#basin street blues

[mishalogic]

The Mills Brothers sing "Basin Street Blues" & "Up a Lazy River" with th...

Song and music for the moment ... Misha

[briefinquiries]

Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 6

Tommy Shelby x Reader : Chapter 6

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: After a long night of saving James’s life and confronting painful memories from your past in France, you come home with the weight of fresh scars and old regrets. At the Garrison, the gang celebrates your bravery, yet Tommy Shelby’s stern reprimands and cool distance remind you that nothing in this world is simple. As a mysterious stranger makes a silent entrance, you realize that your new life with the Peaky Blinders is only getting more complicated.

Word count: 7.4k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, brief PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language.

A/N: Again, thank you all for reading so far! Comments, reblogs, & replies make my day and are so appreciated :)

--

By the time you finally stepped through your front door the following morning, the sky was beginning to lighten, streaks of pale blue creeping into the night. The world outside was quiet– shops still shuttered, streets nearly empty save for the occasional early riser heading to work.

James had made it through the night, his fever breaking several hours ago. 

You had stayed until morning, long enough to watch him open his eyes, long enough to see the recognition settle in when Tommy leaned over him and told him he’d be alright. 

Now, exhaustion settled deep in your bones, pressing into every muscle as you dropped your coat onto the nearest chair and made your way to the washbasin. You worked the blood from your hands, watching as the water swirled red before fading to pale pink, then clear.

You couldn’t help but remember all the times you’d done this same thing before. Back in France, you had scrubbed your hands raw after long nights in makeshift hospitals, after holding pressure on wounds that wouldn’t stop bleeding, after watching men slip away despite everything you did to keep them here. You remembered the metallic scent clinging to your skin, the way it settled into your clothes, the way it never truly washed away.

You exhaled, rubbing a little harder, as if scrubbing away the memory itself.

You should sleep. You needed to sleep.

But as you peeled off your shirt, your fingers brushed against the faint lingering scent of whiskey and smoke, and your mind was still too sharp, too tangled up with the same recurring thought. 

What the hell had you gotten yourself into?

You had told yourself this job was simple. Just pouring drinks. Just another way to keep yourself afloat. But last night wasn't simple at all. It had felt inevitable, though, like you had stepped into something you didn’t fully understand, like you had crossed a line you hadn’t even realized was there.

Your fingers curled against the porcelain of the basin, the night playing over again in your head– the blood, the whiskey, Tommy standing across from you, unreadable as ever.

You weren’t even supposed to be here. You were supposed to be back in London, tucked away in a life that was steady, predictable. A job that kept you busy but never fulfilled. Long days that bled into longer nights, an existence that felt safe. 

But safe had turned to stagnant. And stagnant meant too much room for the memories to creep in. And that hadn’t been working, either.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your palms against the cool porcelain, eyes shutting for a moment.

As exhaustion pulled at your limbs, you knew one thing… This was only the beginning.

…

The streets of Birmingham were slick with rain when you made your way to the Garrison later that day, the cold air biting at your skin. You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, shoulders hunched against the chill, your exhaustion settling into your bones like an old ache.

But the moment you pushed open the doors, the night took an unexpected turn.

A cheer erupted through the pub, loud and raucous, voices overlapping as the familiar faces inside turned toward you.

You froze in the doorway, blinking at the sudden burst.

Arthur was the first to reach you, his heavy arm slinging around your shoulders before you could react. His grin was wide, half-drunk, and full of something that looked suspiciously like pride.

“There she is!” he bellowed, shaking you slightly as he pulled you in. “Our bloody fuckin’ life saver!”

You stiffened, confusion knotting in your stomach. “What?”

“Oh, don’t play shy now,” Arthur said, giving you a hearty clap on the back that nearly knocked the breath out of you. “John told us what you did last night. We all thought James was done for. But you patched him up. Got him through the night. Thanks to you, he’s at home with his family right now ‘stead of six feet under.”

Another round of voices called out from across the room– slurred cheers of approval, words of gratitude, toasts being raised in your name.

“You saved his life.”

“Didn’t think he’d last the night, not with the way he looked.”

“A fuckin’ miracle worker, this one.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the strap of your coat, still trying to process the shift in attention, the warmth of it, the way it curled around you unexpectedly.

Arthur shook your shoulder lightly. “You’re off duty tonight. No barmaid shit, no wiping up after us drunk bastards.” He grinned, squeezing your shoulder. “Tonight, you’re drinking with the best of ‘em.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That supposed to be you lot?”

Arthur let out a dramatic scoff. “Oi, we’re the finest drunks in Birmingham, I’ll have you know.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. They were a mess, the lot of them– loud, brash, reckless– but there was something solid in the way they pulled you in without hesitation, something steady in the way they celebrated you like you belonged to something. 

And maybe you shouldn’t like it.

Maybe you shouldn’t like it, maybe you should remind yourself of the darkness lurking behind every smile trained towards you. But for now, in that fragile, flickering moment of belonging, you let yourself lean into it.

And in that moment, as the smoky air of the bar mingled with the scent of tobacco and spilled whiskey, you realized that your heart had already begun its quiet rebellion. Here, amidst drunks and gamblers, criminals and outcasts, you’d found a semblance of belonging for the first time in a long time. You knew the risk of letting down your guard in a place like this, yet you couldn’t resist the allure of being seen– not just as another face in the crowd, but as someone who mattered for once.

In the midst of the raucous chatter and clamor, with Arthur’s arm still slung around your shoulders, a subtle shift in the air caught your attention. The noise began to fade into a soft murmur as your gaze wandered, drawn by an inexplicable pull, a silent call from the shadows.

Tommy was tucked away in the corner, half-shadowed, cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. He wasn’t part of the noise, wasn’t part of the celebration. But he was watching.

And when your eyes met his, he lifted his glass– just a fraction, just enough. A silent toast. A quiet acknowledgement. 

Something settled in your chest, a tension you hadn’t even realized was there easing ever so slightly. Your lips curled, almost involuntarily, into the smallest of smiles.

Arthur shoved a drink into your hands. And as the men cheered and voices called out your name, as warmth settled into the spaces inside you that had felt empty for too damn long– 

You didn’t pull away.

You just let it happen.

…

Hours later, the Garrison was alive with laughter and music, the kind of revelry that blurred the edges of time.

You were drunk.

Properly, blissfully, and warmly drunk.

It had started with Arthur shoving drink after drink into your hand, but somewhere along the way, you had stopped keeping track. You had stopped thinking– stopped holding yourself at a distance.

And now, here you were– laughing, dancing between tables with Isiah and John, breathless and light in a way you hadn’t felt in years.

Someone spun you, and you nearly lost your balance, catching yourself on the back of a chair, giggling as you steadied yourself. Everything was loose– your limbs, your thoughts, the weight that had settled in your chest for far too long.

And then, mid-spin, you caught sight of him.

Tommy.

Still in the corner.

Still watching.

He hadn’t joined in the celebration– not in the way the others had. No singing, no laughing, no whiskey-fueled antics. Just his usual presence, steady and unreadable, nursing a drink and letting the night unfold around him.

You squinted at him, swaying slightly where you stood.

Something about the way he just stood there struck you as funny. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you started toward him. You weaved through the crowd, dodging clumsy arms and half-drunken conversations until you reached him.

Tommy lifted his gaze, watching as you stopped in front of him, a knowing glint in his eye.

“You just gonna stand there all night?” you asked, tilting your head, voice teasing and just a little too loud.

Amusement flickering across his face, but he didn’t humor you with a reply. 

You narrowed your eyes at him, swaying slightly on your feet. “Is that to keep up the illusion?”

His brow arched. “What illusion?”

You grinned, leaning in slightly, lowering your voice like you were letting him in on a secret. “That you’re tough. And scary.”

Tommy exhaled sharply through his nose, something that might’ve been a laugh. “That what you think?”

You leaned back, tapping a finger to your chin like you were seriously considering it. “I haven’t quite decided what I think of you yet,” you replied honestly. 

Tommy’s smirk deepened. He flicked ash from his cigarette, tilting his head slightly as he regarded you. “Lucky me, then.”

For a moment, he just looked at you. Finally, he sighed, shaking his head slightly. 

“You’re drunk,” he said.

You gasped dramatically. “You don’t say.”

That time, he did chuckle– quiet, barely there, but it was real.

And for some reason, that made warmth curl in your chest more than the whiskey ever could.

“Was that an actual laugh I just heard? From Thomas Shelby?” you gasped, placing a hand over your chest in mock astonishment. “Bloody hell, I didn’t think you were capable.”

Tommy smirked, shaking his head as he brought his cigarette to his lips. “Must be the whiskey.”

You hummed, swaying slightly on your feet. “No. I don’t think so. I think– I think I’m just cracking away at that armor of yours.”

His brows lifted slightly, amusement flickering in his sharp blue eyes. “That so?”

You nodded sagely, pointing a slightly unsteady finger at him. “Mhm. I think you pretend to be all tough and broody, but deep down, you secretly enjoy my company.”

Tommy exhaled slowly, watching you with something between amusement and mild exasperation. “And how’d you come to that conclusion, aye?”

You grinned. “Because you’re still standing here.”

That made him pause, just for a fraction of a second. It wasn’t much– just the briefest hesitation, the kind that most people wouldn’t notice. But you did.

He flicked ash from his cigarette, considering you. “You talk too much when you’re drunk.”

“You listen to me when I’m drunk,” you shot back, smirking.

Tommy shook his head, muttering something under his breath before reaching for the whiskey bottle on the table. He poured another measure into a glass and slid it toward you.

“Go drink your whiskey before you start making even bolder accusations,” he murmured, the trace of a smirk still tugging at the corner of his lips.

You tilted your head at him, sipping the whiskey before narrowing your eyes playfully. “You know, you could join us instead of standing here all night, pouting by yourself.”

Tommy let out a quiet breath, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t pout.”

“You do,” you insisted, grinning. “You sit in the dark, you drink alone, and you watch everyone else have fun like some tragic, brooding hero.” You paused, eyes scanning him briefly. “Or brooding villain.”

Tommy exhaled through his nose, something dangerously close to a laugh, but he shook his head again. 

You gestured dramatically toward the crowded pub. “It wouldn’t kill you to have a drink. Arthur said these are the best drunks of Birmingham, you know?”

“Thought you were smarter than to listen to what Arthur says,” Tommy said. “I think I’ll pass.”

You studied him for a long moment, eyes tracing over the way he leaned against the table, fingers tapping idly against his glass, cigarette balanced between them.

Still, there was something about him tonight, something quieter than usual. The way he watched everything unfold, present but distant, always one step removed.

Always watching. Always calculating.

Even now, in the warmth of the Garrison, surrounded by his own people, he never truly let his guard down. Where the others drank freely, letting the night carry them into reckless abandon, Tommy stayed sharp. Even with his jacket slung over the chair, even with his sleeves pushed up and a drink in hand, there was a tension in him that never quite left.

It was like he was always waiting. For what, you weren’t sure.

But you doubted he’d ever let himself forget the possibility that something, or someone, might come for him at any moment.

And maybe that was the difference between him and the others.

Arthur, John, Danny, Isiah– they could afford to let the world fade away for a few hours. Tommy never could.

You tilted your head slightly, voice softening. “You sure?”

Tommy exhaled a puff of smoke. “I’m sure.”

You sighed. “Fine. Suit yourself.”

Then, before he could say anything else, you turned on your heel and made your way back toward the crowd– just in time for Arthur to grab your wrist and pull you into the center of the room.

“C’mon, love, none of that standing around shit!” he bellowed, spinning you straight into a fast-paced line dance that had already taken over the floor.

John whooped loudly from somewhere nearby, and before you could get your bearings, you were laughing, moving with the rest of them, boots stomping against the wooden floor, hands clapping in time with the music.

The warmth of whiskey, the heat of bodies, the rhythm of the song, it all swept you up, drowning out everything else.

And for the first time in a long time, you let it.

From across the room, Tommy watched, whiskey in hand, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

The night stretched on in a blur of laughter, music, and whiskey. Time slipped through your fingers, muddled by the warmth in your chest and the exhaustion creeping into your limbs.

At some point, the dancing slowed. The crowd thinned. The energy of the night settled into a low hum, leaving behind only the last stragglers nursing their final drinks, conversations dipping into tired murmurs.

You hadn’t noticed how drained you were until you sat down, until the weight of the past twenty-four hours finally caught up to you.

With a sigh, you pushed yourself up from your chair and stretched, rolling your shoulders. “Alright, I’m heading out,” you said, glancing toward the bar. “Need a hand cleaning up before I go, Harry?”

Harry barely looked up from where he was drying a glass, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Go on, then. I’ll see you after your hangover wears off.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Wish me luck.”

“You’ll need it,” he called over his shoulder as you made your way toward the door.

John and Arthur were still in their corner, arguing about something neither of them would remember in the morning. You stopped beside them, shaking your head fondly. “I’m heading home, boys. Thanks for including me in your…” your voice trailed off as you glanced around the bar. “Well, in whatever this was.”

Arthur grinned up at you, cheeks flushed with drink. “Aye, you can drink with the best of ‘em.”

“Go get some rest, Doc.” John lifted his glass in a lazy salute. “Try not to trip over yourself on the way out, yeah?”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. “See ya.”

With that, you pushed open the door, stepping into the crisp night air.

The cold bit at your skin, chasing away the last traces of warmth from inside. You shivered as you pulled your coat from where it had been slung over your arm, shaking it out before attempting to slip it on.

And that’s when you saw him.

Or at least, you thought you did.

Across the street, just beyond the dim glow of the gas lamps, a figure stood, half-shadowed in the distance. A man.

Tall, well-dressed, posture straight and deliberate. Something about the way he stood– watching, waiting– sent a flicker of unease crawling up your spine. You knew that stance. You had seen it before.

The market. The man who had asked you for directions. 

Your breath hitched slightly, fingers still tangled in the sleeve of your coat, your gaze locked on the figure as your heart thumped in your chest. 

But before you could act, someone was right beside you. Warm hands grasped the edges of your coat, guiding it up over your shoulders with an ease that startled you.

Tommy.

His touch broke your haze, pulling you back to the present. His voice, quiet but firm, cut through the lingering fog of drink and exhaustion.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured softly. 

You blinked, turning back toward the street. But the man was gone. A deep frown pulled at your lips. Had you imagined it? 

Tommy’s sharp eyes flickered over your face, assessing, waiting.

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head. “Nothing,” you said, tugging your coat tighter around you. “Just thought I saw someone.”

Tommy didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. He merely gave a small nod, adjusting his own coat as he took a slow drag from his cigarette.

You exhaled, glancing up at him. “Thanks for the help.”

Tommy gave a faint smirk, tapping ash onto the ground. “Didn’t seem like you were gettin’ very far on your own.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you took a step forward, your boots clicking against the damp pavement.

Tommy fell into step beside you.

You stopped, frowning slightly as you turned to him. “What are you doing?”

“Walking you home.”

You blinked. Big, bad, tough Tommy Shelby was walking you home? 

“I’m not that drunk,” you claimed. 

Tommy exhaled smoke, eyes fixed ahead. “Didn’t say you were.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why then?”

He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke into the cold night air before replying, voice even as ever, “Just making sure my only barmaid doesn’t get snatched up in the street. It’d be a shame havin’ to train a new one so soon.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you started walking again, your boots clicking against the damp pavement. 

The silence stretched between you as you both carried on, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just the steady rhythm of footsteps on wet stone, the occasional distant sound of the city settling into the late hours.

After a few beats, you tilted your head slightly, glancing at him. “You enjoy your time sulking in the corner tonight?”

Tommy exhaled smoke, eyes fixed ahead. “Aye.”

“Do you ever actually join in?” you asked, tilting your head toward him. 

Tommy took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly. “Someone’s got to keep an eye on things.” 

You studied him for a moment. The sharp angles of his face, the faint flicker of streetlights catching the edge of his jaw, the ever-present tension in his shoulders. Even now, with the streets quiet and empty, he was alert. Watching. Always aware.

“That sounds exhausting,” you murmured, voice softening. “And boring. And yet, you do not strike me as someone who is boring, Mr. Shelby.”

You glanced at him again, hesitating before asking, “Were you always this serious?” You meant it teasingly– endearingly, even. “I mean, were you born in a three-piece suit like that? Maybe with a little briefcase?”

Tommy flicked ash onto the pavement, his jaw tightening slightly.

Then, finally,  “No.”

You swallowed, waiting to see if he’d say more. But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. 

You turned your gaze forward. “So what changed then?” you asked, glancing at him.

Tommy didn’t break stride. Didn’t react, not at first. Just took another slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke into the cold night air.

“I went to France.”

You swallowed, gripping the edges of your coat a little tighter. You knew what that meant. Of course you did.

You studied him, this man who never let his guard down, never let himself feel too much. And for the first time since meeting him, you wondered just how much of him had been left there, buried in the mud and the gunfire.

Your voice was quieter when you spoke again. “Right.”

The rest of the walk passed in silence.

A long, heavy silence. The kind that stretched between two people when one of them had said too much, and the other wasn’t going to say anything at all. You wished, in your dumb, drunk brain, that you had never brought it up. That you had never said anything.

Because now, instead of the warm buzz of whiskey and exhaustion lulling you into an easy end to the night, all you could think about was the stupid war and what it had taken from so many people. You stared at the ground as you walked, keeping your hands buried in your coat pockets, feeling the cold bite at your cheeks.

And Tommy didn’t say a word. Not about France. Not about the war. Not about anything.

He just walked beside you, silent and unreadable, like always.

By the time you reached your door, you let out a slow breath, steadying yourself before turning to face him.

“Well,” you murmured, forcing a small smirk. “Thanks for ensuring I didn’t get snatched, Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy met your gaze, his expression unreadable. A flicker of something passed behind his eyes, but before you could place it, he gave a single, curt nod. Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into the night.

You watched him go, his figure fading into the dimly lit streets, swallowed by the quiet.

And for some reason, long after you stepped inside and locked the door behind you, that silence still lingered.

…

The next day at the Garrison was steady. The usual crowd filtered in, settling into their favorite spots, exchanging stories over their pints. The low hum of conversation mixed with the occasional clatter of glasses, the scrape of chairs against the floor, the shuffle of a newspaper being folded.

And through it all, your head throbbed.

You had woken up that morning with a pounding skull, a dry mouth, and the kind of exhaustion that settled deep in your bones. It had taken longer than you cared to admit to drag yourself out of bed, and even longer to convince yourself that stepping into the daylight wouldn’t actually kill you.

Flashes of the night before kept surfacing at inconvenient moments. You, drinking more than you should have. You, talking to Tommy Shelby. Pushing him, prying, trying to get him to laugh, to talk, to do anything other than sit in the corner of the pub looking brooding and untouchable.

Christ.

He had softened though, right? You weren’t totally imagining that? Until you stupidly made him think of France. Idiot. 

Sighing, you slipped into the routine of the day without thinking– pouring drinks, wiping down the counter, exchanging easy remarks with the regulars.

After two and a half weeks, work at the Garrison felt familiar. Comfortable. You weren’t entirely sure when that had happened– when this job had stopped being just a way to get by and started to feel like something you actually liked.

Maybe it was the way the locals greeted you now, a nod here, a grin there. 

Maybe it was the way Arthur had already stopped by to knock on the bar and say, "Surprised you're still standing after last night."

You had rolled your eyes, but you had smiled, too.

And then, the door swung open, letting in a brief gust of cold air before it clattered shut again. You glanced up just as Finn stepped inside, shaking the chill from his coat. And for that reason, your smile widened, maybe the widest it had all day.

You hadn’t seen him since patching Tommy up, and something about seeing him now, looking as carefree as ever, sent an unexpected warmth through your chest.

Finn spotted you instantly, a grin stretching across his face as he strode toward the bar. “Oi, I heard they hired a new barmaid,” he said, grinning as he leaned against the bar.

“Are you even old enough to be in here?” you quipped back, passing him a glass of water. 

Finn groaned, eyeing the water like it had personally offended him. “That’s cruel.”

You smirked, crossing your arms. “I don’t serve children, Finn.”

He scoffed. “But you serve Arthur all the time,” he complained. 

You arched a brow. “Fair point. Answer is still no.”

Finn nudged the glass toward the edge of the counter, unimpressed. “You’re seriously not gonna pour me a proper drink?”

You leaned forward slightly. “No chance.”

Finn let out an exaggerated sigh, flopping back against the bar. “You’re no fun.”

You let out a quiet chuckle, shaking your head as you reached for a rag and wiped down the counter. “You’ll survive,” you reminded him. “Longer if you don’t start drinking at eleven.”

“Oi, I’m nearly twelve,” Finn said, sounding offended. 

He spun his glass idly between his fingers, watching the water slosh against the sides.

You leaned against the bar, resting your elbows on the counter. “How’s everything going, then? Aside from not being allowed to get drunk today.”

He shrugged, not looking up. “Dunno.”

You arched a brow. “That bad, huh?”

Finn sighed, finally glancing at you. “Everyone’s been gone a lot. Tommy, Arthur, John. Polly, too.”

You hummed, nodding for him to continue.

“Something’s going on,” he muttered, voice dipping into something quieter. “But no one tells me anything.”

You exhaled slowly, glancing around the pub before shaking your head. “Well, that makes two of us, then. Except, I’m not a Shelby, so I suppose that makes sense.”

Finn sighed. “Not a Shelby’s probably better than bein’ a twelve-year-old Shelby.” 

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, the door swung open again, the cold air biting through the warmth of the Garrison.

This time, it was Tommy.

He walked in with the kind of presence that commanded attention without a single word. The usual hum of conversation didn’t stop, but you could feel the shift in the air, the way people straightened ever so slightly, the way eyes flickered toward him before looking away just as quickly.

He looked stoic, unreadable as ever, his expression carved from stone. But when you saw him, a small, instinctive smile tugged at your lips. Because last night, his smirk had softened at the edges. Last night, he had nearly laughed. And you had been the one to do that.

The thought settled in your chest, warm and solid. Tommy Shelby, the man who walked through the world like nothing could touch him, like he was made of iron and cigarette smoke, had nearly laughed because of you.

You weren’t sure why you were so proud of that. Other than the fact that you had proven there was more to him than meets the eye. More beneath the cold exterior, beneath the sharp orders and distant stares. Beneath the weight of whatever past he carried so close to his chest.

You opened your mouth to say hi– maybe come up with a quick whip–

But before a single word could escape, Tommy moved– fast. Without breaking stride, he reached for Finn’s collar and gripped it tightly, yanking him upright.

“What the fuck did I tell you?” His voice was low, lethal, sharp as a blade.

Finn barely had time to react before Tommy shook him once, not hard, but enough.

Your eyes widened. 

“How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of the fucking Garrison, Finn?” Tommy snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a crack of thunder.

Finn squirmed, his face burning with frustration. “I was just talking– I wasn’t drinking anything, I swear.”

Tommy turned to you then, and for the first time since you had met him, his sharp blue eyes snapped toward you with something close to anger.

“Did you think it was alright to let eleven-year-olds drink in my bar?”

Your stomach dropped. It wasn’t just the accusation– it was the tone. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out right away. “I– I didn’t– he wasn’t drinking.”

Finn, still in Tommy’s grip, turned sharply. “Oi, I asked her for a drink, and she didn’t give me one! It’s not her fault. And I’m nearly twelve now!”

Tommy’s jaw tightened. For a second, you thought he might let go, that the storm might pass.

But then he exhaled sharply through his nose, tugging Finn toward the door with firm, practiced authority. 

“Go home,” he ordered. 

Finn groaned, trying to dig his heels in. “C’mon, Tommy–”

“Now.”

Finn’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t argue again. He just cast you one last glance– apologetic, almost, before Tommy pulled him toward the door.

And then, just like that, they were gone.

You stood there, frozen, the silence of the moment pressing into your chest. 

What the hell was that? You knew Tommy could be dangerous– saw the way men cowered when he was near. And sure, you’d felt the air in the room shift when he entered it, felt the coolness of those piercing blue eyes. But this was the first time you’d actually felt intimidated by him. 

The end of your shift came slower than usual.

The usual routine– wiping down the bar, stacking glasses, sweeping up, should have been enough to keep your mind occupied, but the weight of the afternoon still sat heavy in your chest.

You felt uneasy about what had happened earlier.

The more you mulled it over, you realized you hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. But that didn’t stop the lingering knot in your stomach, the worry gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. You hoped Finn hadn’t gotten in too much trouble.

By late evening, the pub had thinned out, only a few regulars lingering at their tables, finishing their last drinks. The warm glow of the lanterns cast long shadows across the wooden floors as you moved through the familiar motions of closing up.

And then the door creaked open again.

You glanced up, your hands stilling for just a moment.

Tommy again.

Your fingers curled slightly against the rag in your hand as you froze, watching as he stepped inside, his presence shifting the air in an instant. No, not shifting… sucking all the air out of the room, felt more accurate. 

You tried to read him, tried to gauge something– but his face was impossible to decipher. No anger. No frustration. Just that same quiet, calculated nothingness he always carried with him.

He walked past you without a word, stepping behind the bar like it belonged to him, because, well, it did.

You watched as he opened the register, flipping through the notes, counting the money like he had already done it a thousand times tonight.

The only sound was the faint clink of coins and the shuffle of paper. Then, without looking up, his voice cut through the quiet. “Where is it?” 

You hesitated, trying to read his face for clues. “Where’s what?” you asked softly. 

Tommy sighed before shutting the register harshly. “You didn’t put the cash aside for the safe.”

His voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even particularly harsh. But it was sharp.

You frowned. “I– what?”

“The extra from the till. You didn’t set it aside.”

Your stomach twisted slightly. “I don’t know anything about that–”

Tommy exhaled, shaking his head just slightly, like he wasn’t surprised by your mishap, but was still unimpressed. “So Harry didn’t teach you.”

You paused, not wanting to get Harry in the middle of whatever bad mood had struck Tommy. “Maybe I just forgot. I’ll remember next time,” you said quickly, trying to keep your voice even.

Tommy gave a curt nod, slipping the last of the money into the tin and closing the register with a firm click. “Make sure that you do.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy and uncomfortable.

You shifted your weight slightly, waiting– half-expecting him to say something else. Maybe about earlier, maybe about Finn. But he didn’t.

He just grabbed his cigarette case from his pocket, tapping one out, his movements smooth and unbothered, like the conversation had already ended. 

“I’m sorry about Finn,” you said. “I didn’t realize he wasn’t supposed to be in here.”

Tommy didn’t respond. He just stared at you for a long moment, his sharp blue eyes unreadable, his cigarette balanced loosely between his fingers. 

Then, without acknowledging your apology, without a single change in his expression, he exhaled a slow stream of smoke and said, “Make sure you mop before you close.”

And just like that, he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving the door swinging in his wake.

You stood there for a long moment, fingers tightening around the rag in your hands, replaying the conversation in your head, trying to pinpoint it– the moment you had stepped over some invisible line.

Tommy Shelby had looked at you tonight like you were nothing—a nuisance, an afterthought.

And it bothered you.

Worse, you had no idea why.

Your mind traced over the night, searching for something that could’ve set him off.

Was this really about Finn being in the bar? You hadn't known Tommy had banned him from the Garrison, but even if he was irritated about that, would he really have held onto it for this long?

Was it the job? You had done everything right– or at least, as right as anyone else working behind this bar.

Or…

Your stomach twisted.

The night he walked you home. You had asked him why he was the way he was, and he had given you the simplest, rawest answer. France. 

And then he had shut down. 

You exhaled, rubbing a hand over your face before grabbing the mop.

…

For the next week, Tommy Shelby ignored you.

Or, worse, he didn’t ignore you entirely– he just acknowledged you in the same way he acknowledged the walls of the Garrison, or the glasses on the shelf. Functional. Practical. Part of the decor. Nothing more.

He spoke to you only when necessary, only when it concerned the job. And when he did speak, it was short, clipped instructions, or the occasional critique of something you hadn’t done quite right.

You didn’t wipe down the bar properly. You charged an important customer for their whiskey. 

Each time, his tone was clipped, steady. Never raised, but harsh. 

You weren’t naïve. You knew what kind of man Tommy Shelby was. You knew that he had far more important things to worry about than a barmaid who had done something to irritate him. But it bothered you all the same. More than you cared to admit. 

You barely glanced up when the door to the Garrison swung open later that week, already reaching for a clean glass, hoping it was just another regular rather than Tommy. 

But then, a familiar, kind voice caught your attention. 

“Hello, love.” 

You looked up, startled, to see Polly standing in the doorway, her sharp gaze already fixed on you.

Your brow furrowed slightly. “Sorry, Polly. Tommy’s not here.”

She smirked faintly, stepping further inside, her fur-lined coat draped effortlessly over her shoulders, cigarette perched between her fingers. “I guess it’s a good thing I’m looking for you and not him, then.”

You frowned, confused.

Polly exhaled a slow stream of smoke before resting an elbow on the bar. “Ada’s birthday is this week. I want to throw her a party here.” She studied you for a moment before continuing, “I need help setting everything up. Thought you might be up for it.”

You blinked, surprised by the request, but you nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”

Polly’s smile deepened slightly, like she had expected as much. “Good,” she said simply, tapping ash into the tray beside her. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

…

The next day passed in a blur, and by evening, you found yourself at the Garrison helping Polly and Finn set up for Ada’s birthday.

It wasn’t anything fancy– nothing over-the-top. Just a few extra bottles behind the bar, some candles flickering low on the tables, and a half-hearted attempt at tidying up. A few mismatched streamers had been strung along the walls, and Finn had managed to swipe a cake from somewhere, though half of it was already missing thanks to his “quality control.”

You were tying a ribbon, one of Polly’s ideas, around a bottle of whiskey when the door swung open. You barely glanced up at first, too focused on securing the knot, but then– 

Tommy. You stilled.

He moved with his usual quiet ease, shoulders squared, coat draped over his frame, eyes sharp as ever.

Finn kept working, straightening chairs, but you found yourself hesitating, watching as Tommy stepped inside. Like everything was normal– like all the air hadn’t been sucked out of the room. 

You braced yourself for whatever came next. Because for the past week, every time Tommy Shelby had spoken to you, it had been a snap, critique, a correction. 

So when he finally glanced around the room, surveying your work, you expected something– some offhand remark about what wasn’t done properly, some reminder that you’d inevitably done something wrong.

Instead, “Looks good.”

You blinked, thrown off by the simple acknowledgment.

Polly didn’t react, just continued fussing over the bottle display behind the bar. Finn, ever unbothered, kept working like he hadn’t even noticed the tension you’d been bracing for.

And you… You just decided to let it go.

So, you turned back to what you were doing, shifting a few chairs, adjusting the table settings, pretending like his presence didn’t make you want to shed your skin.

…

Later that night, Ada’s birthday party was in full swing.

You had barely stepped behind the bar before the drinks started flowing, a steady rhythm of pouring whiskey, sliding pints across the counter, and dodging Arthur’s overly enthusiastic toasts.

Harry worked beside you, grumbling about how he better be getting paid extra for this madness, but there was no real bite to it. He had been in the business long enough to know that a Shelby party meant a long night.

Finn was allowed to be at the party, though you suspected Polly had more say in that than Tommy. He had quickly taken up a spot behind the bar with you, not working exactly, but keeping close, enjoying the best seat in the house.

Arthur and John were in their usual form, leading the chaos, throwing arms over shoulders, dragging unsuspecting guests into drinking contests they had no chance of winning. The atmosphere was rowdy but good, the kind of wild that didn’t end with someone getting thrown through a window– at least not yet.

Tommy moved through the room in that way only he could, present but never fully involved. He made his rounds, nodding in acknowledgment here, speaking quietly there. Watching. Always watching.

You didn’t let yourself dwell on him too much.

Instead, you focused on pouring a drink when Ada approached the bar, her presence instantly commanding attention.

“Well, if it isn’t the woman of the hour,” you greeted, offering a small smirk as you passed her a glass.

Ada grinned, taking the drink with a raised brow. “And if it isn’t my favorite new barmaid.”

You scoffed. “You don’t even drink here.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t be my favorite,” she teased, lifting her glass.

You huffed a small laugh. “Happy birthday, Ada.”

She clinked her glass against yours before taking a sip.

Finn, beside you, leaned forward with a smirk. “You feelin’ old yet?”

Ada rolled her eyes. “Oh, piss off, Finn.”

The boy just laughed, ducking out of reach before she could ruffle his hair. Ada took her drink and disappeared back into the crowd, and you slipped back into your rhythm, pouring pints and keeping the bar running smoothly.

Finn leaned against the counter beside you, grinning as he watched Arthur and John cause their usual chaos in the center of the room. “Think people will be scared of me like that when I’m their age?”

You scoffed. “Absolutely.”

Finn laughed, nudging your arm before reaching for a handful of peanuts from a dish on the bar. “Not you, though.”

“Oh, especially me,” you smirked. 

The Garrison was buzzing, the usual rowdy energy filling every corner of the room. It was easy to slip into the rhythm of it– pouring drinks, dodging Arthur’s overly enthusiastic toasts, laughing as John tried (and failed) to balance a pint on the back of his hand.

It wasn’t until you turned to grab another bottle that you noticed the man standing near the entrance. Your fingers hesitated around the bottle for half a second before turning away. But something in your gut twisted.

It was the man from the market again.

The well-dressed man with the sharp blue eyes and clipped words that you thought you saw a few nights ago.

He looked different here, though. Not just because of the setting, but because of something else, something about the way he carried himself. The way he moved.

Or rather, the way he didn’t.

No one noticed him.

And that was the strange part, wasn’t it?

Because everyone who walked into the Garrison got noticed. Whether it was a greeting, a glance, a nod of acknowledgment– something.

But this man? He was slipping right under the radar. Taking it in. Calculating.

You swallowed, pushing down the strange unease curling in your stomach, forcing yourself to focus on your job. The man at the entrance, whoever he was, wasn’t your problem.

Finn was still talking beside you, grinning as he watched John and Arthur cause their usual chaos, but you barely heard him. Your hands moved on autopilot, grabbing a bottle, pouring another round, your gaze flickering back toward the man just once– 

Bang.

The sound of fists slamming against the bar made you jump, your breath hitching as a sharp jolt ran through you.

Tommy Shelby stood before you, furious.

His jaw was tight, his blue eyes sharp and filled with barely restrained anger. His fists remained planted on the bar, knuckles white against the worn wood. 

"You gave Arthur the wrong whiskey," he snapped. 

You stared at him, stunned, trying to process what was happening.

“I– what?”

Tommy’s expression didn’t waver. “You heard me,” he bit out, pointing a finger at you. “I’m paying you to be a barmaid, not a fuck-up.”

The words landed like a slap. A thick silence hung between you, the weight of his anger pressing down on your chest. Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

You had seen Tommy Shelby sharp, commanding, unreadable. But this– this was different, this was calculated. This was personal.

You felt Finn stiffen beside you, his playful energy vanishing in an instant. He was staring at Tommy, wide-eyed, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing either. A few of the regulars at the bar exchanged glances, clearly uncomfortable but smart enough to keep their heads down.

Tommy straightened slightly. “It’s not hard,” he said coldly. “Do your fucking job.”

And just like that, he turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing into the crowd, leaving you standing there– humiliated. Your hands were trembling. Your chest was tight. You wanted to say something, but you were frozen.

It wasn’t until Finn let out a breath beside you that you even remembered how to move.

"Christ," Finn muttered. "What the hell’s got him so grumpy at a birthday party?"

You had no answer.

Because you didn’t understand it, either.

But across the room, near the entrance, the man from the market, the man who had slipped under everyone’s radar, had finally taken notice. 

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[maskosis]

SNIPPET OF AN UPCOMING FIC: the "absentee father too busy saving the world and his needy, neglected daughter who was raised on cyber-misogyny and uses the only asset she was told she has to get her father's attention" incest fic no one asked for.

You become aware of it on the cusp of adolescence.

It's nestled in that transitory realm from a little girl, girlhood, to a bratty teenager. Marbled with the stretch marks of puberty and preadolescent angst; an incipient bloom, a budding flower, that stays. Grows roots in rotten, fetid soil. Acidic enough to corrode metal but a basin of filth where this needling sapling flourishes. 

And these feelings inside of you refuses to die through the evolution of innocent child making eyes at Kovu, Aladdin, and Shang with a stupid grin on your face as you sit in his lap (only vaguely aware of how he huffs about work, grumbles under his breath to your mother about how they don't need a separation, it'll be fine, we'll be fine, don't go makin’ any rash decisions now—i can fix this) to burgeoning adolescent shoving clumsy fingers against the gusset of your panties, scrubbing sloppy and uncertain at your flesh until something feels good.

The tether between these two worlds is him. Has always been him. 

His voice in your head as you rut your hips into the pillow shoved between your thighs, biting your fist in frustration because it just won't work—

The image in your head changes even if the content they sit you down in front of doesn't. Tarzan's dad. McCready, when your cousin lets you watch the Thing at a sleepover. Older men. Gruff men. Men who pry their thick, grizzled fingers into the soil of the earth and peel it apart with brute force and a snarl. 

(Men who pick that same world they claw apart over you—)

One's who look, who sound, just like your dad.

It just makes sense, you think, fingers twisting into the hem of your panties at night, hours after he sends you to bed with a pinched goodnight, princess. It just—is. Him. Him. Him—

Who else could it possibly be when all you can think of is stay, don't go, when his hand twitches towards the door, when he keeps his phone clenched between those bearish hands you wish would squeeze you just as tight. When he seems relieved to finally get pulled away from clumsily patching himself into some proximation of a man that isn't burdened by the weight of the world and eager to flee this tangled, knotted web of his fracturing family, splintering apart over divorce papers pinned to the refrigerator he said he'd replace four years ago, and a daughter who calls him dad in the same tone she says, hello, how are you? to strangers on the street. 

You say, I love my dad, this stranger in your home who weaves in and out of your life like a migratory bird nesting for the winter—you, this house, dad and daughter, nothing more than a pitstop, a bottleneck, on this grand journey to somewhere better—but it's wrong. Tastes of cyanide. Fills the gaps of your baby teeth like sticky, sweet mercury. 

A tale as old as time—absentee father and the needy, neglected daughter he abandons in pieces; unwilling to rip himself away like a bandaid so he hangs there, tugging on unblemished skin. A constant, bitter ache. A little sting. 

(You love him. But the word dad fits clumsily in your mouth like it doesn't belong—unpractised on your tongue because you can count the number of times you uttered this to him with just one hand.)

Of course he runs. 

And of course you try to follow the only way you know how. 

(Want love? Want affection? Crave a scrap of attention from a man that refuses to give it?

Well—

You have all the power between the meat of your thighs, darling, did you know that?)

It's huddling under the blankets at night, eyes glued to the blue-green glow of your screen as you watch big, brutish men ruin pretty girls. Shoving their thick, too big daddy too big cocks into their cunts, legs thrown over their brawny shoulders. Pov shots of a hairy, soft belly and a wisp of a thing underneath, yowling at the stretch, how good it feels.

At some point, it just becomes normal to want him.

Evolutionary.

But you're not stupid.

These feelings that bud inside your chest—girlhood crushes shaded in rose-pink, pealing giggles demanding daddy's attention, chaste kisses to the apple of your cheeks, a warm, rough hand on the crown of your head, nose tucked into his neck that smells of wet leather and smoke; to damp panties glued to your aching cunt when he brushes his thick fingers over your forehead, brows pinching together as he murmurs don't feel warm t'me, that heavy, scorching hand on your lower back when he walks you from the car to the restaurant as you babble about your day, the rough scratch of his beard when press your cheek to his, wondering how it it would feel against your cunt—are not normal. The furthest thing from it, really.

And you're too aware of it, you think. About how it should disgust you, but doesn't.

You know the word incest before you know the meaning. Read it as it pops up above the videos you like (daddy-daughter; daddy fucks his daughter and cums inside her tight pussy—)

[amygdalae]

"The franchise and the virus work on the same principle: what thrives in one place will thrive in another. You just have to find a sufficiently virulent business plan, condense it into a three-ring binder--its DNA--xerox it, and embed it in the fertile lining of a well-traveled highway, preferably one with a left-turn lane. Then the growth will expand until it runs up against its property lines.

In olden times, you'd wander down to Mom's Cafe for a bite to eat and a cup of joe, and you would feel right at home. It worked just fine if you never left your hometown. But if you went to the next town over, everyone would look up and stare at you when you came in the door, and the Blue Plate special would be something you didn't recognize. If you did enough traveling, you'd never be at home anywhere.

But when a businessman from New Jersey goes to Dubuque, he knows he can walk into a McDonald's and no one will stare at him. He can order without having to look at the menu, and the food will always taste the same. McDonald's is Home, condensed into a three-ring binder and xeroxed. "No surprises" is the motto of the franchise ghetto, its Good Housekeeping seal, subliminally blazoned on every sign and logo that make up the curves and grids of light that outline the Basin.

The people of America, who live in the world's most surprising and terrible country, take comfort in that motto. Follow the loglo outward, to where the growth is enfolded into the valleys and the canyons, and you find the land of the refugees. They have fled from the true America, the America of atomic bombs, scalpings, hip-hop, chaos theory, cement overshoes, snake handlers, spree killers, space walks, buffalo jumps, drive-bys, cruise missiles, Sherman's March, gridlock, motorcycle gangs, and bungee jumping. They have parallel-parked their bimbo boxes in identical computer-designed Burbclave street patterns and secreted themselves in symmetrical sheetrock shitholes with vinyl floors and ill-fitting woodwork and no sidewalks, vast house farms out in the loglo wilderness, a culture medium for a medium culture."

--Neal Stephenson, Snow Crash

[brain-rot-central]

Sonnet of the Lone Cardinal, Ch. 3

A/N: Thank you all for your patience. She's finally here.

Word count: 3.5k Rating: M (nothing sexual; mostly topics that may be uncomfortable) Pairing: Ascended Astarion/Fem!Tav Warnings: 18+; Mentions of murder, violence, death, blood, gore (very minor), blood drinking, sexual acts. Angst, alcohol consumption.

Summary: Tav and Shadowheart finally reunite for a simple lunch date. Their discussion turns toward Astarion, and a particularly unsettling event.

Chapter track: Cry - Cigarettes After Sex

♥ Previous Chapter ♥ Next Chapter ♥ Link to Ao3

Dawn breaks over the horizon. The subtle stirrings of a city coming to life once more fill the streets. Maids and matrons pat down their mats just beyond their front doors. Street vendors begin setting up their carts. A young boy with a satchel carrying copies of the Gazette goes from home to home delivering the day’s latest print.

Tav kneels before her front window, watching the street below. A few days have passed since her meeting with Jaheira. Astarion hasn't been to see her; the longest stretch of time between visits since they began their ordeal. She fully expected a visit last night. However, he never came. She hates admitting it to herself, but she feels a shallow pit in her stomach beginning to form having gone without him for so long.

Standing up, Tav closes the window and brings herself into the washroom to prepare for the day ahead. An old friend has requested a lunch date; she hasn’t seen Shadowheart for many months, and owes her dearest friend an audience.

Tav pours the carafe of water into the wash basin, dipping a cloth into the water before bringing it to her face. Studying the various soaps and creams she has lined along the shelf, she chooses one of nettlebark, smelling of citrus and pine forests. This scent is one of her favorites, and she’s relieved she can still find comfort within the smell. Scents are still a trigger for her nausea at this stage in her pregnancy. The usually tempting smell of breakfast wafting about the air of the city turns her stomach upright, now. Tav has found that if she holds off eating until mid-morning, she's in the clear. 

Yet… odd cravings have begun. 

For instance, she's since gone back to the butcher's, profusely apologetic to poor Gideon. Of course, the kind soul that he is, he was nothing but understanding and even offered her a few rations free of charge. Tav politely declined his offer, yet as she stared into the display cases full of various raw meats, she found herself practically bewitched by the sight. Rich, bloody beef; cut straight from the animal. She recalls how intensely saliva pooled within her mouth staring at the provisions. Tasting the metallic twang of the blood on her tongue, swallowing thickly as Gideon returned with her order.

Patting her face dry with a small towel, Tav returns into the main room and begins rummaging through her dresser for the day's outfit. The midnight blue bottle Jaheira gave her sits atop the dresser. Tav considers the potion every morning, but quickly declines as her heart aches at the thought. 

She believes the weather to be rather warm today, so she settles on an airy, light blue sundress and a wide brimmed hat. The gray scarf she recently bought matches perfectly as she stands before her mirror, assembling the ensemble. 

The ghost of scars catches her eyes as she adjusts the scarf around her neck. They're light enough; most wouldn't notice, though to her, they blare. Permanent gifts from her months-long affair with Astarion during their journey to defeat the Absolute. His bite was always a clean one, never marring her tanned skin. Two faint fang marks are all that remain, Tav taking the index and middle fingers of one hand to press lightly over the imprinted flesh as she lifts her chin.

Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.

The rhythmic beating of her heart can be felt beneath her fingertips as she pushes slightly into the artery. Accurate, Tav notes, a shiver running down her spine. She makes quick adjustments to the scarf and grabs her hat off the edge of her bed, placing it atop her head. 

Returning to the mirror, Tav smiles approvingly at her reflection as she gives herself a final glance over. The dress is loose enough that it hides the new softness of her body, something she's thankful for. Curiously, she places her hands over her stomach, pushing the fabric of the dress down and under the small swell of her lower abdomen. A pleased laugh escapes her lips while admiring the sight.

Tav turns her body from side to side, tracing the movement with her eyes. Her breasts now fill the top of the garment. The deep plunge of the dress’s neckline displays her new cleavage in a flattering manner. Feeling suddenly bare, Tav unwraps the scarf from around her neck, repositioning it lays across her chest like a bandana. Better. A bit more modest.

The satisfaction doesn’t last very long as she thinks of Shadowheart. How can she tell her? Will she tell her? While Shadowheart has never been anything but supportive, Tav worries how she may respond to news of her pregnancy. Tav is not ready for the backlash and potential lecture her best friend would give her, hearing Shadowheart's scolding voice echo within her mind. 

You cried over him for months! Tav envisions clearly, sour facial expressions and all. How many times did you come to me distraught in the middle of the night? Only to end up like this?

If the conversation doesn’t occur naturally, Tav decides on not discussing it. Not yet.

Swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat, Tav grabs her satchel from behind her main door, throwing it over her shoulder and across her chest. She inspects the contents quickly to ensure everything is present. Slipping her feet into brown sandals, she makes her way down the stairs to face the day ahead.

----------------------------------------------------

The morning is spent strolling around the park not far from her apartment. Tav recalls an altercation with Bhaal’s followers in this very park so many months ago. Today though, people are enjoying the sun and the company of one another. Lovers lay out on the grass, hands interlaced as they speak freely of their devotion to one another. A book club gathers in the middle of the park to discuss their latest obsession. Tav overhears bits and pieces of mixed conversations, finding comfort in the fact that life is slowly returning to normal for the citizens of Baldur's Gate.

The midmorning quickly slips into afternoon, and Tav begins her trek over toward the Elfsong to meet with Shadowheart. A few people nod in recognition as she passes by. “That's our hero!” they shout. “The savior of the city!” Tav smiles and bows graciously toward them, never quite comfortable with everyone suddenly knowing of her existence. Still, she is thankful for their praise and support.

Upon entering the Elfsong, Tav scans the tavern and quickly finds Shadowheart seated at a booth along the wall. Their eyes meet, Shadowheart waving her over with a warm smile on her face. “There you are!” she exclaims as Tav draws closer. “My goodness, I feel as if it's been ages!” The two women exchange a quick embrace, planting chaste kisses upon eachother's cheek.

“Good to see you again, Shadowheart,” Tav says as she settles into the booth. She removes her hat and scarf, placing both items on the cushion to her left.

Shadowheart soon joins her, taking a sip from her glass of wine. “Shall I ask for another glass?” she proposes, nodding to hers. “We could just order a bottle,” she quickly adds with a smirk.

“Oh, no, I'm quite fine,” Tav declines, a sharp twist in her abdomen forms at the thought. “Truth be told, I haven't had the best stomach, as of late.” Bile begins to rise in the back of her throat as a quick wave of nausea passes over her. She quickly swallows it back down.

Taking another sip from her glass, Shadowheart cocks her head to the side. “Truly? Why haven't you been to see me yet?”

“Not to worry,” waving a hand in reassurance. “I've been to a healer. All is well,” Tav replies with a liar’s smile.

All is not well. None of this is well.

Fortunately, Shadowheart takes the bait and quickly switches subjects. Waiting for service, they begin a pleasant conversation about resettling back into their lives. They speak of their new jobs and all other mundane activities of day-to-day life, sharing a few laughs between remarks as they pursue the menus in front of them.

The waitress takes their orders – Shadowheart keeps it light, ordering salad with grilled chicken; Tav orders a rare steak with potatoes and a side of vegetables. “Rare?” Shadowheart comments as soon as the waitress is out of earshot. “You hate all meat, unless it’s well done.”

She's right. Any hint of pink in Tav’s portion would go right back into the fire. “I-I've been trying new things lately,” Tav explains, rubbing her neck coyly. The cravings only seem to grow as the days pass, and she briefly wonders if it's a consequence of having a half-vampiric pregnancy.

Shadowheart raises a brow again, but fortunately does not pry further. The women then delve into a discussion regarding their old companions as they wait for their meals. Tav talks of her efforts to bolster the city watch with Wyll, now the Duke after his father's unfortunate death. Shadowheart speaks of Gale, who she notes has since opened a school of wizardry back in Waterdeep. Neither has heard much regarding the others, though they agree that they're most likely doing well.

Shadowheart wastes little time once their meals arrive, forking salad into her mouth. “So, have you heard from Astarion at all?” she asks casually after swallowing.

A shudder passes over Tav as she begins slicing into her steak. “No,” she feigns with eyes cast downward, “I-I have not.”

Gesturing toward Tav with her fork as she chews, Shadowheart swallows. “I read something interesting in the Gazette a few days ago,” she suggests.

“About him?” Tav questions, bringing a potato wedge to her mouth.

Shadowheart shakes her head in disapproval around a sip of wine. “Not in particular,” she clarifies. “They don't name him explicitly, though it made me think of him.”

Silence befalls the table as Tav awaits her companion to continue. She doesn't trust her voice enough at this point to offer more to their conversation now that Astarion is the topic at hand. Playing idly with the vegetables on her plate, she chooses a small piece of broccoli to bring up to her mouth. The heavy pull of dread is beginning to creep in, her chest tightening.

“They… mentioned an incident that occurred in the sewers but a tenday ago,” explains Shadowheart, a sour expression befitting her face. “Some sort of deal gone wrong.”

Tav looks up to meet Shadowheart's gaze, puzzled. “How exactly does that involve him?” she inquires.

“Well, that's just the thing,” Shadowheart continues, “those first on the scene mentioned five victims in total, all young males.” She interrupts herself to feed another forkful of salad into her mouth, swallowing before resuming, “They were all reported as being exsanguinated, though only three had their throats slashed.”

Tav swallows hard around another piece of steak, silently savoring the rare flavor washing over her tongue as she focuses her attention on Shadowheart. “And the other two?”

Shadowheart looks sheepishly around the bar, discomfort evident. She dips her head. “Tav, I know of your history with Astarion. I don't wish to speak ill of him out of respect for you.”

Tav's fist tightens around the knife in her left hand. The tightness in her chest has traveled up to her throat. Her heart pounds rapidly as she drinks from the glass of water within her right hand. “What of the others?” Tav insists, placing the glass back down on the table with force.

Eyes falling closed, Shadowheart sighs heavily. “The other two…” she begins, voice trailing off. She pulls in a deep breath. “Well, they're reported as having two pin marks on their necks.” She gestures to Tav's throat with a soft nod of her head. “...Not unlike the scars you bear.”

A prickling heat spreads across Tav’s face. A tenday ago? she speaks within her mind. Rather close to when she'd last seen Astarion. Tav recalls again how miffed he'd been that night; impatient and direct, wasting little time coaxing her down onto the bed.

She pushes around a chunk of potato on her plate, anxiety mounting. “What makes you think it was Astarion? It could have been a kobold, or a spider, or-”

“They were gone the next day,” interrupts Shadowheart, bluntly.

Tav’s heart nearly freezes. She locks eyes with Shadowheart. “Gone? What do you mean gone?” she asks frantically, furrowing her brow.

“Gone,” Shadowheart reiterates, raising the wine glass to her lips again. “When the investigators returned the following day alongside the medical examiner, only the three with the knife wounds remained.” She pulls a long drink from the glass. “The other two were nowhere to be found. As if they'd simply gotten up and walked away.”

Tav shivers, entire body twitching with the thought. “T-that doesn't mean it's Astarion, Shadowheart. It could be-”

“Could be what? Another vampire?” suggests Shadowheart, sarcastically. “I don't think Astarion would take kindly to someone else moving into his territory.” She sighs, clicking her tongue. “I'm sorry to say it, Tav, but it sounds an awful lot like him.”

The sounds of the tavern flood Tav’s ears. Her vision narrows to a single pinpoint, the edges of her vision growing fuzzy. She leans back in her seat and closes her eyes. “We don't know that,” Tav states, trying desperately to calm the wild beating of her heart. “We don't know what happened.” She shakes her head, slowly opening her eyes. “We won't know until the case is settled.”

“Why do you still defend him?” asks Shadowheart bluntly, mouth pulling into a displeased pout. “Surely you remember how badly he hurt you. Why continue to defend him at all?”

The question echoes in her mind. Why does she defend him? The man is a monster; an abomination, as Jaheira had called his child. Tav knows not who he’s become. Small glimpses of the man he once was shine through now and again, mostly when they argue. The stubborn selfishness of him reveals itself, inevitably bleeding into raw passion once she works at him enough. It almost makes her feel at home in his arms, albeit for a few hours.

“He wouldn't, Shadowheart. It's not like him…” Tav says, quietly. She's unsure if she believes it or if she's lying in an effort to convince herself that it's true. She's suddenly lost her appetite, pushing the plate of food away from her.

Shadowheart is quiet for some time, eyes cast down at the table. “Well,” she says, cutting through the silence, “let's hope he's as innocent as you say.”

Silence stretches across the table before the two women agree to shift the conversation elsewhere. They inevitably tie up their gathering, sharing an embrace and chaste kisses to the cheeks once again. They vow to meet the following week, and head out on their way.

Walking back toward her apartment, Tav's stomach begins to sour as she thinks over her conversation with Shadowheart. Vivid images of Astarion sinking his fangs into the necks of the alleged victims flood her mind's eye. She feels a tingling sensation over her own scars as she imagined how they must have felt. Could he have really done such a thing? The sounds of the city are almost absent from her ears as she ponders the question.

“Wait a minute,” she speaks aloud, freezing in place. Her eyes are cast down to the cobblestone street below as her heart fills with horror. Her mouth dries quickly, choking as she tries to breathe.

The last night she'd seen Astarion coincides almost exactly with the timeline of the murders within the sewers. If the report is true, then Astarion's enthusiasm that night wasn't solely due to want, necessarily. Tav dips into a small alley between two buildings, leaning against the brick wall as her knees grow weak.

No, his insistence was not due to missing her. It was attributed to blood-fueled lust, a state Tav has seen him in a number of times. She clasps a hand over her mouth as a sob suddenly racks her chest. Her whole body shakes as the horrific realization sinks deep into her bones. The puzzle aligns near perfectly as the thought continues to blossom.

Astarion had come to her bed after draining two people dry. He didn't spend time on their typical foreplay because he couldn't. Tav knows the power mortal blood has over him, and she doubts the ascension has changed that. She recalls how it all but possesses his thoughts, his feelings, and his body, enslaved by the sheer power of unbridled desire running through him.

Lurching forward, she begins to dry heave; a million thoughts race across her mind. He couldn't have done this on purpose, could he? He wouldn't. There's simply no way he would. Denial clouds her thoughts as saliva drips freely from her open mouth, gathering it together to spit upon the floor. Holding a hand to her stomach she rises, leaning her temple against the cool brick of the wall next to her. She closes her eyes, trying to calm her excitement with slow, deep breaths.

“No innocents; you have my word.”

Astarion's past promise to her rings loudly in her ears. It was from this promise their almost nightly affair to keep him well-fed began. Tav tries desperately to block out the memories of what would transpire after their sessions; how could she have not noticed? All the signs were there.

Because he didn't drink from me.

Her stomach churns again and she rubs her hand in a circular motion above her navel. Her chest burns as she chokes back tears. What to do, now? Does she wait until his next visit to confront him? When will that be? The anticipation will burn a hole through her soul, she knows. But, what other option does she have? 

A small voice wrestles from within as she wipes her mouth with the back of a hand.

…Do I go to him?

The decision is made before the logical side of her mind can argue a rational point, her feet carrying her toward the Crimson Palace. She second guesses the choice; from some place within, a voice yells for her to reconsider. 

He'll tell me the truth, surely, she argues against her doubt. 

Right?

Aware that she's potentially putting herself in a grave position, Tav cannot rest until he tells her otherwise. She needs to hear from Astarion's own mouth that he didn't murder five people only to share her bed mere hours later. She needs to hear from him that he wouldn't do this, that he still abides by his promise to her, that her blood is all he's ever known.

“Why do I care so much?” Tav questions aloud to herself, practically running now toward the monastery. She shakes her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts; he will eventually drink the blood of others. If he is to create an army of spawn as he'd so claimed after the ritual, that would be the only way to do so.

They're no longer lovers; no longer deeply acquainted. They just sleep together, and she fell pregnant as a result. 

Why does she care so much?

Before long, Tav stands before the immaculate palace. Grand mahogany doors stand proudly at the building's entrance, adorned with intricate carvings along the wood. Black metal knockers depicting the faces of gargoyles signal a way in. Tav’s hand reaches instinctively around the bell of one, pulling up.

Before she can complete the knock, the door creaks open. A faint glow from a distant light source cracks through the opening of the door and Tav releases the handle, stepping back. She freezes in place, fully expecting the door to continue opening. Yet, it halts, remaining only slightly ajar. Stale air greets her nostrils and a shiver passes through her.

Silence suddenly engulfs her, the sounds of the city falling dormant. As she surveys the area around her, Tav notes no other presence out on the street for as far as the eye can see. Her ears pick up the soft sound of someone humming, and she determines its origin lies within the palace. 

An assimon carved into the middle of the marble trim along the heavy doors catches her attention as she looks up. Tav turns her head as she studies the figure; a young woman with long hair, eyes closed and wings outstretched as she holds a lance within one hand.

The humming from within the building turns into a tune and cuts through Tav’s daydream. She shakes her head briefly, regrouping. She can turn away now and forget this entire thing. Forget that this was even a thought that crossed her mind, leave, and no one would ever know she was here.

A quick flash of Astarion’s fangs piercing into skin flits across Tav’s vision. She winces. I simply must know, she reassures herself. Drawing in a deep breath, she steps forward.

Resting the flat of her palm against the door, Tav slowly pushes it open. The old metal and wood fuss loudly as the door gives way under the force of her hand. The faint glow of the light from within now pours out, illuminating the street behind her. With some hesitation, Tav steps over the threshold, disappearing into the palace.

[cipheramnesia]

Part 7: The Tower

a story by @rox-and-prose and @cipheramnesia

Dusk turned the Nevamil sky a flat aquamarine, and made visible the red lights blinking atop the Citadel. It was the tallest building in the capital city, Aureodar, even visible from the far off gridded streets of old houses converted into apartments. The last time Laika had seen it was a field trip for school.

The little blue Kirov was somewhere between the mountains and Genghis Khan and the most anonymous hopper port they'd been able to find in Aureodar. She worried about Sy, seemed ages past she'd been this physically far, though it was hardly more than weeks. Wires and talismans crossed over the streets, bikes and busses swooshed wet pavement, and linecars screeched overhead, all wrapped around her and her backpack and familiar unknown faces of the United Eastquad Block.

Ghosts gathered around her, whispering. You keep coming back here little wolf girl, you'll never get away from this place. Little wolf girl, you know you belong here. Freak. Queer. Sissy. Killer. Monster. You thought you were better than us, you never were. Laika let them needle and claw her. They were her ghosts, not the other way round. Every horrible word only built her up. Luna was with her in that way.

Most of the houses on K Street were mods, from early to late first century post-terraform. They were all retrofited from the original single family modules, but they were tough as nails, old construction built to weather thr storms of atmosphere generation. Number 1132 was where she was headed, lights were still on in the third floor windows.

Laika took a last look around on the front door's stoop. The poles for street lights and warden ropes all had at least three CCTV cameras and arrayed parabolic empathy receivers tuned into psychic conflict between morality and legality. She flashed a tight little smile at the familiar old glass eye of the state before pulling a short crowbar out of her bag and cracking the door open.

The third floor smelled of some sharp, fragrant allium along with sweet woody flavors and cooking meat, enough to rouse her stomach. Deep breath, ignore the ghosts, knock. A woman with her black hair in a bob cut, rolled up sleeves on her billowy dress, a little sweaty and confused, almost a quarter meter shorter than Laika. A wave of gaming sounds, net music, and oven warmth joined them both on the landing.

"Hey Tara," Laika said.

The other woman looked closer. "Laika? Oh tides, it is!" She wrapped Laika up in a big soft hug inside thick arms, crushing her stick body. "I thought you, I don't know, I thought you were dead! I mean, there were rumors?"

"Uff! Uh, hey. Sorry to be like, unannounced. Is it okay if I come in?" Laika hesitantly patted Tara's shoulders until the hug relaxed and her feet were back on the floor.

"You just have to, please. I'm sorry, when did you get back, why didn't you call?"

Unlacing her boots and slipping them off, she said, "I just got back today, um. I've been a bit off the net you know." She dipped her hand in the tiny basin by the door and thumbed a drop of water on the polished river stone at the altar. "But I wanted to see how you'd been, I guess. It just, well it's weird. That smells amazing."

She saw a couple kids blasting through uncreatively humanoid aliens, loudly and luridly across the living room screen, followed Tara into the kitchen and dinette area and watched her stir around sizzling veggies and meat in a wide dish. "Thanks," Tara said. "The spawn over there don't always appreciate it, but you know how... well, how kids can be..." Tara frowned awkwardly.

"Yeah, uh. Yeah." Laika rubbed the back of her neck. "So what all have you heard?"

Tara stuttered with a little embarassment. In the distance Laika could very faintly hear sirens, but she knew they weren't for her. The people who would come for her didn't use sirens or advertise their presence.

Half paying attention to Tara, she added, "Well, uh, some is true. But... you knew it was bad at home. Stuff happened. What about you though? Like, two kids? Wow!"

Tara probably was relieved at the change of topic, and Laika was glad to take a minute, but she couldn't focus all the way. She was waiting.

[porcelainseashore]

Summer Solstice - Beach Episode by Night

Commissioned art by @medeaft

Author's Note: My “drabble” (inspired by a music ask) for the lovely @beach-episode-by-night event. A heartfelt thank you to @mortifying-macaroni and @alibellerosetta whom I dedicate this piece to. Your encouragement made it possible.

Along the I-10 highway to Tucson, Wynter takes a detour toward the coastline on impulse, chasing the memory of a bygone summer’s day.

Content Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, references to murder, wraith, pre-canon, weird uncle/niece relationship, blame it on the Giovanni.

How long has it been?

The chime sounded as she left the car door open with her keys in the ignition, monotonous, comforting yet cajoling her to do something about it. It didn’t matter; hers was the lone automobile on the desolate street. If someone wanted this piece of junk, they’d earn the right by swiping it off her hands behind her back.

In the tepid late October air, Wynter had taken a detour off the I-10 toward the Gulf Coast on a whim, with the windows rolled down because the air conditioner wasn’t working—it never did. Closer to the basin, the smell of brine from the Atlantic hit her tenfold. She had been swimming in her thoughts, her reflexes on autopilot, as if she remembered the route by heart. That was the question, what did she remember? Why had she come here, when she had spent the last two decades running off and reinventing herself, just like her estranged sire, Violetta, taught her to?

Instead of answering, she faced away from the wind, lashes downturned and fluttering, as she cupped her hand over her mouth, lighting up a cigarette and ignoring the faint protests of her Beast. The wind was still as violent as she’d left it. Heeled boots crunched into gravel, which finally opened out to soft mounds of sand. She wasn’t in a hurry; she had time to kill, even with her battered, old Honda that was on its last legs. 

The Prince could wait. 

What was a couple of USB sticks that he desired good for? They lay stuffed and suffocated in her worn-down satchel—one she’d found while rummaging through the trash—with its straps chewed and frayed at the ends. Maybe just enough for emergency repairs and a meal or two, if she was lucky.

From afar, she could make out the salt-stripped cafes, gaudy tiki bars with their balding straw roofs, and a row of little wooden clapboard houses, paint-chipped and peeling, along the boardwalk. Weather-beaten “For sale” and “We’re closed!” signs hung awkwardly from the establishments, some on their last nail, swaying to and fro, creaking in the breeze. Her gaze trailed over the tired beach chairs, deflated pool toys, and broken surfboards. A smattering of them had found their way across the divide, acting like driftwood in the sea.

The sound of children’s giggles and bare feet pattering on the floorboards echoed in the distance. She gripped her bag tight, but did not look back. Her shoes were sinking into the wet sand now, and the air carried warm moisture which settled beneath the layer of clothes onto her skin. Her very own form of sweat.

The moon illuminated her path, but at the edge of the ocean, she was at a loss for what to do. Why was she here? What had called her? How—

“Wynter,” it whispered, balmy in the zephyr. “Why don’t you come out to play?”

She shielded her eyes, as though blinded by the brilliant sun, peering out into the vast space before her. And there he was, clear as day, in his light blue shorts and a roseate burn creeping through his tanned back, wading toward her in the water. Earlier, she had been sulking under the beach umbrella while her mother flipped through a magazine and her father chatted jovially with other men over rounds of drinks at the bar.

The wind was howling. Fine, white sand swirled in the current. She didn’t like how hot it got under her feet. Everything hurt. But for Lucien, she would bear through it all. His smile ached as she splashed into the water, salt clinging to her lips and foam gathering in the tendrils of her hair. She took a deep breath and dived, dipping under the waves of the high tide. A strong pair of arms entangled around her waist as she was drawn out of the sea, and she wriggled to break free of their grasp while her uncle chuckled. And soon, she was laughing too.

“My very own mermaid,” he murmured. 

Wynter bared her teeth and hissed, “But I will drown you and taste your flesh.”

He touched her chin, smiling sadly. “Well, it would be worth it, to me.”

She didn’t think anything of it then, bounding out of Lucien’s embrace and paddling through the waters. That day, under the cloudless sky and the sun’s rays glittering beyond the horizon, she felt how magnificent it was to be alive. Glancing over at Lucien, she paused, meeting his eyes, shifting azure blue, watching the droplets trickle down his brow. The waves crashed on shore. Seagulls crooned overhead. Time whiled away in silence. Their eyes searching for a morsel they could hold on to. Years of an unspoken bond buried in a look. He believed in it then, how pure and indescribable it was. And the curve of his mouth reflected hers.

For all the trials he would be put through, he’d gladly suffer, even if there was no end in sight. She waded closer to him, the water now reaching waist-high. But it was murky. Her cigarette butt had gone out, leaving traces of the woody scent of dark tobacco in the air, but even that too was fading. Instead of the heat of the sun beating down her back, she encountered the cool, umbral glow of the moon, iridescent on her bloodless skin. She wanted it to burn her alive.

Her Beast recoiled at the mere thought of seeing the light of day, but Wynter entertained it for a moment longer, savoring the fear, the way the light extinguished in someone’s eyes before they expired.

“Let me drown with you,” she prayed, the flicker of an unearthly sheen present in her eyes.

In her peripheral vision, a shadow flitted between the steel scaffolding of the once-grandiose pier, now in a state of irreversible decay, rusting to the elements. She remembered standing there as a child, sick from cotton candy, and the noise of the fairground rides flooding her ears. A postcard marred with heavy creases—one of the many within the bundle she had stashed in her glove compartment. She held it out in front of the pier, shutting one eye and squinting, then doing the same with the other. 

Every year, she received a blank card, the address scribbled in handwriting she didn’t recognize. Regardless of whether she stayed at a temporary residence or relied on throwaway collection points dotted across the country, they arrived without fail. “Wish you were here’s” by the ghost of a loved one on perpetual vacation. Places she had been to. Places she had dreamed of. This time, a picturesque painting of the old pier at dawn. 

It could have been a trap, but she found it strangely comforting, knowing she had a place to come back to, observing the swell and receding waves until she would be nothing more than ashes floating on the surface at the break of day. Kindred talked about death as if it were so final, but to her, death was only the beginning. A concrete structure on the pier groaned, loosening from its bolt before collapsing into the sea. The sound and vibrations were tremendous, but Wynter didn’t flinch.

How long could she drag this out? How much more could she keep on going?

For a while, she had been aware of a presence watching her, but made no sign to acknowledge its existence. It was tempting to seek it out, as was the habit of being a hunter, but she decided otherwise. The Shroud was thin here. Mortals had long since abandoned this place. Yet some remained. 

There was a deep rooted tingle in her spine. She had overstayed her welcome; she should leave, but not before—

The postcard slipped from her fingers, drifting in the stream until she lost sight of it. A featherlight kiss on the nape of her neck. She shuddered again and closed her eyes. When they opened, she checked the time on her cracked iPhone screen. 

Without a word, she followed her tracks back to her awaiting car, the chime still ringing incessantly. She hopped in and drove off, leaving whatever had happened that day behind. 

The Prince of Tucson couldn’t wait any longer.

Dividers by @diableriedoll

[agrachdyrr]

Sheer white curtains drifted lazily in the salt sweetened air; a morning greeting that Felyn'aste had long become accustomed to. It was still dim and damp, the clamor of the night's streets having given way to a hush. Distant, a voice. The fisherfolk were taking to sea.

It was the perfect time of day.

Turning to bed early was difficult at the One-Eyed Jax, where the carousing had likely only stopped an hour or two before. Still, he preferred it this way.

It reminded him of home. The cries of gulls were far different than the birds of Cormanthor, but you could pretend on a morning like this. The forest dew, brought in mist from the sea. The ancient trees in the wind, ships groaning against the wind in the harbor. The singing insects, a shutter creaking. A bell began to toll, streets away.

Reluctantly, he got up from bed. Once he pulled away those heavy, quilted covers, the chill set in. First came stoking the hearth.

This too, was familiar yet different. The wood here burned badly, all crackle and pop. It was difficult, even if you paid a premium for the kind that had been laid out to dry for two years. It was one of the first things he taught them, wasn't it?

At night, a layer of ashes. In the morning, rake it away. Tinder for the embers, nursing them. Fatwood cut from the heart of a fallen pine was the best. Shave away a bit from it with the knife so it curls. It will catch fast. Just like that. Wood matters.

He laid in the logs then stood at the window, rubbing his arms for warmth.

Against a swirling canvas of blue-grey were white sails, bobbing along in the sea. The sun had just barely begun to rise above the waves.

On the street below, a familiar face. He leaned out to greet the human.

"Oloré, Serena!"

A smile and wave was returned.

The tavern would begin waking soon enough.

Turning back to his room, his focus fell on the small altar and the smile left him.

It too, had once come as easily to him as tending the fire. Now, he found himself counting the days since he used it last. What was the point, after all?

He was gone.

Something else was there now, and it did not answer. It was different from that terrible night a century and a half ago, where dark fire had morphed into a silver blaze. With it blossomed a revulsion that had never truly left him. Whatever being this was, it was silent. Apathetic. No action ever changed it.

The room was still cold.

He picked up one of the items on the altar, thumb wiping away the thin film of dust. He had liked this one, hadn't he?

It was acquired from a trader of the east, a shallow black saucer that had been broken once and now was mended with a thin fill of gold. The material was near translucent when held up to the meager light from the window.

Fine. This one, then.

First a flame. In the saucer, he lit a cone of incense. As smoke slowly began to drift through the room, he set up the metal bowl on its blackened stand.

He then opened a drawer, sifting through. A bracelet of carved jet eventually caught his eye in the tangle. This one, he had been saving since he thought he would he delighted by it, back when it still had an enchantment. Now, it was nothing but a memory; tossed into a drawer, forgotten, until this exact moment.

He deposited it in the basin, moving the flame beneath.

"Masked Lord," he began. Then he stopped. What was there to say, that hadn't already been said? The only words left were ones that should never be spoke.

"Vhaeraun."

He began again, trying to ignore the pit of his stomach.

"How have you been?"

Dead.

"Things are alright here. Jarlaxle all but controls the city. We've begun to rebuild. It's been hard going, when there are so few who trust us."

He could feel the tension in his jaw, hands helpless with nowhere to go. The bracelet sat in the bowl, mocking him.

Dead.

His eyes squeezed shut.

"I…"

Dead.

The word hung in the air, mixing with night orchid. Was it finally time?

"I wish you were here," he finally admitted.

Dead.

The sun rose over the sea. Light began to pour in his window. The gloom of those small hours had passed and soon he would be up and back to his day; as it had been ever since.

It was time to break the fast.

"I wish it was not so damnably bright."

He froze.

In that moment, his mind was suddenly full of noise. His body did not wait for the din to quiet down, summoning a blade to hand and setting it cutting through the air.

"Hm."

Green.

The blade had cut through, just left of where the heart would be. But for him, it was a hole torn through shadow that was already knitting itself shut. The blade, lodged into the wall, disappeared behind him as the hole closed.

He looked up with an unreadable expression, but his eyes and hair betrayed him.

Blue.

"A good throw, but not much of a greet--"

"Damn you!"

His brows arched.

"Did you not have enough fun last time?!"

This isn't right.

"Is there no act too low for you?"

What?

His fingers twitched.

"Velochar --"

"Shut up!"

Red.

Green.

The drow's hands clenched into fists, held trembling at his sides and blanching at the knuckles. He was dressed in some sort of flimsy gown, rather than leathers. His hair was tangled up and near matted on one side in a terrific case of bedhead.

The god cast about for some sort of hint. Injury? Curse? A fire cracked in the hearth, exuding warmth. A trace of flowers lingered in the air. A bed, undone and messy.

"My answer hasn't changed."

Vhaeraun glanced back. He remained silent, at a loss as the shadows held close to him gathered at his feet.

Was something wrong with the sacrifice?

He quickly gestured toward the basin, pulling the power within close. Holding it in his hand, it reformed. He looked between the item and the drow. Toward the drawer. Nothing was giving him the answer he wanted, only dead ends.

"I hate you."

Green eyes snapped up. Each pause was only a breath, but it felt like an aeon to the god. There was plenty of space to feel pain between each word.

"Velochar," he attempted again. This time, the drow was quiet. "What is amiss? You called for me," he continued. "You even gave me a proper offering --"

"It was for him."

Disdain. Revulsion. He dwelt on that.

"Accursed Sister! Give it back."

Felyn'aste marched forward, pink eyes lit with anger.

It was easy enough to keep the offering away, all he had to do was lift his hand up and out of their reach. What he didn't expect was the fist that slammed into his gut a moment later.

"Give. It. Back," the drow repeated.

Vhaeraun was so incredulous that it won out over anger. Somehow. His hair writhed like a wreath of snakes as he muttered, tone turning petty.

"I don't want to. It's mine."

The drow's hand dropped, falling limp at his side.

"What's it matter? Fine. He's dead. Do you want his favorite saucer and incense, too? You've tried to filch away everything else, so why not those as well?"

"No. I… What do you want."

"I want you dead. Or gone, at the very least.

You fucked off for a good long time. Why not continue getting lost?"

The vitriol dripping off the drow's words was utterly alien to Vhaeraun. Had he—even once—seen them act this way toward his esteemed self, spitting hate and throwing hands? No. While it was now clear to him what the problem was, he was unsure of how to solve it. He found himself reaching out, resting the back of his taloned fingers against their cheek.

Under his touch, Velochar shuddered and averted his eyes.

The answer he wanted was in there.

Now he had it, he no longer wanted it.

He ripped his hand away. Stupid!

"Please," the drow finally said, head down. Face hidden.

"Please. It was for him. At least give it to him…"

"I am him!"

Red.

He no longer wanted to know of a hand like his, holding Velochar's cheek as he wept. A voice like his, telling him it will be alright. It was because of a thing that wore his skin and looked just like him. What had she done?

He seethed, at a complete loss. Leaving the mortal where he was in the center of the room, Vhaeraun zipped about. Staring at the fire. Smashing the altar with a fist. Sitting on the bed. Twirling the knife in his hand. Staring out the window. Putting the altar back together, piece by piece. Viciously stabbing the knife back into the wall.

"You've gotten better at it, at least."

He whipped about, flaring up like a fire.

"You! You're just --"

It caught in his throat.

Smooth as oil, he drew close, shadows dripping off of him; hair slack and white. His masked face drew close to the drow's, lowering to their eye level at a hunch. His eyes were like embers, red in grey.

"Do you want rid of it?"

His shadows pooled around their feet, roiling.

"No. You'll break before I do. Keep wearing his face for the next hundred, or a thousand years. The answer will stay the same. Nothing you can do will change it. Strike me down here and I'll be waiting there, waiting as long as it takes."

The god bristled. Aghast. Proud. Pleased. Abashed. He had no name for this unease. He was a king without words owned by the poorest of the streets.

But he did possess something.

"He is still with me," Vhaeraun admitted. "Your gift."

The drow finally met his eyes.

"You… you," he stammered.

Tears welled up and began to fall.

"You," he howled, striking him in the chest.

"How could you," he wept, pitiful.

Then came a knock.

"Fey?"

"Serena," he said softly. There was an understanding between thieves in the tone, though he still held Vhaeraun's wrist tight.

"One of the boys heard a loud noise up here. Are you good?"

His fingers squeezed.

"I'm fine, Serena. The wind knocked over my mirror and it broke."

No hesitation. You can't even tell he's crying. Perfect.

"Oh! I'll go get you a broom. Be careful, dear."

He waited, the epitome of patience.

He looked pointedly at his wrist. So did they.

"Oh."

Felyn'aste quickly released him and stepped back, hands up.

Freed, he reached over and swatted the mirror off the desk.

"Hey!"

He glared at them, then shrugged while waving it off.

"You can thank me later," he said, putting on the bracelet before his form collapsed, dissolving away between the floorboards without another word.

"Later," Vhaeraun stressed.

[channiesbedroom]

Surprise!

She's BACK! I wrote this ages ago but only just finished it - I promise I'm going to move on to something new soon (I've seriously been getting into seventeen recently so keep your eyes peeled.)

Genre: Fluff Pairing: Bangchan x reader

No warnings I think! Just fluffy fluffy fluff

You feel like you’re having a luxury spa day, reclined on an armchair with your feet in a basin of warm water, your eyes closed whilst the lady in the salon paints your fingernails. You hear Hannah whisper your name, trying to gauge if you’re asleep, so you reluctantly open your eyes and smile at her. She’s sitting in the same position as you, the next seat along. Her nails are painted a dark blue, with yellow smiley faces dotted over them; yours, in contrast, are a sheer sparkly pink, a colour she picked for you.

“Say yes, ok?” She states, suddenly.

“What?” You reply, perplexed.

“Nothing, just ignore me.” She pauses, then speaks again. “Just say yes. Don’t say anything to me now, but you’ll know when you know, ok?” You’re more confused than you were before at this point, totally lost as you try and work out what on earth she could mean.

“Yeah, ok.” You don’t bother to push it any further, leaning back and closing your eyes again.

“I wish you could stay in Seoul, Han, it’s so nice to actually have someone to talk to.” You swear you can hear her roll her eyes as she replies sarcastically.

“You talk to Chris every day!” You open your eyes again to look at her.

“And no one else” you sigh, pulling your face into the same expression you know Chris makes, like the :] emoticon. You’re happy with your boyfriend, 100%, and you love Seoul, but you miss your friends who live abroad, and you miss the community you had when you lived at home. You’d struggled to make friends since moving, and you longed for the day that your friends would visit.

“I miss you, y/n. I am thinking about moving here for a bit longer, you know.” Your eyes widen.

“Han, you know we always have a spare room for you. As long as you want.” She smiles as the salon staff member finally finishes off your nails and gives you a thumbs up before asking for her payment. You leave the shop grinning, freshly painted nails shining in the spring sun as you stroll along the streets.

Chris’s home-office door is closed and locked when you get home, which is unusual but not unheard of. You know even your presence can be a distraction, so when he desperately needs to work on something, he’ll lock the door in the hopes he’ll finally get it done. He emerges from ‘the cave’, as you like to call it, an hour later, when you and Hannah are curled up half asleep on the couch, watching a random show on Netflix.

“I don’t get how he could hang onto that bar for so long.” She sighs. You reply quietly.

“18 whole minutes. Wow. I still wish the gymnast had beat him though.” Chris wraps his arms around your shoulders from behind the sofa, making you jump.

“I bet I could do that.” He’s confident, but you don’t quite agree, frowning.

“Babe, an Olympic gold-medal winning gymnast, a national ice climber, and a military drill sergeant managed it, I don’t think ‘kpop idol’ is really the right person for the job.” He laughs, squeezing you tighter before letting you go, and joining you both on the soft cushions.

“Right, Hannah.” She tilts her head. “I love you, but it’s time for you to go so that me and my wifey can have our anniversary dinner.” Chris pats her on the head as if she was a puppy. “5 whole years!” You roll your eyes at him.

“We’re not married, Chris, you can’t call me your wife.”

“Yet.” He mutters under his breath, and Hannah laughs as she puts her jacket on, ready to make the short walk to her friend’s house, where she’s staying for the weekend. Before she leaves, she pulls you into a tight hug.

“Yes.” She whispers into your ear. “Please say yes.” The confusion continues as she walks out the door, and Chris takes you by the hands.

“Well Sunshine, you have one whole hour until I take you for our surprise dinner.” You hate surprises, but Chris has been insisting on this one for weeks.

“Can you at least pick my outfit? I don’t want to put something fancy on and then turn up to a barbecue place, yknow.” He nods in response, and motions for you to stay in the living room whilst he picks.

An hour later, you’re applying your last coat of mascara. The dress Chris picked is the same one you wore on your first anniversary – it’s a pale pink midi covered in floral embroidery with impressive puffy sleeves. You haven’t worn it for a while, it always seems too fancy for the places you go. He’s picked your favourite heels, the only pair you can actually walk in, and gold jewellery to match them. Chris opens the door slowly, peeking his head through the small gap. Spotting you by the mirror, he lets out a low whistle.

“Ok y/n we need to find more excuses for you to wear that dress.” He wraps you up tightly in his arm, head on your shoulder. He’s in a well-fitting navy-blue suit. You still have no clue where you’re going for this special dinner, as the both of you don’t tend to frequent restaurants where a suit is necessary.

“Let’s go.”

After a short drive, Chris takes you by the hand, walking into one of the most beautiful restaurants you’ve ever been in. Faux cherry blossom trees line the walls, silk petals draping from the ceiling, surrounding glimmering golden chandeliers. It’s completely empty, save for the few members of staff dotted around, and Chris leads you to the only table in the room that has been laid with cutlery. You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks.

“Chris, what is this?” He passes your coats to a waiter as you both sit down. He’s blushing too, much like he did on your first date.

“It’s a special day, sweetheart, I wanted to do something special.” He holds your hand across the table. There are no menus, and you haven’t even spoken to any staff yet, but the waiter from earlier soon appears with 2 glasses of some sort of sparkling wine, which you don’t have a chance to decline. “Ok, I can’t wait. Now’s the time.” With little warning, he pulls you back to your feet, gripping both of your hands tighter than he ever has before. Before you know it, he has one knee on the floor, and you finally realise what’s happening. You’d talked about getting married plenty of times over the last few months, but Chris had always said that it was too early, that you should both spend more time building your careers, so when Hannah had made cryptic comments earlier, this had never come to your mind.

“Oh my God I’m so stupid.” You giggle. Chris frowns at you, tilting his head. You take his face in your hands, bending down to place a kiss on his forehead. “Keep going.”

“y/n l/n, I have been completely obsessed with you since the day we met. I never want to spend another day apart from you, so now it’s time for me to beg again, just like I did the day I managed to convince you to love me back.” You’ve started tearing up by this point, thinking back to the day you met, when he accidentally poured a full iced americano down the front of your shirt. “Sunshine, will you marry me?” He looks up at you with shining, tear-filled eyes as you nod, pulling him to his feet with your hands cradling his face. You place a sweet kiss to his lips.

“Of course I will.” All of a sudden, the restaurant explodes in to rapturous applause, and you turn to find what feels like every single person you know gathered around. You lift your head closer to his so that your lips are by his ears.

“Some big changes in your life.” You whisper. “You’re finally going to be both a husband and a dad.” His eyes widen.

“What?!”

[a-cat-in-toffee]

song currently stuck in head: basin street blues

skill issue

[muutos]

close your eyes and count to ten .

for osla, from solas

SHE SCOFFS AT HIM, INITIALLY. rolling mismatched eyes, indignantly. although, she does so, somehow realizing that he would know better of her. minrathous is dripping with blight, and ichor, and rot. it hardly seems the place, nor the time, to ground oneself. a childish petulance the initial reaction taken, with heels now dug into the dirt. however such behaviour is woven like a tale he's now read half a dozen times... the screams echoing throughout the streets, as much as the pounding of darkspawn heels. trembling and stumbling beneath the aftershocks of solas' magic, whilst his chest heaves in exertion.

it's all too much.. wounds still fresh, despite quick forgiveness. no time to lick, nor even stop to breathe. 'are you fucking kidding me?' seemed a little too inert, despite all of the raw feelings presenting themselves so crisply in her expression. boring holes down to scrounge up any regret he might be capable of. yet what words could properly encapsulate the way his gut-punch left her hollow, and gasping for air? ( and she'd even expressed long ago, her expectation of betrayal ). it's a pathetic feeling that lives in her now, even just noticing her heart-rate has accelerated. chest heaving itself beneath the reds and blues and golds.... he cannot steal her strength, now. perhaps he doesn't wish to, if only for his own means.

screwed up expression flattens as she closes her eyes, a rolling wave of her bust evening gently as the world seems to fade away from her for just a moment. in, out. one. inhale, exhale. two. silent lips expelling what nostrils bring within, and the sounds around her dampen. brows knit in building resolve. ten seconds can be a long time, yet they're soaked in like a warm basin, or the hug of a long lost friend. and somehow, she saw him there in the blackness, nodding his approval. watching her.. and it worked to balance the over-stimulation prickling like sweat in a sheen of discomfort, beneath symbolic robes.

when almond eyes open there is a determination present --- again, a familiar tale. natural frown accentuating the curt nod of her head, as she turns her head and looks up to him. "okay." she confirms, rolling her shoulders and bouncing airily on her feet. eyes set straight ahead. "i'm ready."

it still felt as though there were a million little things left to say -- yet hasn't such always been so between them? such precious little time, with such an unspoken depth filling the space between them. cursed with equal desire to connect freckled knuckles to high cheekbone, and ascend upon tip-toes to press her lips against it. tell him that he need not blame himself. but where does this leave them? and why is it even still seemingly important, in the face of the blight to end all blights?

and now they stand side by side, with naught but tainted air keeping them apart. yet the frustration has dulled, manageable. and she waits still for the ice cold dagger plunged between her shoulder-blades.

"thanks, solas.." she mumbles, just low enough that only he could hear her.

MAKING DEMANDS. @spoilsovwar.

[bathoarchives]

Exploring Mpho Sebina's Artistic Appreciation of her African and Setswana Roots

By Atang Moalosi and Tefo Kosie

Hailing from the Kgatleng District’s capital Mochudi is Mpho Sebina, a singer-songwriter who has immersed herself in producing and creating the continent's best jazz, soul, and afro-fusion music. A self-proclaimed Pan-Africanist, Mpho's music has been a true reflection of expressing her African and Tswana roots through cognizant use of local rhythmic instrumentation and vocal progressions, to say the least.

The love and use of indigenous elements prevailed notably in her 2015 debut single 'Loves Light' which she explains was inspired by the song Tselane by BLK JKS which is loosely based on a Tswana folktale 'Tselane'. The song, produced by local legendary beatmaker Favi includes elements of the staple beats and claps of traditional folk music production fused with soul. The music video features a cameo of traditional dancers and showcases the landscape of Botswana from the luscious water basins to the barren semi-desert land with the soundtrack playing behind the eye-catching visuals laying a foundation of Mpho’s start to dominance in the music scene.

stills from the 'Tjuele' music video directed by Thina Zibi

It would take a whole two years for Mpho to return and release two songs leading up to the release of her debut EP 'Neo' with very memorable moments such as the song ‘Tjuele’ which is a rendition of another famous setswana folktale with the same name. The song features ATI, another local music giant who sings the chorus repeatedly in the background. This music video in contrast only features Mpho (Tjuele's mother) and a young girl (Tjuele). In the first scene, Mpho is seen caressing the young girl’s hair, both draped in white dresses. Behind them is a famous portrait of a black woman and her son, which is beloved among the black community directly linking to the thematic affectionate scenery painted by the song and the visuals. The song has this continuous click-clack sound, reminiscent of the tune of clapping hands and matlhoa or traditional leg rattles used as a part of uniform for typical traditional dance. Remarkably Tjuele is the only song in the project sung in Setswana.

stills from the 'Slip Away' music video directed by Mpho Sebina and Motheo Moeng

‘Slip Away’ is another beautiful 5-minute song from the Neo EP of Mpho harmonizing over a midtempo beat, the song was also accompanied by a set of visuals that captures the hustle and bustle of the city of Accra in Ghana. The video includes many beautiful shots including Mpho having her hair plaited in the streets, women dressed in beautiful African attire and women carrying their belongings over their heads which is a very common practice amongst African women.

‘LORA’

'Lora' album cover designed by Tebogo Cranwell and Neo Rakgajane

‘Lora’ is Mpho Sebina's debut album, released in 2020 five years after introducing the world to her very enigmatic sound. The album cover itself is quite a striking piece. With its shade of blue background, it only highlights certain parts of Mpho's half-bodily features. The first thing noticeable is the pink highlighted corn rows, her lips and some African beads which include cowrie shells deemed very valuable in most African cultures. This album is easily Mpho's most definitive record, both sonically and visually as it sets her among the most highly decorated singers the continent boasts.

stills from the 'Pula' music video directed by Yannis Sainte-rose

The lead single 'Pula' is taken from the setswana song 'Pula Nkgodisa' which translates to ‘Rain, help me grow’ and the “Rain Rain Go Away” song. She uses rain as a metaphor for pain and shows struggle with the lyrics 'Rain Rain Go Away, I wanna go out and Play’. Later in the song she employs rain as a metaphor for growth posing a divergent perspective with lyrics 'Pula Nkgodise, Pula Mphodisa'. This song reflects on times of struggle and hope as it was released in 2020 when the world was heavily gripped by the coronavirus pandemic and a worldwide lockdown. The music video includes shots of Mpho wearing an African print headwrap and cardigan along with her Bantu knots. The conscious use of Setswana lyrics and visual nuances further displays Mpho's love for making music that centers her heritage as a Motswana.

stills from the Melodi music video directed by Yannis Sainte-rose

The song ‘Melodi's’ music video features Mpho Sebina in a few shots where she is covered by cloth and some other noteworthy scenes with her in front of the backdrop of the abstract painting which matches the colour of her African headwrap. The constant use of African clothing and artefacts in and around her visual presentations accompanying the already Afrocentric sonics just solidify the passion behind the endemic standard she has set for herself.

stills from the Dumelang music video directed by Mpho Sebina

‘Dumelang’ is a very warm and welcoming song that pretty much highlights a very important aspect of Botswana's culture-the standard gesture of greeting. The song hosts a confident Mpho giving the listeners a brief tour of the beautiful country and her own experiences within the context of the song. It also boasts visual excellence, a highly decorated facet of Mpho Sebina as an artist by showcasing parts of Botswana's culture, including scenes of her dressed in clothing sourced from local brands, also sweeping with a traditional broom/ ‘lefeelo la ditlhokwa’ close to a three-legged pot which is quite reminiscent of a traditional home in a village. Other shots include local art persons cameos including Dato Seiko, Nature Inger along with Mboko Basiami the founder of Glotto, a pan-African clothing brand from Botswana. Notably, Mpho is also seen wearing Zulu female head attire called “isicholo”, and the Basotho hat known as “lekorotlo”. Throughout the video, Mpho is dressed in clothing sourced from local brands.

‘Ntsha Nkgo’ is another rendition of a traditional song with the same title, which is often sung during ceremonies. The song touches on aspects of typical traditional celebratory ceremonies, including the culture of sharing traditional beer among family and friends especially older men hence the line ''Ntsha Nkgo re kgaritlheng le bannabagolo''. The sacred events normally include the slaughtering of an animal to be feasted during the ceremony ''Ko Boseja go tlhabilwe Kolobe hoki''

Renditions of traditional folk songs remain a constant theme in Mpho's music as she also reworks 'Sananapo' a song from a well-known folktale in 'Sananapo's Interlude'. Folktales and songs are essential in traditional culture as they are often used as a form of entertainment and an opportunity for the elderly to pass on and teach the younger generation about customs and values which are indigenous to us. Mpho's modern twist to these songs helps revive the connection between Batswana and their culture especially in modern times where most of the older generation believes that our culture is being eroded.

As we await the release of Mpho's sophomore album, It is well evident that Mpho will always centre her African heritage on her music. Alkebulan, which is the name of the next album, is quite an interesting name as it is believed to be the original name for Africa according to the oldest nubian and kinetic texts. In her interview with Drum Magazine, Mpho reveals that her album will feature female artists from different parts of Africa to celebrate the women and their africaness. She also stated that she was influenced by the various sounds of African music. 

[rumbelleshowdown]

-

Author: Avalanumbres

Group: C

Prompts: A new hobby. Lady Belle, Peasant!Rumple. Another kid.

-

Stone Seekers: Waters of Avonlea

Something wet dripped down Gideon’s face as he ran through the streets of his seaport home. When the moisture hit his lips he licked them and tasted salt. Not blood then, that relieved him. His father would kill him if he injured himself. Assuming the angry pirates chasing after him didn't do it first.

“Street rat!” One shouted. “Stop, thief!”

Gideon had one advantage over the larger men. He knew these roads. Fast as lightning, he darted through a crowd, turned left into a narrow alley, and came out in the market. There he resumed a normal gait, pretended to study a few random items on vendors’ carts, and listened as the angry sailors passed him by.

“Hot day today,” he told the costermonger while wiping his brow. 

The woman humphed.

“Papa would like two of these, please.”

The seller glanced at the small golden pears in Gideon's hand. “One copper.”

Gideon handed over the coin and strode off toward his home.

Rumplestiltskin and his son lived in a single-room shack with a sagging roof and a packed dirt floor. The space was filled by three objects: a bed, a small washtub for dying wool, and a spinning wheel. Everything else existed in their lives by either coincidence or through the process of creating items to sell. They had little, yet their lives were filled with love and joy. 

It was lonely at times, moreso for Gideon’s father, who pined endlessly for the woman he’d fallen in love with more than ten years ago. Belle was Gideon's mother, but wasn't a part of their lives. She lived in the castle beyond the walled part of the city. On occasion, she left her father’s protection to wander the markets. On those rare days she always sought out the spinner’s stall. The family’s reunions were brief and both parents clung to the hope that they would see each other again soon. Gideon, on the other hand, felt little for his mother beyond the knowledge that she made his father’s heart sing. Rumplestiltskin’s happiness meant everything to his son and so he’d adopted his father’s dream of a permanent reunion. In fact, that was the very reason he was in this mess right now.

“Hello, Papa,” Gideon shoved the door back into its frame and held out the pears. “I got us something sweet to end our dinner.”

At the wheel, Rumplestiltskin took his foot from the treadle and looked up, eyes skimming past the fruit to a small bag Gideon clutched to his chest. “My favorite. Thank you. They look delicious.”

The boy sighed as he squeezed his slender frame between the wheel and the wash basin, then dropped to the bed. “You only like them because they are yellow and mother always wears a golden dress to come see you.”

The assumption brought an image of Belle to Rumplestiltskin’s mind, one of warm light caressing a satin gown. From where they had hidden for their lovemaking, a ray from the sun reached out to touch Belle’s tousled hair and made the blue in her eyes sparkle. She told him about the baby that day and their lives had changed forever. 

“The fact that they remind me of your mum has little to do with why I like them.” Rumplestiltskin returned to spinning for a moment, then stopped the wheel to turn a knowing frown toward his son. “And what else did you acquire while you were meant to be at your lessons?”

“I went to my lessons, “ Gideon protested.

“For how much of the day?”

Now that his father's full attention was on him, Gideon felt compelled to tell the truth. “Half,’ he grumbled.

“Son, the money I make from dying and spinning pays for that education.” Rumplestiltskin reached for his walking stick and used it to pull himself to his feet. “I wish you wouldn't throw it away so easily.”

“I’m not throwing it away, Papa. Not this time.” Gideon’s eyes lit up as they tracked his father’s movements. “I met another kid on the way to classes today and I learned of a way we can leave this life behind us!”

“By starting a new hobby of thievery?” Rumplestiltskin leaned heavily on his walking stick. He could only blame himself for his son’s behavior, though it’s origin baffled him. He eyed the bag again. “Magical endings always come at a great price.” 

“This isn't like your story,” his son insisted, oblivious to the price his parents paid for the magic that kept him a secret. “This is different. If we can help gather these stones we can save the land from a horrible evil. You can be a hero and earn the right to ask for Mother’s hand! No more pining for her at your wheel or daydreaming while you dye the wool. No more secret meetings in the market! You could be married! We could all be together. Forever.”

“And just what do we have to do to earn this great gift?”

Gideon rose from the bed and stepped into the light by the window. With hesitation he began to untie the strings of his leather satchel. “We need to find the rest of these before-”

A terrible crashing erupted from the world beyond, followed by blood-curdling shrieks that grew closer with great rapidity. The noise triggered Gideon’s reflexes, making him draw the string taut and clutch the treasure back against his chest.

“Something’s happening.” Rumplestiltskin rushed to the door and flung it open, took two stumbling steps and then froze. There, directly in front of him, was Belle, golden skirts hiked up as high as she could manage and eyes wide with terror.

“Belle!” The fear that struck him wasn’t for himself, but for the woman he could never live without. “Belle!”

She ran to his side and reached out to help him find balance. “Giant Calixclaws have entered the city from the sea,” she told him. “They’re headed this way.”

“You have to get behind the walls,” Rumple insisted.

Belle shook her head, then turned her gaze to some point down the road. “There’s no time.”

Gideon drew a dagger from his belt and strode forward. “You run, I’ll stay and protect our home.”

“You can’t do that, son. Better to find safety.”

Gideon shook his head. “I can do this. It’s me they want anyway.”

“You?” Belle whimpered. “Gideon… Why?”

He turned, gave her his most triumphant smile, and adjusted his grip on the bag he’d carried from the sea. “I have the Water Stone.”

“Magic,” Rumplestiltskin spat. “Leave that behind and run. Now. Please, son.”

Their boy was about to protest again, but instead he fell silent and tipped his head to one side. The ruckus from down the lane was changing. The sounds of splitting wood and shattering glass had been replaced with something more akin to the crunch of a breaking seashell. “Do you hear that?”

Both parents nodded, but neither could speak. Their attention was on the giant claw reaching up from behind the milner’s home. It rose into the air, then slammed down, splintering the tiny structure into bits that covered the street. The empty space was then replaced by their enemy.

“Giant crabs,” Gideon whispered, swallowing hard. After taking a deep breath he squared his shoulders and stretched himself to his full height. “I’ll have them for dinner.”

“Gideon!” Both parents reached for him, but he slipped away. After just two strides he stood under the creature’s belly and stabbed upward, using all of his strength. He heard a crack and stared up at the orange-pink carapace. The tip of his blade was wedged in the belly of the beast but would go no further. It would also not come out.

Belle tried rushing to Gideon’s side, but Rumplestiltskin held her back, begging her not to leave him. While he pleaded, a cloaked form appeared behind the legs of the Calixclaw. Small and powerful, this newcomer yielded a sword with such precision that each swing sliced a leg of the crab. The beast shrieked again and again, then finally stumbled.

The warrior waved Gideon back, screaming. “Get out of the way!”

He did as he was told, scrambling through his retreat with just enough time to spare. Following one more swing from the sword, their maritime foe thrashed mightily, then collapsed to the ground, dead.

“Gotta aim for the weak points,” the newcomer told him, lowering her cloak’s hood to reveal her wavy, golden hair. She turned to Rumplestiltskin and gave him a wide grin. “A staff fighter, huh? Good. We’ll need all the help we can get. Come on.” With that she took off, expecting the others to follow.

“Who was that?” Belle squinted after the girl, even as her son urged her along.

“Alice,” Gideon said. “And she’ll help me explain everything once you are safe.”

-

[skelavender]

absurd bits of research we did for X-File #02291996:

mulder can take the metro to work in 1996. he takes the yellow line and gets on around the braddock rd station, and gets off at archives-navy memorial. i even found a photo of a metro map from 1996!! as someone with an interest in archivism and a love for the dc metro, i got soooo excited

the diner the go to is lincoln’s waffle shop, which is across from the ford theatre (where lincoln was shot). the bathrooms are in a creepy basement and i once got locked in one without my phone. i thought i was going to die. they’ve been open since 1990.

THE SEX WALKS SIGN EXISTS. like literally right where i said it was. it’s visible on google street view.

the “judicial races turn lively” headline is a real headline from the washington post on february 29th 1996, but i’m not sure if it was on the front page.

pedal boats have been at the tidal basin since the 1930s! technically they're not open until late march because, shocker, it's kind of cold in february in dc and not great boating weather. i’m not sure about swan shaped ones specifically at the tidal basin because they also have basic blue ones and i think dragons now (?), but the concept of a swan pedal boat has been around since the late 1800s and originated in boston. thank you boston.

[eternal--returned]

On storm-struck deck, wind sirens caterwaul; With each tilt, shock and shudder, our blunt ship Cleaves forward into fury; dark as anger, Waves wallop, assaulting the stubborn hull. Flayed by spray, we take the challenge up, Grip the rail, squint ahead, and wonder how much longer

Such force can last; but beyond, the neutral view Shows, rank on rank, the hungry seas advancing. Below, rocked havoc-sick, voyagers lie Retching in bright orange basins; a refugee Sprawls, hunched in black, among baggage, wincing Under the strict mask of his agony.

Far from the sweet stench of that perilous air In which our comrades are betrayed, we freeze And marvel at the smashing nonchalance Of nature: what better way to test taut fiber Than against this onslaught, these casual blasts of ice That wrestle with us like angels; the mere chance

Of making harbor through this racketing flux Taunts us to valor. Blue sailors sang that our journey Would be full of sun, white gulls, and water drenched With radiance, peacock-colored; instead, bleak rocks Jutted early to mark our going, while sky Curded over with clouds and chalk cliffs blanched

In sullen light of the inauspicious day. Now, free, by hazard's quirk, from the common ill Knocking our brothers down, we strike a stance Most mock-heroic, to cloak our waking awe At this rare rumpus which no man can control: Meek and proud both fall; stark violence

Lays all walls waste; private estates are torn, Ransacked in the public eye. We forsake Our lone luck now, compelled by bond, by blood, To keep some unsaid pact; perhaps concern Is helpless here, quite extra, yet we must make The gesture, bend and hold the prone man's head.

And so we sail toward cities, streets and homes Of other men, where statues celebrate Brave acts played out in peace, in war; all dangers End : green shores appear; we assume our names, Our luggage, as docks halt our brief epic; no debt Survives arrival; we walk the plank with strangers.

Sylvia Plath ֍ Channel Crossing (1956)