#Cass wakes in her ghost form on the other side

[dcxdpdabbles]

Hey there! Halfa!cass anon here

Holy shit that was such a good read, I've gone through and re-read it over a dozen times now

Can we please please get a part 2?

When Cass wakes, she knows that something is seriously different about her body. There is a lightness to her bones that she only associates with flying through the air or even leaps during her dance.

The fact she is lying in a bed completely still makes the lightness a worrying sign. Cass doesn't sense anyone else in the room, and if there is, they do a wonderful job hiding from her instincts.

Carefully she cracks open an eye, careful to not move any other part of her body. She does a slow look around taking in the room that for all purposes seems to be a hospital of some kind.

There are even informational posters on the walls, the kind that doctors put up to help citizens with basic hygiene. She can't see any windows, which isn't promising for her if she needs to escape, but there are no restraints on her body.

Despite the weightlessness, there also doesn't seem to be anything wrong with her body that would hnder her movement. If she is being held against her will, then this is an oversight.

Either her captors are underestimating her or there are no captors at all. Cass carefully goes to stand up, trying to stay as silent as possible, when suddenly she finds herself floating.

She panics, attempting to go back down, but the more she moves the higher she goes. She ends up on the ceiling trying desperately to figure out what is happening- is there a telepath in the room? Anti-gravity ray she got hit by?- when the door opens and in steps a man in his early thirties.

He looks around the room, body language screaming worry and confusion before he glances up and makes eye contact with her. At once his face softens, amusement and relief bleeding into his body language.

"Hey there." He says flouting up to her level slowly. "Need some help adjusting?"

"Adjusting?" She asks her voice slightly rough from disuse. "From what?"

The man's smile turns slightly sad. "I'm sorry to have to tell you but you were in an accident and it killed you."

Cass blinks at him and then shakes her head trying to gather her thoughts. She knows that she was electrocuted- it was like a blink had passed since the shock, really and she isn't surprised that it was strong enough to kill her. But she doesn't feel dead.

Doesn't feel much different at all. Does that mean she died quickly? Was that a mercy?

The man must have mistaken her head shake for denial for he only smiles sadder. He pulls out a mirror from his chest- that was only slightly alarming after all she's seen in life- turning it around and showing her reflection.

Or someone who looks like her but is so very obviously not human. Cass reaches up, afraid to touch the dirty silver hair that stands straight up like someone had gone at it with gallons of gel. Her reflection does the same staring back at her with glowing silver eyes Her skin is now an ashy grey, covered in blue Lichtenberg marks like a full body tattoo.

She gasps.

The man's body sings of regret, of sadness for her, but most of all comfort. "You're a ghost now. That's your ghost from. We can work on getting an understanding of your powers at a later date. For now, let me help you set in."

He takes Cass's hand- making sure his movements are slow and allowing her to pull away if she wants. She doesn't. He uses their linked hands to descend back to the ground. It's only then that she notices there is no light in the room- the glowing she had been using to see is coming from her.

Cass is glowing because she is dead and now she is a ghost. Somewhere her corpse is lying in an abandoned town where it will likely stay until her family realizes she hasn't reported in.

She hopes it's not Bruce who finds her. Her dad has already suffered enough. Cass wishes he saved the view of her corpse if only to save him from that heartbreak.

The man leads her towards the door. He is speaking but Cass can't hear a single word that he is saying. Her head is buzzing, she's trying to come to terms with everything so when he pushes open the door she nearly walks right off the edge of a cliff.

"Careful now." The man says yanking her back. Cass swings wild eyes at him, at his flaming white hair and glowing red eyes, before she looks around.

She is shocked to see floating purple islands, each top with a building flying around. The floating islands are close by, barely kept apart by small gaps, gently moving around in the wind.

All around here is green, the sky is the bottomless floor, and even some flying beings are green. If it were not for the few human-like beings she could see jumping to and from between the islands she would think of herself on an alien planet.

"This is the Ghost Zone. We're in Phantom's Keep." Her guide says gesturing around. "The locals call it New Amity Park. Said locals are the humans and Phantom's only rule here is that no one harms the humans. Understand?"

So they were humans. But how did they get to the Ghost Zone? Who was Phantom? Were they the missing people of Amity Park?

Something on her face must have given away her thoughts because the man- a ghost? Is he like Cass- gives her a weary smile. "The humans are stuck here. See a few years back their hometown was attacked by the old King, and were sucked into the Ghost Zone. When Phantom defeated him the town returned but the people couldn't."

Why she wants to ask. Why can't they go home?

He shrugs as if though he heard her question. "You know how if you eat food offered by the Fae you are trapped in their world? Same concept. Phantom has been trying to get them home, but it's been seven years now. Everyone pretty much adjusted to this place."

He nods to the flouting island that proudly proclaims a large mall that is slowly passing overhead. "When they first arrived the humans were all stuck on one large piece of rock that used to be their park. It was Phantom that slowly pulled islands towards them, linking them to a gravitational pull he designed and powered, that let the humans expand into this web-like conany."

Cass thinks back to the large crater in the middle of town. She remembers passing by a half-buried sign that proclaimed "Amity Park" but she never realized it was literally snatched off the ground.

A group of children- likely born after their parents were trapped- jump by, laughing in a carefree way only those with wonder can. They land gracefully on the flouting rocks that form makeshift stairs as they race up toward- an ice cream shop.

Cass realizes those rock stairways are all over, connecting all the parts of the town into one. They all lead to a large green field that a castle sits on. Likely the old park.

""By the way, my name is Dan. I'm in charge of Phantom's Keep while Phantom is away." Dan says. He shrugs at Cass's questioning look, somehow aware of her question without her having to speak it again.

Could ghosts read body language in the same way she could?

"I'm basically the mayor/ enforcer. Phantom stuck me with the job as a form of community service. I can't leave because, like the islands, he trapped me here with a gravitation pull."

Trapped?

Then was this Phantom evil?

Cass opens her mouth to ask- when a strange tightness in her abs makes her jerk to the side. She doubles over, pressing a hand to her stomach and Dan pauses. "Are you alright-"

Twin rings of pure darkness appear, running over Cass's form before vanishing without a trace. At once Cass feels her whole body become heavy- the familar heavy she had known all her life as her balance.

She also realizes that she had been flouting the whole time before she fell to her knees right at the edge, using her hands to cushion her fall. Her now normal human hands- the deadly grey nowhere in sight.

Dan sucks a hiss through his teeth. "You're a halfa."

Cass looks up at him, watching the ghost rub the space between his eyes while his hair flickers around in irritation. "Of course the new ghost I come to welcome turns out to be a halfa. Right when my shift was ending too."

The ghost rolls his shoulders and then sighs "Alright come on. We have to report this development."

Where are we going?

Dan's smile turns sharp. Cass isn't sure she likes "To See the Fentons."

She follows him anyway for she has no other choice. As she hops along the rock stairways down to the castle, she notices multiple people stop to stare at her. Some beings that are obviously not humans- ghosts her mind supplies- gape at her with just as much wonder.

She picked up bits of conversation as she scurried after Dan's floating figure.

"A new human? Has Danny finally found a way home?"

"Maybe she fell through a natural portal. Poor thing"

"Will never see her family again. That's going to be the hardest part. My dad said he was only passing through Amity Park the day it was attacked. My grandparents might still be looking for him."

"If King Phantom leaves, what will happen to ghosts like us? His Keep is the only place that welcomes us!

"Calm yourself, the King never stays on Earth long. Not when his entire family is trapped here like the rest of the humans. We will be safe."

Cass doesn't like the implications of this place one bit

#dcxdpdabbles #dc x dp crossover #Cass the halfa #Part 2 #Cass wakes in her ghost form on the other side #The rest think she is a new ghost #The missing poeple of Amity Park have been claimed by the Zone' #They living life as best they can #While Danny tries to get them home #Dan just wants to clock out #Cass is now a halfa #Do you like her ghost form? #Yes ghost speak in body lauange

[nightingaelic]

One I've always been infuriated by: you can't take a companion to Honest Hearts because the caravan is at capacity, but you can get Ricky kicked out. So New Vegas companions follow the Courier to Zion: what hilarity ensues?

Arcade Gannon: While Arcade is absolutely not a fan of Caesar's Legion, he's reserved enough not to shoot the Burned Man as soon as he appears, and he may even test the former Malpais Legate's philosophy and convictions in some sparring of wits once he feels comfortable enough [Speech 75]. Arcade thinks that Graham has replaced Caesar in his life with God, switching out a human tyrant for a nebulous deity: Graham argues that Arcade's desire for a wishfully-thought, balanced world springs out of an unsatisfied need for internal harmony, one he might find through spirituality. The courier can only stand an hour or so of this back-and forth before giving up and leaving Angel Cave to go find some geckos to hunt. Follows-Chalk amuses Arcade, and he encourages the young scout's desire to explore pre-war ruins: After all, there's always something to be learned by studying who and what came before you. Waking Cloud earns Arcade's utmost respect with her knowledge of medicine and of the canyon's natural order, but he would likely be disappointed with Daniel's and Graham's encroaching influence on the Sorrows' faith.

Craig Boone: Fight on sight with Joshua Graham, which leaves the Burned Man's bandages a little bloodier than normal but is ultimately broken up by the courier before any real harm is done. A shouting match ensues in the middle of the Dead Horses' camp, with Boone airing all of Graham's atrocities at maximum volume and the courier admitting skepticism of the man's change of heart, but still wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Boone wins and the Dead Horses must be convinced of Graham's crimes in the wider world [Speech 100], or the New Vegas visitors beat a hasty retreat from Zion [Speech 85/100]. Maybe the courier wins and Boone realizes that the Burned Man already lives a life wreathed in the pain he inflicted during his decades of Legion service and the eternal mark of Caesar's fury. Either way, Boone is on edge for the remainder of the time in Zion Canyon, and doesn't make too many friends. Follows-Chalk takes a shine to him though, and Boone admits that the scout makes for a decent spotter. I don't think Boone would form a strong connection with Zion until encountering the diaries of Randall Dean Clark, and realizing that the people the courier was trying to save were the chosen loved ones of a man not unlike himself.

Lily Bowen: Having Lily along on the trip to Zion might give some of the other caravan members a chance of surviving, as I don't think the White Legs are used to encountering super mutants and would probably falter anyway at a courier backed up by a giant nightkin grandmother swinging around a vertibird blade [Terrifying Presence]. The Burned Man's appearance in the canyon doesn't bother or even interest her, but she loudly laments the Dead Horses' practice of hunting bighorners rather than taming them. In contrast, Lily loves the Sorrows' treatment of Zion's wildlife, particularly their domestication of geckos. The tame geckos are terrified of her. Of all the inhabitants of Zion, Lily would best relate to Waking Cloud, finding common ground with the tribal midwife on topics like motherhood, the uprooting of a happy life and respect for nature. I think the courier would recognize this bond and even give Lily the chance to complete White Bird's rite of passage herself, defeating the Ghost of She with the courier and Waking Cloud's help. Lily would be most likely to leave Zion with more friends and family than when she entered it.

Raul Alfonso Tejada: Apart from being somewhat of a living ghost himself, I don't think Raul would have much in common with Joshua Graham. While they're both trying to atone for mistakes they've made, their respective mistakes are in completely different time zones. Plus, I don't think Graham talks to ghouls much, thanks to his history with the Legion. Maybe Raul would share a tip with the Burned Man about .45 maintenance, maybe some helpful info about caring for damaged skin if he's feeling generous, but their relationship wouldn't go far beyond that. Like Boone, the story of the Father in the Cave strikes a chord with the old ghoul, and he might seek out Clark's final resting place with the courier to give the man a proper send-off and burial. Similarly, I think he would sympathize with Daniel and his attempts to help the Sorrows, and what bond he might have built with Graham would instead grow with the Mormon missionary. On the side, though, I think he might teach some Sorrows a few phrases in Spanish to heckle the man with, just for fun [Wild Wasteland].

Rose of Sharon Cassidy: Convincing Cass to accompany the courier to Zion in the first place would probably be a feat in and of itself [Barter 62], and once the White Legs appear over the horizon and start assaulting the caravan, Cass might just admit out loud that she and any crew she travels with are cursed. From there, every new piece of the story would entertain her to no end. The most wanted man in Caesar's Legion is just hiding out in a canyon in Utah. The remnants of Vault 22's inhabitants are scattered all over the landscape, meaning Ricky would've eventually been caught in his lie if he'd actually made it to Zion. The Mormons are here, and they're arguably more enthusiastic about proselytizing the tribes than they are about helping them escape and defend themselves. I think Cass would be the most angry and vocal about that last part, and might even wind up arguing with Graham and Daniel about how the only part of their faith they should be spreading right now is the belief in making amends for their actions: Namely, leading the White Legs to Zion in the first place. She would probably be the only one of the companions to propose going to Salt-Upon-Wounds and discovering the tribe's motivations and the manipulations of Ulysses and Caesar, and maybe convincing the war chief that he is being used [Speech 100].

Veronica Santangelo: The Brotherhood Scribe finds a kindred spirit in Follows-Chalk, and the two quickly become fast friends. The young scout happily shares the history and practices of the Dead Horses with her, and in return, Veronica tells stories about the wonders of New Vegas that she has seen while traveling the Mojave with the courier. Joshua Graham creeps Veronica out though, but her own curiosity leads her to prod the courier into interrogating the Malpais Legate by proxy. Like Cass, Veronica would be annoyed with the Mormons' roles among the tribes, but unlike Cass, she lacks the knowledge and context needed to convince them to take some steps back. She is, however, good at tracking down evidence to back up her suspicions, and she and the courier might be able to find evidence of the Legion's influence on the White Legs by poking around their camps [Sneak 73]. Veronica is also in awe of Waking Cloud, particularly of her skill with the yao guai gauntlet. Once she's picked her jaw up off the floor, the Scribe asks the midwife to show her some techniques and help her affix some yao guai claws to her own power fist [Unstoppable Force].

ED-E: The little robot is a huge novelty in the Zion Canyon, and ED-E hams it up for every curious individual that approaches it in the Dead Horses camp and the Narrows. The courier can't help but smile with every quizzical beep, bounce and zoom around the members of the tribes, but they keep the robot closer in Zion to protect against White Legs storm drums and tomahawks. ED-E enjoys spotting trail markings for Follows-Chalk and tracking animals with Waking Cloud. The robot doesn't understand who Daniel is, but knows from reading his body language that he is sad. Not as sad as the man in Angel Cave, though.

Rex: As soon as Rex sets foot in the Zion Canyon, he hears danger on the wind and warns the courier. The caravan is therefore on edge before the inevitable attack, and less likely to perish in the ensuing battle. Like ED-E, Rex doesn't know who Joshua Graham is, but he knows he doesn't trust him: He smells like a wildfire, inside and out. Neither the Dead Horses nor the Sorrows keep dogs, and some members of the tribe are actively afraid of Rex, associating him with the mongrels that run ahead of White Legs raiding parties. The Sorrows are more forgiving, and Rex shows them their trust is well-placed by allowing them to pet him and inspect his mechanical parts when he lies before the campfires to rest at the courier's feet.

#fallout #fallout new vegas #fnv #honest hearts #fallout companions #fnv companions #fallout new vegas companions #fallout reactions #joshua graham #courier 6 #courier six #arcade gannon #craig boone #lily bowen #raul tejada #rose of sharon cassidy #cassidy #veronica santangelo #ed-e #rex #zion canyon #zion #waking cloud #follows-chalk #randall dean clark #sorrows #white legs #dead horses #also I know this DLC is problematic and so is Mormonism in general but hey #this is fiction

[herstarburststories]

you and me and the devil makes three.

Pairings: Dean Winchester x reader, Demon!Dean Winchester x reader, past Lisa x Dean

Summary: Dean is a demon, he will take whatever he wants.

A/N: This got darker than I expected. I wanna make it clear I don't condone or engage with Dean's acts on this. This is my submission for @jawritter 's Make Me Cry Challenge. Congrats, honey! Hope you like it. Dividers by talesmanic and gif credit here

Prompt: I guess I should have been more like her.

Warnings: non consensual kissing, language, UNHEALTHY BEHAVIOR, non con (kissing and touching but no sex), dirty talk

Dean Winchester was a dreamer.

In the rawest way of the word, the meaning in the dust-collecting dictionaries and not the idealistic form. His eyelids shut close and, just like magic, Dean’s head was as haunted as the home he swore he’d never come back to in Kansas. The ghosts of the past, not ever so very friendly, coming to greet him at least three times per week. Sometimes they were happy films he could never starre in real life, his mom singing or a picnic with a lover saying that they needed to hurry up to get their kid at the baseball. The nightmares were sleepy visions of flesh and blood, mostly about his time underneath, Sam hurting, or his father spilling out his worst fears at his face. 

Maybe it was how the eldest Winchester’s brain compensated for the lack of bedtime tales and docile affairs growing up. The own way that his brittle soul discovered and molded not to let him collapse, or to always keep him on red alert. 

Good and bad deals are mostly a matter of which side you are betting your money on, really.

Because yeah, Dean did wake up feeling like he had shut his forest eyes briefly for twenty minutes instead of hours when he dreamed, but he also had never spent so long trapped in a better place. The green eyed hunter didn’t know which one was worse: the good dreams or the horrific ones. After all, he had went through all the atrocity and made it out alive, but the engulfed craving for light-hearted scenarios was suffocating. The hunter could never have it all. Trust him, he tried. Then, which is more agonizing: to have everything you ever wanted for a couple hours and have every scrap of it taken from you, or to undergo the calamity that accompanied your breaking point? 

Dean didn’t know, he didn’t even know what to tell Sam when he wondered what his brother had dreamt about to wake up sweating and screaming, all the light and stupid apple pie desires and the sharp brutality crawling out of the back of his mind. He made a joke, Megan Fox really liked knives, man. He kept it in, shoved down a good amount of alcohol, and mocked the worry of doing the lawn. Ready for another day. 

But now he was a demon, and apparently whatever he was made of - sulfur, cruelty, and black eyes under garden ones - wasn't worthy quiet reliefs in the middle of the night, or even frightening figments of memory. He became his worst dreams and all the dreams slipped beyond his reaches because of that. Demons, those unholy creatures, didn’t get the human peculiarities. You know what? Fine by him.

Who needed dreams when you don't need sleep, anyway? Even better: who needed dreams when you don't care about what you gotta do to put your greedy hands on the prize you had been eyeing for years? 

Dean Winchester was finally free. Free for the first time since he was a four years little boy who watched his mother burning with a terrorized expression, ironically mimicking the one Mary wore on the ceiling. His dad’s shouting for him to grab Sammy and run, take your little brother and run, echoing through years and years. There was never time for Dean, for his grief or his questions or whatever the child frozen in time under his rib cage could come up with. They said, stupid psychologists with their fancy degrees and malicious bartenders with a unfriendly grun under the counter who learned a little too much, everybody said that when someone was so traumatized as a kid, that person would tend to get frozen at that age. Therefore, how tremendously alleviating was to kill any reminiscing emotion of the whiny child he used to be. 

The kind of freedom that no traveler longed for; when one’s ruined and damaged enough not to care, and just take and take and take like hunger itself. Dean was an evil thing now, what else could he do but act on the figments of the worst intentions?

And feel so fucking good when doing that. 

‘’Where do you think he's going?’’ Your eyes raked over the street, darting between the asphalt under Baby’s wheels and Sam’s weary features.

‘’I don't know.’’ He sighed, attempting to organize his thoughts. Even as a demon, his brother wouldn’t just run miles and miles away by himself for no apparent reason. There had to be something you and Sam were missing out, some unseen clue or a hidden meaning. ‘’What the localizator says?’’

At least you had managed to put a tracker in his boots during your last encounter. Whatever Dean was thinking of starting there, you and Sam wouldn’t let him.

‘’Still Cicero, Indiana.’’ You sighed. Sammy furrowed his eyebrows, a long forgotten memory rising. ‘’What?’’

‘’We had a case there once years ago.’’ He explained, opting not to elaborate. Your and Dean’s relationship was troubled enough with his new self. Sam didn’t want to blow it up completely. His brother would need you once he came back to himself. The look on your face, though, reported how you weren’t buying his cheap excuses. The long haired hunter sighed. ‘’Did Dean ever tell you about that?’’

‘’No.’’

He stepped on the accelerator.

To find the woman was excruciatingly easy. The freckled demon couldn't believe he opened his computer many times and gave up before today. He glanced through the glass window and there she was, standing in all her glory with a body that seemed to forget how to grow old. Her tan skin still glowing, as appetizing as ever. Brown eyes shining so bright, tiny hands that always seemed to know where he wanted to be touched. She was laughing like there was no tomorrow, holding a glass of wine with one hand and her cellphone with the other, while her dark hair was falling so perfectly over her shoulder, like waves against the rocks in the sea.

Dean can’t wait to smell her again, to taste her, to prove her. His fingers were tingling, begging to touch what was his as he hopped off the car, walking towards the porch. He had been gone for a long time, but now he was back. 

He will destroy that quintessential, sequin woman so good.

The Winchester buckled in front of the white door, graced with the sound of the female giggle. Thin walls, he thought, those will be useful to make sure the neighbors know who’s back home. Her steps on the wood floor growing closer and closer as he heard a goodbye, probably aimed at whoever she was on the phone with. It was almost like the caramel skinned woman knew that whoever was on her doorstep wasn’t gonna be a hustled visitor. Or so the demon’s arranged mind said.

‘’Hey, Lis.’’ Dean’s voice lacked any cherishment as she opened the door, who would know that the absence of a soul wouldn't be gelid, just dry? As for her, Lisa’s face was drained of love. For all she was aware of, he was a stranger who knew her name. The male let out a chuckle empty of joy. She really didn’t remember, huh? ‘’Whoa. Cass really fucked up your head, huh? At least he did one thing right.’’

‘’Excuse me?’’ The man with dirty blonde hair and perfect teeth smelled like alcohol. She wasn’t having any of this tonight. ‘’Listen, I don’t know who you are and--’’

‘’Don’t worry.’’ He tranquilized her, although the lopsided grin on his lips held anything but good intentions. ‘’I’ll make you remember. I have a spell. You won’t believe how much you missed me.’’

The mocking laugh that left her lips utterly aggravated him. ‘’I don’t know you. Please leave or I’ll call the police.’’

Dean didn’t need a crowd for that part, a bratty woman in need of a firm hand should get a particular lesson. 

‘’You always liked a little cat and mouse.’’

Speaking of, the demon pushed the door wide open without any effort. Lisa jumped at the sudden move, every instinct inside her deciding that man was a threat and not some harmless wasted guy. Her body was quickly erect, thinking about ways to run and get help, but Dean swiftly pushed her to him and kicked the door closed-- her small figure collided to his chest.

Human savagery was cut in urban ways, molded to civilize the animalistic instincts. Imagine meat. A dead animal on a silver plate, and we couldn’t wait to chew every inch of it. We couldn’t wait to eat it, put that dead thing inside us and hope it’ll be enough to control the predatory hungry. Humans will always be animals, but so will be their rests that constructed the demons. 

Dean may not be a hunter anymore, but he’s still a predator who can't wait to taste his prey. He could small it, the fear in Lisa’s sweat making his mouth water. How much she tried to fight against him and scream other names when his was the only one he wanted her to need tonight. The resistance of a poor human barely made the monster shiver.

He closed his hands around her arms, throwing her against the wall like someone tossed an old toy away. There was no space for delicaly. In that moment, Dean Winchester was a tiger, a lion, the big bad wolf attacking the omega. Lis winced, her back hurting as her fibers. She couldn’t believe this was happening, that man was about to do something so terrible and disgusting to her in her own house, the place she was supposed to feel warm and safe. Why did he seem to know her? Why did he say she was gonna remember? Was he crazy, hallucinating, or drugged? Why was he so satisfied with how frightened her tiny body looked? How could she use all that information to somehow push him away?

‘’Let me go!’’ She demanded, her legs kicking the demon with ferocity. ‘’What’s wrong with you? LET ME GO NOW!’’

The brunette’s skilled body moved itself desperately, and the act of resistance only brought a hysterical laugh out of Dean. The wrong kind of goosebumps washed her skin, she had to run away for her life. This man was mad.

‘’FIRE! FIRE!’’ Lisa started to scream. Well-aware that people were most likely to come around and help a woman screaming if she said fire. ‘’THERE’S A FIRE. SOMEONE HELP ME!’’

One of his hands went to her neck, wrapping his fingers around it to shut her up. That was rubbing him off the wrong way. Lisa Braeden used to beg for his touch, how dared her not to want him anymore? Now that he was better, stronger, and thicker.

The brown eyed girl went quiet, probably scared by his brutal behavior. Dean smiled, a blood stained grin that carried mischief and pervertment. He licked the tears savoring the salty horror coming from her. Just like the day he was a vampire who almost gave in to drinking every drop of her luptuos blood. She may not remember but he did and he couldn't wait to get inside her, those tight walls squeezing his hard cock.

‘’You’re gonna do as I say, Lis. And I won't hurt you… Much.’’ He risped, crooked nose stroking her wet cheek. She whined. ‘’Don’t worry, honey. You loved it. Bet you’ll scream so much once I fuck you good.’’

‘’Please, don’t do it.’’ She begged as he coaxed his body against his. That man was stronger than her, she had no other choice but to plead to his human side. If only she knew.

‘’Begging already?’’ Dean lifted his head, smirking at her. Lisa just wanted to cry and close her eyes until everything was done. How could someone do that? ‘’I told you, don’t worry. I’m gonna make a lil’ spell that will give your memories back and you’ll remember everything. And then we’re gonna have so much fun, Lis.’’

His last murmur was finished with a kiss. A harsh, ruthless kiss. Actually, she wasn’t even sure if she could call it a kiss; teeth against each other, his vicious mouth pressed to her weakened lips, his tongue invading her like a robber and showing an unrequited dominance.

‘’Dean!’’ Your voice resonated stridently, louder than the door Sam had stormed open. You couldn’t believe what your eyes witnessed. ‘’Stop it!’’

Dean groaned, as if you and Sam were stepping on his territory. He simply turned his head to you two, not pulling away from Lisa. You couldn’t see her face, your boyfriend’s large shoulder and tall body covering her up. His eyes were still green, which set the scene in an even more atrocious light. 

Your thoughts were racing. How could he come to her, crave her so badly that he drove away miles and miles as a demon? He was supposed not to feel a thing. You prepared yourself for a cold man, not an obsessive one. Apparently, a heart hidden under the black smoke. Choose if it's a gift or Pandora's box. Sam told you their history. Of course he would want that and not you. Dean never left Lisa because he fell out of love for her, he was ripped out from her life. You were so pissed at yourself; how could you picture playing the woman in his veins? How stupid were you? He may be a demon guided by wants and not emotions, but what was love but an amount of outrageous desires laced up with some pretty words and flavored with dependency?

‘’Y/N and Sammy--’’

Love was the wrong word here. Anyway. Go head and unwrap it.

‘’Please help me!’’ Lisa’s voice came to life once more through her quiet cry. Dean hardened the hold around her throat, making her cough a little.

Suddenly, your body is frozen. That, whatever that is, whatever he’s doing to Lisa. It wasn’t love. She didn’t want it. When his frame moved to face you and Sam, you caught a glimpse of her face. She was petrified, her delicate features contorted in wrath and fear and beg for help.

‘’Quiet.’’ Dean howled, glancing at her rapidly before his eyes fell on you and Sam again. ‘’You two are such killjoys. I told you to let me go.’’

You couldn’t believe what you were witnessing. You wanted to puke your guts out.

‘’And what? Kill your ex? Or do something even worse to her?’’ You elicited with disgust.

‘’She’ll come around eventually. Just playing hard to get. You know how frisky women are.’’ The corner of his lips curved into a barbaric grim, one of his hands touching Lisa’s cheek. The victim winced at the touch. ‘’Besides, I’m not just gonna take her. I’ll make her remember and she’ll want me.’’ He shrugged, unbothered by the horrified looks of everyone in the room. ‘’Are you really worried about Lis, Y/N? Or are you just jealous that I didn’t go for you?’’

‘’Enough, Dean.’’ Sam groaned, holding the gun up. It felt oily. ‘’Let her go. And come with us.’’

The demon tossed the brunette away with a simple sleight of hand, pulling his sleeves up with a marred beam. His eyes switched from starry green to black, showing his true facette. It was a peculiar relief. It wasn’t Dean. It wasn’t Dean. It wasn’t Dean.

Yet, Dean’s gruff voice said in a twisted playful tone:

‘’Come get me, Sammy.’’

Dean Winchester was cured. For most people, to heal is to let go or to learn with things. In the doctor’s case, healing is leaving a bruise to cover up a wound. Everyone believed the war started and ended, and that was it. But when something so ravaging is gone, you gotta deal with the trauma.

He was a trauma. Cured from a sickness, drowning in sorrow and waves of woe. All the worst things Dean ever did, he knew now, weren’t to himself or to the monster he so proudly killed. His unspoken acts were against the people he cared about.

The hunter never thought his hands, his bruised and tough hands could ever hurt Lis. The woman who was his lifeline when Sam died, who allowed him to be a father and live in his dreamland of suburban life. All she ever did was to love him, and what did she get for it?

He was disgusted with himself. What almost did to her was enough to hunt him and make him sure he was going back to hell, very deserving this time. Threating to do that to a woman, and enjoy it… Dean couldn’t bear driving into memories. He was selfishly glad he didn’t remember about that, only Sam’s explanation was enough: he went to Lisa, he kissed her without her consent, and Sam and you stopped him going any further. Would his unscrupulous, demon self go ahead? He was too scared to wonder, even though his brother said that he apparently had a spell to make Lis remember and wasn’t planning on just taking her. A forced kiss was disgusting enough. He just wished Sam had put a bullet in his black eyes right there.

You walked in the bathroom that you once shared with the eldest Winchester

She was everything he ever wanted, all the suburban dreams and acceptance of hunter reality without being in it. Lisa loved him completely and you could only love him sideways-- you never wanted to be a mom, or to have a family or live in a suburb. Those were valid goals, just not yours. You thought you and Dean were on the same page about it, but this other side, not only the pervert demon but the domestic man, hadn’t been shown to you until a couple days ago. Sam had cured his brother, his dirty nature washed away with holy water, but you couldn’t help the bruises that came from the dog days. Lisa had her memory erased by Cass again, you didn’t have the same unfair luxury.

‘’Dean.’’ You said, making him look up at you. Bags under his eyes and wrinkles more evident than ever. ‘’We need to talk.’’

He sighed and wiped his face. ‘’Y/N, I don’t want to talk right now.’’

‘’You never do.’’ You scoffed, gaining an incredulous glance from him. ‘’I know that what happened was disgusting and sick and the worst thing you could ever do, but we need to talk.’’

He took a deep breath. ‘’What do you wanna talk about?’’

‘’You went to her.’’ You stated as a lawyer in front of a jury. Dean furrowed.

‘’What?’’

‘’Lisa. You went to her.’’ When the arrow hit someone so damaged, it was like an animal with his teeth there that wouldn't let go. Yeah, his human soul wasn't the same brittle glass as before but it lingered in his demon self in the shape of delusion, and it was distorted by whatever he was made of, violence and darkness, and turned into something disgusting. ‘’You love her.’’

‘’Love?’’ The word burned his tongue, Dean didn’t think he had the right to ever use it again. ‘’I was a demon, Y/N. I didn’t love or feel anything. What I did--’’

‘’You didn’t do anything.’’ You interrupted, loyal as a soldier.

‘’I forced a kiss on her and wanted to bring her memories back to have sex with her. That’s disgusting and I did half of that.’’ He pointed out aggitadly, plump lips moving fast and voice deeper. ‘’It wasn’t love. Leaving her years back was love.’’

You didn’t miss how Dean didn’t even dare to say her name. ‘’So you don’t think about her? Not even once?’’

He scoffed humourless. ‘’Are you kidding me?’’

‘’I guess I should have been more like her.’’ You hugged yourself, glancing at the wall. You didn’t want to cry in front of him. Not again, not for another woman. That wasn’t even your cicatrix to ache. 

‘’Y/N, what the fuck are you talking about?’’ The fully green eyed man raised to his feet, glancing at you with disbelief. He couldn’t face how messed up it was. ‘’I can’t believe you are jealous of what happened. I thought I was the broken one here.’’

‘’I’m not her.’’ You two shared it, the glance that only two women who were hurt by the same man could. You both understood that when he got inside you, it was like the syringe in an eutanasia. Once you were happy because you loved him, now you were scared and not so sure this was what you wanted. ‘’I’m not her and you knew it. When you became just instincts and selfish and did whatever you wanted, you didn’t come to me. You came to her.’’

‘’I hurt her.’’

The next words fly out of your mouth, as weak and totaled as you felt: ‘’Why didn’t you hurt me?’’

‘’This is the most unhealthy shit we ever went through.’’ Dean’s right. You have her expression mesmerized on your brain. Dean was the man on top of her, teaching her how to hate. How to fear. You can’t trust yourself. ‘’I can’t believe you.’’

‘’Neither can I.’’ You were so sick. How ravaged and annihilated one had to be to wish to be a demon's object of obsession? To get jealous that another woman almost died in the arms of a beast that cried his blood out once he came back to being a man and saw what he had done? ‘’I hate it. I hate feeling like this. I was there and I saw how scared of you she was, how all she wanted was to push you away and run because she was so disgusted--’’

‘’Stop.’’ He groaned, but it came out more like a whine than anything. ‘’It wasn’t me. I would never hurt Lis. I would never force her to do anything! I--’’

You gave him a sad smile. ‘’You love her.’’

‘’I love you.’’ Dean approached you, fumbling in despair to fix yet another thing his hands destroyed. If Rome was built in ruins, he was a kingdom. You pulled away before his tough hands landed on you.

‘’But you love her too.’’ The hunter stopped on his spot, unable to answer. ‘’I ruined myself for you, Dean. I can’t-- I won’t do that again. You are right. This is unhealthy. The fact that you’ve been pining for her for so long, pushing down those feelings to the point they are twisted into something so cruel and disgusting. You need help.’’ What kind of ugly you have to have inside you for a monster to love you? And, even worse, what kind of sickness you have trapped, written in your blood to want it to be spilled out in his name? ‘’You really are venom. If this is how you love, it’s scary as fuck.’’ When you loved a broken man, you were never sure if his shattered pieces would glisten or cut your hand once the light came in. Here’s your answer. His parts crawled inside you through pulled up scars, scraping your insides to make into ruins, but you never liked Rome much. You had to be better than that. ‘’Goodbye, Dean.’’

He couldn’t bring himself to go after your steps.

Once again, it’s the kind of freedom no traveler wants. When you lost it all and didn't have any person or place to cling to, when you had to leave because you were becoming the girl you swore you’d never leave, when you walked away willingly without a map.

Still, it was all you had. You’d make a good use of it. You’d be okay. No more ugly emotions or sentiments that made you unrecognizable. No more knives that cut both ways, or situations so complicated you weren’t sure where your morals could rely on.

You’d be okay, healthy, and happy.

You’d be okay.

Comment & reblog. Feedback is magic! Check my masterlist ♡ Tags in reblog!

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #jensmakemecrychallenge #demon!dean #demon!dean x you #demon!dean imagine #demon!dean x reader #dean x reader #dean x you #dean winchester x you #dean x lisa #demon!dean x lisa #tw dubcon #supernatural #spn #dean winchester imagine #supernatural imagines #spn reader insert #dean winchester headcanon #dean winchester imagines

[thefossilwhale]

i will sell the hotel

button x kent. 1.2k words. based on this ask.

happy valentine’s day from sabrina wiseman and kent zarneki! (tagging @lividlyinlove, thank you so much for asking!)

When Sabrina first opens her eyes, the room is still dark. A bluish light bleeds through the curtains, promising sunrise and this twilight hour before it. For now, the darkness swallows blue shadows before they are half-formed, and she barely notices a difference when her eyes fall shut again. Sleep lingers at the edges of her mind, muffling her senses, though she is distantly aware of movement. The dull scratching of paws on a door, the low rumblings of canine discontent about to crest into a yap, the patient tut that stops it short. Footsteps, measured and slow—the mark of someone more alert, who hears everything more sharply in the morning quiet.

There is rustling at her shoulder, and then another doggy whine. Sabrina giggles, still half-asleep, and lifts the blanket just enough for Antigone to burrow under. She’s beneath her arm in seconds, nestling herself against Sabrina’s side and resting her head just below her shoulder. The wide-openness of her adoring eyes is contagious, and Sabrina comes closer to waking as Annie strains against her arm, struggling valiantly towards her face with tongue outstretched. She is intercepted by Kent, who appears beside the bed and leans down to kiss Sabrina’s hair, her temple, the corner of her mouth.

“It will rain soon,” he murmurs against her cheek, while Annie licks his earlobe. “So I’m taking them on our run before it does. Sorry for waking you.”

Her eyes close at his touch, and she’s half dozing again. Still, she grumbles as Kent scoops Annie into his arms— “She wants to stay. She likes me more,” she tries to protest, incoherently—and reaches blindly for their lost warmth. Kent chuckles, leans down for another kiss, and easily extricates himself from the weak grip that tries to hold him there by the back of his head.

“You’ll be asleep again in five minutes. We’ll be back by the time you wake up.”

“Five minutes” proves generous. The next time she’s conscious, the room is filled with the dull grey light of drizzling rain clouds, and Kent is beside her as though he’d never left. She might think she had dreamt his departure, if she couldn’t smell his soap. His hair is still damp from his post-run shower, and he sits up against the pillows, reading a book he keeps on the nightstand. (Some translation of some myth or other that Sabrina is sure she’ll be sufficiently interested and endeared to learn about from him, some other time, when a whole day with no obligations doesn’t stretch out before them and Kent isn’t curled beside her in the haze of morning.)

Sabrina kisses his bare shoulder, then rests her head there. One hand relinquishes the book to trail fingers up and down her arm, absently, but he’s too engrossed in his reading to acknowledge her further. She makes a token effort to read along, but the page offers nothing interesting enough to stop her pressing her lips to Kent’s temple and ghosting them down until she’s kissing his shoulder again.

He’s smiling now, but he still doesn’t look at her until she starts to pull away.

“Fine,” he says, and kisses her once, brief but firm. “Good morning.”

The “fine” is more fond than frustrated, but she still huffs her indignance against his smiling mouth. He laughs at her, then returns to reading.

Hmph. Must be some book.

Sabrina sighs and reaches for her own book on the nightstand—a poetry anthology she’s been working her way through on Glitch’s recommendation. After one poem, she sets it back down. Silences with Kent are always warm and never empty, but this one begs her to fill it. This quiet is a flimsy sheet failing to hide the outline of something beneath it, and nothing punctuates it—not even the sound of turning pages, she realizes.

Without moving her head, she scans Kent’s open book. He’s on the same page as when she awoke. Her eyes strain further sideways, towards his, which are already glancing sideways at her.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” he says, with his barely-there smile, and she wonders how she could think anything might ever be wrong.

Kent still looks distracted, though now clearly not by the book. He stares at its pages without moving his eyes; he contemplates the window; he casts more glances her way. When Sabrina falls back against the pillows, content to close her eyes and wait for his voice, she hears his book snap shut and the sheets rustle, feels the bed shift as he turns towards her.

No voice comes, and she opens her eyes to find him lying on his front, chin on his forearms, gazing up at her. She gazes back at him—his curving mouth, his still-wet hair, his eyes grey like the comforting shroud of the rain outside. Her own smile only occurs to her when his widens faintly in response. One of his arms reaches for her, finding her hand where it rests atop the blankets.

“I want this,” he says finally, eyes never leaving hers. “You and me. Forever.”

“All right.”

Her tone is breezy, incongruous with the sudden weight of the morning. Kent’s thumb is dragging circles along her wrist, and he looks like he wants to laugh.

“Did we just… decide something?” She asks, and then he does start laughing. “That’s a yes? I missed a verbal contract somewhere, then. Are we married now?”

That last part was a joke, but it sobers Kent. “It wasn’t a proposal,” he tells her. “Not… that kind. If you wanted, though, we could.” He shrugs, and Sabrina no longer feels that she is the one acting unsuitably indifferent to what has apparently become an occasion.

“…Get married?” She prompts, filling in the last words of his sentence. He nods. “Okay.” Silence. “Was that a proposal?”

Kent rolls his eyes and scoots closer. “The question is whether you’re interested in marriage at all. No proposals until we clear that up.”

“You don’t sound very interested yourself, you know.”

“I just told you I want this forever,” he says, so casually that her heart sings. “If that means we get married, that’s fine. It doesn’t matter either way.”

“Wow. You’re romantic.” She laughs, like she doesn’t mean that wholeheartedly, like she isn’t giddy off his plain sincerity. “Keep up the sweet talk, and I’ll drag you to the altar today.”

“Yes,” Kent says, abruptly serious, nodding decisively.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I’ll marry you. Since you asked.” His expression cracks, and he offers a grin that is very nearly a smirk. “That sounded like a proposal.”

“Oh, when I propose, you’ll know,” she tells him, grinning. “There will be roses. Me, in a red satin ball gown. A string quartet.”

When Sabrina lifts her gaze to the ceiling, pretending to imagine the spectacle, she finds that it’s only half an act. She envisions a proposal—lying in bed, on a morning like this; in some private restaurant corner, wearing a dress that matches his tie; out on the water, a ring box in Annie’s mouth, Cass nuzzling into their first affianced kiss. A wedding at a courthouse, in a park, on the beach. She wants them all, wants not one, wants to never leave this bed, with the scent of Kent’s soap and his hand on her arm and the rain that erases everything else. Wants this, forever.

Kent chuckles again, low and familiar and wonderful. He pulls her wrist towards him for a kiss, then stretches to reach her elbow, then joins her up by the pillows and settles against her.

“Drop the quartet,” he suggests, breath warm against her ear. “And then I’ll look forward to it.”

#kzarneki #sab x kent #oc: sabrina wiseman #my writing #/ #mind blind #i never write anything this like. meanderingly romantic. but why not try for shameless romance indulgence on valentines day huh? #i got used to writing K and then my next move was really to defamiliarize them in an established relationship fic :/// #ok love you guys happy valentines day!!! hope you like it <3 mwah

[meterokinesis]

Stars as Sharp as Knives

Read it on AO3

Prompt: stabbed

TW: Violence, PTSD, Disassociation

Summary: Tim remembered getting stabbed in vivid detail. The images were horrifying on their own, but together they formed a sick film that played on loop in Tim’s mind. Even after waking up the next morning, and the morning after that, he kept wondering: why am I alive?

Tim remembered getting stabbed in vivid detail.

In a job like this, where you either saved the day or ruined it all, he was used to cuts and scrapes and wounds. He anticipated them even, which the first aid kid he kept in his utility belt could attest to. But getting stabbed that night in the desert was something else.

The sound of steel through flesh. A cruel whisper. Blood, warm and sticky. Sand in his nose and eyes. Cool near-winter wind that ruffled through his hair. Dirt under fingernails. The weight of a body dragged behind him. Brick walls with metal stairs. A soft bed, with downy pillows stained rust.

The images were horrifying on their own, but together they formed a sick film that played on loop in Tim’s mind. Even after waking up the next morning, and the morning after that, he kept wondering: why am I alive?

This was a question he’d been asking himself for longer than he cared to admit. He was alive because no one had managed to kill him yet, and no more. If the universe had its way, he would be dead eight times over. Tim was just lucky, he supposed. But not lucky enough to escape the nightmares.

He remembered while attempting to sleep in the lavish jail cell Ra’s al Ghul concocted for him. He remembered while training with high level assassins, every time they went for a jab at his stomach. He remembered when Tam hugged him, and his reflex was to make sure she didn’t have a knife. He remembered on his first night back in Gotham, when he had to update his medical records to say “Patient has no spleen after a traumatic injury to the abdomen.”

The nightmares were the worst. They played out the scene in gory detail, each time with a new sort of reverence for Tim’s suffering. It wasn’t always the Widower who stabbed him; sometimes it was his father, or Jason, or Damian, or the mugger that killed Bruce’s parents. On bad nights, it was Bruce. On worse nights, it was Stephanie.

The nightmares persisted long after he defeated Ra’s al Ghul at Wayne Enterprises, long after Bruce finally returned and Tim was welcomed home with open arms. No, they lasted for months--every night a sick remembrance.

                                     ____________________

The first time he sparred with Dick after ending Ra’s plot, he used the new skills he picked up at the Cradle. At first they traded blows lazily, wearing down the floor by walking the same steps of a familiar dance. Then Tim dared to spin out--try one little move--and the game was afoot.

Tim didn’t pretend that he was better than Dick--he knew he wasn’t. But he had more range and was the better strategist, so at least their spars were interesting. They danced around the mat, neither submitting. Like all of their practices, it went until someone gave in or passed out. The Waynes never called out.

Dick went for Tim’s shoulder with his escrima sticks, which Tim blocked with his bo staff. By the time he registered the other stick moving toward his stomach, it was too late.

Forgoing all sense of etiquette, Tim roared and swung out with his staff, trying not to relish in the feeling of it connecting with Dick’s head.

“Jesus, Tim, what was that?” Dick’s voice floated from somewhere above. “I know we didn’t specify ‘no headshots’ but it seems like a giv- holyshitareyouokay?” It was then that Tim realized he was sitting on the ground, his head between his knees and his hands protecting his neck. In a way, he looked like the tornado drills they made him do at school, even though Gotham never had tornadoes. His body didn’t feel entirely real, like instead of inhabiting it like always, he was merely borrowing it for a second.

Dick’s voice, no doubt saying something reassuring, murmured in his ear. The words all blended together in a soup of pleasant sounds, one that Tim didn’t even attempt to decipher. Somewhere in the haze, he heard the telltale click of the comms, followed a few minutes later by heavy footfalls.

Bruce’s gruff voice took over for Dick’s soothing one, asking him questions that he didn’t know how to answer. Even if he could, he wasn’t entirely sure his mouth was still a mouth, let alone one that could form words. Instead, his brain gave him a front-row seat for the premiere of his least favorite movie in existence, where Dick stabbed Tim in the abdomen, his face contorted into something evil and totally unlike Dick. The Not-Dick didn’t stop after the first time, of course. Instead the scene rewinded over and over again, like a broken film from a museum about the tragedies of war.

Tim didn’t remember anything past that.

                                      ____________________

Tim woke up in his bed at the Manor, his heartbeat thunderous but slow. He opened bleary eyes to see Bruce sitting in the armchair near his window, reading a copy of the Wendy the Werewolf Stalker comic tie-ins Bart had given him last year for Hanukkah.

“Good morning. Or, should I say, evening. You almost slept for a full day,” Bruce said warmly, closing the book.

Tim didn’t return his tone. “Why are you here?” He demanded, clutching his blankets where they fell on his lap.

“Do you remember what happened last night?” Bruce avoided the question with trained ease, something Tim saw much too often in himself.

“I- Yeah. A little.” He remembered Dick stabbing him, but that couldn’t be Dick, right? They were in the desert, and it would take at least a day to get from the Syrian Desert to Gotham. His hand wandered over to his stomach. No open wounds or bandages, but there was a long scar.

“You disassociated. Do you know what that means?” Bruce asked, and Tim nodded mechanically. “We think that something during sparring practice triggered a trauma response.”

Tim heard the words, but he wasn’t sure his brain was following all the way.

“I’m fine, B. I just freaked out a little. No big deal.”

Bruce leveled his dad-stare at Tim. “Tim, with all due respect, that was not ‘freaking out a little.’ You were curled up in a ball on the mat, refusing to speak to us. When we managed to coax you into a sitting position, you attacked me. We had to put you in a safe hold until you calmed down.”

Tim opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“I think we need to talk about this. I understand if you don’t feel safe yet, you’ve been through a lot over the past year. I love you and I want to be here for you, but if a professional would help, we can do that too. Dick knows this guy in Metropolis-”

“No!” The word was out of Tim’s mouth before he could stop it, followed by a torrent of others. “I don’t need a shrink. I’m fine. Can I leave now? Or are you going to keep me prisoner like he did?”

“Of course not,” Bruce said, his voice heartbreakingly gentle. “This is your home, Tim. You can come and go as you please. However, I think we need to talk about-”

“Cool. Later.” Tim rolled out of bed and tugged on shoes and a jacket as Bruce tried to reason with him. They both knew that he could try to keep Tim here, either with logic or the threat of getting grounded, but neither would work. At his best, Tim was tenacious. At his worst, he was stubborn.

Tim traipsed down the grand staircase as Bruce followed behind him. Damian glowered at him from the sitting room, but at least he didn’t say anything. Dick was nowhere to be found. Tim pushed his way out of the manor, a small smile of satisfaction crossing his face when the door slammed and cut off Bruce’s pleas. It reminded him of every bad teen movie he’d ever watched, except the exhausted dad and pushy mom were replaced by Batman. Wasn’t that every kid’s dream?

                                       ____________________

He wandered through Bristol township, avoiding the spots he knew the paparazzi liked to frequent. Wouldn’t that be a million-dollar picture: Bruce Wayne’s high-school-dropout-turned-CEO son walking through the sea of McMansions in converse, a kid’s tracker bracelet, pyjama pants, and Cass’s purple NorthFace.

He was on some cul-de-sac where every house looked the same when he heard the telltale swish of someone following him. He didn’t turn around, just kept up his leisurely pace. Either they’d announce themselves, or they wouldn’t.

He got his answer when a hand snaked over his chest and a body pressed against his back, stopping him in his tracks.

“Hello, Detective,” Scarab whispered in his ear, and Tim’s veins turned to ice. Her hand cupped his face, and she slid around to his front. Tim didn’t believe in God, but he had no doubt that she was Satan incarnate.

“I have a gift for you,” she purred, her hands tracing his sides and back. He didn’t dare respond. “It’s from your friend.”

Tim swore his heart stopped. Ra’s al Ghul didn’t send gifts, he sent warnings. And threats. And death. Which is why he wasn’t entirely surprised when Scarab drove a knife into his chest with a sort of tender ruthlessness. She guided him to the ground, left a ghost of a kiss on his temple, and stepped out of view.

Tim lay gasping on the pavement, trying not to bleed out. His fingertips brushed the bracelet, weakly holding down to send out a tracking signal. If he was lucky, they’d see it. If not, then he’d die. It was that simple.

The stars here were dimmer than the ones in the desert. It was all the light pollution, he knew. Same stars, but an altogether different sky. There was a metaphor there somewhere, but he had lost too much blood to focus enough to find one.

His eyelids felt heavy, and it took everything in him to keep them open. Bruce would be here soon. He had to be. He was Batman, that’s what he did.

As Tim staggered through each breath, he couldn’t help but remark the irony of it all. He’d spent all this time worried about one old wound that he hadn’t seen the next one coming.

#whumptober 2020 #my writing #tim drake #bruce wayne #dick grayson #blood tw #violence tw

[red-flashes]

“I don’t even know why I’m here.”

Once again, Damian elbowed Jason in the hip--the highest he could reach--as Tim answered, “I told you, Nightwing wanted everyone there.”

“Why couldn’t we just do it on the screens like we usually do?” Jason asked stubbornly, crossing his arms as they stood in the Hall of Justice. Nearly everyone was there, current and former heroes and sidekicks all gathered. It was rare that so many of them met up at all, nevermind for something that wasn’t for a mission. Each of them stood sequestered off in their little groups, and Jason himself was tucked back behind Batman and Red Robin with Damian and Cass on either side of him. Honestly, he was surprised he was invited, but it was Dick they were talking about, here. He probably invited anyone who had ever put on a mask.

Tim sighed, one hand on his hip as he tried to get a better look at where Nightwing and the Flash were talking up at the front of the room. “Nightwing said it had to be in person, something about being physically present.”

“Yeah, well, Nightwing can tell my--”

“Both of you, quiet,” came the sharp command from Batman, and immediately their group quieted, just in time for Flash to step forward and begin speaking.

“Thank you all, so much, for coming,” he started, waving awkwardly at everyone. Dick stood at his side with a grin, occasionally looking back over his shoulder. Jason watched him with narrowed eyes, mostly tuning out Flash as he spoke. Something about a past mission, it didn’t sound important. What was important, however, was when Nightwing stood to the side and told everyone, “And back again with us now, everyone: re-meet Kid Flash!”

There was a brief crackle of electricity that accompanied all speedsters before a yellow blur appeared beside Dick with a bright grin that sent ice crawling down Jason’s spine. 

Instantly, Cass noticed his subtle change, and he could feel her glancing at him, but Jason was too busy trying to convince himself he wasn’t having a nightmare. That was the only time he ever saw what he was looking at, right? That was the only place he had ever seen that shock of red hair before. 

The supposed Kid Flash was stepping forward, greeting everyone again and introducing himself, and Jason swallowed hard. No, this was real. He knew him. How did he know him? Where had he seen him before?

On the worst nights, when he couldn’t wake up out of the nightmares, there was the faintest presence of someone behind him, someone helping him through.

A familiar laugh echoing around him when he was stuck in a memory, bright green eyes flashing at him from beside him only to be gone a second later. But then again, the nightmares had disappeared, too.

He had convinced himself it was a fever dream, something his injured brain had conjured up to help ease himself through the coma and everything else that came after. He was so in and out when he was with the Al Ghuls, so tormented by pain and the memories of an explosion, but he could have sworn he had someone there with him, someone who had been there for him every time he had come in and out of the memories again.

“Todd?” came Damian’s surprised hiss, but Jason ignored him, shoving forward past Tim and pushing in between him and Batman to bring himself front and center in front of where Flash, Nightwing, and Kid Flash stood.

Jason knew that costume, teased him about the red and yellow constantly. He made fun of his windswept hair, joked about his goggles, endured the teasing about his shorts in return. They bonded over ridiculous sidekick costumes and being heroes and anything and everything. They had spent an eternity helping each other through the pains that came with being dead and the realization of eternity. He had seen and been seen by the man he was looking at.

“Hood?” Nightwing asked tentatively as they all looked at him. Kid Flash--Jason had only ever known him by another name, by something else and more familiar--looked at him in confusion as well. Jason would never forget those green eyes.

Slowly, his hazy vision looked up, focusing on a form in front of him. He watched as the man looked around wildly, like he couldn’t figure out where he was before looking back at Jason. He wasn’t completely there, Jason could see the outline of the table behind him through his thigh, but he was the one looking at Jason like he was a ghost. “Who are you? How did you get here?”

“Uh, hey!” Kid Flash was saying, waving at him. “Nice to meet you!”

He never thought he’d hear that voice directed at him again. Breath caught in his throat, he asked quietly, “Wally?”

The three people in front of him froze. He could see Nightwing glancing around, trying to make sure no one else had heard the real name, but Jason ignored him. In seconds, he had his helmet ripped off, looking at Wally with his bare face. He saw his eyes go wide, and he couldn’t believe it. It was him, it had to be him--how was he here?

On instinct, he hurled his helmet at him. Surprised gasps echoed around the room at the display, but Wally caught it, shock on his face. He glanced up finally, slowly, and just as quietly asked, “Jason?”

In the next second, Jason was being hit in the chest, Wally’s entire form crashing into him in a desperate hug that felt more like a tackle. He threw his arms around Wally, still not believing this was real. Wally was here--he could touch him. He could hold him. And it was with that hug that he remembered everything: the decades they had spent together stuck in that limbo, Wally being there to welcome him back every time he had fallen back in, every single conversation where Wally slowly became the person who knew him best.

“You’re real,” he whispered to Wally, clutching onto him like if he let go Wally would fade away again. All that time convincing himself it was just a dream--here he was, real and alive and solid and holding onto him.

“You’re alive!” Wally retorted, then let out another laugh. “And tall! God, what the hell have you been eating the past few years?” Wally pulled back, only far enough to look at him, still holding on just as tightly. Jason was sure he’d bruise from it, but Wally was running the same risk with the way Jason was holding on to his shoulders. “I can’t believe you’re alive,” he said breathlessly, eyes traveling over Jason’s face. 

“You’re here,” Jason told him, more stating it for himself than asking. “You got out, you’re here. You’re real.” Wally was nodding eagerly, and Jason knew on some instinctual level he would have started talking at his stupid super speed had it not been for Steph’s voice echoing around the hall.

“Is Red Hood smiling? Is this real life?”

All at once, he was brought back to where they were, who they were in front of. His hands fell off of Wally’s shoulders, looking around so he didn’t have to see the confused look on Wally’s face. His eyes focused on Dick, looking at him in a mix of hesitation and concern, who suddenly announced, “Hood’s got the idea! In order for Kid Flash’s memories to be reinstated, he needs physical contact. A handshake will do, or a high five even...”

“Jason?”

He looked back down, finally looking at Wally again. Dick droned on in the background, trying to get people organized, but all Jason could focus on was Wally. Wally, and that almost fearful look in his eyes, the way he was still holding onto Jason, Wally was here and he’s real--

“Later,” he told him, pulling Wally’s hands off of him and taking a step back. Wally almost came after him, but Jason held up a hand, still glancing around at who was now surrounding him. “Later. I’ll wait here. Once this is done...just. Later, okay?” 

Slowly, Wally nodded, and Jason could feel his eyes on him as he melted back into the crowd, studiously ignoring his family and the questions he knew they’d have. He found an inconspicuous spot to sit back and away from everything, arms crossed tightly in front of him. His fists were clenched like he was holding onto the memory of how Wally felt, like he was afraid of forgetting it.

“I know you don’t believe it, but you’re a hero, Jason. You always will be, dead or not.”

Jason sat back and waited. After everything he’d been through, he’d become very good at waiting.

#redflash #jason todd #red hood #wally west #kid flash #flash #batfam #wally x jason #wally west x jason todd #jason todd x wally west #dc rarepair #dc #dc comic #dc comics #its story time babey #my writing #hoodflash

[streetsofsecretswegone]

@pcplarstreet​   said   :   Benny & Cass

Under the cut because long.

Disagreements:

Who is more likely to raise their voice? Cassandra's frustration with Benny can be activated at the drop of a HAT. And not only is she raising her voice, she is gesturing with her hands in fury.

Who threatens to leave but never actually does? Benny does and Cass is like, "do you think you’re IRREPLACEABLE?” 

Who actually keeps their word and leaves? Benny will go ghost for awhile. Buuut, early in their relationship - Cass isn't afraid to leave either.

Who trashes the house? Cassandra doesn't trash houses, her mother raised her properly. The most she'll do is slam a door, slam a cabinet if she's cooking while simultaneously fussing and that's it. Benny is a gentleman and goes to the junkyard to relieve his frustration.

Do either of them get physical? When they were teens, Cassandra use to smack his cheeks, squeeze his cheeks or smack him upside the head. It was always after he did something corny or dumb.

How often do they argue/disagree? Not regularly, but it's not uncommon. It just varies on topic just as it can vary in severity.

Who is the first to apologize? Benny, with grand gestures to boot! Cassandra lowkey adores getting gifts from him, they go on her station at work.

Sex:

Who is on top? It varies.

Who is on the bottom? I said it varies, damn. Though, if Cassandra could have Benny bottom like....60% of the time, it would be great.

Who has the strangest desires? Define your definition of strange. But Cassandra is more kinky than Benny, while Benny is down for trying anything.

Any kinks? Edging. Pegging. A mommy kink exists. Choking. Cassandra also likes having her toes sucked.😔

Who’s dominant in bed? Let Cass have a little power and she goes nuts with it.

Is head ever in the equation? Yes.

If so, who is better at performing it? Cassandra.

Ever had sex in public? Yes.

Who moans the most? Cassandra.

Who leaves the most marks? I want to say technically Cassandra because it’s not just her taking a little bite of Benny. It’s her leaving scratch mark on his back with her nails. 

Who screams the loudest? Cassandra, on a good night.

Who is the more experienced of the two? They're both very experienced!

Do they ‘fuck’ or ‘make love’? Both.

Rough or soft? Depends on the mood. Depends on if they had a bad argument, too. Make-up sex is a thing with them.

How long do they usually last? This is highly dependent on whether Cassandra allows him to have an orgasm.

Is protection used? Typically.

Does it ever get boring? Honestly, I think it’s Cassandra who keeps it from being boring. Like she will have vanilla sex with her partner for so long until she’s like, “hey, can we try _?” 

Where is the strangest place they’d have sex? At a Christmas Party taking place at her mother’s building. 😰 The sexual tension lingering between them was real. And it was pretty quick 15 minutes.

Family:

Do your muses plan on having children/or have children? Cassandra has been fine with the idea of having three to four kids. She already had little Mario when she and Benny began dating, and she and Benny’s first kid together is an accident. But after that, Cass wouldn’t mind a few more. If so, how many children do your muses want/have? Cass thinks she could have about four, personally. But right now they just have Mario - who is more like Benny's step son. Who is the favorite parent? Benny! Who is the authoritative parent? Cass. Who is more likely to allow the children to have a day off school? Benny, because Cassandra wouldn’t stand for it!  Who lets the children indulge in sweets and junk food when the other isn’t around? Benny, because again Cassandra doesn’t want Mario bouncing off the walls, no.

Who turns up to extra curricular activities to support their children? Cassandra - but to be honest the whole Scozzari family does.

Who goes to parent teacher interviews? Both, Cassandra feels like it provides a good image of how they are as a family unit. Her parents both showed up to parent teacher interviews, and granted her dad was ‘ghetto’ about the whole thing, but. She trusts Benny to be better than her dad.

Who changes the diapers? Cassandra.

Who gets up in the middle of the night to feed the baby? Cassandra - but she will make Benny do it sometimes if she really does not want to leave the bed.

Who spends the most time with the children? I feel like they invest an almost equal amount of time, but Cassandra is there just a bit more due to the differences of she and Benny’s occupation. Who packs their lunch boxes? Cassandra, she’s very prompt about it. Usually shopping for something that Mario can eat by the time she’s on break at work. Who gives their children ‘the talk’? Cassandra does not trust Benny to do it. She’s worried about him using weird phrases, then Mario repeats it on the playground and...no, Cass ain’t having it. Who cleans up after the kids? Cassandra. Who worries the most? Cassandra worries visibly and considerably more than Benny, who is more quiet about his concerns yet takes it in stride. Who are the children more likely to learn their first swear word from? Cassandra. Whether it be from her uttering, fuck in annoyance after getting off the phone, accidentally cutting herself in the kitchen, or losing her other sock/shoe. 

Affection:

Who likes to cuddle? If Benny’s audio dialogue is anything to go by...I’mma say him.

Who is the little spoon? “Hold me would ya? You wore me out.” - Benny Gecko, moments before death.

Who gets naughty in the most inappropriate of places? They are both to blame here.

Who struggles to keep their hands to themself? Both. 

How long can they cuddle until one becomes uncomfortable? About twenty minutes for Cassandra. That, and she knows there’s shit to do in some form or fashion.

Who gives the most kisses? Cassandra because she believes that they can be a good way to distract Benny.

What is their favorite non-sexual activity? Benny likes to cook for Cass on date nights! And Cassandra likes to see entertainment at The Tops with him.

Where is their favorite place to cuddle? Cassandra prefers the couch.

Who is more likely to playfully grope the other? Cass has an addiction to playfully groping/slapping Benny’s ass when the kids cannot be seen.

How often do they get time to themselves? It's when Cassandra has a set babysitter for Mario, or if Mario's with her parents. Otherwise that little boy just LOVES to be in the presence of both of them.

Sleeping:

Who snores? Benny.

If both do, who snores the loudest? Benny.

Do they share a bed or sleep separately? Share a bed.

If they sleep together, do they cozy up together or lay far apart? It varies. Cass doesn't mind being held by Benny in her sleep, but if she gets overheated she needs her space. This is why she can’t cuddle for hours upon hours. Who talks in their sleep? Sometimes its Cass. Sometimes if you wake her up while she’s sleeping she’ll say nonsensical things for a few minutes.

What do they wear to bed? Their nightwear. Duh. 🙄🙄🙄 Are either of your muses insomniacs? No.

Can sleeping pills be found by the bedside? I would say that’s a maybe for Benny. Do they wrap their limbs around each other or just lay side by side? Both, it’s time dependent. Cassandra's leg may cross over Benny's. Who wakes up with bed hair? Benny, Cassandra has her hair in a protective state. Who wakes up first? Benny, usually. Who prepares breakfast in bed for the other? ...yeah, no. It has to be Benny's birthday or something. What is their favorite sleeping position? Benny likes to be the little spoon. Fallout New Vegas said so. I’m just saying the truth, don’t shoot the messenger. And Cassandra really does like wrapping her arms around things while in bed, but usually it’s her pillow she is cuddling with. Human skin gets too hot. Who hogs the sheets? Cassandra will sometimes remove sheets. Do they set an alarm each night? Yes. Can a television be found in their bedroom? No. Who has nightmares? Cassandra is prone to some vivid nightmares. Who has ridiculous dreams? Benny. Who sprawls out and takes up most of the bed? Mario if he's crawled into the bed! Which is not uncommon for the kid to do, at all. Who makes the bed? Cassandra. What time is bed time? Not too early, but not too late either.  Any routines/rituals before bed? Shower, brush their teeth, Cassandra tends to her hair before bed, washes off her make up...makes sure Mario is also brushing his teeth and is tucked into bed comfortably. Who’s the grumpiest when they wake up? Cass.

Work:

Who is the busiest? Benny on default, though weekends can be hell for Cass with the amount of clients she has coming into the beauty shop. Who rakes in the highest income? Benny. Are any of your muses unemployed? Nope. Who takes the most sick days? Benny can afford to do so, while if Cassandra does that she is missing out on money. That and Cassandra hates being off of work sick, she has nothing to do! Who is more likely to turn up late to work? Bennnnnnnny? But he's so important it doesn’t even matter like that, or have real consequences. Who sucks up to their boss? Benny's his own boss and Cassandra tries to be cordial with hers which doesn’t always work because the guy is kind of a shithead. What are their jobs? Benny is a casino owner and Cassandra is a hair stylist. Who stresses the most? In regards to work - neither. Do your muses enjoy or despise their careers/occupations? They enjoy them. Are your muses financially stable? Very.

Home:

Who does the washing? Cassandra, she doesn’t trust Benny to know what he’s doing like that.

Who takes out the trash? Benny or Mario.

Who does the ironing? Cassandra.

Who does the cooking? It switches between Cassandra and Benny doing that for one another.

Who is more likely to burn the house down just trying? Neither! They know what they’re doing.

Who is messier? They’re both clean people.

Who leaves the toilet roll empty? I feel like Benny has done that in a moment of carelessness. 

Who leaves their dirty clothes on the floor? Cassandra will cuss his ass out for that glmbgfvbg so really it’s Mario who does it because he’s still a lil baby.

Who forgets to flush the toilet? Mario.

Who is the prankster around the house? Mario and Benny collaborate on pranks sometimes.

Who loses the car keys when it comes time to go somewhere? Cassandra has overlooked her car keys on multiple occasions.

Who mows the lawn? Benny, or - Benny pays someone to do that shit. Really, I just can’t imagine him mowing the lawn.

Who answers the telephone? Either.

Who does the vacuuming? Cassandra.

Who does the groceries? Cassandra, just because she’s prone to making quick grocery runs in-between clients if there’s enough of a spacious gap between them.

Who takes the longest to shower? Both if they’re fucking in there.

Who spends the most time in the bathroom? Cassandra hands down. 

Miscellaneous:

Is money a problem? Benny is a gangster, Cassandra can really make bank in a week from doing hair. Together? Money is never a problem.

How many cars do they own? I’m sure Benny has more than one car, but Cassandra has two cars of her own before she was even dating Benny. One was a fucking truck while the other is a more smaller, more decent car.

Do they own their home or do they rent? Own.

Do they live near the coast or deep in the countryside? Now personally, I imagine that they live in the city considering Benny's occupation and Cass is very accustomed to that life as well. However, she would not object to them getting a vacation home in the countryside.

Do they live in the city or in the country? ^^

Do they enjoy their surroundings? Of course!

What’s their song? In Benny's perspective it's Poison by Bell Biv DeVoe and in Cassandra's perspective it's A Dozen Roses by Monica.

What do they do when they’re away from each other? Benny does his...Benny-related things. He works, he works out, he murders couriers. Cassandra does hair, she mothers Mario, she hangs out with her friends.

Where did they first meet? At a Gecko/Scozzari family dinner hosted by Sal’s then-living aunt, the two of them were very young at the time.

How did they first meet? They were all seated at the table, Cassandra was across from Benny. She didn't pay attention to him. Afterwards her dad kept hanging out with Benny and Cass h a t e d seeing his little white ass on her stoop.

Who spends the most money when out shopping? Benny because he has to floss and feel good about his life. Cassandra isn't just going to use Benny's cash for her own purposes, she has her own!

Who’s more likely to flash their assets? Both. Cassandra learned about the art of flashing from her parents.

Who finds it amusing when the other trips over? Cassandra, depending on the context of the fall.

Any mental issues? No. Who’s terrified of bugs? Baby spiders to medium sized ones? Cassandra can deal with. Large spiders  and centipedes? She hates them. Who kills the spiders around the house? Benny, sometimes Cass. Their favorite place? Countryside! Who pays the bills? Benny handles it! Do they have any fears for their future? Cassandra worries about Benny getting shot, their kids getting kidnapped or killed, or assassination attempts on her life. But, that’s just mob shit, she guesses. They’re constant fears, but they also become numb because this has been her life forever. Who’s more likely to surprise the other with a fancy dinner? Benny! Who uses up all of the hot water? Cassandra, she needs to have relaxing baths sometimes to get her thoughts in order. Who’s the tallest? Benny!! Cassandra is short like her mom, standing at 5'4. Who’s more likely to just randomly hop into the shower with the other? Cassandra. Who wanders around in their underwear? They have to set an example for Mario! They just can't be roaming around in their underwear! Who sings the loudest when singing along to the radio? Cassandra gets into it, especially if its a song she grew up with. If Benny tries - she tells him to stop because some songs look kind of weird coming from a middle aged white man. What do they tease each other about? Cassandra teases Benny for trying to look like Dean Martin and other classic Italian singers in the present day. Benny teases Cassandra for speaking with her hands and fingers just like how Sal does. Who is more likely to cringe at the other’s fashion sense at times? I think both their fashion senses can be a bit on the strong side. Do they have mutual friends? Cassandra gets along with Swank, knows Tommy on a deep level from when they were kids. Leah has no interest in getting to know Benny. Who crushed first? Benny. Any alcohol or substance related problems? Nope. Who is more likely to stumble home, drunk, at 3am? Benny if they had a bad argument. Who swears the most? Cassandra. She's been cursing since she was a year old - it's a hard habit to break.

#rel : cass & benny. #answers : cassandra. #pcplarstreet #pcplarstreet : benny.

[cluz1babe]

*** Strong Tongue and Slender Fingers ***

Summary: (READER insert)

Episode 1 Chapter 1: You Meet the Boys

A woman who can't stay dead, has strange abilities, and seeks out Dean and Sam for help.

Notes:

First 2 chapters are in a bad format.

Episode 1 has been Beta'd by http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassidy_OMalley

Taking place after season 14 (up to 3 years after). The first two chapters are in a crap form, please push through them and help me with gentle constructive criticism. I need it. I know I’m not good at descriptions of surroundings and I’ve no idea how to learn writing them.

There are at least 7 Episodes to Part One, but I am shooting for 10 (as long as my brain works with me.)

Each Episode has an undetermined amount of Chapters when it begins. I will try to add extra warnings at the top of each chapter.

I apologize in advance for it being so slow to update. Writing is not my forte, but comments and gentle constructive criticism help me keep going! Suggestions, little requests, co-creators, co-developers, betas, etc. are welcome to inquire. I feel like I have a great base story, but I struggle with the little things.

Both of the Explicit versions, have extra fun one-shot chapters to add extra Rated X content and fun, but will not impact the story. I will try to add a link to the Alt Scene in the place it would go in the story.

Depending on my time, either my Chapters or Episodes will have a PLAYLIST link at the top or the bottom.

With the exception of characters who are dead on the show, and the Rated X stuff, it's as canon as possible. I try to fact-check as much as possible.

Early evening. Summer. Bar buzzing with people. You’re sitting at the bar, lollipop in your mouth, lighting matches with your fingers. You touch the condensation on your glass and as your fingers move, the water travels in a trail. When some hunters at a table begin talking, you raise the hood of your jacket and listen to the three hunters (ranging from late 20s - late 50s) at the table behind you.

HUNTER 1 We have to move out.

HUNTER 2 I thought the case was 50 miles from here.

HUNTER 1 Winchesters. Don’t know about you, but I’d prefer not getting involved. Or in their way.

HUNTER 3 They create all the problems, then pretend like they helped by fixing them.

You smile to yourself. A driver sits next to you.

DRIVER So I hear you need a ride?

YOU Yeah, I’m only headed to Ocean City.

DRIVER Really? What’s out there?

You throw him a smile.

. . . . . . . . . .

Inside the cab of a semi. You’re asleep, with your head lying against the window. The driver pulls off to a spot in the middle of nowhere, causing you to wake up.

YOU Are we there?

You look around, groggy.

YOU Where are we?

The driver attacks you. Pulling you forward with his hands.

. . . . . . . . . .

TRUCK

The truck rocks back and forth as the struggle inside continues. You manage to escape without your jacket and start running, but the driver pulls out a gun and shoots you. Your lifeless body, along with your bag, lay on the ground for hours. After dark, the grass around you grows. The individual blades wrap around your fingers, hands, arms, and legs. As they wrap around your head, you take in a quiet, deep breath. You sit up and look around. You pull yourself up and as you do, the blades of grass die and fall off. The bullet falls out of your back. Looking down, you see an outline of dead grass where you were lying. After looking in all directions, you pick up your bag and the bullet and begin walking towards the highway.

. . . . . . . . . .

THE HIGHWAY - EVENING

As you walk on the side of the highway, you turn to look behind you and see it. The black Impala that you’ve been looking for. The car rushes past you. You look up and see a starling on a lamp post. You stare at it for a moment and it looks back at you, head tilting. The bird flies off. You smile and continue to walk.

. . . . . . . . . .

SIDEWALK - THE NEXT NIGHT

You see Sam and Dean talking. You study them for a moment as you take a piece of candy and put it in your mouth. Before walking toward them, you crouch down and touch the grass. Your hand digs into the dirt. When you pull it out, about 3 worms come with it.

YOU Thank you.

The starling you saw earlier, picks a worm and flies off. You run your hands through your hair. Taking steps forward you don’t notice the jagged edge on the side of a bumper of an old van you brush past. Your jeans catch on the car and you get stuck. You pull your leg to break free, but you don’t come loose.

YOU Dammit! Come on.

The sound of your struggle gets the attention of Sam and Dean who notice a big truck speeding down the road. Dean tries to get your attention by waving his arms in the air.

DEAN Hey! (Pause) Hey!

Sam and Dean run across the street to help.

You feel arms wrap around you and pull you back. You are so preoccupied with getting loose and lost in your thoughts that it takes you by surprise. They all watch as the truck rushes through. After a few seconds of just realizing you almost died (again), you force the arms off of you. You take a defensive stance and come face to face with Castiel.

CASTIEL Just trying to help.

After a few seconds, you relax. Sam and Dean arrive.

YOU Sorry. I’m... Um... Obviously, not used to being helped out much. I mean, I’m not exactly…

You gesture to show you’re kind of a mess. You see the tear in your pants.

YOU And now I’m worse.

SAM You were really close to being hit.

YOU Yeah, I realize.

Sam puts his right hand out.

SAM My name is Sam.

You accept Sam’s hand and shake it.

YOU Y/N.

Dean slightly pushes Sam aside and offers his hand.

DEAN And I’m Dean.

You accept.

YOU Hi.

After a bit of awkward silence, Dean decides to speak up again.

DEAN Well, I bet you need a drink after that near-death experience.

YOU Sure.

DEAN Oh, by the way, this is Cass.

You smile at Castiel but quickly look away without making eye contact.

YOU Thank you.

Dean sends you in the direction of the bar. He walks behind you, pausing with Sam.

DEAN Dude, I need this.

SAM Since when do you need this?

DEAN Always. I always need this.

At a loss for words, Sam sighs.

DEAN Just tell me. Do you want in on this? Because if not, I’m going to make a move.

SAM I think I’m good, Dean.

Dean looks over at Castiel.

CASTIEL What?

DEAN Where is your head, lately? I’m offering you a chance with her and you don’t even seem to notice.

Annoyed, Castiel pointedly answers Dean, who doesn’t seem to notice Cass’s tone as being unusual.

CASTIEL No. Thank. You.

Dean smiles, hits his brother’s arm, and runs off to join you. Sam smiles at his brother’s ridiculous behavior.

. . . . . . . . . .

 MOTEL BAR - LATER

Sam watches as Dean heavily hits on you. He is smiling and talking to you, flirtatiously grazing your hand as he gives you a fresh drink. Castiel suddenly appears next to Sam.

CASTIEL It’s only a few ghosts. I’m sure it will be a simple in and out job. Where’s Dean?

SAM Dean is...

Sam looks over the table where Dean and you are sitting.

SAM Being Dean.

Castiel looks over at the table and sees Dean touching your arm. You return the flirtations with a smile and brush your leg against his.

CASTIEL What have you learned about her?

SAM You should probably ask Dean. He’s been talking to her for the last hour and a half. She’s been coming on to him harder than he is to her.

Castiel looks back at the table.

CASTIEL Interesting. I’m not sure I trust her.

SAM What makes you say that?

CASTIEL I don’t like the way Dean is flirting with her.

SAM What are you talking about? He’s doing what he always does.

Castiel looks at Dean, disapprovingly.

CASTIEL He’s being too honest about it. Being that open is dangerous.

SAM Cass, are you…jealous?

Castiel looks at Sam, genuinely confused.

CASTIEL Of what?

Dean joins Sam and Castiel as you walk away.

DEAN Damsel in distress.

Castiel & Sam recognize this as a code for a trap.

SAM What the plan?

DEAN My plan is to leave with her. You two can pretend to save me in an hour or so.

SAM An hour? Dean, if this is a trap, you can’t just willingly fall into it.

DEAN It’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Noticing the ridiculous smile on Dean’s face, Sam rolls his eyes.

SAM Is she even your type?

DEAN Uh, yeah.

CASTIEL I don’t think it’s a good idea.

DEAN Yeah? When is the last time you saw a woman like that?

CASTIEL Dean, just because it’s a trap, doesn’t mean it’s okay to use her for sex.

DEAN Oh, I’m not. She invited me to her room. I promise I’ll be careful by thoroughly checking everything out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a trap to fall into.

DEAN winks and walks away.

. . . . . . . . . .

NEAR THE MOTEL ROOMS - MOMENTS LATER

DEAN catches up with you.

DEAN Hey, I thought we were having a good time.

You smile.

YOU We were.

DEAN Why did you run off?

YOU If I were running, you wouldn’t have found me.

. . . . . . . . . .

MOTEL ROOM - LATER

You and Dean are making out on one of the beds. You are under him. He pushes his hips into you. You breathe heavily at first, moaning, lightly. As Dean keeps going, your moans get louder. He moves to remove your pants, but you push his hands back, he looks up at you.

YOU Not yet. Keep going.

He gets back on top of you and continues. He adds a kiss. You moan louder.

YOU Yes.

You keep moaning until you orgasm and Dean pauses.

DEAN Did you just—?

You nod your head.

DEAN Damn, that is so hot.

He smiles and kisses you. Suddenly the door flies open and Sam & Castiel come into the room. Dean & you stop and look toward the door. Dean frustratingly yells at the guys.

DEAN Oh, come on!

OTHER VERSIONS AND EXTRAS

Because I am very visual, I have symbols to look out for.

~ Klee PG Version ~ (Currently only on AO3)

*** Strong Tongue and Slender Fingers *** (Here and AO3)

KLEE (Original Version) (Currently only on AO3)

Alt KLEE Smut (Currently only on AO3)

*** Alt Strong Tongue and Slender Fingers Smut Scenes *** (Currently only on AO3)

Please Buy Me a Beer!

Tip Me on Ko-Fi

AO3

#StrongTongue and Slender Fingers #klee #kleena #dean winchester #dean x y/n #dean winchester x reader #castiel #castiel deserves better #castiel x reader #castiel/reader #spn fanfiction #spn fanfic #spn #fanfiction #fanfic #fanficaddiction #playlist #suggestions #advice #requests #Sam Winchester #sam #reader #sam x reader #sam/reader #mystery #mythology #folklore #fluff #Smut

[izaswritings]

Title: Labyrinths of the Heart

Synopsis: Plagued by cryptic dreams, Rapunzel leaves to find the origins of the black rocks and face her destiny— only this time, she takes Varian with her.

Notes: I just want to say thank you, to everyone. Each and every comment, kudos, reblog, response… it really means so much to me, to see what people think of my writing and of my fic. I’ve never had such a large and positive response to my work before, so I’m just so grateful to have met all of you!! I never would have finished this story without you. 

I hope you enjoy this final chapter! ❤️

Warnings for: blood, impalement, graphic descriptions of wounds, near-death situations, death threats (again, via Moon, as always), mentions of past child abuse and past character death. If there’s anything you feel I might have missed, please let me know and I’ll add it on here!

-

AO3 version is here.

Previous chapters can be found here!

-

Chapter X: One More Chance

-

There is a time of night that lingers on between the midnight hours and the break of dawn, a time when the darkness is so thick and cloying that even the stars seem dim. When they were kids, Lance used to tell tall tales of this time, the magic and monsters that breathed in the shadows, that time that felt almost timeless. Eugene had never put much stock into those stories, but as he picks his way across the dismal landscape, he cannot help but think back on them.

The Dark Kingdom is well-suited for this dark before dawn. Timeless hours for a timeless place. It’s a land of dirt and black stone, and absolutely nothing else. It feels like a different realm entirely, disconnected and displaced from the real world. Like a nightmare come to life, or one of Lance’s horror stories made flesh, and while Eugene has never been one for fables, after the fight he just had, he’s a little more inclined to believe in the superstition.

On the other hand, Eugene reflects, he could just be tired. Because—and in hindsight, he should have seen this coming—he is very, very tired.

This past week, barely six full days, has felt more like an eternity. He has gone through so much emotional whiplash it’s starting to get ridiculous. Rapunzel’s absence gapes like an open wound, and even Varian’s loss is starting to grate on him. After over a month of constant travel and conversation, it is strangely hollowing to look around, expecting a sullen scowl and snapped retort, and find absolutely nothing. Rapunzel’s laughter; Varian’s dull bitterness—the absence pulls.

The confrontation with the Moon, meeting Adira—these things had helped, in their own way. It had given them a purpose, a goal to focus on besides the grief. But even that has now gone stale. Their return from the mountain is made in shameful silence. They have confronted the Moon and lived to tell of it, but the battle ended with a loss on both sides. No answers, no victory—no Rapunzel or Varian.

Eugene knew going in that this would be the result—the best possible solution. It’s still crippling.

They are running away, leaving the mountain behind once more, leaving Rapunzel to her fate. It burns even worse the second time around.

Eugene hitches his foot against crumbling stone, and hefts himself up the cliff-face, bare fingers digging into the crevasses of the soft rock. The wasteland is mostly flat but for a few craggy and jutting hills, looking as if they’d been torn right up from the ground and left to stand as a warning. The stone here is weaker than the black rocks, but still solid—the edges of the cliff poke hard into his palm, sharp and uncomfortable.

Eugene grits his teeth, reaching the top of the cliff. He pulls himself over the ledge and rolls over onto his back, breathing in deeply through his nose. He keeps his eyes closed, counting the seconds under his breath, then rolls back onto his feet and goes over to help Cassandra up. She hasn’t asked for help once this whole return, but he knows her arms are bothering her. There’s no other reason for why she’s lagging behind both Adira and Eugene otherwise.

Eugene leans over the ledge and offers his hand, and smiles when Cassandra scowls up at him. With her gloves on and sleeves rolled down, he can’t see her arms, but he knows they must be bruised black-and-blue. His neck is looking—or well, feeling— much the same. If nothing else, the Moon has one killer grip.

Eugene waves his hand pointedly in Cassandra’s face, eyes fixed on her, and does not look up. He does not look behind her, behind them.

He will not look back at the mountain. He will not look back.

Eugene won’t look. He can do this, he can keep his eyes forward and his breaths even, he can keep going, following silently in Adira’s footsteps as she guides them across the landscape, the dark mountain looming at their backs. Eugene won’t look back at that mountain. He won’t think about Rapunzel, or the Moon, or how he has left them all behind.

He won’t.

(He can’t.) 

Cassandra’s gloves are ice-cold against his skin when she finally takes his hand and resigns herself to his help; her grip is strong enough to bruise. He squeezes her fingers and pulls her up over the ledge, careful to avoid tugging too hard on her arm.

“Ooh, chilly hands even through the gloves,” he tells her, and lilts his voice to something high and teasing. “I always knew you were cold-blooded, Cass-an-dra.”

Cassandra raises both eyebrows at him, something sly and fond in the slant of her mouth, reluctant amusement. “You’ve used that one before. Finally run low on creativity, Fitzherbert?”

“Huh? No, I haven’t.”

She doesn’t laugh at him outright—it’s not her way—but her expression is all smug. Her near ever-present exhaustion and strain from the past week fades under her wry smile. “Yes, you have.”

Even this little bit of talking makes his throat ache, but damn the Moon anyway. If even the threat of hanging couldn’t stop Eugene from joking, her forceful interrogation sure won’t. Eugene grins back. “What, really? Ah, yikes. Well then, I’ll find a new and original Fitzherbert-certified insult for you soon.”

“Woo,” Cassandra says, dry as a desert. “I can’t wait.” She brushes past him, checking his shoulder in clear challenge, the ghost of a grin curling at the corners of her lips. Eugene’s own smile grows brighter with the familiar exchange. He turns to follow her, a laughing retort rising to his tongue, and then the mountain catches in the corner of his eye.

Just like that: his good mood gone, his laughter spoiled. The words wither behind his teeth. The person that should have been there, Rapunzel’s soft and lilting voice, the roll of her eyes at their bickering—the loss digs into him, the empty space seizing at his heart.

Eugene rubs at his throat and closes his eyes, looking away from the mountain. His fingers press hard against still-forming bruises. It’s too late to ignore it, now.

“Damn,” he whispers, under his breath. Cassandra has walked on ahead—she hasn’t noticed his silence yet. She’s still smiling. He doesn’t want to ruin it, but his own chest feels tight, eyes hot. “Damn it.”

“Don’t stop, Fitzherbert.”

Adira stands at the forefront, far ahead, already starting over the next hill-rise. Her eyes rest unwavering on the skyline, her expression cool, her body language controlled and focused. She doesn’t look at Eugene, but he can hear the faint undertone of judgment in her voice, knowing and disapproving. “We have to keep going.” 

In the distance, Eugene can see Maximus and Fidela and all the other animals standing on a high rise, waiting to see if anyone returns. Pinpricks in the horizon. Eugene closes his eyes again and swallows hard, feeling a painful tug at the bruises on his throat.

“I know that,” he says, and the words scrape through his teeth. “Sorry. Just got a little lost in thought, that’s all.”

Cassandra glances back at him, her small smile fading into a frown. Eugene ignores the sinking in his gut and tries for a smile. Her frown deepens.

“It’s all good,” Eugene says, more to Cassandra than Adira. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

He catches up quick, and Adira nods and continues on, long strides and a confident walk. Cassandra doesn’t move. She lets Eugene pass her, and he can feel her watching him, her eyes fixed on his face.

He stops, a momentary pause, a quick glance back. His smile is lopsided and forced, but softer now—more genuine.

“I’m fine, Cass.”

Cassandra stares at him, expressionless and unwavering. Eugene waits.

At last, she nods, short and fast. Eugene sighs under his breath and turns away, following in Adira’s wake, his heels kicking up dust. He can hear Cassandra walking just behind him, in his shadow, supportive and flanking his side as if they’re in a fight. It’s distinctly herding behavior. It makes him want to sigh and laugh all at once.

They reach the animals on the outskirts of the Dark Kingdom, where the black rocks aren’t as numerous and there’s more chalky cliffs than black rock spires. They are still too close to the mountain for comfort, but any farther would be another day’s ride, and they do not have the energy—or the will, for that matter—to go that far.

When he sees them coming up the last hill-rise, Maximus tosses his head and brays in triumph. The sound is loud and jolting in the silence, and cuts short soon after, right when Maximus notices they are alone. Battered and bruised and bloodied, and still no Rapunzel or Varian. His nickering turns low and whining, and Fidela paws anxiously at the ground beside him. Ruddiger ducks back into his now-customary saddlebag.

Pascal, worst of all, takes one look at them and curls up small on Maximus’s head, green scales tinged pale yellow with grief. He hadn’t taken being left behind well, when Eugene and Cassandra had gone with Adira to face the Moon; to have nothing to show for it, even after acquiescing to stay behind…

Eugene winces despite himself. He never thought he’d feel bad for a frog of all things—let alone guilty, what a trip this is turning out to be—but here he is. How can something so small and green inspire so much guilt?

Eugene blows out his cheeks and turns away, ignoring the dumb twisting knots in his gut. It’s wrong. It’s just—all wrong. This should be a triumph, or a step forward, or something, but instead…

Pascal should be sitting up Rapunzel’s shoulder, just like always; Maximus should be strutting about and being annoyingly smug; Cassandra should be grinning and Adira shouldn’t even be here at all. Even Ruddiger, for all that Eugene has little interaction with the tiny rodent, should at least be with Varian. The kid had been mouthy and mean, but there had been moments where even Eugene thought that maybe Varian wasn’t as changed as they thought. Moments that usually occurred because of Ruddiger.

But now Varian is gone, just like Rapunzel, and that raccoon has been hiding in the saddle bag for over a week.

It’s wrong , and Eugene can’t even blame the Moon for half of it. Something’s gone amiss. Something has simply… shifted out of place, the path gone awry, somewhere along the way when they weren’t paying attention. Maybe in the ruins, maybe during that fireside conversation; maybe in those three long days stuck in a cave as the storm rolled over them. Maybe even from the beginning—Rapunzel’s desperate gamble and that chat in the dungeons she thought Eugene didn’t know about, a month and three weeks ago, long before they ever entered this dead land.

Eugene clenches his fists and breathes deep through his nose. It’s not fair, he thinks, which is an entirely childish thought and useless besides. He hasn’t felt this broody in ages; it’s like he’s a teenager again, god. But still. It’s not fair. It shouldn’t have been like this.

Where did we go wrong?

Damn destiny, anyway. He wishes their story had ended after the tower. Happily ever after, just like in the fables. Didn’t Rapunzel at least deserve that much? Didn’t they all?

Hell, he’s sulking now. Eugene hasn’t felt this trapped in years; as a thief he did his best to always leave an escape route. He doesn’t like this feeling at all, not in the slightest. It’s more than irritation, more than anger: he’s restless. Standing here, waiting for a sign… it doesn’t sit well.

He is tightening the straps on Maximus’s saddle, these thoughts swirling in his head as he works. His own anxiety manifests as twitchy fingers and rocking feet, the urge to pace deep grooves into the dirt. Maximus is similar--his head bobs and weaves, ears flicking to and fro, ever alert. It makes Eugene feel tired just watching him, and he places his hand against Maximus’s neck, patting gently in the hopes of soothing him.

As Eugene checks on the next saddle strap, making sure their packs are still secure, Cassandra falls back to stand beside him. Her arms are held straight by her side, her fingers flexing like she’s missing her sword. The scabbard by her side is empty. The absence must be driving her crazy; he knows her well enough by now to recognize the habit as less a threat and more a comfort.

“Eugene.” Cassandra’s voice is low, urgent. Almost a greeting, but there’s a question there too, silent and unspoken. She doesn’t say anything else.

Eugene just sighs, and pulls hard at the strap in a fit of sudden temper. “I know ,” he snaps, irritated by her attention. First Adira, and now her—he’s a goddamn adult, damn it all, he doesn’t need a watcher. But even as he says it, his ire fades. This is Cassandra, a friend despite all the banter and rocky starts. She understands in a way that Adira cannot— she’s leaving Rapunzel behind too.

“I know,” Eugene repeats, a little quieter, still forceful. He fiddles with the pack, but the straps are tight and secure, his task already complete. He lets his head fall into his hands and groans through his fingers. “I know. I just…” He trails off, hands dropping limp to his side, frowning at the dirt.

Cassandra considers him. Her shoulders lift in a helpless shrug; her eyes turn away. “I get it,” she says, simply. “This whole thing… whole situation…” She sighs through her teeth, almost a hiss. “It sucks.”

Eugene laughs, despite the way it tugs at his throat, and lifts one hand to hide his eyes. “Oh, man. That’s one way to describe it.” He can think of a few choice words himself, honestly. “I just… hah. I’m just angry. I can’t understand it. You know?” The words scrape raw in his throat. “How the hell did it come to this?”

Cassandra mulls on this. Her breath rattles, her eyes going distant. She rubs absently at her forearm, under the glove, soft pressure on bruised and irritated flesh. He can see the faint imprint of the Moon’s hand on her skin.

“I don’t know,” she says, at last. Bizarrely sincere, and unusually sad, and it’s enough to make him flinch, regret and helpless anger swelling in his chest.

“I thought it’d be different,” Eugene admits. He shoves his hands into his pockets and kicks his foot through the dirt, watching the dust fly.

“Yeah. Me too.”

“I thought…” He trials off and shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

It doesn’t feel like it’s over, is the thing. And yet, at the same time—he feels as if there is nothing more they can do. That fight with Moon has dragged them both away from grief, given them a task and a chance, and now that it’s done there is nothing left. The grief is still distant—but so is hope.

They are waiting, silent and forced to stand still. Lingering on the fringes of this part of Rapunzel’s story, shoved aside without second thought. Eugene has never had illusions of his own importance (acting as King doesn’t count, thanks), but at the very least—

He’d fancied himself a part of Rapunzel’s world, the same way she became the whole of his, and it aches to learn otherwise. To know that destiny, and magic, and the world… there is a plan in place, a path already set, and Eugene is not a part of it.

The silence settles around them, and Eugene closes his eyes again, breathing in deep through his nose. He aches to look behind him. He aches to look back at the mountain, to stop running, to turn back and try again. To do anything.

“Rapunzel will come back,” Cassandra says, finally. Her voice has gone very quiet, almost fragile—and Eugene winces even as he turns to look at her, afraid of what he’ll see. But for all that her voice is careful, Cassandra herself is steady, stance strong and eyes calm, certain and sure. “Varian, too. Whatever the Moon has planned, they’re both… stubborn.” A pause, and then, forceful and final: “They’ll be okay.”

Eugene manages a smile, brief and bright just at the thought. “Stubborn. Hah! Oh, man, that’s one word for it. They’ve probably already insulted the Moon to her face. Twice, even. What do you think? ‘Old lady,’ maybe, for Varian. Moral lecture from Rapunzel?”

Cassandra snorts, then looks surprised at her own laughter. She lifts one hand and presses her fingers at her temple like the very idea is giving her a headache. “God, no, that’s not what I meant.”

He grins at her, relieved at this return to routine. Laughter is always preferable to… well, anything else. “Hey, I mean, they would! They’re pretty alike, in that. Or—predictable?”

Cassandra pulls a real grimace at this, turning away from him. It’s not enough to hide her expression. Her smile has gone abruptly tight at the edges. “I’d disagree. They’re really not.”

But Eugene is on a roll. “Nah, they kind of are, actually? Maybe that’s why things turned out this way. Blondie rarely changes her mind once she’s decided. Varian’s like that too.” He shrugs, lifting his hands to the air as if to say, who knows?

Cassandra isn’t smiling at all now, though, and the sight makes Eugene sigh. His voice gentles. “Varian just… got stubborn about the wrong things, I guess. But you’re right. Maybe… maybe that will help.” He goes quiet again. “I don’t know.”

“…Eugene.”

He looks up at the sky, pitch-dark and clustered with clouds. Just before dawn, and so dark he can’t even see the horizon. After hours of distraction, Eugene finally gives in, and turns back to look at that looming mountain. The solid stone spires, the gruesome crystal rising up like a distorted crown. An ugly smear on a dead and distant horizon, a shadow to block out even the sun. In this early morning, the darkness is so complete he can’t even see the stars, the clouds heavy and thick like smog.

It is always darkest before dawn, Eugene knows. But he thinks—and he might be a bit biased, but then, who could blame him—this kingdom has a special sort of darkness to it. It lingers on long after the light should have returned.

“I thought it’d be different,” Eugene confesses, so quiet he can hardly hear himself speak. For once there is no laughter in his voice, not even a hint of it; no remnants of his usual swagger. Even his anger has cooled, gone dull and dusted. Even his grief. Now he just feels tired. “I thought, whatever happened here… I’d be there to face it with her. We’d be there. Together. I didn’t… I didn’t want her to do this alone.”

Cassandra’s eyes drop to the ground. “I know.”

“Yeah.”

“We did what we could.”

“Hah! Guess we did.” He rubs at his throat. “Still doesn’t feel like enough.”

“…No,” Cassandra admits. “But we bought time. We distracted the Moon, if only for a little while. So maybe—”

Without warning, Cassandra breaks off mid-word, choking on air. All the color drains from her face, and she stares out blankly at nothing, breathing stuttering on a sharp inhale. Eugene blinks and leans in closer, waving his hand in front of her wide eyes.

“Cass? Hey, Cass, why’d you—”

It hits him suddenly, unexpectedly: vertigo so strong he almost crumples. Eugene freezes in place, his blood running cold in his veins; every hair on the back of his neck stands straight up.

“What—”

The world shatters.

The ground trembles and shakes, the earth upheaving under his feet. Rock buckles and groans, their lanterns swinging hard, the flames going out, flying right off the hooks and shattering against the ground. Light flashes like a flare before his eyes—far off, from the distance, so sudden and sharp that it breaks through the darkness like a knife.

Eugene stumbles and falls, nearly braining himself on a rock, remaining on his feet only because of Cassandra’s bruising grip on his arm. She drags him up and forwards, back to Adira and the horses, but the earth tremors under their feet and sends them both lurching.

“What—what the hell— ”

“Get down!” Adira shouts. She grabs at Eugene’s collar and bodily drags both him and Cassandra away from the solid rock cliff-face. The horses nearly trample them in their race to join them away from the unstable shelter. “Cover your heads!”

Eugene grabs white-knuckled at Maximus’s reins, Cassandra right beside him. His voice reaches previously uncharted ranges of shrill panic. “Hey, hey, what’s happening!?”

“An earthquake!?” Cassandra asks, and another tremor forces them all onto their knees. The earth is splitting in two. The ground ruptures into fissures, groaning and creaking like the broken bow of a ship, straining under some unseen pressure. The air shrieks in agony, wind twisted in tortured contusions. The clouds above roil and churn like a storm, attacked by an unknown foe.

“Can’t be,” Adira snaps, staring up at the sky. She looks, for once, painfully stunned. The sight sends shivers down Eugene’s spine. Anything that could get Adira to lose her composure... “The Dark Kingdom doesn’t get earthquakes, it’s a tornado country!”

The ground quakes again, so hard that dust flies up in large puffs of dark smoke and pebbles bounce like bugs in a frying pan, the air hissing like a stove. Eugene grabs Cassandra’s arm and yanks her away from a growing fissure in the ground. “Sure feels like an earthquake to me!”

For once, Adira does not look at all confident. Her strange poise has cracked along the edges as thoroughly as the earthquake has broken up the ground. The skin around her mouth is tight, eyes white all-around, her expression pinched and pale. “But this—this is—”

She stops mid-word. Her mouth opens, a sharp breath sucked through her teeth. She stares, stunned, and says nothing more.

Eugene follows her gaze, and feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.

“Oh, hell ,” Cassandra whispers.

The mountain is glowing.

Light ripples across the millions of black rocks, a dizzying echo effect. It burns gold and then white-blue and then gold again, an unending gradient that would be a battle if not for how effortlessly the colors bleed into one another. It sputters and starts like a beacon, flashing like a signal trying to start, fading and then brightening to some unheard rhythm. At first it starts near the summit—gold coiling around what little Eugene can see of the Moon’s tower—but even as Eugene watches, the light expands.

It consumes the mountain, sinks deep into the earth like the roots of a tree, the incandescent light carving bleeding rivers into the dusty ground. The black rocks glow intense as a star— all the black rocks, the mountain and all the others, the needle-like forest and the stray few near Eugene’s head, every stone that Eugene can see for miles around shining as white-hot and as bright as they did the day Rapunzel reached out and seized hold of their power back in Old Corona. The rocks twist and turn in their rocky beds, their heavy slants dragging up to a straight vertical, a whole valley of pitch-dark needles piercing the sky.

Eugene’s mind falters and restarts. He grabs Cassandra’s arm and pulls her to her feet. Damn the earthquake, damn proper procedure—if they don’t find cover soon, they’ll be screwed. “We have to run!”

Cassandra stumbles, her eyes wide. “ Where? ”

“I—”

“Here!” Adira cries, and her hand bunches in Eugene’s coat before bodily throwing both him and Cassandra back towards the cliff-face. “Under the ledge! Quickly!”

Eugene slams against the soft stone. The whole world is shaking. He can’t focus. He thinks he can see Maximus—even Fidela—and Cassandra’s grip is painful on his wrist. “The rocks— shit, the rocks, it’s not enough—”

“There’s no time,” Adira snarls back. “We’ve got to—”

She never gets the chance to finish. Far off in the distance, miles and hours away, the light in the tower brightens to a painful intensity. The gold is washed away by a sudden and unyielding wave of moon-bright white, a shine so severe it blinds his eyes. It ripples down the mountain and into the stone. It breaks apart the earth and the sky. It scatters the clouds into vapor.

The world burns white, and then burns away, and Eugene sees nothing else.

-

Rapunzel opens her eyes to a dream.

She stands tall and still, frozen in place by her own confusion, her breath fogging in the air. Her right hand is outstretched, fingers curled closed as if to grasp something out of reach, and her palm tingles with a strange warmth—not painful, not quite, but prickly; uncomfortable.

She turns her hand over slowly, as if in a trance, and stares down at her fingers. Her hands are not bandaged, here. Instead of open wounds, her veins are burning gold, a color so rich and warm it looks like molten metal is tracing across her skin and up her arm.

Her next breath shudders out halfway to a cry. Rapunzel recoils, flinging out her hand as if that will get the light to fade. Something cold ripples at her legs, resistance pulling against her every action. Rapunzel freezes at the sensation, heart catching in her chest, shock and fear mingling in the back of her throat. She looks down.

Water pools at her knees, still and dark, the edges of her torn skirt drifting in the black waters. She can’t see her legs, or her feet—the water is so still and perfect it is practically a mirror, and all she can see is herself: wide-eyed and pale in the face, blood streaking down her cheek.

All at once, memory rushes over her. The Moon. Varian. The bridge, and the Moondrop, and that final choice. Reaching out to take the Opal, taking Varian’s hand for the second time.

White light, burning and bright, scorching the world away.

Rapunzel sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of her reflection, her head snapping up. She whirls around, taking in this new place. She isn’t in the labyrinth anymore. She isn’t in that dark tower; she isn’t even in that wasteland kingdom. She is somewhere else, someplace beyond reality.

Above her head, a spiraling galaxy etches across a royal blue sky. Light dances at the edges of a far horizon, soft and blue with the promise of a brighter day. Planets spiral so close they are like a second moon, hanging solid and heavy in the shining sky. Dark water stretches on into the distance, everywhere she looks, an eternal sea—still and silent and undisturbed, a shining mirror-like floor. If she looks too long in the mirror she can see clouds and the shine of distant seas, houses and roads and city lights—the whole world, her world, seen as if from far, far above.

There is no land, no earth—but neither is this dark ocean empty. In the still waters of this other place, rocks sprout up like spiny flowers from the deep. They rise in patches all around her, the black rocks and even half-submerged ruins, worldly palaces and castles broken down to their bare bones, sinking into the sea. She can see far-off staircases spiraling to nowhere, a distant palace hall leading down into the water, a ballroom with its ceiling torn open to expose the stars.

Rapunzel stares, stunned absolutely speechless. Her breathing rattles in her chest.  The air is soft, cold but not painful, almost sweet in her lungs. The dark waters lap at the base of her knee, and the sensation is odd but also comforting, peaceful and consistent. In the distance she can hear a low rumbling, a distant collapse—one of the ruins sinking deeper into the water, crumbling away. It is quiet, calm, peaceful—and with every second, her panic rises, tears pressing against her eyes.

She doesn’t know this place. She knows nothing like this place. She is in a world that is utterly unfamiliar, alone and confused and lost, so far away from what she knows and loves that it makes her shake. This beautiful, peaceful place—it is almost worse than the labyrinth.

Her breaths wheeze, rapid and thin. Her hands rise to her face—unbandaged, uninjured, unnaturally so, and why, why is this happening? Where is she? She thought, after the Opal—she thought it was over. Why isn’t it over? She wants to go home. She wants to go home. Why can’t they just let her go home?

Rapunzel curls her fingers in her hair and yanks, biting back a furious scream. She’s alone. She’s alone. Her sight is blurring with tears and her hands don’t hurt, and this isn’t right, none of this is right—

“—Rapunzel?”

The voice is distant, soft, faint with terror. It is also familiar.

“Varian?” Rapunzel whispers to herself, disbelieving. The relief that hits her then is so sudden she almost collapses, tears pricking behind her eyes. “Varian! Varian, is that you?”

“Rapunzel!?” He sounds stunned, shocked; she wonders if she is imagining the desperate note of relief in his voice. “Rapunzel, where are you?”

“I’m here!” Rapunzel cries, slogging through the water. The dark sea ripples at her knees, resistance pulling hard at her legs. She moves through the waters slowly, fighting for every step. In the distance, she can see the shadow of someone else against that pale blue horizon. “I can see you! I’m over here!”

He’s standing in the shadow of a broken castle, hidden under the slope of a crumbling hallway, and he startles when he finally sees her. They meet each other halfway, wading through the deep waters; for Varian, the sea rises up to his hips, and he nearly trips into her. She catches his arm and pulls him to his feet, and then drags him into a hug.

He yelps and pulls away, looking startled, and Rapunzel releases him immediately, a little contrite, quietly afraid. He doesn’t snap at her, though—just flushes red and winces like he’s uncertain of how to react, leaning away. In the pale light of this midnight world, his face is cast in deep shadows, the blue of his eyes unnaturally bright. His face is pale and washed-out, near colorless; his expression makes him look drawn and haunted, his fear plain to see.

“You’re here,” Varian says, as if to confirm, and when Rapunzel nods, he winces. “Okay. Okay. You’re here. We’re both… here.” His voice is rising, stuttering and quick, and his eyes dart around restlessly. The whole world seems to unsettle him, his expression only growing more trapped. “What—do you know where we are? What is this place? What happened ?”

This is another realm.

Rapunzel snaps her mouth shut. That—that wasn’t her voice.

Next to her, Varian has gone very, very still. He is frozen, blank and cold, staring out past her shoulder with wide eyes, fury sparking in his face. His teeth are starting to grit.

Rapunzel’s knows this voice, too. She could never mistake it. It is too unique, too distorted, to belong to anyone else.

She looks behind her, and the Moon smiles back with all her teeth.

Unlike the last time Rapunzel saw her, here Moon sits perched on a stray few black rocks, lounging casually on the stone like it’s a throne. Her knees cross, her feet left to dangle over the dark water, the tip of her bare foot casting long ripples into the black sea. She sprawls back against the slanted rocks, elbows resting on her thighs, chin cradled in her palm. Her eyes are like beacons in the low light, expression composed, looking down on them. Her hair drifts serene and slow around her face as if underwater.

No longer does the Moon’s appearance distort—there are no more afterimages, no echoes following her every move. In this place she is thrown into sudden and stark relief: every freckle-like constellation, the sharp sheen of her black skin, each strand of her glowing white hair shining as soft as starlight. She is clothed in muted galaxies and whispering stars, the Milky Way shrugged over her shoulders like a cloak, silver bracers on her slim wrists and bright silver silk braided like a belt at her waist. She looks beautiful, vivid, pristine—real and larger than life in a way she has never been before. If reality makes her appear a ghost, then in this world she is truly a god.

This is a world beside your own, says the Moon, her eyes resting heavy on Rapunzel. The words are flat, lacking in true emotion; she speaks as if she cannot wait to finish. A world above and below. This is where magic was born, where it seeps; the realm of all things, the birthplace of eons. It is my world. A world of dreaming and awakening.

Her explanation makes sense, in a vague way; in actuality, it makes no sense at all. Just like the Moon herself, really. Rapunzel drags in a thin breath and deliberately steps to the side, her arm outstretched, blocking Varian from the god’s line of sight.

“Moon,” she says, soft volume but firm wording. She keeps her voice steady.

Moon tilts her head. Her expression is unreadable, blank and cool, almost distant. It makes Rapunzel shiver. You seem surprised.

“I thought you were gone.” Rapunzel doesn’t waver, but her voice shakes, quiet and a little uncertain. “I saw the light… it…” She falters, remembering Moon’s shrill scream. “You shattered .”

The Moon’s lip curls, but the expression seems forced. She looks away first and when she speaks her voice is oddly monotone, false haughtiness and false composure. I did not break, little Sundrop. I fled. There is a difference.

Movement in the corner of her eye catches Rapunzel’s attention. Varian is stepping up, mouth opening, looking moments away from demanding answers—and on instinct, Rapunzel’s hand snaps out, blocking his path. He halts mid-step and blinks up at her like she’s grown a second head.

“Don’t,” Rapunzel whispers, trembling head-to-toe. She can understand his anger. She can understand his need for answers, and it must grate on him, to be ignored so thoroughly by the god. But Rapunzel—she doesn’t want Moon to see Varian. She doesn’t want him to draw the god’s ire.

For all of Moon’s threats, she has kept Rapunzel alive.

Varian has not been so lucky.

“ Don’t ,” Rapunzel says, “please,” and some of her desperation must bleed through, because Varian stares up at her with a vaguely aghast expression, looking lost and confused and suddenly small, and he steps back when she pushes him behind her. “Please, please don’t.”

He falters and then nods, abruptly quiet, all the anger gone from his face. He allows her to hide him, stays in her shadow. When Rapunzel turns back to the Moon, she can feel cold fingers wrap quietly around her wrist. A loose, almost gentle hold, grounding and kind, like something she’d expect from a much younger child. He doesn’t try to step out again.

Rapunzel breathes, and lets him ground her. When she opens her eyes, the Moon is watching her, expression cold and carefully blank.

“The light,” Rapunzel whispers, and her voice breaks on the words. She clears her throat and tries again, pretending their conversation had never been interrupted. “The light. After you—left—it… grew. There was someone else. That—that figure—person?”

Do not ask these questions, the Moon says. I will not answer.

Rapunzel is undeterred, and all at once, she is also angry. After everything that has happened, everything this woman has put them through—Rapunzel is sick and tired of being kept in the dark. “No. I—I want to know. What was that?”

The Moon grits her teeth. It is none of your concern. I owe you nothing, little girl.

“They were talking,” Rapunzel continues, relentless, halfway to a plea. She is so close to answers. So close to knowing why. And while it may not change a thing, at least then she could know. She wants to know. “I could hear them. Their voice. They said—” She stops. “They said your name.”

Oh, Moon. You were wrong.

That wavering voice, those ice-cold impressions. Regret and fear and hatred. Defiance burning like bile in the back of Rapunzel’s throat, a storm of emotions that did not belong to her. A shining blade, as bright as sunshine… and the sharp, efficient way that figure had drawn back their hand to strike, that blade swinging down deadly and true.

Moon. How could you?

Moon shudders, just briefly, pain flashing across her face so fast that Rapunzel almost thinks she’s imagined it. That— it was nothing. It meant nothing.

“But—”

Stop asking, little Sundrop.

Rapunzel grits her teeth. “They knew you! The light—and that person, they were—”

I told you to stop! Moon shouts, shooting upright, her casual pose lost. Her hands clench into tight fists. Her voice breaks half-way through.

The Moon recoils, stunned by her own emotion, her clawed hands rising up to cover her face. Her breath rattles, choked and hitched, breaking on either tears or rage. Her form flickers, a connection lost. For a moment, her unbroken and smiling face is overlaid by a deeper, darker image; something solid and more real than any illusionary appearance the Moon has shown Rapunzel thus far.

The pale glow of this other world casts Moon’s new appearance in a terrible and gruesome glow. In many ways, she appears much the same—her beautiful black skin, her shining hair, her starlight freckles. But now there is something else, too, and the sight of it horrifies her, shakes Rapunzel to the bone.

The Moon is shattered.

In the Moon’s dark and rock-hard skin, deep cracks carve through her left side, shattered pieces and pitted edges. Deep scars trail like tree roots down her arm and up the left side of her face, scrawling across her collarbones. The worst of the scarring clusters close by her heart, heavy and brutal, jagged edges of broken black rock like cracked crystal. Beneath the Moon’s splayed fingers, one shining eye wavers and splits as if cracked in two.

It is one of the most horrifying and heartbreaking sights Rapunzel has ever seen—because all at once, she knows. She knows that this is what the Moon truly looks like. This is who the Moon truly is.

And Rapunzel can guess, with a terrible certainty, who gave the Moon those scars.

Her tongue feels glued to the roof of her mouth. Her heart drops to her feet. She feels gutted, silenced, slapped. Of all the ways she feared Moon would respond— anger, insults, manipulation, just like Gothel— this, this lapse in composure and break in the smile, was not one of them.

The silence stretches. In the distance, another ruin crumbles into the dark sea, faint rumbling and ripples in the water, pulling at Rapunzel’s dress. As Rapunzel watches, the Moon closes her mismatched eyes and breathes in deeply, shaking like a leaf. With her exhale, the scars fade, the deep fissures in her skin resealing—the illusion set in place once again.

The Moon drops her hands away from her face, smoothing back her hair, every motion casual as if her lapse never happened. But her smile has gone cold, more a grimace, edged with a quiet pain. There is a brightness to her eyes that, if this woman had been anyone else, Rapunzel would have said they were tears.

It happened long ago, the Moon says, at last. Her voice is soft, distant and weak with an unseen strain. Flat and resigned. She knows what they have seen, but she does not address it. She just closes her eyes again, her breath shuddering. A memory.

“A memory,” Rapunzel repeats, whispering and thin. She feels numb, remembering the tower with a sick twist to her insides. The figure in the light (the Sun , some part of her whispers, the Sun, the Sun, the Sun )—they had wielded a sword, in the end. Hand pulled back, blade shining… and for Rapunzel, that blow never hit.

And yet. If that was the memory, then perhaps, in reality—

She doesn’t want to think about it.

“A memory of what?” Rapunzel asks, and her voice is softer than she’s ever heard it.

Moon opens her eyes, slow and thoughtful. Her hands fist in the silken fabric of her dress, twisting galaxies into tangled knots. What else? Beginnings. Endings. The day you and your counterpart fell. Sun’s tear… my blood. A Sundrop and a Moondrop. A dual creation. She shudders, raising her hands, curling her arms close as if to comfort herself.  I… I should not have forced your hand, back in the tower. Not so close to the Moondrop. I did not think… the resonance—

Abruptly, her expression goes cold. Her voice hardens. No. I didn’t think.

A smile crawls across Moon’s face. It’s terrible, sickly, a sickle. It cuts her mouth in a gruesome line and exposes needle-like teeth, but worst of all is the emptiness of it, a horrible lack of joy. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

I got exactly what I deserved.

Rapunzel stares up at her. She doesn’t move. She has no idea what to make of Moon, these strange and mercurial emotions. Each time she has met Moon, the woman has been something new. Smiling and cruel. Angry and vengeful. Sly and cold. Desperate and ruthless. And now, this— quiet and bitter, as if all her masks have been torn away, leaving her with nothing but the ashes of every other emotion.

Hah. Yes. I got exactly what I deserved. I should have killed your little friends from the moment they entered my land; instead I let them live and let them distract me. I should have never have played two games at once. I should not have answered your call. So little time, and I lost hold of it—so of course this what I am left with. Absolutely nothing at all. She laughs, short and sweet. What beautiful irony.

Rapunzel doesn’t understand, but something tells her that if she asks, nothing Moon says will count as an answer. The god seems lost in her own mind, wrapped up in her own bitterness. Her smile is not a threat, but somehow it is the most terrifying expression she has worn yet. Possibly because it is the most human thing Rapunzel has seen from her.

Rapunzel doesn’t like the Moon. She might even hate her, after everything that has happened—there is so much of Moon that reminds her of Gothel. She hates it. She hates her. And yet…

She can’t help but pity her, just a bit. She cannot help but empathize.

Rapunzel takes a careful step closer, keeping Varian close but still half-hidden behind her. She doesn’t want him to catch Moon’s attention—especially not now, with the god like this. She chews on her inner cheek, considering.

“Please tell me,” Rapunzel says, quiet and careful and so, so gentle. She isn’t fighting. She will not let any of her anger show. The Moon has been compromising thus far, but Rapunzel refuses to test her patience. Not with Varian here. Not now, after everything, so close to an ending. “What happened? The Opal—this place—me.” Her voice stutters, despite herself. “You said—you know—the Sundrop. Me. What’s… what’s happening to me?”

It’s a safe topic, all things considered—it has nothing to do with Moon at all. But it hurts, to ask these questions. To acknowledge that fear. Rapunzel’s blood shattered the golem’s arm into shards. Her tears had sparked a resonance of memory and light. Her eyes had glowed golden like the sun, and Rapunzel still can’t find enough energy to panic about that—but it still scares her. Her own rapid healing, that power burning through her blood…

The labyrinth has made one thing horribly clear to her. Rapunzel is human, yes. But that is not all she is, and the very thought makes her blood run cold.

At the very least, the question serves to pull the Moon free from her rambling. The god considers her, watching Rapunzel’s face, mulling over an answer. After a long pause, her hand lifts, and one clawed finger points to Varian. Rapunzel steps more firmly in front of him on sheer reflex and a vaguely bitter expression crosses Moon’s face. Her hand drops back to her side.

That boy, she says, short and halting. He is alive, is he not?

Rapunzel watches her, wary.

Alive and whole—well, mostly. Do you know why? Defiance. He was dead, but you defied his fate. I offered you an ending, and you deemed it ‘not enough.’ You wished for a happy ending, and the world bent to your will.

Rapunzel stares. “But—the song—”

Silly girl, Moon says. The song is only a surface. In a well of water, the shine you see is but a reflection; the true depth is unknown. You have been skimming the pond your whole life and never known it.

She tilts back her head, eyes turning to the horizon, that pale strip of blue. What you are is a power with untold potential. The song only worked for your hair. Your tears, your blood, you —all you are is power. Power shaped by defiance. A wish for a happy ending and a kinder world, and a willingness to fight for it. Another sickle-sick smile. Humans always saw Sun as kind, passive. I have always found that funny. Healing was not her nature; it was merely an option.

“What are you saying? That I wanted him alive, and so—I, I willed him back to life?”

Moon sighs, cupping her cheek in one clawed hand. She is still watching the horizon. Simple, yes?

Rapunzel stares at her. Moon’s help, her response, her whiplashing emotions—it terrifies her. She doesn’t know how to read her. She doesn’t know the right way to act. Her lips tremble. She feels cold. She doesn’t know what words will turn Moon back into the bad guy.

“Why are you telling me this?” Rapunzel asks, and her voice has gone very small.

Moon startles, blinking down at her—and then she tilts back her head and laughs. The sound is awful, high-pitched and cold and utterly defeated. It makes Rapunzel's skin crawl. Why not? You have won, have you not? She holds out her hands to an invisible audience, her smile slashing her face in two. Her eyes are as bright as diamonds. You called my bluff. You saved the dying boy. You reached the end of my labyrinth. And you have even managed to defy me. I have nothing left. No other plans. No other ideas. Revenge would be hollow and petty and unbefitting of my station. What else am I to do, little Sundrop?

She doesn’t know how to answer; her mind blanks and her panic spikes. What is the right thing to say? The safe thing? What will get them out alive? An apology, perhaps—but even the idea makes her stomach roil, because Rapunzel is not sorry. She will never be sorry. Not when Moon’s idea of victory would have left Varian dead and Rapunzel in tatters.

Cold fingers abruptly squeeze her wrist. Rapunzel jumps outright at the sensation, water sloshing violently at her legs. She barely has time to take in Varian’s expression before he moves past her, stepping out of her shadow and into Moon’s line of sight.

Horror climbs up Rapunzel’s throat. She snatches at his wrist and goes to pull him back, but Varian shakes her off before she can get a proper grip. He looks at her, only for a second—resolute and determined and with the beginnings of anger in his eyes, an anger that makes her flinch. He doesn’t say a word, and he doesn’t need to.

Rapunzel lets him go, her heart in her throat.

Varian doesn’t smile, and nor does he thank her. He just nods, short and sure, and then turns to face the Moon, arms crossed and weight leaning back on his heels. She can’t see his face anymore, but she can see his anger in the tense line of his shoulders and the way his fingers curl viciously into his sleeves.

“Sucks to be you then, old lady,” Varian says, and his voice is cold, sharp and snapped. “Stop pitying yourself, it’s not like we care. Can we cut to the chase? What do you want? Why are we here?”

Rapunzel sucks in a sharp inhale, stunned by his daring, too horrified to stop him. Above them, Moon clenches her jaw, her bright eyes flashing in the shadows. Her teeth are a bone-white pale gleam through her snarl.

You were more polite back when you were dying, little boy.

“Maybe I’m just getting sick of you yanking us around at the drop of a hat,” Varian snaps back. He doesn’t back down, glaring up at the Moon the same way he once looked at Rapunzel, only a week ago. Vicious and cold and disdainful, sneering and sure in his anger. “I thought it was over, before. But now… this is—what, counting the dreams—the twentieth time? And I can’t even remember half of them! Give us a break! ”

Moon scoffs. I knew you to be angry—I did not know you were foolish. Come now, boy. Show some respect. I brought you here, after all. A thin and sharp smile, stretching her eyes open wide. There is the promise of violence in the bare of her teeth, hatred in the way her lips curl. And I am the only thing that can let you out.

Rapunzel forces herself not to react to that, pulling back her shoulders and holding herself still. Varian is not as expressionless. He flinches at the threat, just barely, and then his face shudders and shuts down, expression cool and distant.

Rapunzel watches him from the corner of her eye, feeling odd. She is well-used to Varian’s moods and venom, but this is the first time he has been on her side instead of against her when he is like this. It’s… weird.

She is not sure what to feel. In a way, it is distancing; it is like she has lost him, as if they’ve returned to months ago when he was still undeniably an enemy. And yet, at the same time—it is stark proof of how much things have changed. That anger, that hatred—in this moment, it is not directed at her.

Varian clenches his jaw, his mouth working. “Fine,” he says at last, with a precise politeness that’s almost clipped. It’s the same tone he used on Rapunzel’s father back in his lab, polite and faintly mocking, veiled venom in otherwise civil wording. “May I ask, then, Great Lady? How are we here? What happened to us? We took the Moondrop, and then…?”

He trails off, expectant; Rapunzel reaches over and squeezes his arm. He’s trembling.

Moon contemplates him for a long time, saying nothing. The dark waters splash at her rocky perch, and yet, not a single droplet hits her. Against that starry sky, her face haloed by the icy blue of that distant horizon, she seems utterly immovable. Her eyes are half-lidded and cold.

And yet—even now, there is something different about her. Not so much anger as it is exhaustion. She looks at Varian with an expression that is almost defeat.

Yes, you did, she agrees, composure returned. I brought you here to speak further. To be certain of the Sundrop’s choice. One last conversation before my kingdom burns away for good, now that its purpose is lost. She scoffs, almost to herself. Another shift . Her eyes turn to Rapunzel, weighted and cold. I thought I would talk to you alone, Sundrop. And yet. You don’t do anything by halves, do you?

Varian stills and steps forward before Rapunzel can answer. “Wait. You only expected Rapunzel? So why am I—?”

You should not be here, the Moon mutters, sounding frustrated. No, no. But she took you with her. She did not leave you behind. The Opal—you took it together. You, Sundrop girl—you gave it to him. You do not even realize the significance. He was supposed to stay behind. Let his corpse vanish with the labyrinth. And yet. Here you are. Here you both are. How utterly vexing. Nothing is as it should be.

“As it should be,” Rapunzel whispers, watching her. “Or… as you wanted it to be?”

The Moon pauses. Her gaze drifts away again. I always get my way.

“…No one has ever told you no?”

No? No!? Hah! I am so sick of that word. No, Moon. Don’t, Moon. Stop, Moon. She reaches up and places one hand over her heart, fingertips brushing a hidden wound. She doesn’t even seem to realize she’s doing it.  No, no, no. For once I simply wanted it to be about me. I wanted to be right. I wanted her to know I was right. How could I have been wrong, after all? I’ve seen humanity. I know your kind. How could she still…? And yet. Hah! I could not even convince you, Sundrop girl. So what does that say, then, about me?

Rapunzel licks at her lips, thinking. All of Moon’s little hints, her vague wording, the way she looks at Rapunzel… almost as if seeing something—or some one —else.

“You wanted me to be like her. Like… the Sun. Didn’t you.”

Like her? Who am I fooling? You have none of her virtues but all of her flaws, and in that way, you are exactly like her. No, I wanted… I wanted you to be better. I wanted you to prove me right. Her eyes go distant. But you didn’t.

A thoughtful pause, and then her shoulders slump. I chose him. One finger turns to Varian. Someone you hated. Someone you feared. Someone not worth saving. And yet. You saved him anyway. You took him with you. She turns to Rapunzel. Her eyes are bright. Why?

It’s a fair question, all things considered. And yet—it’s the one question Rapunzel cannot answer. She doesn’t know. There’s a reason, of course, but it’s not a reason she can put into words. It is too big, too much, too complicated for that. And Rapunzel—Rapunzel is not interested in teaching basic human decency to a woman who treats those words like a foreign tongue.

“It wouldn’t mean a thing, if I told you the answer. You wouldn’t understand.” Rapunzel meets Moon’s eyes, and shakes her head, biting back a sigh. Her expression is determined, her stare resolute. “Figure it out yourself.”

Moon stares at her. That… that is not how this works. I demand—

“I don’t care,” Rapunzel says, with cold finality. “Varian—” She squeezes his wrist, well-aware of how carefully still he is holding himself. She can feel his eyes on her, but she doesn’t dare look away from the Moon. “He’s not what you say he is. He’s not. That’s not all he is. And if you think that, then—then you haven’t really been looking at all.”

Moon goes quiet for a long time. You would do this? she asks finally. Her voice is tired, defeated. Her fury, her fickle furor, has died down to a dull resentment. This is your choice? You take my gift, and give it away before it has even graced your palm?

For a split second, Rapunzel has no idea what she’s talking about. Then she remembers. The Opal. She isn’t sure what Moon means—why she says ‘giving it away’ when they took it together—but it doesn’t really matter, either way. Rapunzel has her answer.

“I won’t leave him behind,” she says, pulling back her shoulders and lifting her chin. Her stance is set. Her arms are loose by her sides; her hands are curled into fists. She thinks of her mother—of Queen Arianna and the way she holds herself tall, stately and still and unyielding—and draws on the memory, trying her best to mimic her mother’s fierce resolve. “No matter what you say, no matter what you do, I am not leaving anyone behind. If that’s the choice you mean… then yes.”

Rapunzel holds herself tall and her voice rings out clear and cold over the silent sea. “This is my choice.”

Such conviction, Moon says, at long last. Such certainty, even though it is clear to me you have no idea what you are talking about. And yet. There is still truth to your words. You claim to have seen something I have not? Very well. I accept this wager. Perhaps I have not been watching closely enough.

Rapunzel stills. “Wait,” she says. The air presses down her. Every breath is like ice in her lungs. “W-wait, what are you—”

But Moon is no longer talking to her. One more game, she muses, to herself.  One more chance. Yes. Why not? I will watch. I will see. I will accept the Sundrop’s choice for now. I will discover for myself if I have missed something.

Abruptly, her eyes snap down to Varian. Her expression hardens. But know this, little one.

She draws back her hand, and suddenly she is gone from the rocks, standing before Varian, her hand high and light gathering in her palm, power searing through her fingertips. Her hands are long and thin—and her nails are curled, sharp as talons, gleaming in the starlight.

“Varian!”

If I judge you to have failed, boy…

There is no time. No time to run. No time to even pull him away. Rapunzel reaches out, her heart in her throat, and Varian stares up at Moon with wide eyes.

There will be no more second chances.

Moon straightens her fingers, knife-like nails gleaming in the light, and punches her clawed hand right through Varian’s chest.

-

Rapunzel opens her eyes to reality.

She’s lying on her back, pressed flat against the ground, and when she curls her fingers dirt catches under her nails. Sensation, muted in that dreaming world, rushes back full force: every ache and every bruise, the throbbing pain in her hands and fingers, her sore soles, the dried blood that tugs and irritates at her skin.

She takes a breath and chokes on dust.

Rapunzel shoots upright, sitting hunched over her knees, hacking up half a lung. She feels both as if she’s run a mile and also slept for a thousand years—every inch of her aches like an old bruise, her skin tingling with pins and needles. Her head spins, her vision dizzy, her stomach sick.

Rapunzel presses the back of her hand against her forehead, breathing quick and shallow, struggling to clear her vision. The blurriness stays. Where is she? What’s happened? The last thing she can remember—she’d been somewhere else, that strange place with its endless seas, the Moon with her vicious scars… the god has asked her if she was certain of her choice, and then—

Varian.  

Her last memory of the dream. The Moon had vanished, and reappeared in front of Varian, and then she had—

There will be no more second chances.

Rapunzel’s breath locks in her throat. Even her heart seems to skip a beat. Oh, god. Varian. If the Moon has killed him again, then—then—

She can’t have killed him. Not again. Not after everything.

“Varian!” she cries, struggling to climb to her feet. The world is oddly hazy to her eyes, bright enough to hurt. After so long in the dark, even this pale illumination is enough to make her eyes itch, the world blurry and indistinct. She can’t focus—in truth, she can barely see at all . Where is she?

“ Varian! ”

She stumbles onto her feet and then yelps in surprise and pain when her legs give out, her exhausted body finally betraying her. Rapunzel falls into a one-legged kneel, catching herself on the ground with one foot. She barely notices her own reflex. She fights in vain to focus her blurry vision, to pick out shape and form in this mix of shiny light and shadow. Everything is a mix of pale colors and deep shades, melded so thoroughly she can’t even see her own hand in front of her face.

Rapunzel doesn’t give up. Varian has to be here. He simply must be. After everything that’s happened—

There!

A shadow in the corner of her eye—an odd shape that might be a body. Rapunzel forces herself onto her feet and staggers over, falling hard on her knees beside him. She thinks he might be on his side, half-curled in a fetal position. This close, she can see a little better: he’s still and small on the ground. She can’t tell if he’s breathing, and she can’t see his chest rise.

Rapunzel reaches for his shoulder, feeling cold, her lips numb. She is terrified to touch him. Her fingers shake in the air. She isn’t breathing—her own breath held, already fearing the worst.

Varian starts coughing.

He shakes, shivers, and then groans faintly, a pained hiss through his teeth. Rapunzel stares, shocked still, watching blankly as his eyes blink open and he rolls over onto his back, clear and unseeing eyes blinking up at nothing. He stares blankly above Rapunzel’s head, and then his eyes drift to her face. For a moment, he doesn’t seem to recognize her. He looks almost bemused.

Then something in his eyes clicks. Varian sucks in a sharp inhale, and his eyes go wide. His hand goes to his chest and he lurches upright so suddenly that Rapunzel has to scramble out of the way to avoid knocking his head.

“She impaled me!” Varian shouts. He sounds stunned. Shocked. Near insulted. “With her hand! What the hell!”

Rapunzel stares at him. She can’t think. A moment ago, she thought he might be dead, and now he’s cursing and spluttering, vividly alive. The emotional whiplash is almost too much. Her sight is still distressingly blurry, but from what she can see—Varian’s okay. They’re both okay. Despite everything, they’re still here.

Rapunzel makes a small noise, totally involuntary. She claps a hand over her mouth. She can feel her smile stretch wide and wild across her face. Her shoulders are shaking.

“Are—are you laughing at me!?” Varian says, sounding scandalized. “I—I can’t—no, no, stop laughing!”

But even as he says it, his voice is starting to shake too. Varian claps a hand over his mouth, but Rapunzel can still see a watery smile starting to stretch out beneath his fingers. His shoulders are shaking. He bows over his knees and a small, high-pitched giggle crawls from his throat. He presses both hands against his face and trembles.

Rapunzel falls back hard, sitting up on her elbows, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth and giggling helplessly. “Oh,” she says. “Oh, no, I’m not—I swear I’m not—” But she can feel the laughter crawling up throat, and her smile is just getting wider. “Oh my god, Varian, are you okay?”

“Shut up, stop it, it hurts to laugh, ” Varian says, and scrunches up smaller. “Oh, my god. How am I okay? I mean. I—I’m not impaled? I don’t—” His head snaps up and he waves his hands wildly about his front, still laughing, soft and disbelieving and almost offended. “God! There’s! No blood! And I don’t hurt! But I swear she—and there was—what the heck was that place?”

He stops mid-rant, breathing heavily, and his head snaps back to her. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. I’m not crazy, right? You saw it too? That place? The sea, and the sky and, and—”

“The Moon,” Rapunzel says, still hiding her face. “Those scars…”

“And then she stabbed me ,” Varian mutters, and his fingers tap restlessly against his knee. He giggles again, then smacks his hands against his cheeks to calm down. “No, damn it, focus…  Okay. Okay. So I wasn’t—that wasn’t a near-death hallucination, nice to know. But I still don’t—that doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. The stone—Moondrop?”

“Opal, I think.”

“Opal, right, whichever—we got it, right? And then—but, I, I don’t—where’s the Opal now? I don’t have it. You’re not holding it. And—and—”

All at once, Varian stops cold. His eyes go impossibly wide, and his next breath is sharp and quick, held behind his teeth. “Rapunzel. Where… where are we?”

Rapunzel blinks. Her eyesight is still a bit fuzzy, but it has been steadily clearing since she found Varian, and abruptly she realizes that she— she doesn’t know. She hasn’t even thought to look. She has been too afraid to think, to hope, because she isn’t sure what she’ll do if she finds out she’s wrong.

Rapunzel cups her hands in her lap, staring down at the bloodied bandages. Her hair falls like a heavy curtain in front of her face. She doesn’t want to look. She’s so scared to look. She doesn’t want to be let down again.

Rapunzel closes her eyes and grits her teeth, and tilts back her head to the sky. She has faced down the Moon, the labyrinth, and the golem. She can do this.

Rapunzel opens her eyes, and sees the stars.

Her breath stills. She knows these stars. She knows these constellations. This is not the vivid clutter of that other realm. This is—these are her stars. This is Rapunzel’s sky.

The sky.

Rapunzel can see the sky.

At this time of morning, the firmament is still the deep black or maybe just very dark blue of nighttime, rich and royal, stars and constellations faint and scrawling across the canvas. The moon is low in the sky and dimming with the coming day. At the edges of the world, pale blue eats at the dark edge of the night. Blue, and beyond that—pinks, oranges, reds. The rose-gold flush of the dawn lighting up the clouds over an empty plain, silhouetting the dark horizon of a distant forest, the trees pinpricks, spiking up in the sunlight like an iron fence. The Moon’s tower—the rocks—the labyrinth is gone. All Rapunzel can see is the sky, and the sun, slowly rising.

Rapunzel can see the whole world, and it’s like escaping her tower all over again. That first morning, after Gothel fell and she left the tower for good—Eugene had stood with her in the blush of early morning, holding her hand as she watched the sunrise over the kingdom of Corona. It had been the first sunrise she’s ever seen from outside her tower. The sight—that golden glow, the shine of the water, the kingdom all aglow and the sky flushing pink from the sunlight—had been one of the most magical things Rapunzel had ever seen.

Now, a year and a half later, Rapunzel stares at the rising sun, and feels that same something bubble up in her chest. Something light and relieved and warm like the sun breaking out over those clouds. Her cheeks feel flushed. Her eyes are hot with tears.

“We’re free,” Rapunzel whispers. Something rises in her chest, her throat, her heart. A feeling that swells up like a balloon. She feels so light she could almost float, and first she starts to cry and then she starts to laugh. She falls out on her back with arms outstretched, and lets the tears roll down her face. “We—we’re free. We’re out. We’re free. ”

“Oh,” Varian says, blank and toneless beside her. “I thought—I thought I was seeing things.”

“That’s the sky.”

“I see that,” Varian replies, mild, and then his shoulders start to shake and he suddenly buries his head in his hands. “Oh. Oh.”

And then he starts to laugh, too.

The laughter comes from deep inside them, stuttering and broken and wild. It tears itself free and leaves them breathless, hunched over on the ground wheezing for breath, tears streaming down their faces.

It’s an ugly, deep-hearted sort of laugh: it’s a victory, it’s a realization, it’s a budding and bone-deep relief. Two children crying out and laughing themselves sick in the soft glow of sunrise, their voices rising out over this deserted plain. They must look frightful, some part of Rapunzel thinks. They must look absolutely crazy.

She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care in the slightest. They’re out. The labyrinth is gone. She’s free. Varian and her—they’re both free.

Why shouldn’t Rapunzel laugh? Why shouldn’t they smile?

They’ve won.

“We’re out,” Rapunzel says, breathless and shaking. “We got out. It’s over.” She smiles, disbelieving, staring up at the sky with blurry eyes. Her voice shakes. “It’s finally over.”

Varian is still laughing, high and thin. “We won!”

“We won,” Rapunzel agrees. Her smile is so wide is actually hurts her face. It’s so wonderful to have something to smile about. The joy swells up in her chest, fit to burst. “We won!”

Varian practically beams at her. “We got out. It’s gone! The labyrinth is gone! It’s…”

All at once, Varian falls quiet. His mouth hangs open. He draws in a slow breath, and then his eyes go wide and stunned, the joy sliding right off his face.

“It’s…”

Rapunzel’s own smile falls at the look on his face. “Varian? What is it?”

“Rapunzel, the labyrinth…” He turns to her, looking almost as if he’s been slapped. “It’s gone .”

Rapunzel opens her mouth. Of course, she almost says. Haven’t they already gathered that? But something in his words makes her pause, and all at once, realization strikes.

The labyrinth… the Moon’s Tower, the black rocks, even the crystal—

It’s all gone.

She cannot believe she missed it. She’d been so focused on the sky she’d missed the obvious. How could she see the horizon? How could they be outside at all? This dark land is all rocks, broken cliff-faces and dead rolling hills and that gruesome dark stone mountain in the center of it all. But Rapunzel can no longer see those things. No rocks, jutting out like a gruesome forest. No fog, hiding the world from view. No sharp crystal… no rocky labyrinth… no tower.

Rapunzel forces herself onto her feet, turning on her heel. She takes in the world with new eyes.

The whole land has been stripped bare.

It is one of the most bizarre things Rapunzel has ever seen. They are standing in the center of what looks like a giant shock wave, the earth is stripped bare in a perfect circle about twenty feet around them in total, clear of everything but the dust. And beyond that—

It looks like the aftermath of an explosion, Rapunzel thinks, because quite frankly she has nothing else to compare it too. It looks like a firework has burst out at their feet, shards of crystal and pieces of black stone cast out flat on the ground in tiny pieces, arrow-head slivers of rock. In the rising sun, the black stone-and-crystal shards glitter like a sea, shining and gleaming in the coming light. It stretches out almost endlessly, shrapnel as far as her eyes can see.

Beyond this debris, there is nothing else. Just the stone hills and cliffs, the far-off stripped wasteland they had traveled over in order to reach this place. And beyond them, the horizon, once hidden by the mountain’s view—trees, flatlands, endless possibility. The mountain had blocked the road, stopped them in their tracks, and now that it is gone she can see out to the sunrise. Distant trees, distant mountains, the whole horizon.

In this place, standing here, Rapunzel feels as if she can see the entire world.

“The labyrinth, it’s… it’s gone.” Rapunzel turns to meet Varian’s eyes, her own stunned surprise reflected on his face. “We… did we do that?”

Varian opens his mouth and then snaps it shut again. He sways lightly on his feet. “I,” he says. “I don’t know? This doesn’t make sense. We—did we blow up the mountain? But— but how? And this, this pattern, that can’t— and if we blew up the tower—we were in that tower!” His voice rises and he gestures, wild. “Like, top floor! We were really high up! How did we get down here? Why are we okay!? I—this doesn’t make any sense!”

Rapunzel considers this, trying desperately to drag her mind back into working order. “Well…”

“…Please don’t say magic, Princess.”

She offers him a wan smile. “Do you have a better idea?”

Varian takes another breath and holds up his hand, one finger to the air. Then he slumps and covers his face with his hands. His voice is muffled, almost a whine. “I hate magic.”

His childish dislike of all things magical almost makes her smile again, but the view has her too upset for that. Her wild laughter from minutes ago has faded entirely with this new shock. Rapunzel shakes her head and hesitantly turns back to the horizon, searching the empty plains.

It’s gone. It’s really gone. Everything she went through here, in this land, in that dark labyrinth, and now… there’s nothing left of it. Only broken pieces and shattered shards. Everything remaining of that old kingdom… gone, now, without a trace.

She inhales slowly, deep and steadying. The air is cold. It tastes cold. It ices over her throat and cools her heart.

“So,” Varian says, after a long pause. His voice has gone suddenly quiet, uncertain. “…What now?”

He is standing too, now. Standing away from her—no longer close to her side. He’s stepped back. He’s stepped away. He is watching her, and there is a look on his face that Rapunzel cannot put a name to.

Reality crashes down over her head. Suddenly the space between them gapes open. The trust they had been forced to put in one another, the reliance they’d needed to survive the labyrinth—it goes stale, weak under the return of everything else. Who they are and what they’ve done, and the uncertain future sprawling out before them. They are free, and with freedom, reality comes bearing down.

In the distance, the sun peeks out over that faint shadowy tree-line, and the piercing light breaks them apart.

Rapunzel exhales, watching her breath fog. “I… I don’t know.”

The silence stretches. Rapunzel closes her eyes and bows her head, uncertain and feeling abruptly alone. Her throat is tight.

A sudden onset of rattling forcibly draws her back to the moment. Rapunzel turns to look at Varian, her heart sinking in her chest. He won’t meet her eyes. His gaze is fixed stubbornly on the ground, face set as if he’s trying to be emotionless. His hands are held straight and outstretched in front of him. The chains rattle in the breeze.

Rapunzel had almost forgotten about the chains. In the darkness of the labyrinth, the dull iron had blended well with the walls, insubstantial compared to the worry over Varian’s leg and ear and growing weakness.

Now, in the light of the rising dawn, they are suddenly cast into sharp relief. Dark and dull iron encircling skinny wrists, his skin pinched and colored as white as a fish’s belly from lack of sun. The trailing links that connects the handcuffs are broken, and that small remaining length of chain waves with the wind. The manacles, heavy and cinched tight, are utterly intact. Stained by blood and dirt and tears—but whole, like a garish and ugly bracelet.

“Then,” says Varian. “I guess you’re taking me back.”

Rapunzel stares at those chains. She feels hollowed. “Back?”

“To… to Corona, right? We… we found the end of this path. The rocks, and the labyrinth—it’s all gone, right? So it’s done. It’s over. So— you’re going back to Corona. And, after what I did...”

He almost seems to falter, his voice shrinking in on itself. Varian takes a breath and forcibly straightens, but still can’t quite look her in the eyes; his gaze stares off blankly past her ear. “I… I won’t cause any trouble. If that’s what you’re worried about, I mean. I’ll go quietly. I won’t—I’ll stay out of your way. I won’t pick fights. So it’s okay.”

Rapunzel clenches her jaw, pressing her lips in a thin line and looking away, unable to bear the look on his face. She aches to clasp her hands into fists, but her wounds are already aching. Her heart hurts.

She doesn’t answer.

“I, I won’t—I won’t cause any more trouble,” Varian continues. His voice is starting to shake. He’s trying to keep the peace the only way he knows how, and it burns.  Reality is like a slap to the face. His crimes have never been closer to the forefront of her mind, and instead of laughing, now Rapunzel is fighting not to cry. “You were right, I hurt people, and that’s… so I won’t fight. I, I won’t…”

He trails off, and his chains rattle. He’s shaking. His voice is small and thin and childlike, and hearing him is like a knife to the gut. “Rapunzel? Princess? I—what do you want me to say? I don’t—I don’t know what…”

Rapunzel tries to imagine it. She imagines taking Varian back to Corona in chains. She imagines putting him back into the cells as if nothing has changed. She imagines facing her father, his anger and his fear and his worry, trying to explain the difference. That the boy who held an arrow to her throat is not the same boy they returned with. She tries to imagine what sort of life he’ll lead—and what kind of life she’ll lead, knowing all the while she’s done what she swore never to do, and locked someone else in a tower.

Rapunzel imagines a future, and feels bile burn sour in her throat.

“Varian,” Rapunzel says, distant and dazed, and sees him still in the corner of her eyes. “I—I just—please give me a moment.”

“Wait, I—”

“I just need a moment,” Rapunzel repeats, and this time Varian is silent.

Rapunzel turns away. She feels distant, disconnected from herself. It is someone else walking away, taking slow steps to the firework burst of stone and debris. It is someone else who kneels by the black stone shards and shifts through the broken pieces. It is someone else, someone else’s bandaged hand and someone else’s heartbeat.

It is Rapunzel who picks up the shard.

It is a heavy fragment—long and thin like a spearhead, and her fingers can wrap around it entirely, even if it hurts to move her hand. The ends are sharp, thin and pointed like a blade. Pitch black and lined with thin crosshairs, and when she takes it in her palm it glows a soft and royal blue.

Black rock, unbreakable, unyielding. It will do.

She curls her fingers around the shard of black rock and feels a stabbing pain shoot up her hand. She ignores it. The pain draws her back, forces her awake; she is suddenly and sharply aware of herself. The touch of cold wind through her hair, the pull of dried blood at her cheeks, the soft dirt under her bare feet.

Rapunzel climbs back onto her feet, and her heart shakes and then settles. Her choice is instantaneous, and with this choice, her anxiety bleeds away. When she turns back to Varian, it with steady hands and a pale smile. He’s looking at her as if he’s seen a ghost.

Rapunzel’s mind is whirling, a million thoughts per hour. She’s breathing funny. Some part of her, the part that always sounds a bit like Gothel, is wailing in her head that this is a terrible idea. Don’t you ever learn, you stupid girl?  But the rest of her is resolute.

“Varian,” Rapunzel says. To her own ears, her voice is different. She sounds soft, certain—final. “Give me your hand.”

He gapes at her. “I—I don’t—”

“Please,” Rapunzel says. She still sounds so, so calm. Her hands are starting to shake. “Please.”

And something must bleed through her voice, because Varian stops. He rocks back on his heels and goes white in the face, but he doesn’t argue. He just watches her. Uncertain and a little afraid, his eyes flickering from her face to the shard in her hand.

“Okay,” he says, at last. His voice is very quiet. He offers his wrist, and his hands are shaking hard enough to make the chains rattle and clink.

Rapunzel takes his arm, pulling it straight and turning his wrist to the side. She doesn’t want to hurt him. She judges the distance, the angle, where the iron might be weak, and then she raises the shard of black rock above her head.

Varian shakes in her grip. He looks confused and tired, mostly scared. And yet, even so—he doesn’t say a word.

Some small part of her is still against this. The part that remembers how he looked when he held the arrow above her head. His snarl when he threatened to crush both Cassandra and her mother to death.  His words—poisonous, sneering, cold to the core—as he threatened and lied and spat venom in response to kindness. The part of her that whispers, fierce and firm, that no matter what has changed, he still must serve his sentence. No matter his apologies, she cannot trust him to keep his word.

But Rapunzel, for all that she thinks justice is necessary, is also selfish. She has been a girl in a tower far longer than she has been a princess, and it is that part of her that keeps her hands steady.

Even if Rapunzel cannot—should not—trust him, she cannot help but think of the tower. Moon’s tower. Rapunzel had offered Varian another chance. She had asked him to come with her. And Varian—he chose to trust her. He took her hand. He had apologized. It must have scared him half to death, but he’d still done it.

I trust you. Just the memory of that moment makes her heart soar. Isn’t it only fair, then, for Rapunzel to at least try to trust him in return?

If she takes him back to Corona, he will be locked away. He will be judged, and sentenced, and imprisoned. Maybe he even deserves it.

But it would be the same as locking him in a tower, and that is the one thing Rapunzel cannot do. The one thing she’ll never be able to do. Not to anyone—but maybe especially not to Varian. Not after everything they’ve been through.

Rapunzel adjusts her grip on the shard, and tears the black rock through Varian’s manacle.

It cuts like a hot knife through butter. Iron shatters in her hold. It breaks with a sharp snap, crumbling into pieces off Varian’s thin wrist. Solid, heavy iron, dark and dense—but even expert crafting has no chance against the unbreakable.  

It feels like an answer. It feels right. It feels like starting over.

Rapunzel grabs Varian’s other hand before he can react, and scours the black stone against that manacle too. It shatters like glass, and falls heavy to the dirt.

Varian recoils the instant the last manacle drops.

He stumbles away from her, snatching back his wrists, his hands held against his chest. His fingers rub hard at the exposed skin of his wrists, now bare, skin pinched pink from irritation. No more marks. No more manacles. No more chains.

“Why did you do that?” Varian says, and his words are accusing but his voice breaks halfway through.

Rapunzel lets the black shard fall free from her fingers, it’s purpose complete. She takes a breath and lifts her head, pulling back her shoulders and standing tall. She doesn’t shake. She doesn’t waver. Her voice is clear and precise and utterly certain.

“I won’t take you back to Corona.”

Varian is frozen in place. She can’t even tell if he’s breathing. “I… you… what?”

“I won’t take you back to Corona,” Rapunzel repeats, calm and clear. Her hands are shaking. She feels strange a mix of giddy and terrified, but above all else she simply feels, deep in her bones, that this right. “My dad, he knows… he knows what happened. He won’t be so lenient a second time. I—I won’t bring you back just to lock you up in that cage. I won’t.  Not when there’s another option.”

Varian stares at her, looking oddly small. His hands twist in the hem of his shirt. “But there is no other option,” he whispers. “I, I don’t—”

“No. There is.” Rapunzel forces herself to meet his eyes. “Don’t… don’t come back to Corona.”

His breathing stills. Varian doesn’t move. His eyes are wide and white and lost.

Rapunzel points out to the horizon, to the rising sun. To the east, away from Corona, away from where they’d come. “See those trees? I’ll bet there’s a town, there. More towns. More cities. This is—this is a whole new country. We’re months of travel away from Corona. If you vanished here, in this place…? Varian, you’d be free.”

He doesn’t answer. His expression is pale, distressed; painfully uncertain and painfully young. Just the sight of it strikes uncertainty into her heart. Rapunzel’s hand drops back to her side, fingers curling in the loose strands of her hair. “It’s—you don’t have to, though,” she says at last. “If—if you really want to return to Corona, then… then I’ll take you back.”

“You’re letting me choose?” Varian asks, and his voice is so very small. “You, you’re letting me…?”

“Of course,” Rapunzel says, surprised by the question. She fumbles. “I mean, it’s… I meant what I said. If… if you choose to go, Varian, or return to Corona… then that has to be your choice, doesn’t it?” She swallows hard and looks away, unable to bear the look on his face. Her gut twists. “I… I want it to be your choice.”

Varian is quiet for a long time. His breathing rasps. “You’re letting me go.”

It’s not a question, but she answers anyway. “Yes.”

“ Why? I— we’re not friends, Rapunzel! I tried to kill you barely even a fortnight ago! I was—I treated you horribly up until—I mean, I don’t know how long that was, but—recently! Just recently!” He throws up his hands, heat rising in his cheeks, face flushed and teeth grit in a snarl. “How do you know I’m not going to come back? With an army, this time? Or worse? And, and I could try to hurt you—kill you, anyone, it could all happen again and you’d never know in time, how can you—?”

Rapunzel takes a breath. “Will you?”

“—What?”

“Will you attack Corona? Will you try to hurt anyone?”

“ No !” Varian cries, immediately, and then looks stunned at his own certainty. His breath stutters, fury faltering, but it barely lasts a second before Varian quickly rallies himself. “That’s—that’s not the point. The point is, you can’t trust me! Haven’t—haven’t you learned better by now?”

“You trusted me, back in the Moon’s tower.”

Varian opens his mouth. No sound comes out.

“You didn’t really have any reason to,” Rapunzel continues, soft and careful. “You said you didn’t trust my promises… and I can understand that. I can understand if you never trust anything I say ever again. But you trusted me anyway. You took my hand.” She smiles at the memory, soft and sideways. Varian looks as if she’s slapped him.

“You’re right,” Rapunzel says. “I don’t know. But…”

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Rapunzel cannot help but wonder. Are they friends, now? Enemies still? She doesn’t think so. So what are they, then, if neither is correct?

The truth is that she doesn’t know, and it doesn’t really matter. Perhaps this, whatever it is, whatever they are… for now, it is enough.

Rapunzel takes a breath and looks Varian dead in the eye, and this time her smile is for him. Small and wavering, weak with hope.

“I guess that means,” Rapunzel says, “that I’m just going to have to trust you.”

Varian stares at her. All the color has drained from his face. “You shouldn’t,” he says. His voice is very quiet. His voice is shaking. He looks as if he’s about to cry.

“Probably,” Rapunzel admits, just as soft, just as quiet. Her smile is watery but genuine. “But I—I want to. I want to trust you, Varian.”

Varian flinches, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, hands rising to hover about his face. His breathing is uneven and rapid, his whole body trembling like a leaf. His hitching breaths are almost a sob.

It lasts for barely longer than a few seconds—Varian has always been quick to recover. His composure returns. His breathes ease. His shaking ebbs. He opens his eyes slowly and stares out at her, and then his face goes carefully blank.

Varian steps back. Then, he takes another step. When Rapunzel doesn’t react, he backs away entirely, careful and cautious, retreating to the edge of the debris. He watches her the whole time. The wind pulls at his hair. The horizon is bright and burning at his back.

“One last chance?” Varian asks, and his voice is tentative.

Rapunzel manages a smile. Her correction is gentle. “One more chance.” Not a damnation, not something final. It is another try. It is the promise of many more chances to come. The difference is that she has faith in him.

Varian’s eyes are bright, the blue of his eyes as pale and as burning as the sky stretching on behind him. “Is that a promise, Princess?”

She hesitates, catching the barest hint of apprehension on Varian’s own face. A grit to his teeth, a tension in his jaw. The sight makes her soften.

“No,” Rapunzel says. “I remember. Think of it more like…” She hesitates, weighing her options, her mind casting back. The memory of a day, a month and three weeks ago, when Rapunzel had sat down before him in a cell, and offered Varian a deal that would end up changing both their lives. “…a guarantee.”

The barest hint of a smile flickers across Varian’s face, utterly involuntary, and he brings up a hand as if surprised by his own expression. His hand drops, smiling fading, but something brighter has entered his eyes. “Okay,” Varian says. He looks to the horizon, the distance, those far-off trees. “Okay.”

The silence settles around them. Varian watches the horizon. Rapunzel watches him, and waits.

“I’m going.”

He says the words firmly, as if daring her to take it back. Rapunzel simply smiles.

“Okay.”

He glances at her, uncertain, and then his eyes skitter away again. His shoulders hunch. “I—it’s—I don’t. I don’t have anything to go back to. Especially since Dad is—” He stops, shuddering, a brief look of pain breaking across his face. “I. I don’t have a reason to stay. So.”

He stops again, stuttering on the words. He worries at his lower lip and then forces himself to stop, dragging in a long breath. “So,” Varian concludes, and this time his voice is soft. “I’m going.”

He glances back at her, and Rapunzel offers him another smile. “Okay.” She isn’t sure what reaction he expects; in truth she is relieved, and mostly just happy for him. Whatever he finds, it seems to satisfy him—Varian nods, almost to himself, and looks back to the horizon.

Rapunzel hesitates, watching him think. One bandaged hand falls to her side, her fingers brushing briefly against the worn leather of her satchel. She takes a halting step forward. “Varian, before you go—can I…?”

He watches her, wary, but doesn’t back away. Rapunzel steps close enough to reach out and touch him, and slips the satchel off her shoulder, looping it over her arm. She’d like to hand it to him, but her wounds are starting to ache. She makes due, offering her arm—and the bag—out to him.

“Take this with you?”

His expression shudders, going blank and unreadable. “I don’t need your—”

“It’s not pity,” Rapunzel interrupts, quickly. “It’s not… it’s just, um, I would— I would feel a lot better if you had it. Or just. If you had something .”

He hesitates again, but Rapunzel’s words have merit and they both know it. Cassandra and Eugene—if they are okay—will have more than enough supplies. Varian has nothing but a borrowed tunic with torn hems and a pair of drawstring pants. He doesn’t even have shoes. A satchel with empty paint bottles, random rocks, and dried leaves isn’t much, but it will at least give him something to work with.

Varian must be thinking something similar, or close to, because after a long pause he finally reaches out for the satchel, fingers closing cautiously around the strap. “Fine,” he says, halting and awkward. “If you insist.”

She tries for a smile. “I do.”

Varian makes a face at the ground and doesn’t reply. He doesn’t sneer at her, either. His shoulders are hunched. He looks uncomfortable. He looks as if he has no idea how to react, and some part of Rapunzel is relieved to see it. She has no idea how to act around him, either, and somehow—somehow, it makes this easier.

Rapunzel hesitates, then takes one more step forward. “Varian?”

He eyes her. “What?”

Rapunzel studies his face. Then she takes one last step, and throws her arms around Varian in a hug.

It’s awkward, of course. They’re both injured and bloody, and they certainly smell like it, and neither of them is really sure of where they stand with each other. Varian is still and stiff in her hold, and his breath is cold against her shoulder. He doesn’t hug her back.

But just like back then—he doesn’t push her away, and maybe that is enough.

Rapunzel lets him go, stepping back. The anxiety in her gut has eased, a strange peace falling over her. She’s done what she can. She’s done what she feels is right. And things may not be perfect, but even then—this, at least, is an ending Rapunzel can live with.

“Take care, Varian,” she says, and his head lifts, just barely.

“I will,” he says, awkward and quiet. “You… you too, I guess.” His breath shudders, and his hand curls and clenches around the strap of the satchel. “Um. If… when, when you find the others.” His voice cracks, faltering on the words. “Ruddiger. W-when, when you see him, could you...?”

He trails off, the words withering in his throat, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to finish. His eyes are glued to the ground, shoulders up by his ears. His hands are fisted in the hem of his shirt, but she can still see the way his fingers are trembling.

Rapunzel swallows down a useless apology and smiles, instead. It strikes her, sudden and sharp, that this is goodbye. She may never see Varian again. Perhaps none of them will. He will be walking off to that horizon on his own. “I’ll tell him where to find you.”

“If. If he doesn’t want—”

“He will.”

“But if he doesn’t want to.”

Rapunzel pauses, searching his face. His jaw is clenched. His eyes are tight. But the look on his face is resolute, and it makes some part of her soften. Varian is determined. She can only imagine what it takes, for him to ask this—can hardly imagine life without Pascal, if their positions were reversed. But he still asks, and that is…

There is a bizarre warmth rising up in her chest, and Rapunzel realizes that she is proud of him.

“Then I’ll take care of him,” Rapunzel says. She surveys Varian’s face, and her voice gentles. “But he will, Varian.”

Varian shakes his head, but some tension in his shoulders has eased. “Maybe.”

Rapunzel merely smiles. She remembers vividly the way Ruddiger has acted in the past few weeks, his hurt and despair and quiet mourning. She remembers how Ruddiger did not leave Varian’s side until Varian himself pushed the raccoon away, and she knows that Varian’s fears are baseless. Ruddiger will come back to him. Not because Varian deserves it, but because that’s just the way it is.

He won’t believe her, though, and so Rapunzel stays quiet.

With this, there is nothing more to stay—nothing else left to keep him here. Varian steps away, to the horizon. He braces himself, fingers clenched tight in the strap of the satchel, and then he starts to walk, towards those distant trees. The sun has risen fully now, resting like a heavy crown above the woods. It casts Varian in complete shadow.

He gets seven steps through the debris before he stops.

Rapunzel waits, but Varian doesn’t move. He stands in the glow of sunrise, dark and silhouetted, his breaths rasping and quiet. He straightens very suddenly and turns back to meet Rapunzel’s eyes.

“Rapunzel?”

“…Yes?”

He doesn’t speak right away, and the moment stretches, taut like a wire. Rapunzel searches his face and feels her smile falter, her heart drop. She can’t help but wonder. She can’t help but doubt. This fragile truce, this careful friendship—is this the end of it? Is this where it will break? He has done this before, after all. No matter how far they get, Varian always ends up pushing her away.

Rapunzel feels as if she has stood on this plain before, in a way. She has faced Varian so many times. Inside a castle, outside Old Corona, across a cell, by a fire, on a crossroads, within a labyrinth. And now, here—in this empty and barren land, sunrise and life lingering on the fringes of the horizon, a moment of endings and beginnings.

Rapunzel has made her choice. Now, she waits to see his.

“Thank you,” Varian says, “for—for everything.”

It is the only thing he says. His jaw snaps shut the moment the words are through, teeth clicking. His courage has left him and his eyes have dropped back to the earth. But the words linger on, and the silence is heavy with all the things he hasn’t said. Thank you for everything. For not giving up on me. For not leaving me behind. For staying, even though I didn’t deserve it.  

Thank you.

She never thought she’d hear those words from him.

Rapunzel gapes at him, struck silent. She rocks back on her heels and hides her mouth behind her hands. The words register bit by bit. She’s cried so much, so often, and once again she can feel the hot press of tears rising up behind her eyes. But this time it isn’t because of grief.

She doesn’t answer. She can’t. She drops her hands and smiles instead, wide and bright and shaking, and maybe that is answer enough.

Varian smiles back. It is a gentle expression, almost regretful, shaky and thin. The sunlight and shadows hide his face, but the tremble in his hands gives him away. It is the most genuine smile she has ever seen him give her.

He doesn’t say anything else. Varian turns away, and this time he doesn’t stop. He walks off towards the sunrise and doesn’t look back, not even once.

Rapunzel watches him until she can’t tell his shadow from the trees, until he so far away she can’t see him at all. He’s gone. It seems so strange, to think that. She may never see him again, and she didn’t even say goodbye. And yet—it doesn’t feel incomplete. It feels right. It feels—it feels like an ending. Like a promise.

The labyrinth is gone. The sky is bright with the light of a new day. Her friends—her home—is waiting for her. She may never meet Varian again, but she hopes his future is bright. She hopes he can find a way to be happy.

Varian has left. He has found his own road, and now it is Rapunzel’s turn. Cassandra and Eugene, Pascal and all the others—she is sure they are still alive, somewhere. There are waiting for her, somewhere out in this distant wasteland. All she has to do is find them.

Rapunzel turns her back to the sun, and starts the long road back to home.

-

The ground shakes for hours.

Safe under a cliff-ledge, Cassandra watches the Dark Kingdom crumble away. After the first earthquake, each tremor had become weaker and fewer, the ruined earth slowly settling. In contrast, that strange light show from the mountain only intensified. Over the course of hours, Cassandra watches the abandoned kingdom glow, bright and beaming and then finally breaking apart.

The mountain is first to go, and the rest of the rocks are quick to follow, unbreakable black stone shattering into pieces. They burst apart in grand explosions, breaking up from the inside out, glowing white-hot and then exploding like fireworks, with great booms that make even Cassandra cover her ears. It makes the whole world look as if it is raining light instead of shrapnel, glowing stone scattering and burning like embers against the dull dirt.

It is terrifying. It is horrifying. It is also one of the most beautiful things Cassandra has ever seen.

Cassandra, Eugene, and Adira must stay under that ledge for ages. They stay huddled under that shaky shelter for cover from the explosions, holding their breath and praying the earthquakes don’t send the ledge crashing down on their heads, waiting for the chaos to ebb. Cassandra kneels there for so long that her legs start to cramp, and eventually even the animals, frightened though they are, start to get restless.

After that first blinding explosion—a shockwave of power that knocked Cassandra flat against the ground and left her seeing spots for nearly hours after—the world has been slowly settling. The ground shifts, creaking and groaning like some old giant settling back down to sleep. Earth crumbles, raining dust on their heads. It’s not a dangerous sort of tremor—less like something waking up and more like something falling asleep—but after seeing what happened to the rocks…

Well. Cassandra’s not going out until she’s certain it’s safe. She’s survived thus far—random attack of killer rock, Moon’s relentless chase, even these damn tremors—and if she wandered out now only to get pegged by a flying bit of shrapnel, it would be so very, very stupid. If the shrapnel didn’t kill her, the embarrassment would.

So Cassandra stays sitting beneath the ledge, and resigns herself to watching the debris settle. Of them, Adira is closest to the edge—sitting just barely under the safety of their hastily-made cover, staring out over the empty plains. She doesn’t say anything—hadn’t even reacted when Eugene had said, “It’s all gone!” wild and near-hysterical right by her ear—but Cassandra gives her space anyway. Something about the calm in her face… the way she holds herself…

Adira had lived in this place, this Dark Kingdom. Back before it was a wasteland, she had called it home. Cassandra is not the most empathetic person, but she has tact. She leaves Adira to her thoughts, and gives her space. It’s what Cassandra herself would have wanted, if their positions were reversed.

(She imagines Corona desolate and devastated, the soil burned and horizon empty, and swallows back bile. Not even the houses had remained, whatever happened here. Now, not even the rocks.

What must that feel like? To watch that happen? To see a whole kingdom fall apart at the seams? To have called such a place home?

Cassandra hopes she never has to find out.)

As the night stretches on, the light-show finally ebbs, those firework explosions spluttering into silence and then into stillness. A few hours after, the tremors fade as well, the earth settling for the last time as the sunrise comes upon them, a pale glow light at the edges of the world.

It is something to behold, with this new landscape. The sky is clear of clouds and any fog, the storm blown away by the events of the night. Clouds linger on only by the edges of the horizon, and with the rising sun it creates an array of color across the sky. Without the rocks, or the mountain, and after all those tremors…the Dark Kingdom has become an entirely different place altogether. Still dead and dusty, but also fathomless—an endless stretch of land all around, the shards of stone and crystal shining like a sea, color lingering on the fringes. Flat and eternal and distantly beautiful, a sight unlike any other.

With the sunrise and the end of the disaster, life slowly returns to their group. Maximus stands, shaking his head and huffing through his nose; Fidela tosses her mane. Pascal has crawled onto a rock as if to look for his missing friend; even Ruddiger has emerged from the pack he’s spent the past week hiding in, looking thin but cautiously curious. Eugene fusses with his frying pan, looping it through his fingers. Cassandra sits and watches the horizon, aching for a sword to sharpen.

Adira gets up.

At first, Cassandra doesn’t notice—Adira moves so quietly and so skillfully that it takes her a minute to even realize Adira has left her perch by the edge. She’s gone to the supply bags; as Cassandra watches, Adira takes down her bags and starts dividing food, placing rations in Cassandra’s and Eugene’s own packs, considering each item and sorting them accordingly. Food, medical supplies, a dagger. Practical things.

Cassandra finds her voice. “What are you doing?”

Adira doesn’t look up. “Moving,” she says. Her voice is mild, blankly amused, laughing at a joke they still don’t know the answer to. Whatever moment she had at seeing her kingdom literally crumble into dust is gone now—she’s as enigmatic as ever. “What does it look like?”

Eugene sits up at this. “You’re leaving?”

Adira hums, lacing up the bag straps. “There’s broth, here,” she says instead of answering. “Chicken stock, some herbs, bit of meat—thin, mealy stuff. Nutritious, salty. Cooked it last night when I met all of you. When you find the Sundrop, make sure she eats that. No solid foods for a bit. She’ll get sick if she doesn’t reintroduce food to her body slowly.” She pauses a moment to stretch out her shoulder, looking between Cassandra and Eugene with a raised eyebrow. “Think you two can remember that?”

Cassandra narrows her eyes and climbs onto her feet, waving Eugene down when he moves to join her. His humorous attitude is a blessing, most times; right now Cassandra isn’t really in the mood. This is serious. “Yes,” she says, short and certain. “Why are you leaving?”

“There’s enough broth for three days… that should be enough for a mostly full recovery, at least for her. Starvation—food deprivation—it’s a bit tricky to measure. On that note, I left you some extra food, too, so if you go back the way you came and ration reasonably, it should last you to the end of the kingdom. There’ll be trees again, animals—food will come easily one you’re out of the wasteland.” She stands and brushes off her hands deftly, reaching for her own pack, now visibly depleted. “Left you some of my medical supplies, too.”

Cassandra keeps her voice calm by sheer force of will. “Where are you going.”

Adira tilts her head, looking down at her. There’s a thin smile on her face, almost wry. “Now, now,” she says. “There’s no need to thank me.”

Cassandra frowns, but before she can reply, Eugene jumps to his feet, hands up and placating. “Thank you, Adira,” he says, fast but genuine. He meets Adira’s eyes, no challenge on his face. His smile is rueful. “Really, thank you. For everything.” He hesitates, licking at his lips nervously, and then continues. “Will you be okay?”

Adira snorts, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Please. I’ll be fine.”

Cassandra steps close again, ignoring Eugene’s exasperated look. He can be annoyed all he wants; this is important.  “Adira,” she repeats. “Where are you going?”

Adira raises an eyebrow at her. Cassandra doesn’t budge. “Thank you,” Cassandra adds belatedly. “For saving us, and helping us fight. But that doesn’t change the fact that you appeared out of literally nowhere, and now you’re leaving? Right of the blue?” She doesn’t glare at her, but it’s a close thing. “You have to admit that’s sketchy.”

Adira shrugs. “I don’t really care what it looks like.” Her voice is mild, unconcerned. Her expression is unreadable. “It’s over, either way. Whatever happened, happened. We’ll find the results soon enough.”

She hefts the bag up higher on her back and gives a considering little hum, heading out from under the ledge into open air. Her eyes close, her breathing deep and slow. She looks a bit like she’s soaking in the sunlight—or maybe like she’s bracing herself. “And while you two wait for a Princess… I have other business, I’m afraid.”

“That’s fair,” Eugene allows, and elbows Cassandra none-too-gently when she goes to speak again. She glares at him, but finally backs off—vague though the answer is, it’s something she can understand. She still doesn’t like this.

“It’s so wonderful to have your approval,” Adira says, dry. “Or wait. No. I wasn’t really looking for it.” She lifts up her hand and gives a short wave over her shoulder. “Goodbye, then. May we meet again, someday.”

She’s walking away before either Cassandra or Eugene can react to that, and Eugene’s final call of “Take care!” is rushed and uncertain, a little irritated. Adira doesn’t acknowledge them again. As quickly as she had appeared in their lives, she is gone again. It’s all happened so fast that Cassandra feels a bit dizzy, and she watches Adira’s distant silhouette shrink and disappear into the distance with a frown on her face.

When Adira is so far that they can no longer tell her silhouette from the shadowy horizon, Eugene huffs a quiet laugh and rocks back on his heels, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Damn,” he says.

Cassandra looks up at him. He blinks down at her and offers a thin smile. “It’s nothing,” he says, without her needing to ask. “Just… whoosh! There she went. She really left.” He stares back at the horizon, blinking in the sunrise. “It’s really over, I guess. I can’t see her leaving if it wasn’t.”

Cassandra chews over that thought, rubbing absently at her bruised arm. The sunlight is bright and blinding in her eyes. The Dark Kingdom looks differently in daylight—less scary, and more sorrowful. Empty and abandoned, and quiet in the aftermath.

There is nothing left, out there. Nothing left to face, nothing left to fight. Her adrenaline finally fades away, and it leaves Cassandra aching and tired.

The fighting is over. If Adira is to be believed, everything is over. It’s finally starting to catch up to her.

“Let’s go.”

He blinks at her, vague and uncomprehending. Cassandra climbs to her feet, and beats the dust off her pant legs, ignoring the way her arms ache. She fixes her gloves and raises her chin, meeting Eugene’s eyes head-on. “Let’s go,” she repeats. “Let’s go find her.”

His expression shutters. “Do you think—”

“Eugene,” Cassandra says, and for once, he actually listens to her, his mouth snapping shut. She takes a breath. “We’ll find her. Got it?”

He stares at Cassandra for a long moment, dark eyes flickering over her face, searching her expression for a sign. Cassandra holds herself still under his scrutiny, her own stare never wavering. At long last, a smile breaks out over Eugene’s face. Small, oddly genuine—for once not teasing at all.

“Yeah,” Eugene says. “Yeah. You’re right. Let’s… let’s go.”

It doesn’t take them long to get going: all they have to do is saddle up Maximus and Fidela, and they too emerge from under the shelter, starting out to the horizon, where the mountain once stood. The sun has risen fully now, a golden shine far above them, the whole sky turned the pale blue of early morning. It makes the world seem chillier than it really is—the sunlight is cold and sheer, and without the black rocks, the land looks… almost lonely.

It’s all gone, Eugene had said, when the light finally faded. He had not been exaggerating. There is nothing here. The whole land is stripped bare and flat but for the scattered remnants of the broken rocks and crystals. For all that Adira had spoken of a kingdom… Cassandra cannot imagine anyone living here. There is nothing to mark that kingdom’s existence. No houses, no wells—nothing. Even the mountain and the Moon’s tower are gone, and all that is left is an empty place. The whole country has been wiped away without a single trace, nothing left to suggest people once called this wasteland their home.

Of course, there is one good thing about this empty landscape. It makes it easier to find Rapunzel.

It’s her silhouette that Cassandra spies first—a moving shadow cast against the late morning sun, only recognizable because of the long winding rope of hair that blows around her, waving in the wind. There is a certain amount of irony in that—because of course, of course they find Rapunzel because of her hair—but it doesn’t matter how. Not really. Because above all else—it’s her.

It’s Rapunzel.

She is walking with her back to the sun, a dark silhouette, her hair fluttering in the air behind her like a pale banner of victory. Battered and bruised, her shoulders hunched, her clothes torn and muddied. She limps, her walk slow, her shoulders shaking—but it is her. It’s her.

“ Rapunzel !” Cassandra cries, and urges Fidela into a gallop. She knows when Rapunzel has seen them, because that is when Rapunzel starts running, stumbling and tripping and flat-out sprinting towards them, and Cassandra doesn’t even have to see her face to know her best friend is crying.

They reach her within minutes, and Cassandra slides off Fidela’s saddle before the horse has stopped, nearly tripping face-first in her haste. Eugene is right behind her, and Rapunzel is laughing, she can hear her, she’s right there—

They practically crash into each other, a three-person collision that almost knocks them all over.

“Rapunzel!”

Cassandra throws her arms around Rapunzel’s shoulders and laughs, and Eugene throws his arms around them both, picking them flat off the ground for a twirl. His whoop of glee echoes loud in her ears. Rapunzel is shaking in her hold, her laughter wavering, halfway to tears, and when Cassandra pulls back—

“Eugene,” Rapunzel says, and oh, god, it’s her. It’s really her. Pale-faced and drawn, circles under her eyes, blood and dirt on her face and looking like she’s been torn to pieces—but smiling, truly smiling , that watery grin that pulls at her eyes, and that’s her voice, that’s her smile, that’s her. Rapunzel, back at last. “C-Cass… and Pascal, it’s you, you’re all—you’re all h-here—”

“Rapunzel,” Eugene says, almost relevantly, and raises a tentative hand to her face. His palm cups her cheek. His breath hitches. Rapunzel leans into his touch and starts to cry.

“I’m back ,” Rapunzel sobs out, and then they’re all crying, gripping at each other’s arms to stay upright, clustered around Rapunzel like she’s a star and they’re in orbit, crying and laughing and drawing in close to make sure she’s real. Rapunzel sinks into their arms, crying so hard it looks like it hurts, but she’s smiling fit for a king and she leans against them gratefully.

“I’m back,” Rapunzel says, over and over like a mantra. “I’m back. I made it back.” She takes a deep rattling breath and tears visibly fill her eyes. “You—Eugene, Cass, you’re okay.”

“ That’s our line,” Eugene says, voice shaking so much the joke barely takes, but Rapunzel sputters and laughs, shaking so hard it’s a wonder she’s upright at all.

“Oh,” she says. Another tear trails down her cheek, and her smile could outshine the sun. “Oh, I missed you guys so much. ”

Cassandra hugs her so tight it hurts. Eugene kisses Rapunzel’s forehead. Pascal leaps up to her shoulder and coils his tail around a lock of string hair as if lock himself in place, never leaving again. Rapunzel trembles, fine and minute, and Cassandra can feel her breaths hitch on muffled sobs. For a moment they say nothing at all, just rock back and forth and keep holding on, as if letting go will shatter Rapunzel completely. Her tears are cold against Cassandra’s shoulder, but when she wraps her arms around Cassandra, her grip is so tight it makes her bones creak.

Cassandra says nothing. She stays there, holding Rapunzel, blinking fast against her own tears. She listens to Rapunzel’s heartbeat and watches the way Eugene strokes her hair, soft and shaking like he’s about to break, too. Rapunzel tucks herself between them and lets herself fall into their arms, letting them fuss, letting them talk. She looks distressingly happy just to have them there.

After a long moment, Cassandra drags in a ragged breath and steps back, holding Rapunzel arm’s length, looking her up and down. Rapunzel wipes at her eyes with the back of one bandaged hand, and gives a watery smile. Her eyes are red and swollen, her cheeks flushed; her smile stretches ear to ear.

“I’m all right,” Rapunzel says. Her eyes are so bright. “I’m all right. I came back.”

Cassandra shakes her head, too overwhelmed to speak. Eugene wraps Rapunzel in another hug and says, “You sure did, Blondie,” and when he pulls back Rapunzel is sniffling, her lip trembling.

“Oh, not again ,” Rapunzel says, and laughs wetly, visibly sniffing and hiding her flushed face behind her hands. “Oh, I’m going to get dehydrated at this rate, I’ve been crying so much… ”

“Touché,” Eugene replies, grinning through his tears. “Come on, Blondie, we’ve been doing pretty much the same, all things considered—”

But Cassandra startles at this comment, standing upright, the words striking her memory. “Oh, my god, Raps—when did you last have water? Have—have you eaten?”

Rapunzel pauses, blinking fast. Her eyes go wide. “Um.”

“Holy shit,” Eugene says, at this. “Rapunzel, it’s—it’s been almost six days , are you—?”

“I’ll get the broth,” Cassandra says, immediately, and Rapunzel gives her a puzzled but grateful smile and Eugene guides her to sit down on the ground so her legs can rest— “How long were you walking!?”—and suddenly, just like that, it’s almost like she hasn’t been gone at all.

Cassandra grabs the broth from the bag Adira packed for them, snatching up the medical kit as well—next to a chunk of Gouda cheese, for some reason, what even is Adira—and heads back with both items in hand. There’s another absence, an unspoken lack, that she notes at last but does not mention.

Varian… isn’t here.

Is that a good thing? A bad thing? Cassandra doesn’t like the kid, but—she can’t imagine Rapunzel smiling over his death. But then, where…?

Cassandra forcibly puts it out of her mind before it can spoil her good mood. Rapunzel is alive, she’s back, she’s safe and here with them, and this whole nightmare scenario is finally over. She refuses to dwell on it. Reality and responsibilities and worries—they can wait.

Just once—just once , Cassandra wants to bask in the victory.

She looks back at Eugene and Rapunzel, lingering on the sidelines. They’re sitting on ground, legs folded under them, Eugene with one arm over Rapunzel’s shoulders, Rapunzel leaning into his chest. He’s stroking her hair, rhythmic and soft, and Rapunzel’s eyes are closed. She looks exhausted, as if she could fall asleep right then and there—but then her eyes flutter open, and she reaches for Eugene’s other hand, resting her bandaged fingers in his palm. He kisses her forehead again, soft and quiet, and she leans into the crook of his neck, her shoulders shaking, a small smile playing on her lips.

Cassandra watches them with a shaky smile. She has walked in on Eugene and Rapunzel having a romantic moment many times before, but there is something different about this one. She has seen them gushy, she has seen them flushed, and this is the first time that she can really, truly see they’re in love. It’s something in the way they fit together, the way Eugene’s smile finally looks real, the way Rapunzel reacts to him. They are at last in each other’s arms, and they finally look at peace.

For once, Cassandra is loath to interrupt them, but at second glance, Rapunzel’s wounds are too worrisome to ignore. She walks back to them with soft steps, offering an apologetic grimace when Eugene looks back at her. When she reaches out for Rapunzel’s hands, intent on getting the worst injury out of the way, Rapunzel simply laughs.

“I’m all right, Cass,” she says, quiet and content, with a smile Cassandra has never seen on her before. It’s a strange look on Rapunzel’s face, an alien sort of calm. It’s as if something in her has shifted. The last time Cassandra saw her, Rapunzel had been uncertain and painfully anxious, dreading what was to come. Now she is just… there. Peaceful and resolute. There’s a fire in her eyes, a strength that wasn’t there before, a conviction assured. She smiles less broken and more relieved. The smile of a victor, not a survivor—but still Rapunzel, even so, who smiles that strange smile but still agreeably holds out her hands when Cassandra frowns at her.

Cassandra sighs, shaking those strange thoughts from her head, and gets to work on Rapunzel’s wounds while Eugene helps her with the broth. There are numerous scrapes and cuts on Rapunzel’s arms—her hem torn to above her knees, bare soles looking red and inflamed. Scrapes run down her knees, along with pale and mottled bruising; knowing how easily Rapunzel heals, Cassandra suspects with a sinking heart that only hours ago these bruises were dark and the cuts raw. She bandages the cuts best she can, pads the soles of Rapunzel’s feet to keep her legs from getting even more overworked, cleans the blood from her face despite Rapunzel’s good-natured complaints. The worst, she ends up leaving for last—Rapunzel’s hands.

She hadn’t noticed, at first, but now she cannot look away. Rapunzel’s hands are a mess of blood-stained cloth, makeshift bandages of pale gray linen dyed dark and crumbling from stiff blood. She has to practically peel the strips away from Rapunzel’s skin, and it’s horrible—the way Rapunzel flinches, the way Eugene’s mouth tightens, the ruined hands themselves.

The wounds beneath aren’t much better than the bandages. They bleed sluggishly, the scabs torn away with the bandaging, Rapunzel’s skin raw and red from constant irritation. Cassandra loses a whole canteen of water and antiseptic on trying to clean the cuts, wiping down Rapunzel’s palms gingerly with a soaked rag. The skin is puffy and inflamed; the cuts themselves are deep and brutal, slicing across her palms and cutting deep into her fingers.

Cassandra holds Rapunzel’s ruined hands gently in hers, and stares, a knot in her throat. She wants to ask. She wants to know. She never wants to find out what did this to her. The mess of emotion leaves her gutted and hollow.

Those bloody fingers curl, just slightly, as if aching to turn over and give a comforting squeeze. Rapunzel leans in, her expression soft and sad. Her hair falls forward with the movement, long strands framing her face. The sunlight filters through her hair and halos her head.

“I caught a sword,” Rapunzel tells Cassandra, her voice oddly hushed. She stares at her wounds with distant eyes, seeing a different time and place. “It only hurts if I move. So it’s okay, Cass.” She goes quiet, almost contemplative, looking down at those deep ruts with a furrowed brow. “I don’t regret it.”

It’s a very cryptic thing to say, but all at once, Cassandra doesn’t want to know. Eugene must pick up on it, because he is quick to react, reaching out and touching Rapunzel’s face, calling her name in a quiet voice, drawing her back into conversation.

Cassandra breathes a quiet sigh of relief and slowly starts to bandage Rapunzel’s hands. A cloth pad, to keep her palms relatively straight; anti-inflammatory cream and secure bandaging, looping over and over to keep her from moving her fingers. The bandaging from earlier, the strips of cloth she’d peeled from Rapunzel’s skin—it had been wrapped similarly, almost eerily so. It’s not something Rapunzel could have done herself, and the cloth for those bandages…

It doesn’t make sense, so Cassandra shakes the budding suspicions from her head and puts it out of her mind. She finishes up Rapunzel’s hands and pulls away, the last task done. Her exhale is soft and shaking.

“That’s it.”

“All done?” Rapunzel asks, and lifts her hands to look, turning them back and forth. The expression on her face is odd, lost in memory. There’s a smile on her face, small and sad. “Thank you, Cass.”

Cassandra folds the medical supplies back into the pack and manages a laugh. “Of course,” she says. “But also, Raps—please stop getting hurt. This is ridiculous.”

“It’s not like I asked to have a sword swung at me!” Rapunzel cries, but she’s grinning again, giggling despite herself. “Oh, no, that’s not funny, that was horrible, Cass! ”

“ You laughed,” Cassandra points out, a little smug, and Rapunzel laughs outright at this, waving her off, falling back against Eugene’s chest with another bright smile.

“I’m tired,” she says, shaking her head. “ Everything’s funny right now, I can’t help it.”

Cassandra tightens the medical pack straps and slips it back into Maximus’s saddle packs. “You must be exhausted,” she says, humor fading. “Raps, what— what happened to you?”

Rapunzel’s smile flickers and fades into something a little contemplative, a little sad. There’s something haunted in her eyes, and Eugene hugs her quietly, looking as troubled as Cassandra feels at the change.

“That’s…”

Rapunzel trails off, staring off past their heads, biting at her lip. She looks exhausted, drawn and tired in a way that seems utterly unlike her. Pascal, on her shoulder, nuzzles her face in quiet comfort. She reaches one hand up to stroke his spine, her gaze distant.

“…You must have so many questions.”

Eugene and Cassandra exchange a look. Eugene’s expression is pinched with worry, and Cassandra sighs, rubbing self-consciously at her arm.

“Some,” Cassandra admits finally, with a pained smile. She presses her lips into a thin line and gives Rapunzel a firm look. “But they can wait, okay? Don’t… you don’t have to push yourself.”

Rapunzel looks so relieved at this it makes Cassandra’s heart hurt. Her smile returns, thin and weak but genuine. “Oh,” she says. “Yes. Thank you. I—I think—there’s no more danger, you don’t have to worry, okay? I’ll tell you—everything I can. I promise.  But…”

A complicated set of expressions crosses her face, a mixed meeting of emotions, none of which are happy to see each other. “…You’re right, too. I should—there is one thing. This… it can’t wait, I think.” She takes a deep breath, and looks Cassandra dead in the eye. “It’s about Varian.”

Cassandra’s heart drops. Eugene stills.

“Varian,” Cassandra repeats, careful and quiet. They’ve all been ignoring his absence thus far, and saying his name aloud brings all those anxieties rushing back. Her throat feels tight. She can’t tell if she’s angry or worried or just plain scared. Eugene is boring holes into the ground with his stare.

“Yes,” Rapunzel says. She won’t meet Cassandra’s eyes. “That is… Varian has…” She grits her teeth, then exhales slowly, shaking her head. She meets Cassandra’s eyes at last, and her expression is strange, unreadable to her. “He’s left.”

“Left,” Cassandra repeats, feeling something twist in her gut. “Do you mean…?”

“Not dead,” Rapunzel says, immediately, with a vehemence that makes both Cassandra and Eugene blink at her. She flushes lightly and slowly settles back into Eugene’s arms. “Sorry! Sorry. He’s not dead. He’s okay.” She takes a deep breath. “He’s… well, sort of okay, I guess.”

Cassandra settles next to Rapunzel on the ground, feeling her heart drop for an entirely different reason. Fear of a different kind. The last time Varian was loose… “He escaped, then.”

Rapunzel pauses. She turns to face Cassandra fully, taking in every inch of her. There’s something odd about the look in her eyes—not judging, but wondering. As if she is deciding how much to say.

Cassandra just waits. She knows, despite her misgivings, that Rapunzel will tell her the truth. She’d promised, after all. No more secrets. No more lies. Cassandra can give Rapunzel all the time she needs, so long as she gets the truth in return.

Sure enough— “No,” Rapunzel says, finally, after a long pause. “No. He didn’t escape.” She hesitates, then visibly steels herself. “I… I let him go.”

Cassandra recoils despite herself, sitting up straight and sucking in a sharp breath through her teeth. She must have heard wrong. She must have, because there’s no way—

“You… You let him—”

“It’s okay,” Rapunzel says, so gentle it mutes Cassandra mid-word. “It’s okay, Cass.” She tilts up her head, looking to Eugene, then reaches up and lays her hand on his cheek. He’s frowning, uncertain anger in his eyes, but at Rapunzel’s touch he startles. “Eugene—it’s okay. I… I don’t think Varian is our enemy anymore. In that place…” She trails off. “It’s—it’s hard to explain. So much happened, I…”

She trails off again, expression shuddering. Her hands draw in close like she’s trying to hide, and for a moment her gaze goes distant, looking elsewhere. She doesn’t finish her sentence. It is as if she’s forgotten she was talking at all.

A moment’s pause, and then Eugene pulls Rapunzel into a one-armed hug against his side, rubbing at her shoulder. “It’s fine, Blondie,” he says. “You can tell us when you’re ready. Or—or you don’t have to tell us at all, if you don’t want to. It’s… it’s fine.”

Rapunzel’s voice is very small, tired and thin. “Don’t you want to know?”

“I—I mean—yes. Sure. Of course, y’know? But Blondie—not if it’s going to hurt you. You’re here. You’re okay. Answers—explanations… I don’t really need those.”

Cassandra shakes her head, fingers pressing her temple. “Wait. Wait, Eugene, just—no. No, I want to know why—”

“Cass,” Eugene starts, shooting her a sharp look, and Cassandra flies up to her feet, waving her hand wildly through the air.

“No!” she snaps. “This is—this is Varian we’re talking about here, if we wait—it’ll be too late then. Raps, you can’t have—don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what he’s done! He tried to kill you!” She can’t even fathom it. “I don’t understand. Why would you do that?”

Eugene is still scowling at her, but Cassandra stays strong. She can’t—she can’t back down on this, not really. Escape is one thing. She knows how to deal with that. But Rapunzel letting Varian go— this, Cassandra cannot accept. After everything Varian has done—after all the things he’s done to Rapunzel, especially—she can’t understand how such a thing happened.

Rapunzel had flinched at her reaction, but by the end of the tirade she just looks tired, small. “I know,” she says, almost as soon as Cassandra finishes. “I know. I—it was just…”

She stops again, sighing heavily, her whole body sinking with the sound. Rapunzel reaches out, and takes Cassandra’s hands, guiding her back down to sit in front of her. Her hold is loose and light; the press of her bandaged fingers is gentle and comforting.

“I’m sorry,” Rapunzel says, at last. “I get it. I really do. This is probably… I’m not making much sense right now, I think.” Her smile is wavering and fearful. “But please, Cass. Trust me? I—I’ll explain soon. When I can. But I swear to you. I don’t think… I don’t think we have to worry about Varian. Not anymore.”

Cassandra wants to argue. She wants to demand why. But she looks at Rapunzel’s face, and despite herself can feel her anger drain away, leaving her limp and exhausted. “Okay,” she bites out, and then slumps, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’ll trust you. But Raps—”

“I’ll explain. I promise . Soon.”

Her voice is resolute, and though her touch is gentle, Rapunzel’s eyes are determined. Cassandra softens, and carefully squeezes her hands back, just above the wrist. “…Okay.”

Rapunzel favors her with a gentle smile. “Thank you, Cass.”

Cassandra nods, and doesn’t reply. Rapunzel doesn’t seem to expect one. Instead she turns back to Eugene and nudges him with her elbow. Her smile turns sheepish. “Eugene, can you help me up?”

“Huh?”

“There’s just… one more thing. One more. And then… then, we go.”

“Go?” Eugene parrots, eyebrows raised high and teasing, but all Rapunzel does is smile.

“Home,” Rapunzel says, in reply. The word washes over them, powerful in its own right, sick with longing.

Eugene helps her up without further comment, and Rapunzel limps her way to the saddle bags. Under Cassandra and Eugene’s watchful eyes, Rapunzel pulls free an apple from the rations. Then she turns to the one bag none of them have touched in over a week, ever since that night by the fire.

“Ruddiger,” Rapunzel says, soft and calling, and after a long moment, Ruddiger’s head peeks out from under the flap. He crawls free from the bag slowly, dark eyes intense on Rapunzel. He steps up on Fidela’s back and then jumps to the ground at her feet, sitting back on his heels, eerily silent.

Rapunzel kneels down with Cassandra and Eugene’s help. Cassandra watches her face, bemused at what she finds: sadness, regret, pale hope. Rapunzel holds the apple cupped in her hands like an offering, and Ruddiger sniffs at the fruit before looking back at her, almost questioning.

“The horizon,” Rapunzel says, softly. “The tree line, beneath the sunrise. He’s heading there. If you follow the rock shards… I’m sure you’ll be able to find him, if you hurry.”

She hesitates, then, and her confidence wavers. “If you want,” she adds, stuttering on the words. “You can stay with me, if you don’t. Or anyone you choose, wherever you want. But he’s so sorry. And I know he misses you so much. He was lost for a bit. He didn’t understand. But I think he does, now.” She holds out her hands, the apple in her palms. Pascal, on her shoulder, is watchful and knowing. “But he misses you. You’re his friend.”

Varian,  Cassandra realizes, watching the exchange. She is talking about Varian.

Ruddiger watches Rapunzel for a long moment. Then he scampers forward and chitters in her face, high and bright, fond and almost scolding. He takes the apple in his mouth and turns, tail brushing friendly at her hands, and then before Cassandra or anyone else can react, the small raccoon sprints off into the horizon, running toward the distant tree line cast in dark shadows by the rising sun.

Cassandra stares after Ruddiger until he’s barely a speck, then looks back at Rapunzel. She’s sitting back on her heels, eyes bright with unshed tears. Some hidden tension has eased from her smile. Despite everything—she looks happy.

Cassandra still doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand how Rapunzel got here, what happened after they got separated. She doesn’t know why Varian bandaged Rapunzel’s hands, because he must have, or why Rapunzel let him go and sent Ruddiger off in his wake. Cassandra doesn’t understand any of it.

But she looks at Rapunzel’s face, and that bone-deep joy she finds there, the sense of peace, of an ending, of everything falling into place…

…and Cassandra lets it go.

Rapunzel is happy, safe, and alive. For now… that is more than enough for Cassandra. She can wait forever for answers, if she has to. Just so long as Rapunzel keeps that smile on her face.

Rapunzel stands again, this time without help. Her shoulders back, her face turned to the sun. Feet set and back straight, holding herself tall like a queen. The sun creates a crown of light around her head. She smiles off into the horizon, and when she turns back to them, her eyes shine like diamonds in the light. “I have so much to tell you guys! So much that’s happened. So much to say.”

They smile helplessly back, and she laughs, relieved and delighted by her own freedom. It is a sound that Cassandra has sorely missed.

“But first…” Rapunzel says. “Let’s go back to Corona.” She holds out her hand and smiles. “Back home.”

There is still so much left unanswered. So much that Cassandra just doesn’t know. So much they still have to face—the King, the question of Adira, Varian’s absence. But Cassandra doesn’t need to know, not right now, and by the look on Eugene’s face, he’s willing to wait too. It is enough, in this moment, to just have Rapunzel.

Cassandra steps up and loops her arms through Rapunzel’s. “Yes,” she says, and finally smiles, warm and real and bright. “Let’s go home.”

-

The first thing Varian does upon escaping the labyrinth is walk for miles through a dead and dusty wasteland.

It’s not that he isn’t tired, and it’s not that he doesn’t want to sleep. He is tired, and he does want to sleep—he wants these things very, very badly. But the sunrise rose above a distant tree-line, the promise of shelter and food and people, and once Varian left Rapunzel behind, he found he couldn’t stop. Whatever power brought him back to life had healed over his feet and eased his hunger, and so Varian walked on non-stop until those woods finally came within reach.

It takes Varian almost the entire day to reach those distant trees. By the time he arrives, the sky has turned the dark red-orange of coming dusk, twilight licking at the edges of the distant horizon. The clouds are resting low and heavy in the air, a chill autumn wind blowing harsh through the stiff pines. It’s like a different world altogether.

Varian tilts back his head and breathes in cold air. At the start of this journey, it had been early summer; now the weeks have turned to months and the season is changing. It startles him, to realize this. After his Dad had… left, to Varian’s eyes the world had slowed to a stop. The days had stood still and timeless, frozen in place. Now, to have the evidence of time passed and seasons changed right before him—it hits him hard. It’s as if he skipped forward in time, or like the whole world has moved on and left him behind, and he is only just now realizing this.

Displaced. That’s the word for this emotion. Not quite sadness. Not quite apathy. Just… displaced. All this time, and he never even realized.

Varian… he must have missed his birthday. Late spring has been dead and gone for over four months now, his birthday set only a few weeks after Dad died. He’d forgotten—or maybe he just didn’t want to remember. His first birthday without Dad, and Varian hadn’t even been aware of it. Is he really fifteen instead of fourteen?

He doesn’t feel like it. He doesn’t feel older at all. Just younger—or maybe just smaller.

Varian pushes on into the sparse woods, refusing to dwell on those thoughts. The silence makes his skin crawl, and he shivers, rubbing absently at his arm. He can’t stop thinking, and it bothers him, because there is nothing else to do. He has no one to talk to. No one to interact with.

For the first time in his life, Varian is utterly on his own.

He tries not to dwell on this, either, because of all the things Varian has to be upset about, he isn’t sure why this is one of them. He chose this, after all. He had left Rapunzel behind hours ago, and he doesn’t regret it. The idea of returning to that prison cell, to Corona, with the shadows of the labyrinth still so vivid in his head…

And he meant it, what he’d said to her. He hasn’t had time to come to terms with it, but—Dad is gone. Truly, really, honestly gone. He’s known it all along, but now he has to accept it. Varian—Varian can’t help him. He can’t save his dad, or make him proud, or do anything worth doing… not if he stays locked in that cell.

Varian has nothing to return to, in Corona. Nothing and no-one at all.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow. Varian isn’t used to being alone. Not really. His whole life has been shaped around other people, what they thought of him, if they liked him, what he could do for them, if he could impress them. His dad, the other villagers of Old Corona, Cassandra, Eugene, Rapunzel… even Ruddiger. They aren’t here, anymore—or worse, they don’t care. Except maybe Rapunzel, but that is a whole other can of worms that Varian isn’t interested in opening right now.

He hadn’t had much time in the labyrinth, to think on these things. To sit down and realize what he’s become and where it’s left him. But he’s thinking of it now.

“You’re pathetic,” Varian announces to the air, his voice breaking. The edge of the woods, quiet and still, devoid of civilization. “You’re absolutely pathetic.”

This is a happy ending, Varian knows. It’s the best possible solution in these circumstances. He’s alive, be it due to magical nonsense or not. Rapunzel is alive. He escaped the labyrinth. There is open sky above him and a world of possibility at his feet. Rapunzel broke the manacles and let him go. He’s been cut loose. He’s been cut free.  

…Shouldn’t he be happy?

And yet. He feels as if he’s lost everything. Only a week ago, at most, he stood in chains and hated the world with perfect certainty. And now… he can’t find that boy, whoever he used to be. He can’t find him. It’s all gone, left behind in the ruins of the Moon’s labyrinth.

Varian closes his eyes, hissing through his teeth. It’s stupid, is what it is. It’s stupid to miss that. To miss hating Rapunzel—seriously, what is wrong with him?

And yet—he hates this, he hates feeling like this, displaced and alone and uncertain. He feels like he’s been hollowed out, everything he is and everything he believed in ground down into dust. He doesn’t know what to do or where to go, or even where to start. He has choices to make but he’s lost the confidence to make them. And he doesn’t know—he doesn’t know. He just doesn’t know.

At least when he’d hated Rapunzel, Varian had known what to do.

Gritting his teeth, Varian forces his eyes open and stares out into the woods. There is no path, here. There is no easy road, because there isn’t a road at all. Just overgrown trees and an overcast sky, a land devoid of human influence. A blind path and a blind future for a boy who has no idea who he is.

This is all very fittingly ironic,  Varian thinks. It’s kind of a funny thought. He says it aloud, just to hear it, grinning half-heartedly at the sky—and then falters when he remembers that there’s no-one to respond.

His hand rises and rubs at the torn part of his left ear, and he doesn’t quite realize what he’s doing until his fingertips catch on the uneven break. He can still feel a phantom pain lingering from that day by the fire. His ear burns, even though he knows logically that it’s healed over, the open wound now sealed shut. It burns.

He forces his hand back to his side, and takes another breath.

“…I’m pathetic,” Varian says, at last, to himself. His hand tightens on the satchel strap, and there is no answer.

He sighs and goes to find himself something to eat.

It doesn’t take him long. The trees here are sparse, mostly pine, but deeper in he finds small clusters of different trees, one or two of which are practically laden with fruit. They grow in odd bunches, surrounded by the taller pines, like the overgrown remnants of some ancient orchard. From them, Varian picks a few crabby apples and what looks like an orange, and settles down on a felled log to eat his bounty.

He’s not far from the boundary line—through the trees he can see the divide, that sharp line where the trees end and the wasteland begins. It’s as if the Moon has drawn a line in the sand around her kingdom, a line that even nature doesn’t dare cross. It sounds like her, Varian thinks, biting into the apples (sour, small, mealy: edible). It seems very like the god, to have marked out a place just for her, and then to jealously refuse to let anything else in. Even trees, for some reason.

Thinking of Moon makes him grimace, and as Varian starts on the orange (tart, really tart, like a lemon except sweeter and with a better aftertaste—), his hand rises up to rub hard at the center of his chest.

He hadn’t lied to Rapunzel. Not really. He’s not in pain, he’s not hurt, and there are no marks on his skin—Varian had checked. But whatever Moon did to him in that… other  place, he doesn’t think it was nothing. He can still remember, with awful vividness, the way it felt when she’d stabbed him through the chest, a flash of icy pain that burned so cold it felt like fire in his veins.

It doesn’t hurt, but it’s just irritating enough for him to notice it. That pit of warmth in his chest, ever since Rapunzel healed him—still there, still warm, a pool of light that even the autumn winds can’t break. But his heart feels cold, and his veins itch, and sometimes his eyes feel funny, the whole world gone shiny and shimmery like a heat haze. A chill has sunk deep into his bones and through his blood, a cold that goes deeper and darker than even winter winds. And his hand …

Varian rubs at his right palm irritably, pressing his fingers hard against his skin, wincing at the sting. The other oddities, while unnerving—he can ignore them. But he’s finding it a lot harder to ignore this.

It doesn’t hurt—not badly. Less pain and more like pins and needles, continuous and unending. His veins are stark through his skin in a way that they’ve never been before, rich and blue. His hand spasms and stings like he’s overworked it. Each and every muscle aches—tight and stiff like his own blood has become swollen. It’s irritating. It’s uncomfortable. It’s frightening.

…This is the hand Varian took the Opal with.

He’s trying not to think about that.

By the time he’s finished his fruit, the sky has officially moved past late afternoon into the twilight hours. As the shadows stretch and distort along the dirt, Varian sits up on his bench, stretches out his legs, and sighs.

The day is done. The ordeal is over. He should probably find someplace to sleep. He probably should have slept hours  ago, in hindsight—he’s certainly exhausted enough. He just hadn’t felt safe sleeping in the wasteland, with nothing to eat and nowhere to hide.

He stands from the log, brushing the dust off his pants, fixing his torn shirt and trying to ignore the way his right hand spasms. He’s fine. He’s fine.  Maybe if he says it enough, he’ll even believe it.

“I’m fine,” Varian tells the air. “I don’t mind being alone.”

The world doesn’t answer.

“I don’t.”

The silence stretches on. Varian scowls at his feet, kicks the log, and turns away to find someplace else to sleep.

His blood runs cold, and all the color drains from his face.

Varian stops mid-motion, so suddenly his body still sways with the momentum. His feet glue to the dirt. His mouth opens and then closes, soundless. He stares down at the ground with eyes wide and blank.

Ruddiger looks back at him.

It is a very familiar sight, so much so that for a moment Varian’s memory catches and falls behind, reminding him of other times, brighter times: Ruddiger waiting on the lab floor, sitting sulky and trapped under his mother’s apple tree, running off to find stray tools and ingredients and always coming back, just like this—settled on his back paws, head up and tilted, as if waiting for Varian to notice him.

It is a very familiar sight, but there are differences, too. The set of the scene—this sparse wood and empty sky, so unlike the cluttered hills of Corona. The way Ruddiger’s ears lie back flat, nose twitching, back curled and braced as if waiting for a shout. Worst of all is the look of him—no blank curiosity, no animal fondness. Those beady dark eyes fix on Varian’s face, wary and sad, and unlike so many times before, even after Ruddiger knows that Varian has seen him, Ruddiger does not approach.

Varian doesn’t move either. He is stuck in time, struck silent. He isn’t breathing, and it's only because he can feel his pulse jump that he knows his heart is still going. It’s a shock he wasn’t expecting and does not know how to deal with. He hasn’t seen Ruddiger in weeks. Not since that night by the fire, when Varian tried to kill Rapunzel, and Ruddiger bit off half his ear instead.

“…Ruddiger,” Varian manages, and then his jaw locks up. He doesn’t say anything else.

Ruddiger croons, low and inquisitive. He doesn’t move forward. He stays hunched on the ground, watching Varian’s face.

“Ruddiger,” Varian says again, as if to confirm, and when Ruddiger’s head tilts in recognition of the name, his chest seizes up tight. “Oh. Oh. It’s you.”

Ruddiger chitters, soft and quiet.

“…Rapunzel sent you. She must have. She told you… and. You came. You… You’re here.”

Left unspoken, trapped behind his tongue: I didn’t think you would.

Ruddiger’s head bows forward, little eyes peering up. He takes a quick step closer and coos at Varian, almost questioning. Okay?

“Oh,” Varian says, and this time his voice cracks in two. His ear is burning. He bites his lip to stop from shivering and shakes his head before he can start crying again. “Ah, I didn’t actually expect you to—to come—”

He doesn’t know what to do. He hasn’t thought of what to say; he has been too afraid to even consider it. Because why would Ruddiger come back?

It’s recently become very clear to Varian, what exactly he’s done. The crimes Ruddiger has either not understood or ignored. That it was only when Varian tried to kill Rapunzel, only then that he finally pushed his raccoon’s loyalty too far, is a miracle.

It seems too easy, too simple, too damnably kind, for Varian to gain that loyalty back even before he’s done anything to earn it. It makes him want to cry.

He feels off-kilter and struck dumb, stunned by this turn of events. It’s the same feeling he got when Rapunzel hugged him in the labyrinth, when she saved his life from the golem. A kindness he doesn’t expect and knows, suddenly and painfully, that he doesn’t really deserve.

“I’m sorry, ” Varian says, and while his voice wavers on the words, the apology itself is quiet, meek, soft. There’s no desperation in it. The labyrinth has wrung him ragged, and even for this, he can’t find it in himself to be hysterical. He’s just—tired. Drained. Sad. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t feel right, standing above Ruddiger like this; it makes him feel tall and a bit like a bully. He folds his legs and drops to his knees, and tries not to notice how Ruddiger shies away, keeping his distance. The words come easily to him—the only apology, Varian expects, that ever will.

Ruddiger is his friend. He’d picked this raccoon off his lab floor so many times he’d given it a name, and that same raccoon that once messed with his experiments and stole all the apples from his mother’s old tree has stuck with him throughout it all, through his dad’s death and the snowstorm and everything that followed. Ruddiger had stayed with Varian the whole time. He’d tried to help him.

He’d bitten off half of Varian’s ear in an accident, but in doing so he’d stopped Varian from crossing a line he could never return from, and even then—after everything Varian’s done—after all the things he’s starting to realize that he’s had a hand in—it would be so, so hypocritical of him to hate Ruddiger for that, if he ever could.

“I’m so sorry .”

His hands wring, fingers interlocking and then twisting, twitchy and restless. He can hardly hear himself speak. His own voice has deserted him, and he has to struggle for every word, fighting to speak above a whisper. It scrapes at the inside of his throat, sour like bile.

“I’m sorry, Ruddiger. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I made you—that I—that you had to stop me from—”

None of the words are right, and his voice is withering.

“I’m sorry.  You didn’t mean to, I know that, and I—I’m not mad. I don’t blame you for that. I’m just—I’m sorry. You stopped me—you stopped me. I—I should have done better. I shouldn’t have done that to her. Or to you.”

His eyes are burning and god, Varian really is a child, he can’t go five minutes without bursting into tears. He feels cold and disconnected, terrified to his bones. His throat is so tight.

“I’m sorry, Ruddiger.”

Ruddiger tilts his small head at him. His little eyes are bright in the fading light of the twilight. He crawls towards Varian by inches, very slowly, pausing after each step as if to see how Varian will react.

Varian doesn’t move. He can’t. The words have dried up in his throat, and he finds himself frozen yet again—stuck in place, rooted to the ground, barely breathing. His eyes are bright, itching with a painful pressure. He’s not a pretty crier. The tears make his face twist and his breath hitch, and it takes everything he is to stay still. His eyes sting, and his hands are shaking, his fingers clenching at his knees.

Ruddiger slowly hops into his lap, and sits up on Varian’s folded legs. Varian flinches, leaning away, and in response, Ruddiger leans up. He sticks his small face very close to Varian’s eyes, beady eyes wide and staring.

And then, with utter seriousness—Ruddiger lifts his little paws, and bops Varian right on the nose.

Varian freezes. He blinks.

Ruddiger coos at him, soft and friendly, and bats cheerfully at Varian’s long fringe. His claws dig and pull at the fabric of his shirt, and within moments Ruddiger has clamored up his side and found his favorite perch on Varian’s shoulders. He turns around a few times, sniffling quietly, ringed tail brushing at Varian’s cheek, then curls up and tucks his head down as if to go to sleep.

Varian stares out at nothing, eyes fixed forward and face blank. Slowly yet surely, an emotion breaks free, an expression cracking across his face. His smile is small, trembling. Then, as realization sinks in, the smile grows. His vision goes blurry. His cheeks hurt. Varian buries his face into his hands and shakes.

He’s laughing before he even realizes it, something quiet and wavering and halfway to a sob, so happy he feels like he could burst. He’s shaking like a leaf, barely staying upright, and he digs the heel of his palms against his eyes so he won’t cry, feeling that strange and wild smile stretch across his face, bright enough to burn.

Ruddiger croons at him and nudges his cheek, and Varian laughs harder, falling straight into tears. He can’t even speak, can’t say any of things he wants to say. Thank you, I’m so sorry, I’m glad you’re here. Useless and embarrassing things, probably, wasted on a raccoon who half-the-time seems to understand Varian’s words and the other half is just a raccoon, but he thinks it all the same.

By the time Varian finally calms down, the sun has set completely and the sky is becoming increasingly dark. He rubs his hands down his face and scrubs the tears from his cheeks, breaths wavering and hot. He feels feverish and warm, overworked from the tears and laughter.

He’s still smiling.

“Ready to go, buddy?” Varian asks, and receives a quiet croon for an answer. His smile grows, and Varian picks himself off the ground inch by inch. He’s shaking, still—not from emotion but from sheer exhaustion, and he almost trips headfirst into a tree. Ruddiger chitters in worry, small claws pricking at his collar in alarm; Varian giggles like a child and rests his forehead against the bark. It’s cold against his skin, rough and scratching. His face hurts. He smiles anyway.

“Are you hungry?”

Ruddiger coos at him, something like an agreement, and Varian pushes his hair out from his eyes. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Let’s find you some food.”

Every motion is like sleepwalking—he’s too tired to focus, to really keep track of what he’s doing. Varian picks up another crabby apple for Ruddiger and wanders the darkened woods before finally resigning himself to sleeping up in a tree, settling among the branches. It’ll be uncomfortable, he knows, but after the experience he just had, Varian could sleep anywhere and still be dead to the world.

He hugs Ruddiger to his chest in a fit of whimsy. Ruddiger coos at him and bops his nose again, then wriggles free to coil up in his arms instead. Varian laughs so hard he almost cries.

He curls up in the branches as the last light fades, safely hidden in the leaves. Ruddiger is warm in his arms, dearly missed and finally returned. The night air is cold and the branches press hard against his spine. He doesn’t know where he is or what to do. He doesn’t know where to go from here. But the sky is clear and bright above him, and Ruddiger is by his side.

It’s enough.

Varian closes his eyes, and slips off to sleep with a smile.

-

His sleep is restful, dreamless—deep and undisturbed now that he knows he’s finally safe. Varian wakes up late the next morning, opening his eyes to distant birdsong. The sky is bright and blue, and the sun burns down high above him. It’s almost midday.

Ruddiger is already awake—and aware, perched on Varian’s side like a king, looking around with his ears perked. Varian blinks up at him, laughs at the sight, then abruptly remembers everything that has happened and grabs Ruddiger in an abrupt hug.

Ruddiger chitters and complains at this. He scolds Varian like a worried mother and bats Varian’s nose again, but afterwards he settles on Varian’s shoulders without much fuss, already forgiven. Varian scratches at the raccoon’s ears and smiles, and stretches the knots out from his shoulder. The tree has left a faint green bruise all across his back, and he rubs at the mark ruefully. His right hand seizes up and tremors, stark blue veins trailing up his arm.

He feels tired, bone-deep and aching, and it takes him awhile to finally get down from the tree. After a few awkward minutes of tripping over branches, he finds a new apple tree and a few of those tart oranges, and splits them with Ruddiger for his breakfast. He eats as he walks, dropping the cores and peels behind him. The trees loom above him, needle-like leaves rustling in a soft wind. To his eyes, the woods stretch on for miles.

“Ready to go?”

Ruddiger croons, curling up on his shoulder. Varian rubs his hand over Ruddiger’s head, and smiles bright and true.

“Yeah. Me too.”

The only way left to go is forward.

Varian starts off into the woods with his head high and Ruddiger humming by his ear. Rapunzel’s satchel thumps against his leg with every step, worn and soft. His feet are bare except for the bandages Rapunzel made from her dress, and while his feet are no longer injured, the cloth provides some protection from the rocky earth.

The memory makes his chest twist with something like guilt, but Varian looks back on that moment with kinder thoughts. If there was one good thing to come from the labyrinth, one thing Varian had gained instead of lost…

Please trust me, Rapunzel had said, back in that tower. He hadn’t really had a reason to trust her then. Varian chose to take her hand anyway. What followed that choice was confusing, frightening, strange—but he had returned alive. He had trusted her, and she had kept her word, and then she had let him go. Varian is alive, he’s whole, and he has Ruddiger by his side—all because he trusted Rapunzel.

One more chance.

He can’t bring himself to forgive her, not yet. But he is glad he chose to trust her. She’s given him a second chance… and maybe, when his head is clear and he can finally think about the labyrinth without his mind twisting into knots—maybe then, Varian can find it in himself to give her a second chance too.

Perhaps it’s the new day, the aftermath of a full night’s rest. Perhaps it’s how clear and blue the sky is, sunlight shining cold and bright through the trees. Perhaps it’s simply Ruddiger, here again, back at last, a comforting weight on Varian’s shoulders. But the journey now feels different—almost brand new. The worries and fears and loneliness that haunted Varian’s heels has ebbed away. It isn’t gone, not entirely: these worries will not fade with the passing of time. But they have eased, and become more bearable, and suddenly Varian has hope.

He walks through the woods with his head high, a small smile playing across his lips. He has hope. He has a second chance. He may not know where his next meal will be or if there’s a place to sleep, but that is a problem for another day. For now—

Varian walks forward, and hopes that maybe if he keeps going, one day he’ll find someplace to stop. Someplace to stay. Somewhere worth staying.

Take care, Rapunzel had said. He wonders if she meant that. He’s starting to think she does.

By late afternoon, good fortune strikes. Varian steps out from the shadow of a great pine, and finds a worn and overgrown road. It is old, small, weedy and thin. Unused is putting it lightly. But it is a road, small though it is, and roads always lead to someplace.

Varian smiles at the worn gravel path, and looks down that winding trail. The small stones press against his feet, and the light is bright and hazy, warm afternoon sun. It looks like a beginning, the start of something new.

“I wondered when you’d stumble upon this place.”

Varian stills. Pain spikes up his right hand, his blood so cold it burns. Soft laughter echoes in the back of his head, distant and soft, carried by the wind. Behind you, something whispers, a breathy voice in his ears, cold and whispering amusement. Look behind you, boy.

He turns, slowly, his hand strangling the strap of the satchel. Ruddiger is sitting frozen on his shoulders, head tilted and ears pricked in vague recognition. The faint laughter rings in his ears and then fades away, and leaves him feeling breathless.

There is a stranger here, on the road, standing just beneath the shadow of the trees. Hands clasped behind their back, head bowed and eyes closed. A small smile curls at painted lips, a sad crook to the corner of their mouth.

“Varian of Old Corona,” says the stranger, “son of Quirin. The alchemist, the boy criminal. Your reputation precedes you, you know.”

The stranger steps into the light. An older woman with bone-white hair and a painted face, sharp eyes and a sharper smile. Her clothes are heavy-set and warm, and the hilt of a sword rises over one shoulder. Her expression is set and serious, and she looks at Varian like she knows him.

“My name is Adira,” says the woman. “It is good to see you again. And now, with those pleasantries out of the way…”

She puts a hand over her heart and bows, and Varian’s breath catches. There is a symbol on the back of her hand, stark against her tanned skin. A perfect circle bisected by three lines, like the trailing tails of a comet. A symbol he’s seen only twice before—once on his father’s hidden chest, and the other in the Moon’s tower, hidden away from the outside world.

Adira lifts her head, and meets Varian’s stunned gaze.

“We have much to discuss, you and I,” she says. “Don’t you agree, little Moondrop?”

.

.

.

The Dark Kingdom crumbles, the Opal falls, the Moon slides back into her night sky. Light and memory ripple across a cosmos, the echo of a great clash. A fate defied; a destiny challenged and changed.

In a place beyond reality, in a world beyond, above or below or besides the earth, something in the darkness shifts. The ringing clash of contrasting powers, a radiant sun and lovely moon, breaks through eons of enforced sleep. Blinding light flashes through and scorches the dark waters of an endless sea.

Chains pull. Bones creak. The blackness groans like old wood, its bonds stretching thin, the monster caged inside the shadows finally stirring awake.

Zhan Tiri opens his eyes.

.

.

.

:: TO BE CONTINUED ::

#tts #tangled the series #varian #varian tts #varian tangled #rapunzel #rta #rapunzel’s tangled adventure #rapunzel tangled #varian the alchemist #tts varian #cassandra #cassandra tts #eugene fitzherbert #adira rta #iza fanfic #fic: labyrinths of the heart #fic series: the long road back to home

[sapphiresterreart]

Puzzling Pieces Chapter 7 UNFINISHED

As per request, here are the unfinished pages of what would’ve been chapter 7 of the Hiro x Miguel ship fic Puzzling Pieces. Under a read more.

Could he do it? Could he summon the Hamada parents? There was no guarantee and he’d have to ask Cass for photos, but how incredible would it be if he could not only reunite the Hamada brothers, but the whole Hamada family?

Tadashi would get to talk with their parents. Hiro would get to meet their parents. And Cass would get to see her sister or brother!

He bit his lip. As of now he could go ahead and summon the Rivera by calling for their blessing, but maybe he should wait until he had the Hamada family photos? That, and no one in their group had weapons or armor ready to use to fight against Ernesto and possibly Bruce.

His gaze skimmed across the ofrenda to the Hamada brothers. If Ernesto really had been shot by Tadashi’s ghost repellent gun, then he would need to take time to heal. Meaning, they had time before the attack. Enough time to wait till tomorrow to ask Cass for photos, then.

Still…wouldn’t hurt to call for the Rivera’s anyway, just in case if the Hamada parents couldn’t in fact cross over.

Miguel inhaled and closed his eyes, picturing the family. “Papá Héctor? Mamá Imelda? If you can hear me, I need a favor…”

Clothing rustled behind him. Someone murmured but he ignored them.

“See, De La Cruz is in the land of the living. He wants to…” his breath hitched. “He wants to kill me to bring himself back to life but he’s not alone. There’s–”

“Miguel?” Hiro’s voice startled him. “Miguel, your skin!”

He snapped open his eyes, darting them to his hands. Fear slammed in his chest. Where there once was skin, there now was bone. Just barely, he could see the transparent outline of his hand and a scream ripped itself from his throat.

Footsteps scuffed cement and slender arms wrapped around him. Miguel jerked his gaze up to meet Hiro’s own and saw an orange glow reflected in brown eyes. Hiro held him tight as he struggled for air.

“Miguel, holy shi–are you okay? What’s going on?” Hiro yammered into his ear. “We can see your bones. You’re glowing! What the hell?”

“Y-you can see me?” Relief soared. “I’m not cursed again?”

“What?” Hiro pulled away just enough to check him over. “Your skin’s coming back!”

Shaking brown hands lifted and Miguel confirmed that yes, his skin had returned to normal. He exhaled and sagged into the hug. Moments passed and he realized Tadashi had approached with a searching expression.

“Maybe…” Tadashi mused. “Were you trying to summon them? Or just bless the altar?”

“Both?” Miguel shrugged helplessly, heart still racing.

Hiro fussed over him. Fingers combed through his hair, a palm checked his temperature. Eyes scanned his face and hands flitted across his arms and down to his hands as if to confirm that they were, in fact, real and solid.

Though the concern was welcome, it was a bit embarrassing with the man’s older brother watching them. Especially since that brother slowly started to smile.

Tadashi shoved a hand against his brother’s head. “Knock it off, bro. Either kiss him or give him space.”

The two of them jumped apart, spluttering. Hiro cursed, scandalized. “Bro!”

Miguel grabbed his wrist and yelped. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

Tadashi laughed. “Alright, alright. How ‘bout this, then.” He closed the files on the computer and holographic displays. “We leave the supernatural for tomorrow. It’s getting late and we need our rest.”

Though Hiro protested, another teasing line at Miguel’s expense sent the two of them up to their room. After a confusing moment of deciding sleeping arrangements, Tadashi shooed them away and said he’d sleep on the red couch in the garage.

Now Miguel found himself curled under the covers, occasionally shifting. He dozed in and out of uneasy sleep. It wasn’t until he felt someone else’s presence did he open his eyes to find one shadowed man staring him down.

“Hiro…?” Groggily, he rubbed his eyes. “Whaddya wan’?”

“Nothin’!” The shadow jumped. “…are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah?” Miguel rolled onto his side to better look at the man. “Wha’s wrong?”

“Nuthin’ I just…” a beat passed. “Something’s been bugging me.”

“What is it?”

“Earlier today, you said ‘amorigo,’ but was it amor or amigo?”

“Dios mío, Hiro.” Miguel felt himself waking up more and dodged the question to check his phone. “It’s two am!”

“Okay, but do you have a girlfriend?” The man’s voice quickened speed like a hamster on a spinning wheel. “Did you get one while we were fighting? Wait, is it a crush, do you have a crush, who is it?”

This couldn’t seriously be happening.

“It’s not a skeleton is it?”

Dios mío, it was happening.

“So is it a crush, girlfriend, or a friend cause–”

“Hiro, it’s two–”

“–Do I know them or–” Hiro paused just long enough to reveal horror. “Are you crushing on my brother, dude?”

Miguel groaned. “Relajaté. Go back to bed, you can’t possibly stay awake all night just to think about thi–”

“Yes.”

“You are seriously gonna stay up all night? Just to wonder?”

“…no.”

“Then go to bed.”

Instead, Hiro stayed right where he was and continued to annoy his poor, sleep deprived form. “...but is it Tadashi? Like, what do you see in him? You've only known him for a day.”

Miguel grabbed the pillow and haphazardly aimed for the man. Desperately, he tried to sidetrack the pest. “If you’re worried about me cause of the skin-to-bone thing, I’m fine.”

Hiro dodged and stubbornly chewed him out. “I mean it’s okay if you lik–do you like dudes? I’m a dude. Do you like me?”

Miguel’s heart stopped. Mierda, mierda, mierda, he’s getting too close, mierda mierda mierda.

Hiro paused, as if realizing his words. “Oh shi–I sound like the kinda jerk who asks all gay guys to date me, oh my–Wait, wait, oh no–what if he dies and I never find out? Scratch that, what if he dies. Period.”

Enough was enough. Miguel snagged Hiro’s wrist, flipped open the covers, and dragged him beneath the sheets. After an alarmed yelp, Hiro finally, mercifully, shut up and Miguel snuggled him close with soothing nonsense.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “I’m not gonna die, okay? I’m right here, okay Hiro?”

“O-oh no.” Hiro stammered. “I-I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Miguel cleared his throat. “But it’s okay, I’m here. So go to sleep, okay? Sleep. Here, I’ll even sing you something, okay?”

“Yeah…” Hiro breathed, back to his chest. “Yeah, okay.”

He rifled through songs before settling on one Socorro helped him to write. Softly, he sang.

“Someone gave me a shooting star,

and said to make a wish.

There were many things that I could ask

but nothing more than to fish.”

Hiro snorted. “Fish?”

“Roll with it.” Miguel playfully shoved his shoulder and continued to sing.

“See, I’ve never seen the ocean,

but I’d love to see it soon.

Even better if I could see it with you

and we could fish from the moon.”

A light sigh escaped Hiro and Miguel smiled. Works every time. He hummed the rest of the melody until Hiro’s breathing evened. He would’ve drifted to sleep himself if it weren’t for the realization that one Hiro Hamada was wrapped in his arms. He inhaled to steady his own heartbeat and exhaled.

Roll with it. Miguel tossed worries to the side. They were both safe and alive. Might as well enjoy the moment while he still could.

He closed his eyes.

~oOo~

A low baritone pulled his awareness into the waking world. “…so this is why you two haven’t come down for breakfast.”

Groggily, Miguel dragged bleary eyes to the speaker. “Tadashi?”

He mumbled and shifted, the warm pillow in his arms moving with him. The man continued to speak. “Wish I had a camera.”

The pillow muttered. “Go ‘way, ’dashi…”

Alarm shocked Miguel and he shrieked. Instinctually, he kicked the living, breathing thing and it flew off the bed with a squawk and landed with a thud and a pained groan. His heart hammered, laughter roared in the background, and he peered over the edge of the mattress. The pillow was not in fact a pillow, but one grumpy young man.

“…oops,” Miguel winced as Hiro shot him a deadly glare. “Sorry, Hiro.”

Muffled slapping and loud laughter prompted Hiro to growl and snap at his brother. “I liked you better six feet under.”

Tadashi wheezed. “It was a fire. I woulda been cremated, bro.”

Hiro bared his teeth. “Then I’ll take your ashes, mix it with confetti, compress it into a bullet and shoot you. So you better stay dead.”

The older Hamada pouted. “What’s the confetti for?”

“Celebration.”

Miguel eyed the bloodthirsty Hamada warily. “Uh…”

Hiro continued viciously. “When the bullet explodes, you’ll die in a shower of confetti. Then, I can dance over your dead body with bright pieces of paper falling everywhere. It’ll be beautiful and quiet and I’ll finally be able to sleep.”

“Still a bear to wake up.” Tadashi lidded his gaze with a sly smile. “Hope you two slept well…in each other’s arms.”

Hiro launched to his feet, screeched, and chased his brother out of the room.

Miguel stared at the stairway, thoroughly perturbed, and debated whether to save Tadashi from untimely death (especially after he worked so hard to bring him home) or to change out of pajamas. In the end, he decided to rescue weeks of hard work and pursued the Hamada brothers.

“Hola, Señorita Cass!” He greeted and swung himself onto the second floor.

“Good morning, Miguel!” She chirped. “Catch them before they kill each other, won’t you?”

“¡Por supuesto!”

He followed the angry yells and hustled into the café portion of the building. There, Hiro had his older brother backed into a corner with only a table between them. Tadashi grinned when he spotted Miguel and waved.

“My savior!” The man called. “Save me from this madman!”

Hiro hissed incoherently.

Miguel took another moment to debate priorities. But, good-nature won and he put himself into the line of fire. Placating hands lifted and Miguel tried for a one-dimpled smile as he sidled into Hiro’s view. He cranked up the charm.

“Señorita Cass is cooking breakfast.” He sang. “I bet you’re hungry. Smelled like she’s making pancakes.” When Hiro continued to glare, he kept his mouth moving. “Personally, I would add vanilla extract to make them sweeter but I know you prefer spicy food.”

“I wonder if there’s such thing as spicy pancakes? Could you put hot sauce in pancakes? Wait, ew, that’s gross. Why would you eat that? Huh. Maybe I could make it work. Is that a challenge? I think it’s a challenge. Are you challenging me?”

Over the course of his rambling, Hiro softened from murderous rage and interrupted. “I’m no chef, but I’ve never tasted your cooking. Is it awful?”

Insulted, Miguel puffed his chest. “Excuse you. I am an excellent cook!”

Hiro snorted. “Yeah, yeah. I’m hungry, let’s go.”

Miguel perked and checked behind him to find Tadashi had escaped. Probably during the distraction. He shrugged and trotted after Hiro. They settled around the folding table and thanked Cass for the meal.

After they finished eating, he shooed away the brothers to help Señorita Cass with the dishes. Once alone with her, he took the chance. “Señorit–”

She shot him a look.

“Ah, Cass. Tía Cass.” He corrected. “Do you…” he hesitated. Should he really ask? It could easily fail. Raise hopes only to crush them. No, no, he had to try. No time to hesitate.

“Do you have any photos of the Hamada parents?”

Cass jolted and turned away from the dishes to study him. “Of course! But why do you ask?”

Miguel scrubbed the plate with unusual focus. “Oh, um. Did Tadashi tell you about where he’s been all this time?”

“Yes, but–”

“Did he say anything about, uh…unusual things?” The dish dripped with soap.

“I…guess?”

“What about really unusual–” The soap flowed off the plate as he quickened pace.

“That dish is clean.”

Gentle fingers plucked it from his hands. He halted. Cass grasped his sudsed hands and turned off the tap.

“Miguel, what’s this about?”

He exhaled and took the plunge. “I don’t know if it will work or if you will believe me, but…” He met her worried gaze. “I want to summon Hiro and Tadashi’s family, and yours if you will let me. I just need photos and–and it’ll be good for them! They could see their family after so long and Hiro could meet their family and you coul–”

She shushed him with a quiet smile. “I have photo albums. We can use some from there.”

He brightened. “You believe me?”

Cass shrugged and smiled, helplessly amused. “How can I not? You brought my nephew back to us. He can see ghosts now and apparently there’s a madman after all of you and it’s all so crazy but.” She huffed and rolled her eyes. “But since when have I done anything except crazy?”

Miguel tackled the amazing, incredible, wonderful woman into a hug. “Graciás, tía Cass.”

“I should be thanking you, Miguel!” She returned the hug. “You just keep bringing home surprises.”

“And you,” he pulled away, “keep a home to come back to.” He glanced at his soapy, wet hands. “Sorry about–”

She merely dipped her hands into the soapy water and flicked her fingers. Droplets darkened his pajama shirt “There, now we’re even. Go change and I’ll finish here. Then we can get the photos.”

He laughed. “Sí, tía Cass!”

Miguel hurried up the stairs. A quick change into a red shirt, jeans, and a worn out blue hoodie later brought Miguel to tía Cass’ side in the kitchen. She had finished the last of the dishes and was rifling through the wood cabinets below the cushioned seat alcove below the windows.

A mix of familiar voices chattered on the first floor. She handed him a photo album and checked the time.

“It’s not organized at all and I have to open the café, but there should be enough photos with the right names here and there for you to figure out who’s who. Hope it helps!”

He accepted the thick album and nodded as she hustled down the steps. He tucked the book beneath an arm and followed after her to find the team had gathered in the café portion of the building. Tía Cass slipped on the black apron and flitted through the café front before switching the sign from ‘closed’ to ‘open.’

The team had yet to notice him as Hiro and Tadashi served them their coffees and baked foods. Tía Cass took over once they were served. Fred noticed him and gestured for him to follow the group to the garage.

He waved farewell to tía Cass.

#Higuel #Hiroguel #Coco #Big hero 6 #Miguel Rivera #Hiro Hamada

[equinoxparanormal]

6 Famous Figures, Past and Present, Who Claimed to Have Encountered Ghosts

Being rich, famous, or influential has plenty of perks—but escaping the spirit world's torments isn't necessarily one of them. Here are six prominent individuals, both past and present, who have either claimed or been said to have had close encounters with ghosts.

1. Joan Rivers

Few people—either living or dead—likely would have wanted to mess with Joan Rivers. But when the late comedian purchased a swanky Upper East Side penthouse condo in 1988, she found herself facing a formidable foe: the ghostly niece of financier and banker J.P. Morgan.

Rivers’s new home was a Gilded Age mansion, which was converted into condos in the 1930s. When she tried to renovate her own digs, however, she noticed a peculiar presence: “It was just very strange,” Rivers recounted in a 2009 episode of Celebrity Ghost Stories, according to the New York Post. “The apartment was cold. I could never get any of my electrical things to work correctly.” She also recalled that her pet Yorkshire Terrier refused to enter the room for months, and she saw strange graffiti on the walls.

When the building’s elevator operator heard about the strange occurrences, he reportedly said, “I guess Mrs. Spencer is back.” Instead of going head-to-head with the specter—who reportedly still thought of herself as "the grande dame of the building," according to Rivers—the comedian called in a New Orleans voodoo priestess to cleanse the home of spirits, and Rivers reported that her dog finally came into the apartment. But the hauntings soon returned—until Rivers made nice with the ghost by hanging a portrait of her in the building lobby and leaving flowers out for her.

In 2015, less than a year after Rivers's death, a Saudi prince purchased the penthouse for $28 million. According to reports, he disliked her decorating style and planned to gut-renovate the apartment. No word, however, on whether he’s also personally experienced the ire of Mrs. Spencer.

2. King George IV

Raynham Hall is a palatial estate in Norfolk, England with a spooky backstory: It’s reportedly haunted by a ghost known as the “Brown Lady of Raynham Hall”—and it's said that King George IV once saw the spirit with his own eyes.

The Brown Lady (who gets her name from her brown brocade dress) became world-famous in 1936 after photographers from Country Life magazine allegedly took a photo of her floating down the stairs in Raynham Hall. She’s believed to be the spirit of Dorothy Walpole, the sister of Great Britain’s first Prime Minister, Robert Walpole.

An important noble family called the Townshends built Raynham Hall in 1620, and a member of the clan—Charles Townshend, an 18th century British secretary of state—married Dorothy Walpole. The marriage was rumored to have been a bad one, and in 1726 Dorothy died around the age of 40, reportedly from smallpox. (One alternate tale says that Townshend pushed her down the estate’s grand staircase and she broke her neck; another claims she died of a broken heart.)

Dorothy’s spirit lingered, and Norfolk legend says that when King George IV was the young Prince of Wales, he slept in the estate’s State Bedroom and woke to see “a little lady all dressed in brown, with disheveled hair and a face of ashy paleness.” The future king left Raynham Hall immediately, and swore he would never spend another hour in the cursed house again.

3. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

At the peak of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fame, the Sherlock Holmes author became obsessed with the paranormal. He believed in ghosts, wrote books about spiritualism and fairies, and attended séances. Sir Arthur didn’t believe he possessed supernatural powers himself, but in his 1930 book The Edge of the Unknown, he described several chance brushes he had with spirits.

In one anecdote, Sir Arthur described waking up “with the clear consciousness that there was someone in the room, and that the presence was not of this world.” His body was paralyzed, but he could still hear footsteps echoing across the room. Then, Sir Arthur said he sensed a presence leaning over him, and heard them whisper, “Doyle, I come to tell you that I am sorry.” Moments later, the mysterious visitor vanished, and Sir Arthur’s body unfroze.

Sir Arthur’s wife slept through the entire thing, but Doyle was convinced that the experience wasn’t a dream. He believed the ghost to be “a certain individual to whom I had tried to give psychic consolation when he was bereaved.” The man had turned down Doyle’s offer “with some contempt, and died himself shortly afterwards. It may well be that he wished to express regret,” Doyle wrote. As for his sleep paralysis, the author believed that the spirit needed to borrow power from a living person to appear in the physical world, and it had chosen him.

4. Sting

Fans of Sting know he’s no stranger to singing about ghosts. But in a few interviews, the ex-Police frontman claimed to have seen one, too.

At the time of his sighting, Sting had young children and owned a 16th century English manor house. One night, the musician awoke with a jolt at 3 a.m. He “looked into the corner of the room and thought I saw [my wife] Trudie standing there with a child—our child—in her arms, staring at me,” the musician recalled in a 2009 interview with BBC Radio 2.

Sting then reached over and noticed that Trudie was still in bed. He “suddenly got this terrible chill,” he said. “And she woke up and said 'Gosh, who is that?' and she saw this woman and a child in the corner of the room.''

The ghostly figure disappeared, but Sting’s spooky encounters were far from over: “A lot of things happened in that house, a lot of flying objects and voices and strange, strange things happened,” he said. “When you live in old houses, you get this energy there.”

5. Athenodorus Cananites

Historians remember Roman magistrate and writer Pliny the Younger for his dramatic, first-hand account of Mount Vesuvius’s eruption in 79 CE, but he could also tell a good ghost story. Around 100 CE, the scribe wrote a letter recounting the time the Greek Stoic philosopher Athenodorus Cananites stayed in a haunted house.

“There was in Athens a house, large and spacious, which had a bad reputation as though it was filled with pestilence,” the tale began. “In the dead of night, a noise was frequently heard resembling the clashing of iron which, if you listened carefully, sounded like the rattling of chains. The noise would seem to be a distance away, but it would start coming closer … and closer … and closer. Immediately after this, a specter would appear in the form of an old man, emaciated and squalid, with bristling hair and a long beard, and rattling the chains on his hands and feet as he moved.”

The home was eventually abandoned, and it remained empty until Athenodorus came to town. He considered buying the property, but was suspicious about its low price. The philosopher would soon learn that the house was haunted—but surprisingly, this made him want to buy it even more.

Athenodorus purchased the home, moved in, and stayed up late working, hoping to run into the ghost. Sure enough, he eventually heard the rattle of chains, looked up, and saw the old man’s spirit standing in front of him.

The philosopher pretended to ignore the ghost, but the impatient ghoul beckoned toward Athenodorus, motioning for him to come outside. He did, and the old man vanished—but the next day, Athenodorus ordered for the spot he disappeared on to be dug up. There, he found the ancient skeleton of a man clad in chains.

The bones were given a proper burial, and the ghost never haunted Athenodorus—or any other citizen of Athens—again.

6. Dan Aykroyd

Dan Aykroyd’s experiences with spirits aren’t limited to Ghostbusters. In a 2013 interview with Esquire, he claimed to have once lived in a Hollywood abode that was haunted by singer Cass Elliot, from American folk rock group The Mamas & the Papas, along with the ghost of a man buried under a hillside next to the house.

“I had several experiences,” Aykroyd recalled. “I saw things moving around on our counter, and doors opening and closing. The staff also had experiences, direct contact in terms of tactile touching, and then turning around and there's no one there.”

One day, Aykroyd claimed, one of the two ghosts crawled in bed with him while he was taking a nap. He woke up “in a trance," he said, and noticed that the bedroom’s previously closed door was ajar. Then, the actor spotted “a depression in the mattress, like somebody was getting in there,” he said. Not one to be afraid of no ghosts, Aykroyd decided to snuggle the spirit instead of screaming for help.

[Kirstin Fawcet, Mental Floss]

#ghosts #hauntings #paranormal

[bittykimmy13]

A Familiar Face (GT)

A million years late, but! Finals are over and I can write agaaain! :D

This is prompt from the 100 (GT) Themes Challenge. Feel free to send a number/word from the list for me to write about, and a specific character to go along with it, if you like!

This is the 9th installment of An Extra Roommate! 

Here are the other prompts that I’ve filled for the challenge!

"You can trust Nat and Amelie, you know," Zoe said, pausing in her search for the TV remote between the couch cushions to glance over her shoulder. "It's not like they would do anything to you. Sure, Amelie looks strong enough to rip the bumper off a car and use it like a baseball bat, but that's nothing. I'd be more worried about Nat squealing nonstop over you." Cassandra shuffled her feet on the coffee table. She reached for her bag strap, but it wasn't there, and she felt naked without it. Lily assured her she wouldn't need it for movie night, but Zoe's suggestion that they should reveal Cassandra's presence to the other two humans who lived in the dorm apartment left her wishing she had her climbing rope. But Natasha and Amelie were away for the weekend, at least. "I just… I don't want too many humans knowing about me," Cassandra answered.

Zoe straightened up with a triumphant aha, remote in hand. She looked over at Cassandra on the low table and shrugged. "It's up to you, I guess." Lily's footsteps retreated from the kitchen and trailed onto the carpet, accompanied by the tantalizing aroma of freshly-popped popcorn. "Are you bothering Cass about that again? Give it a rest, Zo. The less people know about her, the safer she is. Cassandra pursed her lips as Lily set the overflowing popcorn bowl on the other side of the table. "Not that I think they would hurt me. I'm sure they're very nice, but you know… you never know," she said in a small voice. "Whatever you say," Zoe answered distractedly, tossing the remote aside once she set up the movie. "Well, I call the couch. All of it." Lily chuckled and rolled her eyes. "Shocker. Better help me move this, then." Cassandra's heart gave a little lurch as Lily and Zoe got moved into position on either side of the table, gripping both ends to lift it. Before Cassandra could offer any protest, the human girls shared a brief smirk and picked up the table--the borrower along with it. With a squeal of surprise, Cassandra fell back onto her rear and hands. It was unnerving, feeling the massive piece of furniture sway beneath her. Carrying the table was an easy feat for a pair of humans, but to her, the thing was unmovable as the dorm building itself. The table gave one final rattle as it was set back down, leaving enough room on the carpet in front of the ouch for Lily to lay down comfortably amongst the blankets and pillows she and Zoe had brought from their rooms. "Sorry about that." Lily peered apologetically down at Cassandra, who was straightening up to stand. "Are you okay?" "I've had worse falls," Cassandra said, offering a little smile. Lily laughed weakly. "Don't remind me. Minutes later, they were situated for the night. Zoe was sprawled out on her claimed couch, while Lily was curled up on the floor in a nest of blankets. In front of her, she created a cozy nook in a pillowcase for Cassandra to settle in. However, seeing as Zoe had selected a horror film, Cassandra soon found herself scooting back into Lily's shadow. They both gave a small start when her back bumped into Lily's wrist, but rather than pull away, Lily adjusted to rest her hand at Cassandra's side, thumb brushing against her arm comfortingly. "We can switch it to something else, if you want," Lily murmured, low enough that Zoe couldn't hear. Heat rushed to Cassandra's face. She had barely known Zoe for a couple of weeks since panicking about ruining her art project. Already Cassandra had proved herself to be a scaredy-cat time and time again. Zoe wasn't cruel or taunting by any means, but Cassandra could imagine her rolling her eyes at the request to change the movie. "I'm fine," Cassandra dismissed, patting the side of Lily's finger. She peered behind her to see a little smile curve at Lily's lips. "If you say so." An hour and a half later, Cassandra regretted saying so. Both humans had fallen asleep some time before the climax, leaving Cassandra alone to watch the screen, wide-eyed. Even after the credits finished rolling, she stayed where she was, huddled under Lily's relaxed hand and glancing at the human's face to check for any sign that she was waking up. "Lily?" Cassandra murmured, getting no response. With a steeling sigh, she pulled away from the safety of Lily's hand, missing the cozy warmth the moment she stood up. She waded carefully through the blankets to reach the controller; Lily had snatched it away from Zoe halfway through the movie to turn down the volume of the shrieks in the movie--"If an RA comes with a noise complaint, you're dealing it!" Perhaps it would be easy enough to search for another movie for Cassandra to lull off to. Before she could even begin heaving the remote into position to point at the TV, something moved out of the corner of her eye. Cassandra whipped around, heart in her throat. She reached for her bag strap, only to remember she did not have it. Images of monsters and murderers flooded her imagination as peered at the space beneath the couch. A figure was approaching, and it was her size. Her heart felt like it was disintegrating all together at the sight of the familiar silhouette. "Vince?" she croaked. He paused briefly in the shadow of the couch, glancing cautiously at Lily's vast sleeping form. Somewhere deep down, Cassandra's heart ached at his familiarity. His blond hair was tousled as if he'd just gotten out of bed--like it always was. His lean form seemed stronger than before, but his face as he came out of the shadows hadn't changed a bit. "Cassie," he said, relief flooding his features. He beckoned urgently, and without her permission, Cassandra's legs obeyed. He pulled her into a tight hug. She didn't return the embrace, staying stock still in his arms. "Should've known you'd be captured eventually," he chuckled ruefully. "Huh?" she whispered. "C-captured?" Vince pulled away to smile down at her, hands gripping her shoulders tightly, like he'd missed her. "Yeah, dummy. I knew you were doing well with borrowing and taking care of yourself. Then I saw all your stuff was gone. You haven't been home in weeks, have you?" He threw a harsh glance at Lily, seemingly clueless as to why Cassandra had abandoned her home--to stay as far away from him. To live in the safety of Lily's bookshelf instead. She couldn't bring herself to correct him. Not when he was so close, standing with her arms in his grip. All those weeks she had come to trust Lily, even Zoe. Free of Vince. Now there he was, like a ghost come to haunt her. "Leave me alone," she breathed, and she didn't truly realize she'd said it out loud until Vince's face pulled into a frown. "What did you say?" She reared back. "I said go away!" Her voice was barely a hiss, shaking with tears. "You abandoned me! You left me to die! Lily… Lily helped me! She's my friend. Zoe, too. They would never, ever do what you did to me!" For a second, Vince stared at her in shock. This his expression darkened, and his blue eyes--murderous and cold-- slid back to where Lily slept peacefully. "Friends?" he spat. "All this time I thought… I thought you had grown up and started looking out for yourself instead of leeching off me. You're out of your mind. You've let them trick you!" He faltered, a million thoughts seeming to cross his face at once. In the end, he fixed a glare on Cassandra and snarled, "You're a danger to our kind, you idiot." That was all the warning Cassandra received before he yanked her fully into him, locking an arm around both her arms and her torso. A scream built in her lungs, but he clapped his free hand over her mouth. She writhed and kicked, but he had no trouble dragging her further under the shadows of the couch. Cassandra bucked wildly, eyes filling with tears as she desperately willed Lily to wake up. She was right there, right within earshot. But she was fast asleep, utterly unaware of Cassandra's panic. Wake up, she wanted to scream. Lily, please! He'll never let me go! As Vince dragged her across the room, Cassandra put up even more of a fight, wrenching her head free long enough to bite down on his hand. He hissed in pain and flinched his arm away. "Lily--!" Before she could loose a scream, Vince slammed her head into the coffee table leg. Stars popped behind her eyes, darkness blurring the edges of her vision and spreading like a stain. She stayed conscious long enough to feel Vince scoop her into his arms to carry her like a child. She managed to breathe Lily's name before she blacked out completely.

#mywriting #gt #gt writing #borrowers #lily #cassandra #zoe #vince #an extra roommate #100 gt themes #a familiar face

[jewishclarkkent]

superbat #19!

things you said when we were the happiest we ever were

Heavily inspired by this incredible scene from Batman: Mask of the Phantasm 

Raindrops pattered against the windows, thunder rolling in the distance. Bracketed by the warmth of Clark’s body lying next to him, Bruce stared at the ceiling, unable to find rest. With a frown, he listened to Clark wheezing, lungs struggling to regain normal functioning after inhaling copious amounts of kryptonite powder. Carefully shifting his weight, Bruce disentangled himself from the covers and got off the bed, stretching his arms over his head to ease the tension in his shoulders. After turning Clark onto his back and sliding a pillow between his knees, Bruce turned his attention toward the sun lamps he’d set up around the bed. Though Leslie assured him Clark had received optimal exposure on the Watchtower and simply needed rest to regain his strength, Bruce preferred to err on the side of caution. He fiddled with the settings and positioning of the lamps. Clark did not stir once. Bruce walked to his side and reached to touch his face, noting the fading bruise high on his cheekbone, not quite healed.

Legs restless, Bruce came to stand by the window. Outside, the storm raged on, wind howling, causing the trees to sway in a mesmerizing dance. Maybe, Bruce thought as guilt churned in his stomach, the severe weather would be enough to deter most criminal activity. His mind was already making calculations for the hours he’d have to put in to make up for the lost night, cycling through his active cases and predicting the complications that could arise. Most importantly, though, he’d have to assure Luthor’s kryptonite supply was truly destroyed, and find out who had been selling it to him; then, he would bring down the full wrath of the Bat on them.

With one last glance at Clark, Bruce exited the room and walked downstairs. A clattering sound greeted him in the hallway and he followed it to the kitchen, where Alfred was stacking dishes, rearranging the content of the cupboards. A habit Alfred only engaged in when someone had been injured or fallen ill.

At the sound of Bruce’s footsteps, Alfred turned, lips drawn tight. “How is Master Clark?”

“Resting,” said Bruce, rubbing a hand over his face. The bedsheets had left deep creases in his cheek. “He should be completely recovered with a few more hours under the lamps.”

The tension eased from Alfred’s shoulders, betraying the extent of his concern even as he schooled his features back into British stoicism. “That is quite a relief.”

Putting his hands in his pockets, Bruce looked down to hide a furtive smile, touched by Alfred’s concern. He’d come to care for Clark like family. “The kids?”

“Master Damian is sleeping,” Alfred reported. “He’d be loathe to admit it, but he appeared relieved to learn you’d be staying in to watch over Master Clark and was quite eager for updates on his condition,” he said. “I believe he’s becoming rather fond of him.”

This time, Bruce didn’t try to suppress the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“However,” Alfred continued, “Master Timothy and Ms. Cassandra were substantially more averse to the idea of taking a night off. They were quite insistent on the need to pursue Mr. Luthor.”

“Not without me,” Bruce sighed, running his fingers through his hair. The information didn’t surprise him; both Tim and Cass needed to feel useful when someone in the family had been injured. “They know the rules. Besides, they should be focused on studying for their exams.”

“Indeed, Sir.”

“Why don’t you head to bed, Alfred,” Bruce suggested, noting the exhaustion on his face. Raising his brow, Alfred tilted his head towards the dishes lining the counters. “It’s nothing that can’t wait until morning,” Bruce said in response.

“Very well, Master Bruce,” said Alfred. “Do wake me if you or Master Clark require anything.”

Bruce nodded, watching Alfred retiring to his quarters. He waited for the telltale squeak of the stairs before he picked up the dishtowel and turned to deal with the dishes.

When he finished, Bruce returned upstairs to check on the kids. He found Damian sound asleep in his room, the heavy blanket reaching up to his chin. Titus was curled at his feet, taking up the expanse of the bed. Ears perking up, the dog lifted his head to examine Bruce before returning to his slumber, determining his owner was safe. Even in sleep, Damian’s nose was scrunched up in concentration, a furrow between his brows. Bruce ached to reach over and smooth it, but knew Damian would wake at the lightest touch. For a long moment, he simply stood at the threshold and watched the rise and fall of his son’s chest.

Panic unfurled in Bruce’s chest when he discovered Tim and Cassandra’s rooms empty. He raced down the stairs to check the common areas, finding the pair asleep in his study. Tim’s head was tipped back against the couch, mouth open, yellow highlighter smudged across his chin. Cassandra was pressed to his side, head on her brother’s shoulder. Their textbooks were strewn across the floor. Relief washing over him, Bruce picked up a blanket and covered them both, bending to lay a kiss on top of Tim’s hair and Cassandra’s forehead. She opened one eye and they exchanged a silent look as she searched his face. Whatever she read in his expression was enough to put her at ease and she closed her eyes, breathing slowing down as she fell back asleep. Heart aching at the show of trust, Bruce took it as his cue to slip out of the room.

Back downstairs, he pulled on his boots and coat. The storm had not eased and a gust of wind greeted him when he opened the front door. Still, he did not hesitate stepping into the downpour, picking up a small pebble from the driveway before trailing through the sodden gardens.

When he reached his parents’ graves, he fell to his knees, mud sticking to his trousers. In that moment, the sky opened up and the rain turned into blinding sheets, hail pelting against his skin. Bruce reached out with both hands until he found contact with the headstones, reading the engraved names with his fingertips. He let them linger on the Hebrew inscription on his mother’s grave before placing the pebble on top of it with his left hand.

“I made you a promise,” he said, tongue heavy in his mouth, voice hardly carrying over the angry storm. He did not know what he’d come to say, only that an inexplicable weight compelled him to. “But I never thought —” he tried, shutting his eyes as the wind razed across his face. He grasped the blades of grass beneath his fingers.“It still hurts, but — it doesn’t hurt so much anymore.” He bowed his head at the admission, breath hitched, shame caught in his lungs. “I never expected… I thought — I didn’t count on being happy.”

A painful constriction pierced his chest, and Bruce clenched his jaw to work through the sharp pain, taking a deep breath. When the attack passed, he turned silent, biting his lip until he could taste blood. The wind picked up its howl, violently slamming against his eardrums.

“I made you a promise,” he repeated, throat raw with the effort. A promise to dedicate his life to pursuing justice, to honour their memory. To allow no distractions. To always put Gotham first, above his own needs. But she no longer was. Bruce had broken his promise tonight and on countless others, leaving the city defenseless. He had been weak, allowing anger and resolve to recede and something else to take their place. Worst of all, he did not have the strength to uproot these new feelings, no matter how detrimental to his mission they were. “I’m sorry,” he tried, hands trembling. He clenched them into tight fists, knuckles turning white, nails digging into his palms. A bolt of lightning split the horizon. “I’m sorry I failed you. I never knew… I didn’t think I could have a family again.”

Minutes or hours passed as he sat on the wet ground, frozen and catatonic. When he found the strength to rise, his feet felt unstable, knees wobbly. The walk back seemed long, each step a greater betrayal, putting more distance between him and the ten-year-old who’d set out to achieve the impossible. Bruce pulled his coat closed against his chest, ice forming in his lungs.

When he reached the Manor, he paused in front of the grandfather clock. He thought about heading down to the Cave, getting to work on tracking Luthor’s supplier. The image of Clark waking alone stopped him, and he headed instead for their bedroom, rubbing the Kryptonese words tattooed around his ring finger.

In the bathroom, he peeled off his sopping clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, wet hair plastered to his forehead and dripping onto the floor, accentuating his pallor and the sunken shadows under his eyes. The raised scars on his torso stood out against his damp skin. He averted his gaze and ducked out of the room, desperate to escape the ghost that haunted him.

The glow of his phone caught his attention, and Bruce grabbed it from the nightstand, glancing at Clark to make sure he hadn’t woken before opening the notification.

All quiet on patrol, read Dick’s message. Calling in an early night.

He’d attached a picture of himself parked on his couch, a bowl of popcorn in his lap, Barbara and Jason on either side of him. Bruce stared at it with a longing that terrified him, studying every detail. Jason’s expression was bored, caught in the midst of rolling his eyes, but he was there, spending time with his brother. That was the real reason for Dick’s text.

You’ve got to have patience, B, Clark was constantly reminding him. Give him time. He’ll come back to you.

Bruce brushed his thumb over the screen, lost in thought when his phone vibrated with another text from his oldest son.

How’s Big Blue?

On instinct, Bruce glanced back at Clark. The bruise on his face had faded completely, a healthy glow returning to his cheeks. His breathing had returned to normal.

Recuperating, he typed back. Should be back to full strength by morning.

Good, was the response that followed. Keep him out of trouble.

Bruce placed his phone back on the nightstand, walking to the dresser in search of underwear. A low groan accompanied by the rustle of sheets caught his attention, and he turned to watch as Clark stirred and sleepily opened his eyes.

“B?”

“Go back to sleep,” Bruce said gently. “You need rest.”

“I feel fine. Come here,” said Clark, reaching his arms from under the covers. He looked warm and inviting, and Bruce wasn’t able to resist, dropping the clothes he’d picked out back into the drawer. He climbed onto the bed, carefully propping his elbows to hold himself on top of Clark.

Clark cupped Bruce’s face, his hands comforting and familiar. “Why are you all wet?” he asked upon coming into contact with cold skin, just as another crack of thunder echoed outside. Bruce shivered in response, teeth chattering. Clark rubbed his shoulders to warm him up. “Jesus, B, you’re freezing.” He lifted the duvet so Bruce could get under the covers, their naked bodies pressed together. The light from the sun lamps shone bright, and Bruce turned to burrow his face into Clark’s neck.

They laid like that for long minutes, saying nothing, Clark’s fingers carding through Bruce’s wet hair. His other hand trailed up and down Bruce’s spine, the touch intimate. Clark always recognized when Bruce needed time to gather his thoughts, never pushed for explanations Bruce wasn’t willing to give. Instead, he allowed him the space to work through his turmoil, his presence a silent support. Never demanding, never asking for more than Bruce could give. It was precisely why and how he’d knocked down all of Bruce’s carefully-architected defenses.

Finally, Clark hooked his thumb under Bruce’s chin and tipped it up so their eyes could meet. “What’s going on, B?” his voice was gentle as he caressed Bruce’s cheek, scratching the hint of stubble on his jaw.

Bruce swallowed, struggling to find the right words. He averted his eyes, staring instead at the delicate curve of Clark’s collarbone. “I never knew.”

“Knew what?”

Bruce brought his hand to rest on Clark’s chest, fingers splaying over his heart, comforted by its strong rhythmic beat. “That it could feel like this.”

Clark’s hand came to rest over Bruce’s, lacing their fingers. “I never knew, either.”

#superbat #bruceclark #manman #bootycap #batfam #superbatfam #my fic #batfam feels #superbat feels #jewish bruce wayne #otp: make me believe #otp: because of you i know a man can be anything he wants to be #otp: we'll never give up on each other #fanfiction

[welcometophu]

Ghosts 5

Twinned Book 1: Commit to the Kick

Ghosts 5

[ Previous | First | Next ]

“I thought predictive Talent always had a focus,” Chris says. The thrum of the engine is the loudest sound in the minivan; the stereo is off so that everyone can hear. “Weren’t we just talking about that?” He nudges Alaric.

Rory reaches forward from the third seat, taps Alaric on the shoulder before he can answer. “It depends on the type of predictive Talent,” Rory says. “Sometimes it’s a specialty for a Mage, like my mom, who can sense Talent. It’s not the same as reading cards or having prophetic nightmares, but it’s predictive in its own way.”

“Alex isn’t like any of that.” Alaric is at a loss trying to find the words to truly explain it. He meets Dax’s gaze in the rearview mirror. He’d lean forward, but Cass is in the front passenger seat, and she has it reclined while she curls to one side, her eyes closed, breath soft and even with sleep. Alaric frowns, tries to tease out from the scents whether Cass and Dax are still fighting, and just how badly that will go when they get to his home.

“Alex is—we’re a different kind of family,” Dax says. “The predictive Talent in our bloodline is from a Seer. Think the Oracle of Delphi, and yes, it probably goes back that far into our Greek roots. I don’t think there are any pure Seers left anymore, but it seems to infuse our bloodline. So we’re all unique in our own way. Alex has no control over it—she’d be useless in something like a football game. She’d never be able to predict what was going to happen next. She gets random flashes, and she doesn’t always know how it fits together until she happens to find the right puzzle piece.”

Like when Alaric walked in. And he’s pretty sure Alex still doesn’t know the whole story, and he’s damn sure he doesn’t understand that parts she told him.

“Did she happen to mention what Theobald’s going to do when we pull in the drive?” Corbin asks. He’s joking, but only barely; Alaric can hear the thread of sincerity in the question.

Dax turns as the GPS directs, and they head out of downtown Haverhill toward the community. It won’t be long now.

“Don’t need to be predictive for that,” Alaric mutters. He crosses his arms, sinks down in his seat. There’s a bump against his knee, and he catches the scent of worry from Chris. “It’ll be fine,” Alaric adds. “This is my plan, and I am exercising my authority.”

“I don’t think this is what Theobald’s expecting you to do.”

Drea snorts softly at Corbin’s words. “I think in some ways it’s exactly what our father’s expecting Alaric to do. The problem is that he doesn’t know that maybe it’s the right thing to do. Dax—” She waits until Dax raises a hand to acknowledge her, then quickly continues, “Turn’s coming up here on the right. Look for the sign for Herne Way. It’ll be about five minutes down that road. Watch out for small animals and children.”

“They’re probably all children,” Corbin points out.

“Got it.” Dax navigates slowly down the road, and Alaric spots more than a few forms that he recognizes. When a pair of wolves dart away, cutting through the woods straight for the house and avoiding the road, Alaric knows his cousins will warn his father.

He curls his hand together, presses his nails against his palm. Rory’s fingertips are cool against the back of his neck, a light touch with no magic. Chris covers Alaric’s hand with his own briefly, and Alaric breathes in, inhales the familiar scents in the car. The only one that feels out of place is Cass, but enough of Dax’s scent is mixed with hers that Alaric can accept it.

“Just park right here.” Drea points, and Dax pulls into the spot.

He reaches up, pushes a button, and both back doors slide open just in time for them all to hear a roar from the house. A lion bursts through the quickly opened door, leaps off the steps and stands in front of them, roaring again. A blink later, and Theobald stands before them, arms crossed, scent furious. “There are Mages in that car.”

Rory’s hand slips from Alaric’s skin, and Chris draws away. Alaric doesn’t say he’ll go first, but they all stay in place anyway as Alaric climbs out of the back of the car, walks the few short steps to greet his father. He doesn’t tilt his head, refuses to bare his throat.

“One Mage,” Alaric says. “My roommate, Rory. One other Lineage Talent, and two humans, plus Corbin and Drea. We’ve come to visit Orson’s grave.”

Fury rises in the air, hot and tangible, not just to Alaric’s nose but to his skin. He feels answering heat under his own skin, and he clenches his fists tight against the beast that wants to burst free. Not in front of his father. Not now, not when he needs control.

His twin’s scent washes over him him; she stands at his left hand, Corbin to his right. Rory lingers at the door to the van after unfolding himself from the back seat, one hand pressed to the small of his back while he stretches. Chris and Dax speak quietly, while Cass still somehow snoozes in the front seat.

“Go home,” Theobald says. Each word is low and separate, ringing with authority. Corbin grips Alaric’s elbow; Drea has her hand at his waist. “You will not disturb Orson’s rest.”

“He’s dead, old man,” Corbin says, tone light despite the tension in his body. “We can’t disturb him because he’s not resting.”

“You will not disrespect my son!”

Corbin takes a step back, and Alaric goes with him. He’s never heard Theobald yell at Corbin before, and he can smell Corbin’s rush of surprise and a flash of fear. Alia is there a moment later, her hand on Theobald’s arm, and Alaric feels Rory and Chris at his back. He hears murmurs near the van as Dax wakes Cass.

“Theobald,” Alia says gently; it does nothing to quench the scent of fury in the air.

“Let’s do introductions, since we’re here for the night no matter what,” Drea says firmly. “This is Rory—he’s Ric’s roommate, and he’s a good guy, and he’s neither going to attack any of us, nor is he part of what happened to Orson. You remember Chris. That’s Dax over by the car, and he’s the reason we’re here—which Ric can explain to you—and that’s Dax’s girlfriend, Cass.”

Cass slides from the seat, stands on wobbly legs and pushes her hair out of her face. “What’s going on?” she asks.

“Later,” Dax says.

“You are all welcome in our home,” Alia informs them, voice tight. “Andrea, perhaps you should take your friends upstairs, settle them in your rooms while Alaric and your father continue this discussion in private.”

“C’mon, let’s get our stuff out of the car.” Drea kisses Alaric’s cheek, then shoves Corbin toward the car in a familiar roughhousing gesture.

Rory hesitates, holds his hand out where only they can see it, and Alaric shakes his head slightly. “‘M’fine,” Alaric says quietly. “As long as he can see you here, my father’s going to be pissed off.”

“How did he even know I was in the car? Usually I fly under the radar,” Rory responds, and Alaric shrugs. He can’t smell Rory. He has no idea how his father knew, but somehow he did. “Does he really get that I’m not here to hurt anyone?” Rory’s glance flicks past Alaric, then back to meet his eyes. “You’re as good as family to me.”

“Yeah,” Alaric says gruffly. He yanks Rory in, hugs him hard, rubs his cheek against Rory in a gesture that he knows his parents won’t miss. “Stick with Drea and Corbin. You’ll be safe.”

“What about you?” Chris hasn’t moved yet, his jaw tight. “This looks worse than last time.”

“Last time might have been right after Orson’s passing, but I only brought you,” Alaric says quietly. “This time I brought an entire van load of people into Clan territory. He’s not going to trust anyone.”

“So we all stick together, we do what we came to do, and we leave,” Chris says. “We’re with you on this, Ric. Like you said to Drea: you made this decision, and he needs to recognize that if he’s asking you to lead, you can do it in your own way.”

Alaric huffs. “I know. Think I would’ve let you all get in that van if I didn’t?” He nudges Chris. “Go. Get upstairs with the rest. My room or Drea’s, stay put until I get this settled. Pretty sure that the only one here you can’t trust is him, but you don’t need a bunch of curious Clan kids sniffing around, either.”

“Should I still be wary if Corbin offers to show us the baths?” Chris asks, and his grin crinkles the corners of his eyes.

Theobald clears his throat, and there’s a small sound from Alia.

“Go,” Alaric says. “I need to talk to my father.”

“You are not leader yet,” Theobald says solemnly, when Alaric finally gives him his attention.

“No, I’m not,” Alaric tells him. “But I’m going to be, and if you want to leave me something to lead, then don’t interfere with what I’m doing.”

“Inside,” Alia says, shushing them. “There are too many curious ears out here. Alaric, join us in your father’s study, then the two of you can discuss what is to be done.”

“There haven’t been Mages on Clan land in a century.”

Alaric trails after his father. He can’t resist getting a final dig in. “There haven’t been Mages on this Clan land in a century,” he says. “Others haven’t remained so separate. What happened to Orson wasn’t about Magic. We’re here to find out what it was.”

[ Previous | First | Next ]

#welcome to phu #welcometophu #commit to the kick #phu twinned #twinned #cttk ghosts

[amarmeme]

The Shelved Works of Varric Tethras: CH 17 -- All Business

Pairing: Cassandra Pentaghast/ Varric Tethras Synopsis:  Varric Tethras’ literary cast-offs, abandoned for various reasons. Until a certain determined Seeker discovers the lot. Chapter Synopsis: Varric convinces Cassandra to rest and they finally have a chance to start real talking. On AO3

Dashed on a torn page from Hard in Hightown 3: The Re-Punchening

Story idea -- Gang leader is sole survivor of an ambush. Heads back to Ferelden in search of his her long lost family. Gets sucked into defending village from fade rift. Joins the Inquisition. Finds redemption?

If hard pressed, Cassandra couldn’t recount how long she’d been sitting in the sickened Seeker’s quarters. Judging by Varric’s considering gaze, the man could no doubt fill her in with absolute precision. For what seemed like the hundredth time, he petitioned her to abandoned the post.

“Come to bed, Cass.”

“Cole had said--”

“--I know what he said, but I don’t even think he even understands what sleeping is.”

She sighed, unable to form a coherent argument. Although Cole had said her presence was helpful, she’d be of little use to anyone else in her current state. A constant stream of jarring, jumbled thoughts flew through her mind, flashes of Varric’s embrace swimming in tandem with Daniel’s red streaked face and subsequent strike of mercy. Everything sweet became tainted, coated in a red haze. Perhaps it was time to sleep, in a proper bed.

“Alright.”

Varric wasted no time. Cassandra was dragged out of her wooden chair, lower back crying in protest. He spirited her out of the dark room, ushering her down the hall past the garden with the tight grip of a hand. The fresh  air was revitalizing, the morning chill nipping her senses and granting a sense of clarity. Several onlookers stood stock still with wide, worried eyes as the pair passed. Had it really been that long since their return to Skyhold with Seeker Taubert? Each person held the expression of someone spotting a ghost.

“Has something happened, Varric?”

He swung open the door to his room, sweeping her inside before shutting it with a shoulder. Leaning against the wood, he sighed sharply.

“Just the usual. The Inquisitor jumped through a magic mirror, our resident witch’s almost frolicking through the gardens after figuring how to turn into a -- I shit you not -- dragon. And you’re guarding a ticking lyrium bomb.” He shook his head. “How we’re not dead yet I don’t understand.”

“A dragon?!” Cassandra slumped against Varric’s bedpost. Apparently a lot had happened in a short amount of time.

“Oh, and I told you this last night.” She began to protest, not remembering the discussion. “I can see your gears working there, Seeker, and I’m gonna stop you. Just get in the damn bed.”

She scoffed, but let herself be shooed from the post. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pried off her boots. They tumbled to the floor. The sound rang in her thoughts, stirring up ideas of undressing before Varric. She was not in her quarters, of course.

“Why am I here?” Cassandra threw back the covers and crawled onto the soft mattress. As soon as her head hit the pillow, she realized she didn’t much care.

“Because my bed’s somehow bigger than yours. Scoot over, I’m coming in too.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you are expecting anything, don’t.”

“I can’t believe you haven’t figured out how this works yet, Cass. When you’re worried, I’m worried. When you’re losing shut-eye. So am I.”

Her heart pattered in double time. It was such a Varric thing to say, to be wrapped up in her issues like they were his too. The thought stilled her. Were they his issues now too? He’d said he loved her, they’d had relations twice. She believe she loved him, or at least was fairly certain that was the feeling. It’d been so long she wasn’t sure how to declare the emotion beating against her breast.

Cassandra reclined stiffly on her allotted, imaginary side until Varric settled. The dwarf pulled her against his chest and dispelled the tension without a word. It seemed, above all else, entirely right. She breathed in the mixture of him, ink and oil with a tinge of something like the scent stirred up in the air after a hard rain. Perhaps it was so for all dwarves, unable to shake the connection to the ground despite being above it. It was pleasant, and soothing, a familiar smell for a man who had become quite familiar himself. A few deep breaths and she sank into the state before slumber where all edges became soft. Any worries could wait for later. He kissed her forehead and they soon tumbled off into much needed sleep.

Blades had given him a day and he was damn well taking it. Luckily Cass hadn’t fought him on the sleep, too tired to think straight. She napped still, wrapped up in his blanket. It was starting to become familiar, the straight-laced Seeker all loose and unraveled within his reach. To think, a few weeks ago they’d been snapping at one another in the Rest. Life had been crazy since Hawke entered it, but this was completely unexpected. There was no use in questioning it. Varric was galloping at full tilt, willing to see how the story unfurled. Hopefully with a leggy, raven-haired Seeker at his side.

Suddenly Cass shifted and came back down from her dreams with a soft smile. Maker’s balls he wanted to kiss her until she couldn’t breath.

“Better?”

The woman’s exaggerated stretch, arms above her head and back arched like a cat’s, was answer enough. He envied the blanket wrapped around her waist, her legs. That’s where he desperately wanted to be ever since she’d let him between her thighs a few nights ago.  So far they’d been going at it fast and hot. That morning in the tent was enough to stoke his imagination for years to come, Cass bent over for his taking. Varric had to clear his throat at the conjured image, his cock waking up at the idea of trying that again. It was a lost cause though, he wasn’t going to push it after all the shit she’d been dealing with. But damn him to the void he wanted to worship her.

Cass turned to her side, one hand beneath her cheek. She studied him with a quiet certainty, lips pressed into a line as if she knew exactly how he was pieced together and could see all the fault lines.  And maybe she did know. There’d been enough confessing on his side in the last few days. It didn’t escape him for a second that she’d not professed her feelings with the same amount of fervor.

“Varric.” She practically purred.

“Yeah, Seeker?”

“Oh, are we all business?”

He laughed. It was hard to imagine that. Looking back, there hadn’t been a point where’d they acted at all like neutral parties. There’d always been an undercurrent, a spark of tension even if she’d been oblivious to it.

“Cassandra,” he amended. She scooted closer, her lips deliciously close.

“I like when you call me Cass.” She ran a hand down his shoulder, over his outreached arm. “No one calls me that.”

Everything became warm quick. Her fingers moved to his chest, tracing the line of his tunic, playing with the hair there. Legs were entwined, hips pressed achingly close. Her dark brown eyes lit up with wicked delight as she felt his arousal. He didn't move against her, rather let the Seeker do all the seducing.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to expect anything?”

“Is it not better to defy expectations? I was of the impression you specialized in such dealings.”

“Oh, I’m corrupting you aren’t I?”

She licked her lips and rolled her hips once more, and Varric was done for.

They stripped themselves efficiently, less like passionate lovers and more so seasoned soldiers. It wasn’t for lack of want, rather a blessed lack of urgency. Breeches and tunics were tossed off the bed and the blankets pulled up, shrouding them. The makeshift tent provided a sense of intimacy that a bare mattress just couldn’t do. He rolled on top, hands near her head, hips cradled between her legs, cock throbbing at the prospect of being inside her again. He continued to let her set the pace, enjoying the coiling up in the pit of his stomach that came with prolonging the slide.

Cassandra’s strong, dexterous fingers were everywhere. In his hair, on his jaw, pulling his chin towards her sultry lips. She kissed him slowly, her other hand discovering the curvature of his back, smoothing the muscles there then nails lightly scouring warm skin. All in all, it was a damn fine place to be. Her tongue skirted the seam of his mouth and he had to reward the deed, pressing heavily against her hips as he sucked on a thick, pouty lip. She practically arched off the bed once he cupped a breast, brushing a pert nipple with a thumb. The low, quick gasp against his mouth filled his chest with the sort of masculine gratification that women always rolled their eyes at with one another, but secretly thrilled for. Cass wasn’t arguing the finer points of his thirst and renewed fervor, roughened hands sinking into her hips and urging her up and open.

Being a dwarf had its disadvantages when sleeping with humans, shortness the worst of it, but not where it really mattered. He was thick everywhere, Ancestors be fucking praised for something. Her lips parted on a stuttered breath as he pushed slowly, reverently into her heat, stretching the tight grip of her body. Her stomach clenched in response to the forced intake of air, and the reaction shook him unexpectedly. She'd hooked his heart and tugged it with each small detail, the soft skin at her collarbone, the of tilt of her chin, the pulse at the base of her throat. For a moment Varric forgot her overwhelming strength and sought to keep her safe. It was infernally hot under the covers, but in no way would he expose her bare to anything. Even himself.

There was a shift somewhere along the line and they were no longer fucking, but the alternative, a dangerous combination of sweetness and sin. Maker he hadn’t had this kind of intimacy for so long and there was no dam that could keep his feelings from flooding over. Varric grabbed a strong thigh and raised it up to his side, hand lingering, stroking down to an ankle. Due to his height he had to lean over, doubling her at the waist, in order to kiss her properly. The angle was almost punishing, sending him deeper and wrenching a hiss out of her.

“That okay?” The intensity in her eyes, the line of jaw, her furrowed brows said otherwise, but as he retreated she caught him in her grasp. Like a spider with its prey, she pulled him in, dangerously close, winding and weaving a net around him. “Let me adjust.” Her thickly accented voice was magnetic, especially at a whisper, and everything about her drew him deeper. Varric rested his forehead against the beautiful creature’s beneath him. Her soft, panted breaths accompanied the barest of nods and his gut clenched with another tug of his heart as she inadvertently tied him into knots.

He couldn’t stop himself.

“I really do love you, Cass.”

In a move that was probably cruel, he took the opportunity to pull out almost entirely. Her eyelids fluttered as he rested at the precipice and he thought of a thousand sonnets. Thrusting back in with an exaggerated slowness, he came up with a thousand more. This woman was all the inspiration he’d ever need. He continued to drive in and out of her with an unfair amount of finesse, an unspoken question lingering between them.

But do you love me? He said something else entirely.

“What do you need? Tell me.” Varric tried to lean back, let her unfurl, but she shook her head.

“Stay close.” She quirked her upper lip before adding, “You won’t break me.”

He wedged another leg against his chest, calf resting in the crook of his arm. She gripped his shoulders, tipping back her head after a few deep seated thrusts. Her exposed throat beckoned, and he sucked and soothed the sensitive skin there. A shiver ran through her as he murmured praise against her neck. The tight, wet grip of her was intoxicating. His blood pumped with incredible desire, an urgent need to see her come and spend himself there.  

Varric dropped her leg in order to cup a heavy breast, pink tip straining for his touch. Bowing as if in prayer, or more like making amends, he sucked and teased until she forced him back to her mouth. Begging to be kissed, he obeyed, then pulled out of her swiftly, seating himself just as quick. A groan ripped through them both at the sensation, breath mingling between open mouths. A stream of pleas fell off her usually sharp and demanding tongue, each more impassioned than the last.

Her skin was slick with sweat, her ankles locked at his back and fingers in his hair. He was going to come at this rate, sweat on his brow, a rising tide in his groin. Each cry and shake and moan filled him impossibly close to the brim, and he worried about spilling over before she could. Sliding a hand between them, he found her perfectly, indecently wet. He rubbed a thumb against the little bundle of nerves there and she arched against him, breasts pressed against his chest. If there was anything better than making a beautiful woman come, Varric hadn’t found it yet.

The tide rose and crashed over them both. She pulled on his wrist between them as the sensation became too much, wrapping their fingers together instead. Their joined hands were pushed above her head and he chased the last few ripples of pleasure before they disappeared. And so -- it was the best sex he'd ever had.

“Fuck,” he sighed, pulling out reluctantly. “That was incredible.”

She didn't appear to hear him. Cassandra drew the back of his broad hand to her lips and kissed there, a promise. She murmured his name against calloused knuckles and stared at a darkening corner of the room. “I do,” she said, unfocused eyes blinking at nothing. “That is yes. I-- do care for you.” It was forced, hard, and came across as if she was trying to make him feel better.

“That sounds pretty convincing.”

He scratched at his shoulder for the lack of a better distraction. She sure as shit didn't seem enthusiastic about the concept of caring for him. Then Cassandra pierced his thick, stubborn chest with sudden focus, brown eyes glistening and lip quavering in frustration. The slight movement could have been a figment of his imagination; he didn't think it was possible for her to cry. Was that awful to believe or a compliment? Before he could pull his head out of his ass, she sat up, scooting him off her lap.

“I may not be as silver tongued as you, but that does not make it any less real.”

He was an idiot. The only person she really loved had been killed in front of her when she was just a child. The only man she’d been intimate with died in a fucking explosion and directly thereafter she'd been saddled with a smart ass dwarf who apparently knew nothing. Of course she had problems saying it. Maferath’s balls he was a prick at times.

“I'm sorry.” He offered her a small smile. “Cass, I’m a terrible man. Ah, shit, don't cry.”

“I'm not,” she hissed, batting away his hand.

“Fine, don’t water the bed.”

She scoffed, but relaxed a little, shoulders softening. “It's not easy for me to tell you I love you, Varric. I have been alone for so long. Now with our responsibilities here coming to an end, it seems I must decide what is next.”

The unspoken words there were unpleasant at best. Did she move on without him? Was this just an ill-fated romance? Would she have been better off coming across a locked trunk all those months ago, his drafts and innermost thoughts hidden to her forever? He swallowed down a hard lump in his throat. He was better off for it, no matter the long-term effects. Cassandra fiddled with the sheet, pulling it taut between fingers, letting it fall loose. Varric stilled her hands before she frayed the damn thing.

“I wish to rebuild the Seekers.”

“I know that.”

“And you will return to Kirkwall.”

Varric simply nodded. He could see the writing on the wall. This was not the type of conversation he wished to have. Ever. He was the master of compartmentalizing -- of pushing the personal shit aside for as long as possible, hoping if he could downplay it in front of everyone else then maybe he’d believe it himself. The Seeker was the opposite -- a force of nature that had problems and dealt with them, sword first. Neither continued, sitting in silence for the moment, each contemplating what the future held in their mind.

“We have a bit of time,” she sighed. “Unfortunately Corypheus still lives.”

“Yeah, never thought I’d wish for his health.” She shook her head, but smiled anyway. “We’re not being irresponsible if we talk about this later, Cass. There’s still a world to save.”

Thankfully before she could press the issue, her stomach growled from neglect. Cassandra frowned as if to scare her hunger away, and Varric wanted to kiss her for it.

She groaned. “I have never said this before, but I would give anything to stay in bed.”

“And as much as I’d like to lie here and feed you, people need to see you’re still sane," he said. "Not a raving lunatic with red eyes frothing at the mouth.”

“Ugh.”

Cass rolled to her feet, gathering up her clothing and staring at them as if they were Dorian’s and had not a clue as how to start. He felt the same way, head in a fog. His thoughts were a mess, his heart was a mess. It seemed Cassandra knew just how to unsettle his relative state of calm. Varric felt like a love-sick kid again. And that was when mistakes got made.

They didn’t have time for mistakes.

Thanks for reading!

#the shelved works of varric tethras #my writing #dragon age inquisition #cassarric #cassandra penthagast #varric tethras #tethraghast #fanfiction #dragon age fanfiction

[olivia-crains]

Annihilation

Destruction hidden behind familiarity of day to day life. Our routine is our saving grace, our job, the weekend task to paint the bedroom, distractions that quiet the screams brought upon by past mistakes and pain erupting beneath our bones. Lena fills her home with love, love she never shared before, I suppose it is much easier to love someone when they aren’t around. She is a Ghost Bird. Lena sets fire to all the good in her life, goodness is hard to feel, reveling in the bad always seems much more appealing considering the feeling that comes along as a side effect. I am that girl. Just dying to feel something, though I have everything in the world I need. A wonderful family, incredible job, supportive and passionate friends, profound self awareness, and yet…all I can focus on is destroying myself and every good thing I have, something within me is fueled by it, it is an unbeatable high.

Area X

Self destruction is very apparent in some people, some hide it better than others. Carefully placed masks that are only removed when alone. Even individuals with seemingly perfect lives choose to self destruct. They fuck up something, somehow, some way, and they just cannot seem to recover, in a way...self destruction is a continuous mutation, as is life.

Each women represents a different piece of self destruction. Area X is like the holding ground, an asylum of sorts for the damaged. Area X can present itself in many forms, your bedroom where your panic attacks leave you in a fetal position on your bathroom floor, an empty movie theater when your paranoia withers you down to your smallest size, your toilet bowl staring back at you, your locket with a photo inside. Area X presents the idea to seek help, answers, comfort. Area X provides the tools, data and opportunity for resurgence, but the answers lie within the shimmer, but the willingness to enter is a feat in itself.

The Shimmer

Entering the shimmer is a form of self inflicted punishment. A prison for our guilt, the guilt that we strap on our backs, tents, supplies, food, etc, our guilt weighs us down.

The shimmer brings your demons to life, constantly refracting, changing, adapting. Coming to terms with your conflict is the root of the shimmer. Surrender or embrace.

Cass knows she can never fully return to the person she once was given the loss of her child.

Anya is an addict who loses all control over her body, she gives in, fully.

Ventress is fascinating…she may be the most destructive of all, she is almost giddy about entering the lighthouse and surrendering to the ‘host’, surrendering to self destruction by screaming the word ‘Annihilation and becoming one with the shimmer.

Josie wants no part in fighting, she gives her spirit over to the shimmer, an almost uplifting and surreal form of suicide, but in a way…she embraces it all and finds the meaning within.

Ventress and Josie are the only two who chose to surrender and become embraced by the shimmer.

Lena seems to be a mixture of every member of the team. She is curious, filled with sorrow, anger, fear of her rapidly changing DNA, but what makes her different is her willingness to embrace her demons, but not let them weigh her down and destroy her life.

I am within the shimmer portion of my life currently. I know there will be many more shimmers I will find the courage to wander through throughout my life. This is only the beginning. But we must face the shimmer in order to get to the lighthouse.

The Lighthouse

Lena constantly punishes herself, you can feel her pain though she tries her very best to hide it. She confronts her memories with such violence, she wants to fight it all. Though we self destruct, our core selves still remain. The lighthouse is surrendering to our own possession, promising to become something new. Lena leaves the shimmer with all she needs, the power of Lena is that she is willing to forgive herself, she is willing to change, to sacrifice, to learn, to fully embrace all she is/all she has yet to become. When Lena looks into that vessel, it seems to mend her tarnished and guilt ridden spirit. Self hatred grows until it encompasses everything. Lena is crushed by the physical embodiment of her own self destruction, a battle between you and you, but she escapes, it is the most powerful metaphor. Tears well up each time I watch that scene. If she can escape with even an ounce of herself left, if she can win this battle, if she can become the best possible version of herself without completely loosing her vital spirit, without crushing herself, maybe all of us who are fighting similar battles can too. She will carry the shimmer with her forever, and in numerous ways, the shimmer saved her, in numerous ways….the shimmer saved them all, from themselves.

The week this film was released was a monumental week for me and part of the reason why this film feels so permanently sacred to me, seven times I have seen this now, and even with that, it will never be enough. Partaking in self destructive behavior is what I have spent most of my life mastering, it wasn’t until earlier this year that it began to take a toll on me. I was afraid to be alone, I was afraid to be around myself, my mind was…cut loose, I was and still sometimes continue to be trapped beneath this skin and the weight of my guilt from hurting so many people and ruining so many things for people and for myself. I just cant understand why I am such a terrible person, what gives me the right to be the way I am and treat people the way I do? There is nothing I enjoy more than torturing myself and succumbing to my demons, night after night. My fear, my wake up call, my shimmer, lead me to seeking professional help, getting on medication, and making the best of the self I have to live with, faults and many issues and all. That final week in February changed my life. I have yet to reach my lighthouse, I have many more months (years), in the shimmer to go.... and as terrified as I am to meet what I encounter, I am comforted by the fact that the shimmer hasn’t swallowed me whole yet and I haven’t given in to my guilt, doubt, extreme fears, and self destructive habits.

I will continue to hold Lena and her journey so very close to my heart, she chose to destroy the perfect masked version of herself she essentially created and instead chose to embrace and learn from her past, she forgave herself, that is all one can ever hope to do, it is the only thing that can cover the harsh and ever so tempting reign of self destructive behavior. Without destruction, we will never learn and without forgiving ourselves, the continuous mutation will never cease.

I have grown quite attached to Nina. I realize this is no surprise considering who is portraying her. This haunting movie has changed my life in many ways. Each time I watch it I walk away feeling something new but one thing never changes, whenever Lena enters the chamber within the lighthouse….I feel like I am about to get on a rollercoaster, my stomach flips, my blood runs cold, I swear I do not blink for several minutes, I am glued to the screen, and I do not move a muscle until the end of the movie. I am completely transfixed, its like nothing I have felt before, it scares me each time, it always makes me cry, and yet, I feel so completely euphoric, and most importantly, ready and eager to face myself.

#annihilation #natalie portman