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lokidiabolus · 4 years

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The Deal - Chapter 3

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel (web series)

Pairing: Alastor / Angel Dust

Warnings: human!Angel Dust (Anthony), Deal with a devil AU

Summary: Sometimes you had nobody to spend the Christmas with. Sometimes you didn’t want to. Sometimes you took a chalk and drew a pentagram on the floor fully ready to deal with anything that would come out as an alternative to self-pity occurring otherwise.

The time when Anthony thought if he can’t get anybody to love him properly, he can just make a deal with a devil and find out what affection feels like. Alastor thinks this mortal is pitiful beyond belief and concede. Cuddles happen.

Can be found on Ao3.

Notes: Holy shit, this took long, and should probably take longer but I'm just itching to get all this out of my system, so here it is. Also realized Alastor’s gloves are not fucking black and red lmao, but burgundy, fuuuck. Changed it.

Unbetad!

2020, January 18th

“What did ya think I’d say to a dead deer in my living room?!” Anthony almost fell out of the window for how far out from his flat he was leaning, trying to get rid of the corpse stench that assaulted his senses. “Is it some kind of fuckin’ peace offering? Like sorry, I fucked up, here’s a dead deer?!”

“A deer for my dear~,” Alastor singsonged in response while happily cutting vegetable at the kitchen counter, as if there was no stinky corpse in the flat, bloody and so, so dead.

“No, fuck you,” Anthony growled back into the flat, not bothering to turn even a little. “I hate you.”

“Now, now, cher, lyin’s bad for your health.”

“You are bad for my health!” he turned to the demon with an accusatory finger pointed at his face, and then made a retching noise when the smell of blood reached his nostrils. His hangover state couldn’t handle the smallest deviation from normal and corpses were definitely not in top 1000 of smells he was used to. Alastor didn’t even raise an eyebrow, he just calmly continued his ministrations as if he just didn’t carve the poor deceased animal right in the very room. Wasn’t it some sort of cannibalism if he would eat anything made from that thing? A deer eating another deer? Was that even allowed?

“Dat might be tru,” the demon agreed after a moment of pondering. “Demons are rarely good fer people.”

“Ugh,” Anthony sagged against the windowsill and the icy wind blew snowflakes into his face. “Seriously, why did ya even bring this thing. Where did ya even get it? A whole fuckin’ deer…”

“Hunted it down,” Alastor shrugged and walked towards the sink where the meat was resting pitifully (in Anthony’s opinion), portioned, but also skinned with surprising skill, not elaborating on the hunting part like it was his favourite hobby and not worth questioning. “It’s our weekend. Wanted to cook for you.”

Our weekend sounded sweet. Anthony wanted to be wary of that, but he was just a human and he liked it despite the possible danger lying in those words. After all that went down, it was apparent Alastor saw him as something akin to a pet project, a “unfuck this guy before he dies” sort of challenge, if his I’m going to fix you eventually speech was sincere. Who knew if anything about this person was sincere in general, but making dumb life decisions was Anthony’s forte so maybe he was inclined to believe the demon anyway.

“’K,” he huffed, his stomach finally calming down and he started to get chilly. “Just… tell me when yer done with the raw meat shit. The tequila is not agreeing with me otherwise.”

There was no answer until after several minutes he felt a hand touching his lower back and a body leaning against him to join him at the window.

“Aren’t you cold ‘ere?” Alastor asked as if he just didn’t squeeze in with him at the window and his warmth was a stark contrast with the chilly wind blowing outside.

“Well, not anymore,” he forced himself to remain on spot and not lean into the contact, more out of spite than anything else, but Alastor did it for him, hugging him from the side.

Hugging… him, what?

He must have felt the rigidness of Anthony’s body, there was no way he would not. Sure, they talked about hugs, but Alastor never looked like he was going to act on it anytime soon, and this was definitely soon as fuck.

“Meat is boilin’ and I put rest in da fridge,” Alastor’s voice was so, so close.

“I have a dead deer in my fridge now?” the human faked a reprimanding tone and the arm around him tightened and he felt Alastor nuzzling his hair. Oh. He wasn’t lying when he said he and his shadow are one person, because this felt familiar – only much warmer.

“Oi,” he nudged the man. “If ya feel like huggin’, I want a proper hug.” And took a step back and opened his arms.

Alastor hummed… and went back to the kitchen counter.

“Don’t push your luck, cher,” he said instead, like he didn’t just leave Anthony hanging, probably also out of spite. “How ‘bout you peel potatoes instead?”

“Wow,” Anthony let his arms drop down. “Just wow.”

He helped with the potatoes anyway and tried ridiculously hard to ignore the fact Alastor’s Bambi tail was wagging all this time.

***

2020, February 13th

“I have a request.”

“Only one this time?”

Anthony refused to feel offended by that. Alastor had been bitchy for a week now, probably had to do something with Hell fucking with his control kink, but it usually only made him snarkier, rather than hostile. Anthony wouldn’t probably even notice if the demon didn’t snap on Wednesday and Anthony’s living room suddenly resembled a boutique with at least fifty racks of clothes haphazardly appearing where was still free space, making Anthony stare at it like a child during Christmas. It wasn’t a bad “snap” Alastor had, actually seemed like a nice gesture until he said: Now be a good boy, Anthony, pick something nice and be quiet. If I hear one more word from you, one of those jackets is going to strangle you to death. So, Anthony shut up and Alastor eventually calmed down enough to allow him to speak again without the static going haywire (and he also let him keep the clothes, ayyy).

State Alastor was in also meant no touching policy. Anthony taught himself not to initiate anything unless in bed about a month ago already but still sometimes slipped when Alastor was too close – and it usually didn’t rouse a bad reaction (unless it was about the tail. Or the ears), but if Anthony tried it when the static was loud and grating, he’d risk a limb. He didn’t have a problem to keep his distance at that point and Alastor seemed to appreciate it.

But now it sucked.

“Ya know, tomorrow is the 14th,” the human pointed out, sitting sprawled in the comfy oversized cushion he bought himself two weeks ago and at which Alastor scoffed for some reason. It was the best thing to laze in ever, the demon had no taste. “And ya know.”

“I am not sure what I should know on the 14th,” the demon uttered, his red eyes not leaving a page of his book for a second. He was seated on the couch with enough distance between two of them that could be still considered social and as hanging out instead of we had an argument so we’re not talking to each other, which was technically not true. They didn’t argue since the tequila fiasco and that cleared up anyway. This was mostly just… precaution.

“Well, I know this is your last day this week,” Anthony tried different approach and sat more properly on the cushion. Not that it helped much, since he was sporting a pink crop top hoodie and booty shorts and Alastor already expressed certain distaste for it, but didn’t demand him to go change, so it was at least a small victory.

“Indeed, it is,” Alastor responded primly, turning a page in slow pace, like a snob he was sometimes. Another thing about the bitchy state of his was the speech. He never let it slip like he usually did when they were together, just talked like a radio all the time like he was keeping his barriers up almost hysterically. Anthony didn’t question it, but he sure did miss his Cajun accent a lot. It felt much warmer and softer than the radio show host persona Alastor normally presented, although it was probably just his form of coping.

“Yeah, yeah,” he nodded, bracing for inevitable refusal that was going to meet his demand. He knew Alastor well enough to distinguish when he was not going to be swayed, and it definitely reached that point. “Just wondered if maybe you’d stay one more day.”

“I am quite busy, dear,” Alastor responded as Anthony thought he would. “You could have planned it a week prior if you knew 14th was an important date.”

It was like talking to a computer at this point. Please leave a message, beep.

“Ya, I could have,” Anthony admitted and let it go. It wasn’t like Valentine’s Day was something special for either of them. Or, honestly, meant anything to their relationship. Maybe there was some Deal day in hell’s calendar they could open bottle of wine to down the year eventually.

A sigh and Alastor was putting his book down, his smile rather strained.

Uh oh.

“Anthony,” there was the Name CallingTM, “if you have something to say, say it.”

“Nothin’,” the human shrugged while sagging back into the cushion. “Three days are up.”

It was the weekend-less week now too and Anthony knew Alastor was itching to get back to hell to deal with whatever was needing his attention and he sort of thought of telling him if he really needed to go, he could, despite the deal saying otherwise, but was selfish and never did.

“I am not going to repeat myself,” the static rumbled more, meaning the bitching mode intensified and Anthony groaned. He should have kept his mouth shut.

“It’s just Valentine’s Day, ‘s all,” he mumbled and right the moment the sentence left his mouth, he would shoot himself if he could, because even to his ears it sounded so… cringy. Like he was expecting Alastor to bring him flowers and have dinner together with candles and all that bullshit they do in the movies. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “Actually. Forget it. I dunno why I even thought about it, for fuck’s sake.”

“Lover’s day,” Alastor didn’t forget it. Oh no.

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean it that way, honest,” Anthony quickly assured him, and really wished Alastor would just shrug it off and return to his book like love never interested him. Since it never did. He was such an anti-intimate and anti-sexual person Anthony suspected him of really being just a little alien in a robotic body, like in Men in Black.

“Then what did you mean by asking me to stay on the Lover’s day?”

Oh yeah, okay, bastard mode activated now as well. Just keen on marinating Anthony in his own sweat and tears from the obvious mistake. Classic Alastor.

“Nothin’,” he piped defensively.

“Nothing would not make you ask me to stay one more day on Lover’s day,” Alastor was staring at him like a laser now, just burning through his skull. He was obviously super into making Anthony squirm in self-pity from his bad life decisions.

“Please, forget I asked.”

“No.”

“Pleaaaaase.”

“No.”

And that was it. That was the end. That was Anthony herded into an imaginary corner with nowhere to go, and Alastor was already turning towards him, and he couldn’t say if the smile was mischievous or angry. Lately the border between those was thin as fuck.

“I just thought a company on the most depressing day of the fuckin’ year would be nice, is all,” he gritted his teeth under Alastor’s red-eyed stare. “Like. We could watch some chic-flics on TV and drink wine and laugh at it, I don’t know.”

“You know how I feel about the picture show shenanigans,” Alastor shot right back, as expected. He learned to more or less tolerate when Anthony wanted to watch something on TV in his presence, but he never joined him for it like a goddamn boomer.

“Ye, see. So, it was doomed from the start anyway!” He hoped it was the end of it. Sure, he might have thought about some cuddles here and there too, since that was what they were supposed to do anyway, but the main plan was not to be alone while hating on all the hearts and roses and happy couples showed everywhere.

“It would seem so,” Alastor finally let him off the hook and opened his book again, the static diminishing slightly. “You can still drink wine though.”

“I plan to,” the human mumbled more to himself than to his companion and was just glad he didn’t need to go to work on that wretched day, or Alastor would find him in hell the very evening.

***

2020, February 14th

He’d be lying if he didn’t have at least the smallest hope of Alastor appearing out of thin air with one of the soft smiles he could do and with his Cajun accent telling him he changed his mind and wouldn’t leave him alone on such awful, overrated cash-grabbing day like this. It was probably 1 % chance of it happening, but he still felt a little disappointed when the clock showed a bit before midnight and Alastor didn’t show up at all, not even saying hi over the radio or sending Junior to give him few comforting nuzzles (Anthony was suspecting him he kept his shadow on short leash since the tequila incident and it was kind of sad).

He was switching between channels with a small frown two wine bottles later, but at least he managed to survive this shitty day without burying his face in PCP. He’d have to leave the house for it and the image of seeing happy hand holding couples on his way would kill the urge anyway.

Once Titanic started to play, Anthony decided it was enough suffering for one day and turned the TV off with a groan. Maybe Alastor knew exactly what kind of boredom the TV was, if not playing shitty movies, then filling majority of its broadcast with ads, and that’s why he avoided it.

He dragged his body to the bathroom and then to the bedroom to cuddle his body pillow instead of Alastor (not the same, but at least he didn’t wake up in the middle of the night anymore feeling cold and alone), and stopped dead in the tracks, staring at his bed.

There was a rose on his pillow – a red, beautiful rose just lying there like it was no biggie, and Anthony was afraid to blink in fear it would disappear. He padded closer, staring at the flower, and then turned quickly, searching the shadows for any sign of Junior hanging around, ready to pounce. He found nothing, the flat was silent and dark, and the rose was still on the pillow when he turned back.

“Al, you fuckin’ softie,” he chuckled to himself, picking the rose with a smile playing on his lips, just to hiss immediately after when a thorn bit into his thumb, drawing blood. Of course the demon would leave all the thorns intact, if not even adding more, just to show him he’s not as soft as Anthony would think.

“Classic Alastor,” he shook his head and brought the rose to his lips. “Thank you.”

He missed the shadow slithering out of the room and disappearing in the radio softly buzzing in the kitchen.

***

2020, July 25th

“Jazz club?”

“I’m in a mood for some good live music,” Alastor opened another wardrobe in the bedroom and raked through the clothes on hangers, mostly scoffing in distaste. It was Saturday evening and the night was warm and lively, inviting them out. “Do you actually own anything presentable or is it all just random bright coloured horrors?”

“Excuse me,” Anthony pushed him to the side from the wardrobe opening and dived in himself, pulling out a pastel blue shirt with stitched flowers on its lapels. “I only have the nicest-,”

“Denied,” Alastor snatched it from his hand and threw it on the bed. “Try again.”

Anthony huffed but grabbed another of his favourite pieces, an old-pink V neck he couldn’t even properly present before Alastor was taking it out of his hold and throwing it on the bed too.

“Yer such a prude sometimes, holy shit,” he rolled his eyes. “What the fuck ya want me to wear then?”

“Something dashing, of course,” the demon eyed the closet one more time and then closed it with a scoff. “And something red too.”

So we match was left unsaid.

“Maybe you should try pink instead,” Anthony smirked but honestly it was better if Alastor never attempted that one. Red and black were his colours like an ingrained order of the world, any deviation from it would probably make it collapse.

He wasn’t surprised Alastor didn’t react. Instead the demon left the bedroom and Anthony followed him while thinking.

“I can wear a dress,” Anthony offered after a moment. “Like. Those nice jazzy cocktail dresses and feathers in hair in a pearl headdress. And do nice make up.”

“A dress?” Alastor repeated. “Do you own any?”

“Yeah, plenty,” the human shrugged. “Often from work, though it was other bar I worked in before. Most of the guys were in a drag, they taught me how to do my own make up and how to style the hair. Really enjoyed that place, too bad they closed it down once the owner shot himself cuz of his debts.”

“Unfortunate,” Alastor commented with a nod. “Though I do recall you were saying the bar you work in now have the costume events too. Are dresses part of it as well?”

“Anything goes,” Anthony shrugged. “Dresses, skimpy body suits, fishnets, business wear. It’s usually themed with the drinks and the food.” He didn’t miss Alastor’s eye roll when he mentioned the skimpy body suits, but at least Al didn’t comment on it.

“I suppose guests enjoy that kind of show,” Alastor said matter-of-factly and Anthony decided not to elaborate. Going to work no longer made him feel at ease, it was mostly automatic. He just shut down all of the negativity, did the work, slapped grabby hands and went home. It more or less kept him out of trouble so far.

“So? Want me to doll up?” he leered at the demon between the doors. “I even have a red dress that might be just what you’d like.”

Alastor looked curious, that was a good sign. It had been few years since Anthony dressed up like this, but it could be a nice change of pace and a treat for his favourite demon who might not have about any interest in intimacy but could get very appreciative when he saw something he liked.

“Please,” the static dropped from Alastor’s voice. “Surprise me, cher.”

Anthony beamed and disappeared in the bedroom.

***

“Grandma,” Anthony walked into the living room in high heels, a fluffy coat covering his body all the way to his knees. He immediately drew Alastor’s attention and saw his eyebrows shooting up. Before he could open his mouth and ask probably why the hell was Anthony wearing a winter coat in the middle of summer, the human dramatically threw the coat down, so it pooled around his feet and struck a pose. “It’s me! Anastasia!”

Cue for the laugh, though Alastor just remained staring without a single word and Anthony cackled and kicked the coat away back into the bedroom without bothering to put it on a hanger.

“Forgot ya don’t watch TV, joke’s lost on ya,” he commented dryly and walked closer, the heels clicking against the wooden floor rhythmically. Alastor still stared but reached out towards him, so Anthony put a hand into his and their fingers intertwined.

“Ya like?” he cocked his head to the side and Alastor actually beamed at him, his eyes raking appreciatively over the setup the human presented – deep red flapper dress with long, pearl necklace tied on his chest into a knot, with fishnets and open black heels, and long black gloves reaching just above his elbow. The red and black eyeshadow with perfect eyeliner took some time, but Anthony was proud of the result and judging from Alastor’s pleased expression it was worth the wait. He styled his hair into 20’s fashion (thanks google) and the only thing he was missing was the headdress and the feather, but he imagined it wouldn’t be a problem for Alastor if he asked for it.

“Vous êtes absolument époustouflant,” the fluent French came out and even though Anthony had no idea what it meant, he believed it was a compliment. At least the tone sounded like it was.

“Hehe,” he let Alastor to twirl him around and when he finally faced the demon again, he realized he was not in the pinstriped suit anymore, but instead of the coat there was an elegant black vest and the red shirt under had different pattern as well, all accompanied by a thin black tie.

“Damn, that’s pretty sweet, Al,” he gently patted the tie and Alastor offered his arm with a smile.

“I believe we’re ready now, cher,” the demon gestured towards the main door and Anthony locked their elbows together and let Alastor lead them out. He felt his palms sweating in the gloves, the last time he felt so nervous was maybe on his first real date, but he was so not telling that out loud.

***

Birdland jazz club was the first thing that Anthony thought of and Alastor seemed satisfied when they entered the building and found a place to sit. Going out with Alastor wasn’t as frequent as it could be, but Anthony didn’t mind it either way. The first time they ventured outside of the walls of Anthony’s flat was around March and it left Anthony wondering why nobody actually turned around when seeing Alastor from the get go – the suit, the hair, the red glowing eyes – not really a normal sight in New York, that for sure.

2020, March 24th

“They don’t see me like you do,” Alastor told him when they sat in a coffee shop and ordered. The waiter didn’t even bat an eyelash at the demon, and it left Anthony’s mind reeling. “They just see a normal person, not even that interesting.”

“As in completely different person?” Anthony inquired and Alastor gently touched his forehead before taking his hand back again. In that moment instead of the red-eyed demon there was a man in his thirties, if not younger, with wild brown hair, rather short and tousled, hazel eyes hidden under round glasses, in a white shirt and a vest, looking completely human and normal and honestly kind of cute?

“Oooh,” Anthony couldn’t help it, “what a cute guy, damn. Ya can change to whoever ya want?”

“Not really,” the human had Alastor’s radio voice, how bizarre. “This face… it’s not whoever, it’s just me.”

Anthony blinked, taking in the face and the eyes and the small smile, and oh, yeah, there was a resemblance now when he focused more, but that would mean…

“Wait. Ye were a human before becoming a demon?” he gaped in shock and one eyebrow shot up on the pretty human-Alastor face.

“How is that surprising? We even talked about my mother,” he shook his very human head. Damn, it was so strange, yet adorable. “Of course, I was a human. Then I died. Ended up in Hell.”

“I don’t know!” Anthony groaned. “I know we talked about it but I just… I mean ya seem like an important and strong kind of demon? Like Lucifer-kind of demon? Surely there are demons born in hell and not just sinners becoming ones?”

“Yes, hellborn demons are a thing,” Alastor nodded and then stopped talking when the waitress approached with their orders, placing a steaming cup of black coffee in front of Alastor and Frappuccino in front of Anthony. The demon eyed Anthony’s drink with distaste but didn’t comment on it. “It is amusing to topple them over, while being just a sinner.”

“But then… you don’t really hold your appearance when you get down there? Or did you choose it?” Anthony tilted his head to the side, not getting enough of this stranger in front of him. Familiar, yet not at all.

“You do not have a say in it,” Alastor answered simply. “The appearance the sinner take in Hell depends on his life or the way he died. There are variety of things in play.”

Anthony nodded thoughtfully while sipping his drink and then grinned around his straw.

“What,” Alastor narrowed his eyes at him and Anthony let the straw go with an audible pop.

“Well, didja fuck a deer~?”

2020, July 25th

Alastor ordered whiskey and Malibu Sunset for Anthony without even needing to ask his companion and the waiter eyed them both with a pleasant smile before leaving. The club was almost full, and the live band just started to perform, which made the ambience quite enjoyable. Anthony didn’t mind jazz, though he was not a die-hard fan of it either. He knew about the clubs but never actually came to chill in one like this before. It was… pretty nice, especially with the company. Alastor was holding his hand on the table, a gentle touch Anthony relished in, and for some reason here, sitting like this, he felt like his equal. Like not only as a pet project and a future pawn, but a partner.

“It is peculiar,” Alastor suddenly spoke, his eyes meeting Anthony’s again. “For how much the world changed, jazz clubs are still feeling almost the same to me.”

“Compared to which year?” Anthony asked, holding his gaze and felt a thumb gently caressing the back of his hand.

“1930,” Alastor smiled with surprising gentleness. “What a year.”

1930. He didn’t know when exactly Alastor died, but if in 1930 he was enjoying jazz clubs, he must have been an adult already. It made him 80 years old past his death at least.

“30’s baby,” Anthony chuckled. “No wonder you don’t fancy TV. It was probably just coming out?”

“Yes, the biggest wave came after I died, thankfully,” a clear distaste in Alastor’s voice was hilarious. “Would prefer radio anyway. It was my job after all.”

“A radio host?” Anthony guessed as much, and the demon hummed while sipping his whiskey. It fitted him, that sort of occupation. “Well, I dunno what ya did in your life to end up in hell,” he leaned against his palm, smiling at Alastor softly, “but yer biggest sin is not talkin’ in that accent of yers. And I mean it. It’s so hot.”

“Correct speech was a must for a radio,” Alastor said primly, but he looked very relaxed talking about it. “Talkin’ like dis would make me a garbage host.”

“I could listen to ya for hours tho,” Anthony grinned and Alastor glanced back to the live band with a small smile, still holding Anthony’s hand.

The night passed fast with great music and maybe a little more alcohol then they planned on drinking, but they could still walk on their own legs when leaving. When drunk, Alastor dropped the correct speech entirely and was extremely touchy feely, which reduced Anthony into a giggling mess.

“You’re a lovely companion, cher,” he was crooning at Anthony when they were walking home through the New York streets, arm sneaked around Anthony’s waist. “Da deal we made was da best thing dat happened to me in a long time.”

“Oh, man, Al,” Anthony couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Ya know how to flatter a guy, huh.”

“Truth is da sincerest form of flattery!” Alastor spun the human around, twirling him on the pavement like a ballerina, then stilling him again with both hands holding his waist. “And I mean every word.”

“Ha, are ya this happy because of the dress?” he batted his eyelashes at the demon and Alastor’s hands slid lower to Anthony’s hips before returning to his waist, an appreciative touch that made Anthony’s breath hitch.

“It suits you,” Alastor concluded, standing close and personal. “Da whole look suits you so well. But even in your pink distasteful pieces of cloth you call fashion, you still look da best.”

“O-ooh, boy,” Anthony felt his heartbeat speed up. If he’d only slightly dipped his head, he could be kissing the man in front of him. Maybe normally he even would if his partner wasn’t a demonic deer with intimacy aversion. But he didn’t want to fuck this up. Holy shit, he would really go and kill himself if he fucked it up now of all times by not holding his horses and forcing himself on an obvious asexual only enjoying the company, while having too many drinks to keep his defences up.

“T-thanks, Al,” he gulped down the cringy nicknames he would use on anybody else after a date night. “Yer the best company I could’ve hoped for too.”

He was adamantly sure it wasn’t him who brought them together, that it was Alastor’s hand grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him lower and then pressing their lips together in a quick kiss, and Alastor’s body pushing against his, and also Alastor who stepped away again with half lidded eyes and a sly smile, saying: “Remember, you’re mine forever.”

Anthony was never, ever going to forget that.

***

2020, July 26th

It was the rhythmical beat of rain against the windowsill that woke Anthony up. The weather let up a little and allowed a little colder wind to blow through the windows and it felt so pleasant Anthony just buried his face back into the warmth and breathed out in contentment. It took him a moment before he realized the warmth was Alastor’s chest and that there were Alastor’s arms holding him firmly in place and their legs were intertwined and even though it was nothing new, he suddenly felt his heart speeding up almost in panic and he blinked in confusion on why the hell would he freak out now after more than half a year of sleeping with the demon like this.

It hit him just a little while later – because Alastor kissed him yesterday. On his own. While drunk.

Nothing happened afterwards, they just stumbled back home and Alastor was clingy and by some miracle Anthony managed to get rid of the make up and change into an oversized t-shirt before collapsing to bed with the demon draped around his torso, mumbling sweet nothings like a suave Casanova with zero experience and then they both fell asleep.

He knew Alastor had his clingy moments, usually when really, really tired, so it made sense his drunk self would be probably another extension of that behaviour. But the kiss was still unexpected, and Anthony was terrified of the consequences. He could see Alastor freaking out over it when sober, he could imagine him being distant and cold to deal with the situation, to keep Anthony on arm’s length again, and it was making him sad. He could maybe hope Alastor would draw blanks after the night, but he didn’t drink himself to stupor, so the chances of that were quite low.

He looked up to the sleeping face of his companion, relaxed and content, and just thought fuck, why is he so lovable sometimes? Why couldn’t he be more demonic, more heartless, or crueller for Anthony to keep at least his metaphorical heart to himself? Why was watching him sleep pulled so many strings in him? Why his presence was so dear and needed? Why falling in love always happened with the worst kind of person?

“Are you tryin’ to curse me, cher?”

Anthony whined and buried his face back into Alastor’s chest. Of course the fucker was awake, witnessing Anthony’s existential crisis.

“I’d recommend voodoo for dat,” the demon had no mercy. “It’s lot less messy.”

“I’m bad ad sewin’,” Anthony mumbled into the red shirt and the laugh Alastor let out rumbled in his chest like thunderstorm. His clawed hand raked through Anthony’s hair with gentleness and it was too much for his poor, weak heart.

“This is gonna sound morbid, but…” he started quietly, “I can’t wait to be dead. So I can be with ya down there.”

The hand stilled for a fraction of second before resuming its pace.

“Dis is gonna be morbid as well, but I can’t wait for you to be ded too, to be with me down dere,” Alastor’s other hand moved to rest on the small of Anthony’s back, the warmth seeping into his body like poison. “To belon’ to me and do my biddin’ any time I’d want you to.”

“Fuck, that’s kinda hot?” Anthony groaned. “Imagine talking like this in front of people though. Can’t wait for you to die already, babe! Like shit, is he a murderer? Is he gonna slice his throat in bed?”

“Romance done right.”

“Till death do us apart… for a moment, until we’re pass that phase,” Anthony couldn’t help but chuckle. Honestly, he never thought about dying as much prior meeting Alastor, like he knew it was going to happen eventually – sooner or later, it depended a lot on drugs and work and attitude – but there were no deep feelings about his life ending. Not even that much fear. But now? It was like a gateway he couldn’t wait to pass, and it was a little fucked up.

“Lookin’ forward to it,” Alastor sighed and yeah, he didn’t help, really. “Comin’ here so often is quite taxin’. I adore bein’ with you, but it would be even better when we’re both in Hell, havin’ you on my lap-,”

“On your lap?!” Anthony whipped his head up, grinning. “So yer a kinky bastard after all!”

“Nothin’ kinky about wantin’ to keep you close,” the demon was so confident all of sudden, sheesh. Was he still a little drunk? He never talked about things like these – hell, he never actually expressed his feelings toward Anthony so openly, unless it was his shadow who, instead of words, was showing him by nuzzles. Sure, it was apparent he liked Anthony at least a little, but now it scaled up so much Anthony was scared it was just a dream and he was going to wake up soon.

“On yer lap, with your dick out, huh?” Stumbled out of Anthony’s mouth, out of habit, honestly, and he immediately regretted it. Alastor, as expected, scoffed at it.

“Darlin’, we’ve talked ‘bout dis.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Anthony rested his chin on the back of his hands. It was somewhere in April, if he remembered correctly, when Alastor informed him sex was probably as interesting to him as stepping into muddy puddle and then having to clean his shoes. Anthony took it as it were – it was in their deal anyway about the intimacy and sexual stuff, so it didn’t come as much as a surprise to hear Alastor was purely asexual character. It was still fun to rile him up sometimes though. “Just want ya to know ya can do anythin’ yer want to me. Even here.”

“You’re always so sincere, cher,” Alastor’s hand previously in Anthony’s hair slid down to his cheek, gently caressing it.

“Life sucks anyway,” Anthony leaned into the touch. “Every time yer not here, it’s like it loses colours. Like yer my impulse control and when I can’t be with ya, I do stupid shit. Like drugs.”

“Lately?”

“On occasion. When alone for too long,” Anthony admitted not too proudly. It was difficult to let it go completely, no matter how Alastor filled the void. Once he was gone, the void returned. “Makes me feel better. When yer here, it’s like I’m addicted to ya and need to fill that void with somethin’ when ya leave.”

“Can’t be helped,” the demon’s thumb slid down to Anthony’s lips, the claw gently pressing down and easing up. Anthony felt an urge to lick it, but Alastor would probably smack him if he did.

“Shouldn’t ya be discouraging me?” he teased a little and Alastor raised an eyebrow.

“Do I look like an angel to you?” he asked with a tilt in his voice and Anthony shrugged.

“Yer trying to fix me.”

“To feel more confident, not a saint,” Alastor opposed and Anthony hissed when the claw cut the tender skin on his lower lip, a drop of blood appearing.

“…fair,” he hummed, watching Alastor stare at the redness with half-lidded eyes before he suddenly pulled Anthony close and licked the droplet away, making him shudder.

“I can’t let you be too much of a good boy,” the demon whispered to his lips. “Or we’d have a problem with upstairs.”

“And we don’t want that,” Anthony added breathlessly, and his partner smirked.

“We really don’t, darlin’.”

***

2020, October 9th

It was a rare moment – rarer than seeing a rainbow after rain, but it was there. Alastor allowing Anthony to touch his hair and ears, while sitting on a couch in the living room, reading a book he brought along from hell. They were in the middle of preparing dinner but there was at least 30 minutes of downtime and Alastor thought it was the best time to study some of his hell shit, like Anthony wasn’t there, ready for a cuddle.

Unfair.

So he stood behind the couch, right above Alastor’s head and risked a gentle scrape of fingers through the red and black locks. Alastor didn’t react, which normally meant a green light for whatever Anthony was up to, so he buried his hand in his hair and while the demon made a humming noise in the back of his throat, he didn’t stop him. So he played around, twirling the strands, pulling them back, braiding some, poking the ears till they flicked, until he started pulling the hair back from Alastor’s face and from the sides into a neat ponytail he secured with a hairband he had on his wrist from his own hair care just an hour ago and left it there.

Alastor… with a ponytail. Huh.

He circled the sofa and stopped in the front, taking the sight of the new style in, and yeah, okay, that shouldn’t really make him this horny, but it did.

“Am I gonna regret lettin’ you play with my hair, darlin’?” Alastor glanced at him from the book and Anthony buried his face in his hands.

“No, but now I regret ya let me because I made ya even fuckin’ hotter,” he whined.

Alastor delivered an overkill when he rolled his sleeves up once they got back to cooking and left the ponytail be. Anthony was pretty sure he was only preparing him for the suffering in hell in his own way.

***

2020, November 11th

The first time he had thought of taking off Alastor’s gloves were on Wednesday evening while resting his head on the demon’s legs, playing with the hem of them. He had never seen Alastor taking them off – ever. Honestly he never saw him take off about anything except of his shoes and his coat, but even when he rolled up his sleeves, he left the gloves on and Anthony thought he maybe just had a thing about touching stuff with his bare hands - some people did. He knew there were scars on Alastor’s forearms and his chest, he had seen them when he unbuttoned his shirt a little, so maybe his hands were the same and he didn’t like showing them. Alastor didn’t strike him as somebody who cared as much about other people’s opinion, but he knew appearances might be deceptive. With Alastor’s obvious control kink the image he presented himself with probably played its role.

He was dragging his nails over the fabric of the burgundy gloves with thoughtful hum and when Alastor didn’t protest in any way, he slid two fingers under the hem, touching the bare palm of the demon’s hand. Still no reaction that would mean Alastor hated it, which encouraged him to continue.

The tip of his tongue peaked out in concentration as he tried to fit more in, at which Alastor finally cleared his throat above him.

“Darlin’,” he crooned. “What’re you doin’?”

“Havin’ sex with yer hands, duh.” He wiggled his fingers a little and Alastor sighed while grabbing the offensive hand and stopped the ministrations. “Aww.”

“Leave my hands outta your crudeness,” the demon flicked his forehead instead and then rested his hand back on Anthony’s chest where it was before. It only took about ten seconds before Anthony was on it again and at that point Alastor just grabbed his wrist and held it up.

“Nooo,” the human tried to wriggle out of the hold, but the grip was inhumanly strong. “Spoilsport. It’s not like I’d do somethin’ dirty to it… maybe.”

“Whateva you say, darlin’,” Alastor didn’t budge, obviously. But at least it made Anthony think of something else when it came to Alastor’s elusive hands.

“Let’s make a deal then,” he proposed, grinning at his partner’s confused expression. “You lemme take off yer gloves. And I won’t do anything bad to yer hands.”

“Dat sounds like a rubbish deal,” Alastor shook his head. “No dice.”

“Then… what do ya want in exchange?” he batted his eyelashes seductively, which had about zero, if not minus, effect on the demon. “Imma game for anythin’.”

There was a gleam in Alastor’s eyes as if he thought of something wicked and manipulative, and then his smile widened. Anthony thought of anything – eternal enslavement, monthly donation of human souls, not talking for a week-

“I want t’ see you in a suit.”

“Say what now?”

“I’ll let you take my gloves off, but I get to see you in a suit,” came a term and Alastor was positively beaming now, which was weird, because… a suit? Was that even a proper condition? He could have just asked; it wasn’t like Anthony had an aversion to wear fully buttoned up clothing or something. Sure, he didn’t love it, but to make a deal out of it?

“I mean… sure?” The grip on his wrist disappeared and Anthony sat up, still confused. When a hand appeared with familiar green shine, he checked once more for Alastor’s happy expression and then took it, feeling the tingle running down his spine.

“Pleasure doin’ business with you, darlin’,” Alastor gently grabbed Anthony’s chin to raise up his head a little. “Now dress up. I’ll be waitin’.”

“Yer a public menace,” the human barked out a laugh but got up anyway. He was pretty sure he still had a suit from the cabaret night and could only hope it would still fit.

It fit. He liked the suit because despite wearing it just once, it fitted him like a glove and even though he wasn’t exactly a fan of black and white setup, it had its charm once in a while. The well-tailored vest and close-fitting pants still made a nice figure and Anthony vaguely remembered the cabaret night granted him quite a bit of extra money, just because of how the pants hugged his ass (and because of his pretty face too, he was confidently sure. He didn’t even need to suck anybody’s dick that night).

He checked himself in a mirror for the last time, trying to find any imperfection he could somehow remedy, until he was completely satisfied and returned to the living room with surprisingly nervous expectations.

“No Anastasia today?” Alastor greeted him with a small smile standing near the couch, and Anthony fidgeted, not really feeling that confident in the clothes as he ironically was in the dress before.

“Wouldn’t wanna make the same joke twice, ya know,” he rubbed the back of his neck and took two more steps closer to where Alastor was standing. “Well. Here I am. In a plain boring suit just for yer viewing pleasure.”

“Pleasure indeed,” the demon looked delighted, which still baffled him, but maybe he had a thing for suits in his asexual spectrum, why not. Then he offered his hand for Anthony to take, palm up, and he realized the gloves were already off. Alastor’s hands were black as night with long, red claws gradually darkening until the blackness swallowed the colour. The obsidian shade was stopping in tendrils around his wrists like the shadows were swallowing his hands in a provocative manner and Anthony had an urge to rub his face all over it.

He must have stared for too long because the hand started pulling away and Anthony panicked with low nonono and grabbed it like a frightened animal.

“Ya can’t just flash it and then walk away with it, sheesh,” he grumbled, holding the hand in both of his and it was smooth and somehow warm, and feeling like a human hand, sort of, but at the same time not really? He couldn’t tell for sure. He wondered how it would taste if he licked it.

“You looked put off, didn’t wanna flaunt it ‘round,” Alastor’s voice cracked his concentration and it made him look up to the demon’s face in surprise. The smile he had was tight – was he self-conscious about it? In all its strangeness his hands were like some famous artist’s masterpiece, nothing to be conscious about.

“Well, ya should flaunt it around,” he said firmly. “Damn, it��s like. Really cool and kinda creepy, I like it.”

The hand visibly relaxed, the claws opened, and Anthony couldn’t stop himself anymore, he just rubbed his cheek against it like an affectionate cat and heard Alastor’s breath hitch in his throat.

Score.

“That feels so niiiice,” he purred happily. “And for just one lousy in-suit evening, ya should feel cheated.”

“Quite the opposite, darlin’,” another clawed hand joined the first one and then Alastor was holding his face on both sides, gently rubbing his cheeks, and Anthony was pretty sure he had the most dorky expression on his face right now but didn’t care. “You look dashin’.”

“Mmmhm,” Anthony grinned, and his hands covered the clawed ones and squeezed. “How ‘bout you walk back a bit.”

“Walk back?” the demon tilted his head, but did as he was told, just to lose his balance immediately after two steps when his knees hit the edge of the couch (Anthony pushed him slightly so he would fall right into sitting position, because he was a little shit and had a plan). Before Alastor could say anything else (though he didn’t look like he wanted to), Anthony sat on top of him, knees next to his thighs and took one of the blackened hand and gave the pointing finger an experimental lick.

Alastor immediately bristled like Anthony just flashed him, the static buzzing to life and off the roof, and shit, it should have scared him, but it did not. He stopped though, watching the demon with seductive smile and Alastor gradually breathed in and out and the static stopped again.

“Scary,” Anthony winked at him, still holding the hand in his, and Alastor shook his head and flexed his claws.

“You try your luck too often,” he just said in a low, warning voice.

“I know,” the human positioned the clawed hand on his chest, right where his heart was beating, vulnerable and open, and smiled. “I’m goin’ to be good from now on. Promise.”

“Moderately,” Alastor added.

“Ya know it.”

Their hands intertwined and Anthony was pretty sure during this night the defences Alastor had lowered for him once more.

***

2021, February 9th

When it came to birthdays, Anthony normally ignored them. Since almost no one knew the date, he was mostly safe to spend the day as any other, so it actually came as a surprise when Anthony brought home bouquet of roses from work (ironically from the patrons and not from co-workers, go and figure) for his birthday and put it in a vase on the table in the living room. It was rather nice of them, sure, though it only fuelled the disdain from his co-workers further. He more or less forgot about it up until Alastor showed up in the evening and noticed the newest addition.

“I thought the Lover’s day is on 14th,” Alastor watched the bouquet as if it would explode any moment, his eyes narrowed.

“Huh? Oh yeah,” Anthony peeked in from the kitchen. “Valentine’s Day is on 14th. This is cuz of my birthday.”

“Your birthday is today?” the demon left the bouquet alone and joined Anthony in the kitchen, his tone surprised. “You did not say anything.”

“Well, cuz it’s not really important,” Anthony shrugged while slicing meat. Even though he normally ignored this day, he kind of wanted to make something special for Alastor, if anything else. As a treat for himself. “Nothing worth to celebrate.”

“What a strange thing to say,” Alastor leaned with his back against the counter right next to Anthony, his expression curious. “Mortals normally enjoy celebrating their birthday. Mainly because of gifts, at least?”

“Well, I’m a special case.”

“Not enjoying gifts?” That was a stupid question. Of course Anthony enjoyed gifts as long as they were not mean or overly sexual, but along with his miserable life his birthday mostly left a bitter taste in his mouth every year.

“As much as any other John, obviously,” he glanced at Alastor with a smirk. “It’s just… not my thing. To celebrate the day I was born.”

“I see,” Alastor nodded thoughtfully. “Would it be an overstep if I said I would like to celebrate it with you?”

“You would?” Anthony stopped with the meat preparations and turned to face the demon, a weird flicker of happiness igniting in him.

“Celebrating the day you were born seems very fitting,” Alastor’s smile widened. “Otherwise we would never meet. And I treasure the moment when we did.”

“Aww,” Anthony cooed, and it was nice, to be told by the person you were crushing on.

“Though I must admit,” Alastor tilted his head to the side. “I am not entirely sure what is the norm in this century.”

“We can bake a cake?” Anthony offered. He was pretty sure he had all the ingrediencies stocked. “I guess people usually do that. Then they wish happy b-day and lots of health and good fortune or… I don’t know, I don’t usually do this shtick. They smooch maybe too. Or shake hands. Same thing for some people.”

“Oh,” Alastor looked thoughtful. “That sounds amendable.”

“Yeah, we can try-mmph?!” Out of anything that could possibly happen to him on his wretched birthday, Alastor pushing him against the counter and kissing him was definitely not one of them. Sure, they did kiss sometimes, though it was usually chaste and almost innocent?

Well, this was extremely far from innocent. This involved tongue. This was some other Alastor possessing the demon’s body, ravishing his mouth in the kitchen on his birthday while his hands cupped Anthony’s face and his thumbs were gently caressing his cheekbones, and what the hell, the gloves were off too, it made Anthony melt. Alastor was nipping on his lower lip and then diving back in, and Anthony felt his body shiver and his hands gripped the pinstriped coat in fear Alastor would stop or something, and when the demon let go of him with a last obscene lick, he realized he was basically on verge of suffocating already without his brain notifying him. He gasped for air with a shudder and Alastor joined their foreheads together, his smile small and private.

“Happy birthday, darlin’,” he purred. “Thank you for bein’ born.”

Anthony made an inhumane voice in the back of his throat and clung to his demon as if his life depended on it.

Maybe his birthday was not so bad after all.

(Later he found the bouquet in the trash and a new and much bigger one on the table instead. Alastor acted like he had no idea what happened.)

***

2024, October 1st

When Anthony thought about dying at any point of his life, it just meant the end. He didn’t know how he was going to die, but that usually changed each year. As a teenager, he wanted to commit suicide several times a year, mainly from age 15 to 17. He wasn’t sure what exactly stopped him each time, but somehow, he pulled through. In his mid-twenties it was a risk from the outer sources – too tight squeezes of hands around his neck when having sex, too many drugs in his system, too much alcohol. Once even a stab wound from his crazy ex. Granted, Anthony almost killed him back on the spot – though later he found out the fucker died in the hospital. So technically it wasn’t exactly murder? It should have been though.

Anyway. When he hit 30, he felt like his mind was on verge of breaking and any kind of distraction was strong enough to keep him occupied. He thought about death from time to time, but always stopped his hand reaching for a knife in the kitchen, thinking maybe, just maybe there is more to life than stubbornly surviving days, weeks, months of his miserable life for no reason.

At age 31 he summoned a demon and for four years his life turned to be enjoyable three times a week, and sometimes even five. He gave his heart and soul to hell for company, and fell in love with a force of nature, a whirlwind of emotions, a lovely devil. He never, ever regretted a single day spent with Alastor, a single hour, a minute, a second. Despite their occasional quarrels, their differences, and their triggers, they enjoyed each other’s company. They learned through their mistakes and they made each other stronger through the weaknesses, and while all that was slowly fading away in staccato of painful spasms and tears, Anthony still felt fondness and maybe even a twinge of happiness of his cage finally breaking free, even though it hurt like a bitch and he felt sick and alone.

It wasn’t like he wanted to die. He didn’t think 35 was some kind of milestone of life and death, a crossroad not meant to be crossed.

But he was tired. He was lonely. He wanted and craved and yearned for more of something that was out of his reach, no matter how much he tried to grab it, to pull it close.

You are still alive, mon chéri, and it is yours and only yours to live. I do not want you to regret it, no matter how much I want you with me. I might have forfeited my life, but your heart still beats. Do not waste it.

Anthony thought Alastor was being cold that day. He thought they were just words said to placate him somehow, a lie spilled to keep him here. If he wanted, if he craved like Anthony did, would he say please live to him? Right after spilling his heart? Even though they both wanted to be together? Even when they both morbidly dreamed about Anthony’s eventual death?

Now, thinking back to it… he saw what he meant. Now, when everything was turning cold and distant and dark, he realized dying at 35 is young and stupid and wasteful.

Yet he didn’t regret it. He was never going to regret selling his soul to a devil and leaving a place that only brought him pain in a ditch.

The only thing he regretted was dying alone in a dirty bathroom, but… it wasn’t like he could choose anyway.

“There, there, darlin’.”

There were warm hands holding his face. Everything felt raw and searing, like falling through liquid fire.

“Breathe.”

He tried to, but only hacked out blood. He shook his head, curling into himself. The hands gently petted his hair.

“Now, now, my heart,” the voice cooed. “My everything. You are safe now. You belong to me.”

He felt a pain in his chest, like his heart was torn out and left a gaping chasm behind. It was like tasting despair and ash on tip of his tongue.

“Nobody will ever hurt you again, cher,” a gentle reminder, a curtain hiding the missing organ in his body, a beautiful lie. “Nobody, ever again.”

He submitted to it and the pain disappeared.

***

2024, 359th day

“I can’t believe that! Ya almost ate my pig!”

“I thought it lost its way here and it is time for dinner, it was only appropriate.”

“How dare ya! Ya monster!”

“Can you two keep it down?!” A screech came from the stairs and halted the crossfire like a switch before the owner of the voice even entered their field of vision, a fair hair flowing around a pretty face, a fierce glare seizing them. “Bloody old-married couple, do it somewhere else!”

“What she said,” a grumble agreed from the bar, and a tall, four-armed spider demon picked a small pig from the floor and cuddled it to his fluffy chest, cooing at it gently.

“Well, sorry for trying to save my little baby from this guy,” he glared at his enemy from under long, white fringe. “He’d eat him. Eat Fat Nuggets!”

“Oh dear, you already named it?” the red-eyed demon twirled his microphone in his hand, his smile widening. “You should have told me. Would adjust the name on the menu.”

“Keep talkin’, big boy, I have enough venom to make you spend your day in agony,” the spider hissed and the pig in his arms snorted happily, apparently finding all the commotion amusing. “And not the good kind.”

“I am looking forward to it, darlin’,” Alastor crooned and Vaggie made a retching noise when she finally reached the bar. Husker didn’t need her to ask for a drink, he was already pouring her one – and one for himself. It wasn’t like she condoned the bar in the hotel, but sometimes it was a much-needed way of coping, especially when it came to these two.

“Can you leave already?” she turned back towards them once she gulped the alcohol down, grimacing at the burn crawling down her throat. “Angel was talking about this for a week and now you stand here for whatever reason for half an hour, you should’ve been gone by now!”

“I wasn’t talkin’ about it for a week,” Angel shot back while pursing his lips. “Just few days, maybe.”

“A week?” Alastor crossed his arms on his chest. “Lucky. I was hearing about it since he got here.”

“Well excuse me for being sentimental,” Angel stuck his tongue at him and walked towards the bar, handing Fat Nuggets to Husker, who eyed the pig warily.

“I ain’t looking after that fucking thing.”

“Pleaaase.”

A groan, but the cat demon took it, rolling his eyes. “Last time though.”

“Sure thing, hot stuff,” Angel winked and left the bar in easy stride, joining Alastor in the middle of the hall. “Shall we?”

“Only waitin’ for you, cher,” Alastor offered his arm and Angel locked their elbows together. “You sure you don wanna take da pig with you?”

“Why?”

“A late night snack.”

“I’ll fuckin’ smack ya, stop it,” he grumbled at the laugh Alastor didn’t even bother hiding, and let the man lead them out of the hotel.

The red sky above their heads was like an everlasting void pierced by a tall, dark tower in the distance and Angel kind of liked how demons were afraid to come close to it, yet to him the place felt like home. The Radio tower came with big overlord territory and despite it being rather far from the hotel, Angel insisted on walking instead of Alastor using the portals to get them there in seconds. It just felt more date-like rather than abusing the Radio Demon powers and Alastor didn’t argue about that – which was nice because normally he argued about everything for the sport of it.

“I guess it makes sense,” Angel hummed while leaning into Alastor’s warmth on their way through the Pentagram city. “Christmas is ‘bout Jesus being born and shit. No reason to celebrate it here.”

“I was wonderin’ when you’d find out,” Alastor responded matter-of-factly. “Christmas bein’ a big Christian secret.”

“Har har,” the spider demon nudged him. “I’m new, don’t make fun of me. Can’t help I miss it.”

“Of course you miss it,” Alastor freed himself from Angel’s hold, just to sneak his arm around his waist, pulling him closer. “It’s when you met me.”

“Yer so fuckin’ cocky, maybe I just miss the presents,” Angel crossed his upper arms on his chest, but his lower one curled around Alastor’s waist as well.

“I’m da only present you’ll ever need~,” the Radio demon singsonged and Angel barked out a laugh.

“Guess that’s not completely wrong,” he admitted and when he felt a hand on the back of his neck, he met Alastor’s lips halfway in a chaste kiss, both not even stopping on their way to the tower.

“You’re da only one for me too,” Alastor whispered softly. “My dear Anthony.”

Angel couldn’t help but think life is fucking overrated when your boyfriend is owning your heart in all kinds of ways.

#hazbin hotel #radiodust #alastor x angel dust #au #the deal series #human!angel dust

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gemraldkid · 4 years

Text

Analysis and speculation on Bête Noire

Spoilers for Undertale and Glitchtale. Undertale by Toby Fox and Glitchtale by @camilaart

You thought I was joking? Nope. Here it is: a mix of canon, headcanon, and speculation.

Of all the characters that people are obsessing over right now (Ronan, Jessica, Gaster, Rave, the prequel wizards), I choose to put all of my energy into making some sense of the one character that continuously reminds us that we should hate them. I could be thinking about the struggles of anyone else. I could be worried for Chara or Asriel or Asgore (he’s not dead until he starts turning to dust), but nooooo. This is what occupies my thoughts about this series.

This is basically most of my headcanon relating to Betty. I wanted to put these thoughts out there before the new episode since... well, anything could happen.

Betty’s probably gonna mostly die from hate and stuff.

Imagine if we were actually supposed to end up feeling bad for this character? Right...

You shouldn’t take everything I say here as facts.’m pretty sure I made it clear enough which parts are speculation with the amazing power of verb tenses.

I’m open to corrections about currently available facts that I got wrong.

Glitchtale is a series that I’ve greatly enjoyed watching. I believe that it is one of the finest things to come out of the Undertale fandom. It is a testament to how good a fanfiction can be.

One thing that I find particularly praiseworthy is the way OCs are handled. They manage expand on the world without hogging the spotlight for too long. There’s a good balance between introducing new elements without ever forgetting about the old ones.

Of course, among many of the new characters, one in particular stands out: the current antagonist of Season 2, Bête Noire or “Betty”.

Betty is the character I have been the most fascinated with so far. She’s been a mystery to many ever since the punch to the gut that was the ending of “Dust”.

What follows is a look into the way that I perceive Bête Noire. I am not necessarily dead-set on a single possibility. While my views are backed up by certain facts, I acknowledge that they are also based on and influenced by my personal wishes for this character. Therefore, my words should be taken with a healthy amount of salt.

Betty was first introduced to us as an innocent 13 year-old girl, barely a year older than Frisk, physically. She was a shy, happy-go-lucky kid who became friends with Frisk after the latter saved her life from a fast-moving car.

Unfortunately, things were not as they seemed. The girl never was in any real danger as the car was an illusion created by powers. The scenario was merely a set-up to get her closer to Frisk and their family of monsters.

Illusions are likely a power granted to her by her trait: fear. With it, she is able to see the memories of others simply by looking them in the eyes. This grants her knowledge of their personality and, most importantly, their emotional weaknesses. Using that knowledge, she can create illusions to throw off her enemies. These illusions can serve a variety purposes even if they don’t directly involve fear. Examples include the aforementioned car and the illusion that caused Undyne to kill Alphys.

Bête Noire originally woke up when the barrier was broken, a month before the events of “My Sunshine”. This means that she spent a month doing “something” before starting her plan. She likely spent days and nights observing the humans and monsters. Through her observations and memory-reading abilities, she judged whether the monsters were truly as dangerous for human kind as she believed. This wasn’t all she observed, however. Betty also learned the ways and customs of this new time period. After all, the only memories in her possession belonged to someone who lived over 800 years ago...

Agate Lightvale was best known as the wizard of bravery who helped seal the monsters underground. She lived in a medieval time. While she was born into a common family , she didn’t live a common life. Her twin brother, Copper, was lucky enough to be born with a soul of determination, a trait so rare that only one person can possess it at a time. It elevated the Lightvale family to a noble status.

Growing up, Agate acted like a big sister to Copper even though they were the same age. However, this changed as they grew older and trained to become wizards. Copper became more independent while his sister started to develop a few insecurities.

Agate spent most of her time training in combat. She was always looking to improve, to get stronger, to surpass her limits. Unfortunately for her, being the twin of the soul of determination meant she was often overshadowed.

Her brother was essentially a “chosen one” of sorts. As a result, he got most of the attention. Agate would execute a spell flawlessly while Copper stumbled at the same task. Yet, he would be the only one to receive praise.

In addition to being the rarest trait, determination is also the strongest. Agate was confronted with the reality that, no matter how hard she trained, she could never surpass her brother.

Still, it didn’t stop Agate from being a kind and respected individual. True to her trait, she was know for her bravery in the face of danger and resistance to physical pain. In addition, she and Copper both stayed strong for their younger sister, Amber, who’s birth resulted in the death of their mother. Agate and her siblings were extremely close.

After the war between humans and monsters ended, she, her brother, and five other wizards created the barrier, trapping the monsters underground.

After a certain amount of time, Copper proposed the idea of releasing the monsters from captivity. He believed that humans and monsters could still live together. Agate opted against this. She believed it would be better for both races if they lived separately. The discussion got extremely agitated to the point where Agate spontaneously challenged Copper to a duel that would decide the future.

If I may break the flow of information a little, this part seems a tad off to me. I find it notable, at the very least. In the official depiction of this moment, Agate looks smug, as if she knows she is going to win. Isn’t that odd considering what we know? I believe there was more riding on this duel than the fate of two races.

Recall that Agate had a bit of an inferiority complex with her brother. Isn’t it possible that she also challenged him to prove she was stronger, to finally break out of his shadow by defeating him in front of the entire kingdom? If this is the case, I believe that the “confidence” she showed might not have been entirely sincere. Surely, a part of her knew that she couldn’t win. Yet, she still instigated a fight.

I think it’s possible that challenging Copper was not an act of hubris on Agate’s part; it was an act of desperation made in the heat of the moment.

Ultimately, she lost. Her brother was victorious. Agate was overwhelmed by her loss. While she had an abundance of physical bravery, she lacked it emotionally. Due to these factors, she lost her trait then and there. Completely humiliated, she fled to parts unknown. Still under the intensity of the battle, Copper didn’t think to go after her.

During this period of her life, Agate made many poor life choices. She searched for a way to break her limits more than ever before. She came across at least two forbidden spells. She used one of them to reverse her souls trait from the orange of bravery to the dark orange of fear. The process completely eradicated the last shred of sanity she had. After being absent for an unknown amount of time, Agate rejoined her family, who welcomed her back in spite of the changes she had gone through.

Driven by her obsession for victory, Agate furiously demanded a rematch from Copper. He refused, knowing it wouldn’t bring about anything good. Seeing that he wouldn’t move on the issue, Agate threatened the life of Amber, her own sister. Copper attempted to protect her, but was ultimately forced to watch as Agate stabbed her through the chest. This horrible sight caused him to lose his trait, allowing Agate to easily finish him in the same manner. She relished the victory as all life left his eyes.

Unfortunately, she would soon be forced to join her siblings. Inverting one’s trait is immensely stressful on the soul. With her time running out, Agate performed another forbidden spell to ensure that her will lived on: the Bête Noire spell.

The Bête Noire spell consists of creating a powerful, nearly lifelike golem called a “bête noire”. While the golem itself is powerful, a bête noire’s true strength lies in its longevity and ability to form complex thoughts.

Most spells typically act in very basic ways. For example, a simple fire spell will simply follow a chosen path or pattern before disappearing regardless of whether it hit its target or not.

Bêtes noires, on the other hand, can not only accomplish much more complicated tasks, but also think about how they will go about doing so. They are even be able to improvise if things don’t go their way. In addition, they can exist for several weeks before fading. However, if they have a way to replenish their magic (such as harvesting it from souls), they become virtually immortal. A bête noire is essentially a living spell.

Of course, to craft such a being, the cost is extremely high. It requires the caster to use their own soul for the conjuring. Then, they must also have a vessel other than their own body that can be merged with the soul to create the golem.

Agate was willing to sacrifice the life she wouldn’t have for much longer and she had two perfectly good vessels. Still spiteful towards her brother, the wizard chose Amber’s body over Copper’s. Her soul turned pink as it absorbed Amber’s body. With the deed done, Agate lifeless body fell to the floor.

The soul remained sealed and hidden for over 800 years until the barrier was broken. At that moment, it awoke, transformed into the being that would be know as Bête Noire.

Bête Noire knew her purpose from the very start as she possessed some of Agate’s memories as she possessed some of Agate’s memories. Unfortunately, the goal her “mother” left her with was no longer as good-natured as it once was. In Agate’s twisted mental state, it had gone from “Keep humans and monsters separate for both their safeties.” to something akin to “Kill all monsters so that they will never live in peace with humans. Do so by any means necessary, even if it means killing humans who oppose you or using the power of hate.”

Gathering hate is stated to be the universal purpose of a bête noire. It’s fitting when considering the name. “Bête noire” is a french term that literally translates to “black beast”. Black is the color (or lack there of) of hate. In addition, the term “bête noire” is used to indicate a person or object that someone particularly dislikes.

I originally found it ironic that Bête struggled to keep her hate under control, but the solution is simple. She likely only struggled to keep it under control because she wasn’t in her complete form at the time.

Nonetheless, I can’t help thinking that maybe bêtes noires are supposed to succumb to the hate they collect. Perhaps they are meant to serve as vessels for the stuff. After all, Betty still requires a large surplus of magic to keep it at bay. One would think a creature made to collect hate would do more than just resist it a little better than others.

Yet, if bêtes noires are supposed to succumb to hate, why has this one been shown fear it? Perhaps because, as a creature made purely of magic, it would be akin to death, something that she fears because fear is built into her nature.

In order to accomplish her mission, Bête had to gather information on both her enemies and the era she was in. She separated herself into two beings in order to hide her monstrous appearance and blend in with the humans. She dubbed the part she separated from herself “Akumu”, the Japanese word for “Nightmare”. Under the nickname “Betty”, she spent a month observing and planning.

It should be noted that she must have done so 24/7. Bêtes noires don’t need to sleep. It could also be for this reason that she is so unfamiliar with the concept. Agate’s knowledge about sleep was mostly omitted because it had little relevance to the mission.

As previously stated, Betty used her power of fear to look into the memories of the monsters. From the information she gathered, she judged that monsters were in fact deserving of death. This may seem strange to many since, as seen in Undertale, most monsters are innocent and kind-hearted people. How could she possibly think so poorly of them even after seeing their past? Is she blind?

I believe so. Betty may, in fact, be blind to certain degree.

Any normal person would most likely have seen that monsters didn’t deserve what was coming to them. Why didn’t Betty? Because she isn’t a normal person. Highly advanced or not, Bête Noire remains a spell, and spells exist to carry out the will of their caster. They are tools.

If magic bullets could miss because they took pity on the opponent, few people would use them.

Keep in mind that Betty isn’t just a bullet that uses up 0.001% of the caster’s magic. She’s a bête noire. People had to die for her creation. If a person poured all of their life force into a spell that would carry on their will, they would be pretty upset to learn that they failed because the spell didn’t want to do the one thing it was created for.

All this to say that I believe that Betty is unable to go rogue either physically or mentally. She has no choice but to believe she is in the right. After all, if she realized that her only purpose for existing was objectively wrong, it could make her a less effective weapon.

When she looked into the souls of the monsters, it is likely that she was never going to come to any other conclusion than “They are dangerous.”

She did see some of the good in them, but most of what she retained were parts that would prove her right. These included Asgore killing the 6 humans (even though it was the only way to save his kingdom), the horrors Asriel committed as Flowey (even though he was soulless at the time), and Frisk’s many resets (even though they aren’t even a monster). These actions were obviously horrible, but there were nuances that made them more understandable. Context was important.

Betty, who I believe was unable to pick up on such nuances, may have simply taken the most basic message from this. “These monsters did bad things, therefore they are evil and the same must apply to all of monsterkind.” She is blind to anything that doesn’t fit into the way she is supposed to see the world.

(Of course, this doesn’t mean she is unaware of Papyrus or Undyne’s heroic and selfless acts. It just means that can’t see them as proof that monsters are good people.)

As such, Bête may not be wholly responsible for her actions. Some of her malicious acts can be blamed on her creator. After all, her contradictory objective of killing humans to protect humanity was given to her by Agate, who’s mind was far from clear at the time.

However, other aspects are harder to justify. The pleasure she seems to take in her victims’ emotional suffering could have come from Agate as the wizard displayed something similar shortly before casting the spell.

The fact that Bête wouldn’t care if the world ended as long as it was by her hand definitely makes her seem incredibly hypocritical (which she is) and entitled, not to mention evil. I suppose that by annihilating everything she would technically accomplish her goal of killing all monsters. With her one purpose in life fulfilled, she would have no more reason to live. The idea of ruling humanity afterward is likely more of a bonus. Assuming this is the case, it’s a testament to how much important the mission is to her.

Finally, I would like to bring up the debate of whether Betty and Agate are the same person or not because, if they are, most of what has been written here will be completely pointless. There are two ways to look at this.

This post tells us that Agate is technically Betty, but it may only refer to them in the physical sense. Betty’s body is physically Agate’s soul. The debate is about whether they are mentally the same.

This comic is likely the largest piece of evidence to support this. To my knowledge, it is still canon. In it, Bête finds the remains of Agate’s body. Her reaction is quite interesting because she acts and talks as if the body was once hers. She also has to reassure herself that she “can’t die now”, implying that she was once mortal. She also mentions ensuring “our race’s survival” in reference to humanity. For that sentence, she includes herself with the human race. This implies that she was at least human at one point.

This evidence certainly appears conclusive, and it very well might be. However, it directly contradicts this conversation which, to my knowledge, is also still canon. Here, she refers to Agate as “mom”, indicating that she thinks her as a separate being. Why is this? Is one of these sources outdated? Possibly, but I have another proposal.

Betty’s mind appears to be all over the place. One moment, she laments the fact that she is meant to be hated and, at another, she takes joy in torturing her victims. She doesn’t want to die, yet she wouldn’t mind if the world ended at her own hand. She is hypocrite. Sometimes, she believes she is Agate’s creation; at other times, she acts like she is Agate herself.

Bête Noire’s first memories came from Agate. Surely, It isn’t too far-fetched to say that her mind was likely derived from her creator’s. If that is indeed the case, the solution is clear; Betty might be insane just like Agate was before casting the spell. Agate’s insanity could have rubbed off on her creation. Thus, it’s possible that Bête’s thoughts are meant to be hypocritical and contradictory.

In the end, is Betty Agate? She may not even know herself. I believe she is more of an imperfect copy or a “simulacrum”. The things that make her “Agate” are the incomplete memories of the wizard’s life and the similar way of thinking. In my opinion, these don’t make an entirely different person, but they also aren’t enough for her to be considered Agate. She is merely a being in possession of her creator’s memories.

Also, these hints might still be relevant today.

“Steven Universe logic”? You mean the show where almost every problem is solved by talking and all the villains end up becoming good? Sure, that could just be referencing Sans and Asriel getting talked out their states, but you never know. Maybe Betty’ll regret her actions too before dying. Eh? EH?!

“Never assume things”? No kidding. Words to watch by.

#bête noire #glitchtale #agate lightvale #Speculation #undertale #glitchtale betty

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izzyovercoffee · 5 years

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Prompt number: 23. “You can’t give more than yourself.” Fandom: Knights of the Old Republic Rating: PG Warnings/Tags: none that I can tell, ask to tag if need Summary: [Revan] and [the Exile] share some tea and watch the dawn arrive. Notes: featuring m!Revan and f!Exile from long before the Mandalorian Wars, when they were both young Jedi in The Jedi Order. I avoided naming either of them, for hopefully obvious reasons

##. but he would not call her a delight to her face

Green.

More green in all the scenery than he’d been familiar with in his youth. More foliage, and breathing life in this immediate vicinity than he would have seen over the course of a lifetime from before.

A lifetime, it felt, of space and distance between himself and the place, the life, the family, the person he was.

He’s earned his tea and silence at dawn. A moment to gather himself, and taste the bitter cold of the evening passed, and feel neither required nor accidentally prone to divulge any ulterior or deeper insight to any who asked.

Who made their question innocently probing, in the way the masters all do.

He could not say he’s sick of it. He could not be… ungrateful. He could not be frustrated, or irritated, or annoyed. Thankful---that’s what’s acceptable. The range of emotion that fell within boundaries of “safe” and did not ask for closer inspection was a small one.

It chafed for some. For most, even.

He’d been intimately familiar with tempering his reactions so as not to call attention to himself, in another life.

“I didn’t ask for company,” he says.

“I did not come here to seek yours,” she answers.

He shifts from his position on the stone he’d taken to sitting on for several weeks now, on unbroken mornings.

He could feel her presence from a great distance---and knew she approached him, long before she reached the foot of the mountain he’d taken his tea so often. And yet, he hadn’t moved, hasn’t moved still.

If he so desired, he could have left long before she arrived. So why didn’t he?

Curiosity.

“If not mine,” he asks, and sets down his tea beside himself, “then whose?”

“No one,” she says. She watches him with critical eyes, unpainted face pale under the early morning light that just barely breaks between the boughs of the trees overhead. “I wasn’t expecting to find you here.”

He finds that hard to believe.

“Well,” he says, and despite the interruption he finds amusement in it. “Here I am.”

“Here you are,” she agrees. She lingers by the line of the trees, still observing him from a careful distance, as if expecting him to bite, or lash out, or some other such thing. She looks as she does before every fight---observant, silent, calculating.

Before every conversation, too, if he’s to be honest.

He wonders, often, if the others noticed it. If any of the others in that Temple a long, long way below them now have ever wondered at her potential and thought, perhaps, to crush it. They certainly go out of their way to minimize the full breadth of her impact in simply existing.

Unfortunate.

That’s what his latest master says, often. Deeply unfortunate.

But she cannot, will not, intervene on her behalf, and he finds himself wondering why. Or, perhaps more importantly: why not.

It’s neither here nor there.

“Now that you’ve found me,” he breaks the quiet between them, “perhaps you’d like to join me? Or would you prefer to linger by the trees?”

He watches her remain cautious, though something passes behind her eyes that resembles something akin to softening. Despite himself, or perhaps not with any spite involved at all, he feels the draw of her presence and simply allows himself to bend to it.

These delicate chords of connection, through personal, interpersonal, the force, or so on, all work in many directions and acts of give, and take. Certainly it isn’t the first time he’s felt unburdened by her presence, as if a soothing air’s come over him by simply allowing her to be within his vicinity.

And even so, he still finds it difficult to understand what roils behind her eyes.

It’s a guess---a gut feeling, a supposition. Something churns and storms within her, beyond the touch or reach or awareness of any of the masters.

But, as he’s heard said once, a lifetime ago---like recognizes like.

“I did not come to interrupt your tea,” she says, finally, and turns away from him.

“Perhaps not,” he replies to her back, “but now that I have company, I don’t wish to lose it.”

At that she stills. She turns, as if she was not expecting that---and, perhaps, she wasn’t.

He can’t know her heart, after all. So segmented she keeps everything. So compartmentalized. So separated, and distant, even when warm and connected and present.

Like recognizes like.

“Join me,” he says, again. “I have more tea, if that would tempt you.”

“I suppose I am easily tempted,” she says, voice dry as the deserts he’s left at his heel, and he can’t help but smile.

“Good,” he says, and watches as she finds a seat upon an old stone not far from him. Then he looks forward, to the overlook that bears down into the forest below them, and the distant Temple that only barely breaches the forest’s ceiling some, long, distance away.

They sat at a camp upon a cliff, though he could call it less of a camp and simply an adequate place to rest, with a safe center in which to burn fuel and boil water for tea.

She helps herself to some, without his insistence.

“I don’t come up here to think,” he says, “before you ask.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she replies, once more a hint of dry sarcasm underpinning her tone. “For all you know, I’ve come for free tea.”

A fair assessment. One he suspects isn’t true, but still. Fair.

“Most would.” He finds himself smiling in her direction, and is met with a barely-muted smirk from her.

“I know better than to fasten any suppositions on you.”

“Most don’t,” he says.

She raises her mug of tea to him, in a silent toast. He finds himself smiling wider as she drinks.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she says, “that I am unlike most---or that would get me in further trouble.”

“Further trouble?” he asks. “From what I understand, everyone holds you in very high regard.”

Her smirk takes an edge that feels wholly unsuitable to a pleasant conversation.

“Ah, yes, I forgot---I am doing very well, and I’m not to worry for a single thing I can control.” She takes another sip of the tea, and peers past the overlook. He does not follow her gaze, and instead admires her profile in the slowly dawning light.

Not to worry for a single thing she can control.

Now that is the frightening perceptiveness the masters were right to fear. Should be afraid of.

“All things done can be undone,” he says. “With some effort.”

Though her face does not move from its position towards the overlook, her gaze shifts to peer at him through the corners of her eyes.

And then her gaze drifts back to the overlook. She takes another sip of her tea.

“With the right attitude,” she says, and sets the mug down in her lap, held between both hands. The heat of the tea rises over the mug in long lines of curling steam into the early morning air, and he remembers his---in time to realize it is cold, now.

“But I didn’t come to bother you with my anxieties,” she says.

“Perhaps not,” he says, and drinks from his now-tepid tea. “But, I can empathize.”

“Can you?” she asks, and to his surprise her question is not sharp, not laced with biting sarcasm, not high and disbelieving. She asks and there’s a note of loneliness, of desperation and isolation hand-in-hand and heart-over-heart.

“I do,” he says, rather than I can. It is a confirmation, rather than a possibility.

It is too strong a statement for them who barely know each other, and yet…

And yet he feels it, as deeply as he can know it---they share a future, uncertain and tenuous as that future might be. From how, or why, he cannot say. The Force, in that way, is strange and un-malleable, revealing only what it wishes to only the most discerning, and even now… even now, even here, he holds uncertainty and certainty with equal measure in his heart with and for all things---save this one.

“I do,” he says again.

She continues to watch the scenery, the view, the breeze and the low-flying clouds that choke the sky of the forest below. The fog rolls in as suddenly as it dissipates, and it is a sight that arrests even the most bitter and jaded at a moment’s notice.

“That’s not a relief,” she says.

It is a statement he’s not expecting, and it wounds him in a way he cannot prepare for. He schools his temper as tepid as the tea he drinks, and simply draws from his half-empty cup between his hands as he waits for her elaboration.

Why does that wound? Why does it hurt?

He has no time to consider it.

“It’s not something two people should feel, much less just me.”

And as quickly as the hurt pierced him, it dissolves away with the last of his tea. He wonders, momentarily, if the hurt he felt was even his own, or if she bled into him in some, sudden, vulnerable moment.

If, in understanding, he scraped apart the dust and fog of distance and peered into that roiling storm hidden away within her---there and gone like a cool breath on the early morning wind.

Oh. The masters did not, truly, understand the depth of fear they should have held at all, did they?

“I like to think,” he says, and finds his voice misbehaving in a way it hasn’t in a long, long time---and even that is cause for alarm, though he dismisses it just as easily. “I like to think that misery, in shared company, is a lighter burden.”

“Mm,” she hums, noncommittal, as she takes another sip of her tea. “Or the burden is doubled.”

He nearly laughs.

“You’re surprisingly negative for all the praise otherwise that surrounds you,” he says, and shifts on his seat to face her fully. “Do you reserve this only for those with empathy?”

“Perish the thought,” she says, and turns to face him, too. The pot of water, kept warm by the heat beneath it, remains between them. “I don’t reserve negativity for just anyone---only honesty.”

Only honesty.

Curious.

“Shall I thank you?” he asks.

“No need,” she says, and motions with her mug to the kettle between them. “The tea is thanks enough.”

At that, he finally allows a laugh---and helps himself to more tea.

What a delight, he thinks.

What a shame he kept his distance for so long.

#writing: mine #writing: fictober19 #writing: kotor #writing: star wars #c: the exile #c: revan #c: the jedi exile #v: kotor #v: tor

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freckliedan · 6 years

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ayyee den!! airports, preshow playlist, gtpwtw, and memories :)

hi leo!!! ty for the ask!!!

airports: how many countries have you traveled to?I’ve been to canada a few times-I was born in michigan so we visited ontario sometimes when i was a little kid? i don’t really remember that very well but i do remember driving through british columbia & yukon on our way to alaska bc when we moved here we drove &.. as a seven year old that’s the most boring thing in the entire world fdskjldsk.

i also was a part of people to people international’s student ambassador program when i was 13? & i was like.. 100% offline then, but i did go on a trip thru england, ireland, scotland and wales for 19 days in the summer of 2009 & in conclusion i think that just being in the same country as dnp when they became facebook friends was enough to turn me into the giant lesbian i am today due to proximity 2 their gay energies.

preshow playlist: one song that reminds you of dnpthere’s so many oh my god but i haven’t really been able to stop listening to one direction since seeing ii a month ago in la and while 18 is a song that like. fucking makes me cry sometimes bc it also reminds me so completely of me & my gf? amber @freckliephil and i were talking the other day & she told me that ready to run by 1d is the current, 2018 mood for dan and phil bc it really does seem like they might be coming out at some point not long after the tour and i just.. im a mess. i’m also working on making a 2009 playlist n thats fun & also ruining my lifee

gtpwtw: how long have you been a fan of dnpsince.. 2012? i looked it up the other day and i very first watched a video on november 27th that year, which i know bc my now-girlfriend-then-just-becoming-friends-ex-nemesis emailed me dan’s i will go down with this ship video then! which means i joined the fandom less than a month after the vday leak but not directly bc of the leak so.. honestly an incredibly messy time. i was engaged w the fandom on deviantart in 2012 and 2013, it was my main fandom & kind of my introduction to fandom? & then like rejection sensitive dysphoria & life stuff kind of steered me away frm having dnp as my main fandom for like.. a while? but i never stopped being fully demon in my heart, and i made this blog in april & i’m so so so happy that i did. i have another older tumblr that i’ve had since 2013 but having a blog just dedicated to dnp feels so nice & like.. being in the community is overall so good? my year has been so fucking incredible since starting to meet ppl & have friends through dnp? so thanks 2 amber for convincing me to take the plunge n make this blog honestly.

but yeah i’ve been here since 2012, dnp proved to me that love was real after my parents’ divorce, i realized the other day that i saw the first radio show live and i had no idea what to do with that information but my heart is so full of happiness n pride for dnp at how good they’re doing this year, thank u so much for asking me this question i didn’t even realize i had this much to say?

memories: what is your happiest memoryi have a few that are tied? i have a million soft happy memories with my gf, our love is. the exact same kind of love as dan and phil’s like i believe in soulmates bc of them but also me & my gf,,,, but my happiest memories?

one of the best memories would be like, so, for backstory? my girlfriend and i wrote and produced a musical out of spite at our old highschool during her senior year/the year after i graduated, and that includes like, being the teachers of a class full of other students between the ages of 11-18? and we did the entire thing in about a year entirely on our own, so just? hugging in the lobby after the opening night show ended with the incandescent and impossible sense of we did that and knowing it was just the beginning for us? was incredible. it’s incomparable to anything in the world.

a 2nd happiest memory is being in portland for a week in may 2017 with my best friend miles, and getting to meet amber @freckliephil & piper @asterlark after about a year of talking online? they’re my soulmates in a friend way and even though i’ve only had the chance to spend time with them in person during 3 periods of time in the last year and a half it feels more right to be where they are than to be in a different state than them it’s like. more calm and natural and relaxing to be in the same space? like, idk, i need to be alone to unwind sometimes but they’re some of the few people in the world i can be alone with and still calm down/recharge.

& a 3rd happiest memory is the 4 days i spent traveling to see ii this summer, i flew to portland & stayed w amber & piper for a night (& got my septum pierced bc i was doing my best to be living my truth to make dnp proud) & then we all flew to LA met a bazillion people from our gc and just? from meeting @plateho at the airport to seeing dnp live and literally full body sobbing when welcome to the black parade played right before the show (bc i knew every single person there including dnp backstage were probably all feeling the same exact overwhelming happiness and excitement please forgive me im a pisces rising We Just Cry) to staying up until literally 4:20am smoking weed & having conversations & just.. living for the moment? i’ve been a better happier more assertive version of myself since that week and i really, really like the new me. so. yeah.

i’d have to say those 3 are tied pretty dang thoroughly.

#long post/#it feels like a crime to not mention how much keerthi @inncarnate has brought #happiness and love into my life over the past 5 years though!#my other best friend soulmate.#yeah.#sorry to get so goddamn rambly oh my god!! whom ever taught me to talk #should've taught me how to shut up too!#jfsdk #anyways leo ty sorry to absolutely overshare in response to ur questions fdjskljkds #ly!!! <3 #friends #danslawdegree #den replies

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cienie-isengardu · 6 years

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Well, the great difference between the Jedi and the clones is that while Jedi indoctrination makes for mitigating circumstances, they are still held personally responsible. Yes, the narrative may skirt around these issues, but it still brings them up - Slick calls the clones slaves, Barriss criticizes Jedi's part in the war, otoh Miraj argues that the Jedi themselves are akin to slaves etc. But the clones are blameless. They did not turn against their buddies and slaughter them with a clear head

2/2 to the audience it also feels different to slaughter a complete stranger or a passing aquaitance as opposed to a friend. In spite of all else, how could fandom not hate Wolffe and co. if they killed Plo for no reason than because a superior ordered it? As for the comparison to Kenobi, as opposed to clones he had very good evidence of Anakin’s crimes. If he had any doubt, it disappeared when Anakin strangled Padme. He might not wanted to be the one to deal with it, but there was no one else.

Firstly, I’m sorry it takes me so long to answer, I had really tiresome two weeks at work and couldn’t reply earlier. Also, I lost my first draft of the answer and needed to rewrite it entirety, so sorry in advance for possible grammatical mistakes and so on.

Secondly… Well, I’m not so sure if Jedi were truly held personally responsible in The Clone Wars animated series - yes, TCW’s narrative brought the issue few times, but never really addressed them in a way that made me feel the Jedi actually were forced to think over what happened. Slick’s accusation was pretty fast dismissed, because he was the traitor and “disappointment” and it was his selfish doing that killed so many clone troopers in the process. Barriss would never be brought to trial at all (and thus never openly criticized Jedi Order), if not for Anakin and Padme, the only people willing to prove Ahsoka’s innocence. But did Jedi Council take any blame for the whole fiasco? Not really. They just washed their hands of both Barriss and Ahsoka. Anakin & Plo were the only one who bothered to say “sorry” to Ahsoka, but rest of Council acted as it was the Will of the Force or her Jedi Trail and were now kind enough to allow her come back. In the end, Ahsoka’s departure was about how she couldn’t trust herself since Council didn’t trust her than how they failed a child in their care. I don’t know what happened to Barriss after trial (and since that was public thing, I doubt Jedi could sent her to their own top secret Ghost Prison), but did any Council member or the girl’s master even get involved afterwards? I don’t remember anything like that. Barriss’ words had merit but are easy dismissed - she is terrorist whose action killed innocent people. If she cared so much how Order changed for worse, why she used violence or did not speak about that in more civil way? How she can criticize Jedi when she alone put bombs and killed people?

And the queen Miraj? She was the “bad one”, so why Jedi (or audience that is supposed to cheer up for Jedi) should care for her claims and screwed up ideology/POV? She enriched on human trafficking, allowed to torture, abuse and dehumanization of captured people - what she really knew about Republic and Jedi corruption, if she alone wasn’t saint? Did she really meant that or did she just messed up with Anakin who was forced to obey her, otherwise dear to him people would be hurt? Or Asajj, who by most of time mercilessly killed people and never questioned Dooku’s evil orders until he betrayed her? See, the problem with accusations coming up from the bad ones is that, those characters do not have any higher moral ground to pass judgment or criticize anyone. I admit I didn’t watch TCW for a long time, so I may missed some more important moments (the padawans left behind, for example). But at the end of day, Jedi are the heroes and rescuers, even when some groups didn’t want to be bring into their military conflict. The villains may have valid points, but it’s easy to dismiss them. TCW did not bring criticism for Jedi from the good guys and for most of time, I feel like all accusation only reinforces Jedi false belief how flawless they were.

I mean that. Yoda, Plo and Shaak Ti may gave clones pep talk, but they would send them on suicidal mission without any remorse or doubt, if that was for the greater good. Saving son of Jabba the Hutt is the best example. Does anyone hold Jedi responsible for letting behind slaves in need, when they actually made a deal with slaver? Not really.

Or did any senator (citizen of Republic) even once asked why Jedi will not pay themselves for clone army whose creation they ordered without the senate’s knowledge, when republic budget was discussed? Did anyone asked how out-of-nowhere, there is a full army ready for a war? Did we even see Yoda to explain any Jedi matters to non-Jedi person (senators?) at least one time? Or being questioned by anyone? Not really.

That said, in some sources (usually Legends) Jedi were forced to rethink their choices or were blamed for things that went wrong. Like senator Ask Aak, who blamed Jedi for another lost battle and even questioned not only their ability, but the desire to defeat Dooku. Still, Jedi weren’t hold responsible nor their mistakes weren’t publicized (“Whispers of names that the Jedi would like to pretend never existed. Sora Bulq. Depa Billaba. Jedi who have fallen to the dark. Who have joined the Separatists, or worse: who have massacred civilians, or even murdered their comrades.” [RotS novel]). They did not apologized for action of Jedi who fell to Dark Side. They did not answer to senate or court the way average citizen would be forced to.

Let me quote fragment from Order 66 novel, between ARC troopers and Jedi master Zey that I think sums up pretty much the different idea of obedience:

“They killed us … They killed us all … Why?” […]

“Orders,” Ordo said. “You never read the GAR’s contingency orders? They’re on the mainframe. I suppose nobody thinks contingency orders will ever be needed.”

Zey leaned panting against the door frame as if he was about to collapse. “But why?”

“Because,” said Maze’s voice from outside the doors, “it’s neither your right nor your position to decide who runs the Republic. Who elected you?” […]

“Maze, what are you going to do now?” Ordo asked.

“I’ve never disobeyed an order,” said the ARC captain. Zey didn’t seem to have the strength to turn and look at his former aide, just shutting his eyes as if he was waiting for the coup de grace. “What am I supposed to do? Pick and choose? That’s the irony. The Jedi thought we were excellent troops because we’re so disciplined and we obey orders, but when we obey all orders - and they’re lawful orders, remember - then we’ve betrayed them. Can’t have it both ways, General.”

[…]

“I really must be going, General,” Ordo said. But he had to know. “Just tell me, is it true that Windu tried to depose the Chancellor?”

Zey raised his head all anguish and agony. “He’s a Sith. Can’t you see? A Sith! He’s taking over the government, he’s occupying the galaxy with his new clones, he’s evil…”

“I said, is it true?”

“Yes! It was our duty as Jedi to stop him.” “What’s a Sith?” Maze asked.[…[

“Like Jedi,” Ordo said “only on the other side. Mandalorians fought for them thousands of years ago, and we got stiffed by them in the end. We got stiffed by the Jedi, too. So, all in all, it’s a moot point for us.”

“Palpatine’s probably the one who had you created” Zey said. He was lucky he was still breathing. Ordo wasn’t sure why Maze hadn’t just slotted him. “Why couldn’t you see what he was?”

“Why couldn’t you sniff him out with your Force powers?” Ordo asked. “And why the shab did you never ask where we came from?”

Jedi Order was politically untouchable organization until now. Jedi matters were only for Jedi. The outsiders didn’t have much to say about that nor could put them on public trail (Ahsoka was a special case). Jedi ruled themselves on their own way. But the moment when Mace Windu and Council members attacked Chancellor - a legally elected leader - this changed everything. We know why they did so, but for average citizen of Republic? This was just coup. No one cared for Sith or Dark Side of the Force. Council tried to take control over Republic and so all Jedi paid the price. It’s unfair and cruel, especially for all children killed in Temple and padawans who suddenly lost their masters and friends and remained alone in the cruel galaxy. It’s unfair for all those Jedi that never had anything to say about Order politics or Yoda/Council decisions. But they paid the price and since then Jedi were blamed for everything bad that happened or forgotten for good. But to that point, Jedi rarely were hold responsible for their crimes or ignorance. And TCW made it quite clear, all bad things happened because of Sith’s doing or Jedi who fell to Dark Side or corrupted politicians & greedy people or mad scientist and so on.

But at the same time, clones weren’t blameless. Jedi blamed clones for “betrayal” when troopers suddenly followed someone’s else (legal!) orders. Some people actually don’t think that much about reasons behind clone action, because they don’t see them as human beings. Clones were breed to war and obedience, so it’s easy to dismiss their feelings or beliefs or inner pain, if they really didn’t like Order 66 but still did as were ordered.

I saw Revenge of the Sith in cinema in 2005, way before knowing that much of clone wars era, but even then I didn’t hate clones. For sure I don’t blame them now. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind seeing someone shooting down Yoda for sure. In a way, Jedi had a chance to save themselves during the three years of war. They could dig and dig all the mystery of clone army yet they never did much about that. They took clones (and their obedience) for granted and that was used against them.

Kenobi had a solid proof of Anakin’s crimes. And you know what he still said to Yoda then? I will not kill Anakin.

Despite everything that Skywalker have done, Obi-Wan didn’t want nor feel to be emotionally ready to kill Anakin. And yet he did what Yoda ordered him; he used pregnant woman to get to Anakin (and revealed himself in the worst moment, really). But the worst part of that? He shouldn’t be sent after Anakin. Skywalker should be stopped faster than later, yes. Should be brought to justice, YES. But Palpatine was the biggest threat then. Yoda shouldn’t be so fucking arrogant to think he alone will kill Darth Sidious, when Mace Windu and three other members of Council get killed in less than, like what? Two minutes? And since Yoda felt death of Jedi in the Force I pretty sure he could put all pieces together how quickly they died. My point is, Skywalker fall to Dark Side was important stuff to deal, but death of Palpatine should be prioritized over everything else. Too sure of themselves [Jedi] are. Even the older, more experienced ones. Yeah, shame Yoda never thought he may be the most arrogant one. And to the end of his life, Yoda had never been held responsible for that arrogance, while hundreds of Jedi paid the ultimate price.

#star wars #jedi #clone troopers #order 66 #my answers #my rant #yoda #anti yoda #more likely #sorry it took so long #to answer

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sundogsandrainbows · 6 years

Text

After Dawn

Fandom: Dragon Age Pairing: Mahariel x Alistair, 2,4k words Genre: Fluff/Humor, Pre-Relationship awkwardness AO3 link: Here Description: Lenya Mahariel was all but a morning person, so Alistair didn't expect to see her to be up already. Then again, he didn't expect... many things regarding her. Belated Birthday gift for my dear @effelants

Alistair woke before dawn, in the hours were the camp and its surroundings were still covered in the hush of night. It was a habit acquired in his years of his templar training and even many months after leaving the Chantry, he couldn't break away from it. Especially not now, where nightmares of darkspawn and about... Ostagar added to the shortness of his sleeping hours.

After dressing in the warmest clothes he possessed, Alistair ducked out of his tent. He stood straight and stretched to rid himself from the last vestiges of sleep. He inhaled the brisk, dry mountain air, which bore a hint of smoke from the still smoldering embers. Shuddering, he stepped near to the smoking coals, the only source of warmth. The campfire needed tending, new tinder to last throughout the morning till they would break camp to advance further up the Frostback Mountain, toward the Gherlen Pass.

Somehow, the closer they came to Orzammar, the colder it seemed to get. Given how they were marching upwards, by now probably a thousand feet above ground, the immense temperature drop shouldn't surprise him. Nor that the grass underneath his boots was crusted in a thin layer of frosted morning dew. Not when the sun was still an hour or more away from rising.

He grabbed a few of the split branches from yesterday's pile and carefully fed the glowing cinder with a thin stick until it sparked a flame. Then he added another and bit by bit thicker branches, until the fire burned again as it did during his guard duty only a couple of hours ago. Warming his hands near the flames, his gaze wandered to the tent across of his own. Lenya had the last guard shift and naturally was still fast asleep. She generally didn't seem to be the type to rise early by choice, however. Every time where they had to set off at daybreak to manage their daily regiment of marching, she did so grousing and with little words. Then again, this also appeared to be her default mood regarding many, if not all, activities. And being stuck as one of the two Wardens in Ferelden during a Blight, Alistair couldn't exactly fault her for being grumpy.

Chuckling to himself, he retrieved an empty cooking pot near the campfire and set out to collect water from an ice-crusted stream nearby the camp. It were these little, mundane tasks which he enjoyed, for they gave him a sense of routine and normalcy. Especially in a time where everything was uncertain and chaotic.

****

An hour later, Alistair had settled down next to the campfire with a cup of warmed up rabbit stew, still slightly sweaty from his morning exercise. Leliana, another early riser, kept him silent company. From the trees enclosing both sides of their camp mountain birds twittered their song. The sunlight streaking through the weave of clouds roused more colors from their sleepy monochrome. Morning had broken, at last.

Alistair rolled his shoulders and barely suppressed a yawn. It would be yet again a long, tiring day on the road.

"Do you think we will reach Orzammar by nightfall?" Leliana asked all the sudden, as if being able to read his mind.

He looked up to her. While her chin-long, auburn hair was neatly combed, the dark circles under her eyes spoke of her tiredness. It had been an exhausting trip on an uneven, rocky terrain, going only further upward the mountain. Well maybe it had been not so for the golem or the Qunari, since they were more grousing about the group lagging behind than the cumbersome journey. Though Alistair decided people lasting twenty days without food and water in a cage and those made out of literal stone didn't get to complain about them needing more breaks in between. Warden stamina, or not.

"I hope so." He let out a sigh and shielded his eyes as he glanced up to the sky above. "If the weather holds and we are marching through, we could manage that. I mean, according to the map, once we have reached the Gherlen Pass, the entrance to Orzammar isn't far anymore."

Leliana's doubting look and a faint snort told him that his optimism wasn't exactly mutual. "Your lips to the Maker's ears, Alistair." She blew on her bowl of hot stew seated in her lap, to cool it down a bit. "You want to rouse the others? If we want to manage your ambitious goal, we should be breaking up camp soon."

"Ah, no." Alistair shook his head. "I like to be alive. So I won't risk losing my head in poking it into Morrigan's tent, nor Lenya's." He shuddered. "Especially not Morrigan's." The corners of his lip twitched upward. "Besides, I already made breakfast."

Leliana rolled her eyes. "More like you warmed up breakfast than made it."

He gave her a shrug. "Breakfast is breakfast. Besides, be glad that I didn't cook it. You would regret it."

She made a face. "Oh yeah. What was that... uniformly grey soup again you made for supper three days ago?"

"Oh that?" He smirked. "Ferelden Lamb and Pew Stew. Only with um, venison, I guess. Since lamb is hard to come by out here." Seeing her irked face, he already knew the answer to his question in advance, but asked in spite. "Why? Did you like it?"

"Liking would be too strong a word, Alistair. And I don't think the wrong meat in there was to blame for its blandness."

"Aww, you wound me. Me and my cooking skill." Ever since Leliana joined their rag-tag group, he couldn't help teasing her. Unlike with Morrigan, his banter with the bard lacked the sharpness or sting of deep-seated dislike. It was friendly, comfortable instead. "Skill as in singular, of course. As in I am only really good in burning food, when cooking. Or throwing everything in a pot." He paused for effect. "Oh wait, I lied then. These are already two skills."

"Maker, how did you survive in the wilderness all these weeks then?"

"A mystery to both of us, I'm sure." Alistair laughed out loud. "I appreciate how you and my fellow Warden are saving me from starvation, of course."

"Speaking of which..." Leliana nodded toward Lenya's tent, from which the elf had just surfaced. "Look who is up."

"Oh good morning, sunshine," he greeted her, well knowing it would be only draw her ire.

The Dalish only stared at him bleary-eyed for a moment and grunted into his general direction. Her wheat-blonde, long hair was unbound and mussy, and covering most of her pale, freckled face. Her over-sized, dark linen tunic hung loose over her hips and looked more like a mismatched dress than a shirt. Without a further word, she vanished behind the line of tall trees at the other side of camp. Trailing her slouchy and sleepy form till its disappearance, Alistair's grin widened.

Yep, she was definitely no morning person. Which was, in its very own way, endearing somehow.

Shaking his head as if needing to lose this trail of thought, his attention snapped back to the bard. "This leaves only Morrigan then. I wish you luck."

Leliana sighed out. "Fine. I'll go. But you better check the snares we laid out together around camp last night, before dealing with packing up your things. Maybe we caught a rabbit or two in it."

"Mmm, more rabbit stew, can't wait."

Putting her bowl aside, she glared at him for the useless comment. "I can always feed your portion to Revas, if you find it so terrible."

As if summoned by the mere combination of his name and the mentioning of food, the mabari darted out from Lenya's tent, knocking it half over in the process. Barking loudly and with his stump tail wagging, he steered directly toward Leliana. But instead of greeting her like she thought, he made a beeline for the bowl of stew she placed on the ground. The slobbering sound right after told Alistair that the mabari had no trouble finding it.

He could hardly contain his laughter. "Looks like you did this just now, Leliana."

"Ugh, so much for breakfast." She sighed again before standing up. "I better go then and wake Morrigan, if she hadn't turned into a bird and flown away overnight."

"Aww, please don't make promises you can't keep."

Her annoyed look was enough to let him refrain from further commentary. "You better think of checking the traps for game. Our rations are running low and I just want to be prepared in case we don't manage to reach Orzammar today."

Leliana was right, of course. Even worse than repeated rabbit stew for days on end was the prospect of only eating hardtack boiled into a mash. "Yes. I will be going - "Alistair noticed a snuffling snout aiming for his portion of his stew and put it out of Revas' reach. "-soon." He gave the hound a baleful look, but instead of being ashamed of his attempted theft, Revas sat down and whined. To strengthen his emotional manipulation, the dog canted his head and glanced up to Alistair with his sad, brown eyes. It would have worked if he hadn't grown up with mabari around him for years, and thus already knew all their tricks. "Nice try, but no," Alistair said, grinning down at him. "You already had your share. This is my breakfast."

Revas huffed out and walked off toward the Qunari to try his luck for more treats there.

****

Laying out traps was usually a task best suited for Lenya, the trained hunter in their group. Maybe even for Morrigan, as she was called witch of the wilds for a reason. Even Leliana was far more ably in that than he was. However due to duty rotation, Alistair was required to take over these tasks as well, however rarely. Collecting the game in the morning after, if there was any, was the easier duty of the two. Given one knew the places where they had been laid out before, of course. Luckily he'd accompanied the bard the evening before and thus could find them again without much difficulty.

However, four of the six traps turned out to be empty, while the bait was gone. Huh, maybe he should watch Lenya laying out traps instead to see how it was done, since her yielding always seemed to be better. With only two snares left to go, Alistair really hoped to find some less intelligent rodents in it, or it would be back to mushed up hardtack for supper.

Not relishing the thought, he shuddered as he steered toward the fifth trap left behind a line of trees. Alistair stopped in front of them without entering the clearing, because of a telltale hum buzzing in his head. His fellow Warden was still here and hadn't returned to camp yet like he prior thought. Since the stream was on the other side of camp, he wouldn't run into her bathing, or half-naked, at least. That would really be awkward for the approximately five minutes he then had still left to live after that.

Looking upwards to the treetops that appeared to be sky-high, he huffed out a nervous breath. Maker, that woman was indeed terrifying. Alistair was convinced she could make the archdemon leaving and go back to its old god slumber for another thousand years, simply by demanding it from the creature.

With that thought in mind, he entered the clearing, only to immediately halt again a few steps in. Alistair saw his fellow Warden hanging sideways from a sturdy, thick tree branch, her back turned to him. He rushed toward Lenya to help her, since she dangled about ten feet above ground -which was nearly twice her height. But then she pulled herself up with ease until her head was above the level of the branch, then went back to let herself hang for a moment. Right after, she repeated the motion, her legs held completely still as she pulled herself up again.

With the initial panic about her being in danger gone, Alistair also registered that Lenya had forgone her dark shirt, coldness in spite. Which left her wearing only her breastband, and him inappropriately staring at her toned back. The motion of her continued pullups did... interesting things to her back and arms, and... had she always been so lean-muscled? Was this normal for Dalish? The elves he had seen had all been much thinner, nearly scrawny in comparison. And why was he even still watching? He really, really should look away now, as long he still had the chance to somehow salvage this situation. He felt the heat burning in his cheeks, then it trailed further downwards to settle in his stomach. It was suddenly much, much warmer.

Averting his eyes at last, Alistair cleared his throat. It was as much to announce his presence as it was to cover up his own awkwardness. In his peripheral vision he noticed how she let go of the branch and landing gracefully on the ground with a crouch.

"Alistair?" She was walking up to him, sweaty and near half-naked. That fact confused his fight-or-flight reflex to the point of being rooted on the spot. "What are you doing here?"

"Y-you are not dressed," he blurted out, shielding his eyes with one hand.

Lenya let out a groan. "I am not naked either."

"P-please get dressed."

"Fine," she replied in the same annoyed tone and stepped away from him. Presumably to fetch her discarded tunic from the ground. Alistair wasn't looking to check that, though. "You shems and your weird concept of modesty. How you ever exercise with wearing that many layer of clothes?"

It is not weird, he thought, while trying to refrain from thinking of elves frolicking naked through the woods. Bad brain, baaad. "Are you not cold?" he asked instead.

"No. Not anymore." Alistair heard the rustle of fabric as she put her shirt back on. "Helps me to get awake on a shitty morning too."

"I see." He let his hand fall back to his side and opened his eyes again. Sweaty strands of her hair, now tucked up into a messy bun, were plastered to her tattooed forehead. She was breathing heavily and her otherwise fair skin was flushed, heated from the exercise. He blinked slowly, watching her expression shifting into a scowl due to his continued staring.

"I came here to check the snare we laid out," Alistair said then, too fast and out of place. "I -" He left the sentence hanging. Turning on his heels, he darted into the opposite direction, the trap long forgotten.

#alistair theirin #da fic #lenya mahariel #warden mahariel #dragon age #lenyastair #otp: we always had each other #meri writes things #fic nonsense

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jentrevellan · 4 years

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Believe Again: Chapter 2

Rating: Mature Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition Relationships: Cullen Rutherford x Female Trevelyan Tags: slow burn, slow build, slow romance, mage/templar dynamics, family drama, templars, mages, enemies to friends to lovers, angst, lyrium withdrawal, crisis of faith, loss of faith, The Chantry, sexual tension, innuendo MASTERPOST A/N: Tags to be updated. Chapters posted on the 1st Thursday of the month.

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CHAPTER TWO - Cullen

The journey across the Waking Sea and back to my homeland of Ferelden is one I’m trying to quickly forget. I neglected to even look at this journal as the words on the page had swirled around with the motion of the ship on what I was told, were relatively calm waters. On the little of what I remember about the journey, I quickly came to three key decisions:

No food - nothing - helps with seasickness. Or maybe that’s because there is nothing left inside to throw up.

Staying above deck does help with the nausea somewhat. That is unless a certain Mr Tethras insists on keeping you company just to spite you.

As it’s abundantly clear I will never get my sea legs, I can safely say that I am never, ever going on a ship again. Even if a Blight hits Ferelden. I’ll accept my fate.

- An extract from Commander Cullen Rutherford’s personal journal

2. Cullen

A table. A chair. A trunk. A half-empty goblet of water. The smell of campfires. The melody of the early morning birdsong.

Cullen woke in his cot inside the small tent on the outskirts of Haven. Once more his dreams had been… uncomfortable, and it took a moment for him to remember where he was. Here, in Ferelden. I’m from Ferelden. I haven’t been here for almost ten years, he thought.

It was still very early but he preferred to begin his day when others were still sleeping - less disturbances that way, and there was something invigorating about getting work done when others were still wondering the fade, oblivious that a new day has started. So after a splash of cool water of his face and neck, he put on each piece of his armour - inspecting them in turn, still getting accustomed to his new attire that was not the Templar uniform he had been so familiar with, like an extension of his body; an extra limb, perhaps. Finally he pulled on his fur mantle - his very Ferelden fur mantle - and checked the small looking glass by his bedside. He ran a hand through his hair, ensuring his curls were neatly flattened to a smart wave and nodded to himself. As always, before leaving the tent, he hesitated and stood by the flap, took a deep breath and flexed his fingers. Today was another new day. And he was here, alive.

The early morning sun greeted him pleasantly and he paused for a moment to drink it in as it peered over the mountain tops. Looking around the small camp outside the village, most of his troops were still asleep, with their first drill not for another hour or so. A couple of messengers chatted quietly by the gates, their voices a low hum underneath the birdsong.

With a confident gait, he strode through the gates, fresh snow crunching under his boots. The village would be filling up fast as the last of the travellers arrived today before heading up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes for the start of the Conclave. He took the path up to the Chantry, avoiding the inn, and soon found himself in the cool and sparse interior, empty save for a few Chantry sisters sleeping on bedrolls in alcoves. Later that day the Chantry would be completely empty, save for one or two lay sisters. Honestly, he couldn’t wait for the small little village to be as sleepy as it was when he arrived a few weeks ago.

Pushing open the council chamber door, he paused as he spotted the ambassador, Lady Josephine Montilyet chatting to a dwarf by her office. The dwarf in question had dark skin and a stamp of the Carta on her cheek, along with a strange pair of spectacles on her head. She caught him staring and nodded to the ambassador, taking her leave.

Josephine Montilyet looked after the dwarf before approaching Cullen with a sigh. “I had hoped nobody would see that,” she admitted.

“What are the Carta doing here?” he asked, holding the door open for her.

The Antivan woman sighed again, tapping her quill on her ledger. “It’s… complicated Commander. The Carta and the dwarves in general have shown a great interest in the Conclave, knowing that decisions made could and probably will affect them.”

“And they’re working with the Chantry?”

“Not precisely,” Josephine said, avoiding his gaze. “If things turn sour, we may need a separate source of lyrium for any recruits who may wish to potentially join us.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Even hearing the word ‘lyrium’ sent a small shock through him, like someone had thrown a bucket of ice cold water all over him. He hoped the ambassador did not notice. Instead he cleared his throat.

“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

She nodded. “Let us hope.”

They worked in silence until Leliana joined them a little later and shared some reports with them. Cassandra appeared an hour or so after with a book clutched to her chest.

“The Divine is heading up to the Temple now,” she announced. “Although the talks don’t start until this afternoon, she wants to be one of the first there.”

Cullen looked between Cassandra and Leliana. “And you’re to remain here?”

“We’ll go up later today, once most of the mages and Templars have arrived,” Leliana explained.

“Has the Divine already left? I can send some of my recruits with her as an honour guard.”

“No need,” Leliana interjected before Cassandra could reply. “Some of my agents are with her now, but dressed as soldiers.”

Cullen bristled at not being informed but let it slide and simply nodded. Leliana had been used to working solo, using her own initiative and making her own plans without the need of discussion before. He exchanged a look with Josephine who raised a brow, and appeared to be thinking the same thing. In order for them to work together, they couldn't keep each other in the dark, despite their different roles.

Around noon, they took a break for lunch, and with a bunch of reports in his hands, Cullen headed through the village and back towards his tent. He took the longer path back to ensure he avoided the tavern, which would no doubt be overflowing with patrons seeking a bite to eat and drink before heading up to the Temple. He wound his way through the growing crowds and finally saw his tent, but his path was blocked by his second-in-command, Rylen.

“Ah Cullen, been looking for you,” he said, his Starkhaven accent so strong, Cullen had to repeat the sentence over in his mind before he could answer.

“Well I’m here; what is it?” Cullen asked, glancing impatiently at his tent and the solitude it will no doubt offer away from the crowds that swarmed around him.

“Message from Harritt - he says your commission is ready...?”

Instantly his mood lifted and he made his way to the Blacksmithy, where the moustached smith welcomed him.

“Commander!” Harritt greeted. “Come, come…”

He guided Cullen to the workroom where a few assistants were busy finishing weapon requisitions. By Harrit’s desk sat a large shield with the Inquisition insignia.

“Made from silverite and the same spec as Seeker Pentaghast’s,” Harritt explained, handing the shield to him. “Size has been tailored from the Templar shields, but the leather straps on the back make it much lighter and versatile.”

Cullen took the shield in his hands and placed it on his left arm, fiddling with the straps. He held it up, then down, feeling the weight - it was certainly different than his old Templar issue, but it’s not an unwelcome change.

“It’s going to take some getting used to,” he commented.

Harritt shrugged. “That’s the truth. Here, try the sword”

He passed Cullen the long-sword who inspected it closely. For the first time ever, he would have a sword which was his own, not a standard issue. He held it aloft, feeling the balance and noted the same Inquisition insignia. Where as the shield felt new and heavy, the sword instantly felt right - a true extension of his arm. He could almost feel a rare smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

“A fine blade,” Harritt stated and Cullen nodded.

“You’ve outdone yourself.”

The blacksmith waved a hand. “It was nothing. To improve a Templar issue sword wasn’t a difficult challenge - those old swords couldn’t cut butter half the time.”

Cullen stayed and politely chatted with the man for as long as was necessary, even though he was itching to be away from the swelling crowds and find a straw dummy to practice on with his new sword and shield. Finally, another customer arrived to see Harritt, and Cullen excused himself, strapping his shield to his back, noting how light and secure it felt, and sheathed his sword in the new scabbard at his hip and carefully rested his hand on the pommel, satisfied with the security that little nuance gave him.

He lifted his eyes to the training field, hoping to spot Rylen or someone else to perhaps train with until later that afternoon when he would make his way up to the Temple with the remainder of his men and women. But the throngs of people had grown considerably and Cullen was reminded of the bustling market square in Kirkwall's Hightown or-

"Oof!"

Somebody had collided with him but unfortunately for them, they had bounced off his armour and fallen to the ground. Initially angry, it was replaced by a wave of guilt when he saw that the person on the receiving end of his armour's ricochet was a young Chantry Sister.

“Forgive me, Sister,” he apologised, holding out his hand to help her up. “I did not see you.”

“Nor I you,” she replied, brushing her robes down once she stood. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going. Well, I was trying to but there are so many people here and I can’t find my sister - my real sister that is, not a Chantry Sister…” she trailed off and Cullen noted how young she was, perhaps around the same age as his youngest sister, Rosalie.

“I’m sorry, I’m babbling, aren’t I?” she said, laughing nervously. “My mother always told me to slow down and not chat so much, but… um… yes anyway, sorry again…”

“Wait, Sister…?”

She paused and finally looked up at him. “Cecelia. Sister Cecelia.”

“Sister Cecelia,” he repeated, offering her a small smile. “You said you were looking for someone?”

Cecelia smiled nervously in return and Cullen had to wonder at her hesitance. That was until he saw her looking at his vambrace, where the flaming Templar insignia was engraved.

“Err, yes I was, I mean I am,” she stammered. “My sister, my real sister.”

“Alright, well let me help you find this ‘real sister’ of yours.”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh! Oh no, you don’t have to do that, Ser… umm…?”

“Cullen,” he supplied. “And I’m the one that just knocked over a Chantry Sister - the least I can do to apologise for it is to help her,” he said, hoping his attempts to ease her had worked.

“I… Well, thank you. I don’t want to attend the conclave without her, especially as we come all this way together.”

They started walking slowly towards the gates of Haven, going against the flow of people who were now heading out of the village to head to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He peered down at the young woman next to him and noted her buck teeth, her round face etched in apprehension as she scanned each person they passed. Truly, she was remarkably similar to how he imagined his younger sister who he hadn’t seen in…

Maker, how many years? He thought, almost stopping in his tracks to count. But the peeling of the Chantry bells noting the mid-afternoon convinced him otherwise, and that he should probably make haste in helping Cecelia find her sister and then head on up to the conclave himself.

“Have you seen her?” he asked, also looking at the faces they passed, although not knowing the face of the person they were looking for.

Sister Cecelia slumped her shoulders. “No, she’s not where I thought she would be.”

Cullen rubbed his chin and then pointed to the tavern. “Perhaps she went to freshen up, or get some food?”

The Sister looked doubtful but nodded politely. “I suppose she could have…”

They made their way to The Singing Maiden and once inside it was surprisingly quiet, as most people had now made their way up the mountain to the conclave. Cullen pointed to the inn keep Flissa, and suggested Cecelia ask her. As she did, Cullen spotted a small group of recruits grinning and joking over a few tankards of ale.

He glared at them, knowing full well that they were under orders to prepare to depart. Soon, one of the soldier’s sixth sense kicked in and she looked up, her face paling when she saw him staring at them with what he could imagine was a look of utter contempt. He didn’t even need to say anything as the soldier stood abruptly, saluted to him, then hurried out, the other doing the exact same and following in her wake.

Satisfied, Cullen turned to see Cecelia next to him, looking wary. She had obviously seen the whole exchange.

“Any luck?” he asked, deciding to ignore her trepidation.

Another sign. “She may have seen her. She’s usually good with faces, she was telling me, but it’s been so busy that my sister could’ve passed through almost unseen.”

“But she’s not here now. Perhaps the Chantry?” he suggested. “She could very well be looking for you and when I was in the Chantry this morning, it was full of Sisters and Clerics.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Cecelia eyed his vambraces again and then back at the empty table where the slacking soldiers had sat moments before. “But I mustn’t take up any more of your time, Ser Cullen. I’m sure you have more important matters to attend to,” she said. It was such a polite way of saying she didn’t want his help or company anymore, that Cullen was sure that she must’ve come from some noble family. In his experience, only nobles skirted around the truth in such an ambiguously polite way.

He decided to ignore the slight. “I’m heading up to the Chantry anyway,” he lied, thinking he could perhaps check in with Cassandra whilst he was up there.

Once again, Sister Cecelia’s green eyes refused to meet his own and she nodded meekly. “Oh, sure, of course. You’re very kind, Ser.”

He knew it was insincere, but again she had been polite about it anyway. He was young, so he tried not to take offence.

During the short time they had been in the tavern, the village had emptied considerably. “You don’t suppose your sister might’ve gone with everyone else?” he suggested.

A vicious shake of her head let loose a few strands of auburn hair fall from her hood. “She promised we would go together and my sister always keeps her promises,” he replied in such a voice and tone that warranted no further discussion.

They walked the rest of the way in silence until Cecelia gasped: “There! By the doors! That’s her, my sister!” she pointed.

Cullen followed her pointed finger and saw a tall woman, perhaps only an inch or so shorter than him, leaning against the stone by the Chantry doors. Her arms were folded across her chest and her ankles crossed in a very relaxed fashion. Her clothes were worn, her boots and breeches crusted with mud and slightly damp from what Cullen guessed was from trudging through the snow. Her face was tilted towards the low winter sun, a wry smile on her lips and her olive skin glowing. He wasn’t sure why he found himself studying her so closely, but perhaps with everyone usually rushing around with no time to spare, to see someone look fairly relaxed despite it all was perhaps what he found most and usual, and perhaps it also helped that she was quite pleasing on the eye; what with her chestnut hair shining in the sun, her curiously long neck and -

Her eyes snapped to his - misty grey surrounded by dark, thick lashes. Her frank look almost left him breathless but then he saw the staff slung over her back and her eyes had rested on his Templar vambraces.

“Elsie! Elsie! Over here!” Sister Cecelia called from beside him, obviously unaware that her elder sister had already clocked him. The faint, wry smile that had touched her lips had all but disappeared and the look she was giving him now was so plain and expressionless that Cullen had to wonder if he had imagined it. Finally she looked at Cecelia.

“There you are,” she said in a warm, almost melodic voice.” I thought perhaps you had found Evelyn and gone up without me.”

“Is Evelyn another sister you’re looking for?” Cullen jokes aloud, but his smile faltered under Cecelia’s sister’s steely cool gaze, when she replied: “Yes, actually.”

Cecelia looked between them and coughed. “Elsie, this is Ser Cullen - he was kind enough to help me look for you.”

Cullen held out his hand to shake hers. “It’s Commander Cullen, actually,” he said lightly, trying to ease the strange tension between them. “It’s nice to finally meet you, my lady.”

Elsie looked down at his outstretched hand and then back to his face, making no move to shake it. Finally she said; “I was not aware that ‘commander’ was indeed a rank within the Templars,” she said casually, examining her gloved fingertips. “But then I am merely a mage and not privy to the details of Templar hierarchy.”

Cullen started at her with his mouth open. Not since he’d met a particular Champion of Kirkwall had someone spoken to him in such a… condescending way. He bit back a retort, refusing to take her bait.

“Ordinarily, you would be right,” he ground out as calmly as he could. “But I am not a Templar anymore.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Indeed,” she said. “I may not be part of a Circle anymore, but that doesn’t stop me being a mage now, does it?”

He opened his mouth then quickly shut it, unusually at a loss for words. She has an excellent point, he thought to himself.

She took his silence as confirmation. “As I thought.” Elsie kicked herself off the wall and wrapped an arm around her younger sister’s shoulders. “Well, as enlightening as this has been, we really ought to be off. We’re going to be late.”

Sister Cecelia nodded and once again glanced between her elder sister and Cullen. “Thank you again for your help, Commander Cullen.”

He inclined his head. “The least I could do,” he replied, earning himself a glare from the mage. Cecelia noticed and decided to avoid another tense conversation, so steered herself out of her sister’s grip and headed down the path, leaving Elsie no choice but to follow, without another word to him.

“A pleasure to meet you too, Lady Elsie,” he said, loud enough for the mage to hear, but not for Sister Cecelia. Elsie paused in her step then continued without sparing him a backward glance - something that Cullen couldn’t help but grin smugly about. He always loved having the last word.

Around two hours later, he and Cassandra rounded up any stragglers and began to make their way up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, bringing up the rear.

And then the sky exploded.

It’s funny how one remembers the small details when the world is ending.

The smell of the air on a crisp spring morning. The taste of freshly picked summer strawberries. The sound of silence. The piercing look of those misty grey eyes.

Those very eyes that slid to meet Cullen’s over the next wave of demons that spawned from the rift. He had little time to acknowledge her, as he swung his sword into the limb of a sprouting demon. It screeched in anger so he swung again, successfully decapitating it. After three solid days of fighting the blighted things, he had to bitterly admit that he was becoming well versed in how to kill the demons so once they were down, they stayed down.

Cullen was vaguely aware of Cassandra fighting beside him, her swordsmanship techniques similar to his own, so they made quite a deadly duo when working in unison against their common enemy. They ducked and slashed together and then he felt hot fire obscure his senses.

“Watch out Curly!” Varric Tethras called, and Cullen spun to see a looming terror demon grab his ankle and pull him down to the ground. He fell squarely on his chin, making his jaw jut. Groaning, he rolled onto his back, his grip on his sword still tight despite his fall. He swung it in an arch above him, but the demon dodged, and he barely made a mark on it and only seemed to antagonise it further.

There was a sudden wave of heat, and a roar of an inferno that made him blink and squint at the intensity around him. The fire avoided him, and instead channelled around him, like water around a rock in a river. Instead the intense flames licked up the demon, wrapping it in a blazing embrace. It perished above him and Cullen stared at the now empty space where the demon had leered over him moments ago and saw an outstretched hand. He looked up to see her - the mage from Haven - holding her gloved hand out to him, her eyes darting around to ensure no demons would attack them unaware.

He hesitated only for a moment but then grasped her wrist and let her help him to his feet. And in that moment that they touched, Cullen could feel an electric heat course through his veins. What terrified him was that he knew isn’t wasn’t just because of her magic. There was something more. But he had no time to process the peculiar feeling and sensation.

“You can thank me later,” she muttered before spinning her staff in her other hand and channelling through it to hit another demon with a ball of fire that was approaching Cassandra a few feet away. Without a backwards glance, she cast a ward over him.

He pushed their encounter from his mind as another blasted wave of demons poured through the rift. This time he did not let his guard down and fought with renewed vigour. He realised that he felt stronger, possibly because of a rejuvenating spell she had cast. The irony of it was not lost on him.

"The rift is sealed! The conclave rift is sealed!" A soldier ran past, crying the words through the mountains, his face bright with joy, sharing the news with all who he passed. Those who heard him turned to one another and shared hugs and words of encouragement. For the first time since the explosion three days prior, people were starting to smile.

Cullen was crouched by an injured soldier when he finally saw the runner. He stood abruptly, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword out of habit.

"Soldier!" he called out. Reluctantly, the young man skidded to a halt before Cullen and saluted.

"Commander!" he panted, his eyes wide, but still smiling.

"Report," Cullen ordered.

"Yes Ser," the young man replied, composing himself. "It’s true - I've come from the Temple myself - she - that is the mage prisoner - sealed the rift and slew the demon inside - with minimal casualties."

"And where is the prisoner now?"

"She collapsed when the rift was sealed: she used the magic on her hand - I saw it with my own eyes, Ser. It was incredible." He grinned from ear to ear, wanting to be the hero of the moment, to deliver the news to all. Cullen waited a moment, trying not to fall for the infectious joy of the soldier.

"The others who were there - are they injured?" Cullen finally asked, thinking of Cassandra and Varric.

"No Ser. Sister Leliana and Seeker Pentaghast are well and unscathed, and are personally carrying the stretcher of the Herald, who has not awoken."

"Herald?" he repeated, blinking.

"The Herald of Andraste, Ser - she saved us all by closing the rift, thanks to Andraste's blessing."

"Maker preserve us," Cullen mumbled, running a hand through his hair. "Very well, you're dismissed to… spread the news."

The soldier saluted and ran off before Cullen could change his mind.

The Herald who has not woken. Cullen repeated the messenger’s words in his mind. A strange sensation washed over him, which he assumed was simply relief. Relief that this ordeal was over for the moment and that no more lives would be lost. And if she has saved us all, then she will surely become a martyr if she dies.

A pit opened in his gut at the thought of her dying, after all that. He shook his head and blamed his peculiar feelings on the withdrawal of lyrium or perhaps the anxiety of what would come next. Unsure, Cullen looked up - there was still a hole in the sky but the demons were no longer spawning and the Breach seemed stable. The worst was over, for the moment at least.

As Cullen stared into the open void, he quietly hoped that she would survive, this Herald of Andraste… Elsie.

<-PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ->

#Fic: Believe Again #Believe Again #Cullen #cullen rutherford #my writing #long post #dragon age #dragon age fanfiction

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someoneoffthestreet · 7 years

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One for Sorrow, Two for Joy

Fandom Writing Challenge – June 2017 Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Dean/Lisa Word count: 2762 words Prompt: fireworks Triggers/Warnings: Biphobia, talk of comas, talk of car accidents, implied underage drinking

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One month after being dumped, Dean Winchester did not kiss Lisa Braeden.

The party had been grand in concept, a Last Hurrah in a whole month-long line of Last Hurrahs. At least, that’s how Ash had sold it, pelting Dean with assurances that it would be a great time for him to come out and join his much neglected friends. Which they both knew was a lie- Dean hadn’t been much fun the past month but he hadn’t pulled away. But apparently he’d been off just enough and Ash had promised that they could hang out the whole time, Dean wouldn’t have to talk to anyone he wouldn’t know. This had been another lie: The party had been surprisingly low-key, but not in any particularly good way, with a bad choice of music denying party-goers a good dancing atmosphere which had them flocking into small groups and odd corners to find other ways to avoid introspection.

Ash had disappeared ten minutes after arriving, and now Dean was sitting in a too-soft armchair while a pair of seniors made out on the far end of the couch beside him. He looked down at his untouched beer and sighed. Somehow, he had the feeling that he’d had this exact dream a few nights ago. So much for a fun, distracting night. He supposed that’s what he got for going to a pre-pre-graduation party as someone who’d dropped out of high school three months into senior year.

“Well, there’s a sight you don’t see every day.”

Dean looked up, watching as Lisa stepped primly in front of him and perched on the coffee table, smiling playfully. “The life of the party relegated to the sidelines of bad kissing? That’s a sign of the apocalypse.”

“Is that what’s happening?” Dean asked, smiling in spite of himself. “I thought it was just the music.”

Lisa kicked his shin lightly. Dean shot her an exaggerated pout.

“So how does Dean Winchester end up sitting alone to sad music in a crowded room?”

“His invite drags him out with promises of a good time and then vanishes into thin air.”

Lisa lifted her eyebrows knowingly. “Ash?”

“Got it in one.”

“It’s not that hard,” she replied, looking around. “I think I saw him head upstairs with the Dugan twins a little while ago. That might explain it.”

Dean sighed and hanged his head, shaking it. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

“Don’t hold it against him.” When Dean looked back up, her smile was a little rueful. “He’s been acting like that the past few weeks. I think graduation’s managed to unsettle him a little.”

That was- slightly worrying. It hardly ever seemed like anything got under Ash’s skin. Dean frowned a little to himself in contemplation. Maybe he should have been paying better attention…

“Hey.” He felt a firm, playful poke between his eyebrows, and blinked up at Lisa in surprise. “Don’t do that. You’ve got enough problems on your plate recently, you don’t need to go and add his to it.”

Dean opened his mouth indignantly to protest, but his mind blanked out. When Lisa leveled him with an unimpressed look he managed to close his mouth again. He swallowed a little, looking away.

“I just- should have noticed, that’s all,” he admitted, softer than he’d meant to.

“Ash will be fine,” said Lisa encouragingly. “We’re all kind of freaking out a little. High school’s almost over. The chapter’s coming to an end. It’s a little nerve-wracking not knowing what’s coming next.”

“Well, those are the words of someone who is perfectly fine,” said Dean lightly. Lisa grinned, a little self-consciously, and ducked her head.

Watching her for a few moment, he said, softer, “…Are you? Fine?”

Lisa looked back up, her expression more serious now. Her eyes drifted away, somewhere to the middle distance, and she shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t know. It’s…I guess I’m not sure how to feel. Excited, relieved, scared… I guess I’m not really going to know until I get there, right?”

Her fingers were tapping lightly on her knee, uncertain. Dean was strangely focused on them, wanting suddenly to reach out and hold them between his. But he kept his hands where they were.

The conversation paused and they let it gestate a little, looking around. Dean glanced at her profile and thought about last year, how he had seen her in the halls and on the way to school but never talked to her, never really known her. It was odd that a year ago they had been mere ghosts to each other, and now her presence was as natural as sunlight. And in a few short weeks, she could possibly be gone forever.

The thought sunk heavy in his gut, constricting in his throat. He looked back down at his beer, now room-temperature.

There was a sharp inhale of breath, and Lisa said suddenly, “So this just got pretty depressing. And I don’t think we can blame the music.”

Dean chuckled under his breath. “Well, if we’ve found the problem, how do you suggest we fix it?”

“Well…,” said Lisa, drawing out the word as she leaned in conspiratorially. “Word is that someone got their hands on some fireworks.”

“Fun and a fire hazard,” said Dean. “That should bring in the cops.”

“Yeah,” Lisa agreed. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy them for a few minutes before the party is brought to a dignified end.”

Which is how, a few minutes later, Dean was dragged out onto the house’s back patio. Most of the party went with them, moving lazily like a herd of cows. But Lisa’s hand was firm in Dean’s, and he let it tug him through the crowd. They ended pressed up together somewhere in the middle, the cool night air useless against the mass of bodies.

“Glad I’m not claustrophobic,” Dean muttered to himself. Apparently, just loud enough for Lisa to hear, because she grinned at him and poked his side.

The first rocket shot off, streaking into the night and popping above them in a loud burst. The kids below cheered in response, and Dean willed himself to relax, head tilted to the sky. The fireworks punched through the night like gunshots, strangely taboo and exhilarating in blatant display. There was no way to cover these up, deny their presence. Everybody in the neighborhood would know, and it wouldn’t take long for someone to come along and put a stop to them. So Dean relaxed, letting the lights wash over him and the explosions burst in his ears. It was…liberating.

That was probably what did it, he would think in hindsight. He wouldn’t remember why he looked down at Lisa, what he was going to say. But he would remember her face: soft, open, wondering, and even a little…sad. A burst of red had touched her face, reflecting in her dark eyes, and Dean’s breath had caught, sudden.

The crowd continued to cheer around them but Dean suddenly couldn’t seem to care. He was stuck on her profile, the way her hair curled off her shoulder and around her ear. Her eyelashes were visible in short bursts and he waited for each one, breathless, willing each flash of light to linger, the moments fragile and fleeting. Dean wanted to catch each one and hold on, pin them to pages in a book, something. The feeling was new and strange and should have been frightening but he wasn’t afraid, not at all.

Lisa noticed his stare. Her eyes drifted down from the sky and slid across his face, meeting his. She smiled in confusion and tilted her head, a question. Dean’s breath returned to him and it was dizzying, oxygen a kind of high he had never felt before. The fireworks soared and screeched above them, pop, pop, pop…

It didn’t take long for the question in Lisa’s face to find an answer, and he saw the exact moment it settled in her head. He saw knowledge settled into her eyes, into the lines of her face, her look darker now, heady. Her gaze slipped down to his lips, once, eyelashes flickering as she blinked back up to his stare. Dean is frozen where he stands, so afraid of breaking the moment, that it will pop around them and leave him unfulfilled, unfinished. As if sensing this, Lisa tilted her chin up, just so. An invitation.

Gravity reoriented itself, closing in around them. Dean felt his equilibrium shift and he swayed, just a fraction. He could feel her pull on him and he complied, easy. The easiest thing in the world…

“No, it means you’re easy. And how am I supposed to trust someone who is easy?”

And just like that, the moment breaks. Dean’s stomach churned and bile rose into his throat, and he cursed, cursed, cursed against it. He tried to push it away but it was too late, the crowd once again present around them and Dean felt on display, wrong. He was just a breath away from Lisa’s lips; one soft press, and Dean’s heart twisted with longing at the thought of it. For a second, he wants to take it anyway.

Instead, he shifted, leaned past her mouth and pressed at her cheek, once. Lisa’s eyelashes fluttered against his cheek, and he leaned against her temple, breathing in the smell of her shampoo and willing back the tears. When he pulled back, Lisa’s expression wasn’t easy to read. He searched for anything he could trust: anger, pity, rejection. But all he found was acceptance.

“I’m sorry,” he said, just over the noise, but Lisa shook her head.

“It’s OK,” she replied, smiling softly. Dean knew it wasn’t.

The lingered for a few minutes more, showered in the lights and the sounds. But soon enough they agreed that staying any longer would be pushing their luck against the cops showing up. Dean spots Ash as they head out, and he waves them off, lost in the Dugan twins. Dean takes that as permission as anything.

The drive back home wasn’t as awkward as it should have been. In fact, it felt almost close to normal for a little while, the banter easy and conversation light. It was only when Lisa was out of the car, walking to her porch that Dean let himself feel it again. For a brief moment, he wanted to call her back, rush out of the car after her, catch her. To spin her round and taste her, like he should have, like he would have if…

Lisa got to her door, unlocked it. For a moment, she turned back, haloed in the hallway light, and she smiled, waving to him. Dean mustered up his own smile, waving back.

The door closed, and she was gone.

Dean didn’t know if he had been in love with Nick. There was a wound there now that made it difficult to think he would ever know. But he had been committed.

Those first few months after his mom’s accident had been tumultuous, to say the least. With Mary Winchester suspended indefinitely between life and death, it had been hard for her family to tell up from down, let alone what they were going to do without her. It was a possibility John could not bring himself to even consider, and Dean could never quite forgive him for shutting down like he did. Sam certainly didn’t. And what with this fugue state, caught between wondering if they should be planning a welcome home party or a funeral, for Dean, it had been hard to remember why school had ever been important in the first place, when he could instead be doing something to help support the family.

That was right around the time Nick had asked him out.

Dean hadn’t been blind. The timing was awful and Nick was bad news. But he’d taken Dean out of his head and given him space to talk. At a point where John was almost obsessively at the hospital and Sam was pouring into his schoolwork, at least Nick had looked at Dean and seemed to actually see him. At least Nick had wanted him.

That, more than anything, was probably what made the breakup hurt so much.

“Well, what am I supposed to think, Dean?” Nick snapped, betrayal odd and shining in his eyes. “I thought we had something good here. I thought you wanted me!”

“I do,” Dean had placated, bewildered and uncertain on his feet. “I didn’t say that-”

“You want me, but you come in here and tell me that you’re attracted to girls? If you haven’t noticed, Dean, I’m lacking a little in that department!”

“I said-” The words stumbled in Dean’s mouth. He tried again. “I said, I only said I thought I was bi.”

“Which means you’ve been checking out girls behind my back, Dean,” Nick sneered. He threw his hands up, turning away from Dean like he couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. “God, this is what I get, this is what I get for going out with questioning guys-”

“I’m not questioning,” Dean interrupted, the words more heated now. He tried to remember, think of the words Casey had used. “I know what I want. Being bi- being bi just means I’m attracted to boys and girls, it doesn’t have to have any influence on- on how I feel about you.”

Nick snorted, sighed. He turned back to Dean with a look that was half pitying, half contempt. “No, it means you’re easy. And how am I supposed to trust someone who is easy?”

No matter what Dean had said- or tried to say, the concepts still shaky in his own head- Nick hadn’t wanted to hear any more. When he told Dean to leave, it had felt like the world slowed around him, muggy and off-kilter. He walked out the door and never went back.

“He thought… he thought I was cheating on him. Or- or going to cheat on him, I don’t-”

“Well, did you?” Sam asked, blunt.

And that- that had hurt. On an already pretty sucky night, that had been a dull punch to the gut.

“No, Sam,” said Dean, voice far shakier and more emotional than he wanted. “I wasn’t going to cheat on him.”

Sam sighed, putting his text book down to rub at his eyes. “I just don’t know why you had to make it so difficult,” he muttered. “Just thought, ‘I like guys’ and left it at that.”

“Because I’m not-”

“Whatever, Dean,” Sam cut off, dismissive. “But just so you know, wanting to have a threesome with Casey and her boyfriend does not make you bi.”

Dean saw Lisa only one more time after the fireworks show. Even if he himself would not be graduating, it didn’t mean that he couldn’t show up and support his friends who were. So he sat in the audience, watching his classmates cross the stage, dressed in school colors and beaming brightly. Something small and sharp pierced just between his ribs, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d so badly wanted to cry.

After the ceremony, he found Casey. She smiled so bright when she saw him, and hugged him tightly, rocking them a little. There had been so many things he’d wanted to say to her right then, but it wouldn’t be right, not here, not now. Not on her moment. But the look she gave him when she pulled away was so sad, so knowing, he guessed he didn’t need to tell her after all.

Lisa, he spotted through the crowd. Her arms were around her sister and her eyes were bright, a mix of pride and self-consciousness. Her parents doted around her, lighting her up with pictures, and a few of her friends soon crushed around her as well, energetic and laughing. Dean was bumped and jostled by the press of people but he did not move. She felt much, much further away than the few feet between them, out beyond his touch.

He wanted to go to her. He wanted to tell her that he had seen her back in August and had just waited, waited to go up to her and ask her out. He had been ready and was going to do it and then his mom had wrapped her car around a tree.

Another admission. Another weight that had no place here, on this day.

The crowd buffeted him a little more, and Dean let it carry him away.

#fandomwritingchallenge #Dean x Lisa #Dean Winchester #Lisa Braeden #I write stuff #fanfiction #Supernatural #OTP: when I picture myself happy #brief Dean x other #Sam is a jerk #briefly

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