Like he’s thrilled to have her at his mercy. “There’s no need to worry, alright? Open your eyes. Look at me.” He commands softly, voice much closer. Helpless to do aught but listen, she opens her eyes just as he presses their foreheads together. “Everything will be fine. I’ll take care of you. You just have to lay back and relax. You can manage that, right?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

He works one of his hands underneath her hip, singlehanded flipping over her worn out body with ease that would alarm her if she were more aware, if her thoughts hadn’t been grinded into paste. Her cunt is wet and throbbing, silken walls squeezing around nothing, as if they already miss him.

“Hm,” he sighs into her ear, the hot press of his torso covering her entire back, engulfing her in that smoky scent. His palm rests on the back of her hand, fingers interlocking where she’s gripping the sheets tight. His hands are so much bigger than hers. She had only ever entertained the observation in passing, but Volo is tall and broad underneath his uniform, every proportion she’d witnessed prior hinting at his ungodly proportions, his monstrous size. His cock feels like it looks. It’s thick and oppressive and like it very much cannot fit inside of her.

The shocking intimacy of the gesture provides a momentary distraction from the feel of him. He groans as he pushes inside of her, her walls stretching and squeezing, struggling to accommodate his size. She chokes into the mattress, eyes shut tight as her body wriggles underneath him, weak and pathetic.

“It hurts,” she gasps, cunt spasming as he pushes deeper. He rolls his hips in small, aborted circles to try and soothe the ache.

“That’s better, isn’t it?”

The stretch of him is enough to make tears brim at the corners of her eyes, chest shaking with a sob. The hand that isn’t atop of hers grabs one of her thighs, dragging her further back, hitching her up against him. The pads of his fingers clutch tight enough to bruise as she whimpers, shifting anxiously around him. It’s so heavy and thick and real—she can’t even believe this is happening, too caught up in the idea of fucking him to comprehend that it’s actually happening.

His hand presses hers to the mattress as he pulls his hips back, thick cock schlicking until only the head remains inside… and then he slots them forward, pace merciless. His thicks clap against her ass with each desperate thrust, hot breath up against her ear as he moans and sighs, ensuring she’s aware of his unabashed delight.

He hits deep and heavy inside of her, rutting up against that soft, spongy tissue. Over and over and over again, so thoroughly inundated with the sensation and sound of him, engulfed completely. Each long drag of him up against her walls pushes her further into that strange stratosphere, that hot and gooey unreality. Deep, deep, deep he plunges, nailing her to the bed in ways that make it impossible to think.

“Volo! Volo! Aah! Volo!”

“Yes, me, only me,” he mutters with a frenzied fervor. It burns, it stings, but the pain and pleasure intermingle, making it impossible to pick out one from the other. All of it registers as good, in the end, a primal part of her appeased at the fullness—at his moans and pants. The pain eases, and in the back of her mind, she thinks she can understand why girls and gossip rag magazines salivated at the size of a man’s cock. He puts the full weight of himself behind each incessant thrust, his voice desperate and throaty and fervent as he continues to speak. “Just me, just me—mine, say you’re mine.” He demands it in a low hiss, tip of him hitting deep enough to make her howl.

He tilts his hips at the moment he says it, fucking her at a new angle that rubbed up against just the right place, wrenching another loud cry from her wet lips.

“Volo—” she begs, starting to sniffle. That rough hand wanders from the sheets and slides in between them, long fingers pointedly squeezing one of her breasts to make her squeal.

“You can’t?” he says, has the audacity to laugh at her, sounding more fucked up than he probably thinks he does. His sweaty palm coasts down her stomach, making her twitch and jolt, before he settles his fingers in between her legs. He presses, toying with the oversensitive bundle of nerves. The drag of his cock against her walls keeps its relentless pace, every vein and ridge rubbing up against her. He makes sure she’s aware of his every inch, pulling nearly all the way out before ramming inside, deep and rhythmic and ruthless.

The animal side of her, driven mindless by sensation, tries to scramble out from underneath him to escape, but he pins her tighter. One of his knees shifts to wedge in the crook of her leg, groans becoming unfettered snarls at the sudden movement.

“Stay there,” he commands. The severity of his voice makes her entire body freeze, the underlying threat causing a new wave of tears to spill over her round, red cheeks. He’s lost his patience to carnal appetite, no longer able to ease her into it. He moans, dropping his face against her shoulder as she clenches tight around him. It only makes her take more, hyperconscious of each vicious slam of his hips home. He wrenches her open and leaves her exposed, cock hitting that precious, gummy place inside of her. Just like that, she stops thinking.

The sanguine shades of her orgasm begin to hit her in waves, tightness bunching and curling in between her writhing legs. The backs of her thighs stretch and ache with each clap of his hips against her ass. The pleasure undulates with the rising of her voice, her cries pitching higher and her eyes wetting with fresh tears. She shouldn’t cum like this, not when—

“Marry me,” Volo says, so abruptly that she can’t help but quiet her whimpers, listening to him. His voice is soft, each manic plea coasting on a breath, “Marry me, marry me,” he mutters and moans, pleading and demanding with her all at once. He says it like a prayer, like a desperate zealot with nothing left to lose. He presses it to her skin with his teeth and marks her with it, as though the ringed marks he leaves behind are some sort of sick proof towards their union.

The pads of his fingers roll atop her clit in several, brusque circles. A chill rolls over her hot skin, jolting up and down her spine until she finally cums, sodden juices spilling over his fingers. He fucks her through it, his cogent rhythm dissolving as he nears his own peak.

He pries everything he can from her, fingers roughly playing across her swollen cunt even when he cums. He paints her walls white and hot, their mixed essence slipping out of her and onto the blankets below. Her desperate sounds taper down to little whines and gasps. He’s taken her to the very brink of what she can take and pushed her beyond it, leaving her to gasp into the warm dark of the room.

“You did wonderfully,” he murmurs into her shoulder, pressing a brief kiss there. He’s still inside of her, muscles of his torso pressed tight to her back. “It was scary, wasn’t it? You’re so brave, so good for me.” he purrs and praises her resilience, as though he isn’t the uncontrollable storm she just had to weather. She doesn’t feel resilient, or strong, or brave. A bitter pit sits at the bottom of her stomach. What they’ve just done feels inexplicably wrong, but she doesn’t have the knowledge nor the experience to put it into words.

A part of her can’t even begin to piece together where this started and how it snowballed so far. Was it when she allowed him to cook dinner? When he’d stumbled across her unconscious amongst the char and rubble? When they first met on the road and camped together under the logic of safety in numbers? She doesn’t know and she’s too drained to think about it anymore. It felt good. It still feels good, a low and spent warmth spreading over her raw nerves from head to toe.

Volo, as though sensing she’d regained the ability to think, jars her out of it by tilting his hips backwards, pulling out of her. The loss of his cock is nearly as agonizing as it had been on entry–leaving her cold and empty, cavernous and exposed. More drops of their mixed white dribble onto the sheets–she can feel it coming out of her.

“Shit,” she swears, rousing herself to move. Her hands press to the mattress, body shuffling to the side, away from the horrendous mess they’ve made. Her thighs groan in protest, every muscle below her belly beginning to throb with dulled pain. “I just washed those yesterday.” she groans, wiping her sweaty brow with her equally sweaty hand.

“And I’ll clean them first thing tomorrow,” Volo promises, yawning as he sits on the edge of the mattress. He stretches his arms above his head, back to her. His shoulders shift and flex, bare arms caked in muscle from doubtless years of lifting heavy cargo. She ogles him dazedly, her awareness floating on the brink of something–she feels like she’s here, but not here at the same time. Like he’s not really here, like he’s some far flung figment of her unsound imagination. None of this could have been real, her brain feebly reasons.

He turns to her, then. His eyelid is settled low, his expression relaxedly contemplative as his gaze drifts freely up and down. She thinks she catches something akin to admiration, there, but she can’t tell if it’s real or if it’s something she’s conjured to lick her wounds. His hair, unbound and long, swishes to sit over his broad shoulder as he beseeches her. The dim lights catch on the strands, setting them in a golden glow.

“Come shower with me,” he purrs, offers, demands, wheedles, siren songs. “Let me take care of you. It’s the least I can do.”

A venomous reply builds on the back of her tongue. It’s witty and smart and most importantly, it is a logical response to what just happened to her.

“The least you could do is apologize.” or “The least you could do is give me an explanation.”

But the moments tick by and she slowly loses track of what happened at all. Did he do something to her, or did she welcome it by remaining idle and pliant? Could she truly scold him and demand he make amends for something she never objected to in the first place?

She asks him nothing. She demands of him nothing. Her eyes shut as she rests her back against that veritable mountain of pillows, taking solace in the knowledge that she will soon be asleep, far away from the knotted mess of thought and fear that will doubtless plague her tomorrow.

“You’ll have to carry me.” she says instead. It's easier to fall back into the lull of that familiar banter than to confront him about anything that just happened.

He smiles, the bottom of his visible eye crinkling up.

“I believe I can manage that.”

#pokemon legends arceus #volo

[typewriterghcst]

Title: But For Me It Was Tuesday Rating: also G-ish, but some allusions to probably what we would consider child abuse in the modern day lbr Characters: one (1) OC, Baron, Natori, Yuki Summary: The events of The Cat Returns, but told through the eyes of the smallest-- oh, sorry, my mistake— the youngest kitchen maid in the service of the Cat King. No romantic pairings. A crush or two may be mentioned, though. Notes: Written for the 2020 TCR Birthday Bash, even though I emphatically missed the deadline rip. This one was for the prompt of ‘Movie Extra’, which I took to mean, well, pretty much just what I wrote— the events of the movie as a backdrop to another character’s everyday life, lmao This is another one that isn't Entirely Finished, but I've been working on it since June-ish and I've just lost all motivation to finish it. Though, unlike the last one I posted that was unfinished, the only part missing from this one is the ending.  There's also a part in here involving Natori that needed to be changed, but I liked the wording and imagery of it, and never did get around to figuring out where else to put it, so some of the pacing in here is Off rip

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She oversleeps. That's the first unusual misfortune that happens to her on this particular day. Opens the day, no less, she  thinks to herself as she forlornly stokes the ovens' gently smoldering fires. Her ears are still ringing from the boxing she'd received— the fact that Cook had had to include a little hop to even reach them means what little pride she has feels just as bruised.

Were she a more superstitious, flighty sort, she might even have taken this setback as the first of likely many portents of an upcoming stressful day. But instead she is only Topolina, the youngest (but emphatically not the smallest; more on that later) kitchen maid currently languishing away in the employ of the illustrious royal castle of the Cat Kingdom.

Of course, it’s there she stops herself. It’s only the chaos of the morning that has her using such bitter language. She should try harder, she tells herself, not to linger on the unpleasant aspects of her current existence, and instead focus on… on… well, she supposes there’s something to be grateful for in all of this. 

Like…

Oh! She has a home. A relatively nice bed to sleep in. And meals, every day.

...Meals which she is most often forced to wolf down in the kitchen in solitude as she tends the fires and keeps a watchful eye on the simmering pots.

Ah.

Perhaps she needs a bit more practice with this gratitude thing, is all.

It’s entirely possible her recent light resentment had begun with her very name, Topolina, a name which had been quite fitting when she stood at least two heads shorter than all the other kitchen maids, one she'd even perhaps viewed with some fondness for its endearing quality. And yet, alas, it now exists as a name which seems only heavily ironic— that is, now that she's hit the tender age of fourteen and found herself towering over all but the very tallest of cats. It feels to dear Topolina like some massive, omnipresent joke that she remains her old timid, meek self, still eager to fade into the background and disappear... now without even the faintest hope of being able to do so.

Metaphorical salt in the wound is the undeniable fact that her pinafore's hem, once perfectly aligned with her ankles and cutely poofy, now drapes awkwardly far above its original position. Perhaps it’s comparatively trivial atop all her other complaints, but when she finds herself thinking back to her old unassuming silhouette, she can’t help but feel at least a little crestfallen. Nowadays, she feels quite akin to a pitifully overgrown shrub, no matter how many well-meaning words to the contrary she receives.

All in all, she imagines such a thing might make anyone feel rather less than appreciative.

It’s as she’s sitting there alone before one of the nine stoves in the palace kitchen, contemplating her rotten luck, that she hears— well. She’s not sure, exactly. It’s something of a crunching sound, like rusted metal grinding against itself, and she can’t imagine what its source could be. She stands, and gingerly inspects the oven itself from every angle she can think of. She even studies her fire iron. Yet still she comes up empty-handed.

Defeated, she flops back down in her original spot.

And then— she squeaks, because the ground under her is moving, slowly twisting back and forth as if she’s sitting on a lazy top. She leaps (falls is more accurate) off the emerging ground once her mind comes back to her, once it stops panicking, and stares in confounded shock as the very spot she’d been settled atop transforms into what appears to be a long-forgotten manhole covering. How long had that been there?! She’s never been made aware of an old servant’s tunnel in this area!

Her perplexion only deepens when she spies just who has made use of this abandoned tunnel— a cat much like herself, though she thinks that he looks quite a sight better than she would have had she just crawled through a dirty tunnel. His off-white suit is pressed and smart, for one, and hardly has a tear nor even a wrinkle to show for the abuse he’s no doubt just put it through.

His sharp gaze falls then on her, and she’s suddenly acutely aware of her ill-fitting, nearly threadbare pinafore, the scuffs of dirt and soot smattered across it, and her probably unkempt fur, smudged and mussed from fire-tending. Oh, if she could just will the earth itself to open its maw and swallow her up—!

“Ah,” he starts, in a much gentler voice than Topolina had expected, turning to her and offering a hand to help her up, “I apologize. It was not my intention to startle you.”

“N-No, it’s okay,” she stammers, taking his hand without thinking. (Were she in a right state of mind, she’d never do such a thing— the very last thing her poor Young Maiden’s Heart could stand is for a handsome gentleman to struggle to lift her.) He pulls her up with little difficulty, though, and in her chest she feels a very peculiar thump, and then a flutter.

“A-Are you here for the king..?” She asks impulsively.

He doesn’t answer immediately, appearing to think that over for a fleeting moment, perhaps aware of the myriad of ways the pairing of her question and his response could be interpreted, before he makes his decision.

“Yes. I would like to have an audience with him. It’s a matter of utmost importance.”

“Y… you’re not here to kill him, are you?” She whispers, perhaps irrationally afraid that the king himself might be listening in on her. And yet, not too irrational— she’s seen his spying Cat’s Eye floating languidly about the castle on more than one occasion.

There’s something pitying in his gaze, she thinks, but he replies graciously enough. “You have my word, miss. I am not here to usurp or otherwise harm your king.” Then, while dusting some nonexistent dirt off his clothes, “I do believe I will need a change of wardrobe, however. It won’t do to adress a king while clad in anything less than my finest, will it?”

He says it without flinching, and in such an earnestly straightforward fashion, that Topolina herself is almost led to believe there really is some flaw with his clothing that she simply can’t see.

“Oh!” She says then in sudden inspiration. Without explaining herself first, she scampers to the open alcove behind him, separated only by an unfinished wall. The kitchen servants have long used the area as a makeshift coat rack, and one particularly bizarre ensemble has been there for as long as she can remember. She comes back around the wall bearing the large hat and cloak before offering it to him, embarrassed now that she realizes that, judging by her actions, this is what constitutes ‘his best’ for her: an absurd hat and a dusty, worn cloak.

He himself appears no less than enchanted at her offering, however, and when he stands before her with the hat cocked just slightly on his head and azure mantle thrown over his shoulders, Topolina finds she’s again being assaulted by those odd, vexing heart palpitations. Is she really such a nervous thing? ...Yes, she answers herself firmly. Yes, she is. But she’s far from convinced nerves are to blame in this instance.

“Oh,” she breathes eventually, clasping her paws together and resting them against the edge of her cheek. “You look like you came out of a storybook.”

Well… that was more childish than she meant it to be.

“Then it’s perfect,” he says succinctly. Then, removing the hat and inclining his head to her, he adds, “Thank you for your assistance, ah—”

“Top— erm, Lina.”

“Miss Lina, it is. I’m quite grateful for your help. I am sorry only to startle you and then run without so much as a token for your assistance, but it’s imperative I make good time.”

Topolina shakes her head. “It’s okay— I-I don’t mind!”

And with a final bow, he leaves her and the kitchen behind.

                                                        &&&

Peculiar dashing stranger aside, the rest of her day passes in relative normality. There’s a clamor about the servants some time later, and she catches snippets of an excited buzz about something happening with the prince (something that ties in with a group of special guests, but she’s yet to put together how) as she goes about her duties, but in all, for how bizarre the day started out, it all strikes her as rather uneventful.

She’s instructed eventually to scour the floors in the audience chamber in preparation for a banquet, which means filling an old rusted tub with hot water and soap, and then carting it to said room. She’s no stranger to the task, of course, and thinks nothing of trudging through the hall with this metal burden in her arms.

Perhaps as penitence for her lack of investment in the day’s continuing  Wonders, another ill-fated obstacle is tossed onto the tracks before her. In this case, literally. 

Earlier that day, a courier had accidentally overturned a loose stone in the hallway floor. Scratching his head, staring down at the disturbed piece of clay as though it had personally insulted him in the most obtuse way possible, he’d eventually looked from one end of the corridor to the other and quietly snuck it back into place, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed.

Unfortunately, Topolina notices.

With a decidedly unfeline-like squawk, she trips over the rogue stone; the tub in her arms ends up the victim of gravity, as we all so unfortunately are.

And who should turn the corner then but Natori, just in time to be the unwitting second victim of her bad luck— drenched by the ensuing sheet of warm, sudsy water and so jarred by it, it seems he can do little other than look rapidly from his own sodden person to her no-doubt horrified countenance for near a full two minutes. In the fraught silence that follows, his glasses clatter to the earthen floor, and the tiny sound echoes in her ears like a gunshot. Trembling, Topolina instantly drops to her haunches, paws clapped together in desperate and tearful pleading.

"I-I'm so sorry, sir! Please, I beg your pardon— I didn't mean— i-it was an accident!"

"...Topolina," Natori finally interrupts quietly, gently, even, but the hum of exasperation vibrates just underneath his patient tone like a trapped butterfly, "—retrieve a mop and a towel, please.”

“Of course, sir! R-Right away!”

                                                        &&&

It’s afterward, as Topolina does her best to mop around him while he tries to dry himself without incurring any extra… floof, that Natori deems an appropriate time to address his reason for coming this way in the first place.

“It’s possible that Cook may have instructed you about this task already, but the kitchen staff will likely be needing every pot and pan that can be spared for today’s dinner, so do ensure that you tend to the ones that have been, er, languishing in... that corner.” When she chances a glance at him, she sees that his gaze is inconspicuously trained on a particularly infamous corner of the palace kitchens, one where abandoned cookware is just shy of creating its own ecosystem by now. For a brief, heart-pounding moment, some measure of indignation rises in her; she’s so very close to telling him she isn’t the one to blame in this instance! ...At least, not the only one.

Ah. Alas, once more. Her courage withers in the face of this culpability, small as it may be. Instead, she goes back to her doleful mopping. Still, there is at least enough nerve left in her to present him with one continuing question on the topic.

"Is it... is it for the special guests?"

Natori pauses, giving her something of a searching glance. "...It is, yes." Then, after a few seconds spent appearing to think this over, he continues ringing out the bottom hem of his robe. It seems at some point while she was distracted, he’d laid the drenched towel at his feet. "I see word spreads fast through the kitchens."

To herself, she thinks that he has no idea how true that is, nor precisely how fast it truly does.

Finally satisfied with all that the towel can accomplish in drying him off (and evidently feeling his now damp robe will no longer leave any puddles as he wanders through the castle), he returns it to her. "Now, Topolina, please try to keep the mishaps to a minimum. We do have an exceptional guest today, after all."

She only nods frantically, all too aware of her ears flapping up and down. To this, he gives an approving nod of his own, and then finally turns on his heel and leaves. Secure in her admittedly paltry position for at least another day, Topolina breathes a sigh of relief as she puts the mop away.

...An exceptional guest, he’d said. Curiosity flares again, this time stronger than before, and she can’t stop wondering just who they could be. For the most fleeting of seconds, she remembers the cat who had interrupted her delayed routine this morning, but he’s quickly waved away.

Honored guests did not arrive to their own commemoration by climbing through old servants’ tunnels.

                                                        &&&

Once the dirtiest, most grime-caked pots and pans are finally scrubbed to perfection, she peeks around the corner in search of Cook or Natori, wondering what other (insignificant) part she may have to play in the care of these exceptional guests. To her consternation, however, the kitchen aside from her seems rather empty, present only to the sound of a maid or two prepping extra portions of stuffed mice on the off-chance they’re requested.

Cautious as always, Topolina all but tiptoes through, still careful not to draw attention to herself, and— once she’s certain she’s not being scrutinized— peeks out of the kitchen itself into the servers’ hallway. There’s music playing, muffled, down the hall in the great dining room— something elegant, bouncy. A waltz, perhaps. She wonders distantly who it is that might be dancing, and if the well-spoken cat she’d crossed paths with earlier is anything of a dancer himself. She could imagine him dancing… Oh, the flutter is back.

“Lina—”

“Yes!!”

She jumps impressively high, her hackles on edge and tail fluffed out in alarm.  Yet, when she whips around to face her unexpected company, she’s met only with Yuki. Another of the kitchen servants, Yuki has existed as a consistently friendly, warm presence, to the degree that she’d willingly adopted Topolina’s attempts to shorten her, well, newly embarrassing name, something a few of the other servants (and Natori…) were still having trouble with. Her fright abated, Topolina tries to greet the smaller cat with a smile, but it wavers.

“Oh— Yuki, it’s you.” She’s carrying a large glass bottle, freshly-filled with some unfamiliar pink-tinged liquid, Topolina notices.

“I’m sorry,” Yuki starts in reply. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I-It’s okay!”

“What were you looking at?”

Oh. That.

“I was looking for Cook,” Topolina admits reluctantly. “Or maybe Natori. I’ve finished the dishes they wanted me to clean earlier today.”

“I saw The Corner was all clean. It must have taken a while.” Yuki sounds impressed, perhaps. Topolina doesn’t mention it, of course, but deep down she’s a little tickled. “Natori’s already taken his place in the dining room, though, so I don’t think you’ll have any luck getting more directions from him.”

“Oh…” Thinking back now, she realizes she should have surmised that already. At least, if the banquet has progressed to the point that entertainment is warranted. “What about Cook? Have you seen her?”

“Sorry, I haven’t.”

After a short silence, it suddenly occurs to Topolina that Yuki seems… a little distracted. Troubled, even. Fidgeting, she gathers her resolve for the third time that day.

“...Are you okay? You look like… um, something’s on your mind.”

Just the mention of her evident disquiet is enough to erase its presence from her expression; Yuki almost instantly brightens some, shaking her head gently.

“No, no. I’m fine.” And then, before Topolina can press the issue, “How about this? Stay here— I have to go back in and serve refills. If I see Cook, I’ll ask her what else she wants you to do and then fill you in when I come back. Okay?”

Topolina is just about to enthusiastically agree (leisure time in the sparsely occupied kitchen? Not being the one to personally ask Cook for more work? Of course she’d be on board!), but a sudden eruption of screams and breaking glass from the direction of the banquet room means the two of them are turning their startled attention to the ruckus instead.

“Wh— what could it be..?” Topolina wonders aloud, shaken.

[ and that's it rip the ending i had in mind was that yuki tells topolina to find a safe place, topolina cowers probably in the kitchen the whole time, especially upon hearing an Explosion. and the next day there's all kinds of rumors and tall tales about baron and The Daring Rescue he pulled off. topolina connects the dots and. well basically becomes haru 2.0 crushing on him and indulging in fantasies where she's also swept off her feet by a dashing hero fjfjkda; ]

#the cat returns #do i #still tag it with the birthday bash tag.... #tcr birthday bash #i guess #this was my first attempt at writing baron #also yuki

[follows-swallows]

Based on this amazing set of prompts.

1. An overheard conversation about your OC 2. A letter written by your OC’s family member 3. A report written by your OC’s teacher or mentor 4. a letter from your OC to their love interest

1.     An overheard conversation about your OC

Leliana: I think Lavellan is growing to like her new hair, She was so upset when we cut it, I thought she’d want to grow it back as soon as possible.

Cassandra: I don’t understand why she got so upset in the first place. It’s just hair.

Leliana: It’s not just hair, it’s part of who she was, the last remnant of her life before all of this. I cut off my hair before leaving Orleis for the first time, it was liberating. Like leaving a part of me behind, the part of me I didn’t want to keep. She cut hers because half of it was destroyed in battle. A battle with a demon that fell out of a hole in the sky that we falsely accused her of opening, and now expect her to close. I pity her, she has no choice in this matter, no agency. Not even in how she wears her hair.

Cassandra: I cut my hair because it kept getting caught in my armour. Damned annoying.

-       A conversation overheard outside Haven’s Chantry between Sister Leliana and Cassandra Pentaghast, a week after declaring the rebirth of the Inquisition

2.     A letter written by your OC’s family member

I fear for our clan’s first. Fia is a talented mage, that must be said, however she shows no interest in learning the other duties required by a future keeper. Even at 14 years of age her elven language skills are nothing short of abysmal, and she keeps confusing the stories of Falon’Din and Dirthamen. She would rather spend time with the halla or pestering the hunters, asking  them to buy her trinkets on the occasion they bring game to shemlen settlements to trade for supplies.

Her latest obsession is human knights. I believe this stems from an encounter with a group of them we met while travelling a few weeks ago.  There was no altercation, however Fia’s curiosity was piqued and she begged the hunters to bring her back a sword, a helmet, anything. One of them returned with an old blade. It is dull, old, clearly rubbish, yet she carries it everywhere, swinging it at shrubs. She would make a fine arcane warrior, but I fear she will never be capable to take on the role of a Keeper.

Truly, I love my daughter. But her head remains permanently in the clouds. I pray that she returns to reality, lest she day-dream her life away.

Istimaethoriel Lavellan

- A letter from Keeper Istimaethoriel of clan Lavellan about her daughter to the Keeper of clan Sabrae, 9:32 Dragon

3. A report written by your OC’s teacher or mentor

Commander Cullen,

The inquisitor has taken to Knight-Enchanter training remarkably well. I knew from reports sent to me that she was a formidable mage, however this training is daunting, and many of the most talented mages across the known world have been unable to master this specialization. Lavellan quickly adapted to the arcane requirements of her training, however the physical art of swordplay still challenges her.

But what Lavellan lacks in discipline and finesse, she makes up for in bravery and grit. Yesterday, I had Ser Barris assist her by practicing sparring in the courtyard. Lavallan has no formal training in melee combat, and of course, Barris blocked all of her swings. In a fit of frustration, the inquisitor threw down her dummy sword, and tackled Barris to the ground.

Grand Enchanter Vivienne and I watched this unfold from the balcony. She believes training the Inquisitor in this school is hopeless, that she lacks the aforementioned discipline and control. But I am inclined to disagree. There are many ways to be a warrior; Chevaliers are not the same as Templars, and Templars are not the same as Reavers. I firmly believe Lavellan will excel as a Knight-Enchanter once she has training in a style that plays to her strengths. I will speak to some of her Inner Circle, they know her favoured combat style better then I, and may be willing to help.

Commander Helaine

- A report on Inquisitor Lavellan’s Knight-Enchanter training, written in 9:41 Dragon

4. a letter from your OC to their love interest

Dear Cullen Commander Cullen,

The soldiers arrived today, they will be a great help holding Griffin Wing Keep. With reinforcements now holding the fort, myself and the original expedition are returning to Skyhold. Thank the Maker Gods for that, it has been a long month, and I’m looking forward to having a good hot bath and a meal that isn’t salted meat and hardtack.

Dorian told me about the betting pool, by the way; ‘the pot goes to the Inquisition member who loses in the most creative manner to the Inquisitor’. I’m not THAT bad at chess, and I don’t need my friends allies throwing games to make me feel better about it! (The pot should go to Bull, by the way, he ate his own queen while I wasn’t looking.)

Solas taught me some new strategies that I’m eager to try. I’m looking forward to a rematch when I return, if you’re willing.

I miss you, Yours, Fia Inquisitor Lavellan

- A letter from Inquisitor Lavellan to Cullen Rutherford, 9:41 Dragon. The Iron Bull later claimed 100 sovereigns in prize money from the members of the betting pool (Cullen Rutherford, Dorian Pavus, Solas). Later in the year, another similar betting pool emerged, substituting chess with Wicked Grace. This prize was claimed by Ambassador Josephine Montilyet.

#dragon age #oc #inquisitor #fia lavellan #my ocs #my trash writing

[vorn-legacy]

SWTOR OC 30 Day Challenge 24, 25

The word “oops” comes to mind.

Anyways, Food! (My favourite topic irl, as it happens)

All my characters (well, the main family at least) have a strong connection with food, having grown up in and around a cantina before opening their own. Elli is no exception, despite joining the family as the youngest child, aged ten or so. As much as she enjoys the artistry behind Good Food, her physical limitations made her just too slow to be of any practical use in the kitchen during opening hours. While she certainly appreciates a perfectly cooked nerf steak and an Alderaanian vintage, Elli has been won over by the miraculous simplicity of readymade instant meals. Just shove a carton into the rotary-oven and out it comes, ready to eat. Quick, easy and hassle free. She’s also partial to the cookies dispensed by the Galacti-Caf machines, but that’s another story.

I can’t remember what was next… Um Hobbies? Let’s go with that.

On a world of smog and duracrete, lush plant life is a rarity. When “holo-trees” are an utterly meaningless concept to you, it makes experiencing a real tree all the more special. Having grown up in a small home surrounded by a myriad of carefully tended plants, Elli was taught how Ashla resides in all living things, even if we can’t communicate with them. She’s always had an affinity for trees, flowers and shrubs and dreamed of having a real garden of her own during her years on Nar Shaddaa, where the nearest thing to a flower were the grimy weeds which struggled to grow in the dingy, polluted environment​. For a brief few months, her dream became reality on Alderaan when her personal assistant duties extended to overseeing the keeping of Cortess estate gardens.

#swtor oc #30 day challenge #elli vorn #rp #miraluka #food #swtor

[hershelashmore-blog]

Assigning A Public Relations Organization.

All mental assistance to give you an advantage at that point utilize colour to your benefit. March is your month to welcome brand-new chances in addition to available your upper arms to the ability for love. However, you will discover fairly rapidly that if you perform unclean the skimmers you will definitely start needing to backwash your pool regularly. Contents published on SA typically aren't indicated to be extensive white papers whatsoever. Homes were actually confined to a certain amount of boxes from the magic cheese each month till that area's source was actually expended. Dark Record Month embraces all of us because the record of African-Americans in the United States mention the record from all its own people. I could easily inform when folks haven't showered in the early morning, typically there hair is actually a wreck or even you can scent a hint from dirty hair perhaps its only me yet dirty/oily hair possesses a distinctive scent. Storm standards concerning 7.4 ins a month off June via October along with a yearly high of 9.3 inches and 19 rainfall times in August. The White Monster nourishes mainly on big sea creatures, including seals, tiny whales and also fish. This month signals truth Age of Aquarius - the time that we have all been actually expecting. July also sticks out, thus far, as a governmental fatality month, for the most number of U.S. presidents - 7 away from 39 deceased - have actually passed away in this particular heat-blistering month. While opal is actually considered as the birthstone for Oct, there are others which additionally strongly believe that tourmaline is actually additionally the stone for this month. So thus, nobles in lots of nations used methods to look well-maintained while certainly not really being actually thus. Along with all of them, they birthed the unique fashion trend from the 18th century. A month earlier, I was actually along with a couple of buddies and looking for a fantastic location to dine in restaurants. Web content stipulation web sites are not suited spots for a specialized white colored study, ornate reviews or long, complicated subjects. BYD recuperated the initial location in Oct, because of an additional 11.000-something performance (Currently in its own 5th direct month), allowing it to go beyond Tesla, Barnabe-excercises.info which had its typical first-month-of-quarter woes. Vending field diaries have recently reported an all-time high for OCS suppliers, increasing their revenue per person through $3.90, per month.

He had planned to stay on a minimum of a year yet had a hard time to endure his unpredictable employer and was unable to get a deal with on opposing factions in the White Home that have actually frequently squabbled. And now my lawful complications obliged me to come back to the only lifestyle I have actually understood because I was 14. 2 days back and I worsened, but a month eventually one thing in me still isn't all set to surrender and also I received this treatment. Fischer sweethearts breed coming from the month of January till April as well as from June up until July. Day 16. Bake sufficient Halloween goodies to send to the office each Friday of the month. Making an all-natural homemade mouth wash using straightforward components as well as basic dishes, are going to undoubtedly aid to maintain your mouth well-maintained.

In April 2006, President George W. Shrub revealed that Could 2006 will be actually looked at Jewish American Culture Month. When I ultimately stopped cigarette smoking which brain haze elevated, after about 1 month my creativity raised ten-fold.