#if the decision lies between to forgive or not to forgive... unless there's a very compelling reason to do so then I'm always gonna forgive

[red-moon-at-night]

remember you can vote every day! peace and love on planet earth <3

[moralesmilesanhour]

idk if this has been done before but Margo braiding Miles' hair? it seems basic but I feel like it would be super cute

thank you <333

Thanks for requesting! <3

No warnings except miles being a #gamer and the fact that I did not proofread this

"Come on, I could finish it in like, thirty minutes!"

"Yeah, after ripping all my hair out in the process."

Miles didn't take his eyes off of his monitor as Margo stood eagerly in the door frame, a clear makeup bag of hair supplies in her arms. The room was dim, the blinds having been shut to avoid any glare on the screen.

Miles wouldn't budge the first five times, but she'd get him today.

He sat with his knees pulled up to his chin in an old but sturdy leather swivel chair. Certainly not a traditional 'gaming chair', but he called it that.

"I'm real gentle, I promise!"

"I've seen you do your own braids,"

Miles executed a winning combo on his controller.

"and I told you I want no parts. Pun intended."

Margo pursed her lips, and thought for a moment.

"You still looking for a copy of 'Dandadan'?"

The boy paused the game, and gave her a sideways look.

"How did you know that?"

She shrugged, "Context clues. But that's not important. I can let you borrow mine--"

Miles lit up. "Really--?"

"--If you let me do your hair. Capiche?"

He paused, glancing at the sharp rat tail comb sitting in Margo's bag. Miles had blown most of his allowance for this week at Game Stop, so any new manga purchases would have to wait until Monday. Unless...

He sighed deeply, running a hand over his face.

"Fine."

Miles came to regret this decision as he sat in front of the living room couch between Margo's knees, wincing at every tug and pull.

"Is this the last section--ow!"

"Stop moving," Margo waved her wide-toothed comb around threateningly like a weapon. "You almost done, anyway. See?"

She put down the comb and grabbed a small mirror for him to look into. Save for a small tuft of un-braided hair, his entire head had been neatly cornrowed and shone with grease. There were about four total, and it had only been twenty-ish minutes or so.

After ten minutes more of pain and accusations of 'tender-headed-ness', Margo was finally done.

"You look so cute!" she chirped, clapping her hands together. "I'mma go wash my hands."

Miles rolled his shoulders and reached for the mirror to assess Margo's work. The braids tugged at his scalp as he turned his head at different angles, trying to get used to the look. His brows furrowed.

Miles' hair had stayed in more or less an afro since he could walk, with the exception of his mother's only attempt to sit him down and braid it when he was six.

...It did not go well.

The mass of hair became almost a part of his face. The cornrows made it feel like half of it was now missing. Weird stuff.

"D'you like it?" Margo asked, having emerged from the bathroom.

"It'll have to grow on me. I only did this for the free manga, remember?"

Margo's eyes widened, as if she just remembered something.

Very matter-of-factly, she said, "Oh, I lied about that."

"...What?"

Miles' face fell immediately as she knelt down and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"But you'll forgive me, right? I made you look cooler!"

Margo pulled him into a tight bear hug. He rolled his eyes.

"You might be right, but I'm gonna get you back for that. Better keep a close eye on...what's her name? Kimi?"

"Kuromi, dumbass," she picked up the comb from before and gently smacked him with it. "And don't touch my figurines. You won't walk outta my room alive."

"Count your days, man."

[sovereignofdeceit]

@intheformofstars from x

Ah, so it’s not him. Not hers. Another one failing the test. But it feels like everyone is out to get her still, after everything, and any Loki is a dangerous one. There are easier ways to introduce herself, to play detective, yet those are all laced with the same outcome - this one, where it’s a stand-off of willpower and seidr and pure, unfettered rage. Sylvie is angry. At herself, at the universe, at the lies told to her from the very beginning to the very end. It’s fitting that when she whips around to spot him, her teeth are bared in a similar feral grin, fangs sharp and chest seething as she holds her broadsword steady in front of herself. Maybe she likes it, maybe the sight of the face she’s so enamored of brimming with power when cornered is exhilarating. Although, she doesn’t intend to harm unless harmed first, and this one seems to be in a bit of a bind, with ichor spilled already. So her sword lowers an inch. “I’m no more of a witch than you are, get over yourself. Are you one of the friendly variants of us, or are you going to strangle me before I can even help with your wounds?” To mirror him, without taking her eyes off his threat, her free hand lifts to offer a softer green glow, a promise of pain relief and healing through enchantment.

"Am I friendly?" Eldritch light still flickering around his hands, Loki laughed harshly, his breath hitching slightly at the burning pull of the wound in his side. "You are truly mad if you think I will trust myself into your care when you've only just threatened my life."

In that moment, as he stared at her incredulously, agony and coursing seiðr mingling in his very bones, he thought they might both be lost.

Mercurial as were they all, her decision had been made between one heartbeat and the next, had bridged the vast distance between nurture and violence that quickly, and Loki stared at her, still on guard, his brow furrowing as he considered. However little he cared to acknowledge the others, he could not ignore the evidence of his eyes or of his own unrelenting, merciless memory.

His reflection had told him more than he'd wished to know of what she'd endured, of what she'd suffered, and it lived within him now, staying his hand, at least for the moment.

"Tell me - are the only ones worthy of aid those who have the strength to reject it? Would I even now be bleeding at your feet, gasping out my last if I were weak? Forgive me if I have no desire to test my theory."

[theworldbrewery]

3 NPC Models and How to Use Them

Many people have observed the differences between Actual Play DMs’ play-styles, and while there is endless room for variance here, we’re going to talk about the 3 main models of NPC use, and we’re going to do that by talking about attitudes. [full disclosure: this post was inspired by this post about NPCs and DMing in Critical Role, if you’re interested!]

In D&D 5e, there’s a concept that in an ordinary social encounter, PCs who want things from NPCs will try to convince them of their lies or get them to do something. To run these encounters, the DMG has provided a basic system to help DMs figure out how NPCs will react. Friendly NPCs will usually do what’s asked of them (the DC is fairly low), while Hostile NPCs take more effort to convince and Indifferent NPCs are somewhere in the middle--they’ll accept a request provided there’s no risk involved, for instance.

But this model of NPC interaction goes astray when your PCs have more complicated relationships with the NPCs. It’s easy enough to apply this system to an innkeeper or an old man whose goats you just killed. When you are engaging with, say, a Rival you met a few levels ago, that system starts to get confusing. The Rival isn’t indifferent, but they’re not exactly hostile, either. And what about when an NPC has a specific goal in mind?

All this gets complicated quickly, so we’re going to sort it out with 3 models of NPC use.

FIRST: The “NPC Typecast” Model. In this model, NPCs fall into certain typecast roles. Any friendly NPC will defer to the party’s desires and plans. They aren’t coming up with ideas of their own. An indifferent NPC is usually interacting with the party in a mercenary fashion--there’s an exchange necessary to get what you want (such as a shopkeeper or a spy who might turn on her employer). And a hostile NPC is usually a villainous character, with goals that work directly against the party’s goals. Rare is the occasion that they will work alongside the party--and if they do, expect them to be plotting a double-cross. This system is ideal for a straightforward campaign where most threats are External or Epic in nature, or where the lines of Good and Evil are pretty clear. Usually, the party will be Good-Aligned overall, and the friendly/indifferent/hostile dynamic corresponds to good/neutral/evil. This model is great for letting the party have agency--these NPCs are pretty much never going to tell the party what to do or have a secret agenda, unless they’re Evil. For an example of this, look at Critical Role, where DM Matt Mercer’s friendly NPCs tend to defer to the party members and typically have no interpersonal conflicts even as hostile NPCs might feign friendship to get what they want.

SECOND: The “NPCs Have Agendas” Model. When you’re running a campaign that is more roleplay-dependent, such as a mystery or political intrigue game, you’ll quickly find that the NPC Typecast model doesn’t meet your needs--it’s simple, but you are running a complicated game, and that calls for complicated NPCs. In these types of games, NPCs are going to have agendas that don’t align with the party. That doesn’t meant they aren’t friendly; it just means the NPCs have their own goals in mind. Under this model, friendly NPCs are more likely to compromise their own goals to help the party, while indifferent NPCs prefer a quid pro quo--if they help you, you must help them. Hostile NPCs, then, need more leverage or convincing--for example, you might need to blackmail them to get the job done. This is the type of campaign I run. Now, not all my NPCs are super complex, but the important ones usually have goals and ideas that don’t revolve around the party. The more morally complicated your campaign is, the more likely you’ll fall into this model: Because each NPC has personal wants and fears, it’s easier to portray them as fallible, as vulnerable to temptations and flexible with their morals.

THIRD: The “NPCs Are People Too” Model. In this system, NPCs act like, well, like people. They also have goals, wants, fears, etc., but the key difference is that in this model, the campaign itself tends to be extremely roleplay-heavy, if not entirely roleplay. There’s conflict, but it’s mainly interpersonal or inter-factional. NPCs each have feelings and reasons behind why they do what they do, and in this model, a savvy PC can capitalize on that and befriend someone who might have started out hostile. You might still use Good and Evil as factors, but in such a model, they’re mostly names for sides and priorities, not the definitive alignment system that’s often assumed in D&D. These campaigns sometimes even push into slice-of-life, but not always--they might be better described as Pacifist Campaigns. This model, in essence, assumes that most creatures that understand language can be reasoned with--and most of the time, the players will choose that route.

While none of these are bad models to use, issues can arise if there is a mismatch between what the DM is running and what the players want to see. If the players want to be in the third model, and the DM is going for the first, either the DM will be annoyed that no one is fighting the monsters or the party will become frustrated that every encounter ends in a fight. In fact, specific players who gravitate to a particular model of NPC might not enjoy the game as much if the rest of the group prefers a different version.

Issues can especially arise if, as a group, you have decided to play a game with a particular approach to morality. If everyone is strictly Good-aligned, having a series of complex moral encounters with NPCs that have agendas can leave the party feeling impotent. They can’t trust anyone, and difficult moral choices are just not what the group is looking for from this game. In the opposite direction, say you are running a morally complex campaign but your friendly NPCs are not as morally complex as your hostile ones. You might be hoping to avoid railroading by having NPCs making the decision, but if your NPCs are too forgiving of a morally gray party and don’t have personal wants, it will start to fray the suspension of disbelief--your friendly NPCs won’t feel as real and developed in comparison to your hostile ones, and the end result may be that your players don’t want to interact with their own allies. Players can sense an underdeveloped NPC as much as they can an overdeveloped one--and they tend to gravitate toward developed NPCs because that’s where interesting encounters tend to happen.

Of course, you might find you’re using a blend of different approaches in your own game, or even moving from one model to another depending on the current arc. In my own game, I usually use a blend of model 1 and 2. Because we’re in a strongly roleplay-focused arc with very complex characters, I’ve shifted to do mostly model 2 with some model 3 qualities! That’s perfectly fine, and as long as it doesn’t force NPCs to act inconsistently, using different models in the same game isn’t a problem either.

[queenmarytudor]

MARY: SERIES ONE

When King Henry VIII announces his daughter unable to inherit the crown of England, Princess Mary Tudor and her friends at court rebel and conspire against him.

An imagined six episode psychological drama series, focusing on Princess Mary Tudor and the intrigues, secrets and lies of Henry VIII’s court... 

THE KING’S PEARL

Princess Mary Tudor, Princess of Wales and heir to the throne of England, is at her court in the Welsh Marches. Rhys ap Gruffydd kneels in irons before her; he has been arrested for inciting rebellion and is on the way to the Tower of London. Rhys petitions Mary for help in getting his grandfather’s lands and titles restored to him, as they are his by right and not her stewards, who has been gifted them by the king. Rhys says surely Mary knows what it is like to have an inheritance threatened. Mary promises to help him when she returns to court. Rhys thanks his princess, stating that though his wife is related to the king’s mistress, Anne Boleyn will never be Rhys’ queen.

Mary returns to court for Christmas. All along the streets nobles and peasants alike cheer for their princess before she is welcomed lovingly by her parents King Henry VIII and Queen Katherine of Aragon. 

There is a grand feast; Mary reunites with her father’s cousin Henry Courtenay and his wife Gertrude, one of Katherine’s ladies. She dances with the courtier Nicholas Carew while her parents watch proudly. 

Mary petitions her father to release Rhys from imprisonment in the Tower. The king, delighted to have his pearl back, agrees, but refuses to grant him his grandfather’s lands and titles. The pair decide to go riding together.

On their return, Gertrude escorts Mary to see her mother. She tells Mary her father’s mistress, Anne Boleyn, has just arrived back at court. Katherine introduces Mary to Eustace Chapuys, ambassador to Mary’s cousin Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor. Chapuys promises he will do his best to help her and her mother. Katherine and Chapuys reveal Pope Clement has forbidden the king from marrying Anne, threatening him with excommunication from the church if he does.

After Mass, where the royal family pray together, a freed Rhys seeks out Mary. He thanks her for his release and attempting to get his inheritance back. 

Mary goes to her father’s chambers, where Thomas Cromwell introduces himself as King Henry’s new minister. Mary asks where her father is. When Cromwell replies he is with Anne Boleyn, Mary leaves for the sanctuary of her mother’s rooms. 

Henry Courtenay arrives from parliament, telling Katherine, Mary and Gertrude that the king has now declared himself the Supreme Head of the Church of England. Gertrude tells them she heard of a nun in Kent who can predict the future. Katherine warns her not to do anything foolish. 

On Saint David’s Day, the patron saint of Wales, Mary is given a Welsh leek by the king’s gentlemen pensioners in a grand ceremony. She is watched by a crowd of courtiers and Chapuys, who compliments her. They talk for a while before she leaves. 

Exiting, Mary comes across Anne Boleyn. They glare at each other before Anne reluctantly sinks into a curtsey. Mary ignores her.

Mary plays the virginals for her parents. Despite their praise, there is obvious tension between the pair.

At nightfall Mary and her father talk. Mary is confused how he has declared himself the head of a church that doesn’t exist. Henry says she is clever; one day his pearl will understand. After he has left, Mary tells her governess, Margaret Pole, that she doesn’t think she will ever understand.

Katherine worries when Margaret wakes her in the night to inform her Mary is ill. Gertrude brings up the Nun of Kent again, but Maria Willoughby and Jane Seymour shush her. Katherine goes to help Margaret care for Mary. As Mary continues to vomit, Katherine strokes her daughter’s hair, clutching her necklace which she believes contains a piece of the True Cross. She prays her daughter will get better, comforting her with old stories of her and King Henry when they were younger.

In the morning a recovered Mary wakes to six luxurious new dresses, a gift from her father. She immediately puts one on.  

At breakfast, the queen is sat at the table alone. The king left them earlier in the morning to go on summer progress with Anne Boleyn, forcing most of the courtiers to go with them, including the Courtenay’s. Katherine smiles and tells Mary they can still have a good time, just the two of them and their households.

Reginald, the son of Margaret, is sent money by the king to study in Padua. Katherine and Margaret are hopeful Reginald will convince King Henry to recant his decision to break from Rome and marry a heretic. Reginald promises he will. Mary hugs her cousin goodbye, wishing him well. 

At court, Chapuys watches on with Nicholas Carew and an incensed Gertrude and Henry as Anne Boleyn takes the queen’s role at a feast. While talking, Rhys Gruffydd is publicly re-arrested for encouraging Wales to rebel against the king, and supposedly taking the title of Prince of Wales. The group disbelieve this after what Mary did for him. 

Katherine hears from Maria that Rhys has been beheaded, but she is determined to protect her daughter and keeps the news a secret.

Mary and Katherine go hawking, but on their return are sent orders to separate. Katherine promises she will see Mary soon, encouraging her to stay strong. Any bastard born of Anne Boleyn will never rule; Mary is the heir and future queen of England.  

 PRINCESS OF WALES  

Mary and her tutor Richard Featherstone are having a Latin lesson on Utopia by Sir Thomas More. In the book women are encouraged to fight in battle; Mary tells the priest she would if she could. 

Mary is walking in the fields with her ladies, Susan Clarencius and Anne Hussey, and her cousin Margaret Douglas. Her and Margaret’s cousin Frances Brandon has recently married Henry Grey. Mary is betrothed to the French Dauphin, but she has heard no news lately of a marriage... she is surprised to come across her father, riding with Nicholas. He asks how she is and Mary replies she is well, but missing her mother now she has seen him. The king is going to Calais with Anne Boleyn, now the marquess of Pembroke, but promises to see her more often when he returns.

Gertrude sees the Nun of Kent in disguise, switching clothes with her maid. Amazed at her trance, she invites the woman, Elizabeth Barton, to her house.

Mary is having her breakfast served by her friend Henry Jerningham when she is informed by her chamberlain that her father has, with the blessing of the new Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer, married Anne Boleyn. John Hussey asks for a verbal response to the news for the king, but Mary ignores him entirely, continuing to talk with Henry and her ladies. Uncomfortable, he carries on with his orders; Mary is forbidden from writing to her mother and he must take Mary’s jewels. Margaret refuses to give them up to John unless she has a direct order from the king. 

Gertrude welcomes Elizabeth warmly, asking about her prophecies. The nun says there may be war now the king has married Anne Boleyn; Gertrude asks her to pray her husband will remain safe. It grieves him that men of noble blood are being dismissed from the privy chamber, with the king ruled by Cromwell who is the son of a blacksmith.

That night, Gertrude tells Henry about the nun’s visit, telling him the king will flee the realm one day. Henry is horrified at her listening to the prophecies, potentially earning the wrath of his cousin when he finds out. He demands she tell the king. 

Mary and Margaret Douglas are informed by Margaret that their aunt Mary has died. The pair worry over Frances, but Margaret tells them she has a husband to comfort her now. Mary fears the French accepting Anne Boleyn as queen means her betrothal will be void. The three are interrupted by Mary’s servant Randall Dodd, who delivers a letter passed on by her mother’s servant Anthony. Katherine writes she has “heard such tidings today that I do perceive if it be true, the time is come that Almighty God will prove you; and I am very glad of it, for I trust He doth handle you with a good love [...] But one thing I especially desire you, for the love that you do owe unto God and unto me, to keep your heart with a chaste mind, and your body from all ill and wanton company, not thinking or desiring any husband for Christ’s passion; neither determine yourself to any manner of living till this troublesome time be past.”

Shortly after there is an official command from King Henry to take Mary’s jewels. Her personal arms are stripped from her and her household is to be reduced, with some servants, including Randall Dodd, sent to wait on her new sister Elizabeth, whose christening John Hussey must attend. 

King Henry confronts Gertrude, informing her that he knows she has visited the Nun of Kent. She petitions King Henry to forgive her, blaming her womanly foolishness. He does, and orders his cousin to as well. To show his goodwill towards her, Gertrude is bestowed the honour of becoming Princess Elizabeth’s godmother, but an annoyed Gertrude sees it as an insult.

Mary is playing a card game with her ladies and Henry Jerningham when John returns from the christening and tells Mary she is longer a princess. Mary refuses to accept it and writes to her father, believing he was “not privy to it, not doubting but you take me for your lawful daughter, born in true matrimony.”

In response to her letter the Duke of Norfolk comes to dissemble all her household; Mary is to go to Hatfield to serve her sister Elizabeth, the Princess of Wales. Mary says that title belongs to her by right, and no one else.

Mary is only allowed to take one lady in waiting with her and chooses Susan. Her cousin Margaret Douglas is to serve the new queen. Margaret offers to serve Mary at her own expense, but Norfolk refuses. Mary has an emotional goodbye with her staff. Margaret urges her to remember her grandmother had been declared a bastard before becoming queen of England.

On the way to Hatfield, one of the men escorting Mary whispers she must hold firm, for the sake of England. 

Arriving, Norfolk asks if she will pay her respects to the Princess of Wales. Mary replies she knows of no other princess in England except herself. The daughter of the marquess of Pembroke has no such title - but if her father acknowledges her as his own, she will call her sister as she calls Henry Fitzroy brother.

As he leaves, Norfolk asks if can take a message to the king. Mary says to tell him his daughter, the Princess of Wales, begs for his blessing. When Norfolk refuses, Mary tells him curtly he might leave it then, and to go away and leave her alone. She retires to her bedchamber to cry. 

UNBRIDLED BLOOD

Mary refuses to pay court to Elizabeth unless made to by force. When walking, she is always far in front or far behind the newborn, never at her side. She eats in her own rooms with food Susan steals from the kitchens, avoiding the public table. She has outgrown the ornate dresses her father gave her.

An outraged Gertrude shows Chapuys the letter she has received from the king, telling his subjects that they ought to thank God for giving them a lawful heir. Chapuys reveals he has already sent a Latin declaration for Katherine to sign and pass along to her daughter. 

The king arrives to visit his youngest daughter. Mary is desperate to see her father, but is visited by Norfolk and Cromwell. They urge her to renounce her title, but Mary says it is labour wasted to press her; they are deceived if they think bad treatment, rudeness, or even the chance of death would make her change her determination. She asks to see her father and kiss his hand, but is refused. When they leave, she runs to the terrace at the top of the house and kneels in mercy. The king bows and doffs his cap, as do the men with him, before leaving.  

The Oath of Supremacy and 1534 Act of Succession are both implemented, making Henry VIII Head of the Church of England, and Elizabeth and any other children of Anne Boleyn his heirs. The Courtenay’s are annoyed as queen Anne flaunts her belly; she is pregnant again. 

Mary receives a letter from her mother, which comforts and encourages her, along with the Latin declaration Chapuys spoke of that denies her illegitimacy. She signs it and Susan smuggles it out of Hatfield back to Chapuys. 

John Hussey and his wife Anne are returning home now Mary’s household has been dissolved, but before they go John talks with the Courtenay’s and Chapuys about the possibility of the emperor invading in support of his cousin’s rights. Chapuys says he is trying hard to convince his master. Henry says he wishes he had the opportunity to shed blood in the service of Katherine and Mary. John replies he could easily rise the north of England to help Princess Mary, and “the insurrection of the people would be joined immediately by the nobility and the clergy”. Gertrude reminds them of the prophecies of the Nun of Kent; perhaps there will be war over this... 

When moving households, Mary refuses to share a litter with Elizabeth and is forcibly put in by guards. Roughly manhandled, she shouts a public protest to some peasants who salute and cheer her as princess. Her new caretaker, Anne Shelton, warns Mary her niece queen Anne has ordered her to box Mary’s ears as a cursed bastard when she uses the title of Princess.

After Gertrude informs him of Mary’s abuse, Nicholas pays the king’s fool to insult queen Anne and princess Elizabeth. The king is furious, banishing the jester from court, but Nicholas shelters him in his own home.

A badly bruised Mary hears of Nicholas’ actions and sends a letter of thanks to him via Susan. Shelton summons Mary to visit her, questioning why she has received a letter from Elizabeth Carew, Nicholas’ wife. Elizabeth urges her to submit to the king for the passion of Christ, otherwise she will be undone. Mary pleads ignorance and throws the letter in the fireplace.

As they watch queen Anne and her uncle Norfolk prepare to visit Elizabeth, Jane Seymour tells the Courtenay’s that the queen has had a miscarriage. They fear how she will treat Mary.

As punishment for the litter incident, Norfolk takes Mary’s remaining jewels. He mocks a brooch from her childhood spelling out the Emperor. Mary is furious, even more so when Anne visits her, urging her to honour her as queen and she will reconcile her to her father. Mary says she knows of no queen of England but her mother - but if her father’s mistress would intercede on her behalf, she would be much obliged. An enraged Anne storms out, swearing to bring down her unbridled Spanish blood.

Shelton tells Mary if she were the king she would kick her out of the house for disobedience, and that the king said she will lose her head for breaking the law and not renouncing her title. Seeing Richard Featherstone preparing to leave in the retinue of queen Anne, a quick witted Mary asks him if she can practise her Latin. The people around them do not understand as she asks if the rumours are true and she is to be killed. Richard is shocked, saying it is not good Latin before leaving with the rest of Anne’s entourage. Returning to London, he immediately informs Chapuys of the danger Mary is in. The ambassador is determined to find a way to see her. 

The Nun of Kent is publicly executed, with her head put on a spike on London Bridge. After, the king tells Henry the trust his daughter has in the emperor makes her obstinate, but he fears no one if his vassals stay loyal. He warns his cousin not to trip lest he lose his head. 

WORST ENEMY IN THE WORLD

After she was forced into a litter, Mary asks to ride on her horse when moving households. As soon as she is mounted, she races ahead of her sister’s litter, riding across the countryside to the waiting river barge. Exhilarated by the freedom of her ride, she beats the rest of the household there and takes the place of honour. On the riverbank, Chapuys watches on as Mary sails past. They smile at each other, reassured. 

Shelton wonders how the ambassador knew they would be there. Suspecting Susan of sending messages in and out of the household, she dismisses Mary’s last lady. Mary is completely alone. 

Months have passed; it is now winter. King Henry remains furious at his daughter’s continued defiance, telling his cousin Mary will be an example to show that no one ought to disobey the laws; at the beginning of his reign he was as gentle as a lamb, and by the end he will be worse than a lion. Henry tells his wife.

Gertrude disguises herself to visit Chapuys, saying after the next parliament Mary and Katherine will die. She swears it is as true as the Gospel. Gertrude is adamant they must do something to help save their princess. Chapuys says Katherine spoke to him of Mary marrying Reginald Pole and uniting their claims to the throne. The emperor is busy taking Tunis, but Chapuys believes only a small army sent by Charles V with Reginald amongst the troops would be enough to make people declare for Mary. Gertrude pledges the support of her relatives, but says they need a quicker solution. 

Mary is no longer allowed to eat in her room, but she refuses to eat at the main table and submit to a lower rank then her sister Elizabeth, now a toddler at the head of the table. She is slowly starving. 

After seeing the king talking with Jane Seymour, Gertrude has an idea. She tries to convince Jane to attract the king’s attentions in the hope of getting better treatment for Mary but a haughty Jane refuses. 

Mary is constantly belittled by servants, who say the world will be at peace when they are discharged of the pain and trouble she gives them. She is incensed to hear the French ambassadors are to visit Elizabeth in the hopes of a betrothal. She declares she is the Dauphin’s future wife, not her bastard sister. Shelton orders her to her room, and when Mary refuses she is locked in by force. 

The next morning, a weak Mary discovers she has started her period. Disoriented, she calls out for her mother and Margaret. While getting up, she collapses.  

Shelton weeps, fearing people will think she has poisoned Mary. She tells a bedridden Mary the king will not see her until she admits to being a bastard. He believes she is his worst enemy in the world. Mary sobs but refuses to give in, saying God has not blinded her to confess her father and mother had lived in adultery and made her a bastard.

Chapuys talks to Cromwell and then the king, trying to convince them to let Katherine tend to her daughter. Henry refuses; if mother and daughter are together, Katherine might “raise a number of men and make war, as boldly as did queen Isabella her mother.” He also refuses to send Margaret Pole, who Chapuys calls Mary’s second mother, as she is a fool of no experience. If Mary had been in her care she would have died, but Shelton is an expert in female complaints. 

After queen Anne shows no sympathy for a grievously ill Mary, Jane agrees to help Gertrude. 

Mary is examined by a doctor. She fainted due to her heavy period, in addition to not eating or drinking enough. She is suffering from sorrow. The doctor orders her to eat more and recommends being moved closer to her mother to improve her spirits. Mary knows it will never happen. 

Shelton reveals Sir Thomas More and several monks have been executed for refusing to take the Oath of Supremacy, and Richard Featherstone is now imprisoned in the Tower. She tells Mary to take warning by their fate. Servants openly desire her death, especially now the queen is pregnant again with what is sure to be a son. Mary notices her old servant Randall Dodd does not join in their bullying. Cornering him in private, she convinces him to deliver a letter to Chapuys.

Gertrude leads Jane to Nicholas, and the pair coach her on how to act. Nicholas tell Jane she must by no means comply with any of the King's wishes, except marriage.

Mary watches out of the window as armed guards are stationed at the gates. Randall walks through them, carrying a letter for Charles V urging the emperor to invade. Mary tells him “In the name of the Queen, my mother, and mine, for the honour of God take this matter in hand, and provide a remedy for the affairs of this country; begging you in the meantime not to forget to solicit permission for me to live with my mother.” 

MONSTER IN NATURE  

Chapuys visits a mortally ill Katherine. She worries over her daughter, but he promises to look after her. After Maria Willoughby arrives she is no longer alone and begs Chapuys to go and protect Mary.

Mary is summoned to see Shelton, who informs her of her mother’s death. She is devastated. Shelton implores her to submit, saying she will not receive the necklace her mother left her in her will. Mary replies she would rather die a hundred times than change her opinion, before going to her bedchamber to cry. 

Randall gives a letter to Mary from Chapuys, making plans for her to escape England. The emperor cannot spare any troops, but there is a ship waiting 40 miles away if she can get there. Chapuys says he will write with a plan soon but Mary is convinced she must go at once lest she be killed. 

Chapuys holds a dinner party with the Courtenay’s, Nicholas and Jane. Nicholas has been inducted into the Order of the Garter over George Boleyn. They discuss queen Anne having a quarrel with Cromwell, and rumours of the king wanting a new wife. Gertrude advises Jane to tell the king his subjects hate his marriage, and no one considers it legitimate. A messenger arrives for Jane from the king, with a letter and a purse of money. All watch on with approval as Jane sends it back, saying she can only accept a gift of money from the king when he makes her an honourable match. Chapuys hopes the progress of their scheme will mean Mary will not need to flee - he tells them “she is so eager to escape from all her troubles and dangers that if he were to advise her to cross the Channel in a sieve she would do it.” 

In turmoil, a grieving Mary takes matters into her own hands. While playing with Elizabeth she tests the strength of the garden gate, noting where Shelton’s window looks out. Returning to the house, she tells the doctor she can’t sleep. He says he will get her some pills to help. 

On the same day Katherine is buried, queen Anne has a miscarriage. The king tells Henry he has been seduced by witchcraft into his marriage, which is null because God has not granted him a son. 

Mary laces some wine with the sleeping pills, and prepares to give it to Shelton and her maids. Only a letter from Nicholas delivered by Randall dissuades her. He begs her to “be of good cheer, for shortly the opposite party will put water in their wine as the King is already sick and tired of the concubine as could be.” Mary replies telling them to do everything possible to remove the mistress. 

At queen Anne’s trial for adultery against the king, Henry votes guilty. He, Gertrude, Nicholas and Chapuys watch on as Anne is beheaded and Jane marries the king.

Mary is astonished to receive a visit from her old lady, Anne Hussey. They have returned from the north as John has to attend parliament, where Elizabeth will be declared a bastard now queen Anne is dead. While talking to Mary, Anne calls for a drink for the princess, and is arrested. Mary is in shock and writes a letter to her father, hoping to reconcile with him now her enemy is dead.

After being presented as the new queen, Jane tells the Courtenay’s, Nicholas and Chapuys that Henry has received his daughter’s letter but is not happy. She promises to help Mary, and Chapuys christens her the peacemaker. 

Margaret Pole returns to court, attracting hundreds of people on the way who think Mary is with her. She carries a scathing letter from her son Reginald. King Henry is outraged that Reginald accuses him of tearing true defenders of religion to pieces, as well as likening him to the tyrant emperor Nero.

A group of nobles headed by Norfolk arrive to harass Mary into signing the acts, calling her a monster of nature and a traitress for continuing to defy her father. When she argues with them they say if she were their daughter they would beat her to death, or bash her head against a wall until it was a soft as a boiled apple.

Mary is locked in her bedchamber and not allowed to talk to anyone. She is to be watched over day and night. Hours pass and she refuses to back down. The guards are changed - this time Randall is on duty. Mary creates a distraction for the other guard and passes a scribbled letter to Randall for Chapuys. 

Jane pleads for mercy, but the king calls her a fool for interfering; she ought to think of the children they will have together and not any others. King Henry swears that not only will Mary suffer, but also his cousin, Cromwell and others. 

Anne is interrogated in the Tower for calling Mary a princess, but she insists it was merely due to habit. Henry is kicked off the privy council, and Nicholas is questioned about his relationship with Mary. Legal papers are drawn up to put Mary on trial for treason.  

Randall returns, detailing what has happened to her friends and giving Mary a letter from Chapuys. Chapuys points out she now has a better opportunity of becoming heir to the crown than when Anne Boleyn was alive. He urges her to save her life for the tranquillity of the kingdom, and comforts her with the knowledge that “God looks more into the intentions than into the deeds of men.”

Fearing for her and her friends lives, a broken Mary finally submits to her father and signs the document before her without reading the contents. 

GRACE 

Mary lies awake in the night crying before being disturbed by a knock at the door - Susan has returned. She is to resume her duties as the king is riding to see Mary. 

A nervous Mary sees her father for the first time in years, along with his new wife Jane who gives her a diamond. King Henry says he regrets their long separation, giving Mary some money and the necklace Katherine left her daughter in her will. He promises she can soon return to court. 

Freed from the Tower, Anne returns north with her husband John, where the people mutter about the king being ruled by evil ministers who have closed the monasteries and forced Princess Mary to sign acts labelling her a bastard. 

Mary returns to court, where the king pats Jane’s stomach, insinuating she is with child. He tells Mary some of his councillors were desirous of her death and she swoons in fear, but her father assures her all will be well now. She sits beside the queen at the high table while Gertrude serves them. 

Cromwell welcomes Mary back, congratulating her on finally signing the acts and calling her “the most obstinate woman that ever was.” 

Mary reunites with Henry Jerningham and Margaret Pole, along with Margaret’s sons Henry and Geoffrey. She tells Mary Reginald, who has just been made a cardinal, will not stop supporting her cause abroad. 

Mary thanks Nicholas, Henry, Gertrude and Chapuys for their help. She begs the ambassador to get her absolution from the Pope for signing the acts under duress. Seeing them talk, King Henry tells his daughter he hates dissemblers. There is talk of an uprising in the north where people believe her able to inherit after him. He forces her to write to the pope, the emperor and his family confirming she sees herself as a bastard.  

In Lincolnshire rebels threaten to burn the Hussey’s house down. Anne promises her husband will join them. John calls her a fool to make such a promise; Anne argues he wanted to rise the north for princess Mary and the true faith. John says that was with the emperor’s help and before she submitted to the king. He writes to him protesting his innocence in the affair. 

At court the king is enraged at the rebels, tearing up John’s letter. Jane goes on her knees and petitions him to reopen the monasteries, but is rebuffed by the king who tells her not to meddle. He talks about the rebellion with Mary, making sure to mention her old chamberlain’s letter, and the vast expense of the army he is sending to suppress it. 

Henry is sent north at the head of the army to prove his loyalty. Gertrude worries over his safety, remembering the Nun of Kent’s prophecies of war. Courtier Edward Neville asks Gertrude if she is merry and she replies "How can I be merry? My lord is gone to battle." He tells her not to fear this one or the second battle, but beware the third. She warns him prophecies will turn him to displeasure one day. 

Anne gives the rebels food, wine and money, encouraging them further. As the army approaches and rebels still camp outside his house, John flees. 

A terrified Jane tells Mary she was mistaken about being with child. Mary reassures her, thanking her new mother for all her help. When he hears, King Henry says he will clearly have no children by his wife, and that if he will have no son to succeed him he hopes for a grandson. 

Henry meets up with John. He pleads innocence, and joins him to deliver an invitation to the rebel leader, lawyer Robert Aske. At the king’s request he is to attend court for Christmas.   

At court Aske and Mary are kept separated. The king questions Aske on the rebels demands. They want the monasteries to reopen, and see no reason why Mary could not be queen. People think the king’s divorce made by Thomas Cranmer was not legal and “Lady Mary ought to be favoured for her great virtues [...] for she is marvellously beloved by the whole people.” He worries with her being ruled illegitimate the emperor has a reason to wage war against the realm. The king tells him he has nothing to fear from the emperor. 

Mary asks Chapuys to distract the king while Gertrude takes her to Robert Aske. Chapuys talks with King Henry about Prince Luis of Portugal being a possible husband for Mary now the French Dauphin has died.  

In secret, Aske tells Mary she will always be the Princess of Wales and heir, no matter what the king decrees, as the law deems her legitimate. The people of England look to her for hope in such faithless times. 

She keeps his words close to her heart as Aske and John Hussey are beheaded for treason. The king says their bodies are to be sent back north as a message for all those against his rule. Mary approves, and King Henry delights at his pearl finally understanding his authority. 

A traumatised Mary stares at the bloodstained scaffold, silently vowing to avenge the deaths of her loving supporters.

[jackson-t-escobar]

Call it magic

 ~ Chapter I ~

Pairing: Ivar x Heahmund (Modern!AU)

Word count: 1.1 k

Summary: How to deal with a breakup? Ivar still doesn’t know, even after a few months. And when he meets his ex again one day, the chaos is perfect - between immature brothers, sex with the ex and the decision whether to forgive or to forget.

Tags: hurt/comfort, fun, smut, fluff, family bonds, brotherly love, age difference, jealousy.

If you want to be part of the tag list (or be removed, doesn’t matter xD), just send me a DM. I will not post this on AO3, this will be a tumblr story only. I hope you enjoy this!

@youbloodymadgenius​ @jadelynlace​

Ivar stared out the window, watching people scurrying past with umbrellas or something else over their heads to escape the thick drops. They were almost all running, and the street was slowly filling with the cold water - the lights of the cars reflected in the rain, almost bathing the surroundings in a magical, warm atmosphere. Ivar was glad to be inside - his fingers clawed more fiercely into his hoodie, and he rested his chin lightly on his folded forearms while his blue eyes followed the drops on the window.

It had been a few months since Heahmund and he had parted ways. And although Ivar had enjoyed the time off for a very long time, really letting off steam - he was slowly getting to a point where it didn't seem to be going any further. It was now autumn, and the days were increasingly overshadowed by rain and cold; the time when you sat in front of the fireplace in the evening with your partner, in front of the TV, watching Netflix. Autumn days were cuddling, baking cakes and cookies, watching the bad weather. Preferably with a warm arm around the middle of your body, pulling you closer as soon as there was even a slight shiver at the thought of being outside.

The breakup had only really hit Ivar consciously a few weeks after the actual breakup. They had been together for almost a year, but not publicly - since Ivar had still been 17 at the time, and not even close to being of age. It had been best to lie in bed with Heahmund in the evening, while Hvitserk - the only one who had known - had covered for him. Had told their parents lies about why Ivar was gone so often on weekends. And why his grades had gone down just before he graduated from high school, because he had only had the older man on his mind all the time. Heahmund had been 30 when it had ended.

"Hey, do you plan to watch TV like a normal person again sometime, or is someone out there running around naked?" his brother Hvitserk's voice interrupted the silence; Ivar didn't flinch, but cursed inwardly because he had bitten his lower lip slightly when he was startled. He did not say anything at first, but tried to remove his slightly sad expression from his face. After all, Hvitserk didn't necessarily have to know that he'd hit rock bottom once again.

"I like to look outside. Of course, you uneducated cretin don't understand that because your IQ also only lasts from morning to noon," Ivar said quietly; he released the clasp from his hoodie and with a casual movement turned to Hvitserk, who also sat down on the wooden floor with his younger brother.

For a moment they looked at each other, then Hvitserk snorted softly. "Is it still because of him? You need to forget about him for once, honestly."

"How am I supposed to forget him, huh? Unless you mean your tip that you use 90% of the time," Ivar snarked, and Hvitserk raised his eyebrows with a grin.

"Fucking is the best cure for everything, Ivar. Headaches? Fucking. You're late? Never mind, one more round will do. You actually have to work? Lay the colleague." he said, amused, and Ivar rolled his eyes with a slight click of his tongue.

"I'm surprised you get so many women anyway. They must smell your stupidity - stupid fucks well, as we all know. It almost can't be anything else."

"Ah, is that so? And you?"

"Me?" Ivar said quietly; his gaze went back out the window for a moment, then he sighed softly. "I've been trying out, haven't I? You know that, too. But somehow... somehow, they're all... shallow. And stupid, like you."

 "That's no reason to mope, after all, when you can blow something else," Hvitserk said, earning a juicy kick from Ivar against his upper arm in return, which he merely commented with a slight "Ouch!" and a laugh, while Ivar himself couldn't help grinning. Sometimes his brother was really annoying, but his big mouth usually managed to get Ivar back on track. Or at least distract him for a few moments.

"What do you say... We go out for dinner and figure out where we can get drunk to death this weekend. Okay?" Hvitserk suggested, and Ivar took a deep breath in and out.

"Mom will kill me if I still don't know what I want to study after this weekend."

"Dude, I've got a cure for that: fucking a professor."

"Hvit, man. Be serious for once!"

"We'll do it when we drink. That's the best idea, that way we can do both in one go. Ha! Call me genius, my little brother."

Ivar rolled his eyes but slammed into Hvitserk's hand. His incisors dipped slightly into his lower lip again, and Hvitserk snorted softly.

"What was so great about him, please? Besides you being into dilfs, which is really disgusting. Forget him, he broke up with you on fucking Valentine's Day. What guy does something like that?"

For a moment, that sentence hit Ivar deep in the heart. He had repressed that day well all these months, but he couldn't forget it. Deeply it had been burned into his mind; he had planned so much for that day, had wanted to surprise Heahmund. But all he had gotten was an ice-cold breakup on the grounds that he hadn't been sure how he felt. And it had been Ivar's hate day ever since - never again would he feel good about Valentine's Day, and was already planning to poison happy couples in the park. He hadn't been able to explain to his mother why he had cried constantly through two weeks, and why he had hardly eaten anything in the evenings. Even his other, almost terroristic brothers had sensed something, and had left him alone that week.

"All right. You're right. The last time I saw him was a while ago, anyway," Ivar said, letting Hvitserk help him to his feet; and it wasn't until he was standing that he grinned slightly as Hvitserk's warm hand passed lightly over his shoulder.

"Exactly. He's probably grown fat, and much older. You won't recognize him if you ever meet again - unless Gandalf the Grey is suddenly standing in front of you on the dance floor, asking you for a drink."

For a moment the brothers stared at each other, then they both snorted and laughed. It was painful, yes - especially because it was the first time he had been truly in love. But it had to go on, and somehow Hvitserk was right - even if most of his suggestions and advice ended up with having sex with someone somewhere. Ivar took one last look outside before following Hvitserk into the kitchen; the streets outside were almost deserted, and the lightning of thunderstorms could be seen behind the city's skyscrapers. Oh, how Ivar loved autumn.

[astriefer]

Please have this messy, badly written scenario as a humble gift to you, because I wanted to do something since I reached 200 followers!

Bits of Truth

They stood in front of the Carstairs' townhouse in Cornwall Gardens. Christopher seemed mildly confused about what they were doing there as if he had not been paying attention. James shared one last glance with Thomas before he knocked on the door.

A few bits of silence flew by, in which they had held their breaths. Then footsteps tapped on the floor, and the door cracked open.

A wave of relief passed through James that not Sona nor Risa or any other maid came to open the door. Then he thought what a peculiar thought it was for him to be relieved by. Alastair looked at them, frozen in place, blinking a few times as if he didn't believe they were truly there. He rejoined his composure hastily. He didn't let them in - he stood in the front door and his eyes searched theirs for an explanation. It was like a weird staring contest. Eventually, Alastair spoke first. "Cordelia is not here. You know it fairly well."

He moved to close the door. "We haven't come for Cordelia," he said quickly, which received another incredulous glance from Alastair. "Well, we have. But not because we thought she'd show up here. We came to talk to you."

Alastair narrowed his eyes, expressionless, and considered James. Then he glanced at Christopher and Thomas, noting their desperate eyes. "About my sister?"

"We won't take long," promised James, despite he wasn't sure it's true. Alastair studied him, and James felt himself going rigid. He leveled Alastair with his indecipherable gaze.

Then Alastair had stepped back from the door and ushered them in. "My mother is in her bedroom, resting, and Risa went shopping for supper. So, you have to be quiet. Make it quick.'

~~~~

Alastair took their coats and tilted his head towered the parlor. A kettle whiselted in the kitchen. As he gestured them inside he turned the other way. A fire burned in the chimney, and a book rested peacefully on the armchair. When James examined closer he discovered it was written in Persian. Thomas mumbled something about Persian poetry.

Alastair came inside with a tray and James thought he was, for a change, being hospitable, but he ignored them and disappeared up the stairs. When he got back, empty-handed, James assumed the tea was for his mother. Alastair placed the book on the table as he sat down in front of them. Thomas and Christopher set on a love sofa and James set stoned on another armchair. He didn't waste time being the kind host, James presumed. "What it is about my sister?"

The golden-eyed boy decided the best tactic was started from what he knew. That wasn't much, but it was the most important thing, and he was certain about it, at the very least. "I love your sister."

Alastair raised his eyebrows, amused. "Yes, that's something that tends to happen between married couples, I've been told."

James shook his head. "This marriage, of Cordelia and I," just saying her name on his lips made a treacherous skip of his heartbeat, full of hurt and love. "It was a sham marriage."

Alastair pools of dark marble were fixed on James when he explained, rather awkwardly, the events that led to their marriage. And then events that led to Cordelia leaving the country. He prospected Alastair would be outraged, throw spears at them, maybe even recite some very angry poetry phrases in Persian. Instead, Alastair was very still for very long. When he did speak, the words weren't the James expected them to be. "I knew the marriage wasn't out of love," Alastair said calmly. "But I didn't expect you to tell all that rubbish."

James blinked. "It's the truth."

"Oh, I know," Alastair returned with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I doubt you would come up with such a ludicrous idea on your own, even if just to spite me. and I also know Cordelia wouldn't have slept with you unwedded, no matter how much she loved you."

All the thieves caught their breath when Alastair leaned forward, his month curving in an odd angle. "I also know being married to you was a wish she never thought would come true, and that you cared for her. You claimed her as yours and you defended her. It was good for Cordelia, and so I said nothing."

James snorted, although he hadn't found the conversation funny. Not the least. "I thought I loved Grace at that time. I felt bad when the thought of living with Cordelia was more appealing than I expected." The thought of Grace made his features harden. "And because of Grace, for years I've been blind. Manipulated. I lost my wife and Parabatai. She played with me like a doll; messed with my feelings, messed with my life. This is unforgivable."

He did not notice Christopher who tensed up and fixed his spectacles on his nose. "She did some bad things," he said, surprising them all. "But I don't think she's evil."

James furrowed his brow. "She's like a siren: beautiful and compelling, but going after her will only end in you being drowned."

"I see," Alastair said, turning back to James. "But why? Why did she do it?"

"Does it matter?" James asked. "She hurt so many people. She doesn't even deserve to apologize. It won't matter anyhow - the damage is done. After all she has done...sorry will never be enough. Nothing will."

"It matters," Alastair said. "Because you don't know her side of the tale. You don't know what she thinks. What she feels. You don't know if she had to do what she did."

He was tempted to say Grace has no feelings at all. "I believe I'm allowed to be angry."

"I do agree that what she had done to you is far above a jest or a play with hearts," there was a strange flame burning in the deep ponds of Alastair's dark eyes. "And you have no obligation to forgive her. But why not hear what she has to say? You are the one with the power. You know the truth. She can not affect you any longer."

James shook his head. "You don't know Grace," he said coldly, gravely. "She will try to use me. She will try and make me do as she wishes. I will not be a pawn in her game again. She controlled my life long enough."

Alastair glanced away, pondering over something. Thomas turned his head nervously between James and Alastair. For the first time since the beginning of their conversation, Thomas inquired, "Why do you insist James will hear her out?"

"You have no idea of her motives," Alastair retorted. "What she's done - she must know it's wrong. And she will have to live with this knowledge for the rest of her days. You are allowed to be angry, James, and rightfully so. But don't let it blind you. That you have been kept from certain kinds of evil doesn't mean everyone else had. You have no clue what led her to those decisions." Alastair looked distanced. James managed to guess he's not been talking only about Grace. "You should talk to her. You may not forgive her, but you deserve to understand, to know why to hear the plain truth. And you should let her mourn what she could have had and lost."

James wasn't sure he fully comprehended. "I wouldn't have loved her. Even without the bracelet issue - my heart belongs to Cordelia."

"What do you mean?" Christopher asked. "That not everyone had been kept from evil."

Alastair shrugged. "I met Tatiana Blackthorn only once. She's a madwoman. She doesn't seem like the kind of caring, kind mother to pet her daughter's shoulder. Besides, Grace seemed to be controlled by Tatiana, rather than working alone or alongside her."

"She took the love of my life away from me," James growled. "Nothing can atone for that."

"The love of your life is my sister," he reminded James. "I can hardly find the idea of her being heartbroken a good thing. And the one who caused this pain is not much liked, as well. But you shouldn't think that just because you would've done it otherwise, it was an option for her. You can't know what are the options in front of people. You can't know how they feel unless you talk to them. So talk to Grace, James. Then seek out my sister. If you love her like you claim you do, will you give up on her so easily?"

"No," James stood up, "I will not."

Alastair nodded. "why did you come and tell me about your little schemes? Why now?"

Now, after so much time of lying, why tell the truth? Why not keep it in its cage of delicately made lies?

James cut his gaze to the book on the table. Thomas answered instead in a quiet voice. "She is your sister. You must have been worried about her. We wanted to tell you because - because you deserve to know the truth and understand why things happened the way they did."

What Thomas did not say was what none of them wanted to admit. Cordelia ran away to Paris with Matthew. Even if she'll be back in only two weeks - they all were worried sick. James couldn't blame her, he was awful and blind. All of this was a mess. If she needed time to calm down in Paris, he couldn't deny it of her, even if he had a say in this choice.

Alastair studied Thomas, and James felt the half-Persian hadn't quite believed them. It was true - they needed his help in the future. But it was a start. "Anything else? A ghost friend? Another evil aunt?"

"No," Christopher affirmed.

"Good," Alastair said. James might have imagined it but he thought he saw Alastair sneak a glance at Thomas before standing up. "Now get out of my house. Risa will be here any minute."

~~~~

I- how?? Thank you so much, everyone!! 🙈 Thank you, you can't understand how much it means to me. 🥺

This is mind-blowing. Truly. For whatever reason you follow me, know that I love you <3

Tagging some of my mutuals, you are all wonderful and make my time here so much better (not all of them because my brain is all wonky, but I mean all of you): @kit-12 @littlx-songbxrd @pink-party-dino @shadowhuntertrash @gummybears-4u @itsdaughterofthemoon @mcrrythievcs @fictionally-fantastic @reyna-herondale I'll tag more but I don't want to bother anyone so... thank you!! I don't know what people find in my blog, but I am grateful, and I appreciate all of you endlessly.

[frosteee]

Undertaker and the Dispatch Conspiracy Theory

@frederickabberline 

So I loved your discussion about UT and a possible conspiracy within the grim reaper dispatch that I went through the manga and found some bits and pieces which, I feel, support the theory.

[Long ass post under cut]

Background

For those who are unfamiliar, the theory is that UT had discovered something damning about the grim reaper organisation that caused him to defect. 

This discovery, we post, is that the forgiveness all reapers are promised is a lie, perhaps even extending to the idea of salvation in general, disillusioning UT and morphing him into the individual we know today. Full details can be found in the awesome ongoing discussion by @frederickabberline, @midnight-in-town​ et al. 

Because of this, UT is experimenting with creating a definite ‘after’ to the end that is death, because the ones he previously believed in, like the P4 did tradition, like the Watchdogs did duty, was fake and only fit to create a cycle of misery. He currently believes himself incapable of salvation, and so creating immortal Phantomhives is the only way he can possibly be with them.

I believe that several aspects of UT’s personality as we know it support this.

UT’s interest in breaking free of fixed, unchangeable fate.

We are shown as far back as Chapter 13 that UT has particular interest in the concept of destiny, commenting that the tie between O!Ciel (and the entire house of Phantomhive by extension) and Queen Victoria is like a ‘chain of fate’, and gets quite angry when O!Ciel declares that he put himself in that position willingly. 

Grabbing Ciel by the tie and holding him there is the most directly aggressive we’ve seen UT towards O!Ciel, besides the time on the Campania when UT used him to bait Sebastian, so it seems that comment irked him.

From this it appears he holds a bit of resentment towards O!Ciel for so willingly following the path towards death and damnation.

He also seems to hold similar frustration towards the rest of the Phantomhives for ignoring his warnings and following the cursed path of the Watchdog to the grave.

He is highly amused by twists, and takes great satisfaction in the unexpected, especially when it goes against the grain. Like, for example, when Undertaker is surrounded by enemies on the Campania and he wonders which of them is truly the hunted party.

This before rapidly changing things around and making it no longer a one-sided hunt of an outnumbered rabbit but a struggle to take down a powerful hunter. In this arc, everyone is second-guessing and while UT is the one with the most control over proceedings (with his element of surprise), even in that scenario there were events he could not see coming (e.g.: the iceberg) that he had to work with/around.

Essentially, he enjoyed the unpredictability of the situation, where multiple powerful forces were clashing to decide the end. Fate was in all their hands.

What UT finds amusing also seems to revolve around this idea. 

He is amused by two things:

Those who do terrible things to keep the status quo, like the P4 in their murders, which causes UT to burst out laughing after the full story is revealed. The P4 probably remind UT of who he used to be as a model grim reaper - the rigidness of their thinking, repeating the mantra that tradition and rules ‘are everything’ most definitely reminded him of his former life and the ‘grim reaper code’ he lived by. Hell, William is currently the ‘rule-abiding/spouting’ grim reaper of the bunch.

Those who go against the grain in unexpected but positive/game-changing ways. In the same arc, for example, UT comments on O!Ciel’s decision to save Harcourt from the attacking zombies, as such as a selfless act would never have occurred to his more selfish, pragmatic ancestors. 

In short, UT is pleased to see actions taken by people, most notably the Phantomhives, that break from the acts/mindset that killed those who came before, and scorns those who try to keep things the same no matter the cost and meet terrible fates.

This also extends to R!Ciel, who I talk about in this post in relation to the Evil Twin theory, where R!Ciel is a direct participant/accomplice to his parents’ murder. I theorised that to create a perfect record, while having only ‘future desires’ and a soulless body to work with, UT had to improvise by splicing what he knew of R!Ciel’s past onto the boy’s record, thus creating memories/knowledge of his past and the ability to function off that. 

However, this combined with R!Ciel’s ‘yearning for the future’ records also created a boy who was all too willing to replace O!Ciel as Watchdog and basically resume the terrible march towards danger and death that UT had worked so hard to avoid. His and Tanaka’s reaction to R!Ciel’s announcement that he will resume Watchdog/Earl duties reflects this, I think. 

As far as UT is concerned, R!Ciel is making the same mistake as O!Ciel by following the path set out for him from birth, like all Phantomhives.

Then, finally, there’s UT’s interest/obsession with the ‘predetermined end’ that death entails, screwing with which is the driving force of his actions so far, he claims.

It feels strange for a grim reaper to be so curious about that. After all, he has died himself, and entered a sort of limbo existence which, while a punishment, is basically an afterlife. 

Grim reapers are promised forgiveness, which can be paired with salvation and entry into Heaven. Demons also exist, which live in an alternate realm not (as far as I know) stated as Hell, but considering souls can be eaten by the demons who live there, so perhaps that is also a destination for souls when they die?

In any case, it would seem strange for a grim reaper to not have knowledge of some sort of afterlife, other than their own, to which souls can go to. 

Unless the reapers are simply told it exists, and that they can go there if they ‘serve their time’ - and that the reality is very different. 

With this idea in mind, it makes a lot of sense for UT to be a staunch advocate for breaking the chain of fate the Phantomhives are under, to the extent that death itself is overturned, because he never wants to lose another Phantomhive again, as he now believes that reuniting with them in the afterlife is impossible. 

UT is so dead set against the idea of following the status quo and one’s ‘fate’ that he is ready and willing to rock the very world ‘The Superior’ governs.

UT’s focus on lies/deception.

UT also appears to be quite focused on lies and deception, either to oneself or others. We first glimpse this in the Circus Arc, where he tells Ciel to take care of his soul, for he only has the one. When Ciel responds that he already knows that, UT questions that (’Boy I know you be talkin shiiiiit~!’). 

Then later in the arc, he confirms his own belief - that Ciel cannot/does not know the true weight of what he is losing by continuing down his cursed path, that Ciel is lying to himself in order to continue down it. This is clearly part of his frustration with the Phantomhives as a whole, that they keep lying to themselves in order to keep going towards a fate that only continues its destructive cycle.

Really, all of the people UT has laughed at are lying to others or themselves, or both, in order to justify destructive, morally bankrupt and questionable beliefs and actions. Ciel, the P4, Rian Stoker, etc., etc.

UT is also very concerned with the idea of people lying to others for their own benefit, as all reapers, according to the theory, are lied to.

The people who most reflect UT’s past situation are the Noah’s Arc circus troupe, who were deceived by their trusted elder, Kelvin, that in order to maintain/achieve happiness they had to dirty their hands and continue doing terrible things with no knowledge of when it will end.

Similarly, UT also continued to perform a (literally) punishing and emotionally traumatic task to the best of his ability on the orders of an overseer for the sake of eventual happiness that he discovered to be a false promise. While some of them may have believed Kelvin to be evil and perhaps lying to them, like Joker, they continued anyway because lying was the only way they could handle the weight of what they had done.

It might not be so much of a coincidence that UT begins and ends his role in that arc by pointing out the cost of self-deception/being deceived. He would know - he and all reapers are lied to and effectively kept as eternal slaves and then possibly either killed or damned in some way, but never actually ‘retired’ to Heaven.

Speaking of which, UT specifically notes that one of the most beautiful things about his bizarre dolls is the fact that they no longer have the capacity to tell lies. 

Of course, this is all said with the knowledge that UT himself has/had told plenty of lies himself, and is probably deceiving himself that his goal, which is probably impossible, is possible. It’s the only thing keeping him going, after all, and UT is not without hypocrisy. 

Hey, he never denied that he had a few screws loose!

UT and Sebastian’s differing views on death being ‘the end’.

Finally, the big one, UT and Seb’s very different views on death as an end. We don’t know Sebastian’s views on the afterlife, or if souls can be cast into his realm like Hell, or if there is a Heaven, but regardless Sebastian believes that a ‘definitive, hopeless end’ has beauty in it.

In response, UT only smiles, but says nothing in response, perhaps not wanting to give away too much personal information at this time. He does not agree, and his actions and words have proven just how much he disagrees.

UT, according to the theory, has entirely lost faith in forgiveness and salvation after death - at least for himself as a grim reaper. Why else would he go through so much trouble to extend life indefinitely? Why would he create a form of immortality for the living Phantomhives he could hope to see again...

Unless he believes he cannot.

Unless he believes he has lost the ones who have died forever, and that the only thing he can do for the ones he has lost is keep mementos of them (like the prayer lockets, which he treasures).

All reapers are promised forgiveness and, it’s implied, salvation in Heaven or something similar. If this was the case, if UT did not have reason to suspect otherwise, why would he bother defecting, when he could just be a model grim reaper for x amount of time and then join his loved ones once he has served his time?

Clearly, UT once believed that death was beautiful, but not because it was the end. Because there was an ‘after’ that he could aspire to and meet those he lost. He cannot agree with Sebastian’s ‘beauty in an end’ idea because to him, a hopeless end is just that - hopeless, miserable, lonely. 

The death Sebastian speaks of means only eternal slavery, loneliness, hoping for salvation that never comes. Maybe once he believed death being the end to one’s life was beautiful in its way, as Will discovered in the grim reaper OVA, but not anymore.

Hope this makes sense and gives some food for thought! 

[sparklingdisneyprincess]

Having Amber know for weeks affected fans view of her and why it was not done well.

In the tags on a reblog of one of my posts, someone mentioned that the scene where Amber tells Mark she knew he was a hero was bad writing and I low-key agree. I plan on doing an analysis on that specific scene later, but today I wanted to get into why the way the writes handled that situation just wasn’t great.

Keeping in mind the context of who the writers are can somewhat explain the  thought process behind the decision. The creators of the comic book said themselves that's the comic book very often pokes fun at superhero stereotypes and tropes. One of the main stereotypes in superhero comic books is the main non-super female love interest being upset with the male superhero love interest for constantly flaking on her/being unavailable trope. In this trope the conflict is typically resolved when the female love interest is told or discovers in the moment usually by so accident that the male love interest was the superhero the whole time and the revelation is suddenly supposed to negate all the negative emotions that the female love interest was put through and everything just ends up fine. 

In today's time it wouldn't matter if he was a superhero or not. He still made her feel terrible, he still lied. I do think women today wouldn’t allow that to excuse all the hero’s behavior especially when it was evident that said behavior was hurting them. 

We know the writers like to poke fun at stereotypical superhero comic book tropes and plot points, and a good way to do that it to utilize trope subversion.

Trope subversion definition:

A subversion has two mandatory segments. First, the expectation is set up that something we have seen plenty of times before is coming, then that set-up is paid off with something else entirely. The set-up is a trope; the "something else" is the subversion.

Pure trope subversion vs Partial trope subversion:

Executing a “Pure trope subversion” means to follow the blueprint for “Trope subversion” to a tee. The writer sets up the story with essentially no hints that the outcome will be anything but traditional, and then proceeds to suddenly turn the outcome on it’s head in a way that was unanticipated. In the case of the “Partial trope subversion” it’s the opposite. The writer will drop subtle hints and clues teasing that the outcome will not be traditional for the trope. The hints must be subtle because the writers goal is still to trick the reader into believing that the traditional outcome will occur.

The main problem with them writing it as a pure trope subversion is that Amber ends up looking really bad and that people already didn’t like her as they wanted Eve to end up with Mark.

The set-up of the secret identity relationship trope leads us to believe that the female was mostly if not completely unaware that their male love interest is a hero. They often times are suspicious, but the dots don’t usually get the chance to connect before it’s all revealed. Going with that type of trope set-up leads the audience to believe that it’ll end like it always does. The girl will feel sorry for her actions and completely forgive the hero (even though I don’t find think that’s realistic), so instead of it going in that direction they subvert it. They have the female love interest (Amber) figure it out herself and silently not be in the dark for a period of time till it’s revealed that she knew. This is fine unless it’s written as a pure trope subversion because the traditional trope buildup includes anger over canceled plans, late arrivals, and feelings of neglect. That anger makes the female love interest look completely irrational in the case that she knew! (Though perhaps she was not truly angry over those things after she discovered the truth, but she was angry with him lying and couldn’t tell him that without saying she knew, so she expressed her anger through those situations instead of the main reason??? Hmm, I just thought of that and that’s an interesting theory for another time.) Anyways...

I found that the trope subversion making Amber look so bad to be a glaring issue that should have been weeded out in the writing room. They had to have known how it would be perceived. There’s no way they wouldn’t. The only logical reason they’d do this is if they plan to go through with what I suspected was happening at the beginning of the show, which would be that the writers are telling us that Amber is not Mark’s endgame and that she’s just taking up space until Mark and Eve eventually get together. The only problem with that theory is that they had Mark and Amber get back together at the end of the season which is another trope subversion. In the usual love triangle bait-and-switch trope the first female love interest the male superhero chooses gets booted out to make room for the second girl in the love triangle who he was apparently supposed to be with the whole time, however the writers didn’t got through with that trope. They instead subverted it (whether purposely or not) by having the original couple get back together and setting it up in a way that shows the couple potentially growing stronger, rather than him staying single and eventually ending up with female love interest number 2. The writers even took the subversion a step further by setting the outcome up in a way that showed potential for female love interests 1 and 2 to actually start a beautiful friendship instead of a rivalry. 

I’m honestly confused by what the writers wanted us to perceive. If they wanted us to root for Amber and Mark why set them up like that? To prove that they can move past it? But who will support the relationship after everybody now hates Amber? It is contradictory, so I’m very confused. I did write another post speculating that though Amber knew Mark was a hero, she did not know he was Invincible. The theory does shed more light on the situation and it resolves a lot of issues, but it still doesn’t negate the fact that the use of a pure trope subversion in this instance made Amber look really bad. Especially when people would sooner find ways to cancel her, rather than attempt to understand why she did it. To understand someone does not mean to agree with or support them, but it reminds you to humanize the other person, a value we are all owed. 

If the writers had not done a pure trope subversion and instead decided upon a partial trope subversion the fallout would not have been nearly as bad. If they had done a partial trope subversion they could’ve allowed Amber to be more patient in some of the later scenes, while showing that even though she’s patient, she’s also very upset. It would show more understanding on her part, however I think Amber was actually already understanding of his situation. What she did not understand was the lying and how it seemed that he didn’t even care enough to lie well. She was hurt that he didn’t trust her and during their relationship she was constantly questioning whether or not he was serious and if he actually cared about her and honestly we questioned it too as an audience! Imagine how frustrated she must’ve been those 5 months out of 6 when she didn’t know why he was lying to her. 

Amber and Mark didn’t have any relationship issues that I noticed aside from his secret identity. Their dynamic was interesting to watch in my opinion because Mark wasn’t phased by Ambers weird sense of humor and her having essentially no filter, in fact he embraced it and was also snarky in return. He liked that she has strong core beliefs and clearly enjoyed spending time with her. Even though Amber is sarcastic and pokes fun at Mark she finds his enthusiasm to be endearing and often laughs with and smiles at him. Heck, she even approached him first! They’re just two teenagers dating and it’s nothing too exciting like it’s usually portrayed in media. They text, go on dates, make out, enjoy the others presence without really needing to talk, it’s just nice normal dating stuff and it’s realistic and lowkey, and I really liked seeing it. Upon my first watch of the show I liked Amber and Mark together, but I didn’t see the chemistry. I think it’s because everything about their relationship needed to happen in the span of 8 episodes, but also that the reasons why their attracted to each other are very subtle. They don’t shove it in our faces, they just place it there and if you caught then you caught it, if you didn’t then you didn’t. It took me re-watching the episodes a second time to realize why Mark and Amber enjoy being with each other. The body language speaks volumes when you also pay attention to the little things that go on between them. I’ll probably make a whole other post about it because I think it’s something to talk about, but yeah.

In conclusion either the writers truly didn’t realize the outcome of their choice, the writers knew the outcome and did it on purpose to set the audience up to root for Eve and Mark, the writers knew and set it up in order to later on grow/redeem Amber and strengthen her and Mark’s relationship by having them over come it, or they didn’t think it’d be a big deal due to assuming that the trope subversion would take everyone by surprise and that we’d like it.

(If you made it to the end, I’m impressed cause this was long. Also, shoutout to the person who first brought up this topic in the tags. I didn’t realize I felt some kind of way until I started typing and couldn’t stop. It was honestly kind of cathartic😄 I didn’t tag you cause I didn’t know if you’d like that but, thanks for unintentionally giving me the motivation to write this!) 

[nolabballgirl]

well, now that we have officially come to the end of Ramadan, it’s time to revisit Amira’s Ramadan Resolutions and see what, if anything, Amira has learned from this season. the more i think about it, the less i’m convinced that Amira even had most of these negative traits, but rather they were shoehorned into this season in order to further the more problematic storylines. but anyway, here we are:

- Not fighting with her parents

so i would argue that Amira actually has one of the best relationships with her parents out of most, if not all, of the characters in the Eskam-verse. granted she did write out this list of resolutions after a fight we did witness with her parents (although the fight was about protecting her mom’s civil rights! not anything bratty!) her parents are constantly providing her with useful and helpful advice and not imposing any restrictions on her, and Amira feels comfortable going to them for advice. now, Amira’s parents have been MIA for most of this season, but this episode adds in another mini-fight between Amira and her mom right before the end of Ramadan, with her venting to her mom and then criticizing her mom. so it seems like we are left with the fact that Amira still has some work to do on this front.

- Praying on time

i never really knew Amira had an issue with praying on time. yes, she did not hear the call to prayer notification during the first party of the season (due to poor wifi it seems), but once she noticed, she immediately went to pray. surprisingly, we have not had too many scenes with Amira praying this back half of the season, considering all the issues she has faced. but hey, maybe the writers were going for realism and she’s on her period this week (hence, she is excused from praying), so let’s give her the benefit of the doubt on this one.

- Controlling her bad temper

i would argue that prior to this season and even through most of this season, Amira has not expressed the character traits of having a bad temper. rather, it’s the opposite. she often lets those people closest to her take advantage of her/make decisions for her/talk over her/make inappropriate jokes to which she has learned to just laugh off. the few moments of a temper have been connected to the terrible storyline concerning the outing of Kasim, but otherwise, she has continued to be a empathetic person, especially in her dealings with Cris and the GS. also, i would not criticize any of her comments to Monica/the school as attributable to a bad temper; she did not cross any lines while still asserting her rights and feelings of betrayal. now, Amira did lose her temper with her mom after venting all of her frustrations over the week, so it appears that there is still work to do for Amira here, but it’s not consistent.

- Not lying

since season 1, Eskam has continuously showed us that lying has been one of the qualities that Amira hates the most. so i don’t know why Amira included this as one of her negative traits unless she was hinting at the white lies she tells to protect those closest to her, e.g. her telling her dad that Cris had left the party early on the night she was robbed. so i thought this would tie back into being a people pleaser and the bad qualities that result because of that. but then the season hyper fixated on Amira’s frustration with Kasim and his lies instead. so i’m not sure if the show is implying that being in the closet, e.g. concealing the truth about your identity is a form of lying because i don’t know what the takeaway is there.

- Being patient

i also find Amira to be one of the most patient characters in the Eskam-verse, especially when it concerns Cris and the Girl Squad. the first episode goes to show how often Amira has been patient when it comes to her friends in their various hangouts/parties. she was patient with Dani and his slip ups concerning Ramadan and forgetting what she can and cannot do. heck, she even humors Dounia and the set up. again, the only people with whom she is not patient are arguably her parents on occasion and then Kasim and Lucas, so this trait appears to have been emphasized and exaggerated when it comes to this particular storyline. 

- Forgiving

Amira has never shied away from speaking her mind after some of the instances in which she has called out the Girl Squad (Eva for lying to her in S1; Cris for not confiding in her in S2), but she’s also been very quick to forgive them. she doesn’t appear to be the type to hold a grudge and would rather have the confrontation and resolution. and given how quickly she has forgiven Cris this season after the horrendous way in which Cris has treated her and their friendship, it doesn’t appear that this is even an issue for Amira.

so bottom line, other than not to out someone (which i still think was a stretch for Amira to have done so without a second thought as to Kasim’s feelings), i’m having trouble coming up with what we the audience are supposed to take away from this season and what Amira has learned about herself at the end of Ramadan. [we still have at least one week left of the show itself, so there has to be some type of resolution to these messy storylines.]

[the-ice-sculpture]

Reflecting on the Loki show

Hurray – fewer instances of cringey humour in Episode 2 than Episode 1!

Shame about there not being a single scene in the entire episode in Episode 2 where Loki felt in character

If this wasn’t a Loki show, I’d probably be enjoying it at the same level as a casual viewer of any other TV show. The plot’s interesting with a different take on time travel that I’ve seen, and there are no boring moments. But I can’t get past the lack of MCU Loki here. I just... Ugh. It’s so frustrating. No other media could get away with the main character suddenly having a personality transplant, but because it’s Marvel people are... fine with it, for some reason?

I can live with the tone and plot being different to what I’d do with it if I’d had the choice. I’ve said multiple times in the past that just because the show probably won’t give me what I want from it doesn’t mean that the show can’t be good in its own right. But what I didn’t anticipate before any of the trailers started coming out was that the Loki here might not feel like MCU Loki at all. I can forgive a lot of things, but I just can’t wrap my head around the sheer number of people who must have given the green light to all the decisions made about his characterisation. Those kinds of things can’t just be blamed on one person, it’d be a combination of the writers, directors, actors, producers...

I never thought that Loki finally getting to be the main character on screen (how many years have I wanted that to happen? 7? 8?) would be the thing to cause me to have my first ever thoughts about quitting this fandom.

I’m not having fun. I’m used to being more than a bit disappointed. I even stayed in the fandom after Thor: Ragnarok came about without much complaining, despite not being a fan of a fair amount of elements in it. I even stayed after Infinity War and Endgame came out with very little complaining either, despite how many things there were that I didn’t like in them. I even rewatched Game of Thrones after being just as unsatisfied with how it was tied up as everyone else was, and I still love the first four seasons and some scenes from later on (yes, even including Season 8).

But I’m not used to being this level of disappointed. The past month I’ve gone from having 5 different Loki WIPs I wanted to write to suddenly not being sure if I want to finish any of them at all. I mean, at least two of them will be finished because they’re oneshots for an event and I’ve already done most of the work so I might as well, but the contrast with my motivation is huge.

I don’t want to leave this fandom. I still have things I (hypothetically) want to write. I have over 100,000 words of various unpublished Loki fanfics that I’ve been working on. I don’t want them to go to waste. I want to finish what I started. It’s not like the enthusiasm for the idea of the stories has gone, it’s just... I don’t know, the overarching disappointment and not having fun in a fandom space anymore? How strongly Loki is associated with me feeling bitter and miserable now? How the show and the experience outside of it is doing the opposite of inspiring me?

I don’t to be that person either. You know, the one who has an entire blog dedicated to moaning about something. The one who seems determined to interpret everything in the worst possible light, regardless of rationalism. The one who seems like they’d never be satisfied unless something was made 100% their way, and if it wasn’t then of course it’s Problematic and that’s why it’s Just Plain Bad, and it’s nothing to do with personal taste and a certain amount of projection. The one who starts getting positive reinforcement about hating something, so it becomes a habit and before they know it, it’s part of their daily routine, and they’re still regularly doing it years later. The one who goes on about how ‘if you’re a true fan of [x] and really understood [x], this would bother you’, or worse, starts making it personal with the real people involved in the creation of the show.

But the experience of not liking the show is a lonely one. There are other people who don’t agree on his characterisation either, I know. But when the vast majority of people who watch it seem not to find the changes in his entire character jarring? When people are going around saying that it’s not until now that the writers have finally understood Loki? When you get people acting like anyone who voices any criticism whatsoever is ridiculous and shouldn’t be in the fandom and behaves like they might catch the Taint of Negativity if they were to associate with them? When any criticisms are dismissed as ‘people who just want to hate the show’?

Believe me, I don’t want to hate the show. I’d love to be happy with the show. But I'm not. This Loki doesn’t feel like MCU Loki. The only time he did feel like himself to me was during the scene towards the end of Episode 1 where he was watching parts of his life on screen. That’s it. Over one and a half hours into the series so far, 1/3 of the entire show. Out of all that, only one scene.

And now every time I see people being happy about the show it makes me feel resentful. And, no, I’m not going to add anything negative to their posts or say anything to them. If the show is what it is and there’s no changing it then it’s better at least some people get to enjoy it rather than it bringing about universal misery. I don’t want to take away anyone else’s happiness. I just to feel happy too, but I don’t, and I’m painfully aware of it.

I don’t know where I’m going with this, I think I’m just venting. 

I don’t know what the solution is either. Space from fandom for a bit? I mean, I’ve been doing this a bit already recently (not full commitment, just more than usual), but I like being able to use tumblr as an escape. Unfollow people/leave Discord groups? But there are people who I’ve had plenty of positive interactions with, and I don’t want to lose those connections.

It’s really dumb, but I like my fandom corner. I like knowing that if I post a fic, there’ll be a certain small group of people who’ll probably read it, and a smaller chunk of those who’ll comment on it, even all these years later. And there are still so many stories I want to tell with Loki, so many things I haven’t done yet, but... 

Yeah, I don’t know if my motivation will come back or not (I’m leaning towards maybe not). Or how much the fandom will change as a result of the show. I’d expect a wave newcomers, but if a lot of new fics being written are largely based on the show characterisation (and if reader expectation of Loki’s characterisation lies with that too), then I have little to no interest in it.

Oh, and another thing to add to my list of things I don’t want to be: I don’t want to be that person who is all ‘I’ve been here longer and know better and am therefore more of a real fan than any of you new people’. So there’s that.

Ultimately, I think I’m eventually going to have to choose between staying and trying to squash/somehow extinguish any bitter feelings, or leaving. I don’t like either of those options very much. It might be premature of me to post this before the show has ended because my feelings might change, but, unsurprisingly, writing is a good way of processing feelings and I’ve been having a lot of them that need processing.

In case anyone’s actually read this obscene amount of rambling, I’m okay, I’m not, like, weeping over this as I write or anything. But it’s still not a great feeling to have a place that was once my favourite place for escapism and creativity to make me feel like I might not be welcome or like I might not want to be there. And it’s not like I can easily just switch over to another fandom to write for, because there are no other characters who have inspired me to write anywhere near much as Loki has. So, yes, I’m feeling a little sorry for myself. All over a fictional TV show. I repeat: it’s dumb.

[pocketfulofrogers]

When Gods Fall

Part 2

Pairing: Tony Stark x Reader

Summary: Hoping to outrun the worst day of your life, you found home within the Avengers, in Tony. Now, your days are filled with lies and you can only hope your nights won’t bring back the tragedies of your life as you prepare to follow through with what may be the last decision of your very long life. 

In the middle of the night, sounds of you grunting and thrashing carry down the hall. Your body is caught and twisted in the sheets, and your forehead covered in sweat.

“No, Sol!” You scream and rush into the room. She lays still, her eyes cold and lifeless. You graze a tentative finger down her face and gently shake her. A trail of blood seeps from between her lips. “No, no, no.” You cry. “Please, please. Come back, please.”

You reach for her body to cradle her to you, the blood from her abdomen soaking your clothes, and wail into her neck.

“Oh, Gods, bring her back.” You sob.

You awake breathless and in a panic- the sheets constricting your body doing nothing to help your situation. The fact that Tony hadn’t awaken or come rushing to your side hurts, but when you sit up, you realize you’re in an empty room.

“Jarvis? Where’s Tony?” You ask once you’ve gotten control over your breathing.

“I’m sorry, Miss, Mr. Stark has requested he not be disturbed.”

You pull your knees to your chest. “That’s two nights in a row, J. What’s he really doing?”

“I’m sorry, Miss-“

“Yeah, I know. I’m not privy to that information.” You rest your forehead on your knees and groan. “He’s still mad, isn’t he?” The question is muffled.

“I think that’s a reasonable assumption.” Jarvis replies. You lay back down on your side, curl up, and try to fight back your tears. “Miss?” You hum your response. “Would you like me to contact him for you? Ask that he return?”

Yes. Right now, he was the only thing you needed but if he were to know that, if he were to see you like this, he’d disable every form of transportation just to keep you grounded.

“Thank you, but that’s alright. I’m sure he’s busy.”

**

“Alright, last one. I got three pancakes with blueberries, crispy bacon.” You hold out the plate and it’s only a few seconds before the grateful hands of Sam Wilson take the fresh breakfast.

He sticks his nose directly above the sticky sweetness and inhales deeply. “You are a god amongst men.” He drools.

“Goddess.” You correct him with a smirk and he salutes you with his fork.

“Something smells good!” Clint announces when he rounds the corner. “I have something for you.” He smiles wide and pulls a small trophy from behind his back. A golden little girl chasing after a soccer ball. ‘1st place’ written across the bottom.

“No way.” Natasha tries to say around a mouthful of eggs.

“Lyla’s team won the tournament?” You beam.

Clint’s nod mirrors the excitement radiating from you. “Award ceremony was last night. I was promptly instructed to show her favorite aunts.”

“We better be her favorites.” Again, Natasha’s mouth is full. She reaches for the trophy and starts to ask Clint questions about the game. He was very proud to announce that not only did she score four goals, he got each one on film.

Your excitement is cut short when Steve approaches you quietly from behind, and you groan internally.

“Can I talk to you?” He asks low, being mindful of the ears around.

Curtly, you nod and your shoulders tense. He can see the shift in your eyes, and that’s all he wants to know. Why were you playing this so close to the vest?

Thor told him that he was overacting, that you knew exactly what you were doing, but Steve wasn’t so convinced. Even if he was willing to agree that he was protective of you, saying that he was overreacting just didn’t sit right with him.

In all the years he had known you, he had never once seen you try to take on a mission solo. Tony was usually your partner, it didn’t take a genius to figure out why, but you had never turned down a volunteer. ‘I’ve been around a long time, Rogers. There’s a lot for me to show.’ You used to say.

For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why he was the only one who seemed to be pushing back.

“What can I help you with, Captain?” There’s a hint of disdain in your voice, but it doesn’t surprise him.

He holds a file out to you, but pulls it back when you reach for it. “Fury gave this to me. He told me it was the latest update for us. ‘Us’, as in you and me.” He raises a brow and suddenly you feel like a recruit getting reprimanded. “Which is funny, because I definitely remember you telling me you were going in ‘dark’ and ‘alone’.”

He waits for your response with that same look on his face, but you’re not sure you have one. So many stories you were juggling. He’s a revenge seeking inhuman, you’re not going in for combat, it’s a simple in and out take down.

Never had you been so careless, so scattered. Steve was so much more intuitive than the others gave him credit for and it was only a matter of time before he started talking to the rest of the team. When you drop your head into your hand and close your eyes, he thinks it’s the first time you’ve been honest in days.

He’d be right.

“Talk to me, Y/N. Whatever it is, you know I’ll help you.”

It’s his face, so honest and caring that does you in. “I can’t.” You whisper. “I just, I can’t.” He follows you when you grab his arm to pull him farther away from the group. “This is just something I need to do and I need you to trust me.” He looks out the window and doesn’t seem to have been swayed. You can almost hear the speech you’re about to get. “You can’t tell me there’s never been something you’ve been driven to handle yourself because it just means that much.”

Steve’s gaze snaps back to you. “That’s not fair.”

And it wasn’t. Bucky had always been a touchy subject with him, but you had promised to help him in his search. The amount of times Steve had left without warning for days though, was, well you had lost track.

He holds up the file. “Are you trying to tell me that this man is some long-lost friend that got dragged into something and needs your help?”

You frown. “Something like that. He won’t come willingly if he’s ambushed. It has to be me, and I have to be alone.”

His heavy sigh almost says as much as his eyes. “Why not just tell us?”

Tilting your head back, you try to stay as close to the truth as possible. “I will. Someday when I’m ready, but that time in my life? I’m not exactly eager to revisit it.”

“Look, I-“

“Ah, Y/N, there you are. I have something to show you.” Tony peaks around the corner. It takes him a moment to recognize the mood of the room. “Unless I’m interrupting something?”

Plastering a smile on your face, you turn from Steve. “Not at all, I’m all yours.”

**

Tony flits around his lab erratically, pulling up schematics and what seem to be prototypes.

“Alright, I figured I have better odds of figuring out time travel than I do changing your mind, so I’ve decided to stop fighting you.”

“Oh?” Not exactly what you were expecting. When he knocks over a picture frame of you and him in the Maldives, your curiosity merges into confusion. “Tony, when was that last time you slept?”

He looks back to you and smirks. “Probably about the last time you did.”

You face falls flat. “That would be the last time you slept in your own bed.”

He raises his hands. “I know, I know, but I think you’ll be a little more forgiving when I show you what I’ve been doing.” He gestures to your hands. “I know you have the fists of fury-“

“They’re just my hands, no name.” You interject to remind him again that he may be witty with nicknames, but he was terrible at giving your powers their own.

He waves you off. “Very badass. Now, I know you hate carrying around extra gear, but I made you a few things anyways and I’m hoping to guilt you into taking them.” He shrugs and throws the first one on a bigger screen next to you.

You examine the blueprint. “Brass knuckles?”

“Similar, a little bit. New stark technology, and material. Not only is it weightless when it conforms to your hands, it also conducts electricity very well.” He tosses it to you, but as you catch it, it wraps around your knuckles. “Already have another pair in the works for Nat.”

It felt as if it was barely there, even as you twirled your fingers, sparking the tips. “Fire proof?”

“Fire tolerable, I wouldn’t say proof.”

He lights up at your smile. “Alright, I like it. What else did that big brain cook up?”

“Well…” He beams as he shows you a sword, some kind of staff that does something too complex for you to understand, a shield, and a few different explosives.

“It’s impressive, Tony. Even for you. You didn’t have to do all of this.”

He shrugs. “This is my way of protecting you without being there.”

You look around, feeling slightly overwhelmed. It’s a declaration if you’ve ever seen one before. One of love, and support, and trust. It warms you soul and breaks your heart in one fell swoop.

When you turn to face him, a tear falls. “I love you. So much. You know that right?”

It only takes him a few steps to reach you and wrap his arms around your waist. The smile he gives you is almost enough to knock you breathless. “I do. Almost as much as I love you.”

**

Tony’s a worrier, this isn’t news.

So, when he walks you towards the Quinjet in silence and pauses just at the entrance, you begin to feel a little voice start to gnaw away at you. Stay, it whispers feather light. Don’t leave him. His sigh pulls you back, but he can’t seem to meet your eyes when you turn to him.

You grab his hand, rub the pad of your thumb gently over his knuckles. “Three weeks.” You tell him. “We’ve survived much worse.”

He frowns. “Two and a half and then I bring you home myself.”

You laugh, trying to imagine Fury attempting to reign in a very angry Tony, and press your lips to his cheek. “Two and a half it is.”

“It appears you have another goodbye to endure.” Tony nods his head behind you.

You sigh and make your way towards Steve. “It’s a little late to be talking me out-“

He raises his hands. “I come in peace. I wanted to catch you before you left so I could give you this.”

He holds out a necklace, a silver sunflower hangs from the delicate chain.

“Uh… Thank you?”

He laughs at the confusion prominently displayed across your face. “It’s a tracker.” He stops you before you can scold him. “Only when you activate it. Just push the center and it will send a signal here, we’ll come get you. The chain and the pendant are made of adamantium, so you’ll have to actually try to break it.”

“Oh.” You examine it closer. “That’s actually really nice of you without falling into controlling. You can learn.”

He rolls his eyes. “Tell me you know at least half of all of those new toys Stark sent you with have some kind of GPS?”

You glance back at Tony and smile. “I do. I’ll be leaving them on the Quinjet, you know I prefer my hands anyways. Hopefully I don’t hurt his feelings too bad.”

Steve still didn’t like any of this. A sinking feeling in his gut was telling him that something was going to go terribly wrong, but everyone kept telling him to just trust that you knew what you were doing and you weren’t going to leave Tony broken by doing something as stupid as getting yourself killed.

“Just promise me you’ll actually use it if you find yourself in real trouble.” His frown doesn’t disappear when you nod. “I still don’t like it.”

“I know. Believe me, no one does, not even me. But this is something I need to do. Thank you, Steve, really. Thank you for always looking out for us, for being a great, albeit pain in the ass, but still a great friend.” You embrace him and lean into his ear. “Keep him safe from himself.”

When you pull away, he looks alarmed enough that you’re afraid he’ll stop you cold. But you smile anyways, gesture to Tony behind you and laugh.

“You two try to keep each other out of trouble.”

**

Twelve days later, Tony is in the middle of cracking a joke at Steve’s expense when your mayday rings out over the compound’s intercom system- crackles static in the air above them. Your voice fades in, hushed and desperate. Tony can here the tears thick in your voice, but realizes it’s only one way when you don’t respond to the countless times he calls your name.

“Jarvis, get a trace!” He yells.

There’s a grunt from you followed by shuffling. You don’t tell them where you are, Tony thinks you may not know. There’s only an apology when you ask that they don’t come looking for you.

“I won’t be around much longer.” The calmness that emanates from your voice sets the whole room on edge. “It’s almost done. I’m sorry, Tony, I’m so sorry.”

“The feed is untraceable.” Jarvis tells them. Tony is sat frozen in his fear, listening to everything as intently as he can.

Another voice is picked up on your end. It’s inaudible, but the deep laughter that follows rings out wicked enough that Natasha feels a wave of nausea hit her. You grunt again and something with glass breaks during what they can only assume is a violent struggle.

Your scream is the last thing they hear before the line goes dead.

[timotey]

Ficlet: Silhouettes

Dark Blue Kiss. PeteKao. For @inlovewithjdramas

What if that night, after the incident with Non, Kao came to Pete’s house instead of going home?

💘.💘.💘

When Pete opens the door, Kao’s standing there, looking a little forlorn with his head bent and his bag dangling from his hand, its bottom brushing against the ground. Pete feels a painful pang in his chest but he hardens his heart against anything but anger.

“What are you doing here?” he snaps at his ex-boyfriend, barring the doorway and not letting him in.

Kao looks up at him; his eyes are reddened and glassy. “Pete,” he says quietly. “Can I--”

But Pete doesn’t let him finish. “Wasn’t I clear enough? I’m not interested in hearing any more lies. We’re done!” His voice is harsh and unforgiving and he firmly pushes down any regret he might feel at hearing himself talk like that to Kao. Kao deserves it. He does!

“Pete,” Kao says pleadingly. “I’m sorry--”

Kao’s apologies - all of them empty, meaningless - make the rage simmering in Pete’s chest burn hotter. He’s so furious he could choke on his feelings. His throat thickens so much he can’t get a single word out. He’s never felt so angry before, so betrayed.

He slams the door shut in Kao’s face.

And then he stands there, leaning against the door with his hands and his forehead, just breathing deeply to get himself back under control. Breathing - and listening. Listening for retreating footsteps… or maybe for another knock. But he would never admit that to anyone. He hears nothing, though.

When he finally turns around, his father is standing in the open doorway leading deeper into the house. The expression on his face makes Pete’s chest clench a little. He hates seeing that look on his dad’s face. It’s been so long since the last time his father looked at him like that - with disappointment. 

“What?” Pete asks, probably with more belligerence than he should, considering.

Pon stares at him a moment longer, then he says softly, “Are you sure this is what you want, son? This is how you want it to end?”

“Yes!” Pete states without hesitating, without thinking, really. Because it is. This is what he wants. It is. 

Sighing, Pon shakes his head, then he grabs his wallet and his car keys and heads for the door.

“What are you doing?” Pete asks him, confused.

Pon stops with his hand on the door knob and looks at him. “I’m going to drive the boy home, at least. It’s late.”

Pete frowns, annoyed now. “I am your son, dad. Me, not him.” They used to joke about this. Before. Now, it’s not a joke to Pete anymore. His father should be on his side, always! Especially when Pete’s in the right.

Sighing again, Pon says, “I realize that, Pete. And I love you. You’re the most important thing in the world to me.” He pauses before continuing as if to make sure that Pete’s truly listening to him. “And that’s why I worry that one day, you will regret your decision to break up with Kao.”

I won’t, Pete wants to blurt out. But he doesn’t. He clenches his teeth hard to stop himself from saying anything. When he pushes his anger aside, which is not easy, he realizes that his father only wants what’s best for him. Always.

“You look the happiest I’ve ever seen you when you’re with him,” Pon continues in his kind voice. “And whatever that boy’s faults, whatever he did wrong, Kao loves you very much. And I think you do know that.”

Pete looks away. It’s not true. He doesn’t know that Kao loves him. If Kao loved him, he wouldn’t have lied to him. He would’ve responded to his messages. He wouldn’t have chosen that bastard Non over him. 

But he didn’t, did he? the tiny voice at the back of his mind whispers to him. Kao didn’t choose Non over Pete. The whole issue with Non’s never been about that. Not from Kao’s point of view, at least. Kao only wanted to help his family and at some point, everything just got out of hand, very much thanks to Non’s meddling. 

Damn it!

Taking a deep breath and then letting it out again, Pete reaches out and grabs the keys out of his dad’s hand. “I will drive him home,” he grumbles.

Pon just smiles at him in approval and steps aside.

When Pete walks out of the door, Kao’s nowhere to be seen. The driveway is very dark; the warm yellow light from the lamps by the door can’t reach past the bushes lining the way. The night is almost entirely silent, the hum of the traffic nearby is just a soft background noise.

Pete jogs towards his dad’s car, hoping to catch Kao before he reaches the bus stop down the street; there’s little chance he could catch a cab around here this late at night. He starts the car and the bright glare of the headlights floods the driveway. Then he reaches for the seat belt--

And he stops. 

Because there he is, Kao, sitting on the concrete edge of the raised flower bed just a few steps away. He’s sitting there with his shoulders slumped and his head down and his bag is lying on the ground between his feet, its strap dropped from his hand. And now he’s looking away, rubbing at his face with the back of his wrist, wiping away his…

Pete sits there and simply stares at Kao through the windshield, stunned. Kao is crying. In the three years that they’ve been together, Pete’s never seen Kao cry. Not once. He’s seen him sad when they fought and even slightly misty-eyed but he’s never seen him cry. He doesn’t know what to do, what to think, what… The only thing he does know is that it’s making his heart ache.

Pete lets go of the seat belt and turns off the car’s engine. Darkness replaces light, swallowing both the driveway and Kao. Slowly, Pete gets out of the car and shuts the door with a soft click. Then he walks up the paved way towards where Kao is sitting and stops only a few feet away. 

For a moment, Pete stands there awkwardly and listens to Kao’s hitching breath, staring at his silhouette in the darkness. Then, in a voice much less belligerent than before, he asks, “What are you doing here?” 

Now he truly means his question. Because Kao came to his house in the middle of the night, despite their apparent break-up earlier that evening, and he’s been crying. Because when Pete pushes aside his anger, resentment and frustration, he finds Kao’s late night visit odd and disconcerting. Worrying.

After a moment, Kao takes a raspy breath and says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything, Pete. I’m sorry that I lied to you and I’m sorry that I didn’t believe you about Non. I made such a mess of things and I’m so very sorry…”

Pete isn’t sure how to react, what to say or do. He wants to dismiss Kao’s words as more lies and empty phrases - but what was so easy before has become very hard now with Kao looking so miserable and unhappy and hurt. Pete’s righteous anger simmers down to almost nothing.

“Why did you lie to me, earlier today? About not seeing Non anymore?” he asks, giving Kao one last chance to explain, after all. The very last one. 

Vaguely, he sees Kao raise his head. “I didn’t,” Kao replies.

Pete feels his anger flare up again but he curbs it firmly because Kao seems genuinely confused. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. “I went to your house the other day and he was there, having dinner with you and your mom!” He can’t help his voice rising sharply at the end, though.

“He-he stopped by with a thank you gift from his father,” Kao explains. “Mom invited him in for dinner before I could say anything. But that was all, he ate with us and then he left.” He pauses, then adds hopefully, “You… came to me?”

Pete frowns at his slip-up. He didn’t want Kao to know he was willing to forgive him. That was then. He isn’t anymore. Or, is he? Is he? He doesn’t know. 

But since he already said that. “Yes. And I sent you text messages. You didn’t reply.” That last part sounds way too hurt, way too revealing. Damn it!

A pause. “I didn’t get any,” Kao says carefully.

“Bullshit,” Pete can’t help but snap.

“I really didn’t,” Kao insists.

Impossible. Unless… “Did Non have any access to your phone?” Pete did send those messages that evening when Non was there, at Kao’s house. Non’s hand in all this would explain everything.

“No,” Kao replies. Then he pauses, though. “Well… he asked if he could use my charger. I told him it was with my phone. But my phone is password protected.”

Pete sighs and rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Kao, your password is all nines. Your frickin’ name means ‘nine’!” For crying out loud, for someone so smart Kao can be really stupid sometimes. 

“Oh,” Kao whispers, lowering his head again.

All of a sudden, though, Pete’s heart feels lighter and his chest loosens up a little. He still wants to strangle Non - or at the very least punch him hard - but Kao did not ignore him on purpose, he wasn’t trying to punish Pete or get back on him. He honestly didn’t know. It makes him wonder where else he might find Non’s dirty fingerprints!

“So… you haven’t seen him since that night? Non, I mean?” Pete asks harshly, hoping against hope. But when Kao doesn’t answer immediately, his heart sinks again.

“I… I did see him tonight,” Kao replies quietly and maybe Pete’s mistaken, it’s hard to tell in the darkness, but he seems to curl up on himself.

The fury that seemed almost gone a moment ago now flares up again in Pete. He clenches his hands into fists and he’s about to snap at Kao, tell him to go to hell, then, but before he can do that, Kao continues and his voice is so soft that even in the quiet of the night he can barely be heard.

“His friend called me, told me that Non got drunk in a bar and there was no one to drive him home. That if nobody did, his dad would find out and…” His voice trails off.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me, Pete thinks and he wants to grab Kao and shake him. 

Kao goes on. “I brought him home and put him to bed and…” His breath hitches in his throat again, making him pause. “And then he started telling me how much he liked me. And when I told him I didn’t feel the same way, he grabbed me and dragged me to bed with him…”

Suddenly, all of Pete’s annoyance and frustration and irritation is gone, replaced with an unpleasant, cold feeling around his heart and pressure at the base of his throat that’s making it hard to breathe. No. Not even a brat like Non would do this, surely.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when Kao continues and says, “And then Non’s father came in and Non let me go. I was so scared I ran away. I didn’t even try to explain anything, I just... I ran away. I was so afraid. I didn’t know what to do, where to go. I didn’t want mom to see me like this.” He trails off, his voice breaking at the end, and rubs at his nose.

When Pete realizes that Kao’s crying again, he reaches out without thinking and rests his hand on Kao’s bent head, stroking his hair lightly. “So you came here.” To me, Pete adds quietly. Kao was afraid and he sought out safety with him. Despite their differences, despite all the bad blood between them in the past weeks, deep down he was convinced he would be safe here.

Pete steps up to Kao, so close that his toes brush against Kao’s bag lying forgotten on the ground, and pulls Kao to him. Kao goes willingly, he buries his face in Pete’s chest and wraps his arms around Pete’s waist, and then he cries, whispering, “How did everything go so wrong? I only wanted to help my mom, help… Non. I’ve never wanted any of this. I swear. I swear I didn’t want to hurt you, I love you, Pete. I love you so much…”

Hearing those words, listening to Kao, Pete feels that his heart might burst. He strokes the back of Kao’s head and he wants to curl up around him and hide him from the world and protect him from all the bad things out there. He’s still a little angry at Kao for lying but he feels more willing to accept now that not all of this mess was Kao’s fault, that Non also played his part - and, well, he too, actually, as much as it rankles him to admit it.

“Alright,” Pete says softly, pulling Kao even closer. His own eyes sting a little and he must clear his throat before continuing. “Just… don’t do it again, okay? Don’t lie to me ever again, Kao, I mean it. I get that I’m not always easy to talk to,” he allows a little grumpily, “but… don’t ever go behind my back again, okay? I can take many things... just not lies.”

Kao nods quietly, hugging Pete tighter and Pete feels like he needs it, like he needs to be held because his knees feel a little weak and his head a little light, his relief is so profound. He just got back what he feared lost forever. It doesn’t seem real. 

“I feel a little nervous about what Non or his dad might do next,” Kao admits after a while. His voice is a little muffled by Pete’s shirt and he’s leaning against Pete, letting Pete carry his weight the way Pete’s always wanted.

Pete wraps his arms around Kao and reassures him softly, “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together. I’ll be there for you, I promise.”

Kao lifts his head from Pete’s chest and even in the night darkness, his eyes still glitter a little when he looks up at Pete and says with a smile in his voice, “Then we’ll be just fine.”

[memes-in-a-half-shell]

Okay--I'd LOVE to hear how you came up with those astrological signs for the boys! Tell us, please! ^_^

AND I SHALL !!!

Something I like to do usually when creating characters - or simply trying to come up with a “fleshed out” personality for existing characters, is that I often go read astrological signs’ descriptions. Often those things are very cliché and don’t really make a lot of sense, but it is a good baseline for expanding on character development.

Leo

Capricorn (Dec.22 - Jan.19) (I personally HC that his birthday is in January)

“ Smart, hardworking, and fully in control of their destiny, a Capricorn will always get what they set their mind to, in both personal and professional life—no excuses. Capricorns may get a reputation as stubborn, but they simply know what they want, and also know how they wish other people would behave. Natural rule-followers, Capricorns thrive on order and love strict rules, hierarchies, and set ways to do things. Can a Capricorn think outside the box? Yes, they can, but they prefer when they have strict boundaries to constrain against—free reign can make them feel paralyzed by choice. “ (source)

“ Capricorn’s personality traits are derived from its receptive, feminine, or yin qualities, making this sign oriented toward contemplation and engagement with inner awareness. Alive in both a Capricorn woman or Capricorn man, those born with the Sea-Goat as their rising, sun, or moon sign have a discipline, masterful, and determined energy in the core of their personality; an echo of the resilience and resourcefulness needed to survive the cold season of their birth.As a cardinal sign, Capricorn holds the qualities of being an achiever, a builder, and a climber, able to set and conquer the loftiest goals one step at a time. Those born with the sign of the Sea-Goat prominent in their charts are great at being determined, consistent, and reliable. They often over-deliver on their promises and take their honor and public reputation very seriously. Ruled by Saturn, the primary Capricorn strengths can be found in their perseverance, longevity, and focused self-mastery. Coolheaded and down to earth, they have strong powers of discernment. They are often good Saturnian judges of character and can be approached for pragmatic advice and a fair verdict.Ruled by Saturn, the Sea-Goat does not shy away from commitment, but rather requires it of their friends, business partners, and lovers before they can fully trust. As a result, your Sea-Goat friend may be one of your most loyal allies, unless of course, you cross them in a business deal.Capricorns may not be seeking fame or glamour in the obvious sense, yet are known for their enduring beauty and classic elegance. Those born under the Sea-Goat are old souls who traditionally are understood to age in reverse. They usually begin life with the weight of the world on their shoulders that they gradually learn to let go of over the years. Humor is one of Capricorn’s most underrated strengths, which is an important source of their resiliency.Natives from this sign see the world with a pragmatic and sober eye, so have long ago made their peace with the shadows of mortality and human frailty. It is this shadow and frailty that they seek to laugh with, developing a dark, rueful humor to help them survive and endure. “ (source)

Raph

Cancer (Jun.21 - Jul.22) (Can we HC that his birthday is on July 4th x’D yes? Yes.)

“ Emotional, intuitive, and practically psychic; ruled by the moon and characterized by the crab, Cancer has so much going on in its watery depths. Cancers may seem prickly and standoffish at first meeting, once they make the decision to become friends with someone, that person has a friend for life. Most Cancers have been called psychic at some point, and with good reason—Cancer can often intuit relationships, ideas, and motivations before anyone has actually spoken. That can make for challenging interactions with this sign—Cancer hates small talk, especially when it contains white lies (like saying, "How nice to see you!" when it's clear that both parties would rather avoid each other). That's why social gatherings can be overwhelming for Cancers. They'd much rather spend time in small groups where everyone is on the same page. “ (source)

“Ruled by the moon, Cancer’s archetypal traits are derived from its receptive, feminine, or yin qualities, making this sign oriented toward contemplation, and engagement with inner awareness. Alive in both a Cancer woman or Cancer man, those born with the Crab as their rising, sun, or moon sign have a sensitive, intuitive, and protective awareness in the core of their personality; an echo of the life-supporting and sustaining energies of the Summer season.As a cardinal sign, Cancer takes leadership in the roles of being a nurturer, host, protector, and caretaker. Those born with the sign of the Crab prominent in their charts are focused on forming and maintaining family ties. They are naturally empathic, sentimental, and home-loving by nature. The primary Cancer strengths can be found in their kind, giving, and sympathetic natures. Always ready to host, and set a table, they can be counted on to feed and care for friends, family, and any weary traveler that stays in their home. With strong empathic powers and talents for healing, Cancer natives can sense what others need, often long before they have articulated it themselves.The famous sideways walk of the Crab can be observed in the cautious way a Cancer native enters a space or social gathering. They tend to come in quietly, carefully surveying their surroundings, before they open and reveal their whole selves. This protective instinct makes Cancerians good at reading the emotional tone in a room, helping them anticipate danger or crisis early. “ (source)

Donnie

Libra (Sep.23 - Oct.22) (I HC his birthday in October)

“ Intelligent, kind, and always willing to put others before themselves, Libras value harmony in all forms. Ruled by Venus, the planet of beauty, Libra adores a life that looks good. As the master of compromise and diplomacy, Libra is adept at seeing all points of view, and excels at crafting compromises and effecting mediation between others. This sign has a rich inner life yet loves other people, and they're always happiest with a large group of friends, family, and coworkers on whom they can count. An air sign, Libra can often be "up in the clouds," and while he or she is amazing at making big plans, follow through can be tricky. Working with detail-oriented signs, like Virgos or Capricorns, can help Libras actually manifest their dreams into reality, especially in the workspace. But don't call out Librans for daydreaming—their imagination is one of their biggest assets, and they often put their imagination to work by finding careers in the arts or in literature. “ (source)

“ Libra’s archetypal traits are derived from its active, masculine, or yang qualities, making this sign oriented toward engagement with the outer world. Alive in both a Libra woman or Libra man, those born with the planet of love as their rising, sun, or moon sign have an equanimous energy in their core personality. As a cardinal air sign, Libra holds the qualities of social initiation and leadership. This makes those with Libra prominent in their charts great at pioneering social projects and gatherings, and naturals at unifying their team, family, or community.Natives from this sign can be thought of as “the diplomats” of the zodiac, acting as active mediators and negotiators in any crisis or challenge. Being ruled by the planet of pleasure and attraction, Libra is usually quick to forgive and eager to smooth out differences so that everyone can get back to enjoying the finer aspects of life. Libra’s great strengths can be found in their ability to embody Venus’ loving, healing, and balancing traits. These folks will likely have the ability to put others first for the sake of everyone’s comfort and well-being. They are great communicators and listeners, fairly weighing all sides of an argument and another’s point of view. Libras are likely to not hold grudges, as it can take a lot to rouse and sustain their anger. Being very Venusian, they typically assume the best intentions in others and give most people many chances to redeem themselves.In addition to these folks’ great relational strengths, there are also their keen aesthetic sensibilities to consider. Not only will this make sun sign Librans very creative, it will make them attuned to the subtleties of atmosphere and harmonious environments. They are naturally curious about how the aesthetics of our adornments and surroundings can set the tone for our well-being and social interactions. Keeping the peace and maintaining poise, grace, and charm are strengths that can be relied on from these natives. “ (source)

Mikey

Pisces (Feb.19 - Mar.20) (I HC his birthday in March)

“ Smart, creative, and deeply intuitive, Pisces can be close to psychic. Pisces feel things deeply, and have incredibly strong gut reactions. A Pisces "knows" things from deep within, and can often judge whether a person or situation is good or bad. That doesn't mean a Pisces ignores the logical part of their brain, though. Deeply intelligent, Pisces have a profound respect for the power of the human mind. Is it a surprise that Albert Einstein was a Pisces? Pisces may seem quiet but they are incredibly strong and have a very strong sense of right and wrong. Their moral compass, along with their gut, guides them well. When a Pisces speaks up, people listen. Pisces tend to take in everything around them, and they are great people to ask for advice on pretty much anything. While Pisces has strong convictions about the best way for them to live, they have a "live and let live" approach when it comes to others, and are accepting and nonjudgmental of all. “ (source)

“ As a mutable sign, Pisces holds adaptive, fluid, and shape-shifting qualities. Those with the sign of the Two Fishes prominent in their charts are sensitive seekers who have the potential to bring a soulful, healing energy to their relationships and communities. The primary Pisces’ strengths can be found in their tender, sympathetic, and receptive natures. Naturally compassionate and empathic, Pisces are wired to offer spiritual and artistic gifts to the world. These are the poets, musicians, painters, and intuitive counselors in our communities.With Jupiter’s influence on the faith, belief, and sense of higher purpose, Pisceans can be counted on to offer help and healing support to anyone who is in need. These natives tend to drift through life on their schedule and follow an inner sense that life is unfolding as it should.Idealistic and imaginative, those born under the Two Fishes’ sign have an otherworldly quality to them and seem to retain a sense of innocence and wonder their whole lives. These natives often believe in the good of others and will likely give the benefit of the doubt. “ (source)

[upstartpoodle]

👀👀 :D

Thanks for the ask! This first one’s from my vampire couple AU, some various bits and bobs of which can be found here.

“You shouldn’t be so close to the window at sunrise, sir,” came a voice from behind him, familiar enough that, though he stirred at the sound of it, he did not turn around to greet the intruder into his solitude. “The light will burn you if you aren’t careful.”

“I am always careful, Tankard" he returned dully, barely twitching as he saw the man in question come to stand at his side through the corner of his eye. Mr Tankard, his attorney, looked the same as ever – dressed from head to toe in black, skin white as a sheet against his dark hair and eyes, unblinking and intense as they ever were. His words did little to reassure the other man, however, and with a short, sharp sigh, George reached over and pointedly pulled the drapes fully together so that no light could pass through them at all. In response, Tankard sent him a small nod and offered him one of the two glasses clasped in his bony hands, filled with a viscous red liquid which George could tell from the smell was not wine.

“With the compliments of Tom Harry.”

George raised an eyebrow at him, lips pinched in a thin line. He did not take the offered glass.

“That is human blood,” he said, his tone stern. “What has he done this time?”

Tankard had the grace to look a little sheepish.

“A gang of men attempted to rob and murder him on the road,” he said. “Completely ineffective, of course, but...well, we are both well acquainted with Tom and his...temper. He got a little carried away.”

George’s eyebrows travelled even further up his forehead.

“And his intentions in presenting us with this...essence of unwashed brigand was meant to achieve what, exactly?”

“Perhaps he didn’t want to waste a good meal?” replied Tankard with a shrug, making no move to withdraw the offer. George snorted decisively.

“I’m not sure I would describe it as ‘good,'" he retorted, his tone scathing, but nevertheless he plucked the glass from his hand and took a reluctant sip. He forced down a shudder as the coppery tang hit his tongue – no matter how many centuries passed, there would always be a small part of him that would be repulsed by this.

“It is human, sir,” Tankard pointed out carefully – he was, after all, well-acquainted with his employer's slight squeamishness in that regard, no matter what benefits human blood offered to their kind over animal. “And it is a long time since you last fed. Or, for that matter, rested.”

“I have no need of rest,” George replied with a frown; he and Tankard were well acquainted enough that he might almost have considered him a friend under different circumstances, but nevertheless his bizarre attempts to mother him irritated him. By now, he was several centuries too old for such treatment, for all that the man seemed to forget it on occasions. “There is much which requires my attention. And besides, I can’t see that it would do me much harm. I am already dead, after all.”

“Undead,” corrected Tankard cautiously. “But that doesn’t mean you are invincible.”

And this one is from the soulmate AU from the month of AUs which I’ve completely forgotten about and has, true to form, been ending up far, far longer than I was trying to make it.

A while passed—perhaps half an hour; she was not entirely sure—before she heard the light tap of boots approaching her along the floor of the hallway, and she turned about to see who it was. George Warleggan, neat and prim as ever and dressed elegantly, though not exuberantly, for the occasion, sent her a small, tentative smile from where he lingered in the doorway, waiting for her acknowledgement. There was in his expression, as there had been all evening, a slight whisper of embarrassment, an awareness of his intrusion into their midst that the other members of his party had failed to notice upon inviting themselves to dinner. Just as when they first arrived, the look on his face told her he would quite easily depart if she requested of him to be alone, but after a little time of solitude to compose herself, she found she no longer wished it. She smiled back at him, and he took it as a cue to approach, coming to stand beside her at the hearth.

“You played beautifully tonight, Elizabeth” he said. There was such earnestness in his voice that it might have taken her breath away had she not been so familiar with it. His affection for her always seemed to shine through at its greatest when he complimented her, but really, even if he had deigned to talk to her of nothing but interest rates, it would have taken a blind man to have remained ignorant of it for long. His austere face had a way of lighting up when he saw her, which she, unlike her husband, had not failed to notice—indeed, it was a wonder Francis remained so ignorant of his friend’s feelings, or else he might have been inclined to be doubly jealous.

“You’re very kind, George,” she thanked him demurely. Though she took care never to encourage his attentions, she had never been discomfited by them. He was never too forward—indeed, she wasn’t entirely sure he realised the obviousness with which he displayed his affections; George was a very private man but, in this, he rather wore his heart on his sleeve. In many ways, it made him rather agreeable company—particularly as an attentive listener. She had always been rather fond of him in her own way, even prickly and awkward and aloof as he could sometimes be, and now, when she didn’t think she could bear to see Francis or Ross, he was a welcome change. “Nevertheless, I think some praise must go to Mistress Demelza. She was in very fine voice this evening.”

She had no idea why she had brought up Demelza when her very purpose of coming here had been to forget about the whole situation. But then, it would have seemed ungracious not to acknowledge her new cousin’s skill, no matter how it made her feel.

“I suppose she was.” George tilted his head in polite agreement, but there was no real interest in Demelza or her singing in his voice. At that, Elizabeth felt a strange measure of relief, though why, she could not possibly have said. “Though it was perhaps a little intimate for mixed company. But then, that is often the way with soulmates.”

Elizabeth blinked.

“You believe them to be soulmates?” she asked. From what she knew of George’s opinion of Ross, she would have expected him to subscribe to the other school of thought concerning the gossip surrounding his and Demelza’s marriage.

“It is not a matter of believing, unless Francis has been telling lies,” George replied. “Though that I somehow doubt. He never could keep a straight face to save his life. Or, more pertinently, his dignity.”

Despite the lie—or rather, the unspoken truth—that was surrounding her own marriage, Elizabeth allowed herself a small laugh. From what she had heard of his schooldays, Francis’ antics would not have left him a great deal of dignity to cling to had each of them been discovered, and she told him as much with a slight smile.

“But what has Francis to do with the matter?,” she added, for the brief flicker of amusement had done little to quell her confusion. “Has he said something about it?”

“Well, he mentioned to me that he had seen…” George trailed off, a little frown marring his brow. “Forgive me, but has he not told you?”

It was Elizabeth’s turn to frown.

“Told me what?” she asked.

George had the grace to look a little awkward.

“About Ross’ soulmark,” he said, slightly bashful. “Like I said, he mentioned in passing that he had seen it.”

Ross had a soulmark. A soulmark which bore the name of his scullery maid turned wife. It was what she had half hoped, half dreaded, what she had known to be true the moment the pair had stepped through the door, but hearing it confirmed, no matter how prepared she had thought herself for the news, hit her squarely and unexpectedly. She barely knew what to think. And Francis. Why had he thought to tell his friend of the fact before he told his wife?

“How does Francis know?,” she asked instead—after all, she knew exactly why he had chosen not to tell her of his discovery, deep down. “Did Ross show him?”

George shrugged elegantly.

“I don’t think so,” he replied. “It was only mentioned briefly in the course of the—ah—conversation.” From the way he spoke, Elizabeth suspected that the main subject of the conversation had been one not meant for her ears. “By the sounds of it, he simply happened to notice it.”

“Notice it?” Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up. If it were anywhere it might be conventionally ‘noticed’, surely she would have also spotted it that evening. So where…?

“Well, to be fair, I suspect, come summer, the entire population of Sawle will have noticed it as well,” George replied drily. “Ross does rather have a habit of parading about the clifftops half-clothed by all accounts.”

There was a slight note of irritation in his voice that he could never quite conceal whilst on the subject of Ross. Elizabeth did not know what had happened between the two men to make them dislike one another so thoroughly—indeed, she had thought Francis had been exaggerating when he had described their mutual loathing, before she had seen the pair interact. The barely contained enmity between Ross and George, however, was not what was on her mind. What she was thinking of, once again, was the way Ross had looked at Demelza, and the way Demelza had looked at Ross, how intimate and private it had been, and George saying how it was often the way with soulmates, calm and knowing, as if the fact of the matter couldn’t possibly be questioned.

“Yes,” she said, before she quite realised how abruptly the words came into the conversation. “Yes, I suppose it is that way with soulmates.”

It was half an admission of what she and Francis were very much not—after all, what experience had she of the way the bond manifested itself? George was shrewd enough to spot the implication, but she doubted he would need to. Francis did rather have a habit of telling him anything and everything, up to and including things which he would better have kept to himself.

“Indeed” George said, looking at her askance in slight bemusement, and Elizabeth felt a sudden urge to turn the conversation away from the slightly odd moment. She searched about in vain for a new topic.

“Were your parents soulmates?” she settled on. It was not an entirely polite thing to ask of a general acquaintance, but considering he was the godfather of her child, she felt that asking George could not be considered too unseemly. Nevertheless, the look he sent her was distinctly surprised.

“As a matter of fact, they were” he replied with a frown, though he did not expand upon the admission. He looked a little uncomfortable, she thought. She didn’t know much about Nicholas and Mary Warleggan, beyond what she had seen of their portraits at Cardew, and the ages their son had been when they had, respectively, died. His father had survived his mother by less than a decade, she remembered hearing. Perhaps it had been a broken heart as much as anything else that had served to have him join her in the grave.

“My parents never bore each other’s names,” she said, attempting once more to steer the conversation away from an unpleasant topic—if her thoughts on the matter had been grim, she was sure that George’s would be doubly so, and she’d no wish to upset him. “I don’t think either of them had a mark at all. My mother certainly doesn’t.”

They had been singularly ill-suited, her mother and her father, with his kind heart and her shrewish nature. Indeed, she could not help but feel that it been her mother’s constant sniping which had sent him to his grave in the end. Though she said none of this, some of it must have shown upon her face, for George sent her a look which had a decidedly sympathetic quality to it.

“I imagine that is quite common,” he said, with one of those brisk little nods of his. “It must happen that way often, especially if one places status and breeding above affection in a marriage.”

Elizabeth couldn’t help but recognise the truth in his words, but something about them made her turn to face him fully, a frown on her face. It occurred to her as she gazed at him that he may well find himself in just such a marriage one day. He’d no need to marry into money, but for status, well that was another thing altogether. Perhaps, some time in the future, he might marry some well-bred girl with a name and connexions, but whether she would love and respect him… Considering his seemingly endless uphill struggle in gaining the acknowledgement and respect of his peers, she worried not.

“Do you think you might ever marry your soulmate?” she asked, him, before she could quite consider whether it was wise. He looked at her oddly, his vivid blue gaze searching, almost wary. There was something there in his eyes, something loaded and full of a meaning that she could not quite put her finger on. Eventually, he spoke.

“No,” he said. “No, I daresay I shan’t.”

END OF YEAR WIP MEME

[ineffablecolors]

The Wife [24/24]

The Wife || Ch 24 ~ 8.8k || Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5 Ch6 Ch7 Ch8 Ch9 Ch10 Ch11 C12 Ch13 Ch14 Ch15 Ch16 Ch17 Ch18 Ch19 Ch20 Ch21 Ch22 Ch23 || FF.NET & AO3

Summary: No one knows all that Emma has been through and certainly no one knows all that Killian has been through and being husband and wife doesn’t make them any less unknown to each other. And really, how can you help someone heal when you don’t even know how hurt they are?

A/N: First, forgive me. This is half a year late but life is unpredictable sometimes and the muse - always. This last chapter is the longest of this fic and I sincerely hope it makes up for the long wait. For a moment there, I didn’t think I would be able to finish this in a way that satisfied me but I’m actually quite pleased with what you are about to read. I hope you will be too. Second, thank you. This fic has proven to be my best experience in this fandom. Thank you for all the excitement, for the gifts and for the gifs, for the long reviews and for the “loved it” reviews, for the kudos and for the likes, for the messages and for all the little jokes. I never would’ve written this without you guys. This isn’t mine, this is ours. Thank you for the love!

The silver platter hits the table with a clatter – all empty cups and plates, she didn’t know the girl could eat this much even if she forced herself, which Mrs Lucas suspects she has.

“Well?”

“’Well’, well, he says. You couldn’t have picked one that isn’t stubborn as a mule, could you?”

“If we are being precise, Liam—”

“Oh, we’re being ever so precise! So precise she won’t let her toe graze the carpet.”

Killian frowns deeply and Mrs Lucas feels her shoulders slump even before she has decided to give up being vexed with him and his lady wife.

Truth be told, Mrs Lucas was plenty relieved at first. She has seen her fair share of foolish women frequenting dances and even riding while with child. Mrs Jones deciding to remain at home looked like a blessing alright, before it became clear that the girl had decided to order herself on bedrest before one could even properly tell there was a babe growing inside her.

That was almost two weeks ago and it seems to Mrs Lucas that they have tried every trick for luring her outside. All save for the direct one.

“It seems to me that it is her husband who must talk to her.”

Killian gives her a look that is part disgruntled old man, part petulant little boy and the way his mouth works tells her he is resisting the urge to argue semantics and point out that he walks to his wife every day. Just not about what needs talking about.

///

He opens their bedroom door a couple of hours after talking to Granny, after letting Roger take him as fast as he was willing to go. He’d decided even before saddling the beast but the acute absence of Buttercup beside him or Emma pressed warm and soft again his back certainly solidified his courage.

The sun is starting to itch down and Emma’s fingers look like spun gold as they smudge the pencil lines on the sheet before her. Her ring doesn’t seem to reflect the light but rather absorb it into itself and it makes something possessive and very satisfied purr in his chest.

He sits on the edge of the bed and dives his hand under the blanket, searchingly blindly until he finds her ankle and curls his fingers around it – they close perfectly, the tips of his thumb and middle finger touching over the smooth hardness of her malleolus. He studied all the known bones in the human body in a fit of morbidness and cynical humour when he first lost his hand but the memory that comes to mind is one made in this very room, much too late into the night, and saturated with Emma’s almost constant giggles and sharp bursts of laughter as he recited all the names of her bones in the most tactile manner possible.

Now he circles the bone under his thumb and waits for her to finish drawing and look at him, not allowing himself to peak at her work, knowing she hates anyone seeing her sketches all the way until she grows either bored or pleased with them and abandons them on a windowsill. Her work was always good but he thinks it has been growing progressively better and he is having more and more difficulty holding his tongue about it until the right time.

Eventually, unhurriedly – he is both exasperated and incredibly pleased in her confidence that he will wait at the foot of the bed as long as it takes to receive her attention – she sets the sheet on the little bureau beside the bed – face down, pencil on top – and lifts her eyes to his. In the afternoon light, her eyes are golden too and this becomes one of those moments that make him very aware of how very beautiful his wife is.

He stands up and inclines his head toward the bath he sent Ruby to prepare before he came up.

“Trust me?”

It is not the layered question it might have been a year ago. It is mostly just that – I have only one hand and I want to lift you in my arms, will you trust me to do so? He doesn’t know if that is indeed what she hears, the way her eyelashes flutter, the way her mouth softens, but then she lifts her arms toward him – so innocent and child-like and trusting that Killian feels the space where his heart lies burning.

The flames in the fireplace reflect along the length of the white bathtub. There’s something different in the air, something tart and speaking of citruses because Emma doesn’t seem to like her old perfumes and soaps these days, because Ruby knows all and is – always, miraculously – prepared for it.

Killian’s arms are hard and firm as iron around his wife and yet, his step falters imperceptibly when her fingers first tangle in the ends of his hair. It’s hypnotic, euphoric. Her thumb glides over the muscles of his neck, pressing at intervals – curious and bold, as her fingers move ever so lightly through the grey strands. His hair has grown longer than is proper in the last month, he has taken advantage, delight even, in getting completely off the merry-go-round of society.

She is warm in his arms and slightly heavier – almost unnoticeable unless you are looking for that last confirmation the way he is, he stops half a pace from the tub and drops to one knee, lowering her ever so slowly into the water. She ripples all over at the first touch and he hides his grin in her hair.

“Oh, you are something else.”

He hums, inhales her before he pulls back to look in those molten eyes.

“All I am is yours, my queen.” His voice is the embodiment of reverence and supplication but the look in his eyes must betray his baser thoughts so he keeps them firmly on hers.

Her cheeks flush quickly, the warm bath and the blatant flirtation attacking in tandem, she lifts her shoulders slightly and gathers breath to pay him in kind. But he knows her ever so well, well enough to steal it again, ducking his head in the exact moment when the tops of her breasts peak out of the water and pressing his mouth to the soft skin.

It’s tempting beyond belief to touch and tease and enjoy her like this but he did in fact intend to help her with her bath and the ends of her hair are already growing heavier and darker. He rolls his left sleeve and watches her leave wet spots all over as she does for his right. He grabs a comb and shuffles behind her, pressing his body against the cool surface of the tub for relief, to keep his mind somewhat clear and starts working his way down her tresses.

“Emma.” He lays a curling strand over her shoulder and runs his knuckles over the long expanse of her throat – up and back to the nape of her neck, gathering another section of hair. “I’ve pondered— that is… I believe… love, I believe everything is going to be well.”

The air is still for a moment, the only sound the crackling from the fireplace. Then there’s a slight tug as she nods. Confirmation because of decisiveness rather than belief, he thinks.

“What I mean to say is that I want you to stop worrying.”

“I’m not worr—”

“You haven’t left this room in days.”

“My being careful does not mean I am worrying, thank you ever so.”

“Emma.”

“It does not.”

He presses his lips together and continues working the comb’s teeth between the strands of her hair. He itches all over to snuff out the tension in the citrus-scented air, to smooth his hand over her shoulder and embrace her and tell her that she is right. Alas, she isn’t always. His brother would laugh to death at him but Killian wants his wife to always be right, it makes him feel like he is losing his footing when she isn’t.

Emma’s sigh is deep, nettled but almost accepting now.

“Perhaps…,” her voice is small but she tips her head back on the edge of the tub and he can almost see her eyes. “Perhaps I’m a little scared.”

“That makes you a good deal less scared than me, love.”

She snorts – mellow and undignified and private and he drops the comb and slips his arm around her, resting his palm and forearm over her sternum and his cheek on her neck, wet hair sliding against skin.

“It’s going to be my fault if—” she starts.

“Nonsense. That is nonsense and you know it.”

“It is not. You don’t know. I feel… It feels like in all the world only I can protect this little thing that needs so much protecting.”

“Aye, I don’t know. What I do know is that you are the best protector anyone can ask for. And what you seem to forget is that… this time, this world, our world would do everything to protect you both.”

She is silent long enough that he picks up the comb again but when he takes a section of hair she hums and turns her face to the side, her lips pressing against the inside of his wrist.

///

She knows Killian means well, what is more, she suspects he might be right. But the thing is that Killian has already done this, he already is a wonderful father, he has already raised a beautiful, healthy and happy daughter. Killian could never muck this up. She just needs to be certain that she won’t either.

As with most things, Killian Jones changes her mindset and she has to give him extra credit for not even being present when doing it. It’s just that it does get insufferably boring to stay in one’s bed all day long, no matter how tall the pile of books by said bed and no matter how many different sunrises she draws. The house is still much too quiet without the girls there and somehow she manages to miss her husband any moment he is not being doting and overbearing. So, this is how Emma finds herself throwing off the thin blanket laid over her legs, wrapping herself in a shawl and tiptoeing out of her room.

“I did not know that I was married to a thief.”

Killian’s head comes up lightning fast, his neck pops audibly and his eyes widen in surprise and crinkle with joy as he finds her with a hip against his doorway. It takes him a moment and then another but Emma waits patiently for his mouth to quirk up and for him to lean back in his chair and meet her challenge.

“I’ve been called many a thing, my queen, but this is the first I’m hearing of my being a thief.”

“Everybody gets caught eventually, my heart, and you most certainly did not pay for that,” she says and nods toward the framed drawing hanging above his head.

Truly, it’s ostentatious and a little bit ridiculous to have it handing there. The sketch is good enough, if she does say so herself, but it’s old and messy and clearly abandoned much sooner than it would have been decent enough to display anywhere, let alone in a such a place of pride. It is far from the best rendition of this particular subject that she has been drawing ever since he told her.

“Oh, this?” Killian leans his head back so he can see the drawing and Emma can see the long expanse of his throat. “Why, Mrs Jones, I found this masterpiece just lying about on my property. I must say I’m rather in love with the style but for the life of me cannot seem to track down the artist.”

Emma shakes her head and moves further into the room, Killian pushes away from his desk and turns to face her as she circles his desk. She does so love every surface in this study.

“In love, are you?” she asks coyly even as she straddles his lap shamelessly.

“Hopelessly,” her dramatic husband says as both his real and wooden hand find her hips with studied accuracy and he rests his chin just below her belly, pressing a soft, absentminded kiss there that makes it flutter the way her eyelashes do. “Thank you for giving me my island, Emma.”

///

Alice and Robyn are back within a week of the three letters Emma and Killian pen, sharing the newest development in their life with their closest friends and family.

“Have you chosen a name for her yet?”

“Why are you so certain it should be a girl?” Emma asks, even though she is quite certain herself and delighted and anxious and impatient and many other feelings that she keeps stored beside her and Killian’s bed to unfold and examine only when it’s late and cloudy and just the two of them. The name of their child has yet to see the clouds of such a day.

“Oh, it is simply papa’s fate to be surrounded by ladies,” Alice answers as she winds another layer of wool around Robyn’s patiently extended forearms. Everyone but Alice is convinced that she has no idea what she is doing, mostly because she hasn’t even decided what it is she wants to make, but she and Robyn have been kneeling before the hearth and untangling Granny’s balls of wool long enough that now something simply must be done with it.

“Ladies?” Killian looks up from his papers and pulls his glasses a little down his nose, making a show of carefully surveying his surroundings. “Why, I cannot remember the last time I saw one.”

Emma gasps in a way worthy of her husband’s own theatrics even as Alice takes hold of one of the balls of wool and throws it like a true markswoman straight at her father’s head, dislodging the poor spectacles further, while Robyn agrees mournfully that she herself has forgotten what such a thing as a lady even looks like.

Emma couldn’t be happier to have them back.

///

One thing Emma never expected from her older and storm-wrought husband the first time she met him was to ever see the child that he surely must have been, the playfulness and innocence of youth. Emma remembers that assumption wobbling unsteadily the first time she saw Killian sitting on the floor and then a little more every time she watched him enjoy his cocoa a frankly undignified amount. She thinks this is the moment when the last rock of what’s left of that assumption topples, as she watches Killian lying on his stomach between her generously spread legs, head tilted to the side and tongue and teeth working over his bottom lip as he measures her breasts with his good hand with all the dedication a physician might apply to his life-saving research.

“Killian, they have not changed.”

Killian ignored her for a moment, then looks up with all the disappointment in the world gathered in his blue eyes. She suspects he positions the candles in their bedroom just so to give him the utmost dramatic flair when he himself is positioned just so between her legs.

“It is an outrage and a travesty how little attention you have paid to your own lovely form.”

“If I did, neither of us would get anything done, my heart.”

Killian’s grin is unrepentant, triumphant even.

“Precisely so, love. Thus, I am the expert on matters such as these and can assure you that differences are present, have been noted and must be properly appreciated.”

Even as she shakes her head, Emma arches her back a little off the mountain of pillows behind her, pushing her chest toward the warm radiating off of Killian. He obliges her with hand, stump and mouth and difference or not, Emma delights in being properly appreciated.

It is perhaps why the question catches her unawares later, somewhere in that state between the clearest pleasure and the deepest comfort, as she melts against Killian’s body and traces her nose along the edges of a long scar on his side – rhythmic and hypnotic and gradually putting herself to sleep.

“Have you given it any thought?”

The hum she lets him have is more than she thought herself capable of giving right now. It makes him chuckle, a hint of smugness in it that would make her roll her eyes if he had not earned it so thoroughly.

“A name. For our lass, according to all of you.”

“Oh.”

She follows that scar until her nose is buried between Killian’s hot skin and their silken sheets. Killian twitches a little and his hand tangles in her hair.

“I have no good ideas,” she mumbles somewhere under him and tilts her face so it’s now her mouth that brushes the raised skin, her tongue flicking out to taste the uneven texture. Killian groans above her and his hold tightens.

“Perhaps,” he swallows and gasps, delightfully out of control now as she digs further, following the routes on his skin and butting her head under him even as her hand slips between his legs. “Perrrhaps you could be… so good… oh, Emma, so good.”

“Mhm?”

“So… so good as to share them anyway?”

She takes her sweet time about it and he does not seem to mind terribly, not if the way he twists toward her and ruts against her is any indication. But, eventually, after she has been satisfied with his satisfaction, she comes out from under the tangle of sheets and blankets and Killian and combs the hair out of her eyes.

“I like nothing so well as to share,” she says, honest but almost petulant. “Evelyn. It’s the only one I like but not enough.”

It’s the first name spoken between them and it doesn’t fit quite the way she wants it to. Killian hums and mentions some he has considered and discarded himself.

“Mary Margaret says there is this new fashion to choose something meaningful. She and David wanted something brave. Strong.”

Killian props his chin on his left forearm and gives her a soft look, the kind that negates the need for her to ask for anything, the kind that says she just has to name it and it shall be. It always makes her feel terribly flustered, overwhelmed and rather powerful too. She wonders if that’s how queens feel at first.

“What do you want for her?”

Her lips twitch as his steady conversion, his blind trust in her equally blind belief that they are to have a girl.

“I just wanted her. And you gave her to me.”

Killian laughs, it delights her. “Rather the other way around. But after, what do you want after?”

She is still afraid to think too much about after, as if she will ruin it, if she imagines it too much. “I don’t… I just hope she is happy. I hope she is healthy and happy to be here.” She laughs, it sounds wet. “I hope she loves me.”

Killian’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth but she rushes ahead, can’t stop imagining now and it feels safer to do so here, with him.

“I hope I get to teach her to ride and Alice teaches her to shoot a bow and arrow and you teach her to read and, lord, I hope Ruby can teach her to dance because none of us will do it properly.”

She looks at Killian’s eyes and can’t tell if she loves the colour or the dark lashes or the lines around them more.

“I hope she falls in love. I… I hope…”

Killian’s eyes sparkle and the lines grow deeper.

///

Next come Liam and Elsa with all the fanfare and gifts that befits Admiral and Mrs Jones.

“She is not even born yet,” Killian grumbles even as he admires the toy horse his brother has deposited in the middle of their drawing room, on top of the table – much to Granny’s dismay and more genuine grumbling – like it’s the queen’s jewels.

“She?”

Killian’s face scrunches up and he waves a hand in the air.

“The girls have gotten into my head.”

“Then God help you when you get yet another one,” Liam grins smugly.

///

“You never asked.”

“Hmm?” Emma tears her head away from the target practice going on a few feet away from them. It’s not easy. There is something delightful about two young girls in billowing skirts embarrassing a naval admiral and captain and pushing them to the sort of language that Emma is certain neither Killian not Liam have ever permitted themselves to use off a ship before. When she looks at Elsa she has the same look on her face that she first gave her at her welcoming ball. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s quite alright,” Elsa turns her head toward the rest of their party and takes a sip of her tea. “I could hardly take my eyes off him for the first three years after we married.”

Emma smiles and resists the urge to point out that time hasn’t changed all that much for Elsa and she is quite certain it won’t for her.

“Why we don’t have children. You never asked.”

Emma’s eyes widen at the non-sequitur and Elsa’s matter-of-fact tone.

“I… I didn’t want to pry.”

She hadn’t, she hadn’t even asked Killian, too aware of how much she hoped Admiral and Mrs Jones would take their time before they start asking themselves and others the same thing about her. That and she had drawn her conclusion and felt nothing but desire to not bestir those waters.

“I never wanted to,” Elsa says in that same tone and Emma blinks at her – once, twice, until Elsa’s perfect blue eyes turn to her.

Once, after a shamefully long and indulgent dinner at their estate and a couple of glasses of cognac each, Liam Jones said that he no longer feels the need to go sailing because he has the ocean all to himself every time he looks at his wife. Killian teased him mercilessly until Emma was forced to bring to attention the fact that he has taken, perfected and elevated his brother’s talent for dropping into casual conversation the sort of lines that must belong on stage.

Elsa smiles gently at her surprise.

“Outrageous, I know. What sort of a woman doesn’t want to raise a child with her husband?”

“No, I…” Emma doesn’t know what she would have said, if Elsa hadn’t continued, it’s hard to imagine not wanting something that you’ve thought you simply won’t be allowed for so long.

“I’m simply a terribly selfish person, Emma.”

“That’s not true.”

Elsa smiles again, much more playful, the kind of smile Emma is used to from her, the kind that tells you you don’t know even as little as you think you do.

“It is. But I don’t mind. I rather like it. Love it. I love my life and my husband. I never wanted to share it or change it and I’ve never felt…”

Emma can’t help but know exactly how she herself would have finished that thought. “Incomplete?”

Elsa is surprised to find her knowing, pleasantly so.

“No. Never.” She looks back at their husbands and the girls and Emma catches the movement of her fingers, playing with her rings. She notices because it looks so out of place in Elsa Jones who is always in perfect repose. “Liam has never tried to convince me. He wanted children, I didn’t, so we weren’t to have any.”

Emma turns to look at Liam Jones who is bent in half, hands on his knees and nose almost brushing Alice’s bow as he watches with narrowed eyes how she pulls back her arrow. She has never thought him an unsatisfied man and she doesn’t now.

“I just wonder sometimes. Why he never asked again,” Elsa says, almost as if to herself.

“Would you change your mind?” Emma asks, equally quiet and utterly unsurprised as Elsa shakes her head. “That’s why.”

Elsa turns to her and gives her a brand new smile, the kind that tells Emma sometimes Elsa doesn’t know everything either and she is glad to be told.

///

Mrs Nolan comes last but she brings Leo and everybody forgets everything else the second he smiles his biggest smile and sticks Killian’s thumb in his mouth.

///

“This is ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous.”

“Dearest—“

“Granny is in there! Why can’t I—“

“Alice, it’s… I’m sure it’s all overwhelming enough for Emma without the whole household being present.”

Robyn withstands her love’s glare admirably, if she does say so herself. Oh, Alice is sunshine made flesh and she loves her so much but when she is unhappy she rages like the wind whipping the whole world outside.

“I’m not going to overwhelm her. I want to be there! What if…”

Alice’s pacing comes to a sudden halt and Robyn furrows her brows and pushes off the wall outside Captain and Mrs Jones’s room, taking an instinctive step toward her.

“Alice, she’s going to be just fine.”

But Alice looks up at her from under her lashes and chews on her lip and Robyn realizes she doesn’t want anyone to see, let alone hear, her true fears. Robyn opens her mouth to reassure her again when Captain Jones appears at the top of the stairs and heads down the corridor toward them.

The change in Alice is instantaneous – her shoulders straighten and her eyes open and clear and she puts a little sway into her movements as she reaches out and takes her father’s hand.

For his part, Killian looks like he couldn’t compose himself even if he tried but he comes to a stop and kisses his daughter’s temple and smiles at Robyn.

“I’m sorry you have to wait outside but Doctor Hopper said—“

“It’s alright, papa,” Alice cuts him off and some of that sunshine that has kept Robyn warm even during the bitterest winter spills into the windowless corridor. “You go ahead and calls us in when she is here.”

Killian kisses her one more time and squeezes Robyn’s shoulder as he walks into the room. As soon as the door is closed behind him, Alice flushes and averts her eyes.

“Yes, I know I was just complaining about being made to wait but it’s not like he can—“

Robyn’s hand finds the back of her neck and her lips cut off the flow of her self-conscious explanation.

“I love you, Miss Jones.”

///

The youngest Miss Jones comes into the world in a tremendously dramatic fashion – a stormy night of swirling greys and dark blue, thunder and lightning and a wind that screams and screams in tandem with Emma. It’s a fact that will be cited over and over again in the years to come, mostly by Granny but certainly by her parents as well when weary enough and certainly by her sister and Ruby with all the pride in the world.

Days later, when Killian is close to throttling the poor man because Emma still can’t get out of bed on her own, Doctor Hopper will tell him that it was a perfectly normal birth – if a bit longer and a fair bit louder.

Hours later, when Alice rushes into the room and demands a proper introduction, Killian will look down at the baby he has only let go of for minutes at a time so Granny can clean her up and Emma can hold her close and introduce Hope Evelyn Jones and it fits just the way Emma wanted it to. They haven’t talked about a middle name and the way Killian looks at Emma as if he knows she will be pleased makes her as happy as hearing him say it. As happy as Alice’s little sigh of pure love and the way she leans over and presses a kiss to Emma’s temple and tells her that she loves her and makes her cry all over again.

Seconds later, when Doctor Hopper tries to hand their baby to Granny to clean her up, Killian will intercept him and take his daughter in his arms with a movement that guarantees nobody but Emma will ever know he worried about how he will hold her only days ago. It’s one of these moments in life that you know you will never be able to recall perfectly. It would be too much, to hold all that emotion inside you for the rest of time. So Emma doesn’t even try, she doesn’t do anything but watch and bask in the love on her husband’s face and the love that overfills every little place inside her when he places their daughter in her arms – pink and squealing and so so warm.

///

The strangest thing is how calm she is in the weeks after, when she can do little more than feed her baby and herself. Doctor Hopper has sworn on everything Killian could think to make him swear on that she shall recover fully and Emma believes him. She believes him because she never once feels cold.

///

“Are you certain, love?”

“She is a bitter old woman, Killian, not an infamous brigand.”

Killian gives her a look that seems to imply that he doesn’t feel like the gulf between the two is wide enough.

“I’m merely suggesting you reply that her visit will be welcome at a later date,” he says but the inflection on the word “welcome” somehow manages to turn it into its exact opposite. Emma smiles at him and lets her hand run through his hair long enough that Killian sighs in obvious defeat and drops his forehead against her shoulder. “I do not see why we shouldn’t have her wait until you have fully recovered—”

“Because I do not want this visit hanging over my head. I’d much rather have it done and over with. And what is more,” she continues quickly when she feels Killian’s lips part against her skin to most likely explain how it needn’t be done at all. “I do not care to perform for Regina’s pleasure.”

Killian is silent for a moment and she lets the silence prove her sincerity. Emma was surprised herself when she received Regina’s card and realized she did want to see her grandmother one more time. She wants to close that door very firmly, lock it and abandon the key somewhere without even bothering to throw it away. What is more, she feels a queer thrill at the thought of welcoming her now, just like this, still recovering and as far from the perfectly staged lady as she can be without outright impropriety.

“Have it your way, my queen,” Killian sighs eventually. “But the second you want her out—”

“I shall show her out myself,” she bends her head and waits for him to look up so she can press her lips against his. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“Always,” he hums and scatters a few kisses over her cheeks and then down her throat – the light, soft kind that he has been giving her for weeks, the kind that she loves with her very soul but also make her skin tingle with an impatient desire for the future.

“I would like you to take the girls away, however. I don’t want her around them.”

Killian breathes out against her collarbone and swipes his thumb over the sharp raise of it before he glances up. “And I do not want to leave you alone.”

Emma huffs a little but decides she could give him that, knows she would like to have him close, just in case, just in case Regina’s presence affects her more than she thinks it will have the power to.

“Alright. You can have Hope, Robyn can take Alice out. Just for an hour. Just—I don’t want her near my daughters.”

His thumb stops, barely pressing into her skin, and Killian looks up at her. Fortunately, by now, Emma has learnt how to meet the steady and deep – bottomless, utterly without end, without corner or condition or caveat – press of Killian’s love. She has become something of an expert at how to welcome it, fold it and hold it and keep it. It feels indulgent and almost blasphemous every time, especially when there is so much happiness and gratitude mixed in with it like now. She takes it gladly.

///

Mrs Lucas bustles up the stairs at a speed that she thought she’d left behind in her years of running after little Miss Alice. She supposes it’s a good thing to check and find that she is still capable of it and the thought of the new miss running through the house before long manages to break a smile on her face even in her current foul mood. But that would be then, this is now and there is nothing but fury propelling Mrs Lucas toward the master bedroom.

When she storms in, Emma looks up at her as if it’s any other day. She is in bed but on top of the covers, a light blanket thrown over her legs and a shawl over her shoulders, her hair is messy, braided only at the very end, the way she does it when she’s had her hands empty for a moment too long. Mrs Lucas feels a rush of fondness coming up her throat so violently she think she is going to belch. It steels her resolve.

“Now, Captain’s saying you know all about this and, what is more, it’s you who talked him into allowing it. But I’ve spent too long around you two and watched you consume too much sugar right before bed to mind too much about what either of you says first time around. So, you tell me now and I’ll take that old wretch by whatever’s left of her hair and drag her out the door myself.”

Emma’s eyes are wide for a second and Mrs Lucas has the strange feeling that now this girl truly knows her. Then the skin around her eyes crinkles and she shakes her head and extends a hand toward her.

Mrs Lucas huffs and keeps away, hands on her hips and her mouth set in a steel line for all of five seconds because this damn house has made her soft as an overkneeded ball of dough. She steps forward and takes Emma’s small hand and bends forward to press her closer against her bosom because no matter how much Emma’s appetite has grown, her hand is still a fragile little thing in Mrs Lucas’s wrinkled palm.

“Let her up,” the silly girl says. “And make that godawful tea you keep at the very back for business meetings Killian wants over as quickly as possible.”

///

After all the fuss, Regina’s presence when she enters the room is rather anti-climatic. Emma hadn’t even considered how the couple of years in which they hadn’t seen each other might have changed her grandmother, and even if she had, she doubts she would’ve imagined this.

Regina’s hair is almost entirely grey now and the rigid and undoubtedly very carefully chosen coiffure cannot quite hide how thin it is in places. Her face is as cold and severe as always and there aren’t that many more wrinkles to tell of the passing of time but it’s her hands that shock Emma. If Regina were truly the evil witch everybody says she is, Emma would think she had cast a spell to gather all of her age in her hands – wrinkled and spotted and claw-like as they clutch her cane. The cane is new, as well, and obviously terribly expensive, black and shiny and looking like a rod for all that is bitter in the world. Emma is glad Regina didn’t have it when she was living under her roof.

“Most women would be out of bed and taking care of their child and household by now.”

Regina’s voice has always been cold but now it sounds like it has turned to icicles in her throat and pains her slightly as she talks. Her opening is the first thing that slots right into place in Emma’s expectations and almost makes her smile sardonically.

“You look well, Regina.” She allows herself this one jab, she does not care to play a game of veiled insults with Regina but this one slips out before she can stop it and, if the look in Regina’s eyes is any indication, it lands right on target. Emma gestures toward the armchair set beside a small table a little way from their bed, not too close.

Regina liked to stand tall and rigid over Emma for most of their life but it seems to cost her too much effort now. Her back stays as straight as possible, her hands spider like and just as restless. This is also new and Emma does not care to observe for too long.

“The child?”

“With her father,” Emma says with a finality that should alert Regina to the likelihood of seeing Hope with her own eyes.

“Your servants could certainly improve on their manners,” she says next and this time Emma does let the corner of her mouth quirk up. “Though I suppose I shouldn’t expect you to run a tight household from your bedchambers.”

“Captain Jones and I find them perfectly suited for us.”

She can see the reply in Regina’s cold and sharp eyes but that is when Granny comes in to bring the tea and display her improvable manners. The look Regina gives her assures Emma that they will be coming back to her household’s shortcomings but she turns in a different direction when the door closes behind the cook.

“Yes, I suppose your husband must be less than concerned with propriety to be taking care of his babe, while his wife lazes around in bed weeks after it is all done.”

Emma has the vague notion that such a comment from Regina should incite things in her but all it does is make her crave the image of Killian with their daughter in his arms, which she is sure to be treated to as soon as Regina leaves.

“Frankly, Emma, I believe you should thank me. I don’t know who else would’ve put up with you.”

She hears the tinge of annoyance, almost desperation, in Regina’s voice and realizes her grandmother is now grasping, scrambling for whatever she came here for. Emma is not certain what it is exactly that she is withholding but she knows full well what it is that Regina doesn’t want to hear.

Well, that’s too bad, isn’t it? Because Regina’s not wrong and for this one thing Emma doesn’t mind admitting it. Emma’s smile is serene and she would think herself benevolent but for the twinkle in her eye that makes Regina’s spider-fingers spasm.

“Thank you, Regina.”

///

She wakes up next to the inferno that is Killian even barefoot and on top of the covers. His left sleeve is rolled up to his elbow, the right one just pushed up, his wedding ring catching the sunlight as he holds his papers in front of him, his glasses hanging precariously on his nose.

Emma pulls herself up and huffs at the way the pages drop to the bed and his hand immediately settles on her arm.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine. Better,” she says pointedly. She is not perfect but she has been better every day, yet every day he fusses just as much as the one before. “Where’s Hope?”

He kisses her sweetly and she pushes his glasses up before they fall on her face, then takes his hand off her arm so she can roll up his right sleeve properly.

“Ruby took her about an hour ago but I’m sure Mrs Lucas has gotten her hands on her by now.”

Emma feels the stretch in her smile at that. When Granny holds their daughter in her arms you can’t tell she can ever be anything but smooth edges and soft places and softer lullabies.

“You should have some breakfast, let me—”

“Can I have it outside?”

Killian’s already on the edge of the bed but he turns back at that – his face a mix of anxious hope and consternation.

“Emma, I don’t think you should be walki—”

“That’s what I have a strong, gallant husband for,” she says and makes sure her smile is enticing and not just plain spoiled as she throws off the blankets and extends her arms in a gesture he has never once been able to refuse.

Killian developed an amazing fascination with carrying her around during her pregnancy, even when there was no need and long after it was probably advisable for his back, the way his face positively melts tells her that their daughter’s birth hasn’t changed anything in that respect.

“That you do, my queen.”

He helps her change into something less prone to blow in the wind than her nightgown and shrugs on his coat directly over his shirt, which Emma decides is definitely a look they should revisit when she can appreciate it properly, and takes her into his arms.

There is nothing quite like being carried in Killian’s arms. It’s not just how safe she is, it’s how precious it makes her feel. The thought never fails to make her blush and she promptly buries that blush in Killian’s neck.

After months of this, they navigate doors and corridors and stairs with barely a thoughts and she is being lower on the swing in the garden before anyone has probably even noticed they’re outside. Killian disappears through the back door of the kitchen, much to her displeasure, because he claims food is more beneficial to her than being able to lie in his lap. Emma disagrees but she is more than willing to have both.

They stay out long enough for her to track the movement of the sun, long enough for Granny to find them and roll her eyes at them in a way that Emma knows means she likes what she sees.

“The little miss is hungry,” she says with all the reluctance of someone who would give anything to not have to let go of the baby in her arms.

Emma grins as Killian wraps his arm around the entirety of her waist and helps her to sit up and lean against him. Confined to bed as she has been, she is more than aware of the tug of war in the house and how anyone who manages to get Hope in their arms will keep her there until they have no other choice. She has seen Ruby folding the bedsheets in their room one-handed and Killian somehow juggling baby, ledger, pen and inkwell with only two spillages as a result.

So, Emma feels rather smug in her privilege. They can hoard her baby all they want, eventually they all have to hand her over to be fed, and as Granny settles Hope in her arms and Emma feels the warm weight and the sweet smell of her, she really can’t begrudge them the hoarding.

However, she can and does begrudge Killian the speed with which he steals their daughter’s attention with barely a finger pressed to her pink little nose.

“Killian, my breasts are bared to the whole world,” she huffs, even though there is no one else around.

“I know,” she doesn’t even need to see the grin on his face. “I’m paying rapt attention, love.”

“You are distracting her.” She tries to be stern but it is so very difficult when she is practically molded to his side and he is making Hope smile her big toothless smile and making the most embarrassingly endearing sounds next to her ear.

“Am I, princess? Am I distracting you? Are you not giving mummy’s luscious breasts the attention they deserve?”

“Killian!” And she is scandalized and indignant, she really is, but she is also laughing so loud her sides ache a little.

///

Killian combs Emma’s hair back and watches his daughter’s blissful face as she feeds. His hand stays, stroking and scratching lightly, running his long fingers carefully through the tangled strands even though no pin has come anywhere near her hair in weeks, maybe months, and he raises his left forearm to Hope’s back, the whisper-soft hairs at the back of her neck brushing against the hard skin at the end of his wrist. He can’t feel that but he feels the way Emma drops her head back, closing her eyes and entrusting them both entirely to his arms and he presses his smile against the crown of her head.

///

Mary Margaret declares herself utterly enamored the second Hope spits on her shoulder. It takes another hour, during which Mrs Nolan wastes no time in adopting the habits of the household and refuses to let anyone else hold the happily gurgling baby in her arms, for her to come up with the idea that nothing will be better than a match between Leo Nolan and Hope Evelyn Jones.

Emma watches Killian and Mary Margaret haggle over the advantages and disadvantages of this only slightly premature plan and cannot help but wonder if Killian is so scandalized because “she was literally just born” or because he didn’t think of the match himself.

///

Emma is just pouring out the cocoa when she hears the door open behind her. She glances over her shoulder, surprised at the sight of Robyn – not at seeing her there but rather at the rumpled state of her, the sweet, almost child-like way she is rubbing her eyes and the braid that’s keeping less strands in place than letting them fly around. Alice and Emma and even Killian, but never Robyn – she cannot remember ever seeing Robyn on the verge of sleep.

“I could hear Granny grumbling all the way down the hall,” the young woman teases and Emma just rolls her eyes.

“Don’t worry. Killian and I have decided that we shall be introducing Hope to hot cocoa as soon as we can. Just wait and see how quickly Granny decides sugar before bed is the most precious idea in the world.” She offers Robyn a cup but the girl just shakes her head – she doesn’t have Alice or Killian’s sweet tooth and she does look like she is just about to lie down and go to sleep on the kitchen floor. She also looks very, very amused and a little impressed.

“You guys are ruthless.”

“Are the rest still awake?”

“Not for the last hour,” Robyn says and Emma laughs and picks up her tray.

“Are you coming?” She asks at the door but Robyn shakes her head and yawns, her impeccable timing making Emma laugh again as she heads into the corridor. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Emma. Please direct her upstairs when she wakes.”

Emma smiles as she nears Killian’s study and pushes the door slowly, in no rush to wake Alice or anyone else just yet.

She is less used to seeing them here, in this smaller, darker room that is more Killian than anyone else. That must be why her breath backs up into her throat and the mugs rattle on her tray as she looks at Killian behind his desk. His chair is pushed back, almost all the way to the window, his hair is very dark and the silver streaks in it seem to catch all the moonlight outside, his spectacles reflect the fire at the other end of the room, his left forearm is bare and wrapped securely around one dozing daughter while the smaller one is sleeping soundly in his right elbow, pressed close to his rest. Alice must have been holding the book he was reading but it’s now lying face down in her lap, precariously close to toppling to the ground.

It’s a lot for one chair and Killian looks like he has never been more comfortable in his life. When he dips his chin and looks at her over the tops of his glasses Emma feels his contentment travel down her own spine. She sets the tray on the desk and is just wondering if she can lay down on the settee and go to sleep just staring at them, when Alice grumbles and snorts sharply and jerks a little, book finally falling to the floor. Emma bends to pick it up and snorts, giving her husband a pointed look.

“Aren’t pirate stories a bit on the nose for a naval captain?”

“A good pirate story cannot be resisted,” Killian and Alice say at the same time and Emma sits on the floor with the book because… well, she is a little overwhelmed with how much she loves them is all.

Alice laughs sleepily, stretches and kisses her father’s cheek, then promptly steals the baby in his arms. She ignores Killian’s grumbling completely but stops by Emma to allow her a kiss goodnight.

“We’ll be up in a moment.”

“No, you won’t.” Alice grins before losing interest in them completely and bending her head over Hope as she whisks her away, telling her all about how their parents eat too much sugar and go to bed too late.

Emma shakes her head and looks at Killian.

“We need to be careful or—“ The words die in her throat as she is confronted with the very incriminating scene of Killian with his eyes closed in bliss and his nose buried in one of the mugs she brought. It would be easier to get the sun back in the sky than to stop her gentle laughter.

Killian looks at her and pushes his bottom lip forward, a trace of chocolate smeared on the inside of it.

“What? I have been left cold and bereft.”

“Oh?” Emma raised her eyebrows and takes her laughter down to a simmering smile as she gets to her feet and sways toward him. “Do you need me to warm you?”

If there was ever a double entendre, this should be it and yet. She settles against him with her legs swung over the arm of his chair and her head nestled perfectly innocently in the crook of his neck, feeling the spaces where the girls were and where the cold must have rushed in upon their departure. It gives her more pleasure than straddling his thighs would have – to warm him. So, Emma gratefully takes the second mug Killian offers her and relaxes completely, feeling the lift and fall of her husband’s every breath against her.

“Emma?”

“Hmm?”

She watches him place his mug on the desk and his hand settles on her knee, drawing little circles over it with his ring finger.

“Do you want to get married again?” he asks and continues on when she doesn’t immediately answer. “We can do it properly, invite Mr and Mrs Nolan and Nemo and Belle, the girls will be there and— or it can be just them. Just them and us, in the garden again or anywhere you like. Somewhere by the sea perhaps or—“

She has been surveying his study – the book still on the ground, the baby blanket Granny made for Hope on the settee and the ribbon Alice must have left on the mantle, the island drawing hanging over their heads, the mugs of cocoa on his desk – and now she twists around to kiss him and goes on kissing him and kissing him.

She can hardly remember the last time they kissed like this – long but chase, with nowhere else to go, nothing more to do. It reminds her of the first time she kissed him, she wonders if it reminds him of that night too because his lips keep twitching under hers.

“Do you always smile so much when you kiss a woman, captain?”

He pulls half a breath away from her and keeps smiling.

“It would appear I do.”

“I don’t want another wedding, my heart.”

“No?”

She watches his face carefully but he doesn’t look disappointed, he doesn’t look like he is missing a single thing in the world. She remembers coming into this room minutes ago and knows it’s because he isn’t. She shakes her head.

“No. I never wanted to marry you,” she lets her own lips tick up and takes his hand in hers, their rings clicking together as she leans forward again so her lips brush his as she speaks. “I just wanted to be your wife.”

*******

If you really enjoyed this monster of a fic, I have one of those Ko-fi things. I will also be crying over having finally completed it for the next week so come join me whenever.

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