#lest you don’t seem like an ally

[femme-dor]

I’m no longer ashamed to say I’m a leftist with a dash of conservative. Balance.💖

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 2: Tiger's Eye]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.7k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus, more in comments 🥰

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The taxidermied tiger head hangs above the fireplace in the sitting room, its jaws agape in a perpetual roar and its eyes polished spheres of metamorphic rock the color of dusk. Daemon shot it in Burma years ago—valleys of saturated green earth, mountain ranges like a crooked spine—shortly after opening his third black opal mine in Australia. You stare at the disembodied creature and she stares back, a silent scream, a doomed eternal terror in her tiger’s eye gaze: Help! A man is killing me. A man is taking me from where I belong. A man is nailing me to a wall so all the world knows he is the one whose bullet severed my aorta, filled me with hemorrhaging blood until I sank down, down, down.

You say, still looking at the slayed beast: “Did we really have to bring that with us?”

Daemon glances over as he fastens his cufflinks, onyx with red beryl in the shape of a three-headed dragon, the Targaryen family crest. “I’m sure you’d prefer a finger painting from that Italian tosspot you’re so enamored with. What’s his name, Pizarro?”

“Picasso. And he’s Spanish.”

“Even worse.”

You turn to Daemon, and you can feel yourself wilting, becoming pitiful, vulnerable, needy. “Where are you going?”

He smirks as he stalks past you. “Wherever I want.” Then he passes through the doorway and out into the hall, flanked by the ever-grim Edward Rushton, black suits and polished leather shoes.

It’s midday on April 12th, and you and Fern are now alone in the Targaryen staterooms. Laenor is down on F-Deck enjoying the Squash Racquet Court with his new Parisian companions, Rhaenyra is in the Reading and Writing Room with a group of ladies led by the Countess of Rothes, and Dagmar has taken Draco…somewhere. Meanwhile, your sweet-tempered maid is flitting around making beds and collecting empty cups and soiled linens. “Fern?” you call.

She peeks out of Draco’s bedroom. “Yes, ma’am? Do you need something?”

To leap overboard and swim back to Ireland. “Would you like to take a stroll around the Promenade Deck with me? Breathe some fresh air, look for dolphins and whales, have lunch at the Verandah Cafe?”

Fern is apologetic in that soft, skittish way that she has. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I have to finish cleaning the rooms before Dagmar comes back.”

She doesn’t say why—that would be insubordinate—but you know. Just like on the family crest, the dragon has three heads: Daemon, Draco, Dagmar. All must be appeased lest their fire turn you to ash. And Fern lives in terror of the gaunt Scandinavian tyrant. “Right. I understand.”

“I should be done in an hour or two. When you return from your walk, I’ll make you tea.”

“You’re too kind.”

She is confused. “It’s my job, ma’am.”

“Still, I’m glad you’re the one doing it.”

Fern smiles, small and hesitant. “Thank you, ma’am. Enjoy your walk.”

Outside on the Promenade Deck, the sun is bright and the wind brisk, just warm enough to forego a coat, black mink or white ermine or grey rabbit or reddish fox, pelts harvested, creatures butchered. Your dress is a cheerful yellow, as if attempting to conjure the golden-haired magic of the Targaryens, their willfulness, their invincibility, their habit of bending the world’s truth in their hands until it snaps. Yet none of them are here with you; you are alone, you are unnecessary. As you walk, you pass women reading novels on teak deckchairs, children playing with spinning tops and dominoes under the watchful eyes of fathers and governesses, men smoking cigars as they debate business and politics and which gemstones they should purchase for their sweethearts. You have to get away from them.

You take the Grand Staircase up to the Boat Deck, the highest level of the ship, and to distract yourself you count the covered lifeboats that are stowed there. This does not assuage your anxiety; you see only twenty, and while you have made a practice of avoiding sailing and therefore are no expert on the issue, this does not seem like enough. You go to the railing—about as tall as your waist—and lean over it as you stare, thoughts troubled and brow furrowed, into the wild, uninterrupted blue of the North Atlantic, five hundred miles from the coast of Ireland. To your left is a man painting a sheet of paper clipped to an easel, a palette held in his hand, viscous globs of color from small silvery tubes. Seventy feet below where you stand is the sea, thrashing against Titanic, a wood-and-steel intruder. You lean a little farther over the side of the ship. The water is cold, you imagine; cold, deep, dark, silent.

If I fell in, this would all be over, you think. No more Daemon. No more anyone. The only people who would miss me are my parents, and they’ll never see me again anyway.

But no; you cannot abandon Draco. He’s a piece of you, even if he doesn’t know it. You cannot allow him to become a monster.

The viola player peeks out from behind his easel. “Not thinking about jumping, are you?”

You gasp, startled, and then cover your face as you groan. “Why are you always out here?!”

“Aw, fancy rock lady needs a member of the perpetual underclass to malign,” he says as he adds brushstrokes to his painting. He has procured a suit somehow—black, slightly too big for him, likely stolen—to better masquerade as a first-class passenger. “What’s the matter, rock lady? Did your servants not put enough sugar in your tea this morning? Did they tug a little too hard as they brushed your hair?”

“You’re not well mentally. You need a straightjacket.”

“I’m not the one about to throw myself into the Atlantic Ocean.”

You glare at him, bitter, defensive. “I wasn’t going to jump.”

“Then what were you doing?”

You can’t answer; you wring your hands and press your lips together so tightly they ache, watch dark smoke billow from the nearest funnel, coal shoveled into blazing furnaces, treasures of the earth extracted like teeth and consumed.

“Hey, I didn’t, um…” The viola player lowers his paintbrush, repentant. “It wasn’t my intention to upset you.”

You ask to change the subject: “What are you painting?”

“People,” he says, grinning, then turns his easel to show you. It’s a father holding his daughter so she can look over the railing and pointing to show her something out in the waves, dolphins, perhaps. His work is excellent, you are surprised to see: wispy curls of hair, irises alight with emotion, shadows and wrinkles and cheeks ruddy from gusts of wind, imperfections of reality.

“It’s good,” you manage once you’ve gotten your bearings.

“And of course you’re shocked.” He points to a scuffed brown leather portfolio resting against one leg of the easel. “I have plenty more, if you’re interested.”

You open the portfolio. There are men worriedly counting coins, women waiting on park benches, children beaming as they feed ducks or tend to their dolls, people giggling and scowling and burning up with clandestine longing, people sipping drinks in smoky pubs. In the bottom right corner of each painting is a moniker for the subject: Crystal, Big Red, Sunshine, Baron, Carnation, Tiny, Mars, Archer, Harpist, Pennies, Henry VIII, Belfast Belle. Unwittingly, you smile to yourself. “You give them names.”

“I watch people, but I don’t usually talk to them,” the viola player explains as he dabs thick oil paint on the paper clipped to the easel, treated to resemble the texture of linen. “I like to catch them unawares. Keeps the moment genuine, truthful. Otherwise they start acting for me.”

“Why paper instead of canvas?”

“Easier to travel with. Lighter and less bulky.”

You recall what he told Daemon at O’Connell’s Bar back in Galway: Well I’ve played all over Ireland, sir. All over Europe, in fact. You gingerly slide his paintings back into the portfolio and tease: “Who do you think you are, Picasso?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. His sand-colored hair trashes in the wind that blows off the ocean, salt and mist. “I am under no such delusion. I’ve met him, though.”

You gawk at the viola player. “You’ve…you’ve met Pablo Picasso?”

“Yeah,” he says casually. “In Barcelona. I love his Blue and Rose Period stuff. Now he’s doing some weird cubism bullshit.” The viola player shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s his art, he can paint what he wants. But I prefer something a little more…real.”

“I do too,” you confess. “I went to Paris once with my parents. I saw some of Picasso’s work in a gallery, but he wasn’t there at the time. I bought a few paintings.”

“Which ones?”

“Mother and Child from 1905. Flowers from 1901.” You hesitate. It’s a bit scandalous. “Blue Nude.”

But the viola player neither cringes nor makes a joke. “I remember that one,” he says softly, watching you. After a moment he asks: “Are they hanging in your rooms?”

“They’re in a trunk. Daemon doesn’t like them.” And the animosity in your voice is an act of treason, however small. You glance around for Daemon, Rush, Dagmar, Rhaenyra, Laenor, and thankfully find none of them. You avert your eyes, ashamed. A husband you hate, and fear, and obey, and lie awake at night conspiring how to please.

There is something that ripples across the viola player’s face—sympathy, distress—and then he resumes putting the final touches on his portrait of two unnamed passengers. “Do you paint?”

You laugh. “Very badly.”

He offers you the paintbrush, saturated with a reddish-gold color like dusk. “You can help me fill in the man’s scarf. That’s hard to fuck up.”

Your jaw falls open.

“That’s hard to mess up,” he amends.

Smiling shyly, you take the paintbrush and add a few tentative strokes to the scarf. The viola player accepts the paintbrush when you forfeit it.

“So besides making awful paintings, how did you spend your time back in Galway?”

Reminding my father who he is. Taking long walks through the fields with my mother. Sitting in the garden wondering how my life went so wrong. Trying to stop my only child from becoming a demon like his father. “I read a lot. Mostly Edgar Allan Poe, Jane Austen, and Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare?” he echoes, amused. “Recite some for me.”

You take a moment to decide on a passage.

“Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own,

And I as rich in having such a jewel

As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,

The water nectar and the rocks pure gold.”

“The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” the viola player says, much to your amazement. He’s a thief holding a third-class ticket, and yet he’s learned. This is rare outside the blue-blooded aristocrats and the titans of industry. Fern can barely read and write.

“Where were you educated?”

“The world,” he replies, grinning.

“And the world included lessons on Shakespeare?”

“Sure, sometimes.”

“Alright then, let’s hear an excerpt.”

He considers this, tapping the handle of his paintbrush against his lips. Then he says:

“My crown is in my heart, not on my head;

Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones,

Nor to be seen: my crown is called content:

A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.”

“King Henry VI,” you say, admittedly impressed. “I didn’t know poor people read Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare’s plays were written for everyone, fancy rock lady. Standing tickets at the Globe cost pennies.”

You study the viola player as he paints, feeling a bewildering combination of curiosity, amusement, fondness. “What’s your name?”

He pauses as if he’s not sure what to say, then gives you a sly, crooked grin as he replies: “Picasso.”

Now a steward is approaching, and the viola player is alarmed, perhaps anticipating being revealed as a fraud and dragged back to the third-class accommodations; but the steward is only passing by with a tray full of champagne flutes, offering them to illustrious passengers as they stroll the decks. You take two glasses and he continues on his way. You down one flute in just a few gulps and offer the other to the viola player. He smiles politely but does not reach for it.

“Thank you, but I don’t drink.”

“Really?” Have you ever met a man who doesn’t? You can’t think of one. And you are suddenly aware of how quickly you finished your champagne—unladylike, improper, but surely no great disgrace in front of this audience—and how yearningly you’re already glancing at the second glass, carbonated amber, fool’s gold.

“I’m not someone who can stop at just one or two,” the viola player says. “I’ve learned that about myself. Tried to fight it for a while, turns out acceptance is easier. I hardly even miss booze anymore.”

“How long did you fight it?”

“Ten years.”

You are caught off-guard. “What? How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

Since he was thirteen? Can that be right? “We’re about the same age,” you say instead, taking a distracted swig from the glass that would have been his.

“Yeah,” the viola player agrees thoughtfully.

You finish the champagne and hand both glasses to a passing steward. “I should go,” you tell the viola player. “I don’t know where Daemon is on the ship, and…” I don’t want him to see us. I don’t want him to hurt me.

“Sure. I get it.”

“Good luck with your painting.”

“I’ll make one of you next,” he promises, and you’re certain he’s joking.

You smile and turn to leave. “Whatever you say, Picasso.”

You walk towards the Grand Staircase that leads back down to the Promenade Deck. As you pass the Gymnasium, you steal a glimpse through one of the windows and see them inside: Draco giggling as he rides the electric horse and yanks gleefully on the reins, Dagmar beaming as her gnarled, arthritic hands hold him by the waist so he doesn’t slide off.

You lay your palm against the cold glass, separated by a few steps that might as well be miles, wreckage peering up through the darkness from the bottom of the sea.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fern helps you dress for dinner: a glittering gold gown, a tiger’s eye amulet from Burma. Laenor has brought a companion, one of the Parisians he’s become so well-acquainted with, a count’s son named Hugo. As Laenor is preoccupied, Daemon escorts Rhaenyra to the First-Class Dining Saloon down in D-Deck. They meander together, her arm linked through his, murmuring gossip about the other passengers and snickering contemptuously. You trail behind them, feeling invisible, a sun that casts no warmth.

All around you are other first-class passengers descending the Grand Staircase: Benjamin Guggenheim and his mistress two decades his junior, John Jacob Astor and his pregnant eighteen-year-old wife, railroad tycoons Charles M. Hays and John B. Thayer, steel industrialist George Dennick Wick, the glamorous Countess of Rothes, the newly-wealthy Margaret Brown, the eminent journalist W.T. Stead, the White Star Line’s managing director J. Bruce Ismay. But your gaze keeps drifting to Macy’s department store owner Isidor Straus and his wife Ida, neither young, neither beautiful, and yet so evidently devoted to each other. You wonder how that feels; surely nothing like a bruise, a reproach, a back turned to you in the marriage bed.

On the A-Deck landing of the Grand Staircase is the viola player, his horsehair bow gliding over four thick strings to loose an energetic, jubilant song, standing there in his suit that no one else notices is too big for him because they don’t really see him at all. He is less than a fixture of the ship; the first-class passengers marvel at the glass-and-wrought-iron dome overhead and the Neoclassical clock on the wall and even the bronze cherub statue at the base of the steps, but the flesh-and-blood machinery of Titanic wears a sort of camouflage, unremarkable and interchangeable, uncomfortably human. The viola player gives you a wink and a quick, subtle smile as you pass by him, and you smile back. And for a moment, it is like you have a friend aboard the ship, a groundswell of fleeting joy, gratefulness, peace.

Dinner is oysters, salmon with hollandaise, corned ox tongue, chateau potatoes, asparagus soup, Waldorf pudding, other things that you pick at without much interest. You miss Lough Cutra Castle, you miss your parents, you miss Ireland, you miss your life before Daemon Targaryen stalked into it with his ever-glinting green eyes and his talent for making you so desperate to satisfy him. Instead of eating, you mostly drink champagne, draining glasses of it until your cheeks are warm and your thoughts hazy. You look around for the viola player, but he never appears in the First-Class Dining Saloon. Instead, the five-piece string ensemble that welcomed you aboard Titanic yesterday is playing Alexander’s Ragtime Band.

Daemon has invited a guest to share your table, chief designer of the ship Mr. Thomas Andrews. He is gracious and even-tempered, exactly the sort of man Daemon likes to entrap and enchant and have his way with. As you drown in champagne, Daemon tells Mr. Andrews about surviving a hurricane while mining Larimar in the Dominican Republic, domesticating a ring-tailed lemur in Madagascar (Daemon had named it Aegon and kept it on a leash), getting lost for three days in the Australian Outback and resorting to eating snakes and dingoes, bludgeoned to death with rocks and roasted over campfires. Rhaenyra observes all of this with a proud, radiant smile, encouraging Daemon with nods and oddly girlish giggles. Laenor, meanwhile, is chatting with Hugo and paying little attention to anything else. He and Rhaenyra have three young sons back in England, though they resemble Laenor Velaryon far less than they do Harwin Strong, Viserys the Duke of Beaufort’s former Master of the Horse and Rhaenyra’s rumored lover. The virile, dark-haired Harwin Strong was killed last year in an unfortunate riding accident, whereupon Daemon rekindled his previously strained relationship with Rhaenyra in the interests of helping her cope with the loss. As it turned out, Daemon’s niece had grown up to be much the same as he is—daring, sarcastic, charismatic, incorrigible—and as if you didn’t have enough difficulty winning his affection before, now you must compete with his kindred spirit, a golden-haired wildfire only a few years older than you and who Daemon can delightedly torment his estranged brother with by capturing her in his orbit.

Daemon is saying, his elbows on the table and miming clutching a massive gemstone in his palm: “As a famed French fashion critic once wrote, The jewel, which is so well adapted to a woman’s adornment, is a combination of the riches of nature and art.”

“Not just any fashion critic,” you say without thinking, the champagne parting your lips before you can reconsider. “Charles Blanc. And I’m the one who gave you his book, remember? It was one of my wedding presents to you.”

Everyone turns to stare at you, as if abruptly being made aware of your existence. Laenor and Hugo appear puzzled. Rhaenyra is frowning with disapproval. Mr. Andrews nods politely. Daemon, after a moment, chuckles in that low, rolling, sardonic way that he does.

“Yes, dear, you certainly did. Clearly it made an impression.” He looks to Mr. Andrews. “You’ll have to forgive my wife, good sir. I’m afraid she has a weakness for champagne.”

“Don’t we all?” Mr. Andrews replies diplomatically.

“The truth is,” Dameon says as if he’s confiding in the shipbuilder; and yet there’s an exhilaration he can’t entirely disguise, a malicious triumph, proof of the power he has over you. “She’s petrified of sailing, has been for years. And this journey…well…it’s been quite an ordeal for her. But under no uncertain terms was I leaving Ireland without my family. Where I go, we all go.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about your rattled nerves, Lady Targaryen.” Mr. Andrews’ eyes are soft with pity for you, a neurotic and illogical woman, tortured by her own nature. “Is there anything I can say to alleviate your fears? Have you been on a ship that’s run into trouble before?”

“No, no sir, I just…” You push through the warm, amber-gold fog of the champagne to explain. “I’ve never been able to stop thinking of all the water beneath us, and a ship…even one as large and luxurious as Titanic…it seems too vulnerable to me. One puncture and we all go straight to the seafloor.”

“That’s why I built Titanic with watertight bulkheads that go up to E-Deck,” Mr. Andrews says, smiling reassuringly. “There are sixteen total, and the ship can stay afloat with several of them flooded. This is meant to contain any possible breach in the hull.”

“Oh, how ingenious!” Laenor exclaims. “Hugo, isn’t that extraordinary?”

Mr. Andrews continues: “Truly, Lady Targaryen, I have built you an unsinkable ship. You have nothing to worry about here on Titanic.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Daemon agrees.

“And there are lifeboats, I suppose,” you say. “Although…I didn’t see very many up on the Boat Deck. What is their total capacity, I wonder…?”

“Over 1,000 souls, ma’am,” Mr. Andrews replies.

You are horrified. “That’s half the people onboard.”

“Yes,” he concedes. “But as I said, Titanic cannot sink.” Again, he smiles blithely. “Besides, in the event of an evacuation—engine failure or damaged propellers or some such thing—the lifeboats would only be needed to ferry passengers from Titanic to the vessel we’d hail to rescue us with the wireless telegraph machine. The lifeboats were never intended to be able to hold all the passengers at once, that would be absurd.”

“Impossible,” Daemon concurs. “What on earth would necessitate a swift and total evacuation?”

“What about an iceberg?” Hugo says as he eats a heaping spoonful of Waldorf pudding, vanilla custard mixed with nutmeg, apples, walnuts, and raisins.

Mr. Andrews titters patiently, as if this is the most ludicrous thing he’s ever heard. “No iceberg could damage Titanic enough to flood more than three bulkheads. And we have lookouts employed to spot them and sound the alarm so we can turn in time. Icebergs are not a concern whatsoever.”

“Très bien!” Hugo declares, redirecting his full attention back to his Waldorf pudding.

Mr. Andrews looks to you, his voice kind but patronizing. “Do you feel better now, Lady Targaryen?”

“Much better,” you lie.

“Good. Then no more worrying. And no need to drink yourself under the table either.”

Daemon says with a derisive snort: “Well, she is Irish.”

Everyone laughs; everyone but you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Back at the Targaryen staterooms, Rush is waiting by the door to take your coats. Laenor and Hugo bid everyone goodnight, then depart; Rhaenyra, seemingly reluctantly, takes her leave as well. She and Laenor have separate accommodations as they always do while travelling, not unheard of among first-class passengers but also not helping to dispel the rumors concerning her sons’ parentage.

Dagmar is perched on one of the sofas like a falcon on a branch, her talonlike fingers knitting a forest green blanket for Draco. Your son, meanwhile, is sprawled on the sitting room floor and at war with Fern, who is trying to coax him out of his shoes and day clothes and into his pajamas.

“Draco, please, my love, it’s time to get ready for bed now—”

“I want to go back to the Gymnasium!” he screeches, wriggling out of her grasp. From the sofa, Dagmar chuckles as if this is charming behavior, a portent of superb athletic fitness, perhaps. “I want to ride the horsey!”

Fern is exasperated. “Darling, the Gymnasium is closed, no one is allowed to use it any more tonight. But I promise you’ll be able to go back tomorrow—”

“No!” Draco shrieks. “Now! Right now!”

Fern finally manages to slip off one of his shoes, and faster than anyone can stop him, Draco draws back his hand and slaps her across the face, open palm, a sharp crack in the air, and of course he’s too young and too weak to do anything but stun her, but he won’t be four years old forever.

One day he’ll be able to hurt people. He’ll be able to break them, bruise them, ruin their lives.

“No!” you shout, then bolt to Draco and drop to the floor to hold him by his frail little shoulders, firm yet careful not to harm him, no scratches, no bruises, no pools of trapped blood that will ache with violent memory. “You never do that! You don’t hurt people! You don’t hit women!”

“Mam?” Draco whimpers, his lips quivering and tears shimmering in his eyes; and he almost never calls you that, he almost never acknowledges you as his mother at all. But he knows, he must, this proves it. “I’m sorry…I won’t do it again…please don’t yell at me…”

Immediately remorseful, you embrace him, and Draco clings to you as he sobs. Fern is watching you with huge, frightened eyes; then they flick to someone standing behind you.

Rush grabs you by both arms and wrenches you away. You yelp in shock and pain; Dagmar swoops in to take Draco and vanishes into his bedroom, glaring at you over her shoulder, frigid lethal fury. Fern is covering her mouth with her hands so she won’t scream.

Rush hurls you to the carpet and backs away. When you look up, Daemon is standing in the doorway of your bedroom, orange dusk-like light spilling out from behind him.

“Come here,” Daemon says, beckoning you with his right hand.

You are terrified; you are shaking. “No.”

“The longer you wait, the worse it will be.”

“No,” you say again. You glance at Fern, but she can’t help you; she turns away, stifling a cry with her palms. The room is spinning, your thoughts are slow, your skull aches with rhythmic pulses like blows from a hammer. You peer up at Rush, blinking blearily. “Do you like working for a man who beats his wife?”

Rush doesn’t reply; his face is grave but otherwise unreadable. Fern curls up on the floor, shaking her head. The taxidermied tiger head roars silently from above the crackling fireplace.

Daemon says from the doorway: “Dear, I’m losing my patience.”

There’s nowhere else to go. You crawl towards him, then at the halfway point stagger to your feet. Daemons steps aside so you can cross through the threshold. He closes the door and locks it. You stare at him, swaying a bit, your hands hovering in front of you. You’re trying to figure out where he’s going to hit you, but he’s good at not letting on, and you’re drunk. You guess stomach, but it’s your face, just like Draco struck Fern; his open palm sets your cheek on fire and rocks your head back. You lunge for him, fingers clawing and knuckles jabbing at his ribs. Sometimes you fight back and sometimes you don’t—occasionally he finds it endearing and leaves you alone, more often it exacerbates the situation—but tonight you are overwhelmed with wrath for this man who has taken everything from you, your home, your parents, your son, your future.

You shove Daemon into his writing desk, then he pins you to the wall, slides open a drawer of the desk with his free hand, pulls out his gemstone-studded dagger and lays the blade against your windpipe. And you scream, because for all his roughness and his threats Daemon has never done this before. No one appears to rescue you; no one would dare.

“You will not correct Draco,” Daemon says. “He is my son, and I will deal with him.”

You seethe, teeth bared: “I don’t want him to be like you.”

“Think about it, dear,” Daemon hisses, the blade cold against your throat. You can feel it stinging, a thin slice like a papercut you’ll have to cover with makeup tomorrow. “We’re on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. If you were to take a tumble over the railing, who could say if it was an accident or a suicide or a crime of opportunity committed by some third-class scoundrel? There would be nothing to investigate. You would be gone, and that would be the end of it. Draco is past the fragile years of infancy, he is healthy and he is fierce. Your father’s quarry is already under the control of my managers. What do I need you for now? Why the fuck would I tolerate any further obstinance from you? Your usefulness has come and gone. You stand on the thinnest of ice. One wrong step, and you’ll find it splintering beneath your feet.”

He lifts the dagger away and strides out of the bedroom. You stand there in the tawny lamplight like a sunset, trembling all over, gasping for air, your hands flying up to your neck. When you check your fingers, they are sticky and copper-smelling with a small amount of blood.

He could have killed me. I think he wanted to.

There is a tall oval mirror by the bed, its frame gilded and glowing in the ochre lamplight. You stare at yourself, tears flooding down your cheeks, a gold dress worth more than you are. Everything you own is Daemon’s. That will be true for as long as he lives.

You flee out onto the small private deck attached to your rooms, through the back exit, and into the labyrinthian hallways of B-Deck. You run towards the stern of the ship, dodging stewards who ask if you need assistance and men sauntering back from the First-Class Smoking Room after dinner, puffing on their pipes and their cigars, nursing stout glasses of brandy to keep them warm. When you break out into the open air, it is bitterly cold. The ocean is a vast lightless void; you could mistake it for nothingness if it wasn’t for the thunderous rumble and salt spray of the waves. Your gleaming gold dress billows around you as you sprint to the metal railing that encloses the stern, grip the top rung with shaking hands, stare down into the roiling depths churned by the propellers.

Where can I go? There’s nowhere to go. There’s nowhere else to run to.

“Hey,” the viola player says; you recognize his voice immediately.

You turn away, not wanting him to see the swelling on your face, the traces of blood at your throat. You are heartbroken, you are humiliated. You agreed to marry a man and now he’s ruined your life. You wrap your bare arms around yourself and sniffle, shivering, swiping tears from your eyes.

After a while, the viola player says cautiously, realizing you aren’t in the mood for disclosures: “It’s cold tonight.”

“Obviously.”

He takes off his black wool coat, presumably stolen like the suit he wears underneath, and offers it to you. “I have more layers on.”

“I don’t want you to be cold.”

“Please shut up and take the coat, okay?” You accept it and put it on, and instantly you begin to feel better. The viola player asks gently: “Does he hit you?”

You shrug, petulant like a child. “Sometimes I hit him back.”

The viola player sighs, but he’s not just disappointed; he’s saddened, he’s pained. “Look, I know what it’s like to get knocked around. That’s why I left home.”

You remember what he told you when you first realized he’d followed you onto Titanic: I have family in New York City. I left home and haven’t been back in years, and I think now’s a good time for a visit. “Why would you ever want to see them again?”

“Things are different now. I’m older, I’m not afraid to walk out and be on my own, I’m confident that I can advocate for myself better than before. And they aren’t all bad. I have…” He hesitates. “I have two brothers and a sister in New York, and I miss them.”

“What are their names?”

“Um,” he stops to think. Clearly he’s making them up. “Arnold, Henrietta, and Dean.”

“Do you actually have siblings or is this some sort of metaphor?”

He laughs. “No, they’re real. The names might not be, but the people are. Want to see your painting?”

“You were serious?”

He carefully pulls it out of the brown leather portfolio he’s carrying under one arm. And if it’s supposed to be you, he’s failed, but still the image is mesmerizing: a young woman—too beautiful, far too beautiful—glancing over at him from where she was pondering the waves under a clear midday sky, her hair in disarray from the wind and her eyes fearful, an oil-paint snapshot of desperation, defenselessness, wonder, hope.

“It’s very nice,” you say at last. “But I don’t look like that.”

“Yeah you do.”

You examine the bottom right corner of the painting to see what he’s named you. You skim your thumbprint feather-lightly over black cursive letters, drawn with the smallest of brushes. “Petra,” you murmur.

The viola player says self-consciously, as if hoping you’ll approve: “It’s Greek for rock.”

You smile faintly. “I know what it means.”

“Oh, fancy rock lady took Greek lessons in school.”

“Of course I did.”Greek, Latin, French, Irish Gaelic. You muse softly, still studying the painting: “Petra and Picasso.”

You don’t have to look at him; you can hear the grin in his voice. “Guess we’re friends now, huh?”

“I’ve never had a poor friend before.”

“Well, firstly, you can’t call me your poor friend. That’s offensive.”

With great unwillingness, you surrender the painting and give it back to the viola player. “I can’t keep this. I’m sorry, I want to. But Daemon might find it.” And then he’ll push me overboard and I’ll be dinner for the sharks.

He tucks the painting safely into his portfolio. “I’ll hold onto it for now.”

“Forever, you mean.”

“You might not always have to worry about Daemon.”

You share a dark, horrible truth: “I’ll never be free of him.”

“We’ll see,” the viola player replies, undaunted.

We’ll see.

[yuurei20]

Vil Info Compilation part 8: Vil and Leona

One of the earliest interactions we see between Vil and Leona is Vil sarcastically encouraging Leona to capture Grim and Leona telling Vil to do it himself.

The two overlap again in Book 2, allying against Crowley, who is attempting to retire Malleus from an upcoming Spelldrive tournament.

They are simultaneously competitors and allies during Phantom Bride when they both become motivated to show up Malleus.

Vil adopts new speech patterns in order to make himself more appealing to Eliza (an interaction that was rewritten on NA due to language restrictions) and Leona reacts with “I’d take the regular you over this slimeball.”

When Eliza compares them to Idia they both insist they are “obviously superior”, and Jade observes that “They’ve lose sight of our objective”.

In a vignette Vil notices that Leona has a loose button on his vest immediately before a photograph is to be taken of them together for the school newspaper and insists he fix it for himself.

Leona refuses as, of the two of them, Vil is the only one who cares, and Vil fixes the button for him, exclaiming, “The only think you have going for you is a handsome face. This is why I hate spoiled princelings!”

Ruggie mentions Vil being harsh when he is “naggin’ Leona about his fashion choices”, so it seems that the button incident was not a rare occurrence.

During Fairy Gala Vil compliments Leona for taking the event seriously, and Leona reveals he simply “got sick of (Vil) getting on (his) case nonstop”.

Vil expresses exasperation at Leona’s willingness to give an earnest effort only when it makes his life easier and calls in Rook and Cater for their guidance.

Leona concedes, preferring them to “spending another minute alone with captain nag here”.

Vil is fairly unique in that he is completely comfortable with and unintimidated by both Leona and Malleus. He calls both princes over to him during Halloween for a picture with a visitor and is able to convince Leona to answer his phone to Cheka, though it immediately results in Leona leaving the party.

In a voice over line we learn that Leona gave Vil an empty pen for his birthday. Vil says, “I think he just pawned it off on me because he couldn’t be bothered to dispose of it otherwise”.

Despite how he does not seem to care what Leona thinks of him, Vil seems to have no patience for Rook inserting himself into Leona’s business: We see Rook looking for Leona during a class, and when Vil expresses displeasure Rook responds, “You don’t need to feel threatened”.

Vil insists that Leona is “just a pretty face” and vies Rook a warning: “While Leona is little more than a good-looking layabout, he is quite troublesome when angered. Do not let your provocations get out of hand.” Rook asks, “Is that an order, sir?”, and Vil responds, “You’re welcome to take it that way”.

Vil tells Rook to join the Spelldrive club if he is so desperate for time with Leona, and says, “I urge you to exercise discretion and ensure that you do not lose (the vice housewarden) seat…because I would replace you immediately if you got our dorm into trouble.”

We later see Rook imposing himself upon Malleus instead of Leona and it seems like he is heeding this warning, as he decides against pushing Malleus too far lest he anger Vil.

・Vil Info Compilation part 1: Family and Potions ・Vil Info Compilation Part 2: Beanfest ・Vil Info Compilation Part 3: Effort ・Vil Info Compilation Part 4: Confidence and Idia ・Vil Info Compilation part 5: Perceptiveness and Physical Ability ・Vil Info Compilation part 6: Epel (pt1) ・Vil Info Compilation part 7: Epel (pt2)

[bestworstcase]

slowly points at tai. and glynda.

when glinda lays siege to the emerald city, she demands that mombi be delivered into her custody lest she take the city by force. mombi’s first trick is to cast a spell on herself and jellia jamb to switch their appearances, and jellia in the guise of mombi is handed over to glinda. the trick is soon discovered and glinda performs a counterspell, revealing jellia’s true appearance (and mombi’s as well, within the emerald city).

mombi’s second trick is to transform herself into a red rose, hiding in the palace gardens. jinjur invites glinda and her allies into the emerald city to search for mombi, under the condition that if they do not find her by nightfall, they must leave in peace. mombi is, in the end, discovered by accident: the tin woodsman plucks the rose on a whim and carries her out with him.

mombi is a bad sorceress from the northern country of gillikins, whose color is. purple. rwby’s ozian narrative doesn’t track the color-coding exactly (atlas, winkie country, is white) but it’s close enough for glynda being Conspicuously Purple to stand out—good witch of the north, and her name is both a nod to the conflation of these two characters in pop culture and a misdirection away from glinda. witch of the north. mombi.

the key players in vale right now are:

salem (glinda)

cinder (???)

summer (jinjur)

taiyang (jellia)

glynda (witch of the north)

with the twist of course being that this jinjur is working for glinda (and she might be doubling the role of woodsman for this final leg of the story, given that ironwood is dead and summer has an axe and the obvious connection to a certain red rose). and glinda isn’t looking for a witch, she’s looking for a crown. but the particulars are the same; we have a witch advancing on the fortress in pursuit of her goal and another witch standing in her way.

now. obviously

glynda isn’t an illusionist. and it remains to be seen whether this misdirection plays out narratively versus just being a more meta red herring. but. it does seem to me that the narrative choice to emphasize that we don’t know what “things” tai is “looking after” in vale while at the same time providing enough details about what glynda has been doing in vale to look like a completed picture, is priming the audience to jump to a certain conclusion (tai must be guarding the crown) that masks what’s really going on (glynda is the crown’s guardian and tai is up to summer rose related things).

i.e., the jellia <=> mombi swap.

with summer/jinjur being on salem’s side, if this red herring unfolds narratively, the obvious way to do it is for summer to believe that tai knows where the vault is hidden (and that raises the very juicy possibility that she might be, er, stringing him along in hope of cajoling the location out of him, which would be very ozmacore of her). meanwhile glynda is the one who removed it from beacon and buried it under that “ruined temple” after summer disappeared, and glynda wisely disappears herself after salem razes vale.

THEN… sooner or later salem wrings the truth out of tai that he doesn’t fucking know anything and by then glynda has reconvened with ruby rose et al in vacuo: you get glinda’s pursuit of mombi to the desert at the end of oz and the woodsman jinjur finding the red rose roles neatly into one plot point, and straight up not being able to find the vault gives team salem an incentive to try… or well, keep trying new things, because salem is already at a point where she found out the lamp wasn’t out of questions and immediately tried to pry the "password" out of oz/oscar.

like it does… all track quite well except for the rather thorny question of how cinder figures in all this. if summer isn’t doubling up on jinjur + the woodsman, then the intuitive character to step into that role is cinder—and that might be setting up either a cinder vs glynda rematch in vale (if the red rose is a plot beat) or a reckoning between cinder and ruby in vacuo (if the red rose is ruby learning, from glynda, where the vault is hidden). which is also interesting. but cinder’s also an odd fit for the woodsman across the board, whereas summer clicks neatly into the role.

it’s possible that cinder just Doesn’t Have a part in the ozian narrative, period—she’s tied very, very strongly to the maiden-in-tower narrative because that’s what the cinderella narrative is repeating, and for salem the ozian narrative is the tower. so it makes a certain narrative sense for cinder to not be in the tower, because she’s instrumental in getting salem out of it; she holds the key to the door.

(i do really seriously wonder if the choice spirit won’t be an old woman—like mombi, like the maiden’s mother-captor, and also because it would be hysterical for the contrast to jinn and ambrosius. choice as persinette’s fairy + part of mombi in particular is sort of compelling, given her inevitable connection to cinder and the probable importance of choice in liberating ozma from oscar)

but it’s also odd and leaves cinder with a lack of things to do in vale, which is another reason i think she might bounce and then return.

[ragingstillness]

The Boys thoughts 4x5:

Homelander’s conversation with Ryan: felt realistic to his character but also yikes (as always). Acknowledgement of his manipulation of Ryan +1 Acknowledgement of his own trauma +1 Equivalence of his experience as a deeply privileged white man to slavery -100

Ryan getting the PA to slap the Snyder parody: one of those delightful moments that The Boys does so well where I feel both positive and negative emotions about it. Do I think the Snyder dude deserved to be slapped by his PA? Absolutely. Do I think it’s a good thing that Ryan thinks the ultimate penance is receiving corporal punishment? No I don’t. I do like that Ryan actually let the victim do the punishment and receive the apology rather than white knighting about it. And of course I am deeply aware of how ironic it is that Homelander is helping Ryan stand up for sexual harassment victims when Homelander raped Ryan’s mom in a similar power imbalance situation.

Genuinely feel sad for Ashley that she lost her Ben Shapiro parody submissive (at least partially because I found it hilarious), but she got him back and that felt very earned.

I knew that Ashley and A-Train did more to Homelander’s apartment! Haha I can’t wait to find out what it is.

Man no one is having a great time or talking about it this episode.

Always happy to see more Esposito, love him as the ultimate traitor. Just betraying everyone left and right.

Not super fond of how they’re making it seem like Annie was wrong morally for beating up Firecracker. For falling for it? Sure. For reacting with anger? No.

Big fan of the V-ed up animals. Hysterical and very fun.

“Do you even know who Annie is anymore?” Um has more time passed that they’re showing? Because didn’t Annie decide to use the Starlight name again like two episodes ago?

I like that we got to see Hughie solve a bad situation on his own this time. He’s really coming into his own. Also, I like that we got another chance to say goodbye to his dad. Still sus that Hughie’s mom knows what V is.

Finally we got to see some of Simon Pegg’s comedic chops too. Him spinning around inside that guy had me laughing like nothing else.

Butcher taking that scientist captive? Honestly that doesn’t feel so much like a return to the dark side as just something his character would always be willing to do. Lest we forget he kidnapped Translucent, tortured him, pumped him for information, and would have killed him if Hughie didn’t get there first. I do feel like he’s relying less on other people which is a backslide from his character development but true to where his character was in the first season too.

Not a lot of sister sage the episode, glad to see she saw through firecracker’s fake inclusion attitude. I do feel like she’s growing closer and closer to dropping Homelander as an ally, something I suspected she would do from the minute they teamed up.

No Colin but I’m sure that’s gonna bite them in the ass.

What are the rules of Victoria’s headpopping? We saw her do it a little but there were many more opportunities. Does she need to charge up? Line of sight? Eye contact?

I agree that Victoria turned her daughter into a monster but only because she taught her not to value human lives and also because she turned her into some version of Parasyte: The Maxim.

Not a fan of Frenchie turning himself in. That’s not going to do anything, now they’re gonna have to break him out, and this show’s morality was never black and white enough that it could look at his actions and be like “you finally did the right thing”

Man when they all meet up with Hughie again he’s gonna have some stories to tell.

Side note: I am utterly amazed that now the secret of Compound V is out that no other country is sending like every spy in their arsenal to steal some. Considering how easily Hughie and the Boys can get it, it isn’t very difficult. Take one look at the nuclear arms race and tell me that every country in the world wouldn’t be quietly declaring all out war on Vought to get their hands on some.

[the-darkestminds]

Autumn's Shadow: Chapter 2

Azriel x Eris (Azriel POV)

Summary: A covert meeting between Azriel and Eris to exchange valuable intel leaves Azriel reeling—and questioning everything he has ever felt for the Heir of Autumn. Azriel finds himself inexorably drawn to Eris, unable to resist his captivating allure. With the threat of Koschei and Beron looming ever closer, can their forbidden love endure in the face of such danger?

a/n: Assume the Band of Exiles is aware of Eris's alliance with the Night Court.

Read on AO3!

Full Chapter List

Chapter 2:

Azriel stood in Rhys’s study, only half listening to the discussion he was having with Cassian. A few days had passed since his…altercation with Eris and he’d been distracted and anxious ever since. He couldn’t focus on anything else. He kept turning it over in his mind, trying to figure out what it meant, why Eris had done it, why Azriel had let him do it and how he felt about it. He’d thought he hated the male, but now all he felt was confusion, and other things he didn’t want to acknowledge. The conversation continued on without him for a time, until—

“Did you get with Eris?” 

Azriel whipped his head to Cassian. “What?” He suddenly felt hot in his too-tight leathers.

“Did you meet? Find out if Beron’s allying with Koschei?” Cassian was looking at him with raised brows. 

Azriel silently cursed himself for being such an idiot. He couldn’t remember the last time he was so flustered. “Oh. Right. Yes.” 

Cassian and Rhys stared at him for a beat. 

“And?” Rhys drawled, arching a brow at him and cocking his head. Everything alright, brother?

“I’m fine,” he responded quickly aloud. The last thing he wanted was Rhys rifling around in his head, not that he would without permission. But still…Azriel cringed inwardly at the idea of Rhys stumbling across some of the thoughts he’d been having the past few nights. He continued, lest they pry further, “Beron has been visiting the continent often, likely to see Briallyn. Eris suspects Beron might also join her in allying with Koschei, if he thinks it will serve his interests. Though he has no concrete proof Beron is even aware of Koschei’s existence. I could get that proof though.” Cassian cursed softly, but Rhys did not seem surprised by the news. He nodded calmly, thinking. 

“Perhaps it is time you got a closer look at that lake. See what you can learn of Briallyn’s alliance with Koschei, and if she has the means to free him from his curse. Just be careful,” Rhys said gravely, “You saw what happened to those Autumn Court soldiers. And we still don’t know the true magnitude of Koschei’s power.” Azriel didn’t let his surprise show. Rhys had been adamant that Azriel observe from afar so as not to risk exposure in case the crown’s influence could snare him from a distance. He supposed they were growing desperate, what with the miniscule intel he had been able to gather thus far. Rhys added, “Talk to Vassa and Lucien before you go.” They had already shared what they knew of Koschei, but it wouldn’t hurt to verify nothing was left out or overlooked.

He gave Rhys a curt nod, but said nothing else. His brothers were still looking at him with amusement. 

“Seriously, what’s wrong with you? You look weird,” Cassian demanded.

“I said I’m fine,” he bit out. If his brother didn’t shut up soon he was going to punch him in the mouth.

“But—” 

“Leave it, Cass,” Rhys ordered. 

Before Cassian could voice the undoubtably crude thought that glinted in his eyes, Azriel said quickly, “Are we done here?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he let his shadows whisk him away, though not fast enough to miss Rhys’s loud laughter as Cassian mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like “panties” and “twist.” Azriel rolled his eyes and huffed a begrudging laugh. If only they knew. 

***

Azriel’s shadows deposited him directly on the front doorstep of the manor Jurian and Vassa—and Lucien—were now sharing and he knocked twice on the large wooden slab. As he waited, he scanned the surrounding lands, the evidence of war still prominent in the felled trees and barren patches of earth. He turned as Lucien’s scarred, handsome face appeared in the doorway. He stepped aside silently to let Azriel pass. 

The male’s shoulders were tense as he said vaguely, “Lots of visitors today.” 

Azriel took in Lucien’s strained face, the warning that flashed in his russet eye, the other whirring and clicking faintly. Azriel cocked his head and walked down the hall beside Lucien as his shadows swept through the manor undetected. He sensed two human heartbeats—Vassa and Jurian, and a third, slower than the others. His stomach sank as he suspected who was visiting that had Lucien on edge.

When they entered the room his eyes went immediately to the red-haired male seated near the crackling fire. Eris lounged in a chair like it was his own personal throne, legs crossed, the picture of courtly grace and arrogance. Eris met his eyes and smiled widely, wicked delight sparking in his amber eyes. 

“Shadowsinger, it’s been too long,” he crooned in greeting. Azriel willed himself not to blush—prayed silently to the Mother that Lucien and Eris wouldn’t pick up on his racing heartbeat or the sweat now dripping down his back. Was it hot in here? “I’ve been meaning to ask you if you needed a hand with anything. What are allies for, after all?” Azriel stood rigidly, his mind reeling as he tried to think of something, anything, to say. The room was silent but for the roaring fire. Eris’s smile grew and he arched a brow at Azriel. Lucien glanced between them warily. 

“Azriel? Is everything alright?” Vassa’s voice clanged through him. Fuck. He was here to discuss Koschei with Vassa and Lucien. Two seconds in Eris’s presence and he’d completely lost his cool.

“Your majesty,” he bowed his head slightly, offering his respect to the human queen. She smiled and dipped her head in acknowledgement.

“Did you come with news or orders?” she asked.

“Neither,” he glanced at Eris before continuing, “I’m here to gather any more information you might have on Koschei before I leave for the continent.” 

Vassa’s eyes burned like blue flame at the mention of her master’s name. “I’d advise you to stay far away from that lake.” Her voice was coated in fear. When Azriel didn’t respond, she conceded. “Koschei is as old as the sea—older. Some say he is Death itself, though what that means I can’t be sure. He is truly immortal.” Her voice was hoarse as she added, “The true manner of his power is unknown to me. But he does have the ability to transport others long distances, like he did with your soldiers,” she jerked her head at Eris. The male’s face darkened, eyes flickering. “He is no mere sorcerer. Everything he does is to free himself from the lake. But he whispers on the winds…can see far…He was able to sow discord among my fellow queens while still trapped at the lake. Whether or not his voice holds some magical sway, I do not know. But you’d be wise to stay away, Azriel.” She seemed reluctant to say more. 

Some of it was new information. Azriel hadn’t known the death god had played any part in stirring up the human queens before Hybern launched its war against Prythian. Nor was he aware of any sorcerer-like power to control people like puppets, aside from the Crown. Would the death god have use for such objects? Or was he powerful enough on his own? Rhys had told him to keep the information to himself, so he said nothing.

“Be careful,” Jurian warned, his voice grim. Azriel only nodded to him, and then to Lucien. He bowed his head again in farewell to Vassa and turned to leave, ignoring Eris.

“I’ll walk you out,” Eris said behind him. Azriel tensed, his steps faltering. Eris breezed by him into the hall. He waited for Azriel to catch up and they walked side by side towards the front door. Eris didn’t speak again until they were outside. 

“You truly have nothing to say to me? Have I done something to offend you?” he asked mockingly, all graveness of the past few minutes gone. The shit-eating grin was back on his face. 

Azriel snarled softly. “Everything you do offends me.” 

Eris laughed darkly as he slid his hands into the pockets of his pants. “You wound me. And here I thought you’d be happy to see me. You seemed to enjoy our last meeting immensely, if I recall correctly.” 

Azriel’s face burned as he glanced down in embarrassment. Gods, he couldn’t even meet his eyes. Couldn’t think of a single damn thing to say to put Eris in his place. When did he become such a blundering idiot? He cursed himself silently.

“Let me know when you return from your little trip to the continent,” Eris said flippantly. Azriel nodded stiffly, still not meeting the male’s eyes. A beat of silence. And then—“I enjoyed myself too, shadowsinger.” 

Azriel snapped his head up to see Eris grin and wink, and then he was gone. His stomach fluttered strangely at the words. As his shadows whisked him away he allowed himself a small, private smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Next Chapter

Tag list: @unanswered-stars

[mumms-the-word]

In Fathoms Below - Ch. 4

Ch. 4 - The Stowaway

Characters: Gale, Karlach, Wyll, Lae'zel, Shadowheart, Astarion, Halsin, Minthara, Gortash + other OCs; pairing is Gale x fem!Tav Plot: The island city of Nautera disappeared over 4500 years ago, if it ever existed at all. Now not a single, legitimate record of Nautera exists, save for one. The Nauterran Account. Long thought lost, it has recently been retrieved from the depths of Candlekeep’s archives and placed into the capable hands of one Gale Dekarios. With the Nauterran Account in hand and an eclectic team of Baldurians and other allies mounting an official expedition, Gale journeys to find the ruins of Nautera…but hopes to find so much more. A/N: I promised we'd get a pale vampire didn't I? Well, we might have also bitten off more than we can chew in this chapter...but you'll have to read on to see. You might also notice I'm making a few changes to the canon for a few characters. You'll see why...eventually.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | BG3 Masterlist | Read on AO3

“A stowaway?” Minthara said, her lips curling into a playful smirk. Playful in the way that a tressym who’s cornered a pigeon feels playful. “How convenient. I was just thinking we might need to gather a sacrifice or two to appease any gods on our journey.”

“H-hang on,” the elf said. “Let’s not get too hasty. I can explain—”

“Save your words, darthiir. Lest I decide to kill you where you kneel.”

“How’d he even get on the sub?” Karlach mumbled nearby. Beside her, Shadowheart simply shrugged. Gale stayed quiet, but he suspected he knew exactly how the elf managed to steal aboard. Perhaps it wasn't Tara in that large supply crate after all...

“He looks like a vampire,” Wyll said, crossing his arms. “Red eyes, sharp fangs, pale skin. All the signs are there.”

The elf opened his mouth as if to argue, and then visibly seemed to change course. He looked up at Minthara instead. “I don’t suppose that rules me out for sacrifice? After all, I am undead. Not much left to sacrifice.”

She merely continued to smirk. “It makes no difference to me whether you are undead or not. If anything, it makes you even more disposable.”

“But I could be useful! Not as a sacrifice. I—er, I could—” His eyes cast around the room as if desperately searching for inspiration. 

Another gnome pilot spoke up while he struggled to come up with something useful. “Saer, we’re approaching the first area marked on the maps.”

“Enough, Minthara. We will deal with this later,” Gortash said, leveling a significant, almost warning look at her. "We have more pressing matters to attend to."

He turned to his pilots. “Activate the searchlights and begin a slow sweep of the area. Everyone else, eyes on our surroundings. You know what to look for.”

“Aye, saer. All engines reduce to ten percent,” Redhammer said.

A chorus of pilots responded with confirmations and other reports, and the great rumbling of engines that had filled the air and thrummed through the floor decreased to a faint purr in the background. Through the view of the glass ceiling and windows, towering cliffsides and rock formations materialized into view as the submersible slowed to a crawl, drifting slowly through the deep sea valleys and trenches.

“You two, keep an eye on the vampire, will you?” Gortash said, gesturing dismissively toward the drow. 

The two dark-clad soldiers glanced briefly at Gortash before focusing on Minthara again, clearly awaiting further orders. She stared down at Astarion with obvious disdain before turning away and moving to gaze out of the glass on the port side of the submersible.

“Bind him and keep him secure here in the helm. I don’t want him underfoot. If he makes any attempts to flee…stake him in the heart.” She flashed a crimson-laced warning look over her shoulder at the vampire before facing the windows again.

Gale watched, uneasy, as the drow soldiers bound the vampire’s arms behind his back and tied his legs together at the ankles. The vampire, to his credit, only murmured a few dark words under his breath, but more or less consented to the treatment. He settled down to kneel in a corner of the helm, watching them all with wary curiosity. Gale doubted he even knew what kind of situation he had gotten himself into.

“Poor guy,” Karlach said softly, joining Gale at the desk. “Feels kinda gross to claim a prisoner on our first day…but that’s Gortash and Minthara for you.”

“Have you worked for them long?” he asked, looking up at the fiery tiefling. 

“Long enough,” she said. “Gortash more than Minthara, though. I signed on to work for him over ten years ago. Then I got dragged into the hells. Literally."

"Literally?" Surely she wasn't being serious.

"Yup. Hear that?” She banged on her chest. Beneath the sound of fist on flesh, there was a dull metal thunk. He leaned in closer despite himself. In the quiet wake of the reduced engines, he could hear the faint sounds of machinery clicking and whirring and the soft, rhythmic release of steam. 

“Is that…metal?” he asked, a little awed and a little queasy. How in the world...?

“Infernal engine for a heart,” she said, stating the grim fact with about as much weight as if she were admitting her hair was naturally black. “Courtesy of a certain archdevil in Avernus. I spent years down there, a soldier in the Blood War, before Gortash made a few deals to bring me back. Never did find out the details, but…it doesn’t matter. I owe him my life.”

Gale could scarcely believe what he was hearing, and yet, it was far from the most ludicrous or tragic true story he’d ever heard, even in his short life. “How did you end up there in the first place?”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. One minute, it’s any old day. The next, I’m waking up in the hells with this thing in my chest.”

She fell silent for a second and then quietly, almost a whisper, said, “Zariel said Gortash sold me to her for a bargain, but…that can’t be true. He sacrificed so much to bring me back, he can't have been the one to sell me out. He even fixed up the engine so I wouldn’t be on fire all the time. She must have been lying.”

But even as she spoke the words, a tone of doubt crept into her voice until at last she looked uncertain. Gale didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

After a few seconds, she shook her head and glanced back at the vampire. “Anyway, as much as I hate to see it, it’s just how things are around here. I hope we can just let him go somewhere in the Underdark, though.”

Gale studied the vampire again. He was expecting feral hunger and wicked glances, but the elf simply watched his surroundings in silence. He looked, if anything, resigned. Even tired.

But perhaps it was all a ruse. 

“I’m gonna go talk to him,” Karlach decided all of a sudden. “See what he’s about.”

“Just make sure Minthara doesn’t get too annoyed with you,” Gale advised. “She seems to have plans for him.”

Karlach waved this off with “pfft!” and a smile before jogging over to the two drow soldiers and the vampire. Gale watched her chat a moment, a little smile on his face, before collecting the Nauterran Account, tucking it back into his satchel, and moving toward the windows on the starboard side.

Lae’zel and Wyll were both staring out of the glass next to Gale, watching the underwater scenery drift by. Amid cliffs and crags, there were standalone towers of stone, deep crevices, and far too many caves, some shallow, some deep. Night must have well and truly fallen by now because the water beyond the reach of the enchanted lights had grown pitch black, like a dense cloak of darkness. It didn’t make the search any easier.

The searchlight nearest the three of them swept slowly over the sea floor between cliffs and towers, at first illuminating nothing but stone and sand. There were no signs of any statues or carved structures just yet, but as for caves and crevices? There were more than he’d been expecting. It might take them hours to find anything worthwhile. 

After a moment, though, new shapes came into the light. Sometimes sharp and jagged, sometimes rounded and smooth, these shapes were noticeably different than the natural rock formations that surrounded them.

Shipwrecks.

“Uh oh,” Wyll murmured. “That’s not a good sign.” 

As more and more came into view, it was undeniable that they were anything other than the shattered remains of ships. Masts, hulls, even rare glimpses of shredded metal lay scattered around the sea floor and the cliff sides. It was as though an entire fleet of ships had been dragged down into the depths, suddenly and all at once.

Beside Gale, Lae’zel made a sharp noise. “Chk. There are enough ships here to build an armada. An old battle between two navies, perhaps?”

Gale frowned. “No, I don’t believe so. Look—there are too many different ship designs.” He pointed out several that he recognized. “Waterdhavian. Calishite. Even Luskan designs. These ships would have come from all over the Sword Coast, and perhaps even from Evermeet and beyond.”

“Some of these are quite old, perhaps even centuries old,” Wyll said. “I recognize a few ships from history books about Baldur’s Gate’s early days, the kind of ship Balduran himself would have sailed in.”

“We must be getting close,” Gale said. “Perhaps some of these people were sailing for Evermeet, but others…they must have also been looking for Nautera.”

The three of them were quiet a moment, watching as more and more shipwrecks came into view, their hulls cracked open, their masts splintered into shrapnel, their sails and flags and ropes little more than threads. At last, Wyll finally voiced the question they were doubtless all thinking.

“What dragged them down here?”

Gale dared not guess. His mind was already swimming with visions of catastrophe—everything from a great tempest or a whirlpool to the colossal figure of Umberlee herself, her blue-scaled face rising up before them with flashing eyes and a smile full of several rows of needle-sharp teeth.

None of this boded well. The sooner they found those statues, the better.

He moved the strap of his satchel from one shoulder to the other, so that it crossed his body, and made his way to the front of the helm to peer out of the windows there. He leaned against one of the metal control units, his nose nearly to the glass, trying to see further ahead despite the darkness of the water. 

Gortash joined him after a moment, frowning deeply as he stared out through the glass. “Blast this infernal darkness, I can barely see a thing.”

“Perhaps if you left the searching to those of us with advanced darkvision, your lordship,” came Minthara’s voice from across the helm, a hint of a smirk in her voice.

Gortash ignored her. “What we need is a powerful light spell,” he said instead, turning to smile at Gale. “I don’t suppose you have—”

His next words were ripped from his throat as the entire submersible lurched violently upward with a deafening bang, driving everyone to their knees or knocking them completely off their feet. The submersible tilted abruptly to one side, forcing Gale to grab onto a series of metal pipes to keep himself from sliding completely across the floor. Shouts rang out around the helm as pilots struggled to get back to their places and right the submersible again.

“What did we hit?” Gortash demanded, grabbing onto the control panel to clamber back to his feet. “Give me a damage report! Now!”

Another massive blow was his answer as something struck the back half of the submersible, sending them spinning nearly full circle. Redhammer bellowed commands as those not piloting the submersible fit themselves into nooks or secured themselves by hanging onto anything bolted to the seacraft, be it railings, controls, or pipes. A grating, repetitive alarm began to blare through the room and down the passageways of the submersible.

Suddenly the submersible lurched again with another bang, this time as if something had wrapped around the exterior and yanked it around. The pilots struggled against wheels and levers as they spun or activated on their own, but it was useless as the submersible was pulled upward and tilted sharply down. Gale tumbled over the top of the control panel he was standing near, hitting the glass of the front windows as the seacraft tipped dangerously downward, almost vertical. He caught himself on hands and knees, landing painfully, but it wasn’t the pain that froze him.

It was the sight of a massive, reptilian face and large, glowing yellow eyes that chilled the blood in his veins.

“Oak Father preserve us,” he heard Halsin say, somewhere in the back of the room behind him. “Is that—”

“A dragon turtle!” Wyll finished, his voice a mix of boyish excitement and sharp warning.

The dragon turtle tilted its giant head and then unlatched its jaws in a grin-like fashion. Its mouth was easily large enough to swallow half their submersible in one go. A serrated edge, almost like teeth, lined each jaw, the upper jaw forming a sharp beak that looked all too capable of puncturing even the thick metal exterior of their submersible. They were trapped in its claws, Gale realized, held fast in its strong grip as they tilted again under the dragon turtle’s piercing gaze.

A deep rumbling, like a laugh, issued forth from the depths of its throat, vibrating through the submersible. Then it spoke, its voice so deep and slow Gale could scarcely make sense of the words, even if there weren’t several inches of metal and glass between him and the dragon turtle. The volume and deep timbre of the voice shook the seacraft, rattling everything that wasn’t nailed down—the desk, trinkets around the room, even Gale’s bones. The sound was deafening, dampened only barely by the exterior of the submersible.

“What language is this?” Shadowheart shouted. “What is it saying?”

“I think—it must be draconic!” Gale shouted back, struggling not to collapse under the force of the impossibly deep voice. It finally trailed off, leaving a strange buzzing behind, as if everything were still reverberating from its short speech.

Gale could scarcely form a thought, the ringing in his ears was so loud. He suddenly felt tiny, staring down the maw of the gigantic creature with only a few inches of glass between himself and almost certain death. Something gripped his chest and squeezed it painfully, something that forced his breaths to turn shallow and sharp.

Terror, he realized distantly, as his body seemed to rapidly cool and grow warm in flashes.

He was terrified.

“Wizard, what did it say?” Minthara asked.

“I…” He could feel his hands shaking and the adrenaline singing in his veins. Was this to be his fate? Swallowed by a dragon turtle, or left to drown in the depths of its lair? All he could do was stare at one of the creature's large eyes, fixed beneath its glowing yellow gaze.

A familiar and loathsome ache seized his chest as panic threatened to consume him, constricting his heart and hardening his lungs. The mark on his chest began to glow bright purple in response to the pain. Almost like a reminder. He could do it now—if they couldn’t get out of this alive, would it be so bad to take the dragon turtle with them? If he—

“Wizard!”

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to focus. He mentally called back to just a moment ago, trying to retrieve the syllables and sounds the dragon turtle had said from his memory and play them again in his head, forming the words silently on his lips as he recalled each word. His eyes snapped open as understanding dawned on him.

“It said, ‘Greetings, strange metal one,’” he translated in a slightly quivering voice. “It...it wants to know what tribute we bring.”

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Endure II: Cookies

Series Synopsis: You and Eren Jaeger have been best friends since the age of two, but the two of you are destined for an inevitable tragedy. The world you have been born into is cruel; it is one where friends are traitors and enemies are allies, one where you find yourself doubting everything you've ever known. In this life, mistakes are fatal, and you must be careful, lest you make one too many.

Chapter Synopsis: You and Eren make a new friend named Armin.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader, Armin Arlert x Female Reader

Chapter Word Count: 5.0k

Content Warnings: swearing, canon-typical violence, sexual abuse (non-explicit), major character death, angst, original characters included

“I hate my stupid brother!” you said, throwing a rock into the river angrily. Eren watched you in amusement. If you had turned at that exact moment, you would’ve almost felt uncomfortable at the adoration on his face, but you were preoccupied with raging against the unfairness of life.

You and Eren were both seven now. You no longer played with dolls; instead, you dressed up and had tea parties or planted flowers or acted out skits of your own making. At the current moment, however, you were doing none of those things. Instead, you were complaining about your younger brother while your best friend patiently sat and listened.

“What did he do today?” he said, voice ringing with quiet mirth.

“Ugh! He just won’t leave me alone! He always wants to be with me, all of the time! It’s a miracle I was even able to get away long enough to hang out with you today,” you said, chucking another stone into the water and eyeing it warily as it sank to the bottom.

“He just looks up to you, probably. You’re older than him, so he thinks you’re cool or something,” Eren said, tossing a smooth, flat stone into the water and watching as it skipped across the surface once, twice, three times. You sighed dramatically and collapsed backwards, using your arm to cover your eyes from the bright blue of the cloudless sky.

“It’s just so annoying! I’ll hang out with him every now and then, sure, but he wants to do it all of the time,” you said.

“Well, I don’t have any siblings, so I can’t really help you on that one,” he said.

“I know, I just like complaining. You never interrupt me,” you said.

“Yeah. Anyways, what would you do if I joined the Scouts?” he said. You were startled at the abrupt change in topic, sitting up to face him, expecting him to be joking, but his face was utterly serious as he gazed into your eyes.

“Why would you ever join the Scouts?” you said. He shrugged halfheartedly.

“Guess it just seemed cool. I’m so sick of being stuck in these walls; I wanna go outside and see the outside world for myself,” he said.

“The outside world? More like the inside of a titan’s stomach,” you said.

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you,” he said.

“No, Eren, don’t be like that. If you want to go see the outside world, then we’ll do that,” you said, feeling bad for making him feel belittled.

“We?” he said.

“We’re best friends, aren’t we? What kind of best friend would I be if I let you go by yourself? You can’t get rid of me that easily, silly,” you said.

“But if you go, I’ll have to spend the whole time taking care of you!” he said. You scowled at him.

“I’m not a baby. I’m only a few months younger than you. You won’t need to be looking out for anyone but yourself,” you said. He snorted.

“Yeah, okay. Whatever,” he said. You were about to retort when you were interrupted by somebody clearing their throat.

“Excuse me? You guys were talking about the outside world?” a small voice said. You and Eren turned to see a blond boy holding a book standing behind you. It was Armin Arlert. You had not spoken to him since your third birthday party, but you still recognized him, just from seeing him around town. You waved.

“Hi, Armin! Yeah, we were,” you said, patting the space beside you.

“What’s it to you?” Eren said snarkily. Armin seemed spooked at the brunet boy’s hostility, and you threw a handful of grass at him before smiling at Armin.

“Sorry about Eren, he’s a stupid meanie sometimes,” you said. Eren’s jaw dropped, but you ignored him, interested in whatever Armin had to say that had been enough to push him to actually approach you.

“It’s okay, I guess. I was just wondering why you were talking about outside of the walls,” he said.

“Because we can,” Eren said bluntly.

“Because Eren wants to see it!” you said cheerfully. Armin’s face lit up, and, looking around to ensure that you were not being watched, he opened his book. It was clearly well worn, the pages smooth and browned at the edges, the spine creased. You leaned in to get a closer look and, despite himself, Eren did the same.

It was a beautiful illustration of some body of water, though it was nothing like the rivers and lakes found in the walls. It was huge and seemed never ending, the faded blue on the paper shimmering even now in a color similar to Armin’s eyes.

“What’s this?” you said.

“It’s the sea. A giant saltwater lake so big that a merchant could spend his entire life collecting its salt and still not get it all!” Armin said excitedly. You and Eren exchanged looks.

“No way that’s real,” Eren said.

“I bet it is! We should all go see it!” you said, pinching him on the arm in an effort to get him to stop being so mean.

“You’re not going to make fun of me?” Armin said.

“Why would we make fun of you?” you said.

“That’s what they all do when I try to tell them about the sea. Nobody ever believes me. They think I’m crazy for wanting to leave the walls, even though it’s inevitable that humanity will, eventually, do so,” he said.

“I don’t know how much I believe in this ‘sea,’ but in wanting to leave the walls, I can agree with you,” Eren acquiesced.

“Then it’s a deal! When we’re all older, we can go and find the sea. It’ll be so fun! That is, if I can make sure my brother doesn’t come,” you said.

“Why wouldn’t you want him to come?” Armin said.

“’Cause he’s annoying,” you said.

“I’ve always wanted a brother,” Armin said.

“You can have mine,” you offered.

“I think I’m okay.”

From that day onwards, Armin was your friend as well, and your duo became a trio. He fit in as seamlessly as if he had been with you from the age of two, and you found that whenever you grew tired of Eren’s energy and electric demeanor, Armin was always more than willing to sit with you in silence. If Eren was the sun, then Armin was the sea he always spoke about, though you did not draw this parallel for quite some time.

“Say, Min-Min,” you said on one such day when Eren was nowhere to be found, “Do you want to have a tea party with me? Eren always does it but I dunno what he’s up to right now and also he always spits the tea out when he thinks I’m not looking.”

“Sure,” Armin said agreeably. He was just happy to have friends that didn’t bully him, so he pretty much went along with whatever you and Eren suggested.

“Alright! Help me set everything up!” you said, pulling down the old tablecloth and spreading it out over the small table that had been designated the ‘tea party’ table by your parents. Merry came outside when he heard the cloth being unfolded, knowing that it was time for him to get your table scraps. He wagged his tail when he saw Armin — he had always been fond of the boy. Armin cautiously stroked him on the head, earning a lick on the hand for his troubles.

Once all of the dishes were in proper position and you had finagled a tray of biscuits for you to eat while you drank your tea, the two of you sat across from each other. You crossed your legs and unfolded your napkin, placing it in your lap neatly. Armin did the same.

“I wonder what Eren could be doing right now,” Armin said.

“Missing out on a great tea party, that’s what,” you said with a scoff.

“He’s a little scary, you know?” he said.

“Huh? Eren? I wouldn’t say he’s scary, but it’s true that he can be a lot. I like him like that, though, so it’s okay,” you said.

“Do you like-like him?” Armin said, his mouth forming an o-shape.

“What’s that mean?” you said.

“Do you want to marry him when you grow up?” Armin said.

“EW! I don’t want to marry anyone! Boys are gross. Oh, sorry Min-Min, I forgot you were a boy. You’re not gross. The others are, though,” you said.

“Even Eren?” Armin checked.

“The other day, he picked up a worm and chased me around with it for ten minutes!” you said.

“Ten minutes?” Armin said, aghast. You were glad to have someone to properly commiserate with about the horrific experience, so you nodded eagerly.

“Ten whole entire minutes, and he didn’t stop until his mother yelled at him,” you said. Armin made a sympathetic noise.

“That sounds terrible,” he said, sipping his tea and swallowing it, “I like the tea.”

“It was terrible,” you agreed, “And thanks. I didn’t make it, my mamma did.”

“She’s really good at making tea!” Armin said. You decided you liked him very much at the current moment.

“You’re a very nice boy, did you know that?” you said. He shrugged.

“I guess. The kids our age don’t really like me. Oskar and his friends always beat me up and steal my things,” he said.

“Oskar Zimmerman? Like my neighbor Oskar?” you said, setting your cup down and raising your eyebrows at Armin almost comically. He nodded shyly.

“Yeah, he’s really mean to me, but only when you’re not there because he like-likes you,” he said.

“Like he wants to marry me when we grow up?” you said.

“Yeah,” Armin said.

“Gross,” you said.

“Yeah,” he said.

“I’m going to go tell him to leave you alone,” you said.

“Okay. Wait, no! Y/N, hold on!” he said when he realized what you had said. You ignored him, storming off in the direction of Oskar’s house. Armin flitted after you nervously, begging you to stop, but you ignored him, too focused on getting justice for your poor new friend.

“Hi Mrs. Zimmerman, is Oskar home?” you said when the kind older woman opened the door.

“Oh, yes, he’s upstairs. Oskar, honey, you have a visitor!” she shouted. There was the thudding noise of footsteps, and then Oskar appeared, his spiky blond hair messy, as if he had just woken up. When he noticed you, his eyes widened.

“Y/N! What are you doing here?” he said.

“I’ve gotta talk to you,” you said, frowning and crossing your arms.

“What is it?” he said.

“Leave Armin alone! He’s my friend and he said you’re mean to him! If you don’t stop, I’ll tell on you,” you said.

“What? You’re friends with weird little Armin?” Oskar said with a laugh. You stomped your foot in frustration, grabbing Armin’s hand and squeezing it tightly.

“Yeah, I am, so stop bothering him or else,” you said.

“Or else what?” Oskar said, leaning forwards and pinching you on the arm. You slapped his hand away.

“Or else I’ll tell your mother and she’ll be angry,” you said.

“No she won’t. She doesn’t care,” Oskar said, shrugging casually.

“It’s true,” Armin muttered miserably, “I told you we shouldn’t have come.”

“Well, still. Stop it. It’s not nice,” you said. Oskar yanked on your hair. It was not gentle and playful, the way it felt when Eren did it. It was hard. It was painful. Your eyes watered. Oskar seemed delighted at your reaction and pulled harder.

“Oskar, quit it, I think you’re hurting her,” Armin said in concern when he noticed you sniffing and trying to push the boy off.

“Weak Y/N, silly Y/N, tried to scare me but she can’t even handle me pulling her hair!” Oskar crowed victoriously, dancing around you and Armin.

“Oskar! Stop, you’re going to rip my hair out!” you cried, covering your head with your hands in an attempt to protect yourself.

“I’m not even doing it that hard!” he said. Your scalp felt like it was on fire, and you wished Armin would do something to help you. Unfortunately, he was even more useless in a fight than you were, so he could only watch in horror as the boy teased you.

“Hey! Leave her alone!” a familiar voice said. Oskar froze in his motions, and the next thing you knew, Eren had grabbed him by the shirt and thrown him into the wall.

“Yeah, go Eren!” you cheered as your friend punched the other boy in the nose.

“We really shouldn’t be fighting, guys, what if we get in trouble?” Armin said.

“See, Oskar? If you don’t stop, Eren will beat you up!” you said smugly, your hands on your hips and all traces of your earlier tears vanished.

Eren must have had a lot of experience fighting, because he was able to handle Oskar pretty easily, though the other boy did get in a hit to Eren’s jaw, where a dark bruise was rapidly forming. Still, eventually the brawl ended with Oskar running away and Eren sighing and sitting down in the alleyway next to the Zimmerman house.

“Why was he bothering you?” Eren said when you and Armin sat on either side of him.

“I told him to stop bothering Armin, since he always takes his stuff and hurts him, but he started pulling on my hair and calling me silly,” you said.

“You should’ve waited for me to come with you,” Eren said, shaking his head in disappointment, “You guys are both awful at fighting.”

“That’s not nice,” you said with a pout.

“Yeah, but it’s true,” he said. You could not argue with this, so you crossed your arms and turned away from him, signalling the end of your conversation.

“It was really nice of you guys to stick up for me. You didn’t have to do that,” Armin said.

“’Course we did. You’re our friend, aren’t you? Friends look out for each other. I’ll beat up your bullies whenever you want. I already have to do it for Y/N,” Eren said.

“I don’t have bullies,” you said, frowning.

“That’s because I beat them up before they can say anything to you,” he said.

“Oh. That’s really decent of you, Eren, thanks,” you said. Eren rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Yeah, it’s nothing,” he said, leaning over and gently tugging on a piece of your hair to hide his embarrassment. You did not protest, because it was different with him. Most things were different with him, really, and you found yourself not minding him doing things like pulling at your hair or making fun of you. He wasn’t doing it to be mean, he was doing it because he was Eren. It was how he was, and it was how he would always be, or at least so you thought.

“I’m going to give you a hug,” you said seriously before doing exactly as you had said you would.

“Okay,” he said.

“Anyways, Eren, where were you earlier? We were having a tea party and you weren’t there,” Armin said. Eren let go of you and dug around in his pockets.

“Oh yeah! I almost forgot why I was looking for you both! I was helping my mom make cookies, and I brought some for you to try,” he said, giving you two things that resembled cookies about as much as Eren resembled Armin; that is to say, not at all. You and Armin exchanged wary glances before slowly taking bites of the things Eren was offering you.

Eren watched eagerly as you chewed. You fought to keep your expression neutral, or at least not downright disgusted, and you could tell Armin was doing the same. The cookies had more salt than sugar in them, and they were horrendously burnt, but it was obvious that the brown-haired boy was incredibly excited about them. Forcing yourself to swallow, you smiled at him.

“Wow, Eren, really...flavorful!” you said. Eren beamed.

“You think so?” he said. You looked at Armin desperately. The blond’s face was turning slightly green as he made himself keep the charred cookie down, but he managed to give both of you a thumbs-up.

“Thanks, guys! I’ll make more and give you all my next batch, too!” he said. You and Armin both groaned simultaneously, and Eren paused.

“What’s the matter?” he said.

“Uh...nothing! We’re just, uh, excited!” you said.

“Yup! Super duper excited for those cookies. Oh, Sina, I think I might be sick,” Armin said before bending over and vomiting.

“Wow! He liked the cookies so much he threw them up so he could experience them a second time!” you said halfheartedly.

“Wow, that’s really dedicated of you, Armin,” Eren observed.

“Anything for you,” Armin said, swaying on his feet from his vomiting fit.

“Want another cookie?” Eren said.

“NO!” you and Armin shouted in unison. Eren looked taken aback.

“Uh, well, okay then. I’m going to go ask Mr. Orion and Mr. Hannes if they want some, do you guys wanna come?” he said.

“I think I need to get home before I throw up again,” Armin muttered.

“Okay, bye-bye Min-Min! I’ll come with you, Eren,” you said, waving at Armin as he left.

“Let’s go, then,” Eren said, helping you to your feet. You traipsed over towards where the members of the Garrison were sitting, doing...something. Certainly not their jobs.

“Bunch of freeloaders,” Eren said in disdain.

“Then why are we bringing them cookies?” you said.

“Because,” Eren said, not elaborating further. This was a good enough answer for you, so you did not press for more.

“Thanks for saving me from Oskar, by the way,” you said. His face flushed lightly.

“You already said thank you,” he said.

“No, I said thank you for beating up my other bullies, not for beating up Oskar. But now I’ve said it,” you said.

“You’re welcome, I guess. But you should think things through more before you just do them. What are you going to do when I’m not there to rescue you?” he said.

“But you’ll always be there to rescue me, right?” you said.

“Well, sure, but what if I’m not?” he said.

“Then I’ll wait until you can!” you said cheerfully. This was a non-issue as far as you were concerned, and you didn’t know why Eren was so worried about it. He would always be there to save you; it was simply how the world worked in your naive mind.

“Okay, I guess that makes sense,” he acquiesced.

“Mr. Orion! Hi!” you said when you reached the Garrison captain, who was leaning back in his chair, his feet propped up on the table as he downed a mug of beer. Slamming the cup back on the table with a satisfied sigh, he nodded at you.

“Hey, you two hellions. What are you up to?” he said.

“I made cookies! Want to try some?” Eren said. From beside him, you shook your head frantically at a politely puzzled Mr. Orion.

“Sure?” Mr. Orion said. You shook your head harder in an attempt to save him from the practically inedible things, but it was too late. He accepted the cookie from Eren’s hand and bit into it, or at least he tried to. The cookie had somehow hardened so much that Mr. Orion’s teeth just glanced off of it. Eren looked confused.

“Did I add too much baking powder?” he said.

“Not the only thing you added too much of,” you muttered under your breath, the lingering taste of salt still on your tongue.

“What was that, Y/N?” Eren said.

“Nothing, Eren,” you said sweetly, not wanting to hurt his feelings. He decided it was unimportant and turned back to Mr. Orion, who was trying not to choke. You winced at him in sympathy and motioned for him to spit it out while Eren was distracted. He obliged and gave you both a brilliant grin.

“Wonderful, Eren, it was really something!” he said.

“Thanks! Do you think Mr. Hannes will want one?” Eren said.

“You could always go ask,” Mr. Orion said. Eren raced off without a second thought, but you lingered around the taller man for a moment.

“It was bad, wasn’t it?” you said knowingly.

“By the walls, it was the worst thing I’ve ever eaten in my life! Kid can do a lot of things, but cooking is not one of them,” he said, smacking his lips to get rid of the taste on his tongue before giving up and pouring himself more beer.

“Can I have some?” you said, pointing at his drink. At this point, you were desperate to wash out the residue of Eren’s cookies. Mr. Orion looked at you for a second before shrugging and handing you his mug.

“Yeah, sure. I guess it’s better that you drink when I’m watching you. How old are you again?” he said as you took a giant sip before immediately spitting it out in disgust.

“Seven!” you sputtered, wiping at your tongue. You had half a mind to go track Eren down and ask him for another cookie, because the beer was absolutely foul. How did Mr. Orion and Mr. Hannes drink so much of it every day?

“Seven? I feel like that’s too young to be drinking, but hey, what do I know? Want some more?” he said.

“No! How do you drink that crap? It’s awful!” you said, glaring at him. Mr. Orion laughed loudly, handing you a smaller cup. You sniffed it and, determining that it was water, took a cautious swallow. You audibly sighed in relief before draining the rest of it gratefully.

“Well, little Y/N, beer is a grown up drink. When you’re a grown up, you’ll like it,” he said, patting you on the head.

“I’m not little! And I don’t think I’ll ever like beer, Mr. Orion. It’s really really disgusting,” you said.

“That’s probably for the best, actually. And you’ll always be little to me — I remember when you were born. You were a creepy wisp of a baby, you know? You never cried or anything, you’d just look at people with these huge eyes, like you knew something we didn’t or you were staring into our souls or something. Nothing like your tiny menace of a best friend. I swear, all of humanity knew when he was born. He popped out of the womb angry! I have never heard a louder baby in all of my life,” he said, shaking his head. It was not hard to imagine either situation. The two of you were still like that, only older now, a fact which you made sure to remind Mr. Orion of.

“But I’m not a baby anymore, I’m seven years old,” you said.

“So you are, but you forget that I’m twenty, which means you’re still as little as ever,” he said.

“Woah! You’re ancient!” you said.

“I don’t know if ancient is the right word,” Mr. Orion muttered.

“Uh-huh. It is. Everyone above ten years old belongs in a museum. Were you there when the walls were created?” you said, your lips curling into a smirk. For some reason, adults hated being reminded of their old age. You weren’t sure why. You were certain that when you were twenty years old, you’d tell everyone about all of the things you had seen and done. With friends like Eren and Armin, you knew that there would never be a dull moment in your life. It would make for a great story.

“You little hellion!” he shouted, standing up, “Why, I oughta throw you off of these walls! You can ask the titans if they were there when the walls were created!” You squealed in fear and raced off, Mr. Orion chasing after you. You knew he was only joking, but you still ran as fast as you could (which was, admittedly, not very fast).

“Eren!” you shouted, spotting your friend, who was watching Mr. Hannes as he ate a cookie. He turned to you curiously, and you darted behind him, peeking out from his shoulder.

“Yes?” he said.

“Mr. Orion’s going to throw me off of the walls!” you said, pointing at the rapidly advancing Garrison captain. From behind you, Mr. Hannes began to gag, and you snickered to yourself, knowing that he had also fallen victim to Eren’s culinary mishaps.

“Why?” he said.

“Because I called him old,” you said. Eren facepalmed.

“I’m not beating up Mr. Orion for you!” he said.

“No, you gotta! Or I’ll be all alone outside of the walls, if I survive the drop!” you said. Eren gave you a dull look.

“Maybe you can go find the sea while you’re out there. Send me a postcard, yeah?” he said.

“Meanie!” you said.

“Ugh, fine!” Eren whined before slowly walking forward and attempting to punch Mr. Orion in the stomach. Mr. Orion did not look fazed, effortlessly holding Eren back with one hand and pointing at you with the other.

“You! Now you’re involving Eren in your little schemes?” he said.

“He’s always been involved,” you said, “If you bother me you bother him.”

“That’s true,” Eren panted, arms pinwheeling as he tried to land a hit on the Garrison captain, though he was mostly unsuccessful.

“Orion,” Mr. Hannes wheezed, “Help me.”

Mr. Orion dropped Eren and ran over to give his coworker the Heimlich maneuver. He had to do it a few times before a blackened piece of cookie flew out of his mouth. Mr. Hannes collapsed on the ground and mindlessly reached for some beer. Mr. Orion poured some for him, and you and Eren took the opportunity to escape, giggling at the stroke of good luck.

“Guess your cookies saved us,” you said.

“They classify as military weapons,” he said, “I put way too much salt and baking powder. Also they’re overbaked. Like a lot. My mom said to throw them away, actually.”

“You knew all of that? Then why’d you feed them to us?” you said, scandalized. Eren grinned.

“I wanted to see if you guys would pretend to eat them or not, and you did!” he said. Your jaw dropped, and you froze in place before grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him.

“EREN! THEY WERE REALLY DISGUSTING!” you shouted.

“I KNOW!” he shouted back, not even trying to escape your clutches.

“THAT WAS MEAN!”

“I’M SORRY!”

“IT’S NOT OKAY!” you said, abruptly dropping him and crossing your arms, “I can’t believe you made me eat those! You are an evil monster!”

“Sorryyyy, Y/N,” Eren said. You ignored him, and he tugged at your hair. You batted his hand away.

“Why don’t you ever pull on Armin’s hair?” you said.

“Because Armin’s hair isn’t as pretty,” Eren said.

“That makes sense, but I think Armin’s hair is pretty,” you said.

“I guess so. But yours is curly at the ends, see? I like making it go boing,” he said, pulling one of your curlier strands straight and watching it spring back to its original position in fascination.

“Oh, that is pretty fun. I do it when I’m bored sometimes,” you admitted.

“See? But Armin’s hair isn’t like that, so there’s no fun in pulling it,” he explained. You realized you could probably live a thousand lifetimes and never be as wise as your friend. His words made perfect sense.

“Speaking of Armin, you’ll never believe what he said!” you said, wide-eyed.

“What?” Eren said in interest. You lowered your voice to a hushed whisper.

“He said that Oskar like-likes me!” you said.

“But he’s so mean to you,” Eren pointed out.

“I know! But my mamma said that that’s how boys are when they like-like someone, so I guess it’s possible,” you said.

“Do you like-like him?” he said with a small frown. You shook your head immediately.

“No way! Boys are gross, ’cept for Armin of course. I don’t wanna marry anyone!” you said.

“Even me?” Eren said.

“Especially you,” you agreed. Eren did not seem pleased by this.

“Hmm,” he said.

“Do you wanna marry someone?” you said with a gasp. The thought of Eren marrying anybody else made you feel a little put out. He wouldn’t have any time to play with you if he got married. He’d have to be all boring and grown up with his wife.

“Meh. Maybe one day,” he said.

“Do you...know who you’d want to marry?” you said.

“Yeah, probably,” he said. Your eyes nearly popped out of your skull at this declaration.

“Who? You’ve gotta tell me, Eren, it’s not fair if you keep it a secret!” you said.

“No, you’ll find out when I get married,” he said, offering you his pinky, “Deal?”

“Well, I guess so. But don’t get married too quickly, okay? Because when you’re married you won't be able to play with me or Armin anymore. Then Min-Min will have to be my best friend!” you said. There was nothing wrong with Armin, of course, but Eren being your best friend was a fact of life, as true as the sun was bright. For anyone else to take the position was wrong.

“No! I don’t want that. I want us to be best friends forever and ever!” he said.

“Even when you’re married?” you said.

“Yeah, even when I’m married. If my wife doesn’t let me come play with you, I’ll...uh, what’s the word? Di-vorce her?” he said.

“What’s that mean?” you said.

“It means I’ll stop being married to her,” he said solemnly, “It’s very serious. You’re not supposed to do it unless you have a good reason.”

You were flattered that the potential loss of your friendship was enough of a reason for Eren to consider divorce with his future wife.

“Thanks, Eren. If I ever get married and my husband says we can’t be friends, I’ll divorce him too,” you said.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he said before reaching for your hand and clasping it tightly.

“Why’d you do that?” you said. He pulled you back as a loose horse ran through the alley, right where you had been standing.

“Just looking out for you,” he said.

“What would I do without you?” you said.

“Die,” he said dryly.

“EREN!”

“Sorry, but it’s true.”

“...yeah, maybe.”

[fickleminder]

everybody talks

DWBD AU. Five times the brothers talked about your friends, and one time the lesser demons talked about them.

DWBD AU masterlist here.

(1)

No. 2 handed over the folders with a salute. “Here are the student files, as requested! Will there be anything else?”

Lucifer scanned through the papers and hummed thoughtfully. “Tell me, did anything about them stand out to you?”

“Not really, these guys are just your average lesser demons.” The Little D shrugged. “They’re nobodies, and personally I don’t think they pose a threat to the human.”

The first born found himself agreeing with No. 2’s assessment. The seven lesser demons you’d been hanging out with seemed harmless enough. So long as you weren’t in danger of getting yourself killed here or causing him problems, he couldn’t care less who you chose to associate with.

“Very well, that’ll be all. You’re dismissed.”

.

.

.

(2)

Levi waited until you left the room before blurting out what’d been on his mind all afternoon. “Is it really okay for us to be doing this?”

“Doing what? There’s nothing wrong with spending some quality time with our housemate.”

“Well, no, but I mean… I feel a little bad for the lesser demons. We practically stole their friend from them, just like that anime with the protagonist getting transported to a parallel dimension where their allies were enemies and their enemies were lovers and—”

“It’s not our fault Barbatos lost control of his magic,” Asmo huffed as he packed up his nail polish. “Sucks to be them, but this is our second chance! You wouldn’t want to waste this opportunity, would you?”

Levi frowned, but shook his head. “They won’t give up so easily though.”

Asmo’s gaze hardened. “Well, neither will we.”

.

.

.

(3)

“Ingenious.” Satan examined the stuffed flame salamander carefully before setting it down and removing his protective gloves. “It’s a tricky curse, but well-executed.”

“Aha!” Mammon yelled while nursing his burnt hands. “See, I knew I could count on you, little bro! Those pesky lesser demons have some nerve giving our human a cursed toy!”

“Hmm, I wonder what prompted them to do so in the first place…”

Mammon swallowed nervously when Satan glared at him. “I— I was just checking to make sure there was nothing wrong with it! I wasn’t gonna sell it or anything! Besides, what if someone else touched it by accident and hurt themselves, huh?”

Satan nodded solemnly. “You’re right. A stuffed toy that’s harmless to its owner but burns everyone else is a hazard. You’ll be glad to know that I’ve already taken the liberty to do something about this curse.”

“Great! Now if you don’t mind, I’ll just take this back and— YEOWCH! You son of a— What did you do?!”

“Why, I made it stronger of course. And permanent.”

“Traitor!”

.

.

.

(4)

“You’re thinking about it again.”

“Mm, yeah.”

Beel hummed thoughtfully around a mouthful of steak. “Why don’t you just ask?”

“…It’s a big decision. I don’t want to be ordered around like a slave—”

“You know that won’t happen—”

“—but it’s a special connection, you know?”

“Yeah. I’m just worried… What if we wait too long and the lesser demons beat us to the punch?”

Belphie’s eyes snapped open at the thought. You, holding pacts with lesser demons instead of Avatars like them… It’s insulting to say the least, especially when you lived under their roof. “They wouldn’t dare,” he hissed, knowing you were too nice to make the first move.

Beel shrugged and went back to eating, but even he didn’t seem so hungry anymore.

.

.

.

(5)

A large stuffed cat poked its head through the doorway and waved at you. The brothers watched as your eyes lit up and you made grabby hands towards the toy, before Igfuur finally entered your ward and handed you his gift, which was at least half your size.

Satan was practically green with envy, and Levi had to nudge him out of it lest he broke the pen he was using to take notes. Luckily Asmo was secretly videoing the whole thing for them to study later.

Your favorite colors, your favorite flowers… those were just some of the things the brothers tried to glean from the balloons and other presents surrounding your bed. It was like they were getting to know you all over again, but this time they had to do it through your friends instead.

“At least some of them have a reasonable head on their shoulders,” Lucifer muttered to himself, having overheard the pink one getting vetoed about hosting a party in a hospital. Good intentions, but wrong time, wrong place.

“Tch, I still think you should’ve said no.” Mammon grumbled. “I mean, what can they give that we can’t, huh?!” None of your gifts were overly expensive or anything, but even he could recognize most of them as replacements for something he’d pilfered from your room before. Mammon’s heart cracked with guilt at the fact that he couldn’t even afford you basic decency.

The twins watched quietly from one corner. “It’s like they’re their own little family. Do you think we could—” be yours one day too? Beel cut himself off with a frown. Would you even want to, after all they put you through?

“…At least they know what they’re doing,” Belphie grunted. Your friends made you happy, so he could forgive them for hogging you all to themselves.

For now.

.

.

.

(+1)

“You’re alive!” Erkid glomped Dracius when he finally staggered back to the group, looking as though he was about to faint any second now. “How’d it go? Can we—”

“Hold on, first things first!” Belyth marched over and grabbed Dracius by the shoulders, checking him from head to toe. “Still breathing, all limbs intact, not cursed… Yup, he’s good.”

Rache was practically vibrating with anticipation. “So? So? Can we visit or not?”

“He said yes…” Dracius mumbled, still somewhat dazed.

“But?” Talon’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What’s the catch?”

“Nothing. I gave him our tribute, I asked, and he said yes. That’s it.”

“Really? Huh…” Vorgo scratched their chin. “That’s awfully generous of him. I guess we got worked up for nothing.”

“After all the effort we put in to get that rare vinyl record, this was pretty anticlimactic,” Igfuur grumbled.

The Avatars were your official hosts during the exchange program, so it made sense that the hospital had them listed as your emergency contact. Any requests for visitation rights had to be approved by them first, and Dracius had not been optimistic when he asked for an audience with Lucifer.

“You were the one who called 666?” Lucifer’s face was frighteningly blank after Dracius had finished speaking. He took a moment, relishing the way the lesser demon tried not to squirm under his gaze, before his eyes softened and his lips curled into the faintest of smiles. “You’ve done well. Permission granted.”

“All right then, no time to waste!” Rache declared, already searching for party supplies on her phone. “We’ll need balloons, flowers, get-well-soon cards, catering—”

Belyth gave a deep sigh. “Let’s not make him regret his decision, shall we?”

[walviemort]

hidden blessing (13/?)

Summary: Killian thought the only thing he was left with after Milah’s death was a broken heart and a thirst for vengeance. It’s not until he gets to Storybrooke, after so many years spent in stasis, that he discovers something else: he’s carrying her child. How does this new, tiny blessing change his path? (Canon-divergent from 2x12.) rated T | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | part 12 | AO3 | 3.9k a/n: And we're back! I still have the next few chapters done, and the rest of 3B plotted. Thanks for not giving up on this!

Killian was surprised at how much relief he felt when the Storybrooke harbor came into sight. Being safely out of Neverland was certainly part of it, but seeing that quaint little town that was apparently working its way into his heart was its own kind of soothing. 

If he had to guess, the gentle but persistent kicking he was feeling from his baby echoed his own joy. 

That said—he did have to bite back a pang of loneliness at watching the reception his allies were given upon disembarking the ship; even Regina was hailed as a hero by the townsfolk that, he had thought, were generally distrustful of her. He stood on the gangplank watching the reunions and feeling very much like an outsider again. 

It wasn’t that he wanted attention or gratitude; he had just apparently come to enjoy the feeling of being included. 

(He was at least assuaged by the fact that Emma looked equally uncomfortable with all eyes on her and her family; the somewhat panicked look she shot his way once he eventually disembarked was met with a knowing nod.)

After confirming that the waters of Neverland were working on David for the moment, everyone began to dissipate and move back toward the center of town. He hung back, though, citing a need to fully secure the ship—and, frankly, he needed a moment alone to continue to convince himself that the babe was all he needed; that they were family enough (and more than he’d had in decades). 

(He did, however, miss the longing glance Emma gave him as she was ushered back into town by her parents and son. But as long as he wasn’t going anywhere, she’d have time to talk to him later. And maybe more.)

—---------------------

Later that day, after wrapping up on the ship and running another errand, he found himself with the rest of the crowd in Granny’s. As soon as he’d walked in the door, every single craving he’d had on the island came back to him at full force; he didn’t even know what to order. Granny chuckled when he explained the situation and told him she’d take care of it. He honestly didn’t recognize half the foods she gave him—some kind of fish, and perhaps some bacon?—but it was divine. (He couldn’t blame the sudden snugness of his vest on the babe alone.)

He was sipping on some ginger tea afterwards (lest that amazing meal come back up) when he cast a glance across the diner—and noticed Emma sitting there, with Henry. Much as he longed to join them, it was a stark reminder, as had been everything since they landed: his focus needed to be on his child, and nothing else, much as hers was likely on getting Henry settled back into his life here.

A presence was suddenly in his space, and Neal was sliding onto the stool next to him.

“Didn’t know you drank anything but rum,” he teased, nodding at the mug and then taking a sip of his own ale.

“As I understand, that wouldn’t be ideal for a fetus,” he replied. “And don't worry, I'm not here to pursue the Lady Swan.”

“Yeah, you're just here to enjoy Granny’s excellent cooking.”

“I am, actually. And I've made a decision when it comes to Emma: I'm gonna back off.

“Back off?” Neal sounded surprised.

“I have enough to focus on with impending parenthood; I don’t need to actively be throwing romance into that equation. Which I suppose lets you have a fair shot at her, without a devilishly handsome pirate standing in the way,” he winked, then finished his tea.

“You're serious?” He seemed genuinely touched.

“Yeah. I am devilishly handsome.”

Neal at least chuckled at that, and offered his glass in cheers. Killian obliged, but didn’t add on what he was really thinking: even if he wasn’t actively going to seek Emma out, he had no plans on going anywhere or leaving her presence. His priorities might lay elsewhere, but he was in this for the long haul; given the previous demise of Emma and Bae’s relationship, he wasn’t optimistic about a reunion.

But that was for the future. At present, he looked up to check the time on the clock—and cursed. “Damn; I’ve got to get to an appointment.”

“What, like a doctor appointment?” 

“Yeah; is that odd?” He’d gone to Doc’s office earlier to enquire if he had any availability to see Killian and was told to come back later—not long from now.

“You just don’t strike me as the type to seek out professionals.”

“No, not usually, but it’s not for me—it’s for this one,” he said, nodding at his belly. “Can’t be too careful when Neverland is involved.”

Neal winced. “Yeah, good plan. Hope it goes well, then,” he said, surprisingly sincere. 

“Thanks,” Killian replied as he hopped off the stool and threw some gold on the counter. “Until later.”

He’d hardly gotten outside Granny’s front gate and down the sidewalk when a familiar voice was calling for him. 

“Hook!” Emma shouted, then jogged to keep up when he paused. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere exciting,” he answered. “Just the obstetrician.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Oh, okay, then; just wanted to make sure you weren’t skipping town or anything.”

“What, afraid I’d leave without saying goodbye?” He felt slightly guilty for flirting after the conversation he’d just had with Bae, but he couldn’t help it if Emma was the one seeking him out. “Don’t worry—I would never.”

“You better not,” she said, and held his gaze. She wasn’t saying it verbally, but he understood the subtext clearly: she wanted him to stay—here, near her. And that meant more than he could express.

Her eyes darted to his lips, despite there being several feet between them; gods how he wanted to follow that train of thought, but perhaps making out in front of the diner where her ex (and the rest of her family) still sat wasn’t the greatest idea, especially since he still had somewhere to be.  

“Right, well, I don’t want to be late,” he finally said to break the silence and took a step in the direction of the doctor’s office, if only to break the tension between them. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she said quickly, shaking her head as if to clear it. “Uh, wait—do you want some company? At your appointment?”

He blinked; now he was truly surprised. “Why would you want to go to that?” he blurted out. 

“I mean, most people usually have someone with them at those—their partner, y’know, or a friend.”

Unable to resist the setup, he asked, “And which do you consider yourself, Swan?”

The subsequent eye roll was expected, but her sincerity wasn’t. “Look, I had to go through all of that with Henry on my own, and I always wished I had someone there with me. So, if you want someone, I’ll gladly go with you.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but he simply didn’t have one. But the way he was suddenly holding back tears probably said enough. “I, uh,” he stammered. “I’d like that, if—if you’re sure.”

She gave him a small smile, then walked forward. “Well, come on; we don’t wanna be late.”

He watched her walk past him, still in awe, but finally came back to his senses when she yelled at him to hurry up. 

The entire concept of the “waiting room” at the doctor’s office was foreign to him, and frankly seemed unnecessary; it just gave him more time to worry about what the doctor might find. It was all he could do not to bounce his leg nervously as he sat in an uncomfortable chair next to Emma, who seemed to be reading a periodical.

But when he glanced over at her, her eyes were anything but focused on the pages. “Not a fan of the physician, eh?” he said, trying to refocus his nervous energy elsewhere.

She blinked and looked up at him, then chuckled half-heartedly. “No, it’s not that—although, yes,” she conceded. “I’m just worried about Henry.”

That, he understood. “He’s been through something traumatic; it likely takes some time to settle after that.”

She huffed a bit. “That’s what everyone keeps saying, but it’s not that. There’s something else…off, I guess.” Then she shrugged. “Or maybe I’m just imagining it.”

“Or maybe you’re not,” he countered. “Your instincts tend to be fairly solid, Swan; don’t ignore them if you think something is truly wrong.”

“Thanks,” she answered, giving him a small smile in return. “I just don’t know what it could be.”

“Perhaps—” he started, trying to help her brainstorm, but then his name was called out to go back to the exam room. Alas; they’d have to continue that train of thought later.

Having someone with him in the exam room was a completely different experience than his last couple of visits, and definitely for the better. If Doc was surprised by the change, he didn’t comment on it, and even though Emma politely averted her gaze during certain parts of the checkup, she was able to help answer some questions—like just how long they’d been in Neverland. 

“Just shy of three weeks,” she was answered confidently. “And you were at 16 when we left, right?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, astonished she remembered. “But I think Pan may have accelerated it a bit, at one point.”

“You didn’t tell me that!” she hissed, but still sat next to him during the sonogram; she’d already seen his belly at the lagoon, so he didn’t mind that exposure, but he wondered if she might get weirded out seeing the image of his insides. 

But then Doc said “huh” while he was scanning, and Killians heart stuttered. 

“What?”

“I can’t—find—“ Doc said while continuing to move the probe around. 

Killians breath hitched as he stared at the screen, waiting for something to appear. The babe couldn’t be gone—he could feel them still—no, please, no—

Then he jumped a mile when something touched his hand; he turned his head to see Emma slipping her hand around his and giving an encouraging smile. He couldn’t return it, but he took hold of hers and squeezed. 

“There they are!” His eyes darted back to the screen and he sighed; there it was—his babe. “They were hiding on us!” Doc said, chuckling, “but everything is looking good.”

What Pan said he’d done was accurate—he was around 18 weeks now—but they were there and they were healthy and that was all that mattered. 

He felt somewhat drained as he and Emma left the office, but ultimately relieved. “Thank you for coming, Emma; I’m...I can’t say how much it means that you were there,” he told her outside the office. 

“Like I said—no one should have to do that alone,” she said. “And honestly, it’s the least I can do. I’m glad I was there, too.”

“Would, uh,” he started, not sure how to ask the question he wanted to ask. “Do you want to…” How on earth did one ask the object of their affections to join them at the rest of their appointments to track the growth of the child they were having as a product of his relationship with said love interest’s would-be-mother-in-law?

“I will gladly go to the rest of them, if you want me there,” she said, smiling. 

Thank gods she figured it out. “Yeah, I would. Please.”

She just laughed at him and started to lead the way back into town. They were silent, but it was a comfortable quiet—although he did keep stealing glances her way, something she was apparently doing as well because they broke into a fit of juvenile giggles when they caught the other’s eye. 

The turnoff came to head to the marina, and sleep was calling his name again. “I’m afraid this is where we part,” he said. “Seriously—thank you.”

She waved it off. “It was my pleasure. But now that I’ve seen that kid, I’m gonna be making sure you’re taking care of them.”

“With my life.”

“That’s what worries me,” she teased, albeit with a serious edge. “Especially after Dark Hollow. Take care of yourself, too.”

“You have my word.” (She could have whatever of his words she wanted, if he was being honest.)

“Well, I’d like to make sure you are. Like, tomorrow, around lunch time, at Granny’s.”

“Why, Swan, are you asking me on a date?”

“No. I’m making sure you get decent food. Especially now that I know you’ve been craving grilled cheese.”

She had him there. “Alright, I will see you then. And maybe we can continue the earlier conversation, about Henry?”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “See you then,” she farewelled with a grin. 

He started to walk away, but a crazy idea came over him. “Wait, Emma,” he called out, then jogged over to her as he fished out the envelope Doc had given him from his jacket. “Do, ah, do you want one?” he offered, holding it out to her. 

Now was her turn to be speechless; she blinked and stared at it in awe for a second. “An ultrasound picture? You’re asking if I want one?”

“Aye.”

She stared in shock for another moment, until a smile that was usually reserved for Henry took over. “Sure.”

He let her pick which of the few she wanted; she chose one with the baby’s fist extended. “Looks like they want to party,” she giggled. 

“Well, they’re all pirate,” he agreed, grinning. 

They parted for real then, with a promise to meet the next day. Apologies to Neal, but he couldn’t deny Emma anything. 

(He didn’t see it, but when Emma got in her Bug, she smiled at the sonogram, even giving it a little fist bump. “You’re gonna have a great daddy, kiddo,” she told it, “and I hope I’m a part of your life, too.”)

—-------------------------------------------

The next day, right around the time Emma had requested his presence, he slipped in the back door at Granny’s to meet her in the diner. But before he got that far, he ran into someone else—almost literally. “Oof—sorry; my apologies, Lady Bell,” he said, steadying her with his hand and hook. 

The fairy didn’t seem too bothered, though. “I’m alright; are you?”

“I’m fine, love,” he assured her. “Just need to pay more attention to what’s in front of me, apparently.”

“Daydreaming, huh?” she assessed, crossing her arms and smirking. “About the little one…or about Emma?”

How was she always able to read him so well? Was that a fairy thing? “Bit of both, I suppose,” he acknowledged, and told her about the appointment yesterday—both Emma’s presence at it, and the reassuring news he received. 

“That’s fantastic!” Tink gushed. “So do you think you’ll stay on the ship, or try to find some place to stay in town?”

The vision of Emma’s family’s flat swam into his mind; the Jolly Roger had long been his home, but he had to admit it wasn’t always the safest (or warmest) place. Perhaps he did need to find a more permanent mooring? (Maybe even in proximity to Emma’s home?) “I suppose I should start looking—”

He was interrupted by a most blood-curdling scream coming from outside. Bloody hell—they’d hardly been back a day; were crises this common here? “Then again, maybe not,” he quipped, and they quickly ran outside to see what was happening. 

Emma and her father were getting out of the prince’s truck (who, he had heard, was successfully cured of the dreamshade; Gold had held to his word, incredibly) as he and Tink emerged from the diner. 

“The hell was that?” she exclaimed as she walked over; he didn’t miss her glance between them, a curious look on her face, but hopefully she noticed the subtle shake of his head. 

“I have the same question,” he did add, though. 

The screaming occurred again, only louder.

“There,” David shouted, pointing in the direction of the sound, and took off running; the rest of them immediately followed (even though Killian had a feeling that exertion on an empty stomach was not going to be great for his nausea).

The sight that followed certainly didn’t help: near the steps of the convent, the mother superior was making a mad dash to get away from Pan’s Shadow. She nearly got inside, but the Shadow got there first—and wasted no time in tearing away her own shadow. 

Immediately, the nun collapsed on the sidewalk. David knelt down, looking for a pulse, but— “She's gone,” he said, aghast. (Killian began searching for the nearest bush to retch into; Doc said the nausea should be ending soon, but apparently not yet.)

“Why would the Shadow kill her?” Tink wondered aloud for all of them. 

“No idea, love,” he answered. “But I do know the Shadow only takes orders from one person.” That fact was also causing the twist in his gut. 

Emma found his eyes; her own were wide in shock. “Pan,” she said, confidently and horrified. 

While he was busy losing what little remained of his breakfast in the shrubbery, the rest of their little band arrived, no doubt also noticing the ruckus. Regina was understandably confused as to how the shadow could have broken free; Henry looked downright terrified. Neal was at least being pragmatic.

“Look, let's go back to the ship and get the candle. If it strikes again, we need to be able to capture it,” he said authoritatively, then turned to Killian. “Where’d you stash it?”

“I’ll show you,” he said, and threw an apologetic look at Emma as he left; he didn’t dare mention their abandoned date in front of Neal.

Tink tagged along as well. “Didn’t we just do all this?” she complained.

“From what I’ve gathered, Storybrooke is just…like this,” he supplied.

“Sounds exhausting. Are you sure about staying, then?”

“Do you know of anywhere better?” he quipped back.

“You’re staying?” Neal asked as they approached the marina.

“Aye; is that so surprising?”

If he wasn’t mistaken, Neal was pouting. “I just figured it’d be back to the high seas.”

“With an infant on the way?” Tink interjected. “Are you daft?”

“I mean, houseboats are a thing,” he said quietly, but it was clear he wasn’t enthused by that news. Ah well—that was his issue to deal with, not Killian’s. Just because he wasn’t going to actively pursue Emma didn’t mean he was going to stop talking to her altogether. (And it really wasn’t his fault if that fact alone was threatening to Neal.)

It was both a comfort and a worry that the previously dark sail was back to its normal crisp white. All the more reason to track the shadow down again. 

“I know where the coconut is below deck; cover for me?” Tink asked. They obviously obliged. 

Both paced the deck, keeping an awkwardly safe distance between them. Killian took a moment to stop at the dockside railing, scanning both the sky and the skyline. 

As much as she’d been teasing, Tink’s comment was lingering. Did he truly want to settle down and raise a child in a place that seemed to attract danger?

Or did he want to fight to make it a safe place not just for his babe, but for everyone else here?

“When’d you do this?” Neal’s voice pulled him from his meditation; he stood on the quarterdeck, running his fingers along the wood behind the helm. 

Killian moved closer, ascending the steps. Neal was tracing the well-worn indentation behind the wheel—particularly, the lines he’d angrily dashed through the port and starboard symbols he drew for Bae all those years ago. 

“Right after the Lost Boys took you,” he said solemnly. 

“Trying to erase what you did?” There was an edge of venom in his voice. 

“Trying to erase my own hope,” he confessed. “Nothing excuses what I did—you suffered the most from my brash action—but I had been sincere in my desire to keep you here. I was angry at myself for destroying it; thus…” He waved his hook over the carvings. 

“I know,” Neal said, tracing the P. “I probably would have calmed down eventually, you know; I was an irrational teenager,” he chuckled. “But you were the adult.”

“Aye; right on all counts.”

“At least you get a second chance now. Don’t mess it up.”

“I don’t intend to.”

A look of understanding passed between them, despite the tension just a bit ago, and they nodded at each other. 

A moment later, Tink emerged with the coconut, just as Neal’s talking device went off. (Perhaps Killian needed to get his hands on one of those? They seemed to be rather useful.)

“Okay; we’ll be right there,” Neal said, then pocketed the object. “Everyone’s meeting at Regina’s vault. We good to go?”

“I certainly am,” Tink said, raising the coconut. 

“Aye; let’s get this over with once and for all,” Killian agreed, and they set back off across town. (He’d read that continued activity was good for the baby; with the number of times he’d traversed the town, they were sure to be in good health.)

His blood nearly froze in his veins, though—despite the exertion—once they reached the cemetery. He expected to see the usual band of heroes, and the Crocodile, but—what the bloody hell was Pan doing there?

And, even worse—why was Neal running towards him?

Killian’s hand instinctively drifted to his sword, convinced they were running headlong into a trap.

“Is it really you?” he heard Neal say from afar.

“Dad,” Pan said—though, it evidently was not the demon child. Killian looked towards Emma, hoping she could read the look of confusion that was surely on his face. Her mouth was a thin line but she nodded; they were good enough at nonverbal communication at this point that he could tell: somehow, Pan and Henry had switched bodies. 

(He could wait until later to congratulate her on knowing something was off; but first, they had to get through this.)

David asked if they’d found the Shadow; they showed him the empty coconut in response. The fact that it was still on the loose—paired with the realization that Regina’s vault was magically locked, with both her and Pan-as-Henry inside—was more than his uneasy stomach could take, and he had to step aside to retch again, though little came up.

As he was hunched over behind a random headstone, he felt a caress on his back; Emma gave him a consolatory rub, before seeking her own solitude further away (though her parents were quick to follow).

Everyone’s nerves were palpable as they waited for the Dark One to gain entrance to the vault—then even more on edge once he got through and headed in, with Emma and her parents in tow. He tried to give her an encouraging nod when she looked back over her shoulder at him before descending, but doubted it was convincing.

He paced; Tink perched on a stone; and Neal looked after Henry-as-Pan while they waited for news.

Finally, the others returned, Regina in tow, with the worst news possible:

Pan had escaped—and he’d taken the Dark Curse with him.

Fear like he hadn’t known yet immediately ran through Killian’s body, and his hand rushed to cover the spot where he could feel his babe’s equally nervous wiggles. For the first time, he was genuinely frightened they might fail. Gods above, what was happening?

—------------------------------------

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[peerlessscowl]

Heigh-Ho, High-Ho

These aren’t your typical caves and tunnels. As you move from one burrow to the next, exploring myriad animal-made (and animal-sized!) tunnels, you must watch not only for territorial creatures but the potential for a cave-in. And what are you here for, you ask? Simple: your weapons didn’t shrink with you and you don’t know how long you’ll be stuck like this while you and your allies search for the perpetrator. You’ll need materials for weapons. Among the caves are crystalline mushrooms found only dark, tight spaces that release magical spores when touched. Be careful, lest you wind up with a few other maladies.  [ Grants Axe +1 ]

(starter for @justicefanged)

It had been a mistake to let himself get sucked into the Golden Deer's afterparty, he saw that now.

"Hey," he grunted, kicking half-heartedly at Linus beside him before rolling over and rising to his feet. "Get up. It's bad."

Bad was an understatement, he thought, keeping his gaze on the spider that came to his knees. It shifted back and forth, tilting its body in a way that seemed almost curious, its mandibles clicked in a manner that was wholly upsetting, and Raven's fingers flexed, patting his waist gently, slowly, all around for a moment before the cool realization settled on his shoulders: he didn't have his sword. Where the fuck was his sword?

In the distance, he saw light shining through a small opening - presumably into the Golden Deer's classroom? Impossible to tell at the moment, given the spider. Raven ground his teeth, casting a quick glance about the area - a tunnel the burrowed deeper into the ground. Not ideal, but he wasn't about to fistfight a spider.

His gaze flicked to Linus, who didn't appear to have any of his kit on him, either, then behind them once more, desperate for anything that could be used for defense.

"Am I gonna have to drag you?" Raven hissed, inching backward. "We need to move."

[dailycharacteroption]

Retrograde Revision 1: Order of the Blue Rose (Cavalier Order)

(art by Peace-In-Violence on DeviantArt)

 And so we come to the end of this week, and the last of my first five entries on the blog, and you can start to tell that I’m slightly coming out of my shell because I added a whole other paragraph to my entry, albeit one explaining how “Class Feature Friday” would work on the blog. I still have a long way to go, which is why I will periodically continue this special in future weeks, much like others.

In any case, let’s see what we’re looking at here, the Order of the Blue Rose!

The Order of the Blue Rose is one that is dedicated wholly to peace and the preservation of it.

This may seem like an odd goal for a literal warrior on horseback, but perhaps few understand the desire for peace better than those who have seen war.

As such, these warriors, while still warriors first and foremost, seek to end conflict peacefully whenever possible, offering quarter and peaceful revolutions, brokering agreements of ceasefire and peace, and perhaps most importantly, protecting those who cannot or will not defend themselves against conflicts they have no part in.

This order may be a formal thing, a coalition of knights and warriors from multiple nations that seek to preserve the peace, which may make them allies of some nations, but annoyances or outright enemies of more warmongering ones, especially if said nations view nationals of their own lands in the order as traitors, and foreigners as duplicitous spies. Others, however, may view the order as a neutral party that can be relied on to keep an impartial view of things.

Even if it is not a formal entity, members of the philosophy may still exist, fighting for peace and against foes that break it, especially if they target the innocent.

 The challenge of these cavaliers is much like that of others. However, they fight hardest against foes that they have offered peaceful terms to and been rejected, becoming more accurate against such foes.

As one might expect, they are especially knowledgeable when it comes to politics, and skilled as mediating disputes.

These knights view life as precious, and so, they train to be able to strike nonlethally with their weapons, and are especially good at it. However, once they choose to go for the nonlethal option, they must commit, even preventing allies from delivering a killing blow, lest they violate their edicts.

Unfortunately, one thing these cavaliers must accept is that not every being is willing to accept surrendering or peace, so they learn to keep their composure even in the throes of pain, allowing them to ignore and reduce harm from incoming blows, though only a few times per day.

As peacemakers, these warriors are masters of defensive fighting, the most powerful of which are able to extend their protections to others when fighting defensively, and can even deflect a few blows entirely with their weapon, parrying them.

While the cavalier as a whole is a mounted class by default, this order definitely gives you incentive to sometimes dismount and protect allies and innocents alike. Obviously a defensive, tanky build is very good for this archetype, but also consider investing in the Linguistics and Diplomacy skills so that you can talk to as many beings as possible, and convince them, at least some of the time, to lay down their arms. (and if they don’t you get a nice attack bonus when you challenge them). Don’t forget it’s also a social build, so perhaps some investments in ways to better talk with others might be good as well.

 In a game about fighting off evil, it can be difficult, but rewarding to be the one that dedicates themselves to peace above all else. Hopefully you try this order out in a game where the GM doesn’t adhere to the outdated idea of “inherently evil mortal ancestries”, giving you a chance to work your wonders with words.

However, even then you may find yourself forced to make tough decisions, especially if, like we suggested before, your characters previous or current affiliations cause others to view them differently for their dedication to peace.

  It is a widely held tradition that no open conflict can begin until the leaders of each nation meet under parley with a Blue Rose as mediator. When the mediator for a trade dispute between the nations of New Dalmon and Ifstygg doesn’t show up, tension flares, and if something is not done soon, there will be blood.

 The leader of the branch of the Order of the Blue Rose in Lofkiln has been imprisoned, not by bars or cells, but by the cunning of the nation’s tyrant king. They refuse to abandon the people to their plight, but must now also preserve the status quo, lest the king slaughter hundreds.

 The oath of a cavalier is everything to them, failure to uphold a sworn oath can often lead to that emotional baggage lingering after death. Such was the case with Desmond van Hurlden, a former blue rose who swore to defend the fledgling nation of Viscas with all his might. Now that Viscas has fallen before its opportunistic neighbors, Desmond’s body has disinterred itself from a mass grave, now a graveknight of terrible power.

[spinnertop]

Don't Keep It To Yourself

fWhip has been stressed recently and decided to take a walk to get his mind off of it. His elven boyfriend had other ideas

If you prefer, you can read it here on ao3 or on here below the cut

fWhip enjoyed midnight walks. It wasn’t much of a surprise to the people of the Grimlands, or even his friends and allies. The Count was infamous for never being able to sit still. But this walk wasn’t one made from boredom or excitement.

In truth, fWhip didn’t know what spurred this on. Anxiety, maybe? Perhaps dread? Whatever the reason, he hoped the cool night air would clear his head. A part of him knew that it wouldn’t, that the pit in his stomach wouldn’t settle lest he tell someone about his worries. He kindly told that part of himself to shut up. He wasn’t going to worry his friends with something as trivial as senseless paranoia.

He wrapped his wings tight around himself, shivering slightly, but smiled despite the discomfort. fWhip was happy that it was late fall. Winter would come soon, and while that came with its share of struggles, he knew that in the winter none of them would be from him or one of his subjects overheating in the forge.

It was funny to him. During the winter, things in the other empires started to slow. Save for those in Rivendell, the freaks. Winter was always a time of prosperity in the Grimlands, the short days lending itself to more creeper spawns and gunpowder, fueling the rest of the empire.

He let out a deep sigh, loose dirt and gravel crunching beneath his mud-stained boots. fWhip spared a glance back towards Eastvale. It truly was beautiful this time of night. There was a faint glow from beyond the walls of the city, either from the forge, or from people like him who were utterly unable to sleep tonight. The gorgeous redstone corruption radiated an alluring red light in the absence of the sun.

He cast his gaze towards the field of wither roses. fWhip always thought they were gorgeous, having grown up around them. Well, it was the only flower that could grow beyond the safety of the walls. The corruption made the land inhospitable to normal wildlife.

He knelt down at the edge of the field, his fingertips brushing against the velvety petals of the roses. He caressed the petals, and dipped his hand down to play with the stem. He pressed his thumb against the thorns that adorned the stem, and quickly plucked the flower from the ground. His hand quickly went numb as it bled slightly onto the stem. He couldn’t say he hated the feeling, the roses were much more mild than the all encompassing pain that wither skeletons caused.

“fWhip!” A shout startled him out of his thoughts. He turned around to see Scott. He looked concerned. Why? Scott quickly kneels in front of him, examining the puncture. When had he dropped the rose? “Does it hurt?” Scott questioned, worrying about lacing his voice in a way that was almost completely foreign to fWhip. He’d dealt with worse, and Scott hadn’t seemed nearly as worried then. Maybe he wasn’t the only one waiting for the other shoe to drop…

After a few seconds of examining the cut, Scott huffed and lightly smacked fWhip. “What were you doing messing around with wither roses!?” he exclaimed, anger creeping into his voice. Now there was the Scott he knew and loved. “You of all people should know how dangerous they are! What in the world made you think that it would be okay to touch them?! I swear, one of these days I’ll need to follow you around to make sure you don’t hurt yourself.”

“You done?” fWhip asked teasingly. Despite Scott’s offended face, he continued, “You don’t have to worry. Us Grimlanders are resisted to the wither effect. I barely even feel it.”

“Resistant doesn’t mean immune, fWhip!” He retorted.

fWhip huffed up at him. “I’m fine, really!”

fWhip squeaked as Scott pulled him close and buried his face into his hair. He heard Scott mutter something in elvish that sounded suspiciously like a prayer. fWhip sighed, slumping against Scott.

“Why are you out here so late anyway?”

“I could ask the same for you.”

“Ha ha very funny. But seriously.”

“A deal with Shelby took longer than I thought it would.” fWhip nodded, satisfied.

“Now. What were you doing?” Scott asked. Damn. He was hoping he wouldn’t ask. “Couldn’t sleep.” fWhip answered. It wasn’t a complete lie. Maybe Scott wouldn’t push?

“Why?” Well, crap. fWhip could only shrug. He really didn’t know why he was so scared. The demon was gone, Scott had his brother back, and he even managed to smooth things over with Jimmy. That last one has surprised him. He hadn’t expected him and Jimmy to get along, let alone get into a relationship.

He heard Scott sigh quietly, before shifting his grip and… Just picking him up. fWhip yelped as Scott pulled him close to his chest, and he felt his face heat up. He quickly buried his face into Scott’s chest, mumbling something that was lost in the thick outfit the elf always wore. He felt more than heard Scott’s chuckle, and he groaned in response.

“I can walk, you know.” Scott laughed.

“I know. You just look adorable when flustered.” fWhip hit Scott’s chest for that. “Come on, let’s get you home. Knowing you, you haven’t slept in a while.”

fWhip opened his mouth to try and retort, but Scott was right. He hadn't slept in a couple days now, and though he’s blaming it on the anxiety, he knew a part of it was his workaholic tendencies.

He was slightly confused that Scott decided to start walking towards his house on the outskirts of Eastvale, rather than taking him back into the city so they could rest in the manor. He wasn’t complaining though. He had built the house himself when he became the count. For the first couple months it felt wrong to stay there. It was probably bitterness that drove him away. He technically was supposed to rule with his sister, but that didn’t happen, and the empty throne and missing person in the house was a fierce reminder.

He looked up at Scott, who smiled gently at him. “Can you open the door, sunflower?” He asked kindly. fWhip nodded but mumbled something Scott couldn’t quite make out.

When fWhip glanced up at Scott again, the elf was smiling. fWhip loved Scott’s smile. Probably because it wasn’t something he saw that much. At least not out in public. The elf was generally rather stoic, and most of his expressions consisted of his trademark smirk. His smile was softer, kinder. An expression that fWhip wasn’t used to receiving.

Scott sat down on the bed, making fWhip sit in his lap. He hummed as Scott pulled off his scarf and nuzzled his neck.

“Baby,” Scott started, slightly muffled. “You have to take care of yourself.” His hands slid from his waist to his shoulders and he pulled off his jacket. “I know…”

“So why don’t you?” Scott’s voice was so gentle. It wasn’t fair how easily Jimmy and Scott could coax answers out of him. Not even Gem or Sausage could do that. “I- um. Well…” fWhip started, but he couldn’t get the words out. At least, not while Scott trailed his hands along his wings. 

“You’ve been so tense lately. You were so jumpy at the last meeting. I was worried.” fWhip blushed. “Would it be bad if I said that I was waiting for everything to get worse?” He felt Scott tense slightly. He sat up a bit straighter, and moved his face to look at him. When he didn’t speak fWhip took it as a sign to keep going.

“Logically, I know everything is fine. Better than fine, everything is perfect right now. I have my brother back, your brother’s in a crystal encased in ice, the Cod Empire and the Grimlands are at peace for the first time in five hundred years, and so much more. But it feels like it’s all going to go wrong. Like I'm going to lose everyone…” There was an unsaid again hanging in the air.

Scott hummed, thinking for a moment, before responding, “I understand that. After so many bad things that happened, it feels like a dream for anything good to happen again. It can eat you from the inside out if you keep it to yourself. Have you told anyone else?” fWhip tensed slightly but didn’t respond. Scott had his answer.

“Petal…” Scott scolded. “I know, I know, I should be telling people if I feel bad. I just… I didn’t want the others to worry.”

Scott sighed, and fWhip tensed, before Scott pressed his hand at the juncture between his wings and kissed his neck. “Poor thing. So tense. Do you need my help relaxing?” There was a mood change, but fWhip quickly shut it down. “No. not like that at least. Not in the mood.” he felt Scott hum and nod. “Okay. How about cuddles to help you sleep?” fWhip nodded, “Yeah. Yeah that sounds good.”

He got off Scott’s lap so he could get comfortable, and actually take off that heavy coat he insisted on wearing everywhere. Once he laid down on the bed, fWhip decided to be a little menace and flop down onto his boyfriend’s chest. Scott let out a quiet ‘oof’ and huffed at him. fWhip quickly sat up, straddling Scott’s hips. He stuck his tongue out at Scott, just like the little menace he was.

“Brat,” Scott muttered with no real heat behind his words. This was confirmed when he reached a hand up to cup his face. fWhip couldn’t help himself as he started purring as he leaned into the touch.

He got off of Scott and curled into his side, purring louder as Scott turned over and started to card his hand through his hair, his other hand wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. He tucked his head underneath Scott’s chin and nuzzled into his chest.

Scott wrapped his magnificent golden wings around them, acting as an extra blanket. He pulled fWhip closer to him and mumbled into his hair, “I love you, sunflower.”

“I love you too, snowflake.”

[myddrinmob]

Coeden Onnen

A young maid in Bayard’s colours trips over her own feet, and her burden of cushions and blankets get hurled floorward. Merlin - feeling a camaraderie with anyone that clumsy - throws himself next to her immediately and tries to help her. Their hands cross over, grabbing for the same things, tugging them in opposite directions. Merlin isn’t helping at all. “Sorry,” the maid says, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean - oh -” “Hey, don’t worry about it,” Merlin says, passing a cushion with too much force and sending her pile of bedding toppling again. “Happens to me all the time. As you can see.” The maid laughs: it seems to catch her by surprise, and she glances up at Merlin, unsure of her own humour. He can’t help but laugh himself, giving her permission to find it all as funny as he does. She has a nice smile, he thinks. Kind. With a quickness that will later have him wondering, Merlin decides he likes her.

Chapter four is here, finally. I've had a bit of a break between the last chapter and this one, but we're back at it again just in time for Yuletide - and here, my special gift for you all:

UTHER Camelot welcomes you, Lord Bayard of Cair Lerion.

Cair Lerion, not Mercia. It's a bit of a petty change, I'll admit: it does nothing to change the story as of yet, if it ever will, and is purely for my own satisfaction. But it ties into my general disdain for the very English trappings of bbc merlin, which should have been Welsh, or at the very least more generally Brythonic.

I mean, Mercia is an Anglian kingdom, so even if I ignore the historical bits - it doesn't much matter when Mercia was founded (6th century) if the show only vaguely picks a time period (??14th???) - we're still left with the same problem that we had with Old English=magic.

No???? The Angles, Saxons and Jutes are the bad guys??? We can't just smack a Anglin kingdom down and declare it an ally of Camelot without doing some on-screen examination of that?

Which, ya know, the show didn't do. And I don't want to do either, tbh, though I'd bet for different reasons, so Mercia has to go. Instead, we get a taste of what was probably happening in Britain in the 5th and 6th centuries in real life: in the wake of the Roman ruling infrastructure collapsing, power would have disolved back to whatever locals were willing to take it. That might have meant wealthy elites, landlords, high-ranked soldiers or veterens - the possibilities are quite endless, and I've not picked one specifically for Bayard. What I have decided about him is that his ancestors were probably Gaels or Franks - Bayard is a very French name - and that he, or the founder of his line, chose an established location to rule over and from.

I think many people probably did, given the evidence we have of continued habitation in so many places. I picked Cair Lerion - Leicester - over others because it has a lovely Welsh name, and because it has more Roman associations over the Anglian associations places like Tamworth or Repton have. It's not too far from Camelot, either, in the version of Albion's geogeraphy I have in my head.

Put a pin in that geography bit - we'll be coming back to it later in the season.

Now, about Merlin and 'Cara'...

She has a nice smile, he thinks. Kind. With a quickness that will later have him wondering, Merlin decides he likes her.

Merlin's magic vibe sense has caught him out once again. There are a few things Merlin and his magic do in this chapter that I don't want to explain lest I spoil something for what's to come, but I did want to say this bit.

Merlin is getting a handle on some very specific parts of his gift, to Nimueh's detriment.

He looks. He sees - - through the water, their eyes meet - - she stumbles back from the font, shaken.

[petersaysthings]

Gays Against Groomers, their association with the Proud Boys, and the rise of fascism.

I’ll be making a more detailed blog post soon on the group Gays Against Groomers, their association with the Proud Boys and QAnon, and the dangerous surge of fascism that's now accepted and promoted as free speech in many online circles. For now, I wanted to give a little rundown.

I don't think I've ever been this disturbed by a group and its members gaining so much traction.

A large portion of their followers are either far-right or even alt-right themselves, or they're willing to turn a blind eye to the organization's harmful tactics, particularly if it removes a target from their own back. After all, no one wants to be called a 'groomer', because that association alone--regardless of any evidence--can and has destroyed lives. It's akin to when homosexuality was placed in the same bracket as pedophilia in the 1950's, weaponizing social fears.

Because the LGBTQ community struggled for decades to attain equal rights and standing to the rest of society, there's now a pervasive sense of fear among some that those rights will be taken away because of a misguided few. They reason it's better to call out the few and rub shoulders with the right to avoid that. But let's be clear--the right has never been the best allies with LGBTQ people to begin with, and the few were never much of a problem in this equation until the far right began amplifying the actions of a small minority, making them seem like a huge societal problem. Now, it would seem there’s little other choice but to fall in line and purge all instances of flamboyance.

So one has to wonder if that's what's fueling these attacks in the first place, because who started the rampant vilifying? They and their associated grifters (such as Blaire White, Arielle Scarcella and others) are lumping in potential actual groomers with people they merely suspect of being groomers, and often that’s enough to cause instances of stochastic terrorism and threats of domestic terrorism.

This is extremely concerning to me, especially considering GAG's (gotta love that acronym) association with the Proud Boys, a neo-fascist organization known for their political violence, particularly the Jan. 6th attacks on the Capitol. I recently stumbled across a Tweet from Gays Against Groomers in which they flat-out said:

(According to what I've seen of their posts, 'sexualization, indoctrination, and mutilation' can refer to anything from a 300-page book with one out-of-context graphic scene, to their unsubstantiated claims that hospitals 'offer hysterectomies to minors'. I even saw one in which they tried to frame that teaching kids consent would somehow be grooming...make of that what you will.)

Which begs the question, given their questionable associations, as to whether or not their Tweet is a veiled threat, lest you fall in line with their standards and steer clear of their arbitrary definitions of what qualifies as a ‘groomer’. Now I don't like comparing things to Nazism for a long list of reasons. It's lazy at best and trivializing the past at worst. But there's definitely something sinister in this about forcing compliance through fear that likens it to a burning of the Reichstag. There's also their branding (appropriating a logo design), their posting of doctored video clips in association with far-right media organizations (such as Project Veritas, Arsenal Media, X Strategies) with the goal of twisting narratives, their separatist language, encouraging members of the LGBTQ community to call out suspected 'grooming' to avoid targets on themselves.

It gives the impression if you don't keep your head down in compliance, you will be dealt with by their Proud Boy jackboot thugs.

And if you speak out on Gays Against Grooming in any way--if you present fact-based arguments on how gender-affirming care is important to the mental health of a small minority of people struggling with gender dysphoria, defend library books they want to ban, point out how they overlook important parts of legislation they protest that will negatively affect LGBTQ youth--you're automatically labeled a 'groomer of children' and harassed by their many followers, if not the organization itself.

Critical thinking and rationality is on the decline, propaganda and misinformation is on the rise (largely thanks to Elon Musk’s takeover of Twitter), and between Gays Against Groomers and Libs of TikTok, it's only a matter of time before some unhinged person enacts real violence or makes threats of domestic terrorism. We saw it in PizzaGate with QAnon when someone shot up a pizza parlor. The association between when Tweets are posted, the measureable rise in hateful rhetoric, and the resulting action has a direct causal link.

And then what do they do? Plausible deniability.

It's also interesting to me how they can constantly call out people based on suspicion alone (Jeffrey Marsh is a huge favorite for this), but any suspicions leveled against them are unacceptable. The harassing actions of Gays Against Groomers and their followers are not beyond questioning or criticism, and to insist they are--whether they say so or their followers say it--is flat out authoritarianism and manipulation. The ‘with us or against us’ rhetoric that does not allow for critical thinking or pointing out of harmful practices is incredibly dangerous.

In summation, I want them taken down before they grow much larger, because they're fighting important legislation and vying for a political foothold. And as a far-right fascist organization, it's not something I want for wider society, and as a gay person, it's certainly not the kind of group I want having a voice for the LGBTQ community.

This goes beyond protecting kids, which of course is something we all want. And there are occasional valid instances and behavior harmful to kids we should be calling out, I will not deny that. But I'm not convinced, as with pro-life stances, that Gays Against Groomers is about protecting kids or ‘giving them a voice’ at all. On the contrary, it���s about removing the voices of LGBTQ youth and gaining political power through divide.

I'm not certain what their ultimate endgame is with all this, but I don't imagine it's going to bode well for the majority of LGBTQ people in a few years.

[gentlenekomata]

starter call ♥

Maybe I’m a bit late, but I’m definitely interested in these prompts for my baby Sakura ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)

Prompt w/ a GD student

With your newfound size come newfound troubles with logistics, in particular: how does one get around when you’re as tall as a thumb? The world itself is as grand as it’s ever been. There are, however, those among you who will no doubt see your fresh perspective as an opportunity. After all, how often is it you get a chance to ride a bird, a rabbit, or a squirrel? [ Grants Riding/Flying +1]

I mean… YES. RIDE A SQUIRREL. [ TAKEN BY LEANNE]

These aren’t your typical caves and tunnels. As you move from one burrow to the next, exploring myriad animal-made (and animal-sized!) tunnels, you must watch not only for territorial creatures but the potential for a cave-in. And what are you here for, you ask? Simple: your weapons didn’t shrink with you and you don’t know how long you’ll be stuck like this while you and your allies search for the perpetrator. You’ll need materials for weapons. Among the caves are crystalline mushrooms found only dark, tight spaces that release magical spores when touched. Be careful, lest you wind up with a few other maladies. [ Grants Axe +1 ]

Basically same as before: tiny adventures inside tunnels and homecraft weapon ;v; )7

You notice things you would never have picked out before. Seeing the world from down here, you occasionally find odd tokens in the grass, in pots, in other such hidden places. Trouble is, they appear to be but half of whatever treasure you’ve found. Not to worry! One of the fairies captured in a recent mission is all too happy to take them off your hands, promising good luck and miracles for every complete match. Who knows if the ‘good luck’ is real, but there does seem to have been one small side effect after the fact: you’ve learned, quite incidentally, that you can now speak with mice! And hoo boy, do they have a lot to say: they humbly request your help, O strange near-hairless rodents, in order to defeat the threat of other mice invading their (your) territory. Teach them, they plead! Teach them to fight! Well, all right then. Surely nothing untoward will come of you showing one or two of them how to swing a stick… [ Grants Any Skill +1 ]

I WANT TO FRATERNIZE WITH MICE ;-----; <3

Non mission

As the Ethereal Ball is only a little ways away, students and staff are doing their best to prepare via dancing lessons, outfit shopping, and event planning. This year a vendor arrives in town with a wagon full of flowers from all over the world in full bloom. They’re quite the romantic though, so luckily for you, they’re even offering corsage and boutonniere lessons. gift your crush, significant other, sworn enemy, or whoever it may be a lovely floral arrangement that you hand-picked and handmade! They won’t judge if it looks ugly, but.. maybe the person next to you is better at arranging.

Sakura’s really into balls and flowers, so maybe you can help her out while making a bouquet?

Feel free to contact me here on tumblr or via Discord ♥ [I’m briaelle]