#a lull in the sea discussion

[focsle]

I never did a long thing about scrimshaw, so it’s time! At 1 am, apparently.

I think scrimshaw is one of the most fascinating material goods to emerge from the history of the American whaling industry (which is the context I’m discussing here, though of course the artform exists across numerous eras and cultures outside this brief blip of nautical history).

It’s one way to see amatuer art that usually doesn’t often survive in other forms. To see the art project of an ordinary man who was bored and needed something to do with his hands. Others were highly skilled craftsman, creating intricate engravings or mechanically expert tools. The most common scrimshaw was images etched on sperm whale teeth. Sometimes those images came from the maker’s own imagination and sometimes they were copied illustrations. Ships & whaling scenes, women, mythical figures, and patriotic symbols make up the bulk of the visual language in those pieces that survive.

But alongside the teeth were all a manner of carved items: canes, candle holders, pie crimpers, children’s toys, sewing boxes, yarn swifts, corset busks. So much bone fashioned into quiet little homegoods. And it’s that contradiction within scrimshaw that fascinates me. The brutality of the industry, this ivory from an animal that frankly died terribly, that’s then softened into a little domestic item. An object that could have hours to years of work put into it. Some were made to be sold but many were made as gifts. In the long stretches of boredom at sea, in the lull between back-breaking work and life-threatening terror, scrimshaw gives a window into where the minds of these men continually turned. It shows where their hearts were and what they were holding on to over all the years they spent adrift in saltwater and blood and oil. That’s the poetry I see in scrimshaw. Pain and love and longing and creativity and playfulness all bound together in these complicated little pieces that found their way out of the hands of their anonymous makers to preserve a small part of their story.

Some scrimshanders names are known. Frederick Myrick is one of the most well known American whalers, not so much for the scope of his life (of which little is known) but for his scrimshaw. Born in Nantucket in 1808, he first went whaling in 1825 on the Columbus and then again on the Susan 1826-29. In the last few months aboard the Susan, Myrick engraved over 30 sperm whale teeth, all depicting the ship he was on (though there are a handful that depict other vessels). He signed and dated nearly each one. These pieces are often referred to as ‘Susan’s Teeth’ now, and when one comes up at auction it’s not unusual for it to sell for six figures.

Many of the teeth Myrick scrimshawed included an inscribed couplet of his devising: A dark wish for luck that succinctly gets at the violent and unstable heart of American whaling.

“Death to the living, long life to the killers Success to sailor’s wives, and greasy luck to whalers”

Sometimes large scenes were etched on panbones as well.

Moving from scrimshaw on teeth and jawbones, pie crimpers are some of the more common sculptural items. Popular motifs included animals (dogs, snakes, and unicorns/hippocampus are big), body parts (mostly clenched fists or lady’s legs), and geometric designs.

Others were more mechanically complicated, such as automatons and children’s toys with moving parts and gears. Here’s one of a small rocking sailboat, perhaps made for someone’s child or younger sibling.

Sometimes a particular creative fellow created something more eccentric, like this wild writing desk kit fashioned out of a carved panbone and sperm whale teeth.

Another frequently scrimshawed object was a corset busk that would be slid into the front of the garment in order to maintain the posture. A rather private item compared to others. And one with a very on-the-nose message of wearing close to one’s heart the memory of someone who’d be gone for 3-4 years, who might never come home again. On some level, so many of these daily objects whispered ‘forget me not’, ‘think of me while I’m gone’. 

There’s something tender to all the various domestic items that were fashioned on the job so long and far from home, but it’s the yarn swifts that really captivate me. They were one of the most complicated pieces of scrimshaw to make, with over one hundred different pieces that would have to be carved. It could take someone the length of the voyage (2-4 years) to complete a single one. Unlike teeth which were comparatively very quick to make and were frequently intended to be sold, it’s very unlikely that a swift was made with the aim of selling it because of the significant labor that went into it. They were almost certainly all gifts, and very special ones at that. Every time I see one I can just feel the love towards its intended recipient radiating off of it.

Scrimshaw captures a specific snapshot of a moment in time. On a broader scale it’s a surviving reminder of a bloody industry that flared up and winked out, preserved in the form of a long-lost ship and the spout of a long-dead whale inked on a yellowing tooth. But that snapshot also reveals the emotional world of the men who were caught up in such an industry: what they valued, what they thought about, what they missed, and what they wanted to be remembered of them.

[ohwaitimthewriter]

Touchy-feely human!reader headcanon/imagine

Pairings: implied!Caesar x reader & implied!Noa x reader

Warnings: the holy fluff, and well huh, I got a TINY BITTY carried away with Noa's.

Requested:

A/N: DON'T LOOK AT ME I'M DYING (from embarrassment)

Enjoy your reading 😁

Planet of the apes Masterlist.

Being physical to express your emotions may be second nature to you, but I think with Caesar it may have taken a while before you succumbed to the temptation.

I mean, he's quite impressive, let's face it, intimidating even! So being able to enter his personal space without shaking like a leaf or tripping over your own feet is complicated at first.

But Caesar is observant, so he'll spot this trait in you pretty quickly because you'll express it with other apes like Maurice when you gently put your hand on his shoulder to thank him for teaching you a few words in sign language, or with Rocket when you give him a light shoulder tap, laughing as Rocket tells you a funny story about his son and Blue Eyes, for example.

He'll spot the way you press your hand against the forearm of the apes you're saying hello to, or, when you're in a playful mood, the way you'll sprawl your full weight on Ash's or Blue Eyes' backs, arms dangling around their shoulders, as they sit chatting and you just want to tease and disturb them in whatever they were discussing.

And he's going to wonder. Why not him, you know? He'll even get a little jealous that you never dare to put your hands on him, because he's noticed it too, all those times when you have an impulse towards him but always end up retracting your hand halfway through, or whatever gesture you were intending to make.

And I even think that the first real contact will be initiated, or at least requested, by him!

I like to think of it like this:

It had been an exhausting day. You wondered why Ash and Blue Eyes had let you get involved in this crazy idea of teaching you to climb trees on your own.

Your body was aching all over. Your muscles were sore, and if your joints could talk, they'd translate the electric shocks that made every part of your body tense into salty insults.

You'd put your heart and soul into it, and you'd spared no effort, a little pride at having managed, after countless attempts, to climb halfway up a sequoia creeping into the center of your chest. Although, even stretching your muscles had become painful.

You sat cross-legged by the communal fire, forgetting to help yourself with a bowl of vegetables and fresh fruit for dinner, and let yourself be lulled to sleep by the flames, which reproduced an aerial dance, some stretching as far as they could towards the sky while others sprawled out and collapsed in on themselves.

Your lungs drew in a long sigh as your eyelids struggled not to close and let you drift off into the arms of Morpheus. The dance in which the flames twirled and waltzed didn't help you fight off sleep, and it wasn't until a bowl full of vegetables and fruit was placed at your feet that you came out of your somnolence, if only for a moment.

Caesar had just brought it to you and his green eyes caught yours. For a brief moment, they didn't seem to want to let go, as your irises were lost in the gentle waves of sleep that sought to draw you out to sea. A smile spread across your lips as you silently thanked him for his gift, and the effort caused you to close your eyes in another deep, peaceful sigh.

As you remained slumped, elbows resting on your knees to support your body on the verge of sinking into sleep, blindly grabbing a piece of fruit from the bowl to come and chew it languidly, you felt Caesar settle down beside you, his arm barely brushing yours, just enough to let you know he was there.

Caesar watched you slowly chew the apple you had grasped feebly. With your back bent, there was only your elbows on your knees to keep you from sprawling on the floor, and Caesar noticed the depth with which your chest rose and fell, leaving you in such a vulnerable state beside him. His presence didn't seem to upset your nervous system and, in fact, he could almost feel the soothing rush through your muscles as you struggled not to fall asleep.

And for once, Caesar wasn't thinking when he saw you rocking back and forth in the lullaby of sleep. An opportunity to show you that you could lean on him, and even to urge you to rely on him a little more, rather than those other apes to whom you dared to address a touch, a contact that supported your words or emotions. He wanted to show you that you could depend on him, and without a second thought, he leaned over, gently pressing his shoulder against yours to help you keep yourself upright and give you some stability so you could finish eating.

His fur came to tickle your skin along your arm and your body, numb with sleep, found itself irrevocably drawn to him, who transmitted his warmth to you in a shower of tingles where your bodies connected. And you couldn't do otherwise, so you closed the few centimetres that separated you from Caesar, slowly shuffling your way towards his warm form, and let part of your weight rest against his side. His warmth enveloped you like a feather blanket, and you were already ready to fall asleep against him if you didn't feel him moving his arm from time to time to eat, or his chest working to provide him with oxygen.

It was only when your head fell asleep against his shoulder that Caesar turned his eyes to you, his gaze softening only for you as he watched your sleeping form curled up beside him. A pleasant twist ran through his stomach and up into his chest, and if he didn't know better, he might have let it purr with delight because finally you were leaning on him.

In your drowsiness, and perhaps because your state no longer allowed you to keep your emotions in check, you draped your arm around his, your sleepy fingers sinking into his fur and unconsciously beginning to stroke his skin. And if you weren't sinking completely into the arms of Morpheus, you could have sworn you heard a soft moan as Caesar struggled not to show on his face the thousands of tingles that happily and tenderly enwrapped his heart.

And since that day, Caesar has had the honor of feeling your hands against his fur every time an emotion takes hold of you, and he never has to silently ask again, because that night you know he's given you permission to enter his personal space whenever you feel like it. A feeling of pride will make him even more impressive, appealing, when he realizes that you've stopped showing physical affection to the other apes, silently indicating to him that he's won the battle for your love because in reality, it's only him you want to lay your hands on or cuddle.

And he's very proud of it, almost bragging about it, not in words, no, but in the way he holds himself, his chest puffing out proudly when you're leaning on him to rest or when he's sitting down to discuss something somewhat important, you slip your arms around his neck and he can feel your chest pressing against his shoulder blades and your chin resting on the top of his head just because you want a hug and you've been waiting for him to finish talking for 3 hours but the conversation never seems to end.

His fur bristles where you're in contact with his body and he's not the least bit bothered by your weight on his back and just carries on his discussion with a pleasant little twist in the pit of his stomach, telling him that oh boy he should make you his mate right now, for all to see, while keeping his serious demeanor as he talks about solutions to the problems the colony is facing.

He may be trying hard to keep his face focused, but Maurice is no fool. He can see in Caesar's eyes that you're provoking a whirlwind of affectionate emotions in his friend's heart. A whirlwind you don't even seem to be aware of as you close your eyes, escaping a sigh of well-being as you rest even more against Caesar, knowing that no matter how much weight you put on him, he'll remain solidly upright, accepting with delight the sensation of your body pressed against his.

With Noa, I feel like it would be a lot easier and more natural. Like, we already see him being pretty physical with Soona and Anaya (thanks to the recently released deleted scene where we see even more of Noa having his hands hanging all over Soona and Anaya) in the movie. And so showing affection with physical contact with him would be a no-brainer.

And at first, these touches are perceived as simply friendly and almost normal. It's obvious to him that at some point, your hands are going to rest on him:

To thank him for helping you, and in these moments, you always slip your hand into his to give it a gentle squeeze, and every time he takes note of the delicacy of your skin against his, it fascinates him more and more until it becomes a slight obsession: he'll even go so far as to help you with random things you can do on your own, but no, he wants to feel your smooth, delicate skin against his, so he'll help you so you can thank him afterwards with your delicious touch.

To get his attention when he's working on something, and here he has the great satisfaction of feeling your fingers slip into the meanders of his fur at shoulder level, and if his fur bristles all along his spine in pleasant little tingles, he puts this reaction down to the fact that he wasn't expecting you to touch him. (Yeah, sure, it's only pure astonishment, NOA, as if he hadn't smelled you coming *winkwink*).

To say hello in the morning or good night in the evening, your hand fondly squeezes his bicep and, to Noa's delight (which he denies), sometimes you even wrap your arm around his arm in a small cuddle, leaning lightly against him, even if it's a very brief embrace, feeling the weight of your body resting against his creates a warm sensation that coils in the hollow of his chest and suddenly his lower lip drops loosely in a form of bliss, but of course this is completely NORMAL BETWEEN FRIENDS NOA YOU ARE IN MOST TOTAL DENIAL.

Hm. So, let's continue.

For Noa, it's natural and obvious that you're keen on the physical expression of your emotions. He even misses your touch if you don't see him during the day, or if you don't put your hands on him that very day.

No, where it gets interesting is when he realizes that he wants a little more from you than just friendship, and that making you his partner is seriously on his mind.

And oh boy, from this moment on, every physical contact you initiate will become an internal emotional turmoil for Noa beyond words.

And here's a little scene I'm imagining:

Noa wasn't quite sure how he'd ended up with your hands working along his fur near his shoulder. And he wasn't quite sure it mattered as he forced himself to keep his eyes focused on the ripples of the river at his feet.

He could hear you apologizing to him as your fingers carefully dug into his fur, removing the bits of mud that had embedded themselves there. The lapping of the water as you dipped your hands inside to clean them before returning to peck at his brown fur sounded like a melodious bird song in his ears. Occasionally, your fingertips would graze his skin underneath, producing a fine shower of tingling that would spread from the surface of his epidermis to the depths of his guts. And he had no choice but to take a deep breath through his nose, perhaps louder than he would have liked, to calm the sudden funny satisfying twist that came to tickle his stomach.

With the gentleness with which you worked, Noa's muscles tensed in eager anticipation of feeling your skin roam carelessly over his body, and each of your movements became a soft stroke that he silently craved for, as if it were his rightful due.

A damp piece of cloth slid down his shoulder and Noa was almost disappointed not to feel your delicate skin buried in his fur. Disappointed, but only for a short time, as once again your hands began to work, this time on the base of his neck.

You watched Noa tilt his head slightly forward, giving you greater access to the back of his neck, and you could have sworn you heard a rumbling vibrate in his chest as your fingers gently grasped the stained fur and pulled away the mud that had gathered there.

Noa closed his eyes to focus. These images of you draped around him as your hands would roam shamelessly around discovering his body and perhaps your lips would venture down his neck and he suddenly wondered what it would feel like, to feel your breath come crashing against his fur. And if the urge to sink his canines into your skin to claim you as his mate went round and round in his head, he wondered what it would feel like, to feel your smooth teeth, harmless as they were, come to grip the base of his neck. He was already anticipating the pinch he'd feel, not real pain, but the effort of proclaiming him as yours was already very alluring in his mind.

The pain that emerged along his jaw kept him grounded, and when your hand exerted a light pressure on his shoulder to draw his attention, he was desperately hoping that his thought-dilated pupils had retracted back to their usual aspect when he opened his eyes to look at you again.

Unlike your hands, your smile was like gravity, silently thanking you for being able to keep him grounded with a gesture as simple as stretching your lips on either side of your face in a benevolent manner.

"All done!"

The cheerfulness in your voice almost made him regret the end of the little grooming session he would have loved to lose himself in forever. And he swore that one day, when the time was right, he would return the favor with the firm intention of carrying on the session until you became fully his.

So I was saying… internal emotional turmoil.

[unholyhelbig]

https://www.tumblr.com/unholyhelbig/748001277238181888/ive-reread-the-entirety-of-oversight-again-and

i’ve done this as well. i think u should 😌😏😉☺️🥰

Title: Rose Colored Glasses [An Oversight Oneshot]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Reader gets word that Natasha is hurt and rushes home to assess the situation.

Warnings(PLEASE READ): injury to nose & foot, slight blood, and shrimp

[a/n: Did someone request more oversight? Because I've got you covered. This is pure fluff, sorry for the lack of angst! It's short, and sweet, and not proof read because I don't have time :( ]

Check out the full Oversight universe

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

A quiet house was never a good sign. Growing up in the foster care system teeming with other wards of the state had taught you that. Often, you were three or four to a room. There were bunk beds with sheets slotted against the ceiling or stuffed under the mattress above your own, just for some type of barrier. It was an illusion of privacy, most of the time. Because houses like that were never quiet.

When you’d moved in across from Darcy after your 18th birthday, things weren’t quiet. Above you was a Latin-American couple that would wait until just past midnight to turn on a slow, rhythmic song and dance. Their steps were soft, and calculated. They carved out time for one another every single night between shifts. Just for the two of them. You often let the thumping base lull you to sleep.

The city was just outside your window. In the summer, you could prop it open with a brick and let the sounds of cars become a backdrop. There were sirens, and when the fire hydrant on the corner was loosened, the world welcomed a cold blast of water, sprinkling into the street. That was the opposite of quiet. That made your chest feel light, and warm.

After marrying Natasha Romanoff, you settled into the loudness of her home. Your home. Veronica was constantly running around the twists and turns of the bottom floor, Clint or Kate or Darcy galloping after her with a big smile on their face. They slowed themselves to make sure they didn’t break anything, but they wanted her to win, too.

Yelena often came with the muffled sounds of Russian techno bands coming from the headphones around her neck. It was a staple to find her in the kitchen with her head down, slicing into an apple from the backyard with precision unknown. Natasha would tug the headphones off to get her attention, or to send her into annoyance.

The night that Natasha got hurt was stifled with the sound of rain. It had soaked you to the bone, dripping onto the linoleum floor and then the carpet as you ascended the stairs two at a time. You’d been at the docks later than usual, the storm that had plagued the side of the harbor was relentless and delayed shipments.

The captain of the shipping boat your family had utilized for decades wanted to discuss something over whatever crap coffee you could beat out of the machine in your office. He spoke with a thick southern drawl, his mustache was encrusted with salt and sand. You had shed your coat and tried to warm yourself up by hugging your mug to your chest. Nothing seemed to work.

While you weren’t opposed to giving the man a raise, you were not the final say. Natasha was, and you figured he could use the company more than anything. The captain flicked through books that were on the shelf, taking two or three for his next journey out to sea. It was like clockwork with him, and you indulged his need for quiet companionship each time.

When your phone rang, you never looked at the caller ID. Those who were privileged enough to get your number knew to talk without any of the pleasantries that they were used to. Clint’s voice came through the receiver in a smooth, hushed tone that made you believe he wasn’t supposed to be calling you in the first place.

“Look, y/n, there’s been an… incident.”

“What kind of incident?”

He was meant to escort her to one of the many cocktail parties that Carlos LaMuerto was throwing at his mansion that bordered the same body of water that you resided on now. They were lovely get-togethers that you often attended with your wife. This, however, was the fourth one this month and your stomach was turning at the idea of another cocktail shrimp and lamb pate.

Clint had offered, seeing the desperation in your eyes. And while Natasha was reluctant, she ultimately agreed. No news of a bust had reached you yet, nor had a gun blazing argument. While the Captain licked his dry lips and scanned the books in front of him, you continued in hushed tones.

“Nat’s hurt. It’s not a big deal, you can finish up your business. She’s just being stubborn is all.”

An escaped sigh “I’ll be there.”

No shit, she was being stubborn. Your wife was bull-headed and wouldn’t admit to the smallest defeat. It eased your nerves slightly, and only slightly, that Clint said it wasn’t a big deal. No gunshot to the back, or knife to the throat. It wasn’t good enough, however.

Natasha would be upset that you tracked mud into the house and left your boots sloshing by the door. You were panting by the time you reached the double doors that led to your bedroom. They were, of course, blocked by Clint and Kate. Yelena was leaning lazily against the railing that was parallel. She regarded you with an uninterested stare.

“You did not have to come here.” She said, “We’ve got it handled.”

“She kicked all of you out, didn’t she?”

“What? She certainly did not!”

Yelena’s voice pitched with her lie. Kate’s cheeks turned an off-shade of pink and Clint just rthe hallway, that was a good sign. Still, neither of the two moved to let you into your own room.

“If you’re not going to get out of the way, can you at least tell me what happened?”

There was a muffled reply from behind the door. With the way that the voice flitted, you knew that she was trapped on the bed. Otherwise, she would have leveled you with a glare right here and now. The words were simple “Do it, you die.”

“Oh, come on,” You whispered harshly, turning your attention to Kate instead. She was the easiest to break. “Katie, what is the harm in letting me through? I’m going to catch my death if I stay in these clothes.”

“Catch your death?” Clint scoffed “What are you? A poet from the 1800’s?”

“I’m about to be breaking your fingers if you don’t-“

“You can’t even break wind,”

The two of your voices combined as you kept at it. You didn’t’ miss the wary look that Kate shot Yelena. One way or another, you’d get into your room. You refused to be banished to the couch again, especially in wet clothes. If you had to threaten ruining the rugs with your muddy footprints, so be it.

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” You held up both of your hands, silencing the chaos of the corridor. “Nat, you are my wife, you’re hurt. Whether you like it or not, I’m coming in. Does anyone have any objections?”

Kate went to raise her hand, but Yelena yanked it back down and shook her head no. You tore into Clint with a look that could drop him dead. He relented and stepped away from the door. While you had a moment of peace, you walked into the dark of the room. She’d turned out the lights, save for the half-moon that showed a pale pattern against the carpet.

When you reached for the light switch on the wall, Natasha let out a noise that was similar to a wounded animal. You halted, your actions and made out her form on the bed. She was folded in on herself, her silhouette rigid.

“Baby,” you cooed, closing the distance between you and the bed. She grunted again, this time in pain. She attempted to turn away from you. You lowered yourself onto the sliver of bed, approaching the situation softly. “Can I turn on a light?”

“No, I’m hideous.”

You chuckled softly “I highly doubt that, my love. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Natasha had never liked being vulnerable around you. It had taken a full weekend of you nursing her back to her feet after the incident on the pier for her to let herself cry. You held her for hours, her nose pressed against the small of your neck. She’d gripped onto you, as if you’d leave. But you never would.

Eventually, you saw her shadow nod. Before she could change her mind, you flicked on the lamp on the side table. It didn’t’ have a far reach, but the light was less harsh on the both of you. It was impossible not to notice the blood that had dried against Natasha’s nose, a split right down the middle.

You’d seen her with broken bones before, bruises that wrapped around her midsection. You’d put ace bandage around her ribs after drawing her a bath. This was nothing to be ashamed about. In fact, she often saw them as battle scars that would heal in a pink gash.

Her foot was wrapped up with a bag of peas and one of frozen carrots that Clint, or even Yelena had situated. There was bruising around her ankle, it looked painful and you internally winced at the coloring. She groaned into the small of her elbow.

“I want to die”

“Natty, it’s okay. This is nothing a cozy weekend inside can’t fix.”

She said something that was quiet and muffled by her arm. You didn’t understand her one bit, but she squeezed a single tear from her eye that you wiped away dutifully before it could reach the silk of sheets.

“What was that, baby?” You asked gently.

She threw both of her hands down and glared at the ceiling. Her fingers eventually found yours, squeezing your palm in reflex. Her words came out in a quick breath, “I tripped over a carpet at the stupid dinner party and hit my face on the catering table.”

You were effectively silenced. That was very un-Natasha. But lately, you and Clint had been pestering her about her eyesight, especially at night. It wasn’t something she wanted to hear. In fact, each time you brought up the idea of glasses, she would effectively silence you with a glare, or even a kick to the shin under the kitchen table if you had company.

You bit the inside of your cheek and ran your thumb over her hand. She clutched your hand tighter. Now was certainly not the time to laugh, and while you fought back the initial giggle, you were more concerned about your wife.

“I’m so embarrassed.”

“I bet you got right back up.” You said, pressing your palm against her cheek. “None of those fancy party types would dare question your influence on this city.”

“Shrimp went flying everywhere.” Natasha pouted.

“Everyone was tired of shrimp anyway, even the shrimp.”

She grasped at the collar of your jacket and pulled you closer to her, pressing her lips against your own. They were warm, the warmest thing that you’ve felt since getting caught in the passing storm. You were careful not to lean on her ribs, breathing in the rosewater scent of her.

Natasha pressed her forehead against yours, running a hand up your spine. She grimaced. “You’re all wet.”

“Well now I am,” You smirked against her jawline, leaving a little nip in your wake. “You need to get glasses.”

“Don’t change the subject. You’re getting the sheets all damp, and you smell like fish.”

“I smell like fish?” You giggled, pressing a kiss to the exposed part of her neck. You felt Natasha laugh too, using her hands to cover her face from the blush that was blooming against her cheeks. “We’re talking about me?”

She laughed harder, attempting to shove you off but you let your body go slack against her, not using your arms to hold yourself up anymore. “Yes! Go shower!”

“Mm, but you’re so warm.”

“You’re not going to be warm if I make you sleep on the couch.”

You gasped dramatically, pulling your head off her stomach and meeting her dark green stare. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me. After the day I’ve had, I refuse to sleep next to my wife when she smells like a marina.”

Even while she said it, her voice was gentle, her fingers working over your scalp to brush the wet hair from your eyes. You pulled yourself up to give her another peck on the lips, careful to avoid the split nose and busted ankle.

“Fine, but only because you need more aspirin.”

She grunted, crossing her arms over her chest. “Can’t believe I let you through my defenses.”

“Uh-huh. Get some rest. I’m going to go talk to your defenses about getting you an appointment with an optometrist.”

You turned to move towards the bathroom, already craving the warmth of a shower and some clean pajamas. Two steps from the doorway and you felt a plush throw pillow hit you directly on the back of the head. Natasha had amazing aim, always had, and always would.

You bent down and picked up the gold upholstered pillow, giving her a faux glare. “You’re not getting this back.”

“Oh, come on, baby.” She stuck out her lower lip “I have to prop up my foot.”

“You should have thought of that before you launched it at my head.”

 [Taglist🕷♡: @dumbasslesbi, @lostremind, @toouncreativeforausername @autorasexy @eringranola @mikookaaaaaao @marvelwoman-simp @pacmanmiles @mostlymarvelsstuff, @mrsrushman, @milfsandtittyenthusiast, @random-raccoon4, @ravenromanova, @mysticalmoonlight7, @ahintofchaos@cowboyboots236 @lissaaaa145, @natsxwife@a-spes, @kyleeservopoulos]

[chernabogs]

BERCEUSE

Inc: Meleanor, Raverne, Mallegg, Lilia, and Baby Silver Warnings: None WC: 1.3k Summary: Berceuse: A quiet song to lull a child to sleep (Promptober day 3)

She remembers it from her father. This fact often takes people by surprise when they first learn it. No one would have expected the former king consort, rest his soul, to be the type to hum lullabies to his daughter to soothe away nightmares—but he was. He was a calm man beneath the rough exterior of sea-born and battle crafted that he presented as. Softer, to balance out the typhoon that was her mother’s personality when it came to matters of ruling. 

Meleanor remembers very little of her father beyond the lullaby. On occasion something will trigger a memory of him—a certain smell, or a certain sound—but the image of his face in her mind appears to be held under water. His features are ripples, his voice like a hymn, and the phantom touch of his hand holding her own is a weighted reminder of loss. Many people passed condolences to her mother when her father died, but they all seemed to forget the impact it had on her, as well. She remembers standing at her mother’s side during the pyrrhic burning of his corpse, humming the lullaby to herself, only to be silenced by a hand on her head.

It was the last time she had dared sing the song out loud until Malleus had been born. Despite still developing within his egg, he was a restless thing, constantly shifting and squirming and making the egg tremble in precarious positions. If he was born a live birth then one would have diagnosed him as ‘colic’—crying and fussing for reasons. Raverne had joked one time, when the egg had nearly fallen off of its perch from the movement of the baby within, that Malleus was swiftly developing a typhoon-like personality himself.

Despite smiling, Meleanor had seriously hoped her boy was more like his father then the temperamental Draconia line. 

When Raverne disappears (not dead; she rebuked that notion) and she’s left to care for a war and a baby on her own, Malleus’ inability to remain still sends her to a near breaking point. It’s hard to divert your attention between making sure your nation doesn’t collapse and making sure your baby doesn’t crack his own egg open because he just has to get a move on. It’s in this borderline breakdown she’s having (in private, mind you) that she returns to it. She hadn’t forgotten the song over the years, but it had become a taboo to her, to consider forming the sounds with her voice once more.

But for Malleus—for the warm evidence of life and of love that she cradles—it’s a taboo that she’s willing to break. When she begins to hum the song in a voice that’s shaky from disuse and slightly out of tune, the movements she feels beneath the fragile shell exterior began to still, and the outline she can see of her precious son seem to settle in a fetal position. If she was to consider it, she’d say that he’s fallen asleep in her arms at the sound.

She becomes bold in its use after that. Alone in the throne room or before an audience of her court, if it serves as a means to comfort her baby, then she will use it. She won’t allow him to feel as cold and as forgotten as she had when she stood before that pyrrhic marker of an end. When the war escalates, she sings it. When the Silver Owls surround Wild Rose, she sings it. When the feeling of a blade cutting through the scales upon her breast drags her world to darkness, she sings it. 

A lullaby to soothe a son. A swan song to herald an end. 

_______________________________

He knew it from her. Lilia had spent many hours in the company of the royal couple before the picturesque life they lived was shattered, and in doing so he had been privy to many things. An engagement, a wedding, and the delicate bond between a mother and her son. 

He used to scoff at that bond. His lip would curl whenever his future of babysitting was brought up in discussion, drawing amused teasing from Raverne at the notion of ‘Uncle Lilia’—a title he would vehemently deny. He used to tell himself that he would never bring a child of his blood in the world, that there would never be a baby in his arms, and that there would be no ‘uncle’ for the future prince. 

He kept most of those intentions true. He never did bring forth a child of his blood, and he certainly was not carrying any ‘uncle’ title at the moment—another five-letter word beginning with ‘e’ and ending with ‘e’ serves in its place. 

He did, however, misjudge the second intention. 

Red faced and fussy, Silver is making it abundantly clear that he’s not to be disregarded in the moment. He’s wailing, and crying, and his pudgy cheeks are wet with tears as he refuses to be put down for the night. Lilia has probably paced around the kitchen for almost an hour at this point patting Silvers back, and kissing those cheeks, and speaking in the most soothing tone he can muster while trying to refrain from breaking down himself.

Lilia had never expected to come to love the little guy, but he knows it to be true by the way his heart is aching the more he sees Silver in such an upset. 

“Please, please,” he whispers softly, kissing Silver’s forehead again as the baby’s voice increased in volume. “Shh, you’re okay, little one. It’s all going to be okay. I’m right here.”

‘Colic’ is a term he read in a human parenting guide. The book defines it as the state in which a perfectly healthy baby cries for no reason beyond just apparently wanting to. Mind you, Lilia has gone through the checklist to make sure there isn’t actually something wrong. Silver was fed, had his position changed, was rocked, and was bathed. Lilia had shown him pictures and rubbed his back and even floated in the air with him for a while to see if that would work. He had tried a pacifier, and a baby swing, and all of the cuddles Silver could possibly need. Hell, he had even reached out to Baul, who was just as lost as he was on what to do. 

Silver, it seems, just likes to make his feelings known. 

“You are my sunshine… oh for fucks—fudge—sake,” Lilia sighs, looking up to the ceiling as he continues to bounce Silver gently. His exhausted mind scrambles for any other solutions that might be at his disposal until a memory finally resurfaces. It’s distorted, as though held under water, but the sound of it is as clear as day. In his final attempt to put his baby and his heart at ease, Lilia shifts to hold Silver just a touch closer, and begins to hum a song he had long hoped to forget. 

At first, Silver doesn’t buy it. He continues to cry and fuss in his fathers’ arms—until finally his auroral eyes open, still brimming with tears, and he looks up at the other in interest. His wails die down to the softest sniffles, his pudgy hands stop waving in the air, and he simply looks curious for a while. Lilia continues to hum and to rock his boy until Silver’s apparent ability to fall asleep with ease returns, and the baby goes from a typhoon of emotion to a picturesque infant. 

Lilia’s breath leaves him slowly as he presses another kiss to Silver’s brow and sends a silent word of thanks to the stars. In his mind, he can see Meleanor and Raverne’s smug expressions at the sight of this as Lilia carries Silver back to his crib. 

A swan song to herald an end. A lullaby to soothe a son.

[silkjade]

Plsss I need more of that wriothesley x mermaid!reader au !!!!!

cw: fem!reader, no pronouns mentioned a/n: continuation of this previous post

because of the whole primordial seawater issue, it’s not quite safe enough for you to return back to the waters just yet. to pass the time, you spend your days helping sigewinne in the infirmary, which wriothesley seems to start visiting much more frequently

“ah, head nurse! it seems i’ve burned myself on the kettle.”

“sigewinne, i’m worried this paper cut will get infected if it doesn’t get treated immediately.”

at some point she asks if she should just send you up to his office as his round-the-clock nurse... nevertheless, she patches him up with a smile

and before he returns back to work, he always asks you to kiss it better

most nights, you keep him company in his office while he burns the midnight oil, although you prove to be a pretty big distraction. with the way you're propped over the edge of the tank, clinging onto every word as he tells you of past prison stories--well, it really feels like he could talk to you forever

on particularly stressful nights, you'd sing him old sea lullabies and he'd peacefully drift off to the beguiling lull of your voice. he's not entirely sure, but sometimes he hears the words 'goodnight, your grace' in his dreams

and when the chief justice summons him to the palais mermonia for a routine discussion regarding the fortress, wriothesley invites you to tag along. afterall, the overworld does have much more to offer

“the meeting shouldn’t take too long, and we'd have the rest of the day to ourselves. so? how 'bout it?”

the toothiest grin breaks across his face when you enthusiastically agree

“alright, it’s a date then”

a/n2: ok dis is gonna be the last :’D

[starrylothcat]

♡ Home ♡

The Bad Batch Ask You to Live With Them Headcanons

Pairing: Individual Bad Batch x GN Reader.

Warnings: Fluff, fluff, fluff. Smooching. Everyone is happy on Pabu AU. 🫶

A/N: This is just some silly fluff I wrote at work today. It was hot AF and I’m still sweating so I apologize for any errors, not really proofread.

⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩

Scenario: You and The Bad Batch have been settled on Pabu for some time. Long-held feelings between you and your Batcher finally had the opportunity to blossom as you eased into a peaceful island routine. You are happy, your love for one another secure and strong.

You’ve discussed moving in together, but island life is calm and your lives are no longer in a rush. You haven’t made that leap in your relationship quite yet, but little did you know your Batcher had plans…

Hunter

You were sitting on the beach, the sun’s last rays catching the calm sea as stars twinkled into view.

Hunter’s arm was wrapped around you, holding you close against him, his head leaning on yours.

“You know that cottage we walk by every day, the one with the garden?” Hunter mumbled, gently tracing his fingers up and down your arm.

“Yeah…I’m surprised no one has moved in there yet. It’s in a perfect location.” You murmured, his fingers putting you in a relaxed trance.

“It is perfect.” He said, his smokey voice lulling you further into a relaxed, carefree state. “I can’t wait to see what you do with the garden.”

You shifted your head to look at him, confusion in your expression, his fingers stopping their caress.

“Omega wants to try to plant meilooruns.” He met your gaze. “And she’s already picking out decorations for her room.”

“Hunter…” you started. “What are you saying?”

Hunter pressed his forehead to yours. “It’s ours. If you want.” He ghosted his lips across your own. “All I have to do is give the word to Shep.”

Your breath hitched.

“Hunter, you mean, that cottage…? It’s really ours?”

He nodded, gently tracing his fingertips across your cheek, the fading sun reflecting in his honeyed eyes.

“I love you, and Omega does too. We’ve spent so much time on the run, never knowing what comes next. It’s time…to put it behind us. Settle down for good. And I want you to be part of that. But if you’re not-“

You grabbed the collar of his shirt and tugged him in for a passionate kiss, his arms immediately pulling you close to him.

“Hunter, yes.“ You beamed, breaking the kiss. “I love you, too.”

Hunter smiled, nuzzling his nose against yours, never having felt so content in his entire life, excited for this next chapter in your relationship.

Echo

You had just closed up your shop and were waiting for Echo. He promised to take you out tonight and told you he was planning something special.

He met you at your shop, kissing you deeply as his hello.

“Hello to you, too.” You giggled, slightly flustered at his kiss as he looped his arm with yours. “Where are you taking me tonight?”

“It’s still a surprise, mesh’la.” He winked, leading you down a a few quiet roads.

“There aren’t any restaurants up here.” You gave him a look, having no idea what he had planned.

Echo didn’t say anything, the evening lights flickering on throughout the island, casting warm glows onto the street.

A few more turns and Echo stopped. You stood in front of a cottage, a soft glow of light coming from the front windows.

“Echo-“ He just smiled, leading you up the cobbled path to the home.

“Echo, if your idea of a date is breaking and entering…” you teased, still confused as to what was going on.

Echo chuckled, opening the door to the cottage, surprising you that it was open.

“Just trust me, mesh’la.”

You stepped inside, gasping slightly. The cottage was empty, save for a blanket that was spread on the ground in what would be the living room.

A few candles were the only light source, highlighting the picnic that was spread across the blanket, and two empty glasses for the bottle of wine that sat in the middle of the spread.

You looked at him, still just as lost as before.

“It’s not much, but I figured we should celebrate the first night in our house.”

You opened and closed your mouth, processing his words.

“Our…house? Echo, you mean…?”

He wrapped his arms around you, hugging you tight.

“I love you and…I want to spend every moment together. Build a life…together. I saw this cottage was available and talked to Shep. It’s ours if we want it.”

Tears clouded your vision as you kissed him, overwhelmed by his words. You nodded excitedly against his lips, your heart ready to burst with joy.

“Me too, Echo. I love you. I want to build a life with you, too.”

He smiled, wiping the tears from your cheeks.

“Let’s crack open that wine then, shall we?”

Tech

Tech had been busy as of late, which is normal. He always had some project or idea that was occupying his mind.

But you knew something strange was going on when he kept hiding his datapad from you, or quickly pushing flimis under other piles of half-worked on gadgets whenever you walked into his room.

Finally, you decided to ask what he was working on, and what has been so intensely engrossing his mind the last few weeks.

“Can I ask what it is you’re working on?” You queried as you lounged on his bed in his room, watching him work.

He turned to you, and it looked like he was hesitating, and almost nervous to say something.

He let out a breath and fully faced you.

“We’ve been together romantically for some time now…” he started. “And we are happy, correct?”

You raised you eyebrow, nodding. “Yes, of course Tech. I love you.”

“As I you.” He stated. “So I have been pondering of what should come next, and I determined it was time to begin the next phase of our relationship, if you agree.”

Tech held out his datapad toward you as you stared at him, wondering what he was going on about.

“I began investigating homes we could share. There are plenty of available cottages throughout the island which I have researched thoroughly, though none are up to my standards.”

Tech adjusted his goggles as heat began to flush your cheeks.

“So, I took it upon myself to explore ways on how to build one myself.”

Your heart fluttered at his words as you sat up completely. “Tech, you want to build us a house?”

“Precisely. If you want to cohabitate with me, that is.” The last part of his statement came out quiet, as if he wasn’t sure of what your answer would be.

You peeked at the datapad, which had blueprint schematics of a cottage, all designed by him.

You looked back at him, not stopping the large smile on your face as Tech fidgeted, waiting for your response.

“Tech…” you said softly. “Yes, I’d love to live with you. I want it more than anything.”

You watched as his shoulders seemed to relax as you set down the datapad, closing the distance between the two of you.

Tech took your hand, his thumb gently tracing over yours.

“Of course, I’ll need your input on the final design, but I think you’ll approve of what I have so far.”

You smiled, leaning into him, his other arm holding you close. “As long as I’m with you, it’ll be perfect.”

Wrecker

Wrecker was giddy, practically dragging you down the road as he picked up his pace.

“Wrecker, where are we going?! Wait a sec, you’re walking too fast!” You could barely match his strides.

“You’re gonna love it, I promise! We are almost there!”

After another turn down a street, Wrecker finally stopped at the end of a row of small cottages.

“Here!” He exclaimed loudly, gesturing to you to follow him.

“Wrecker, what is this?!” You gasped, out of breath.

“It’s our new house! I know we talked about having our own place awhile ago and…here it is!” Wrecker excitedly tugged you in through the front door, your mind trying to play catch up to what he was saying.

You stepped inside, Wrecker eagerly pointing to different areas of the cottage.

“The windows in the kitchen are big, so we can have a great view while we cook together. That was the first thing I thought of…” Wrecker blushed as he turned, pointing to the door that led to a back patio.

“Oh, and look at the porch! Ya can grow all the herbs you’ve been wanting to! And wait until you see the view out the bedroom window-“

Wrecker stopped, noticing how quiet you were being.

You were gazing around the empty house, your mind spinning with surprise and happiness.

You were moved at Wrecker’s excitement and having a home to call your own, with him, not expecting this in the slightest.

Tears were sliding down your cheeks, and you didn’t even notice until Wrecker’s large hand was gently wiping them away.

“Mesh’la, I’m sorry, I got carried away. If ya aren’t ready I understand, or if ya don’t like this cottage we can-“ Wrecker sighed, thinking he ruined everything. “I’m sorry if it’s too much.”

You looked up at him, smiling.

“Wrecker, this is more than I could have ever wanted. I love this. I love you.” You placed your hand over his that was now cradling your face. “I want this.”

Wrecker smiled, relief washing over him.

“Now, tell me again about the kitchen?” You laughed, happy tears still running down your face as Wrecker kissed your cheeks, laughing with you in your new home.

Crosshair

You were laying with your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as you almost drifted off to sleep, Crosshair’s arm keeping you close to him.

You noticed he had been a little on edge today, restless and fidgeting more than usual.

You suggested a nap, which he agreed to.

He continued to be restless, though, not able to get comfortable as you laid on him.

“Want to go for a walk?” He grunted, shifting under you.

You lifted your head, blinking a few times. “Sure.” You smiled sleepily, sitting up from your laying position.

You often went on walks in the evening, a ritual you began not long after you became a couple.

You walked quietly under the full moon, the streets silent. Crosshair’s hand found yours, enjoying one another’s presence as you strolled through the winding avenues.

You let Crosshair lead the way, and you walked up into a cluster of cottages that you often passed by on your walks.

You’ve mentioned before how you like this part of Pabu, this subset of cottages getting the best view of the sunset.

Crosshair suddenly stopped, still grasping your hand.

“Is everything ok?” You asked, wondering why he stopped so suddenly.

He looked at you as he lifted your hand, turning your palm up, his silver hair almost indistinguishable from the moonlight casting down on the two of you.

“I was going to wait until tomorrow, but here.”

Crosshair placed a small key in the center of your palm, closing your fingers around it.

“Crosshair, what is this?” You asked softly, confused as to what he was doing.

“It’s ours.” He stated. “The one with the blue door.” You glanced behind him at the cottage with said blue door.

You focused back on him, trying to piece together what he was saying, his expression unreadable.

“What do you mean?” Your voice quivered, clutching the key.

“You know what I mean, doll.” His tone was soft. “It has the best view of the sunset. I made sure of that.”

You practically jumped at him, swinging your arms around him and crushing yourself into his chest, tears pricking at your eyes.

“Crosshair, I-“

He leaned his head on yours, his lips brushing against your forehead. You didn’t need to finish your sentence.

“It’s ours, now?” You whispered.

“As of yesterday.”

You looked up at him. “How did you know I’d say yes?”

Crosshair smirked, his lips close to yours. “You did, didn’t you?”

You smirked back, his lips capturing yours in the moonlight in front of your new home.

Taglist: @littlemissmanga @secondaryrealm @sinfulsalutations @anxiouspineapple99 @secretthegriffin @idontgetanysleep @starqueensthings @dystopicjumpsuit @wings-and-beskar @dreamie411 @aconstructofamind @coraex @multi-fan-dom-madness @freesia-writes @kashasenpai @wanderer-six @blueink-bluesoul @the-cantina @king-chaos-world @wolffegirlsunite @523rdrebel @dukeoftheblackstar @pb-jellybeans @sleepingsun501 @sunshinesdaydream @din-miller

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter One Hundred

Despite the turmoil swirling around the realm, the days on Dragonstone seemed almost deceptively calm. The once heavy grey clouds that had hung over the island for weeks began to thin, allowing the sun to break through and bathe the volcanic rock in rare warmth. The sea that surrounded the fortress shimmered under the soft sunlight, casting fleeting illusions of peace. It was as if nature itself offered a brief respite from the tension of the looming war.

Maera felt that shift as well, both in her surroundings and within herself. The wound on her arm had completely healed, the scar barely visible now. The pain had faded, replaced by a newfound energy. She was no longer bound by recovery and was eager to return to the skies on dragonback, contributing to the war effort and finding time for herself.

Since Prince Daeron had flown south to the Stormlands, Maera had been assigned a new route—across the western side of the Narrow Sea. Her task was crucial: she needed to ensure the fleet of Morne was prepared and positioned for the eventual attack on the Capital when the time came.

Yet even though she embraced the odd tranquility, the betrayal of the Dragonseeds loomed over every decision. Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White’s defection had thrown their carefully laid plans into disarray. There was no longer a definitive timeline for the invasion. The uncertainty gnawed at the Green Council, but they were not without recourse.

A newly formed faction of nobles, led by the cunning Lord Unwin Peake, now called themselves the Caltrops. Their singular goal: to assassinate Hugh and Ulf and restore order. It was a delicate operation, one they carefully plotted, keeping the Green Council informed but biding their time until the perfect moment to strike.

Despite the complications caused by the rogue Dragonseeds, not all plans had been derailed. The Hand, Ser Criston Cole, had already departed for the Riverlands, where he was gathering and readying the ground troops. For now, all Maera and the other players in this intricate game of power could do was wait. It was a tense lull, the kind that stretched nerves thin and made every small action feel laden with weight amongst the remaining members of the Green Council.

In the meantime, Maera turned her attention to her other duties, filling her days with tasks that would otherwise have been mundane but now served as distractions. Her Ladies were a constant presence, helping her maintain some semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos. Lady Fossoway, ever diligent, had already begun making small preparations for the formal ceremony to name Prince Daeron as the official Prince of Dragonstone.

Though the event was still some time away, there was much to consider: the banners, the guests, the feast. Each detail needed careful planning, and Lady Fossoway took to the task with a seriousness that reflected the gravity of the moment. The announcement would solidify Daeron’s place within the Targaryen dynasty, an acknowledgment of his role should Aemond not have a son.

Lady Swyft, on the other hand, busied herself with Maera’s wardrobe. Having noticed that many of the Queen’s dresses had become uncomfortably tight around her hips and bust, she took it upon herself to remedy the situation. Seamstresses were summoned, and fabrics were examined, discussed, and chosen with care. The women muttered and measured, their deft fingers working to let out seams and add panels where needed. The changes were subtle yet necessary, for Maera’s figure had grown fuller once more.

The Queen’s lady assured her that it was normal, for a woman’s body to change after childbirth, and that noblewomen often found their figures altered even moons after they had given birth. Tiredness created hunger, she explained kindly, which led to eating more, and in turn, a little weight gain. It was nothing to be ashamed of, Lady Swyft insisted, even hinting that it could be healthy.

Maera tried to take comfort in her words, telling herself that it did not bother her. After all, she had given birth to Aemara, a child of dragon’s blood and royal lineage. Such changes were a small price to pay for the continuation of their house. Yet, each time Lady Swyft brought in a newly altered gown, panels and extra stitching added to accommodate her changing shape, Maera couldn’t help but feel a pang of self-consciousness. She saw it in the way the fabric hugged her now fuller hips, the way the bodices strained slightly against her enlarged bust.

In the quiet moments, when she was alone in her chambers, Maera found herself scrutinizing her reflection. The mirror offered an unflinching gaze at the woman she had become, a Queen in the midst of war, a rider of a gigantic and fearsome dragon, a mother to a Targaryen princess, and a wife to a king. She traced her fingers along the seams of her altered gowns, feeling every added inch as though it marked some personal failing.

Lady Vance, the elderly and old-fashioned courtier, took it upon herself to lecture the Queen on the matter of vanity and self-acceptance. In her stern and matronly manner, she insisted that such conceit should not be acknowledged, reminding Maera that women were as the Mother had made them, and it was a woman’s duty to accept her form with grace. Lady Vance’s words were filled with an unwavering certainty that came from years of strict adherence to tradition and piety, but they did little to comfort Maera.

One person who did understand Maera’s struggles on a personal level was Lady Tarth, who had become known by given name, Serenne. In the last few months, the young lady had become more than just the Queen’s secretary. She had become a confidante, a friend in the truest sense. The two women found solace in each other’s company, often spending time together when the other Ladies were busy with their duties.

Most of their time was spent in the large nursery of Dragonstone, a haven away from the prying eyes and expectations of the court. Here, they would sit on the plush rugs and thick blankets, surrounded by the soft sounds of their children at play. Aemara, now nearing eight months old, was beginning to explore the world on her hands and knees. The little princess crawled around on the carpet, her tiny fingers reaching out to grasp at the colorful toys that lay scattered around her. Her laughter filled the room, a sweet and innocent sound that brought a warmth to Maera’s heart.

Lady Serenne’s son, affectionately called ‘little Bryn’ by Maera, was just as happy to play amidst the abundance of toys that had been provided for them. He was a curious child, with eyes that seemed to take in everything around him with a quiet intelligence. While Aemara explored her surroundings with the wide-eyed wonder of a child discovering the world for the first time, Bryn was content to sit amidst his treasures, stacking blocks and inspecting each toy with a focused determination.

As their children played, Maera and Lady Serenne would engage in hours of conversation. They would sit together, sipping tea and sharing the latest gossip from court, their voices kept low so as not to disturb the children, who were diligently being watched by a nursemaid.

In these moments, the Queen felt a sense of normalcy, a fleeting escape from the weight of her crown. The discussions would range from lighthearted anecdotes about the children’s latest antics to more serious matters, such as the subtle undercurrents of political maneuvering that never seemed to rest, even in times of supposed peace.

Lady Serenne, with her kind blue eyes and empathetic nature, offered Maera a comfort that no one else could. She understood, perhaps better than anyone, the struggles that came with balancing the roles of mother, wife, and noblewoman. There was no judgment in her gaze, no lectures or admonishments about vanity or duty. Just a shared understanding that in this ever-changing world, they were both doing their best to navigate the expectations placed upon them.

In the nursery, amidst the laughter and soft babble of their children, the world outside seemed a little less daunting. For a few hours each day, the war, the politics, and the constant scrutiny faded into the background, leaving only the simple joys of motherhood and friendship.

“I cannot believe Bryn will be two years old this year,” Lady Serenne commented, her eyes crinkling with a smile as she picked up a small sandwich from the tray between them, taking a delicate bite.

The Queen nodded in agreement. “I know. Time seems so go quicker when you become a mother I think.”

As Maera spoke, her thoughts drifted inward, silently reflecting on just how much time had passed and yet how little it felt. It wasn’t that long ago, in her memory at least, when she had sat with Helaena, watching over Jaehaerys, Jaehaera and Maelor as they played together in the nursery of King’s Landing. Those moments, filled with laughter and innocent joy, were so vivid in her mind that they felt like they had happened just yesterday. It was a simpler time, before the war, before the loss and betrayal that had shattered their world.

The memory of Helaena, her old friend, and the soft peace they had found in those stolen moments, made Maera’s heart ache with longing. Those tender memories were like fragile glass, precious and breakable, and the reality that such moments could never happen again weighed heavily on her. Even if they did rescue Helaena, things could never return to how they once were.

Her reverie was abruptly interrupted by a high-pitched shriek of frustration. Maera’s eyes snapped to the scene before her as Bryn, determined and quick, toddled over to where Aemara was playing. Without hesitation, he snatched a toy from the little princess’s grasp. Aemara responded immediately, her face scrunching up in a mix of surprise and indignation before she let out an angry wail. The sound echoed through the nursery, drawing the attention of both mothers.

Lady Serenne was on her feet in an instant, moving to sit beside her son and scold him. “Bryndemere,” she chided in a firm yet gentle voice, pulling the toy from his hand and returning it to Aemara, who grasped it tightly, still pouting but quieting down under her mother’s comforting gaze. The Lady turned back to Maera, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” she said with a light laugh, trying to diffuse the situation with humor. “Clearly, my son has yet to learn the proper courtly etiquette when interacting with a princess.”

Maera chuckled softly, shaking her head. “No harm done,” she replied, her gaze softening as she watched the two children. Aemara, for her part, had already moved on from the slight, her attention now fixed on the toy in her hands, seemingly satisfied with its return.

Lady Serenne sighed, settling back down beside Maera. “In truth,” she mused, “I think his older sisters are happy to be rid of him at the moment.”

Maera giggled at the comment, shaking her head in amusement. “I think all brothers, older or younger, have an innate talent for being incredibly annoying,” she replied, her tone light and teasing as she pictured all of her brothers, some she loved with all her heart, others she was content with being away from.

Just as they shared a laugh, Maera felt a small tug on her skirts. She glanced down to see little Bryn gazing up at her with wide, earnest eyes, his tiny finger pointing eagerly toward the table where the food lay just out of his reach. Maera grinned, unable to resist the boy’s charm. She reached down to ruffle his golden curls affectionately before handing him a small sandwich. Bryn accepted the offering with a delighted smile, toddling away to return to his toys with his prize clutched tightly in his small hand.

“Well,” Maera began, turning her attention back to Lady Serenne, “do you and Lord Edmure plan on having more children?” Her question was curious, genuine interest in her voice.

Lady Serenne laughed, shaking her head with a mixture of amusement and relief. “Thankfully, the Gods have spared me from such a fate,” she replied, a hint of irony in her tone.

Maera tilted her head in confusion, not quite understanding. “What do you mean?” she asked, her brow furrowed slightly.

With a soft sigh, Lady Serenne explained, “I already have four older daughters, all so close in age. And when Bryn was born, it was… difficult.” Her eyes clouded briefly with the memory, but her voice remained steady. “The Maester said that due to the birth, it’s highly unlikely I’ll have any more children.”

Maera watched her face closely, expecting to see sorrow or regret, but to her surprise, Lady Serenne seemed content, perhaps even a little relieved. There was a peace in her expression, a quiet acceptance of her circumstances.

“And you, Your Grace?” The Queen was snapped out of her contemplations by the sound of Lady Serenne’s voice, cutting through the quiet with a playful lilt.

“How goes…making an heir for the King?” She giggled, her golden curls bouncing with the motion, and there was an unmistakable teasing light in her expression.

Maera rolled her eyes, unable to suppress a smile at her Lady’s cheeky inquiry. “The King and I are quite set on performing our duties,” she replied with mock seriousness, though the corners of her lips quirked upwards, betraying her amusement.

As they shared in the lighthearted banter, Maera found her thoughts drifting inwardly. Since Aemond had recommitted himself to her in the ways of Old Valyria, reaffirming their bond in that ancient and sacred tradition, it seemed as though their relationship had been forged anew in the fire of their shared trials and tribulations.

Their time together had become precious, a refuge amidst the storm. They cherished the moments spent with Aemara, watching their daughter grow and change with each passing day. And then there were the nights, the intimacy between them more intense and consuming than it had been in months. Aemond’s touch was both demanding and tender, their passion igniting like wildfire each time they came together. It was surprising, really, that she wasn’t with child again already, considering how often they indulged in their desires.

“Yet my moons blood has not come since I have given birth,” the Queen explained to her companion. While this was something that could worry some, she felt a sense of relief about it. The monthly bleeding was not something she missed. “And I’ve read that it returning means you are fit to breed again,” Maera added with a small, nonchalant shrug.

“I see “ Lady Serenne acknowledged quietly, but something in her tone made Maera glance at her. The Lady’s expression had changed, a frown marring her usually cheerful face. Her brows knitted together, and she looked as though she was deep in thought, her gaze fixed on the floor.

“What is it?” Maera asked gently, noticing the sudden shift in her demeanor. Lady Serenne continued to avoid her gaze, nervously biting her lip. It was as if she was holding something back, struggling with whether or not to say what was on her mind. Maera reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. “You can speak freely, Serenne,” she encouraged softly.

The Lady-in-waiting took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts before finally speaking. “Your Grace, it’s just… what you said about the moonsblood,” she began cautiously. “It happened to me, as well, after I gave birth to Bryn.” Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “It was how the Maester knew we could no longer conceive.”

“Oh,” was all the Queen could manage in response, her thoughts suddenly reeling. The information was startling, and she hadn’t considered the possibility before. The lack of her moonsblood had been a convenience in her mind, a reprieve from the physical toll of motherhood so soon after Aemara’s birth. But now, hearing Serenne’s story, it took on a different significance.

Sensing the Maera’s concern, Lady Serenne quickly waved her hands in a defensive yet reassuring manner. "No, no, Your Grace, please don’t worry," she said earnestly. "It may not be the case for you. After all, you are nobly feeding your daughter yourself, and I gave Bryn to our wet nurse as soon as he was born. That can make a difference, or so I’ve been told."

Despite her friend's attempt to soothe her fears, Maera couldn't help the worry that settled into the pit of her stomach. If Aemara was to be her only child, how would Aemond react? He adored their daughter, that much was certain, but a king needed a son to carry on his legacy, to secure the future of his reign. The thought of Aemond’s disappointment made Maera's heart clench. His desire for an heir, like all noble men, was strong, and though their bond had grown, the pressure of producing a son had always been an unspoken expectation.

The Queen chewed her lip nervously, the small, anxious habit surfacing as her mind churned with these possibilities. What if this was it? What if she was unable to provide the heir Aemond—and the realm—expected of her? The idea of failing in this duty gnawed at her. She imagined the whispers that would spread through court, the scrutiny that would follow her every move, the shadow of her own inadequacy haunting her steps. Would Aemond’s affection for her endure if she couldn’t fulfill this one crucial role? The thought sent a chill down her spine.

Lost in these worries, she suddenly felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, grounding her back in the present. Maera looked up to see Lady Serenne’s concerned yet supportive gaze. "If you’re truly worried, my Queen," she said softly, her voice filled with genuine care, "you should speak to the Maester. He might be able to give you some answers, or at least some reassurance."

Maera nodded, the tightness in her chest easing just slightly at the reminder that she didn’t have to navigate this uncertainty alone. "Thank you, Lady Serenne," she replied quietly, offering her friend a small, grateful smile. "I think I will."

A sudden, wild squealing echoed from the carpet, drawing the women's attention away from their conversation. Maera and Lady Serenne looked down in surprise. Aemara had crawled over to Bryn, her chubby little fingers wrapped around the boy’s golden curls in a surprisingly firm grip. She pulled harshly, her tiny mouth open in a giggle of delight. Bryn, caught off guard, screamed in distress, his arms flailing as he tried to escape the unexpected assault. The nursemaid was quickly at their side, attempting to pry the children apart, but between Aemara’s strong grip and Bryn’s thrashing, she was having no such luck.

The Queen and her Lady exchanged a knowing glance and a smile before both gracefully slid off their chairs to sit on the carpet. With a practiced ease, Maera gently grasped her daughter's tiny hand, loosening her grip on Bryn’s curls. Lady Serenne reached for her son, pulling him safely into her lap and smoothing down his tousled hair. Aemara let out a disgruntled little sound as she was lifted away from her playmate, her violet eyes wide with innocent curiosity about why her new toy had been taken from her.

Both women comforted their children after the ordeal, laughing softly at the small drama that had unfolded. Maera bounced Aemara on her knee, whispering soothing words as she smoothed down the girl’s silver hair, while Lady Serenne rubbed Bryn’s back, murmuring reassurances into his ear.

Maera chuckled as she gestured to Bryn, who was now snuggled against his mother, looking slightly sulky but otherwise unharmed. "It seems your son will have his hands full with his future wife," she said with a grin, her eyes twinkling with amusement. Lady Serenne laughed in agreement, a sparkle of mirth in her gaze as she glanced between the two children, imagining the future where this fierce little princess and the gentle golden-haired boy would one day be something more than playmates.

"Indeed," Serenne replied with a playful sigh. "It appears he may need to grow accustomed to a strong-willed lady at his side." They shared a warm laugh, the brief chaos on the carpet serving as a charming reminder of the small joys and trials of motherhood amidst the surrounding storm of the war.

“What has your feathers ruffled, my Queen?”

It was late afternoon, and the halls of Dragonstone had fallen into a hushed calm. After a long morning of play and a satisfying feed, Aemara had finally been put down for her nap. The Queen had watched her daughter’s eyes flutter shut, a peaceful smile gracing the little girl’s face as she drifted into sleep. With her duties as a mother momentarily set aside, Maera now had other matters to attend to.

The corridors of Dragonstone were dimly lit, the grey stone walls lined with ancient tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen. The heavy scent of sea salt hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of burning wood from the hearths that warmed the castle’s interior. Shadows danced across the walls as the sunlight filtered through narrow windows, casting a warm golden hue over the cold stone floors.

Servants moved quietly about their tasks, the rustle of their garments and the soft patter of their footsteps echoing softly in the stillness. Maera acknowledged them with brief nods as they respectfully greeted her, her mind elsewhere, her thoughts spinning in a whirlwind of uncertainty. She walked beside her sworn guard and brother, Faran, whose vigilant eyes scanned the corridor ahead. His presence, usually a comfort, seemed to chafe at her now, only adding to the turmoil within her.

“Leave it alone, brother.”

Her earlier conversation with Lady Serenne had left her unnerved, stirring up fears she hadn’t fully realized she was harboring. The idea that she might not be able to bear another child had lodged itself into her thoughts like a splinter, small but impossible to ignore. Aemond’s expectations, the needs of the realm, and her own desires clashed within her, leaving her feeling trapped and restless.

Instead of confiding in someone about her growing concerns, Maera had chosen a different way to deal with the storm of emotions swirling within her. She had decided to work out her stress the only way she knew how to channel it—through physical exertion.

The Queen had donned her leathers, a comforting second skin that had seen her through many battles and training sessions. She pinned back her brown and silver curls with practiced ease, preparing for a sparring session with her brother. It was something they had not done since she was shot in the collarbone, but now with the wound healed, and the anxiety simmering within her turning into a boiling anger, she was determined to win this bout.

“Gods, there is a bug up your arse,” he chuckled, trying to provoke a response. “You better pray I don’t beat you today.”

But Maera was in no mood for his banter. Without looking at him, she firmly told him. “Faran, please, just shut up.” Her tone was icy, brooking no argument, and the sharpness of her words cut through the air between them.

Faran got the hint, his playful demeanor fading into a more serious silence. He respected her boundaries, for now, falling quiet for the rest of the walk to the courtyard. The silence between them was heavy, but Maera preferred it this way. She couldn’t talk about what was on her mind with him. He wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t. This was not a matter of battle strategy or court politics, but of something far more personal and profound—her worth as a queen, a wife, and a mother.

Turning a corner, Maera’s mind raced with thoughts of who else she could confide in. Her Ladies were supportive, but this was not a matter for idle gossip or comforting words. It required knowledge and discretion, and she was not yet ready to face the possibility of hearing something she wasn’t prepared to accept. The Maesters could give her answers, perhaps, but she was not ready to deal with possible bad news.

And besides, the walls had ears. She was certain Larys’s spies were scattered throughout the castle, their eyes and ears ever vigilant. If any whisper of possible infertility reached the court, it would be like blood in the water to sharks, weakening her position as Queen. It would give her enemies leverage, an opening they would not hesitate to exploit.

The siblings continued their walk through the corridors of Dragonstone in a heavy silence, the only sounds being the soft scuffs of their boots against the stone floor and the occasional distant murmur of servants. Maera was lost in her thoughts, mulling over the troubling possibilities swirling in her mind. Finally, they reached the courtyard, a familiar space where she could at least momentarily escape the chaos of her mind.

They began to warm up in silence, moving with the practiced ease of seasoned fighters. As Maera practiced her movements, her blade slicing through the air with practiced precision, she could feel her body falling into the familiar rhythm. Each swing, each pivot, was a reminder of her strength, of the control she still held over some aspects of her life. She lost herself in the movements, focusing on the feel of the sword in her hand and the way her muscles responded to each command.

But the silence was soon interrupted by Faran’s voice, cutting through her concentration. “Luthor wrote to me,” he revealed, his tone casual but with an edge of something else she couldn’t quite place. Maera’s brow furrowed, her rhythm faltering for just a heartbeat before she resumed her practice.

Their brother, married to one of Lord Borros Baratheon’s daughters, had not written in a month, despite Maera reaching out. She had assumed he was preoccupied with his duties at Storm’s End, busy with the ongoing preparations and politics. Yet he had found the time to write to Faran, but not to her? It made her pause, her mind now split between the movements of her sword and the curiosity mixed with irritation rising within her.

The Queen hummed in response, her sword cutting through the air with a sharp, decisive swing. “Is he well?” she asked, a hint of annoyance slipping into her voice despite her attempt to sound indifferent. The idea that their brother had written to Faran, choosing him as a confidant rather than her, grated on her nerves. She did not enjoy being kept in the dark, especially when it came to family matters.

She heard Faran clear his throat, a hesitation that made her sigh inwardly. Pausing in her routine, she turned her head to face him, her green eyes narrowing in scrutiny. His expression was pained, lines of discomfort etching across his usually composed face. The sight of it only deepened her confusion. “He’s not in a good place, Maera,” the Kingsguard finally spoke, his voice low and careful. His words made her pause, lowering her sword as she tilted her head, frowning.

Faran hesitated again before speaking, as if weighing the impact of his next words. “Lady Cassandra… she became with child,” he began, watching her closely. “But she miscarried a few weeks later.”

The Queen’s frown deepened, her chest tightening at the news. The weight of his words sank in slowly, a wave of empathy and sorrow washing over her. Luthor and Cassandra had been married for some time now, and she knew they had hoped for a child, one that would be the heir to Storms End as Lord Borros still did not have a son.

The loss of that hope was a heavy blow. Luthor had doted on Aemara when he was at Dragonstone, and Maera knew he had always wanted to be a father. She could almost feel the pain her brother must be enduring, the grief and disappointment, the unfulfilled promise of a future that had been cruelly snatched away. It was an experience she could barely fathom, and yet it resonated deeply with her own recent fears.

If Maera herself were to become pregnant again, if she even could, there was always the risk of losing the child, a risk many women faced. She had read in the medical tomes that repeated miscarriages could be a sign of deeper damage to the womb, an idea that sent a shiver of dread down her spine. Her mind raced with possibilities, each one darker than the last, amplifying the uncertainty that had already taken root in her heart.

She shook her head, forcing herself to pull away from the spiral of her own fears. Guilt tugged at her, reminding her that now was not the time to dwell on her selfish concerns. This was about Luthor, about the sorrow he must be feeling. She took a deep breath and focused on her brother standing before her, reminding herself to be present for him, for their family. “How is he coping?” she asked, her voice softer now, tinged with the genuine concern that lay beneath her own anxieties.

Faran’s expression darkened further. “Not well,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the ground as if searching for the right words. “He’s taken himself off to the war front in the Stormlands.” The heaviness in his voice conveyed more than just worry—it was a mix of frustration and helplessness, emotions Maera understood all too well.

“War front?!” Her eyes widened in alarm, her heart skipping a beat. “He has no actual battle experience,” she said, her tone sharper than intended, a note of panic threading through her words. The thought of her brother throwing himself into the chaos of war, unprepared and driven by grief, was almost too much to bear.

“And yet that is where he wanted to be,” Faran replied with a tone of defeat. The weight of her brother’s grief pressed down on the Queen’s shoulders. This war was taking its toll on all of them, fracturing their family in ways she hadn’t anticipated. And now, with Luthor seeking refuge in the only way he knew how, the cost of their struggle became even more personal.

Her shoulders sagged, a heaviness settling into her bones. "Why didn’t he tell me?" she murmured, a mix of hurt and confusion in her voice. She and Luthor had always been close. Along with Faran, they had been the close knit trio of the large number of siblings, inseparable through childhood and beyond. The thought that Luthor was now facing something so devastating, and hadn’t reached out to her, cut deeper than she cared to admit.

A gentle hand rested on her shoulder, drawing her from her thoughts. She glanced up at Faran, whose eyes were filled with understanding. "He didn’t want to worry you," he said softly. His words were meant to comfort, but they only stirred her frustration.

Maera scoffed, rubbing her face with both hands. "But now I'm more worried than ever," she exclaimed, her voice rising in exasperation. "He’s run off to battle, for gods’ sake!" The idea of Luthor, untested and grieving, throwing himself into the fray made her stomach twist with anxiety. She imagined him amidst the blood and violence, his sorrow pushing him toward reckless decisions.

She sighed heavily, trying to release some of the tension coiling inside her. Gently, she placed her hand over Faran’s, squeezing it in a silent gesture of thanks. "Thank you for telling me," she said, her voice steadier now, though the concern lingered in her eyes. "I’ll write to him soon, once things have settled a bit." She knew words on a page wouldn’t be enough to reach him in his current state, but it was something, a thread of connection that she could offer.

Faran nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he stepped back, a familiar, cheeky grin slowly spreading across his face. "So," he said, unsheathing his sword with a flourish, "do you still plan on kicking my arse, or has all this talk dampened your fighting spirit?"

Maera couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up, a brief respite from the storm of emotions swirling within her. She unsheathed her own sword, the familiar weight of it grounding her. "Oh, I still plan on it," she declared, a glint of determination in her eyes. She positioned herself opposite her brother, ready to let the movement and focus of their sparring match drive away the worries, if only for a little while.

Notes: so we’ve got two or three more parts of Part Two left until we jump forward in time a lil bit. And it’s gunna get a hell of a lot darker 👀

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[writingrock]

the pearl of my eye [2]

pairing: rafayel x reader (gender neutral) summary: in the darkness, the ocean carries you to meet a merboy who unexpectedly sticks around longer than they should

notes: childhood friends, mermaid au, childhood trauma, fluff, comfort, mentions of death, mentions of drowning

word count: 4.8k

chapter list

a/n: I advise you to read part one before reading this!!

A lot happened ever since that fateful night. Looking back at everything that happened since then feels like a blur.

In general, the whole incident was a lot to comprehend. You could still feel the salty seawater on your face as you gasped for air. You still remember how it felt when you were rescued— the glaringly bright searchlight shone on your limp body clinging onto the timber. Even behind your eyelids, you could feel the warmth and brightness of that light.

The immense relief you felt when your rescuers found you was indescribable. They had even wrapped you in the warmest towel you’ve ever felt. You could remember the rumbling of the rescue’s boat engine that lulled you back to sleep as they brought you back to land. 

Once you had reached land, your aunt had been anxiously expecting you. From the boat, you were able to see how your aunt walked back and forth on the docks, her arms holding herself together in order to comfort herself.

When reunited, the two of you wailed in each other's arms. Feeling thankful to be alive yet also grieving at the loss of your parents. The whole time, your aunt blabbered between sobs about how worried she was about you. If only your parents were here with you.

The discussion on where you would go was cut short by your aunt. She insisted fiercely that she would take you in to live with her. You didn’t oppose.

From the very beginning, there were plans to move here. You and your parents took that boat to visit the seaside town where your aunt resided. Merrowcrest, a quiet coastal town mainly known for their clear waters and peaceful lifestyle. A fresh start here by the ocean where your parents would have worked on their marine research. And as fate would have it, you do end up moving here. Although it happened in the way you weren’t expecting. 

Adjusting to your new life in Merrowcrest is— in one word, difficult. You’ve become the biggest subject in this small town. Poor little ten year old you, losing their parents at sea. The unfortunate child that all pitied. In the midst of the gossip, there were always a plethora of reasons why the accident happened. Whether it was the boat’s malfunction or some drunkard behaviour from the captain.

Or even, it was the curse of the ocean. That’s probably the most baffling reasoning you’ve heard. What happened to you was a tragedy and hearing the speculation behind it often made you churn in discomfort.

Your aunt’s house is foreign to you, with its different layout and odour. It fills you with a strange anger that the floor creaks beneath you sounds differently. The first night in your new room was rough, all you could do was lay in this unfamiliar bed staring up at the darkened ceiling. How absurd is it that the shadows and darkness felt different too.

You miss the comfort of your old room adorned with your favourite things and storybooks, you could remember the peeling posters decorated on the walls. You missed it when your parents kissed you goodnight. The walls in this room however, are empty.

To help you with settling in, your aunt has asked your relatives to help pack your belongings and ship them here. It’s been a week but they haven’t arrived yet.

School is a whole other ballpark to tackle. The new faces, the different routines, and the pressure to make new friends. Making new friends is probably the worst bit, seeing all the groups of friendships around you. The icky pressure to somehow squeeze yourself into those groups crawling up your skin.

Yet, a part of you does not feel the desire to make any. You only wish to be alone. Friends.. Your heart swells at the thought of friends. The only person you’ve been associating that word with is him. 

As days pass by, you think of your rescuer. Wondering if you would ever meet him again. It’s been two weeks since the incident. In your dreams, you return back to that creaky, waterlogged wooden pallet that kept you afloat to see him again. To go back and be in the arms of the mer-boy that saved you.

Is it crazy that in your dreams you go back to the worst moment of your life just to see him? Your fingers idly tap against your desk as you stare out at the open ocean.

The only thing you like about your school is the view you can see from the classroom. Framed with the wooden shutters, the sea stretches out to the horizon to kiss the sky. In the daylight, the sun glistens on the water’s surface, illuminating soft sparkles that dance on each wave.

Is he out there somewhere? Your newfound friend in the vast ocean. Chances of meeting him again seem unlikely to him but you want to hold out hope. Your eyes continue to admire the ocean, your mind drifting back to the conversations the both of you shared that night.

“My name is Rafayel. What’s yours?” The waves lapped gently as the two of you drifted on the flimsy planks of timber.

Under the soft light of the moon, the waves shimmered with a pearly glow. The waves sound softer creating a sense of calm amongst the wreckage. His voice sounded light, similar to a chirp of a bird. Everything in the memory is a blur but the merboy.

The clearest thing in this replay are his mesmerising eyes. Those dual coloured irises that first caught your eye. Every detail of those eyes etched into your memory. You remember giving your name to him, your voice a whisper as you shivered against his warm body.

Sometimes you wonder why he stayed for that long. He’s rescued you and he could have left you once you were fine. But he stayed till the morning until rescue came for you. In the midst of the night, he kept you company. He tried to make different attempts at small talk to calm you down and cool the ache in your heart. Most didn’t work until his last try.

“Shall I tell you a story?” His voice cuts through like a beam of light in the coldness. The boy only wished to make you feel better but you do not have the energy to reply. Rafayel took your silence as a yes. Not that it mattered. He would have told the story either way.

You sat there in his arms as he rocked you a little. The wind brushed past the two of you as he began his tale. As he starts his retelling of the story, his voice had such an enchanting feature to it- lulling you to pay attention. 

“Once, a prince fell in love with a mermaid-” 

“Are you telling me the story of ‘The Little Mermaid’?” You couldn’t help but interrupt. Somehow you had gathered enough energy to speak because you didn’t want to hear a story you’ve been told before.

You’d much rather hear something new if you could pick. Not that you were particularly in the situation to choose what you wanted.

“What? Just let me tell the story.” He shushed you, rather annoyed that you interrupted his storytelling.

His tail flicked in frustration, splashing lightly against the water. The wooden planks swayed gently as he cleared his throat to tell her a story once more. You let him continue and listen anyway, mainly because you were too exhausted to protest again. 

In the depths of the sapphire sea, lived a mermaid whose hair was the colour of midnight, flowing like ink in the water. Sliver sprinkled over her blue irises, reminiscent of the stars in the night sky. Her tail dripped in the hues of the ocean with a lustrous silver lining.

She was the guardian of a hidden cove, a place where the sea met the land in a secret embrace. Everyday, she would swims up to the cove to fulfil her responsibilities. However, one day, as she swam near the shore, a faint sound of music could be heard from the cove.

Intrigued, she followed the melody to see a young man, strumming a lute. From the rocks, the mermaid watched the young man strum his lute, admiring the way he played with the foreign instrument. The music he played felt otherworldly to her, putting her in a trance.

Unbeknownst to her, he was the prince of the nearby kingdom known as a charming, benevolent soul loved by all. But in this cove, he was just a young man invested in his art. 

The mermaid did not have the heart to confront him to make him leave her cove. So for the next few days, she simply watched him secretly and let him play his music to his heart's content. However, it did not last long as one particular day their eyes met.

The prince had caught sight of the cove guardian and his eyes filled with shock and fear. His treasured lute dropped onto the ground of the cove as he stepped back from the mermaid. But the gods had chosen to play with these two mere beings.

An inexplicable force drew them together and the prince’s fear washed over with one glance into the mermaid’s enchanting gaze. Something about her deep blue eyes swirling with sadness and fear.

He realised that neither wanted to hurt each other. So the two would meet every time he played the lute. Whenever she heard the sound of the lute playing, she’d rise up to the cove. 

They talked of their different worlds and of their desires. Occasionally bringing gifts from their different worlds for each other. The more time they spent together, the deeper they fell in love. Their bond grew stronger with each passing moment. The prince would teach the mermaid how to play the lute and the mermaid would in turn teach him about the ocean.

But their love was not meant to last. The people of the kingdom had noticed the prince's frequent absences, and rumours began to spread. Whispers of a sea witch who had ensnared the prince reached the ears of the king, and he was determined to save his son and kill the sea witch. 

One night where the stars twinkled softly in the night sky, the two of them met once again in their hidden cove. Talking as they normally whilst completely oblivious to the imminent danger.

The King’s soldiers ambush the two, catching the two lovers off guard. In an attempt to save the mermaid, the prince fought valiantly against them. But he was no match for the armoured men who had been sent to save him.

They seized him, binding his hands with chains, and turned their weapons on the mermaid. In the chaos, she tried to flee by jumping into the water, but she was struck by a spear.

The sharp point pierced her abdomen, writhing in pain as her body convulsed around the spear. The water above splashing aggressively. She cried out in pain, her blood mingling with the salty water turning the waters red.

Hearing the mermaid’s cry, a wave of adrenaline and urgency ran over the prince. He broke free of his restraints and rushed into the water, diving in to be with his lover. 

His arms wrapped around the weak body of his lover as grief and guilt welling in his eyes. Their time is up and the both of them know it. As one last act of their affections, he kissed her, their tears mixing with the sea, as the life slowly ebbed from her body.

During their last kiss, the prince reached for his lover’s back for the spear lodged into her body. Using his last strength to push it into him. With a swift motion, the weapon goes through his stomach. Deciding there and then that he could not live without her.

His body drifted into the depths of the ocean whilst she turned into seafoam. In the end, their love was swallowed by the sea, their bodies lost to the depths, but their spirits remained, bound together for eternity.

“Why does your story have such a grim ending?” A soft exhale leaves your mouth, letting the ending sink in. Your lips stretched into a frown as you shot a look at your new friend.

Rafayel is unfazed by your reaction, a solemn look on his face as he looks beyond the ocean. Soft thumps of his heartbeat lowly vibrated through his chest. Your ear memorised the low, unique beats of his heart as if it were music.

Rafayel’s eyes look lost in thought. You attempt to read his mind by studying his face. If only it were that easy. In the quiet, he finally speaks. 

“Because it’s real.”  

The school bell rings and you are brought back to reality. Pulling you away from the comforts of your memories. School’s finally over. The sharp sound of the bell echoes as everyone prepares to leave.

Rising from your seat, packing your backpack hurriedly. Shoving in your pencil cases and books. You could finally start the favourite part of your daily routine.

Wordlessly, you leave the classroom, brushing past the chattering classmates and your homeroom teacher. Slipping past them quietly so that no one would stop you. Swinging open the classroom door with such excitement as if you were escaping from prison.

The rubber soles of your sneakers gripping the polished floor with a slight squeak as you push onwards. Running down the hall past the other dismissed children. A cheery bounce in your step as you leave the dreary atmosphere of school.

You feel life flow through your face when the cool breeze hits you. Carrying the scent of seawater that acts as a trail towards the beach. The only good thing about your school is that it’s near the beach. 

Warm rays of sun shine down on you, your shadows drag by as your legs take you to the beach. Each step takes you closer, the distinct change of the concrete beneath your feet to the soft sand making a grin appear on your face.

The sand shifts under your feet as you remove your sneakers and socks. Just ditching them in the middle of the beach as you run to the shore. Your heart strums as you stop by the lapping waves. The very gentle, inviting waves that you’re afraid of. Hesitating to touch the waters. You stop by the edge, your feet not touching the ocean.

Your aunt didn’t understand why you came here every day but she let you. She figured it was harmless and it was your own way of healing.

So after school, she lets you go to the ocean for an hour before she comes to pick you up. Your eyes land on your feet and the water. Silently in your mental palace, you think of the recent events.

You hate the ocean. You’re terrified of it. Yet you come here for a chance to see that merboy again. Perhaps you’re naive and foolish. But you’re okay with that. Stepping back from the shore, you turn and run off into the further parts of the beach. Your feet felt cool against the sinking sand. 

Last weekend, you discovered this place. Tucked away from the town, shrouded by nature. You found it by chance, wandering through the coastal foliage with not much thought. Instinct guiding you to this hidden wonder.

As you emerge from the greenery, the cove reveals itself. A small, crescent-shaped stretch of sand bordered by rocky cliffs. The cliffs are rugged, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of wind and water.

Compared to the main beach, the sand here has a lighter shade and is of a finer quality. Smooth rocks and colourful seashells scattered throughout the sand.

The waters here are clear with a hue of turquoise. In a way, you feel that the waves here are much more gentle than the main beach. Soft pants leave your mouth as you reach the hidden cove in front of you.

Just like the one Rafayel told you about in his story. A part of you wondering if this could be the same one he talked about. This wasn’t your favourite part about this place though.

Turning your body to the left, you eyed the small cave in the cliff, just by the lapping waves. Wordlessly, you go forward to the cave. The first few times you came here, you did not have the heart to explore the cave.

But today’s the day that ends. You managed to sum up the courage for today’s little adventure. Because you had a secret weapon to conquer your fears. Swallowing the doubt in your throat, you march onwards towards the cave.

Moving closer, your eyes scanned the entrance of the cave, noting the hanging flora around it as if trying to hide itself from the world. This is it. You shake your body of fear one last time before going in. 

Inside the cave, the sound of dripping water echoes softly. It’s cool and damp in this rocky hideaway. Your hands reach for your ultimate secret weapon– the flashlight. Whipping it out with such confidence as your thumb turns it on.

A bright light cuts through the dim visibility of the cave. Your eyes take a second to adjust to the sudden change. Once your vision adjusts, your eyes scan the cave. The walls are adorned with ancient, weathered markings and drawings.

Stepping closer to get a good look, your hand touches the wall. Going over what was on the walls. You couldn’t really understand it but it was beautiful. Perhaps it was left by long-forgotten ancestors. They were too old to be recent. In the silence, you admired the ancient mural on the cave walls.

Lost in thought as you tried to fit the puzzle together. A splash interrupts your thoughts and fear strikes your body. You spin to the direction of the sound, your heart basically springing through your chest.

The loud sound of your heartbeat being the only thing you could hear in this moment. Your body trembles, the flashlight’s beam of light becoming shaky. Something internally urges you to go to the noise and investigate whilst your brain screams to reject that foolish idea. Another splash comes again and you shudder.

What is that? Slowly, you inch closer to the noise, anxiety spiking up as you take slow and deep breaths. Trying to calm yourself down.

Suddenly your secret weapon felt like a measly stick and there was regret sinking in you with every step. As you near the source of the noise, you come face to face with a natural pool of seawater. 

It’s a secret opening from the cave that leads to the ocean. Your eyes cast down to the mysterious pool of water, there was a magical quality to it. Almost like the pool was glimmering. But that's when you catch the sight of purple hair?

Something bursts through the surface of the water, earning a loud scream from you. Your eyes squeezed shut as you crouched down. But your loud scream caused whatever that emerged from the water to let a shrill scream too. You slowly open your eyes at the sound of the scream. Why is it screaming?

You slowly rise and look into the pool to see a familiar merboy. Both of your eyes meet, a shine swirls in both of your irises. A glimmer of fate in them. It’s Rafayel.

Both your screams die down and the two of you stand there in shock. Looks like Rafayel kept his end of his promise. A reunion sworn with the ocean as your witness. You tried to say something but you could only stutter with your mouth agape.

Rafayel, on the other hand, manages to form some words, “What are you doing here?” his voice echoes in the cave. Rafayel is flabbergasted. No one should know about this place– the hidden cove and this cave. How did you find it?

There’s some panic inside of him as words spill out of his mouth in a flurry. “You need to go, you shouldn’t be here!”

To which you only argue back that you weren’t leaving. For a while, the two of you bicker back and forth about staying or leaving. Squabbling like cats fighting for a can of food. 

Eventually it dies down and Rafayel gives up on his protest. You won by being terribly stubborn. The two of you start recounting the last two weeks of your lives.

Rafayel did in fact get in trouble for his late night adventure. Apparently the whole kingdom was in a frenzy, searching for the prince. His mother was worried sick and reprimanded him for being so reckless.

He didn’t tell her about the human he saved because he would have gotten into more trouble. His mother held a hatred for humans. In truth, the story Rafayel told you was about his aunt, his mother’s sister.

The two were close and had a deep love rooted in their sisterhood. So when she died, his mother fell into deep grief that could be felt through ravenous waves and storms. It happened way before he was born.

He has never met his aunt but his mother always told him that he held the essence of her dear departed sister. “Your aunt would have loved to meet you.” She always told him. She always believed that part of her sister reincarnated into him. Rafayel never knew how to feel about it.

In the conversations, he reveals this information to you. You silently listen to his recap of the past two weeks as well as the revelation that the story was of his aunt. You are silent as you absorb this new information. Looking at your friend as you gather some words to use.

“So is this the hidden cove in the story?” You ask quietly, sadness dawning upon you as the story plays in your head. You could almost visualise the story play out in reality.

“Yes, this is the cove,” he replies as he looks down at the water, “my mother was meant to take over as guardian but she refused to come here. So it’s been abandoned.” He explains, the sound of his mother’s wails echoing in his head.

“But I’ve been coming here in secret to nurture it back to health. I feel obligated to.” Young Rafayel confesses, perhaps there is a part of his aunt inside of his soul after all.

This is another secret he keeps from his mother because she had forbidden him to come here in fear of him meeting a similar fate to her sister. She wanted him away from humans. Naturally, he goes secretly. 

Soon enough it became your turn to talk about your new life. Once Rafayel finished talking about his life, you start about how you moved here. Your new life with your aunt and how she’s really kind to you. How much you appreciate her efforts in getting you adjusted to your new life. How you’ve become the talk of the town as well as how little progress you’ve been making at school.

It started being easy to talk, because you started to unconsciously rant about your suppressed feelings and thoughts about your new life. Rafayel listened intently, letting you process your emotions and speak.

He knows nothing of how you feel but he lets you go through your grief. Sometimes through the gaps of an unclosed door, he catches a glimpse of his mother crying. So whilst he doesn’t understand grief fully, he knows it's important for one to express it.

At some point of the conversation, you start talking about your fear of the waves. How after the incident, you’re not sure if you could look at the ocean the same way.

“You can’t go into the waters anymore?” Rafayel asked once more, unable to fathom the fear of the ocean. You nod once, ashamed of your fear. You had just told the merboy that you’re scared of the ocean. His home. He felt bad for you. The ocean is beautiful with the most breathtaking views underwater.

There was a hint of sorry in his eyes and you had to interject. “Don’t look at me like that. Everyone already does.” You plead, a vulnerability in your voice, “Just.. I don’t want you to give me that look too.” 

Rafayel pauses at your words. Closing his eyes for a moment as he absorbs your words. He’s thinking deeply, taking a deep breath. Your eyes study him, waiting for his next words.

Suddenly, his eyes burst open with a mischievous twinkle, “I didn’t think you would be such a scaredy cat.” Something in the depths of your mind shattered as you replay his words. What did he say? Your eyes widened at him.

There was a sheepish smile on his lips as he continued, “I thought you were braver than that. Turns out you’re just a scared little human.” Something about his tease lit a fire in you. As well as a compulsion to throw the flashlight at the cheeky merboy. An air of arrogance and smugness around the purple haired boy.

Your hands grip the flashlight and you raise your arm, causing Rafayal to instinctively flinch, preparing to dodge if you did throw it. “Hey! Don’t throw it–!” He protests, waving his arms like a seagull as he moves side to side, making it hard for you to aim the flashlight.

“I’m not some scaredy cat!” You yell back, your arm still holding the flashlight as you ready your aim on the moving target, “now hold still so I can hit your head.”.

Rafayel felt his face fall when you told him of your intentions to hit his head. He shakes his head as he starts crossing his arms to form an ‘X’, doing everything to signal to not hit his face.

“Hey–! If you come here everyday, I’ll help you conquer your fear!” He manages to offer before you could throw the flashlight. The grip on the flashlight loosens slightly.

“I’ll help you. You don’t have to be scared.” the words leave his mouth in a careful as he starts to slow down. He's still swaying due to the fear of getting hit. You process his words and your arm lowers, giving him some assurance that he could now be still. 

Overcome your fear of the ocean? You contemplate on whether that’s possible or if you even want that. Your heart quickens at the thought of the ocean. With each thump of your heart, you see the flashes of that grave night.

The helplessness you felt when you were drowning. How close you were to the brink of death. Your heart thuds loudly at the knowledge that your parents bodies are still being searched in the vast ocean that swallowed them.

You need time. That short period of thinking resulted in cold sweat trickling down your forehead. You couldn’t give an answer as your heart raced. Rafayel studies your expression, letting you think before assuring you.

“You don’t have to answer me now. Think on it.” His words calms you down slightly, your skin easing from the prickly sensation that came with visualisation of the ocean. You softly mumble a ‘thank you’, your glossy eyes meeting his soft gaze.

“But for what it’s worth. You’re strong and I know you can do it.” Encouraging you with a hopeful look. You could only manage a small smile and nod. 

The both of you share a comfortable, easy silence, that’s interrupted by the sound of your watch. You started to set a timer for an hour when your aunt got worried because you’ve always overextended your visit to the beach.

She made you promise that you’d set a timer and make sure to meet her at the beach after one hour. Or you’d have to walk home. You would much rather sit in the comfort of her car. Springing to your feet, you know it’s time for you to go.

“Rafayel, I need to go but I’ll come back tomorrow! Same time.” You say to the merboy. The merboy nods and waves at you as you start getting ready to leave. Exchanging goodbyes as you sprint to the beach.

As you make your way back, the merboy too decides to head back. Both, returning to their respective homes, knowing they will see each other again. Throughout the car ride home, his words echo in your head. He believes in you. You softly purse your lips and close your eyes. Should you really?

In the end, you’re just a young child who went through a traumatic experience. Perhaps you need some time to think about this. Besides, Rafayel would wait on your decision. No matter how long it takes. Rafayel would wait for you.

a/n: there's probably going to be at least 4 parts to this short series. hope you rafayel girlies like this!

border credits: @enchanthings & @adornedwithlight

© writingrock 2024 do not copy, translate or repost.

[angelismmm]

Finally another arlan enjoyer! Could I get some hcs of a relationship with best boy?

(＾▽＾) relationship hcs ft. ARLAN !

☆ pairings. arlan x gn!reader

☆ synopsis. just relationship hcs w arlan, thats it lmao

☆ a/n. i just picked randomly with a wheel for which ask would i do while waiting for oshi no ko requests aksmdkasdm

⁂ how did it start?

again, like i specified in my other hc fic, or wtv, he meets you through asta! kind of seems like the type to not rly be all that social unless you already know him, or if its for business

kind of shy around you, like lowkey blushing when you both get to talk, but you probably can't really see his blush, the dark skin and stuff yk?! but when you cup his cheeks, they're so round and warm, that's a promise!

asta is such a silly, immediately noticed the crush he had on you, sort of stalked you guys honestly, it was for a good reason! she just listened in on a few conversations.. maybe more than few.. just for good measure, but she's never seen arlan stuttering over his words so much

putting one and one together, she already knew what was going down, and she just needed to get you both together immediately!

asta always has an excuse to leave you both alone after discussing whatever, "oh my, seems like my time is limited once again.. you both can just stay here and just chat for a bit, i'll be back!"

she never came back.

arlan kind of has a hard time trying to start conversations, so you gotta help a bit! be the first the talk, or start asking questions, he's kind of awkward and never really is good at socializing, but if you do the first step, maybe it'll even affect him a bit, and he'll do the first move!

⁂ what goes down (in the relationship)?

actual relationship hcs now, tbh arlan seems like the very clingy, will make it very not obvious though, on the days he really needs it, he'll ask you straight up, with a flushed expression, kind of looks away whenever he asks for this corny ahh stuff

"i just wanna-- i wanna ask.. i uh.. can we.. cuddle? if you're comfortable with that?"

such a sweetheart, i'm not even gonna lie, you probably caught him once or twice asking asta about stuff, like if you'd like these flowers, or if you like something else as a gift better,

will always be nervous when he asks you out, like a cheesy teen couple, he'll be holding out flowers, lowkey stuttering, and holding your hand at the same time

best bet, guaranteed, he has never been in a relationship before, the only reason he knows sooo much about dates is because of books! loves loves loves reading, would definitely be a fairytale irl w him when on dates, picks the cutest locations ever too, like a new cat cafe that opened up, sure!

super creative with gifts, he goes absolutely crazy with it ngl, but in a good way

kind of has a habit of just squeezing your hand while your fingers are intertwined with each other. just does it when he can't find the words to tell you how much he's missed you while you were gone.

probably would also tighten his grip around your waist when it gets a bit crowded in the streets, doesn't wanna lose you in the sea of people yk?!

likes it when you start to trace shapes on his palms or while you both cuddle, and start to draw little stars with your fingers on his back, really just lulls him to sleep, and feels comforted when you do that type of stuff.

finds it so attractive when you stretch, like it shouldn't be that attractive, but it is, he cannot help it, at all.

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!

[danwhobrowses]

One Piece Chapter 1124 - Initial Thoughts

Well it's an early one and a late one it seems

early in that it's on Thursday for Scanlations but late as in it's very much nighttime for me, but we're in the lull between arcs as Egghead starts to officially wrap up

Let's see what the fallout is

Spoilers for the Chapter, Support the Official Release too!

Yamato's latest pit stop is the noble effort of stopping a kidnapping, I wonder if this leads to another met character

If he had people following him I'd have called it Oden-esque to how he picked up the scabbards

Starting with Morgans and he's ready to spin his little weave of tabloid hysteria

Vivi however continues to stand her ground against him, despite Wapol's attempts to calm her and remind her that they've found asylum with Morgans

Morgans also notes that since his flying ship means he doesn't touch the sea, he's safe from the flooding world anyway

He does thinly threaten Vivi though, implying his status will be greater because his ship can fly, but Vivi refuses to grovel even if it meant drowning with the world

Morgans does have all the other headlines to deal with too, the Yonko battles with Kid and Law, but unsurprisingly he's pinning Vegapunk's death on Luffy - despite Vivi's objections

The outside of Egghead is quite save for someone calling in a report

Sentomaru escapes on a small boat as the rest of the Navy's unconscious too, good, glad he wasn't captured

Kizaru picks up the Den Den Mushi, with an irate Akainu asking for a status report

Kizaru remains vague, noting everyone was laid out but they'll brief him when they come to

Akainu accuses Kizaru of 'slacking off' and it seemed to hit a nerve

In an uncharacteristic move, Kizaru talks back to the Fleet Admiral, asking if he's ever had to kill his best friend

Kizaru remembers meeting Vegapunk, a ruse of an arrest is seen through by Vegapunk, who asks what pay the WG is offering

We see him partake in the construction of Egghead, with Kuma, Bonney and Sentomaru, and then his perspective of killing Vegapunk

His shades barely show his eyes, but the veins are pulsing and the tears are just showing as he tells Akainu that if he has time to doubt him he can just see for himself

Akin to when the quiet kid lashes out in class, Akainu backtracks, calling him 'brother' may've been a bit much even for Kizaru

Back at the Longboat and Sunny and the tone is quiet, again uncharacteristically

Franky and Jinbe discuss how Luffy's not one to call off a party, he was dejected from the fact that they had failed their mission in taking Vegapunk from Egghead

Franky, sporting a cowboy look, reminds Jinbe and Zoro - who is drinking nearby - the odds that were stacked against them, which Jinbe agrees with

Zoro remains cold about it though, stating that Luffy can't take every loss as badly, which the other two point out as harsh

Lilith awakens, she looks weird without her jacket

Usopp, Nami, Chopper and Sanji welcome her awake

They were all resting on a lounge chair on the giants' ship, they needed a ladder just to get up

The group apologize to Lilith for failing to save the other Vegapunks, but Lilith says she already 'heard' what happened

Rather than explain, she bursts out crying

'How are you the Evil one again?' Usopp please that's low on the list of questions

Instantly she's back to being happy, and hungry since she's no longer connected to York, so the group point her to the fruit table

Luffy's there eating, but not with his usual zeal

Upset with having failed to save the Stella, Luffy's only mustered up 5 bunches of giant grapes

Lilith once again notes that she heard about it, but seems to avoid elaborating, instead she notes that she cried mourning their deaths but then shifted her perspective

She tells the group - to their surprise - that none of the Vegapunks are dead

The group are naturally surprised and confused, she clarifies that they're 'functionally dead' but nothing further

But she does put Luffy at ease in pointing out that he technically kept his promise

This of course leads Luffy into end-arc party mode

Robin's okay too, and looking forward to the prospect of seeing Saul

The giants ask for a toast, with discussions about Vegapunk's broadcast stating that whoever finds the One Piece will shake the world

Luffy remains adamant about his dream and declares that regardless of whether people are with them or against them, they'll be King of the Pirates

A new format of narration hits with a scroll design, venturing through to Elbaf

a shadowed person awaits on the land of Elbaf, as we seem to officially set up the next arc

Annnnd a break next week too, I guess it's a fitting time for it

That chapter kinda flew by for me

A lot of things were short and sweet or just beat after beat Seems a shame not to follow up with Stussy or CP0, plus we got nothing from York or Saturn this chapter. Also no Bonney and Kuma on the other side of things. We at least confirm that Kizaru was torn up about killing Vegapunk which, yeah it's nice to see him feel remorse but like...it's still murder you know? You had opportunities to not do that but you chose the oppressive government over your own morals. So it is hard to show sympathy for him, even if it is a little cathartic to see him snap at Akainu.

Morgans and Vivi's cagey dynamic will look to continue, though one would like to hope that Vivi finds her way to someone that doesn't anger her so much. Morgans is still a weird one, he seemed to place his chips on Luffy but he's also throwing him under the bus for sales, he has like 5 different major events happening he doesn't really need to falsify anything. I guess Oda's just drilling home to not trust the tabloids.

Seeing Luffy not wanna party was odd but I'm glad we did point out that the mission did technically fail, but I guess technically did not? Lilith hasn't explained so I feel like Oda's saving it for something else, saying 'functionally dead' makes me think that when the others 'died' they simply returned to the brain jar, since technically they are satellites and I guess their personality and character was pulled from Punk Records' wifi hive mind. We'll have to see when it's clarified, but it seems next will be Elbaf. I am worried that Robin will end up disappointed with hoping to see Saul, but given how insane Egghead has been anything can happen, would like to see more shine on the crew though; most of the crew didn't end up doing a lot this arc, the Monster Trio got their heres and theres but the rest felt written out or secondary so hopefully Elbaf is the place for the massive Yonko-level W.

All that's left is to wait.

[random-introverted-blog]

His Star - His Queen [Chapter 7 - Impromptu Rendezvous]

A King Deserves More

Summary: Astarion and you are finally (kinda) reunited (not fully). Tentative plans are discussed, a tournament commences and a wish is granted. Questions answered, (also kinda) and plenty more left to ponder (definitely).

You didn't think you were the only ones with plans, did you?

Link to the Tumblr Chapter Index

Warnings/Advisories: A fight scene, some uncomfortable witnessed kisses, a few mentions of blood. Creepy dialogue akin to Chapter 4.

A/N: We're getting close to a turning point in the story. Been sort of a lull period to establish what was set up in the first three chapters.

Thank you as always to everyone who supports this little adventure of mine! Hope the wait was worth it!

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈���┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-

After a quick visit to the Precipice for the enchantment to be recast on him, Astarion once again found himself outside that damned palace, amidst the bustling stalls and festival nonsense.

They had been watching, but neither was sure how to reach you. You were effectively surrounded. With that steward spawn Malacai glued to your side, three servant girls in your shadow and four of those palace guards in polished silver armor gleamed in the rays of the midday sun. If there was an attempt at subtly, it was done poorly. But that didn't stop you from casually browsing the jeweler's stand as the stumpy human man made enthusiastic and broad gestures, beaming proudly as he went on about his wide and varied selection. Evidently eager to be the one to sell you your engagement ring.

Just as evident as the fact you weren't wearing one, despite the announcement yesterday.

It was one of the first things he noted to Aric beside him when they spotted you exiting the palace. Accompanied by your small horde, the Ascendant had walked at your side, hands clasped behind his back and carrying himself with his chin held high. Jester - a fitting name for a gnome, he might add, muttered something about drawing the Godking away before he melted into the sea of people. Just moments later, a messenger arrived and whispered in the Ascendant's ear. And then he visibly excused himself from your company. Not that you seemed to mind his abrupt need to depart. But Astarion could have done without witnessing the brief kiss he gave you before he departed.

"If we don't reach her now," Aric muttered to him urgently, "we'll lose our chance." "The tourney is in less than an hour." Subtly reminding Astarion that he insisted on participating.

As soon as he embarked on this ill-conceived plan, he immediately regretted it, muttering, "Bloody hells." But he was never one for planning, anyway.

"What are you—?" The tiefling asked, bewildered, as the elf departed his side and strode toward the guards and servants.

Predictably, his path was blocked by two guards, their crossed spears serving as a clear message "By order of his Majesty, none may approach the consort. "One of them said sternly from behind their full helmet, concealing their face. By curiosity or chance, you looked up from the ring in your palm. Your face instantly brightened with excitement, but then fell, dejected, just as quickly. Worry etched lines on your beautiful face, but you turned to that tall steward of yours. Speaking quickly and urgently, judging by the movement of your lips.

Despite the incredulous expression on your steward's face, you pressed on, your eyes silently begging for understanding. Reluctantly, and with a clenched jaw, the human waved his hand, causing your small horde to retreat. Leaving the path clear for Astarion.

It was so sudden to him then how much he's missed you. How desperately he ached with the ferocious need to draw you close, to wrap you in his embrace, where the world's shadows couldn't dare to touch the warmth of your skin. Shield you the same way you've shielded him so many times.

He could sense that it had also occurred to you. But you pressed your lips into a thin line and shook your head. "I don't need to give him more reason to..." you whisper, your words fading away. Your attention shifts, and you start absentmindedly turning the ring in your fingers, lost in thought. "How come no one else is reacting to you?"

As you ask, you visibly tense up, your muscles tightening as if you're holding yourself back. The urge to run to him was strong in you as well.

"That's quite a long story, my dear. For now, it's a unique spell, or enchantment. That protects me from my... quirks. And my identity from anyone besides you and him."

While skeptical, you seem satisfied enough to let it go. Freeing him to continue. "Listen, Tav," he spoke, mindful of his volume, his voice barely audible over the bustling festive chaos, "we're working as best we can to get you—"

As you hold up your free hand, you cautiously inquire, "Who's we?" You quickly glance from side to side, ensuring that your steward and servants are nowhere nearby to overhear.

"There's a resistance, darling," Astarion whispers. "I've spent the past tenday in their company. They've gotten me mostly up to speed on the state of things in this world." Astarion explains quietly, ensuring his words were only as loud as they need to be. Gathering his courage, he ventures to ask, "Are you...?"

He watches your body tighten into a coil of raw nerves, unease sneaking over you like an unwelcome shadow. "I'm okay, Star," you manage to say, even though your voice betrays a hint of your inner turmoil. "Just tell me what I can do to help. Anything, if it gets me out faster."

With a weighty pause, he inclines his head. "Do you think you could slip out of the palace again? Venture into the city, perhaps less guarded?"

You pause, your fingers fumbling with the ring, as you visibly ponder the request. The burden of the decision lingers in the air, adding a layer of tension. Visibly pondering the request, you furrow your brows, a small crease forming between them. "I... yes," you finally respond, the words escaping your mouth with a hint of bitterness. They hang in the air, heavy and charged. "I can convince him to let me leave, perhaps under the guise of... the wedding arrangements." The words carry a venomous undertone, as if each syllable is laced with resentment and disdain.

Your eyes dart around but focus nowhere in particular, avoiding his gaze momentarily before meeting his eyes, silently seeking understanding. The magnitude of the task is evident in your expression, a mix of determination and uncertainty. "But I can't give you a definite time or location," you continue, your voice tinged with a touch of frustration. "I have to think about it, spin some webs. Another tenday, maybe two, for when he might let me out of the palace. I can't guarantee how guarded I may be, though." As you speak, a faint scent of freshly cooked meats and incense wafts through the air, mingling with the tension. You take a deep breath, as you silently question if that is enough time or if it's too much time.

"How do I even reach you to let you know? Have you any idea how restricted I am in that gilded plane of Avernus? It's not like I can just toddle out and send a letter by pigeon." You gesture to him with the hand holding the ring and suddenly look away. Hiding your eyes behind your well tidied hair.

Every fiber of his being longs to envelop you in his arms, offering the reassurance you so desperately need, and he has to remind himself consciously of the audience around the two of you. "You helped me take back my freedom. I will not leave you alone fighting to regain yours, my love." He pauses and eyes the jewelry pinched between your fingers. A black band, exquisitely crafted, sparkled with a delicate arrangement of petite blue and silver gems.

Like a night sky painted with graceful strokes of twinkling stars, crafting an mesmerizing display resembling a beautiful dance across the dark expanse of midnight.

"You have a servant girl you apparently handpicked."

"Elowen." You finish for him, still not returning your gaze. "I saw her with you yesterday."

"She has a sending stone for you. You can use that to inform me how your plan is progressing, and when we can expect your... appointment." Astarion offers. By the hells, where is that wriggling worm when he really needed it? Dormant? Is that what Illyndra said? "I have to go. The tourney is about to begin. Suppose I'll see you there."

With a slow and deliberate movement, you raise your head to make eye contact with him once more. Hardened. But with more than just resolve. The instinct for self preservation was starting to take over. A little more than a tenday and you were already well on your way to building your bulwark against pain.

Your primal survival instincts were already well underway, it seems.

It seems like your primal survival instincts were already well underway. "No." you respond, your voice devoid of warmth, your eyes distant. "I have another lesson on sovereignty or whatever to endure, followed by a dress fitting, much as I wish I could shirk those things. But he will be there." Your gaze shifts upwards and away, as if searching for an escape. Despite your casual tone, the words carry a warning. His involvement will expose his presence in this world.

Now aware of the human steward's slow approach, his hands tucked behind his back. Astarion pressed his lips together, realizing that you had noticed before he did. "Lady Ancunín," he chided, "that is not the proper way to speak of your affianced publicly." As he drew near to your side.

A fleeting glimmer of a glare that passes through your eyes before you swiftly bury it away, refusing to meet your Star's eyes and witness his shock at your unexpected title. You take one last look at the ring between your fingertips before pushing it back onto the wooden counter of the stall. "It was good seeing you." Lacking emotion, you mutter over your shoulder, your voice sounding even more lifeless than the vampire spawn.

Then you turn away. The vibrant hues of your flowing dress create an enchanting whirlwind around you, captivating the eyes of those who witness your departure. Beside you, Malacai effortlessly matched your determined stride, the click of his boots echoing in sync with your deep brown shoes, and the guards and servants followed closely. However, amidst the commotion, only one person breaks away from your shadow, venturing into the bustling crowd. With a lingering gaze upon the ring you had set down, he moves on.

Curious, Astarion followed her carefully. Barely moving through the crowd when he found her again. He wasn't surprised when he found her speaking to the Ascendant. The exchange was short-lived, a mere moment, before he brushed her off with a nonchalant wave of his hand. She performed a graceful curtsy before him, and then hastily made her way, presumably in search of you. He turned back to a familiar tall Elven man. "Ballar." Aric said as he appeared beside him. "His righthand steward. Out of all his advisors, generals... Ballar is the one he seems to lean on the most." He explains calmly while Astarion recalls his first day in this world, in front of the palace doors.

On his way to the tourney ring, Astarion swiftly shares the key details of his conversation with you. Noting the balcony overlooking the patch of fenced in dirt from above. Positioned next to each other were two magnificent chairs with ornate designs. Empty for the time being, but a handful of servants diligently clean the tables, meticulously polish the armrests and golden goblets, and arrange a spread of refreshments.

"Jester lured Ancunín away by tipping off the Noctis to a resistance hideout, but now he has to hurry and evacuate it before they get there. He told me to make sure you won. Apparently he has an idea for that wish." Aric explains next, surprising Astarion the lengths the gnome went to provide him an opening to meet with you.

If these Noctis Veil are as... efficient as he's been led to believe, it was not a risk he would have taken lightly. An elite subterfuge and espionage force blended with vampire spawn? Creative... and terrifying.

Not long after, the tourney began. He had expected more competition than those he had faced in the ring already, but they hardly stood a challenge against him. It was almost comical. As their gazes met, Astarion braced himself for a more pronounced reaction from the Ascendant, but was met with a calm and collected demeanor. His doppelgänger didn't seem surprised in the slightest.

What did surprise them both was when you entered the balcony from the door behind the Ascendant. Right behind you, Malacai discreetly positioned himself against the back wall, behind the chairs. While waiting for his next round, Astarion observed the "sovereigns" and could tell that the Ascendant wasn't thrilled to see you there, although he didn't appear eager to send you away either.

Instead, he gestured to the seat beside him, and you took the offer. Though Astarion saw your lips moving, neither of your voices reached his ears. But you made a show of eyeing and playing with your left ring finger as you spoke, and your vampire managed a sad smile. Still doing your best to communicate to him what was unfolding around you.

But then the monster turned to lock his glare to Astarion's. Cueing you to look as well.

Much to his surprise, the Ascendant let you watch most of the event before clearly dismissing you. Again, with a soft touch and a gentle press of his lips against yours, he sealed the moment with a brief, yet lingering kiss, unable to resist the allure of your beautiful, addictive lips. You didn't look at Astarion as you rose and left, avoiding his gaze.

However, the Ascendant did. His eyes gleamed with wicked delight as he leisurely crossed his leg over his lap, revealing a glint of his fangs beneath his lopsided, smug grin.

Aric's surprise at Astarion making it to the final round was clear, as he made no effort to conceal it. Though the combatants thus far have proven easy.

Once he enters the pit, he assesses his final opponent. The sight that greeted him was a striking half orc man, his tall frame clad in resplendent gold and silver plate armor. A longsword stood firmly planted in the earth in front of him. On one knee, deep in prayer. A paladin.

Rising, he turns to the balcony, his eyes filled with determination as he brings a tight fist to his chest. "My Godking," he said with utmost reverence, "I swear my undying loyalty and devotion to you! May your reign beside our queen be long and prosperous!"

"You can take him deeper down your throat, surely." Astarion mutters under his breath with a roll of his eyes, drawing his twin daggers from his hip.

The game-warden, true to form, delivers her usual verbose introduction for the two fighters, emphasizing the high stakes of this decisive match. And with two deafening blasts of the horn that mark the start of the final match, the paladin fearlessly charges forward with a resounding roar that reverberates through the air and mingles with the dying echo of the tournament horn, his footsteps echoing like thunder.

Radiant energy crackles along the length of his blade. Astarion moves with grace and ease, smoothly sidestepping the initial strike, a small grin already forming on his lips.

The sound of steel meeting steel echoes through the festive courtyard as Astarion effortlessly parries the next series of broad swings, his movements appearing almost otherworldly in their fluidity.

With each display of the behemoth's strength, his confidence grows, knowing that all he has to do is bide his time, find the perfect moment, and make the behemoth kneel before him with a blade at his throat.

But the ferocity of his assault doesn't relent, testing your vampire's stamina. A heavy strike descends upon his head, and with a swift, skillful roll, Astarion narrowly avoids the blow. A sharp pain shot through his shoulder, confirming that the behemoth managed to graze him, marking the first sign of bloodshed.

Gods, what kind of idiot was he? Direct confrontation would never work. His opponent had brute strength and evident vitality on his side. But what he didn't have was speed and agility. He couldn't outmaneuver Astarion...

Filled with renewed determination, he deftly navigates around the hulking figure, launching rapid attacks whenever he spots a vulnerability in his armor. Aimed to soften his target, make him easier prey.

The paladin, feeling the taste of victory within his grasp, lifts his sword once more, unleashing a powerful cry as he gathers an overwhelming surge of radiant energy, preparing for a divine smite. With incredible reflexes and nimble footwork, Astarion skillfully evaded the attack, causing the half-orc to lose his footing and stumble ahead.

Astarion, quick as lightning, seizes the fleeting opportunity and launches a relentless assault on his opponent, the sound of his slashes and stabs filling the air as the paladin struggles to defend himself. Finally, one of Astarion's daggers finds a weak spot in the sturdy armor, piercing the skin and drawing blood. Despite his subdued appetite, the tempting aroma wafted through the air, teasing his senses.

Ignoring everything else, he stayed fixated on the momentarily stunned paladin, driving the pommel of his dagger directly into the half-orc's nose. He relished in the satisfying crunch and the resulting cry of pained astonishment. Employing a strategic technique, he disarms his adversary with the flat of his blades, following up with calculated strikes to immobilize the weakened areas.

Completely outmatched and devoid of weapons, it appears that even this arrogant brute accepts defeat as he humbly kneels before your rogue, surrendering without resistance. Silently acknowledging him as the victor.

The applause of the crowd faded into the background as he turned his attention toward the balcony. Astarion's eyes locked with the Ascendant's, who couldn't help but sport a sly grin as he arched one eyebrow in amusement.

He paid no mind to the game-warden once she let go of his arm, the one she had hoisted in the air, and he quickly made his way back to Aric. Only a little surprised to see the irritating gnome at his side. "Impressive for a foolhardy pretty boy."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Jester doubled down but shook his head. "Listen, we don't have long before you're summoned for your audience with Ancunín..."

‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐

With a nod from the well-dressed servant, the guards stepped back, allowing him to open the door. The Ascendant commanded attention as he stood in the middle of the room, his back facing the onlookers as workers toiled to remove a grand portrait from the wall. Meanwhile, the Ascendant maintained his poise, casually holding a goblet between his fingertips.

It looked like you... but also not. Somehow.

His gaze lingered on them, studying their actions, before he turned his head to look over his shoulder and acknowledge his new arrival. "Ah, my favorite cockroach." Muses the Ascendant with a wry smile. Returning his attention to the workers, he commanded, "Leave us."

Astarion observed the workers exchanging uncertain glances, their hands carefully clutching the weighty portrait. Looking on, he could discern the Ascendant's eyes rolling and catch the faint sound of an impatient growl resonating from his throat. In a hurried frenzy, they carelessly released their grip on the item, hitting the floor with a resounding thud. The impact was forceful and reverberated through the room, shattering the delicate frame and inflicting irreparable damage upon the once-pristine portrait. Yet, a strange indifference permeated the room, as not a soul in the room seemed to care about the damage.

Once only the two vampires were in the room, the Ascendant turned to face him. "Quite a performance you put on today. And you didn't even spend half of it on your back." He taunts, flavoring the malice with a smirk as he elegantly swirls his goblet. Astarion's senses tingled as the intoxicating scent of fresh blood wafted through the air, a scent as pure as the first falling snow. It possessed a certain sweetness, a tantalizing whisper that hinted at its source - young, untouched... Virgin blood? The thought alone sent a shiver of excitement down his spine.

It was an obvious attempt to bait him. Salt his wounds and tease his instincts, his hunger. "Where is she?" Astarion demanded, his tone sharp and impatient.

Mimicking confusion, he gently tapped his chin. The furrowed brows cast a shadow over his piercing ruby eyes. "I know of many, but none named so simply as 'She'..." he mused, his voice trailing off with a hint of contemplation. As if lost in thought, he released a soft sigh, the sound barely audible. "You'll have to elaborate, I'm afraid. Small words, if necessary for you." He adds quickly near the end of his sentence. The words accompanied a slight wag of his finger, creating a sense of derision in the atmosphere.

"Where," your vampire's deliberate speech draws out each word, "is Tav?"

"Ah, you mean my consort and fiancée, Lady Tav Ancunín! Impressive, isn't it? She carries my name already, and she hasn't even decided on a design for her wedding dress! But I spare no time nor expense for my beloved treasure." He looks up and away, a wistful expression crossing his face and a sense of longing fills his eyes as he lets out a dramatic sigh, before refocusing on his Spawn-self.

"Even you can understand that, surely..." he uttered with a subtle hint of challenge in his voice and then casually lifted his goblet to his lips.

"I understand enough to know she detests being spoken of as some cherished possession." Astarion snaps, his voice sharp and full of determination, as he dares to take a single step toward the vampire lord. "She desires simplicity, quiet, a humble but peaceful life. Not," he gestures broadly to the large, opulent room, glittering chandeliers casting a soft, golden glow over the hardwood floor, "this. If you have any genuine care for her, you would have seen that by now," he argues with conviction. Lowering his chin, every one of his instincts urging him to rend this imposter limb from wicked limb.

Pausing, the Ascendant's piercing gaze locked onto him, an iciness emanating from his unmoving expression. The air grew heavy with anticipation, a silence so profound it echoed in the room. "She will learn," he asserts, his voice laced with an unyielding determination that cuts through the silence like a blade. "Already, the seeds of knowledge have taken root within her. And once she embraces the timeless gift of eternity, we shall have an infinite expanse to immerse ourselves in her tutelage."

Astarion's eyes widen in disbelief as he is taken aback by the shamelessness that emanates from the Ascendants' words. In that moment, his mind becomes a raging battlefield, a chaotic storm of countless responses swirling within him. Insults, questions, and a myriad of other thoughts clash violently in his head. But amidst the chaos, he hones in on the crucial information just revealed. "You actually plan to turn her?" He manages to utter with a focused glare, his words dripping with a blend of incredulity and scorn.

The scene before him unfolds like a vivid tableau, each detail etched into his consciousness, the Ascendants' smug expressions, his self-assured posture, all of it adds fuel to the fire burning inside him. Astarion can almost taste the bitterness of his own anger, a bitter tang that fills his mouth as he struggles to find the right words to respond. "She's to be just another pretty spawn to sit at your feet, then?"

"Don't be absurd," The Ascendant sneers, his lip curling in a disgusted expression. Shadows dance along the walls as the Ascendant's power emanates. The aroma of incense and polished floorboards lingers in the air, mingling with a hint of something sinister. "My power has surpassed that of a mere vampire lord," he continues, his voice dripping with a chilling confidence. "The bride of a vampire Ascendant, a king, a god... should transcend the lowly status of cattle and spawn." As he speaks, his eyes, a piercing shade of crimson, reveal a darkness that seems to simmer beneath the surface. The thought of his own immense power elicits a twisted satisfaction, sending a shiver down the spine of anyone who dares to meet his gaze.

"The depths of my intentions for my darling consort, my queen-to-be, are far beyond anything you could even begin to comprehend." With a dismissive flick of his hand, he turns away, his red and black tailcoat swirling behind him like a macabre dance as he gracefully moves towards a table - adorned with a vase of dark flowers and flanked by a pair of elegant couches. He takes a deliberate sip from his goblet. The liquid, a rich crimson, glimmers in the warm golden glow of light, embracing the room from the chandeliers above.

Setting down his cup with a gentle clink, he shifts his attention back to Astarion, whose feet seem glued to the ground. The room feels heavy with tension, as if it could be sliced with a knife. This bastard, with his unpredictable nature, unsettles him to no end. With reluctance, he acknowledges that his best advantage lies in staying close to an exit, much as he loathes to admit it. "My time is fleeting and precious, little rodent. You emerged victorious in the tournament, earning yourself a single wish. However, be warned, I possess the authority to reject anything I find unsuitable," he states, adjusting his attire to settle comfortably into the plush seat behind him. Draping one arm lazily over the backrest, lifting his other hand to inspect his impeccably manicured nails, a small gesture of indifference amidst the charged atmosphere.

Astarion doesn't hesitate. "The gravesite of your lover. Where is it?"

"The mausoleum—"

"The real one." Interrupting, he receives a look that is both amused and indignant from his imposter. "I know you hid the body."

"There was no body to bury, never mind hide." The Ascendant bites, sending a dagger of a glare up at Astarion. "The disintegrate scroll reduced it to ash, and her soul has no desire to return." His tone murmured as he allows his gaze to drift back to his nails.

"I concealed the remains by the beach, where our paths intertwined for the first time. I was not keen to share her, even then..." he murmured, his voice devoid of any excitement. A pat of his pocket to check the content and a precise motion, his fingers delved into the recesses of his exquisitely crafted pants, retrieving a weathered locket. Without a parting look, he stretched out his arm, offering it to Astarion.

Cautiously, he stepped closer and delicately lifted the small silver locket from his hand. Tracing their intricate, though simple engravings with his thumb, he marveled at their intricate simplicity. As he attempted to open the latch, a faint click sound sung through the air only to be met with resistance. The mechanism lay broken, refusing to yield.

Before he could gather his thoughts or utter another word, the grand doors to the room suddenly swung open with a resounding creak. In a state of urgency, a servant burst into the room, her breathing heavy and ragged and eyes widened in alarm. "My Godking, there is a matter that requires your urgent attention!"

With no interest in responding, the Ascendant maintained a distant stare, fixed on his nails. "Another one?" He mutters under his breath.

"It's Lady Ancunín, she... her parents...!"

In a swift motion, the Ascendant springs to his feet, his tailcoat flowing behind him. With purposeful, long strides, he makes his way towards the door, the sound of his boots echoing through the room. The air carries a sense of urgency as he sternly commands, "Escort our tournament winner out, he's received his reward." He remains focused, not glancing back at either of them.

Startled, her voice trembles as she stammers a quick acknowledgement and the guards flanking the doors from the outside move to stand beside her. The heavy footsteps of the guards echo through the grand hall, armor polished and shining in the well lit grand hallway. They stand beside her, their imposing figures reinforcing the command of their Godking, urging Astarion to comply.

As he delicately slipped the locket into his pocket, his feet remained rooted to the ground. His mind, however, raced like a wild stallion, galloping through a vast expanse of thoughts. You didn't have "parents"...

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-

A/N: I know Bhaal is the Dark Urge's father, before we get in an debate to tell me something I already know...

Next chapter could be another Spawn chapter or we could go back to Ascendant. Seems like we're sort of doing a two-and-two sort of format and we can maintain that for awhile.

Would love to hear from you guys as always how you're enjoying the story thus far. Feel free to drop a reply or an ask, whatever floats your boat.

[bubblegum-blackwood]

Mermay VC - fishing net

My newest fic, Dirty Little Secret on AO3! @vamptember

Armand knew there was something in the water.

Seven years old and playing on the lakeshore with his two sisters, a slight salty breeze ruffling all of their auburn hair, a splash caught his eye, which he pointed out to the girls. Anna and Isabelle, twins, and two years younger than their brother, looked over at the sound of his voice, little hands still full of the shiny pebbles they had been searching the sand for to stuff in their little pockets. They all three stared in wonder, eyes wide, mouths slack, then they rushed back into the house clamouring over each other to tell their mother with tiny little voices raised in enthusiasm about what they had just seen - a mermaid, they declared! A pale hand sticking out of the water, the flick of a tail.

That was a little more than ten years ago, and Anna and Isabelle were convinced there was no mermaid - what they saw, they told Armand every time he brought it up (which was often), was probably just a seal or a dolphin come in from the sea or a simple trick of the light paired with the overactive imaginations of bored children of modest means. But no, he insisted, this was no ordinary creature, he knew what he had seen! Long after his sisters gave up on the idea of a mermaid in their lake, Armand held firm, sure of what they had experienced that day. This mermaid in the loch would not leave his mind, haunting both his dreams and his waking hours, and he read everything he could about them. His mother tended to indulge the requests of her children with much less persuasion than his father required, and she was much more tolerant of her son’s fascination, so it was to her he turned to beg and plead for more, and so she ordered all sorts of writing from far and wide so that he could feed his need for knowledge, and by the time he had hit puberty he was already sufficiently well-versed in magic and all sorts of magical creatures, though he dared not discuss any of it in front of his father.

He learned magic from those books, as well; that he told no one of, not even his mother. But he would go around on his early-morning walks and reach out toward a rock or stick or whatever he could find and whisper to himself and up it would go, and he would laugh to himself in delight and make it fly up and down, left and right, around his head, then he would set it back down and continue on his way. With more practice, he soon was able to stun small animals, field mice and little birds, and even get them to come to him. He could pull plants out of the ground without touching them then put them back in as if nothing had ever happened, light a small flame in the palm of his hand, and with enough effort he could even summon and banish storm clouds.

But through it all, he never forgot about the creature he and his sisters had seen in the lake as children. The more the girls told him it was not real, the more he fixated on it - he would even sketch it on the pages of his diary or in the margins of old books his father saw no use for anymore, imagining what it might look like up close, trying to recall how it appeared in his dreams. He would see it again some day, he knew it, he knew that it was out there! It had to be. For he already loved it so.

He couldn’t help but feel drawn to this creature, like they were meant to be. He had never been more sure of anything in his life than he was sure that he would meet his mermaid again some day.

And then it finally happened.

One day when Armand woke up in the early, early morning when the sky was that dull shade of bluish grey before dawn, he dressed himself and took a blanket and wandered the perimeter of the loch, eventually settling down on the sand with his back to a rock, eyes fixed on the low shimmer of the water as it made its gentle ripples by the light of the moon. Just as the sound and motion of it reached the point of lulling him to sleep again, something splashed up out of the water and onto the shore - there it was, the creature! He knew it, he knew it was real! Vaguely like a man it looked, a strong jawline with a thin nose, a mouth full of sharp teeth, large and almost bugging eyes of a piercing light blue, a mane of golden hair, broad shoulders, a sensual chest, toned arms ending in webbed hands with shining claws, and a well-built torso that melted into a thick-trunked tail in the place of legs, the peachy hue of flesh making way for white and eventually grey - all dolphin-like, down to the dorsal fin on its back which sent a grey stripe down the spine, eventually broadening out until it made up the whole tail. They locked eyes and both froze, some small, strange spark seeming to muffle the world and slow down time itself for those few electric seconds, then the creature gave a little gasp, eyes wide, and dove immediately back into the water, leaving Armand alone again.

Read the rest on AO3!

[booksteaandtoomuchtv]

Witchy Woman (1/10)

art by @cocohook38

0.5 | A03 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Summary: When Emma came into her position as Storybrooke Coven Leader, she ended things with the powerful Vampire Overlord, Killian Jones. She’s spent over a decade working alongside him and ignoring the growing tension between them.

During his best mate’s wedding, Killian decides he is done waiting. He is ready to have his mate back in his arms (and bed) again. Emma is not an easy woman to woo, but Killian has never backed down from a challenge.

When Emma’s jilted ex-boyfriend returns to town and Emma goes missing, Killian will stop at nothing to get her back and ensure that nothing can ever separate them again.

Rating: E

CW: Mention of domestic abuse, blood and blood drinking (vampires), threatening situations, minor violence, death, mention of parental death

Entry for Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2023 (@cssns)

Tagging: @kmomof4 , @undercaffinatednightmare , @jrob64, @zaharadessert, @elfiola, @anmylica, @tiganasummertree, @stahlop, @xarandomdreamx, @teamhook

Author Note: Thank you, again, to @ultraluckycatnd for her time, patience, and feedback.

"Let us welcome, for the very first time as husband and wife, David and Mary Margaret Nolan."

The crowd erupted with applause, hoots, and whistles as the newlyweds appeared in the middle of the grand garden, where the large stone patio had been transformed into a romantic dance floor for their reception. David's smile radiated boundless joy as he gazed at his new bride as if she were all of his dreams come true. Mary Margaret was stunning as she smiled back at him, a princess pulled from the pages of a storybook. A soft, ethereal shimmer of light bathed the couple as their combined magic swirled and danced around them. The gentle glow was the outcome of the completed marriage bond between true soul mates. It was a sighting so rare that the guests quieted and stared in awe at the beautiful sight before them.

Emma felt the moisture gather in her eyes as she watched her younger sister and her new husband begin to dance together, the soft glow accompanying each of their movements. Until now, she had thought the True Love Aura was a myth. Seeing it in person, embracing her sister and David filled her with so much happiness for her sister. The smallest, deepest part of her heart ached with a stormy emotion that was lonely and tasted bitter.

“The bride and groom would like to invite the wedding party to join them on the dance floor.”

Mary Margaret had conveniently left this dance out of their wedding planning discussions. As the Maid of Honour, Emma would be paired with David’s Best Man, Killian Jones. If the familiar, powerful magical signature was not confirmation enough that he was behind her, the smell of sea and leather that filled her senses was. She took a steadying breath before she turned to face him.

He wore a dark blue suit with pinstripes of an even deeper blue, a white fitted shirt with the top few buttons undone, and a look in his pale blue eyes that made her heart stutter when she met his gaze. He offered her his arm to her with a small smile tugging at his lips. Rolling her eyes at him, she took it and led him to the dance floor.

“You look nervous,” he murmured.

“I don’t dance.”

“Don’t worry, Love. I do,” he murmured. He wrapped his arm around her waist and guided her in a slow, sweet dance. His graceful movements seemed to melt into each other in time with the music, a feat Emma seemed to be accomplishing as well by following his lead. She wanted to be annoyed at his pompous words, but he really was a good dancer.

Lulled by the romance in the air, the sighting of the aura earlier, or maybe the way their bodies seemed to be moving together so well, Emma relaxed into his hold. She let the music take her away to a time when he held her like this all the time. Their relationship had been short, but the way he held her was not something she could ever forget. She had never felt so safe or warm; and, she was unable to find that peace and security again. In a moment of weakness, before she could stop herself, she leaned her head on his chest, breathing him in and soaking in a quiet moment of pretend. A moment where they were together and he held her like this all the time.

Emma stiffened as the last chords faded into something more upbeat and the remaining guests started filling the dance floor. She couldn't quite pull herself away from him just yet.

"Time’s up, Swan,” Killian spoke, voice laced with predatory intent; the centuries-old vampire tired of waiting and ready to capture his prey. Emma’s skin prickled either in response to his words or perhaps to the warmth of his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he spoke, she wasn’t sure. Either way, she doubted that she was going to be able to resist him much longer - she wasn't sure she wanted to resist him any longer.

Mary Margaret's fairy tale was making her soft. She had a good reason to stay away from this vampire; she was sure she did. She would remember it once she got out of his warm embrace and the twinkling fairy lights. Wouldn't she?

His piercing blue eyes searched her own for any sign that she would not allow him to pursue her, a sensual smirk tugged at his lips when he found none. The hunger and determination in that gaze melted her resolve and filled her with an equal sense of longing.

A low chuckle rumbled from Killian, “We’re both more than ready, love.” Her stomach clenched as his words stirred delicious memories. And, her body recalled the way he touched her, the way only he was capable of making her feel, of the filthy words he would murmur in her ear while he did those things to her.

As if he could read her thoughts, he smiled wickedly, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Her eyes tracked the action and his own danced with delight, clearly aware of the impact his words and his nearness were having on her. She stiffened and pulled away from him - she needed to gain back control of herself. This was getting ridiculous.

And then, he just…walked away, leaving her alone in the midst of the other wedding guests. Her skin felt too hot and she felt too exposed, even knowing that no one else had witnessed their exchange. At least she hadn’t thought anyone had, but as she glanced around looking for the newlyweds, her eyes landed on Ruby’s.

What was that about? Ruby’s voice roared in her mind.

Emma shook her head and mouthed the word “later.” She wasn’t telepathic and she wasn’t going to speak to any of her sisters until she knew what she wanted. She didn’t need their insights regarding Killian just yet. She sighed and rolled her eyes. No, she knew exactly how encouraging they would be and she didn’t want that right now.

Right now, she wanted one of those deceptively fruity cocktail drinks which left her skin tingling after just a few sips. She wanted to escape into the shared joy of her family and their friends celebrating her sister’s wedding. Future Emma could sort out Killian’s declaration; Future Emma would be very good at that.

§§§§ §§§§ §§§§ §§§§

Smooth guitar chords and warm, yellow light poured out from the den’s open windows filling the porch behind it with a hopeful and relaxed energy that had been absent from this garden for far too long. Killian smiled as he recounted the fire he’d seen in Emma’s gaze before he left David’s wedding. It was confirmation of a hope he hadn’t dared breathe life into before tonight; she was almost as hungry for him as he was for her.

She’d buried her desire for him all these years under a thick foundation of cold professionalism, but he knew her and what he saw tonight was the same desperate desire that flooded his veins. Perhaps she no longer loved him the way he had always been lost for her; but, she had looked at him with a want with which he was intimately acquainted and that look gave him hope.

Since the day that she'd called it off between them, he had yearned for her as though she were a missing piece of his own soul. Perhaps, because she was a piece of him and he was of her.

He had held on to the belief that they would repair what had broken between them even as the weeks turned into months without any progress. He hoped she just needed time for him to prove to her that he was trustworthy and reliable, to show her how essential she was to his being, and to earn back her heart. Until that bloody walk home on that bloody evening when she had decided to move on from what they shared, to replace it with something new - someone new.

The evening had been warm and clear, the breeze ruffling his hair had carried on it the promise of colder days. Killian had once loved the way the world seemed to quiet and slow as the warmth of the summer sun faded into memory. This year, however, the lengthening nights were everlasting, voids between the hours that he could fill with distraction and work. Hell, the reason he walked home rather than tracing or driving was to shorten the time he would have to endure that entirely too-empty house.

The sounds of voices and the sweet smell of a wood-fired oven drifted toward him from Remy’s. A familiar voice rose above the rest. Before his mind could catch up, his focus had landed on the siren, her green eyes sparkling with joy and her lips pulled into a carefree smile. He was frozen in place, absorbing the beautiful sight. Had he ever seen her smile so freely?

A large hand covered hers on the table and she blushed, smiling wider but looking down at the contact. Killian felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach as he registered the scene before him; Emma was on a date. A good date.

The darkness he’d leashed long ago rose from the depths of his mind, demanding that he rip the hand off the arm of the filthy werewolf touching Emma. Killian fought against the cruel urges as they continued to flood his thoughts. Teeth clenched so tight that he thought he might break a tooth, he forced his body forward.

No longer toward his house, but to the nearest vampire den. He had to quench his sudden thirst and for that, he needed fresh blood.

The vibration of his phone against his leg dispersed the memory, leaving only the bitter taste of Milah's blood from that night thick on his tongue.

He pulled the phone from his pocket and checked the screen in a fluid movement, a small frown of concern on his face as he answered. “It’s a bit late, Smee.” His voice sounded rough, perhaps the memory still had some claws. He took a soothing sip of whiskey.

“Yes, sire,” the serious tone in his Head of Security’s voice had him sitting up, alert and ready for whatever warranted this phone call. “A minor threat has entered the city, sire. Erm, I mean to say, well, he has come back.”

“Continue to monitor his movements for now. No need for alarm. Keep this between us.”

“Got it, Captain,” Smee replied. “Sorry to disturb your evening, sire.”

As they ended the call, Killian’s mood darkened. This was an annoyance he would rather do without.

§§§§ §§§§ §§§§ §§§§

Emma decided to enjoy the warm summer night and walk home from the festivities. The sweet smells of honeysuckle and night-blooming jasmine calmed her better than Mary Margaret’s magic. Crickets and cicadas filled the air with bright songs to accompany her short journey home. She kept replaying Killian’s words to her at the wedding.

Time's up, Swan. We're both more than ready.

Alone, in the stillness of the night, she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the prospect of being with him again.

He still had the power to destroy her, but she was more confident in herself, more confident in her powers and ability, and less afraid of losing herself, of him taking what she could not give. He’d spent the last fifteen years respecting her boundaries and had been the definition of a perfect gentleman; he’d proven over and over again that he would be there for her without expecting anything from her in return. She could trust he’d never take more than she would freely give.

Her skin prickled moments before she became aware of another magical signature nearby. Vampire, she thought automatically. As the head of the coven, she was always on alert to anything that may be a threat to her sisters or those they were charged with protecting. This vampire felt familiar, her stomach twisted in warning. “Anyone but him,” she pleaded with the spirits.

“Ems.”

Dread filled her at the sound of a name only he called her. He’d appeared by her side, seemingly out of nowhere. A few decades on and his presence felt as oppressive and oily as she’d remembered. She flinched inwardly but was glad that he didn’t appear to have noticed. He threw her a lopsided smile, boyish and disarming; her mind sounded every alarm.

“Heard Mary Margaret finally married that warlock, James?”

“What are you doing here?” Emma demanded, ignoring his question and his - likely intentional - mix-up of her brother-in-law with his vile twin brother.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you,” Neal said. He threw his arms around her shoulders. He tried to pull her into his side, but she pushed him back. “Go away, Neal.”

“Don’t be like that, Emma.” Neal was the very picture of a petulant boy. “I just wanted to say hello to my old friend on her sister’s big day.”

Her body felt charged, her power wrapped closely around her acting as both a comfort and a reminder. She was no longer young and insecure in her powers; she’d come into her powers and her position as the head of the coven in the decades since they’d last met, since he tried to…

“We are not friends,” Emma’s voice was low, dangerous.

Neal looked surprised but must have read the threat in her voice because he traced away as fast as his heightened speed could manage. She imagined she heard his voice on the wind - you’ll regret this - before she shook off the exasperating exchange and continued home, her pace quickened and her shawl pulled tight against the sudden chill in the air.

[bratzkoo]

doré | minjoon | part two

Author: bratzkoo  | Credits to: @jintherapper​​ for the banner Pairing: crown prince! namjoon x pirate! jimin Genre: fluff, angst, more angst Rating: 18+ Word count: 2.1k Warnings/note: cursing, mentions of death and killing, revenge, no proper pov TT, homophobic piece of shit king, bisexual jimin x bisexual namjoon... just saying, idiots to lovers?, jin being the best brother out there, jungkook is an impulsive boy and stupidly brilliant, yoongi had enough haha, it’s my first time writing a pirate! au and i do not know what i’m doing. to @written-in-flowers for @thebtswritersclub​ . part one here.

summary: jimin’s quest on clearing his name after he was framed for murder consists of making the crown prince fall in love with him. 

taglist: TT i can’t find my taglist, pls hit me up if you wanna be added.

-

The gentle rocking of the ship lulled Namjoon into a false sense of security. He found himself surprisingly at ease, considering his current predicament. The Crown Prince of the Empire, kidnapped by pirates and now willingly agreeing to help clear the name of their leader—it was absurd, really. Yet here he was, sitting across from Park Jimin in the captain's quarters, discussing their plan as if they were old friends conspiring over tea.

"So, let me get this straight," Namjoon said, leaning back in his chair. "You want me to vouch for your innocence when we return to the palace, but you're leaving the details entirely up to me?"

Jimin's lips curved into a mischievous smile. "I have faith in your creativity, Your Highness. Surely the Crown Prince can concoct a believable tale?"

Namjoon couldn't help but chuckle. "You're putting an awful lot of trust in someone you've kidnapped."

"Technically, Jungkook kidnapped you," Jimin corrected, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I'm merely... benefiting from the situation."

"Ah, yes. How could I forget?" Namjoon rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind the gesture. Despite himself, he was finding Jimin's company oddly enjoyable. "And speaking of Jungkook, where is your impulsive first mate?"

Jimin waved a hand dismissively. "Probably trying to figure out how to sail the ship he stole. Don't worry, I've made it clear that you're not to be harmed."

"How reassuring," Namjoon deadpanned. He stood up, stretching his long limbs. "Well, if I'm to be your guest for the next three days, I might as well get acquainted with my temporary home. Care to give me a tour, Captain?"

Jimin raised an eyebrow. "You're taking this remarkably well, Your Highness. I half expected you to be demanding your immediate return."

Namjoon shrugged. "What would be the point? We're already at sea, and I've given my word to help you. Besides," he added with a wry smile, "this is the most excitement I've had in years. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts."

Jimin laughed, a sound that was surprisingly melodic. "Very well, then. Allow me to show you around our humble vessel."

As they made their way out of the captain's quarters and onto the main deck, Namjoon was struck by the organized chaos of ship life. Crew members scurried about, adjusting sails and checking ropes. The salty sea air whipped around them, carrying with it the cries of seagulls and the distant rumble of waves against the hull.

"It's... not what I expected," Namjoon admitted, taking in the sight.

Jimin glanced at him curiously. "And what did you expect, Your Highness? Bloodthirsty pirates swinging from the rigging with knives between their teeth?"

Namjoon had the grace to look sheepish. "Well, when you put it like that..."

Their tour took them from bow to stern, with Jimin pointing out various parts of the ship and introducing Namjoon to key crew members. The prince was surprised by the camaraderie he witnessed, the easy banter and shared laughter among the pirates. It was a far cry from the stuffy formality of palace life.

As they reached the ship's galley, a boisterous voice called out, "Oi, Cap'n! Who's the fancy gentleman?"

Namjoon turned to see a burly man with a wild beard and an even wilder grin. Jimin chuckled, clapping the man on the shoulder.

"Namjoon, meet our cook, Seokjin. Seokjin, this is... well, I suppose you could call him our guest of honor."

Seokjin's eyes widened comically. "Blimey, it's true then? We've got the Crown Prince aboard?"

Namjoon nodded, offering a polite smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Seokjin."

The cook let out a bark of laughter. "Well, I'll be damned. Never thought I'd be cookin' for royalty. You got any fancy tastes, Your Highness? 'Fraid we're a bit short on caviar and champagne."

"Whatever you normally serve will be fine," Namjoon assured him. "I'm not one for extravagance, despite what you might think."

Seokjin nodded approvingly. "A man after me own heart. Well, don't you worry, Your Highness. I'll whip up a feast fit for a king—or a prince, in this case."

As they continued their tour, Namjoon found himself genuinely enjoying the experience. The crew, while initially wary, seemed to warm up to him quickly. He listened intently as Jimin explained the intricacies of sailing, asked questions about life at sea, and even tried his hand at tying a few knots under the guidance of a patient deckhand.

As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow across the waves, Jimin led Namjoon to the ship's bow. They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the sky turn from gold to pink to deep purple.

"It's beautiful," Namjoon murmured, almost to himself.

Jimin nodded, his expression softening. "It is. No matter how many times I see it, the sunset at sea never fails to take my breath away."

Namjoon turned to study Jimin's profile, illuminated by the fading light. "How did you end up here, Jimin? Last I heard, you were the Archduke's son, set for a life of luxury and political influence. What happened?"

Jimin's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "It's... a long story, Your Highness. One I'm not sure you're ready to hear."

"We have three days," Namjoon pointed out gently. "And if I'm to help clear your name, don't you think I should know the truth?"

Jimin sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You're right, of course. But perhaps we should save that conversation for tomorrow. It's not exactly a pleasant bedtime story."

Namjoon nodded, respecting Jimin's reluctance. "Very well. But I hope you'll trust me enough to share it soon."

As if on cue, Seokjin's voice boomed across the deck. "Dinner's ready, you landlubbers! Come and get it while it's hot!"

The galley was a cramped but cozy space, filled with the mouthwatering aroma of Seokjin's cooking. Namjoon found himself seated between Jimin and Jungkook, the latter eyeing him warily.

"So, Your Highness," Jungkook began, his tone cautious. "No hard feelings about the whole kidnapping thing, right?"

Namjoon couldn't help but laugh. "Well, considering I'm enjoying a delicious meal instead of languishing in some dank cell, I suppose I can find it in my heart to forgive you."

Jungkook visibly relaxed, a grin spreading across his face. "See, Cap? I told you he was a good sport."

Dinner was a lively affair, with conversation and laughter flowing as freely as the rum. Namjoon found himself regaling the crew with tales from the palace, carefully omitting any sensitive information. In return, he was treated to outrageous stories of their adventures at sea, each tale more unbelievable than the last.

As the night wore on and the crew began to disperse, Jimin led Namjoon back to the captain's quarters. "You'll be staying here," he explained. "I'll bunk with Jungkook for the duration of your stay."

Namjoon raised an eyebrow. "That's very generous of you, but I don't want to put you out. I'm perfectly capable of sharing a room."

Jimin shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "Nonsense. You're our guest, after all. Besides, I doubt you'd enjoy Jungkook's snoring."

"Fair enough," Namjoon conceded. He hesitated for a moment before adding, "Thank you, Jimin. For everything. This isn't at all how I imagined a kidnapping would go."

Jimin's smile widened. "Well, we aim to exceed expectations, Your Highness. Sleep well. We have a lot to discuss tomorrow."

As Namjoon settled into the surprisingly comfortable bed, his mind raced with the events of the day. He knew he should be more concerned about his situation, about the potential consequences of his absence from the palace. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that this unexpected adventure might be exactly what he needed.

With the gentle rocking of the ship lulling him to sleep, Namjoon's last thought before drifting off was of Jimin's enigmatic smile and the mysteries that lay behind it.

The next morning dawned bright and clear, the sun's rays filtering through the porthole to rouse Namjoon from his slumber. For a moment, he was disoriented, the unfamiliar surroundings causing a brief panic. Then the events of the previous day came rushing back, and he let out a small chuckle at the absurdity of it all.

A knock at the door interrupted his musings. "Your Highness? Are you awake?" Jimin's voice called from the other side.

"Come in," Namjoon replied, sitting up and running a hand through his disheveled hair.

Jimin entered, carrying a tray laden with what appeared to be breakfast. "I thought you might appreciate a private meal this morning," he explained, setting the tray on the small table by the window. "We have much to discuss."

Namjoon nodded, climbing out of bed and joining Jimin at the table. The spread was simple but appetizing—fresh bread, cheese, some fruit, and a steaming mug of what smelled like coffee. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "I admit, I'm curious to hear your story."

Jimin took a deep breath, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the wooden tabletop. "It's not a tale I enjoy telling, Your Highness. But you're right—if you're to help me, you need to know the truth."

And so, as they shared their breakfast, Jimin began to recount the events that had led him to this life of piracy. He spoke of his father, the Archduke, a man consumed by ambition and greed. Of the pressure to be the perfect heir, to follow in his father's corrupt footsteps. Of the moment he discovered just how deep that corruption ran.

"I found documents," Jimin said, his voice low and intense. "Proof that my father had been embezzling funds meant for the people, collaborating with foreign powers to undermine the Empire's stability. I... I couldn't stand by and let it happen."

Namjoon listened intently, his breakfast forgotten. "What did you do?"

"I tried to expose him," Jimin replied, a bitter smile twisting his lips. "I thought if I brought the evidence to the proper authorities, justice would be served. But I underestimated my father's influence. Somehow, he managed to turn it all around on me. Suddenly, I was the traitor, the corrupt son trying to frame his innocent father."

"That's why you were exiled," Namjoon realized, the pieces falling into place.

Jimin nodded. "Exile was a kindness, really. My father wanted me executed for treason. It was only through the intervention of... a friend at court that I was allowed to leave with my life."

"And you turned to piracy?"

"Not immediately," Jimin admitted. "At first, I just wandered, trying to figure out what to do with my life. But then I met Jungkook, and well... the rest, as they say, is history."

Namjoon sat back, processing everything he'd heard. It was a lot to take in, and it painted a very different picture of the man before him than the one he'd previously held. "Jimin, I... I'm so sorry. What was done to you was unjust."

Jimin shrugged, though Namjoon could see the tension in his shoulders. "It is what it is, Your Highness. I've made peace with my lot in life. But now, with your help, perhaps I can finally clear my name and return home."

"Of course," Namjoon said without hesitation. "I'll do everything in my power to help you. But Jimin... why didn't you come to me before? As Crown Prince, I could have—"

"With all due respect, Your Highness," Jimin interrupted gently, "you were barely more than a boy when this happened. And my father's influence runs deep. I couldn't risk involving you then."

Namjoon nodded, understanding but not liking it. "And now?"

Jimin's lips quirked into a small smile. "Now, you're the Crown Prince in more than just title. You have real power, real influence. And, if I may be so bold, I believe you to be a man of integrity. Someone who will listen to the truth and act on it, regardless of the consequences."

Namjoon felt a warmth spread through his chest at Jimin's words. It was a heavy responsibility, but one he was determined to live up to. "I won't let you down, Jimin. We'll find a way to clear your name and bring your father to justice."

"Thank you, Your Highness," Jimin said softly, his eyes shining with gratitude and something else Namjoon couldn't quite identify.

As they finished their breakfast and began to plan their next steps, Namjoon found himself studying Jimin more closely. The man before him was not the carefree pirate captain he'd first appeared to be, nor was he the traitorous son Namjoon had once believed him to be. He was complex, layered, a man shaped by hardship and injustice but not broken by it.

And as the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting its warm light over the two men deep in conversation, Namjoon realized that his adventure at sea was becoming something far more significant than he could have ever imagined.

[helena-and-helena-meta]

James Ironwood headcanons pt3

HERE WE GO AGAIN BABYEE YEEEAAAHHHH

James Ironwood’s civilian clothing and his house clothes all have some type of star patterns, most of them are either midnight blue and gold or just dark blue and white.

James is the type of person to listen to astrology podcasts while also stargazing, we love astronomy and astrology girlies, and he also enjoys discussing these topics with anyone willing to listen.

I headcanon James as an orphan due to a Grimm attack, I also like to think that the only reason his family was attacked is because his mother had silver eyes.

James loves jazz and rock music, he also knows how to play the guitar.

James is very good at singing but he is self-conscious about it, his singing can easily lull someone to sleep.

His hair is very soft and silky, and while his beard is also soft it’s also somewhat scratchy.

James skips breakfast most days(Same) and then wonders why he feels dizzy at lunch.

Penny sometimes ties bows into James’ hair and beard as do kids from both Atlas and Mantle, James dislikes having to take them out of his hair and beard.

James has some of the worst phantom pains, to the point he can’t leave his bed for hours but he tries to fight through it.

James seldom takes breaks, he usually falls asleep at his desk and is very close to collapsing at work, to the point there is already a bed prepped for him not for if, but when it happens.

James is very scared of the deep sea.

James has auditory and visual hallucinations(Also same).

James has two types of coats, one of them is made of very breathable and stretchy fabric for hotter climates and some are made with thicker materials but they don’t hamper his mobility too much.

James dislikes very hard alcoholic beverages and only sticks with lighter types of alcohol.

James’ stomach is very sensitive.

James lost the left side of his body while trying to save some of his students from a goliath.

James’ neck is very sensitive, Qrow or Glynda usually take advantage of that, perceive that however you wish. :3

[faize-art]

AFTERWARD: OF SWORD & SHIELD (Ch. 3)

First Chapter | Previous Chapter

During the many passing yet idle days, you find that your day-to-day routine consists of paperwork and relaying tasks to specific Knights of the Shield agents in the morning. Not only did their tasks and your tasks involve moving items and the occasional people around from within the bustling city, but it also involved the manipulation of the flow of commerce and much, much more. Normally, after you have finished your work, during the late afternoon hours or early evening hours, you often find yourself venturing down into the Underdark to hunt prey for alchemical purposes or to collect exotic plant-based ingredients. Sometimes, you will even mingle with Omeluum and Blurg from the Society of Brilliance and discuss theories or exchange acquired alchemical knowledge with each other.

You also held an interest in how the Myconid Circle colony has been faring with Sovereign Spaw and how the vampire spawns are thriving in the Underdark with the help of the people of Gur—a truly bizarre but inspiring combination set into motion because of Astarion’s actions after the defeat of Cazador.

Eventually, the blurred days turned into a month’s worth of time flown by, and you find it baffling how Withers reunion party and the Emperor’s last letter occurred that many days ago. Naturally, you could only conclude that things were going swell for the Emperor since he has not written word of his progress to you.

One day on a particularly clear night, as you exit the deep bowels of the serene Underdark and make your journey back to the Knights of the Shield’s hideout, you find yourself wandering toward a flat and jagged grass-filled hilltop towering over the unending sparkling sea. A sudden heaviness begins to eat at your chest as your beady black-like eyes listen to the lulling of sea water thrashing rhythmically. It was almost as if the heavy lump from within your chest were not your own.

How long? You ponder, entranced by the temperamental waves. You were missing him again, the Emperor, and his absence apart from Baldur’s Gate felt longer than usual this time around.

“…” You look beyond the shimmering black waters and up at the guiding moon of Selûne, and then you set your feet down onto the grass beneath you. It was a tad unusual for your half-exposed feet to touch grass or a solid surface, since Mind Flayers preferred to levitate rather than physically walk, and levitating at all times has become a motion of habit to you.

It tickles. You note the simple sensation while soaking in the feeling of every blade of green being compacted down and scrunched under your unusual pale-mauve prong toes. But it feels…nice.

 While taking in the scent of the sloshing frigid ocean water along with the barely perceptible smell of green leaf volatiles, you close your eyes and then inhale in another breath of sea breeze. When I was still my lesser version, I enjoyed small, mundane things such as this. I wonder why.

From behind you, a silent shadow approach.

“The sea is an unforgiving beauty,” their husky voice comments. “She will permit voyage across her skin, but she will not hesitate to consume you.”

The Emperor’s grand presence awes you, catching you off-guard as your mind had aimlessly wandered.

“So, you have returned. Welcome back,” you acknowledge him while concealing your state of surprise.

“Indeed,” he confirms.

You look to the Emperor as his feet land onto the soft bed of grass next to you. His stature is tall and magnificent compared to yours. His unmissable, glowing, and vibrant magenta eyes are beautiful and hypnotizing, and his four pink-tinged and mauve-purple tentacles are longer and stronger than yours.

“Nevine tells me you have been keeping yourself busy during my leave,” he mentions, his arms crossed behind his back.

“What else would I be doing?” You question him, knowing he more than likely charmed Nevine and the other Knights of the Shield agents so he may know all the details of their tasks while he was away.

“Whatever you wanted to do. You are a mind flayer, after all.”

It is no lie you had willfully gone through the process of ceremorphosis for this Mind Flayer after he had captivated your curiosity, and then your heart. More so as it is no lie that the reason you are partially haunted by Karlach's death stems from your selfishness to remain at the Emperor’s side.

“…” You wish to tell him you have yearned for him these past months. But you refrain yourself from spewing such soft-hearted words to him as you swallow down your inner conflict of past and present guilt.

The Emperor’s gaze travels beyond the outstretched night sky and then to you.

“I have missed you,” he nonchalantly tells you in that serious and husky voice of his.

Your eyes lock, and a rush of warmth like coyness flushes over you entirely. You quickly turn your head away to avoid your evident outburst of illithid embarrassment. You try to calm your explosive heart down by asking, “Really?”

“We are bonded. And we have already communed with the entirety of our minds. How could I not?”

“I calculated that our relationship was nothing more than a business partnership,” you calmly and outwardly confess.

“Rightly so. But it is also much more than that.”

“I see…so my calculation was…off.”

The Emperor raises a tentacle to your pale-mauve face. Gently, he caresses you with it. “I will understand if you see our partnership only as a business transaction. But I did not…”

Abruptly, you tilt your head to peer up at his fixated and looming gaze. “Because of our unusual dynamic, I naturally preconceived you were not interested in a relationship…since nothing else has occurred after…”

He looks at you with wonderment while giving you a sense of comfort.

“Was I not the one who asked to explore the possibility of a deeper relationship?” He then asks.

You pause for a moment, and then you gingerly wrap a tentacle around his pink-tinged tentacle caressing your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize while stroking his much thicker tentacle back. “I do want a deeper relationship with you.”

His glowing purplish-red eyes squint at you—a smile of relief and assurance. “You are perfect. You are the greatest ally I could ever ask for. And you are mine as I am yours—sword and shield, just like I had said before.”

The Emperor gingerly tugs at your coiled tentacle wrapped around his, and then he draws you closer. “Come. It is late. And we must head back.”

***

At the bottom of the toiling staircase and beyond the bulwark, candlelight flickering from the chandelier casts multiple outstretched shadows onto the stone floor where Nevine and four other Knights of the Shield agents await The Emperor and your return. The clicking of the lock from the main entrance alerts them, and Nevine shoots up from her seat and into a dutiful stance.

“They are here,” she ushers the fellow agents lined along her left and right side to also stand.

The bulky door draws open, and you stop amidst the wide gap as five agents stand before you and the Mind Flayer you have run off with. They stand stiffly with unnerving anxiety at the end of the draped table, their gazes catching a glimpse of the Emperor who is in mid conversation with you.

You levitate into the entrance of the Main Hall with the Emperor trailing close behind, his eyes focused on you and his hands propped sophistically behind his back.

“It is good to see our operations proceed accordingly,” the Emperor mentions while you secure the door shut, his voice trailing off into silence as he sees five agents bowing before him.

“Welcome back Master.” They hail in synchronization; each distinct voice trailing off each other’s.

“Well?” You cheekily ask the Emperor in mental privacy, the lids of your black-green eyes smiling.

Nevine and the few agents at her side remain in a half-bow. Their faces stare at the cold stone floor, waiting for an order.

“You may rise,” the Emperor commands with grace and authority.

You watch in silence as the four agents and Nevine stiffen in fear, curiosity, pride, and trust.

The Emperor, with his hands behind his back, eyes each humanoid body down, and then he says, “You are dismissed until tomorrow afternoon. I expect there to be no tardiness.”

They look at each other in puzzlement and then back at the Emperor.

“Y-yes. Thank you,” a well-trusted female agent of the Shield bows deeply.

A tingle of joy travels across your head. They are filled with uncertainty, surprise, and relieved thrill. You watch each agent bow and scramble off with merry whispers and cheer.

There is no doubt they will drink until their stomachs burst and brains grow hazy. You hypothesize.

“Master Tav,” Nevine calls out to you and only you.

The Emperor’s eyes direct in your direction, and you call out to her, too.

“Won’t you take the night and morning off with your colleagues, Nevine?” You question her.

She glowers at you, her stubbornness peaking beyond all of Faerûn.

“What use am I if I leave your side?” She protests, clenching her fists into a furled ball.

“The Emperor has returned for a brief respite. Take the remaining hours off. Once he resumes with his travels, so shall you.”

She thinks about it for a moment, and then she respectively bows to you and the Emperor.

“Thank you,” she says before exiting the Main Hall.

“Such an inconsequential thing,” the Emperor conveys his thoughts onto you in privacy, “…and you continue to keep her at your side.”

You chuckle at his remark as he makes his way toward the draped table decorated with documents and notes.

“She pines for you.” He flips through a few pages of parchment paper stacked beside a messily stacked tower of books. “I have seen her desires.”

You levitate toward the Mind Flayer reading before you, and then you take a seat on the seating bench.

“Are you sulking?” You ask out of curiosity.

“For you to not enthrall her…a ridiculous notion. She is unstable with her delusions—of you.”

As you watch him discreetly fret, you cannot help but bring forth the vivid moment you had set your forest green eyes on the Emperor’s entirety for the very first time. During that dire event when the Githyanki attacked the campsite at nightfall, he had urged you for your aid in taking down Orpheus’ faithful honor guards from within the Astral Prism. Back then, you did not find your dream guardian's true identity to be an encumbering distaste—though it was a major reveal filled with brief shock. Truthfully, to the former you, or whose strong remnants you still hold, the exposed Mind Flayer in need of your help was simply a mind flayer. But through time and countless saves from the said flayer, your former self had grown trustful and even fond of them.

An odd one he is. You chuckle to yourself whilst in past thought.

“Emperor, I vaguely recall a similar action of yours when I was…lesser.” You casually bring up, a bit puzzled.

The Emperor sets the sheets of scribbled paper back onto their designated stack, and then he towers over you as you observe his process of emotions.

“I did not want to use force. You also responded more reasonably than I had anticipated. Now look at you,” his husky voice trails off in commendation.

“Nevine proves herself to be of skillful use. She ensures the agents of the Shield are running when I am occupied,” you remind him, your hands grazing over the emblem on his lower abdomen. “It would be a waste to consume her because of her fantasies.”

“If you cannot consume her, thrall her, at least.”

“If my hand must be forced to, I will.”

“On your word.”  

Your black-green irises reflect off the flickering candlelight above the Main Hall’s ceiling, and you agree to the words spewed from your mouth.

“In my name,” you assure.

His eyes glisten as you pledge your promise, and then he eases you by gently brushing your face with his hand. “There will be no hesitation to kill her if she shows violent intentions to our plans—our partnership.”

You nod your head lightly, touching his hand with your tentacle in a caressing manner.

“Enough. Let us discuss other subjects.” The Emperor ends the former topic of conversation.

“Shall we discuss work?” You query.

“Like them, we, too, shall rest.”

You look up at the Emperor with a dumbfounded expression.

“Did you think I do not know how to rest once in a while?” He chuckles at your widened eyes in amusement. “Even I need to decompress.”

You twirl another tentacle around his hand that lays against your cheek. “…have you eaten?”

“I have,” his deep voice growls into a faded hum.

“Hm…seems you have considering your mucus is healthy.” You single out, twirling one of your lightly tinged pale-mauve tentacles between the palm of his hand and your cheek.

“Then…shall I show you what I have been trying to perfect during my pastime?” You suggest.

It was obvious you were trying to hold in your bubbling excitement, and the Emperor found it endearing. He gently takes hold of your tentacle slithering between his fingers and palm, his powerful magenta-colored eyes squinting at you in calm intrigue as you ease his hand away with respect. He cerebrally smiles at you and says, “I am listening. Lead the way...”

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