#It’s been a long time since Journey to the West so I doubt you’d have access

[satorutini]

above snakes - kamo choso

pairing: choso x reader

summary: “At your service, ma'am,” he says, with an earnest grin and the tilt of his gallon hat. “Always.”

rating: explicit

wc: 7.6k

ch: 1/2

You can’t imagine the number of things I had to google that probably don’t matter but would’ve driven me up a wall if historically inaccurate. Idk how to fucking paint so pls forgive me, artists and art history majors.

read on ao3

There was a particular brand of wildness that seemed to touch everything this far west. 

It had to, you surmised, come from the lack of seasonal rain. Something must’ve mixed into the well water with the first wave of settlers. Grown into the dry cracks and crevices of the desert with the rest of the shrubbery. Crept into the hearts of every untamed beast that could endure the sweltering heat, timid or truculent. 

You’d experienced that wilderness in bits and pieces in your short time this side of the Mississippi River. You’d heard it through the stories men traded on bar stools. Felt it in the rough callouses of the hands that traded coin for drink and paint. In the first few weeks after you had settled, you had attempted to capture it yourself. But no matter how long you spent bent over a canvas, painting broad blue skies and looming canyons and bands of wild horses, your brush simply could not replicate that untamed, beautiful something, native only to nature herself. 

It intrigued you. It called to you from the safety of your New England home and the polite society you’d been indoctrinated into all of your life. The desert and its residents were both beguiling and dangerous, in real, tangible ways that tea parties and gossip circles back home couldn’t even begin to compare to. 

On its worst days, the sun and the heat did terrible things to people who linger in it for too long. But for most of your life - and much of your stay thus far - you’d been lucky enough to have never seen that kind of violence up close, not if you could help it. Not if your father could help it.

The unbearable heat, however, is something you had willingly signed up for the moment you rejected your birthright and fucked off into the countryside for good - something you try to remind yourself at the sight of half of your paints gone runny in their cases.

A sudden wave of anger causes your fingers to twitch against the wooden lid. I don’t understand.

“Is…Is everything alright?” You blink and straighten up, taking a second to compose yourself before turning to face your inquirer with an expression as blank as you can muster. You don’t understand how the paints had melted in storage - since you had moved, you had done what you could to keep them cool and out of the sun. For the two years you had taken residency in the ramshackle saloon, your materials had managed to survive the desert heat from the safety of the trunk you kept under your bed.

  And yet today of all days, half of your case is a watery, separated mess.

Had you been back home, this could have been easily resolved within a day with a few silver dollars and a quick trip to an art store - that very same day if you were early and lucky. The largest commission of your life wouldn’t have to be postponed for longer than mere hours, and you and your standoffish companion could be on your way in a few days. 

It’s been two years since you made the journey west and settled in this small haven in the middle of a dry sea. It was a purposeful two-day travel by horse to get to the nearest train station. When you first rode into this tiny town, it had been the perfect place to escape. He was determined and astute, but you doubted that your father and family would follow you this far out into the middle of nowhere. Life here wasn’t perfect or easy, and there were often times (like now) when you longed for the conveniences of modern society.

But it was yours . For the first time, you could confidently say that you were in control of your own life and content - happy, even.

 And yet looking at the mess in your hands, all you can feel is unadulterated rage as you calculate about many weeks it will take for the general store to have black paint again. 

Weeks. Months , maybe. You don’t have months. 

The sheriff had paid good money to have his deputy’s portrait remade, despite his lack of knowledge in your lack of knowledge. That I-don’t-have-to-worry-about-food-or-rent-for-the-cold-season kind of money that you couldn’t just pass up on. All he had heard was that you were a painter from the north - a skill no one had the luxury for this far out west - and all you had heard was the promise of financial security .

 In your turmoil, you’d nearly forgotten about your unlucky patron - a tall, broad, and stolid man with inky black hair and sullen eyes that tracked you about the room as you had prepared to paint him. Deputy Choso sat atop your rickety stool, poised for his portrait to be painted. His impatience radiates throughout the room.

The portrait painting hadn’t been his idea, but his mentor’s. An apology from the sheriff after his original portrait - the one he received after his installation as deputy of your quaint township, conceived by a much older, real artist passing through town - was bullet-whipped in a close call with a gang member turned near - escapee at the station.

While you weren’t there for the initial conversation - or however Sheriff Nanami decided to break the news to his young deputy - judging by the icy demeanor and rigid posture he had maintained since his arrival, you can only imagine that the gift had been met with some measure of reluctance.

The deputy had arrived at your doorstep in the early hours of the morning looking haggard and half-ready to jog back downstairs and escape on his horse, maybe relay some poorly composed excuse to his mentor about why he couldn’t see this through when you first opened the door to greet him.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen each other at all in the two years since that fateful encounter. Your tiny town was exactly that - tiny. The proximity of everything compared to the vastness of the empty desert made it so that no one strew too far from home without the purposeful intent of doing so. You had always seen Choso in passing on the way your way out of the general store, making his survey rounds about town, or on his way into the saloon after a long day, pretending not to see the way you slide from the bar to the furthest corner of the room at his arrival. 

Admired him quietly from afar all the while he seemed to avoid you like the plague. Straight up ignored you, even.

Head down, gaze averted. Worn gallon hat shielding the upper half of his face. Never offering more than a polite nod if you happen to be roped into the same conversation. But seeing each other like this, up close, without the usual buffers of his colleague, your nosy neighbors, or drunken bar patrons, was an entirely different beast.

At the sight of you, the shock on his face was plain as day no matter how quickly he schooled his expression into one of impassivity. You couldn’t blame him, maybe even look at him similarly - overnight, the anxiety leading up to this appointment had crept into your bloodstream and buzzed in your ears like a pesky mosquito. If he ever asked how you had gotten to the door so quickly, or if you had been waiting up on him by the door, you would lie. Profusely.  

After inviting him in wordlessly with a tight smile and excusing yourself to gather your things, Choso had taken a moment to take in your other works littered about the tiny studio - horses, lots of them, racing thunderously alongside dusty mesas and atop desert plateaus. Vivid oranges, murky browns, and brilliant blues dance across his vision.

Snakes too - long, scaly reptiles with cavernous maws bearing thin, murderous, and razor-sharp teeth. Choso feels like he could prick his finger just touching the painting.

You’d taken careful time to mimic the way the relentless desert sun made the scales of the reptilian appear nearly wet and shiny, its eyes glinting soullessly back at him from different angles. No people, though , he notices. No faces.

 He’s in the middle of wondering when the last time you saw a snake this close to town was when he notices you freeze in his periphery, staring into a wooden case.

The deputy shifts in his seat; this is already taking longer than he anticipated, and you have yet to even start painting.

“Ma’am,” he calls out again when you don’t respond, pursing your lips as you struggle to think of what to say. You can hear him trying to bite back the bark of annoyance in his voice. “Are you okay?”

Not at all. “Absolutely.” You offer him a placid smile if only to see him relax a little. 

Recalling the pale look on his face when he first marched up to your little studio above the local saloon, you get the sense that despite his usual impassivity,  this appointment isn’t easy for either of you.

Deputy Choso Kamo is the young gunslinging protege to your town’s sheriff, a champion fighter with his own tall tales from the desert tied to his name. 

In any other situation - if you were anyone else - this would be an honor beyond your imagination for the amateur artist you considered yourself to be. 

There was a time when Deputy Kamo would stroll through the center of your dusty little square in the early morning hours of a Sunday on his brooding black mare, surly and stolid, and the sun would roll in behind him as if waiting for his arrival for permission to set. Women would flock to the windows of the chapel to snag a glimpse of the gunslinger and peak behind their hands at him in passing. Men would amble out onto the deck of the saloon to gawk at him in the guise of appraisal, arms crossed, fingers resting on the hostlers of their guns. 

Of course, that was in the earlier days, when he first took up the position as Sheriff Kento Nanami’s secondhand man. Before you arrived. That was what was told to you after you had already made your own unforgettable first impression.

You knew the deputy as simply Choso, the man who you fucked half senseless the first night you arrived in his small town.

You had been drunk, celebrating your first night of true freedom with as much ale as your silver could carry. And he had been there. Hair long and unruly, observing you from his quieter corner of the saloon. Never looking away when your gaze caught his, finally noticing him looking, watching. Not a belt or badge or holster in sight - just quiet, confident resolve, and enough money to buy you one more drink before you invited him back to your closet-sized rented room.

He had probably figured you were a city slicker just passing through, journeying to the booming mining cities near the coast. It had probably never crossed his mind that you would stay.

And yet here you were, having never spoken to each other again in the two years since that fateful night and clutching your half-melted paint palette between the two of you like it would shield him from you.

Or vice versa.

Choso glances at the wooden case again and then places both hands on his belt with a sigh, arms akimbo. “Look, if you’re going to be weird about this-,”

“No, no, not at all!” You grimace and sigh, flipping the oily mess in his direction, frown growing when the paints slosh in their pans. “I’ve run out of black. That was the last of the only tube I had.”

“So what does that mean? You can’t paint?” You try not to feel a bit hurt at the hint of hopefulness in his voice. You know this interaction is awkward - you’ve been dancing around each other for two whole years, there’s only so many people in this tiny town - but you hadn’t thought your company was that unbearable.

“No, I can still start, it’ll just take a little longer. It takes a while for the general store to order the paint, and even longer for it to get. But maybe I can order the materials to make the paint a little faster if I can just get my hands on some linseed oil…”

At this point, you’re murmuring more to yourself and into the canvas propped in front of your reluctant subject than to the young deputy himself, who has quickly schooled his expression back into one of disinterest. All he hears is that he’ll be seeing you a lot more often than he already had expected, quickly coming to the same conclusion you have.

Much of his appearance and uniform attire were comprised of dark greys and browns - hell, his hair was black. His skin took on a gold tone from long hours in the sun. Tiredness cast a dark shadow beneath his low-lidded eyes. Like many of the men who spent their time out in the wilderness, he seemed to carry pieces of it with him. If you didn’t come into possession of any black paint any time soon, this process would take much longer than either of you had anticipated. 

 “I can still get started.”

As if sensing his uneasiness, you meet his gaze full-on for the first time since greeting him at the door. And then you add, a little quieter, “But we don’t have to do this if you really don’t want to.”

His brows shoot up in surprise, contemplative, as if recognizing that this is the closest either of you has ever gotten to addressing the massive elephant in the room. His fingers idly fiddle with the gold plate at his belt, palms curling over the leather at his waist, and you try not to remember the way they felt bracing your hips. Your thighs. The way his grasp had trembled when you touched him.

It was all so long ago, and yet somehow not long enough. The faded memory is now clear in your mind at your forced proximity.

Choso considers leaving. He thinks of Nanami, of how he’ll probably pry the real reason for his reluctance right out of him with little to no effort the moment the young deputy tells him that he’s no longer interested in receiving the sheriff’s gift. He thinks of how the man will most likely march him right back into your meager studio and sit in the corner and watch . He’d rather not have this debacle unfold in front of an audience, much less his mentor. 

The deputy is facing an internal uphill battle of his own as he struggles and fails to repress the memory of your last private encounter with every minute of sitting in your presence. Fighting back a warm blush that threatens to spill over his cheeks when he remembers the last time he was in this room. If he is uncomfortable now, he can only imagine the immense discomfort that would come with the sheriff seeing him so on edge like this. So openly undone by your mere appraisal..

Choso is a grown-ass man who will not run away from a gift just because he can’t unsee you bent over this very same stool two years ago, crying out on his cock.

“I can do this,” he resolves and then reddens with the realization that he has exposed a bit of his inner dialogue when you frown, scrambling to rephrase his words. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

His heart aches a little at the way your expression shutters, closed off, but then again maybe you’re just reflecting his own. “Take as much time as you need, I mean. It’s up to you,” He tries again, but you’ve already returned your attention to your easel with a sharp nod, ducking behind your canvas. 

This way, he can’t see the way your hand trembles when you make your first brush stroke.

Your appointments are sparse and brief. 

At first, the whole ordeal is kind of a burden. It’s not that Choso is too busy to give it much thought - not really . Your town is quiet and picturesque - an unknown speck of nothing smack dab in the middle of nowhere. A watering hole, maybe, to those who wandered across the wild desert in gangs. Choso has done his best to keep the peace in your region, even in the few years before your arrival. Between him and the presence of Nanami - a legendary quick draw -  keeping the unruly at bay, it’s been a while since the young deputy had come across anyone that he could truly consider his rival.

The problem is that he does give it too much thought.

He only sees you maybe once or twice a week. The appointments are brief - there is only so much you can do to add to the portrait when you’re missing such a vital color, and for all of the patience and timeliness rumored to have carried his infamous gunslinging career, Choso is terrible at sitting still for too long.

You being, well, you , doesn’t help his case much either.

When he is not with you, Choso finds his thoughts drifting back to your studio. He thinks back to your many landscape paintings; the snakes and the way you paint their glittering scales. The distinct lack of portraits in your gallery despite being commissioned to make one. There seem to be more iterations of the desert each week he comes to visit as if you’re missing something you can’t quite put your finger on with each new edition. 

He daydreams about the way your bare ankles cross as you sit on a stool of your own. You’ve eventually stopped wearing shoes in his presence (he takes that as a sign of you being more comfortable with him rather than just simply too lazy to do anything about it when he comes through). 

His mind wanders to the pensive look on your face when you tune him out and really get to work. To that scrutinizing gaze you turn on him every so often while he poses, in the moments when you’re willing to pry yourself from the canvas to refresh yourself on the subject you’re replicating. He ruminates on the furrow of your brow, and how the first time he saw it he was knuckle-deep in your wet heat, wringing the sweetest sounds from your mouth.

But worst of all he thinks of your hands. Your fingers more accurately. The digits that wield your brush and paint palette with practiced ease. He imagines the grip of your fingers on the brush and recalls a time when they braceleted his neck and squeezed. The ghost of the delicious pressure of your fingertips against his skin, the band of your knuckles wrapped around his throat, haunts him on the hottest desert nights. 

Choso is reluctantly obsessed with the memory of you choking him, subconsciously chasing that shock of surprise at the sensation, followed by the rush of pleasure that sent him quickly tumbling over the edge faster than he ever had in his life. The feeling had hit him before he had even known was what happening. He remembers with stark clarity wrenching out of the grasp of your tight heat in surprise before spilling onto the wooden floor with a sharp cry. The cocktail of shame and confusion in his stomach at the sight of your pleased smile.

And then, as he makes his way into your modest studio, mentally preparing himself for another round of sitting as still as a statue, he reminds himself that that night was a one-off, one-time thing.

When he’s not plagued by his growing hunger for you, Choso has come to enjoy this moment of silence and stillness away from his usual routine. Typically, his days are filled with patrols about the perimeter of the town or hauling overzealous drunkards from the bar. He has been long familiar with the mercilessness of the desert this far west, the maliciousness that lurks in animals and people alike. 

While the bored bumble of your small town was reprieve itself, the young deputy can’t help but begin to look forward to his afternoons cooped up in your rented room. 

He stares at you from behind the canvas and wonders if you’d sound the same as you remember if he got his hands in the way he’s been itching to. Restraining to. Wonders if he got up from his station and crowded you by your canvas if you’d brace his neck with your small hands again just to keep him at bay.

You refuse to speak to him and yet he craves your presence even in your tense silence. He craves the solace of your company. Knowing he is your singular focus for just a small portion of time. Watching you watch him as you - supposedly – immortalize his face into a masterpiece.

When you finally receive news that the general store has ordered your paint and it will be here before the summer turns to autumn, Choso can’t help but wonder if you’ll paint him with the same quietly murderous black eyes as your snakes. 

He knows now that you are actually capable of painting human bodies, despite his earlier skepticism. Albeit only from the chest up, Choso’s painted double takes on a broad and heroic stance, filling out his deputy uniform with all of the muscle and build of somebody sculpted by hard work and hardship. 

All that’s missing is his face. 

The deputy talks to you now, speaking freely, offering quiet words here and there. There is a shared sense of amicableness between the two of you. A shared, unspoken understanding that you’d both silently chosen to ignore whatever had transpired up to this moment, for the sake of the commission. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice when your gaze lingers on his face for longer than probably necessary. That doesn’t mean his eyes don’t track your hands as you move about the canvas.

 Eventually, every time he comes by, you update him on the last thing the general store told you about the status of your paint order, and he wracks his brain to calculate when he’ll see you next. How long this will last. 

He doesn’t know if he can go back to ignoring each other after this.

--

It wasn’t until Deputy Kamo became a regular fixture in your routine that you would feel the cool bite of the steel and the worn wooden handle between your own two palms.

Guns, the indiscriminate dictators of the lawless West, were not an uncommon sight. Men carried them as casually as cigars. It was a less common occurrence for women, although the wives of cow wranglers were known to be familiar with riffles. Every so often when he would visit, you would curiously watch out of the corner of your eye as he would remove the weapon from his holster and place it gently on your rickety excuse for a kitchen table. When you ended your last painting session by asking Choso if he could teach you how to handle a revolver, he almost whited out at the concept.

He looks at you now as you balance the device in hesitant hands, impassive as ever. 

“You’re going to hurt yourself more than someone else with a grip like that.”

You huff and wordlessly adjust your hold on the weapon, frown furrowing your features. Trying hard to recall the deputy’s earlier patient instruction. The pair of you stand on the outskirts of town, at the lip of his patrol range. As far out into the desert as you’re comfortable venturing. The candlelights of your township twinkle in the distance like little figurines in the fading sunlight. 30 feet away, a beer mug balances on a dead log, perched directly in your line of sight. 

You hope he can’t feel the way you tense when Choso wraps his arms around your frame from behind, readjusting your grip with his own. 

“Breathe,” he admonishes.

“I am.”

“Right.”

His tone is clipped as he takes a step back, and you can’t help but frown a little as he steps away.

“Shoulders,” he corrects you, and you adjust accordingly, rolling them down and back, away from your ears. Not having made your first shot yet, you’re silently taken aback by how cold and still the device is in your hands. Unable to fully comprehend the violence it could administer - loud and quick and unforgiving. Permanent.

The sun sinks. The sound of crickets gets a little louder.

“You’re alright,” the deputy calls from behind you, softly, as though sensing the fear crawling up your throat. “Focus, don’t think. Steady.”

You level the revolver.

“Aim,” your finger rests on the trigger. A slight tremor in your stance. 

“Fire.” 

Too much happens all at once. The crack of the revolver is deafening, the force of the firearm rocking you back in your stance. You cringe. Your ears ring, and your shoulders burn. Tears well up in your eyes on instinct. The once cool metal now radiates with a minacious warmth. Your elbows drop but you keep the weapon extended as far from your body as possible.

“Did I hit it?” You face him rather than your makeshift target, as if afraid to be greeted with the sight of the aftermath of some sort of carnage and not just some shattered beer mug. 

The air tastes like gunpowder when you speak. Choso takes one glance over your shoulder and grimaces.

“Depends on what you were tryna’ hit.”

You whirl around, indignant. “What-,”

A gaping hole now graces the side of the barrel. In your haste to shoot, you’d completely missed your target, the mug having fallen into the shrubbery with the force of your firearm.

Choso is patient and watchful. He slips the revolver from your grasp, easily dismissing your disgruntled look. “Go pick it up. Try again.”

You try not to roll your eyes and gripe at the patronizing tone he’s taken on and fail as you trudge toward your fallen target. Wondering again why you had thought that he of all people would be better to ask to sate your curiosity rather than any of the other gun-totting residents of town. Nanami was just as accessible as his deputy.

He’d probably charge me for the lessons, you muse, take it out of my commission or something.

As you reach for the beer mug, the snake sees you before you see it, but Choso is faster.

A flash of reptilian skin and teeth whips in your direction, sending you startling backward and falling on your ass.

“Shit!”

Two gunshots ring out in quick succession, but you feel the whiz of the bullets go by more viscerally than you hear them. 

The deputy’s gentle hand on your shoulder wrenches you from the shock of your fright.

“Are you okay?” The question is asked with such sincerity you have to look up at him in astonishment. The sight that greets you sends chills up your spine. Choso’s stolidity largely remains the same, but after studying his figure for weeks on end, you can see the cracks in his composure. The tightness of his jaw. The knuckle-white grip on the weapon in the hand not holding you. You zero in on his comfortable grasp on the metal, trailing your gaze up his sun-warm arms and well-toned neck and nearly flinch at what you see when you meet his eyes.

It’s a fleeting look, one you would have missed if you had looked back at him a second too late. That wild thing that is found in all desert things. That violence. It dances in the blown pupils of his eyes, wicked, sharp, and hungry and suddenly you understand the stories. Suddenly you can’t help but marvel that once long ago, there had been a moment when you had a creature capable of such violence crumble beneath your simple touches. You know he can feel the way you tremble a little in his grasp, even as you nod and straighten up, dusting off your skirt.

“Yeah I’m-,”

The snake twitches violently in the dry grass and the deputy is quick to react, drawing back from you to stomp on the beast’s neck with such force and precision it shocks you more than the initial attack. The thing makes a pained, high-pitched wheezing sound akin to a shriek before going limp under his boot as Choso twists his heel sharply. Blood turns the desert floor a murky brown. 

For a moment, the two of you stare at the thing. It’s nearly as long as you. White, reptant eyes stare unseeingly back at you. 

Choso sighs, turning away from you almost sheepishly. He considers asking if this is the snake you’ve been painting. Instead, he shakes the blood off the bottom of his shoe and starts with, “‘Sorry you had to see that.”

He knows that despite your few years here, you’re still not akin to the dangers of the wilderness. You never wander too far from the confines of your township. You are far from the comforts and safety of the city you once called home. He doubts the men of New England are shooting each other willy-nilly in the streets. Knowing this, the guilt he feels is immense. He shouldn’t have agreed to teach, let alone see you outside of your appointed painting sessions.

So it is his turn to be shocked when he registers the look on your face to be one of approval. Admiration, naked and plain on your face. The expression of someone who just experienced a revelation. As you stare up at him in wonder, something hot coils beneath his stomach.

“Don’t be,” you finally say, sneering at the snake and spinning sharply on your heel. The moment is broken. “I’m not.”

--

The day you finally get black paint is more momentous than it really should be. The general store owner has to keep you from nearly breaking down his doors when the morning after the shipment arrives, relieved to put an end to your incessant hounding. If there was anyone else more ready for you to complete your portrait commission than your deputy, it was the store owner. 

Choso tries not to frown at the news when he meets up with you for what would now be the very last time, especially when you seem to have lightened up significantly at the return of this pigment to your arsenal. You’re giddy - you can finally give this man a face. And hair!

Caught up in your satisfaction, you hardly notice the subject of your masterpiece fidgeting in his seat more than usual. He’d rather not admit it now, but the deputy is distraught at the thought of things returning to normal after this. The sense of finality that lingers in the room disturbs him.  He revels in your quiet but stern presence, the passion and dedication to your craft. That odd hunger for danger and risk that reflects in your paintings a craving you seem too embarrassed to put a name to, but too curious to fully ignore.

 Choso would like to consider himself an honorable man of the law - he dons his badge with pride and purpose. But before that, he was a boy in the desert with a gun and enough bullets and anger to strike as deadly and indiscriminately as that snake. That life, no matter how far in the past, sticks with him and reflects off of him in an intangible way that even without seeing his scars and bullet wounds, people just know . Most strangers and visitors, especially women from the city, would turn their cheek to his particular brand of unruliness.

For a moment, you seemed to want to eat him whole despite of it. 

As you meticulously mix the black paint, your movements are precise, almost reverent. Choso watches you work, the evening sun casting long shadows across the room. The air feels heavy with anticipation, charged with an energy neither of you can ignore.

With each stroke of your brush, the likeness of Choko begins to take shape on your canvas. His features emerge from the blankness with startling clarity.

The sun sets, dying your small studio in hues of pink and orange, and you finally step back from your easel with an air of completion. Choso can feel his heart pounding in his chest when you gesture for him to come to look, his breaths becoming shallow and quick. He thinks of taking a glance, granting you a decisive farewell, and never speaking to you again, and his chest aches. 

“What do you think?” you ask as he rounds the canvas. 

Your voice is smaller than he’s ever heard it. Choso silently takes in his painting and tries not to sigh in relief. You have captured his stoic demeanor perfectly. Looking astute in his deputy uniform, you have portrayed him as a figure of pride and power. His face looks back at him with a gaze so steady and confident he’s almost unnerved.

“So?” You ask, trying and failing not to appear anxious.

 “Have you always known how to paint faces?”

You blanch and whirl on the man you’ve spent most of your summer studying in this exact same studio. “Did you not think I could do it?”

Choso shrugs, and nods to the little corner cluttered with your other discarded pieces of work. “Didn’t see any other portraits."

“It’s just not what I’m into painting right now,” you sputter, indignant. “Why didn’t you think to ask?”

The deputy mumbles, aptly studying the heel of his boots. “Thought you’d paint mine in the shape of a horse or somethin’.”

The man admits it so forlornly, you can’t help but chuckle, turning away to pack up your materials and allow him to take a closer look. “Maybe I should’ve.”

He says nothing in response, and you don’t look back to catch his expression. The silence that follows. You’re both hesitating and you know it.

Choso is the first to break.

“I’m sorry for what happened after…after we met for the first time. I shouldn’t have left like that.”

You sigh and put your brushes down, unwilling to turn and face him just yet. “I feel like all you do is apologize to me lately. We gotta put a stop to that.”

You wait for him to laugh you off and excuse himself, trying to offer him an out. Your tone is playful, joking, but Choso can sense the sincerity in your words. You can’t see it, but he shakes his head, adamant. “I was scared.”

The omission weighs heavy between the two of you.

“That I’d hurt you?” You wonder aloud, knowing that’s not the truth but pressing him anyways. You think of how he towers over you easily, how he could probably snap your wrists with two of his fingers, and can't help but laugh at the idea of this death machine of a man finding you physically threatening. But there was something else - 

“No,” he admits, almost a whisper this time, still full of resolve. “That I liked it.”

You finally face him, inching closer, still unsure. Your breath catches in your chest at the sight of his expression. Open and vulnerable, eyes wide and expressive with want.

“We can try something else,” you offer, pouncing on the opportunity. “If you’re feeling brave.”

A challenge. For the first time, he is willing to confront the suffocating something between the two of you - desire . The pure longing and awe on your face after the snake incident is imprinted on the forefront of his mind and haunts him as frequently as this memory of your hands around his neck.

He reaches for those very same hands now, in silent askance. Pleading you to collar that untamed unruliness lurking beneath his skin, quell the hunger that boils in his blood.

Choso has been bored . He loves the slow pace of your quaint little town. The stability and predictability are a welcome change from the life he once lived. But… he misses the thrill of the fight. The adrenaline pumping through his veins, the euphoria that follows the moments after brushing that thin margin between life and death

He feels it again, that buzz, as he allows his odd little painter to guide him back to a seated position on the stool, undo his belt buckle and slide the leather through the loops with delicious intent. Permits you to secure the material around his wrist. Encourages you to free his hips from the denim fabric of his pants. 

He is suntanned beneath his trousers too and the thought of how that came to be makes you feel a little lightheaded. The deputy is completely bare beneath his trousers, and it occurs to you that he had been squirming in his seat originally for reasons more than just impatience. 

“Oh,” you sigh at the sight before you, breath ghosting over his cock, and Choso nearly pitches forward in your grasp at the sensation. He wrenches his bound arms towards his chest, away from where you kneel between his knees before him on the floor.

“You’re so pretty down here,” you murmur absently, thumbs rubbing along where the waistband of his pants press into the tops of his thighs, tucked just beneath his balls, and its true. His erection throbs from where it sits propped up against his tummy, red and leaking under the weight of your attention. A smattering of soft, curly hair runs a trail from his stomach to his groin.

He keens when you press a kiss to the base of his dick, thumbs tracing a new path at the crest of his hips.

“Please, quickly, please-,” he stammers, flush from the neck down and willing himself not to tremble in your hold. “Gotta get back soon and, ah -,”

Choso’s resolve and dedication to his job falls apart at the feeling of your wet mouth on him, warm and insistent. You nod and hum in understanding, wordless, but he feels it all with you pressed this close to where he wants you. The deputy would have half a mind to be embarrassed at the high pitch of his voice if he weren’t so eager to feel you again.

“You remember my first night here, right?” You say, mockingly, pressing a soft kiss to his dripping head. “You were pretty then too. With my hands around your neck.”

Choso’s knuckles are pressed tightly to his forehead as he purses his lips. He can’t respond, can’t even bite back and tell you to shut up when you call him something as silly as pretty. Eyes rolling back as he sinks into the warm cavern. He’s in heaven. He’s in hell.

You can’t help but marvel at how pliant he is in your hold, drawing back to press a quick kiss to the inside of his thighs when they tremble. A warmth and wetness builds between your own legs at the sight.  When you draw him into your mouth again, you have to brace an arm across his hip to keep him from fucking into the back of your throat.

“Please, fuck, hurry ,” 

He’s writhing, throbbing as you swallow him down. You had had your fair share of promiscuity on your journey west - part of the reason you had departed high society - but Choso was an impressive task. You moan at the weight of him in your mouth as he struggles against the slow, relentless suction of your mouth. The patch of hair beneath his stomach grows damp with a viscous mix of your saliva and tears.

When you pull back suddenly, his hips stutter forward, and you have to duck out of the way to avoid being blinded.

“Fuck, sorry,” Choso gasps. “Really sorry.”

He watches with breathless anticipation as you draw two fingers from the hand not braced across his hip to your open lips, coating them in spit until they’re slick and shiny.

“Scoot forward a lil,” is the only direction he receives before he feels rather than seems that same arm wrap behind him, wedged between his legs and the seat of the stool. His ass hangs precariously off the ledge, the seat of the stool digging into his lower back. You’re much closer in this new position, straddling one of his elongated legs he sits with a slight bend in his knees to balance against the seat. 

When he feels your slick fingers brush his puckered hole, Choso lurches again at the foreign feeling, and you narrowly avoid being stabbed in the face once more. You can’t help but grin, all teeth. Choso gets the foreboding feeling like he’s about to be eaten alive.

“Fuck, wait, wait,” he pleads, pitiful, but you are already rubbing slick circles around his rim. “N-not there.”

You coo, "Relax, I promise I’ll make you feel good.”

The deputy shakes a little more in his seat, but doesn’t protest further, not when you’re returning the attention of your hot mouth back to the head of his cock, tongue torturing him with tight circles and light flicks before you press him further into your throat. He rocks his hips into your mouth with draw out pants of ha, ha, ha that only serve to fuel your own arousal. The sight of such a dangerous man, crumbling at your simple ministrations, has you pressing your thighs together You rock back on the deputy’s leg with a moan, subtly shifting so that the tip of his point leather boot presses blissfully into the soak crevice of your undergarments. 

“Huh?” The deputy hiccups, having given up hiding his face in order to lightly balance his bound hands against the top of your head. “A-are you-?”

Your fingers quicken in pace from where they slide around his untouched rim. This time when he bucks into your mouth, you don’t pull away, leaning in further to trap him between the heat of your mouth and the relentless sensation of your fingers. The deputy cries out, feeling helpless.

“I’m gonna, fuck, fuck m’gonna-!”

Choso sobs, his bound arms fully wrapping around the back of your head to thrust fully into your throat until your lips press fully into his abdomen and hold you there. Barely able to warn you before he locks up in your hold, cumming hard and damn near babbling at the sensation as you choke and struggle in his grasp, surprised. He cums long and and hard, gently rocking his hips into your face even as his comes down until you’re slapping profusely at his thigh to release your head.

The gunslinger is silent, eyes tightly shut as he struggles to catch his breath and regain his sense. Distantly, he hears you get to your feet, allows you to pull his hands away from his face so you can unwind the leather biting into his skin. The red marks they leave behind cause the red flush of his cheeks to flare up again.

He sits upright on the stool and peaks one eye open to glance at you, puttering around your small kitchen for a glass of water. Then he glances at his boots. “Did you get off on my shoe?”

He wonders idly if it was the same foot he used to kill the snake. You don’t respond, but the way you slam a glass of water beside him on a work table is answer enough.

--

Not much is said on his departure. You clean up and share soft smiles. He picks up his portrait, makes his way to the door, lingers with his hand at the handle.

“‘Ppose I should get going then.” His tries to keep the resignation out of his voice, but you pick up on it easily.

He makes to head out resolve to bother you any further fizzling at your slow response, but then you’re crossing the small distance to stop him, fingers digging into the thick material of his uniform.

“This won’t be the last time I see you, right?” You ask him. Implore him. “This time?”

The deputy breaks out into a grin, expressive as you’ve ever seen him, before pressing a kiss to your forehead and ducking before you, hand on his hat.

“At your service ma’am," he says, with an earnest grin and the tilt of his gallon hat. “Always."

--

“Hm.”

The town’s sheriff stands beside Choso, gazing contemplatively at his new and improved portrait from where it hangs in the place of its predecessor. He watches his mentor tilt his head to the side, hand at his chin. “I dunno. Something about it feels very..”

Sheriff Nanami’s gaze flicks between Choso and his replication. “Horselike?”

Choso nearly keels over in his boots. The sheriff waves him off dismissively. “Ask her to do it again, or at least touch it up a bit. We paid good a good amount of money for it.” 

He sighs, pinching his brow, remembering the shoot out and prison escape in the manner parents do when reminded of delinquent children. The deputy gawks at the portrait. Maybe he really didn’t understand art?

As if sensing his subordinate’s hesitation, Nanami clasps him on the back, marching back to his desk. “Can’t hurt to ask, right? Beside, how long could it possibly take?”

#choso x reader #choso smut #choso x reader smut #jjk smut #choso fanfic #jjk fanfic #gunslinger!choso #cowboy!choso #above snakes #choso angst #choso fluff #jjk

[imagineteamfreewill]

Gentle and Kind

Title: Gentle and Kind

Pairing: Prince!Sam Winchester x Queen!Reader

Word Count: 14k

Warnings: Arranged marriage, Christmas, threats, angst, fluff, and mentions of death, wounds, war, violence, and sex (nothing happens)

Summary: Y/N’s kingdom has been at war for a long time, and when King John offers her respite in his castle for Christmas, she eagerly agrees.

A/N: This fulfills trope #21 on my 25 Days of Tropes list! It was honestly going to be a short one shot, but it got away from me and now I think it’s the longest thing I’ve written all year. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy and that you had a safe and happy holiday season!

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Your muscles ache from weeks of fighting with the knights in your first garrison, and the dried blood in your hair is not likely to come out on its own, but for the first time in a long time, you’re relaxed. The carriage is driving through safe territory—the safest you’ve been in since Crowley invaded your kingdom and declared war on you and your people. There’s no fear of being ambushed here.

When King John sent a messenger to your war camp, you had been surprised. He isn’t known for reaching out, and to send a personal, royal messenger straight into war territory is a dangerous move. Nonetheless, the King of Ashela had invited you for a short respite in his castle, just in time for Christmas. You’d accepted after much consultation with your closest advisor, Sir Robert.

You begin traveling east to Ashela four days before Christmas Eve. Your armies travel west, back to Athos. Newer, freshly trained knights had arrived a few hours before your departure to relieve your weary soldiers and allow them rest of their own, though Sir Robert had carefully selected four of them to travel with you as your personal guard for the journey. They ride horseback outside the carriage, and Sir Robert is in the second carriage with the gifts you’ve brought for the royal family.

Charlie is resting across the carriage from you. She’s abandoned the formal dress that you know King John will expect of her as your lady-in-waiting, but you don’t blame her, nor do you correct her. Wearing trousers is easier nowadays, and you’ve done the same. You’ve gotten into the habit of wearing the traditional captain’s uniform, or even a soldier’s armor, rather than the gowns you used to wear before the war. Even as the horses carry you down the tidy forest road that leads to Ashela, you’ve donned your armor. It's a habit to put it on each morning, and you wanted to display your strength and empathy for your men even as you left them behind on the battlefield. 

You let out a restless sigh and shift in your seat, and your armor clanks as you move. You wince when something bumps into a bruise on your back. A small part of you wishes you’d chosen to wear something else, but there’s no point in stopping to take the armor off when you’re already so far into the journey.

“Do you think I’ve made the right choice?” you ask when Charlie looks over at you, no doubt checking if there’s something she can do to ease your discomfort. She’s a good friend, and you’re often grateful that you chose her to be your closest lady-in-waiting. “Do you think that leaving my men during this time is the right thing to do?”

In response, Charlie offers you a tired smile. She’d journeyed overnight to your castle—Eryas Court—then back to the war camp, in order to collect the gifts for John Winchester and his two sons. Even if they were inviting you for respite during a war, you didn’t dare show up empty-handed.

“My lady, you can only do so much. You may be a queen, but you are also just a woman,” she replies.

You sigh again and look out the window at the stars as you mull over the most recent battle plans your captains had shown you before you’d left the camp. The Elciums have been encroaching slowly upon the village that surrounds Eryas Court, but you’ve been able to keep them at bay since winter began. You’ve even managed to take back some of the territory they’d taken over the hot summer months.

The carriage falls back into silence, except for the clatter of the wheels and the constant rhythm of the horses’ hooves against the packed dirt. After a while, you find yourself nodding off with your head against the sturdy carriage wall. You don’t fight it, and you let yourself be lulled to sleep for the remainder of the journey.

Charlie’s hand over yours wakes you. You startle, and she sits back in her seat as the carriage rocks with your movement. Your hand immediately flies to where your sword would be, but you’ve unstrapped it from your side for the journey. Sir Robert had said it wouldn’t be proper for you to show up dressed for battle, so you’d met him halfway. He would keep hold of your sword, at least for the trip to Ashela. Once you arrive, he’s to return it directly to you for safekeeping. It was your father’s sword before it became yours, and you don’t trust many with it.

“It’s okay,” Charlie soothes, and you stare wide-eyed at her, gasping slightly for air. “We’ve arrived in Ashela. You slept all night, and for most of the morning.”

Nodding, you close your eyes. It’s shocking that you weren’t plagued with nightmares. The last time you left the war camp, you struggled to sleep, even in the chambers where you’d spent every night since birth, at least until the Elciums invaded.

Your mouth is dry and you swallow a few times to try and get the sandy feeling to abate. You wish you had some water, or at least something to drink. There’s a knock on the carriage window and you flinch away, sliding toward the center of the bench.

You sense Charlie shifting in her seat. “It’s one of the guards,” she says a moment later. “Are you ready to meet King John?” 

You’ve never been to Ashela before, nor have you met John and his sons. They’ve been fine neighbors, however, and you have no complaints. You hear what others say about them—the Winchester sons are strong soldiers and scholars, and King John is exacting in everything he does. They’d be formidable foes, and you’re here to make sure that your kingdoms are allied, if only informally.

You nod again, and you open your eyes as Charlie pushes open the carriage door. You lift your chin as the sun immediately floods in through the opening.

Charlie exits first, and she helps clear a path for your exit. A strong hand is offered and you use it to climb from the carriage. Your legs are stiff from sitting so long, especially after months of fighting, and you have to bite back a groan as your muscles stretch.

“Your Majesty,” a deep voice greets.

The winter sun is practically blinding and it takes you a second to get your wits about you. Tall, lush evergreens stand in clusters around the castle, reaching toward the bright blue sky. They’re interspersed by dark green bushes and several boulders. A forest continues behind the clearing you stand in, and the trees grow so closely that light can’t reach through their branches. The darkness this creates is both intriguing and a bit terrifying.

Snow covers the grounds and all the trees surrounding it, except for a gray stone path that has been cleared for you. King John and his entourage stand on a larger patch of gray stone a few feet away, and you bow politely in his direction. He returns the gesture.

“King John,” you say. “Thank you for your kind invitation.”

“You’re very welcome, Queen Y/N. I expect your journey was a pleasant one?”

“As pleasant as can be expected.”

You can feel everyone’s eyes on you as Charlie adjusts the chainmail hood you’ve let fall from your head, revealing the blood caked in your hair and the healing cut that follows your hairline. There’s a sizable bruise on your temple as well, from when an Elcium knight hit you with his shield.

The man to John’s right clears his throat and steps forward with a small bow. “Your Majesty, I’m Prince Dean, head of Ashela’s royal guard. Please allow me to provide you with new armor while we repair yours, and your knights’,” he adds, gesturing to the four men standing near you.

Each man stands with one hand at his side and the other resting on the hilt of his sword, and though they hold their heads high, you recognize the weariness in their stance and in their taut expressions.

“That’s very generous, Prince Dean. Thank you.” You answer with a bow of your own, and he smiles kindly before you turn your eyes to the man on the other side of the king.

He’s tall, taller than any of the men in the King’s entourage and in your guard, and his hair just barely brushes over the collar of his jacket. It’s almost chestnut in the light. When he smiles at you, the urge to smile back is so strong that you can’t fight it. You meet his eyes, and you smile for the first time in a while.

“Prince Samuel, Your Majesty,” he says. He bows, short and sweet. “If you’re ready, I can show you and your lady to your chambers. I’m sure you’re eager to rest.”

You bow back, still smiling. “Thank you, Your Highness.” You nod politely to the King and to Prince Dean, then follow Prince Samuel toward the stone castle at the end of the cleared path. Two of your men travel with you, and Charlie is close behind you to the right, but the other two knights stay with Sir Robert. You realize only as you enter the castle that you’ve left your sword behind.

Samuel leads you through the halls of his home, explaining the history of various paintings and rooms, but you only catch bits and pieces. He walks quickly, and while your armor is protective, it’s made to help you fight on horseback, not take extensive walking tours through beautiful castles.

“Here are your chambers,” Samuel finally says, and you clatter to a stop.

Charlie bumps into you, and she grabs your arm for stability. You catch Samuel’s eyes flickering down to her hands on your arm before he collects himself. Your time on the battlefield has caused your decorum to slip just enough that you know you’re being much too informal for the occasion. Suddenly very conscious of your mistakes, you clear your throat and straighten your posture, fixing him with the most composed, diplomatic look you can muster.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” You allow one of the guards to enter after Samuel opens the door, leaving you feeling a little more exposed. You’ve grown used to being surrounded by people fighting for your kingdom—fighting for you. “Your father was very kind to invite me here. We’ve brought gifts for him, and for you and Prince Dean.” You gesture back the way you’d come. “I’m sure that Sir Robert, my advisor, has already passed them along.”

Samuel dips his head in thanks, smiling. “We’re happy to have you. We’ve been trying to show more diplomacy than in the past.”

You raise an eyebrow. Most kingdoms are not so open about their goals, at least in your experience.

The guard exits and nods his approval of the chambers you’ve been given, and Charlie takes that as a sign to enter and make sure the room is prepared to her standards as well. You don’t move.

“Ashela has always been diplomatic,” you carefully reply. You’re not sure what to make of his disclosure. 

“But not always welcoming. I’m trying to change that.”

“You? Not your father?”

Samuel lifts his chin slightly at the question. There’s a hint of pride in his expression, but none in his voice as he answers, “My father has put me in charge of our relationships with neighboring kingdoms. This is one of many steps I’m— we’re taking,” he corrects, “to strengthen those bonds.”

“I see.”

You glance through the open doorway, where Charlie is instructing a chambermaid how warm you like your rooms and how often to tend to the fire. Mentally, you file away the information that Sam has just given you, then turn your focus on more concrete matters.

“I suppose there are festivities I should like to attend?”

He nods, and you can feel his gaze still on your face, even as you watch your friend peek out the windows to see the view from your chambers. “Indeed. There’s a feast tonight, shortly after sundown. I can instruct someone to fetch you.”

“I would like that very much, Prince Samuel,” you say.

You turn back to him, and he takes that as a cue to take your hand and kiss the back of your knuckles, where the skin is rough and scarred from so much fighting. The gesture is simple, but it surprises you nonetheless. Prince Samuel is gentle and chivalrous. It’s been a long time since you’ve been treated that way. Your hand seems to tremble as you pull away, and your breath catches over a lump in your throat.

“Very well. I will see you tonight, Ma’am,” Samuel says. He bows low. It’s a sign of respect he’s not obligated to, and it makes you want to cry. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep over the past few weeks or maybe it’s something else, but to be treated like a queen—not just a captain—is something you didn’t know you’d missed.

“No need for titles,” you find yourself saying, your voice thick with sudden emotion. “You may call me Y/N, if you wish.”

If Sir Robert were here, he’d be interrupting and excusing away your brash actions, but you’re practically alone and the only remaining guard won’t speak up, even if he wanted to. It’s up to Sam to respond, and he only stops and stares at you for a long moment. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest as you wait, desperately hoping he won’t be cruel.

“Sam,” he finally replies. He offers you a small smile. “You may call me Sam.”

You nod and smile wide, glossy-eyed as Sam turns and heads further down the hallway, opposite the direction he’d first brought you. Once he’s around the corner, you step into the warmly lit chambers, where Charlie has moved onto the wardrobe of clothes that has been prepared for you. Clearly, they hadn’t expected you to show up with all of your finery, and you’re thankful that they had the forethought to provide something for you.

The other guard exits and closes the door behind him, allowing you privacy as the two knights take their places in the hallway. You stay close to the door, where you can see the whole space.

“The Prince seems very polite,” Charlie says after a few moments. Her back is to you as she sorts through the dresses.

“Very.” You don’t say anything more.

“And handsome, too,” she prods.

“Charlie,” you warn. “I have other, more important matters than a polite and handsome prince.”

She sighs and you can picture her rolling her eyes at you. Finally, she pulls a plain dress in your favorite color from the wardrobe, then turns and holds it up for you.

“This will do for now,” she decides. “But I’ll have to find you something else for the feast.”

You glance at her, not bothering to ask how she already knows about the feast, before turning in a circle to take in the enormous room that has been given to you for your respite. It’s bigger than the counsel tent at the war camp. The bed itself could fit the entire map table, and the size of the fireplace reminds you of the enormous bonfire that the men use to cook their meals. The walls and floor are made of the same tan stone as the rest of the castle, but the stone is so smooth that it reflects the light from the flickering flames. There’s a dark wood door in the corner, which you guess leads to a room for Charlie, if Ashelan castles are built like your own.

Everywhere you look, there are lavish curtains, tapestries, and paintings framed in gold. There’s a mound of pillows to lounge on by the fire, and several dark wood chairs standing behind them in a semicircle. Their carvings are so elaborate that you hesitate to sit in them. The bed is draped with soft, plush fabrics in deep greens, reds, and a creamy white that reminds you of the milk your nursemaid brought for you as a young girl. Evergreen boughs are wound around the posts of the bed, though they’re partially hidden by the fabric curtains that have been fastened against the wood. The whole room has been decorated with more sweet-smelling pine branches, as well as clumps of red berries that glisten in the light from the fire and the candles in the window. It’s amazing to you that the candles are already lit, given that it’s only midday, but Ashela has many customs that you’ve always found strange. For instance, Prince Dean was married several years ago in an arranged marriage. Your father had explained the ancient custom to you, explaining the benefits to each kingdom. You still remember that conversation so clearly, and even though your father has long since passed, his words are forever imprinted in your memory.

“Sometimes doing what’s best for your people isn’t immediately what’s best for you, Y/N, but if you’re lucky enough, the two will align.”

“It’s too much,” you murmur, and you escape back out into the hallway, leaving the door to your chambers wide open as you flee. Your heart is racing again and it feels like the walls are starting to close in around you. The panic is irrational. You know it is, but you can’t stop it as it pushes you forward down the hallway.

The guards give you worried looks, but you ignore them as you hurry around the corner where Sam had disappeared. You walk quickly, following the sound of loud voices until you reach an open-air chamber where Sam and his brother are lounging at a table. Two gold goblets sit in front of them, and a candlelit tree has been placed in the corner of the room. An enormous dark fur blankets the floor. The fireplace here is as big as the one in your guest chambers, if not bigger.

Both men stand as soon as they see you.

“Your Majesty,” Dean greets, and he frowns slightly when he looks at you properly. “Is everything alright?”

You clear your throat in an attempt to compose yourself. “I desire a moment alone,” and then you add, “With Sam.”

Dean raises an eyebrow and glances at his brother, who nods slightly but doesn’t say a word.

“Very well,” Dean says. He picks up his goblet and drinks the last of its contents, tilting his head back to get the last drops. “I’ll be in my study.” He nods politely at you before leaving through a passageway just to the right of the tree.

Sam waits until the sound of his brother’s footsteps has disappeared completely before he speaks up.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“I apologize, but I must ask for new chambers.” Sam’s face twists in confusion and, predictably, he opens his mouth to ask why. You continue before he has the chance. “I have been fighting with my men for many moons, and the rooms you have given me are much too lavish. I’m afraid I simply won’t be comfortable in something so big, as foolish as it sounds.”

Though your words are composed and formal, you wring your hands in front of you, hoping Sam will ignore the way you can’t stop fidgeting. You feel so flighty that it makes you irritated even with yourself.

His expression turns sympathetic. “I see. There must be something I can do to convince you to stay, Y/N. Those chambers have been carefully prepared for you by some of our most trusted servants. If I were to request the change, I’m afraid they might take offense.”

“You care deeply for them,” you say, quieter now. Something about him and the sound of his voice calms you, and the anxiety you’d felt only moments before has started to diminish.

“I do,” he answers. “They work hard, and they deserve to be treated with respect.”

“I agree.” You nod and fall silent, looking down at your hands. Suddenly, you feel very foolish to have searched him out to ask for something so trivial. You’re a queen, after all. You should be used to nicer things than this. You shouldn’t be so overwhelmed by a room so similar to the ones from your childhood.

“It wouldn’t be offensive, however,” Sam begins, and you look up at him, holding your breath, “to only have one Ashelan maid to assist you.”

You exhale a small sigh of relief, as small as you can manage without being completely obvious. “I suppose one would be sufficient. She could help Charlie. Lady Charlie, I mean.”

He smiles. “I’m sure Lady Charlie will grow accustomed to our castle soon enough. She seems very intelligent.”

“Oh?” You can’t help but ask what he means. Charlie is smart, there’s no denying it, but many men have mistaken her for a frail, unassuming creature before. Sam would be one of the first to correctly identify her.

“She has the same look in her eyes as you. You are not one to be underestimated. I’ve heard about the way you fight on the battlefield.”

Before you can respond, there’s a noise in the hallway and you look over your shoulder to see what it is. One of your guards in the entrance. Your stomach sinks, knowing that he’s most likely been sent to retrieve you.

“I should allow you to get settled,” Sam says. He nods politely at the guard before looking back at you. “Though I hope you will tell us about your traditions in Athos at the feast. I am eager to learn more.”

You watch him for a moment, judging if he’s earnest in his request, and then you nod. Offering him a small smile, you follow the guard back to your guest chambers, where Charlie is waiting patiently for you, a warm bath already drawn.

The night is hard. After your bath and a meal brought up by the Ashelan maid, you try to rest before the feast, but the nightmares come quickly this time. You toss and turn, and you wake up screaming. The guards burst into your room as Charlie rushes to you from where she’s been inspecting your armor for what needs the most care and attention. 

Once it’s determined that you aren’t in any danger, she convinces the guards to withdraw. She holds you then, letting you cry in her arms as you tremble, remembering the horrors of the dream and the reality that shapes them. You cry yourself to sleep, and you’re certain that you only stay asleep because Charlie decides to stay with you. She tucks you back under the heavy blankets and drags one of the carved chairs over to your bedside. There, she curls up with one hand holding yours and the other propping her head up so she can rest as well. You have minimal nightmares after that, though her presence beside you is reassuring enough that the few times you do wake, you aren’t too afraid to fall back asleep.

You sleep through the feast, much to your dismay. John, Sam, and Dean are waiting for you when you enter the Great Hall to break your fast with them the next morning, however.

“I trust you slept well,” Dean says to you once you’re settled in the seat across from him. Charlie sits beside you, and Sir Robert is on your right, across from Prince Sam. John is at the head of the table. There’s another man across the table, opposite Charlie, and another on her left. You don’t recognize them, but you suspect that they’re friends of Sam and Dean, or that they’re the lords-in-waiting. John doesn’t seem to have an advisor with him, but there’s an empty seat at the far end of the table.

“As well as can be expected,” you reply. Your smile is strained, but you offer it anyway, then move your hands out of the way of the servant who comes to bring you your meal. “I apologize for missing the feast. I so badly wanted to come, but it was best that I stayed in my chambers last night.”

“We understand completely,” John tells you. “We are not strangers to war.”

You nod, and everyone goes back to eating. The Great Hall is silent. It’s a complete change from your meals in your tent at the war camp. Though you always dined with just Charlie and Sir Robert, you’d always been able to hear what was happening outside the tent walls. There’d be shouting and laughter, songs and teasing. Sometimes there was crying and men groaning through their injuries, but you ate those meals quickly.

As you eat, you look around the room. The Great Hall is decorated similarly to your chambers, with evergreen boughs, red berries, and candles that burn even in daylight, but there’s also an enormous tree at the far end of the hall. It’s lit with candles, just like the one you’d seen when you’d searched out Sam the day before. The tree stretches dozens of feet up, and you wonder how old it must be to have grown so tall. 

“We do not decorate like this in Athos,” you say, and all three Winchesters look at you in mild surprise. A bit embarrassed by their eyes on you, you falter slightly, but the interest on Sam’s face when you don’t continue spurs you on.

“You use plants here.” You gesture to the tree. “But we decorate with wooden carvings of our ancestors, and woven tapestries that we hang beside every door and window.”

“What are the tapestries?” Sam asks. His father and brother have gone back to eating, even though they still watch and listen, but he’s set down his fork and is now giving you his full attention.

“They’re different for each family. My family has tapestries that show the beginnings of our kingdom and the first king of Athos, and over the years, I have created many simple ones as gifts.”

“I’m sure they were wonderful,” Sam says. He holds your gaze for a moment before he smiles, and you smile back.

There’s a fluttering in your stomach. The clinking of John’s fork on the table makes you look away. There’s heat in your cheeks, much to your chagrin, and you exhale shakily. It’s strange to be so rattled. You’re not even sure why the conversation is affecting you so much. You’ve talked about Athoan traditions countless times before today with countless royals and monarchs. Something about Sam simply shakes you to your core.

John sips from his goblet, then gestures at Sam with the cup before he sets it back on the long table. “Samuel will show you the grounds today. I’m sure he can answer any questions you have about Ashela.”

Somewhat surprised that the King doesn’t plan to meet with you himself, you nod. It’s not atypical for kings to pass you off to one of their advisors, but you don’t mind it in this instance. You’re still weary from battle, and Sam is excellent company.

“Very well,” you reply, dipping your head just a little. You pick up your own goblet to take a sip. The drink is warm, thick, and rich, and you frown a little before peering inside the cup.

“Is everything alright?” Dean asks.

You nod and glance over at Lady Charlie. She picks up her own goblet and takes a sip as you set down yours. She pauses for a moment, her cup paused in midair, then smiles.

“Hot chocolate,” she murmurs. “It’s a traditional drink here.”

Raising an eyebrow at her, you whisper, “How do you know that?”

She gives you a sly smile and shakes her head. You know the look—she’ll tell you later.

You sit back in your seat and turn your attention to Dean, who’s still watching you. His father and Sam are both watching you now too, and Sam is frowning with obvious concern.

“Everything is fine,” you reassure them. “I’ve never had hot chocolate before. It’s delicious, John. You have fine cooks here in Ashela.”

He nods in response and stands. You stand as well, as does the rest of the table, and you watch as the King leaves through a door on one side of the Great Hall. 

Dean clears his throat. “I have duties to attend to, brother.” He claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Remember that Father said��”

Sam cuts him off. “I remember. Thank you, Dean.”

A moment later, Dean excuses himself, and you watch him leave, too. Sir Robert mumbles some excuse and bows to Sam before leaving as well, no doubt to study policies and look over ledgers in his own guest chambers. He’s always been a bit of a recluse, and there’s little privacy at the war camp. You suspect he’ll spend most of his time hidden away while you’re on respite.

You turn to Charlie. “You should rest,” you quietly tell her. “I know that you did not sleep much last night—”

“I’m fine,” she replies.

Shaking your head, you grab her hands and squeeze. “Please. I’ll feel better, even if you just relax by the fire. I feel awful that I’ve kept you up.”

Charlie nods, though you can tell she’s reluctant to leave you by the way her eyes cut to Sam. He’s pointedly staring at the candlelit evergreen and sipping his hot chocolate, giving you the semblance of privacy even though he’s mere feet away.

You squeeze her hands again and offer her an earnest smile. “I’m okay. I don’t mind being with him,” you say, soft enough that you’re certain Sam can’t hear from across the table. “He’s… nice.”

This makes her smile wide, and you can practically see all the possibilities she’s conjuring up in her head.

“Nice?” Charlie teases.

You playfully scoff and drop her hands, smoothing your skirt. Turning to Sam, you say, “I’m finished eating, if you’re ready to begin.”

Sam hums and sets his goblet down. “Will Lady Charlie be joining us?”

She takes that as her cue to shake her head and curtsy. After years of practice, the action is smooth, despite the fact that she hasn’t worn a formal gown in almost a year. She’d complained in private to you that morning that she wished the two of you could continue wearing trousers, and you’d agreed. The dresses that have been provided for you in Ashela are all too big, and you’d spent part of your morning being poked and prodded by the castle seamstress as she frantically altered the bodice to fit you. They might’ve fit before the war, but the fighting has given you more lean muscle than anything. Your own dresses back at Eryas Court will likely need altering when you finally return home.

“I have other things that require my attention, my Queen,” Charlie says, and she gracefully exits the Great Hall, though not before throwing you a meaningful look before the doors close behind her.

“Shall we?” Sam asks.

You jump, surprised to find that he’s come around to your side of the table and stopped alongside you while you watched your friend depart. He offers his arm and after a very brief moment of hesitation, you take it.

You and Sam traverse the grounds on foot, and he shows you the snow-covered gardens, the stables, the knights’ training field, and the arboretum where his mother is buried. Finally, he leads you to a frozen lake set far back from the castle. It’s surrounded by the same pine trees that seem to be everywhere in Ashela, and there’s a small wooden hut sheltered by the two largest. From inside, Sam pulls out sharpened blades with leather straps. It takes you a moment to realize that they’re for skating on the ice.

“Would you like to skate?” he asks.

“I’ve never been skating before,” you admit, and you look at the lake. It’s smooth and glossy, with few imperfections on its icy surface. You can’t help but wonder if it’s actually safe. Though ice skating has grown popular in Athos since the start of your reign, you’ve never allowed your court to participate. You’ve heard too many tales of the ice breaking under the skater’s weight. A small girl in the village had drowned just last winter.

“I’ll keep you safe, Y/N. You have my word.”

Scanning Sam’s face, you try to determine whether or not you can trust him, not just to lead you around and show you the castle grounds, but with your life. 

You place your hand in his after a long moment of deliberation. “You’ll have to show me how.”

He smiles, and it’s almost as bright as the sun on the snow. You let him lead you by the hand to the edge of the lake, where a downed tree has been positioned lengthwise. Sam helps you to sit, and then he very carefully kneels in the fresh, powdery snow to help attach the blades to your boots. The knees of his trousers are soaked with snow when he stands, but he doesn’t seem to care as he sits beside you and attaches the blades to his own boots. He helps you up with both hands, encouraging you as you wobble and sway in his grip.

“Move slowly,” he advises as he steps onto the lake, leading you onto the ice as he skates backwards.

It takes all your effort and concentration to stay upright at first, but with Sam’s encouragement and gentle guidance, you quickly get your bearings. You’re able to skate around the lake on your own after only an hour’s practice.

“You’re a natural!” Sam says as he skates beside you. His pace is surely slower than it would be on his own, and you smile over at him.

“Your assistance was a great help,” you tell him. “Thank you.”

He shakes his head a little. “I have the feeling that you would have been fine on your own.”

You fall into silence as you skate side by side, but a quarter hour later, you carefully stop a few feet away from the fallen tree. Sam stops as well and he holds his hands out to help you just in case something is wrong.

“Y/N?” he asks.

“You’ve been skating for a long time, haven’t you? For several years, at least?”

Though he seems confused by your sudden question, Sam nods. “Since I was a young boy.”

Smiling, you gesture with one hand toward the open expanse of the lake. “Show me what you can do, then. You must be very skilled.”

“I don’t know if “skilled” is the correct term…” He rubs the back of his neck with his dark green mittens, and you chuckle. His nose is pink, as are his ears from where they peek out from his furry hat.

“I’m not your queen, so I can’t command you, but I am your guest. Please show me?” you ask.

He’s smiling again. “Very well. Do you want to sit?” He gestures towards the tree, the other hand already reaching for your elbow.

You shake your head. “I will stand, thank you. Now go!” You shove at him, not enough to put him off-balance, but enough that he laughs and ducks his head before he skates away.

Sam is skilled. It only takes you a minute to figure out that he had been telling the truth—he’d been skating a long, long time. He moves with great ease over the ice, and you marvel at his speed. He flies by you three times before he slows, then stops sharply. A shower of ice flies up into the air before it rains down again. His breath comes out in heavy white puffs of fog and his chest heaves with exertion, but you’re smiling wide, giddy from the show.

You clap for him. “You underestimate yourself! You’re very fast!”

He laughs as he catches his breath. “Dean and I would race as children.” He points toward the far edge of the lake, where there’s a large gap between two trees. “There’s a river there, and we’d race from here to where it meets the forest road.” He pants for a second before looking back at you. “We should return. We’ve been out in the cold for a long time.”

Nodding in agreement, you let Sam lead you off the ice and back to the log, where you clumsily unstrap your skates. He takes them and puts them away while you fix your skirts, hat, and boots. When he returns, you stand and take his arm, and the two of you head back to the castle.

You eat a small meal when you return—mostly bread, cheese, and sausage—and it’s while you’re eating that you ask Sam for a second tour of the castle. He’s more than happy to oblige.

“All of these paintings,” you say as he escorts you down a long, decorated hallway, “They have similar styles, but the others you’ve shown me do not. Who painted these?”

“I did,” Sam replies.

You stop to stare at him. “You did?” You can’t hide your surprise, though you know it’s rude. “You painted them? All of them?” There must be at least two dozen in the hall.

He nods, and his cheeks are a little pink, though the castle is much too warm for it to be from the cold. “Yes, all of them.”

Turning back to the landscape he’d just named, you marvel at it. The colors are vibrant, matching the rest of the castle, and the gold details glimmer in the candlelight. Though the sun is going down outside and there’s little light coming in from the windows, you can still see everything clearly.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Would you like to see where I paint them?” he asks.

You look away from the painting to nod. “I would like that very much, yes.”

Sam smiles and offers you his arm again, and he begins to lead you down a narrow hallway that you hadn’t noticed before. You would have labeled it a servant’s passage had the lush carpet not continued down its length. There are wooden doors every few feet, but Sam ignores them and keeps walking.

After several minutes of walking, you come to the end of the hall and the last door, which is slightly higher than the rest. There are two steps leading up to it, but Sam needs neither to step into the room. You opt to take them, and he places a hand over your head so you don’t hit it against the wooden beams that border the opening.

Though the door is smaller than normal, the room is not. The ceiling stretches high up into one of the castle’s towers, and windows let light in even from high above. The wooden floor is swept clean, and an easel is set up near the largest of three windows at eye level. It’s big enough that you could sit in it and let your legs dangle outside of the tower. The window faces the arboretum, and if you squint, you can see the frozen lake in the distance.

A table with paints and brushes is set up beside the easel. Sam approaches it so naturally that you’re sure he must spend a lot of time in this room. 

“It reminds me of my study back home,” you quietly say, and Sam looks over at you as he picks up a brush and dips it into one of the pots of pigment.

“Do you like to paint?”

You shake your head with a small smile. “It’s not one of my talents. But I like to look at art. My castle is full of paintings, tapestries, and carvings.” You pause and watch as he adds brushstrokes to the painting on the easel, easily picking up where he’d left off. “You must paint something for my castle before I leave.”

“What would you like?” he asks.

You pause and look around the room as you think. There are several paintings leaning up against the rounded walls, along with piles of supplies that look like they might topple over any second.

“Could you paint the lake? In winter?” you finally request.

The room is quiet for a moment as Sam paints. When he doesn’t reply, you look over at him. He’s staring at the canvas in front of him with his brush in mid-air, but then he turns and meets your eyes, as if he can feel you watching him.

“Why not in summer, when the grass is green and the sunlight makes the water glow? Or in spring, when the wildflowers are blooming? Or in autumn, when the wind blows clouds through the sky?”

He describes the seasons so well that you can picture the paintings in your mind, but you shake your head, not looking away.

“No. I want the lake in winter, so I can remember skating for the first time,” you explain.

He stares at you, and you stare back. Your heart feels like it’s out of control and you have to force yourself to break eye contact. All the while, your thoughts are scattered and though you know in your head that you should be more composed and that you shouldn’t be alone with him in such a remote part of the castle where there are no guards, Sam makes you feel safe.

“We should prepare for dinner,” he finally murmurs, breaking the spell that had fallen over the room.

You glance up at the windows to find that the sun has disappeared from the horizon. Darkness is creeping in, and shadows are stretching across the floor of Sam’s tower. Have you truly been so distracted that the time flew by that quickly?

Nodding in agreement, you step back out into the hallway and make your way down the narrow passage. Once in the main hall, Sam escorts you to your room in silence. Charlie is waiting for you there, and she helps you change into a more formal gown for dinner. She doesn’t utter a single word about the strange expression on your face, nor does she mention the fact that you’ve been without a guard all day.

The dinner is less formal than you were anticipating, and you fall into comfortable conversation with the King. He knew your father before you were born, though the last time they’d met was when you were a young girl. He tells you story after story of their times together, and you’re learning about their last visit when one of the Ashelan guards posted outside the Great Hall bursts in.

“Your Majesty,” he greets, hurriedly bowing to the King. “A messenger has just arrived for Queen Y/N. It’s an urgent matter.”

“Send them in,” John replies. He gestures toward the door and you stand as a haggard soldier in your colors staggers through. He’s supported on one side by another Ashelan guard, and your blood runs cold at the frantic look in your soldier’s eyes.

“Your Majesty.” He starts to bow but loses his balance. He only remains upright thanks to the guard beside him. He’s gasping for air.

“Peace, soldier,” you tell him, though you feel anything but. Your heart is pounding in your chest again and your hand trembles as you place it on the back of your chair. You can feel everyone’s eyes on you. “What news do you bring me?”

“A m— message from King Crowley, Ma’am. He says that if you do not surrender by Christmas, he will take Eryas Court.”

You stare at him for a moment, then scoff. “He cannot so boldly assume I will surrender! Have our armies held the camp?” you ask.

“No, Ma’am,” the soldier replies, and it feels like the floor has fallen out from underneath you. Your stomach twists as the soldier continues, “His men slaughtered our armies, and they have infiltrated the village. They have surrounded Eryas. The men returning to their families are at the keep, and are holding it as best as they are able, but they are tired, Ma’am.”

Lady Charlie gasps beside you, and you lift your chin, silently sending up a prayer. Crowley has caught you off guard, but you can’t show it.

You turn to look at John. “Is there a room I can use to speak with Sir Robert and send word to my captains?”

John nods and stands, directing his attention to the first guard. “Prepare my study for Queen Y/N and Sir Robert. Escort them there once it is ready, and have one of the servants available to fulfill any requests she might have,” he orders.

The guard nods and bows before hurrying back out into the hallway.

“And you,” John continues, looking at the guard supporting your weary soldier. “Take him to see the doctor. Get him a meal and fresh clothes, and prepare him a place to sleep.”

The soldier still has his eyes on you, and you quickly cross to him before the Ashelan guard can take him away. His entire body is covered with blood, sweat, and grime, and he smells like the worst parts of the battlefield. His legs shake when he struggles to stand straighter as you approach.

“You can trust the people here,” you gently tell the man. “Thank you for what you have done. You have brought your people great honor. Now, rest.”

The man salutes you and you bow your head, then watch in silence as the guard leads him out of the Great Hall and towards the servant’s door you’d passed earlier that day on your tour. Once he’s out of sight, you turn and face Sir Robert, who has moved to stand at the end of the table closest to you.

“I apologize for cutting our dinner short, John,” you say. He nods once. “Can I ask that Lady Charlie be escorted back to my chambers once she is finished dining?”

Charlie stands from her seat. “I’m already finished, my Queen, and if it pleases you, I shall stay to assist you.”

You could cry at the loyalty and care from your friend, and you almost do. You catch yourself, however, and you swallow the lump that forms in your throat. John and Dean are talking in hushed tones, but Sam is watching you. His eyes are sad and you have to look away as soon as you notice. You’re barely holding it together as is, and you’re sure that he can tell.

The guard assigned by King John to escort you to his study appears in the doorway, and you quickly follow after him. He leads you down the main hallway and up a set of stairs to a dark wooden door that you’d glimpsed earlier. He opens it in silence, then closes it once you, Sir Robert, and Charlie are inside. 

Almost immediately, you brace your hands on the large table in the center of the room and hang your head. A sob escapes you and Charlie places a comforting hand on your back as you let out a few more. The tears run across your cheeks to the bridge of your nose, then drip onto the table beneath you as you cry.

Sir Robert stands in silence until you’re able to compose yourself a few minutes later. He’s watching the flames flicker in the fireplace with his back to you.

“How many men have we lost today?” you ask, dabbing at your face with the handkerchief Charlie has somehow produced.

“ There were 6,000 in the garrison when we left,” he answers. There’s no emotion in his voice and a small part of you feels ashamed for crying, but you push that thought away before it can fester.

“And how many do you think are defending the keep right now?”

Sir Robert turns. His expression is grave and the light and shadows from the fire deepen the wrinkles on his face. 

“Less than 5,000, if I had to guess.”

You sigh heavily and look back down at the table, then straighten until you’re standing tall again. You cross the room to stare out the window. From the King’s study, you can see the gardens, which means you’re on the opposite side of the castle from the tower where Sam paints. Silently, you start to pace the length of the large fur covering the floor between two shelves of ancient books. Lady Charlie sits at the table while Sir Robert remains by the fireplace, and both of them watch as you walk back and forth.

Nobody speaks until you stop, but there’s a knock at the door right before you can admit that you have no solution that won’t end in a sorrowful amount of bloodshed. You turn to look as the door opens, revealing King John.

“Y/N,” he greets. “I may have something that will assist you.”

You turn to face him fully. “What is it?”

He walks to an elaborately carved chest on the mantle and carefully removes a rolled parchment. It’s sealed with wax, but there are two seals. Curious, you meet John at the table. Charlie stands to make room for the two of you. It only takes a second for you to recognize the crests imprinted into the seals.

“What is this? Why does this hold my family’s crest?” you question.

“And mine,” he adds. “This decree was created and signed by your father and I during our last visit together. I promised to keep it safe until the right time had come.”

“The right time had come? For what, John? How come I’ve never heard of this?”

He glances at you, then breaks the seals and unrolls the parchment. It’s yellowed with time, but the words are written in black ink and they’re as clear as day.

“Let it be known that on this day, Y/N Y/L/N of Athos and Samuel Winchester of Ashela are betrothed in marriage. Upon agreement from both parties or in time of need, they shall be wed and the marriage shall be consummated within a fortnight,” John reads, and you feel yourself falter. Charlie places a hand on your back to help keep you upright.

“Athos shall be ruled by Y/N as the heir apparent, and any heirs produced by Y/N and Samuel shall become the next heirs. An alliance shall be formed between Athos and Ashela at the time of marriage. This betrothal can only be broken by death or upon act of God.”

At the bottom of the parchment, there are two signatures. Only one is familiar to you, and the world tilts around you for a moment when you see it.

“I beg your pardon,” you say, your mouth suddenly very dry. “But this cannot be true. I would know if I were already betrothed.”

John places the parchment on the table and it rolls up again. “Nonetheless, your father has signed it and stamped it with his royal seal. You are betrothed to my son, and in agreement with the decree, our kingdoms will be allied after your marriage is consummated.”

A dark shadow in the doorway makes you look up. Sam ducks into the room, his eyes immediately scanning the people in the study. When he sees the distress on your face, he frowns, but he answers to his father first.

“You called for me, Father?” he asks.

“I did.”

John picks up the parchment again and hands it to Sam, who unrolls it and reads it over. You watch his eyes scan the words once, twice, then three times before he looks up. He glances at you for a split-second.

“This must be false,” Sam finally says. “I would know if I was betrothed! You would have told me a long time ago!”

“Why do you think I never pressured you to marry, as I did your brother?” John asks.

Sam clearly doesn’t have an answer because he turns his attention to where you’re standing behind his father. “Did you know about this?” he asks.

You shake your head, hands clasped in front of you. “I did not. I’m just as shocked as you are.”

“I can’t believe that you are treating Y/N like this! She is in the middle of trying to save her people and you’re scheming!” Sam accuses. He’s glowering down at his father, even though he’s only a few inches taller.

John scoffs. “Samuel—”

“You say that this was created when we were children? And yet it has remained hidden from us until now? Why wouldn’t my father have told me about my own betrothal?” you ask, relieved that Sam is just as angry and surprised as you. It stings a little that he seems disinterested in marrying you, but you have more important problems than your feelings.

Sir Robert speaks up from where he still stands by the fireplace, and you whirl to face him when he says, “The betrothal is real. I witnessed the decree when it was written.” His expression softens when you meet his eyes, shocked at his revelation. “I had just been appointed as your father’s advisor. It was the first decree I helped him create.”

You can’t help but feel betrayed. “You helped him? All this time, you knew about this, and yet you never said a word?”

He nods, and there seems to be genuine regret in his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Why now?” Sam questions. “Of all the times, Father, why would you tell us now?”

John gestures to the parchment in Sam’s hands. “You’re to marry whenever you agree there’s an opportune time, or if there’s ever a time of great need. If you marry, an alliance will be formed between our kingdoms. I can send our armies to help defeat Elcium and save Y/N’s people. Your people, once the marriage is consummated. Your enemies will become my enemies.”

Torn between a mix of anger and humiliation, you turn your back on the men, taking a few steps away from the table to stare out the window. Has it really come to this? Will you really have to marry to save your people?

There’s a shuffling of papers behind you, and the crackle of the fire, but nobody dares to speak. You know that they’re all waiting for you to make the decision. Though you’ve only known him for a few days, you’re certain that Sam would never force you to marry him and follow through with the decree. 

“Would you form an alliance without marriage?” you finally ask, without turning around.

A beat passes, and then John answers, “Think over what I’ve said, Y/N. I will be in the Great Hall, awaiting news.”

He leaves after that, and you hear Sir Robert and Charlie excuse themselves as well, which leaves you alone with Sam. He keeps his distance from you as you continue to stare out the window with your arms wrapped around yourself. Despite the fire, you’re cold all the way down to your bones, and you shiver.

“What are you thinking?” Sam finally asks. His voice is gentle, hesitant even, in the silence of the study.

“I don’t know.” You shake your head. “This isn’t…”

“Did you dream of marrying someday?”

Surprised at the question, you have to stay quiet and mull it over. Then, after a few moments, you nod. “Yes,” you tell him, quieter than before. “Someday. I knew it was probably expected of me too, but then Crowley invaded…”

“And you had to put the needs of your people before your own desires,” Sam guesses.

“It’s my duty as queen.”

Your father’s words return to your head, ringing loud and clear as a bell.

“Sometimes doing what’s best for your people isn’t immediately what’s best for you, Y/N, but if you’re lucky enough, the two will align.”

Turning around, you smooth your skirt and meet Sam’s gaze. “As is marrying you,” you say.

“You’re not going to oppose the decree?” he asks. Sam sounds genuinely surprised, and he steps closer. He’s still in his dinner clothes, though you know he had time to change. 

“I don’t have a choice,” you admit. “If I don’t marry you, your father won’t aid my men, and my people will die. My kingdom will be taken and I’ll spend the rest of my life in prison or as a servant to Crowley, unless he decides to kill me, which is unlikely. Crowley is a ruthless king, and he tortures for sport.”

Something hardens in Sam’s eyes, and his jaw clenches. “You can stay here indefinitely as my guest. I wouldn’t let him do that to you.”

“And I wouldn’t live in hiding while my people suffer,” you counter. Closing the distance between you, you reach out and grasp Sam’s hands in yours. “I will understand if you choose not to marry me. It is your choice, and I will live with whatever decision is made.”

“Why wouldn’t I marry you?” he asks. 

“I don’t wish to force you—”

“You wouldn’t be,” Sam says, cutting you off. “Though I haven’t known you long, Y/N, I find you wonderful company. You’re kind, intelligent, brave, and you care deeply for your people. I could not ask for more in a wife, though I hope we can become friends first.”

You duck your head, caught off guard by his praise. Sam crooks one finger underneath your chin and lifts it until your eyes meet his again.

“You’re beautiful, too,” he murmurs. “Far more so than any woman I’ve ever met.”

“I… Don’t know what to say,” you admit. After months of fighting and living in the war camp, the tenderness in Sam’s voice and his touch is foreign to you.

“Say that you’ll marry me. Say that we’ll save your people before any more harm can be done.”

Silently, you nod. You don’t look away as Sam smiles wide, his eyes full of a joy so complete that it makes your chest ache just from witnessing it. He pulls you close, crushing you against him as he hugs you tightly, and you gasp in surprise.

“I’ll tell my father to make the necessary arrangements,” Sam says as he pulls away. “The sooner we are married, the sooner we can rescue your men.”

You nod again, a bit numb as Sam kisses you on the forehead, narrowly missing the bruise, and hurries out into the hallway. His footsteps are quick and the sound fades before you can even recognize that he’s truly left you alone in the study.

“Y/N?”

Charlie appears in the doorway and you turn to her, trembling hands clasped in front of you.

“Are you well?” she asks. She steps into the room and you can immediately tell that she’d heard the whole conversation between you and Sam. The walls and doors are thick here, but Charlie is an expert at eavesdropping.

“I— I’m getting married,” is all you can reply.

She gives you a knowing look and then carefully guides you to sit in one of the high-backed chairs near the fire. The warmth helps to soothe the shock from finding out your kingdom was most certainly doomed, then from finding out it would be safe once you were married. Your world is changing so quickly that you can hardly keep up.

“He’s a good man,” she tells you.

“I know he is,” you reply, staring at the fire. It makes your eyes water but you can’t look away. If you do, you might cry for real for the second time today. Your emotions have been twisted by so many things and people today that you’re unsure of how to feel.

“It’s okay to be scared.”

You turn your head just enough to show that you’re listening, but you don’t look away from the fire.

“You’ve been through so much, Y/N, and I know you believe that queens should not show their weakness, but you forget that you are also just a woman,” Charlie continues.

This time, you turn to look at her. “But I am not just a woman, Charlie.”

She gives you a gentle smile, then reaches out with one hand to squeeze yours. “When you’re with Prince Samuel, you are.”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you admit, your voice breaking. You clutch her hand with both of yours when she moves to pull away, turning in your seat so you can better face her. “What if he expects me to spend more time being a wife than being a queen? I cannot afford to give up who I am because of a man.”

Charlie considers your question for several long moments before she sighs and collects your hands completely in hers. She holds your gaze as she says, “You are brave for doing this. I cannot tell you what to expect, but I can tell you that I have heard many things from the ladies and the servants here in Ashela. All of them, every single one, has told me that Prince Samuel is as wonderful as he seems. I do not think that you have very much to fear, but I will be by your side no matter what you face.”

You inhale deeply, closing your eyes, and then breathe out. Charlie waits patiently as you try to collect yourself, and her presence is enough reassurance that it doesn’t take you very long.

Finally, you nod and stand.

She does the same, dropping your hands. “Now, I need to get you ready!”

“Ready?” you ask, and Charlie laughs. She guides you out of the study and into the hallway.

“For your wedding! I can’t give you the prettiest dress, but I’ve asked around and we’ve come up with something that I think will work.”

A spark of excitement grows inside of you as she chatters on about her plans for the impromptu wedding. It’s amazing to you that she’s managed to work so quickly, but you don’t question it. Charlie has many ways of doing many things, some of which are better left unsaid.

Soon, you find yourself back in your guest chambers. Charlie helps you into a plain ivory dress, then fixes your hair. You sit quietly as she works, and when a handful of Ashelan maids and ladies start to swarm around you, you simply close your eyes. It’s been a long day, and exhaustion is starting to creep in.

“The Queen needs to rest before the ceremony,” Charlie announces, and you open your eyes just enough to see the women leaving. She starts to blow out the extra candles, until there’s only one remaining beside your bed.

“You only have an hour,” she murmurs as you carefully climb under the covers. She helps you arrange your dress so that it won’t become wrinkled.

Nodding tiredly, you rest your head back against the pillow she props up for you. “Thank you, Charlie. For everything.”

She smooths a hand over your hair and sits in the chair beside you, closing her eyes as well. She doesn’t have to say anything for you to know that she’s staying close to help you sleep. 

The ceremony is simple. You don’t expect much, but John rouses enough servants for there to be an arch of evergreen placed at the end of the Great Hall, and there’s a bouquet of branches and berries for you, as well. Sam dons his royal robes and a thin crown with vibrant gemstones that sparkle in the candlelight from the nearby tree. John and Dean change clothes too, and somehow Charlie finds a new dress just in the nick of time. Only you aren’t wearing something elaborate. It stings a little—you’d once imagined your wedding day as an occasion to remember, but now you could simply melt away into the background and it’s quite possible that nobody would even notice. It gives you a miserable feeling in the pit of your stomach, and when you pass by a mirror on the way to the Great Hall, you have to look away. Tears prick at your eyes before you can stop them. 

A priest marries you with little grandeur, and in only a few words, you find yourself bound to Sam in marriage. It’s not even dawn on Christmas Eve when he leads you by the arm back out of the Great Hall. Charlie stays behind with Sir Robert to help prepare the carriages for travel while he advises John on where to send his armies, and when you arrive at Sam's chambers, they’re empty. You’re alone with him for the first time as husband and wife.

“We should leave for Athos immediately,” Sam says, and you nod in silence. He lets go of your arm once the door shuts behind you, then hurries into a separate, adjoining room. You set your bouquet down on a nearby table.

Through the curtained archway, you can see a bed similar to the one in your guest chambers, as well as a writing desk and another easel. Sam’s sword is propped up against the wall near the fireplace, and a bow and arrow are laid haphazardly on a nearby dining table. The room is decorated for Christmas, just like the rest of the castle, though the greenery here is minimal. Where you would expect to see much of his personal belongings, there are empty spaces that leave you feeling strangely out of place. His chambers are practically bare except the furniture and the decorations.

Sam goes behind a dressing screen and you look away, heat in your cheeks at the thought of being alone with him while he undresses. It’s not the first time you’ve been alone with a man in a similar state of dress—you’ve lived in a camp full of soldiers, many of whom are careless—but it’s the first time where something could be expected of you.

“Sam?” you call out, staring at the candle on the window ledge nearest to you. Outside, the sun is just barely beginning to rise. Its rays are slowly stretching over the snowy landscape, revealing the hundreds of pine trees and the lake whose frozen surface glitters in the light.

“Yes?” You hear him pause and the room falls silent. When you don’t immediately answer, you hear some quick shuffling, and then he’s coming out from behind the screen and approaching you.

“Y/N?” he asks.

You turn, and Sam is standing before you in plain clothes. There’s no trace of the robes or the crown. The only thing that would give away his royal status is the signet ring on his left pinky. There’s a plain gold ring on the finger beside it, which matches the one he’d given you during the ceremony.

“Your father said our kingdoms would only be allied once our marriage was… consummated,” you say, deciding to use the same language as John, though you know there are easier ways to say what you mean.

“I do not expect anything of you,” Sam gently replies.

“But your father—”

Sam shakes his head. “He does not need to know what’s between you and I.”

You’re holding your breath; you can’t breathe a sigh of relief until you’re absolutely sure Sam will go along with the ruse. “You will lie to your own father? Your king?”

He’s quiet for only a moment before he answers, “He is not my king any longer. I am married to you. I am your husband, and you are my queen. I will tell him whatever I must to ensure that your people are safe.”

You gingerly take his hand and allow yourself to breathe again. “Our people, Sam.” You pause to look up at him, offering him a small, grateful smile. “Thank you.”

He nods and leans in to kiss you on the cheek. “We should leave. I am ready, if you are.”

“Don’t you want your things?” you ask, glancing around his chambers. 

Sam lets go of your hand, then walks around his room. He gathers his sword, a book from beside the bed, and a small wooden case from near the easel before he returns to your side. You take the book and the case from him so he can strap the sword around his waist, then hand them back to him.

“The servants have already brought many of my things to the carriage. The rest can be brought another time.”

Nodding, you take Sam’s arm and let him lead you out of his chambers, through the castle, and to the waiting carriages. There are three of them, two of which belong to you, and another that is clearly Ashelan. It rocks as the occupants move around.

John, Dean, and two of your guards are waiting at the open door of the middle carriage when you arrive. As you walk the gray stone path leading away from the castle, you catch a glimpse of Sir Robert as he climbs into the carriage at the front of the line.

“Y/N,” John greets. He nods politely to you, then to Sam. “My men are already on the way to Athos. Sir Robert has been helpful in ensuring they will be of sufficient help to you. I have also sent word to Crowley to inform him of our newly formed alliance. I suppose everything went well after you retired to Sam’s chambers?”

He raises an eyebrow at his son, who nods once. The implications of his words weigh heavily in the winter air, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other, trying not to look nervous or uncomfortable. You cannot give away the lie.

“All is well,” Sam replies. He smiles a little and places a hand over where yours rests on his arm. “She is ready to travel now.”

Dean hugs his brother goodbye, then leads you toward the carriage. He stops a few feet away and holds his hand out to one of your guards, who produces a familiar sword.

“I believe this is yours?” Dean asks.

You smile, relieved that you’re once reunited with your father’s blade. “Yes, thank you.”

Taking the sword, you fasten it around your waist. The weight is comfortable, and it bumps against your thigh as Dean helps you into the carriage.

Meanwhile, Sam talks quietly with John. You’re too anxious to eavesdrop once you’re alone, so you sit back on the seat and try to keep your breathing even as Sam finally climbs into the carriage and the door shuts behind him. He sits opposite you, where Charlie would normally sit. It feels strange to not travel with her by your side, but you remind yourself that she’s in the next carriage, and that you’ll see her again when you arrive in Athos.

Moments later, the horses lurch forward. You sway with the movement, and Sam reaches out to place a steadying hand on your arm. You offer him a small smile before you sit back once more.

The sun rises as you journey to Athos, just like it does every day, and you cling to that normalcy. Even as you wring your hands, your mind whirling with every possible outcome of the coming battle, the sun continues on its path. You find yourself glancing out the window at it more often than usual. The snow outside is beginning to melt and drip from the tree branches as the temperature warms from the light, and as the horses carry you closer to home, the snow starts to disappear entirely, replaced with mud and trampled grass left in the wake of tired soldiers and weary knights.

Suddenly, Sam shifts to sit beside you, and he takes your hand without a word. You stare at him, baffled by his strange actions, but he doesn’t say anything, nor does he look at you. Finally, you look back out the window. His thumb rubs over the dry, scarred skin of your hand, and though it’s foreign to hold hands with a man you barely know, there’s something comforting about his presence. It’s soothing enough that you doze off for a while, grasping at what little rest you’re allowed during the journey. He holds your hand the entire time.

After the half-day ride, the carriages arrive in the village that surrounds Eryas Court. You release Sam’s hand and sit forward on the bench to give yourself a better view through the window. 

The houses and shops that you’ve grown up around have been burnt and destroyed, and there’s rubble lining the cobblestone paths. Wooden stalls and stables have been smashed into splinters, and stone buildings have begun to cave in on themselves. Your breath hitches when you see blood staining a wall.

“Where are the people?” you ask, your voice cracking. “Where are my people?” The question is desperate, meant for nobody but the world, and you feel Sam pulling you away from the window a few seconds later.

“Let me go!” you bark at him.

He pulls you back a second time, and you twist in your seat, angry and aching with grief, but you stop when you see him.

Sam’s expression is grave. “We don’t know who’s out there. You are not dressed in your armor, and you are giving Crowley’s archers an easy shot. Until we know what’s happening, you need to stay hidden,” he advises.

You stare at him for a moment, then nod mutely. All the anger drains out of you, because he’s right, and you’re no use to your people if you’re dead.

While leaning back against the wall of the carriage, you can still see enough through the window to tell that the destruction starts to lessen as you near the keep. The pressure in your chest starts to ease when the noise of villagers and soldiers talking reaches you, and you exhale shakily when you hear someone call out,

“Make way! The Queen is here!”

There’s a commotion outside the carriage. Cheering erupts as soon as the first person spies you through the windows. Sam’s hand finds yours again. He squeezes, and you squeeze back even harder, clutching his hand as the carriage moves through the crowd and into the guarded castle.

When the carriage stops, you and Sam wait until the door is opened by guard. They help Sam out first, then you. You don’t know what to expect as you exit, but you’re relieved to find that most of your castle is still intact.

“Eryas Court lives on, Your Majesty,” someone says, and you turn to find Sir Robert walking from his own carriage. Charlie is close behind, and you start to smile.

“Indeed, Sir Robert,” you tell him. “It seems the battle was over before we even arrived.”

After a moment, you laugh and pull him into a hug. It’s improper, but you find tears brimming in your eyes when he murmurs in your ear, reminding you that your father would be proud of how you’d handled the invasion.

“Welcome to Athos, Your Majesty,” Charlie says.

You release Sir Robert and turn to where Sam and Charlie stand off to one side. He gives her a short bow as she dips into a curtsy. An Ashelan man is standing on the other side of Sam. You recognize him as one of the men from your breakfast the day before. There are several Ashelan servants helping yours unload the carriages, as well.

“It’s a beautiful kingdom,” Sam says to you. “How long has Eryas Court been standing?”

“Four generations,” you proudly reply. “Would you like a tour?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but the conversation is put to a halt when the captain of the guard approaches and bows in your direction. 

“Your Majesty,” he greets. He does the same for Sam before turning back to you. “I bring word from the fields.”

“How are my men?” you ask. Your expression grows serious as you focus on the matter at hand. Sam stays silent, allowing you to do your job without interference.

“We have lost many, but we have made it through the darkest nights. Elcium has retreated, and they have dropped their banners. They stand with white flags now.”

You raise your eyebrows, unable to keep your expression neutral. “They have surrendered?”

He nods. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“That’s very good news, Captain,” you tell him, smiling. “Tell them that we will negotiate terms after Christmas. I will expect a full report then, but I have other matters to attend to tonight. I will also expect to see your wounded, and I would like a full list of the dead. Please ensure that any news about the Ashelan soldiers is sent to King John, and also reported to King Sam.” You gesture to Sam without looking his way.

Your captain bows to both of you, then heads back the way he had come. Satisfied with the news, you turn back to Sam with a wide smile.

“Let me show you my home.”

Sam smiles back at you, then offers you his arm. Before you leave with him, you instruct Charlie to make sure everything is in order after the maids unpack your and Sam’s belongings in your chambers. She agrees with a smile brighter than you’d seen on her in a long time.

You and Sam walk the castle grounds most of the afternoon, stopping only to have tea. You show him your favorite spots, tell him stories of your childhood, and you show him the study you’d abandoned after inheriting your father’s. The windows there overlook the wildflower fields, and the river beyond. Though there’s no flowers in bloom now, he assures you that the frozen river is subject enough for his paintings.

As the sun begins to set, you and Sam retire to your chambers. They’re smaller than you remember, and it feels cramped as the two of you prepare for sleep. You’d never opted to take on your father’s chambers when he passed, instead choosing to stay in the rooms you’d had your whole life.

Charlie helps you change into a sleeping gown, and behind an opposite dressing screen, you hear Sam and the Ashelan lord—Castiel—talking quietly. When the two of you emerge, you share nervous smiles as Castiel and Charlie leave to go to their own quarters.

“I’m not quite ready to sleep,” you say after the door finally closes behind them. You keep your distance, unsure of how to act now that you’re alone.

Sam nods. “I’ll try to keep to myself, so there’s room when you are ready to retire.”

You glance at the bed, then back at him. “Perhaps I will go to bed early then.”

He frowns a little and searches your face for something, clearly trying to figure out why you’ve changed your plans. Truthfully, you don’t want him to have to try and make himself small. You’re already feeling too many emotions; you don’t want to add guilt into the mix. 

You smile as if you don’t know what he’s thinking, then head to the bed and climb under the covers on one side. Charlie has warmed the heavy blankets with irons, and the furs from last year’s hunts still provide you with plenty of warmth. 

Sam watches, still standing in place, until finally you let out a sigh.

“I’m perfectly okay sharing a bed with you,” you tell him. “We are husband and wife. If we don’t lie together, it will raise suspicions.”

“And I am prepared to face them.”

“Do you really not want to share a bed with me?” you ask, a little hurt by his resistance.

His eyes widen slightly and he shakes his head. “I do not want you to be afraid of me, nor of expectation that I might—”

“I am not afraid of you.” You sit up in the bed, suddenly aware of the nighttime chill in your chambers as the blankets fall from your chest. “I have fought in many battles, and I have seen many horrible things. Sharing a bed with a kind, gentle man who is now my husband is not a fear that I possess, Sam Winchester. Even so, I am capable of much more than you may realize, and I am not afraid of anything you could possibly do to me.”

He stares at you for a moment, and then a small smile appears on his face. “Very well.”

You lay back as Sam crosses the room and climbs into bed beside you. Both of you lay on your backs, staring up at the fabric canopy. You want to talk—you feel like you should, anyway—but the events of the past few days start to catch up with you, and you find your thoughts beginning to wander as Sam’s breathing grows slower on the other side of the bed. He falls asleep before you, but not by much.

When you wake, there’s a heavy weight over your waist and hot breath against the back of your neck. Your legs are intertwined with Sam’s and your back is pressed up against his chest. It’s not uncomfortable, but you lie and stare at the wall, trying to figure out how you and Sam have become so entangled. Surely, you would have kicked him during your nightmares.

“Are you awake?”

His question is barely a whisper, but then Sam shifts and you feel him raise himself up on his elbow to look down at you. He’s checking to see if you’re asleep, you realize.

You turn your head to meet his eyes in the darkness. “Yes,” you answer. “I’m awake.”

He sighs softly and lays back down, resuming the close contact from before. You wonder if you should push away. Is it improper to sleep like this if you don’t know each other, even if you’re married? Does it matter?

“Can I ask…” You finally begin, breaking the silence that had fallen over the room again. “When we went to sleep, we were not touching.”

“No,” Sam answers. His breath tickles the hairs at the nape of your neck and you fidget under the covers, but you don’t pull away. “You were dreaming. It was a nightmare.”

“Oh.”

You can imagine why he’s pulled you close now. Without Charlie sitting by your bedside, there had been some anxiety over if you’d sleep through the night, but Sam’s comforting touch seems to have soothed you. For the first time in weeks, you feel well-rested.

“It’s Christmas,” you say after another minute has passed.

Sam yawns and his thumb strokes against your stomach. His voice is drowsy in your ear.

“So it is,” he replies.

“Merry Christmas, Sam.”

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

You turn in his arms until you’re facing him, and you carefully place one hand on his chest. It feels natural to be this close and to lean against him, and Sam watches you with half-mast eyes as you get comfortable. When you do, however, you don’t know what to say. You stare at each other, listening to the castle stir awake. Finally, you lay your head down on him. He helps you get comfortable, and then you close your eyes. You can hear Sam’s heartbeat.

“We’re married,” you murmur.

He hums. “So we are.”

“What do we do now?”

“Celebrate Christmas, I suppose.”

You move your hand, unconsciously fidgeting with the tie on Sam’s sleep shirt. “Can we stay here for a while first?”

Sam presses a kiss to the top of your head and you smile to yourself, even though you know he could probably see.

“Yes, Y/N. We certainly can,” he answers.

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[jadethest0ne]

In need of Refueling, Chapter 24 - The Leaf Falls

Summary:  “You?! Why would I trust you? You have brought me nothing but failure. Time and time again; nothing but disappointment!”

His father’s words might have been a result of his possession by the  White Bone Spirit, but whether or not they were his true thoughts, Red  Son vows to prove them wrong. To do so he seeks to attain a power strong enough to destroy his father’s immortal enemy. After all, he’d much rather throw fire at his problems.

Word Count: 1940

Ratings/Warnings:  Teen and up; injury, burns, angst and hurt/comfort, toxic thoughts caused by toxic parents, panic attacks, abuse.

Notes: Sandy POV, and my love for “To Catch a Leaf” is very apparent in this one XD

Credits: Big thanks to @painted-arachnid and @simplyfornardo  for helping me bounce ideas off of them. And also thanks to @lemonsqueazie for providing me with “Journey to the West” lore. I don’t know much about the original novel or other iterations, but I still tried to keep  some things compliant with the lore. You should check all of them out, since they’re really great content creators with neat ideas!  

Read on AO3

———-

When Sandy got back to his houseboat and saw, not only that both Red Son and MK weren't there, but also that there was a gaping hole in his roof, and a giant mechanical spider looming over the city, it didn't take long for him to piece together that the Spider Queen was plotting something evil and that MK and Red Son got caught up in it somehow. So he calls his friends at the noodle shop to inform them of the situation and quickly makes his way over to the giant spider.

The spider base is walking along a main stretch of road in the city. Many folks are scrambling away from it, and from the rubble left in its wake. Sandy looks the mechanism up and down. It moves slowly, but purposefully; its long and sharp legs smashing down in the concrete as it goes. He needs to get in there.

So he makes the obvious move when confronting a giant, destructive vehicle.

He plants himself in front of it, holds up his hands, and asks it politely to stop.

For a moment, it seems like it's going to continue its rampage.

Sandy doesn't budge.

Then there's a hint of recognition in the many eyes covering its face, as it angles its head down towards him. It comes to a slow stop, steam and some magical green glow billowing out of its crevices. The section that looks like its mouth opens up and the Spider Queen herself steps out.

She has a confident and calm aura about her, as she assesses the large man in front of her. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" she asks, not sounding at all pleased.

Sandy perks up cheerily. "Ah, hello! Sorry to interrupt your villainous rampage throughout the city. But I was wondering if you perchance had a fire demon and the Monkie Kid with you?"

As if to answer his question, Red Son himself steps out from behind Spider Queen looking sheepish, and almost sickly.

"Red Son!" Sandy exclaims happily. He's about to go over to him when the Spider Queen moves one of her spindly legs in between them and interrupts.

"Ah yes, he was in your care for a while wasn't he? There’s a lot of gossip among the city spiders." She grins wickedly. "But did you know that it is largely thanks to him that I was able to power this spider base before you and begin my takeover of the city?"

Sandy looks between her and Red Son, disbelievingly. Guilt is evident on Red Son's face, but he stammers out desperately, "It's not like that! I– that was before... I- I didn't know she'd..."

Spider Queen again brushes him aside, "Whether intentional or not, I am grateful for his services. I doubt you'd want him around anymore. He works much better with me - I could use an engineer to work on my Arachnoid Base and other mechanisms..." She eyes Red Son, almost hungrily.

Red Son lets out an audible gulp, but lowers his gaze as if he can't bring himself to look at Sandy.

Sandy himself does feel a tinge of hurt. That Red Son could've helped orchestrate this is a possibility. But he feels like Spider Queen is bending the truth. And with the shame on Red Son's face and the way he holds himself, Sandy can tell the implication is eating him up.

He softens his gaze, speaking to the Spider Queen, but looking at Red Son when he says, "I would like my friend back, please."

Red Son's face shoots up and locks eyes with Sandy's. Sandy holds the gaze long enough to make sure Red Son got the message. Once Red Son’s eyes widen in quiet understanding, Sandy turns to Spider Queen and says, "And I would like you to tell me where MK is. I want him safe, too."

Spider Queen grimaces slightly, as if the display displeases her. She waves an airy hand and says "I have no idea where the Monkie Kid is. Maybe climbing up a tree?"

Suddenly Red Son blurts out, "He's here! She's captured him and is using him as an energy source for--"

Quick as lightning, Spider Queen shoots a web across his mouth, preventing him from finishing his sentence, then shoots another around his arms and torso so he can't take the web away.

"Annoying little welp," Spider Queen mutters.

"Hey now!" Sandy steps forward. Red Son wasn't able to finish what he was saying but it was enough for Sandy to understand. MK was here. And he wasn't going to leave without both of his friends. "I don't think you want to keep my friends here. Let them go," Sandy says sternly.

"Oh, I think I very much do," Spider Queen retorts. Then she looks behind Sandy and smirks, "Anyway it looks like more of your companions want to join us..."

Sandy turns around to see Pigsy, Tang, and Mei charging towards the scene; swords, frying pans, and other implements of destruction held at the ready.

"Sandy!" Pigsy yells. "We got your message! We're here to back you up!"

"She has MK and Red Son!" Sandy responds.

"Not for long, she doesn't!" Mei says confidently, and she leaps in the air, sword swinging in front of her. Pigsy and Tang follow her jump.

As they arc towards Spider Queen, she makes a motion and the Arachnoid Base’s head lifts upward. A glow surrounds its mandibles, some sort of energy building up. Sandy's eyes widen in alarm, recognizing an incoming attack. He turns to his friends and begins to shout for them to look out, but his warning cry is drowned out by the blast of green energy that the spider mech shoots at them.

Mei and her sword makes a momentary defense against the surge of energy, but the attack is too powerful and all three of them are quickly overtaken by its light.

For a heart stopping moment, Sandy can't see them.

Then three figures fall from the air, smoke billowing out behind them as they fall.

"Guys!" Sandy cries out, attempting to quash down the fear bubbling up in his gut and the old memories of past battles flashing across his vision.

His friends stir and groan from their position on the ground and slowly begin to pick themselves up. Unfortunately, before they can take back a fighting position, Spider Queen has shot her webs at them, pinning all three of them together and sticking them to the ground.

Sandy spins back to Spider Queen in a harsh motion. Too quick. Too angry. Sandy takes a breath. "Let them go," he says, in a low rumble and without his usual mirth. "Please," he softens his tone and his expression, raising his eyebrows in compliance.

Spider Queen lets out a thoughtful hum, looking Sandy up and down. “I hear you used to be a pretty scary guy. But in person you are so boring. I wonder what would change that…” Sandy clenches and unclenches his fists, trying to control his stress levels. But she continues. "You know, it's funny you call both them, and this little twerp ‘friends.’" She motions at Red Son. Then she shoots another wad of webbing at the fire demon. The force is enough to fling him to the ground out of reach on the other side of Sandy. "Who do you care for more?" she asks, darkly.

At her command, the giant spider lifts its two front legs upwards. One is brought towards Pigsy, Tang, and Mei, and the other goes to Red Son; both with their heavy and sharp ends hovering dangerously close to his friends.

"Choose," she says simply.

"What?" Sandy is momentarily speechless, air leaving his lungs.

"Who will live and who will my spider crush under its leg?" Spider Queen grins.

"N-no! Both--! --Neither! Don't hurt any of them!" Sandy stammers. He's trying to stay centered, trying to stay grounded, but he can't seem to get a good breath in.

"That's not how this works," Spider Queen drolls. Both of the mech's legs inch closer.

"Look, I don't think you really want to do this. I mean, what will this accomplish?" Sandy tries to reason with her.

"Oh, just a bit of fun for me and pain for my enemies. Now choose or they all die." The legs inch closer.

"Why don't you point those at me instead?"

"Three," she begins to count.

"Listen, don't do this."

"Two." The legs come even closer.

"Please," he begs.

"One."

"STOP!"

The legs swing downwards.

For just a moment Sandy is no longer there. He is in a different fight, with his companions injured, laying around him, unmoving. He doesn't know if they are alive. Long forgotten rage finally bubbles to the surface.

Before he knows what he's doing, his fist strikes the mech, a hair away from Spider Queen's face, and suddenly there is a gaping hole in its hull with half its head missing. The shock of the blow causes the whole mech to lurch backwards and the attacking legs manage to land just in front of his friends, ripping through the webs that had entangled them, but not harming them at all.

Through the hole that he created he sees MK. Any elation that he may have felt upon seeing his friend is squashed when he sees the state that the boy is in. He's tangled up in webs which are attached to some machine. He looks sickly and outright exhausted; deep bags are under his eyes, and sweat fresh on his face. But he seems aware enough that his gaze flashes up at Sandy's entrance, and looks at him with a strange expression.

"..Sandy..?!" His voice is small, but filled with a certain amount of shock and disbelief.

Through the fear and anger, a wave of shame washes over Sandy. What must he look like to MK right now? Furthermore, his thoughtless strike could have hit MK as it blasted through the mech! And didn't Red Son say something about him being an energy source for it...?

As if to answer his question, the engines inside spark to life and jolts of energy start coursing through the webs holding MK, and he screams out in pain. The surrounding metal starts bending back into shape and the hole that Sandy created starts closing up.

Sandy can't even find his voice to call out to the boy. He caused that. If he hadn't attacked the spider directly then it wouldn't have hurt MK by using him as a battery. The hole closes, cutting him off from potentially getting to MK.

Sandy looks around to see his other friends looking at him with similar levels of shock as MK’s. And it hurts. He didn't ever want his anger to show in front of others, especially in front of his friends, and especially when it caused them to be hurt. Again.

Even Spider Queen takes a moment to recover from the sudden blow to her base. Pigsy is the first to react, and he rallies Mei and Tang together to attack Spider Queen. Due to the damage to her mech and it still repairing itself, Spider Queen can only fight hand to hand, giving the others more of a fighting chance.

But Sandy doesn’t enter the fray. He can’t. His body doesn’t want to move. As the others exchange blows, Sandy can only stand there on unsteady feet, letting the noises wash over him. He vacantly looks over to where Red Son was last stuck, and finds that the fire demon is no longer there.

start || <– previous // next –>

#lmk #lego monkie kid #monkie kid #sandy #red son #spider queen #to catch a leaf #in need of refueling #my writing #my art #jadethest0ne

[aegor-bamfsteel]

How long does it take to travel to King’s Landing from Dragonstone?

I wanted to focus a meta on a seemingly minor detail that, if you look into the likely circumstances surrounding it, reveals an important piece of characterization of Da3ron II that I don’t think has been discussed. AWOIAF says, regarding Da3ron’s reaction to his father’s death: “[he] departed Dragonstone within the fortnight after learning of his father's demise and was swiftly crowned by the High Septon in the Red Keep.”

If Aegon IV had died, and then Da3ron had arrived from Dragonstone and been crowned within 2 weeks (equal to a fortnight) of this death, that would’ve been understandable. However, the “and” signifies that Da3ron was crowned after the fortnight; it took within a fortnight of being told of Aegon’s death (not Aegon’s death proper, just when he heard the news) for Da3ron to pack his things and travel from Dragonstone to King’s Landing. The implication is that the journey from Dragonstone to KL takes nearly two weeks by sea. I was so puzzled at the idea that the Targaryen’s home castle was so far away from their capital (that they chose to build in that location partially because it was that close to Dragonstone) I checked the Errata of The World of Ice and Fire to see if it was a misprint in the way Myriah Martell’s name was; it was not. Da3ron took nearly two weeks after hearing of his father’s death to arrive at King’s Landing, and was “swiftly crowned” only after. Which leads me to ask, how many miles by sea does it take to travel from Dragonstone to King’s Landing?

According to a map of Westeros and assuming that it is to scale, someone worked out the distance as 420 miles/675km by sea; it is 100 miles/160km from Dragonstone to Sharp Point on the mainland, and then 320 miles/515km of traveling west along the coast to King’s Landing. It is not mentioned what type of ship Da3ron took (galley, longship, carrick, caravel, etc; all of which travel at different speeds based on how they’re built, with longships being the fastest and galleys the slowest), how experienced its crew was (although since Dragonstone is known for its navy, you’d think they would be experienced), or if the winds were favorable, so I’m going to estimate the slow, average, and fast speed of arrival from Dragonstone to KL based on the sources:

If Westeros is anything like our world and the equator is located south of Dorne, then the prevailing winds would blow from east to west (easterlies) south of the Neck and from west to east (westerlies) north of the Neck. Dragonstone and King’s Landing are located south of the Neck, so the prevailing winds would be trade winds/easterlies; in other words, Da3ron would’ve had the wind on his side leaving Dragonstone, which would’ve increased his speed by as much as 1 knot/1.15mi. Travelling at less than 4mph/3.5knots per hour generally meant a sailing ship was travelling with unfavorable winds, so we can assume Da3ron never reached below that speed.

Ideal Conditions:

Under ideal conditions (favorable winds, a skilled crew) a sailing ship could average around 6knots/6.9mph over a trip (pre-modern vessels could “sprint” up to 12 knots, but this wasn’t sustainable). This translates to 168 miles per day, assuming sailing in the day and night (which Da3ron would’ve had to do at least on the first part of his journey to Sharp Point, as he’s sailing the open ocean). 420mi/168mi/d= 2.5 days, or 60 hours at maximum speed

Assuming Da3ron took a caravel, the maximum speed of which is 9mph or 150 miles per day, it would’ve taken 420mi/150mi/d= 2.8 days, or 68 hours at maximum speed

I doubt Da3ron took a galley, considering it is a slow ship most often used for war, but non-ironborn nobility in Westeros do seem to have more of them to their name (Cersei, Stannis, Alyn Velaryon use them as flagships) than other ships, so I’ll put these numbers in to show that even at the slowest built ship Da3ron should’ve made better time. They are on average about 3/4 as fast as caravels, so at maximum might reach 6.75mph, 112mi/d, so 3.7 days or about 90 hours at maximum speed

Average conditions:

The average sailing ship could go around 5knots/5.75mph; this translates into 73 hours or 3 days 1 hour on average

Average speed for a caravel is 4.5mph or 90-100mi/day. The lower range indicates this trip would take 112 hours, or 4 days 16 hours; the upper range is 101 hours, or 4 days 7 hours on average

Average speed for a galley is about 3knots/3.45mph; this translates to about 122 hours, or about 5 days on average

Slow conditions (slowest possible with still-prevailing winds):

As explained before, going less than 3.5knots/4mph via sailing ship meant generally unfavorable winds. Assuming the absolute slowest, the ship could expect to make the trip in 105 hours or 4 days 9 hours

Using the ratio that a galley is about 3/4 the speed of a caravel, its slow speed might be 3mph, which translates into 140 hours or 5 days 20 hours

In conclusion, assuming that Da3ron did not stop at any harbors along the way and traveled at a consistent pace, he should have arrived in King’s Landing within one week, not two, of learning of Aegon’s death. Even at the slowest pace, taking the slowest method of water transport, the trip does not equal 6 full days of travel. 

It’s possible that, like Corlys Velaryon at the 101 Great Council, he brought the full Dragonstone fleet to King’s Landing to support his claim to the throne if he feared it was in danger (which makes sense in that he took so long to arrive, but was “swiftly crowned” after), but that would’ve lengthened the trip to 6 days at most (since a navy can only travel as fast as its slowest ship, the galley), and certainly not to nearly two weeks, since time is clearly of the essence in thwarting a potential coup. The idea that it took so long to prepare such a navy after hearing of Aegon’s death seems like a stretch considering the old king’s slow physical decline (see below)

A more benign argument is that after he reached Sharp Point, he did stop during the night, but assuming a night is 8 hours, that means even if he stopped every night along the journey (a ridiculously inefficient plan that practically defeats traveling by water, but to stretch out the time let’s pretend he might’ve done it) would’ve made the trip 76 hours or 3 days 4 hours at the fastest, and 172 hours or 7 days 4 hours at the slowest. Again, even at the slowest pace, with the slowest method of transportation, and now with long stops, it still would’ve taken barely more than half the time Yandel noted Da3ron actually spent to depart Dragonstone and arrive in King’s Landing. And how many days did he really need to pack his things and leave? I doubt nearly a week was really necessary...

Of course, that Da3ron might’ve taken a slower ship and stopped every night from reaching Sharp Point on ignores why he’s journeying to King’s Landing in the first place: his father just died and he is going to be crowned king, unmistakably the most important event of his life. As the crown prince, he has access to the fastest ships and most experienced crew. This is no time to stop to rest and leave the realm without a king (especially if you believe that others are plotting to take the throne, as Da3ron’s actions after arriving regarding Daemon Blackfyre and his father’s Small Council indicate). There is no technical reason why a journey that should’ve taken 3-4 days instead took nearly 2 weeks. The only possible reason for such a massive delay is a character-based one: that Da3ron did not wish to arrive in the capital so soon. Waiting that long almost undoubtedly meant he was not there for the funeral (given Aegon’s condition at death, it makes me think he was buried shortly after; in addition, the news of the death would’ve had to have reached Da3ron before he could depart, which would’ve taken 1-1.5 days by raven), which would’ve been the best opportunity to show filial piety, or at least pay respects to the old king from the perspective of a successor. Da3ron wore his father’s crown allegedly to prove his legitimacy, but the gesture seems rather empty after taking so long to come to the capital that he missed the funeral, and the coronation itself was the only event described as “swift.” It makes it seem as if he did not care for his father, purposely avoiding the capital until all mourning was done and then claiming his crown. This might have been the case given they were estranged the last years of Aegon’s life, but no matter his personal feelings, it would’ve been politically wiser if he were to come to King’s Landing as fast as he could, especially given the doubts of his legitimacy and his paranoia over claimants to the throne. The very tense succession of Viserys I to Aegon II officially took place on a single day; understandably such a short passage of time wasn’t possible in Da3ron’s case, but potential problems in a succession makes Targaryens act faster, not slower.

What makes matters worse is that Aegon’s death was obviously not sudden in the manner of Viserys II’s. TWOIAF’s description of his demise includes, “he was grossly fat, barely able to walk, and some wondered how his last mistress—Serenei of Lys, the mother of Shiera Seastar—could ever have withstood his embraces.” Serenei was Aegon’s mistress for at least a year, and undoubtedly a man who was barely able to walk does not have long to live. Toward the immediate end “his limbs [were] rotting and crawling with fleshworms”; there was even debate over this condition: “the maesters claimed they had never seen its like, whilst septons declared it a judgment of the gods” in addition to palliative care “Aegon was given milk of the poppy to dull his pain, but elsewise little could be done for him.” It seems like the final stage of Aegon’s illness could’ve taken weeks or even months, if there was time to discuss its cause and for worms to start eating his rotting limbs, or for final treatment and a damning decree to be issued. The health of the king is obviously politically important, especially to his heir, so I think it’s unlikely Da3ron wouldn’t have known about this final illness. Certainly by the time Aegon was unable to rise from his sickbed, Da3ron should’ve been able to tell the end was near; he very well could’ve reached King’s Landing before Aegon’s death, let alone before his funeral. That could have altered the course of Westerosi history if he arrived in time to contest the will that decreed all of Aegon’s illegitimate children be legitimized. 

It’s important to note that it’s never explained why Da3ron was unable to undo Aegon’s deathbed decree. The Greens were able to successfully contest Viserys I’s will that Rhaenyra succeed him and instead crown Aegon II, once they got the majority of the Small Council on their side. In real life, Henry of Blois was able to release his brother Stephen and the rest of the barons from the vows they swore to uphold Empress Matilda’s ascension to the English throne, on the grounds that her father king Henry was wrong to make them swear the oath because it would threaten the stability of the kingdom (in addition to bribing the royal steward into alleging that the old king had changed his mind about the succession and nominated Stephen instead, which at least worked for William the Conqueror regarding Edward the Confessor’s will). It would’ve been even easier for Da3ron to contest the will because Aegon was in horrific pain due to ill health and given milk of the poppy, a drug that is known to “fill one’s head with clouds”; Da3ron could’ve said that Aegon was not in his right mind when he made the will and that any deathbed decrees should be discarded. If only he had come early enough to King’s Landing to plead his case before Aegon’s death, or failing that, to try to force a reversal through the High Septon or the royal steward shortly after, things might’ve gone better for him later in his reign.

To conclude what is a much longer meta than I expected, Yandel claimed that Da3ron arrived in King’s Landing from Dragonstone within 2 weeks of hearing of his father’s death. Through estimating the speed of certain ships and the distance between the two castles, we can determine it should have taken at most 6 days and in all probability more like 3-4 days if he conducted himself with any sense of urgency. But instead, he chose to arrive so far after Aegon’s death that he probably missed his funeral, which, coupled with the haste with which he was crowned, shows a lack of respect for a deceased father that goes against the teachings of the Faith of the Seven, the moral authority of Westeros (and probably fed rumors of his illegitimacy). Even worse, the nature of Aegon’s illness was so slow that Da3ron could’ve made it to King’s Landing in time to change or contest his will if he had bothered, thus getting rid of his potential rival’s legitimization. I can only infer that Da3ron’s actions were not motivated by political necessity (and in fact could’ve hurt him politically and socially), but by hatred for his estranged father. I don’t blame Da3ron for loathing a man who abused his mother and tried to start an unprovoked war with his wife’s family. However, I don’t think the characterization of him putting political necessities above personal feelings can hold water, at least where his own are concerned (the feelings of others under his guardianship, such as those of Aerys I, and perhaps those of Princess Daenerys and Daemon Blackfyre, might be different matters). Nor do I believe that he should get a pass for making politically unwise decisions due to personal grudges when Aegor Rivers, who also had long-term vulnerabilities (disgrace at 2 weeks of age, the execution of half of his family at 6 years, invited into a court that hated his family...and that’s before the Blackfyres start getting cruelly murdered) is reduced to a one-dimensional villain for behaving similarly.

#ASoIaF #asoiaf meta #what if #anti daeron ii #worldbuilding #westeros #ships #aegon iv #aegon iv targaryen #valyrianscrolls #travel

[lunar-wandering]

Peach Slices

the Sick!Wukong fanfic is finally done! this is the longest one shot i’ve ever written lol.

tagging @winterpower98 and @ninja-knox-ur-sox-off since you two seemed interested

read on ao3

Word Count: 5.4k

-----

When MK arrived at the temple to train, he could immediately tell that something was wrong. For one, Wukong wasn't hidden anywhere in an attempt to surprise him, which he had been doing lately to help him "hone his instincts". (Usually all that got him was a smack in the face with his own staff. MK would apologize each time, but Wukong would just wave it off.) Instead of hiding, Wukong was sitting in the middle of the courtyard, a few of the monkeys hanging out around him and hanging off of him. The second thing that was off was how the monkeys were looking at him, concerned. Upon noticing MK, they had immediately started to point him at Wukong, as though saying "something's up with him, please help him out.". The third thing that was off, was Wukong fur. It looked absolutely horrible, like he'd just rolled out of bed and hadn't brushed it, and had also been through like 5 fights.

That was concerning enough, but what really worried MK was the 4th thing.

Wukong hadn't noticed him yet.

Nevermind the other things being weird, Wukong not noticing him was just plain wrong. Wukong always noticed when MK arrived, even if he'd been distracted before.

Something was clearly up, and MK was going to find out what.

Deciding to use the fact that Wukong hadn't noticed him to his advantage, MK started slowly sneaking up behind him, making a shushing motion to the monkeys to let them know to be quiet. He had a suspicion about what was up, and honestly he kinda hoped that he was wrong.

Finally managing to make it to Wukong's side, MK slowly reached up-

And lightly pressed the back of his hand to Wukong's forehead.

Wukong yelped and jumped away in surprise at MK's "sudden" appearance, but the few seconds that MK's hand had been on Wukong's forehead was all he needed.

"Kid! I uh, didn't hear you come in-"

"You're sick." MK stated the facts, as Wukong looked at him in surprise. "Why didn't you call me to cancel training if you're sick? I could've just gone to spar with Red Son or Mei instead."

"I, wh-" Wukong sputtered for a moment, before he seemed to collect himself a little. "I'm not sick."

"Uh, your fever says other wise." MK replied, not certain what his mentor thought he would get out of denying his incredibly obvious condition.

"What fever? I'm perfectly fine." Wukong clearly lied, leaning against a nearby tree in an attempt to look cool. MK rolled his eyes and was about to respond when Wukong let out a sudden yelp, as the tree he was leaning against snapped and fell to the ground, causing him to stumble. There was a moment of silence as the two of them stared at the fallen tree.

"I totally meant to do that."

"Alright, that's it." MK said, setting his bag on the ground and walking over to Wukong. "Come on Monkey King, I'm taking you back to my apartment to keep an eye on you."

"That's really not necessary- hey! Put me down!" Wukong yelled as MK scooped him up, carrying him like a sack of potatoes. "Seriously, Kid, I'm fine!"

"If you were fine you'd have jumped away before I grabbed you." MK said. Wukong didn't seem to have a reasonable response for that, so MK started the long trek back to the noodle shop with only a few more complaints from the Monkey King.

---

At some point during the walk to the noodle shop, Wukong had fallen asleep. MK was kinda grateful for that actually, it meant he didn't have to deal with his mentor continuing to complain, and it meant that he was resting, which he honestly probably needed, based on how he looked.

MK avoided going in through the front door of the noodle shop, from what he could see, there were quite a few customers in there. If he went in with a passed out Monkey King on his back, it was sure to cause a commotion, and he.... really didn't want that, especially if all the noise would wake Wukong up. So, MK snuck around to the back of the shop, and used the fire escape to climb up to his apartment on the second floor.

Once inside, MK carefully set Wukong down on his bed, shaking some of the ache out of his arms as he did so. Wukong was heavy, and carrying him for over an hour had done MK's arms no favors.

Wukong curled up in the bed, and MK sighed, before going off in search of more blankets and pillows, and hopefully some medicine to bring Wukong's fever down. MK... wasn't actually sure when he last bought medicine. He might have to ask Mei to run out and buy him some, because there was no way he was going to leave-

Almost as soon as he thought that, MK's phone dinged, telling him he'd received a message from Pigsy.

'I know you're here.' It read, 'Heard you on the fire escape. If you aren't training, can you come back down and work for the next hour?'

'Cant.' MK sent back, 'Busy rn'.

'What on Earth could you be busy with?'

MK thought for a moment on how best to explain the situation, before figuring that a visual example was probably the best, and snapped a quick picture of Wukong and sent it to Pigsy.

The yelled "What the fuck!" was loud enough for MK to hear, and apparently Wukong heard it too, as he started to stir.

"Kid?" He asked, slowly sitting up, "W'as goin' on?"

"It's nothing Monkey King, go back to sleep-" MK was proven wrong however, as the two of them could hear a series of loud footsteps running up the stairs. Within seconds, Pigsy had burst into the room.

"MK." He said, "Would you please explain to me why Sun Wukong is in your bed."

"He's sick." MK said, glancing back at the monkey in question. Despite the rest he'd gotten on the way over, he was actually starting to look worse than before, as well as very confused. He hoped that his fever wasn't getting worse.

"Oh well that's plainly obvious." Pigsy said, "What I want to know, is why you brought him here instead of back to his mountain."

"I figured it'd be easier to look after him here? I kinda.... doubt that he has the materials needed to look after someone who's sick back at his house." MK explained. Pigsy sighed at the answer, suddenly looking incredibly resigned to the fact that he was going to have to deal with there being a sick monkey king directly above his noodle shop. Gods, this was going to be a pain....

"Zhu Bajie?" Wukong suddenly asked, drawing Pigsy and MK's attention back to him. "What....what are you doing here? You're... Dead."

MK and Pigsy stared at him in confusion.

"What on Earth is he going on about now?" Pigsy asked, and that was all it took for Wukong to start suddenly crying hysterically. MK panicked, rushing forwards and trying to calm him down, but not really knowing how. Pigsy stood back, shocked and confused at the sudden emotional outburst from the monkey.

Pigsy would've tried to help MK calm Wukong down, but there was a sudden yell from down in the noodle shop and, remembering that he had practically left said shop unattended, he was forced to turn and start back down the stairs. He gave MK a look of apology as he went, and mentally noted that he would have to make some kind of soup for the sick monkey.

...Did Wukong even eat soup?

As far as Pigsy remembered, the answer to that was no.

.....He'd have to ask Tang and Sandy to pick up a basket of peaches at the store.

---

Later, after Wukong had cried himself out and fallen back asleep, and Pigsy closed the shop for lunch, MK pulled Pigsy aside for a moment.

"So." Pigsy started, "What was all that stuff earlier about?"

"He. He kept saying things like 'he's supposed to be dead' and 'he doesn't remember me' while he was crying." MK said, "His fever's pretty high. I think it's made him delirious. And I think that. He thinks you're Zhu Bajie, one of the people who was with him during the Journey to the West."

Pigsy was silent for a brief moment.

"Kid....I'm about to tell you something that might.....upset you." He said. MK tilted his head, confused.

"What do you me-, oh my gods." Realization struck. "Are you kidding me?"

Pigsy gave no signs that he was kidding. MK stared in shock.

"You're Zhu Bajie??"

"Yes. Sandy and Tang are Wujing and Tripitaka too."

MK's shock quickly turned to anger.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell him?" He asked.

"I... I didn't tell you because I didn't think you needed to know." Pigsy said, "As for Wukong.... he was never there when we tried to go visit him over the years. We knew he was still alive, Heaven would've lost it's shit had he actually died, but we...figured that he was avoiding us. That he didn't want to interact with us, for some reason."

"Well clearly that is not the case, considering he apparently thinks you're dead!" MK shouted, ignoring Pigsy's hurried shushing. "Can you imagine how upsetting that must be for him?? Thinking that all the people he considers friends, maybe even family, are dead, or that they don't remember him? I want to cry just thinking of it!"

MK would have continued yelling, but a sudden thump and crash upstairs drew his attention. He paused for a moment, during which he and Pigsy both heard the quiet, slightly scared, "Kid?" from Wukong. MK sighed, moving to head back up the stairs, but not before giving Pigsy a glare.

"This isn't over. We will be talking about this later." He said, before disappearing up the stairs. Pigsy slumped against the counter.

"Jeez....." He muttered, "We really fucked up didn't we."

---

When he walked back into his apartment, MK was only slightly surprised to find it a mess, and Wukong missing from the bed. Clearly, Wukong had woken up while MK was downstairs, and, upon not seeing the kid anywhere in the general area, had panicked, probably assuming the worst. Worried for a brief moment, MK glanced at the window, breathing a sigh of relief to see that it was still locked the way it had been before. Good, so Wukong was still somewhere in the apartment.

Now where did he-

There was a sudden crash from the kitchen.

MK rushed to the kitchen, to find Wukong standing in front of the sink, bits and pieces of what used to be a cup on the floor. Wukong still looked dreadful, but he did look  slightly better than before.

Slightly.

"Oh, Kid, there you are." Wukong said upon noticing him, "I was worried about you."

"Yeah, I uh, could tell." MK said, thinking back to the mess he'd caught a glance of in the living room. "What are you doing in the kitchen?"

"I wanted to get a drink?" Wukong said, "I'm sorry about your cup though... I can replace it-"

"After you go back to bed." MK said, "Monkey King, you still look awful."

"Do I?" Wukong asked, sighing when MK nodded his head yes. "Fine. But if I'm in your bed, where are you going to sleep?"

"On the couch." MK answered, and, upon seeing the look on Wukong's face, added, "Don't worry about it. I've slept on the couch multiple times before."

"If you say so kid..."

"I do say so. Now c'mon, back to bed."

It was definitely a good thing MK made Wukong get back in the bed, as Wukong was just slightly wobbly the entire walk back from the kitchen to the bedroom.

"Weren't you going to play games with Mei tonight?" Wukong asked, as MK dropped another blanket on top of him. "You can go play with her if you want. I'll be fine."

"Yeah, forgive me for not trusting you on that one." MK said, "Unless you don't remember your emotional outburst from earlier."

"I had an emotional outburst?"

"You- actually you know what, it's probably better that you don't know." MK replied, before quickly changing the subject. "I already messaged Mei by the way, told her what was up. She's going to pick up some medicine."

"Bold of you to assume that human medicine will work on me."

".....Will it?"

"I don't know. Haven't tried."

---

Red Son was peacefully walking down the street, rather quite enjoying his day, when suddenly, Mei ran by in a green rush, almost knocking him off his feet.

"Hey Dragon Girl!" He shouted, grabbing her attention, "Where are you going in such a hurry?"

"Monkey King's sick!" She said, "MK's asked me to get medicine-"

"Hold up. Sun Wukong is sick?" Red Son asked, looking straight up shocked when Mei nodded in response. "I... I must tell Mother and Father about this."

"You're not gonna like. Spring an attack on us while he's sick are you?" Mei asked, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. Red Son gasped, offended.

"Of course not! We are nothing if not honorable villains." He said, "I just think that... Mother and Father would want to know about this is all."

"Hm....Okay." Mei said, "But if I see even one hint of an attack, I will not hesitate to beat you up."

"...Duly noted."

---

Over the past few hours, Wukong had tried multiple times to get up and do things. The Monkey King, apparently, didn't know how to rest. MK had to keep practically dragging him back into the bed before he broke things on accident, which, unfortunately, was happening a lot. 3 glasses, 2 plates, one vase, and one coffee table had been destroyed before MK got the bright idea to set up his laptop and stream the Monkey King Animated Series for Wukong to watch. That, at least, managed to get him to stay in bed while MK started trying to clean things up.

He had just finished sweeping up the last few pieces of the plates when the doorbell rang.

MK set down the broom and opened the door to see Mei, with one arm carrying two bowls of noodles, and her other arm holding two small baskets of peaches and a box of medicine.

"Hey MK." She said, giving him a smile.

"Come right on in Mei, here, let me take that for you." MK said, taking the peach baskets and the medicine box out of Mei's hand so that she could use both of them to carry the noodle bowls. He set the peaches and medicine down on the kitchen counter as Mei set the bowls down on the table. The two of them sat down to eat.

"So uh, what with the peaches and the noodles?" MK asked.

"Well, I remembered you said that Monkey King liked peaches, so I figured I'd pick some up for him while I was at the store." She said, "Turns out, Tang and Sandy had the same idea. Pigsy sent the peaches and the noodles up. Said something about you probably not wanting to see him right now."

"I wouldn't say that I wouldn't want to see him." MK said, "Just that me and him are...going to have a conversation later. It's nothing you need to worry about, I promise."

The look Mei gave him was skeptical, but when MK didn't retract his statement, she sighed and decided to move on.

"Sooo....How's Monkey King doing?" She asked.

"He's doing.... better than he was this morning I guess." MK said, fiddling with his chopsticks. "He still isn't near what I'd deem healthy, but I'm pretty sure his fever has gone down a bit. I set things up so he could watch the Monkey King Animated Series on my laptop so that he'd stop trying to get up and do things. I should probably give him the medicine before I go to bed."

"So, basically, what I'm taking away from this, is that you're Mother Henning the Monkey King." Mei said, laughter in her voice. MK was about to respond, argue that he was not being a Mother Hen, he was just concerned, when there was a thump outside, and then a knock on the balcony door. MK gave Mei a questioning glance, wondering if she knew anything about who could possibly be on his balcony, but she just shrugged, clearly as confused as he was. Sighing, MK stood up and walked over to the balcony door. On his way, a quick glance into his bedroom showed that Wukong had fallen asleep again, the laptop still running. He'd have to turn it off to save the battery, as well as wake Wukong later to give him some food and medicine, but another knock on the door meant he was going to have to see who had decided to come visit him first.

He opened up the door, only to come face to face with Red Son, who was holding a basket of peaches and looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here.

"...What are you doing here?" MK asked, briefly wondering if he should summon his staff, just in case. But then again, Red Son didn't seem like he wanted to attack at the moment, so...

"Dragon Girl happened to inform me that Wukong is sick." Red Son said, "I told my parents, as I figured they should know, and they practically demanded that I bring this here. So.... take it."

With that said, Red Son practically shoved the peach basket into MK's hands. MK sighed as he looked at its contents.

"At this rate, my apartment is going to be both destroyed and full of peaches." He said. Red Son quirked an eyebrow.

"Okay, I was going to just leave, but now I'm curious. Why would your little apartment be both destroyed and filled with peaches Noodle Boy?" He asked.

"For one, Monkey King keeps getting up and trying to do things, but keeps accidentally destroying stuff." MK explained, "Secondly, everyone seems to be bringing peaches, though I'm not entirely sure why-"

"It's because literally the only thing we know that he likes to eat is peaches." Mei interrupted, appearing beside MK after having grown tired of waiting in the kitchen. "That doesn't leave us with many food options."

"I mean, I think he enjoys other fruits too?" MK said, sounding uncertain. "But yeah, either way, I think I'm going to be overrun with peaches."

"Well, at least not everything in the basket is a peach." Red Son commented, "There's a box of tea in there too."

MK took out the tea box and after a few seconds of inspecting it, snorted out a little laugh.

"The tea is peach flavored too." He said.

"Of course it is." Red Son sighed. "Well...whatever. See you around later Noodle Boy, Dragon Girl."

And with that, Red Son disappeared in a flash of flames. MK closed the balcony door, bringing the peach basket into the kitchen to set it beside the others.

"You think we can trust that they didn't poison those?" Mei asked. MK gave the peaches a glance.

"They......probably didn't. Just to be safe though, I think I'll give Monkey King the ones you and Pigsy gave me first."

----

By the time Mei left, it was 10:30 PM. MK walked back into his bedroom carrying a small plate of sliced up peaches, as well as a dose of medicine and a glass of water. He set them down on top of his bedside table, and then reached over and paused the episode of Monkey King the Animated Series that was playing on his laptop. He carefully picked up said laptop and brought it over to the wall to plug it in. With that done, he went back to the bed and gently shook his mentor awake.

"Mmmn....Kid?" Wukong slurred, clearly not 100% awake.

"Yeah, it's me." MK said, "I"ve got some peach slices for you to eat, and some medicine to take."

Wukong accepted the peach slices and medicine surprisingly easily, taking the medicine before starting to eat.

"Y'know..." MK said, "Earlier, you mentioned that you'd never tried medicine before. So like, what do you normally do when you're sick?"

"Go to sleep for 3 days and don't wake up until it's all over." Wukong mumbled around a piece of peach. MK gave him a deadpan look.

"Monkey King that's a coma." He said. Wukong snorted in response.

"It's only a coma if I can't wake up."

"No, I'm pretty sure sleeping for 3 days straight is genuinely considered a coma."

"Whatever." Wukong mumbled, yawning. He'd finished the peaches. MK sighed as Wukong flopped back down onto the bed, rolling over so that his back was facing him. MK silently pulled the blankets over top of the Monkey King, quietly amused at how Wukong's tail didn't quite fit in under them, and was left dangling off the side of the bed, swinging back and forth.

"Goodnight Monkey King." MK said.

" 'Night, kid." Wukong responded, and with that, MK turned off the light and left the room, leaving Wukong under what was at this point a practical mountain of blankets, alone.

---

MK woke up.

It was dark out, no sign of the sun at all. One quick glance at the clock in the living room revealed the time to be 3 AM. MK usually didn't have any problems sleeping, so what could've woken-

He saw something move in the corner of his eye.

Still half asleep, MK jumped off the couch, summoning the staff into his hand as he whirled around-

Only to be confronted with nothing but shadows.

....Huh.

Must've just been his eyes playing tricks on him.

Leaning his staff up against the wall, MK leaned down to pick up his stuffed monkey, (which had fallen off the couch when he'd jumped up), when he heard it.

A small whimper, from his bedroom.

Oh.

So that's what had woken him up.

Holding his stuffie in his arms, MK walked over to his bedroom, activating his golden vision in order to see better in the dark.

What he saw was pretty much what he should've expected.

Wukong had kicked off most of his blankets, and was partially curled up, shaking, with his tail thrashing wildly.

He was having a nightmare. Or, well, it was probably a fever dream in this case, but still. MK had to wake him up. He knelt down by the bed and gently shook Wukong's shoulder.

"Monkey King?" He said, "Monkey King, wake up."

No response.

".....C'mon, Wukong wake up."

Hearing his actual name seemed to rouse him.

".....Kid?" He asked. There were leftover tears in the corners of his eyes.

"Yeah it's me." MK said, softly, "You okay?"

"M'fine."

"Do you wanna talk about it?" MK asked. Wukong curled up a little more.

"It's nothing you'd understand, kid." He mumbled. MK supposed that made sense. Wukong had been alive for a long time after all, there was sure to be no end to things he had seen, or knows, that MK could never hope to comprehend.

"...Okay." MK said. "Do you just wanna go back to sleep."

All he got in response in a nod.

Now, as stated, MK knew that Wukong didn't want to talk about... whatever his nightmare had been about. But MK couldn't just leave without doing something to help.

...He looked at his stuffie.

"...Monkey King?" A hum, Wukong was listening. MK held up his stuffed monkey. "I think I'm gonna leave this little guy here with you."

Now that got Wukong to sit up a little, tail fluffing up a bit in surprise.

"...Don't you always sleep with him though?" Wukong asked, as MK placed the stuffie into his arms. "Kid, you don't have to-"

"It's fine." MK said, giving his mentor a smile. "I've slept without him before, I'll be fine. Besides, I think you need his services more than I do tonight."

Wukong couldn't seem to come up with any sort of argument for that, so he simply laid back down in the bed, pulling the blankets up over his head and curling up around the little stuffed monkey. Job done, MK left the room, going into the kitchen to get a glass of water before heading back to bed.

....Huh. That was weird.

Was there one more peach basket than there'd been before?

MK narrowed his eyes at it for a moment, before shrugging it off, figuring he must've just miscounted the amount of peach baskets Mei had brought, and went back to the couch to sleep, leaving the peach basket with the purple bow undisturbed.

---

The next day was mostly uneventful. True to his statement of typically just sleeping the sickness off, Wukong slept for most of the day, only waking up when MK woke him to get him to eat, drink, or have a dose of medicine. MK would be concerned about this, but it did seem that the sleep was actively doing Wukong some good, he was starting to look much better, so MK let it be.

There was other matters he had to take care of.

When Pigsy closed the shop for lunch, he nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned to see MK standing behind him, glaring.

"Uh, MK, what's up?" He asked, awkwardly. MK just kept glaring.

"Call over Tang and Sandy, now." MK said, before sitting down at one of the tables to wait. "It's about time we had that talk."

It took an unsurprisingly short amount of time for Tang and Sandy to arrive. MK waited until they were all seated.

"So." He started, but he was interrupted by Pigsy.

"Look, MK, I know we should've told you about who we were-"

"Oh! Oh you definitely should have." MK said, "I can't believe you guys just didn't tell me that you were on the Journey to the West. But that's not important right now. What's important, is that there is a sick Monkey King in my apartment who thinks you guys are dead, and I would like an explanation as to why."

"Well," Tang started, "We haven't seen him in over 300 years-"

"I told you two we should've left a note that one time." Sandy mumbled, calmly petting Mo. Pigsy sighed.

"Look kid, we tried to interact with him, believe me we did!" He said, "But every time we tried he either wasn't around or had just left. It is ridiculously hard to catch the damn monkey when he doesn't want to be caught."

MK nodded slowly.

"....Okay." He said, "I... suppose that makes sense."

He stood up.

"Tomorrow, if Monkey King is feeling better, which I'm guessing he will, you guys will be having a talk with him." MK said, walking away from the table to go back up the stairs to his apartment. He paused on the first step, turning slightly to say over his shoulder, "Just to be clear by the way. I'm still mad at you. Expect a 1 week business period before I forgive you."

"....Yeah that's fair." Tang said.

And with that, MK went back up the stairs, leaving the three immortals to anxiously contemplate how the next day's conversation would go.

---

As MK had guessed, Wukong was feeling a lot better the next day. He was actually awake, and the fever had definitely gone down, at least as far as MK could tell. Overall, he seemed to be doing a lot better.

...Which meant it was time for a conversation MK wasn't entirely sure would end well.

"Monkey King, I need you to stay right here, okay?" MK said, gesturing at the couch Wukong was currently sitting on. Wukong let out a confused laugh.

"Might I ask as to why?" He said.

"You'll see."

"...Okay then?"

MK turned to go down the stairs, to get the other three members of this conversation, before pausing, suddenly thinking of something he remembered hearing in one of the stories about the Journey to the West. Turning, he grabbed a paint brush from his desk, dipped it in some white paint, and proceeded to draw a circle around the couch where Wukong sat. Wukong watched him do this in barely contained amusement.

"You will stay here." MK said, just for emphasis, as he finished the circle.

"I heard you the first time, kid." Wukong said, laughter in his voice. MK gave him an 'I'm watching you' look, before finally going down the stairs. Wukong, true to his word, stayed inside the circle.

...When MK came back up the stairs with his friends Pigsy, Tang, and Sandy though, Wukong kinda wished he'd just left after he woke up like he'd planned. Those three just reminded him too much.... of them.

MK, seeing the look on Wukong's face, sighed.

"Okay, let's just get this over with, because I doubt there's any way to do this gently." He said, "Monkey King, these three are Pigsy, Tang, and Sandy, and they are also the ones who were with you on the Journey to the West. And before you ask, yes, they do remember you."

Wukong's mind stopped as those words registered in his brain.

The Monkey King went a whole minute without speaking, during which Tang shifted from foot to foot nervously, Pigsy pointedly didn't look him in the eyes, Sandy patiently continued to pet his cat, and MK just looked entirely done with the whole situation.

"Uh, MK?" Tang eventually said, "I think you might've broken him."

That one sentence was enough to break Wukong's stupor.

".....Is it really them?" He asked, sounding like he was on the verge of breaking down into tears. Pigsy gave a gruff sigh, but didn't respond, so MK rolled his eyes, and casually shoved Pigsy next to the couch.

"....Yes, it's us you dumb monkey." Pigsy said, and that was all it took for Wukong to break down crying jumping off the couch and tackle hugging Pigsy to the ground, tail swinging. Tang immediately went to Pigsy's rescue, trying to pry Wukong off of him before Wukong could accidentally suffocate him, but ended up also getting dragged into the hug by the monkey. Sandy didn't hesitate to join the hug himself, squeezing the other three as tight as possible, before setting them down gently onto the couch. MK figured he'd better leave the four of them alone for a moment, and went into the kitchen to make them some tea.

"Where have you guys been?" Wukong finally asked, laying on top of Pigsy and Tang's laps, his tail curled around Sandy's arm. "I thought you all were dead."

"So we've heard." Pigsy mumbled, before speaking louder. "Truthfully, Wukong, we did try to interact with you these past 300 years, but we just never could seem to find you. So we stopped trying."

"Why?" Wukong asked.

"We kinda... thought you might be upset with us?" Tang said, "We figured you were avoiding us on purpose, and that you'd come and interact with us again once you'd calmed down a bit."

"Why wouldn't you try harder to find me, to ask what was wrong?"

"Would you want to deal with you while you're mad?" Pigsy asked.

"....Touché." Wukong said, and there was a moment of silence between the four of them, in which Sandy's cat crawled unto Wukong's chest, and Wukong started petting it.

"..You know." He said, "I'm really glad you guys are alive. Being alone... wasn't really all that fun."

"We're glad you're doing okay too, you damn monkey." Pigsy said.

It was at this point that MK came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray with five cups of peach tea, and a plate of peach slices.

"You guys done with the emotional experience?" He asked, setting the tray down on the coffee table. "Because I've got a ton of peaches that aren't going to eat themselves."

"Ooh! Don't mind if I do!" Wukong said, quickly picking up the plate of peach slices to hoard them all to himself, which got him a light smack on the head from Pigsy, telling him to share his food, or he'd get out the rake.

Wukong just laughed in response.

He didn't care.

He had his family back.

#Monkie Kid #fanfic #my writing #its midnight as im posting this lol

[princesspiratecat]

The Rise and Fall of the Shepard Family Finale Part 2:  Fall 1085

Part 1& Part 2

Part 3 & Part 4

Part 5 & Part 6 & Part 7

Part 8 & Part 9 & Part 10

Part 11 & Part 12 & Part 13

Part 14 & Part 15 & Part 16

Part 17 & Part 18 & Part 19

Part 20 & Part 21 & Part 22

Part 23 & Part 24 & Part 25

Part 26 & Part 27 & Part 28

Part 29  Finale Part 1

“Llywelyn? His name is Llywelyn?” Frances was incredibly confused. “Where did you get these letters?”

“Under the bed. Morwena found them while she was cleaning. Please continue.”

                                            Llywelyn & Algarda

According to the seven letters stashed away in the box, they had both been very young and had met while Llywelyn had served as a mercenary soldier under Aélgarda’s father, a Saxon Ealdorman that had died by the hand of the bastard King in 1067. Both of them had been in their prime and Aélgarda was considered something of a ginger-haired beauty. There were expectations that she would make a grand marriage.

Gwendolyn had heard her father talk about his time fighting for the Saxons before. Her mother had also said that her father had been a fine soldier. He was well respected and handsome, dangerous with a sword, and had a promising career ahead of him.

They had danced together during several feasts at her father’s estate in Chester, and eventually became clandestine lovers. They knew her father would never allow such a match to take place, as there had already been a match made for Aélgarda by the time they met. But the man in question was never mentioned again after the second letter.

They continued their affair for a little over two years, but he was gone most of the time. He eventually got her with child. 

Shortly after, he had been sent up north to fight off Norse raiders, and he promised to come back for her and marry her as soon as he was able. Sometime after his departure she wrote that she had suffered a miscarriage, and after six months, he still had not returned. There were no more letters after that.

After they had read them all, and then read them again, they both took some time to digest what had been written. There seemed to be more questions than answers within each letter. Had Llywelyn followed Aélgarda, even though they were both already married? Was Frédérique the daughter of Llywelyn? Had they continued their affair after Gwendolyn’s mother had died? Together, Frances and Gwendolyn tried their best to sort out the pieces of the puzzle and make them fit into a kind of timeline that might give them answers.

“My father talked about his days in Chester on more than one occasion. Is it near Wales?”

“Yes. It’s near the border of Whales, west of here.”

“So, the man in the letters must be my father. Although my father couldn’t read, so how could he have read these? A third person would have had to have been involved, and they would have needed to be very discreet. That’s quite a risk to take!”

“I agree. Yet it happens all the time, you’d be surprised at how many Nobles can’t read. And yet, I would have taken the same risk if I knew I would not see you for  months at a time.” 

Frances knew that in 1066 Aélgarda ran off to marry Marcelle and gave birth to Frédérique the same year, which was when Gwendolyn had also been born. They journeyed to the Humber River in 1070 from Rotherham, a small market town. Frances had only been two and Gwendolyn four. Unlike Frances, Gwendolyn remembered the journey to Grimsby, and she remembered what had come after.

“It could not have been mere coincidence that your family arrived here around the same time, and in the same location, as my family. Especially considering how long of a journey it is,” he said.

They both wondered on what grounds Llywelyn had sought her out. Was it because they wanted to be together, or had he been looking for employment? Most of the great men Llywelyn had served were already dead or had had their lands seized by the crown. So it was a real possibility that he sought her out for protection, especially since she had married a Norman man.

“He needed work. I remember we had to sell one of his beloved swords just to have enough to eat. It was a desperate time.”

The other possibility was that he knew Frédérique was his daughter and wanted to be near her. Frédérique had invited Gwendolyn to their estate several times, and each time Llywelyn had accompanied her. He could have watched her from afar, and that might have been enough for him.

“That would explain my father’s behavior. He must have thought that Frédérique was not his child, regardless of what the truth really is. Since he knew of your father’s indiscretions with Olric’s wife, he must have also questioned my brother’s parentage as well! I can’t imagine how it must have plagued his mind! The proof is in his treatment of them and their piteous inheritance.”

“Of course! And it completely explains his treatment of me, although it does also speak to his vengeful character. Now I understand why he sent us away, we were reminders of my father. Your mother wanted to protect us, for my father’s sake! ”

He nodded, remembering everything that had happened with a tinge of shame.

He could see Gwendolyn’s mind racing now, and Frances knew he would have to tell her everything that had happened the night his father had broken off their engagement. It was something he had not gotten around to doing, mostly because he had wanted them to forget. He took a deep breath. 

“I fear I have not told you everything that my father said the night he cut off our engagement. But let me tell you now. According to him, she actually wanted us to marry and had pushed it from nearly the moment you arrived here.”

“What?!”

He then relayed everything that had occurred that night in it’s entirety. How his mother long considered Llywelyn an honorable man due to his serving the Welsh king. How she had not only preferred for him a match with Gwendolyn over the Merchants, but that she had actually helped to arrange it. He told her of his anger and how he had camped out under the stars, which had been the reason why he never got a chance to say goodbye.

“For a long time I didn’t think about what he meant, because I had been too angry. But then I realized she had arranged for us to walk together, alone. Do you remember all those times she said she was too busy to come with us?” Gwendolyn nodded. “Well, she knew I already liked you, and wanted you to break off the match with Oswald and marry me instead. She must have figured that time alone together would make us fall in love.”

“That is why they sent him away! According to Frédérique, he came to visit me twice, and both times he had been sent away. Did you know that?”

“No. But it hardly surprises me. For his part, I know my father initially agreed because you had a good dowry, you were an heiress of a rather small fortune. But after he had already helped himself to it, he must have gotten ahold of the letters and used them to further justify his cause. Or, he read the letters and then spent your dowry. I’m not sure which.”

Gwendolyn’s eyes bulged at this information, and she had to sit down. It was an incredible story, and one that she would not have believed if she had not have seen it unfold with her own eyes. 

“So, I have been groomed me for the position of being your wife! Why did you not tell me of this before?!”

Frances shrugged. “It is a painful memory to speak of, and I didn’t want to stir up fresh anguish for you. You’ve suffered enough already. What good would have come of it?” Gwendolyn acknowledged there was merit in his reason, but chided him for not giving her the choice of knowing. 

“You’re right. I should have told you when I first found you. I’m sorry.” But her mind was racing again and she hardly heard what he had said. 

“He must have discovered the letters after Aélgarda’s death, as there can be no other explanation. She must have hidden them away somewhere and he, or someone else, discovered them. He refused our marriage and sent me away to get back at them both, even after they were dead!”

“Yes, he was petty and vengeful. What I want to know is what on earth made her keep them? That I cannot understand!  Did your father return them? Or did she somehow get them back after he died? Maybe Llywelyn had them and my father got them after he sold your property. Have you ever seen this box before?”

“No, never. It’s too fine a box to have escaped my notice. If he did have them, he certainly would not have put them in that box. In fact, I do not recall her ever visiting us when my father was alive either. Only Marcelle came to collect rents and sup with us. He and my father used to talk business. He used to bring us cherries.”

Neither one of them spoke for some time, as they were busy going over the facts in their own heads. They both agreed that had Marcelle known then about the letters, he would not have been so kind. Although Frances didn’t agree with his father’s ways, he could at least understand him a bit better. 

“He never was unfaithful to my Mother that any of us knew about, so it must have shattered him to read these letters. He had once loved her very much... as much as a man like my father can love anyone. I do not believe that any of my siblings were sired by Llywelyn- not even Frédérique. We look too much alike, and I see nothing of you in her face. Now that I think of it, you were born the same year as Frédérique, so Llywelyn would have had to have been a very busy man for all that to have happened in only a year! And it means my mother would have had to lie about losing her baby. Yet if she loved him, why would she do that? It’s quite clear from the letters that she loved him very much.”

“Unless she thought she would never see him again. She may have lied in order to marry your Father, whom had come from a noble family. Perhaps she figured that she would be better off with a well connected Norman than a poor Welsh solider. She could have been forced to do it for the greater good, to protect your sister.”

“I doubt it. But it is possible.....” a look of worry crossed his face, and then hint of anger.

In the end they both agreed that no good could possibly come from keeping the letters, as it called into question the parentage of too many. It also painted three of their four parents in a very unfavorable light. 

The facts were there. Aélgarda had been lovers with not one, but two men while engaged to someone else of her father’s choosing. Llywelyn had been a seducer of women and clearly had no respect for the marital status of others. Marcelle had been a miser and a thief who sought revenge on helpless children, even children that were most likely his own.

 Frances lifted the parchment to the fireplace and stared at the contents. It angered him to know that such small things had caused so much anguish to him, and his wife especially.

“Let them burn,” he sneered, as he tossed one of the letters into the fire. “I know the truth. I know what a good wife she was to him, and what she meant to us, and that’s really all that matters. She was no whore, and I won’t have anyone speak of her that way, ever!”

“Let us burn them all,” Gwendolyn said. 

When the house was quiet and still, they made their way downstairs and watched as the fire flickered while hungrily devouring the remaining letters. It went unspoken, but they each understood they would tell no one of them.

“Are you ashamed of our parents?” He asked her while he watched the bright orange light reflected in her eyes. It was one of those rare moments that he really had no idea what she was thinking. He pulled up chairs for them both so they could sit awhile without being heard.

“Yes....and no. In some ways I am shocked, but in others, I feel relieved to know the answers now. Your father’s behavior towards myself had always weighed on me, because I blamed myself. Now I know it was because of nothing I did, but because of what I represented. He used my father’s status as an excuse, but it was really not the reason.” She pinched the corners of her mouth, then turned back to the fire. 

“Yet the feeling that seems to make the biggest impression on me, is one of their love. Despite everything, I’m glad they had been lovers, and I’m happy that she still held my father in high regard even after his death. She wanted to honor him by honoring his children, and for that, I will always honor her.” Her heart felt easier now, and she almost found the situation humorous. Almost. 

They treaded up the stairs to their chambers. It had been a long, exhausting evening.

Gwendolyn chuckled to herself. “What I really want to know is, who was the man she was originally engaged to? He must have been quite awful for her to have chosen a mercenary soldier and a Norman over a match her father preferred! The poor fellow. I feel a bit bad for him.”

Frances was more wistful. He didn’t like talking about his family, as there was so much he didn’t know, and so much to resent. Would they have survived if they had allied with the King or a powerful Norman family such as his father’s? What would it take for the King to stop his sheer brutality to the Saxon people? By the time his reign was over, would there be anything left of their language, or laws, or culture?

“Perhaps he died before anything ever came of it. The Saxons paid a heavy price to the Danes with many lives, even before the King conquered these lands. And after, all of the men on her side were completely wiped away, as if they had never existed at all. Their fortunes, that had taken decades to build, were the first thing to go. Her family was one of the wealthiest and most powerful, and now there is nothing but dust. Sometimes I wonder that I was born at all. It truly seems a miracle.”

She sensed his sadness and caressed his cheek, then embraced him.

“It is a miracle. You’re a testament to the power of love amid war. Whatever happens in the world, love always seems to have a way of burning bright, sometimes even against all odds.” He smiled at her words because they were wise beyond her years, and they were true. He thought of his mother then, and how it was love that had driven and guided her throughout most of her life.

She had gotten her wish.

#sims 2 stories #sims 2 challenges #sims 2 pictures #finale

[rohirric-hunter]

Léonys of Rohan Pt. 3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 10

I have written and rewritten this so many times. I don’t. I don’t have anything to say. Okay that’s actually a lie. I don’t think Candaith’s horse was ever named, so I gave him the ever creative name of Rochpher, which is Númenórean Sindarin for... horsey... it was like 3AM be nice. Also Candaith ain’t dying in this fic, so don’t read too much into his appearance here. Léonys participated in Vol. I and this is the beginning of Vol. III -- she won’t be doing Vol. II. The reasoning for this is explained in depth on a different post. If you’re not familiar with the game, this takes place in probably late January or early February of 3019. The player character is asked to join the Grey Company on their quest southward to meet Aragorn in Rohan.

                        ***

This is how it is to be Léonys of Rohan:

The sun sets early in Rivendell, light crawling up the eastern wall of the valley and leaving cool purple shadows in its trail as the sun slips behind the towering foothills of the Misty Mountains. The narrow slot between the two looming boulders at the edge of the valley is a portal to another world, one where the sun still shines in a clear blue sky. You turn your horse to the south-west, following the line of horsemen run out before you.

The long wait of the Dúnedain is over.

The invitation to join the Grey Company had been an unexpected honor. The confidence placed in you by Lord Elrond, and by Aragorn and Halbarad his lieutenant is greater than you suspected.

“We will have need of every sword and bow that is willing and trustworthy,” Halbarad had said.

You run your hand down Thadden’s neck, stroking the short, stiff hairs and teasing your fingers through the top of his mane. He had never willingly let Will Willery mount him, even though the man foaled him, but for you he merely continues to walk, dropping his head to tear tufts of greenery from the ground without stopping or slowing. Gaining his trust had been no small feat, but you worked at it day after day until finally he had allowed you to approach, to brush his coat, to saddle him and finally to sit astride him.

Little news comes to Bree-land of the south, beyond the dark rumors of the land of Mordor, but you do know this: the Rohirrim are the Horse Lords, men and women who understand and love horses next to their very kin, and, armed with that knowledge, you had promised yourself that you would not give up until this animal trusted you entirely. Occasionally he still shies away when you try to mount him, but it has been nearly three years since the last time he threw you and he responds to commands without fear now.

Behind you, a familiar voice calls out. “Hail, Léonys,” Candaith says, urging his own mount, Rochpher, to walk beside you.

“Candaith!” you exclaim, not attempting to disguise your excitement. “I am glad to see you join us.”

“We have been waiting for the ride of the Grey Company for many long years,” he says with a thin smile. Like most Rangers, he does not smile often, making the rare sight something to treasure. “Your aid is welcome on our journey.”

You smile more fully. Candaith’s approval means almost as much as Aragorn’s. His guidance in the shadow of Weathertop, at the time the farthest you had ever wandered from Bree-town, had been invaluable. While you have worked more closely with other rangers, such as Golodir, Candaith had prepared you for the dangers that lay ahead in a way you doubt the older man could.

“Is Hathellang here?” Candaith asks.

You shake your head. “He travelled south some days ago,” you say. “If any word has been sent back of him, I have not heard it.”

“A shame,” the ranger says. “I would have welcomed his aid as well.”

Your smile fades, and you curse the timing that keeps Hathellang away as the Grey Company sets out. In truth, you had expected him to return by now. He was meant to accompany a group of Lord Elrond’s people to the south to cover traces of the Company that left so secretly, and spy out whether the Enemy had any inkling of their going. You had bid him farewell at the stables some weeks ago, in the dusky morning light.

“The invitation is still open,” he had said, “if you want to come.”

“Of course I want to come,” you had whispered back, arms wrapped about yourself. “But stealth isn’t my area of expertise, it’s yours. We don’t want to draw attention.”

He had taken a large step, closing the gap between you, and enveloped you in his arms. You’d wriggled against him to free your own arms so you could return the embrace.

“I don’t have to go,” he’d whispered.

“But you want to,” you’d whispered back. He’d held you just a little tighter.

Candaith notes your change in expression and his changes to one of wry humor. “I hope you did not lose him again,” he says.

You gently smile, but do not meet his eyes. “He’s always losing me,” you say.

The sun strikes you full in the face as you pass around a spur of rock and the ground lays out before you in a gentle downward slope towards the fells above the Bruinen. You raise a hand to shield your eyes as you urge Thadden into a trot, keeping pace with Candaith and the steeds of the Dúnedain as the whole group picks up speed, a flood pouring through the foothills toward the river.

“Come, Léonys,” Candaith cries, a fierce joy gleaming in his eyes, turned south and westward to the trip ahead.

The long wait of the Dúnedain is over.

“We ride for Rohan!”

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 10

#lotr #lotro #lord of the rings #lord of the rings online #lord of the rings online fanfiction #lotr oc #leonys of rohan

[maribatshipper]

Ducktales reader insert oneshot

Scrooge walks into a ball with his nephews close behind.

"Why are we here, Uncle Scrooge?" Dewey asks, not liking his suit.

"As upstanding citizens of note, it's our responsibility to support Duckburg's cultural institutions. I told ye this last time." Scrooge frowns.

Suddenly, Scrooge stops in shock.

"What is it Uncle Scrooge? Goldie? Glomgold?" Louie asks.

Scrooge doesn't answer, but just stares at a woman who's hijacked the music. She has (H/C), (E/C), is (Height), and 4 people behind her. She starts singing.

"North South East and West! Let's get this party groovin' North South East and West! Let's get our bodies movin' North South East and West! Let's get ready and go! Whoa!

North South East and West! Let's get this party groovin' North South East and West! Let's get our bodies movin' North South East and West! Let's get ready and go! Whoa!

I could climb a steep volcano! (Ooh ah, Ooh ah.) Or journey to the sun! (Whoo) Discover hidden treasures! (Ooh). Our adventure has begun! (Yipee)

Come with us and take a trip! Come with us adventuring! Follow your dreams! Follow your heart! Follow the journey, make a start!

North South East and West! Let's get this party groovin' North South East and West! Let's get our bodies movin' North South East and West! Let's get ready and go! Whoa!

North South East and West! Let's get this party groovin' North South East and West! Let's get our bodies movin' North South East and West! Let's get ready and go! Whoa!

I could be a jackaroo! "G'day". Kick my heels up high (yee-hah!) Take off in a big balloon (woah)! And float across the sky (wow)

Come with us and take a trip! Come with us adventuring! Follow your dreams! Follow your heart! Follow the journey, make a start!

North South East and West! Let's get this party groovin' North South East and West! Let's get our bodies movin' North South East and West! Let's get ready and go! Whoa!

North South East and West! Let's get this party groovin' North South East and West! Let's get our bodies movin' North South East and West! Let's get ready and go! Whoa!"

The boys all stare as the girl and her friends bow.

"Thank you, Duckburg! You're too kind!" the (E/C) duck smiled.

Scrooge glares as the girl finishes talking with her friends and walks over.

"(Y/N)(L/N)." Scrooge growls.

"Scrooge McDuck. Lovely to see you again. How long has it been?" She smiles.

"How long have you two known each other?" Huey asks.

(Y/N) looks over to the boys.

"Oh, when did you get hitched, Scrooge?" (Y/N) smirks.

Louie, who has been drinking Pep, suddenly spits out the Pep in shock.

"We're not his-"

"What?!"

"How could you think-"

(Y/N) laughs at the Triplets responses, interrupting them.

"I was teasing. I doubt it's possible for him to have kids nowadays." (Y/N) giggles.

Scrooge grumbles. (Y/N) sighs, "I thought you would've been happier to see me after I saved you in Pandemonium. But you always think I'm like Goldie."

Suddenly, Goldie shows up.

"Speak of the literal devil." Louie growls.

(Y/N) gives him a questioning glance.

"Don't ask."

"Hello, Scroogie. (Y/N)." Goldie smirks.

(Y/N) smirks, "Did you hear that, kids? That's the sound of the rare, 2 faced, fox-tailed, Gold Digger."

That got a laugh out of Scrooge. Goldie tapped (Y/N).

"What do you want, Goldie? Oh, and give me back my earrings, rings, bracelets, necklace, comb, watch, and anything else you have stolen." (Y/N) glares.

Dewey whispers, "She's just as good as Uncle Scrooge."

"How do you know I stole those pieces of jewelry? I didn't even notice you bring that bee comb." Goldie frowns.

(Y/N) smirks, "How did you know it was the bee comb and not one of my other combs?"

Goldie glares.

"An old slip of the tongue. I love it when the universe hates my enemies." (Y/N) smirks as she takes her stuff back. "So, Scrooge, my friend, care to dance?"

Scrooge smiles, "With pleasure, lass."

(Y/N) grabs Scrooge's hand and leads him to the dance floor for a waltz.

"So, tell us more about (Y/N), Goldie." Dewey smirks.

Goldie ignores him and walks off.

*Your POV:*

You smile at Scrooge. Last time you danced with him was so long ago you can't remember.

"This is nice. Remember last time we did this?" you ask.

"Last time we did this, ye were a wee bit shorter." Scrooge points out.

You roll your eyes. Same old Scrooge.

"You always thought I was a backstabber like Goldie. Didn't you notice all the packages sent to your office after our adventures? They had valuable things in them. One of them was a gold nugget that weighed at least two of me. That was me. I always left you all my gold I found."

"Why, lass? Ye could've been rich like me." Scrooge asks, confusion all over his face.

You laugh, "Rich? That hasn't been my need. I only buy what I need, only get as much money as I need. I adventure without spending a penny. The only money I spend is on clothes and food. Especially my shoes. Those rocks have already torn through 27 different shoes in 1 week. Give me an adventure with you and your family. I'm sure Donald would be surprised to see me."

Scrooge sighs, "Alright. Tomorrow, come to the mansion. I'll get Beakley to let you in."

***

You were on an adventure with the whole Duck family. You smiled at the pilot, Launchpad. He was funny. Suddenly, the sand collapsed underneath all of you. You hold your breath as someone grabs your wrist, pulling you out of the sand.

"Anyone else getting Deja Vu?" Huey asks.

You spit the sand out of your mouth and rub it out of your eyes to see gold trinkets everywhere. You pick some up to examine it. The kids gasp in awe.

"Don't get your hopes up kids. This isn't real stuff." you sigh.

Scrooge asks, "How do-"

Louie frowns, "She's right. It's Fools gold."

Dewey smirks, "That means there's more deeper down."

"Careful honey!" Della exclaims.

You sit down, watching as they examine every piece of treasure to see if it is all fools gold. You pick some up and shove them in your pocket. Just because it's fools gold doesn't mean that it won't be worth some money to some people. Maybe you could give some to that Doofus Drake kid. He won't care.

"Why aren't ye helping the kids?" Scrooge asks.

"Because I'm not a giant booby trapped gold temple hunter. I have only done small treasure hunts since my last adventure with you." You smile.

Suddenly, you hear a creaking. You push Scrooge away just as a giant hammer comes out, throwing you into a wall.

"Gah!" You scream in pain as you fall to the floor.

Donald is the first face you see. You sit up.

"Well, now I have a story to tell. Almost squashed by a giant hammer. That's not bad way to lose a lung." You joke, then inhale in pain.

"What's the big idea!?" Donald's grinding voice orders.

You sigh, "I pushed your uncle out of the way, Donald."

"I think that's enough for ye, today." Scrooge frowns.

You laugh, "Come on. I'm fine. Just don't let me dance for a few hours."

You have always been a stubborn girl. Suddenly, another creaking is heard, only this time, it's near Webby.

"Look out!" you yell as a giant axe flies towards the young duck.

You gasp as she dodges the axe. You then black out.

***

You wake up to see you're back on the plane.

"Oh, (N/N), how do you get yourself into situations like this?" You ask yourself.

You groan in pain and lift your shirt a little to see a giant bruise on your chest.

"Good thing I learned first aid last month." You wince.

"How are you feeling miss (L/N)?" You hear Launchpad ask.

"Just fine. I guess Ourobourous was an ambitious first adventure." You smile with mischief in your eyes.

"Aye, Lass. But that won't stop ye, will it?" Scrooge asks.

You turn and tease in an awful Scottish accent, "Ye cannae stop me."

The kids laugh.

"Will we be getting an Aunt, Uncle Scrooge?" Dewey asks.

You blush, thinking, not about Scrooge, because he is more like a dad to you, but more about Launchpad and Donald.

"You'd have to wait and see, kids. But not to Scrooge, here."

I had written this quite a while ago. You can find it on Home Base by the Scholastic Website or Wattpad. Please leave a comment, or something to let me know you are reading and enjoying my stories!

#Home base shoutout #ducktales #reader insert #Hi Five song here

[leahxx129]

The Last Descendant (Sam Winchester x Reader) pt.4

Disclaimer: Tumblr is being weird again so if you’re using the app, the ‘Keep Reading’ cut off line may not be visible inspite of the fact that I always insert one.

Summary for pt.4.: You split up into two search parties to look for Dark Kaia in order to obtain the spear and your teammate turns out to be an outstanding company. When you find her an unexpected turn of events ensues.

Warnings: cursing, some really awful smut (sorry for that)

Word count: 2.820-ish

PART 1.  PART 2.  PART 3.

The car ride to the location is pretty much the epitome of awkward. Dean drives, Sam sits by him and you and Cas have to share the backseat. He sits as far away from you as possible, which you guess is the normal reaction to almost being stabbed to death by you. Nobody utters a single word. You are kind of still pissed at Sam a little for expecting you to just fess up and of course for keeping a teeny-tiny bit of an information from you such as Lucifer has a son. Once you catch him staring in the rearview mirror at you, but as he realizes he’s caught, he looks away. You’re thankful when the car finally starts to slow down and then stops. You leave every belonging of yours in it. When you get out you notice a police car just a few meters away, a lady is leaning to the side of it. Her face lights up when she sees the boys and starts off in their direction.

„Sam, Dean!” she hugs Sam first, then Dean, but her eyes widen when she reaches Castiel. „Oh my God, Cas, what happened to you?!”

„She did.” he points towards you and you shoot a smile to the astounded lady.

„Oookay?” she looks at them confused but as none of them seems to be keen on offering explanation, she turns to you with an extended hand. „I’m Jody by the way.”

You look at Sam.

„So, you say she can be trusted?”

„Absolutely.” he nods in reassurance.

„Very well then. I’m Nat. Nat…Colt.” you take her hand and squeeze it. It feels a bit strange to use your real name again after all those years.

She suddenly appears to be thinking hard.

„Why does this name sound familiar to me…? Hey – isn’t your omni-killing gun called Colt?”

„Yeah, it is. It’s named after its creator, Samuel Colt. You just met his last living descendant. But I should warn you, her identity is not quite public and she can get stabby so… ” Dean shoots you a sarcastic look.

„Oh, wow, okay. Got it. I’m keeping my mouth shut.” she jabbers.

„So, how are we going to team up?” Cas takes the chance to speak up.

„You and Jody are with me ’cause I doubt that Little Miss Trust Issues over here is gonna go with anyone else but Sam.” Dean replies.

You roll your eyes as a response.

„So, Jody, where did your men see Dark Kaia?” Sam clears his throat and asks to switch the subject.

„They saw her west of here, but she’s been moving around, so basically the whole area is ground we need to cover.”

„Fan-freaking-tastic.” Dean pulls a face.

„I suggest we start moving. The sooner we find her, the better.” Castiel speaks on everyone’s behalf and so you all do as he says so.

The other bunch starts off to the direction Jody has mentioned and you and Sam take the other way. You’re a little bit ahead of Sam, trying to avoid any interactions at all costs. You really don’t feel like doing a heart-to-heart in the middle of the woods. Whenever he catches up with you, you start walking even faster. You probably keep on doing this for about a good twenty minutes when he finally grabs your wrist and turns you to face him.

„Okay, that’s enough! I know I screwed up by not telling you everything - and I’m sorry for that – but you haven’t been the most honest either so I don’t exactly think I deserve the silent treatment.” he bursts out, looking intensly in your eyes. You hold his gaze.

„I’d let go of me if I were you and wanted to keep my hand.” you say calmly.

He lets out a breathless laugh.

„Right. Empty threats. Your speciality.”

He’s crossed a certain line and before you know it, your free fist is on its way to collide with his jawline, but he catches it mid-air. Only a couple of seconds pass and he lets go of both your hands just to grab your face and crash his lips onto yours. You totally freeze because of his unexpected actions and forget to kiss him back. He pulls away, visibly puzzled from your lack of response. You realize your mistake and immediately yank him back by his plaidshirt. Your positive reinforcement really escalates things. In just a fraction of time he pins you against the nearest tree with his body, kissing you passionately. You bury your hands into his hair, getting entirely lost in the moment. His kiss is hot and wet and everything you imagined it would be like. He tears off your shirt, leaving you in your bra and that’s when you get back to reality.

„Sam…Sam! We…” he kisses your neck and it takes everything within your power to suppress a moan. „We… we can’t! Okay? Just – just stop!”

He pulls away just enough to be able to look in your eyes.

„We can. And we will.” he says out of breath and returns to kissing your neck. „You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this – how long I’ve wanted you!” he growles against your skin while his hands are traveling all over your body, making his argument even more valid.

„But..but what if the others stumble upon us, huh?” you give rationality one last try.

„Well, Dean’s a big boy, he can handle it and Cas is not as innocent as he seems. As for Jody… she’ll look away. I want you. Now.”

You don’t need to hear anything more to be convinced – the probabilty of an unwanted pregnancy equals zero, your pill makes sure of that. And as for other concerns…you hope for the best. Sam doesn’t strike you as the sleeping around type.

You take off his jacket and start to unbuckle his belt. He does the same for you and as a final step of the process, he yanks down your jeans as far as he can. You can see the lust clouding his eyes as he looks at your black lace panties. Soon enough he pulls it to the side, caressing you with his index and middle finger. Despite all your best efforts, now you’re not able to withhold a moan. He grabs you under your thighs and lifts you up gently so you would be at the same level he is.

„So wet…” he whispers against your lips and he pulls out his length to push into you. The first couple of thrusts hurt a little, but then it’s just pure pleasure.

You both know exactly that this is not a romantic act. It’s an act of passion and longing and displaying feelings – everything that have been held back for a long time now. His movements are fast, but gentle at the same time and you can’t help moaning his name. He moans yours in return before he starts moving even faster and it’s not long before you both reach bliss. Even though he’s released into you, you stay like that for a moment or two, panting. He kisses you one more time before putting you down. You take your torn shirt and use it to clean yourself up. In approximately three minutes both of you are dressed fully – well, almost fully. Your upper body’s single coverage is your bra thanks to the younger Winchester.

„Here! Take this.” he chuckles as he hands you his plaidshirt. ”I’ve got a t-shirt under this.”

„Oh yeah? And what should I do with it? It’s at least three times my size.”

„I don’t know… Put your belt around your waist, it’ll look like a dress.” he suggests.

„Dress on jeans? Sam, I hate to break it to you but we’re not in the eighties anymore.”

„Relax a bit, Nat. You’d even look smokin’ in a potato sack, a little dress on jeans won’t make you any less attractive.” he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and gives you a long kiss, which earns him a warm smile from you.

After you’re both ready, you continue your journey of looking for Dark Kaia, walking hand in hand.

„Jesus, Sam, you’ve been smiling for three consequtive minutes, are you alright? I think this is a new record for you, by the way.” you tease him.

„Very funny, Nat. I’m-I’m just happy, that’s all.”

„Really? And why is that?”

„Because of you.” he admits shyly. „I’ve been waitig for someone like you for a while now. You know, I used to think I can only have healthy relationships with women if I get out of this life. Been there, done that, got back in and I thought I could never have anything that even remotely resembles to it. But then you appeared in my life and messed up everything I believed in.”

„Same here, Sam. Same here.” you confess as well, squeezing his hand harder. Since the death of your family, Sam’s the only person who’s managed to break through to you, demolishing each and every one of the walls you built to protect yourself.

You stand on your toes and kiss him. As a result, he pulls you flush against his body, but both of you freeze upon hearing the horrible screams that – judging by the volume - come from a frighteningly short distance.

You both start running in the direction you think they come from and soon enough arrive at a small glade. The scene playing out in front of you is anything but encouraging – Jody is laying on the ground unconscious, blood trickling from her forehead; Castiel is kneeling next to her attempting to heal her wound, but you weakened him significantly in the diner so it’s going a lot slower than usual; and Dean is getting his ass kicked by a girl prominently smaller than him. Based on the stories Sam would tell you about him before you fell asleep together in the bunker, you imagine this is gonna shatter his ego.

The girl they referred to as Kaia is about to stab Dean with her spear, but she stops when Sam yells at her. Instead she just quickly delivers a punch to the older Winchester and turns to hurl the weapon at Sam.

“NO!” you scream and push him out of the way just in time, but consequently your left shoulder gets grazed by the pointed head before it settles in a tree trunk.

“Well, you’ve just ruined my shirt.” you exclaim indignantly, while you examine the hole that the weapon ripped into the fabric. Slowly, blood begins to soak the frayed ends. “Agh, and blood, too?? You can’t wash that out! Now it’s personal.”

You both start running at each other and upon colliding, you both manage to take in a hit. A long, tiresome combat ensues between the two of you – the others are too mesmerized by both of your grace and all the beautifully executed motions to join. A busted lip and several bruises later you see an opportunity to render her harmless by bringing her to the ground and you go for it. In a blink of an eye she’s down in the grass and you’re on top of her, holding her in a way that’s impossible to escape without obtaining serious injuries.

“Would you just stop it already?!” you hiss into hear ear, panting heavily. You consider yourself fit, but this little match made you sweat like a pig. “We don’t want to take that stupid spear of yours for good, girly! We’d just like to borrow it for replication so that we could kill an archangel named Michael with it! He’s gonna eradicate every reality you’ve ever known if we don’t stop him. And right now, it looks like our best bet at doing so is your pointy stick.”

“Well, your friends kind of failed to bring all of this to my attention!” she hisses back just as equally out of breath as you.

You let out a frustrated sigh.

“Alright. Promise me you’ll stay calm and I’ll let you go.” her lack of response makes you motivate her into cooperation by pulling back her arm just a bit more, making her scream out in pain.

“Alright, alright! I promise!”

You let go and both of you jump to your feet. When Kaia realizes Sam is holding the weapon, she goes over and takes it from him then brings it to you. Judging by her facial expression, she would have gladly punched Sam in the face for touching it, but a promise is a promise.

“That man you mentioned has sent his minions to get this from me. They’ve almost killed me twice now. If what your saying is true, take it. Make a copy then get the original back to me. Although I’m uncertain if it’s replicable. “ she says, handing the spear to you.

“Well, this is kind of my job, so I’ll try my best to replicate it.” you say as you take it. Sam, Dean and a now-conscious Jody with the help of Castiel all come closer to take a look.

“Your job is replicating weaponry?” she inquires, curiosity taking over her.

“Well creating and replicating. Whatever the customer pays for. But I make things for myself as well, just look at this ring.” you touch the ring on your right middle finger with your thumb. “This has angel grace in it. It glows when it comes in contact with angels. All I need is a handshake and I’ll know if the person is an asshat from upstairs or not. See?” you touch Castiel’s shoulder and the ring starts glowing with a bright blue light. “But when I touch Dean for example, it’s not glow-“ the words freeze in your throath as the ring burns brighter than ever.

Everybody stares at Dean expectantly, who seems utterly shocked for a minute, but then the mask falls off - he rolls his eyes and a look of indifference appears on his face. He straightens himself, even the tone of his voice changes when he speaks up.

“Alright! I must admit I did not expect such turn of events that would lead to my untimely exposure... I planned on pretending to be Dean for a much longer period to get what I want.”

“Michael…” Sam breathes out.

“In the flesh and bone.” he smiles coldly as he raises his arms and an invisible power pushes each of you against a different surrounding tree. Before your back collides with the trunk and the air gets pushed out of your lungs, you manage to throw the spear into the tall grass. If he wants it, he might as well just look for it.

To the biggest surprise of everyone present, the weapon is not the thing he opts for.

It’s you.

He calmly strolls over to you.

“My, my…” he says as he grabs your chin and scrutinizes your face. “You look just like her. Tell me, Nat, what is your story.”

Your eyes snap to Dean’s green ones, though he’s unmistakably not the person looking back.

“My story?!” you almost can’t contain the rage rising within you “You slaughtered my family when I was a kid, asshole, and I’ve been on the run ever since! That’s my story!”

“Interesting. In my dimension, I murdered your family, but you did not escape. You chose to serve me instead.”

“No!” you feel tears starting to sting.

“Oh, yes...” he tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “In fact, your services covered a much broader area in life, including warming my bed. I have to admit, I felt a pang of jealousy when you appeared here in Samuel’s flanel.” he whispers the last sentence, his breath fanning your face.

“DEAN!” Sam’s voice rips trough the air all of a sudden. “I know you’re in there! Fight it, man!”

Michael appears to be a bit irritated by this and turns to walk in Sam’s direction. Your thoughts are racing, so it takes a couple of seconds to realize that what Sam’s doing is distraction. While Michael is set on him, he would concentrate on restraining the others less. It takes all your physical power to move your hand, but you succeed. You are able to dip your fingers into your bleeding shoulder wound and start drawing the angel banishing sign on the tree.

“Samuel. You know, your brother is pushed back so far in his own mind, that he cannot hear you. You might as well just stop talking.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Then I’ll make you.” with a snap of his fingers Sam’s begins choking on thin air.

Your heart rate rises seeing Sam in agony. You swiftly dip your fingers one last time to finish the sign.

“Hey, Michael!” you scream, immediately earning a head turn from him. “This isn’t over, asshole!”

You slap your palm against the sign and both him and Castiel disappear.

#Sam Winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam x reader #SPN #spnfic #series #fanfic #supernatural #sam

[timelordthirteen]

In All Things 8/?

Mr. Gold/BelleFrench, Explicit (eventually)

Summary: A Rumbelle arranged marriage AU.

Chapter Summary: Gold arrives home from the palace, in a less than pleasant mood, and asks a very important favor of Jefferson.

Notes: I promise Gold and Belle are going to start getting closer soon, and we're going to get a bit more of Jefferson's backstory as well. For the 31 Days prompt #8: snow.

[AO3]

Previous: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7]

The trip home from his visit, four days later, did nothing for Gold’s mood.

His leg was killing him, and he longed to stretch out in his own space and drink tea made in his own house. The previous night had seen a chilling rain move through the region, leaving some portions of the road even bumpier than usual, and with an added slickness that made the carriage slow to a crawl at several points. He grumbled about it, but an injured horse was the last thing he needed, so he told himself to stuff his impatience and keep quiet.

Thornhill was a welcome site as they came around the bend, and he sighed. He was not fit company at the moment, but Bae was already out front, waving as the carriage rolled through the gate. Jefferson was next to him, but no one else, and he felt a small tinge of disappointment that Belle wasn’t there as well. No doubt she was glad to be rid of him for the week, and it was just as well, since there was now the matter of sorting out what had gone on between her and her previous fiance, Sir Gaston, that triggered a slew of rumors being spread around the royal court.

The scowl on his face must have conveyed all the information that was needed, because his own son took a step back, suddenly shy and nervous in the presence of his father, and Jefferson was suspiciously reticent.

“Bae,” Gold said tiredly, holding out his arm. Bae came forward and hugged him tight, and he exhaled heavily. “Did you miss me?” Bae shrugged, the corner of his mouth turning up, and Gold bent to kiss the top of his head. “Of course not, probably too busy causing trouble with Moreen and Grace.”

That perked Bae up a bit, and he immediately stepped back, shaking his head and looking affronted. “Nuh-uh, it was Grace who broke the dish, not me!”

Gold raised his eyebrows and shifted his gaze to Jefferson, who hung his head and sighed. The weight on his shoulders lightened a bit as he laughed, and Bae giggled too as wrapped his arms around Gold’s waist again and squeezed. Gold let out a grunt and feigned injury, but he was smiling too wide for it to be believed.

Coming home to his son had always been a balm for his soul, no matter how arduous the journey.

“Sir,” Jefferson said, “There’s a small matter that needs your attention; a letter that’s arrived from Mr. Humbert, but other than the incident with the plate, it’s been quiet.”

“Good,” Gold mumbled, reaching into the carriage to take out his satchel while his cases were unloaded from the back of the carriage. “Have those taken to the laundry. I need to change and freshen up, and then I’ll see you in my library, yes?”

Jefferson gave a short nod and a half bow as Gold strode into the manor.

A brief wash and a change of clothes made Gold feel marginally better.

Jefferson came to see him after an hour, at which point he’d already read through the letter from Graham Humbert, caretaker of one of his properties to the west, and reviewed the rest of the correspondence that had come in while he was gone.

“So it seems the issues with the orchard are continuing,” Gold said with a sigh as he let the letter fall to the desk.

Jefferson nodded glumly and mirrored him from the sofa near the fireplace. “At this point, we’re not sure what we can do. We may have to let some of it go fallow for the next year and see if it improves.”

Gold frowned. “That will reduce the yield even further. The King will not be pleased.”

“It’s already at a five year low,” Jefferson said with a shrug. “And the King, as you’ve said before, can ‘sod off unless he’s willing to get down in the dirt with the regular people.’”

That earned Jefferson a momentary smirk. “We have extra stores and extra funds, but we may need most of it to get through the winter. They’re still saying it will be one of the worst in a decade.”

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, until Gold stood up. He moved to the fireplace and prodded at the logs as Jefferson watched him thoughtfully.

“Let’s hear it,” Jefferson said, stretching his arms out along the back of the lounge.

Gold frowned over his shoulder and then set the iron poker aside. “Hear what?”

Jefferson gave him an exasperated look. “Whatever it is that’s bothering you. It’s been evident since you returned.”

Gold exhaled and nodded, then moved to sit across from Jefferson in a high backed leather chair where he put his feet up on the ottoman.

“King George, he - he mentioned Lady Belle’s first engagement.”

Jefferson’s head tilted. They had both known that Belle was supposed to be married to Sir Gaston and that after only two months the whole thing had fallen through, but the particulars had never been divulged. Gold laid out every detail of what the King had said, his hand curling into a tight fist as he recounted the implication that Belle had taken other suitors and perhaps tried to entrap multiple eligible men into marrying her by getting pregnant.

“Ridiculous,” Jefferson said, his usually gentle voice sharpened by derision and irritation. “Lady Belle is far too sweet for any of that nonsense. She doesn’t have a manipulative bone in her body!”

Gold’s fingers tapped against the leather arms, drumming lightly on the brass rivets that went along the sides and front. He wanted to believe Jefferson was right, but something was nagging at him about the whole situation, beyond that his new wife was being talked about at court so distastefully.

“You don’t believe it, do you?” Jefferson sat forward, frowning. “You can’t, it’s - it’s -”

“Undetermined,” Gold finished.

Jefferson sprang to his feet, flipping his long coat out behind him. “What?”

Gold raised a hand to settle his friend and stared into the fire. “Something happened between her and Gaston, and now Gaston is spreading lascivious rumors, but -”

“But what?” Jefferson nudged Gold’s feet aside and sat down on the ottoman, facing him. “It bothers you that you don’t know the truth, and you won’t feel like you can trust her until you do?”

He huffed out a breath and closed his eyes before nodding slowly. “I don’t like it, but I can’t shake it.”

“You could ask her you know.” Gold looked up, eyes wide, and Jefferson shook his head. “It’s the simplest solution, and she has a right to know that she’s being slandered.”

“Yes, I’m sure that will go over well.” He looked from Jefferson back to the fireplace. “My Lady would you be so kind as to tell me all the terrible details of how your first engagement was broken and nearly ruined your family for good?”

Jefferson snorted. “Well, I imagined you’d be a little more tactful and eloquent than that, but if you want her to throw a teapot at your head, then so be it.”

Gold swallowed and looked down at his hands as he fiddled with his ring. “You could do it.”

“Pardon?” Jefferson leaned forward and dipped his head to catch Gold’s gaze. “I’m sure you’re joking.”

“You’ve done it before, it’s -”

“No.” Jefferson stood again and crossed his arms. “We agreed that was over. No.”

“Jefferson, please -”

“Cameron!” he hissed.

Jefferson’s eyes were wide and pleading, and Gold felt a pang in his chest. He knew that asking this might damage their friendship forever, but he needed to know the truth if he was going to trust Belle with everything. With his son. More than that, he felt an obligation to protect her reputation, now that he’d participated in sullying it. If there was something in her past that could be used to harm her in the future, and it brought harm to Bae as well, he’d never forgive himself.

“This is for Baeden, not me,” Gold said softly. “I have to know. I don’t want anything to be used against her, and if it’s all bollocks as we think it is, then I want Gaston to pay for whatever he’s done to her.”

Jefferson took a breath and leaned against the mantle, resting his head on his forearm. The heat from the flames warmed his leather boots until they felt like they might melt before he straightened and then turned to Gold.

“Fine,” he said evenly. “But this is absolutely the last time.”

Gold inclined his head. “Agreed.”

“And,” he continued, “Grace gets Hampton House.”

Gold’s eyebrows lifted and his mouth opened in a soft ‘oh.’ “Making a deal, dearie?” Jefferson’s glare could have stopped a bear in its tracks, and Gold sighed. “Fine, yes.”

Jefferson gave a quick nod and tugged on the lapels of his jacket. “Good.”

His steps were sharp as he walked to the door of the study, and Gold sagged in his chair. “It was going to be hers anyway.”

Jefferson stopped at the door and turned around, meeting Gold’s gaze as he leaned around the side of the chair. “Hampton House. I was going to wait until she was sixteen and sign it over to her. Pretty young girl, with a sharp wit, a house, and an inheritance all her own? She could marry anyone she wanted.”

Gold pushed up and stood to face Jefferson. “I just want my boy safe and cared for, the same as you want for Grace.”

“And Belle?”

Jefferson’s stare was hard, and Gold nodded solemnly. “Her too.”

They seemed to agree on that, and Jefferson left without another word. Gold dropped back into the chair and leaned forward, his face in his hands as he breathed in and out steadily. He hated asking his friend to do such a thing, especially after their shared history, but he needed to know the truth and Jefferson was the only one he trusted to do it discreetly and thoroughly.

With another heavy sigh, he pushed to his feet and rang the bell for the maid. He would take his dinner in his room as he was even less fit for company now than when he arrived.

Jefferson stewed for two days before he got down to the business of making inquiries about Lady Belle and Sir Gaston’s engagement.

He started by trying to prod Belle into just telling him what had happened, but all his subtle hints went unnoticed, and he was afraid to be more blunt for fear of pushing her away. He had come to respect and care for Belle in a very short time and was happy to consider her a friend. One day he was certain they’d be dear friends, and he was glad that Bae and Grace would have her in their lives. Both children had lost their mothers young, and while he and Gold did they best they could as fathers, he knew having a mother was a different thing entirely. He hoped that Belle might be that for them, the kind, strong, and caring figure they needed later in life.

He did manage to find out that Belle’s mother had also died when she was young, barely passed eleven, and it solidified even more that whatever stories were being told about her were untrue. She was far too good for all of that nonsense, but there was a hint of something in her countenance that was closed to him. He began to understand where Gold’s fear had originated, but he got the sense that whatever it was, it wasn’t known to anyone but herself.

That morning, he sent out letters to a few key contacts at the royal court, making small inquiries after Sir Gaston. He knew the man wasn’t well liked overall, and assumed it would be easy to find where the bodies were buried, hopefully only metaphorically.

He had just finished calculating the staff’s wages for the month, when Belle came into the downstairs study.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, starting to back out of the room.

“No, no, do come in.” He set the ledger book aside and returned the pen to its holder. “I was just finishing up.”

She eased back into the room, and he smiled. Her dress was a delightfully bright and springy yellow with white piping at the edges and a scrolling pattern of pearls around the bodice. The lace around the hem had clearly seen better days, but that was easily remedied. Ms. Potts was an excellent seamstress, as were two of the younger ladies, but he thought that fairly soon, she’d probably have a whole new wardrobe if she wanted it.

“So,” she started, drawing out the ‘oh’ sound, “how are you?”

“I’m well, you?” He moved from the desk to a chair near the window and gestured for her to take the other.

Belle shrugged. “Well, I suppose.”

He frowned. “That’s not very convincing. Would you like to try again?”

She gave a short laugh and then sighed. “I haven’t seen, um, Gold today. Or yesterday. I’m starting to think he’s avoiding me.”

Jefferson sat back, the fingers of his left hand fiddling with the buckle at the top of his boot as he absorbed that bit of information and made a mental note to speak to Gold. “He’s always a bit grumpy when he comes back from the palace, I wouldn’t take it personally.”

“It’s a bit hard not to,” she admitted. “Is he...grumpy often?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Only a little more than everyone else. There’s a lot of...pressure from the King to help keep things in order.”

“Ah.”

Jefferson remained silent for a long moment, but when she didn’t say anything more, he reached for her hand. She startled at bit at his touch, and he gave her a small smile.

“Are you alright?”

She took a breath, and then pulled her hand away. “I’m fine.”

“Again, not very convincing,” he said, starting to grin. “You would make a terrible actress.”

Belle gave him a momentarily scowl and then shook her head. “I’ve never been good at lying, I couldn’t get away with so much as a muddy shoe print on the rug as a child, and I had no siblings to blame it on.”

Jefferson laughed softly. “I’m afraid that at one time in my life, lying was as easy to me as breathing.” Belle frowned at him and he sighed. “That, I am happy to say, is all behind me.”

She smiled and rested her hand on his, giving it a light squeeze, and he felt his stomach sink. Lying was still entirely too easy for him, it was just that he actually felt the effects of it now, the guilt of it all burning its way through his soul. He reminded himself that this was better for all of them in the long run.

“The other day,” she began, “last week, actually, when - when we met in the garden?”

Jefferson swallowed. “Yes?”

“I, um - well, before that, I came out of my room and I heard - I heard you and - and Lord Gold.”

He blinked and something clicked into place as she nibbled on her bottom lip. He and Gold had one of their spirited arguments that everyone at Thornhill was more than used to, but it occurred to him that someone new such as Belle wouldn’t know the kind of relationship he had with his friend and employer. She wouldn’t understand that Gold’s snappishness and sarcasm was well matched with his own, and that there was never any offense meant. He’d only been trying to coax Gold into being honest with Belle about his situation and Bae’s, which he’d given up on for now.

“Ah,” he said finally. “Well, that explains things.”

Her head tilted. “I don’t understand. He was so -”

“Loud?” he offered. “Abrasive? Rude?”

Belle shifted in her seat. “Um…”

Jefferson chuckled. “All three?” She gave him a sideways look and then nodded. “Oh, darling, don’t mind him. We’ve always been like that with each other, and truly there is no offense meant or taken. I was pushing him to do something, and he was pushing back, that’s all.”

She seemed uncertain and began to pick at a loose thread on her skirt. “Oh. Well, I’m sorry I overheard.”

“Did it...scare you?” he asked, sitting forward.

“A bit, maybe.” She looked out the window and then back to him. “I barely know him, and I didn’t know what to think.”

His look was soft and sympathetic, and he reached for her hand, pressing it between both of his. “His bark is far worse than his bite, that I can promise you. He’s like an old toothless dog.”

That made her laugh, and he grinned, basking in the lovely sound. Lady Belle of Avonlea was truly a gem, and he knew that once they dealt with this nasty business with Gaston, that all would be well.

“I was actually looking for him earlier,” she said. “I was hoping we could - we could talk.”

He patted the back of her hand and agreed. “Yes, I think that would be a very good idea.

Belle leaned her forehead against the cold glass, watching as the little puffs of breath from her nose fogged the window.

What Jefferson had said about his relationship with Gold seemed truthful, and she felt better having said something about what she heard, even if it she had yet to broach the subject with Gold. Since he’d returned from King George’s palace, he’d been keeping to himself and the few times she tried to seek him out, he seemed to be well secluded somewhere in the house.

Jefferson insisted that if she was honest with Gold, he would be honest with her, and while she had no reason to doubt it, the thought of confronting Lord Cameron Gold about anything seemed daunting.

Do the brave thing, her mother’s voice echoed.

She let out a heavy sigh, obscuring the view momentarily. At the bottom of the window, snow had begun to accumulate, and she shivered before turning away from the window to draw the curtains.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #belle x mr. gold #in all things #my rumbelle fic #fic #31 days of fandomas #fandomas 2019

[emospritelet]

Homecoming - chapter 17

95: “What do you want from the New Year?”

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10] [Part 11] [Part 12] [Part 13] [Part 14] [Part 15] [Part 16] AO3 link

This is a moment of family calm before - something

x

It was a relief to step out of the salon into the corridor, and Ogilvy sighed as Doc closed the door behind him. They had left Lady Tremaine to drink her tea, having questioned her thoroughly about her experiences with what she called her ‘otherworldly visitor’. He fell into step beside Doc as they walked back towards the west wing where their rooms were situated.

“A strange tale,” said Doc, in a neutral tone.

“Indeed.” Ogilvy glanced around to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “Did you feel anything in the room?”

“Can’t say that I did. You?”

“No.” His mouth flattened. “We’ll need to check the bedroom. Perhaps we should take Alice; she’s displayed some sensitivity to spirits.”

“Agreed. I think we’ll wait until after the party, though.”

“Definitely.”

There was a moment of silence as they crossed the main landing.

“So,” said Doc, as soon as they were out of earshot of passing servants. “Langfell still stands.”

“Only to be expected, I suppose,” said Ogilvy, with a twist to his mouth, and Doc eyed him with sympathy.

“I realise it’s the last place either of us want to visit,” he said carefully. “But I think it might be useful.”

“No, I agree,” said Ogilvy, in a flat tone. “I think we should take Belle. You never know, being back in her old home might spark something.”

“Indeed.” Doc ran his hands over his waistcoat, patting his belly the way he did when he was thinking. “Shall we go now?”

“I was thinking we could go tomorrow, instead of joining the hunt,” said Ogilvy, and Doc nodded approvingly.

“I daresay that would be a more productive use of our time,” he said. “I’ll mention it to Thwaites. We can borrow some horses, should make the journey a little easier.”

He rubbed at his temple, and Ogilvy put a hand on his shoulder.

“Alright?”

“Damn visions,” grumbled Doc. “They seem to come more frequently now that Belle is back in our lives. Not saying they make any more sense, mind you.”

Ogilvy smiled, squeezing his shoulder.

“Well, it was always thus.”

“Indeed.” Doc patted his hand. “I think I’ll go and lie down, see what comes to me. Something tells me the evening is going to be a long one, and if anything momentous is going to happen, I’d like to have a little warning.”

They strode on, parting ways when they reached their rooms, and Ogilvy was unsurprised to find Hatter waiting for him. The man seemed to have a sixth sense about when he would be needed.

“Going out, sir?” he asked. 

“I thought I’d join Alice and Miss Marchland as they dodge snowballs from the children,” he said.

Hatter nodded immediately, going to the wardrobe, and ten minutes later Ogilvy was walking around to the side of the house, where the sun still shone brightly on the thick layer of snow. He followed the sound of excited squeals and shouts, spying the small figures of Nicholas, Ava, and another young girl crisscrossing the snow-covered lawn. His greatcoat, hat, scarf and gloves kept the cold from him, but he still rubbed his hands together briskly, white breath billowing from him as he approached Belle and Alice and their snowman. They had found stones for the eyes, mouth and buttons, and there was a waxy evergreen leaf, which looked a little too fresh to have fallen naturally, in place of a cravat. 

“Ladies,” he said, bowing his head a little. “I see you already have a gentleman to keep you company.”

“He doesn’t have much conversation, but he’s an awfully good listener,” said Alice, and giggled as he sent her a flat look. “How are you, Papa? Did you solve the mystery of Lady Tremaine’s ghosts?”

“Not yet,” he admitted. “Perhaps we’ll make some progress tomorrow. Doc has a headache, so he’s gone to lie down and rest.”

“I hope he’s well enough to attend the party this evening,” said Belle.

“Oh, I’m sure he will be,” said Ogilvy. “I’ll send Hatter to check on him later.”

A snowball whizzed past his ear, and he rolled his eyes as Alice and Belle chuckled.

“I see you’re wearing the children out,” he said. “That seems an excellent notion to me.”

“They’re certainly enjoying themselves,” said Belle, still patting the snowman’s head into shape. “I think it’s the first time Lucy has been able to run and play with children of her own age since she got here.”

“Ah, that’s the Mills girl, is it?” He glanced around. “Well, I’m glad they all made friends. It’s good for Nicholas and Ava to mix with other children, too.” 

“Indeed it is,” said Alice briskly, dusting snow from her gloves. “But Lucy’s aim is terrible. I think I’ll go and show her how it’s done. Perhaps we can team up and beat the twins.”

She hurried off, calling out to the children as she ran, and Ogilvy chuckled as she dodged a snowball and stopped to scoop up snow and form her own missile. The children scattered like quail as she threw it, but the snowball caught Nicholas on the backside and made him shriek in excitement. Ogilvy shared a grin with Belle, and she dropped her eyes, still smiling as she smoothed the shoulders of the snowman.

“How went your conversation with Her Ladyship?” she asked, and Ogilvy wrinkled his nose.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “It’s not clear how much of her tale is her own impressionable nature exaggerating what might simply be the noises of an old house.”

“What did she describe?”

“A coldness in the room, and knocking in a pattern of three,” he said. “After that, some moaning. It started in September, then there seems to have been a lull before it began again at the end of October. She says it has happened at least once a week since then.”

“The same three knocks, and a moaning noise?”

“She says there’s now some evil laughter, as well.”

“Any corroborating evidence?” she asked briskly. “Points of view other than hers? Trusted servants, perhaps?”

Ogilvy tried to keep the smile from his face at her pointed questions. You always could see to the heart of the matter, my love. Gods, how I’ve missed your mind, your wit. Grounding me, keeping me focused. 

“No one else appears to have heard the noises,” he said. “She mentioned the housekeeper thinking that the room was far colder than usual, but I’m not sure how much store we can set by that, or to what extent the servants humour their mistress’s notions.”

“Indeed,” agreed Belle. “I could certainly ask Ivy what she has found out from talking to the maids, though.”

“And I have no doubt Hatter will have an opinion, too,” he said. “The servants will speak more freely to them than to myself and Doc, I suspect. If what Lady Tremaine says is true, and the ‘visitations’ are targeting her specifically, there may be a more human motive behind it all.”

“Someone trying to scare her, you mean?” asked Belle. “Yes, I had wondered whether that could be the case. From what I’ve seen, she seems to have somewhat strained relationships with most of her husband’s family.”

Ogilvy hesitated, thumb feeling the band of his ring beneath the glove as he glanced at her.

“She did mention one other thing that Doc and I thought we might look into,” he said. “Stones were taken from the outer wall of a nearby castle. Langfell Castle. It’s a ruin now, apparently, but she said a noble family used to live there. I understand that they were named Beauchamp.”

He was watching carefully, or he wouldn’t have seen the tiny crease that appeared between her eyes.

“A ruined castle?” she said. “Why would that be relevant?”

“I’m not sure it is,” he admitted. “She told us a tale of a ghostly presence there, a rumour amongst the servants. Doc and I were planning to take horses up there tomorrow, while the others are hunting. Perhaps you’d like to accompany us.”

“Of course,” she said at once. “If we can be sure the children are settled.”

“Well, they seem to be getting along well with Miss Mills,” he said. “No doubt they can spend a few hours playing together while we look at the castle.”

“Her Ladyship said that the hunt will set off at eleven,” said Belle. “Perhaps we could see them off, and then leave ourselves.”

“Agreed,” he said. “I’ll inform Doc. I daresay he could use the exercise and some good cold air to blow away tonight’s excesses.”

Belle giggled a little, her eyes sparkling.

“I’m hoping that the party won’t go on too late,” she said. “Although I look forward to the dancing. Mrs Mills says that everyone of note in the area is attending.”

“I can seek refuge in the library, in that case,” he said with a grin.

“Escaping the chattering hordes?” she said teasingly. “Is this one of those occasions where only champagne will see you through?”

“It may even take some whisky,” he said solemnly, and she giggled again.

“I suspect I might choose the library over the ballroom, at some point,” she said. “Perhaps you’ll find me there.”

His grin widened.

“Then it will be a very pleasant evening,” he said. “A perfect way to welcome in the New Year.”

It was hard to tell, with her cheeks already pink from the cold, but he thought she was blushing a little. She bit her lip, eyes gleaming, and ducked her head a little, looking up at him through dark lashes.

“And what do you want from the New Year, Mr Ogilvy?” she said.

He could feel his smile grow soft, and his eyes caught and held hers.

“Peace,” he said quietly. “After all these years, I want peace.”

Belle’s breath seemed to catch, a sharp little inhalation as their eyes locked. He could feel their connection, their bond, the tug of her soul upon his. He prayed that she could feel it still, and he kept his gaze fixed on hers. Her breathing had quickened, he could hear it in the air, and he wanted to step closer, to touch her, to take her in his arms and taste her kiss. Instead, he let her see him, let her look into the depths of his soul, hoping that an errant spark from the blazing fire of his love would catch and burn inside her. Belle was staring, blue eyes wide and clear in the winter sunlight, but then she blinked, and the spell was broken. She looked a little flustered, teeth catching on her lower lip in that way she had, and he remained still, allowing her to collect herself, to gather her thoughts.

There was silence for a moment, but for the chirps of birds and shouts from the children. Belle glanced up, and he followed her gaze to where Alice and Lucy were squatting behind a snow-covered bush, each popping up in turn to throw a snowball at the twins before ducking back down again. Nicholas and Ava had amassed a large pile of snowballs and had taken refuge behind a tree.

“It appears the battle lines have been drawn,” Belle observed, her cheeks still flushed. “I’m not sure which side I favour.”

“Alice is a crack shot,” he said. “I’d wager on her winning, unless the twins do something sneaky. Which I wouldn’t put past them.”

As if she had heard him, Ava took advantage of Alice and Lucy being out of sight to race around behind them and pelt them with snowballs. Nicholas then joined in from the front of the bush, and Ogilvy and Belle burst out laughing at the resulting shrieks.

“At least they’ll all sleep well tonight,” remarked Belle.

“Hopefully well enough that they don’t come and disturb your rest,” he said, and she smiled.

“I don’t mind. As I said, it’s reassuring that they come to me for comfort.”

“I’d like to think the children are good judges of character,” he said, and she smiled.

“Is that why they came to you?”

“Oh, I can’t take credit for that,” he said. “Alice found them. They’re not the first I’ve fed and housed. Just the first to stay more than a few days.”

“What became of the others?” she asked and he gave her a wry smile.

“Made off with some of the silver and were no doubt too scared to come back.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. “I’m sorry.”

Ogilvy waved a hand.

“Don’t be. Alice felt guilty after the first of them, but as I told her, lives are more important than possessions. Silver can easily be replaced.”

“That’s a very magnanimous attitude.”

“Well, as vulgar as it is to mention it, I’m very rich,” he said dryly. “I can afford to be magnanimous.”

She smiled at that, her face lighting up, and he felt his heart clench at her beauty. He glanced around at the children again, and saw that Alice was running over, cheeks pink with cold and breathless with excitement.

“The little buggers surrounded me!” she complained, and Ogilvy clicked his tongue.

“Really, Alice!”

“Sorry, Papa, but Ava hit me right in the bloody face!”

Her accent came through strongly, her years of fine living forgotten in her indignation, and he bit his lip to keep from smiling.

“And here I was thinking it would be the twins that taught Miss Mills some exciting new words,” he said.

Alice stuck out her tongue, then blushed and clapped her hands to her mouth. Ogilvy sighed, shaking his head.

“And she wants you to teach her etiquette, Miss Marchland,” he said. “I trust you’ll be staying with us for some time?”

Belle was trying to hide her own smile, and Ogilvy grinned.

“Well, I’ll leave you to enjoy the snow,” he said. “I’m afraid my feet are like blocks of ice already, and if I’m to survive this evening’s entertainment, I really ought to thaw them out.”

Alice leaned in to kiss his cheek, and he kissed her back, nodding to Belle with a smile as he touched his hat.

“Until later,” he said, and walked back to the house, snow squeaking and crunching under his feet.

x

Belle stayed out in the snow until the cold seeping into her grew too much to bear. Fortunately, the children appeared to be tiring, and so she called to them, leading them back to the house for a change of clothes and hot cocoa. She decided to eat luncheon in the nursery with them, and Alice joined them. Once the meal was over, she let them play together in the nursery, ending the day with a story before they ate their supper and got into their night things. Lucy seemed a far happier child than she had been that morning, and bid them a cheerful goodnight as her parents came to put her to bed.

She had missed Lady Ella’s arrival, and heard about it from Ivy when she came to help Belle dress. The best of her secondhand evening gowns had been aired and pressed, a pretty thing in a soft gold colour that she had wavered before buying, worried that it was too fine for someone in her position. Now that she was wearing it, she was glad she had decided to make the purchase. The warm gold was perfect with her colouring, and she watched as Ivy expertly twisted her hair up on top of her head and secured it with pins. Her neckline looked a little bare, with no jewellery to adorn it, but that couldn’t be helped. She had new gloves in ivory silk, and a pair of shoes that were already pinching her heels a little. The faint sounds of music were drifting up from below, and she could feel a tickle of nerves in her belly.

“Have the servants mentioned anything about Lady Tremaine and her ghosts?” asked Belle, and Ivy looked amused.

“All but the youngest kitchen maids think she’s hearing things, Miss,” she said. “Mrs Timpson didn’t say as much, but she didn’t disagree.”

“Have they seen or heard anything strange in the house?”

“Not that they mentioned to me, Miss Belle,” said Ivy. “They said the castle’s haunted, though. A ghost-witch, the cook said. Not sure they weren’t just trying to scare me with that one.”

“Her Ladyship told the Professor and Mr Ogilvy the same tale,” said Belle. “We’re going to visit the castle tomorrow.”

Ivy shivered.

“Rather you than me, Miss.”

“Oh, I’m looking forward to it,” said Belle. “I’m not saying that I believe there’s really a ghost there, of course, but it’s not every day one gets to see a ruined castle.”

“The Professor does like his old places,” said Ivy, pushing a last pin into place. “I’ve got some darning to do for Miss Alice, so I’ll sit in my room and keep warm, if it’s all the same to you.”

Belle giggled, and turned her head this way and that to admire the style that Ivy had created.

“Thank you, that’s wonderful,” she said. “I suppose I’d better go down.”

The music was louder out on the landing, the sounds of chatter and laughter drifting up to meet her as she clutched at the skirts of her gown with one gloved hand, the other resting on the banister. The entrance hall of Willowbrook Grange was brightly lit with what looked like hundreds of candles, with fresh greenery and red ribbons draped around the panelling and the scent of pine in the air. She imagined that it was the way the house had bid farewell to every year for the past two centuries. 

Belle paused, her heart thumping, one hand clutching at the smooth marble of the banister as a strange feeling of déjà vu swept over her. For a moment it was as though she had been snatched back in time a hundred years earlier, and she half-expected to see gentlemen in black breeches and white silk stockings, and ladies in empire-line gowns with soft curls at their temples. A heavy sadness seemed to weigh upon her, an inexplicable, overwhelming grief, as though she was filled with tears.

“Miss Marchland?”

The Professor’s voice made the images in her mind vanish, and Belle took a deep breath, letting it out as she felt her heart slow and that terrible sadness drain out of her. He was dressed for the occasion, white tie and waistcoat beneath a black coat, but for the strangest of moments she had half-expected to see him wearing soft woollen felt and animal skins, with his face covered in swirling tattoos. I must be more tired than I thought. Imagining the Professor with a tattooed face! Whatever next?

“Are you well?” he asked anxiously, blinking at her behind his glasses, and she forced a smile, pushing the strange images from her mind.

“Quite well, thank you,” she said. “For a moment there I felt a little faint.”

“Then here, take my arm,” he said, offering it to her. “I daresay it’ll be a long night. Best to take things slow while one can.”

“Thank you.” 

She put her arm through his and they made their way down the stairs, following the sounds of music and laughter.

“How are you?” asked Belle. “Mr Ogilvy said you were lying down with a headache.”

“Oh, I’m well, thank you, my dear.” He patted her hand comfortingly. “Tired from all the travel, I suspect. These things happen, but I’m well enough this evening.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.”

“I can’t see me dancing much,” he added. “Though perhaps you and I might take a turn, if there’s something not too energetic.”

“I should be delighted,” she said. “Only if you think you’re well enough, though. Don’t exert yourself on my account.”

“I’ll see how I feel once we’re in there,” he said, and smiled at her. “I think tonight might be a time to observe others from a quiet corner. And possibly have a glass of wine or two.”

Belle returned the smile.

“An appealing choice,” she said. “It’s been a long time since I attended an occasion like this. I’m not certain whether I should be excited or nervous.” 

“Yes,” he said absently. “I know the feeling.”

They had reached the ballroom, and Belle could see beyond the tall double doors that the room was already busy with strangers in fine gowns and glittering jewels and starched white shirts. She took a deep breath, and the Professor glanced across at her, patting her hand again as he gave her an encouraging smile.

“Come now,” he said. “Let’s get a drink. With the New Year comes new opportunities, and new challenges. Something to be celebrated, not feared. Shall we?”

She returned his warm smile, feeling a little easier, and allowed him to lead her into the ballroom.

#sprite's festive fic fest #fic: homecoming #ogilvelle fic #ogilvelle #my fic #rumbelle fic #rumbelle #ladysibyl

[dansnaturepictures]

04/06/2020-Grey but high photo yielding day at home and Lakeside 

I took the first picture in this photoset of “Rex and Violet” the regular Feral Pigeons in the garden before I went on my daily exercise walk at Lakeside. Whilst yesterday was wet in places mostly on a dry walk at lunch I did manage nine pictures still, ten produced with my picture of Tuesday’s sunset rolling over as it was taken after I logged my laptop off two nights ago. Today it was grey with just a very little bit of sun and blue sky trying to poke through this afternoon so really you’d forgive me for taking maybe two or three photos today or none at all I think really given how many animals and views I have photographed around here in glorious sunshine during my working days on very hot days of late so I perhaps didn’t think I could improve on a dark day. But today I have so far as I write this just past half past 7 produced 15 pictures today my highest on a weekday for ages. So I showed myself as I have before I think that you can take lots of photos on grey days too and I had an unexpected ripe appetite for taking photos on my walk today.

There’s little doubt that you want it sunny in some degree to take photos. I’d say 99% of the time I’m taking photos and produce my best photos the sun is shining. That 1% I attribute to wintery days where the weaker sunlight can be a bit dazzling and combined with shadowing it sadly becomes destructive for the image a little especially for wildlife subjects but don’t get me wrong I love sunny days over the winter and its a symbol of hope at that time of year and does usually allow me to produce many photos in most cases each winter its just the odd days really. On grey days obviously the light is sometimes not so good and some of my pictures today could have done with a drop of sun or brighter conditions for sure especially in areas under trees. You just sort of accept you’re gonna get to be out in sun every day you take photos! 

But I have to say the greyer days preferably dry ones or dry patched ones do allow a bit of steeliness in the images especially in the winter and especially for wildlife subjects but all year round to a degree. But I think the reason I ended up taking so many pictures today was because whilst I loved the sun on that long run the landscape was completely transformed the last two days in the same areas I walk mostly by the overcast conditions. So just because it all looked so different to previous weeks I sort of just had that spark and sense of wanting to lap up the conditions. It was a pleasant surprise really to be able to produce so many. As I walked over the nature reserve area I took the second picture in this photoset, what today as yesterday had also was that summery vibe of the temperature whilst lower not being that low so it was a bit humid and you had the whole landscape looking very lush and green the vegetation not being illuminated by the sunshine but their emerald glow brightening the whole day up. 

As I took more and more pictures walking around the lakes it was a procession of common water birds mostly and the stars of Lakeside I saw, I took the third, fifth, seventh and eighth pictures in this photoset of a Greylag Goose gosling not looking much a gosling anymore with very nice feathers coming through a lovely moment in my regular journey following these growing young birds constantly, a Canada Goose gosling not far behind it, a Great Crested Grebe its partner nearby was carrying a stick as I took in another photo from today that’s not in this post to add to its nest and a Mallard. It was also great to see a new family seeing a female and very small Mallard ducklings as I passed from the high up path the little pond area in the nature reserve cordoned off as I went out at the end of the walk. On the theme of the nature reserve area in the grassland at Lakeside I took the sixth picture in this photoset one of a few cattle grazing the other cordoned off area. They are great pioneers of this important part of the country park for biodiversity that its been amazing to see grow I can remember when the nature reserve area was first established well. I also took the fourth picture in this photoset of one of the regular Jackdaws by beach lake and the ninth looking down Monks Brook a tributary to the River Itchen that runs beside Lakeside and also at Fleming Park another Eastleigh park. It was nice to come here today I hadn’t walked to the ford area by the road at the south west of Lakeside for a while really. When home this afternoon and working it was interesting to see some nice cloud formations within the grey one of these the tenth picture I took in this photoset with a nice bit of brightness over the three distinctive trees you may recognise from the amounts of times they have featured in my photos since March and some nice cloud layering to watch from my room. 

Wildlife Sightings Summary: One of my favourite birds the Great Crested Grebe, Mallard, Canada Goose, Greylag Goose, Coot, Tufted Duck, Lesser Black Backed Gull, Herring Gull, Great Black Backed Gull, Jackdaw, Starling nice to see lots of these gathering throughout the day with juvenilles well and truly about now as I’ve charted so much as they come in the garden, House Sparrow, Woodpigeon, Collared Dove, Feral Pigeon, Meadow Brown and I heard another of my favourite birds the Great Spotted Woodpecker making an alarm call in Lakeside’s woods with Jackdaw calling loudly there.

#grey #drab #lush #green #wet #sun #sunny #clouds #cloud #uk #earth #nature #photography #great spotted woodpecker #great crested grebe #hampshire #england #world #beautiful #wonderful #europe #eastleigh #fleming park #monks brook #river #lake #birds #birdwatching #butterflies #meadow brown

[scribeofmorpheus]

Mark of the Wolf Epilogue

Catch Up Here!

Pairing: Derek Hale x Reader (Lastname: Markolf)

Words: 3k

Warnings: Language, sexual references and... hallucinations, or are they?

A/N: The end of a journey, but the start of a new one! To all those that stuck around till the end -I’m sorry for taking so long- and y’all are the best! Check the link at the end to read the blurb for the sequel.

Leave a like or reblog if you enjoyed this chapter! It helps ☺

~

You laid in Derek’s bed watching the first glimmers of daybreak scatter over his velvet sheets. His mouth was parted slightly as he took long, drawn out breaths in his sleep. You hugged your knees to your breast, taking in the peaceful silence.

With the last of the hunters lost to the winds, you were unsure of what going back to normal meant.

Were you just supposed to go back to your newly-moved-in apartment and unpack the last few boxes you left on the floor? Then what? Spend the rest of your days spaying cats and clipping outgrown nails? Somehow the prospect of returning to how things used to be felt a little underwhelming.

What about Derek? He was still a wanted man in four states. Still a criminal in the eyes of the law. Was it safe for him to stay? Would he stay?

As you pondered your future, Derek stirred from sleep, a groan emanating from his chest.

“Morning,” you whispered over your knees.

He smiled at you, “Morning.”

He sat up to lean against his headboard, chiselled chest in full view.

You blushed, remembering the kiss in the woods and how sexy his glistening muscles made him look.

He splayed his arms wide for you to crawl under, the red rash slowly forming on his forearm identical to Peter’s. Scratch marks present from when he was asleep, digging his nails into his irritated flesh.

You tucked yourself under his strong frame, trailing fingers over the snaking flesh. You shuddered. It didn’t feel right.

Derek kissed the top of your head, chasing your worries to the back of your mind.

“Where do we go from here?” you asked, keeping your eyes trained on the growing rash.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, stroking the bony trail of your neck. “But I know I don’t want to go back.”

You smiled, “Neither do I.”

Something writhed under his skin and you started from the contact it had with the pads of your fingers.

“What are we going to do about this?” you poked his arm.

He dismissed it nonchalantly, “As long as it doesn’t kill me, I don’t care.”

You hummed in thought.

Derek seemed more carefree, less burdened. You felt deprived of this side of him, wishing you had known he possessed such calmness underneath his brooding façade earlier.

“You’re still a wanted man you know,” you reminded him.

“And you’re a vet with a clinic in disrepair,” he retorted.

“So…” you looked up to meet his green eyes. “What do we do about that?”

Derek kissed your lips, twining his fingers with yours, “I’ve actually been having this reoccurring dream.”

“Oh yeah?” you arched a brow.

“Mmm-hmm. It’s about us actually.”

“Us?” you felt comfortable saying the words, it scared you how normal it felt on your tongue.

Derek noticed how casually you said it too, it made his smile grow, “Yeah, us. We’re always alone, just the two of us, with nothing but a map, a camping tent and two backpacks.”

“That sounds… a lot like my childhood actually.”

“That’s not the best part. Every morning we wake up somewhere new. And on the last day, we pitch our tent in front of this magnificent waterfall, surrounded by nothing but free open spaces and curious coyotes.”

“You had me till coyotes.”

A laugh rumbled from his chest, “They tend to steer clear of wolves. A hierarchy thing.”

“Ahh,” you said, drawing circles around his abdomen.

“How about it?” He asked, eyes peering into yours. He looked vulnerable.

“What? Leave Beacon Hills, disappear for a while to go on a hiking trip with a guy I just slept with?” you teased.

He rolled his eyes, “Hey, I’m more than a piece of meat you know.”

“I know. Not many people would go to such lengths to help a total stranger.”

“You’re not a stranger to me. I’m beginning to doubt if you ever were.”

“God! It seems like years ago that I pulled that bullet from right here–” you poked the spot that once looked mangled and bloody from a bullet wound.

Derek jerked, finding your touch ticklish.

“Well?” he asked again.

What he was asking of you was to be someone you weren’t. Someone spontaneous and adventurous and not someone who was calculating and a meticulous planner. He was asking you to take a chance on whatever warm feeling was spreading through your body right as the golden glow of the sunrise bathed your naked bodies.

The rational part of your brain was telling you ‘No!’. Warning you not to be swept up in the moment like a hopeless romantic.

Be with him, but don’t put everything on hold for him, the rational voice said.

Oh, for once in your life don’t listen to her, follow your heart, be bold… give yourself a shot at being happy again. Lord knows you’ve earned it, the dying remnants of your fun-loving college girl years argued against the other voice.

You held his gaze for a long pause, trying to weigh the options. In the end, it was his unexpected kiss that decided things for you.

“What the hell!” you cast caution to the wind. “Yeah, let's go see some mountains together or some shit.”

“Yeah?” Derek was grinning now.

“Yeah!”

And with that, he rolled you onto your back and kissed you passionately.

On the bedside table, vibrating incessantly was Derek’s phone. Caller ID stating it was Stiles trying to get ahold of him for the sixth time in a row. Derek ignored the call and chucked his phone into his clothes hamper before he lowered himself between your thighs.

 ~Two Months Later

“Where to next?” you pulled out the map and placed it next to the lantern propped up on a foldable table.

Derek looked at the map then back at you, a cheeky smile on his face.

You knew that look. That was the look that told you he wanted to be doing something else besides plotting out points on the heavily marked map.

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and bit his lip, “Why bother with ‘next’ when we can just enjoy the beautiful view right here.”

You glanced over your shoulder to look at the rolling hill ranges that spanned for miles and miles.

“It is a beautiful view,” you agreed.

He placed a kiss to your shoulder, “That’s not the view I was talking about.”

Heat flushed to your cheeks, “Ever the charmer.” You rolled your eyes.

“I’m only charming for you,” he kissed the crook of your neck, mouth sucking on the sensitive flesh until you were certain it would leave love bites.

You moaned, but then forced yourself to not be swept up in his incendiary touches, “Ah-ah, Derek. Map. Next destination. Focus.”

You chastised him with a playful smack and he huffed, “Easy for you to say. Focusing is the last thing I’m capable of doing right now. It doesn’t help that you smell like the wild –cedar and freshwater. It’s intoxicating.” He breathed in the scent around your hair.

God, he was making it hard for you to focus as well.

You cleared your throat, “Well you’re just going to have to reign yourself in, Romeo.”

“You’re so persistent,” he whined dramatically. “Okay, you really want a destination.”

“Yes, please.”

“How about here—“ he circled Beacon Hills with his finger.

“Beacon Hills?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Deaton’s finished with the repairs. I’m a free man again. Maybe we should think about taking this thing we got going back to a more permanent setting.”

Your eyes widened, “Are you suggesting…?”

“I’m saying I want us to move in together,” he said it so boldly you almost wondered if he knew asking someone to move in with him wasn’t the same as asking them to share a closet space.

“I’ve thought about it a lot,” he revealed. “When I’m not thinking of all the things I want to do to you.” He playfully nipped your earlobe before stretching back into his relaxed pose.

Your voice was torn between panicked and husky, “Living together is a huge commitment Derek, it’s not—“

“I’m committed to you, almost devoutly so. It scares me sometimes,” he laughed awkwardly. “Besides, aren’t we practically sharing a living space right now?”

Your mouth hung open. He’s got you there.

He sighed longingly, “Waking up next to you, sharing meals with you, fighting over which way’s East or West or South or… you get the idea. I want more of that. In a house or apartment, or loft even, just as long as it has walls, a sturdy bed and you.”

You giggled, happiness spreading through you.

His face turned serious just then, his hand taking yours, “I want those things with you more than I’ve ever wanted them with someone else. I—“

Suddenly his phone rang and Derek sighed, annoyance taking over his features as he looked at the caller ID.

“It’s Stiles,” he told you. “I gotta take this. It’s probably about him closing my case. If it’s not… I’ll kill him.”

Derek shot you an apologetic look and then crawled out from under your shared tent. You went back to reading the names of all the places you’d yet to visit

Yellowstone, North Beach Campground, Crystal Cove, Derek wants us to move in together… Derek wants us to move in together! This is all happening too fast… Am I being paranoid? I mean… we are technically living together since we share a tent, but then again—

 Derek walked a few paces until he reached the crystal waters of the lake, with a lazy grunt he plopped down on top of the stony shore, pressing accept on his phone’s screen.

“Stiles, this had better have been important,” he grumbled, his frown baring down on his face for what felt like the first time in aeons.

“Wow, missed you too buddy, long time –how’s the weather over there? The mountains mountainy enough for ya?” Stiles retorted.

“I mean it, Stiles,” Derek warned.

“I was just calling to let you know you’re case has now been dead-filed. You’re a free man again.”

“I thought I was a free man weeks ago?”

“Yeah, but now its legally-filed-paperwork official with a stamp and a seal and everything. A public apology will be made by my department in a few days.”

“Okay then. Good to know. Now if you don’t mind I have something to get back to so…” Derek waited for Stiles to hang up but he didn’t. From the weird pause on his end of the line, Derek knew Stiles was fumbling to say something. “What is it, Stiles?”

“Have you told her yet?”

There was a pregnant pause, Derek looked at the odd, reddened symbol that moved under his skin on his forearm and then over to your happy, stress-free face under the tent.

“I’m going to. I just haven’t found the right time.”

“You can’t keep this a secret forever. Someone’s going to wonder why Peter had a mental breakdown and left for Kathmandu. What if that happens to you?”

“Peter is a drama queen. He’s fine.”

“But you aren’t. You know what that mark means.”

“I know.”

“And I won’t keep this from the others forever.”

“I know.”

“You’re one of them now.”

“I know!”

“Just… don’t carry this on your own. Secrets have never brought anything good to the pack. And yeah I get it, you know.” Stiles hung up.

Derek took a deep breath, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you hadn’t heard his little outburst. He was relieved when he saw you fully immersed in the map laid out before you, a toothy grin lighting up your face.

“You should listen to your friend,” a raspy, unwelcome voice spoke. Derek was still getting used to the new voice in his head. “Secrets are dangerous.”

Derek turned to the source of the voice, seeing Alyster’s thin face and skinny form standing next to him. Dead and incorporeal. A supernatural hallucination reserved solely for him.

Derek snorted, “That’ll go easy over dinner. Oh, babe, you know that guy who was trying to murder you, murdered your boyfriend and almost killed everyone you've ever loved? Yeah, turns out he was right. Killing him didn’t mean he’d stay dead. Now he’s a voice in my head that I can talk to from time to time,” Derek sneered sarcastically before continuing on his rant: "I pretty much took his place. Don't worry though, I'm not alone in this. Peter's gone insane and secluded himself behind the doors of some spiritualist convent in Kathmandu. Would you like some bread?"

Alyster’s skin-crawling laugh trickled out making Derek’s neck prickle in discomfort.

“It does sound ridiculous when you put it that way,” a smirk stretched at Alyster’s mouth tightly. “But it could be worse. You could have Astrid inside your head instead.”

Derek ran a hand over his face and groaned, “Just… go burrow back into my subconscious and do… whatever it is dead men do when they’re trapped in someone else’s mind.”

“Wither,” Alyster said darkly. “We wither.”

A gust of wind blew in from the East, an odd sensation to it. Derek’s wolf instincts went rampant, he didn’t know what was making him so agitated. It was like a shrill, ultrasonic sonic sound had bored a hole into his head and lit his nose on fire. Derek tried to exhale the scent away in strong bursts, his hands placed to his ears to block out that painful noise. Nothing seemed to be working.

The rash on his arm turned solid, finally ending its repetitive cycle of writhing and wriggling. The itch had refrained. Then, after Derek was sure that he could practically hear the buzz of light’s frequency, everything shut off and his senses returned to normal. A stream of blood ran down from his nose and ears.

“What the fuck was that?”

Alyster’s face turned grave, “That was the First Coming.”

 ~Kathmandu 

The meditative instructor at the retreat sat in front of Peter with his legs crossed in the lotus position, a large statue of a praying Buddha was erected barely a stone’s throw away.

“Breathe in,” the teacher instructed the class. “And out.”

Peter repeated the actions, trying to silence the incessant ramblings of Astrid’s consciousness now bunking with his own.

“Du bör sluta slösa bort din tid,” Astrid said in Swedish.

I keep telling you, I don’t know what you’re saying! Peter shouted back in his head. And shut up, I’m trying to focus on my breathing! 

”And breathe in,” the teacher parroted. ”And now breathe out all your worries and stresses, feel them ebb away.”¨

”Oh, does my speaking Swedish annoy you?” Astrid remarked with bitterness. ”How insensitive of me. I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry. Would you like me to fetch you a towel for all that sweat? Maybe a glass of water with a slice of lemon? Oh! No, wait... I can’t do those things because you stabbed me in the heart with a stake!” Astrid patronised him, her voice so loud inside his head.

You deserved it!

Peter ground his teeth together in the hopes she’d be drowned out by the sound of molars filing down on one another.

”And now we’ll take in one deep breath and hold it,” the teacher said.

Peter held his breath.

Astrid’s pitch went flat, “All this breathing and more breathing seems to be working. I feel very relaxed here. Namaste.”

Peter saw her hallucinatory projection bow mockingly at the instructor's feet. Peter held back a laugh.

”Silence please,” the teacher chastised when he heard Peter’s breathy laugh.

Yeah, you heard him, silence wench! Peter mocked at Astrid.

Astrid rolled her eyes, “I was being silent. You’re the one who can’t internalise his laughs.”

Whose fault is that? It’s not like my brain isn’t crowded enough already.

”I warned you my kind doesn’t die, you chose to shove that stake into my heart anyway. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours,” she bit back.

”Keep holding,” the teacher said.

Maybe if you weren’t a homicidal bitch!

”Hold,” the teacher repeated.

 “Maybe if you weren’t a homicidal bastard!”

”And, release,” the teacher said serenely.

”Shut up!” Peter barked, startling the class. He scrunched his face and plastered on a charming smile, “Terribly sorry, I wasn’t talking to you.”

Astrid snickered with pride, “Yeah, tell them you were talking to a dead woman that lives in your head, go on, tell them!”

Peter stood from the cushion and bowed to the rest of the class, “I think I’ll be retiring to my quarters. Namaste.”

The entire class looked at him with wide eyes, all their voices quaking from shock and surprise, “N- Namaste.”

Peter rolled his eyes and walked away, We really need to set some ground rules.

“Don’t see why, I’m having a great time,” Astrid shrugged. “I’d rather be in your head, roaming around like some phantom than spend my eternity with the love of my life.”

Suddenly, a high pitched, nearly immobilising sound pierced through Peter’s skull like a hot poker. His eardrums vibrated so frantically he was certain they’d burst. An odd taste filled his mouth and he felt like he’d just swallowed a whole tub of wasabi.

“Gahhh!” he clenched down as he lost his footing and fell through a paper wall. “What is that?”

His claws started growing out of their own accord, eyeballs aching from internalised pressure. Then suddenly it stopped.

Peter picked himself up off the floor and looked down at all the blood that had soaked into his shirt from his nose alone. It was like a murder scene. One of his eyes went bloodshot.

Astrid’s eyes narrowed, her voice chillier than ice, “She has awoken.”

“Who?” Peter asked the ghostly woman, ignoring all the scared faces in the crowd clamouring around him.

“The First Coming.”

Out through the window, Peter could see a flock of birds swarming in a frenzied spiral, their cawing noises irritating his wolfish hearing.

“Well… fuck!” Peter spat the blood out of his mouth and stormed out of the retreat. “It was nice knowing you Buddha.” He threw a piece sigh up to the giant statue, his rash taking on the coherent form of an unmoving symbol.

 ~Below the Mother Three

Worms wiggled out of the earth, screaming inaudibly as they left the solace of the rotting tree. Black mould had webbed across the ancient tree’s trunk like a mossy blanket, bringing with it a foul stench of decay.

Below the surface horizon, root tendrils began to shrivel and rot, turning into puddles of fermenting tree sap. Deep down, at the centre of the trees dying rhizomes, was buried a sarcophagus. A symbol harkening the end of days was chiselled into the stone lid.

Under the airless, lightless, soundless seal of the ancient casket was a mummified body wrapped in black cloth. The inside of the sarcophagus shook, tremors from the earth forcing cracks onto the stone.

Softly, painfully, a single breath was taken and the earth would never be the same.

 This story continues in: Covet of the Wolf

 tags: @melissavercos @divisingstories @theflash-trash @mynamesalreadytaken @island-end @chipster-21 @helloscorpious  @marvelismyfantasy @anonymousfanfics-blog @homra-the-red-clan @derangedangel @phonegalhelp @bowtiesandwhiskers @soldierwinterthe @alina-barnes @sumlariss @luckythepizzadog4444 @tlytxia @drunklili @iamabeautifulperson18 @zenawa @squadkyoya @cassandraevans @moli1497 @wanderlust-travler @143amberrose @humbledarkness @rockyrocket15 @4llmywr1tings @smolbeanfive @500daysofbecky @smolbeanfive

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#derek hale #derek hale x reader #derek hale imagine #tyler hoechlin #teen wolf #teen wolf imagine #motw epilogue

[powerbottomblake]

The seasons in RWBY, literary archetypes and predictions for the next volumes

As we all know, RWBY is a show that is built around taking in established narrative and character archetypes, layering them, tweaking them and/or ultimately subverting them. One of its core narrative and symbolic elements are the seasons, so it seems only fitting that they’d take inspiration from and implement established overarching seasonal archetypes (in terms of tone and narration) to the plot.

One of the major works in terms of archetypal literary criticism that deals with the seasons has to be Frye’s. Frye proposed that the totality of literary works constitute a “self-contained literary universe”. Since we’re watching a show whose whole premise is having every single myth, legend and fairytale coexist in a single universe, with characters sometimes alluding to multiple myths at once, I’d hope this sounds uncannily familiar.

Frye divided all literary framework into four categories: comedy, romance, tragedy and satire. What sets Frye apart from the other critics is that he linked each category with a season. He posited that literary works were how humanity assimilated the outside world and nature at large, which is how those four types of plot structures correspond to the four seasons in the cycle of the natural world.

What does that mean for RWBY?

If, as I suspect, each narrative arc corresponding to one of the four continents in Remnant - with each continent symbolizing a season - aligns with the genre and plot structure defined by Frye, then we can make more or less accurate predictions as to the direction and themes of the two remaining arcs (as well as some of the plot points).

So, first we’ll see how the first two arcs, Vale and Mistral, hold up to the Frye scheme. 

As I said earlier, Frye aligned each genre with a season:   

-Spring is comedy, with themes of (re)birth and resurrection of the hero. The subordinate characters attached to this genre are the mother and the father.

-Summer is romance, because both are representative of culminations in the human journey, summer being the conclusion of the seasonal calendar, and romance ending with achievement and triumph, usually in the form of a union or marriage. The subordinate characters here are the companion and the bride.

-Fall is tragedy, with themes of demise, dying god, violent death, sacrifice and isolation of the hero. The subordinate characters are the traitor and the siren.

-Winter is irony/satire, with themes of darkness, dissolution, the return of chaos, and the defeat of the heroic figure. The subordinate characters are the giant and the witch.

Going off this, and knowing that each kingdom in Remnant is representative of a season, we can divide the RWBY narrative into 4 respective arcs, each assigned an archetypical narrative structure:

- Vale is Fall, meaning the Vale arc is a tragedy. Now, I know that your knee-jerk response to this would be disbelief especially with the tone set by V1-2, but here’s the thing: team RWBY aren’t the protagonists of the tragedy. Ozpin and Pyrrha are. We’re basically seeing the tragedy unfold from its supporting cast’s POV.

Once you go back through V1-3 and reread the plot through Ozpin’s and Pyrrha’s POVs, linking up the scenes having them as a focal point together (especially Ozpin’s), the tone changes drastically and it aligns perfectly with the beats of a classical tragedy. As early as V2 you get to see Ozpin growing steadily more isolated (isolation of the hero) as he loses the support of Ironwood and the Council, we see him get irreversibly dragged (and dragging our main cast and Pyrrha with him) into an inevitable confrontation, because of his complacency and passivity (fatal flaw) that ends with Pyrrha’s sacrifice, Penny’s violent death and his demise.

Pyrrha being literally based on a tragic hero, her story fills every single beat of a tragedy, V1 establishing her innocence, inexperience and righteousness, V2 being her high point but also pointing out her “fake” invincibility (thus her fatal flaw), V3 having her grow isolated and then sacrifice herself while staying true to herself and what she stood for (completion of ideal).

One thing to clue you in about Ozpin being one of the Vale arc’s tragic heroes is one of the first things Cinder tells him: “Such arrogance.” Ozpin thus dies for said arrogance, which is basically the moment when a tragic hero is punished for their hubris.

- Mistral is Spring, meaning the Mistral arc is a comedy. Don‘t think about the tone, think about the themes. And sure enough, Mistral was all about the resurrection of our heroes, both literally (Ozpin reincarnating) and figuratively (each member of Team RWBY dealing with the aftermath of V3, growing individually and culminating in them getting back together stronger and a lot more anchored in their respective roles, Yang’s resurrection is as unsubtle a callback to the phoenix’s as it gets tbh). The subordinate characters of a comedy are the mother and the father, and this arc’s primary supporting cast and driving narrative force was without a doubt the parental figures: Taiyang, Raven, Jaques, Ghira and Qrow. This arc was about our heroes going from under their guidance to challenging it, thus getting more agency and control over their own destinies. In this aspect, Mistral is both a rebirth and birth for Team RWBY: their rebirth as individuals after the loss they experienced at the end of V3, and their birth as their own people, as full-fledged heroes, going from the supporting cast of the tragedy of Vale to the main cast of this arc.

Now that we have established that there is enough of a basis to assume the RWBY arcs do in fact build up on the Frye scheme, what does it tell us about Atlas and Vacuo?

-Atlas is winter, so Atlas is irony and satire. We can expect this arc to articulate itself heavily on social commentary; I fully expect the faunus cause and the rising military dictatorship to be the focal points of said commentary. The subordinate characters of satire are the giant and the witch. The witch refers to Salem of course, our resident Wicked Witch of the West, but I also doubt team W.T.C.H’s name is coincidental, so it refers to them as a whole as well. I think by the time the Atlas arc is in full swing, all of team W.T.C.H will be there. There is another witch we’ve lost track of for a while now that this could be applied to, and it’s Glynda (though I fail to see a narrative purpose to her appearance as of now, but I feel the need to point it out just in case). 

As for the giant, CRWBY has proved time and again how they’re prone to using the same theme/archetype both literally and figuratively, and this time will be no exception. Figuratively, both Jacques Schnee and James Ironwood could be called giants, Jacques as an industrial tycoon, Ironwood as an increasingly dictatorial military leader. Moreover, Ironwood’s name quite literally refers to a place in Norse Mythology where giants were born. As for Jacques, his myth basis Jack Frost is thought to be based on Norse mythology giants. But Jacques could have links to another myth:“Jack the Giant Killer”. Quite ominous, isn't it? You see, one of the typical examples of irony in archetypal story-telling is actually the tale of Goliath vs David, where the giant is prodded by a cool and observant but almost invisible enemy into a blind, stampeding fury and then pushed to its own demise. Which, incidentally, follows the exact same beats as the “Jack and the Beanstalk” fairy tale, where Jacques Jack, a poor man climbs the social ladder through a loveless marriage a beanstalk to a land high in the sky (Atlas), steals into an enormous castle (the Atlesian academy slash military enrollment grounds), robs special treasures you’d never find anywhere else (the relic) and causes the death of the giant who owns it. What I’m saying is, I expect Jacques Schnee to go full turncloack and align with Salem and W.T.C.H, help them steal the relic and propel Ironwood’s (self-)destruction, in return for them giving the SDC ground to prosper and it being fully sanctioned by the new regime (as in, everything Ironwood is not doing rn), if not putting Jacques himself at the helm of Atlas. Jacques is a ruthless businessman first and foremost afterall. Give him good enough a deal, and he’ll sell all of Atlas over as long as he profits off the trade-off. And well, as far as irony goes, will there be anything more tragically ironic than Ironwood driving himself in a frenzy, growing increasingly more paranoid under both real and imagined threats, needled by the infiltrated team W.T.C.H and Jacques, until he triggers the fall of that which he so desperately was trying to protect all along. I think Ironwood dies here, and Jacques being on team villains means a 3-way Schneebowl is coming, Weiss vs Winter (who’s 100% team Ironwood) vs Jacques, and I think the outcome will be devastating for everyone involved but especially Weiss.

As for the literal part of the giant allusions, well. It has been a while since we’ve last seen these goliaths, and it seems too good an opportunity to pass up for CRWBY:

Or they could hit us with giant mecha structures à la Star Wars, a project G.I.A.N.T that Watts is all too ready to hack into and turn against the Atlesian military. I’d keep my eyes open for any giant allusions in Atlas’ arsenal, chances are they’ll be playing an active role plot-wise.

Which brings us now to the themes. As stated above, the main themes of satire are darkness, dissolution, the return of chaos, and the defeat of the heroic figure. We can surmise that Atlas will be the lowest point in RWBY. Frye goes as far as link winter to “Götterdämmerung myths” aka the fucking Ragnarok. Wiktionary has a second definition for Götterdämmerung which is a “cataclysmic downfall or momentous, apocalyptic event, especially of a regime or an institution”, so yeah we’re going to see the Atlas regime full on collapse as chaos takes over in there. Team RWBY will experience its must crushing defeat. My guess would be that, after Mistral establishing Ruby’s powers and having them bring a note of hope to the narrative and the upcoming battle against Salem, Atlas will be about the limits of those powers. I think Ruby is about to face the reason Summer died and lose to it, aka the Fenrir of this Ragnarok but this is a whole other theory I might delve into in a separate post since this post is already running too long and Atlas and its connection to Norse Mythology deserves to be delved into in detail. But yeah Atlas will be on SOME shit, my dudes.

-Vacuo is summer, so Vacuo is a romance. The subordinate characters here are the companion and the bride, so basically the lovers are at the center of the narrative here. As far as RWBY goes, 3 pairs of lovers have thematic and narrative importance: Salem and Oz, Jaune and Pyrrha and Yang and Blake.

So now that the Adam subplot was carried to an end in Mistral, and after the narrative centers more around Blake, gives the Faunus cause more depth and prepares her for her future role as a leader in Atlas, what does that leave Bumbleby with narratively in Vacuo, especially Yang? The one remaining hanging thread by then will be Yang/Raven, which prompts me to believe the bees will be confronted to their foil as a relationship, a.k.a Taiyang/Raven, making the latter the fourth lovers pair to mark this arc. Taiyang and Raven coming back into the narrative at this point means we’re gonna get insight about another lover of Taiyang’s, Summer. I think Vacuo is where we’ll get all the answers wrt to Team STRQ, and after witnessing for ourselves how she died in the Atlas arc, we’ll get flashbacks of how she lived in the Vacuo one, which will be the thing to propel Ruby again after losing heart in the wake of the absolute apocalypse I expect Atlas to be. I also think CRWBY would get a kick out of having Summer be a major narrative force of the summer arc in the story.

I personally am a believer of the Spring Maiden!Yang theory and I think there’s enough set-up for it, mainly:

The fact that out of all the students at Beacon, the only contenders for the Vytal Festival by the end were Pyrrha and Yang (who only got disqualified because of the Mercury ordeal)

The way Yang is always set up as the strongest out of team RWBY

Raven was established as a foil to Blake but V5 establishes her as a foil to Yang, which culminates in their confrontation at the vault

The part of her confrontation with Raven where she establishes that not only is she stronger than Raven, but readier to face Salem and thus more fit to have the Maiden powers, which is why she’s the one that retrieves the relic from the vault. Raven might be the one to open the vault but she never gets inside. CRWBY could have had the confrontation happen after Raven retrieved the relic from within but they didn’t and I think it’s significant how Yang is the one allowed inside the vault and to handle the relic first, as if it’s always been her rightful place. 

Which means I fully expect Raven to die at this point of the narrative. There’s a part of their confrontation where Yang tells Raven about the version of her Tai told her about and the one she’s always held out for, and she asks her if she killed her, too. It’s the thing that strikes Raven deeply and completely shatters her composure as she finally runs out of excuses and has to face herself and what she’d become. I think it’d be symbolically powerful to have Raven align with and die for the just cause, thus resurrecting that version of her.

For the remaining two pairs of lovers, Salem/Oz getting a conclusion in the last act of this story comes as no surprise, as for Arkos...tbh I don’t really see anything there (yet).

As for the themes, summer is for triumph, the messianic hero defeats the enemy who is associated with winter, darkness and moribund life (if there ever was a way to perfectly describe Salem this is it). Summer ends with an achievement, usually a marriage.

Now, out of the four pairs of lovers precited, I wonder who the ones getting constant and consistent development still and all throughout the story, are both alive by the end and have been shown to get growing awareness of their deepening feelings could be?

I wonder...

;)

P.S: not saying the bees get married married but yeah I expect them not to get their kiss till Vacuo. I think too much will be happening in Atlas (V7-9) for them to actually get together so they’ll be in this...limbo of not-really-lovers but definitely-more-than-friends and we’ll see them getting increasingly closer (they’ll prolly also blueball us big time with grade A pining) but again I did not expect Adam to die as quick as Mistral so who knows

#rwby #rwby6 #rwby7 #rwby predictions #james ironwood #ruby rose #yang xiao long #blake belladona #weiss schnee #jacques schnee #my meta

[zukadiary]

On The Twentieth Century ~ Snow Troupe 2019

Oh boy. Oh dear. If you'd like some background, here is a fairly comprehensive Wikipedia summary, but since all signs point to this show disappearing forever (a tragedy), I will do my best to go through it roughly scene by scene in hopes of extending the memory. 

“Perfect” is a word I’m still reserving for A-cast West Side Story ‘18, but boy is this close. It’s exactly what I’ve been waiting for, what in my wildest dreams I wanted Daimongumi to be, and feared it might never be. It’s hands down the best time I’ve had with my beloved Yukigumi since Chigi retired, and god I hope they continue on something even VAGUELY resembling this trajectory (tragic nihonmono, not optimistic, but,,,). I hope I can convey even a fraction of the joy that is this show.

Firstly, although it is the site of the first time I ever saw Komu live and thus a house of very treasured memories, I do NOT objectively like Theatre Orb. The third floor is too high for musical theater, the back of the second floor should not be A-seki, and the sound is abysmal. Unless you’re close to the front on the first floor, the instrumentals overpower the vocals, and everywhere I sat, including a pretty good S, there was an unpleasant echo. Like, if you can tamp down the power of DAIMON’S voice, something is wrong with your acoustics. The only time I had an improved experience I was on the extreme side of the 4th row and basically hugging a speaker, but if that’s the range for decent audio it’s a problem. And for some of the impressive songs in this show (and also just for Japanese comprehension of the speedy dialogue), it was a shame.

Everything else was outstanding. I can’t describe how WONDERFUL it was to hear Yukigumi, the tragedy troupe no one asked for, get not just giggles but consistent roaring laughter again. The overall casting—both in taking a chance on giving this troupe this show, and assigning roles to some maybe unexpected people—was brilliant. I’ll get more into the individual performances as I go through the story, but in quick summary: 

Maaya was absolutely the star, in both the weight of her role and the extremely satisfying application of her many talents. Lily is, in my opinion, unquestionably the crown jewel of her Takarazuka career so far, and if something ever tops it we’ll be luckier than anyone has any right to be. I’d kill for more of this treatment going forward; she’s talented enough to carry a show, and I think the dynamic of the entire troupe improves when she’s in this strong of a position.  

Daimon, whom I love to death, was SO above and beyond what even I thought she’d be able to do with a comedy; I always suspected she could pull it off IF she had the perfect formula of support (which I wasn’t confident the current Yukigumi lineup could give her), but she was SO good and SO in charge and SUCH a tone-setter for the entire comedic situation, I was truly blown away.

Owen and Oliver are in my opinion the juiciest roles after Lily and Oscar, but maneuvering around rank to cast Aasa and Manaharu was brilliant. Aasa has been average for me after leaving a huge impression in Robespierre, but her performance as Owen was back to MVP status, and Oliver is an absolute jackpot role for Manaharu, who rarely gets to do much of anything. 

I wouldn’t have wanted to see Saki in any role but Bruce; he’s the big dumb just-a-pretty-face movie star, the butt of many jokes and the most slapstick of all the roles, and her exaggerated physicality was I think better suited to that style of comedy than the quick banter in the Oscar/Owen/Oliver group (also, for the sake of their dynamic, I wouldn’t have wanted Bruce to be someone physically smaller than Oscar).

That put Shou, who conceivably could have been cast higher, in the leftover train conductor role. It’s not as exciting a part, but it was perfect if only to clear the way for the other casting choices. She got to be the center of several musical numbers, and she got to tap dance!

After a little introductory tap number by the four main train boys (Tachibana, Suwa, Manomiya, and Seika), the show opens with famous Broadway producer Oscar Jaffe’s right hand men, Owen (Asami Jun) and Oliver (Mana Haruto), running from an angry mob of unpaid theater crew from Oscar's most recent abysmally failed production (again!). They all but crash into Daimon cameoing Al Capone (because Chicago in the 20s!) as he’s escorted away by a policeman. Owen is more laid back and pretty much always drunk; Oliver is high strung and also prone to drinking. As far as my off-the-cuff brain will take me, Aasa and Manaharu have not had much experience playing off each other, but they worked SO well together. They were so funny, so in sync, perfect foils for each other’s characters, even physically similar enough that they just really looked like a matching set of long-suffering assistants. Since Owen and Oliver don’t have any money, they give the angry mob the slip, and read a note from Oscar instructing them to meet him on the 20th Century Limited, a 16-hour luxury train ride from Chicago to New York, and secure Drawing Room A. Then we go into the prologue number (pics are from the little bit of digest video and like one online article they gave us).

Although in retrospect I think it kind of subconsciously stressed me out the first viewing, I LOVED the music and choreography in this. Almost all the numbers mimic the rhythm of a train chugging along, and much of the choreography—when it isn’t just tap literally designed to sound like a train—has a feeling of commuter busyness to it. It wasn’t just on theme, it also enhanced the chaotic screwball atmosphere. 

Owen and Oliver board the train to find Drawing Room A occupied. When their best middle-aged-white-lady-insisting-to-speak-to-a-manager voices claiming (falsely) that they booked the room weeks ago failed to work on the train staff, they deduce from some nearby luggage that Drawing Room A’s occupant is Congressman Lockwood (Touma Kazuki in a hilariously disgusting fat suit and combover with her shirt sticking out of her pants at all angles) reserved under a fake name. Suspicious, Owen and Oliver burst into the room under the pretense of delivering said luggage and catch the congressman fondling his much younger secretary (Sara Anna). They win the room by threatening to leak what they saw if he doesn’t leave—Riisha scrambling around in such a disheveled huff while Aasa loudly counts down from ten. Score! But just then the train starts moving and Oscar is still nowhere to be found.

Whoops. He loses his hat, Owen and Oliver pull him through the window, and despite his abject failures in both life and train boarding, he lands dramatically front and center, all pomp and ego, waxing lyrical about the glory awaiting them in New York. Poor Oliver, despite being generally more sober and organized, is also more abused.

Daimon, always so delicately pretty and deeply sad, nailed Oscar so hard I don’t have nearly enough words for it. Her eye makeup was stern and crazy (and pretty monochromatic, nice touch for the 20s vibe), her mustache was GROSS, her neurotic mannerisms were so on point and so funny. She AD LIBBED!! WELL!! I was CRYING of laughter on senshuuraku, and she wasn’t just reacting; she was DOING THE AD LIBBING. The way she fidgeted and flailed and whimpered and yelled and modulated her voice WAY high and back down again to drag us though Oscar’s manic journey was just soooooo perfect. Not that I had any doubt she’d kill the songs, but they were hard, so it was all the more impressive. As perfect as Aasa and Manaharu were together, the three of them played flawlessly off of each other too. 

Interrupting Owen and Oliver’s failing attempts to convince Oscar that they are in fact heading for insolvency rather than glory, the conductor informs the passengers that they are approaching Englewood and Oscar flips out. He reveals actress Lily Garland, his former protégé and lover, is boarding there and will be staying in Drawing Room B. He gleaned this information from a bellboy who told a maid and stalked Lily onto the train without her knowledge, but insists that in the 16 hours to NY he’ll be able to convince her to star in his next show, solving his financial problems. Owen and Oliver are Stressed.

This leads into my absolute favorite progression of scenes: a flashback introducing how Lily and Oscar came to meet. Oscar is auditioning Imelda Thornton (the goddess Satsuki Aina) for the role of Veronique, a Parisian street singer who refuses to sleep with Otto Von Bismarck so he attacks Paris and starts the Franco-Prussian war as revenge (men!). If only the photos from this scene showed the parts I want; Daimon was SO funny. Imagine like, the face you make when you try to give yourself 8 chins and take the ugliest low-angle selfie you can. Daimon was that + a thousand-yard stare of skepticism, fidgeting neurotically and tapping the arms of the director’s chair, with Oliver and Owen standing behind, simultaneously goofing off and keeping things running smoothly. Also in the picture at this point: Max Jacobs (Agata Sen), a successful Hollywood producer trying to sign Lily in the present, but in the flashback, Oscar’s (later fired) useless assistant who can’t even take Imelda’s coat correctly. Imelda, an all-ego-no-talent diva, is freaking out because her regular pianist was sick so she had to hire a substitute last minute and she’s late. Enter now Midred/soon to be Lily (Maaya) through the audience, in oversized glasses, tacky pink house dress, and matching hair cap, dropping her sheet music all over the place. Imelda is furious, Oscar is disgruntled, Max is Stressed. Mildred sits down at the piano, Imelda declares she’s going to sing “The Indian Maiden’s Lament,” and tries to begin but Mildred is still dramatically warming up her hands and shoulders. Finally she gives the ok and starts playing something completely different (Imelda, furious; Oscar, melting into a pile of gooey discontent). 

Take 2, Mildred begins playing the correct song beautifully, while Imelda sings horrendously and Oscar tries violently and wordlessly to convey to Owen and Oliver in moments of Imelda’s averted gaze that they need to stop this somehow. Imelda hits a sour note that’s just the last straw for Mildred, and she stops playing and corrects her (gorgeously, flawlessly, Maaya’s voice is a treasure). Imelda, flustered, thanks her and tries again, but isn’t any better. Mildred keeps stopping and correcting her, eventually just singing the end of the song herself, while Oscar, moving his chair closer with hilarious little Flintstone car footsteps, stares at her agape and then gives her a standing ovation. Imelda loses her cool and fires Mildred on the spot for ruining her audition; Mildred hulks out and demands her pay for the day plus train fare (Oscar, fully Team Mildred at this point, is mimicking all her movements behind her). Imelda pays and storms off, telling her assistant to call her an ambulance. Just as Mildred starts packing her things to go, Oscar declares he wants her for Veronique and asks her name.

I wish I could share with you all the sound that both of them made saying “Mildred Plotka,” pronounced “Mildred BLEGCH” with copious spit. I’m embarrassed to admit I just spent a good 30 minutes? trying to chase down a vivid childhood memory—I was 11, and watching Spaceballs on TV with my bff, and in the combing the desert scene they censored “we ain’t found shit” not with a bleep but with some absurd SCHMUSCHSG noise, and my bff and I laughed for approximately 8 days, because we were 11 and probably eating Gushers—and in my memory this and Mildred BLEGCH were the exact same sound, and I wanted you to experience it so much I watched every combing the desert clip on youtube fruitlessly, hoping one would be this exact censorship (sorry... I’m just... Daimon was funny??? and I’m very emotional about it????). Anyway, since no one can say Mildred BLEGCH, Oscar decides her new name will be Lily Garland. After some hemming and hawing about not being an actress, Lily decides to give it a shot. The house dress tears away and we have the snazzy number “Veronique.”

Maaya was absolutely brilliant throughout the entire show, but this number hit me extra hard. Not only was she exceptional vocally through a very challenging song (dancing all the while), but her aura of a freshly hatched starlet, packed with youth and hope and freshness and naiveté and raw unpolished talent, contrasted so vividly with the successful Hollywood actress still fueled by Mildred Plotka spitfire that we see in the rest of the show; I found it VERY striking. It was subtle but so effective and truly masterful acting. Veronique ends, Daimon re-enters from the audience and tosses a bouquet (the first time I saw it she missed the stage, and Maaya, fully in character and without missing a beat, just parkour’d off the stage and grabbed it and hopped back on), and we’re ushered back into the present.

The conductor enters Oscar’s room to inform everyone that a religious nut is vandalizing the train with REPENT FOR THE TIME IS AT HAND stickers, but not to worry because they’re doing everything they can to catch the culprit; and to drop off a play that he’s written about a day in the life of a conductor (to Oscar’s annoyance). Then the train arrives at Englewood station, and Lily boards with a flurry of paparazzi, her assistant Agnes (Chikaze Karen), and her attention-whoring movie actor boyfriend Bruce (Ayakaze Sakina). Maaya (in a GORGEOUS dress) is instantly the Hollywood diva instead of the wide-eyed starlet; Saki is the comic relief in what’s already a screwball comedy. Oscar is a terrible person, so if you can imagine how big and dumb and sappy and suffocating and clumsy Bruce has to be to make you root for Oscar, Saki was all that. 

The two lovebirds put on quite a show of excessive PDA for the photographers while Agnes rolls her eyes, until it’s time for Bruce to leave the train. 

Lily falls to the floor dramatically, wailing oh WHAT will I do without him, when Bruce bursts back into the room, declaring he can’t possibly let the love of his life go to NY all by herself (Lily, all sorrow a minute before, is not 2 seconds later annoyed to see him). So he’s now along for the ride to witness Oscar’s whole scheme.

Owen and Oliver, trying to take matters into their own hands, show up in Lily’s room to beg her sincerely to do a play with Oscar, hoping she’ll pity him and his dire financial situation enough to do him a favor. 

Lily sings a whole song about how that’s never ever ever going to happen, and Bruce freaks out to learn that Oscar is on the train. Lily insists they have no romantic history, and then immediately lights up when she hears Oscar’s voice in her head. They sing a lovey duet representing that they’re still clearly both on each other’s minds. Despite the comedic and not at all tender nature of this show, and the love-hate relationship between these two characters, Daimon and Maaya’s chemistry, in my opinion, has never been better. I wouldn’t have thought it would take playing two self-centered assholes who both despise and desperately want each other to send the sparks flying, but BOY did it do the trick. 

Meanwhile, the REPENT sticker situation is getting worse, and the audience at this point realizes that the culprit is the unassuming little old Letitia Primrose—played brilliantly by Kyou Misa. 

She sings about how she’s taken it as her mission to encourage young people to repent for their sins. 

Oscar hears from Owen and Oliver that Lily is with Bruce and is despondent; he declares that he still loves her will definitely steal her back from both him and Hollywood. Oliver is fed up with his nonsense and tells Oscar he’s off his rocker (bless Manaharu and her ability to simultaneously look like a squirrelly little dude in her suit and bowtie and also not only stand up to Daimon but rile her up and get even more out of her). They get into a big fight and as Oliver storms out of the room, Oscar notices a giant REPENT sticker on Oliver’s back and chases after him to remove it. When he removes and reads it, he’s struck with divine inspiration for a new play about Mary Magdalene, a part so good Lily can’t possibly resist it.

Oscar is so sure this will work he instructs Owen to go buy him a bible so he can start writing the script immediately. Owen reminds Oscar that the train is in fact moving and they can’t really do anything at all, when they see Ms. Primrose’s bible on a chair (and all fall dramatically to the ground). Oscar takes that as a second miracle, insisting this means there will be a third, and Owen and Oliver agree to play along with his demands.

Oscar, now filled with renewed confidence, and Bruce, just as big and dumb as ever, sing a duet about how Lily is theirs (not at each other, separately in their own rooms). Both of them are just awful men.

While the two of them are non-confrontationally fighting over the same woman, Owen is in the bar trying to write a press release about the triumphant return of golden duo Oscar Jaffee and Lily Garland. Ms. Primrose picks up a crumpled draft from the floor and muses that she’d love nothing more than to sponsor some big artistic project. That gets Owen’s attention, and she reveals to him that she runs a patent medicine company and doesn’t know what to do with all her money. Owen calls to Oliver that they’ve found their third miracle!

Back in her room, Lily emerges in lime green negligee, to Bruce’s delight. Things are just getting uh sexy I guess when Oscar interrupts them and actually confronts Lily for the first time.

Bruce is furious that Lily lied about her history with Oscar, who is sitting on the couch in back of the room drinking their champagne and eating all the olives out of their martini glass as they argue. Bruce eventually storms off, slapping his headshot onto the wall as he leaves the room (Oscar immediately stands and tears it up). Lily sits down on the couch, now arguing with Oscar and angrily joining him in eating olives. Their hands touch going for the glass at the same time; Lily sternly tells him to let her go but then turns around and caresses her hand happily. Oscar takes this moment to spring his play idea on her; Lily reveals that she heard the whole story of his bankruptcy from Owen and Oliver and tells him she’s on her way to NY to sign with a reliable producer (the formerly useless Max Jacobs who Oscar himself fired). Realizing he’s out of game, Oscar starts hurling insults and they sing another spark-flying duet—Lily insisting she has everything, and Oscar insisting movies are beneath her talents and she’ll rot in Hollywood and fall into obscurity. 

Lily eventually kicks Oscar out, EARNESTLY throwing and smashing a champagne bottle against the door behind him. Oscar, without even taking a breath between Lily’s room and his, screams at his two traitors for ruining his plan and strangles poor Oliver (on senshuuraku Daimon held on for a comically long time, and Manaharu, refusing to concede that ad lib, then played dead on the floor for a good minute). Oliver and Owen save their own asses by telling Oscar about the sponsor they managed to find on board, and THAT’S ACT ONE (right before curtain, we see a tiny little plane labeled “Max Jacobs” flying above the train).

During the big ensemble number (”Life is Like a Train”) that opens act 2 we discover that the train is now absolutely covered in REPENT stickers, then Owen and Oliver take Oscar to meet Ms. Primrose.

I can’t stress enough how delightful Kyou Misa was, the perfect little ostensibly earnest but just subtly batty old lady; the way she stiffly hobbled around was adorable too. Ms. Primrose is thrilled to work with the great Oscar Jaffee, and even more thrilled to share the story of Mary Magdalene with the world, and asks him how much money he needs. Oscar nervously asks for $20,000, at which Ms. Primrose balks that that CAN’T possibly be enough and writes a check for $200,000. Oscar, Owen, and Oliver giddily sing “Five Zeros” in a manner not unlike Scrooge McDuck swimming in his gold coins, and over the course of the song Ms. Primrose bumps it up to $20,000,000 (in the 1920s!). Now they’re sure they’ll be able to lure Lily back. 

Oscar is about to go grab Lily and introduce her to Ms. Primrose when the train doctor Dr. Johnson (Kujou Asu) busts into his room with yet another manuscript (A day in the life of a doctor!). I mention this mostly because a) I LOVE ASU DEEPLY, she is so underused, and b) the three musketeers leverage this manuscript situation later on in my other favorite scene. They get rid of Johnson and Oscar finds that Lily wants to see him also. She sits him down and asks Bruce to give them some time alone (on his way out, he goes to replace his torn head shot with a new one that comically unfolds into five headshots before Oscar violently chases him the rest of the way out the door). Oscar is fuming, and Lily tenderly asks him to sit, which he does with a grumpy face and a flamboyant kick as he reluctantly crosses his legs on the sofa. Lily explains that she’s embarrassed by her behavior so far, is so grateful to Oscar for her career, and wants to help him after all... so she reaches into her bra and pulls out a check for $35 so at least he’s not dead broke. Oscar, amused, stands up and, acting as if he’s a magician, folds up the $35 check and dramatically asks Lily to blow on his hand. Out comes the $20,000,000 check.

Oscar ushers Lily into his room to prove to her that Ms. Primrose is in fact a real person who wants to sponsor his new play, if she’ll star in it. Lily, despite still generally feeling like she’d rather die than work with Oscar again, is now enticed both by the role of Mary Magdalene, which is much juicier than what she’s been allowed to do on screen, and the prospect of raking in this much money without being beholden to the jerks who run Hollywood. Faithful Oliver has already prepared a contract, and we get “Sign It Lily,” probably both the most difficult/impressive song and biggest earworm of the show. Not the best version but here, have a listen.

Oscar, Owen, Oliver, and Ms. Primrose are all bombarding Lily trying to get her to put her name on the thing (I truly don’t know when Daimon breathes), while simultaneously trying to keep Bruce and his contrary agenda out of the room (Saki gets repeatedly slammed into doors and walls, closed into closets, suffocated with pillows, etc). Lily gets overwhelmed and runs back to her room, pursued by a cocky triumphant Bruce, who yells behind him that they’ll never get her back away from movies.

Oscar gets a lightbulb moment at the word movie, and the team files one by one back into Lily’s room, smashing Bruce in the head with the door each time. Oscar tells Lily that if she agrees to do the play, he’ll shop the movie rights to whatever studio she wants (to which Ms. Primrose responds WHY BOTHER, she’ll fund the movie too). That pushes her over to yes, and she takes the contract to read carefully. The conductor enters the room notifies everyone that they are approaching Cleveland, and that Ms. Primrose’s nephew and his wife sent a telegram ahead that they’d be boarding the train there to meet her. She turns cold and hurries off alone. 

Owen, out for a celebratory entire bottle of wine, coincidentally runs into Ms. Primrose’s nephew (Machi Yuuka), who is frantically searching for his aunt. He says she hasn’t been all there since she stepped down from her position as company president, and just escaped from her mental institution. Owen asks about her money, the nephew says there is none, and Owen realizes they’re fucked.

In the frantic search for the missing Ms. Primrose, Bruce overhears Owen breaking the news to Oscar and Oliver, and tells Lily that Oscar deceived her again. She’s furious, and Oscar probably only escapes with his life because just at that exact moment, the formerly useless and fired but currently hot and successful Max Jacobs bursts through the door (Oscar yells MAX JACOBS like he’s going to burst every single blood vessel in his head and neck).

Max hopped a private plane to Cleveland to meet the train, because he has a brand new play written just for Lily (called “Babette”), and he’s so excited he can’t wait for her to get all the way to New York. Babette is a glamorous high society type role about a woman in love with two men. Lily starts reading the script, but finds herself wondering out loud if it can be changed to be more like Oscar’s. Max is incredulous and starts trash talking Oscar, and Lily slaps him REAL HARD in the face. She then catches herself yet again and and asks to be left alone to read the Babette script more carefully.

We’re taken to Lily’s wistful daydream of a classy party taking place in the Babette universe as she tries to wrap her head around the show and imagine herself in the title role. But she finds it dull, and every few pages, she has an intrusive thought about the more inspiring Mary Magdalene—one minute she’s milling through the impeccably dressed party guests, and the next she’s face to face with Owen or Oliver or Ms. Primrose dressed like an Apostle, until finally Oscar dressed as Calaf Jesus crashes the whole thing from behind. 

(Yup that’s a screenshot of the bromide sample page).

But Lily brings herself to her senses yet again, drives away all thoughts of Oscar, and agrees to sign with Max.

Oscar has lost and he’s despondent. He walks into the train bar to find Oliver sulking behind Owen who is passed out drunk in a chair. He takes out a gun (Oliver tries frantically to wake Owen), and begins a melodramatic monologue about how it’s better just to end his life now because no one wants to see him become a beggar in times square. 

Daimon hilariously mimes Oscar begging, then people throwing garbage at him, then dodging the thrown bits (on senshuuraku Aasa and Manaharu joined in with pretending to throw things). Eventually he leaves the room in despair, and Oliver asks Owen if he thinks boss would really kill himself. Owen is in the middle of saying absolutely no way when they hear a gunshot and run into the next room.

Oscar, now in a comical panic rather than a depression, is clutching his side and gasping that he’s been shot, and the heretofore still missing Ms. Primrose is in the corner of the room holding the gun by her fingertips, crying that she was just trying to put it away when it went off. 

Oliver runs to get Dr. Johnson while Owen tends to Oscar who is (again, comically) writhing in a chair and complaining that being shot by a crazy granny is not how he wanted to go, and this is my second favorite progression of scenes.

Owen offers to call the pastor for Oscar (who, by the way, cannot identify WHERE he has been shot), and Oscar gets mad. Owen then offers him ice cream. Oliver sticks his head back in the door to ask of Oscar is dead yet. Owen says not yet and brings in Dr. Johnson (Asu, my love) who at first giggles and assumes that because it’s Mr. Jaffee he’s just acting. Owen and Oliver assure him this is real, and begin moaning and wailing as Dr. Johnson examines Oscar in earnest.

He stands up, and Owen and Oliver take this to mean it’s a hopeless case, and it’s time for them to say goodbye. On senshuuraku, Daimon verrrrrrrrry slowly slid all the way down the chair, so that Aasa had to hold her up by the arms to keep her from wiping out, AND had to kick her foot to a lower step of the stage so she could stand up again. The raku digest thankfully shows a bit of this, along with the Matrix move Daimon had to pull to jump to her feet when Dr. Johnson declares that Oscar hasn’t been shot at all.

(It does not, however, convey how drawn out and hilarious this was, nor does it show the chair then toppling onto poor Aasa, and it taking her at least 3 tries to get it off her again).

Oscar then gets another harebrained idea, and tells Dr. Johnson that he read his manuscript from before and that it’s SO GOOD he wants to give him an acting lesson right then and there. Dr. Johnson is stoked. Oscar tells him to just sit in the chair, stare at him solemnly, and shake his head back and forth if anyone looks at him (Asu, over the next few minutes, gives what my admittedly biased heart firmly believes is the award winning performance of the show). Oliver and Owen are to pretend Oscar is dying. The cherry on top of senshuuraku was in the moment before this all commenced, Daimon, immediately after the chair debacle, took an extra long pause before delivering (completely straight-faced) her usual line of “I don’t want to see any hammy acting,” after which the others took a comically long pause before replying, “Yep.”

Dr. Johnson takes his place in the formerly toppled chair, Oscar grabs a pillow and lays down on the floor, Oliver and Owen go fetch Lily and start wailing again. Agnes and Bruce also follow Lily into the room and start crying themselves at the sight of Oscar “dying” on the floor. Dr. Johnson looks around from person to person in a panic and starts hyperventilating. Owen and Oliver mime at him to look sadder, Asu licks her finger and dabs tears on her cheeks and then makes the dumbest crying face I’ve ever seen, shaking her head increasingly aggressively each time someone in the room looks at her. Daimon and Maaya are weepily singing “Lilyyyyyyyy, Oscaaaaarrrr” back and forth for deadass three entire minutes. I can’t believe how much vocal control Daimon has even lying on her back on the damn floor.

Lily eventually signs the contract as Oscar’s dying wish. When Max enters the room, Oscar immediately jumps up to rub it in his face, and Lily once again is furious at being deceived. Oscar claims that with no money to offer, the only way he could rescue her from a rotted career was through trickery. **I FORGOT BECAUSE I FINISHED THIS AT 6AM AFTER BEING UP ALL NIGHT that Lily gets the last word because she hasn’t actually signed her name at all but written PETER RABBIT. They throw things and hurl vicious insults at each other and then finally realize they’re just too hot for each other after all and throw open their arms and get married.

The finale opened with Agata in a top hat and tails dancing with a stick and a bunch of musumeyaku, then there was a huge golden group tap number and a lovely waltz for the duet dance. 

I’ve been pretty upset that I had to miss BeruBara 45 and that I booked the trip I’m currently on before finding out Komu and Wataru would be returning to Bow Hall this summer, but being able to see this, especially since we’ll never see it again, was so so worth it. It was certainly a much needed boost for me personally, and it seems like it was a boost for the troupe and for Daimon and Maaya as a combi as well. I’m always torn about Broadway shows like this, because they’re SO good, and I WANT them to take on these kinds of challenges, especially when the result is so spectacular, but it’s such a bummer when they disappear forever. Many points to Harada for fitting this weird musical to Yukigumi like a perfect cozy little glove. 

#takarazuka #reviews #on the 20th century #actual longest review ever #I didn't proofread it #I don't even want to read it #am i 東宝組 now 19

[thestarwrites]

City of God pt III (Finan x OC)

Fic Summary: Finan the Agile meets a Celt-Saxon woman, and for once he can’t think of anything else. What do you mean they won’t see each other for years? The continuing story of the love between Celts.

Part Three

Rating: PG-13

Please don’t plagiarize!

Tag list; (please DM me if you’d like to be added!)

@nxrdist @joyofbebbanburg @medievalfangirl @bookworm925 @buckysskye @jcalpha1@sprinkles617 

word count: 2,774

Once back inside Uhtred’s city dwelling, his cheeks were red and his face was a wide grin, that is until Sihtric and Clapa slipped inside after him with grins. “Look at that Sihtric, a lovesick Irishman.”

The shorter man smirked, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so smitten, and blushing too! Like a virgin.”

“Oi. Shut up.”

The men chuckled before Uhtred’s voice cleared from the front of the room, “Off to bed with you trouble makers.”

“Yes, Lord.” Both men said quickly before scurrying off like mice.

Letting out a breath Finan nodded, “Thanks for tha, Lord.”

Nodding, Uhtred smiled, “How did it go? Get a kiss, my friend?”

“Tha I did. Several in fact.” He quipped cheerfully.

Uhtred clapped his friend on the back and laughed softly, “I told you that you had nothing to worry about, she is as taken with you as you are with her.”

Finan shrugged, “There’s somethin’ about her, Uhtred. Somethin I can’t quite explain. Somethin’ I daren’t tell anyone but you. When I look at her, I feel…”

“Home?” Uhtred said softly. Finan looked up and could only nod, “That’s how it was with Gisela. The first time I saw her. It was as if I was struck by Thor in that instant, and I knew that if I didn’t have her in my future, I didn’t want to live. It was my visions of Gisela that kept me through the rowing.”

Finan took a deep breath, “I need ‘er.”

Uhtred put his hand on his friend’s shoulder, “And I regret to inform you, you will not see her for a while. There are many enemies which Alfred needs ridding, And I am bound now that Kjartan is dead to serve him. We are to march onto Coccham and then to the ships.”

Swallowing, Finan nodded, “And I am bound to you. My duty before my heart, Lord.” “You will see her again.” The Irishman nodded, feeling doubtful, “I think… I should write ta her.” “Good idea, my friend. I’ve often been told girls love sweet words.” He chuckled. And with that, Finan walked to compose the first love letter he had written in over five years.

When Hild had come to tell her the news that Uhtred and all of his household had left to Coocham on business- Kelly was devastated, “I do not know how long he will be away, it may be only a few days?” She said hopefully, though she knew how many enemies haunted the waterways. She looked down and then took a deep breath, resolving that if he was gone, then he was gone, a tear rolled down her cheek, “He told me he would call on me today.” Maybe now that he’d gotten his kisses, he was finished with her. Hild nodded and frowned, “That is why he wished me to give you the letter. Did something happen between you two?” She flushed, “We kissed.” The Abbess smiled warmly, “I am happy for you. Read the letter, I pray you find comfort in it. I must go on to Coccham.”

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

Hild gave her Finan’s letter, but she could not bring herself to read it for months. Thyra did her best to reassure her friend that Finan would come back for her. That he was head over heels for her and he was sure to return. But that night beside the fire, the stolen kisses behind her home, haunted her. “It has been nearly a year, Thyra…” She cried, “He’s never coming back, and if he ever does…” She whimpered. It was almost her twenty-first birthday. “Read the letter, my dearest,” Thyra urged, “Tonight, alone in your room. See what thoughts your Irishman wishes you to know. Imagine him speaking them to you in confidence. Imagine him coming home to you and only you.”

Angel, I have been told I am to away to for an indefinite period, but my duty is to Uhtred and to the King. My heart shatters knowing I must be away from you, after we’ve only just begun to truly see one another. I do not know how long, I do not know what fate awaits me, but I do know that in making Wessex safe, I make it safe for you.  I wanted you to have in writing that I belong to you. And that I will replay your silver laugh over and over in my mind until I pray God allows me to hear it once more, and the vision of your beauty will be my guiding light in the days and possible weeks to come. Not a moment will go by that I do not think of you. The ghost of your lips on mine will be my only comfort here on this journey. My body may be on the water and on the battlefield, but my heart remains in Wintecester, with you. I hope to be back soon, and I hope you aren’t on another man’s arm when I return. Until we meet again my beautiful girl, Your Irishman, Finan “Oh Finan.” She sighed dreamily, tears rolling down her cheeks. That night, she lay down to sleep, clasping her hands in prayer, “Heavenly Father, please protect Finan. Keep him safe from harm and deliver him home to me. Please guide his steps and keep him on your righteous path. Help me to be good and do what’s right. Amen.”

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

Two Years Later… It was early summer when a knock came on the door of Urlworth’s home. The woman who answered the door was Kelly’s mother Brienne. They looked alike, except Kelly had more of a Saxon build to her, “Finan! How wonderful it is to see you back safe and sound with us.” Her own Irish accent was thick as he remembered, “Are you finally here for good?”

Clearing his throat, Finan stood straight, and tried to stop his hands shaking, “Good afternoon, Ma’am. Ah, back at last for long enough that I can finally come to call after so long… Is the Lady Kelly at home?” “Oh- no, Finan, she is not, I believe she is out in the western fields picking flowers, shall I leave a message?” The woman gave him a gentle, yet sly, smile. She knew how her daughter loved this man, and how she’d missed him. “Uh- no need, Lady, thank you.” He bowed low and moved to get back on his horse, riding west of the walls of Urban Wintecester— he saw her. Close by the gates, in case. She was just as beautiful as she ever was. Picking flowers, as close to a faery as Finan ever imagined he would see. She was full of Old Magick, that he knew for sure. And he knew he was head over heels for her, for he dreamt of nothing else while away. Oh he had gotten his fair share of ribbing from the men. Fearsome Finan the Agile bowled over by a maiden. But he didn’t care. It had been three years since he lay eyes on her, and he hoped to never leave her behind again.

Kelly smelled a wild rose, sitting to pull out the well-worn piece of parchment written in Finan’s own hand. She had kept tabs on the events of the day, heard from the King and priests that Uhtred and his men lived, but they were endlessly fighting the Danes and the Northmen. Even if Finan never returned to her, she was proud to know a man who was so brave and so loyal. Finan watched her as she folded the parchment and kissed it gingerly before tucking it in her pocket once more. His smile was lopsided as he sighed, jumping down off his horse. When she heard rustling and the breathing of a horse, and the brush of footsteps in the grass, she jumped up. Spinning, holding out her dagger, she squinted up into the sun, confused as to the tall bearded man before her — and then gasped, “Finan!” “Honestly, woman, are ye gonna point a weapon at me whenever we meet?” Putting down her flowers and the dagger she set off at a run. Finan laughed and opened his arms, ready to embrace her. Running into his arms he picked her off the ground to spin her around, and she laughed in delight, “Oh Finan! You’re alright! You’re here! Its really you!” His response was only laughter. They did not speak for a long while. He just held her in the warm sun, “Miss me?” He purred in her ear. “Not really.” She answered and looked up at him. Finan grinned, “Ye know, one a’ these days, girl, yer gonna get a beatin’.” “Don’t promise me a good time.” Leaning down, Finan pressed his lips to hers. Their first kiss in years. They were sealed together by fate, the two of them. And fate is inexorable. Pulling back he looked down into her eyes and he smiled, “There is no greater felicity than this,” He cupped her chin and chuckled, staring into her eyes. Those beautiful blue orbs. After a few moments he kissed her again, and she responded, her lips playing right along with his. His kisses became hungrier, and then after a moment he pulled apart from her, looking down at her with shaking breath, “I’m sorry lass.” Kelly took a deep shaky breath herself, “Don’t you dare apologize. I’ve dreamt of nothing else but your lips on mine.” She admitted softly. “After all this time?” He smiled. The Twenty-three year old grinned up at him, “You said you were mine— but I didn’t get to tell you… I am yours. I kept abreast of your travels as much I could in town… I heard Sihtric is married- that Uhtred has two little ones…” “And what of me?” He smirked, “What did you hear of me?” “Your fighting prowess.” She sighed and ran her hand over his face, “Look at this beard.” “Don’ like it?” He frowned. “No I love it… your hair’s all evened out… your scars are faded…” She smoothed her hands over his face, “Yet you are the handsome man I met… the man I longed for.” “Ye’re still an angel,” He sighed dreamily. After a few minutes of silence, swallowing he grinned, “Come ta Coccham wit’ me. Say ye’ve been invited to stay with Abbess Hild in her new Abbey in Coocham. I can’t be apart from ye any longer. That’s why I’ve come, lass, I need you with me, so in between going out you will be at home with us- with me. Uhtred doesn’t much want to come into the city anymore... t’at’s why I haven’t had a moment ya sneak off and find ye. But I can’t spend another moment without ye.” She looked at him with a sly smile, “You intend to ruin me for another man, hm?” “I wouldn’t t’ink of it.” He said sincerely, “You will be stayin’ in a spare room. I just want ta spend time wit’ ye. Talk an’ do the thin’s I dreamed of whilst I was fightin’ these last years.” Kelly stroked his beard gently, “You must tell me of your journeys.” “I’ll tell ye all about it, and I have gifts to give you.” “Gifts!” Kelly gasped. He laughed softly, “Of course! Now— come lets get ye home, and pack for a stay with us.” He winked. “Yes, Lord.” She purred. He chuckled low in his throat, “Ooh, Lord, I could git used ta tha’, my girl.” He was silent for a moment as they walked toward his horse, and he cleared his throat, “Would ye… want another man?” He called back to her earlier comment. “What?” “Ye said… do I intend ta ruin ye for another man?” She huffed and hugged his arm, “Oh Finan! I was just teasing. You’re the only annoying Irishman for me, three years loyalty should prove that.” He smirked and nodded, “Come on.” He held out his hand for her, “Ye can ride on my horse wit’ me.” Her cheeks flushed as she was helped up onto the stallion, before Finan got up behind her. “If my father catches me on this horse with you…” “He’ll probably t’ank me fer takin’ his old girl off his hands, what are ye now, forty?” He smirked. Kelly gasped and looked behind her, “Finan!” The man leaned forward and kissed her again, “I love t’at fire in yer eyes. Never stop lookin’ at me like t’at.” “I never will if you keep being a pig, and besides! You’re the old man, what are you now seventy?” She smirked and kissed him again, lovingly. Pulling back he wrapped his arms around her and spurred the horse on. Kelly laughed and put her arms out with a shout of bliss. Finan grinned at the woman before him, joining her with his own shout of freedom- Hild and Thyra were right, as always, she was a wild thing.

After a good long ride through the countryside, Finan made it into town and stopped his horse a few blocks from her home, getting off the Stallion, and helping her down. Holding out his arm he smiled, “Yer escort, my lady.” She chuckled and took his arm, “Thank you, my Lord.” He growled softly, licking his lip, “I can’t wait to be alone wit ye… jus’ you an me… I want ta sit out wit ye under tha stars, and bathe you in moonlight, with kisses,” he whispered. It took everything in her not to swoon there in the middle of the palace courtyard. “Ah, Finan, you have returned to Wintecester at last—  and I see you are with Miss Kelly.” The cool voice of their King behind them, sounded surprised. Kelly spun around and bowed her head, cheeks red, “Lord King,” Finan repeated the action of bowing his head and he put a hand over his heart, “I hope you are well today, Lord?” She asked.           “Quite well today, praise God.” He smiled. He liked Kelly, she was smart and full of the good light of Christ, “You two seem to be getting along well. I’m a little surprised to see you two strolling arm in arm, I did not know you were acquainted, I haven’t seen you in the city for years, Finan.”           “Uh- Lady Kelly was invited to stay at Coccham, Lord— By Hild! I’ve been- been sent ta fetch her.” Finan managed. Kelly smiled bashfully, “Finan and I are indeed friends, Lord King, from years back.”           “Friends, I see.” A long look at the girls bashful face and Finan’s guilty eyes told him what he needed to know about the young people before him. He gave a smile. Finan was a great warrior and a Christian to boot. He was pleased. This would make a good union, “Well, then, enjoy your stay in Coccham, young lady, I’m sure you will find an excellent traveling companion in Finan.” “Thank you, Lord, I believe I will.” Kelly smiled and bowed her head. “I shall be sure to recommend Finan as a person of great esteem to your father.” Kelly’s eyes widened as the King bid them farewell and moved into the palace. Looking up to her Irishman, she noted he looked panicked, “What’s wrong?” “I—“ He stuttered, “I’ve never been recommended ta a lass’ father by a King.” “You have promised me nothing, I know.” She said gently, touching his hand. Finan sighed and kissed her hand, “It’s not tha. Tha’s no what I meant at all.” “Then what?” He took a deep breath, “Listen my girl, I’m not… good. I’m a devil on tha battlefield, an’ I’ve been a lecherous pig an’ a lover a’ whores. I’ve been a slayer a’ men and, God help me, lass, I’m a sinner.” She took his hands in both of hers, “As am I, Finan. We are not perfect. If God had made us perfect, we wouldn’t need him and his salvation and love.” Finan looked at her and smiled a little, “Aye girl… you’re right. Yer so right.” He leaned down and kissed her head, “Remind me ta always come to ye when I need ta be set straight.” Nodding she squeezed his hand, “I will, always.” He nodded in return, knowing he wanted to be entwined with her always, never letting go, “Ye’ll come wit me on our next journey? If its no’ too dangerous?” “If it is appropriate, lord.” She chuckled. “Good. Cause I never want ta be away from ye tha’ long ever again.” Kelly smiled warmly, shifting to hold his hand, “Nor I.”

#finan #finan the agile #finan x oc #the last kingdom #last kingdom #i try to stick with events in the show so forgive if i deviate a little