Welcome to my blog! You can call me Sun, I use all pronouns. I’m in my 20s and this is an 18+ only blog, if you don’t have your age/age range in your bio or you’re a minor, you will be blocked. Terfs/swerfs/general bigots and anyone with shit vibes will be blocked. This is my fic, oc, and general writing side blog, I follow from @himbo-the-clown and my horny side blog is @bimbo-the-jester
I write for a variety of fandoms and a variety of topics including some things people might find upsetting (hard kinks, noncon, whump, etc.)I try to appropriately tag everything and include content warnings, but I don't always succeed so proceed with caution
Current tags for people to block:
tokophobia <- pregnancy/breeding/etc.
dissections <- medfet/gore/etc.
family secrets <- fauxcest/incest
dark side of the sun <- noncon/dubcon
My Ao3 is rabbibrown, and sometimes I cross-post things!
OC profiles (works best on PC)
Pirate AU
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Hi :3 For your ask game, do you think you could do Fergal and "Let me ruin you for everyone else"? (It's not from anything, I just think it would be fun :D )
Also, because of how Fergal IS feel free to have the quote be something he Thinks rather than Says
For the (very old cause I'm slow) ask game
Content: noncon, drugging, object insertion, forced intoxication, painful insertion, alcohol in holes alcohol shouldn't be in, rape justification, virginity kink, religious trauma, magic hands, oral fingering, begging, apologetic rapist, humiliation, paralysis, edging, broken trust, gn!reader
Fergal’s a damned good bartender. Really, that’s what should’ve tipped you off. He’s made your favourite cocktail a thousand times and it always tastes just so. It’s always perfect. You’d brushed off the slightly strange taste this time as a result of how overworked he’s been the past few nights. Things always get crazy around the new year. He must be exhausted, distracted, just a little off his game. And you’d hardly taken your eyes from your drink. How were you to know that someone had slipped something into it?
Then again, at Club Rose, you always need to be on guard. It’s the first coherent thought that crosses your mind as you swim against the thick molasses tide of unconsciousness towards the flashing club lights. You should’ve been looking out for it. It is—in some horrible, twisted way—your own damned fault that you got roofied. It’s the risk you sign up for when you walk through the door.
“Oh, thank the lord!” Fergal’s voice eases your return to the waking world, his hand coming to rest reassuringly on your shoulder. “Gave me a fright there. Wasn’t sure you’d wake up!”
It takes almost more effort than its worth to open your eyes. But you’re greeted with that familiar, beaming face, and the lingering anxiety fades away. He’s got you sat behind the bar, leaning back against it. Everything feels limp and lax and almost rubbery. Like you’re more doll than person. Even as you try to speak, to reassuring him that you’re alright, you can’t so much as shift your jaw or huff out a breath of acknowledgement.
“You’re alright,” his hand moves to cup your cheek, stroking it gently. “Don’t try to move too much. Seems like it took all the energy right out of you.”
You let yourself relax into the soothing touch, unable to so much as muster up the energy to struggle against the horrific cage that your body has become. It’s easier to just let Fergal sit down beside you and pull you into his arms, body collapsing against him. He’s warm, soft, safe. You’re grateful he managed to grab you before whoever did this. He’s always been such a comforting presence to you, and right now you need all the comfort you can get.
“I’m up to ninety about you, y’know.” His voice is quiet, earnest, sweet. “I see the way people in here look at you. Like you’re just some piece of meat. A… conquest. Or a prize. It’s disgusting. And… it makes me worry.”
It’s strange, not being able to smile. You feel the urge creep up on you, amused and endeared by his concern. But the muscles of your face simply won’t do it. A twitch at the corner of your lips is the best you get, and it quickly sinks back into laxity. All you can do is listen to him and do your best not to sink back into dreary, cloying unconsciousness.
“The people here want to take advantage of you. Not just Etienne and the others—though, I’ve no doubts they’d love to—but everyone. And I worry… I worry you’ll get used, hurt, raped.” His voice drops to a fearful whisper at the last word, but recovers quickly into a more even tone. “And I worry you might fall for the wrong person. That they’ll promise you everything, and then leave once you’ve given them what they want. I don’t want to see you hurt because of a few bad decisions.”
The anxiety you’d felt upon realising you’d been drugged is starting to creep back, held only at bay by Fergal’s tight embrace. You wish you could brush off his fears as irrational. But clearly they’re not quite as far fetched as you’d like to think. After all, someone here had roofied you, and you’d been too trusting and preoccupied to notice. Much as you hate to admit it, he’s right. You could easily find yourself taken advantage of. Hurt.
“It’s worse for people like us, you know. They see our purity as a prize. They don’t take it seriously, don’t see the value in preserving your virginity for the person you want to spend the rest of your life with. To them it’s all a game. I don’t want you caught up in all that. You’re too good for all that.” His voice is just a little frantic now, and you wish you could move enough to wrap your arms around him in turn. “You’re too good for them. No one here deserves you. No one does. You’re… You’re perfection. You deserve someone who sees that. Someone who can see how special you are. No one else can do that for you. No one else sees you the way I do.”
And there’s the anxiety again, spiking through you. Just a small shock of it at first, and then his hands are around you, hauling you up, and the fear fries at your nerves like a short circuit. You still can’t move. Your muscles are like jelly, weak and wobbly. It’s shamefully easy for him to manhandle you until you’re bent over the bar, hands hanging off the far edge and hips just barely over the top to keep you from falling when he stops supporting you with his whole strength.
“I’m sorry,” his voice is breathless, almost wondering as his hands trace along your body. “I just need to know what you feel like.”
He grabs at your thighs and hips, digs his fingers into the softness of your stomach, even lets his hands stray to the curve of your ass for a few seconds before pulling away sharply like he’s been burned. Through it all, you hear an occasional desperate sound that wells up in his throat. He wants more. You can tell.
“You know, it’s funny.” His breathless laugh makes you want to shudder, but your lax muscles can’t even do that. “This is the sort of situation I’d expect from one of Cal’s disgusting pornos. Not that I’d ever take advantage of you like that, of course! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, no! I’d never do that to you. Not until we were promised to each other. No, we won’t have sex until you’ve committed yourself to me. I just need to do this, you see. For your own good. For us. Please. Let me ruin you for everyone else.”
His hands are a little fumbling and unsteady—such a rarity, it almost scares you more than his words—as he tugs at your clothes. It’s only your trousers and pants that come down, just to your thighs. Discomfort twists in your gut and you find yourself half wishing he’d just tear all your clothes off, like a normal person would.
“To preserve your dignity.” He sounds so earnest, it sickens you. “Here, I’ll just warm you up first, so it’s not so bad. I don’t want to hurt you.”
It’s an internal battle with your body to move your jaw, your tongue, your throat. To try to ask him what the fuck he means by that. It’s a battle that you lose. All you can do is hang limp across the bar as the cold metal tip of a bottle of bitters slides against your skin. Once again, you want to shudder, but nothing is able to move. Instead, you feel sick and cold with dread.
The tip presses against your virgin hole, Fergal’s other hand rubbing at your hip in what you can only assume he thinks is a soothing manner. It doesn’t soothe you at all. You want to scream, to kick, to fight back in any way. But your body—the drugs still in you—refuse to let you. All you can do is lay there in agony as he works the cold metal tip of the bitters into you, dry and painful.
“I know it can’t be me inside you, but sure I need to stake my claim somehow. I know I’m not doing it the way the rest of the degenerates in this place would, but… I need to ruin you. To keep you pure. You understand, don’t you? Of course you understand.”
He pulls the bottle out, only to force it back in deeper, alcohol sloshing from the tip and into you. It burns. You want to flinch and cry out. You want to beg him to stop. You can’t so much as wipe away the tears on your cheeks as you cry from the burning pain inside of you. All you can do is lay there and take it as he fucks you with the bitters, filling you with sharp alcohol.
“I hope this is helping. It’s meant to, you know. To warm you up, so it doesn’t hurt so bad when we get to the proper thing. N-not my… thing, of course. But… well, you’ll see.”
You almost hate that you get used to it. The pointed metal tip sliding against your soft, delicate insides. The sturdy glass stretching your hole. The burning alcohol that splashes into you with every clumsy thrust. It’s just not the sort of thing you should get used to. And yet, when he pulls it out and sets it on the counter a few minutes after starting, you find yourself able to cope with the pain just a little bit better than before. Everything feels just a bit dulled, muted, distant. Your body is absorbing the booze soaking into the softness inside you.
“That should be enough, right? You’ll be okay. You’ll probably be okay.” He sounds like he’s reassuring himself more than anything. “We don’t want it wearing off before we’re done, do we?”
We. Disgust shouts over the pain in your delicate, abused hole. How can he talk like you’re in this together? Like you want this too? You can’t bring yourself to believe he’s genuinely convinced of all the bullshit he’s saying. But… you also can’t bring yourself to believe he isn’t. This is Fergal you’re talking about. Kind, sweet, sensitive Fergal. Or so you thought. You’re not so sure now.
“This feels fitting!” He’s clattering around behind you now, and you hear the clinking of more glass. “Just right to celebrate everything. To celebrate us.”
What presses against your hole is a relatively small yet blunt cork, pressed into a glass bottle. Something to celebrate… Champagne. Your stomach twists as you try to remember how big a champagne bottle is. Too big is the only answer your brain supplies. Definitely too big to fit inside of you, even with his meagre “preparation”.
Not that you have much time to dwell on that. He’s surprisingly rough, shoving the bottle into you with both hands. Against all odds, perhaps only thanks to the roofie, he’s able to force it into you. Hands—more than two—help spread your legs, your hole, all for him to violate. Those shimmering red hands, extensions of his magic, hold you up on the bar as he works as much of the bottle into you as he can. Groping, squeezing, teasing hands.
“I asked my priest,” he begins, focusing on summoning and controlling them as he forces the bottle, “whether my magic… counts. If you know what I mean. H-he didn’t have an answer for me. So I think that means it’s okay, right? We won’t go to hell if I let my hands...”
His priest. Damn his priest. Always promising him absolution. Every Sunday, he brings a list of his sins to be forgiven. And every Sunday, he leaves church believing his soul to be clean and pure. And until tonight, so did you. Until tonight, you’d thought it laughable that he had to go at all, let alone once a week. Now, you only find yourself filled with dread at the thought that this would be another thing on his list of confessions. Right there between pouring a shot too many and forgetting to bring his nan some flowers. Raping you. Defiling you. How much detail would he go into? How much about what he’s doing will his priest know by next week?
His disembodied hands are all over you. You’re too dizzy to know just how many hands are on you, but they grope and squeeze and grab. One hand clumsily slides in front of the bottle to try to pleasure you, only succeeding in edging you horribly. Warm fingers slip into your mouth, playing with your tongue. They press on it, tug it, squeeze it gently as he memorises the feeling. More skirt around your gums and press against your teeth, two hands combining into one to thoroughly claim your mouth.
Your head spins, full of alcohol and magic hands and priests in cassocks. Your hole is stretched brutally around the neck of the bottle, and mercifully he decides it’s far enough. Far enough to claim you as his. Behind you, he watches as your hole clenches and flutters around the glass, aching to close. Something stirs in him. Aside from the throbbing hardness in his pants, his heart tightens at the sight, the sort of tears that accompany something beautiful welling up in him. You look perfect. He can’t help but wonder if your hole will look just as perfect stretching around his cock. Taking him all the way, letting him fill you…
“Let me just…”
He mutters to himself, pulling the bottle out of you with one swift tug. You try to cry out, but your lax body does nothing, held in place by drugs and those cold hands. Behind you, there’s a telltale, fizzy pop as Fergal uncorks the champagne.
“There we go.”
You want to tense, to brace yourself against what you know will feel terrible. But you can’t. You simply have to lay there and take it as he forces the bottle back into you, champagne filling your hole. It stings less than the bitters did. Or, perhaps, you’re too tipsy to care as much. But the fizz is a different sensation entirely. It’s certainly not a good sensation, but you’re not sure you can call it a strictly bad one, either. Not when compared to the pain of the bitters. It’s just strange and invasive and disconcerting.
The champagne spills into your hole, filling you up easily as he fucks you with the bottle. For half a moment, your brain manages to catch hold of a memory of Callum explaining the ways alcohol can be absorbed into your blood stream. Something about mucus membranes. But it slips away quickly into the haze. You’re dizzy and nauseous and everything seems to be wobbling and tilting.
Your fingers twitch as you try to grab on to the bar top for support, jaw clenching. You don’t even notice the little bits of movement, so caught up in trying to survive the brutal bottle fucking. Your hole clenches down around it, making it harder for him to push it in and pull it out. But that only serves to make him rougher, forcing it into you hard to see the way you stretch around it.
“It looks like you’re… enjoying it? I hope you are!”
“Of course I’m not, you bastard!”
You’re as shocked to hear your own voice as he is. You’d expected the words to echo around your head as they have been, trapped inside your brain the way you’re trapped inside your body. But they ring out around the glowing red fingers, albeit weak and slurred, for both of you to hear. His hand stills, the bottle neck filling your hole as he holds it there. You try to move, but find yourself still unable, the drugs only just starting to wear off.
“N-no! No, don’t… don’t say that,” it’s a pathetic sound that comes from him, the hand in your mouth retreating. “Please…”
“Get off me! Get that thing out of me!” Your voice is a little steadier, something between a croaky whisper and your normal speaking tone.
“I’m sorry, it w-wasn’t supposed to wear off so soon…”
“Just stop, let me go,” you find yourself exhausted with the effort of talking, but the rage inside you keeps you going. “You can’t just do this to people!”
A hitched breath. A sniffle. A hiccup. He speaks through tears.
“But don’t you see? I have to do this. I need you to understand, this has to happen. I need to ruin you for anyone else, so you’re mine. So we can be together.”
You have more to say, but you’re exhausted, breathing laboured as you try to recover from the exertion. The rest of your body is still limp and immovable. Only your hole reacts as Fergal starts to fuck it again, clamping down around the bottle. Tears well in your eyes, stinging as you’re violated. It’s all too much. Your tongue feels clumsy in your mouth when you try to speak again, only able to make vague sounds of anger.
“I promise it’s for the best. It’s for your own good, so no one else touches you like this. Isn’t… Isn’t it better this way? A friend doing this, instead of someone else? Please, I promise, I’m doing this for you.”
He’s crying openly now, fucking you desperately with the bottle as all his hands try desperately to make you feel good. As though he might be able to make you cum somehow. It’s an absurd thought, but you’re not sure he’s coherent enough to realise that. No, he’s far gone now. Sobbing, begging for forgiveness, rambling as he rapes you with the bottle. The champagne runs down your thighs into a puddle on the floor, and thankfully enough of the bottle is drained to stop it from sloshing into you with every thrust.
“I didn’t mean to do this. I really didn’t want it to come to this. Sure, I need you to know you’re mine. I need to make you mine. I just thought the drugs might make it nicer for you. That maybe you wouldn’t mind so much after I started. But… I’m sorry. I know you’re upset, but it still needs to be done. For your sake, see. I hope you can forgive me once you see that.”
The many-fingered hand finds its way into your mouth once more as he shoves the bottle into you as deep as he can. It’s not much further than he already has, but it’s enough to make your hole burn with pain. You scream around the fingers in your mouth, gagging as one of them hits the back of your throat. The heel of his hand grinds against the bottle, desperate to claim you as deeply as possible before anyone else has the chance.
“I-I wish I could… I know you won’t be able to… f-finish. Not like this. Not with what I put in your drink. But I promise, I’ll never let you go without again! When we finally do this for real, I’ll make sure you get to finish first every time. A-as many times as you want!”
He’s crying again. Or maybe he never stopped. His hands melt away only to cradle you gently, easing you off the bar and down to the floor. The same position you woke up in, however long ago that was. Back when things were still good. When the sight of Fergal filled you with comfort rather than fear. His real hands steady your hips as you’re lowered to the ground, teary eyes inspecting your face for any sort of expression through the laxness of the lingering drug.
As your body goes limp against the back of the bar, the glass bottle slides out of you with a lewd wet sound. Your aching hole is finally able to relax, sore and burning. It leaks a steady stream of fizzy champagne, oozing out in a pool around you until your whole lower half is wet from it. Humiliation and rage burn through you, eyes stinging and chest bubbling with anger. The bottle lays between your legs, angled like it could be pressed back into you at any moment. A gut-twisting reminder of what Fergal just did to you.
“H-hey, don’t cry,” warm fingers—Fergal’s actual fingers—brush tears from your cheeks. “It’s over now. It’s all over. A-and I’ll never have to do it again! Your purity is safe now. N-no one will ever try to… take advantage of you again.”
You open your mouth to speak, but he presses a glass to your lips before you can. The drink inside is cloudy and white, like he’s crushed something up into it. He shushes you gently, one hand petting your hair like an animal as he tips the drink into your mouth. You fight against your still-limp body to move. To push him away. To kick him. To even just close your lips or spit out the drink. But you used all your energy fighting. All you can do is let the bitter drink pool in your mouth and slide down the back of your throat.
“Drink that all down. Grand. This should help you forget all this unpleasantness. Then we can go back to normal. We can go back to how we were. You won’t remember a thing.”
He’s lucky you don’t choke on it. The whole thing goes down smoothly, the taste lingering in your mouth like a curse. The room starts to spin. You blink. And again. This time for a little longer. Everything is dim. Dimming. Darker. You can’t feel anything. Not your aching hole, not your burning insides, not even his hands still petting you sweetly.
His voice is the last thing you hear before you drift away into unconsciousness once again.
“It doesn’t matter if you forget, you’re mine now.”
i am so, so sorry for your loss. one of my cats passed earlier this week, too. the hit of emotions is always awful. i hope you take as much time as you need for yourself and your family, and that this period passes as safely as possible. please don't rush yourself into feeling one way or another. i'm sure she was a lovely little old lady <2
~ }i{
Thank you, and I'm sorry for your loss as well. I hope this is as easy as possible for both of us.
Going with a nuance approach and say list the routes and options you want to go with.
If you feel like it’s getting too much? Put a cap on how much you’re doing or see if some options can become combined. If you feel like the options you have is too little? Keep exploring/drafting around until you are satisfied.
That makes sense. I think really because I can see a whole lot of options working, my natural inclination is to Just Keep Adding, but I want to make sure it's not overwhelming for myself or readers. Ultimately I'll make my own decision mostly based on individual cases, but when I have no preference then I'll take the majority vote into consideration to keep me from decision paralysis :3
Hi hi hi, for your pirate au, the one where the noblewoman was about to talk about their fiancé. LOOK LOOK LOOK, ogle that shit, put it in a jar and shake it!
Like a cut glass goblet, you finally manage to twist the problem just so, aligning each panel until you see clearly through the whole thing. No longer does the light refract, obscuring what lays on the other side. No longer does your fear hold you back from understanding.
You take your first full breath in a very long time.
"I'm engaged," you begin in a slow, even tone. One that commands the attention of the table. "The wedding was mere months away when you arrived. They were to read the banns for the first time the next morning."
"A runaway bride?" Callum considers this, examining you as though looking for something he's missed.
"A kidnapped bride," Etienne corrects. "A man cannot be expected to keep an engagement to a woman who might never return. One who might even be dead. There's an appropriate amount of time to wait, of course, before he officially begins seeking another wife, but... The longer you stay, the more likely you are to return an unclaimed woman. One who cannot be blamed for breaking the promise."
There's no judgement in his tone—if anything, there's respect—but you still feel a wave of guilt shake your resolve. You know this man, whoever he is, wouldn't be happy with you. You're not made to be a wife. You're not made for motherhood. All you could ever do for him is disappoint. But still, you feel the cowardice of your decision. Staying here, among pirates, letting your family worry all for the sake of avoiding marriage. Avoiding one marriage, for there will surely be another once you've returned.
"Your fiancé...?" Zander looks reluctant to broach the subject, but unable to help itself.
"If the bastard—" You cut Lucky off before he can get the threat out, oddly desperate to clear the name of the mystery man.
"No! No, nothing of the sort. To the best of my knowledge, that is. You see, I don't quite know who it is that I am to marry. My parents wanted it kept from me until the banns were read, to avoid any potential for scandal. They feared that knowledge of our impending wedding might encourage us to..." You shift uncomfortably, cheeks flushed at the mere hint of impropriety. "So, you see, they did not want me to know until such a time as any... lapses in judgement could be reasonably overlooked. Only once our engagement was truly confirmed could I know who I am to marry."
"What sort of bullshit is that?" Glitch scoffs.
"He's right," Fergal looks horrified. "How can they expect you to marry a man you don't even know?"
"And he consented to remain hidden from you?" Ash looks simply curious, gold eyes boring into you. "That sounds inauspicious for a happy marriage."
Your hand drifts to your collarbone and then a little lower to the neck of your dress. "Not quite. I have a letter, sent by him on the day he and my parents began arranging our betrothal. He had a maid leave it upon my pillow. I think he was as unhappy with the secrecy as I was."
Everyone perks up at the mention of the letter, and a chorus of questions about its contents spill forth. Their curiosity mimics your own. From the moment you first laid eyes on the neatly sealed letter, you've been dying to know what it says. And yet, it has sat unopened and neatly nestled against your breast since the night it was delivered. Some unnameable fear has kept you from opening it. Instead, you let it settle like a weight bearing down on you, reminding you of your impending fate.
"I... have yet to open it," you confess, once the questions die down.
It's a silence the likes of which you haven't heard since you first woke up on the ship. Seven pairs of eyes bore into you, none willing to be the first to suggest you open it. Your fingers curl around the parchment, thin from months of pressing and rubbing against your skin. The seal remains intact, a soft red wax imprint of the head of a great roaring bear.
When you pull it from your bodice, it looks just as it always does. The parchment is of the highest quality, and your name is neatly penned in a deep red ink with flourishes. There's a subtle shift of bodies as everyone leans in to have a look. Etienne's eyebrow raises at the sight of the seal, but he says nothing.
"I..." You swallow down a lifetime of fear, heart pounding. The parchment feels damp in your sweating palms and you find your stiff fingers tossing it haphazardly into the centre of the table, "I don't think I can do this."
Mercifully, no one comments on the way your voice breaks half way through, the last few words coming out as nothing more than a breathless movement of your lips. Slowly, hesitantly, Callum reaches forward and picks up the letter. He looks at you for permission, and with a sharp little nod of your head, he grabs a knife and breaks the seal.
"You sure you're ready for this, hen?" He gives you one last out.
"Please."
"Alright..." He takes a deep breath as he unfolds the parchment. "My dearest betrothed-to-be, I know I should not be writing to you like this. Your parents made their wishes very clear to me. But I simply cannot help myself for excitement at our impending engagement! You have been welcomed many times to my family estate as a friend, but to welcome you as my bride will gladden my heart greatly—So, you know the lad?"
Your mind races with possibilities, thinking through every man whose estate your family has visited. It's not a short list by any means. You find yourself thinking of faces both old and young who have paid you attention, who have danced with you, who have shown any interest in you at all. None stand out.
You give a weak shrug, "I suppose I must."
"Well—I want more than anything in this world to see you immediately, both our reputations be—" Callum breaks off in a bark of laughter. "The wee bastard can't even bring himself to write damned!"
"I should think not!" You find yourself jumping to the defence of social mores rather than your unknown fiancé. "Such language should hardly be spoken by a man of good breeding, let alone written down!"
Attempts not to laugh are met with varying degrees of success. Etienne's face is schooled into only mild amusement, and he taps the letter to redirect everyone to the matter at hand. It's a mercy for your burning cheeks. The crude pirates may be slowly wearing down some of your ideas of propriety, but you still find yourself defensive of all you've been taught.
"Alright, alright. —However, your parents fear that any meeting before our engagement is made official could ruin you. As such, I must wait to enjoy your convivial society until our promise is known—"
Your face flushes hot and you try to make a grab for the letter to stop Callum reading it. Your body refuses to move. Petrified in mortification, you can do nothing but continue to listen as he reads more of the amorous words of your mysterious fiancé.
"—Before the church and before God, our engagement will be announced as soon as the matter of your dowry is settled. I have drafted a letter to be sent to the archbishop upon the first reading of the banns, begging of him a blessing upon our union— Looks like yer man's in good with the church then."
"More importantly," Etienne grins, "if there's money enough for a dowry, there's money enough to pay ransom."
"I don't reckon you're getting out of this one, hen," Callum's eyes scan the letter further. "He seems mad about you. Listen to this—I look forward more than I can say to the amorous congress of our marriage, and I will be to you the gentlest and most attentive of husbands. And you, I am sure, will be the truest wife any man could desire. You shall organise our household with a firm yet kind hand. You shall love me dearly. You shall take me as I am, faults and all. And, should I be even half the lucky man I believe myself to be, you shall ride a dragon upon St. George for me whensoever I require such bolstering—"
You catch Etienne's eye, another hot flush of embarrassment flooding you at his knowing look. Damn him, playing at nobility. More importantly, damn him for having learned so much. What use could he possibly have—? You decide you don't want to know.
"Who talks like this?" Glitch doesn't try to hide his disgust. "Organising his household? Is that what you rich women do all day?"
You push down the humiliation of the letter to stumble your way back towards more familiar ground. "Of course, it is a wife's job to manage household affairs. We don't sit around all day nattering and having tea. There's staff to command and social events to plan and all sorts of other duties besides."
"Sounds boring." Glitch returns to his half-eaten meal. "No wonder you're desperate to escape."
"I'm not desperate to escape!" Your temper flares, and you have to fight it down. "I simply... wish to stay away long enough for this man to find a new betrothed. One he will find more agreeable."
"Oi, Ferg," Callum barely glances up from the letter to address the gunner, "you're big on the bible. What's this about saints and dragons?"
Fergal bites back a snarky comment on Callum's heathen nature. "I was just wondering... It's odd. Saint George did slay a dragon. The people were trying to placate the dragon with sheep, and then human sacrifices. Right before they sacrificed their own princess, Saint George came in and killed it. Not too sure what he means by it, though."
"Pure baffling," Callum shrugs and returns to reading. "Apologies if I ramble on—aye, good of him to notice—I am so eager for our blessed union. For many years I have admired you; the grace with which you dance at balls, your masterful command of language, your knowledge of the classical arts. You are an accomplished and admirable young woman, and I fear I may be the most underwhelming of husbands, only by virtue of your own incomparable magnificence—Oh boke."
"Sound fulls of it," Lucky glowers at the letter.
"How much more must we listen to?" Ash's wings ruffle behind it in discontent.
"It'd be quicker if you lot stopped interrupting me," Callum clears his throat, "—Such reverent thoughts of you consume me so. I have found myself driven to distraction when the memory of your smile graces me. I fear I have become too lenient with my tenants in my joy. I find myself unable to read for excitement, and I have broken many an arrow upon fantasies of our future together. You, my beloved, have utterly ruined me. I promise you a marriage of love and respect. If I am David, you are my Bathsheba— Ferg?"
Fergal sighs, "really? You don't know King David?"
"He's your lad that killed the giant, aye?" Callum takes Fergal's scoff as assent. "Well who's this Bathsheba lass then?"
"His wife, you bloody eejit," Fergal's annoyance abates somewhat at Callum's helpless shrug. "Not exactly the best couple to model yourselves on, come to think of it."
"You know those rich types don't actually care, right?" Glitch's pessimism for once aligns with your own feelings on the matter. "So long as people see them at church on Sundays, they don't have to know Jesus from Adam."
"Bible aside, it sounds like your betrothed is an Earl. Listen to this: —You shall be to me as a queen (though, of course, Countess shall be your title)— That's something then, I reckon."
You've sunk as low as you dare in your seat, avoiding everyone's gaze. It's humiliating. Even as you halfheartedly run through the list of Earls you know—that cuts it down, but not by nearly as much as you would like—you pray that the rest of the letter is short.
"Almost done," Callum delivers the merciful news before continuing, "—We shall sit beside each other in church on holy days, and when the weather is agreeable we shall take the long walk back home through the fields. Vibrant conversation will accompany every meal we take together. Your presence will soothe the harshest of days and you will drive from my mind all worries. And on such occasions as I am called away from our estate, you will wait for me faithfully and be gladdened upon my return. I shall return to you, and the Pope shall return to Rome—"
"Well, he's... eager," Etienne raises an eyebrow and shoots you a smirk that's too knowing.
"Oh god..." The words are an unbidden groan from somewhere deep within you, and all sense of propriety leaves your mind as you slump over on the table and hide your face in your hands.
"—I beg forgiveness once more for sending you this letter. It is an act of great impatience and, perhaps, impertinence on my part. But, as I shall be your lawfully wedded husband within the year, it is a liberty I am allowing myself. From this moment until the banns are read, I swear to obey your parents' every wish. And from the moment I first steal your garter—" he pauses a moment to give a bawdy whistle "—until one of us is in the grave, I shall be loyal to you and your wishes. With eager anticipation, I remain faithfully, Lord Theodore Bentham."
You feel sick.
The room spins as the weight of the letter settles upon you.
It's a small mercy that only Etienne seems to have gleaned the full meaning of Lord Bentham's—Teddy's—words.
Even that is a thought you can't seem to dwell on for long without waves of nausea and dizziness battering you.
Eyes—too many eyes—watch you eagerly, waiting for your verdict.
As y'all might know, there are 12 new characters to meet within Pirate AU!!! Each reader character has 2 characters from their past (and, hopefully, future ;3) to be uncovered! As per this post, I'll be giving you all hints to try to help you find them. And these are the first hints: how many there are, and a title for each :3 So, without further ado...
can we get hints or something for the new characters?
Yes!! Of course!! I've been mulling over how to give good hints/get y'all towards the new guys. You're already on the track for one of them (once I write the next part of it) but I've decided to ask y'all about how you want me to help.
How do you want your hints?
Adventure starters posted that will eventually lead you to each one
Vague little hints about who they are/what they do/where they are
Relevant titles (eg "The Fiance") that tell you how many there are
All of these at once
All of these, spread out and getting less vague over time
There's probably a better way to make sure I catch all my fics that aren't on ao3 to throw them over there, but my current method is just going through all 3,010 posts on this blog. Which means I might as well do a clear-out at the same time :3 gonna delete posts I don't feel like having on the blog anymore
Medical stuff ain't going so great, and I'm exhausted all the time, but we've actually got some progress on making things liveable. I've been working on more of my published writing, which is currently mostly manifesting as research, but leaves me not much time to write here. I'm actively currently right now working on crossposting old fics to ao3 which will probably be my task for the rest of the night (might do an ask game while I work?) Moon and I have been on a bg3 kick again, and all of my favourite murder mysteries are back or coming back in the new year. I've been doing a lot of reading, some good and some bad, which is making a little dent in my book pile. I've been working on a coding project which I hope to share early next year fingers crossed, keneine hora. Plate Up had a cool holiday update that will be taking up a bunch of my time because I have Plate Up Autism (a condition that causes me to be autistic about Plate Up) I've been cooking some new dishes irl as well which has been fun. I'm still trying to figure out where I can sell my erotic audios because I want money and also for people to get to hear my grossnasty porn :3 aaaaaaand I think that's it for life updates with Sun? And now for my obligatory "I'm going to try to write and be around more" that almost invariably proceeds more silence from me 😂
O M G. Sun that was fantastic thank you so much for indulging me. Also you might have to add a sticker to your book… my favorite part about that fantasy or more specifically a character like that is you just know that like shaped his entire life. Like you know he went to therapy, you know for sure he had like a depressive slum, you know he still has days and episodes where he freaks out about it, and you know he for sure and without a doubt jerks off to it. Like he dates people who look exactly like you and role plays that exact scenario in the bedroom, convincing himself he’s just taking control of the situation, that this a healthy coping mechanism. And that in this final dreaded moment, his nightmare scenario, when he’s making his weekly bar crawl to cope, he locks eyes with you. And you take him home, and you have your way with him all over again. Why does he allow this? He’s not even drunk this time, just push her off! But he can’t bring himself to do it, because he knows deep down she’s the only one that can make him feel this good. Feel free to write a follow up, or whatever…
I'm glad you liked it!!! It was so much fun to write :3 and you're so right about all of that!!! Sequel posted :3 and now, here's your sticker!!
