#Parcel Maps

[cupids-stimboards]

☕ 🧸 ☕ / 🧸 ☕ 🧸/ ☕ 🧸 ☕

[deepwoundsandfadedscars]

The 'I can't do anything now because I have an appointment later' frustration is a mood, but pales in comparison to 'I can't do anything because I'm waiting for someone to stop by at any moment'

[detroitography]

Mapping Merged Sidewalk and Parcel Data in Detroit

by: Ted Tansley After mapping DDOT bus stop assets in Detroit, I revisited the sidewalk reporter data to see if there was a way to map it out too. I found that the web app had a parcel data layer that was separate from the reports itself. In looking at it closer, I found that the parcel layer was from 2018, but I figured that it would work for what I wanted to use it for. My Code Data…

[theonion]

In a discouraging indicator of the nation’s diminishing civic awareness, a report released this week by Gallup revealed that the vast majority of Americans are unable to name their state’s current shadow lord. “Our survey found that less than a quarter of the citizens of any given state are capable of identifying their district’s shadow lord, and even fewer could identify his blood sigil or even the parcel of the Dark Penumbra over which he holds dominion,” lead researcher Linus Wetzel said of the findings, which also showed that 92 percent of U.S. residents were incapable of locating their state’s House of Revenants on a map, and only 6 percent could recall a single one of the 12 writs that dictate the proceedings of the Collective.

Full Story

[soobinieee]

Player Two

pairing: wonwoo x f!reader

word count: 726

genre: fluff, friends to lovers

sum. usual game nights with wonwoo were never the same again after that one night.

You and Wonwoo have a tradition—late-night gaming sessions at his house every Friday night. You and Wonwoo were neighbours and attended the same high school. One day, some parcels were delivered to your house instead of his so your mom asked you to drop it off at his. When you rang the doorbell, you were greeted by his mom who smiled brightly at you and invited you into his house. You walked in and saw Wonwoo playing the Mario Kart on his PS4. "You play Mario Kart?" you asked curiously. Wonwoo, focused on his game, did not turn around and simply answered with a "Yes." Later on, Wonwoo asked you to join him since he got bored of playing alone. You excitedly took the other controller and started to race him. This continued on in the following Friday night.

One Friday game night turned to two, which then turned to every Friday night.

Now 2 years later, you and Wonwoo are in college. However, this tradition still continued. Instead of going to his house, you now walk over to his dorm to catch a gaming session every Friday night, which was mostly fueled by cans of Monster energy drinks and the usual buldak samyang cup noodle.

The difference between you and Wonwoo when gaming was that he is always calm and collected but you tend to mash the buttons on the controller furiously, in hopes of beating Wonwoo. After so many years of gaming with Wonwoo, you sure had learn ways to beat him but he still wins more... Other than competing against Wonwoo, you sometimes team up with him. It really depends on what game he chooses for the night. Regardless, you enjoyed every Friday night with him.

Just like every Friday night, you walk your way to Wonwoo's dorm. He welcomed you in and you were greeted by the usual setting. Lights dimmed while the brightness of the Tv screen radiated off the walls of his room. Tonight Wonwoo chose Mario Kart. "Ah, the good ol' days." you sighed. You parked yourself comfortably in his couch and took the controller that you have always been using.

"Player two, are you ready?" Wonwoo asked as he came to you with a cup of water. You nodded and the game night started.

As the night went on, you realised you lost more than you won. Wonwoo laughed every time you lose, smugly offering to "help" you by leaning close and guiding your hands over the controller. You tried to ignore how warm his hands were and how good he smelt—but it was getting harder each time. You rolled your eyes and avoided the fact that he was making you feeling giddy. There was even one time where you accidentally made eye contact with him. Feeling shy, you immediately turned away and cleared your throat. Tonight surely felt different as you thought to yourself.

"How bout we bet on something." you suggested.

"Sure, what do you want?"

"Hmm, if I win this round, you owe me something. Anything I ask for. Deal?"

Wonwoo smirked. "Deal. But if I win, you owe me something too."

That one particular game of Mario Kart turned super competitive. You were so agitated that you ended up standing on the couch.

"HAH. I won." You announced proudly as you jumped on his couch. You definitely did not expect to win considering how it was a difficult map.

"What do you want?" Wonwoo asked, which surprised you.

Heart racing, and before you could even think, you blurted out, "Take me on a date."

He blinked at you and for a moment an uncomfortable silence filled the air.

"I was hoping for you to say that."

Your cheeks turned red. Hiding your face behind his couch cushions, you heard him chuckling.

"Now let's see what happens when I win." Wonwoo turned back to the Tv to select a new game.

The next round was filled with more playful trash talks and stolen glances. You would occasionally rest your legs on his lap while he tickles you to distract you. Giggles heard, and hopes of new beginnings to something more were felt in the room.

Wonwoo leaned in before the game even ended and whispered, "I think I'll take my prize now."

And just like that, Friday game nights will never be the same again.

[slyandthefamilybook]

Who is the antisemite?

I've made many a post about the nature of antisemitism, and I don't expect I'll ever stop. But I've made relatively few posts about antisemites, who they are, and why they are. I don't mean to make a list of every antisemite in the world; I wouldn't be able to finish it before I died at my keyboard. Instead I want to explore a bit into the nature of antisemitic belief and what draws people to it, in the hopes of helping people recognize their own behaviors. This won't be a thorough taxonomy, but will focus on something I believe is at–or close to–the heart of the issue.

When I tell people antisemitism can have a racial component the response I usually get is, "but Jewish isn't a race so you can't be racist against Jews!" Now it's true that "Jewish" is not (currently) one of the accepted racial categories (up until some time in the 1950s you could list your race on U.S. censi as "Hebrew"), but that's not exactly what I mean. What I mean is that there's a pattern of thought that's part-and-parcel of racism and racist ideas, even if it's not always deployed against what we would consider a race. That pattern is bio-essentialism–the belief that there are certain inherent and largely invariant differences between discrete groups of people. This, for example, explains the significant overlap between racism and transphobia, if not always in practice than in thought. If you believe these differences exist along racial lines, it's simple enough to map them onto sex as well. Bio-essentialism is not the only driving force behind racism, but it is a significant one, and one that can be reasonably used as a predictor of racist thought. In this sense, focusing on phenotypes common among Jews (prominent noses, dark curly hair, olive skin) can have a racial component, and can result in behaviors and attitudes that behave like racism, even if Jews aren't a "race".

So we have racial antisemitism, and from here we can sit around and postulate on other alchemical combinations; the intersection of antisemitism and sexism, for example, resulting in stereotypes about nagging Jewish wives, overbearing Jewish mothers, and the Jewish American Princess. The intersection of antisemitism and patriarchy, creating anxieties about weak or effeminate Jewish men. Antisemitism and classism; antisemitism and homophobia; antisemitism and anti-theism; and on and on. But what about anti-Jewish antisemitism? What do we find that makes people hate Jews for being Jews?

I'm going to lean fairly heavily on Anti-Judaism: The Western Tradition by intellectual historian David Nirenberg. It's a fantastic albeit excruciating read, and I highly recommend everyone–Jewish and not–pick it up from their local library.

Much like the habits of bio-essentialism characterize much of racism, obsession with blame is (I believe) the core driver of anti-Jewish antisemitism. Specifically blame of the other, although that's generally merely step two in the process. Jews occupy a fairly unique position in the world in that in the vast majority of places where we live we don't really belong. We're treated as guests, reliant on the grace and magnanimity of our hosts to ensure our protection and survival. Part of this is our own doing; throughout the Diaspora our struggle to cohere to our identity has set us apart from everyone else. We don't like to assimilate any more than we have to. But it would be wrong to place the blame for our status entirely on our shoulders, so I will not do so. For the purposes of this post let us take it prima facie that Jews maintain a role of perpetual outsiders–among the nations of the world but not of them.

Throughout history this status has allowed our hosts to define themselves in opposition to us. Jews, who never really belonged, became emblematic of whatever ill the current society, religion, or philosophy decided was most pressing. We gave people opportunity to externalize their own faults, to shift blame from themselves and their comrades to nefarious interlopers. To recontextualize their responsibility to themselves into a Manichaean (I use the word deliberately) struggle between darkness and light. If the anxieties of the day centered around hypocrisy, Jewish Rabbis were the hypocrites you should strive to be unlike. If it was infidelity, it was the Jewess temptresses who were to blame. If it was greed, it was certainly the Jewish bankers who were at fault.

Perhaps my use of past-tense verbs is misleading; this is still the nature of antisemitism today. But this is certainly also how it began. The urge to excise culpability is a fairly common one. It crosses cultural boundaries and expresses itself in toddlers the world around. And so whither the Jews went, childish vindictiveness followed.

When we understand how antisemitism is used as a tool, we can begin to understand the work it does for those who use it. Antisemitism is the antidote to critical thought, to skepticism and self-reflection. It creates a "them", not in reality but in the mind. It explains failure not through any self-conscious rumination, but in the creation of vagrants, infiltrators, and saboteurs.

It now becomes clear why nearly every conspiracy theory is antisemitic, or rapidly hurtling in that direction. One of the cornerstones of conspiratorial thought (as expounded by Michael Barkun in A Culture of Conspiracy: Apocalyptic Visions in Contemporary America) is the belief that the conspiracies are composed out outside forces. When neo-Nazis compose their "Every Aspect of _____ is Jewish" flyers, they can hardly focus on the fact that the vast majority of the people they blame are American. Americans are the in-group and as such cannot be at fault. Jews are an easily accessible out-group, in part because Jewishness is so "sneaky" (you can be Jewish and not even know it! Even Wikipedia can't seem to decide when someone is Jewish or not!). When people believe that the CIA was responsible for assassinating John F. Kennedy, it's never in their capacity as red-blooded patriotic Americans; it's always the result of insiders from Russia, China, and ultimately, Jews. Even conspiracy theories that don't explicitly name Jews are engaged in antisemitic thought, so long as they seek to pin events on the actions of "them". There's a reason "they" has become memetic in neo-Nazi circles; those who are "them" are most assuredly not "us".

It also becomes clear how and why antisemitism traverses political boundaries, and infects discourse left, right, and center. The extremes–the far-right and far-left (for all the usefulness of the political spectrum, which is not much)–are more prone to antisemitic thought precisely because they are so far from the norm. The more you see wrong with society the more you seek those who are responsible. (Again it's important to note that "antisemitic thought" in this context refers to the habit of looking for outsiders to blame, and does not always map perfectly onto open bigotry toward "real Jews".) When England is close to being a perfect country, it is only through the actions of the Jews that it is prevented from becoming so. When Sovyet communism begins to collapse in on itself, it is certainly the Jews who are accused. It is never "us" or "we"; it is always "they" and "them". And in a fit of cruel irony, when antisemitism becomes un-fashionable, the "no-true-scotsman" fallacy is often deployed, assigning the use of conspiratorial bigotry to impersonators and pretenders.

So what can we do? What can we learn, and how can we change? We can start by resolving to think critically, to not take the easy answers. We can look inward, not outward, and find things to improve in ourselves, rather than assuming that our faults are not our fault. We can be skeptical of conspiracy theories, of people who want to direct our anger in ways that serve their own goals. As always, we can protect and uplift Jews and Jewish communities worldwide. We can orient ourselves toward finding solutions, instead of finding reasons for why we can't. We can unlearn the thought patterns, cliches, and habits of antisemitic thought, or that lead to antisemitic thought. We can stop trying to look for the bad people, and start trying to be the good people.

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

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

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

Chapter Eighty-Six

The next few weeks at Dragonstone passed swiftly as there was much to do. After seemingly coming to a stall once the dragonseeds had left to take Tumbleton, reinforcements finally arrived. The castle bustled with activity, the sound of preparations and strategy discussions echoing through the halls.

A new Small Council had formed at Dragonstone since the previous council was overthrown in the Capital. With the arrival of Lord Commander Criston Cole and Unwin Peake from Harrenhal, along with the unexpected presence of Lord Larys Strong, deliberations began on how the Greens would retake King's Landing. The war room was frequently occupied, maps and parchments scattered across the table as heated discussions ensued. Yet, despite the fervent brainstorming, the ideas suggested so far proved unsuccessful, each plan encountering insurmountable obstacles.

Aemond, anticipating the need for sound medical and scholarly advice, had written to the Citadel, requesting a Maester to join them at Dragonstone. The Citadel responded affirmatively, agreeing to send a number of candidates from which the royal couple could choose who would serve as the Grand Maester on the newly formed Small Council.

However, it became evident that the selected Maester would not arrive in time for Maera’s birth, which was now predicted to be a mere fortnight away. When she first found out she was pregnant, Maester Orwyle had examined her carefully, his face lined with concern and concentration. “The very end of the eighth moon,” he predicted with a note of finality.

In the meantime, Maera remained resolute, continuing her duties despite the increasing burden of her pregnancy. Her steps were slower, her movements more deliberate, but her spirit remained unyielding. She attended council meetings alongside Aemond, her presence a silent reminder of the stakes involved and the future they fought for.

With the arrival of the boats from both Harrenhal and King's Landing, Maera found her belongings slowly filtering their way through Dragonstone and ending up back in her possession. Each day brought new parcels and crates, some familiar and comforting, others a stark reminder of the upheaval they had endured.

She was sure that Lord Unwin Peake had grabbed what he could from her rooms in the Riverlands after he received the summons. The items were neatly packed, a testament to Unwin's efficiency. But it was Lord Larys who had brought her belongings from the Red Keep, and Maera still did not trust him. The thought of him personally going through her property made her shudder. He was a creep, and his unsettling presence always seemed to lurk just at the edge of her awareness.

As she unpacked her things, Maera experienced some sadness that not all of her possessions had found their way back to her. She knew this was a time of war, and the Lords had probably only grabbed what they deemed as essentials. Still, it pained her to think of the personal items lost in the chaos, relics of her past now scattered or gone forever.

Among the returned belongings, her black and gold dresses emerged, rich fabrics glinting in the torchlight. Her jewels, too, were there, glittering with the promise of better days. Books she had collected over the years, their pages worn from frequent reading, were stacked carefully in a corner. Some of her weapons had also arrived, including her old hunting bow and a spear sent from Dermot years ago.

Despite the arrival of her possessions, Maera found she couldn't use most of them so late in her pregnancy. The journey on Ēbrion to Dragonstone had weakened her previous injuries, forcing her to take a break from riding on dragonback. The thought of mounting a dragon now was unbearable; her body ached in ways she had never imagined, and the weight of her unborn child made every movement a laborious effort.

There was no way she could use her bow, her swords, or her spear. She was too exhausted just from walking up the stairs, let alone sparring outside. The very idea of engaging in combat or even practicing her skills felt like a distant memory, a part of her life that seemed almost unattainable in her current state. Her once agile body was now cumbersome, each step a reminder of her physical limitations.

The only thing she could do was write letters to her allies. She spent hours at her desk, scribbling replies diligently, aware of the importance of maintaining these connections. Many letters needed to be written, but the task quickly grew tiresome. The monotony of correspondence weighed heavily on her, draining her spirit. There seemed to be no time for fun or joy.

Is this what being a Princess was supposed to be? she wondered, frustration bubbling beneath her composed exterior. Even her giving birth, something she had once envisioned as a deeply personal and private experience, was now a matter of national importance. Her womb was no longer just hers; it was a vessel for the future of the realm, scrutinized and monitored by those who saw her child as a pawn in their political game.

Maera sighed, setting her quill down for a moment, her hand aching from the relentless writing. She looked around at the familiar trappings of her past life—dresses, jewels, books, weapons—all now out of reach, relics of a time when she felt in control of her destiny. The once comforting presence of these items now only served to highlight her current helplessness.

She rubbed her swollen belly, feeling the baby kick beneath her hand. There was a glimmer of hope in that tiny movement, a reminder that despite everything, life continued to grow within her. It was a small solace, but enough to keep her going through the long, tedious days.

The tender moment was interrupted when Maera’s chamber doors opened. Aemond entered, his straight silver hair swaying as he walked, cutting a striking figure in his own clothes. The green tunic he wore reminded Maera of her father’s eyes, her own eyes. She wondered if their child would have her eyes too.

There was still tension between the couple, both walking on a knife’s edge when interacting with each other. They remained separate most days, apart from the few short hours they would spend eating a meal together. Depending on the atmosphere, sometimes the meals were filled with idle chatter, and other times, deathly harsh silence.

Maera rose from her seat, one hand on her stomach and the other on the back of her chair, pushing herself to stand. The pressure on her back and stomach, as well as her injured leg and arm, was intense, but she managed. Once stood up straight, she sighed in relief and bid her husband a respectful nod.

“Is there anything you need, my Prince?” she asked, confusion in her voice.

Before Aemond could answer, a flurry of stewards entered, carrying wooden chests, which only heightened Maera’s confusion. She glanced at Aemond, searching for an explanation in his stern features. His violet eye, usually sharp and calculating, softened slightly as he looked at her.

“I’m not sure how long we’ll be here. At the very least, we won’t leave till you’re recovered from birth,” Aemond said before gesturing to the chests now being placed around the room. “I thought I would bring you some things to pass the time.”

The Princess blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. She watched as the stewards opened the chests, revealing a plethora of art supplies. The vibrant colors in the paint pots and variety of materials were overwhelming.

There were thick, rich reds and blues, delicate pastels, earthy tones, and metallic hues that shimmered in the light. Brushes of all sizes and shapes were meticulously organized, from fine-tipped for detailed work to broad, flat ones for sweeping strokes. Sponges of varying textures and shapes promised endless possibilities for creative expression. The parchments and canvases were of the highest quality, their pristine surfaces waiting to be transformed by Maera’s touch.

Aemond stood back, observing her reaction. His usual sternness was softened by a hint of anticipation, as if hoping this gesture might bridge the widening gap between them.

“This… this is thoughtful,” she said, her voice catching slightly as she ran her fingers over the tops of the paint pots. “Thank you.”

The one-eyed Prince nodded, his expression still serious but with a hint of relief in his eye. “I thought you might find some solace in it. You painted frequently at home.”

Maera smiled faintly, the tension between them easing just a fraction. She could see a glimmer of hope in his eye, a momentary easing of the tension that had plagued their relationship.

Aemond looked down, his long silver hair cascading over his shoulders as he avoided her gaze. After a moment, he suggested, “Perhaps you would join me for dinner this evening as well?”

Maera paused, uncertain. His gesture was thoughtful, yes, and it did clear the air slightly. But there was still a long way to go. “I require my rest this evening,” she replied politely, her voice tinged with hesitation.

Her husband nodded, his stern face masking the disappointment that flickered in his eye. He looked away, the muscles in his jaw tightening briefly. With a sigh, Maera then suggested, “But maybe we could break our fast together in the morning.”

Aemond’s expression softened slightly, and he agreed with a small smile. He reached for her hand, his touch gentle yet firm, and placed a small kiss upon it. The warmth of his lips sent a rush of unexpected emotion through Maera, causing her face to blush.

The Prince lingered for a moment more, his thumb caressing the sapphire and gold ring he had given her. The gesture was intimate, filled with unspoken words and unexpressed feelings. He then turned on his heel and left, his presence lingering in the room even after he had gone. Maera couldn’t deny the butterflies she felt at the thought of breaking their fast together, a fleeting smile forming on her lips.

The days grew longer, and for Maera, time seemed to stretch interminably. For the majority of her marriage, she had been pregnant, a state of being that was all too familiar for noble ladies of her status. It was common for them to be with child almost every year, a cruel arrangement that seemed to trap them in a cycle of childbirth until they could no longer bear it.

Preparations for Maera’s impending labor continued in earnest. The midwives were put on high alert, their presence a constant reminder of the imminent arrival. The chambers were meticulously readied with the necessary supplies, an array of linens, herbs, and tools placed strategically for the moment of need. Aemond, though often occupied with his duties, enquired about her well-being daily, either directly or indirectly through the castle staff. His concern was a small comfort in the midst of her growing discomfort.

The months had completely transformed Maera, both emotionally and physically. The trauma of war had left indelible marks on her spirit, and the rapid changes in her body were no less overwhelming. Her curvaceous figure had morphed into something unrecognizable, her body adapting to the demands of the growing life within her. Maera’s hips had widened, her breasts were harder than rocks, her muscles ached tremendously, and after all of her suffering, she had still not given birth.

The babe, now nine days late, seemed determined to take its time. Maera, exhausted and increasingly agitated, found herself in a constant state of anticipation.

The midwives assured her repeatedly that all was well. The babe within her kicked and wriggled energetically, a sign of its robust health. It was in the right position for birth, they said, and everything was progressing as it should. And yet, the birth did not come. Maera’s frustration grew with each passing day, her patience wearing thin as she awaited the moment that would finally bring an end to this prolonged ordeal.

Her concern grew as each day passed without the presence of a Maester. She remembered that Maesters were typically present at births when complications arose, so their absence must have been a positive sign from the Gods, indicating that her labor would be swift and uncomplicated, with no need for medical intervention. But if all was to be well, why was the baby still not here?!

The midwives had suggested confinement to minimize stress and give Maera a chance to take in the sight of her newly furnished chamber. The room was now adorned with a cradle, baby clothes, and soft rugs, intended to create a comforting environment and potentially jumpstart her labor. However, to Maera, the room seemed to taunt her, rubbing it in her face that the child had not yet come. The thought of staring at the same four walls endlessly filled her with dread, knowing she would go insane if she remained confined.

Desperate for a distraction and some semblance of control, Maera sought refuge in Dragonstone's library. She pulled out a number of books and scrolls, searching through ancient texts and medical treatises in a futile attempt to find something, anything, that might relieve her suffering and allow the babe to come.

After poring over several books, Maera finally stumbled upon sections related to pregnancy and childbirth. Over the course of a few days, she attempted numerous strategies to initiate her labor. She found recipes for spicy teas and drank them, but nothing happened. Determined, she took vigorous walks around the castle, pushing through the pain in her leg and the exhaustion that accompanied her efforts. Yet, there was still no sign of the baby’s arrival.

One morning, Maera awoke to a sudden pain, her abdomen squeezing and releasing for a few seconds. Her heart leapt with hope. Finally, some movement. However, as she turned in her bed, the pain subsided. Perplexed and cautiously optimistic, Maera summoned the midwives.

Upon examining her, the midwives declared the pains to be ‘false contractions.’ While they reassured her that this was a good sign, indicating that her body was preparing for labor, it did not mean the labor was beginning. Maera huffed in frustration, feeling the weight of disappointment. It was back to the drawing board.

Determined not to give up, she resumed her search for solutions, combing through more texts and experimenting with different methods, all while the anticipation and tension grew within her. Each moment felt like an eternity as she yearned for the arrival of her child, hoping that soon, her efforts would finally bear fruit.

After another evening of tireless reading in hopes of finding a miracle cure for her ailments, Maera finally stumbled upon something promising. The practice was outdated and certainly frowned upon by the Faith, but she had already done things the Gods would not approve of. She resolved to ask for forgiveness later.

The text she found described a method first documented in Old Valyria during the time of Aenar Targaryen, her ancestor who relocated his House to Dragonstone. If it had worked for her ancestors, surely it must work for her, she concluded. The excitement and desperation mingled within her, pushing her to try this ancient practice.

Maera made her way back to her chambers and summoned the midwives once again. They strongly advised against it, citing that she should allow nature to take its course as the Gods intended. Maera rolled her eyes at their caution. Surely the Mother and Maiden would understand her plight?

Ignoring their protests, she ordered the maids to dress her in a black sheer nightdress that accentuated every single curve of her body. Her hair fell loose into curls, a beautiful mix of brown and silver. She dabbed some perfume onto her neck and wrists, the scent of jasmine and vanilla filling the air, before leaving her room.

“I was not expecting you here this evening.”

The stone walls of the room were adorned with tapestries depicting the fiery history of House Targaryen, their dragons soaring majestically over battlefields and burning cities. Heavy wooden furniture, intricately carved with dragon motifs, filled the room, and the hearth was always alight, casting a warm glow over the dark stone and keeping the chill at bay.

Now that Aemond had unpacked his belongings, the room began to reflect his character. His polished armor and weapons were meticulously arranged on stands and racks, each piece gleaming and well-cared for. Books on history, warfare, and Valyrian lore were stacked neatly on shelves, alongside maps and scrolls detailing strategies that could be used in the ongoing war. A dark green tapestry bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen hung prominently on one wall, a symbol of his allegiance and ambition.

When Aemond entered his chambers, he furrowed his brow, seeing the shadow of a stranger perched upon his bed. His hand instinctively went to his sword, but as he drew closer, he was met with the sight of his wife in her sheer black nightgown. His violet eye quickly widened, taking in the sight of her fully, his gaze raking up her body.

Maera attempted to appear desirable, though she felt nothing of the sort. Her heart pounded with nerves, and her body ached from the weight of her pregnancy and the exhaustion of her efforts. She resolved that this was merely a transaction to get what she needed and would attempt to play her part convincingly.

The Princess took a deep breath and met his gaze, her voice soft but steady. “Me neither,” she replied, her tone attempting to be sultry despite her inner turmoil.

Aemond's eye swept over Maera's form one last time, lingering on the curves accentuated by her sheer nightgown. Then, without a word, he moved to sit on the chair next to the dresser, beginning to unbuckle his boots. Maera sighed, realizing she needed to be more direct.

"I require your assistance," she stated, trying to keep her voice steady.

Aemond's eye flicked up as he removed his boots, repeating her words as if trying to make sense of them. "My assistance?"

Maera nodded and gestured to her swollen stomach. "I'm exhausted," she explained, her frustration evident. "And if I hear one more midwife telling me to relax for the sake of the baby, I will burn this castle down."

Aemond breathed out a laugh, the sound unexpected but welcome. He then began to unbuckle his dark green doublet, agonizingly slowly, and Maera could not tear her gaze away. When he removed it, leaving him in just his cotton shirt and trousers, he looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “So what do you need from me?”

She gulped, attempting not to be overcome by desire for her husband. Despite her anger and the gulf between them, the sight of him stirred emotions she could not easily suppress. "For you to perform your duty," she said, trying to maintain her composure.

Aemond tilted his head, confusion evident in his eye. Maera clenched her jaw, frustration and longing mixing in her voice as she clarified, "The marital act, Aemond.”

The Prince smirked, a glint of amusement in his eye. "It's already evident that I have performed my duty," he replied, gesturing to her rounded abdomen.

Maera dug her nails into her palm, the sharpness of her frustration growing as she tried to explain herself. "I read in a Valyrian tome that the act can bring forth labor towards the end of pregnancy," she reiterated, her voice carrying a mixture of urgency and irritation.

Aemond nodded slowly, his violet eye studying her with a hint of amusement dancing beneath the surface. He raised his brow for a moment, as if pondering her words, before decisively removing his cotton shirt. The action revealed his lean, muscular form, marked with scars that told tales of battles fought and dangers faced. Despite her current state of mind, Maera couldn't deny that he was undeniably handsome, and the sight of him after their prolonged separation only served to intensify her desire.

Pulling his silver hair free from its confines, Aemond's locks cascaded over his broad shoulders, framing his sharp features with a striking contrast. He spoke in a low, measured voice, his words laden with a subtle challenge, "Well then, wife, all you need do is simply ask me.”

“…ask you?” She parroted, her mind racing to comprehend his meaning.

“Yes.” Aemond stepped closer, looming over her on the bed, his presence commanding and magnetic. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face closer to hers, and repeated in that same low tone, "Ask me."

Her breath quickened in response to the intensity of his gaze and the proximity of his body. A mixture of anger and longing churned within her as she felt his deliberate attempt to tease and provoke her. She clenched her jaw, fighting the inner turmoil of pride battling against desperate need.

Their eyes locked, and in that charged moment, Maera felt the room shrink around them, the air thick with unresolved tension. She struggled to maintain her composure, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. Despite her determination to resist, a part of her yearned to surrender to the allure of his presence, to bridge the emotional chasm that had grown between them.

The Princess rose abruptly from the bed, her hands pressing firmly on Aemond's shoulders as she shoved him backwards. Her breath was quick, eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and defiance.

"Coming here was a mistake," she declared sharply, her voice tinged with anger. She turned away from him, walking briskly towards his dresser. Running her fingers through her curls, she decided to play Aemond's game of cat and mouse. "It's a pity Hugh Hammer has already left," she remarked coolly, her tone laced with provocation. "He would have jumped at the chance to bed me."

Maera heard him storming towards her, and she glanced into the mirror to see his looming figure behind her. Before she could react, his arm darted forward, grabbing her neck and yanking her backwards. She gasped as her back pressed against his bare torso, feeling the tension radiating off him.

“You would dare let someone touch you?”Aemond growled into her ear, his grip tightening slightly. His voice was edged with possessiveness and anger.

Meeting his intensity, Maera asked in return, her own voice steady despite the pressure on her neck, "And what would you do if I did?"

There was a charged silence between them, the air thick with tension and unspoken desires. Aemond's grip on her neck loosened slightly, his breath brushing against her skin as he leaned closer. “Slit their throat and let the blood spray and drip down your beautiful face,” he murmured, the brutality of his words causing her stomach to do flips.

Maera's expression hardened as she spun out of his grasp, facing him chest to chest. Her eyes locked onto his with defiance and frustration, yet beneath the surface, a flicker of something more complex lingered.

"You're insufferable," Maera declared sharply, her voice a blend of exasperation and an underlying current of something deeper, something primal that stirred within her.

Before Aemond could respond, she made her move. Leaning forward, Maera closed the distance between them in one swift motion. She crushed her lips against his with a fierce hunger, the kiss a tumultuous blend of passion and frustration. Her hands moved to grip his shoulders, fingers digging into his bare muscles.

Her lips moved against his with a fervor born of months of tension and misunderstanding. She tasted the familiar essence of him, a mix of warmth and something distinctly Aemond. His response was immediate, his arms encircling her waist, pulling her closer into him, melding their bodies together in a desperate embrace.

Maera felt herself being pushed back to the bed, her husband’s hands venturing to her shoulders as he pushed sleeves of the nightgown down, the sheer material falling off of her body and pooling at her feet. Aemond’s hands immediately flew to her breasts, squeezing and massaging the rounded flesh, which brought her great relief. A soft moan escaped her lips as she surrendered herself to him, his touch fueling the yearning within her that she had desperately tried to deny.

Aemond pulled away for a moment, grabbing one of the pillows at the top of the bed before placing it behind her. He then dropped to his knees, his hand crawling along the length of her leg, the calloused fingertips dancing along her calf before meeting the soft rounded meat of her thigh. She instinctively widened her legs, inviting, if not begging him, to touch her, revealing her glistening cunt to him.

“Fuck, you have missed me,” he purred before swiping his tongue through her folds.

“Oh Gods,” Maera sighed as her husband lapped at her core like a man starved, his tongue delivering deliberate strokes to her clit, causing her to squirm. Each flick of his tongue and the firm pressure at her aching core intensified the desire pooling inside of her.

The Princess’s hands gripped the sheets tightly as she felt herself getting closer and closer to her peak. Aemond’s eye flicked up, grabbing onto one of her hands and placing it firmly onto the back of his head. All semblance of control left her body as she finally fully surrendered to him, whimpering as she gripped his silver tresses.

Maera allowed her hips to roll against her husband’s face, that oh-so familiar knot tightening in her stomach as he savoured the nectar of her arousal. Aemond’s hand squeezed her thigh harshly as his other moved down to let his fingers join his tongue. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head in pleasure as two fingers entered her, whilst he peppered kisses against her puffy clit.

His digits curled inside of her, brushing against that rough patch within. The Prince groaned as he heard her muffled voice moaning his name, the sound of her arousal echoing throughout the chambers. Mere seconds later she saw stars as she gasped for air, the tight coil snapping as pleasure completely washed over her. She held Aemond in place, her nails digging into his scalp as he continued licking and sucking her clit through her peak.

The one-eyed Prince did not give her time to catch her breath before flipping her onto her front, her swollen belly resting on the pillow he had previously put behind her. As Maera turned her head to see what he was doing, she felt is tongue run through her folds, lapping up her arousal before licking all the way to her puckered hole, causing her to gasp. Then without warning and the sound of rustling fabric, he entered her in one swift movement, filling her to the hilt before setting an erratic pace.

Her orgasm had left her sensitive and she swore she could feel every inch, every ridge, every vein even more intensely than she had ever done before. She bit her lip, determined to not let any more moans escape her. She had already given too much of herself away. This was supposed to be a transaction, a means to an end. And yet it felt so fucking good.

Maera gripped onto the sheets for dear life as her legs began to shake, his cock hitting that rough patch within her over and over again with each forceful thrust. She felt his hand slide up her neck and tangle into her brown and silver locks before pulling her upwards, her back now against his chest, his breath fanning against her face. When his other hand snaked down to stroke her bundle of nerves, Maera’s back arched instinctively, hand hand flying backwards to tangle once again in his hair.

The pressure began to build once again in her stomach, blinding hot pleasure wracking through her body like electricity. She turned her head to look at him and took in the beauty before her. Aemond, his face flushed, his jaw slack as he looked down, watching as his cock disappeared into her.

Without thinking, she pulled his face towards her, colliding her lips with his. Aemond’s tongue slipped past her parted lips, lapping the inside of her mouth as he tasted her. After a moment, he pried himself away, simply resting his forehead against hers, both of them gasping for air as they chased their peaks, their breaths mingling. The hand in her hair began to snake down her body, pausing momentarily on her breast, grabbing and kneading the flesh harshly, before descending further and resting on her swollen stomach.

It was intimate. Too intimate for what this was supposed to be. But Maera did not have time to dwell, her mind and body out of sync as her cunt fluttered around him, pulsating with a rhythm that was overwhelming, gripping and squeezing his cock like a vice. His release followed soon after, his hot white seed painting her walls, a feeling that she had missed, no matter how much she tried deny it.

After a moment, once their breathing had slowed, Aemond collapsed onto the bed beside her, and Maera turned to lay on her back, her hair fanning around her like a dark and silver halo. She was covered in a sheen of sweat, her face flushed from her two peaks, her body feeling practically boneless.

She felt amazing. Desired. Wanted. Loved? No, that was too much. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She felt his hand brush against hers hesitantly, as if he did not wish to scare her away. But she could not stand it, and abruptly sat up, her heart still pounding from the intensity of their coupling.

She reached down to the floor, her fingers brushing against the sheer fabric of her nightgown. With a swift, almost frantic motion, she pulled it over her head, the delicate material clinging to her still-flushed skin.

There was no time for tenderness or comfort. It was not possible. He had betrayed her, slain her kin, and almost gotten her killed through his sheer lack of action. Yet why did she only feel whole when she was with him? When she surrendered to his whim? When she accepted that her hate for him was also intertwined with her love for him?

As she stood, she let out a deep sigh, frustration gnawing at her. She was mad at herself for giving in to her desires, and even more so at Aemond for his infuriating ability to provoke her. She turned to leave, but her injured leg gave way slightly, causing her to stumble. She caught herself on the edge of the bed, her breath hitching in pain.

Aemond’s voice cut through the tension. “Are you-?”

Maera whipped around to glare at him, her eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and vulnerability. She didn’t want his pity, not now, not ever. “I’m fine,” she snapped, her voice cold and sharp.

Without waiting for a response, she stormed out of his room, her movements brisk despite the pain in her leg. The corridors of Dragonstone seemed to stretch endlessly as she made her way back to her chambers, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Reaching her room, she closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment as she tried to steady her racing heart.

Maera woke alone in her chambers the next morning. The bed was cold and empty, a stark contrast to the heated passion of the previous night. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, a mix of frustration and regret gnawing at her. She had allowed herself to become so close to Aemond, and it had awakened feelings she thought she had long since repressed.

She swore she could still smell his scent on her—leather and dragon smoke, a heady mix that made her heart clench painfully. The memories of their encounter played vividly in her mind, his touch, his whispered words, the intensity of their shared desire.

She knew last night had been a mistake, a desperate plea for aid to an adversary. Aemond had done what she asked, but he didn’t have to be so smug about it. Or make her feel so good. It was supposed to be a transaction, nothing more. Yet, in his typical manner, he had twisted it into something deeper, something that left her feeling exposed and vulnerable. Such a devious son of a-

“Oooooofff.”

A sudden and intense pain seized her. It radiated from her lower back and surged through her lower stomach, shooting down the back of her thighs. She gasped, her hands instinctively gripping the sheets as her muscles tensed in response to the unexpected agony. Her breath hitched, and she closed her eyes, willing the pain to pass.

When it finally subsided, Maera knew this was different from the false contractions she had experienced before. She immediately rang the bell to summon the midwives, her heart pounding with a mix of anxiety and determination.

The midwives arrived quickly, their faces a blend of concern and professionalism. One of them, a young woman with kind eyes, asked, "Are you sure it isn't another false contraction, Princess?"

Before Maera could respond, the pain struck again, more intense than before. She clutched the bedpost for support, her body doubling over as she tried to breathe through the agony. The midwives moved swiftly, two of them holding Maera’s hands, whispering words of comfort, while the oldest midwife, a seasoned woman with a calm demeanor, began her examination.

After a few moments, the older midwife looked up, her expression resolute. "Her labours have indeed begun," she confirmed. The other midwives nodded, their grips on Maera’s hands tightening in solidarity and support. The room buzzed with quiet urgency as they prepared for the task ahead.

A million thoughts raced through Maera's mind. Relief washed over her at the prospect of her pregnancy finally coming to an end, but it was swiftly followed by a wave of anxiety. Surviving the pregnancy had been one battle, but childbirth was an entirely different and more dangerous ordeal. The absence of a Maester to oversee the process only heightened her fears, amplifying the possibility of complications spiraling out of control.

Trying to steady her nerves, Maera addressed the midwives. "I know this stage of labor can last for days, especially with a first child," she said, her voice edged with determination. "I need you to assist me in dressing. I have a meeting to attend in the main hall."

One of the younger midwives, her face pale with concern, strongly advised against this plan. "Princess, you should begin confinement immediately to prepare for a safe delivery and ensure you get enough rest," she pleaded.

Maera, ever resolute, pushed back. "We are at war," she stated firmly, though willing to find common ground. "I will attend the meeting, and once it is over, I will begin my confinement. You can wait outside the chambers in case you are needed."

The midwives exchanged uneasy glances but complied. They helped Maera into a dark black dress, sparing her the restrictions of a corset. The dress flowed around her, accommodating her swollen belly. As they laced up the back of the dress, Maera tried to focus on the task at hand, pushing aside the fear and pain. Every movement was a reminder of the life inside her, the child that would soon be born into a world of chaos and conflict. As the midwives finished, Maera took a deep breath, steadying herself for the journey ahead.

Maera walked down the corridor, flanked by guards, her midwives trailing a few paces behind. The grand hallways of Dragonstone seemed longer and more daunting than usual. As she moved, a sharp pain struck, radiating from her back and lower stomach, searing down to the backs of her thighs. She halted abruptly, her hand flying to the wall for support, her other clutching her swollen belly. The intensity of the pain forced her to grit her teeth, her breathing shallow and rapid as she fought to stay in control.

The corridor’s dim torchlight cast long shadows, flickering over her strained features. She tried to steady her breathing, focusing on the rhythm to regain control. The contractions were coming every ten minutes or so, a relentless reminder that time was running out. But she needed to attend the meeting.

One of the guards turned and approached her with concern etched on his face. "Princess, are you alright?" he asked gently.

As the pain subsided, Maera straightened, smoothing out her dress with trembling hands. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, pushing her hair back from her face. "Move on," she commanded, her voice firm despite the lingering ache. The guards nodded and resumed their pace, Maera following behind, albeit slower and with a noticeable limp.

The midwives whispered amongst themselves, their hushed tones barely audible but clearly filled with concern. She imagined they were analyzing her labor, tracking her progress with each step. Maera pushed their voices to the back of her mind. She needed to focus on the meeting ahead. The world outside the chamber was still at war, and she needed to be informed, prepared for the future that awaited her child.

She paused at the doors, taking a deep breath, hoping to keep her composure. The pain was a constant companion now, but she could not let it overwhelm her. Not here. Not now. She squared her shoulders, resolved to stay in control, and signaled for the guards to open the doors. The heavy wood creaked open, and she stepped inside, every step a testament to her strength and determination.

The grand hall was an imposing room, its high, vaulted ceilings echoing with the whispers of history. Tall, narrow windows lined the walls, casting thin beams of light that danced with the flickering of numerous torches and candles. The cold, dark stone of the walls was adorned with ancient Targaryen banners, their red and black hues deepening the hall’s sense of foreboding and power.

In the center of the room stood the stone table, carved with meticulous detail into a map of Westeros. Candles were lit beneath it, their flames illuminating the hidden contours of mountains, rivers, and cities etched into the table’s surface. The soft, warm light created an almost ethereal glow, making the map appear alive.

The council members were gathered around the table, their faces a mix of determination and unease. Aemond’s gaze flicked up as Maera limped towards them, his violet eye never leaving her. With a subtle gesture, he signaled a steward to bring a chair forward, ensuring Maera could sit beside him.

Lord Unwin Peake was the first to stand, his seasoned face breaking into a smile. Maera returned his greeting with a polite, though strained, smile, her teeth grinding as her womb contracted once more. The pain was a constant undercurrent, but she refused to let it show more than necessary. Lord Commander Criston Cole looked striking in his Kingsguard armor, the pristine white and gold of his cloak contrasting sharply with the dark stone of the hall. A golden chain around his neck signified his status as Hand of the King, the heavy emblem resting on his broad chest.

Lord Larys Strong, the Master of Whispers, leaned casually on his firefly-embellished cane, his smile polite yet inherently sinister. He offered her a respectful nod, his voice soft as he commented, “Princess, I am surprised to see you in attendance.” Maera merely rolled her eyes, unwilling to engage with him, and continued her determined walk to the seat beside Aemond.

As the lords began to sit, Larys continued, “If memory serves correctly, you do not have a seat at this council.” His words hung in the air, a thinly veiled challenge. “And with your baby overdue-”

Aemond was quick to interrupt, his tone cold and firm. “Were it not for my wife, none of us would be standing here in the first place.” Maera reached her seat and Aemond rose, pushing the chair in behind her. He turned to the room, his voice commanding attention. “The Princess is a valuable asset and a dragon rider. If anyone has a problem with her attendance, they are dismissed.”

The room fell silent, the authority in Aemond’s voice leaving no room for dispute. Maera sat, her breathing steadying as she focused on the council’s proceedings. The illuminated map of Westeros beneath them seemed to pulse with the weight of their decisions. Despite the pain and the tension, she was determined to play her part.

News from King's Landing was shared with a solemn gravity, each piece of information adding weight to the room's already tense atmosphere. It was assumed that Ser Tyland Lannister, the Master of Ships, had succumbed to the tortures in the dungeons. Maester Orwyle had attempted to escape but failed miserably, resulting in his return to the dark depths of his prison.

Reports indicated that the smallfolk had seemed to accept Rhaenyra's rule, but Maera silently concluded that their acceptance was likely born out of fear. It was hard to argue against the people and their dragons who now held the city with an iron grip. The gold cloaks, who maintained their loyalty to Prince Daemon, held the gates of the city firmly closed, preventing anyone from getting in or out. The troubling news of Helaena and Alicent being taken as hostages brought no new developments, leaving an ominous cloud over the council's proceedings.

As the updates were fed back to the room, Maera found it increasingly difficult to listen. The pains came in rapid succession, each one more intense than the last. She clutched the arms of her chair, her knuckles white from the effort. Her back felt as if it were on fire, and she ground her teeth to distract herself, sweat forming on her brow. Every word spoken around the table seemed distant, overshadowed by the agony coursing through her body. Her focus wavered, the room blurring at the edges as she struggled to maintain her composure.

Aemond's watchful eye had never left Maera, and his concern began to grow as he observed her increasingly pained expressions. Leaning slightly towards her, he asked quietly, "What is wrong?" Maera, still conflicted about their previous night together and determined not to show any weakness, shook her head, gritting out a terse "Nothing." Aemond, sensing the tension and knowing better than to press further, returned his attention to the meeting, though his gaze frequently flicked back to her.

Suddenly, the doors of the grand hall burst open, and Ser Alfred Broome, a guard who had previously served Rhaenyra, entered in a panic, his eyes wide and a scroll clutched tightly in his hand. The council members looked on furiously at the interruption, but the distress on Ser Alfred's face quickly turned their fury to concern.

The knight began to apologize for the intrusion, but Aemond cut him off, asking sharply, "What has happened?" Ser Alfred's eyes darted around the room, taking in the tense faces of each council member. Maera studied his gaze, sensing the gravity of the situation.

Ser Alfred stuttered, struggling to get the words out. "My Lords, a raven has arrived from Harrenhal." He paused, visibly shaken. "It is Prince Maelor."

Maera's heart sank, a cold dread washing over her. No. Surely not. Thena had gotten him out. He was on his way to Tarbeck Hall. The scroll in Ser Alfred's hand shook with his nerves as he continued, "He has been...he is..."

Aemond stormed out of his seat, his face a mask of fury and fear. He approached the knight in a few swift strides and snatched the parchment from his trembling hand. His eye went wide as he read it, the color draining from his face. The room fell silent, the tension thick as Aemond's reaction confirmed their worst fears. “Gods be good.”

The news of what was on the scroll quickly became apparent without the need for further words. The council members exchanged horrified glances, their faces paling. Prince Maelor, who would have become King, the last son of Aegon, was gone. Just like Aemond’s other nephew, Jaehaerys. The Blacks had succeeded; they had vanquished Aegon’s line.

Maera’s heart pounded in her chest as another, far more terrifying thought dawned on her. This did not mean the Greens were without a leader. Aegon and his sons were gone, but the late King Viserys had more than one son.

Did that make Aemond the…?

Did that make Maera the…?

“Arrrgggghhhh!” Maera lurched over, one hand gripping the edge of the stone table and the other clutching her swollen stomach. The pain that tore through her was unlike any she had felt before, a searing agony that radiated from her back to her lower abdomen and down the backs of her thighs. It was harsh, brutal, and all-consuming. She groaned, her face contorting with the effort to remain standing.

The suddenness of her movement drew the attention of everyone in the room. Conversations halted, and concerned murmurs filled the air. Maera’s vision blurred as she fought to steady her breathing, but the contractions were coming too quickly now, leaving her little time to recover between them.

She felt something warm and wet running down her leg. Panic surged through her veins. Gathering her skirts in a trembling hand, she glanced down to see blood flowing between her legs. A sharp cry of alarm escaped her lips. She looked up at Aemond, her eyes wide with terror, and saw his face mirrored her own fear.

“The babe is coming,” Maera declared, her voice quivering with fright and desperation.

Notes: *insert panicked Michael Scott meme here*

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

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

[dailyadventureprompts]

Adventure: Grasping for Answers

Throughout their early adventures the party come into conflict with the agents of the mysterious mage known only as "The Ravelling Hand", a villain of uncertain identity who seems to have lots of schemes and no qualms using violence, trickery, and unexpected magic to get what they want.

Adventure Hooks:

The party first become entangled with the hand's minions when they're asked by an innocuous travelling merchant to deliver a small wrapped parcel to the wizard living one town over. The wizard isn't open to receiving guests, and after sneaking or charming their way in, the party will find out why: her apprentice has been kidnapped, the parcel contains both of the boy's index fingers as well as a note explaining that she can have the rest of him back in exchange for several dangerous texts in her collection, delivered by the party to the same intermediary who hired them. A brawl is likely to ensue as the wizard suspects the party is in on the blackmail, but if they can talk her down maybe they can figure out a way to work together to get the boy back before any more harm comes to him.

Most thieves know better than to try and rob a magic item shop, but most thieves aren't armed with dispel magic infused salt grenades to neutralize the shop's ubiquitous defences. A rash of these attacks across the duchy has shopkeepers worried, and one hires the party to stake out their store for the night when they suspect someone is casing it. Do the party trail the robbers back to their hideout, or interrupt them mid heist only for combat to delay them long enough for those indiscriminate defences to start turning back on?

Spoiler Alert: The mage is in fact an arcanely gifted lesser kraken by the name of Dlexx who seeks to avail itself of all the magical knowledge amassed on land. Sure the deep has its own mysteries but there's a thriving trade in spellscrolls and arcane tomes that don't make it below the waves. Using an old lighthouse as a disguise for its massive form while on land, it uses telepathy and sendings to direct its minions without ever revealing its true nature. Imagine the party's surprise when they roll up to the villain's lair expecting to bully some crusty nerd with a ratty beard and instead the lair sprouts tentacles that drag them into the crashing surf.

Challenges & Consequences

Finding Dlexx is an adventure in and of itself. When questioned, most of the mage's minions admit to never having met their employer, and those high ranking enough to have been summoned to a place called "saltbite tower" in dreams only to later have their memories muddled. Careful interrogation and study of local maps will have the party realize that the tower is infact an abandoned lighthouse, which will narrow their search as they comb the costline for their enemy's lair.

Actually defeating the Ravelling Hand might prove too much for early level adventurers, as in addition to being a powerful mage the kraken is literally in its element, able to breathe and move while the heroes flounder. Dlexx will toy with them, throwing unconscious foes out of the water the way a fisherman throws back a catch that is too small. When the battle is over and it's proved it's point the kraken will collapse the tower and leave into the wide ocean, telepathically taunting them with their inability to follow.

Though the Ravelling Hand will not resurface for some time, the destruction of the tower and Dlexx's retreat into the deep is partially a bluff. The kraken chose that particular lighthouse because it was a short distance away from the coral reef into which it scribed its arcane learning the way a wizard records spells in a book, coiling arms etching formulae into hundreds of yards of living stone. Dlexx must periodically return to the reef to add spells to it, and sightings by locals (or the occasional fish manifesting with magical talent) might clue the party into the reef's existence.

A pair of merfolk siblings named Crashing-Tide and Arcing-Mirror serve the Ravelling Hand as apprentices and scribes, having promised seven years of utmost loyalty in exchange for the chance to bring the arcane knowledge of the surface back to their community. They tend to the reef, and allow the Kraken to borrow their eyes from afar so that it might study the spells scribed there. Several years into their pledge, Crash (the sister) has come to idolize Dlexx and the power it wields above and below the waves, wishing that the whole of their shoal to come into its service. Mirror (the brother) is skeptical, well aware of the kraken's manipulations and distantly suspicious of the conflict that it invokes. Perhaps if the party can intercede with these two they can learn more about their enemy's plans, though doing so will take some careful diplomacy.

Artist

[ilexdiapason]

gonna start blocking strangers whose ideal life series team lineup involves parcelling off all the women into their own corner of the map

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

(astarion / acebard!tav)

Astarion never received any gifts before - and if he did, he forgot - but he would have loved for the first giver to be his lover, although they seemed pretty occupied with Gale and an object that suspiciously looked like a present.

(not native in english. so sorry if the wording is clusmy in some parts, i wan't sure how to write this xD)

A/N: I made a few adjustments, but I think I know what you're getting at. Hopefully it still works. Also, this turned out way more than five sentences because I have no self control.

Astarion x AsexualBard!Tav Masterlist

Word Count: 921

Astarion couldn't remember the last time he received a gift. The idea of being gifted anything was down right laughable. Nobody truly gave anything without expecting something in return. Some way, some how a price would be paid. He didn't need that hanging over his head, along with everything else. So why did seeing you hand Gale a wrapped parcel sting so much?

He watched as the wizard pulled apart the paper, his brows furrowed with curiosity clearing into a bright smile.

"Oh this is perfect!" he exclaimed. "How did you get it?"

"Do you really want to know?" you challenged, grinning yourself.

Gale opened his mouth as if to say something, but stopped himself with a guilty look. "Perhaps it's best I say thank you and leave it at that."

"What do you know, intelligent and wise," you teased. "Just make sure to pace yourself. Don't read it all in one night."

"I've made a point never to make promises I can't keep."

You laughed, giving Gale a light squeeze on the arm before turning in Astarion's direction.

He schooled his features into a casual expression, trying and failing to ignore the burning in his chest. Admittedly the fond look in your eyes did quell the fires, at least a little.

"Successful day?" he asked.

"More or less," you said, taking a seat beside him. "We've got a map. No way to read it just yet, but it's a start."

Astarion humphed, nodding in Gale's direction. "And that?"

"Just some petty thief," you explained. "Gale expressed an interest in it last time we were in town. Couldn't for the life of me explain why, but the bookseller refused to sell. Terrible way to run a business if you ask me."

This was normally when he would laugh or at least grant you an approving smile. Truly, he did love your casual relationship thievery, but it only made him more frustrated. He'd almost preferred you'd paid for it. If you had, he could dismiss the whole thing as a simple errand and not something more.

You frowned slightly, clearly taking notice of his mood.

"Alright, what's got you pouting?"

"I'm not pouting," he said, indignantly. "I'm brooding. There's a difference."

"My apologizes," you said, dryly. "What's got you brooding, oh mysterious one?"

He narrowed his eyes at you, his lips pressing into a hard line.

"I'm just surprised you would go so out of your way for a book. It's not as if you'd be able to understand it anyway."

A flash of hurt struck across your face, but you pushed it down in a way that made him sick to his stomach. What in the hells was wrong with him?

"Well, it's a good thing it wasn't for me then," you said, stiffly. "Now are you done being childish or are you actually going to tell me what's going on?"

Astarion tried to maintain eye contact in some vain attempt to hold onto his pride, but it was no use. He ducked his head down, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"I...I don't see why you think Gale is worth the effort is all," he admitted. "It's just a stupid book. It's not as if it's useful to the rest of us. So...why bother?"

He chanced a glance in your direction. You just stared at him, your lips slightly parted as you took him in.

"Astarion, are you jealous?" you finally asked.

"No," he said, a little too quickly, even to his ears.

"So what else would you call being upset over the fact I stole something specifically for Gale and not you?"

"I'm not upset," Astarion objected. "I'm just..."

"Brooding?"

He very much wanted to say something devastating in that moment, that would shut you up and let him walk away from this with some kind of dignity; but, he couldn't think of a damned thing.

"Fine, I'm jealous," he spat. "Happy?"

"Not really."

He closed his eyes, letting out a short sigh. He deserved that.

"I'm sorry," he said, softly. "You're right, it's...petty and I shouldn't have said that to you. Gods know if it were anyone else I would have torn their throat out."

He looked to you then, hoping you would see the honest truth in his words.

"I wish I was better at this. I know you care about me and I don't need you to commit robbery to prove it. Although, I wouldn't be opposed to it."

To his relief, a small crack of a smile turned at the corner of your mouth.

"I'll keep that in mind," you said, some of the teasing coming back into your voice.

"Does that mean I'm forgiven?" he asked.

"Only if you mean it."

He didn't have an answer for that. At least, not right away.

With deliberate care, he slipped his hand into yours, raising it to his lips.

He watched as your eyes widened in surprise, only to soften as he pressed a gentle kiss to your fingers. His eyes never strayed from yours. He needed you to see him too.

"I mean it," he said.

A true smile came to your lips, as you nodded. "Then you are forgiven."

He returned your smile, feeling a lightness in his chest only you seemed to grant him.

Perhaps he was wrong in his assessment. He had been given many gifts since meeting you. You practically showered him with them every single day, and damn him for taking any of them for granted.

[seabeck]

Just found out I live within the shadow (very far shadow, not at risk really but I shouldn’t eat dirt) for one of the first EPA superfund sites. No one told me about this, I found out because I was checking the parcel map to see who owned a property

[loveharlow]

SYNOPSIS‧₊˚[7.4k] based on 1x06.

WARNING(S)‧₊˚ swearing, mild violence, gun violence/graphic depictions of gun use, mentions of drowning, arguing, entrapment, references to mild bullying

˗ˏˋ series masterlist ˎˊ˗

NOW PLAYING‧₊˚

“SORRY, YOU’RE STAYING WHERE?” Kiara asked grabbing a tray of food as John B leaned against the counter and you trailed behind her with a pitcher of drinks. The Wreck had opened for the day not too long ago.

“Tannyhill.” He said shortly, eyes wide and unexpecting as he leaned his forearms on the counter.

“So, you’re living with Sarah Cameron.” Kie said with a tight-lipped grimace. 

“Look, the only reason I’m living there is ‘cause her dad bailed me out, alright?” The Routledge boy reassured, following you both out to the table where JJ and Pope were lounging inside of The Wreck. “And it’s way better than foster care which, by the way, is where I was about to go.”

“So, do you have membership to the clubs now?” Pope perked up curiously, legs kicked up on the wooden surface. Kiara sat the tray of fries down while you poured the drinks into each respective cup before taking a stand behind JJ’s chair that was next to Pope’s, leaning your arms over it as you bent nonchalantly behind him, stealing a fry from his hand over his shoulder.

“I don’t know, Pope.”

“What about those golf carts they drive around? You get one of them?” He questioned again, amusement in his brown eyes. “Does it come with a sweater vest or do you have to buy one of your own?”

“Look, you promised.” Kiara cut in disappointedly, returning back to the original topic of conversation. “You said you weren’t with her…” John B just shrugged as if he wasn’t caught in a lie.

“Bro, just own it. She’s got you.” JJ scoffed. 

Kiara just ignored the blonde. “If you wanna hang out with her, that’s fine. But I’m letting you know that I’m not doing anything with Sarah.” She continued on, affirming the boy. 

“Do you guys see her here?” JB cut in shortly, annoyed. “No? Right, okay. A little focus would be fantastic. We’ve got the map, right?”

“It’s out of whack ‘cause the guy was ganja’d when he drew it.” JJ piped in. 

“It’s more so due to the fact that the coast has changed.” You offered, looking down at the blonde. “But it deffo looks like he drew it after ingesting a whole eddie and downing half a bottle of Everclear.”

“We just have to look for the landmarks that haven’t changed.” Pope spoke to no one in particular as he surveyed the map. 

“What about the old forts?”

“Battery Jasper.” Kiara threw out with full confidence. Pointing to a clear spot on the map in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Looks were shared around the table before everyone shrugged, you all hopping up and heading outside of The Wreck and into The Twinkie.

“WE’RE IN BATTERY, RIGHT HERE.” Pope had the map pressed up against a rock, still reading it as the remaining four of you looked out at the expanse of land in front of you. Nothing but grass and trees for miles. “So if this is parcel nine, then it’s somewhere northeast of here. Over there.” He concluded, pointing ahead.

“That’s not Tannyhill,” JJ began, squinting his eyes. “That’s a subdivision.”

“Tannyhill Plantation was the entire island.” John B told him. “Over time, it got sold into smaller pieces.”

“So we’re looking for an old stone wall…” Pope pondered, heading back into the van without a word. The rest of you simply followed, loading into the van with JB as the driver and following Pope’s verbal lead. “The road should split up here. You’re gonna take a left.” He said after a few minutes of driving.

John B made an unnecessarily sharp left turn, sending the three of you in the backseat flying against the wall of the Twinkie. After a few curses and groans, you looked to see what was stone wall. “This is it.” Pope claimed.

“Are you kidding me?” Kiara exclaimed, hopping out of the van as the rest of you followed. Looking up at the house, it was immediately recognizable.

“The Crain House?” You asked incredulously, eyes wide and jaw slack.

“Worst-case scenario.” JJ quipped. “I heard that Mrs. Crain buried her husbands head on the property.”

“Honestly, I don’t really believe the stories about this place.” John B shrugged, taking the first step and leading the group through the thick mess of greenery that led up to the house itself. You were constantly swatting leaves and branches out of your field of vision as you walked.

“Which stories did you hear?” JJ inquired.

“The one where she killed her husband with an axe and that she’s been holed up ever since.” Kiara replied. “On certain nights, when the moon is full, you can see her in the windooow.” She teased, wiggling her fingers in a spooky motion. 

“Okay, it’s not funny ‘cause it’s all true. I swear to God, guys, this is all real. I knew Hollis.” JJ preached. 

“Hollis Crain? The daughter?” You asked, tilting your head in his direction as you dodged a branch. 

“Yeah. She was my babysitter.” He told you, holding up the next branch for you to walk under, releasing it just in time to swat Pope in the forehead. “She told me all about it. About her mother, what happened in the house. As a kid, she heard all these stories about how her mother had killed her father. Hollis didn’t believe it. Until that night…” He trailed off.

You groaned at his dramatics, stopping in your tracks to cross your arms and shift your weight. “What night?” You asked, feeding into JJ’s theatrics.

“When Hollis was six years old, she heard her parents arguing downstairs. So, she goes down there to see her mom washing her hands in a sink full of blood. Her mother says she just cut her finger. Next morning? She says her father and her split up. But then, Hollis noticed something — her mother going in and out of the parlor constantly, hands full of plastic bags. Weeks pass and Hollis decides to use the outhouse. And as she’s using it, she looks down, and there, in the outhouse, is her father’s head looking straight back at her.”

“...You are so full of shit.” John B protested, throwing his head back and walking off.

“Wait! Dude…” JJ grabbed his best friend by the shoulder. “You sure you wanna do this? She’s an axe murderer and… you got a cast on.” 

“I don’t give a shit, JJ.” John B said angrily. “I’ve got nothing to lose, right?” He threw the blonde’s words back at him. “You guys comin’ or what?” He spat before continuing his journey further onto the Crain property, the rest of you reluctantly following.

Stopping in what seemed to be a garden just a handful of feet from the front door, John B turned around. “Here's the plan. We need to look for the wheat near the water, like it said in Denmark’s Letter.”

“What kind of water? Like, pond water?” Pope replied.

JJ chuckled. “Bong water?” He tried to joke. John B just twisted his face and ignored at his childish tactics.

“Look, I don’t know, just look for water.” He demanded before continuing to lead the group. He crept around the foundation of the house, crouching in front of a small entrance that led under the structure. “C’mon, it’s the only place we haven’t looked.” He urged the four of you, turning on his flashlight and crawling through the entrance as the rest of you piled in, single-file behind him.

You coughed as you stood to your full height and dust filled your lungs. The crawlspace was filthy, smelly, and festering with mosquitos. You clicked on your mini flashlight, scanning the space. 

“There’s not even water on the pipes.” JJ judged, rubbing his palm against the pipes that were so dry, the interaction sounded like nails on sandpaper. 

“There’s not a drop of water here...” Pope said, irritated.

“Know why we didn’t find it?” Kie sighed, turning her sights to John B. “Bad karma.”

“God, here we go…” JB rolled his eyes.

“We had a good thing going. And then you decide to rope in Barbie and now, trail’s gone dry. Coincidence? I don't think so.” The brown-haired girl mouthed-off. 

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you about Sarah. What the hell’s the deal with you two?” Then his eyes landed on you, standing a few feet behind Kie between Pope and JJ who were also listening in on the not-so-hushed conversation. “You three.”

“I just got bit by three fatass mosquitos, I’d like to opt out of this particular conversation-” You spoke with a snarl, swatting another mosquito that flew across your vision as Kie’s voice sounded out again, cutting off yours.

“Nothing’s the deal.” She spat, offended.

“Is it because I kissed you? Is that your problem?” John B’s head whipped to the side when Kiara’s palm made harsh contact with his cheek, the remaining three of you making simultaneous ‘O’ faces of shock from the sidelines. 

“Stop treating me like I’m some girl who’s obsessed with you instead of your best friend who’s actually trying to look out for you.” She reprimanded sternly.

“Did you, uh, hit me?” John B grimaced, turning back to face her. Kiara simply held up her right hand, her backs to the three of you.

“Skeeter.” Was all she said.

“Skeeter?”

“Yeah.” Then John B was slapping her back. You threw your hands up in the air as Pope exclaimed and JJ chuckled at the two.

“Woah, hey!” Pope threw out, then John B was holding up his right hand, this time with his palm on display since he was facing you all, presenting a flattened mosquito stuck to his palm. 

“Skeeter.” He retorted firmly, eyes squinted. They started playfully slapping each other’s faces and arms back and forth as the remaining portion of you went back to looking once the show had ended. You flashed your light up and down, side to side but still nothing. And the mosquitos were eating you from the inside out…

Mosquitos. 

Why were there so many mosquitos in a basement? 

Aiming your flashlight down, you started tapping the toe of your foot lightly against the ground, catching a certain blonde’s attention.

“Tap dancing, are we?”

“No. Mosquitos.” You dismissed him in your focus, stepping up onto a wooden platform and tapping your foot on top of it. It sounded hollow. You paused, kneeling on top of the structure and knocking on it, still hearing that same hollowed-out echo. 

“Yes, princess, there are mosquitos everywhere.”

You sighed, shining your light through the crack in the planks but it was pitch black. “Mosquitos swarm near water.” You told JJ. “Still water. They need it to hatch eggs. So, why would so many mosquitos be in a basement with seemingly no water?” You almost sounded like you were talking to yourself with the way you were mumbling, looking for something small, your sights landed on a small pebble in the gravel under the house, picking it up before dropping it through a space between the wood. Planting your ear against the ground, you waited, until seconds after dropping the stone, you heard water splash.

“You find somethin’?” JJ asked, you being unaware that he was still watching you. You turned to him with your full attention now.

“Help me move this.” You whispered to him, already starting to pull the planks up in a frenzy. The other three pogues seemed to notice that the two of you had found something and started to help move the planks until a good chunk of them were out of the way.

The five of stared down as a well stared back at you, a least a couple dozen feet deep. 

“Well, well, well…” Pope muttered in the ring of silence.

“That was a good dad joke.” John B told him, never taking his eyes off the well, a smirk breaking out on his features. “We’re gonna need a really big rope.”

“NO FUCKING WAY.” Kiara spat, pacing the patio of The Chateau — Sarah Cameron was sat next to John B, presenting as unbothered as ever. You sat on the farthest cushion right across from JJ and Pope. “You brought her here? So what? She’s in on this now?”

John B looked to his two guy friends for help, Pope simply shrugging his shoulders and muttering an ‘I dunno’ before JJ threw his hands out. “All I care about is her cut coming out of your share.” He directed at JB, pointing his finger for emphasis. 

“This is our thing.” Kiara scolded, pointing to everyone but Sarah to further prove her point. 

“I’m just a tad uncomfortable with this…” Pope added. 

“When are you not uncomfortable?” John B tried to defend the blonde girl.

“I rode here on the back of JJ’s bike pretty comfortably.” The curly-haired boy sassed back from JJ’s side. 

“It’s true. Most relaxed I’ve ever seen him.” 

“We were all comfortable until you brought her.” Kiara shot out, not making eye contact with Sarah, who had finally had enough.

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Was the first thing the blonde girl had said since her arrival.

“I mean, you could always go home. Just a thought…” You spoke nonchalantly, shrugging from your seat across the patio. Sarah eyed you meanly before looking at John B, scoffing.

“I told you.” Your eyes squinted and your head tilted to the side.

“Told him what, exactly? That your a liar?” Kiara argued before Sarah’s attention whipped around to her.

“No, that you’re a shit-talking bitch.” She told Kie, turning to you next. “And you’re a lying slut.”

Chaos broke out — voices over voices, JJ and Pope betting money as the three of you argued over one another.

“When have I ever lied to you, Kiara?!”

“You get somebody close to you for like a month and then completely turn your back on them-”

“I’m a slut? I’m sorry, how many boyfriends have you cheated on? This year alone?-”

“Everybody, shut up!” John B stopped the arguing. “Kie, Y/n, you are my best friends, right?” Both of you just looked away, giving him his answer but not the satisfaction of hearing it. “And Sarah, you’re…”

“...Say it.” She said, a sly smile on her face.

“...You’re my girlfriend.” John B proclaimed, a boy-ish grin on his face. You couldn’t help but groan and throw your head back, all eyes turning to you as you brought your angry gaze back down.

“You met her like three whole days ago, John B.” You fussed, crossing your arms over one another. “What happened to using her for information? And I quote ‘getting what we need and cutting her loose’?”

“...You said you were using me?” Sarah asked her “boyfriend” sadly. 

John B shook his head in the smallest of motions, avoiding her eyes at all costs. “No.”

“Yeah, you did.” Pope refuted his claim. “You said those things...”

“Look, love just walked in, okay?” He tried to reason with you all but you couldn’t help but laugh bitterly.

“Three days!” You laughed out. 

“I didn’t expect it, it just kind of happened. And I’m not gonna deny it.” He continued, ignoring you. 

“Well,” you got up from your seated position, hands slapping your knees. “If Clueless is in, count me out.” You told him, hands in your back pockets. 

He shrugged like a child. “I’m not choosing, if that's what you're getting at.” He stated bluntly. You nodded your head, biting the inside of your cheek and looking around before deciding to walk off, heading for the dock.

“JUST CONSIDER IT.” JJ threw out the idea from his place beside you, leaning against the wood of the pier in front of The Chateau, Kiara and Pope having a separate conversation in front of you.

“I’m not considering anything, JJ.”

“You don’t have to like it. None of us do. But John B isn’t willing to choose and we can’t do this without you.”

“John B clearly can. He knew how we felt about her and he did everything we advised him not to do.” You snarled, looking out at the water. “None of you know her, not really. You think I just up and decided to hate Sarah Cameron one day? No.” You scoffed. “She creates a false sense of security and then when you start to rely on her, she uses it all against you.”

You both sat in silence, JJ not wanting to question you any further for the moment.

“What if he chooses her?” JJ asked you after a couple moments passed. You brought your eyes back to his, wind blowing your hair in your field of vision, voice small as you spoke.

“Then he’s a worse friend than I thought he was.”

YOU DECIDED TO MAKE YOUR WAY HOME AFTER WHAT WENT DOWN WITH JOHN B. You didn’t intend on making him choose between you or Sarah but you felt as if this whole thing had spiraled out of control. Maybe the biggest part was that you felt lied to. He promised there was nothing happening between them and when it came down to it, he couldn’t even make a decision between two of his life-long best friends and a girl he met less than a week ago. Something behind his logic, or lack of, struck a nerve within you. 

Opening the front door to your Figure Eight home, you were greeted with two muddy paws against your thighs.

“Aww, Marley!” You exclaimed, throwing your hands out to the sides. “What did you get into?” You shook your head, patting the stains on your denim shorts as you kicked the door closed behind you and walked to peer out of the patio door, seeing holes galore in the backyard. You looked down at the animal, hand on your hip. “You know, she’s gonna flip.” You told the dog as if she could reply back.

Her fur was covered in brown and black, muddy paw prints left behind by her pattering feet. You just sighed, bending down to scratch the top of her head as she leaned into your hand. “Guess it’s my fault for leavin’ you. I’d go crazy if I was stuck here alone with her, too. C’mon,” You threw your head out in the direction of the garage door. “Let’s hose you off so I can cover your tracks.”

You started walking but stopped when you didn’t hear Marley trailing behind you. You peered back over your shoulder to see her sitting patiently. “No, absolutely not.” Was your reply to her pleading puppy-eyes, a whine leaving her closed lips. “I am not picking you up, Marley. You’re a big girl, c’mon.” The golden retriever made no move. “I’ll give you a treat after. You wanna a treat, girl?” 

Her ears perked up in the slightest of motions and suddenly the medium-sized dog was sprinting towards you, basically running into the garage door that was still closed. You just giggled, opening the door for her to run out and hop into the metal tub in the parking space that was bought especially for her. Tying your hair back and grabbing the length of the hose, you started to hose down your mess of a dog.

YOU WERE SOAKED BY THE END OF MARLEY’S BATH. You smelled of Pumpkin Spice pet shampoo and wet dog, strands of golden hair stuck to your arms and legs as you rinsed out the tub and let it flow down the driveway. The dog in question was probably running a muck in your room where you’d locked her so you could clean up in peace — covering up the holes in the backyard to the best of your ability and mopping the floors. 

Once the dog-tub was water-free, you kicked it back to it’s original position in the corner of the garage. The sound of your mother’s SUV pulling up into the driveway could be heard as you turned the hose off and put it away. She must not have seen you in the dark of the garage as she got out of the car, heels hitting the concrete as she slammed the driver’s side door shut. Her cell phone was pressed between her shoulder and ear and she fought to get her purse up onto her arm.

“I don’t care what you do, Cameron. Or how you do it for that matter. Just do something because this is both of our asses on the line.” She spat to whoever was on the other end of the line — Cameron? Maybe it was a new hire at the office.

Her eyes shot up and seemed to finally register your presence, a look of shock filling her features for a moment before it faded into something else. Something more irritated. “We’ll talk about this later. Hopefully, you’ll have gotten rid of the problem by then.” Was all she said before hanging up.

You had turned back around at this point, focused on putting Marley’s bath supplies back into their respective cabinets and shelves. 

“I didn’t expect you home.”

“Neither did I.” You replied bluntly.

“You know, it’d be nice if you could be home more often. You still have responsibilities, and that dog does whatever it wants.”

You stood to your full height, facing her now as you crossed your arms. “I could say the same for you.”

She scoffed, shifting her weight. “I have work. A job. You just run around with your delinquent friends all day and night. Your room is empty for days on end.”

You shrugged, jutting your bottom lip out. “What are you lonely, or something? We barely talk when I am home.”

“You want to talk? Let’s talk.” She crossed her own arms, staring you down.

“Not really-”

“I heard John B had a pretty nasty fall from The Hawk’s Nest last night and you and your friends were there.” You veered your neck back at her statement, a look of offense written across your face.

“What’re you keeping tabs on me now?” 

She just shrugged and shifted, pointing her chin towards the ceiling as if she knew she had you cornered. “Word travels fast on the island. The real question is what were you kids doing up there in the middle of a thunderstorm? Everything I hear about that little posse of yours is dangerous.”

All you could was laugh humorlessly, pushing yourself off of the garage wall and heading for the door back inside of the house. “I’m not doing this with you.” You told the woman, shaking your head. 

“Answer the question, Y/n!” She called after you, following you into the three-story house and slamming the garage door closed behind her.

“No! I’m covered in mud, water, and dog hair and you’re pissing me off!” You were practically stomping up the stairs. “Everytime I come back to this house you interrogate me. Calling my friends delinquents as if these aren't kids you’ve known for years!”

“Well, clearly I have good reason to-” You stopped at the top of the stairs, turning and staring down at your mother who was still at the bottom, making no moves to follow you up. 

“Maybe it’s time I question you because I have a fair few of my own.” You spat. “How did you find about the Hawk’s Nest because there were only six of us there when it happened? When did you and Shoupe get all buddy-buddy? Or better yet, how’d you manage to scrape up the money to buy a house on Figure Eight so suddenly? And don’t think I’m dumb enough to believe my father’s life insurance was enough to cover it.”

She didn’t say anything. Anything at all. Your mother just stared up at you with a look on her face that you’d never seen before it. It was angry, dark — borderline evil. It made your heart thump out of your chest and your knees get weak. It was a look that a parent should never direct at their child. 

With one last glare, you turned your back and went into your own bathroom to clean yourself up, not neglecting to slam the door behind you.

YOU SIGHED AS YOU HOPPED FROM THE HMS POGUE ONTO HEYWARD’S BOAT. After your shower, Pope had picked you up from the short pier in the back of your house with Kie lounging in the boat. He said something about JJ and John B needing a tow after conking out in the middle of The Marsh.

Approaching Heyward’s boat that was still in the middle of The Marsh, you and Kie edged towards the front of the HMS Pogue, preparing to step off. Extending your legs, you made it onto the other boat without fail, Kiara following you into the Alp where the two boys in question were.

“What did you do?” You asked annoyed, still reeling from the events of earlier — both of them. 

“The alternators not…alternating, anymore.” JJ told you, throwing his hands out. 

“Did you check the plugs?” Kiara suggested, stepping in front of you and approaching the boys as you leaned on the entryway. 

“No, you should check ‘em. Give ‘em whirl.” They handed her whatever tool they’d been using, stepping away.

“You guys are useless…” You let the two guys walk by you, stepping further into the space with Kie. “Uh, is this a joke? There are no plugs, like at all.” She muttered.

Suddenly, you heard water splashing, turning around and walking back out to see that JJ and John B had jumped into the water and were swimming towards the HMS Pogue that was getting farther and farther away.

“What’re you-” You started, cut off by the sound of banging coming from below the deck of the boat.

“John B! John B, let me out!” Came an unmistakable voice. In a haste, you lifted the hatch in the floor, coming face to face with Sarah Cameron. Not giving her time to speak, you just huffed and ran towards the edge of the boat.

“What the fuck?!” You yelled at the three boys across the water, Kiara and Sarah on each side of you now. Both equally as angry as you. “Are you serious?” 

“Get your asses back here!” Kiara demanded.

“We can’t!” Pope shrugged with a sly smile. “Not until you three work out your issues!”  

“You can’t just leave!” Sarah tried.

“There’s food in the cabin and JJ rolled a blunt!” John B shouted back. The three of you ignored them, kicking off your overalls and stripping down to your bikinis.

“This is ridiculous…” The blonde girl muttered under her breath, kicking her shorts off of her ankles.

“Well, I’d rather drown than be here with you, so…” Kiara retorted, taking her shirt off. 

“Fine. Be my guest. Maybe you’ll finally shut the hell up.” Sarah shot back. 

“You don’t even know where you’re going.” The two girls continued arguing as the three boys drifted farther away.

“I don’t care.” Was all the Cameron girl said back before jumping into the Marsh water, just as Pope revved up the engine on the smaller boat and they sped away. Sarah cursed them before turning around and swimming back to the boat, screaming and going under before popping back up.

“Ah! I got stung by a jellyfish! Shit!” She cried, still swimming back to the boat.

You rolled your eyes and turned away from her, fixing the ties on your swim suit. “Maybe next time don’t jump into The Marsh.” You reprimanded meanly.

“Thanks for the advice, after the fact.” She retorted, climbing onto the boat and sliding against the side.

“It’s not like you listen anyway...” You shrugged, leaning against the boat. 

“Kiara, you know what they say about curing jellyfish stings,” Sarah ignored you, talking through heavy breaths and looking up at the brown-haired girl. “You have to pee on me.”

The girl simply cringed. “I have a better idea.”

NIGHT HAD FALLEN AND YOU WERE SURE THE GUYS WEREN’T COMING BACK FOR THE THREE OF YOU ANYTIME SOON. The night air was cool and Sarah was high off of the weed left behind, courtesy of JJ himself. She’d been laughing and talking about nothing non-stop for the last hour.

Kie was sat next to her in the cockpit of the boat while you sat on the hardtop, swinging your feet.

“Hey,” Sarah piped up, interrupting her own giggling. “Would you rather…have, I was imagining you like this just now, it was pretty funny.” She was directing the question at Kiara. “Would you imagi- would you rather…have nipples for eyes or have eyes for nipples? Imagine if you get really old and your nipples, your boobs get saggy, your nipples, if they were your eyes, you could see if your shoes were untied.” 

She attempted to laugh it off in her impaired state but took the hint when Kie gave her a side glance, no humor present in her expression. “Is this like your first time smoking or something?” 

“...No.” Sarah said lowly, looking down.

“Could’ve fooled me.” You muttered, annoyed by the girls incessant laughter and talking. 

After a couple moments of tense silence, Sarah attempted to speak again. “Hey, Kiara…”

“Oh my God.” She cut her off. “Enough the ‘Hey, Kiara’ bullshit.” She turned her entire body to face the blonde, a hard look in her eyes. “Why’d you do it?”

“...Why’d I do what?” Sarah played dumb.

“We were best friends.” Kiara started solemnly. “We stole beers from your dad’s fridge, we watched movies together, we cried about boys...” She reminisced. “And the next thing I know, the entire school thinks I have a crush on you because you started a rumor that I did.”

“It was just a joke.” Sarah tried to dismiss, rolling her eyes.

“To who? Because it wasn’t funny for me. And when it spun out of control? When it went from people saying I had a crush on you to saying I tried to kiss you? To saying I was stalking you? That I had a shrine? Was it still just a joke then?” She reprimanded. “You never even bothered to clear it up. Just fed into it. You just cut me off like nothing happened. I mean, really, what did I do?”

You continued watching the interaction happen from the hardtop of the boat. “You liked me.” Sarah blurted. “...When people get close to me, I feel trapped. And…I bail. And then I blame them for it.” She got out, turning to look Kiara in the eyes. “I’m really sorry…And I miss you.” Then her eyes were on you. “Both of you. Do you think there’s a chance that we could be okay again?” She was looking at Kiara again.

“Honestly. I don’t know.” Sarah simply nodded and bit her lip, accepting the answer before turning her sights to you once more. 

“Y/n?” She called. You assumed she was waiting for your answer to the same question, all you could manage was a huff of air to leave your lips. 

“What a bunch of bullshit.” You breathed out, an incredulous smile on your face as you looked away for moment. You could hear Kiara sigh.

“Y/n-”

“No, Kiara. If you want to forgive her, by all means be my guest. But me and you?” Your eyes were on Sarah, glaring at her. “We will never be ‘okay’ again.” You mocked.

“What do you want from me?” Sarah spat out. “I apologized-”

“You apologized to Kie. Not me.”

“Well, I’m sorry. For…whatever I did.” She slurred, slouching further against the inside of the boat.

“Whatever you did?”

“You were the one sneaking around with my brother, Y/n!”

“And you're still downplaying the situation! That’s not what happened nor is it why our friendship ended and you know it.” You disputed, anger filling your tone.

“Our friendship ended because you tried to make the situation into something it wasn’t.”

“You never even considered the possibility that what I told you was true. You called me a liar, turned me into the school slut-”

“He’s my brother.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not a bad person, Sarah!” You said with finality in your voice. “And if you can’t see that, then maybe that makes two of you.” Was the last thing you said before hopping down from the top of the boat and disappearing around the corner, away from the two girls. 

THE THREE OF YOU SAT ON THE EDGE OF THE BOAT, WATCHING THE BOYS ARRIVE AS THE SUN CAME UP. You’d slept in the helm of the boat while Kiara and Sarah slept out in the open. You hated to admit how lonely you felt hearing them giggle in the middle of the night but it was quickly overshadowed by the memories of what was said between you and Sarah. A small part of you wondered how Kiara could forgive her so quickly. So easily.

“Let’s not give them the satisfaction of thinking this worked.” Kiara whispered to the blonde next to her. You simply kept quiet. Because for you, it didn’t.

“So, did you guys, you know…” Pope led on as the smaller boat parked next to the bigger one. You said nothing as you hopped off the edge, from one boat to the other. 

“Reconcile our differences?” Kie finished for him.

“Nope. Not even a little.” Sarah shook her head. “But we’re…willing to work together?” She said, turning to Kiara who nodded in agreement as they both stepped onto the HMS Pogue. 

“You know what? That’s victory.” JB cheered, dapping up Pope. “You guys ready to jack some loot?”

YOU ALL WAITED UNTIL IT GOT DARK ONCE MORE TO RETURN TO THE CRAIN PROPERTY, FULL PREPARED THIS TIME. Rope, pulley, flashlights. You were equipped with the gold-mine starter kit and ready to throw John B down into a well beneath a murder-house.

Parking in front of the house but still out of sight, John B hopped out of the driver’s side to round the van and open the side door, pausing. “I wanna say thank you guys. Seriously.” He told the five of you whole-heartedly. “It means a lot to me that you’re here tonight.”

“Of course, man.” Pope assured him softly, giving him a special handshake. 

“All right, we done with this circle jerk?” JJ cut in. “Can we go do this?” 

“Let’s go get that wheat in the water.” Pope exclaimed, jumping out of the van first, followed by Kie, then Sarah.

“Weed? I’m up for weed.” JJ said, letting you get out before him. You rolled your eyes, a small smile breaking on your face as you climbed out of the van. The first one in hours.

“Wheat, J. He said wheat.” You corrected. You all formed a sort of single-file line, hopping the fence one by one. You all walked as quietly as you could through the tall grass and bushes, sticking as close together as possible. Out of the blue, a light in front of the house lit up your frames, the six of you scrambling to duck and hide, turning your flashlights off.

“Why would a blind lady need motion sensor lights?” You hissed frustratedly confused. 

“Let’s throw a rock at it.” John B offered. You all looked at him stupidly.

“That’s a really good idea. Let the axe murderer know that we’re here.” Kiara said sarcastically. 

“Do any of you have a better idea?” 

“What about the breaker in the circuit box on the porch?” Sarah asked. “We used to play hide-and-seek here as kids and if we were brave enough, we’d go all the way up to the porch.”

“No, no, you’re not going into the house alone.” John B protested.

“I’ll go with you.” Kiara volunteered herself before turning to you. You simply raised a brow as if to ask ‘what?’. Only then did you notice that the rest of the group was staring at you as well, then you got the hint, smacking your teeth.

“Christ, fine, I’ll go, too. Just… stop looking at me like hungry orphans.” You mumbled, getting up and walking towards the house, slightly crouched.

“We’ll wait for your signal!” Pope whisper-shouted as the three of you disappeared into the thick of the bushes. You let Sarah lead the way, seeing as she had an idea of where you were going and what you were looking for.

“She must have a generator plugged into the main power supply.” Sarah informed from the front of the line. The three of you crept up the porch steps, the wood creaking ever so slightly as you did. You aimed your flashlight at the circuit box in question, using your empty hand to open it. You quickly noted a problem.

“Where are the breakers?” Your face twisted in confusion, visually following the wires that were connected to the box. “It goes inside.” You said annoyed, pushing the circuit box door back closed. You turned back to the two girls behind you, a weary look shared amongst the three of you before Kie took it upon herself to carefully open the gate in front of the back door, twisting the knob quickly but quietly.

Pushing the door open, the three of you slid inside swiftly as the door creaked, making your face twist. You all treaded carefully through the dark home. You nearly jumped out of your skin when a cat yowled beside you.

“Shi- get out of here you mangy thing!” You whispered, pushing the feline away with the toe of your shoe. You follow the wires on the ceiling to the location of the breakers, Kiara wasting little time in switching the generator off, the house and surrounding areas going pitch black as she did.

You all let out sighs of relief, small victorious smiles breaking out on each of your faces. “We should probably get out of here now.” You advised, the other two agreeing. You hadn’t even lifted your foot to step away before a whirring sound echoed throughout the house, the three of you throwing yourselves against the wall and out of sight of whatever was around the corner.

You could barely hear one another breathing, contemplating whether you should stay put or make a break for it. It wasn’t long before you heard the sound of heavy-breathing and what sounded like a cane hitting the floor accompanied by delayed footsteps. 

You could feel your heart in throat as you tried your hardest not to move a muscle, the footsteps growing closer by the second. Fear rushing through your veins when you heard a voice call out.

“It’s late, Leon.” An old, raspy, elderly voice spoke — Mrs. Crain. “Too late...” She coughed, cane still hitting the floor ferociously with every step. You swore you could’ve cried when the woman in question rounded the corner, standing right in front of you three with no clue. “I can hear you, Leon. I’ve been waiting all night!” She screeched, whipping her head in your direction so fast you were surprised her neck didn’t snap in the process.

Her teeth were yellow, her hair was dead and gray, and her eyes were white. Pure white. The three of you screamed simultaneously before booking it in the direction you came. You don’t know how you ended up splitting from each other but you did. You ended up in some old dusty study-type room, the only exit being a window. You ran over to it, using all your strength to pull it up but it wouldn’t budge.

“Where are you, Leon?!” Her voice scratched your ears with the way it echoed. You cursed as you continued pulling at the window, eventually giving up and running out of the room. Fortunately, you ran in just time to find Mrs. Crain swinging aimlessly at Kiara with a fire poker. You took the opportunity to grab the object when she swung it back once more, snatching it and throwing it across the room.

Sarah entered just as the old lady turned around and gripped you by the arm, the blonde grabbing Kiara as you pushed Mrs. Crain off of you and ran into the room with the other two. Sarah closed and latched the door shut, Mrs. Crain banging from the other side. 

She’d managed to find the stairs the led under the house where the guys were, you and Kiara following her down in a hurry. 

“Guys!” All three of you called, sprinting through the crawlspace. 

“Woah, what’s goin’ on?” JJ asked as you accidentally ran into him, the blonde stabilizing by your upper arms.

“Mrs. Crain is up there. She’s trying to kill us with a fire poker.” Kiara breathed out. 

“We locked her in the parlor but we have to go. Like, now.” You said frantically. 

“Okay, code red.” JJ said, releasing your arms and heading back towards Pope. He leaned over the well, shouting down. “John B! Get back on, man!” The rest of you grabbed the length of the rope, using all of your man power to pull the boy back up when the you all fell, the rope pulling up nothing.

“Where is he?” Kiara panicked, crawling to the well to lean over it. “John B?!” His voice came back up but no one could tell what he was saying. It was just a faint echo. His next words were clearer, however — he was calling your names.

“He’s drowning! We gotta pull him up!” Sarah assumed the worst as you scrambled to grab the rope again. 

“John B? Get back on the rope, we’re gonna pull you up!” Pope called down into the well. Once JB affirmed that he was secured, the five of you began pulling once more, much more synchronized this time. You were using all the strength you had to pull him up when a gunshot made your ears ring.

You ducked, as did the rest of the group, your grip on the rope loosening. Pope and JJ hurried to tie the rope so it wouldn’t drop any further as you all scurried around the crawlspace, hoping the blind woman would think you were gone.

Only problem? None of you knew how to shut the hell up. Another shot rang out and that’s when you all decided you had to make a run for it. You saw John B’s muddy hand gripped the edge of the well before you bolted, knowing he’d be a little behind but just fine. You sprinted out into the yard, practically launched yourself back over the gate and threw yourselves into the van.

JJ started the van without John B inside as more gunshots sounded, the boy running behind his own van for dear life. 

“John B, come on!” The boy caught up, launching himself into the back of the van and sliding the door shut as JJ sped off. 

“Everyone okay? No bullet holes?” JJ questioned from the driver’s seat.

“I think I’d know if I was shot, right?” Kiara asked, hands patting her frame. 

“You look disgusting.” Pope breathed out, the statement directed at John B who looked more like a mud-man than a teenage boy.

“And you smell even worse, my God.” Your face winded with disgust. 

“What the hell just happened?” Sarah ran her hands through her hair, throwing her head back.

“All-time Pogue Hall of Fame, baby!” JJ cheered, giving you a high-five as you basically sat back to back as he drove.

“That bitch is possessed.” Kiara said.

“How can she move that fast?” John B breathed out, and you wondered how he could talk without minding the substance all over his face, including his lips.

Suddenly, John B pulled something from his pocket or under his thigh, it was hard to tell when he was the same color all over. “What is that?” You asked, squinting your eyes as he used his thumb to wipe away the debris on the object, revealing the unmistakable color of gold. “...No motherfucking way.” You scoffed.

“We did it, baby!” He whooped, holding the gold bar up in the air. “I did it!”

“Oh, my God!” JJ supported him as he drove, eyes looking back when they should on the road. The van was filled with cheers, so loud you were sure any houses you passed on the road could hear. 

“You guys were gonna be rich!” Kiara broke through the cheers. “Like Kook rich!”

“Full Kook!” Pope started, the rest of you joining in joyously. The Twinkie had never been more lively or celebratory. After days of being chased, shot at, arrested, jumped, and targeted — you all had done it.

You had found the gold.

next chapter >

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading.

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©loveharlow

[stuffaboutminneapolis]

Falls City (1860)

The last ghost town of Minneapolis was roughly three and a half miles southeast of downtown Minneapolis along the Mississippi River known as Falls City. Falls City was a relative latecomer to Minneapolis, platted just a year before the incorporation of Minneapolis 1857 by landowner H. C. Keith. Keith’s Falls City was a paper town that stretched from the Mississippi River to 31st Ave S. The town’s northern border was E. 24th St. whereas its southern border was E. Lake St.

Falls City was a result of rampant claim staking on Fort Snelling’s lands during the 1850s. During these years, desirable locations throughout what would become Minneapolis were claimed by Euro-American settlers hoping to make a profit on the platting & selling of land parcels. Whereas many of these early settlers were driven out by Fort Snelling soldiers, Keith managed to keep his lands out of the hands of Fort Snelling. When Minneapolis was incorporated in 1858, Keith ceded his plans for Falls City, opting to join his land with Minneapolis. For a few years after the incorporation of Minneapolis, Falls City remained on maps.

via Minnesota History

[twola]

Devil's Backbone - Owanjila VII

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV 

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila VII: You, Amongst the Lupines

Time passes, and Arthur jumps at the chance to take you out of camp.

CW: References to child loss, violence, and Arthur being a big mean outlaw.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

Mud squelches under his boot. It is everything he is not to scowl at the sound. 

Ain’t no way that Genevieve was going to stay with him now. Not with him sent on this fool’s errand. He was supposed to stay on assignment in Saint Denis, not get his boots covered in mud and horseshit in this backwater town. Genevieve was far too cosmopolitan to be following him around anywhere but Saint Denis. 

Strawberry was just a blip on a map, no matter how the mayor of this town was trying to push it.

Angus Carmody kicks the muck from his boot against the wooden step up to the mail depot. He scowls as the stink of meat from the butcher’s tent wafts his way.  This was a goddamn fool’s errand. He knows that Milton has it out for him. How angry he is about that damned woman being in the wind. He knows also that his trekking around West Elizabeth is a punishment instead of leading the search back in Lemoyne. 

The Pinkerton steps up to the depot’s clerk, standing behind the counter full of mail and other parcels.

“Mornin’.” The man greets, shuffling between boxes and baskets of letters. His full mustache and beard certainly made him blend in with the rough and tumble nature of the town that the mayor was so desperately trying to rid of.

“Mornin’, sir. Agent Carmody with the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

The clerk stops, setting down a pile of papers on the counter. He looks Carmody up and down, eyes lingering on his polished badge, pinned to his breast pocket.

“Hector Barlow. How can I help you, Agent?” He responds, measured and wary. Carmody is used to this. It is often, out in the West, that folk respond to him with caution and wariness rather than respect. Some sort of Western mistrust of government and authority, he always thought.

“You heard talk of a widow from that town that burned down on the Dakota?”

Hector Barlow strokes his mustache, nodding his head, “Heard about the fire, but not about anyone who survived it.”

“I’m tryin’ to find a Missus Shaw. She survived the fire and my employer is tryin’ to locate her to finalize some business items he had ongoin’ with her husband.” Angus responds, annoyed that this also seemed like a dead end. 

Barlow remains quiet for a moment, “I’ll keep an ear out. She supposed to be around here?”

Carmody pulls a stack of papers that he had tucked within his jacket, “Yes - petite woman, blonde hair if she finds herself up this way.”

“These also - a bunch of bounty posters we don’t got time to chase down.  A few thousand for these. Out of Blackwater. Some hillbilly could find ‘imself real rich if he tries hard enough.”  He shoves several crinkled pieces of paper forward on the worn finish of the counter. Hector nods, mumbling something about bringing them up to the sheriff’s office. Angus lifts his chin in response, before leaving the mail depot. The bright sunshine is an assault on his eyes as he steps outside.

Two other Pinkerton agents stand across the street, near the small town’s general store. Smoking cigarettes, the two men clad in bowler hats seem to stand out amongst the rough and tumble mountain men that peruse the muddy street. 

“Anythin’ here?” One pipes up as Carmody approaches, holding out a cigarette that Angus quickly takes. 

“Nothin’,” Carmody grunts, rooting around his pocket for his matchbook, “We’ll head north, to Wallace Station, to see if there is any word around there.”

He knows there won’t be, but alas, Carmody breathes out heavily before striking a match against his boot, he has his orders.

-

The cold mountain waters of the stream that feeds Owanjila are a shock to the system at first, but you figure that the clean, clear stream could do you no harm as you hoist your skirts to bare your calves, stepping ankle deep into the current.

A sob claws its way up from your throat, and you cover your mouth with one hand, one side of your skirts dipping under the stream.

“Ruth, what are you doing up here?” 

You sniff, wiping your eyes quickly, giving up on keeping your skirts dry as both of your hands cover your face. 

“Oh, sweet girl,” Hosea’s pace picks up as he walks closer to you, and he ignores the ache in his knees as steps down into the stream next to you where you stand, uncaring of the water starting to run over his boots.

“I- I just-”  You hiccup, dropping your hands and looking back into the rushing waters at your feet. 

“C’mon, let's get you out of the stream. Are y’still feelin’ ill?” Hosea pulls you, delicately, back to the shore, where the two of you step onto higher, drier ground.

“No- no, it’s just-” You let go of a shuddering breath as you feel his hand rub gently, slowly between your shoulder blades, “It’s…”

“Missin’ your husband?” Hosea offers.

“Y-yes…” You hiccup, closing your eyes again, unable to stop the tears from pouring forth, “And… and-”

Silence falls between you, interrupted only by the sniffles you cannot stifle and the bubbling of the creek waters as they rush down to collect in the lake. Another harrowing exhale, and you turn to look at Hosea, the older man’s silhouette blurred in your vision over your shoulder. 

“I look at Jack and… my…my little-” You sob, voice cracking,  “He came too early. I-in the winter - he… he just- he was so tiny…my boy-” 

Hosea’s hand immediately moves from your back to cup the back of your head, and he pulls you into his chest, you slightly stumble as you have to readjust your bare feet on the ground. The fur trim on his coat smells of the tobacco he smokes in his pipe. It’s something familiar - comforting - and the fight in you - what little you have left, leaves you as you sink into his embrace. You sob, the ache in your chest clawing its way out like a rabid animal. 

He holds you, rubbing your back, murmuring random words of comfort into your hair. 

-

The coffee is strong and bitter this morning. Maybe the off-handed threats he had been making to Pearson about the quality of his coffee finally sunk in. Or someone else had made it.

Arthur blows on the cup before taking another sip, trying to spare his mouth from getting burned.

His gaze floats, unknowingly searching for those soft golden curls amongst the women. He finds himself seeking out the soft-spoken widow. Missus Adler seethed in her grief. Missus Shaw, well, other than the time he certainly deserved her ire, didn’t seem to have a mean bone in her body. 

She’d been sick as of recent, catching whatever poor Jack had. Abigail was apoplectic, the lantern in the sick tent blazing at all hours of the night. It was only in the past few days he had seen her out of the sick tent for longer periods.

This morning, he was hell-bent on finally getting a new horse - the old Walker he had been riding got run down by an angry farmer and his mount when he and Javier had robbed a homestead the other day. Finally, after a few jobs, he had enough money to get a horse that he wouldn’t have to rustle - it was just taking the time to go over to Valentine to get one. 

Herr Strauss cornered him the other day, needing collection from a debtor on a ranch near Valentine. He figured he’d get it all done in one day, maybe swing by Strawberry before crossing the state line. For too long he’d been jumping from job to job - homestead robberies and coaches, even sheep rustling with John. That went swimmingly.

Maybe he’d grab Missus Shaw and take her out on the errands he has to do. He finally finds her, sitting across the way near the women’s lean-to, working on a pile of sewing. Arthur dumps out the last bit of his coffee before stowing his cup back in his satchel. He takes the first step toward the women’s tent before being stopped.

“Arthur.”

Arthur looks back toward the campfire as the occupant stokes it. Hosea looks up at him with that weathered look about him that only comes about when he is serious about something.

“She’s fragile right now.” His brow furrows, jaw set, “Don’t you go upsettin’ her.”

“I ain’t an idiot, Hosea.” Arthur bristles, scowling back at his surrogate father. He also scowled at the thought of being so damn transparent that Hosea was that quickly able to figure out where he was going.

“You sure as hell are sometimes.” Hosea points up at him, “You can be a real ass-”

A cough interrupts his retort, and Hosea turns his head to hack into his bicep. After he clears his throat, he looks back at Arthur with hard eyes, “I’m tellin’ you, Arthur. The poor girl doesn’t deserve any shit from you. She’s gotten enough recently.” 

Arthur shifts, his hand gripping the buckle of his gunbelt in agitation. He scowls again, the lines betraying his age and lifestyle set in on his face. He dismissively waves at Hosea, stepping past the man and continuing on his original journey toward the women’s area.

“Missus Shaw.”

You look up from the sewing that you are doing - one of John’s shirts that he tore the armpit open. You grabbed it from Abigail’s pile the other night as she was scolding him for his carelessness.

“Was wonderin’ if you wanted to get outta camp for a bit - y’haven’t had much of a chance lately,” Arthur asks, his large hands draped over the buckle of his gun belt.

“Oh, I mean… maybe after I finish this shirt.” You nod down toward the fabric you are holding in your hands.

“Marston’s shirt can wait. Especially because it's his.” Arthur reaches down and yanks the shirt from your hands, surprising you with his speed. He tosses the shirt back in the pile and you scowl up at him, aggravated at his impetuousness.

“I was in the middle of that!” You complain, but nonetheless take the thread and needle you were working with and store it in the tin next to your seat.

“Serves the dumbass right. Not like he ripped his shirt doin’ any work around here.” Arthur chortles, holding his hand out for you to take, “C’mon, I’m sure you’re sick of staring at the same thing every day. I have some errands to do in Strawberry and Valentine.”

-

From the banks of Owanjila, Arthur leads his horse up through the hills to Strawberry, claiming to need to stop by the General Store for something. He was scant on details but shooed you off to check the mail in the freight depot after he had hitched the horse outside the Trackers Hotel.

You check to see if there is any mail under the pseudonyms that Arthur gave you, and upon finding none, set to leave before the clerk calls out to you.

“D’ya mind bringing these down to the Sheriff’s Office, ma’am?”

You nod and feel a slight unease as the clerk’s gaze lingers on you. In the months since Frederick’s death, you have once again become wary of men - the leering and possessive glares that you receive when it is obvious you are untied to a man. Like those leering and possessive gazes you received before you got married. Those gazes your daddy warned you about, all those years ago. 

Taking the stack of papers, you nod a hushed farewell as you move out of the mail depot and back to the street, sidestepping mud puddles as you lift your skirt above your ankles with one hand to avoid completely ruining the hems.

Your curiosity gets the best of you and as you pass the staircase, you pull the papers back from your chest and look at the contents of the first page.

$5000 Reward!

For the Capture Dead or Alive of 

ARTHUR MORGAN

You bite your lip to keep from gasping. Glancing around, you crush the first poster to your chest for a moment before crumbling it into a little ball that you shove into your skirt. 

You look at the other posters as you quickly duck into an alley next to the hotel, where a large, flowering cherry blossom stands before the cliff face. Shuffling past the gardens, you take a seat on a small bench and warily leaf through the papers.

John Marston. Hosea Matthews. Micah Bell. Javier Escuella. Bill Williamson. Dutch Van der Linde. Each piece of paper that you look at shows fearsome renderings of the men of the gang that you have been living alongside for the last months.

Larceny. Horse Theft. Burglary. Train Robbery. Bank Robbery. Assault. Murder.

The pit in your stomach opens; fear clawing up through your chest into your throat. Hosea, who just this morning dried your tears and held you as you cried? John, who struggled with the pressures of being a young father? Javier, who swears he will get you to dance with him one night around the fire to Dutch’s phonograph, even after your declination, always with a smile. 

Even Dutch, who welcomed you into this motley group when you had nothing but the clothes on your back. 

And Arthur. Arthur, whose cold, angry face stared back at you from the poster, the man who has been teaching you to shoot, who took you out on his errands today - who braved the raging fire at the Adler ranch to save you-

The jingle of spurs makes you look up.

“Arthur-” You hiss as he lopes across the road, moseying as he lights a cigarette.  He gives a grin as he tosses the match to the muddy ground, breathing out a plume of smoke as he comes closer, eyeing the cherry blossoms that wave in the cool mountain breeze. “Get over here!”

You nervously look around you before reaching up handing him the crumpled-up wad of paper you had shoved in your pocket. 

He frowns, then snorts, half a grin as he takes the cigarette from his mouth, dropping it to the ground and mashing it underfoot.

“Five thousand, for little ol’ me?” He looks back to you with a hint of mischief in his eye, “God, that’s one ugly lookin’ drawin’.”

“Arthur-” You scold, completely taken aback at his nonconcern at the situation. 

He shoves the poster into his satchel and holds his hand out for the other ones, curling his fingers in request before you hand the pile to him. He takes them and thrusts them all into that seemingly bottomless satchel of his before turning his gaze back to you.

“Alright, alright. Let’s get. If these are comin’ from Blackwater we should get the whole gang outta West Elizabeth.” He reaches for your hand, almost gallantly, and pulls you up from your seat when you give it to him, “We’re gonna head toward Valentine. I gotta stop by a ranch out there for one of Strauss’s debtors. I’m gonna get a new horse and we’re gonna look for a new place to set up. Get on that side of the state line.”

He walks you out of the alley, back toward where his horse is hitched near the mail depot. He slows to allow you to try and duck the large mud puddles underfoot.

Through the main street of town, Arthur does not let go of your hand.

-

The ride to Valentine is long - long enough to be troublesome. You were able to convince Arthur to give you back the wanted poster of him, and you straighten it out as he guides the old Walker on the path out of the mountains and toward the Dakota.

You read the printed text, fearsome in its lettering, all capitalized, “Wanted for activities such as Larceny. Robbery. Burglary...”

Arthur snorts, interrupting, bemused.

“Gotta get money somehow.”

“Assault.” You reply, upping the ante.

“They usually deserve it.” He drawls in response.

“Murder.” You continue, stressing the severity of the crime.

“You’ve seen that. More than once.” Arthur nonchalantly replies, as if killing were the same as stealing a horse. 

It was true - from the O’Driscolls that he waylaid on the road the first day that you met him, the man threatening you at the campfire after the failed Blackwater job - he kills without hesitation. There is a pregnant pause as the poster crinkles under the tension of your fingers.

 “Have you ever raped a woman?”

Arthur stiffens in the saddle, then turns his entire torso to get the closest to facing you that he can. The easy conversation that you had been having immediately ended.

“No. Why the hell you askin’ that?”

“Seems like you’ve done everything else-” You defend your line of questioning, but immediately with that you hadn’t gone that far.

“Have I ever acted untoward to you?” Arthur interrupts, turning back to face the road. He bristles with agitation, rolling his shoulders as he tightly grasps the reins. The old Walker beneath you notices, and throws his head to the side, whinnying. 

“No….”  You try to push the intruding thoughts of Micah from your mind.

“Ain’t that type of degenerate.” He grumbles, “Sides, it wouldn’t speak highly of your smarts if you was out alone with a man who forces himself on women.”

You can tell he’s offended.

Unfortunately, the rest of the ride to Valentine is long, awkward, and silent.

-

By the time Arthur acquired himself a new horse, a strong and tall Kentucky Saddler mare, buttermilk-hide and blackmaned, his gruff silence makes you wish that you hadn’t come out with him at all. Wordlessly, he lifted you back onto the horse’s rump and mumbled something about a job he had to do on the way back to camp. Not far out of Valentine, Arthur guides the horse toward an old, ramshackle ranch house.

“Just stay here. Herr Strauss said this guy is tryin’ to weasel out of payin’.” 

Arthur approaches a thin, middle-aged man in the garden, “Mr. Thomas Downes…”

The man looks up, a hoe in his hand, and squints at the outlaw as he storms closer, “Yep, that’s me.”

“You owe me money.”

It is as if the floor was pulled out from underneath the man. He turns ghastly white in fear, stumbling backward from Arthur’s encroachment. The anger that radiates off the gunslinger is terrifying, even to yourself as an observer.

Downes holds the hoe in front of him as if to fight off the man twice his size, “Please, sir… I’m… I’ll…”

Arthur laughs cruelly, grabbing the hoe and throwing it across the garden. “Really? Threaten me, would you? How’s that debt looking now? You borrowed money from my business partner Herr Strauss. You owe him. You took the money. He wants it back. What’s not to understand?”

“I don’t have it all!”

You slide down from the horse as Arthur drags the man to the fence, throwing him against the post with frightening force.  You hurry toward the unfurling scene.

“Ruth-” Arthur growls as you push him away. Obviously, you could never move the man without his consent, but for some reason, he allows it.  You stand in front of this miserable man, who gazes up with fear-stricken eyes and a pale, clammy complexion.

“See, look, Mister Downes…. You could do this the easy way and give me the money now that we’re askin’ for it, or my friend over here can get the money from you the way he was gonna before.” You say over-sweetly, holding your hand out to help him up, “I think my way is better for you.”

“I… I don't have a-all of it.” Downes coughs, blood sputtering from his mouth as you recoil in surprise. God, this man was pitiful. 

“Then sell your place.” Arthur barks from behind you, having stepped closer as Downes goes into a coughing fit. 

“W-we already - hrgh - owe more than it’s worth.” The man coughs between words.

You frown, drawing your hand back from where the man wipes his mouth with his sleeve. You can feel Arthur tensing behind you, and one of his hands finds your waist, and you can tell he is about to yank you behind him. You brush away his arm before he has the chance to do so.

“Whatever you have is fine. We’ll give you more time for the rest. I’ll be sure to come - but Mister Downes-” You cross your arms, trying to look as composed as possible, “You do owe us.”

“Thomas-!” A woman rushes out of the house, followed by a teenage boy, and she falls to her knees next to the man, immediately taking a handkerchief and wiping the blood from his mouth.

“Can’t- can’t you see, my husband isn’t well, if we could just have more-”

Arthur does manage to grab you by the waist and maneuver you behind him, and you’re unable to move against his strength. He glares down at the woman and her pleading. “We ain’t nobody’s idea of charity.”

The woman frowns, desperate - “But-...”

“Give it to him.” The stricken man garbles, his breath heaving. With a set jaw, she reaches into her skirt and takes out a small wad of bills, standing up from her husband's side and shoving it into Arthur’s waiting hand. 

Arthur gives you a bemused look after he pockets the money. “Pleasure doin’ business with you.”

The gunslinger places his hand behind your back and pushes you back toward the horse, holding you upright as you stumble on the first step. 

“You’ll do alright, Missus Shaw.” His hands wrap around your waist like they have so many times before as he easily picks you up to place you on the horse’s rump, but you swear you feel his fingers pulse through the layers of fabric. You swear you feel his thumb press against the curve of the bottom of your ribcage.

Arthur swings himself up on the horse and urges it down the path leaving the ranch. With the horse’s jolting first steps, you wrap your arm around his waist to steady yourself before looking back toward the ranch.

You watch as the woman helps her struggling husband to her feet, and the teenage son stares after you with a vicious, hateful glare. You frown, before turning back around and pressing your forehead against Arthur’s back. They could have just as easily been you. These poor folks, already struggling, are now set back even farther.

The wave of guilt through your throat makes you swallow audibly.

Arthur’s large, gloved hand finds your own slung ‘round his waist, covering it with a gentle squeeze. His fingers press between your own, and for a selfish moment, all you can think about is how warm you feel. As Arthur leads the horse down the road to the east, the thoughts of the family whose miserable lives you just made worse flee from your mind.

How is it that all thought of the folk you just left more destitute than they had been left your mind as soon as Arthur touches your hand? How is it that you feel at ease pressed against a man who was just beating another one for money? How is it, that in this moment, with this murderer, you feel safer than you have felt in weeks?

Arthur hums, in a better mood than he had been all day. He holds your hand against the hard slab of muscle of his abdomen, and you lean further against his back to assuage the concern alight in your soul.

-

The ride northward along the Dakota is quiet. You surmise that Arthur doesn’t want to have further conversations about debt-collecting.  It is not until the two of you have ridden across Cumberland Falls and the pine forests of Big Valley have opened out to a large valley that he speaks again.

“C’mon, been riding for a while, let’s stop and stretch our legs.” He gruffly calls back as he leads the Saddler off of the trail and into the meadow, bright and sunny as the creek meanders through it.  The mountain air, cold and clean, burns your lungs slightly as you inhale, closing your eyes against the sun for a moment.

In that gentle, cold breeze, tall purple lupines sway among the grasses, reaching the horse’s knees as it slowly walks into the open plain. This place is so open and bright, its beauty takes you aback as Arthur slows the horse to a stop. Sliding out of the saddle, he immediately reaches up and takes you by the waist, as was customary, and helps you down.

“Nice out ‘here, ain’t it?”

“Beautiful,” you murmur, shielding your eyes from the sun as you survey the large valley.

Arthur pulls out a worn woolen blanket from his horse’s saddlebag. He lays it out upon the ground, nodding up at you to take a seat. You do so, and a comfortable silence falls between the two of you as Arthur sits opposite you and fiddles with his satchel, looping the strap over his head and hat, placing the bag next to him before flipping the lid open and searching around in it. 

You turn away and look on as a herd of pronghorn does graze in the distance.

“Saw this out the other day.”

You glance back at the gunslinger, to find him opening his leather-bound journal to a page and taking out a small, dried head of blossoms pressed between its pages. He holds it out to you, and your eyes widen as you gaze upon it - gaze upon the outrageousness of it all, the man with a five-thousand-dollar bounty, beating a debtor not two hours earlier, delicately holding the smallest, most fragile dried blossom between his thumb and trigger finger.

“That’s…” You trail off, incredulously.

“Never did tell me why you was named after a plant.”

You ignore the quip as you reach toward his gloved hand and the dried flower. The soft purple blossom, fragile and delicate, exchanges hands as he gently places it in your palm. His fingers linger for a moment, suspended in time.

The proper name, Latin, printed next to sketches in scientific books.

You smile, snorting lightly through your nose, “My mother… There was a heather bush outside her window on the farm she grew up on. Back in Ireland. She used to tell me seein’ those blossoms made her some kind of happy. Would tell me that when I was born, seeing me made her feel the same way. So, Calluna it was.”

There’s an ache in your chest. An ache of fondness. Not dissimilar to the ache that you felt when Abigail held your hand as you cradled her son to your chest in a feverish haze. Not dissimilar to the ache in your chest when Hosea held you to him when you sobbed on the banks of Owanjila. 

Someone thinking of you. These moments, they hack away at the depth of despair and loneliness that you have been drowning in. Maybe... Just maybe, you weren’t just Calluna Shaw, widow, alone in the world.

You look back up at Arthur, that ache fluttering up like a butterfly in flight.

“Thank you, Mister Morgan. You can be awful sweet.”

You smile, and with the way his battered heart aches in his chest, he knows he’s in trouble. He can feel the blush bloom across his cheeks and he looks away, desperate to save face. Movement in the distance of the meadow draws his attention.

“Look, how’s about we bring back somethin’ for Pearson’s stew, huh?” Arthur looks out past the waving lupines to where the creek meanders back and forth through the valley. In the soft light of sunset, he points about a hundred yards up the valley.

A pronghorn buck drinks from the stream, finally visible to you as you squint and pull a stray curl of hair back, tucking it behind your ear.

“Go on and shoot it.” He nods forward.

“Me?!”

“Yes you, Missus Shaw. Come on, here you go.” Arthur gets up from his seat and steps toward his horse, pulling out a rifle for you to take from his saddlebag. You carefully place the blossom on the blanket before standing up, dusting off your skirts as you step toward Arthur and the buttermilk-hided horse.

The firearm nearly drops from your hand when you grasp it, completely unprepared for the weight of the gun. Arthur snorts under his breath as you grasp the Springfield with both hands, holding it up in front of you, and pointing toward the pronghorn in the distance. You frown, the barrel of the rifle swaying as you try to point it. The gun is much heavier than the repeater that Arthur showed you to shoot with earlier.

“C’mere, little lady.”

Oh.

Before you can move, his arms quickly brace yours as he steadies the rifle, heavy in your grasp. Your back presses against his broad chest. A whole head taller than you, you just reach the curve of his shoulder.

You are positive you are blushing fiercely and extremely thankful that he cannot see your face as he leans over your shoulder to line up the sights of the gun. As he does so, you close your eyes, breathing softly out your nose. The leather of his worn jacket - the tobacco he so often smokes, the musk of horse, the tang of whiskey - they all invade your senses as your head spins.

You want to melt into his embrace - he’s tall and broad and handsome in a rugged way. He’s solid and warm and oh, how swept up you feel to be wrapped up in his arms - even if this is in no way intimate. 

You want. You want to keep your eyes shut, tilt your neck, and give him access to suckle at your skin. You want his arm to leave yours and his large hand to engulf your breast. You want to be covered by him, held and possessed, and smothered and cherished. Everything melts away. The debt earlier, Arthur’s anger and threats, the fearful man and his family. It all just…fades.

You want.

“Both eyes open, darlin’.”

At the term of endearment, you steady your arms, holding the firearm jointly with him. Arthur is warm and solid and oh, with his arms around you, you feel so safe.

The buck raises his head from the stream.

Arthur’s breath tickles your ear as his whiskered jaw brushes your temple.

“Now.”

You pull the trigger.

[pxnsneverland]

Ruthless Grace | Austin Butler x OC (part 10)

(gif source: 50sbutler)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14

plot summary: Amidst the grime and squalor of Victorian England's winding cobblestone alleys, a young woman's life hangs precariously in the balance. Violet, a poor peasant girl with long raven locks and piercing gray eyes, possesses a haunting beauty that belies the harsh realities of her existence. Tragedy struck two years prior when Violet's mother succumbed to illness, leaving her to fend for herself and her father – a cruel, selfish man consumed by vices of alcohol and gambling. On one fateful night, Violet's father drags her unwillingly to that very den of iniquity, and there she learns a horrifying truth from the club's greedy, perverted owner: to repay his mounting gambling debts, her father has sold her into sexual servitude. Violet's vehement protests fall on deaf ears, until an unlikely savior emerges from the shadows. Lord Austin Butler intervenes with a bargain of his own. This dangerous man offers to pay off Violet's father's debts in exchange for her accompaniment, and Violet is torn from the only life she has known. While Austin's demeanor remains shrouded in mystery and detachment at first, Violet gradually glimpses his softer, even playful side as time passes within the manor's walls and an unexpected connection blossoms between the unlikely pair.

pairings: austin butler x oc

word count: 2591

warnings/notes: I know it has been soooo long since I've posted for this story, but I haven't given up on finishing it yet. Hope you enjoy :)

Chapter 10: The Crimson Heart

Three weeks later, the night air of London carried a chill that seeped through coats and gloves alike. Violet hurried along the cobblestone streets, her breath forming small clouds in the frigid atmosphere. Gaslight lamps cast eerie shadows as she navigated through the maze of narrow alleyways, clutching a small parcel close to her chest.

"Miss, you shouldn't be out here alone," called a concerned voice from a doorway. An elderly woman peered at her with worried eyes. "There've been disappearances lately. Young women like yourself."

"Thank you for your concern," Violet replied with a polite nod before quickening her pace.

The streets grew narrower and darker as she ventured deeper into the less reputable part of the city. Soot-stained buildings loomed overhead, their windows like vacant eyes watching her progress. This was not a place for a lady, but Violet was no ordinary lady—not anymore.

She paused at the entrance of a dingy establishment called "The Crimson Flask." Its weathered sign swung precariously in the night breeze, the painted goblet faded to a rusty brown. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the heavy wooden door.

Inside, the tavern was dimly lit and thick with smoke. Patrons of questionable character hunched over their drinks, conversations dropping to whispers as all eyes turned to her. Violet stood tall, refusing to be intimidated as she scanned the room.

In the farthest corner of the establishment, she spotted her target—a hunched figure draped in shadows, nursing a glass of amber liquid. With unwavering determination, Violet crossed the room, ignoring the leering gazes and coarse whispers that followed her path.

"Mr. Holloway," she said quietly as she approached the table.

The man looked up, his weathered face a map of hard living and harder choices. A scar ran diagonally across his right cheek, ending at the corner of his mouth in a way that gave him a permanent half-smile. "You're Butler's girl," he stated rather than asked, his voice like gravel underfoot.

"I have what you requested," Violet replied, placing the small parcel on the table between them.

Holloway's calloused fingers unwrapped the package carefully, revealing a vial of dark crimson liquid. He held it up to the dim light, examining its contents with narrowed eyes. "Fresh?"

"As promised," Violet confirmed. "Now, your end of the bargain."

Holloway reached into his coat and produced a folded piece of parchment. "The locations of five more like him in London," he muttered, sliding it across the table. "But I warn you, Miss Everly, some secrets are better left buried."

"That's not for you to decide," Violet countered, taking the parchment and tucking it securely into her reticule.

Holloway chuckled darkly. "Playing with vampires is a dangerous game for a mortal. Even one as... protected as yourself."

Violet's expression remained impassive. "Protection cuts both ways, Mr. Holloway. Lord Butler would be most displeased if any harm were to come to me."

"And what about the harm you're inviting by digging into these matters?" Holloway leaned forward, his eyes suddenly intense. "The Order won't look kindly on your interference."

"The Order?" Violet questioned, her interest piqued despite her attempt to appear unaffected.

Holloway cursed under his breath, realizing he'd said too much. "Forget I mentioned it," he grumbled, pocketing the vial. "Just tell Butler we're even now."

As Violet turned to leave, Holloway called after her, "Miss Everly, a word of advice—whatever you think you know about vampires, it's just the surface. There are depths to their world that would drown you."

His warning followed her out into the cold night air, settling heavily on her shoulders as she made her way back through the labyrinthine streets. The parchment seemed to burn against her side, its secrets whispering promises of answers to questions that had plagued her since learning of Austin's true nature.

The journey back to Butler Manor was spent in contemplative silence, the rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels providing a backdrop to her tumultuous thoughts. Three weeks had passed since that night of revelation, and in that time, Violet had immersed herself in Austin's world—a world of shadows and secrets. With each passing day, her curiosity grew stronger, her desire to understand the full extent of vampire society consuming her thoughts.

The carriage pulled up to the iron gates of Butler Manor, the grand estate looming against the night sky like a sentinel of stone and secrets. As she alighted from the carriage, Violet caught sight of a figure standing at the entrance—Austin, his tall frame silhouetted by the warm light spilling from the doorway.

"You're late," he stated, his voice calm but tinged with concern. He extended a hand to help her up the steps, his touch cool against her skin.

"I had an errand to run," Violet replied, meeting his gaze steadily.

Austin's eyes narrowed slightly, studying her face as if searching for hidden truths. "In the East End, perhaps? Alone?"

Violet felt a flutter of unease. "How did you—"

"Your scent carries traces of coal smoke, cheap spirits, and..." he paused, his nostrils flaring slightly, "Holloway." The name was spoken with a mixture of distaste and resignation.

"I needed information," Violet admitted, her chin lifting defiantly as they entered the warmth of the manor.

"Information I specifically advised against seeking," Austin countered, closing the door behind them with a soft click that somehow carried more weight than a slam. "Holloway deals in half-truths and dangerous rumors."

Violet removed her cloak, handing it to a waiting footman who discreetly disappeared with it. "Yet you've used his services before."

"Because I know which of his half-truths to believe," Austin replied, guiding her toward the library—their sanctuary for private conversations. "And I know how to protect myself if his information proves false or leads to... complications."

The library was a haven of leather-bound tomes and the comforting scent of aged paper. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the ornate rugs and polished wooden surfaces. Austin closed the door firmly behind them before turning to face her.

"What did you give him in exchange for this information?" he asked, his voice low and tense.

Violet hesitated, her hand instinctively moving to her reticule where the parchment was safely tucked away. "A vial of blood," she finally admitted.

Austin's expression darkened. "My blood?"

"Yes."

He ran a hand through his dark hair, a rare gesture of frustration. "Do you have any idea what a vampire's blood can be used for in the wrong hands? The rituals, the bindings, the—"

"You gave it to me willingly," Violet interrupted, "for precisely this purpose."

"I gave it to you for emergencies," Austin corrected sharply.

Violet crossed her arms defensively. "And this was an emergency—of knowledge. You keep me in the dark about so much of your world, Austin. How am I supposed to navigate it safely if I don't understand it?"

Austin's jaw tightened as he moved to the fireplace, staring into the flames as if they might offer some counsel. The crackling fire cast half his face in warm light, the other half in shadow.

"Some knowledge comes at too high a price," he said finally, his voice softer now. "The vampire world is ancient and complex. There are factions, politics, blood feuds that span centuries. It's not a world you can simply step into without consequences."

Violet approached him slowly, removing the parchment from her reticule. "Holloway mentioned something called 'The Order.' What is it?"

Austin's head snapped up, his eyes flashing with alarm. "He spoke of The Order? Directly?"

"It slipped out," Violet explained, watching his reaction carefully. "He seemed to regret mentioning it immediately."

Austin cursed under his breath, pacing the length of the fireplace. "As well he should. The Order of the Eternal Flame is not something to be discussed casually, especially with mortals."

"Then what is it?" Violet pressed, moving closer.

Austin hesitated, weighing his words carefully. "They are... hunters. Vampire hunters, to be precise, though they prefer the term 'purifiers.' They believe all vampires are abominations to be eradicated, regardless of how we live or what moral codes we follow."

A chill ran down Violet's spine that had nothing to do with the night air. "And they're here? In London?"

"They're everywhere," Austin replied grimly. "But yes, they have a particularly strong presence in London. It's why I maintain a network of informants like Holloway—to stay ahead of their movements."

Violet unfolded the parchment, revealing a list of names and addresses. "These other vampires... are they in danger?"

Austin took the list from her hands, scanning it quickly. His expression grew increasingly troubled with each name he read. "Some of these... they're not like me, Violet. They don't restrain their hunger or live by any code. They're predators in the purest sense."

"And the others?"

"Are simply trying to exist peacefully," Austin sighed, folding the parchment and moving to his desk. He unlocked a hidden drawer and placed the list inside. "But The Order doesn't discriminate. To them, we're all monsters."

Violet watched him, a new understanding dawning. "That's why you were so angry about the blood. If The Order discovered you had given it willingly to a human..."

"They would assume you were either enthralled—a puppet under my control—or worse, that you were willingly aiding a vampire. Neither is a path I want for you." Austin's voice was tinged with an emotion Violet couldn't quite place—fear, perhaps, or a deeper concern that made her heart flutter.

"They would kill me?" Violet asked, her voice steady despite the tremor that threatened to break through.

Austin's eyes met hers, intense and unwavering. "They would use you to get to me, and then dispose of you when you were no longer useful. The Order's methods are as cruel as they are effective."

Violet sank into one of the library's plush armchairs, the weight of this new knowledge settling on her shoulders like a physical burden. The crackling fire cast flickering shadows across the room, dancing over Austin's face as he watched her process this information.

"I'm sorry," she said finally. "I didn't understand the risk."

Austin knelt before her, taking her hands in his. His touch, cool as always, was somehow comforting. "This is why I've been reluctant to share certain aspects of my world with you. Not because I don't trust you, but because knowledge in this realm comes with inherent danger."

"But ignorance is more dangerous," Violet countered softly. "If I don't know what threats exist, how can I protect myself against them?"

A small, sad smile touched Austin's lips. "A fair point. Perhaps I've been too protective."

"Perhaps we can find a balance," Violet suggested, squeezing his hands. "You teach me what I need to know to stay safe, and I promise not to seek information through... less reputable channels."

Austin's thumb traced circles on the back of her hand, a thoughtful gesture that sent warmth spreading through her. "A compromise, then," he agreed. "But Violet, there's something else you should know about The Order."

"What is it?"

"They're not just hunting vampires," Austin said gravely. "They're searching for something specific—an artifact of immense power known as the Crimson Heart."

Violet leaned forward, intrigued despite herself. "What is the Crimson Heart?"

"According to vampire lore, it's the preserved heart of the first of our kind," Austin explained, rising to his feet and moving to one of the bookshelves. He ran his fingers along the spines until he found what he was seeking—an ancient tome bound in faded red leather. "The heart is said to have extraordinary properties. Some believe it can grant immortality without the curse of bloodlust. Others claim it can reverse the transformation entirely."

"And The Order wants it to destroy all vampires?" Violet asked, watching as Austin carefully opened the fragile book.

"That's what most assume," Austin replied, turning the pages delicately until he found what he was looking for. He placed the open book on the table before her. "But I suspect their motives are more complex."

Violet leaned in to examine the page. It contained an intricate illustration of a blood-red crystalline heart, surrounded by ancient symbols and text in a language Violet didn't recognize. The heart seemed to pulse with an inner light, even on the yellowed page.

"This is a medieval rendering," Austin explained softly. "Few have seen the actual artifact, but its power is legendary among our kind."

Violet traced the illustration with her fingertip, mesmerized by the intricate details. "If the heart could cure vampirism, wouldn't you want it for yourself?"

Austin's expression grew distant, a shadow crossing his features. "Once, perhaps. But after centuries of existence, the answer is no longer so simple." He closed the book gently, returning it to its place on the shelf. "Besides, the power of such an artifact is unpredictable. In the wrong hands, it could bring about horrors beyond imagining."

"And you believe The Order's intentions fall into that category?" Violet asked, rising from her chair to stand beside him.

"I believe that fanatics rarely have pure intentions," Austin replied, his voice hardening slightly. "The Order claims to protect humanity, yet they murder without hesitation or remorse. Their pursuit of the Crimson Heart is unlikely to be for benevolent purposes."

A somber silence fell between them, broken only by the occasional pop and crackle from the fireplace. Outside, the wind had picked up, howling around the corners of the manor like a beast denied entry.

"The hour grows late," Austin said finally, offering his arm to Violet. "You should rest. The knowledge you've gained tonight is heavy enough without the burden of exhaustion."

Violet accepted his arm, allowing him to guide her from the library toward the grand staircase. As they ascended the steps together, she couldn't help but feel that their relationship had shifted somehow—deepened, perhap.

At the door to her chambers, Austin paused, his expression serious yet tender. "Promise me you'll be more cautious, Violet. There are forces at work in this city that would not hesitate to use you to get to me."

"I promise," she replied, touched by his concern. "But you must promise me something in return."

"And what is that?"

"No more half-truths between us," Violet said firmly. "If we're to face these dangers together, we must do so with complete honesty."

Austin studied her face for a long moment before nodding slowly. "Agreed. Though I warn you, complete honesty from a creature who has lived for centuries may prove... overwhelming."

Violet smiled, a brave yet challenging smile. "I'll take that risk."

Austin leaned forward, brushing his lips against her forehead in a gesture both tender and restrained. "Goodnight, Violet," he whispered, his breath cool against her skin.

"Goodnight, Austin," she replied softly, reluctantly stepping away from him and into her chambers.

As the door closed between them, Violet leaned against it, her mind racing with all she had learned. Vampires, hunters, ancient artifacts with mysterious powers—her world had expanded far beyond what she could have imagined when she first arrived at Butler Manor. Yet amidst the danger and uncertainty, one thing remained clear: her path was now inextricably linked with Austin's, for better or worse.

Outside her window, the moon hung full and bright in the night sky, casting silver light across the grounds of Butler Manor. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new revelations, but for now, the night was quiet, and sleep beckoned with the promise of momentary peace.

Stay tuned for part 11!! Click HERE to view!

Taglist: @buckysteveloki-me @imusicaddict

[ineffectualdemon]

I have an exciting pakige arriving today and the parcel company has given me the ability to stalk the delivery man via maps until he gets to my location and I don't know how they expect me to get anything done today