shepard work in progress
Aquaman, Prince of Atlantis in: Ilsa, Sea-Wolf of the S.S.! (by Quiz)
[this fic and its illustration were commissioned by Ethermaiden on Slashfic Sunday 2. You can commission custom fics and illustrations from us at any time!]
The devil-woman had taken Arthur’s hook. He pulled at the chains wrapped around his right wrist and both ankles, but had no delusions that the effect would be any different this time. Still, it was important to strive so long as one’s gills were still open. He looked around his small tank again, trying for the hundredth time since he had awakened to get a grasp on his current situation. He had responded to a distress call from a pod of dolphins in the Pacific, only to fall into some kind of strange, electrified net. The last thing he had seen was a tall, blond female surface worlder with the endowment of a mermaid and the cold, vicious smile of a shark. He had known in that moment that she was a monster, and what he caught her crew doing to the dolphins they had captured in the moments before she’d ordered him knocked out had only reinforced that.
Poor creatures.
Mr. Goku
“Sir, Mr. Goku is here.”
Jeeves stressed the first syllable sniffily, indicating his disapproval of the late, unannounced nature of the visit. “Shall I tell him you have gone to bed?”
Bertie, who hadn’t, cocked his head to one side, considering the ceiling. “It’d be jolly rude, wouldn’t it Jeeves?”
“Yes, sir. I shall tell him to go, shall I sir?”
“No, no, no that won’t do Jeeves. Send him in!” Bertie stood, dusting off the front of his trousers. Mr. Goku was a member of the nouveau riche that was slowly worming its way into Bertie’s fine city–usually he rejoiced in a little new blood, especially Americans, with their flat affects and amusing neologisms, but Mr. Goku was something else entirely. His mannerisms were like those of a child with the power of some old world deity coursing through him. Bertie imagined for a moment that this was probably a metaphor for something or other concerning this gala age, but a tune was crowding out whatever the meaning might have been. Likely it hadn’t been very incisive at all. He lowered himself onto his piano bench and tinkled out what bits he knew of “The Entertainer,” leaning into its lopsided rhythms. After a few minutes of this, he felt Jeeves’s silent presence drift back into the room, followed by the heavy clomp of the man who could only be his new houseguest. Bertie declined to look up.
“Jeeves,” he said, “I just stumbled on a crackerjack of an idea. Have you ever wondered why the Yanks call it ragtime?”
“I can not say that I have, sir,” Jeeves answered in his liquid tones.
“I read a book,” Bertie began.
“Indeed?” Jeeves interjected, keeping his tone as flat as always.
