#[ ah yes drag her by her extensions ty ]

[wiltedthrone]

WHICH TAROT CARD ARE YOU ?

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬.

your     lover’s     back     does     not     look     quite     the     same     this     morning.     no     one     else     would     notice     the     difference,     if     there     even     is     a     difference,     but     you     could     swear     they     have     more     vertebrae     than     usual.     something     in     the     breathing,     as     you     stare     at     them     in     the     morning     light.     the     light     in     the     kitchen     is     just     as     warm     as     it     always     is,     the     coffee     just     as     hot,     but     you     cannot     meet     your     lover’s     eyes.     they     kiss     you     on     the     forehead,     go     off     to     work,     shake     their     keys     on     the     way     out     as     they     always     do.     did     they     eat     anything     this     morning?     did     they     speak?     of     course     they     did.     you’re     probably     losing     your     mind.     you     would     call     your     friends     to     ask,     if     you     had     any     friends     left.     you     don’t,     of     course,     haven’t     for     months.     you     only     need     each     other.     you     only     need     them.     you     haven’t     spoken     to     anyone     in     months.     you     count     the     notches     on     their     back.     you     watch     them     breathe.     you     pray     they     don’t     turn     around.

tagged by: @griimhilde tagging: @hecharmed​ @waveraised @hookedlies @hadesheiir​ @ncuticl @notgrumpy

#♡ ⇢ ﹙ study ﹚ ﹒ you have castles inside your bones. #♡♛. dash games #[ INCH RESTING ] #[ ah yes drag her by her extensions ty ]

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Female Healer Elf x Female Hunter

Undivided Attention

The wind lashed against your face, the rain gashing at your skin, reigns twisting in your fingers in an iron grasp as you attempted chasing away the storm; your hood near to flying off your head as you raced to the closest town.

The mud and dirt were soft and wet underneath your stallion’s hooves, with Cedar sprinting wilfully to overcome the winds as you drove closer in: the streets of the town of Briar were barren, save for a person or two running to get shelter away from the heavy rain. 

Your eyes darted over every door and snug shop and house until you found the place you needed to get to. Gliding Cedar to a halt, you bought him to rest in the nearby stable to rest up, tying him up haphazardly through in a loop as you reeled back to the front of the shop.

The door swung wide with your brute force: accidentally making you recoil at how you had done so without a second thought, immediately being consumed by the heat of the inside of the cosy shop.

The inside hung with lavender and incense in the air, a hearth that lit up the area as you could hear the rain beat against the roof with force; the wind lamenting with wrath as it pounded with ferocity against the shutters.

“Just a second! I’m just in the back.” A pleasant and smooth voice called from the back, where you assumed the owner was.

When the figure emerged from the back room, you couldn’t help but take in their appearance. The first thing you observed was the notable and prominent pointed ears coming out from the sides of her head, obvious in the flowing sea of spun white-silver locks that reached before her back; braided neatly. 

She looked like any other elf, with her high cheekbones, tall and lithe, she carried herself with elegance and grace that they probably didn’t know they had.

Compared to you, you had been a rogue monster hunter for years and the muscle that had you had built in your frame helped you endure longer no matter what elements were thrown at you.

Her flesh was porcelain and smooth with no blemish; her large royal blue eyes taking you in as the door came to swing back behind you; a welcoming smile that made her eyes gleam.

You finally pulled your hood off your head, a hiss coming from lips at the simple action, the elf behind the counter’s smile fell from her face, a high look of disturbance evident on her.

Your skin was colourless, with noticeable blueish-green veins protruded and laid all around your skin, with no area of your skin not covered. They sat grotesquely beneath your flesh, making you look like a walking blister. But that wasn’t the worst part, but your eyes were taken to look inflamed and bloodshot - the pupils darkened to make it look as if you had been caught extensively crying just before you had walked into this healer’s shop.

“Oh my, goodness, what happened?” Her voice was laced with concern for your being, as she didn’t waste time quickly coming round the counter to take a hold of you, leading you into the back room where you assumed was where she performed emergency procedures.

“A silverfang caught me right between the ribs.” You managed to rasp out, how you don’t know you were able to walk nor talk was astonishing, as you had seen the harm those creatures could do to a human or mundane animal. You had fought and dealt with them in the past many times before; with desperate farmers paying you good coin to deal with them in a professional manner.

But this one had been feistier and resilient into being defeated, and it took quite the entire day to kill it off. You hadn’t gotten off lucky, but when you had slashed at its neck to lope the large head off, its stinger had gotten you right in the right side, where its venom remained in you.

The elf before you ushered you to the small bed, clearing everything off the table with a flick of her wrist, as you were laid out on the thin linen. Your face was an incoherent mess, your skin bubbling with sweat.

“Stay with me, traveller, I must see how bad it has become.” She was working in clockwork beside you, gathering things from her small desk beside the window, before she carefully pulled aside your slashed shirt away, inspecting the damage done.

The wound was inflamed, where most of the venom resided, the blue was slashed and mixed with your blood, making it look bruised and blistered like a large puss. There, the area was swollen and enlarged.

The woman beside you hummed in with no knowing how what she was thinking, taking it all in as you laid there deliriously. “Is there a way of helping me?” Your voice was hoarse, and upon noticing, the elf brought a cup of water to your drying lips, from where you gulped like a fish for the liquid, gobbling it down with all might before your throat dried up once more.

“Well, yes, but never have I seen it take effect of a body like this before.” Her voice was wavering, steady at least. Gods, the pain burnt your insides, and it felt as if no matter how much water you drank, it would still feel as if your insides were caught on fire; eternally burning you slowly.

“This may take some time though.” She said earnestly. “Good, as long as I don’t die, I don’t care.” Your voice choked as you screwed your eyes tight from the agony.

The healer gave you a sympathetic smile, one that you didn’t see, but when you heard shuffling beside you, your craned your neck back to look over at her beginning to think over what she had to do.

“I shall need a heothine flower, and some enchantment spells that will lessen the pain, but to drive the virus out of the bloodstream, you shall need to rest and wait for the worst of it to withdraw. The remaining part will cause hallucinations, and it will only be until your body sweats out the remainder will you be restored.”

Gods, when will this torture end? You keened, muttering something along your lips that even you didn't know what, your head drooped to the pillow behind you, your head pulling you in and out of consciousness with you not knowing how long everything had passed.

“You poor thing, you’re in good hands-- stay with me, dear-- here, drink this.”

You felt a tender hand coaxing you back to reality, eyes hazy as the elf pulled your head up lightly to take in whatever she was holding in her other. The brew that came to your lips was dry and bitter, hot on the tongue as if it had spice, but overall bland.

You spluttered but managed to grimace it down, and she laid you back down, whilst you finally pulled away to drift into darkness; of a fever dream that made no sense and pulled you through everything, of everything you had witnessed in your life.

Your smiling mother, showing you how to feed the goats at the back of the home you shared, the same woman weeping hot tears, begging you to not leave as you were dragged away by the Stranger, cruelty and scraps of food with maggots dwelling for your meals; whilst you went through torment of fighting, learning how to survive and given extreme changes that couldn’t be humane in the slightest.

’The perfect creation: a monster to destroy other monsters.’

Your murmurs could be heard throughout the small house, all to the morning, where a warm hand came to wipe a wet cloth against your brow, soaking the sweat out of your skin and hair; whispering in a strange language in comfort and encouragement.

When you had finally awoken, the sun was low in the sky, the sunset painting a picture full of mauves and amber; the bubbling of a test-tube boiling close by to your ear with oranges in the air.

You slowly tried sitting up, the shifting of linen brought the attention of elf from a nearby room, and when she appeared from the doorway, she was dressed in a shifting long gown of moss, with kimono sleeves that were flowy with grace and poise. A wide relieved smile rose on her face, as she came to your side.

“It is good to see you awake, traveller. You have been asleep for a very long.”

“How long have I been gone for?” You were helped to sit up properly. The elf gave you a wavering look, one met with a humble smile. "Three days, this is the best process you made."

“Oh.” That was good to know, and you certainly felt slightly better: your head hurt as if you had a minor migraine and there was a dull ache in the side of your ribs, but when you looked to your hand once covered in blistering blue veins, you were astounded to see that they had calmed down and weren’t so visible all over your flesh.

“Thank you, erm miss-”

“You can call me Daelora. Daelora of Ollethnor.” Her smile was warming, and her voice was soothing enough to make you rest and want to sleep once more. The name was unfamiliar to you, but the accuracy in how she said it was dreamy and relaxing, your ears picked up that where she had come from was indeed a place that elves resided in.

“You’re an elf-- as obvious as it is. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.” You spoke sheepishly.

“It is fine, it is quite a small part of the western border, and unfortunately it has been a long time since I last time went.” her eyes fell downcast for a brief second before flickering back up to you, the cheerfulness returning. “But you? I don’t think I’ve seen you about, and I know most of the people in this strange quaint town.”

You grinned, telling her your name and what you were: a hunter who travelled around looking for jobs whenever they came. Jobs were usually driving something out that had been putrefying in the lands, stripping farmer’s crops and livestock, some more minor compared to others, but this one you had encountered outside of Briar was certainly a bigger pain than you had realised.

Daelora gave a charmed look, “Ah, a huntress you are! I was quite shocked to see you first time at my doorstep, it looked as if the Stranger had brought you in just for the sake of keeping alive, not yet ready for you to leave.” She handed you a steamy cup of what you could only describe as tea. “You were very lucky to reach me in time.”

“I guessed there would be a healer closer by in this town, but I had no guess they would be so marvellous in treating me.” Your words had left your mouth before you had time to digest them nor realise what you had said aloud.

Your eyes nervously flittered up to her face, not expecting how she would react. In front of you, Daelora gave a shy smile, the sides of her cheekbones reddening with noticeable rouge. 

“You are too kind, dear. Normally, I have had customers come for specific medications or salves, but never anything so bad as your condition. There had only been one time... a long time ago, but there's had honestly looked more perilous.”

You smiled, relieved to say the least. “That relieves me... erm, I assume you would want me to leave as soon as?”

She interrupted, planting a gentle hand on your shoulder, saying your name in the sweetest voice. “Please, you can stay as long as you need to before you heal fully. You are welcomed here for as long as you need.” Her eyes were so pretty, like glowing gemstones. 

It didn’t take much to agree, and for the next few weeks, you stayed until you had healed fully, then taking it as a decision to go and see if Briar needed any more assistance with jobs once you had been able to stand.

It had been a month since staying in Briar, and you had been returning from a job that consisted of you being out in the freezing cold. Apparently, a dryder had made a nest nearby, and it was stealing sheep, so you had to get rid of the pest.

The rain was pouring heavy as you returned through the gates on Cedar, like a familiar moment that passed, one that could’ve ended very badly.

You arrived, putting Cedar to rest for the rest of the evening as you knocked twice, a pregnant pause to wait before the door opened, and awaiting Daelora waiting for your return with a bright grin.

“My dear, you’re back! And just in time, I made you some supper and apricot tea.” she took you enthusiastically by the hand inside, bringing you into the warmth of her home as you shed off your heavy coat, armour and boots, and meeting her at the furnace to eat dinner. Times like these, you enjoyed, sitting and eating by the fire, keeping warm and enjoying each other’s companies.

The two of you sat in quietness for some time, just enjoying each other’s company and warmth, watching the flames flicker up from the logs; dancing in the hearth. When you glanced to look at Daelora, she was already looking at you, a soft smile on her face, her dark eyes glinting and reflecting the flames in her irises.

“Dear, I had a question to ask you... one that I should’ve asked a month ago,” Daelora spoke softly, bringing your attention to look fully at her, having her undivided attention. She looked to you with woeful eyes, almost debating whether to tell you or not.

“When you came to me that day injured, and you were unconscious during those three days, you were... talking a lot in your dreams, and you were telling someone to stop, begging them to stop whatever horrifying thing they were doing to you.”

Your heart stopped, ribs aching with the knowledge of what she was talking about, and as much as it pained you to think about it all, you knew what you had to do. “Before I became a hunter, I used to live with my mother, before I was... sold into training, and made stronger through modifications, to help me combat monsters. I cannot explain the pain of it all, but it was truly the experience I could never forget.” You looked downcast to stare into the fire. “They made me a monster, Daelora. And what could be more monstrous than I?”

“I would have to disagree, you're no monster to me.” Daelora softly took your hand, tenderly squeezing them. “I may have noticed that you were much more powerful than any other human. Your pulse is extremely slow compared to any mortal, but I knew that there was something in you that helped you to survive, and make you strong.”

When you looked to her, her cheeks were darkened with a blush. She gave you a loving tender look. “There is something about you that I like a lot. You are brave, courageous and powerful, but kind, caring and sympathetic. You risk your own life to fight for strangers in a town you never lived in.”

“W-What are you trying to say, Daelora?” You unintentionally leant in closer to her, enjoying the smell of pine and lemon that filled your nostrils. It was fruity and soft, like her. Daelora gave a sheepish giggle. “I guess you could say I like you a lot.”

“I... I like you too, a lot.” You confessed, and neither one of you at first moved nor did anything for your mind was racing with wanting to just press your lips to hers. 

And so you did. You were inches from her face already, and you brought your fingers to lace in her unbraided hair, stroking her soft skin as you pressed your warm lips against her soft ones. You were overwhelmed with the feeling wanted, loved and cherished, and being in Daelora’s arms made you feel you wanted to be with her for as long as possible.

You both finally pulled away, chuckling clumsily and giving small kisses to one another for the rest of the evening. “You won’t be leaving Briar, will you, dear?”

“No, and besides,” you smiled fondly, pulling her into your arms to cuddle, “I’ve got everything I want right here.”

#exophilia #elf exophilia #wood elf #female wood elf #elf girlfriend #female elf #female elf x human reader #female monster #monster girlfriend #monster story #human rogue #dnd #dnd writing #dnd fic #monster fic #elf writing #monster lover #monster fluff #wlw story #wlw exophilia #sapphic exophilia #wlw monster love

[ain-t-bovvered]

15X12 Commentary

Bunch of tired and caffeinated Europeans ( plus a sleepy American) scream together, and then die and try to get on with their day ( lol AS IF)

@smol-and-grumpy​​​​ (Nat)

@dean-winchesters-bacon​​​​  (Kat)  

@waywardbaby​​  (Zee)

@ain-t-bovvered  (Giulia)

Nat: welp i guess we'll start?

Giulia: Ye

Zee: I know we’re not ready but yes

Nat: count as usual?

Giulia: U r the only one ready snort

Zee: Shush I’m faking it

Nat: 3

Nat: 2

Nat: 1

Nat: go

Zee: The recap

Giulia: Already hate it

Giulia: ...kaia

Giulia: Ok but i loved dean shout there

Giulia: But i also don t give a fuck about kaia

Nat: i could make a list of people i don't give a fuck about

Giulia: Why the empty has a dick

Nat: earth 2

Giulia: Look how much-waisted air time

Nat: this better go somewhere

Zee: What is he on?

Giulia: Oh look das me every time a clerk looks too clingy

Zee: President Hillary Clinton

Giulia: Nice

Giulia: Radio shed ads look like mediaworld *winks in italian*

Zee: Can he shut up?

Giulia: Nerd

Giulia: Oh and another nerd

Nat: weird that on every earth people are still dumb as fuck

Giulia: The World

Zee: Oh no

Giulia: Yeah that looks my kinda world

Giulia: Aaah beard dean

Zee: Other toys

Nat: He can't even make a world that's gonna function

Giulia: I can get what I want from a hundred worlds

Giulia: What she said

God/ ME A DESTIEL SHIPPER ABOUT DESTIEL ENDGAME: Dean says I'm not gonna get the ending I want. And I don't know. Maybe... I...I mean, that shouldn't matter, right?  I've gotten what I want from hundred of Sams and Deans. I could get what I want from a hundred more. And I don't care.

Nat: you can see the green screen. I mean him standing before one

Giulia: Amazing

Zee: Clear the board

Giulia: Can he clean this one too. I think he’s already doing it

Nat: our world

Nat: how do you know. still, he doesn't take out the dumb

Zee: Vegan

Giulia: ...vegan lasagna *cringes in Italian*

Giulia: Because he feels for them. Between similars u no

Giulia: Aah veins

Zee: I still don’t like it

Giulia: Ah so we are actually where we left off. I can tell u where my head is

Zee: I can tell you where I want his head to be

Giulia: Ooooh nice

Giulia: Look at Jack hair tho

Giulia: BABE

Nat: "I HAVE SPEND TIME WITH HER" *wink wink nudge nudge*

Giulia: 50k

Giulia: Scythe kink

Nat: ouch

Zee: FOCUS

Giulia: Bottom Dean

Nat: on what? dildo scythe?

Giulia: Please comment and reblog

Giulia: Hey

Giulia: No OnE

Zee: Is jack chubbier?

Giulia: Don t talk to my son like this

Zee: Sam should stop doing that thing with his face

Nat: He's just older

Giulia: I can count his gray hair

Giulia: ...

Giulia: AAAAAAAAH beautiful

Zee: How domestic

Giulia: Babe

Zee: Look at that little smile

Giulia: SO CUTE

Giulia: thank you for a small bubble of happiness. That shook my soul a bit

Zee: They seem a little happy. I’m scared. Oh there it is

Giulia: That’s a fancy-ass whiskey bottle. I want it

Zee: Kaia came looking for the spear

Giulia: Cute where is cas

Zee: Babysitting

Giulia: Of course she kicks their asses

Giulia: I wanna choke him too

Nat: they can't even fight one small girl. they're getting old

Zee: Can he get any deeper?

Giulia: What she said

Zee: THE VOIVE I MEAN

Giulia: Oh come on HOW CONVENIENT

Giulia: they pulled a Mary Winchester

Zee: Snort

Nat: i don't know what to think about all this

Giulia: Oh looks it’s us after the coronavirus. Eating lizards

Nat: I mean

Giulia: I just watch

Nat: I would eat it 🤷🏻‍♀

Zee: Dean said not tasted kinda decent

Nat: do I have to

Zee: YES

Giulia: SNORT

Zee: SEE? Babysitting

Giulia: ...listen….How in the hell...War Strategist angel of the lord cas loses at force 4. Fuck off

Giulia: Always makeup on point

Giulia: Not Kaia not helping

Nat: oh I see jody had time for lash extensions

Giulia: She must not be in quarantine

Giulia: ...La piegatrice mondiale. What a horrible translation

Giulia: Oh dean has nice hair. I wanna pull it

Zee: This is going so well

Giulia: Look at cas hair

Nat: He always goes like "Cas-tee-el"

Giulia: Tee-el

Zee: Are you only looking at hair?

Giulia: Cas sounds so done

Zee: But so good

Giulia: WHAT A SOFT LOOK I HATE IT DON T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT

Giulia: A bit of a smokey eye on Kaia, What she used? Burned sticks? charcoal? Burned lizard’s tails?

Zee: Is it me or Jody looks older and Cas looks younger?

Nat: sorry but not Kaia can go fuck herself

Giulia: WHATEVER

Nat: so much airtime

Giulia: WASTED

Giulia: ...Shouldn’t he be strong af

Nat: I hate that the female's make up is always on point.

Zee: He’s gonna do something stupid

Giulia: Definition of a Winchester

Giulia: What a dad tone

Nat: I like Merl. Merl is me

Giulia: HEEEEY

Giulia: AHAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

Giulia: AHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Nat: Winchester dumb

Zee: Winchester dumb

Giulia: what a mood

Nat: she's my fave character

Giulia: I love her

Nat: i want her in all the ep

Giulia: I stan her

Nat: give her more air time

Giulia: She’s the smartest in the room

Giulia: What a sassy reaper. Like my fav sassy demon

Giulia: I love how the Winchesters are there watching, being all: yup, that’s our dumb kid

Nat: Winchester stupid

Zee: They know she’s right

Giulia: DONT BORROW MY ANGEL LIKE A BATTERY

Zee: Dead angel walking

Nat: I seriously thought Cas holds out the cup he ejaculated in like in a sperm bank

Giulia: Can I unread this

Nat: No u can't, that's what happens when I’m in lockdown

Giulia: Look at that cutie with his cute backpack

Nat: boy scout dean

Zee: Sam’s smirk

Giulia: Babysitting again

Giulia: BS angel chivalry

Giulia: SHE’S SO DONE

Giulia: love it

Nat: she should have said "in your own time"

Giulia: Me and you have all eternity, they don’t

Giulia: ...wasting seconds of intense glares

Giulia: Oh look the gremlins again

Giulia: The last healthy Italians vs the infected ones

Giulia: Last Toilet paper’s rolls and dumb scared people

Nat: snorts

Zee: You’re on a roll

Giulia: Dean eyelashes are fluttering in the wind. Sam needs a hair elastic

Nat: I wish something else would flutter in the wind

Giulia: my fucks

Zee: Hey kid

Giulia: WHY ARE THEY HUGGING

Zee: It’s before corona

Nat: I thought they didn't like each other that much

Giulia: Exactly. They have like 0 relationship, I don’t understand

Nat: It's weird.

Nat: if she should hug someone it should be sam. but what do I know

Zee: Have y’all understood the point of all this? Cause I haven’t

Giulia: Literally none

Nat: I’m bothered by all the other things

Giulia: She had time to do her eyelashes

Nat: so we did literally waste an ep with getting Kaia back, like for real? I watched this?

Giulia: ...AH

Nat: you know the last season could have been so fucking good

Zee: Wtf?

Giulia: K

Nat: ah

Zee: She found out

Giulia: What a meme

Giulia: Billy: last season

The reaper: my joy

Giulia: Death is angry

Zee: I was busy In Italy

Giulia: Oh wow

Nat: Merl had one job

Giulia: The writers had one job

Nat: Billy is us because she has no patience in them wasting an ep freeing Kaia

Giulia: Then u killed me

Giulia: Smoulder time

Giulia: Aaaah a baby

Zee: What?

Nat: Meh

Giulia: Why

Nat: God's destruction is Jack

Giulia: Another meme

Giulia: Writers

Giulia: Us asking if season15 will be amazing

Nat: right

Giulia: Go watch the promo

Nat: is that a fiat

Giulia: That’s a 500, my old car snort

Nat: Are they gay antiques, dealers

Zee: Apart from the reaper everything else was pretty lame. We waited almost two months for that?

Giulia: We went through corona for that

Nat: they look like gay antique dealers. especially being outraged when Sam has to lose the man bun

Giulia: With their cardigans and shit

Giulia: We should all live together. Yikes. They gonna die

Nat: they would scream

Giulia: High pitched

Zee: Tf did I just watch ? Loved deans bracelets tho

Giulia: They’re Jensen’s . Probably

Giulia: Oh maybe they are sam and dean that grew up as men of letters

Zee: Gay men of letters

Giulia: Can they get hot and bothered by Castiel?

Zee: Maybe not both of them

Giulia: Nah Nah both

Zee: Will the angel be gay too?

Giulia: There will be no angel probably. Also, Angels are probably sexless so who cares.

Kat: Y’all finished?

Giulia: Yup

Zee: Yes

Kat: And?

Giulia: WHERE IS THE FLAVOUR

Zee: LLLAAAAMMMEEE

Nat: I wasted my time

Kat: Yeah. Who gives a flying fuck about Kaia. Literally no one

Giulia: guess they are tying the loose ends

Kat: No one has thought about her in 2 years, she was a dead end

Giulia: Idk what the point was

Kat: Idk to have Jack use his powers for some reason? Surely they could have found something better

Giulia: Idk man. Between this fucking virus and jib and life and this writing, I’m very much blegh. I mean I love my boys. But

Zee: Let’s just hope they give them a decent ending and not something so lame that it will ruin everything

Nat: You love them and you want the best for them. not half-assed writing

Giulia: Yeah

Nat: lol what show have you been watching the last season

Kat: Yeah. It’ll be ruined. I have no hope of anything else

Nat: I don't have much hope but also that will maybe make me feel better when it's not as bad as I think it will be

Zee: I know but I can’t let it drag me down

Giulia: Yup

.

.

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If you want to get tagged send an ask HERE or to @waywardbaby​​ or a smoke signal, idk whatever I’m tired af.

TAGS: @wayward-angelgirl​​​​  @destiel-honeypie​​​​      @mariekoukie6661​​​​      @dragontamerm​​​​       @closetspngirl​​​​    @rainflowermoon​​​​     @mattiecat​​​​       @bunnybaby121115​​​​  @aliaitee2​​    @jacks-word-of-the-day​​​​     @4evamc​​​​       @dammitsammy​​​​     @legendary-destiel​​​​   @winchesterprincessbride​​​​    @destielhoneybee​​​​​    @castiellover20   @ravenhg​​​​ @evvvissticante​​​​ @emoryhemsworth​​​​​ @markofdean79​​​​ @janndishsstuff​

#supernatural 15x12 #15x12 galaxy brain #spn 15x12 #Episode commentary #SUPERNATURAL COMMENTARY #spn commentary #15x12 commentary #spn gifs #dean winchester #Sam Winchester #castiel

[hamlets-ghost-zaddy]

queen of peace

Part 8/10 Shifty Powers x Reader

You regret the words before the syllables form, before they’re from your mouth, but then they’re spiraling through the air and you can’t cram them back in.

Ricocheting around your brain, dunking your anger into a frigid swell of shame, the echoes of your callousness send thoughts spinning until you’re motion-sick; until they don’t sound like words at all—more like liberal strokes of cruel unfeelingness—and you will later marvel at your mechanical ability to escape: leaving a penny on the table, leaving Shifty sitting there, shame-faced and red. It was cowardice, how you fled from your own vitriol: ‘I don’t have much left, Shifty, but at least leave me my dignity.’

The next morning, you rest your head against the worktable surface, piled with Aigle fabric bolts, the words repeating again. You went to bed hearing them, woke hearing them, and no matter how you plugged your ears or shut your eyes, you couldn’t hide. They haunt you, plummeting through and dragging you low. But its deserved, you know; Shifty was trying to help, trying to be a good friend. You snapped at him, and though the words cripple you with guilt, it’s preferable, you assure yourself, to the alternative: to seeing flashes of Shifty’s expression, seared forever in your memory, when your words hit.

His nighttime eyes shone with injured earnestness, with undiagnosable hurt, his cheeks hollowing and graying and—stop, you think, resolutely taking up your needle. Dwelling wouldn’t do you any good, not when you needed to finish the meager order stack as quickly as possible. And anyway, you think, he probably thinks I’m a horrid, wretched little girl now.

And rightfully so, too.

Pass the needle in-and-out, in-and-out of the fabric. Pull the thread, tighten the stitch, finish the commission, receive the payment, and pray the bankers deign to bestow a small mercy on you (it’s unlikely, considering this would be the second year in a row you’ve requested an extension on the loan payment, but you can’t afford to be realistic. Threadbare optimism is all you have to cling to).

You’re fulfilling your last order—letting out a favorite nightgown for a very pregnant Mrs. Morrison—when Mother peers into the workshop. She knocks softly on the doorjamb, wavering and unsure if she’s welcome to enter, and you’re careful not to look at her: the rush of guilt would only increase, rendering you paralyzed. She’s crept around the house since you laid out the truth of financial ruin—and how it directly resulted from her carelessness—and its precisely what you had carefully avoided. She’s sinking once more into the shadowy depths she had been lost to after your father’s death, succumbing further every day to her grief. Time had been the cure but, with how life currently slams every opportunity closed on you and your Mother, you wonder—if Mother does manage to pull herself out of her grief this time around—if there’d be anything to live for when she resurfaced.

You tried so hard to protect her from this, too: to protect her from herself, terrified of seeing her look at you but not really see you. She would perch in the sitting room, staring out at the front garden, and blink at you blankly when you asked if she wanted tea, or if she wanted to take a stroll around the neighborhood, or how she was doing. Now, just as it had then, life has emptied from her eyes, guilt opening up a drain she’s unable to plug, but your acknowledging it would mean acknowledging losing another person: your mother, Shifty. Both repelled and isolated because of your hardheartedness.

Biting your lip, you wait for Mother to speak.

“Darling,” she begins, softly. “There’s some Americans here to see you. Margaret is with them.”

“Americans?” you repeat, perking up despite yourself.

Startled to find you looking at her, Mother shifts under your stare. You lower your eyes back to your needle, shame heaving your shoulders. “Well, yes,” she offers, “They say they’re here to place orders.”

“Oh,” you breath, gathering yourself from the stool and following Mother through the sitting room and into the entryway. The front door hangs open, Margaret leaning against the doorjamb with Allen Vest at her side and a herd of olive-uniformed boys at her back. You recognize Skip Muck’s cackling laugh, spy the bright grin of Don Malarkey, catch the flash of Alex Penkala rolling his eyes among other faces you recognize from Margaret’s Christmas Eve party.

Margaret straightens at your appearance, hand fluttering up to fluff her curls as a roguish grin curls her lips. “Hey there, pretty lady. Just who we were wanting: we need a miracle-worker.”

“A miracle-worker?” you repeat, arching an eyebrow, not helping yourself from sweeping all them into a quick glance. “What do you need? Water to wine? Curing the blind?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” pipes George Luz, his head popping in between the much-taller shoulders of Muck and Penkala. “Heya, sweet thing, how’s it rolling?” he adds with a wink.

Don Malarkey nudges George. “He’s not serious; we’ve been given orders that we’re shipping out soon and we’re all in desperate need of uniform repairs.”

“Our new CO isn’t as much of a—” Skip hesitates, obviously trying to settle on an appropriate vocabulary choice for the present, mixed company, “Stickler for uniform regulations, but we also don’t want to look shabby when we’re going to meet up with a lot of other Airborne companies.”

“We’re the Screaming Eagles not the Scruffy Eagles,” offers George, earning him another nudge to the ribcage.

“Ah,” you reply. There were nearly ten men haunting your doorstep—a day’s worth of hard work, from the state of the fraying thread on their citation patches, the snagged fabric puckering at the sleeve-cuffs—but your fingers itch for the challenge, for the distraction of a series of goals to strive toward, pushing through a feverish night of work and into the small hours of the morning. “If you boys are wanting mends, I can get everyone done by this tomorrow.”

“Don’t make any promises,” Margaret interjects with a wink. “This is the first wave of orders; there’s more to come.”

Interpreting your raised eyebrows, Malarkey supplies, “Word is you’re the gal to go to, ma’am, and that word has spread like a wildfire through Easy, Fox, and Dog.”

“Company names,” Penkala interjects, helpfully.

You nod vaguely, mind caught and stuck on wondering how the ‘word’ got out, and why it spread with such ferocity—wondering who ignited the spark. Your brain conjures Shifty’s face—smiling and bright, a twinkle in those nighttime eyes, and so different from when you last saw him—but you hastily push it aside, asking, “Um, how many orders am I facing down then?”

Margaret, impossibly, smiles wider. “Oh, well over four-hundred.”

And maybe you are a miracle-worker: after all, it is a miracle you don’t faint.

…

George Luz lingers, waiting to be the last client to put in his order of the ‘first wave,’ and once you’re done calling notes for his uniform jacket to Margaret, acting as your assistant and secretary—organizing the order receipts—he hops down from the tailor’s block, immediately nosing through the parcels of brown-papered, orders completed and needing to be delivered. “What are you up to?” you ask, eyeing him over your shoulder as you hang his jacket up alongside the others. You’re relieved all of the men’s clothes already have their last names patched on them; it saved paper, twine, and safety pins.

“Oh, just looking,” George replies, far too innocently. “Are these the things you’re done with?”

“Yeah, I need to drop them by this afternoon and collect the commission money,” you reply, sticking a needle between your lips and sniping a length of olive thread—one of the only spools left in the workshop that’s well-stocked—as you take down Penkala’s jacket. Around the needle, you call to Margaret: “What’s needed for Penkala?”

Hunching over her notes, Margaret replies, “‘Refasten buttons, all are loose; redo Eagle patch, and patch holes on left bicep.’”

Nodding, you mumble ‘thanks,’ taking it to the worktable and poking a gentle pinky-finger through the bicep holes. Your question to Shifty, asked only four months before but feeling a memory from a different lifetime—maybe someone else’s life—drift back to you: did the boys really take cheese-graters to their uniforms? Why and how could they acquire so much wear and tear so quickly?

George follows you to the worktable, the stack of parcels migrating with him. You raise an eyebrow at it, and then at wide grin worming across his mouth—as if he tried mightily to repress it, but then, when has George ever known how to hide his every emotion? The kid’s face reads like an open book. “What are you up to, Georgie?”

“Well, hear me out,” he begins, talking in a great gush of words as if he’s sure you’d shoot down his idea before it’s even from his mouth—not that he’s wrong, you think, tying off the olive-green thread and beginning to mend Penkala’s sleeve-holes. “Why don’t I make all the deliveries for you? That’ll save you some time and you can completely focus on finishing up the orders. I mean, how much time do you waste making deliveries when you could be here, putting in elbow grease and making money?”

You frown down at the jacket. “I don’t know; it’s just…I’m really sorry, but I can’t afford to pay you.”

You can almost feel George shaking his head, his persistent rebuff palpable when he replies, “No, no, I wouldn’t dream of asking you to pay me. I’ll do all the deliveries for free.”

Now, you frown up at him, a protest forming on your tongue: you don’t want hand-outs. You want to be respectable, earn your keep and be independent on your own merit, but if you denied George’s offer, should you—from the same logic—return all of the men’s jackets? Your eyes slither from George’s open and hopeful expression, as if he thinks making deliveries will be the most fun he’ll have this side of the Atlantic, and to the neat row of American Airborne uniforms. You glance at Margaret, madly scribbled up totals and making notes that none of the men have prepaid.

George offered a kindness; Margaret offered a kindness; and every single man who left his jacket in your care—entrusted you to do a service—did, too. It’s too coincidental after yesterday, and you know Shifty plays some part in the plot. The fury, the heated and sharp anger, you felt in the teashop perks up in your stomach, wanting to rise and push hot words from your mouth all over again, but then Shifty’s expression flashes behind your eyelids. With these jackets, a favor had given, you realize, but not a favor to me. Shifty, perhaps in league with Margaret, had convinced the men to bring their orders to you as a favor to them, but you would earn the money through hard-work and timely delivery: no prepaying, no hand-outs.

When your eyes return to George—sheepishly, you wonder how long your silence has dragged, considering the concern darkening his eyes—he asks: “C’mon, why not? Friends help out friends, no strings attached. Putting up with my dumb jokes is payment enough, right?”

And that single innocuous question suckers the air from your lungs, grand-slams every thought from your brain, leaving a dull ache behind your eyes. ‘Friends help out friends, no strings attached,’ you turn over mentally; it’s what Shifty proposed, granted on a much more drastic magnitude. Friends don’t deal in repayments, they deal in affection and trust; they operate above the reaches of dignity because, you think as you observe George’s keenness to help you, my success is their success; my dignity is their dignity.

It takes a great feat of restraint, but you want until after you send George on his way with the deliveries under arm, until you’ve completed repairs on five of the jackets, until Margaret suggests stopping for tea and toast before you allow yourself to slump, forehead pressed to the worktable. Groaning, you wonder how you’ll ever earn Shifty’s forgiveness.

(Yet, the respite doesn’t last long: more groups of Americans soon show up on your doorstep).

. . .

With every day that passes, you expect Shifty to drift in on the heels of one of the ‘waves’ of Airborne men shuffling in and out of your workshop, yet, his abashed grin never winks into existence to warm you. You expect Shifty to accompany George Luz in on one of his many thither-hither jaunts to deliver finished orders or follow Margaret in to help sort through the stacks of orders and receipts, logging the payments, but he remains a specter of your imagination, always lingering on the periphery of your thoughts and imagination.

After keeping at a mad pace for eight days—filling orders as quickly as the American boys, enlisted and officers alike, tottered out of your workshop—George informs you the Airborne is to ship out at the end of the week. You don’t allow yourself to nibble at your lip or worry your fingers together, speculating if you ought to send a note with George for Shifty, begging him for forgiveness. You trust George would see it delivered safely—he’s been nothing but reliable with the other two-hundred-seventy-plus orders, though you suspect he’d snoop and read it before handing it over—but you do hold onto the girlish hope Shifty might want to see you one last time, if only as a final homage to the friendship you once had (the friendship I brutally axed to death, you remind yourself savagely).

You haven’t the time to worry, not with your skin cracking from sewing so much; not with her muscles cramping and the orders piling up. You put on sewing gloves—they slow you, but at least you can keep going—you don’t fuss when Mother throws herself into the work at your side, silent and dogged despite her arthritis, or when Margaret completely bans you from so much as glancing at the account ledger.

“Completing the orders and earning the money ought to be your only concern,” Margaret tuts, slapping your hand away from her spidery lines of arithmetic. You shake her head, tucking your chin to hide an affectionate grin, all the while thinking of the drafted letter begging for a loan extension tucked into your sewing apron. If the payments from the American orders fell short—don’t think about it, don’t even consider it, you internally coach yourself—you’d have to send the letter out on Saturday, the day after the American Airborne left Aldbourne.

(Don’t think about that either, you mentally tack on.)

On Thursday, in the quiet hours of the afternoon, George appears on your front stoop for his usual afternoon deliveries, payment collected that morning jingling cheerily in his pocket. “You know,” he says, accepting your offer of the tea and toast you, Margaret, and Mother had just made. “It’s been a good time doing all these deliveries, getting to chew the fat with the people I drop things off for and stretch my legs while I’m doing it. I think I might like to do that after all this is over.”

You shrug, not helping a grin from George taking an overenthusiastic bite of his toast and a loud slurp of tea. His table manners are hopeless, honestly. “Why not? You can do whatever you’d like. I mean, with your charm and can-do attitude, George Luz, you could dethrone Cary Grant as king of Hollywood, if you wanted.”

“Aw, gee, you think I’m charming?” he crows, perching his teacup and plate of toast on the desk next to Margaret’s ledger to sling an arm around your shoulders. “You’re too sweet to me, I swear! What did I do to deserve you, huh? You’re like an angel!”

“Alright, alright; get off me, please.” Feigning surliness, you shrug him off but your efforts are subverted by a snort bubbling up from your diaphragm and popping from your nose, a round of giggles following closely. George looks as though he’s won the lottery and, some small part of you thinks, it almost feels as if you have, too.

You haven’t laughed in weeks, not since the Aigle fabrics appeared in the post office.

. . .

Thursday inches along, taking George on another delivery run, and dusk descends on your back garden. Every time you think to glance up, sunlight has leeched more from the world. By the time it’s fully dark, the BBC’s news bulletin concluded and allowing for a radio play to alleviate the daily gloom of wartime, you shoo Margaret and Mother: Mother to bed and Margaret to a date with Tommy Beale (she even gushed at a poor private named Hoobler, one of the stranglers who’d yet to collect his order, regaling him with the details of Tommy having positively dragged feet about asking her on a proper date for years. Though you agree Tommy has been an absolute horror, you also can’t help thinking of poor Allen Vest, who’s obviously smitten with her).

And isn’t that a nice change? You wonder, refastening a loose button onto Toye, Joseph’s dress uniform jacket. Being able to giggle over the possibilities of a date, of having multiple suitors? You sigh, longing for the days of mooning over handsome boys—allowing yourself to be a girl—and not mooning over a tin of freshly baked scones in the bakery shop window, hunger grumbling in your stomach.

A faint knock on the front door echoes to you. Checking your watch, a quarter past eleven, you wonder why George is out, cavorting, so late the night before loading out to wherever the Airborne is bound for next. Knowing your mother could (and has) slept through German bombings, you feel no qualms with shouting, “It’s open! Come on through, George!”

The front door whines open, the floorboards complaining under the weight of a person, and you’ve tightened the button with three more stiches, tying it off and nipping the thread, before a gentle voice says, “It’s not George.”

Startled, jumping from your stool and upsetting it in your haste, you twist over your shoulder to find Shifty—cap worrying between his fingers, just like when I first saw him, steals through your thoughts, just like at the teashop—shadows from the weak electric light hollowing out his cheeks, defining his nose. He looks like a man, like someone you don’t know, standing there with something—something you’re too scared to name for fear of being wrong—darkening his eyes.

“Shifty,” escapes on a breath without conscious decision. Silence; you track the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows; you pretend you can see the thoughts and words forming, and quickly tossed aside, darting across his expression. Reaching a hand behind you, clutching the worktable, you attempt to steady your weak legs and hide the tremors turning your fingers jittery.

The movement startles Shifty, prompting him to move in careful steps—as if tiptoing around a skittish forest creature—and he sets a parcel on the worktable before bending to righted your stool. When he straightens again, his face is close to yours. Involuntarily gulping, you step back only to bump into the worktable. You bury your fingers into Toye, Joseph’s jacket, pressing the newly hastened button into your palms. “Um,” you begin. “I, um, owe you an apology, Shifty; I shouldn’t have reacted to your offer the way I did; you were being a good friend—”

“No, stop,” he interrupts, voice soft and it’s just not fair for him to look at you like that, especially after he hadn’t looked at you like that when you kissed him. “Please, stop.” Pain tucks the corners of his mouth, a marginal movement you’re privy to from proximity. “It was a crazy offer and I didn’t consider your feelings when I decided to ask you. I just made up my mind that that was the answer to all your problems after Maggie told me; that I’d sweep in and fix everything, and…and…” He nibbles his lower lip.

You can’t stand him looking like that, can’t stand knowing it’s because of you, so you offer: “No, Shifty, none of it was your fault. It was a solution, granted not one I was willing to consider—”

“And rightfully so,” he interjects, fiercer than you thought him capable of, his hands capturing yours and pressing hard, a physical askance for you to listen to him, to believe him. His eyes catch yours, and you’re trapped (except, ‘trapped’ implies it’s unwilling) under those eyes. A constellation burns there, threatening to swallow you whole. “It wasn’t a solution because I was lying to you; I lied to you from the very beginning because…”

“Because…?” you echo when his hesitation stretches.

Biting his lip again, he sucks in a deep breath. His eyes never leave yours. “Because I said you’re my friend and that I wanted to help. But the truth is, y/n, you’re not my friend; you never have been. I kept up this façade for so long because…because of that day, that very first sewing lesson.” His eyes leave yours, sweeping to encapsulate the sewing workshop, a wry smile quirking his lips. He mumbles, “I guess it’s fitting that I tell you here, huh?” His eyes drift back to yours. “We kissed, but then you looked so horrified afterwards, you apologized so quickly, and I knew you only saw me as a friend. After that, I was…I am so scared of losing you as my friend that I never tried to act on…I decided having you as a friend was better than not having you at all.”

“What?” manages to cobble itself together in your brain, coming out on a choked wheeze. Swallowing once, twice, you rally your thoughts but the one conclusion logic offers you is too ludicrous—too illogical—for it to be real. You try speaking again, “What do you mean?”

A blush creeps into Shifty’s cheeks. “I mean…well, I mean that I’ve…” He hesitates, his hands dropping yours to gently cradle your jaw, tilting your head up, and then your nose are bumping, his lips ghosting over yours in indecision and hesitation. Stretching up on your toes, you catch his lips in your own, fingers skittering up to clutch the lapels of his jacket, and your mouth slots with his. Every inch of you presses into him. Shifty’s height forces your spine to arch, stretching your arms as your hands migrate to his hair, threading and rethreading the silky hair around your fingers, trying to drown every sense with him: Shifty Powers. You try to exist in the same space, try to live in the same breath, and you know it’s foolish—against the laws of physics, nature, and biology—but you keep trying; you want to keep kissing just to try.

When he pulls away, gulping down air, he concludes, “I’ve been in love with you for a long fucking time.”

. . .

Shifty props you onto the worktable after some half-hour’s worth of kissing, gently smoothing your hair as he explains, “As much as I’d like to go on kissing you, I’ve got two things for you. It’s, uh, why I came. That, and to apologize.” He crooks a grin at you, placing a kiss on the corner of your lips that makes you chase his mouth a few inches as he moves back. “Didn’t expect to kiss you, I promise. I didn’t want to take advantage.”

Blushing, you thread your fingers with his, and quip back, emboldened by his kisses, “Well, maybe, Shifty Powers, I was wanting to take advantage of you.”

That crooked grin stretches into a proper grin now. “Well, after you open this for me, I don’t see why you can’t do just that.” He places the forgotten parcel in your lap.

Arching your eyebrows, wanting to ask if his confession wasn’t gift enough for one day, you grab a pair of sewing shears and snip the twine off the package. The paper flops open to reveal a carefully folded length of blue fabric and a little wooden carving nestled at its center. Cradling the carving in your palm, cool against your skin, you realize it’s a doe, legs delicate and thin, but head tilted in curiosity and—you fleetingly allow yourself to think in wild imagination—defiance.

“I carved her for you in December. I wanted to give it to you during the Christmas Eve party, but then…” he hesitates, his fingers tapping out a nonsense rhythm on your knuckles. “I went to that dark mental place, you know. Then, I was going to give it to you after, but I began to wonder if you really are a doe.”

“I’m not?” you ask, glancing up at him through your eyelashes. “What would you say I am, then? Have you figured it out?”

Shifty shrugs. “No, not really; nothing I can say definitively, at least. Though,” he tilts his head, considering, “maybe a lioness?”

You hum, your turn to kiss the corner of his lips. He’s agile, turning to catch your mouth, and he works at your bottom lip, gentle and considerate and eager. He draws back with a long inhale of breath, leaving you blinking and dazed—suddenly wakened from a drunken stupor. Clearing your throat, you say, “Well, I think the doe is lovely; she has a spirit and fire to her, even though she looks fragile. Thank you.” Carefully, you set the doe aside, already planning to transport her to your bedside table, so she might greet you every morning and bid you a restive sleep every night. You return to the blue fabric, shaking it out to find—“My dress!” Your eyes swing to Shifty. “You went and bought it back?”

Shifty shrugs, abashed anew. “I didn’t believe that you had been meaning to sell it. It’s what made me go ask Margaret about if you were having money trouble. In her defense, she wouldn’t tell me anything at first, but after she did, I went and got the dress.”

You shake your head, voice quiet. “She didn’t know. No one did.” Hugging the dress to your chest—a dress you convinced yourself was gone—you offer, “You have to understand, Shifty. I didn’t keep my problems from only you; I didn’t tell Margaret, or even my mother. Some part of me wanted…wants…to be like my Mother used to be; to be like how I remember my father. They took chances, but they made their way on their own merit. I just couldn’t…I know my pride is silly and prickly but…”

Now, Shifty shakes his head. “Please never apologize. I understand; my folks didn’t have much money, and I was always determined to make my own way in the world. I get it, y/n, and it’s one of the reasons I’m a goner for you.”

Your hands slacken, arms and dress falling into your lap, and you’re transfixed by the pooling blue fabric—as sleek and brilliant as a springtime creek swollen with melted mountain snow; as flooded with promise as the waving green shoots along the creek-bed. Returning your face to his, you kiss him chastely, adding a whispered, “Thank you.”

(And, until that evening, you had thought of the War as olive-green khaki. But, as Shifty peeled off his jacket and shirt, leaving him in his white undershirt; as he lays atop the quilt on your bed, refusing to ‘compromise’ you by joining you under the covers and instead contented to press kisses to your temple, your nose, your mouth, holding you close against him; as you listen to his breathes even into sleep, you think of the War as chiffon: easy to tear and irrevocably ruin, but soft and precious and, if handled mindfully enough, capable of heart-rendering beauty.)

(When the morning comes, the War of khaki will follow, hurrying Shifty back to his barracks and toward the inevitable invasion of Europe. He leaves with kisses, your postal address in his pocket, and a promise you dare to hope will remain unbroken: ‘I’ll be back for you.’)

tag list: @gottapenny, @maiden-of-gondor, @wexhappyxfew, @medievalfangirl, @higgles123. @mayhem24-7forever

#shout out to maiden of gondor's shifty playlist for helping me get through this one #Shifty Powers #shifty powers x reader #shifty powers image #band of brothers #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers fic #and it did get better yall #my writing #the gif doesn't really match but i thought we needed a good thumbs-up for everyone being emotionally intelligent in this part hahah

[hawkbucks]

It’s my fanfic blog and I get to choose what fandom to do fic for. 

DA:O, Julien Tabris/Zevran, sort of Alistair’s P.O.V. Let it be known that I would gladly die a thousand deaths for my Best Boy Ali. Many typos, probably. 

“You and Zevran earlier--” Alistair leans against a tree; they’re far enough from the main camp that no one would be able to hear their conversation, especially considering the hushed tone that Alistair is speaking in-- “what was that all about?” Although he and Zevran do get along quite a bit better than they did before, he’s never been too... fond of his and Julien’s relationship. It just seems too convenient in his opinion. Zevran was originally sent to assassinate the both of them, after all. All Julien needs to do is turn his back for a second too long, sleep for a minute longer than he usually does... not that Alistair would actually voice these concerns of his out loud. 

Well, actually. He did. Once. That got him a pissed-off Julien telling him to mind his own business. He can’t really help it though, can he? Julien has quickly grown to become one of his closest friends--being the only survivors of a terrible betrayal tends to build camaraderie. Add that to the fact that it’s painfully obvious that this is Julien’s first real relationship and you’ve got a good reason for Alistair’s “big brother instinct” to shift into overdrive, only made worse by the small scene they have caused a few hours before. Rapid whispers were exchanged, then Zevran left for his tent in a huff, shoulders tense, leaving Julien awkwardly standing there before joining Leliana in cutting up some vegetables for tonight’s stew. 

Julien crosses his arms. “Zevran offered me his earring. I said no.” 

If there’s one thing that Alistair likes about Julien, it’s his straightforwardness. No having to decipher any insufferably vague sentences or tying him down as he’s beating around the bush. “His... earring?” Alistair’s head tilts towards the side. “I didn’t know he actually took those off, honestly. Why’d you say no?” As far as he’s concerned, they’re both head over heels for each other. There’s seemingly no reason for Julien to have rejected anything coming from Zevran. 

“I told him that I didn’t want it unless it meant something. I want commitment. I don’t want this to just be bodies warming each other because of the Blight, because there’s no one else available.” Julien gestures at Zevran’s tent, looking like a mere blob of cotton awash in yellow-orange light. Zevran hasn’t exited that tent since their little tiff. “I... like him, Alistair, but I don’t know if he likes me the same way. He got shifty when I asked him about it, then he took it away from me.” He looks away from Alistair at that point, gaze turning down onto his boots. “I know it’s partially my fault. I shouldn’t have tried to rush him like that. I know about his past relationships; commitment wasn’t exactly a prominent part in any of them.” He drags a single hand down the side of his face. “I’m an idiot.” 

“Hey, you said it, not me,” Alistair chuckles. Then, after a moment’s silence, he sighs, shaking his head. “I think you guys’ll be fine. Just give Zevran some space. Maybe try not to mention the c-word next time you guys talk.” He reaches over to pat Julien’s shoulder. “He cares for you, you know. I doubt he can stay mad at you for long. You guys will bounce back from this.” 

Julien manages a small smile at that. 

Alistair can’t help but to watch as Julien and Zevran have yet another conversation by the bonfire in the middle of camp. He’s seated next to Leliana, the both of them playing a game of Diamondback. 

“We’re five hands in and you haven’t even made a joke about how the Priestess card could poke an eye out with her crown,” Leliana comments. “It’s your turn, by the way.” 

“The Priestess card could poke an eye out with her crown.” Alistair exposes a card of his own. “Sorry. I’m... distracted.” 

“You’re watching them, you mean.” Leliana places down a Magician card to complete her Priestess play, winning the game. “You know, you’re usually better at this. But I suppose I can see the entertainment in watching our resident couple.” 

Alistair’s cheeks flush and Leliana titters, hiding her mouth behind the tips of her fingers. “I mean--” he frowns and gathers up his cards-- “Julien’s my best friend. I want to watch out for him.” 

Leliana hums as she takes Alistair’s cards and reshuffles the deck with the grace of a Bard. Her hands are a blur and, honestly, Alistair is starting to get a headache just looking at it. “You’re cute,” she teases before dealing the cards back out. 

Alistair grumbles something, then he catches Julien drawing Zevran in for a kiss out of the corner of his eye. He fully turns away. He can give them some privacy in that respect, at least.

“I’m engaged.” Julien drops this bomb as he walks up to the simmering pot.

Alistair snorts his drink, eyes watering at the burn. “You’re-- shit-- fu-- you’re what?” he splutters. Is he hearing correctly? Did Morrigan slip something into his water? His porridge? Maybe the Taint’s caught up with him? 

“Zevran offered me his earring again.” Julien ladles out some porridge into his own bowl, eyes squinting and hair still bedraggled, before sitting down next to Alistair. It’s dreadfully bland, something that Zevran has complained about time and time again, but they don’t have the luxury of spices when they’re constantly on the road trying to save the world. “It was a proposal. He was... trying to propose to me the first time, he just didn’t know how to say it.”

“Someone that has been through the stuff he has, I’m not surprised. I don’t imagine that he’s had plenty of experience in that area.” He’s overheard some of their conversations. Zevran’s prone to some flowery language, but all in all... he understands. Perhaps he judged Zevran--and by extension, his and Julien’s relationship--too harshly. That’s something to reflect on when he’s lying in his tent and trying to ignore the cicadas outside. “At least it worked out.” 

“Yeah.” 

They continue eating in relative silence. Alistair makes a mental note to pick up some pepper the next time they pass by a city no matter how expensive it might be. 

“So...” Alistair sets his bowl down at his feet. “I can be the best man, right?” 

“As if I would have anyone else.” 

“Alistair.” Zevran pops up beside him.

Alistair is pleased to say that he didn’t scream. Much. Morrigan gives him a dirty look. “Maker!” He clutches the shirt that he was folding close to his chest. “Would it kill you to make a little noise? I could’ve had a heart attack!” 

“Ah, but you didn’t!” Zevran gives him that shit-eating grin that he’s so used to seeing. “I came here to thank you, my friend. I was also going to ask you to be my best man, but it appears that I am too late as you have already offered to be so for Julien.” 

“You were going to ask me to be your best man?” 

Zevran waves a hand. “In case you did not know, all of the people I could have asked are dead. And, excuse me, but I doubt Oghren or our stoic friend Sten over there would be up for the task.”

Sten grunts in agreement. 

“But, yes. You have grown to be a good friend, Alistair. It brings me great joy to be able to fight by your side. And, you know, if you ever want to join us...” 

Zevran cackles out loud as Alistair buries his face in his shirt. 

“This is Alistair,” Julien says, gesturing at Alistair. A female elf--Shianni--stands in front of them, her red hair kept bobbed with a couple of decorative ribbons tied around a handful of locks. “This is Morrigan--” Morrigan simply quirks her eyebrow up-- “and this is Zevran. My fiancé.” 

“A pleasure to meet you.” Zevran bows. “I see beauty runs in the family.” 

“Wow.” Shianni looks at Julien, both of her eyebrows raised. “You’re already engaged again?” 

“Again?” Alistair blurts out. Zevran himself turns to Julien with a questioning look. 

Julien shakes his head. “It’s a long story. Not one you would want to hear.” 

Alistair is pretty sure he’s sweating buckets. After an arduous trial in the Alienage (during which they met Julien’s father, a lovely man who offered Alistair a cup of tea) and the rescue of Queen Anora, he’s watching as Julien duels Loghain--the entire reason they came to Denerim--for the throne of Ferelden. 

Julien’s not going to be the one on it, no. 

Alistair is. Julien’s fighting for him. His entire destiny rides on his friend’s blade. 

“He’ll be fine,” Zevran says. “You are worrying too much.” 

“Maybe you’re not worrying enough,” Alistair bites back. 

“Nonsense. Julien’s a fine fighter. I taught him some tricks, and I’ve heard from him that his mother was no slouch either.” Zevran clasps his hands behind his back. 

Alistair takes the time to scrutinize Zevran a bit: his back is ramrod straight, perspiration forming on his brow as the corners of his mouth are dragged down. He might not be saying it, but Alistair knows that Zevran is just as nervous as he is. 

The sound of metal hitting stone reverberates around the entire room as Loghain collapses on the floor. 

Julien’s eyes look extinguished of all light, a brand new gash on his cheek that’s more than likely going to scar. He picks up Loghain’s sword and tosses it at Alistair, who fumbles before catching it in his gloved hands. 

“It’s your turn,” Julien says, “Your Majesty.” 

Anora glares at Alistair, tears in her eyes, as he brings the sword down on Loghain’s neck. 

King. It still seems wrong on Alistair’s lips. His words can’t wrap around the syllables just yet. He’s king. He got his revenge on Loghain. For Duncan. For all the other Wardens needlessly killed after that coward pulled out.

He watches, like he usually does. He watches as Julien takes Zevran’s hand into his own and kisses the palm, both of them illuminated by the moon. 

A sudden longing makes itself known in Alistair’s chest. He’s not interested in them, per se, but rather what they have. Julien is his best friend, yes, and Leliana always listens to him whenever he needs her, but he doesn’t have anything like that. He doubts he ever will. 

He’s covered in blood. There’s a darkspawn corpse at his feet. Even more are littered behind him. The air stinks of corruption and decay, questionable liquid flowing in between the cracks in the ground. 

He thinks about what Morrigan told Julien before she ran off. About how a Warden must die in order to kill an Archdemon. There was a... ritual that she said she could perform to stop this from happening, but neither he nor Julien wanted to be a part of it. When the time comes, he’s more than willing to be the one who strikes the final blow. 

This is a Grey Warden’s duty. In death, sacrifice, right? He knew what he was signing up for. 

All of their breaths come ragged. After a simultaneous fight with two ogres and a particularly hardy Hurlock mage, they’re not in the best shape right now. Alistair winces as he rubs a poultice on one of his bruises, and Wynne is chugging lyrium potions like there’s no tomorrow--and there very much could be no tomorrow if they don’t succeed right here, right now. 

“I love you,” Julien whispers to Zevran. 

Alistair can’t help but to eavesdrop. They’re so bunched together after all, there’s no way he can avoid overhearing their conversation. 

Zevran responds with a kiss.

Alistair turns away once more. 

“Promise me you’ll protect Zevran,” Julien says--no, he demands. He’s bleeding from the temple. Another cut recently joined his face after a Genlock slashed his upper lip. The Archdemon is lying weakened behind them, body shuddering with each breath. There’s no way it’s going to get up anytime soon. 

This is it. 

“Julien--” 

“Promise me.” There’s a wild glint in his eye. His grip on his dagger gets tighter, knuckles turning white. 

“I can do it,” Alistair counters. “I’m a Grey Warden. It’s my duty.”

“We’re both Grey Wardens. It’s as much my duty as yours. Plus, you have a kingdom to run.”

“Does Zevran know?” 

Julien flinches. 

Zevran looks at the both of them as he’s helping Wynne up to her feet. 

Alistair levels Julien with a look. “Let me do this. What could a better first act as king be besides stopping the Blight? I die, so what? Ferelden still has Anora.” 

“You’re the one that wanted to be king, Alistair,” Julien shoots back. “I fought so you could become the damn king. I can’t let you do this. I’m sorry.” 

Alistair’s hand reaches out to grab Julien’s wrist, but he’s a millisecond too late. He runs after the man, wide-eyed, but there’s only so fast he can go in his clunky, heavy armor.

“What is going--?” Zevran takes in Alistair’s panicked face as the man draws closer and his head immediately whips towards Julien, his breath catching in his throat. He starts to take off, Wynne standing in shock behind him, but he’s stopped by Alistair’s hand closing around his elbow. 

“He wanted to do this, he wanted to do this,” Alistair says, sounding more like he’s reassuring himself than reassuring Zevran. “He told me he wanted to do this.” 

“Alistair! Alistair! ” Zevran tries to rip himself away from the other man. Once he realizes he won’t be able to get out--stomping on Alistair’s foot would do nothing considering the armor and he’s not tall enough to be able to headbutt the man--he goes slack. “He is going to die, isn’t he?” he sounds uncharacteristically quiet. Despondent. 

Alistair stays silent. 

“Bastard.” 

Julien regards them with one last look, one last I love you to Zevran. He raises his dagger--

Zevran reaches out. 

--and swiftly brings it down on the Archdemon’s head. 

Wynne gasps as a column of bright light immediately shoots up into the sky. Julien screams in pain, writhing, but unable to let go of the dagger. 

Alistair feels Zevran’s body shaking. 

He looks away. 

Alistair lays down a few flowers near the statue. It’s been a couple of years. The statue of Julien--the Hero of Ferelden--has just been completed. Its bronze plaque shines in the morning sun as it stands proudly in the middle of Redcliffe. 

Being king hasn’t been easy. He’s been dragged here and there and here and there and he’s never really had the patience for all of this politicking and cursory smiles. Still, he has a job to do and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do it well. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” a familiar voice says. They sit down on the base of the statue, swinging their legs. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the castle, Your Majesty?” 

The corner of Alistair’s mouth quirks up. “Aren’t you supposed to be hunting down your fellow Crows, ser Arainai?” 

“Ah-ah-ah.” Zevran points a taloned finger at him. “I am not a Crow anymore. Not since...” not since he threw himself into the assassination mission, fully expecting to die, not since he ended up making friends among the others, not since he and Julien got together, not since he finally told Julien he loved him, not since, not since, not since. “It has been a while.” 

“I bet.” Alistair smiles at him. “But you’re... are you doing alright?” After Julien’s funeral, Zevran worked for the throne for a mere year before the Crows found him again and he was forced to leave. Alistar’s heard a couple of their master assassins have gone missing. Zevran’s doing, no doubt. 

Zevran shrugs. “Some days are worse than most, but I do believe I can live with it. By the way, your sculptors got his nose wrong. The nose tip--” Zevran clicks his tongue-- “it was wider.” 

Alistair laughs. 

#I haven't done anything in so damn long. #I am aware that this is probably stilted and awkward and the pacing is fucked but lol can't get back Into The Groove if I don't do anything.

[rayj-drash]

Every Time I Sing, I Cry

Shaina Joy Machlus

shainajoy.com

twitter and instagram are @punimpie

CW: State and police violence, rape, sexual assault

The first time I actually sang, I cried. It was only a few nervous tears, enough to dampen my shirt cuff but not enough to demand the attention of my teacher. Perhaps due to my anxiety, this first class was completed outside of my own body. I watched myself leave my shoes at the heavy door, put on bright pink house slippers, shuffle through the hall and the sparse living room into a sun-soaked balcony enclosed in glass. I saw myself sit down in the wobbly, folding chair, look out onto the gardens and balconies of the other neighbors—my audience. I could hear the tap of a finger on the plastic electronic keyboard; what sounded like Morse code: SOS. There, in Barcelona, swept up in the struggle for Catalan independence, I found my singing voice.

Tap, tap, tap. It was my call to begin, to repeat. When I did not respond, my teacher Romi repeated the same note. Romi was my first and only singing instructor. I probably chose her because I did not know any other singing instructors. Also because her name was Romi and I loved the way she spoke in her thick Argentinian accent about her nontraditional singing method of accessing your inner child: “gritando como una niña.” Classes were 30 minutes twice a week. I always arrived promptly, ready to take my shoes off and begin.

Tap, tap, tap. Now more of a command. I watched myself open my mouth and push out silent air. I remember the thought: “How does one begin when they have no idea where to start?”

Most people have no memory of their initiation into singing. It was something that happened in toddlerhood; in passing. Their odd notes casually floating away with laughter, claps, a chorus of people joining in. That is not to say my childhood was not filled with music. Still, I had the strong feeling I had never personally experienced this milestone. I carried only one true memory of singing. I was driving in an old Volvo station wagon through a particularly lush part of New York State. I rolled down the passenger window beside my then lover who had just confessed to being unfaithful, opened my mouth wide as it could go, filled my lungs with summer air, and tried to let song escape me. The sound I made was so far from my intended aria, I kept quiet ever since. With the acception of the intake of alcohol, which never ceased to persuade me otherwise. Like the time I sang “Single Ladies” and the karaoke bar pretended to be closing in order to keep me from singing again. Or when my microphone was taken away mid-“Say My Name.” (Yes, I do have a Beyonce tattoo, thank you for asking.)

The December before I turned 30, something shifted. While at a very ordinary concert, I decided I could not spend the rest of my ordinary life not knowing what it felt like to sing. To live a life afraid of your own voice is no way to live. The next morning, without thinking, I picked up the phone, unwrapped a crumpled piece of paper with the word “Romi” scribbled on top and dialed the numbers below.

It took me two whole sessions to make any noise at all. Our classes were always the same; Romi would progressively tap a higher and higher note on the keyboard in quick threes: tap, tap, tap. I would repeat the note as best as I could, yelling in short bursts a sound that was halfway between an “ah!” and an “oh!”. To my surprise, creating those noises thawed a space inside of me. A space that was the opposite of where my tears came from—although the two seemed to function in parallel. It was a strange, but not altogether disagreeable feeling to pry myself open and closed simultaneously.

On the morning of October 2, 2017, I pressed the number four apartment button and rode the beautiful but creaky elevator up to Romi’s place. I took my seat beside her and her keyboard. Unlike our first class, I felt glued inside my heavy body. The density I was hauling on this particular morning had less to do with the one hour of sleep I had managed and more with what had come to pass during the previous day that I spent on the streets of Barcelona, from 4 a.m. until 11:30 p.m. 

Maybe it is worth mentioning that I had spent the previous four years moving my life in the USA to Barcelona. Like many other Jews, my family had been murdered and chased out of their Eastern European shtetls onto a variety of strange lands, one of which being the occupied territory of the so-called “United States”. Yampol, the thriving shtetl of my family, was burned so extensively to the ground, there is almost zero evidence of it ever having existed. The family history that we could piece together is a scrappy patchwork of survivals and profound attempts to survive. One of my most treasured appliques was that of my great-grandmother, whose name I am endowed with, who died in a plane crash in Malaga, Spain. In a somewhat cinematic turn of events, an audio-visual specialist from Pace University, named Carlton Maloney, happened to be on the same plane as said great-grandmother. Maloney was adding to his series of take-off and landing recordings and as a result there is an audio recording of the entire plane crash. Even before the world-wide-web granted me the possibility of experiencing the crackling booms, screams and ultimate silence of the crash audio, I felt the need to complete the little loop of immigration my family had made. Moving into a tiny room in Barcelona, steeping myself in the streets, the language, the culture felt something like tying a neat bow in my familiar tapestry.  

Four years in Barcelona granted me the ability to live and learn through a series of far-reaching events. Without a doubt the most extraordinary of which took place on that October 1 in 2017, when there was a referendum to determine whether the northeast region of Spain, Catalunya, would succeed and become its own independent country again. Catalunya, once a flourishing autonomous, anarchist country, had been owned by Spain since 1714. The Spanish government in Madrid deemed this new election unconstitutional. Both the President and King of Spain appeared poised and confident on TV, adjusting the knot on their ties while promising to keep all of Spain under the crown by any means necessary. The very next scene on the news showed armored vehicles being deployed by the hundreds from the capitol, they dotted every road leading to Barcelona. From above they looked like armored beetles, topped with Spanish flags and the buzzing of the National police hanging out the windows chanting promises of violence toward the Catalan people into news cameras and other onlookers. 

Back in Catalunya, no one could have imagined the violence that was unleashed by the government against its peacefully gathered citizens waiting to vote. Over 1,000 people were hospitalized because of brutal police beatings. Videos from cell phones surfaced, recording only a fraction of the police violence; a rubber bullet taking out one person’s eye, elderly people being dragged by their arms and feet away from voting polls, a woman having her fingers broken one by one and who was later sexually assaulted, blood stained hallways of the elementary schools that had been used as voting stations. We were forced to elect between watching or experiencing the horror. We gasped, searching for oxygen, unable to exhale. Hardly able to scream in protest.

State-endorsed violence is nothing new, far from it. And although it is entwined in the DNA of both the country my family immigrated from and immigrated to, it felt anew to me. During the day of the referendum time became wildly inefficient; the hours dragged by in a deep-sea manner. We trugged from voting center to voting center, locking arms to form human chains in an effort to protect the tiny white pieces of paper where people had checked “si” or “no” and the idea of revolution they represented. I squeezed my eyes shut as tightly as I squeezed the arms of the strangers on either side of me. We hung on to each second, waiting to see who would be thrown into the prison wagons next. There was an enduring silence throughout every street. People seemed to be holding their collective breath, awaiting the inevitable moment when the armored trucks full of police turned the corner. I had no idea at the time, but I had been waiting to break the silence of that day ever since.

When friends ask me about my singing lessons, most find it amusing that after more than a year, a single word has never passed in song between my two lips. And I get that they do not understand. How could anyone, including myself, know just how far back this silence stretched? In my elementary school, I was the only student who was not invited to be part of the choir. My music teacher, feigning generosity, gave me the silent task of moving the stage curtains back and forth and told me I will be one of those girls who is seen rather than heard. Singing, something that formerly left me feeling deserted, had now become an unexpected oasis. 

The day after the referendum was sunny, I remember exactly what the sky looked like from the window of Romi’s balcony. The clouds hung lightly in cotton ball form against a neon-blue sky. Seagulls, farther from the sea than I had ever before seen, looked gigantic flying next to the bevy of ubiquitous pigeons. That was the day I cried. My tears were massive, heavy enough to form a cavern within my chest. Romi did not pause for a moment except to pass me tissues. Something miraculous happened in that little room. The more I cried, the louder my voice became, the deeper the space inside me opened up. I was like a balloon being inflated. I did not judge the noises that came from my mouth because I knew they told a story that was impossible to tell otherwise. I heard perfect notes and I felt grateful to finally understand the expansiveness of song.

We live between the notes of everyday life; some are beautiful like the popping of potatoes and onions being fried to make tortilla, others intensely painful like rubber bullets whizzing by into a crowd of people, and many are barely audible unless listened to very carefully, like the moment the wind shifts to carry salty sea air from the Mediterranean. I hear them all as song now. And I sing in response.

6 months later, on April 26, 2018, five men, including a police officer, who brutally gang-raped an 18 year-old girl in Pamplona, Spain, were tried and sentenced. The men took videos and photos of themselves penetrating the woman orally, vaginally, and anally, then stole her phone and left her half naked on the stairs. The court used the videos and photos to determine that lying still with one’s eyes closed and remaining silent constitutes as consent. None of the men were charged with rape, instead the Spanish court system convicted them of minor crimes that barely warrant jail time. Although I did not have one scheduled, I asked if I could come by for an impromptu singing class. From the folding chair, I watched an older woman hang her laundry, a cat balance across a fence, marvelled at the spectacular garden that was always empty. Romi tapped on a key and I screamed the note, letting it exit from the top of my head and make an arc downwards, landing right in front of where my two watery eyes meet, so I could watch it bloom.