#long unlive the king

[thenewgirl76]

Do not Disturb, Or ELSE

Inspired by this interestingly humorous post

Danny as the living/unliving embodiment of the "don't wake the sleeper" trope.

While this works with just regular ole Danny, I've decided to throw in both Ghost King Phantom and Constantine and Zatanna as his bio parents.

As Amity's sole major hero, a struggling high-schooler, and last but not least the Fenton's and GIW's biggest sought after prize capture Danny's already dealing with a colossal amount of pressure and rarely has the time to get the proper shut eye.

Throw in his fairly new status as ghost king, and you end up with a massively stressed and cranky sleep deprived teenager that oftentimes reacts rather violently if you dare to wake him prematurely.

Constantine and Zatanna know this all too well, having gotten a front row seat to the mayor getting viciously maimed by this scrawny boy(?) after being abruptly aroused from his nap while looking into the excess death energy surrounding Amity. Which is why after finding out this powerful yet somehow familiar entity was both the usurper of Pariah Dark's throne and their long lost son they agreed to keep it all hush hush. No need to risk a possible bad first impression with the Justice League as well as further hinder their kid's chances of getting more sleep after all.

All is reasonably well until Con and Z fail to stop the newest in a string of cult gatherings attempts to summon the ghost king and have no choice but to get the rest of the JL involved. Suffice to say, their hands are quite full trying to convince the League that the child they just witnessed not only transform into an eldritch abomination then literally maul every last one of the cultists in anger and frustration over being rudely awakened, but also take seemingly forever for them to calm down isn't a ginormous threat that must be closely monitored.

It certainly doesn't help matters when Danny threatens to remove a vital organ from the next person that wakes him up before cuddling up to his mom and dad and going back to sleep.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Private equity plunderers want to buy Simon & Schuster

Going to Defcon this weekend? I'm giving a keynote, "An Audacious Plan to Halt the Internet's Enshittification and Throw it Into Reverse," on Saturday at 12:30pm, followed by a book signing at the No Starch Press booth at 2:30pm!

https://info.defcon.org/event/?id=50826

Last November, publishing got some excellent news: the planned merger of Penguin Random House (the largest publisher in the history of human civilization) with its immediate competitor Simon & Schuster would not be permitted, thanks to the DOJ's deftly argued case against the deal:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/07/random-penguins/#if-you-wanted-to-get-there-i-wouldnt-start-from-here

When I was a baby writer, there were dozens of large NY publishers. Today, there are five - and it was almost four. A publishing sector with five giant companies is bad news for writers (as Stephen King said at the trial, the idea that PRH and S&S would bid against each other for books was as absurd as the idea that he and his wife would bid against each other for their next family home).

But it's also bad news for publishing workers, a historically exploited and undervalued workforce whose labor conditions have only declined as the number of employers in the sector dwindled, leading to mass resignations:

https://lithub.com/unlivable-and-untenable-molly-mcghee-on-the-punishing-life-of-junior-publishing-employees/

It should go without saying that workers in sectors with few employers get worse deals from their bosses (see, e.g., the writers' strike and actors' strike). And yup, right on time, PRH, a wildly profitable publisher, fired a bunch of its most senior (and therefore hardest to push around) workers:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/07/18/books/penguin-random-house-layoffs-buyouts.html

But publishing's contraction into a five-company cartel didn't occur in a vacuum. It was a normal response to monopolization elsewhere in its supply chain. First it was bookselling collapsing into two major chains. Then it was distribution going from 300 companies to three. Today, it's Amazon, a monopolist with unlimited access to the capital markets and a track record of treating publishers "the way a cheetah would pursue a sickly gazelle":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/31/seize-the-means-of-computation/#the-internet-con

Monopolies are like Pringles (owned by the consumer packaged goods monopolist Procter & Gamble): you can't have just one. As soon as you get a monopoly in one part of the supply chain, every other part of that chain has to monopolize in self-defense.

Think of healthcare. Consolidation in pharma lead to price-gouging, where hospitals were suddenly paying 1,000% more for routine drugs. Hospitals formed regional monopolies and boycotted pharma companies unless they lowered their prices - and then turned around and screwed insurers, jacking up the price of care. Health insurers gobbled each other up in an orgy of mergers and fought the hospitals.

Now the health care system is composed of a series of gigantic, abusive monopolists - pharma, hospitals, medical equipment, pharmacy benefit managers, insurers - and they all conspire to wreck the lives of only two parts of the system who can't fight back: patients and health care workers. Patients pay more for worse care, and medical workers get paid less for worse working conditions.

So while there was no question that a PRH takeover of Simon & Schuster would be bad for writers and readers, it was also clear that S&S - and indeed, all of the Big Five publishers - would be under pressure from the monopolies in their own supply chain. What's more, it was clear that S&S couldn't remain tethered to Paramount, its current owner.

Last week, Paramount announced that it was going to flip S&S to KKR, one of the world's most notorious private equity companies. KKR has a long, long track record of ghastly behavior, and its portfolio currently includes other publishing industry firms, including one rotten monopolist, raising similar concerns to the ones that scuttled the PRH takeover last year:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/08/07/books/booksupdate/paramount-simon-and-schuster-kkr-sale.html

Let's review a little of KKR's track record, shall we? Most spectacularly, they are known for buying and destroying Toys R Us in a deal that saw them extract $200m from the company, leaving it bankrupt, with lifetime employees getting $0 in severance even as its executives paid themselves tens of millions in "performance bonuses":

https://memex.craphound.com/2018/06/03/private-equity-bosses-took-200m-out-of-toys-r-us-and-crashed-the-company-lifetime-employees-got-0-in-severance/

The pillaging of Toys R Us isn't the worst thing KKR did, but it was the most brazen. KKR lit a beloved national chain on fire and then walked away, hands in pockets, whistling. They didn't even bother to clear their former employees' sensitive personnel records out of the unlocked filing cabinets before they scarpered:

https://memex.craphound.com/2018/09/23/exploring-the-ruins-of-a-toys-r-us-discovering-a-trove-of-sensitive-employee-data/

But as flashy as the Toys R Us caper was, it wasn't the worst. Private equity funds specialize in buying up businesses, loading them with debts, paying themselves, and then leaving them to collapse. They're sometimes called vulture capitalists, but they're really vampire capitalists:

https://www.motherjones.com/politics/2022/05/private-equity-buyout-kkr-houdaille/

Given a choice, PE companies don't want to prey on sick businesses - they preferentially drain off value from thriving ones, preferably ones that we must use, which is why PE - and KKR in particular - loves to buy health care companies.

Heard of the "surprise billing epidemic"? That's where you go to a hospital that's covered by your insurer, only to discover - after the fact - that the emergency room is operated by a separate, PE-backed company that charges you thousands for junk fees. KKR and Blackstone invented this scam, then funneled millions into fighting the No Surprises Act, which more-or-less killed it:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/04/21/all-in-it-together/#doctor-patient-unity

KKR took one of the nation's largest healthcare providers, Envision, hostage to surprise billing, making it dependent on these fraudulent payments. When Congress finally acted to end this scam, KKR was able to take to the nation's editorial pages and damn Congress for recklessly endangering all the patients who relied on it:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/14/unhealthy-finances/#steins-law

Like any smart vampire, KKR doesn't drain its victim in one go. They find all kinds of ways to stretch out the blood supply. During the pandemic, KKR was front of the line to get massive bailouts for its health-care holdings, even as it fired health-care workers, increasing the workload and decreasing the pay of the survivors of its indiscriminate cuts:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/04/11/socialized-losses/#socialized-losses

It's not just emergency rooms. KKR bought and looted homes for people with disabilities, slashed wages, cut staff, and then feigned surprise at the deaths, abuse and misery that followed:

https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/kendalltaggart/kkr-brightspring-disability-private-equity-abuse

Workers' wages went down to $8/hour, and they were given 36 hour shifts, and then KKR threatened to have any worker who walked off the job criminally charged with patient abandonment:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/02/plunderers/#farben

For KKR, people with disabilities and patients make great victims - disempowered and atomized, unable to fight back. No surprise, then, that so many of KKR's scams target poor people - another group that struggles to get justice when wronged. KKR took over Dollar General in 2007 and embarked on a nationwide expansion campaign, using abusive preferential distributor contracts and targeting community-owned grocers to trap poor people into buying the most heavily processed, least nutritious, most profitable food available:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/27/walmarts-jackals/#cheater-sizes

94.5% of the Paycheck Protection Program - designed to help small businesses keep their workers payrolled during lockdown - went to giant businesses, fraudulently siphoned off by companies like Longview Power, 40% owned by KKR:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/04/20/great-danes/#ppp

KKR also helped engineer a loophole in the Trump tax cuts, convincing Justin Muzinich to carve out taxes for C-Corporations, which let KKR save billions in taxes:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/06/02/broken-windows/#Justin-Muzinich

KKR sinks its fangs in every part of the economy, thanks to the vast fortunes it amassed from its investors, ripped off from its customers, and fraudulently obtained from the public purse. After the pandemic, KKR scooped up hundreds of companies at firesale prices:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/30/medtronic-stole-your-ventilator/#blackstone-kkr

Ironically, the investors in KKR funds are also its victims - especially giant public pension funds, whom KKR has systematically defrauded for years:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/22/stimpank/#kentucky

And now KKR has come for Simon & Schuster. The buyout was trumpeted to the press as a done deal, but it's far from a fait accompli. Before the deal can close, the FTC will have to bless it. That blessing is far from a foregone conclusion. KKR also owns Overdrive, the monopoly supplier of e-lending software to libraries.

Overdrive has a host of predatory practices, loathed by both libraries and publishers (indeed, much of the publishing sector's outrage at library e-lending is really displaced anger at Overdrive). There's a plausible case that the merger of one of the Big Five publishers with the e-lending monopoly will present competition issues every bit as deal-breaking as the PRH/S&S merger posed.

(Image: Sefa Tekin/Pexels, modified)

I’m kickstarting the audiobook for “The Internet Con: How To Seize the Means of Computation,” a Big Tech disassembly manual to disenshittify the web and bring back the old, good internet. It’s a DRM-free book, which means Audible won’t carry it, so this crowdfunder is essential. Back now to get the audio, Verso hardcover and ebook:

http://seizethemeansofcomputation.org

If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/08/vampire-capitalism/#kkr

[merakiui]

thinking about soon-to-be king rollo who learns the sweet maid he’s been occasionally fooling around with has fallen pregnant. he’s a man of tradition, and so naturally he has to follow tradition by marrying you. it doesn’t matter if you haven’t a single madol to your name or where you sit on the social ladder. now you’ll be his wife who will raise his heir. you’ll have no say in the matter as he’s your king and you’re merely a maid. rollo can’t possibly have anyone know of such a troubling and highly untraditional situation, so he locks you away in a tower to ensure you’ll be kept as his perfect secret. if you wish not to marry him, then you can remain a servant condemned to confinement.

however, he’s a kind and fair ruler, and so he can be reasonable with you. after all, he cares immensely for you and it would be utterly callous if he forced his pregnant maid into an unlivable, unsafe environment. he isn’t a monster, or so he’ll say when you spit the nastiest insults at him—some he’s never even heard of before. perhaps that’s just a class difference. after all, he would expect that of a filthy maid who was raised in poverty. though he isn’t your usual storybook monster, he’s mean and narrow-minded. you really can’t stand him, but then he’s just barely tolerating you as well. and you’re both tethered by the child growing within you, a little miracle rollo refuses to get rid of. he’s grown attached, and once he’s attached it’s impossible to pry him from the object of his affections.

he visits you every night to check in and bring you anything he thinks you might need. you can fight him all you want, but it does nothing to sway him. he reprimands you for your foolishness, saying it was your fault for tempting him all that time ago and insisting it was safe for him to cum inside! now, as a result of that recklessness, this is your punishment.

although it doesn’t have to feel like a punishment. reciprocate his adoration, respond willingly to his touch, and you’ll find he can be quite pleasant and merciful when you aren’t actively avoiding him like he’s the plague. you’ll love him soon enough. this he’s certain of because with enough time you’ll realize he’s your only source of companionship. and with each passing month, your bump only grows more prominent and you’ve become so hormonal lately, craving the affections and attention of another. he can give that and more to you, so long as you love him.

he’ll ask again, but it never sounds like a question. you’ll marry him, won’t you? perhaps this time, rounded with his child, you’ll agree. there’s only one right answer, and rollo’s certain you’re aware of this. after all, you’ve spent too long locked away in this tower to continue holding onto hope for a future of freedom. such a thing is not to be found here, but perhaps if you finally accept your king there may be far better things awaiting you. he’s kind and fair; you just need to say and do the right things for him to show you those sweet sides. and he’s more than willing to as long as he receives your undying love in return.

[audhdnight]

I’ve been hesitant to read Children of Blood and Bone by Tomi Adeyemi because of all the hype it’s been getting (I usually get burned by really popular books) but I gave it a shot and oh my god. Please read this book. It is INCREDIBLE.

It’s also very applicable. We talk about the parallels between the current genocides and The Hunger Games, and Children of Blood and Bone has them too. One in particular that I keep fixating on is the oppressor’s way of framing violence.

The violence of the oppressor is just self defense, or else a “right idea, maybe not the best execution” deal. Whereas the violence of the oppressed is just too far, it’s inexcusable, it’s the reason they need to be oppressed.

King Saran thinks magic is simply too dangerous, no one deserves that amount of power, they could hurt so many people with it. Which is why it’s okay for him to slaughter entire villages, burning everything to the ground. That’s why it’s okay for him to enslave children; he has to keep their spirits broken so they never turn magic against him. And when the people whose lives he’s ruined fight back? Well that’s a perfect example of why he’s doing all this. Just look what one magician did to all his soldiers! People like that are exactly what he’s protecting the kingdom from. They’re just too dangerous.

Almost like the way “terrorists” are talked about by my own government and the IOF. It’s okay for soldiers to completely decimate Gaza and make conditions unlivable for its entire population in the name of eradicating Hamas, because they would probably destroy everything if they were left alive. It’s okay to murder thousands upon thousands of innocents, as long as there are no terrorists left. Because who knows how many innocent Israelis those terrorists might kill or rape if they were allowed to live. It’s just too much of a risk.

[sepublic]

My eerie theory is that the Titan Trappers are Collector(The Species) descendants.

It would explain their appearances somewhat.

I jus wannts to share it w/ u nothing else.

...Hold on-

The Collector and Tarak have similar eyes, and it wouldn’t be so shocking if other Collectors’ had different color combinations, corresponding to those we see in the Trappers...!

After all, they had to come from somewhere, right? Mayhaps a dead Titan from a previous generation long before the Collectors arrived... But then there’s the question of this enormous Titan Trapper we see, who seems to have been the first and, if his size isn’t exaggerated for artistic purposes, must’ve been enormous;

Did he and some Collectors, y’know... leading to the Titan Trappers, with Bill coming from one of the first generations? Or was the Trapper created by the Collectors? Given the similarities between witches and Titan Trappers, are they just the same species? JBO did release an in-universe poem a while back, written by a witch speculating on the origin of their species. Despite imploring King’s father for an answer, they get nothing, as usual. This could indicate the writers plan to touch up on this soon (that or it’s an unlived concept due to the shortening, so may as well share it here if nowhere).

It’d be interesting if demons were born of the Titans, and witches descended from Titan Trappers, born of the Collectors! After all, Hooty does create a distinction when mentioning that bipedal demons can also perform magic like witches, which suggests bile is more of a witch thing. And they say Titan magic cancels out that of the Collectors’... Is the magic of glyphs that of the Titans, and the magic of the bile from the Collectors, whom witches inherited this feature from? Quick I need an X-day for the Collector, stat-

Of course, we don’t see glyphs or the presence of the isles really do anything to counteract witches’ magic. Unless their magic used to be Collector-level, but over generations they evolved and acclimated to the Titan’s, which weakened it over time to our mortal scale. That’d be interesting, if demons started off using glyphs, and the switch to bile was introduced by witches, who probably had kids with demons, which led to the bipedal variants.

That’d be interesting, if Collector magic basically overtook that of the Titans’ through their descendants, creating a posthumous victory of sorts? Or not, since witches and demons naturally co-exist, possibly representing reconciliation in future generations as is foreshadowed with King and our Collector.

Since Luz’s glyphs are framed as a solution and work around to stuff like Eda’s curse, which is itself Collector magic, that could be rather symbolic... Esp since glyphs can bypass the coven bindings, which are likely Collector-derived too! The author of that ‘Unauthorized History of the Boiling Isles’ book speculated witches evolved magic from exposure to the Titan, but in reality they probably didn’t evolve to use the Titan’s, but instead worked from another source entirely! The reintroduction of glyphs might serve as a way for the Titans to live on past the Collectors’ genocide, as does the survival of King!

Also, our poem from JBO speculates that witches came from the eyes of King’s dad. And since we last ended off here, with the Collector...

Who knows? We might get some lore on the origins of witches after all (as well as Grimwalkers for Hunter, directly below), with the Collector able to explain how his disc was imprisoned in the skull! Maybe...

[tathrin]

I’ve been working on that LotR Zombie AU that I talked about a while ago, and it’s been fun! I’m actually several chapters in, and still enjoying it mightily, so I’ll hopefully start actually posting it soon but.

I keep going back-and-forth on whether or not I want to include this chapter or not. It’s pure exposition scene-setting, and while I enjoyed writing it and it was very helpful initially when I was figuring out the background for it all, it’s mostly exposition that gets covered better in other places now.

And I just can’t find a good place to insert it. I keep moving it around in between other chapters, and every time I’m like “yes, there, it fits there”...until I change my mind and move it again. So I think it might be time to just admit that it doesn’t fit anywhere, and cut it completely.

But before I do that, I figure I might as well share it with all of you:

It started, at least in Mirkwood, when the king came home. He was dead, of course; had been dead for three thousand years at that point. The world had changed so much in the years since his death that he would have barely recognized it—had he been conscious enough to see the lands he walked through. But he wasn't; he was dead.

He was Dead, and the Dead followed after.

Oropher, and Gilthawen, and Rhosslas, and Teithion, and Hebinastor, and all the others who had died with their king in the land of Mordor where the shadows lie. It started when the dead came home.

Their bodies should have rotted away to nothing long ago, nothing but the ghosts of dead faces staring up unseeing forever out of the fetid waters. They should have; but the Necromancer who had ruled that dark land, who had clawed his way out of his own grave more than once before, had left a mark on Mordor too deep to be erased even by his own destruction.

He had been a craftsman, after all, that maia once called Sauron and once called Mairon and even, once, named Annatar. He had been a craftsman, and his favorite medium was souls.

Perhaps someone should have worried more about those bodies in the Dead Marshes outside the land of Mordor. Perhaps someone should have worried sooner about the way their faces did not fade from the foul waters, even when their flesh was centuries gone.

Perhaps someone should have remembered that “Necromancer” had been one of the names by which he had been known, too. Perhaps someone should have remembered why.

The bodies in the Dead Marshes had drained to dust and rot centuries ago, leaving nothing but dead echoes rippling in the water. But that water lay outside a Necromancer's lair, in lands that had been long poisoned by his arts. Dead and gone they were, those Men and Dwarves and Elves and Orcs who had died fighting there so long ago; dead and gone and rotting…

But even dead, the echoes of their souls endured. Trapped, corrupted, their spirits rotting from within, they endured. And, eventually, they Rose.

The Risen Dead were no army to be commanded by the Wraiths who held dominion over the ruin of Mordor now. Their unliving corpses were driven only by hunger for life, for flesh.

Many of the Dead eventually followed the smell and sound and flickering lights of a great city to Minas Tirith, and there they fell on the white walls of Gondor's great capital first in a trickle and then as a tide. By the time the city knew to shut its gates, death was already inside the walls. An army of the dead stands there now—frothing and snapping, moaning with mindless hunger—outside the walls they cannot breach, while the few who slipped inside before the gates were shut lurch and spread through the winding tiers of the city so that Minas Tirith rots from within.

Others scattered, wandering off in whatever direction their lifeless eyes turned to in pursuit of any whisper of life that caught their senseless attention enough to draw them onwards. The Dead are everywhere now, found far beyond the reach of the rotting legs of those first corpses, for their infection spreads even faster than they do: it passes silently through air and water, undetected, not strong enough to kill…but inescapable, too. Now those dead who die in Middle-earth by other means Rise as well, and they spread the infection ever onwards in a growing wave of corpses and moans.

But Oropher…Oropher came back to Mirkwood.

Some said it was Dol Guldur looming like a lodestone, drawing the Dead. Others said it was because even in death, the forest still called her old king home.

Whatever the reason, he came, and Death followed with him.

Oropher came home, and the Rising began.

[theherdofturtles]

Fandom: Hetalia Prompt: Worked themselves to exhaustion Rating: G Word Count: 2570 I whumped England but I actually whumped Ireland. England works himself to exhaustion because he makes bad life choices, Ireland begrudgingly picks up the pieces because England's life choices also affect the people around him. @badthingshappenbingo

Usually when Éire showed up at England's place in the middle of the night, he showed up to return to himself the things which England had stolen from him over the years.

Éire got a kick out of giving England no part in the transaction. It was a turning of tables long overdue... so, silent as the night, he’d take his things and leave no trace of himself.

He'd retrieve an old sword, a king's crown, his wand their mother had given him, his henri hippo money box... the usual objects his kleptomaniac of a little brother had seen and somehow immediately sensed that this, this had sentimental value attached, and dragged far misplaced from the original steward.

Usually when Éire showed up at England's place in the middle of the night, he would slip through the window. The old dusty one behind the garden rose bush, the one which had lost all its screws, which England still hadn't realised, and the same one which had lost the short decorative awning lip over the top to small faerie teeth. The window had a sideways damaged flair— that was why England planted the rose bush in the first place.

He was terrible at hiding the problems he refused to fix.

And Éire had gotten deftly skilled at dealing with the hurricane of problems left in the wake of what his youngest brother refused to fix.

But tonight was different even if his entry stayed the same.

Éire slipped into England's house with feather-feet. The storage closet heaps around him absorbed sound between their packed boxes, keeping him secret as if they, too, were on his side, begging to be rescued from the dust-forgotten corners of England's dragon hoard.

His fingers wrapped around the knotted bour wand in his pocket to retrieve the tool. A spell whispered under his breath caused a warm faerie glow to light like a firefly from the tip.

Then, stepping light-pawed around the boxes, Éire continued soundlessly. In the dark he was obscured: a lanky man dressed in brown tweed wool, a narrow movement between narrow spaces that moved a swift pace in a cat-like-gait.

He manoeuvred to leave the closet and he entered England's relatively new house. 

The halls were stoic to his presence as usual. They were oddly protective of the ugly deep green imitation of toxic Victorian wallpaper they drowned in, but the sheer number of paintings, posters, framed letters, photographs, and swords hanging over the painful paper drowned even the wall's colour.

Éire disliked this house less than he disliked the last one.

This house, particularly, had only actually been England's house for a few decades. The new residence was government owned rather than having been gifted to him by royals, which was almost a plus for Éire. See, after England’s last home had been rendered unliveable as it was a bombed, fifty room, bleed-your-taxes-out, museum of a pile of rubble, the UK authorities had leapt at the chance to shove him into a smaller, twenty room, bleed-due-to-your-housing-crisis-out, hoarders' paradise of an estate.

In Éire's opinion, the 'house' could probably squeeze five Westminsters and the Palace in it if England threw away his hoard.

Which, to him, meant the ‘house’ was way too large to justify one man living in it... the UK authorities should move his things into a museum or send them back to their owners and put him in a normal house like all the other privileged Britons.

And each of his brothers had been plushily treated to the same British bribery while Éire still lived on the same stoney island he'd claimed since Vikings would knock down his door. No one could make him budge.

He didn't understand why his siblings had all stumbled after similar impractical lifestyles.

Éire whispered a second spell under his breath, an old one he'd created, "dul sa tóir ar dhuine namhad." 

He flicked his fingers to his shoes, flicking magic as if it were water. The leather shoes absorbed the words and whispered back, d'aimsigh mé an deargnamhaid.

They began to walk and Éire trusted their direction.

Two things happened at once after a nice stroll through England's hoard.

Éire rounded a corner with cozy fire-feet.

A fizzle of sparkling firecracker-green wizzed by his head.

The crackling spark missed him by a lot. It struck a poor undeserving photograph of a horse and immediately splintered the glass like a shrieking spiderweb.

So that was how the little dragon was today...

Éire's magic smoothed an immediate fire-gold shield in front of himself.

England let loose a string of curses.

"Watch your magic. And your aim. That was horrendous on every front," Éire said.

His littlest brother cursed again.

He looked worse than he'd looked several days ago when Éire'd last seen him. England might've been attempting a furious glare, but the bags under his eyes were taking all of Éire's attention, and Éire couldn't focus on anything else except the massive purple bandit bruising on his face.

My God... those bags were three times larger than usual. He looked like a raccoon.

It suited the greedy little bastard.

"Get out of my house!" England said. He swayed on his feet like a goblin fortress threatening to collapse in the wind. 

"No thank you," Éire didn't smirk as he usually would. He wasn't sure what was wrong with the little beast yet, and he felt he should know before he began kicking anthills.

"What's got you leasing brain power into the void this week?" Éire said sceptically. "Three days ago, you missed your queue to imitate a frazzled pup when I called your latest political stunt the world's most irrelevant tantrum. Then you said, 'thank you' when I tossed a note containing a list of GIS data demands in the general direction of your head."

England narrowed his eyes. 

He looked deeply concentrated.

Then, "sorry," he said

Sorry? Éire almost laughed, because that was the wrong answer.

England must be feeling economically sick already to be that delirious. England didn’t say ‘sorry’ to him, ever.

"I'll ask Scot to write your obituary if he hasn't started already." Now Éire smirked. "Do you have a fever? Immediate global backlash? Investors betting on your poor choices? Well well well, consequences of your own actions." He was going to sprinkle salt in England's wound just to watch him squirm.

"Please get out of my house."

"Your house? Could've sworn I stood on public land. British taxpayers bought this place-"

"I don't have time to fight you tonight!" England growled. He stomped, but it was a weak stomp, and he nearly stumbled with the motion.

This pulled Éire off his elusive high horse and back onto his original mission, which was to make sure England wouldn't kneel over dead. A ruin of fun, really, but there was an unfortunate responsibility that came with being the eldest of four magical island men without a mother in sight.

"Are you drunk as well as sick?" Éire asked.

"What?"

"Are. You. Drunk?" Éire pronounced each word clearly and slowly for England's aid.

England's wrinkled raccoon peepers widened slightly and he shook his head adamantly. "Why'd you always think 'm drunk." He sounded genuinely puzzled and upset.

"It's a Saturday night, you're alone, yesterday you were withdrawn. Believe it or not, Arthur, you're an incredibly habitual creature."

"I'm not drunk!" 

"You're like a toddler trying to bike without stabilisers."

"Leave!" England boldly moved forward. Very pathetically he tried to push Éire.

His bones were fish floppy, his feet were flippered messes without stance, and his resolve faded before Éire could bother lowering his magical barrier to help England save his dignity.

"This is the worst attempt you've ever put forth in controlling me; this should earn you tears." 

Even in this poor state, England was desperately clutching filing cabinets and alphabetized dictionaries. Éire was a wild card no matter how desperately England attempted to tame him into his perfectly organised box of a universe. But this? This was a particularly resigned attempt to settle his order.

England's grip loosened and he wobbled more, steadied himself, and drooped. He was a staggering drunk.

He dropped further as if gravity had grabbed his shoulders and tugged him eagerly for a hug. 

"England, are you drunk?" He asked again. He was sterner and teasing in the same tone.

England didn't respond this time.

Was the little bastard going to kneel over and die? 

Éire... didn't know how to feel about that. He'd need at least a week to ponder whether to sing and dance or sacrifice a single tear or do both at once during his funeral.

Suddenly England's droop sloppily straightened, his fingers glowed a magic green, and Éire's barricade prepared to take another missed shot.

England's hand waved up at his own head as he muttered 'wake' at himself.

The green glow fizzled over England before sinking into his skin.

Immediately his littlest brother straightened fully. His eyes glazed sharp. His face contorted angerly as a mask over his tiredness.

"I'm not drunk, thank you very much, dear brother."

You had got to be kidding...

He was just sleep deprived?

And cursed?!

A magical method to force wakefulness didn't negate the necessity of sleeping!

"You're cursing yourself!" Éire accused. 

"Jealous?" England taunted.

"Of sleepless torture? Why would I be?!"

"That you didn't get to curse on me by your own hand," England clarified. He sneered in his ugly pug-face way which always made Éire want to swing a nice left hook into his flat Saxon skull.

The purple sagging under his eyes made Éire think twice about pummelling him. He was already pummelling himself.

"I can solve that problem and curse you now, you little bastard," Éire flicked his wand upwards. The wand summoned an opaque white fog of faerie dreams which twirled, misted, and glinted, in small, dreary loops around his wrist, ready to curse England into a deep sleep.

Alarmed, England put a few feet of distance between them.

"No, no, no you can't do that, I forbid you!" His hands waved up as if they could shield him.

"Oh yes I can." Éire grinned sharply. "You can't forbid me from anything."

"I'm not done working needs to be done before tomorrow I've a deadline another stack of documents— this pertains to you! This is interests you!" England shouted.

Éire lifted his chin. 

Clever intentional little bastard. Manipulative baby brother. Lying kid.

"Really?" He said, tilting his head. England brightened.

"Yes, very important," he gestured mindlessly at his desk, "this needs to be-"

Éire flicked the faerie fog off his tangle-bore wand into England's face.

England fell like a stack of bricks.

"You forgot that I don't care for your words," Éire told the soundly sleeping English lump. "... but, er, sorry mum," he mumbled as an afterthought. She never liked it when they fought. 

Éire stepped over England's sleeping form and strolled over to England's desk to check what he'd been forcing himself awake to finish.

A stack of documents lined one side. A smaller stack lined the other side. Highlighted on the paper in the centre of his desk was an EU document.

So... England was starting to fill out his divorce papers.

Éire would chuckle to himself if he wasn't tied to his brother's fate. The deadlines were indeed short, England might've been working for days without sleep if he wasn't being helped with all these documents.

Éire picked up a page and flicked the thing straight before reading aloud.

"The bilateral arrangements between the Union and the United Kingdom under the Protocol do not give rise to rights and obligations for third countries," he read the part circled next to a note scribbled illegibly.

Ouch... England getting labelled a 'third country' by the EU was exactly the cold shoulder which England had signed up for. It was different to see it first hand, though.

"Consequently, any imports pursuant to Union import tariff rate quotas or other import quotas applying to goods originating in a third country that are brought into Northern Ireland..." Éire paused as he focused much deeper into the document, "cannot be counted towards that third country’s rights vis-à-vis the Union, unless agreed by the third country. That situation poses a risk to the proper functioning of the Union’s internal market and the integrity of the Common Commercial Policy by allowing the possible circumvention of the Union’s tariff rate quotas or other import quotas."

England hadn't lied.

This was about him and his Union membership.

That made Éire feel odd. The little dragon's whole mouth was silver, to have heard him actually use the truth as his defence was weird.

This wasn't just England's battle, how'd England not bring this up to him three days ago? The foot Éire still had toward his little brother's United Kingdom would cause scruples over import and export tariffs as goods flowed freely without strict regulation between all of Éire's land regardless to which side it belonged. It was a tentative measure to ensure peace.

Dealing with that without contacting him? Ridiculous.

The fact that this made space for squabbling between England and his fresh break with the Union meant England should be meeting with Éire more often about this topic at hand. The Union wouldn't like how plausibly England could escape tariffs by utilising Éire's scar.

And if the Union got their ideal way, England might be further split from Éire's Northern half by regulation. The ordeal depended on how this particular negotiation ended. It wouldn't be a wise choice to put a customs border in the middle of Éire, as reinforcements of his split would call back to more violent times in his history.

But a customs border on the Irish sea would put Éire fully a fence away from the United Kingdom, separating his North half from their main source of imports.

Éire hummed and tapped two fingers to the corner of his mouth.

This... was a stick poking a delicate tower of cards. Éire could sense tension and riot material already.

Loyalists and Nationalists, back at it again with bricks and sticks and fire wicks.

No fun. Especially for Éire.

"You've tripped me for the thousandth time," Éire said to his sleeping brother. The thorn in his side always, the deep splinter in his foot which his own mother had made. England honestly couldn't help but jump off a cliff and knock Éire over in the process. 

England: professional discord sewer. 

An ironic situation considering England spent every second of his life attempting to control and sort everything into his own perfect order.

Éire sighed.

"If you didn't exist there'd be nothing on earth that could keep me humble. I might've been king. Let's get you to a proper bed," he begrudgingly told the little bastard. He was going to drag him over every stair-step like he and his other siblings did when England was passed-out drunk.

Then, he was going to make him sleep for three days before he lifted the spell. Mainly, because Éire didn't want to deal with him; secondly, when Éire did deal with him, he should be well rested and thinking with a clear head. This was his fight before it should be England's, but England had a part to play and he’d better play well. Éire wouldn't take the consequences of England's choices without driving his stake into the ground first.

[whump-card]

Forged Divinity: Masterlist

It's the distant future. The civilizations we know are long gone. The majority of what was once the US is now a nigh-unlivable desert. The remaining northeastern population clusters around the shrunken St Lawrence River. Christian fanaticism runs rampant.

Leannan is a concubine descended from a fallen angel, the last of his kind, immune to disease and not quite human, tasked by the will of God to serve his masters and bring them pleasure.

So he thinks, anyway.

Phineas is an accomplished bounty hunter with a rare gun and a rarer streak of luck. They steal Leannan, and see in him their ticket to power - but not before getting attached.

One dead king later and Leannan thinks he's scored big by becoming the whore-on-call for a dictatorial Council, but Phineas' plans don't stop there.

Will Phineas achieve their lofty aspirations? Will Leannan survive the Council to see them? And when things go wrong, will anyone come to save them?

Forged Divinity is a 53.9k word original fic. Blanket warnings for religious themes, institutionalized slavery, eugenics, abuse, noncon, dubcon, and an open/downer ending. And Google Translate.

Completed!

As a final note, Forged Divinity is very... uh... different from what I've put out previously. If it's not for you, no sweat!

Part 1: We Have a King to Kill

Chapter 1: Phineas Acquires Leannan

Chapter 2: Phineas Kills Some Bandits

Chapter 3: Phineas Strikes a Deal

Chapter 4: Leannan Talks Back

Chapter 5: Leannan Falls in a Hole

Chapter 6: Leannan Has Some Thoughts

Chapter 7: Leannan Meets an Old Master

Chapter 8: Leannan Has a Time of It

Chapter 9: Leannan Meets James

Part 2: This Place Was Supposed to be Perfect

Chapter 10: Leannan Meets Jeanette

Chapter 11: Leannan Hears a Book

Chapter 12: Phineas Plays With Leannan

Chapter 13: Leannan Befriends Maeve

Chapter 14: Enjolras Shows Up

Chapter 15: Leannan Breaks a Vow

Chapter 16: Enjolras Interrupts

Chapter 17: Leannan Learns the Plan

Chapter 18: Phineas Fucks Everything Up

Chapter 19: Leannan Gets a New Name

Chapter 20: Leannan Has a Panic Attack

Chapter 21: Leannan Makes a Choice

Part 3: Welcome to Goat Island

Chapter 22: Enjolras Puts Everyone to Bed

Chapter 23: Enjolras has a Misunderstanding

Chapter 24: Enjolras and Leannan Chat

Chapter 25: Leannan Comes Home

Chapter 26: Leannan Learns the Truth

Chapter 27: Leannan Fucks Everything Up

Chapter 28: Leannan is Miserable

Chapter 29: Phineas Makes a Threat

Special thanks to @angst-after-dark and @sunshiline-writes for beta reading!

SEQUEL:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Additional links:

Esperanto to English

Picrews

[suiseisyojo]

skip, step, turn♪

「tenshouin eichi x vivian // kiteichi」 ↳ commission for @yumebait ! wc: 1842 a/n: yay more kieichi! some angst lingering between the lines, but i hope you enjoy all the same! thank you for commissioning me, viv!

“Eichi—Eichi, are you awake?”

Wispy and nearly muted, Vivian called out to her childhood friend settled next to her in the king-sized bed; and when she heard silence, she knew she had to make the venture out of the bedroom alone.

The incredibly daunting venture.

What if she ran into one of Eichi’s family members? Or the on-site staff? They’ll look at her like she’s a nugatory bug worth no more than the dirt beneath their shoes as they always do whenever their haughty eyes meet hers.

Swallowing anxiously, the seam of her throat exacerbating in dryness, Vivian slowly slipped out from underneath the covers and left the only safe spot she knew in this mansion.

Vivian still hadn’t retained the layout of Eichi’s capacious home, and she knew for a fact that she was going to get lost at some point.

Crystals and ornate glass sculptures reflected purity all around her—or rather, perhaps, it was a lack thereof as it all felt so hollow. Even if her countenance was mirrored in the pellucid ornaments, Vivian surmised it didn’t seem right because she knew that Eichi truly doesn’t feel at home here.

Continuing to wander the contrived hallways with a sense of wonderment for the decorations, trying to navigate each lengthy stretch, Vivian felt utterly hopeless.

All she wanted was a glass of water⋯!

Vivian peered into a random room, discerning what appeared to be a bedroom within—although it seemed as if it was memorialised with the clear tarpaulins enveloping each piece of furniture. It clearly hadn’t been used in a long, long time.

And she kept discovering more and more rooms like that.

The entire house felt so empty, unlived in. The thought made Vivian sad, believing that even Eichi’s home imitated the vacant hospitals he was often confined to against his own will. Were all rich people so thoughtless with their homes? Aren’t homes supposed to parallel a feeling of solace and closeness?

Upon meandering some more, Vivian made her way into a grandiose room—veneered on the walls were ostentatious designs of unbridled luxury, golden and white in colour. Of course. Multiple chandeliers were casted from the high-rise ceiling; it was almost too much.

With the beams of moonlight filtering through the diaphanous curtains, Vivian for a moment felt like an itinerant princess in olden fairy tales.

Ambling into the middle of the space, Vivian couldn’t help but twirl fatuously to revel in the ambiance that would never belong to her. Yet the daydream was interrupted by the creaking of the doors, the clamour resounding and echoing not only throughout the room, but in the crevice of her chest.

Preparing to throw herself to the floor in shame and apols, Vivian scrutinised Eichi as the one stepping inside. Wasn’t he asleep?

“Vivian, here you were,” Eichi laughed, padding into the ballroom to come closer to her, “I woke up and you weren’t there. I was lonely, you know.”

“Not worried?” Vivian bantered back with a sheepish chortle, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she realised he caught her playing around like a child.

“Well, I know you’d be safe in the Tenshouin home, so no; I wasn’t worried♪” Eichi said as he marvelled at her alluring movements, the sight of her embarrassed visage made his skin tingle with a featherlike ripple.

Once Eichi reached her side, Vivian could perceive the lurid exhaustion rimming his blue irises; and she thought that he shouldn’t have gotten up to look for, even if the gesture made her nerves burst with exultation. 

“I see you found the ballroom.”

“Are you sure you don’t live in a castle?”

Shaking his head, Eichi swept his gaze upwards; an almost wistful glisten shining in his eyes. “It must feel like that to you. What do you think? Do you like it?”

There seemed to be some sort of implication in his question, with how he spoke it so subduedly and yet with a barely concealed yearning.

“Do I like it? Well, I don’t think it matters?” Vivian softly began, although she knew she always dreamed of being like a real princess⋯ walking through the halls earlier just made her sick to her stomach. “I think I’d only like it if you were constantly by my side.”

Quickly, Vivian realised what nuance those words might’ve held, and got flustered over the notion that Eichi might catch on to the wrong idea. “L-Like, or a staff member? Who needs big hallways like that to make yourself just feel smaller, you know?!”

A gale of effervescent laughter oozed from Eichi’s vocals, the noise resonating with Vivian’s timorous feelings and making her heart flutter. “That’s a good way to put it,” Eichi couldn’t help but affirm her thoughts, “it’s like imagining an idol on stage with no one in the audience.”

“That would never happen to you!” Vivian felt the overwhelming need to reassure Eichi, a firm and staunch worry laced in her voice; so completely protective over his well-being. “I’d always be watching you! I promise!”

A genuine smile curved on Eichi’s lips as his precious childhood friend avowed her loyalty to his career; to him.

Eichi strode further into the ballroom, admiring it for all that it is—and isn’t. A snapshot of a desolate venue coruscated across his vision, his gut twisting with wretched inquietude. For Eichi, it wasn’t only himself he concerned himself with⋯ it was all idols.

“That makes me happy. I’d be able to give it my all if you were in the audience at every performance,” airy and light, Eichi said that to her; another heap of a faraway longing glazing over his eyes. “But I know it’s impossible for you to be at every single one as much as I wish for it.”

Feeling her heart squeeze, Vivian made a silent pledge to herself to do her best to fulfil that wish—even if it seemed impossible. After all, the princesses in every fairy tale always find a way! Although, maybe her role was better fitted for the loyal sidekick⋯⋯

“What’s with that sad expression, Vivian?”

“O-Oh, nothing⋯!” Vivian hastily dismissed his solicitousness, before saying, “We should head back to bed, right? It’s not good for you to be missing sleep like this.” 

“You got up from bed for a reason, didn’t you? Besides, I heard that staying up late to cause chaos is commonplace for sleepovers, fufu♪” Eichi was insouciant, impervious to the concern in her words and she didn’t know why.

“I just wanted a glass of water,” Vivian shyly laughed at the thought. “I ended up finding this place instead.”

For a moment, Eichi looked lost in thought.

“Before we head back, why don’t we take advantage of having the ballroom to ourselves?” Eichi queried, extending out a hand to her, “Usually it’s filled with both familiar and unfamiliar faces; strangers I’m supposed to pretend to know, when I never truly will.”

That statement along only accentuated the loneliness Vivian knew Eichi was endlessly plagued with, and she reached forward on a rupture of courage to seize his hand into her own as he offered it. “I-I don’t really remember a lot of the fancy dance moves you taught me, but I’d love to dance with you, Eichi!”

Those were the words he wanted to hear.

“We don’t have anyone to play music for us, so I’ll hum, how does that sound?” Eichi asked whilst gently pulling Vivian back into the middle of the dance floor.

Nodding her head eagerly, Vivian chirped, “Perfect! Your singing voice is so pretty anyway.”

Vivian was sincere in her plaudit, trying her best to stave off the embarrassment beginning to swell in her gut as she felt Eichi press his body against hers.

Guiding her hands around him, placing them on his shoulder and into her hand, Eichi leaned down and whispered in her ear, hot breath fanning over the shuddering lobe, “Are you ready?”

Humming once she quietly voiced her willingness, Eichi’s euphonious and mellow voice filled the room; imbuing grace and pulchritude in the clefts of solitude and emptiness.

The two of them were garbing their pyjamas in the middle of an exalted ballroom, streams of glorious moonlight highlighting their frames as they slowly began to move together in tandem with Eichi’s beats.

There was something so cherished and splendid about the scene.

And for a moment, with the light shining upon his mien, Vivian thought she saw Eichi blushing. Was he feeling just as self-conscious as she was? Being this close to Eichi in such an intimate setting⋯ it made her heart take flight. Was that weird of her? But what if he was feeling the same? No way⋯ they’re just friends.

“Ah, Vivian, it’s a step back here,” Eichi genteely corrected her, albeit she heard a tincture of mirth underscoring his tone. As if he was covertly amused by her faults.

“I-It is⋯?!” she squeaked, desperately trying to fix her posture and steps. How many times had Eichi taught her this simple dance? And yet she can never get it right. It wasn’t her fault, she thought, having him stare at her with such rapt attention as they dance was making her too tense and nervous. “Sorry⋯”

“Fufu, don’t apologise. It’s cute to watch you being all fidgety♪” Eichi’s voice is hushed in the air as he took a cursory moment to respond to her, his singing stopping; yet he was still able to guide her immaculately as if it never did stop at all.

Beneath her flustered state, Vivian couldn’t help but be in awe at how impressive Eichi was. Even though he looks patently exhausted, he’s still able to effortlessly swirl her around to perfection whilst talking; balancing all that on himself.

“Geez, d-don’t call me that!”

“Cute? But you are,” Eichi innocently remarked, although he was anything but. “Can’t someone compliment his favourite friend?”

Ah, right. Stop getting ahead of yourself, Vivian. She chastised herself, telling herself it was completely normal for friends to compliment each other. As a plethora of thoughts gyrated in Vivian’s head, it only magnified her diffidence.

Abruptly, and not in accordance with the dance he taught her, Eichi spun Vivian and dipped her; displaying his strength, discombobulating her and causing her to yelp.

“You’re making that face again, Vivian,” Eichi started, almost tentatively, and kept her suspended in the air as he supported her with all his might. “I suppose it’s rude to comment so often on a lady’s appearance, though. I’m sorry.”

But for Eichi, it was difficult. He was ceaselessly paying attention to Vivian’s diverging faces and expressions, but he could never tell her why.

Bringing her back onto her feet, Eichi wondered why the distance between them suddenly felt so large. Their bodies were flush against one another, with Eichi feeling her heat and how the fabric of their silken pyjamas slid together with every motion they make together, yet he couldn’t reach into her mind; her heart.

This home of his is truly lonely, isn’t it?

[thebibliomancer]

Essential Avengers: Avengers #282: CAPTIVES

August, 1987

Prisoners of the GODS!

In one sense, prisoners of the gods, yes, that is going on. The Avengers are clearly imprisoned by one or more gods.

But did you ever consider that from the gods’ perspective, its a gotta catch ‘em all of the Avengers?

I mean, Neptune (geez Marvel, stick to either Roman or Greek pantheons ffs) went out of his way to catch Namor and Namor hasn’t been on the team since before the Masters of Evil thing.

That’s completionist energy.

Wait... is the Collector behind this? Yeah, he died but when has that ever stopped anyone in comics for long?

ANYWAY

Last times on Avengers: the Masters of Evil attacked the Avengers and managed to smash up the mansion and beat Hercules into a coma. There was a roster shake up as Thor and She-Hulk cycled back in, Dr Druid joined for some reason, Wasp went on a well-deserved vacation, and Hercules was in a coma.

That last point is the sticking point of this arc, it seems. Because Hermes kidnapped Hercules out of the hospital and then lured Thor to Olympus so Hephaestus and Ares could beat him up. While Hermes, Dionysus, and Artemis beat up the Avengers on Earth, partially by tricking She-Hulk into eating a drugged cherry Italian ice.

With the Avengers sufficiently beat the shit up, Zeus appeared to tell them they were on his shit list for letting Hercules make bad decisions and get beaten into a coma.

And rather than seek revenge on the ones who did the beating, Zeus is taking it out on the Avengers.

Because Zeus is a dick.

The story continues!

The story continues with Namor minding his own business for a change, just enjoying hanging out with his new wife Marrina (oh hey, congrats!) when the ocean goes nuts with the shaking.

Namor saves some people that rocks fell on and then swims out with Marrina to investigate.

They notice some Atlantean refugees fleeing and go to help them because they’re the cool guys brave enough to join Namor in exile rather than live in Attuma ruled Atlantis.

But then Neptune pops up out of the ground, yells at Namor for questioning his will when Namor asks about the earthseaquakes, and then drags Namor down to hell.

Saying “that happened” can be a cheap joke but really, the Atlantean refugees and Marrina standing around looking at the crack in the ground that a god popped out of and then sank back into after kidnapping their king has peak “that happened” energy.

Of course, I was joking about Neptune dragging Namor to hell.

He brings him to Hades instead.

Because god of oceans, he can just pop right out of the River Styx.

Neptune expresses some regret that things gotta be how they’re being and that Namor deserves better than this (open to debate). Why, if it weren’t for Neptune’s covenant with Zeus, Neptune never would have reverse raptured Namor to Hades.

But the brotherly covenant is a thing so Neptune turns Namor over to Cerberus to bring to Pluto.

EXCEPT HOLD ON

THIS INDIVIDUAL MAY BE CALLED CERBERUS BUT HE IS NO CERBERUS OF MINE!

Greek god dammit, Stan Lee and Jack Kirby, are there no monsters of myth you won’t just turn into a grimacing dude in Kirbarian armor??

Boo!

Anyway.

Namor comes to while I Refuse To Call Him Cerberus is hauling him across the dismal fields of Hades like a sack of damp potatoes.

The Abstastic Avenger slips loose and tries to choke Not Cerberus with his shackles despite the dude wearing a helmet that covers his throat. And Cerberus just breaks the chain anyway so the whole exercise was a little pointless.

Well, almost pointless.

Namor was looking for answers and he got answers and stepped on to boot.

Namor: Tell me now -- who are you? Where am I? Why have I been brought here? Speak!”

Not Cerberus: “You think to threaten Cerberus?! Truly you are bereft of all reason! Know ye, mortal, that Cerberus is guardian of Hades, land of the unliving! ‘Tis there you be... by the grace of my Master Pluto and the will of Zeus!”

Namor throws Not Cerberus off of himself and then decides that really what he needs to do now is take a nice refreshing dip.

Except the nearest water is the River Styx and its full of monsters and it flows into the River Phlegethon WHICH IS ON FIRE!

He’s having a bad time.

Namor washes up unconscious on the shore observed by a shadowy figure.

But this is apparently one of those beneficent shadowy figures because when Namor regains consciousness again, he finds that his shackles are gone and burns that should have taken months to heal have gone away with a quick nap.

(Is Namor an JRPG character?)

(No.)

The shadowy figure introduces himself, or rather doesn’t introduce himself, but at least announces his presence and explains to Namor that he healed him with various poultices.

Oh, I see. Just an ordinary doctor passing by, is it?

The mysterious cloaked figure who pointedly does not tell Namor his name also tells Namor that he was brought to Hades to join the Avengers in captivity and WOULDN’T YOU KNOW IT, the Avengers are being held in the garrison of the accursed Fortress Tartarus just to the right.

Can’t miss it.

Then the mysterious cloaked figure vanishes into the mists rather than answer any more questions.

Mysterious cloaked figure, vanishing into the mists: “I can say no more. The fate of the Avengers now depends on you! Do not fail them, Namor... do not fail”

I guess people don’t become mysterious cloaked and/or shadowy figures unless they love drama.

Anyway.

Namor heads to the doom fortress and finding no entrances makes one by punching the crap out of a drainage duct.

Where he immediately runs into some soldiers of Hades. Who he immediately beats up because he’s Namor. He also steals the armor off of one because yes, we’re going full... whatever you call this. Death Star infiltration? Its a trope and it definitely predates Star Wars.

Before long, Armored Variant Namor finds the deepest dungeon that the Avengers are being held in.

And I guess the order of the day is just random torture? The gods beat up the Avengers and threw them to Hades and now they’re just being randomly tortured?

Captain America is attached to a big wheel, Dr Druid is here for some reason and hanging from shackles, Captain Marvel is in a metal sarcophagus which is blocking her powers, and in an effective but cruel twist She-Hulk is chained to Black Knight.

Maybe the dungeons of Hades didn’t have anything strong enough to hold her but by chaining her to Black Knight, they made it so the only way She-Hulk can bust herself loose is to tear Black Knight in half.

Afraid of the torturers using the imprisoned Avengers as hostages, Namor pretends he’s just another guard who wants to steal the spoils for himself.

He punches all the guards who are pawing over what they took from the Avengers, claims that its all his now, and dismissively throws away Cap(tain America)’s shield as gaudy.

It just so happens that the throw bonks the shield off the chains holding She-Hulk and Black Knight together but nobody notices that over what a dick disguised Namor is being.

His secret superpower is taking up so much oxygen in the room that nobody notices anything but ‘and now here’s this asshole.’

The torturer that was about to torture Black Knight goes to attack disguised Namor with Black Knight’s blade but freed by the shield bonk, Black Knight does that thing he can do that he doesn’t get enough chances to do.

He summons the extremely cursed Ebony Blade out of the torturer’s hands and into his own. And then he knocks out the torturer with the flat of the blade.

While She-Hulk joins disguised Namor in beating the crap out of the guards, Black Knight rushes over to cut Cap(tain America) loose from the big wheel. But Cap(tain America) tells him to free Cap(tain Marvel) first instead.

In fairness, she’s maybe their biggest gun.

Black Knight figures that the metal sarcophagus is probably enchanted to contain Monica but luckily Black Knight’s extremely cursed sword can cut through it.

Captain Marvel is ready to get some revenge for being locked in a box but She-Hulk and Namor didn’t leave any guards left unpunched.

But the breakout isn’t complete as Dr Druid notices that Thor isn’t in this dungeon so now they gotta go find him.

Of course, that just makes Namor wonder ‘hey actually what the here is going on here?’

Because he still has no idea what the plot is. He’s just been acting on punchstinct.

Of also course, the Avengers had no idea they were in Hades so everyone is a little surprised right now.

Captain Marvel does her Avengers chairperson duty of expositing the previous issue, to fill in Namor.

Actually though, the recap is only one panel and one additional narrative caption. The rest of the flashback is new content.

Pretty neat although it does mean that the entire previous issue gets smooshed down to ‘Hercules’ family ambushed us and took us to Olympus so Zeus could yell at us. What a dick.’

And yeah, what a dick.

When Zeus blames the Avengers for Hercules’ condition, Captains America and Marvel defend themselves by saying it was Hercules’ own dumbass that got his dumb ass beaten to near death.

Which... maybe not the best tone to take to a grieving, vengeful father?

Zeus: “Lies! I have learned how Hercules suffered your taunts and torments! I will not hear the lies of mortals!”

Thor suggests that maybe the truth will sound more believable coming from a fellow god and longtime friend to Hercules like.... well, Thor.

But Zeus takes the bold move of claiming that Thor isn’t Thor because hey what’s with that new armor. Also, even if you are Thor, screw you Thor, mighty Zeus don’t listen to a god that’s “so servile to mortal beings”.

Thor gets angry at being called servile and just FLEXES out of his bonds, then runs over and punches Ares who had the misfortune of being the wrong extremely punchable face at the wrong time and place.

But Zeus just zaps Thor, which I presume freezes or knocks out Thor. Dunno, flashback ends.

Either way, that’s how they got from last issue to now. And the bonds the Olympians put on the Avengers prevented them from using their powers. The Olympians knocked them out and then next thing they knew, they were in a dungeon.

Namor blames himself for being absent because maybe if he’d been around, Hercules wouldn’t have gotten so hurt.

Which Black Knight dismisses as ‘no, dumbass would still have managed it.’

The Avengers run into a massive army of Hades’ soldiers? Goons? Guards?

Why does Hades have so many employees??

The Avengers start making short work of them because c’mon. They’re a faceless army of mooks. They exist to make the Avengers look cool.

She-Hulk even hits one dude with another dude.

The only thing they have going for them is numbers. Thousands of numbers.

But that’s just a ‘don’t let them surround you but do keep doing your cool moves’ moment, not a ‘we should retreat because we’re massively outnumbered.’

Dr Druid even gets to make some of the warriors see an illusory image of him to get them to hit each other.

Pretty good.

I like that his powers require him to be a little creative.

Black Knight continues being a dude with a sword who doesn’t like hitting people with a sword. But he can hit other peoples’ weapons with your weapons to break their weapons.

The things that cannot be cut by his Ebony Blade, forged by Merlin, are next to none.

Captain America takes a moment out of punching dudes to watch Namor punch dudes and pines for him to rejoin the Avengers.

I swear, nobody likes Namor more than Captain America does.

And She-Hulk punches dudes but then grabs one and demands to know where Thor is.

This is the army of the dead so do they have anything to fear from her? I mean, aside from pain. Nobody wants to be punched by a Hulk multiple times.

Apparently the guy does tell She-Hulk where Thor is because the scene cuts to where Pluto is keeping him prisoner by having a giant rock block placed on top of him.

Is this comeuppance for all the people he’s pinned under Mjolnir?

Also, like many fictional depictions of Hades/Pluto, he is just a jerk.

Pluto: “It has been centuries since brother Zeus allowed me any new subjects to do with as I wish! Having you at my mercy is a treat far sweeter than this honeyed wine, Asgardian -- you’ve interfered with all too many of my plans!’

Dang, Pluto Hades hasn’t been the same since his wife left him, I assume.

(It’d be funny if Persephone was around and was like ‘you’re doing great, dear’)

The guy I will never acknowledge as Cerberus comes in and tells Pluto that Namor jumped into the Styx so is probably super dead and Pluto calls him an idiot for just assuming that a guy called the Sub-Mariner wouldn’t survive being dunked in a dangerous river.

Instantly proven correct because the Avengers and Namor bust in right after Pluto tells Not Cerberus to go find Namor. Namor and She-Hulk punch Cerberus and knock him out and right on top of Pluto.

Black Knight breaks the giant rock block on top of Thor with a pretty sweet sword throw and Captain Marvel CHOOMs Thor’s shackles off.

Captain America notes that Thor doesn’t seem alright lately and Thor decides to confide in his best mortal friends, the Avengers and also Dr Druid who is there for some reason.

You know the deal or should if you’ve read Walt Simonson’s run on Thor, which you should.

Thor: “The death-goddess Hela has put a curse ‘pon me... rendering my bones brittle and unable to heal, while granting me life eternal... so that I would have no escape from the pain! In recent days, I have known agony beyond imagining. I created this armor to hold together my shattered body, that I might still function as befits a son of Odin. I... regret I did not tell you this before.”

Pluto, who of course is still in the room and hasn’t even been too inconvenienced by having a not-giant not-doggo dropped on him comments that he wished he knew about Thor’s curse so that he could have arranged more painful accommodations than just putting a giant rock block on him.

Thor warns that Pluto’s power is second only to that of Zeus (wow, get fucked Neptune Poseidon I guess) which the Avengers doubt until Pluto shoots some pew pew blasts at them.

Its not really selling the second only to Zeus who is equivalent of Odin thing even if he says he’s trying to torment them, not kill.

Either way, Captain Marvel blasts the ground so Pluto loses his footing and then everyone RUN AWAYYYYY on her command.

Fall back, technically. Its the more tactical version of FLEEEE but either way its a retreat which Namor hates but does anyway.

And She-Hulk busts the door on her way out so it’ll be harder for Pluto to chase them.

Because yes definitely the room only had one entrance and I bet he can’t just OH YEAH through the wall, being second only to Zeus and all.

Since Mjolnir is trapped on Olympus and none of the other Avengers have portal powers, the Avengers head towards the only path between Hades and Olympus.

THE PATHWAY OF INFINITY!

Its called a pathway, Thor calls it a bridge, and Black Knight calls it a stairway to heaven.

But it looks like a particularly wide ramp.

Cool of Olympus to be wheelchair accessible.

Maybe the grade is too steep? I really can’t tell.

The Avengers set up? down? the PATHWAY OF INFINITY! Thor tells Captain Marvel not to fly too high above the path because it is all the links the two realms of Hades and Olympus and to stray risks becoming lost in the abyss.

And Monica has gotten lost in an abyss enough for one life, thank you.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take Pluto long to catch up with his hell army and his giant hell tank and his giant hell tank blows up a portion of the bridge (he calls it a bridge. Can a pathway be a bridge? I swear, it looks like a ramp).

The Avengers all stand near the broken portion discussing how they don’t have time to fly or jump across before the army of Hades is upon them.

Maybe if you spent less time verbally establishing that fact and more time hustling?

Also, the bridge looks a lot less wide now for some reason.

Thor volunteers to stay behind and hold off the hell army.

Which has to be reminding him of something in his recent past. I mean. A bridge. A hell army. Is he thinking of Skurge right now? Thinking it should have been him instead?

Didn’t Skurge bonk him on the head and send him away with the others at the time because he felt Thor was less expendable? Could be a survivor’s guilt thing.

I don’t know if that was on Roger Stern’s mind when he was writing this though. Could be a coincidence.

Anyway, Captain Marvel, as leader, tells Thor fuck that idea. They’re not leaving anyone behind.

Captain Marvel: “Stand or fall, we’re all in this together!”

Thor: “I cannot dissuade you? Then, so be it! Though every demon in Hades rises ‘gainst us, let the Netherworld rock with the power of the Avengers!”

Heaven or Hell, Lets Rock!

Gosh, how will the Avengers get out of this one?

I mean, the hell army is no big deal. They’ve already beaten up thousands of Pluto’s guards.

The big man himself and his big tank are more of a concern.

Also: WHY DOES PLUTO HAVE A TANK??

Follow @essential-avengers​ to learn the answer for why Pluto has a tank. Just kidding, I have no idea! Like and reblog please!

[dragons-ire]

Gold from Galvanth's Hoard - The Legend of the Dullahan

Howard Shore - The Doors of Durin

A long time ago, in a place long since forgotten, there was a king who ruled over a vast kingdom.

His demesne stretched for malms around, twisting beneath the earth, out of sight from the sun and the forest above. For in those days, mortals still lived in fear of the elements that held dominion of the worlds above, and hid their faces and lived beneath their sight.

Still, buried as it was, the kingdom did well. They grew foods that thrived with little light, and they flourished in the dark and prospered there.

In his hall beneath the earth, the king prospered as well above his subjects. His riches and treasure were numerous - a vast trove of coin and jewels and other things pulled from the depths of the ground.

To keep his wealth safe from the larcenous and the ambitious alive, he appointed his most faithful knights to keep watch over his treasure hoard and to keep it safe from those who might seek to plunder or corrupt it.

The king’s knights knelt to swear a powerful oath to their liege, and they took up their vigil. No one got in to look upon the king’s magnificent treasure, and none who had seen it in those times spoke of it to the outside.

But - as all things do - the world began to change. The king grew old and eventually died. His people, bereft of his leadership that had kept them united, began to scatter. Eventually, some of them began to venture towards the surface and the sunlight, to make peace with the elements and bright world above.

Others followed, and the ones that remained swindled until they no longer had the numbered to keep up the great domain they’d once flourished in.

Eventually, it fell to ruin.

As for the knights who were sword to protect their king’s riches, the, too, fell to the passage of time. But it’s said the power of their oath was such that their spirits did not pass to the next life in their final moments. Instead, they remained behind, bound by duty to the armor and weapons they had borne in life.

It was bound such they continued to keep silent vigil even as their kingdom crumbled around them. Their king passed into the next world, and they could do naught. The people left and their home abandoned - at least, until legends of the riches that had been left behind reached the ears of treasure hunters on the surface. They came in small bands here and there to plunder what they could by the handful.

It’s easy to imagine the first of them surprised when a costly suit of armor in the middle of the hoard first roused of its own accord to strike out with a weapon. But a surprise is not always a deterrent. The dead are slow, after all, and the living are quick.

Slow as they were, however, they were yet strong  - fueled by the unholy strength of the unliving, a single placed strike could easily cleave a foolhardy adventurer in twain. And their duty, in death as in in life, would not go unfulfilled. Pursuing thieves in the ruins turned to hunting anyone who ventured too close, or wandered too far into the remains of the old kingdom.

The dullahan, as they came to be called, came to herald the doom of any who crossed them.

Clever travelers in the Black Shroud know to avoid the old places where the haunted armor still wanders in search of thieves long dead and treasure long scattered. 

Or, if they must brave those places, might carry a bit of wealth out of superstition. A coin, a bit of jewelry or some other precious thing.

Perhaps if offered to a dullahan - if they should be unlucky enough to encounter one - it will be enough for it to be mistaken for a bit of royal treasure returned.

At least, long enough for them to pass safely by.

[rphelperblog]

Assorted YA Fantasy Books  Quote Meme

inspired by @ofvalyriansteel​ because their blog is amazing- feel free to edit quotes or change pronouns for rp purposes

“The king is dead. Long live the queen.”

I’ve sometimes come to believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast…” 

“Home isn’t where you’re from, it’s where you find light when all grows dark.”

“None of us are saints. We can all do better.” 

“Understand your limitations so you can overcome them.”

“Threats are the last resort of a man with no vocabulary.”

“We are all someone’s monster.” 

“If you want me obedient, prince, kill me and carry my corpse.” 

“Keep in mind that many people have died for their beliefs; it’s actually quite common. The real courage is in living and suffering for what you believe.” 

“What is the point of being alive if you don’t at least try to do something remarkable?” 

“Words can lie. See beyond them.” 

“The sky is everywhere, it begins at your feet.”

“There is no shame in not knowing something. The shame is in not being willing to learn.”

“Heroes are made by the paths they choose, not the powers they are graced with.”

“Some things you can never leave behind. They don’t belong to the past. They belong to you.” 

“Hope can be a powerful force. Maybe there’s no actual magic in it, but when you know what you hope for most and hold it like a light within you, you can make things happen, almost like magic.”

“If you want to know what a man’s like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals.”

“Life is a book and there are a thousand pages I have not yet read.”

“That’s the trouble with loving a wild thing: You’re always left watching the door.” 

“The worst kind of lie – the kind shrouded in good intentions. The kind cowards use to justify their weakness.”

“Perhaps it’s impossible to wear an identity without becoming what you pretend to be.” 

“Broken people don’t hide from their monsters. Broken people let themselves be eaten.” 

“No kindness is ever wasted, nor can we ever tell how much good may come of it.”

“Hesitation is the death of advantage.”

“What an unchallenging life it would be if we always got things right on the first go.” 

“Those who know what it’s like in the dark will do anything to stay in the light.” 

“Don’t be afraid of death; be afraid of an unlived life. You don’t have to live forever, you just have to live.”

“Maybe it’s better to have gotten it right and been happy for one day instead of living a lifetime of wrongs.”

“It must be so easy to judge the decisions of someone else when you sit back and do nothing.” 

“After a lifetime of darkness, I want to leave something behind that is made of light.”

“It’s pointless to believe what you see, if you only see what you believe.”

“I always believed a man is what he does, not what others say.” 

“The darkest minds tend to hide behind the most unlikely faces.” 

“Everyone makes choices in life. Some bad, some good. It’s called living, and if you want to bow out, then go right ahead. But don’t do it halfway. Don’t linger in whiner’s limbo.”

“The truth doesn’t always make a good story, does it?”

“Skies save me from the men in my life and all the things they think they know.”

“Libraries were full of ideas – perhaps the most dangerous and powerful of all weapons.” 

“We need to face what we are. All of what we are, especially the parts that hurt.” 

"I know that the whole point—the only point—is to find the things that matter, and hold on to them, and fight for them, and refuse to let them go."

"Why would you be given wings if you weren't meant to fly?"

“The main thing to do is pay attention. Pay close attention to everything, notice what no one else notices. Then you’ll know what no one else knows, and that’s always useful.” 

“Maybe it’s better to have gotten it right and been happy for one day instead of living a lifetime of wrongs.”

“People who live in glass houses should shut the f―k up.” 

“Each day means a new twenty-four hours. Each day means everything’s possible again. You live in the moment, you die in the moment, you take it all one day at a time.”

“Love, as most know, follows its own timeline. Disregarding our intentions or well rehearsed plans.”

“Maybe part of falling in love with someone else is also falling in love with yourself.” 

"Books are my friends, my companions. They make me laugh and cry and find meaning in life."

“You meet a man, you know him. You meet a woman, she knows you.”

“True love is usually the most inconvenient kind.”

"Goodbye, I say, goodbye, as I disappear little by little into the middle of the middle of my own spectacular now."

"There's no shame in fear, my father told me, what matters is how we face it."

Hope? Hope can be a powerful force. Maybe there's no actual magic in it, but when you know what you hope for most and hold it like a light within you, you can make things happen, almost like magic."

"We feel cold, but we don't mind it, because we will not come to harm. And if we wrapped up against the cold, we wouldn't feel other things, like the bright tingle of the stars, or the music of the aurora, or best of all the silky feeling of moonlight on our skin. It's worth being cold for that."

“Vanity is a factor, but it is more a question of control. It is easier to trick others into perceiving you as beautiful if you can convince yourself you are beautiful. But mirrors have an uncanny way of telling the truth.” 

"But if I'm it, the last of my kind, the last page of human history, like hell I'm going to let the story end this way...Because if I am the last one, then I am humanity. And if this is humanity's last war, then I am the battlefield."

"What if evil doesn't really exist? What if evil is something dreamed up by man, and there is nothing to struggle against except our own limitations? The constant battle between our will, our desires, and our choices?"

“Even in the darkest and most cruel person, there is still a kernel of good. And within the most perfect champion, there is darkness. The question is, will one give in to the dark or the light? It’s something we decide with every choice we make, every day that we exist. What might not be evil to you could be evil to someone else. Knowing this makes us powerful even without magic.”

[critter-in-skyrim]

Healing Ulfric (chapter 1)

Ezra knew coming here was a terrible idea, even before he stepped into the Palace of Kings. He stood outside the castle in the snow, staring at the doors for several minutes, fiddling with the letter in his hands. 

“Are you going in, or what?” a Stormcloak Soldier asked him suddenly, causing Ezra to flinch. 

“Y-yes, yes, I am…” he stuttered out. Taking a deep breath, Ezra reached out, pulling the large doors open.

Ezra had been inside the Palace of Kings a handful of times, but that had merely been to visit with the court wizard, Wuunferth the Unliving. Never had he dared to enter the main part of the hall before, let alone speak to the man who resided there. Ezra hesitated, gazing at said man.

Ulfric Stormcloak, in all his glory, sat upon an imposing stone throne at the very end of the great hall. He was a large, intimidating man, much larger than Ezra. Wild, golden blond hair erupted from his head, and he wore a combination of elegant Jarl’s robes and armor. He was speaking quietly with his right hand man, Galmar Stone-Fist. His steel gray eyes suddenly focused on Ezra.

“You there. Boy,” Ulfric Stormcloak’s voice boomed through the hall. Ezra shivered. “Stop loitering. Approach the throne.”

Ezra swallowed hard, trying to calm himself. He followed Ulfric’s directions, though, coming to stand before him. Ezra suddenly felt very self conscious of the ragged robes and scarf he wore around his head. Unsure of what to do, he bowed.

“Only the brave or the foolish dare to come before me. Which one are you?” Ulfric asked, his voice even.

Ezra hesitated, unsure whether to answer that question or not. 

This seemed to royally piss off Galmar. “When the Jarl asks you a question, you answer, Redguard,” he snapped. Ezra flinched. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Ezra said quickly. “I just…I received this letter from Wuunferth the Unliving, asking me to come help…”

“Help?” Ulfric asked, narrowing his eyes. “Help with what?”

Ezra swallowed hard, glancing at Galmar. Focusing on Ulfric again, he held out the letter. “It’s all in this note.”

Ulfric frowned, but took the note. 

Ezra shifted from foot to foot as he watched Ulfric read the letter. His expression remained passive the entire time. When he finished reading, he folded the note and tucked it away. “I see,” was all he said.

Ezra bit his lip. “If…my services are no longer required-”

“Go wait upstairs, in my private quarters,” Ulfric interrupted him. “I will be along shortly.”

Ezra’s eyes widened, but he nodded. He made his way over to the door that led to the Jarl’s Quarters, where a guard was waiting to escort him

“What’s going on? Who is this Redguard?” Galmar asked, clearly not enjoying being out of the loop.

“Nevermind that,” Ulfric said, a note of finality in his voice. “Let’s get back to what we were discussing before…”

Their voices faded away, as Ezra and the guard made their way up the stairs. They came to a long corridor with lots of doors on either side. The guard led him all the day down to the end, to a large, reinforced door, holding it open for him.

The Jarl’s private quarters were dimly lit and smaller than Ezra would have expected. It gave the room a rather homey feel. In the center of the room was Ulfric’s bed, draped in velvet and furs. It looked so plush - Ezra longed to sleep on something so elegant. 

Ezra took a seat by the fireplace, to wait for the Jarl. It took much longer than he was expecting, though, as eventually, he began to drift off to sleep. 

He was awakened when the door opened rather roughly. He lurched to his feet as Ulfric entered the room. Immediately, gray eyes were focused on him.

“Oh. Right,” he mumbled, sounding less-than pleased. “You’re here.”

“Y…yes sir,” Ezra gave a small nod. “I’m here to help…”

Ulfric sneered, going over to his wardrobe. He removed the heavy fur mantel he wore. “Do you know how you can really help?” Ezra opened his mouth to respond, but Ulfric didn’t give him the chance. “You can put an end to this bloody war.”

“I…I’m sorry…” Ezra said, helplessly. “I-”

“Nevermind,” Ulfric interrupted, turning back to face Ezra. He looked the smaller man up and down, frowning. “What is your name?”

“Ezra,” he said, wringing his hands anxiously.

“Right. And you are…” Ulfric crossed his arms.

“A healer,” Ezra answered the unspoken question.

“Hmph,” Ulfric made a sound. “I see.”

“Ezra shifted nervously. “I…I assume Wuunferth sent that letter to me without your knowledge…?”

“You would be correct,” Ulfric sounded almost tired as he said that. Ezra didn’t blame him.

About a week ago, Ezra had received a letter from Wuunferth the Unliving, concerning Ulfric Stormcloak’s health. He had said that Ulfric was dealing with a severe form of Rockjoint that was progressing rather rapidly. Wuunferth had been trying to help him, but his specialties lied in making poisons and destruction magic, not healing. That was why he had decided to contact Ezra, as Ezra was one of the best Healers he knew, who also wasn’t on the Imperial side of the Civil War. 

Ezra swallowed hard. “I’m…I’m so sorry…If my services aren’t needed, I will be on my way…” Ezra turned for the door.

“Wait…” Ulfric said, stopping him. Ezra once again turned to look at him. Ulfric looked as though he was waging an internal war. “While I am…displeased with how Wuunferth handled this, I believe his heart was in the right place. After all, I…do require your assistance with something.”

Ezra’s eyes widened. He had half-expected to be tossed out of the palace after he had learned that Wuunferth’s message had been sent without the Jarl’s consent. But instead, it seemed like Ulfric was willing to accept help.

“Your joints must be very painful…” Ezra guessed, his voice sympathetic.

“The feeling is not one of pleasure,” Ulfric admitted.

Ezra began rummaging around in his alchemy satchel. “Could you remove your armor and outer layers of clothes? I need to get a feel for your joints to see what I’m dealing with.”

Ulfric looked like he was going to protest, but instead, he sighed, following Ezra’s instructions. Eventually, he was wearing nothing but an undershirt and pants. While he was a little less intimidating like this, Ezra still hesitated to give him orders.

“What now?” Ulfric asked, prompting Ezra to point to a chair by the fire.

“T-take a seat, and I’ll look you over…”

Ulfric did as instructed. Ezra approached him cautiously, like one would an injured bear. After a few moments of him standing there awkwardly, Ulfric let out an irritated sigh.

“What are you waiting for, boy?”

“S-sorry. I just…” Ezra stuttered. “I-in order to properly assess things, I need to…touch you. Is…that alright…?”

Ulfric sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine,” he said eventually.

Ezra nodded to himself. After another moment of hesitation, Ezra reached out with thin, scarred hands, touching Ulfric’s shoulder. 

Ezra worked quickly, so as not to make Ulfric too uncomfortable. First, he started with his arms, feeling his way from shoulder to elbow to wrist. Then he moved onto Ulfric’s legs, feeling his way down to his ankles. The last major place Ezra needed to check was Ulfric’s back - that was usually where Rockjoint revealed how severe it was.

Ezra’s hands were gentle as they worked, often lingering on areas he could tell were especially painful. By the time he had completed his assessment, he was frowning deeply.

“With how severe your Rockjoint is, it’s a miracle that you are upright, let alone able to move!” Ezra exclaimed.

“Just tell me you can help me,” Ulfric said tiredly.

“I…I can help you,” Ezra said haltingly. “But…it might take a while before you’re fully healed. A-and…the healing process might be a little more…invasive, than you would like…”

“Invasive?” Ulfric questioned. “How so?”

Ezra pulled a potion bottle from his satchel. “This is a topical healing salve I made. It works alongside a healing spell I cast…which means-”

“You have to apply the salve, I can’t do it myself,” Ulfric pieced things together. “How many times would this have to happen?”

“As many times as it takes,” Ezra said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “Likely twice a day, for at least a week…”

Ulfric let out a heavy sigh at that, gazing into the fire. After a moment, he spoke, “I suppose it can’t be helped.”

Ezra nibbled on his lip nervously. “I promise, I will do everything in my power to heal you. You can count on me, sir.”

“I will hold you to that,” Ulfric said seriously. Ezra was unsure if that was a veiled threat or not.

[huntunderironskies]

So you mentioned doing a lot of research for Deed Names. Have any tips for making them for the five main tribes?

I sure do! Though I should clarify this isn't research so much as a lot of headcanons vaguely based on some stuff in Tribes of the Moon, but anyone is welcome to adopt the concepts herein. Deed names are standard in the games I run and they're usually a sign that an Uratha is a full-blown adult hunter, so taking at least one is a rite of passage of sorts.

Disclaimer that these are potential rules of thumb and as the Tribes are not centralized religious organizations with strict hierarchies, they'll often adapt around regional trends. As a general trend a deed name should be a.) pronounceable and translatable into the First Tongue, and b.) something you can look at and say "oh, that's what this guy is about."

Going in alphabetical order:

Blood Talons

Kinda like Predator Kings. Since this sat in my drafts for eight billion years, as a brief recap Predator King names almost always involve violence in some way, shape, or form. However, Blood Talons lack the same dedication to being straightforward and simple. Obviously you're going to take your deed name from a particularly memorable fight, but you're theoretically going to have a lot of those. So Blood Talon deed names frequently turn into a very long list of accomplishments.

Bone Shadows

Florid. Over-the-top. Should sound very impressive in First Tongue. The most likely out of all the Tribes to adopt multiple deed names that they use in different situations based on what they're dealing with at the time. I think an overlooked aspect of Bone Shadows is that, as incredibly fucking strange as they are, they're also one of the most socially adept Tribes. Bone Shadows love secrets, and a lot of the time you will need to pry secrets out of living (or unliving) people. That takes social finesse. And you probably shouldn't have a name that comes from killing a particularly powerful spirit if you're trying to be a diplomat to a spirit choir. It's a bit gauche. On the other hand, it is nice to have around other werewolves.

Hunters in Darkness

Important note: I mostly ignore what Tribes of the Moon says and usually have Hunters in Darkness as the most (or tied for the most if you treat Eaters of the Dead as a full Tribe) involved in their pups' rites of passage. Typically a pup is assigned a mentor figure who they keep in semi close contact with for the rest of their lives, and that mentor figure is almost always the one to give them their deed name. It's treated as a gift and the final thing that a mentor will give to their charge before letting them off to run with their own pack. Given the focus that the Hunters in Darkness have on sacred motherhood in the way they see Luna and Urfarah (and here being the mom friend is a state of mind) it makes a lot of sense.

With that said...naturalistic themes are probably pretty common. A lot of times their "deed name" isn't even from a specific deed so much as a slightly abstract metaphor for what they've done that's particularly memorable. Also, it's on brand to keep someone guessing about what you're capable of because generally speaking someone is going to fill in the blanks with the most intimidating possible thing. Your imagination will probably compose something worse than what they actually did.

Iron Masters

As a rule Iron Master deed names tend to more resemble callsigns in the military than anything else. They should be fairly short and could almost function as more of a nickname. That said, they're also the most likely to adapt around regional traditions for deed names. Adapting is their thing. One of the original cities I made had a very long-standing alliance between the Iron Masters and Hunters in Darkness, with a major regional myth being that a powerful locus in the area (in fact one of the most potent loci in the US) was created when Black Wolf and Red Wolf first touched down in the area after breaching through the Shadow. As such Iron Master names heavily incorporated the same nature-based metaphors that the Hunters in Darkness did.

Storm Lords

I really like the idea of Storm Lords using a form of virtue names like you would see in early Quaker communities, just more for Uratha values. It's something simple and straightforward you could use in public and it does make a lot of sense since the Storm Lords are supposed to be everything an ideal Uratha should be.

It also seems very like a Storm Lord to not tie yourself to one specific deed if you know you're going to surpass yourself eventually. This could lead to a Blood Talon situation where you're constantly tacking on new epithets but the other thing that feels like a Storm Lord is keeping your cards close to your chest in terms of what you're capable of. You don't need to brag about what you can do. It's manifestly evident in your actions.

Side note: speaking of localized trends, in one of the settings I used the local Storm Lords of the protectorate were extremely heavily associated with the Catholic Church and a plurality of them were members of the Lodge of the Savior so taking names from the actions of human or Uratha saints was very, very commonplace.

[hiya-im-mary]

Conflictions

@queenieboo22 !!!!!!!! HI AGAIN I HOPES THE TAGGING IS OKAY!!! I just got inspired to make this thing!!!!! Story stuff!!!!!!!!!

The King is an interesting case here…on one side,he’d beloved,on the other,he’s despised…not by the living…but by some of his own subjects. He could be seen as a diligent ruler who acts out on behalf of his own kind,or he could be seen as a selfish monster who took everything for his own gain and not caring how it affected others!! But what happens when those two sides meet…??

Her majesty had been repeatedly talking of her lover,the ruler of boos and all of ghostkind…King Boo. Passionately going on about what her beloved darling king had been doing for her…how he took her to ballroom dance with him in the very moonlight of the forests that ghosts roam…how each and everyday he’d treat her as,well,a queen!! HIS queen. His beloved darling queen!!!! She had originally started talking to Mary about what she could be interested in,but…ahhhh,she really couldn’t help herself!!! Love does stuff to you!!!!

“Ah…it was simply wonderful!!” She cooed as she reminisced on the times…and the time soon to come too!!!

“It’s funny to think that it’s been so long since…HE had captured those I love back at the mansion…thank the stars above that we’re still roaming free without any pesky…threats.”

The HE in question was E.Gadd. It was rather new to the ambassador that the ghosts over at the mansion where it all started were so close to her. Just like how the ghosts in the hotel were like HER family!!

“It’s horrible really…to think someone would’ve wanted to take all that you love for their own selfishness…”

“Y-Yeh!! It’s…it’s the worst!! I-I thinks I would knows!! Hehe-”

“…Oh??” The queen tilted her head a bit…she looked…curious. Had the same thing befallen the ambassador?? The poor thing…

Meanwhile…Mary had already realised the words that had spilled out of her mouth. But it’s too late to take anything back!!! Oh no…

“…You experienced a similar tragedy??” Her voice was soft,as if trying to ease the living girl into speaking…

“W-Well…uhhmmm-“

It was hard to think about as is. No one in the hotel ever really forgets or wants to go back to what happened that night. So many souls captured…so much wreckage…even when the hotel itself was broken and replaced with a lab dedicated to ghosthunting.

How do you say this? How do you tell someone who’s already wonderful that her beloved is blamed for causing such horrible things?!

The ambassador remembers. How Hellen felt after the words King Boo said to her.

“Useless. All those ghosts were useless. I have to do everything by myself!!!”

In the hotel,he was blamed for most of the bad things that happened,including the hotel’s destruction!! It was shown across the hotel rather well,given that since it’s reopening,all senses of memorabilia,tributes and such had been removed entirely. Gone. None to be seen!!! Clearly he wasn’t welcome here!!

But why would the ambassador want to tell the queen that?? It’s just hurtful!! How could you go up to someone and say “Your lover ruined the unlives of all that I cared about and now most people here hate him!!” ?!

He clearly wasn’t like that to the queen!! He loves her. He’d do anything for her. He’d do EVERYTHING for her. If he could die again for her,HE WOULD!!! He ADORED her with every inch of his being. They loved Eachother!!

How do you say this?! What do you-

“…”

As for now though,the ambassador has been still but shaking in her seat for almost a whole minute now…yesssss,this is getting rather worrying.

“Is…everything alright??”

“H-HUH-?!”

“You look a bit pale…that’s normal for us,but not for a living being like yourself!!”

“I-I do?! I…do I- OH YEAH I DO-!! MYEHEHEH-“

This was getting worrisome to the queen…had this affected the living girl that much??

[thedo0zyslider]

Explsoions Acorss Lifetimes - Chapter Twenty Six: Home - 4k Words

Two weeks pass by, and thing slowly but surely get better. They slowly but surely go back to normal. Jimmy and Fwhip's relationship is bound to be a little rocky for a short period of time once more, but slowly they are retuning to normal. Little do any of them know, they are simply reaching the calm before the last great storm.

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Sausage is the one to find Scott, the one to bring him home. He sends a message to all of them at once, saying that the elven king had been hiding away deep in the mountains. Mountains that he was making all cold, snowy, and down right unlivable all with his own powers. He needs to rest a bit, according to the Mythalnder, to get back in better shape, but Scott himself wouldn’t bar anyone from visiting. No matter how wrecked he felt, the elf claimed he missed his friends, and that he wanted to say sorry for worrying them all.

Jimmy breathes a sigh of relief at the news, eyes scanning over the messages. Eventually though, he finds himself staring at the last conversation between him and his boyfriend, the one right after that horrible little meeting. It’s the most stunted one they’d had in a while, and ends in a promise to talk to each other after Scott comes home and everything else is sorted.

And, well, now Scott’s home.

Jimmy thinks about messaging Fwhip, and goes to type a new message, then decides against it. The blonde deletes whatever he had typed down, and throws his communicator to the side in favor of staring at a wall all troubled like instead.

He bites his lip in worry, and decides to give it a few more days, when everything is truly sorted.

It’ll be fine in the end. Hopefully. Maybe. Probably. Jimmy prays to cod that it will be.

It’ll be fine.

Two weeks go by without Fwhip talking to his partner. He has a myriad of other things to distract himself from that hell, most of the time anyways.

Over the past few days he has said his apologies to Gem and Sausage, and now he stands in Rivendell, his sister long cured, and helps Scott rebuild what the Count himself had blown up. He was lucky the elves had been merciful, and had decided not to go to war with him over this. All Fwhip had to do for the time was supply a good deal of materials, and help with the rebuilding process. Though if Rivendell ever needs a favor after this, the Grimlands will be quick to offer their assistance. At least until all this is long settled.

He thinks over everything. The Count thinks of how Gem has been so mad at him, but forgave him, because Scott did, and she was his sister and she loved him or something like that. He thinks about the stern talking to Sausage had given him, and said he’s lucky that they were so close, basically brothers, because a stranger would’ve gotten his own empire exploded in return for that bullshit. Fwhip says he knows, and expects nothing less.

He thinks of how Scott had been so cold and exhausted and too tired to care that much. He’d been plenty upset sure, but once the elf had heard everyone's side of the story he’d been the most sympathetic of all surprisingly. Everyone kinda had in the end, even if Fwhip didn’t deserve it, when they saw the regret and shame pouring out of the Count like a raging river.

Everyone had felt bad when they found out what had happened with Jimmy. Fwhip thinks about that argument again, and tries to lose himself in the steady pace of building, of placing wood plank after wood plank for the millionth time that day. He doesn’t want people to feel bad for them, he wants his boyfriend back.

Fwhip knows they should talk, and that it’s been far too long and they should've patched things up days ago, even if the argument was a rather big one. He thinks of how he’s scared of his boyfriend becoming his enemy and hating him once again. He thinks of how it’s stupid that he still has that fear, after the dozens of kisses and kind words they’d exchanged; after all those damned hardships and challenges they’d been through over this past year or so of being together like that.

He does’t know which of them should be the one to fix this, but at the same time he doesn’t fucking care. He just wants his beautiful orchid back in arms once more, like they used to be all the time, before that stupid crown he’d made had gotten involved.

The half dragon doesn’t know when that will be, but he tells himself it will be soon. Fwhip says he’ll do something about it soon, and that he’ll stop avoiding it or whatever he’s currently doing. He tells himself he’ll have his beloved back soon. The Count feels like, more like knows he’s probably lying to himself just a little with all of that. Mainly because he does not know even how to attempt to fix the mess they’d made those two weeks ago.

He thinks they’ll talk soon. He hopes they will. For both their sakes and all that.

He places another piece of wood down, Scott calling something to him a few feet away, and misses Jimmy more with every passing second.

Jimmy lands in Rivendell a few days after his good friends rescue, his winter boots crunching in the snow beneath his feet, the sun beginning to lower in the sky behind him ever so slightly. He figured now would be a good time to go see the elven king, and that the man had probably had a decent amount of time to recover from his banishment by now. If not, he could just shoo the cod away and tell him to come back on at a later date. A few elves wave to him as he makes his way towards the castle, figuring his friend will be there, since his personal home was destroyed.

It has been two weeks since he last spoke to Fwhip. He tries not to think about that as he is let into the palace, and walks the long familiar path to Scott’s bedroom, where he knows the elf spends about half of his time doing god knows what.

When he enters the room, having knocked quietly on the door beforehand, Scott is standing in front of his vanity, the one he’s had since childhood, taking off a few earrings into his pointed ears. Scott catches a glimpse of him in the mirror, and his expression quickly changes from a neutral, resting one, to a rather happy looking smile.

“Jimmy!” He says, turning around. He looks good, the cod notes to himself, maybe a little colder, but good and healthy. Which is good, that's good. Better than he had expected really.

“Scott! How’ve you been since the ah…disappearance?” The Codboy asks, returning his friends smile. To his surprise, Scott’s expression only falters for a moment at the mention of his own self exile, and he continues talking almost like nothings wrong. Almost.

“I’ve been good, I’ve been good!” Scott says, and turns back to his vanity ever so slightly, still fiddling with the last of his jewelry from the day. “Gem came over, and we got everything sorted!” His words are cheery, but anyone can see Scott is still bothered by the whole thing, and that he still has all sorts of complicated feelings probably brewing under the surface. Jimmy does not envy him, and is preparing himself to jump into therapy friend mode at a moment's notice. He won’t think he’ll need to, but just in case. He’s aware of how deep the elves' self worth issues tend to run and all.

“Sausage stayed with me for a little while.” Scott hummed, moving to sit down on the edge of his rather grand bed, the jewelry he’d been taking off now in its place once more; until the elf decided to wear it again, that was. “Fwhip came over as well. We settled things, and he supplied the materials for my house, and helped rebuild almost all of it as well.”

At the mention of The Count, Jimmy feels himself stiffen every so slightly, and practically unintentionally as well. And it must be more noticeable than he thought, because Scott's gaze seems to suddenly be boring into his soul. The blonde stifles a sigh, and watches as his friend pats the spot next to him on the bed.

Well, it seems like they're about to have a talk about their feelings. Or more specifically, Jimmy's feelings. Great.

He should've been prepared for this when he came over, really, because him and Fwhip avoiding each other for two weeks is kinda…not good. It was honestly about time someone got involved, but that was not going to stop him from moping about it in his head.

“Jimmy,” Scott’s voice is gentle, and the cod just knows what’s coming next. “You have to talk to him about it soon.”

He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. Well, his hair isn't hidden under the codboy head that is. “I know…”

“Then why don’t you?” The elf asks, right as Jimmy plops down next to him on the bed. The cod turns over, hearing a slightly amused huff from Scott as he rolls over and buries his face into the soft sheets.

“….'M scared too.” The blonde's answer comes out muffled, but the smallest of his voice is still conveyed despite it.

Scott seems determined to stay gentle with him, and also to have this conversation. It was a conversation that Jimmy probably needed to have, but would never feel like having. One of those things, you know. “Why are you scared-?”

“Because what if it's like before? And he hates me again!?” Jimmy blurts it out, rolling back so his face isn’t buried in the blankets anymore. He sits up as well, face creased on worry, and the elves gaze practically a burning a hole through him at this rate.

“Oh Jimmy ,” Scott says, and holds the other cheeks in his hands, squeezing them like a grandma would. “You are overthinking this far too much, petal.” Jimmy scrunches up his face, and pulls away from his friend with a reluctant little giggle.

“Fwhip’s not gonna hate you.” The elf reassures him gently, the look on his face just as soft. Somehow, the cod cannot bring himself to believe that.

“I told him to stop caring, Scott!” Jimmy exclaims, maybe just a little too loudly.

Scott lets out a fairly exasperated sigh in response. “Do you think he actually did that?”

The question makes the blonde goe silent for a minute or two, legs idly being kicked off the side of the bed. His next words are hesitant, small, and decently terrified. They show how unsure he really is about what the outcome of all this will be. “…..How do you know he won’t hate me?”

“Because everyone can tell how head over heels he is for you.” The elven ruler gave Jimmy quite the deadpanned look, which was fairly effective at making the cod feel more than a little silly, he had to admit “You’ve argued before, right? While you two were a thing?”

“Yeah, but-” Jimmy's protest, a fairly weak one at that, is cut off by a very firm elf. He hates how Scott is probably right about this, for the record. Well not that he hates the fact that Fwhip doesn't hate him, he just hates how his friend always just knows this stuff. Like he's some wizard who magically knows the solutions to all of Jimmy's problems. Or maybe the cod just over thinks things far too much. Either way, he hates it just a bit is all.

“DId he hate you after that?” Scott asks, an eyebrow raised a little skeptically. Jimmy sighs, and suddenly becomes very interested in what the wall looks like.

“No…”

The elf let out a slightly triumphant hum. “Then he’s not gonna hate you now.”

"Fine." The blonde huffed, letting his back hit the covers once more. "You're probably right." His tone was more than a little reluctant, and he shot Scott a playful glare.

"I know!" The elf sing-songed in return, a sly and triumphant looking smirk (one more triumphant than his prior hum had been,) starting to stretch across his regal features.

"You don't have to say it like that now." Jimmy teased, and Scott stook out his tongue playfully.

"Oh but I do! Because I'm right!" His friend flashed a cocky grin, one that was all for show. Jimmy noticed the fading light from the window, how it caught on Scott’s jewelry, and knew he had stayed here far longer than probably intended. He lamented the thought of having to return back home and back to his usual stressors so soon, and decided he’d squeeze evert minute out of this visit that he possibly could. Even if Scott had to kick him out. (Which he knew the elf wouldn;t, his friend never being on to protest a sleepover.)

"..You cheeky little elf, you." Jimmy laughed lightly, and his eyes wandered from his friends face to somewhere else in the room. They wandered to study some random piece of eleven architecture and think, that's what they did.

"Sooo, when are you gonna go visit him?" The eleven ruler laid down next to his friend, his arms being comfortably crossed over his lower torso while Jimmy’s were spread out to the side of him, like a starfish’s were. The cod took a moment to respond, biting the inside of his cheek lightly and frowning slightly as he pondered his answer.

"When I feel ready, I guess." Jimmy shrugged after a moment, staring up at Scott's bedroom ceiling. His eyes traced over it, like they had done a million times before, but his whole head felt more troubled than it ever had those previous nights of staring at nothing but the beautiful white and gold architecture above.

Scott looks over his shoulder at him, the elf gaze going to burn holes into the blonde until he inevitably has to leave. "And when will that be?" He asked with a hum, his voice was still gentle, though slight curiosity now laced it as well.

The cod opens his mouth to answer, then promptly closes it. He isn't quite sure when he'll be ready to see his partner again, and can it give Scott the answer he's probably looking for.

He just hopes it'll be soon. Very soon, for both their sakes.

A day or so later, Jimmy sets foot in the Grimlands for the first time in…..a while. It must’ve been a month, maybe two, since he was last here. This whole visit in general feels long overdue, for more reasons than one really.

He lands directly in front of the manor's front door, and ends up just…standing there for a few moments, as if the blonde is mustering the courage to do what he needs to do. And when the cod does eventually knock against the wood, it is a slow and hesitant thing. So much so he doubts that the sound was even audible, until Clara comes to answer it barely two minutes later. She lets him into the house with a familiar nod, and he returns it back to her.

“He’s in his study right now.” Clara tells him, nodding her head down the hallway.

“Right, thank you.” Jimmy mumbles in reply. He’s averting his gaze, scared to see what his friends' own will be if he meets her eyes.

That is until Clara smiles at him. “You’re here to stop his moping, right?” She cracks a half hearted joke, one trying to bring the mood of the house up. It works probably just as well as she thought it was.

“Heh, yeah.” Despite himself, Jimmy lets out a small chuckle. “That’s the plan.” He feels a little lighter as he waves goodbye to Clara, the woman going to resume whatever general housekeeping duties she had around the manor. He feels a little lighter as he walks down the hallway, a hallway he has become familiar with over the past year, for he has walked down it many times. He feels familiar until he sees that oh so familiar door to Fwjip’s study, another door waiting for him to knock against its wood.

Jimmy’s courage dies right then and there, and he has to build it up all over again. His hands shake as they hover mere inches away from the wood, balled up and ready to knock when his confidence comes back.

Eventually he decides to hell with all this, and knocks unsteadily on the door to Fwhip’s study room. The room that still looks the same as he first saw it, even after all these months, projects scattered across the floor, full of his partner's little quirks that now make the blonde’s heart ache with longing by just simply thinking about it. He hopes he won’t have to ache like that anymore after today.

Fwhip opens it quickly, and Jimmy feels relief swamp him at the sight of his boyfriend, even if his face is wrinkled in what has to be worry and there are dark bags under his eyes (more than usual) from sleepless nights; it is still his beautiful boyfriend. He is also a little horrified of how this is going to go, and sees all that in more flash in the Count’s pretty blue gaze as they stare at each other.

“Hi.” Jimmy says, a small smile fighting its way onto his face. There is both dread and joy churning in his stomach, mixing together unpleasantly. It makes him feel like he’s going to lose his lunch.

“Hi.” Fwhip parrots, his own voice shaking just as much as the others is, and before either of them knows what's happening he’s grabbing the cod’s wrist and dragging him inside. The door shut with a quiet click behind him, and as it does Fwhip softly connects their lips. Jimmy kisses him back, claws gripping his shirt collar near desperately and his own arms wrapped around the half dragon's torso. He’d missed this so much, the rush of emotions from all of this felt like heaven.

They pull away slowly, both of their breaths hitching and bumping their foreheads together. It’s magical, that's what this is, that’s what Jimmy’s feeling at the moment. The two of them stay like that, for one beautiful fleeting moment, until Fwhip mutters a few whispered words into the small space of empty air between them. “I missed you, so much…”

“I know…” The blonde sighed. “I just….”

“I’m sorry, cod I’m so sorry. ” Jimmy said, moving his head back a bit, so he could look properly into his boyfriend's eyes. “I don’t know what came over me, I shouldn’t have said that, I just…” The blonde’s voice seemed to break more with every word, like he was on the verge of breaking. Fwhip frowned and moved his arms, doing so until he could cradle Jimmy’s face in his hands and hold him there.

“Don’t cry, orchid,” He muttered, thumbing circles into his lover's cheeks. “I shouldn't have even brought all that up.” The Count’s borrows furrowed as he listened to Jimmy’s next few words, knowing he would be upset by them before they were even spoken into existence.

“But you had a right too, I’ve been an asshole recently.” The cod argued, now sporting a matching frown to his boyfriend’s.

“You haven’t been an asshole, you’ve just been stressed and making mistakes, we’ve both been making mistakes!” Fwhip began, his voice rising a little higher than intended and cracking a little with every new word that left him.

“I got everything sorted with Scott, by the way. And I’m sorry about what I did. I was just …upset and I shouldn’t have-” The half dragon stumbled there, be it with shame or something else, Jimmy didn’t know. “He just…he hurt Gem and I got so mad and worried about her, I-”

“I know, I know, Scott already told me all that!” Jimmy made sure to interrupt his partners swiftly, his grip of the half dragon tightening ever so slightly. “I’m not here to talk about that, I’m here to say sorry for hurting you, okay?”

He continued, yet this time was the one to be cut off prematurely, not that he even minded that at all. “And I am sorry, really I am-”

The Count sighed, wings moving so that it covered both of them, almost putting the two in their own little world, the study room they stood in now entirely forgotten. “I can already tell that, darling, Just….”

“Just…. fucking hell , don’t ever tell me to stop caring so much again!” Fwhip said, tail lashing behind him with some leftover emotion. Jimmy shrunk under his tone, and his tail flicked lightly in the same guilt he’d been feeling for days at this point.

“That was cruel of me to say, I know,” The Codfather muttered, his gaze flicking towards the floor in shame. "I'm sorry about it, really I am." He repeated the same words again, like a broken record, and the Count needed to get it through this stupid man’s head that yes, what he said had hurt, but he doesn’t care anymore. He knows Jimmy is sorry, he knows that and accepts that he misses him like hell and god he just wants to hold this beautiful idiot in his arms again.

Fwhip frowned, squishing the cod’s face in his hands just a bit tighter. The apology had been accepted already, the Count just needed to hammer something else into this idiot's stupid, beautiful head. “Do you know how much you mean to me? How much I care about you?” He asked, blue eyes meeting Jimmy's brown ones. His partner's eyes still held the shame and sadness from before, but they looked at Fwhip with something softer, something far more gentle.

“You mean the world to me, orchid. If I didn’t have you, if something ever happened I…” Fwhip choked on his words at the end, his brain running wild with possibilities he never wants to see come true.

“I know, you don't need to think about all that.” Jimmy soothed, bringing his hands to rest on top of his partners and holding them gently.

“I care about you, so, so much.” I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you plays like his own broken record in the back of Fwhip's mind, words that still get caught in his throat whenever he tries to say them aloud.

“You’re my everything too. You know that, don’t you rose petal?” Jimmy says, bumping their noses together briefly.

“I know, I know.” Fwhip mutters, closing his eyes momentarily. He knows what he means to Jimmy, being able to remember countless times the cod had worried about him. Jimmy knows how much he means to the Count as well, there is no doubt about that in his mind, no matter what stupid argument they ever got into.

Jimmy keeps mumbling to him, his voice somehow serious yet gentle all at once. "I'll try not to worry you from now on, okay?"

"Please do that, really…" Fwhip hums, looking at the other through a now half lidded gaze, his brows still somewhat furrowed from his earlier bursts of worry and concern.

"I really didn't mean to, I just….don't know how to deal with this… " Jimmy’s words turn into a sigh and the end, and Fwhip frowns ever so slightly at that. He does not specify what this is, and Fwhip has a feeling he's not going to. Not yet anyways.

"Well, do you think you can talk about it..?" The Count’s question is gentle, and he hopes the blonde won't lie to make him feel better. He hopes his partner only tells him things when he himself is one hundred percent ready to do that.

Jimmy pauses before responding, giving the question real thought before he mumbles out his answer. "…No. Not yet."

"Then just come see me, or someone else, when you feel down, okay, don't isolate yourself again please?" Fwhip allowed a small, reassured smile to peek through, some of his sharper teeth even being on display.

"Okay, I promise I won't." Jimmy huffed fondly, his own smile creeping its way across his features at the look on his partners face,

"Good." He hums in response, and shifts so that their faces closer once more.

Fwhip leans upwards, and connects their lips again for only the second time in two weeks. And Jimmy kisses him back just as softly like he had mere minutes before. The Count has to stop himself from sighing into the sensation again, overjoyed at the familiar feeling of his partner's lips on his. He’d missed this, missed them . He’d missed it so much it had hurt. But now the pain was gone, because they were going to be okay. Somehow, they always turned out okay and kissing each other softly in the end. Fwhip wouldn’t trade it for the world.

They pull back slowly, and Jimmy mumbles a quiet, almost hesitant question into the silence. Hesitant like Fwhip would ever say no to such a simple request. “Can I stay here, with you, tonight? I missed you.”

Fwhip smiles at the request, his expression turning into something impossibly soft. “Of course you can, orchid. Of course you can.”

Jimmy smiles and places a fond kiss to his boyfriend’s temple. A giggle escapes the Count at that, and he moves away, grabbing Jimmy’s hand and interlocking their fingers together softly. He leads the Codfather out of the study and just down the hall and up the stairs, all so the two of them can collapse into a cuddle pile on the Count’s bed.

"I was so worried, ya know." Jimmy mumbles as they lay next to each other, the sound muffled as he goes to bury himself against the half dragon's warmth.

"About what?" Fwhip asked, his fingers fiddling with that strange looking Codfather's head his boyfriend now wears.

Jimmy's voice goes small, and he mumbles the next sentence into the crock of the Count's neck. "About you hating me again.."

"That's the stupidest thought you've ever had." Fwhip lets out a definitive huff, and removes the fish head so he can properly play with his partner's hair.

"Well I know that now." Jimmy rumbles, placing a small kiss into the ginger's skin. It says I missed you, like every touch they seem to share that day does.

"I could never hate you, orchid. Never. I'm not sure I ever did." Fwhip presses a comforting kiss

Jimmy leans into the touch, his voice lowering to a quiet mumble. "I don't know if I ever did either…."

Something is mumbled into his shirt. Something that sounds like an I love you. Fwhip isn't sure if that's what it is, he isn't even sure if Jimmy knows what he said. They are both too exhausted emotionally to care, or remember it in the morning. They both miss each other too much to care, and maybe he was just being far too hopeful because of all that.

Jimmy nuzzles himself further against regardless Fwhip’s side, letting his partner pull the covers over the both of them. The Count plays with his hair, and mutters sweet nothing into his boyfriend's skin when he goes to bury his head against the cod’s strong, achingly familiar frame. He’d missed this so much, the man around him and their quiet mornings spent together like this. It doesn’t take him long to get comfortable, and he peppers lazy kisses along Jimmy’s face, along every inch of his partner that he can reach without moving.

That is where they spend the rest of the day and some of the next, tangled together in a cuddle pile, basking in the warmth and all the love they had each missed for what had felt like an eternity, when it was really not that long at all.

They are at home once again.