#and var trues so hard not to laugh he really does but he can never hold it in

[missorgana]

can’t say anything to your face

pairing: bucky barnes/sam wilson

fandom: marvel cinematic universe

rating: teen and up

word count: 7779

warning: swearing, alcohol, brief mention of death

summary: Bucky loves Sam, and he tells him so, in his own way. (mostly canon compliant sambucky pining)

(my longest fic yet??? since TFATWS is still taking over my life, here’s some more sambucky fluff slash angst. they’re everything to me. this thing is a bit self-indulgent too, after the idea from this tweet! so all thanks to twitter user @/SAMBUCKY616 for this concept, even tho my danish is probably not the best interpretation jgdjd.... oh well! and thank you to Cat / @wendigostag as always, because you convinced me to write it and beta read and just..... ur perfect. mwah! hope you all enjoy this???)

read on ao3

A remnant that sticks with Bucky, still sticks with him after he’s rid of the Winter Soldier for good, is the language.

The only good thing, really. He could live without every one of the screams he hears in his dreams and lifeless bodies imprinted on his retinas, but that sticks on too, real tight. Being fluent in more languages than he imagined to be is bearable.

Not exactly bearable, though, not when many of them are tainted with those memories that he tries to distance himself to when he’s awake. He’s learning. It’s harder at night, when there’s darkness and stillness and no distractions from what creeps up on him every time.

French is hard. He knows every word to express the chaos in his head, but he can’t pronounce them. German, too. Russian, Spanish, Mandarin. He’s especially fond of Arabic, which is also particularly difficult for him to dig up from his brain, not because he doesn’t remember it, but because the screams in his head get too loud for him to think.

It’s a shame.

There’s one exception in his, quite frankly, extensively large vocabulary, and that’s Danish.

Bucky doesn’t know why this language in particular was something the Winter Soldier (he usually tries to think of him as a separate entity altogether, because, well, it hurts less) needed, given that, as far as his memory reaches, it was never used.

And this is why he finds himself drawn to it.

Of course, English is what he speaks on a day-to-day basis, and it feels… mostly normal. But somehow, Danish becomes a thing of comfort. Or safety, more likely.

He’s pretty sure his pronunciation sounds like absolute hell, the words sometimes more harsh than he intends, making him want to turn himself inside out in embarrassment. All these feelings, they’re difficult to describe.

Especially the ones relating to Sam Wilson.

Sam. 

Sam, Sam, Sam. He’s the only other constant visitor in the back of his mind, and whether that’s a good or a bad thing, up for discussion. A welcome distraction or… something more painful.

Yeah, this feeling is a hard one. Maybe it’s because it’s more than two decades since he’s felt it, or maybe he knows, deep down, that he hasn't ever felt it at all.

Since they met, he’s sworn that he hated him. But he doesn’t. It’s so bleeding obvious he might as well get it tattooed on his forehead.

Annoying, positive, calm, vulnerable, perfect Sam. Perfect- ugh, yes, it’s the only word left for him to describe him. It makes sense, like a lightbulb flicked on in his head and since then it hasn’t stopped shining.

Bucky doesn’t really know how this happened. Why or when. Maybe it came to him in that final battle, finding himself living and breathing, and the very first person he saw, first of anything he put his eyes upon, was Sam.

Or maybe it already dawned upon him in Steve’s awfully cramped car, where Sam wouldn’t move his stupid seat up.

Regardless, along the way, his habit of mumbling to himself in the Danish tongue in frustration or anxiety has developed into a way of letting things he doesn’t want his… co-worker to hear flow through, and out into the wide world, without any worry.

If he says what he wants to yell at the top of his lungs, in a way Sam would understand, that could only be the last drop into the oblivion of hating the universe. 

He won’t feel that way. Sam is so… good. Bucky isn’t. He deserves better than that.

It’s easier this way, he tells himself. It’s fucking easier. He has a hard time keeping his rage toward himself inside, but he does it.

And that’s exactly what he does, when their reunion in the airport has them at each other’s throats again , and as Sam goes on ahead, refusing for him to follow (of course, he does follow, anyway), and Bucky can’t help himself.

“Jeg skal være sikker på at du kommer tilbage.”

He utters the words through slightly gritted teeth, not realising how his breathing picks up too quickly until the other man glances back at him from the entrance of the aircraft, “What did you say?”

It’s the first time he’s not cursed at himself, and Sam’s response makes him jump in his skin. Honestly, the realisation of the words only settles afterwards, and he knows there’s no way he understood it. Not only is Danish one of the least widespread languages, so the chance of Sam even being aware of it is less than microscopical, but his voice is also in a steady fight with the wind. Lucky for once, huh.

“Nothing,” he lies. Sam doesn’t look convinced. Bucky adds, “Talking to myself. I’m still coming with you.”

The sounds are too loud around them, making him all the more eager to get inside. One of the many wonderful side effects of the aftermath of being brainwashed? Massive, stubborn headaches.

Funny enough, the pain might just be getting worse when the man in front of him visibly sighs, “Suit yourself.”

…

Going after the Flag Smashers, getting their asses handed to them, a certain thorn in his eye showing up, it all goes too quick for Bucky to fully comprehend.

In the end, Sam saves his life, because it’s Sam. Sam, who put his trust in him when he didn’t know him, when he had absolutely no reason to, and yet he did. He’s been spending a lot of time scared that the other man will come to regret it.

And it’s when they’re off the road and the world stops moving, and suddenly, Bucky’s looming inches above Sam’s face, grass grazing and tickling their faces. Or he’d probably feel that, if he wasn’t biting his cheek so hard that he might draw blood.

Sam groans but doesn’t move an inch.

I want to kiss you so fucking bad, Bucky wants to say. But that would be the stupidest and most reckless decision of his yet. Instead, he swallows the words and tells him, “Could’ve used that shield.”

Sam’s grip on his arms tightens, “Get off of me.”

The other man’s voice is strained and he pushes him off, leaving him to stare at the sky with a certain feeling of numbness.

He’s prepared for a long walk back from wherever they’ve ended up, too, Bucky’s not really paying attention to the surroundings besides the road and Sam relieving the tension that’s built up between them (far from uncommon with them, he’s got to admit) with his usual joking jabs.

He didn’t welcome his apology for Redwing much. It’s true, he hated that droid, but that doesn’t mean he’s not sorry… although, deeper inside of him he knows he’s saying sorry for totally different reasons.

I’m sorry you got hurt, is what. I’m sorry you had to pull me out of the fire that I got us into.

“What’s going on in that big cyborg brain of yours?”

Bucky sighs non committedly, he’s heard this one before. “It’s computing.”

And Sam laughs, softly and with a warm tinge that makes it hard for him to keep walking like he doesn’t care. The man next to him tries to be smug, and in the past these pokes at him would get him riled up and walk away without sparing it another thought.

It’s different now. He looks at his smirk for just a second before turning his head, and it’s fine, he won’t notice, stop worrying.

Sam doesn’t hate him, he’s realised. He realised that a while ago, admittedly, but what’s more important to the pressing in Bucky’s chest, Sam doesn’t fear him.

All this pain, hurt and confusion, the Avengers torn up from the inside and running from the government for years, and yet, there isn’t a hint of resentment in his steady voice, his deep brown eyes or the way he falls into step with his own body. Sam makes that joke because he’s a smug idiot who doesn’t let defeat bring him down. Maybe, he even makes that joke to get a smile out of Bucky.

The man at his side doesn’t hate him anymore. In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever hated him in the first place.

“You know what?” Sam says in between his breathy laughs, sounding like he just discovered a lost treasure, “I can see it! I can see the gears turning.”

If Bucky had it in him, he would dare to smile. He would dare to join his laughter, but he doesn’t. It’d probably come out sounding all wrong, anyway. 

Which is why he keeps his shoulders tight and gets back on track with what happened, and Sam follows suit. Sometimes he’s convinced the other man can read his mind. And because their arms move in synchron, within a distance where he could so easily reach out for his hand and feel what it’s like to hold it, his thoughts start running along with his mouth.

“Hvorfor gav du slip?” Bucky keeps his eyes glued to his feet, determined to keep the question to himself only, “Hvis jeg var modig nok havde jeg kysset dig.”

Sam’s voice returns to him, “Hm?”

“What?”

His co-worker laughs again, but he furrows his brows and suddenly it’s not that exact warmth that Bucky might’ve just allowed himself to feel safe in. Like the man next to him sees something in him no one does, not even himself. He’d like to know whatever secret Sam’s unlocked about him behind that look.

“You’re so weird sometimes, man.” he’s told, but there isn’t a single shred of judgement painted on any of the syllables. Sometimes.

…

“What was rule number two again?”

It was a stupid question, because Bucky knows. Those rules have been repeated too many times for him not to repeat it to himself whenever he needed to silence everything around him.

Don’t do anything illegal. Don’t hurt anyone. I am no longer the Winter Soldier. I am James Bucky Barnes.

Then why, after a failed mission, after meeting that fraud who thinks he can just take on the shield like it’s nothing, after his therapist put him and Sam through a conversation that led nowhere at all, does he feel like he just broke that rule?

Of course, he’s been bending the rules a bit.

Of course, he knows why he’s feeling like this.

True to his word, Sam waits for him outside. “When we’re done, we both can go on seperate, long vacations, and never see each other again.”

The warmth that radiated off of the other man earlier that day had vanished somewhere unknown, and the pressure on that last part made it clear. That’s what fills Bucky with the type of guilt and regret that makes him want to rip his own skin off. He’s all too familiar with that feeling already.

He doesn’t blame Sam one bit, obviously. Well, he’d still like to grab that shield from John Walker and shove it somewhere the sun doesn’t shine, but the anger he’d misplaced on his co-worker, it vanished as fast as it had first arrived.

Sam is so fucking good, it almost makes him want to cry.

Sam trusted his heart, trusted what he believed was right, and he didn’t know the government was going to snatch that opportunity and hand the shield over to some nobody who doesn’t know what it stands for. Hand it over like they had any say in the matter.

Bucky didn’t doubt Steve’s decision for a second, and Bucky didn’t- doesn’t doubt Sam. Especially now, he looks at him in the evening glow and understands why Steve trusted him when he trusted no one else. Bucky trusts him. He hasn’t been this confident about anything in ages.

But because his stubbornness never fails to take a hold of him, Sam doesn’t know that.

The other man notices him coming and is already walking. He doesn’t look him in the eyes anymore. Why would he? It’s not like he earned it.

Bucky tries hard to breathe around the lump in his throat.

And he doesn’t even bother hiding his contempt around Walker anymore, while Sam keeps him tied to reality, a hand on his chest that causes everything in him to freeze, until the malfunction can’t make him do anything other than turn around and walk away.

Down to business, that’s what they fucking talked about.

Bucky has an idea and he’s gonna get it out and make it a reality, and, surprisingly enough, Sam agrees. We go deal with it.

It makes for another long walk. But now it’s long and painfully silent. Fan-fucking-tastic.

He steals glances at Sam too many times for it to be considered casual, or fleeting, and he memorizes his fingers tapping his thigh mid-walk, his jawline, every single eyelash that’s blinking hard, a habit of his when he’s stressed, Bucky’s noticed.

Their movements aren’t synchronised anymore. It’s sort of poetic.

He doesn’t realise he’s muttering it to himself, “Undskyld.” because he doesn’t have the courage to hear Sam’s answer, “Undskyld.” because he knows there’s no way the man next to him is going to forgive him, “Undskyld.” because he doesn’t deserve his forgiveness.

He’d overstepped the boundary. Whatever progress they’d made in this weird dynamic of theirs, whatever closeness became a tangible size, is wiped clean from the slate because he was pissed. But it had nothing to do with him. Steve had, but the shield doesn’t. Sam doesn’t need him to tell him that.

“That some sort of mantra?” is what breaks him out of his head.

Sam’s got an eyebrow raised, his hands absentmindedly reaching for something, phone most likely, given they have to move fast.

“What do you mean?”

So the other man slows down and tilts his head, “What you just whispered to yourself.”

Yeah, Bucky’s a horrendous liar. And he can’t feign ignorance around Sam. He can’t fake anything, his body language, his thoughts, his emotions. He wished they’d shut the fuck up for a minute.

He sniffs, shrugs, pondering on the easiest way to get out of this confrontation, if you can even call it that.

“No.”

“Didn’t sound like English.”

“‘Cause it isn’t.”

Sam looks terribly kissable right now. Not because of the streetlights or the faint noise of traffic buzzing around them, but because he’s standing under the moon, almost glowing. Bucky imagines his stupid, addictive smile, and how the moon doesn’t stand a chance compared to his beauty.

He wishes that he could lean over and the man wouldn’t push him away. He’s a tragic romantic.

His co-worker also has that expression on his face that tells him he’s too drained for snark, probably incredibly close to calling it a day. Actually, he expects him to speak, but five seconds pass, and his whole demeanor shifts, and then they’re walking again.

Once again, Sam seems to know him better than he knows himself. We go deal with it. Never see each other again. It sounds great, sounds perfect, sounds ideal, he tells his internal voice, because if he repeats it enough times he might just convince himself to believe it.

It’s not like the thought of Sam never looking at him, never speaking to him and never, ever, wanting anything to do with him again makes him want to scream until he’s got no air left in his lungs. That would be ridiculous.

…

Things happen, and at this point, Bucky just comes to accept it.

It’s almost become a bitter-tasting routine. Something bad happens, his plan backfires, something worse happens, it goes too fast for him to comprehend, so he’s been attempting for the last months to only focus on the moment.

The moment and the memories creeping in the shadows. They’re the hardest to keep at bay.

And at the moment, he’s seated on Sharon’s couch in her luxurious apartment in Madripoor, she’s telling them what to do, because their plan didn’t exactly work, Zemo’s wandering around like the cockroach he’d let out, and Sam’s taken his fucking shirt off.

So Bucky keeps his look square on his drink.

If he keeps his posture, trains his attention on Sharon’s voice, maybe he’ll avoid feeling so flustered.

He’s become pretty accustomed to faking it, admittedly. Not exactly a good thing to lie to his therapist, he’s well aware, but that’s a problem for when this is over. Dr. Raynor, she just… she couldn’t understand him.

That’s not her fucking job, he reminds himself. Her job is to help him move on with his life. Put the past behind him, get a fresh start. Talk about his feelings. “You have to talk about it,” she’d told him. “You can’t ignore your trauma. It’s dangerous.”

She’s right, but like he told her, he’s fine. Totally fine.

And that’s not what he’s struggling with right now, anyway. He hadn’t let Raynor in on anything about Sam apart from ignoring his messages, because these feelings of his are surely one-sided, and besides, Bucky doesn’t think he deserves it.

Being in love, he thinks it’s called. Or maybe he’s just not ready for it.

“Try to blend in.” Sharon’s voice calls in the distance. Her smile is incredibly smug for some reason.

It doesn’t faze him that Sam’s trying to get his attention, and that she leaves the room, until the other man’s sitting next to him (now fully dressed, both to his luck and disappointment), making it, like, 200 times harder to ignore him. And he’s examining him with those all-knowing eyes of his.

Sam can read people pretty easily. Or maybe it’s just Bucky. Or maybe he’s just too obvious, that anyone could read him like an open book.

“Bucky.” is what he says, and Bucky simply nods tightlipped, but apparently that doesn’t serve as sufficient acknowledgement for Sam, because he places a hand on his shoulder.

He feels sort of pathetic for not knowing how to breathe now. Such a simple touch. A friendly touch. A gesture. Yet he can’t think of anything else.

Out of the corner of his eye, Zemo’s watching them and opens his mouth, but the man next to him beats him to it with, “Didn’t you hear her? Go.”

The hard tone always sounds wrong in Sam’s whole being.

And the man looking at them accepts the defeat, surprisingly enough, seeping out of the room faster than Bucky could blink.

So, they’re alone. Cool. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, besides keep drinking. Keep drinking, don’t say anything stupid, don’t hurt him more than you already have.

When he finally chances a look at Sam, he seems… troubled.

He’s not sure if it’s his imagination playing tricks on him, or if he’s stupidly hopeful, but somehow, it feels like the other man’s got something on his mind. What that is, who knows.

The hand on his shoulder hasn’t left.

“Hey,” he starts, barely a sound, more a whisper, perhaps in fear that Bucky would startle and hide away, “I won’t force you to talk about it- or, well, anything.”

Did Sam just stutter? That was definitely his imagination. He’s just… he’s so… warm. Comforting. Beautiful. Bucky’s hand is getting clammy around the glass.

And when he looks at the man again, his big eyes are utterly sincere, so much so that Bucky would rip his heart out and hand it to him if he wished.

He’s not sure how well he’s doing with controlling his face, careful, not to offer any tells.

How would Sam react if he kissed him, right now? If he made a big, dumb love confession? He doesn’t even know how to describe his feelings to him, so it’d probably be clumsy. Messy. And his worst fear of all, that the man next to him would push him off in confusion, or embarrassment, or disgust.

Bucky can’t risk it.

Sam sighs, “I’m just worried about you.”

That makes him frown, and his co-worker looks back in bewilderment. He should stop doing that. Stop looking at him like he means something to him.

It’s the look that pushes the question out before he can think, “Why?”

Sam just seems tired. Not tired of your shit, but rather tired of you talking yourself down, kind of. That’s what he gets from his face, anyway.

“Come on, Buck.”

“I mean, aren’t we supposed to never see each other again?” he then asks, but it comes out more blunt, and sharper than he intended.

Sam retracts his hand. His shoulder aches to follow it.

“Mmhh.” is all the other man’s voice comes with. He folds his hands in his lap, stares at it for a while like it’s the most interesting thing on the planet. Why, oh God, why does he look like he just got his heart broken? “Yeah, I did say that.”

He’s only seen that expression on Sam a handful of times. Once, when Steve gave him the shield. Two, when his friend- Torres, that was his name, mentioned something about Afghanistan and Sam promptly jumped out of the open shaft without a warning. Three, when he’d pushed him off of him in the field. What does it mean now?

Bucky’s brain plays all his words over and over, but doesn’t know how to process them, or analyze them, or come to a natural conclusion. So he downs the last drop of whiskey, “Jeg har brug for dig.”

Geez, that was blunt. He guesses it's thanks to the stars he chose the right language to blurt that out, and Bucky proceeds to release the tight grip on his glass, about to get up and follow Sharon’s order, but Sam’s looking at him again, and as he established forever ago, that makes him weak in the knees. His entire body, actually, now that he thinks about it.

“Is that- that the same language?” Sam asks. Bucky’s awkwardly frozen mid-sitting, mid-standing, listening. “You know, you were talking to yourself. Outside the station.”

He’s right. He always is. So Bucky nods.

“It’s a saying.” and that only makes it the other man’s turn to frown, understandable. Not the most creative excuse, but now he’s gotta run with it, “Like ‘Don’t give up’, or whatever.”

He recognizes every look in Sam’s eyes, jotting them down in his memory in fear of forgetting the only person that makes him feel human. His co-worker is tying him to reality. Yep, another revelation, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

This is the I don’t believe you for a second look. “That’s what you said? ‘Don’t give up’?”

Bucky snorts, “Nope.”

And so they both stand up, and from the other man already steps ahead of him, it’s clear he’s ruined another conversation. Like Sam gave up on understanding him altogether, and it makes him feel sick, because he isn’t exactly making it easy for him.

Look at me, Bucky hopes. Just look at me again. Please.

And Sam does. “And here I thought we were beginning to get along.”

…

Sam’s sigh is all too heavy for Bucky not to notice.

He thought he’d distract himself from Zemo’s annoying presence and annoying private plane by polishing his hand, but suddenly, the man in the other row looks painfully hopeless.

Sam can’t be that. It’s all wrong. He’s supposed to be made of sunshine and full of hope. He makes Bucky have some sort of hope.

“You okay?” he finds himself asking. He’d even put a hand on his shoulder the same way the other man did back in Madripoor, but it feels a little too personal when he remembers the third person in the room.

By the way Sam jumps just half an inch in his seat, so subtle you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking closely, Bucky can only guess he’s surprised he’s the one initiating conversation, for once.

“Yeah,” he answers, but it doesn’t sound all that true. “Just thinking about all the shit Sharon had to go through.”

That’s the thing about Sam, because he cares, cares like he’s pouring out his heart on everyone and saves nothing for himself. He cared about Bucky after knowing him for a day. He had a hard time believing it, but it’s true. And it’s what he likes- loves… loves about the other man the most.

Sam continues, “And Nagel referring to the American test subject like… like Isaiah wasn’t even a real person.”

Bucky feels stupid for nodding along. He should be saying something, or he feels like he should be making up for weirding him out back in Sharon’s flat, or apologise for yelling at him in the shootout, or anything. Apologise for breaking out the douche who’s plane they’re currently in, most of all.

See, talking seems easy, but it’s not when the words are overthinked as deeply as he does himself. Maybe that’s why him and Sam are as they are. Or maybe it’s in spite of that.

When Sam talks, he means every word. His voice is hushed, and he’s leaning into Bucky’s space now (which may or may not make him panic) to make sure Zemo stays out of their business. Not that they both don’t know he’s not going to do that, obviously. Again- his fault.

“Maybe I should’ve destroyed it.” takes him by surprise, though.

In his mind, in his inner voice of logic that he never listens to, he instantly understands why Sam says it, and agrees. There’s a lot of people in this world Bucky’s wronged. There’s a lot of people he hasn’t, but he still longs to help, or somehow feels guilty for. He still wants to change things. Isaiah is on the top of the list.

Which list is Sam on top of?

He’d not thought about his feelings like that before, but it hits him like it hit him back in Madripoor. He’s the only one I have left is replaced with He’s the only one that makes me feel like this so easily. Lightheaded and aching for his company, his attention, whatever else Sam will spare him.

Instead of agreeing with him like his brain is telling him, though, his pride kicks in and circles back on  The shield is yours, Sam. You fucking perfect asshole.

And Bucky’s not gonna take the shield, it’s bullshit. The other man knows it’s bullshit, and the look they share is a silent agreement that it’s bullshit.

Mysteriously, the cockroach owning the plane disappears to the bathroom, or whatever.

Maybe he’ll put his hand on Sam’s shoulder now. That would be meaningful. Would prove to the man that he cares, and he knows that Bucky cares about Isaiah, and the shield, and the mission, but he doesn’t fucking know that he cares about him.

But once again, his stomach drops and he keeps his hand to himself. Stupid.

It’s when the other man leaves his space and opts for leaning against the window that he has time to wonder about Sam fully, and why he hesitated back there. They shouldn’t see each other again, but he hesitated. 

Does he regret saying it? No, that’s crazy. 

It’s for the best, Bucky figures. He supposes he shouldn’t mourn the loss before it’s even happened, but it already seems like he’s reaching out in the darkness for Sam, who’s better than he’ll ever be, who deserves better than to drag him around like this, and it’s like he’s already gone.

Fuck, he really should talk with Dr. Raynor about that.

And the man he can’t stop looking at would probably have that concerned look on his face if he heard Bucky putting himself down like this again, out loud.

Sam wanted to talk to you that nagging voice tells him, for the millionth time. Why didn’t you let him?

He can’t figure out what he would’ve said if he could go back and change it. Stay completely silent? That would annoy Sam. Take that love confession by the horns? Sam would let him down in the nicest, most gentle way ever, he’s sure. 

That wouldn’t hurt that much, but his chest always gets a little tighter when he lies like that. It would hurt endlessly more.

Bucky does come back to reality, eventually, when a door clicks shut and Zemo’s talking to his friend (servant? pilot? who gives a shit), and his co-worker's breathing has evened out.

It’s probably more than a little creepy to watch him sleeping. Hm. But peace rests over him and it, somehow, stretches its wings towards himself as well, regardless of Sam’s position with his neck and half laying on his arm that doesn’t look comfortable in any shape or form.

“Jeg ville følge dig til verdens ende,” Bucky says. It’s barely a whisper to himself, to shut up his head crying out loud of possibilities, because what if Sam wanted him to stay? What if in some miraculous alternative universe, he felt the same way? It’s a daydream, is what it is, “hvis du bare ville give mig lov.”

…

He clenches his fist, unclenches, clenches.

Sam seems worried. Bucky can’t see him, since he’s turned his back towards him and faces the window while gaining the feeling back in that vibranium arm of his, but it radiates off of him.

Maybe he does need the space his co-worker’s giving him. Or maybe he just needs a drink and a hug and a chance to sleep. Who knows?

He hasn’t hugged anyone since reuniting with Steve. Well, unless you count Sam saving him as a hug, which he doesn’t.

It’s when he turns around again that the other man is, first of all, a lot closer than he expected him to be, secondly, giving him a small, tense smile. But it doesn’t look uncomfortable, in fact, the effect is exactly the opposite, and Bucky can’t help but return it, gratefully.

He doesn’t think too much about this smile not being forced, like the ones he’s gotten used to doing in public. Sam doesn’t need to know that.

Bucky also is, for once, two steps ahead of his co-worker, answering the question he doesn’t have time to ask, “I’m fine.”

Not easily fooled, he knows the man watching him from the couch looks wary, but Sam’s probably too shocked by the fight and Zemo’s escape to argue. He himself knows he is, which doesn’t help his guilt. But what point is there in guilt anymore? It’s not like he can un-let him out of prison.

He sits down with reasonable space between them. Significantly further away from each other than back in Sharon’s flat, not close enough to touch.

Truth be told, Bucky’s still processing it. Zemo’s escape, he accepted that easily, and it’s probably the least surprising thing he’s experienced in a while. When Ayo removed his prosthetic, that was something else.

And his friend left without another word. What could she have said that made the case anymore clear, really?

They don’t trust him, and despite the overshadowing thought of No one trusts me, Nothing’s changed, Not even myself, it’s hard to blame Shuri, or T’Challa. They saved his mind, saved his life, and he’ll be in debt to them until his grave.

Bucky understands them, he does. He does. He wouldn’t trust himself.

But a little sliver of his stomach still wrings itself inside out of… betrayal? He doesn’t know if that’s the right word, but it’s sufficient for now. Of not being told. Of not knowing everything there was to know about this thing that was a part of his body now. Still feels partially alien, a separate entity altogether.

But there’s no anger to be found. Instead, he lets his attention fall upon Sam. As always, “Are you okay, though?”

The shorter man furrows his brows. Smile’s still intact. “Depends on your definition of okay.”

Of course, he makes another bloody joke, at a time like this. Bucky snorts, and his co-worker looks all too pleased to have it succeed.

Sam glances back, seems like he’s seriously considering the thought of a drink that Bucky’s too exhausted to fulfill, but apparently decides against it, “I didn’t know you were so sentimental, Buck.”

“Can you shut your face?”

Why does it feel exceptionally good to laugh when Sam laughs? Doesn’t surprise him, the feeling he supposes are metaphorical butterflies in his gut doesn’t, either.

The other man’s keeping his eyes in his lap again, picking at the skin around his fingernails and, for the first time ever in the time he’s known him, looks nervous. It’s strange, but so endearing, and he’s so, so pretty.

Funny, that word endearing, Sam’s strong arms could wrap around him as easily as they could take several people out if he wished, which- okay, don’t think about that right now. The imaginary sensation of the other man’s skin against his and Bucky’s face buried in the crook of his neck, that is.

He feels lighter. Sam always knows what’s needed after a shared experience like this. Does he know him too well?

What Bucky does know is that the other man stands up, and instead of heading towards the door, he passes him on the way to pick up their jackets. A hand on his shoulder again. Gracing it more than a steady grip, but still.

He doesn’t stay for long, but his fingers glide down his arm a bit. The touch is the softest thing possible, ghosting over him like Sam doesn’t want him to notice.

But he does. A shiver runs down his spine.

It’s so faint that it disappears as unexpectedly as it comes, and his co-worker’s already at the other side of the room when he finally gains the courage to raise his chin.

Sam’s attention is taken by his cellphone, so Bucky decides to speak, “I don’t blame you, ya know.”

A beat before he notices, snaps the phone shut, tightens the hold on his jacket just a smidge, “For what?”

“The shield.”

“I thought you did.” he replies, because yeah, that’s what he said literally minutes ago. He doesn’t look offended, though. Good.

When Bucky can’t find the sufficient words, he nods. Licks his lips. Then tries something, “I’m an asshole, I know.” and grimaces at himself, “I’m too stubborn. I’ve been listening- I listened to you. I put all this shit on you… I’m trying to apologise.”

The other man smiles again, not tense anymore. Not gripping the jacket like it’s lifeline anymore, either. He slips it on instead.

He just wants Sam to know, so badly, that he cares. This is a start. “Sorry. I can’t believe my apologies suck, too.”

The silence is calm, it’s maybe ten, fifteen seconds tops. Just enough time for his insides to freak out before the shorter man hands him his own jacket, and then offers him a hand to pull him up. Act cool. Act fucking cool, Bucky.

He also wishes he could cling to Sam forever, but that would be the direct opposite of cool.

“It doesn’t,” he tells him, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, pats his arm a couple of times to get the message across, he guesses, “Thank you. And thank you for having my back. You know, I think this communication thing could work, if we really tried.”

Stop being so ridiculous. Stop being so fucking dreamy. Seriously.

Bucky doesn’t roll his eyes, and if he looks lovestruck right now (he’s fairly sure he does), he’ll just have to feign ignorance later if the other man notices. This feels… yeah, you guessed it, good. Tingling in his chest a little. A lot.

He doesn’t even care that the man in front of him reaches for his phone when it rings, controlling his neutral tone of voice when he says, “Tak fordi du stolede på mig.”

Bucky’s fairly certain the words go unnoticed when he puts on his jacket, but of course, Sam covers the microphone and reaches him with a promise, “One day I’ll figure out what it is you’re whispering to yourself about.”

…

On the water, the 2am darkness enveloping him and reminding him just how alone he is, Bucky has time to think.

Mere days ago, the government’s very own Captain America murdered one of the members of the Flag Smashers, and in an eerie and familiar haze, all he and Sam could do was watch. So did Karli. So did numerous regular citizens with mobile phones.

And before Bucky could break and chase Walker down (because let’s face it, a government putting him in the suit? Bucky doesn’t trust those superiors for a second), his co-worker’s got a hold on his wrist and tells him he needs to go check on his sister.

When he follows along, Sam doesn’t complain.

Maybe, possibly, the other man even invited him. It’s not like he’s got anywhere else to be, and it seemed like, for once, Sam didn’t know what to do. A timeout is necessary, he said.

That’s an understatement.

Bucky just hopes that Karli and the rest of the Flag Smashers did the same and got the hell out of there. The shorter man’s got her number, so he suspects he told her so himself.

And Zemo? How the fuck is he supposed to know? The world’s gone to absolute shit, and they’re stuck in the middle in some kind of limbo.

Add Bucky’s unresolved feelings for his co-work- friend? Friend.

Surprisingly enough, Sam’s sister didn’t seem particularly surprised that her brother brought someone along.

Sarah’s a heaven sent. She smiled brightly and hugged him with one arm like they’ve known each other for years, juggling things out of crates on the harbour like it’s nothing. Witty, albeit a tad more serious than Sam, and she doesn’t take his shit for a second.

Her sons were more overwhelming, but Bucky’s not used to being around children, mind you.

They ran to him in excitement, speaking over each other, and he took a step back, because those creeping memories of the soldier and the fear of hurting someone again is rooted too deep to disappear.

Sam patted his back, though. It’s fine. You’re fine.

The boys also couldn’t take their eyes off his left arm and convinced him to lift them both when they bet he couldn’t. They surely know how to drive a bargain.

It’s funny, how much they liked that thing. Makes him think he could get used to the extension himself, eventually.

Sam’s family is so… normal. They’re warm and excited and hard-working and hilarious. He likes the way the other man looks around here, even more bright than usual, domestic and bantering with his sister for a living. They remind him of his own family. He won’t think about that.

But it’s the third night he spends in their home, after another one of the best dinners he’s ever had in his long life, amusing the boys with superhero stories until they’re exhausted and sent to bed, that Bucky wakes up in a cold sweat on the couch.

There you are, nightmares. It’s been a while.

It’s not surprising, of course, but he’s been avoiding sleep until the point of passing out, lately.

And Bucky didn’t know where to go. He didn’t want to rummage around in the kitchen he’s been too kindly invited to for alcohol, which they most likely didn’t have lying around anyways, as well as risk waking any of the family sleeping blissfully unaware.

But he also couldn’t stay, he was itching to move.

So, here he is. He found his way back to the harbour, and Sam’s family boat, not even dressed in more than his t-shirt, banged up jeans and boots, but the cold is a welcome distraction.

Would be good if he had a bottle of whiskey too, but whatever.

It’s times like this he’d rage inward on himself. Curse his head, curse his feelings. Curse his fucking decisions and stubbornness. Curse Walker and Zemo and Hydra. Curse the shield and curse Steve.

Yeah, it’s too much. He really should let Dr. Raynor in on this, if he gets a chance to go back to his regular sessions, that is.

The staggering quiet almost invites him to yell some of that rage out loud. Until, “Thought you might be here.”

Bucky would’ve sprung up and grabbed whatever could be used as a weapon nearest, if he didn’t immediately notice the tenderness in Sam’s voice, noticeably hoarse. He doesn’t know what to answer, but the other man sits down across from him, looking exceptionally soft.

You’re a goner, Bucky Barnes.

The silence between them is nowhere near awkward, but he feels like breaking it regardless. “Sorry I woke you.”

Sam huffs, and he imagines he’s rolling his eyes, “You didn’t.”

Hm. He scratches his neck and his chin. The cold is suddenly becoming a problem, so he wraps his arms loosely around himself. The other man’s doing the same, despite wearing a sweater.

“Nightmare?” he asks, eventually. Bucky nods.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

Is this the end of the conversation? God, he has no idea how to continue, anyways.

He’d ask about it. Ask Sam what he’s seeing behind his eyelids at night, and if it invokes the exact same kind of pain he feels himself. Ask him about the Air Force and how his world changed and came crashing down. Ask him about Riley, who he only knows by name and a single photo.

Bucky can’t get the words over his tongue. Instead, he just wonders why he’s here in the first place, why Sam’s still sticking around with him and why he was allowed into his life.

Well, he followed him first. But he doesn’t feel like he deserves the peace he’s been given the last few days, or Sam’s nephews looking at him with wide eyes and zero judgement. Sam looking at him with zero judgement. Fuck.

He clears his throat, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

He’s adjusted his eyes to the darkness now, and there goes the shorter man looking at him, not intensely but just… looking, the way that makes Bucky’s stomach jump in loops and urge him to stand up and kiss him already.

Sam shakes his head, smile timid but sure, “Another time. I’ll let you know.”

Oh boy, does he know that feeling. They’ll talk about it, eventually. He’s not ready himself, but one day he will be. He hopes so. “Me too.”

The boat’s swaying subtly, a sliver of moonlight is touching Sam’s hand on the railing and Bucky thinks he might fall into an non-existent black hole.

On the contrary, the other man is slightly shivering from the ocean wind. He shouldn’t think about what it’s like to hold him. They’re friends now. Friends. Friends.

Still doesn’t stop him from sealing the deal to himself, “Jeg elsker dig.”

Like he hasn’t known all this time. Since that day they reunited, since before. Bucky’s painfully in love with someone he’ll never have the courage to tell, openly and upfront, anyways. Maybe he’ll get over it.

It does take him a few minutes before he notices Sam’s soft smile, worn like his heart on his sleeve, second nature and drawing everyone in with ease, turning into a shirt-eating grin. 

Weird. Whatever. Wait-

“Really?” he asks him.

Oh my God. Oh no. Oh fuck.

Bucky’s eyes must widen to the size of fucking teacups. He’s never been this eager to get up and move out of a situation before till now, “Sorry?”

Sam notices his unease before he even finds it himself, “Bucky.”

“Oh my God.”

“Bucky-”

“I have to go.”

Doesn’t get very far. Five inches maybe, before the shorter man stops him in motion. Bucky could easily shake his hand off, but he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. Sam gets under his skin every time.

His thumb caresses his wrist, “I want you to stay. Can you stay?”

Fucking fuck. Bucky gulps the embarrassment down and relaxes his stiff shoulders. Or tries to, at least. His ears are ringing.

“Will you look at me?” Sam then asks, and how could he refuse anything from that man?

Takes some courage, of course, but he has to. Take the rejection already. Come on. But when he turns around his friend doesn’t seem disgusted, or disappointed, like he fully expected him to.

“Stop looking at me like that.” he finds himself saying, before he can shut his stupid mouth up. And Sam looks absolutely desperate, “Like what?”

“Like I mean something to you.”

Kiss me. I wish you would kiss me. Sam’s perfectly formed lips are still in a smile, not small, not a grin. But just right. And then a hand is touching Bucky’s cheek.

“That’s the thing, you idiot.” the shorter man tells him, “I can’t exactly stop it. But if you want me to-”

“Have you known all along?” he interrupts with. Feels like laughing at himself. God, that would be beyond ridiculous, wouldn’t it? Saying everything on his mind, not knowing his friend heard every word of it. Secret’s out.

There’s another hand finding its way to his face, “I didn’t. Google helped me- uh, after Madripoor. Took me a few tries with the spelling before it gave me a clue. And, well…”

“My pronunciation is pretty sloppy.” Bucky’s circling around what’s happening. Why is he doing this? Because it’s too good to be true, probably. Please don’t be a dream.

Embarrassing, then… then the warmth against his cheeks. Then the impossibly soft and meaningful eyes not escaping Bucky’s for anything. Then his heart beating too fast, like it’s going to crawl up his throat and escape his vessel.

Sam shakes his head with a laugh. Heartily, caring, “Do you mean what you said? You love me?” to which Bucky laughs himself.

“Yeah,” he feels weak in the vocal chords, but gets it out, because he has to, “‘Course I fucking do. Is that okay?”

“It’s more than okay.”

And there, on Sam’s family boat in the middle of the night, wind rushing behind his ears and his breathing too loud like everything isn’t quite real, Bucky smiles like his life depends on it. Because the man in front of him deserves to know. He needs him to know. And fuck the world. “Will you kiss me now?”

Sam’s smile is so fucking pretty, it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. He looks at him like he’s special, and he feels it. Feels everything deeper and deeper, “I thought you’d never ask.”

#mine #my writing #marveledit #winterfalcon #tfatws #sambucky #fanfiction #mcu #eloquencenet #queernet #mcusociety #marvel fanfiction #tw: swearing #tw: alcohol #tw: death #missing scenes #canon compliant #bucky barnes pov #sam x bucky #sabrinasfamily #foreign language #pining #misunderstandings #teen and up rating #fluff #angst #declarations of love #meghansfamily #fic #tfatws spoilers

[newsies-of-corona]

Would ya look at that! Another Alchemy Brothers oneshot! (Yes, the title is inspired by that JerJor song 😅)

Here For You

Warnings: Nightmares, Lots of emotional angst, Villain Varian (he definitely needs a warning)

“Hugo...”

The chilling voice sounded familiar. Too familiar. The blond alchemist shook his head and adjusted to his surroundings. He seemed to be in his and Varian’s lab, but the atmosphere was...different. The dingy space was covered floor to ceiling with increasingly noticeable dust. Not one surface or piece of equipment was spared from the filth, and the sight made Hugo’s skin crawl.

“Hugo...”

There was that voice again. The echoey nature of it made it hard to pin-point who’s it was, but Hugo was almost positive he knew; and that realization only deepened the pit forming in his stomach.

“Var-Varian?” He asked, timidly into the darkness.

The sardonic laughter that rang out into the emptiness couldn’t have been anyone else’s. Hugo staggered backward, but suddenly, a silhouette of the boy flashed in front of him. Hugo blinked once, and there Varian was standing directly in in his view, a twisted and sadistic smile resting on his face.

“You know, I’m not sure what’s more pathetic,” Varian echoed. “You...or the ridiculous idea that you think that someone could actually care about you.”

Hugo’s breath got caught in his throat. He couldn’t speak; couldn’t move; he was simply frozen.

Varian walked around the lab slowly, tipping over various flasks and beakers as he went.

“Face it, Hugo. You’ll never truly fit in here. Me, dad...we’re a family.”

He walked back over to Hugo, staring him down.

“And you were brought in solely out of pity.”

The solutions spilled onto the floor and fused together, morphing into a solid, rusty orange hue. The amber grew and spiked out all around Hugo, until it reached its peak, dividing the room and separating himself from Varian.

The deadly substance tore through a sleeve of Hugo’s clothes, making him reel back in surprise and pain. The cut was deeper than he expected, and it made his entire left arm sore. The pain traveled to his head as he collapsed on the ground He was still too shocked to cry, but his eyes burned almost as much as his head.

The image of Varian slowly faded into the darkness, but the amber continued to grow.

“He’s not coming back, Hugo.”

This time it was a different voice he heard; even more familiar than Varian’s. His head shot up, and suddenly he was face to face with...himself. Hugo scooted back to the wall as another shard of amber shot out and cut his other sleeve. He winced and grabbed his right arm, the room seeming to close in on him.

The phantom version of himself loomed over him, straight faced without a hint of emotion.

“You might as well give up while you still have the chance.”

The boy’s head started spinning as the pain became more severe, the words lingering in his mind...

———

Hugo’s eyes shot open, and he sat up in his bed, taking slow, shallow breaths. The tears came, as they always did, and they wet the sheets around him. He checked his arms for the cuts, but they were completely unharmed. It was just a dream.

“A nightmare,” Hugo corrected between his sobs. He hugged himself, slowly rocking back and forth, causing the bed to creak.

The sound traveled over to Varian’s side of the room, causing the boy to stir. His eyes fluttered slightly and he rolled over on his side. He saw a very distraught looking Hugo, curled into a ball on his bed and obviously crying. Varian immediately stood up and walked over to him, his feet making the floorboards creak.

Hugo heard him coming and tensed, having to remind himself again that it was just a nightmare. He scooted over to make room for Varian who promptly sat down next to him.

“Another nightmare?” Varian asked in a hushed tone.

Hugo could only nod miserably before laying his head on his knees.

Varian’s face fell; he hated seeing Hugo like this. Mostly because there was nothing he could really do to fix it.

...But he could still try.

Varian gingerly placed a hand on Hugo’s shoulder.

“Do you...want to talk about it?”

Hugo perked up slightly to look at Varian. This was his brother. His brother who did care about him. He could never act like...that.

Hugo closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath, trying to shake the images in his mind. But they just kept coming back. Maybe talking about it would do him some good.

“I...I was in our lab,” Hugo started in a voice barely above a whisper. “And I saw...you.”

Varian quickly retracted his hand as his stomach dropped. Hugo had a nightmare about...him?

Hugo noticed Varian’s tenseness and quickly backtracked.

“But it wasn’t you, of course. I know you’d never hurt me like that.”

Varian’s eyes widened and he backed up further.

“I hurt you?”

“No, no, it was just...what you said,” Hugo recovered. “In my dream, I mean.”

“Oh...”

Varian moved closer to him again and lowered his voice. “What-what was that?”

Hugo’s face darkened as he stared at the floor.

“That...you didn’t actually care. And that dad only adopted me out of-“

Hugo’s eyes filled with tears again as he tried to get the words out.

“Out-out of...pity.” He laid his head on his knees again, continuing to rock back and forth.

Varian drew in a sharp breath and tried to find the words to comfort Hugo. His brother’s nightmares were always so...real.

“Hugo...you know that’s not true,” Varian began, urging his brother to look up at him.

“I’m your brother. And it’s not because of pity; it’s because I care about you. I care about you more than I’ve cared about anyone, and-and dad does too.”

Hugo managed to look up at Varian, his eyes still bloodshot with tears.

“I mean it, Hugo,” Varian went on in a serious tone. “I-I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here, heh.”

A genuine smile played at the corners of Hugo’s mouth. “You’d probably drive yourself crazy with your nerd facts instead of me,” Hugo joked under his breath, chuckling a little.

“Hey, I heard that!” Varian laughed along. The lightheartedness only lasted for a measly moment, however, before the mood shifted downward again.

“Whatever you saw in that dream...it wasn’t true,” Varian continued. “And it can never be true because whatever happens-“

He moved his hand to Hugo’s shoulder again in a comforting manner.

“I’ll always be here for you.”

Hugo’s tears started to come back, but this time they were happier. That was really all he needed to hear right now. Just that his brother was truly there. He stopped hugging himself to let Varian in. He knew he could always go to him for comfort. Hugo scooted closer to his brother and wrapped him in a hug.

“Thanks, Hairstripe,” he whispered.

Varian was startled at first; up until this point he had usually been the one to initiate affection when it came to Hugo, but this was a very welcome change. He was relieved that he was able to help, and he gratefully hugged his brother back.

“Heh, anytime.”

———

The memories hit Hugo like a brick.

How could everything suddenly be so different in the span of one year? That was back when he still had a family, and when his brother still cared. Now, the terrifying nightmare seems closer to reality than the heartwarming moment that came after it.

Hugo sits in the same curled up position, rocking back and forth. But this time...he’s alone. No one is there to comfort him even though the person who used to be there is in clear view. Hugo doesn’t look up, but he can sense that Varian is practically glaring at him. In the span of a single year they had gone from brothers...to enemies.

The blond shivers and backs up further onto his bed, hitting the wall of his cell. It all happened so fast; the amber, Varian’s turn, and now prison where he’s been for three months. The only things keeping him going are the memories. The memories of how things used to be. The joy that they both felt before everything started spiraling, and especially the care that they had for each other. It was all real, and he knew for a fact that those feelings couldn’t just go away overnight. Varian’s heart is hardened for the time being, but Hugo keeps the hope that deep down, his brother is still in there.

Hugo props his head up and regrettably looks in the direction of Varian’s cell, quoting to himself what his brother had said to him a year ago.

“I’ll always be here for you.”

———

The young convict is also leaning against the wall of his cell, unable to sleep. Along with Hugo, Varian’s mind is being plagued with memories which he tries to push away, but for the first time something is actually stronger than his anger. He holds his head and groans. He doesn’t want to remember the meaningful moments he shared with Hugo. Mostly because he knows that he does still care about him. Even after everything, he’d still be devastated if something happened to his brother...

But he doesn’t want to care either. It just gets in the way of what he wants most: revenge. He tries to think of new plots to break out of jail, schemes to attack Corona, anything but those dreaded memories, but they refuse to leave.

Varian shifts his position as his mood grows somber. He doesn’t really want revenge. He just wants his dad back; he wants Hugo back. As much as he tries to deny it, he misses his brother. But he’s gone too far to turn back now.

The sadness passes and his eyebrows furrow again. He needs to stick to his goal: break out of jail with Andrew, enact his vengeance plot on Corona...and somehow ignore Hugo the entire time.

Varian turns around to face Andrew’s cell, forgetting that it’s also Hugo’s. For a brief second he locks eyes with his brother, but he quickly turns away. Whatever happened a year ago is completely over. Hugo basically betrayed his trust just like everyone else, and that is something he wouldn’t forgive. There’s no way that their bond could ever go back to what it was.

Hugo sighs sadly after seeing Varian turn away so abruptly and turns around himself. The glimmer of hope he still has is starting to fade. It was a disheartening feeling; knowing that Varian wanted nothing to do with him anymore.

Hugo subconsciously rolls up his sleeves and looks at his arms. They were still unharmed, but this time the pain is real.

A new quote comes to Hugo’s mind as he pushes his sleeves back down. It was something distantly familiar, almost as if he had heard it in a dream. He grits his teeth and hangs his head, whispering to himself, “Maybe I should just give up while I still have the chance.”

#haha emotional rollercoaster amiright? #I hope you enjoyed it! I know I had a ton of fun writing it! #this is turning into a whole series wow 😅 #lissa’s stories #tangled the series #Varian #villain varian #tts fics #hugo seven kingdoms #alchemy bros #varian and the seven kingdoms #tw: nightmares #tts

[varian-and-the-seven-skies]

Cor Meum | Chapter Two: Pieces Set, Start

Synopsis: In a world of floating cities and steamships, Captain Rapunzel runs the fastest ship in all the skies. But this rowdy crew is not without its secrets—or its treasures— and Hugo, newly-hired, is ready to discover them all. Now if only Varian, the whip-smart lead engineer, would get out of his way.

A TTS & 7k AU of epic proportions, featuring cool fight scenes, steampunk machinery, and an inevitable romance. Written by @littlemisslol-fic and @izaswritings.

Notes: Thanks so much for all your guys’ support for this new fic! Your comments were a joy to read, and we’re so excited that you guys are excited! We have a whole lot in store for y’all— we hope you guys enjoy!

Warnings: There is mild reference to implied child abuse—nothing explicit or graphic, but please be wary! If there’s anything in this chapter you think we missed, let us know and we’ll add the warning up here.

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AO3 Link is here!

Fic Playlist can be found here!

Chapter One can be found here!

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Chapter Two: Pieces Set, Start

. . .

Standing in the burning midday sun, hand half-shading his eyes, Hugo stares up into the shadow of the Aphelion and thinks: This is too easy.

He almost feels bad about it, honestly. Like stealing candy from a kid—not that it’s going to stop Hugo from robbing them blind, blah blah blah should have held onto it better—but still. The fact remains that this will be painfully easy. It’s been maybe two hours since he set foot in Corona, and he’s already been hired and secured a place on the ship. Fastest infiltration he’s ever done.

“She’s perfect,” he says, with a smile that maybe shows a bit too much teeth. Oh, well. Hugo’s probably fine. What does this kid—Var-something, Varitas, Varian?—know of threats and dangers anyway? The cotton-weave shirt, the brass cuff bracers, the worn work-pants and even the shine of his boots; given all that plus the oil and grease streaking his face, and the way he barely even notices, Hugo is almost positive that this kid has never even stepped three feet outside of a workroom.

Hugo doesn’t have a good opinion of this kid’s instincts, either. After all, it’s taken everything Hugo has not to laugh in his face from the moment he got hired, pint-size here being his new ‘boss’ or no, and the other teen hasn’t even noticed.

“So?” Hugo says. “Do I get the grand tour?”

Varian (Hugo is, like, 85% sure it’s Varian) doesn’t react. He seems distracted, staring hard at the ground with a furrow to his brow. He jumps at the sound of Hugo’s voice, and shakes his head hard as if to chase away his own thoughts. At his feet, that creepy little rodent automaton chases circles around them. “What? Oh. Um, yeah. If you want.” He gestures, listless. “It’s, uh… just up the ramp.”

Hugo eyes him, just a bit—where’d the fire go? The sass? The really annoying attitude?—but he doesn’t actually care, in hindsight, so he shrugs and dismisses it, heading up for the ship ramp. The closer he gets, the more impressive the ship looks: Hugo hadn’t been lying, at least, when he’d called her perfect. She’s a mish-mash of colorful cloth-weave and metalwork, and even from here Hugo can tell she’s a labor of love. The Aphelion is… beautiful isn’t a strong enough word for what she is. Stunning, maybe. Ethereal is closer. He can’t even imagine what the work inside looks like. What sort of pipe system do they use? What model are the engines?

By the Maker, Hugo is almost excited.

He just barely keeps from bouncing on his feet—he’s not a child, he knows how to control himself—and when he reaches the deck, he takes a moment to step out and turn around, taking it all in. It's huge, wide open and two-tiered, with heavy metal chains and cables of thick braided wire trailing up to the sails and envelope high above. The railing is a mix of shiny brass and dark, reddish wood; the whole deck is varnished with a nice coat of gloss that keeps the wooden planks waterproofed even through the heaviest of storms. Hugo slams his foot down, just to be sure, and—yep. That heavy thunk tells him all he needs to know. No leaky roofs on this ship, no sir.

Gods above, she’s fucking gorgeous. Hugo might be a little bit starstruck.

“Where to first?” he calls back, still staring up at the sails. Is that embroidery? Holy shit, it totally is. This ship is ridiculous, and Hugo hasn’t even seen the inside yet. “Engines? Captain’s quarters?” A thought strikes him. He keeps his voice casual. “Cargo hold?”

He can hear Varian step up behind him, still quiet. “Well,” the other says, a little dryly. He holds out one arm, and that raccoon automaton of his runs one last time around his feet and then jumps up on his shoulder. Varian rubs at its ears. “I have to find Yong, and you’re stuck with me, so… probably going to start with the library and work our way from there.”

Hugo clicks his tongue, disappointed, but knows better than to argue. He’ll see it all eventually, he knows, and has to bite back another mean smile at the thought. When Varian makes his way for a massive door of intricate iron,Hugo follows him.

“Yong,” he echoes to himself. “Assistant to engine-man, right?”

“Xavier.” Varian looks up at him, half-hidden in the shadows of the sails, his eyes flashing bright and burning. “Yong is— fire prone, so it works out pretty well for him. You’ll see.” He scowls. “And learn people’s names, would you?”

“Hm.” Hugo makes a show of thinking about it. Leans back on his heels, resting his chin in his hands, humming—and then grins. “No.”

“You—!”

“Varian!”

Varian’s eyes snap away from Hugo, and he’s almost sad to see them go. Hugo looks towards where the voice had come from, seeing a younger teenager standing in front of them with her hands on her hips. She’s tall, taller than Varian even which is hilarious. Her curly black hair ripples in the gentle breeze of the dockyard, pulled up in a perfect little up-do that Hugo can already tell takes her way too long in the morning to perfect. She’s got dark skin and amber eyes, and she’s fixing them both with a scrutinizing look, mouth pulling into a low frown when she notices Hugo. She’s wearing a purple tunic cinched tight around her waist by multiple brass-buckle belts, a sash of dark brown silk tied overtop, and dark leggings that look almost black in the sunlight. Her little heeled boots are purple as well—Hugo can sense a bit of a theme with her—and they click against the polished deck as she impatiently taps her foot.

“Nuru!” Varian says, ignoring her pointed glare. “Haven’t seen Yong by any chance, have you?”

“Afraid not,” she says, eyes flicking from Varian to Hugo. Hugo can’t help but feel the need to size her up, maybe due to the suspicious look in her amber eyes. It’s obvious she doesn’t trust him; if Hugo wasn’t absolutely certain his true identity was still secret he might even feel nervous. Ah, well— something to work on.

She finally tears her gaze away from scrutinizing Hugo, looking to Varian once again. “Why, are you looking for him?”

“Xavier is—” Varian shrugs. That creepy little automaton on his shoulder makes a mechanical chitter, a puff of steam fluffing out from between the mismatched plating making up its body. Varian doesn’t acknowledge it, his voice strong over the steam. “—and I’m giving our new junior engineer here a quick tour while I look for him.”

The title boils Hugo’s blood, it really does, especially in the self-satisfied way Varian says it. It’s like an insult, this idea that this pipsqueak is suddenly better just because he has some fancy position handed to him by his beloved Captain. As if that makes the fact that Hugo is older, smarter, and better than him null and void. Honestly, infuriating, but Hugo grits his teeth and bears it. Once this is over, once the target’s acquired and the money’s made, Hugo’ll just pitch the annoying little shit off the edge of the ship and watch him fall. It’ll be like a present to himself, a reward for a heist well heist-ed.

Hugo’s so wrapped up in the delightful image of Varian screaming as he’s tossed over the rails of the top deck, he nearly misses the conversation continuing on in front of him.

“Are you going to introduce us, then?” Nuru says primly. Her glare flicks back to Hugo, who straightens his spine a little under the scrutiny. Something in her makes Hugo wary; he’ll have to keep an eye on her.

“Oh!” Varian shakes his head. “Duh, obviously. Nuru, this is Hugo, Rapunzel’s new hire for the junior engineer position.” At least this time Varian doesn’t say the title in a way that makes Hugo want to punch him. “Hugo, this is Nuru, our assistant navigator. She’s usually up on the bridge, but you’ll see her around. Aphelion isn’t that big a ship, after all.”

Understatement of the year, really. The Aphelion is minuscule when compared to basically every other ship in port. Just a tiny trading ship, small and unassuming. Kinda like the brat who built it, Hugo snickers to himself. She might be a well made, ethereally stunning machine, but she’s small. Fast too, from what Hugo’s heard. Fast enough to outrun a band of pirates, even—

“A pleasure.” Nuru’s nose wrinkles in a way that makes it obvious this is anything but. Hugo schools his face into a delighted—it’s always so much fun making new friends—and locks eyes with her in a challenge.

“I’m sure it is,” Hugo smirks. Nuru doesn’t back down, the two of them glaring over Varian’s head. From the corner of his eye, he can see Varian scowl at being ignored, before the younger boy bodily shoves his way between them.

“Okay, enough of that,” Varian says, putting a hand out to either side, pushing Hugo and Nuru apart. “We’re all going to have to get along if we’re going to be stuck together for six months, right? Can we at least try to be civil?”

Hugo wants to retort with the obvious fact that Varian has been nothing but borderline hostile since they met, but Nuru speaks before he can, taking the stage with ease. She nods once, and steps back, almost diplomatic.

“Of course,” she says, giving Hugo one last once-over before turning back to Varian. “Have you tried the dining hall for Yong yet? Lance said he was making ginger molasses cookies, and I think Eugene was trying to rope some people into helping him steal some.”

Varian nods in thought, already moving forward. “Good enough place to start, I suppose.” He gestures for Hugo to follow, and they walk together across the polished deck of the ship, towards the back end where a large portion of the deck raises up into a second level. A large door of iron and brass stands centered on the wall, twin staircases spiraling up on either side. It’s embossed with faint carvings, suns and moons and the occasional star, all winding around a large, interlocking wheel made of solid brass in the very center. The whole thing almost looks like a square bank vault door. It’s certainly over the top, in Hugo’s humble opinion, but it’s also becoming increasingly obvious that the Aphelion, and the crew that sails her, are decidedly over the top in basically everything they do.

Ruddiger slips off Varian’s shoulders, the little automaton chittering in excitement as it hits the polished deck. The raccoon is gone in a second, scaling up one of the large chains with its weird little metal claws. It looks down on them with neon green eyes, the aperture clicking open and closed as if it were blinking. By the Maker that thing’s creepy; Hugo hates it on principle.

Varian grunts as he grabs the wheel, turning it with no small amount of effort. The spinning wheel retracts a series of pistons, a small plume of steam puffing out as the door swings open, revealing a long hallway made of the same polished wood as the deck. Large copper lights line the hallway, emitting a cheery glow that bounces off the glittering pipes of metal tucked away near the ceiling, running through the Aphelion like veins through a body. Hugo could almost call it homey, dare he say quaint, with a maroon carpet running down the length of the floor, and redwood walls lined with strips of warm brass.

It seems Aphelion is just as immaculate on the inside as she is on the outside. Hugo can’t help but grin. There’s nothing better than a ship that’s obviously been loved from her very conception.

Varian leads him on through the narrow halls, deeper into the labyrinth of the ship, roughly gesturing to the occasional doorway. “Library,” he says, pointing to a set of double doors, not faltering a single step.

“Crow’s nest.” An iron spiral staircase, spinning up into the ceiling above.

“Navigation room,” Nuru butts in, gesturing to another door. Varian smiles at that, nods.

“Navigation room,” he repeats, as they reach the end of the hallway. There’s another door like the one outside, with the same locking mechanism. Varian turns that one as well, and the first thing Hugo registers when the door opens is heat. Both Nuru and Varian continue like there’s nothing wrong, Hugo forced to follow or else get left behind. Through the door lies a metal catwalk, level with the wooden floor. 

The ground, however, dips right away, the catwalk hovering at least three stories high as it crosses the length of the large room. In the very center is a large main engine, quiet for now, but Hugo knows that once Aphelion takes flight it’ll be near deafening. It’s so big Hugo has to crane back his neck to see the top of it, surrounded by a string of metal scaffolding, catwalks and ladders and stairs, an intricate mess of pathways. The heart of the Aphelion is a large monstrosity of iron and brass, a mess of metal panels and pipes, dials and gauges, all covered in the slightest sheen of grease. It’s obvious the heart has been well loved, shined clean and immaculate, but she’s a working thing. There’s dust in her corners, grease and oil in all the little nooks and crannies, dents in her panels and places where her casing is mismatched.

She’s the most beautiful thing Hugo’s ever seen.

The room below them is a mess of pipework and wires, weaving down through the many catwalks spider-webbing the large space. They cluster and split at random, and for a second Hugo’s truly shocked. He’s seen main engine rooms before, but never one so… busy. Hugo can’t help but feel awed at seeing an honestly perfect machine, one designed from the ground up with love and dedication.

Varian strides forwards into the room with the confidence of a man three times his age, and Hugo follows slowly, almost dazed.

“Main engine room,” Varian says with an air of pride, his voice echoing against the metal walls.

Hugo finds himself following in their footsteps, sandwiched between Varian and Nuru. He doesn’t get the time he’d like to stand and stare; the tour must go on, it seems. The engine block is in the direct middle of the Aphelion, from the looks of it. Across the catwalk they go through another iron door and Hugo once again finds himself surrounded by wood panels and vaulted ceilings. It’s almost like most of the living quarters surround the engine block in a ring, an odd design for a ship. Usually engines get tucked away in the back, closest to the rudder and turbines, hidden from sight. In Aphelion, her beating heart is on display like a piece of art.

Hugo’s sad to see it go, but he knows he’ll be elbow deep in the guts of that machine soon enough. The thought is enough to tide him over, as they continue Varian’s tour.

“Cassandra’s office, for the sky guard,” Varian says, passing a large wooden door. Ah, they’re back to the list. “By invitation only.” There’s a few marks that could only be made by throwing knives that are deep in the wood. Hugo thinks that maybe it would be a good idea to avoid that particular door as they move on.

Finally they get to the end of the hall, and Hugo knows they must have walked the majority of the ship’s length by this point. They come to the final set of doors, a double wide pair of solid redwood with intricate hand-painted flowers decorating the woodwork. There’s the sound of clinking kitchenware from inside, muffled but distinct.

“Dining hall,” Varian says, with a sense of finality.

Varian pushes the door open without preamble, gesturing for the other two to follow. Nuru does so without question, and Hugo follows only a step behind. Always good to know where the food comes from, after all. Beyond the door is a large room, decorated in the same style as the rest of the living quarters of the ship; large redwood panels of wood and perfectly polished floors. A large rectangular table takes up half the space, and Hugo can count almost thirty chairs surrounding it. Small ship, small crew, Hugo supposes, though really why anyone would want to eat with their crewmates, he has no idea.

The whole back wall of the room is made of windows, from floor to ceiling. The sunset is just beginning, painting the sky a bright, cheery cherry color. Red sky at night, Hugo thinks to himself, watching as the sunset plays off the brass panels of the rudder peeking up below the large windows. Varian moves further into the dining hall, peeking over to the other side of the large space.

The other half of the room is a wide open space with couches and side tables, a sitting room of sorts. A large carpet covers the floor there, the mismatched furniture looking well worn but comfortable after years of use; it’s the kind of place where one could sit to read a book and accidentally fall asleep. A large galley window is beyond that, embedded into the wall. Hugo can see the kitchen through it, the sounds of clattering pots and pans coming from within. He logs that information for later, just in case.

Large pillars of iron support the high ceiling, the paneling almost seeming to curve, and when Hugo looks straight up he can see a perfect dome of glass in the center of the roof, held up by large iron trusses in the ceiling. The fading sunlight streams through it, bright and cheery, casting the whole room in a warm and reddish glow.

“I guess Yong’s not here,” Varian grumbles, looking around the space with a sigh. “We’ll have to keep— hey!”

Hugo only just sees Varian get tugged behind a couch, the flash of a small hand around his wrist. Nuru lets out a small laugh, gesturing for Hugo to follow as she too disappears behind the ornate velvet backing of the couch. Hugo doesn’t do hiding behind furniture like a child, so instead he opts for leaning over from the side. He bites the inside of his cheek, seeing Varian, Nuru, and a smaller boy all giggling like a bunch of idiots, sitting on the floor without a care.

“Eugene said to wait for the signal,” the boy says, red eyes alight with mischief. “And then I’m supposed to cause a distraction!” With that the kid reaches into his red vest, drawing out—

Holy shit.

“Is that dynamite?” Nuru chokes out. “Yong, we told you after last time that you weren’t allowed that anymore!”

“She’s right,” Varian says, gently taking the dynamite from the kid— Yong? Hugo’s pretty sure this one’s Yong. Little pyro— Hugo likes him already. Everything from the kid’s wide smile to his wild hair, black and nearly standing on its ends as if he’s been caught in an explosion, is eye-catching. He’s short, laughably so, shaped like a little bowling ball with all that baby fat. He can’t be older than fourteen, Hugo thinks— just an infant, really. His big eyes are red too, as vivid and bright as maraschino cherries, an oddity in Hugo’s experience. Hugo’s noticing a trend here: apparently the crew of the Aphelion all seem to be colour-coded. The kid, for example, wears a red vest and pants, only just accented by golden buttons and trim. A white shirt puffs out from under the vest, the sleeves billowing in a way that makes Hugo think it’s a hand-me-down, one the kid’s supposed to grow into. Would make sense, as it’s not like there’s many places to buy clothes for a growing boy while out in the open space between the cities.

Varian’s hands are gentle as he takes the stick of dynamite off the kid, holding it out of reach.

“There are better ways to make a distraction, ” Varian says with a smile, reaching into his tool belt. He pulls out a small, hollow ball of glass, filled to the brim with a glowing green mixture. Yong’s eyes go wide at the sight, his chubby face splitting into a grin. The kid reaches for the ball, but Varian closes his hand around it, snatching it back. “Do you promise to go help Xavier after this?” Varian asks, fixing Yong with a warning look.

The kid nods quickly, making grabby hands towards Varian’s closed fist. “Yeah, of course!”

Varian rolls his eyes, but still hands the glass ball over. Yong snickers in glee as he holds it, the green glow lighting up his face in a way that seems almost manic. Nuru bites her lip like she wants to say something— but sighs, instead, as a quiet whistle echoes through the dining room.

All four heads snap around to look across the room. Hugo raises his eyebrows. Across the dining hall, a man is poking his head up from behind a large, wingback chair made of a dark wood. He’s handsome, Hugo will admit, in a pretty-boy kind of way. He’s got a rogue-ish kind of charm to his face, with large brown eyes and tousled brown hair. And… wait a minute.

His eyes narrow. No, there’s no mistaking him. Hugo knows this one. And how could he not? Everyone in the Seven Skies knows the wild tale of Eugene Fitzherbert, former-pirate turned to a life of good, praised for helping free the lost heir to the City of Corona…

Hugo lip curls at the thought. What a disgrace, really. Flynn Rider had been a legend, the peak of the profession, and he’d thrown it all away for sickly saccharine love.

What a fucking waste.

Eugene brightens when he sees them, probably excited to see more co-conspirators, before his eyes land on Yong. He gives the kid a thumbs up, gesturing towards the window to the kitchen. With a sudden yell, Yong lobs the ball through the window, sending it flying in a perfect arc across the room. Varian tugs Hugo down by his sleeve as it explodes in a shower of smoke and glitter, and three angry voices scream from inside the kitchen. Hugo goes willingly, ducking down behind the couch as a large man comes barreling out of the kitchen through a nearby swinging door.

“My eyes!” he cries, bringing two hands up to his glitter coated face. He’s covered head to toe in green dust and glitter, the colour making him nearly monochrome. He’s big, and Hugo’s suddenly glad he’d followed Varian behind the couch.

The big man isn’t alone. Two small girls, children almost, come sprinting out from the kitchen as well, covered in the same heavy dusting of glitter. The difference being that these two look downright furious, and they’re scanning the room in rage. Hugo shrinks down further behind the couch, just in time for the shorter one’s dark eyes to land on Yong.

Yong pauses, takes in the situation, tilts his head— then straightens, grins, and gives the girl a cheerful wave. “Hi Kiera!”

“Yong!” the girl yells, her black hair flying in a flurry around her face as she charges. The other girl, a redhead, follows right behind her, borderline snarling. Yong takes one look and then yelps, turning tail and sprinting for the double doors leading back to the hall. Hugo presses his back against the back of the couch as Yong bails, the two girls following close behind as they all rush from the room. Yong’s terrified screaming gets distant and small as he tries to escape, the sound getting progressively higher pitched until a sudden series of loud bangs echo through the halls and cut him suddenly and terrifyingly silent.

The large man finally gets the glitters off his face, revealing dark skin and brown eyes. “Girls!” he wails, giving chase as well. “Girls, please, we promised no more collateral damage!” He disappears into the hall after the children, and the doors fall shut behind him with a final and echoing slam.

There’s a beat of silence, as everyone involved in this debacle waits to see if the big man will come rushing back, but after a moment it seems safe to say he’s otherwise occupied. Crouching down next to Hugo, Varian sighs, finally rising back to his feet.

“So that was Yong, Xavier’s assistant,” he says, wincing as another crash echoes from somewhere outside the dining hall. “And Lance—the big guy—and his two daughters, Keira and Catalina. They run the kitchens.”  

Hugo doesn’t really care, but he nods to pretend he does.

“Fun bunch,” Hugo says, standing as well. Nuru looks torn, her eyes flicking between where the chaos is obviously reaching a crescendo outside, and then back to the two engineers. Varian grins and hands her the dynamite, passing it like a torch.

“Maybe you should go check on them?” Varian asks, and her face lights up in a grateful smile.

“I should,” she says. Hugo would even say her tone is nonchalant, if not for the way she seems drawn to follow the sound of chaos. Busy-body, Hugo thinks, busy, busy, busy-body, and he almost laughs as Nuru spins on her heel and follows after the sound of chaos, leaving without another word.

“Hey kid!” comes a loud voice, and Hugo groans. Right, Fitzherbert. Hugo had almost forgotten.

Varian’s face splits into a grin as the man in question sashays from the kitchen, shouldering into the room with a plate full of ginger molasses cookies in his arms. Eugene already has one cookie shoved in his mouth, chewing obnoxiously, and he tosses another to Varian. Eugene is grinning around his mouth-full of pastry, and as Hugo watches, a chunk of it slips free and splats on his shirt. Gross.

“Thanks for the help!” Eugene says, though it sounds more like fanks fer dah hemp by the time it makes it through the sugar. “Couldn’t have done it without you, kid.”

Varian laughs as he catches the food, snagging a second one when Eugene offers him the tray. With a small motion he offers one to Hugo, holding it up. Hugo eyes their ill gotten gains for a second, before shrugging and taking it. He’s never been one to turn down free food, really, even if it does come from such an irritating source. Eugene seems to notice Hugo then, eyebrow raising in question. He swallows down his big bite of pastry, gasping for a second before shaking himself and looking back to Hugo. “Ah, did you finally make a friend, kid?” he asks Varian, smirking as Varian lets out an offended noise.

“Not particularly,” Varian says, crossing his arms. He’s pouting, but when Hugo glances at him, one eyebrow raised in amusement, he’s quick to turn it into a scowl. “This is Hugo. Rapunzel hired him on as a junior engineer.”

Eugene’s brows shoot up for the sky, and he looks over to Hugo. “Really?” he says, “just like that?”

“Just like that,” Varian mutters. Eugene purses his lips in thought before shrugging and sticking a hand out to Hugo.

“Eugene Fitzherbert, helmsman,” he says with a grin. “Welcome to the crew, then. Don’t let my vertically challenged friend here scare you off, I swear we’re nice.”

“Hugo,” the blond responds, ignoring Varian’s offended noise. “And don’t worry. All he’s done is try to sass his way out of admitting I was right and he was wrong about an engine part.”

Varian boreline screams at that, the offense clawing its way out of his throat as Eugene cracks up laughing. Hugo smiles at a job well done. At least someone on this crew had a good sense of humor. The man merely ruffles Varian’s hair, moving past them with his plate of ill gotten goods.

“Make sure Yong goes to Xavier!” Varian calls after him, crossing his arms. Eugene offers a thumbs up, casually shoving another dessert in his mouth.

Varian rolls his eyes and waves Hugo forward, back into the hall. “Come on. Captain’s this way. She’ll want to talk to you before we set off.”

Hugo hums, unbothered, but behind his back his fingers tighten. The Captain. Right. Okay, then— showtime. He pulls himself taller, and sets his shoulders. He’s sold them the lie, and they’ve swallowed it, but now he has to keep it going.

There’s only one room down this end of the hall— a wide curricular door with a crossed little porthole window and a brass handle. Varian knocks twice, waits until a voice calls back, and then pushes it open. He doesn’t walk in, though, instead pressing himself back against the door and then gesturing for Hugo to go first.

Oh, so it’s like this then. Hugo grits his teeth a little and then forcefully relaxes, stepping inside. He resists the urge to shoulder-check Varian as he passes— this isn’t the time for it; there’ll be other opportunities.

The Captain’s room isn’t what Hugo expects, first stepping in. It’s smaller than Donella’s by far, almost cozy, with tapestries and scarves hanging across the ceiling and hand-painted artwork scrawling the walls from floor to ceiling. There’s a wide open window deck and small personal balcony, like Donella has, but even that is smaller than Hugo expects.

Beyond small, it’s also breezy— every window open, every door thrown wide, as if trying to make the room seem bigger than it is. Hugo can practically see the whole sky sprawling out her window, the distant horizon and even the slight glint of the copper-panel lightning shields that make attacking Corona so troublesome. A small door on the side looks like it might lead to the Captain’s personal quarters, and in the center of the room is a huge desk overflowing with paper and ink and half-open books, ship logs and journals and one bizarrely placed cookbook.

Captain Rapunzel is standing at the balcony, flipping through loose papers; when Hugo enters, she tilts her head with a smile. She’s still dressed in that fancy noble’s gown, like the filthy rich kid she is, though the shoes have made a sneaky disappearance entirely. On her shoulder sits a strange chameleon-looking automaton made of some fascinatingly reflective material, looking almost mirror-like but without the fragility of glass. A little ways away, a tall woman with curly bobbed hair and sharp eyes leans against the far wall, absently flipping a knife through her fingers.

Hugo glances between them, taking in every detail in seconds before he straightens and gives both ladies a smirk. “Captain,” he says, nodding at Rapunzel. He turns his attention on the sharp-eyed woman next to her, and forces his smile wider, giving a second jaunty nod. “Random stranger.”

The woman snorts; Rapunzel laughs aloud, one hand rising to hide her smile. “Hugo,” she says, sounding delighted. God, she’s peppier than most puppies— how on earth did she get to captain of a ship like this? “It’s good to see you again! Sorry, I’ll introduce you—this is Cassandra, leader of our sky guard force.” The woman gives a short, disinterested wave with the knife. “Cass, this is Hugo— our new hire.” She turns back to Hugo, beaming. “Have you been taking a look around? What do you think?”

“She’s lovely,” Hugo says, honest for once. None of you deserve her, he thinks, also, but that comment is better left unsaid. “Aphelion is a beautiful ship.”

“She flies like a dream, too,” Rapunzel says, with a little sigh. “Ah, I’m so happy you like her! You’ll be working closely with her, so—” She pats the wall next to her head, almost fond. “Well, it’s always good to know ship and engineer agree with each other.”

Varian snorts loudly. Hugo stills at the disrespect, shoulders going stiff and hands curling so tight his fingers ache— but all Rapunzel does is wrinkle her nose, giving the other boy a swift evil eye before turning back to Hugo with an apologetic smile. “Anyways, I just wanted to check in. I know I said you’ll be starting as a junior engineer, but unfortunately you’ll be on probation for a while before you can start properly. Aphelion’s engines and pipework can be… delicate, and we want to make sure you can handle her before we throw you into the fire.” She presses her hands together. “I hope you understand?”

Hugo wrestles with himself. Probation? He hasn’t been on probation since he was ten years old, and the demotion stings worse than that goddamn junior title. He can hear Varian snickering behind him, and that burns too— that this pipsqueak gets to deal with those burning, beautiful engines, while Hugo spends fuck-knows-how-long screwing in loose bolts? Fuck that.

But this is the Captain, her orders, her word, and Hugo thinks of Donella and the job and the payoff, and in the end he shoves his fury back in the corner of his mind, smiling wide instead.

“Of course,” he says. “Sounds… lovely.”

“Only for a little while,” Rapunzel repeats, sympathetic. The silver chameleon on her shoulder trills softly, and she runs her finger down the length of its spine almost absently. “Oh, thank you, Pascal. I almost forgot.” She looks back to Hugo and claps her hands. “Room assignments!”

“Yay,” Hugo says, dryly. He takes a breath, shaking off the disappointment about probation more firmly, and holds himself a little taller. It’s fine. The worst news is over with, anyway. Hugo doesn’t really care where he ends up; Hugo has never been picky about these sorts of things. So long as it’s quiet and he’s away from the annoying pipsqueak, Hugo won’t complain.

Behind him, Varian chants, in a very poor attempt at a low whisper: please be next to the boilers, pleaseeeee be next to the boilers, please please please—

Rapunzel’s smile grows wicked. “You’ll be in the empty room next to Varian’s.”

...Wait, what?

There’s a muffled thump as Varian dramatically falls over in shock.

“Also, the room isn’t ready yet—” Rapunzel adds with a grin, “—so tonight you’ll be sleeping on Varian’s floor.”

Hugo opens his mouth. Hugo closes his mouth. Hugo grits his teeth very hard, and reminds himself that mutiny two hours after being hired is not, unfortunately, part of the plan.

Behind Rapunzel, Cassandra is laughing so hard she’s starting to wheeze. Gods damn her.

Varian is still face-first on the floor. His answering “Fuck!” is muffled into the wood.

Rapunzel frowns at him anyway. “Language,” she says, but— holy shit. Is that a smile?

It is. They’re being mocked. By the Maker, she is laughing at them. What did Hugo do to her? He thought their first meeting went fine! What the hell!?

“Is this because I ate the last slice of pie yesterday?” Varian asks the floor. “Because I am sorry. For that. So sorry. Please have mercy.”

“Oh, c’mon, up— off the floor,” Rapunzel sighs at him, still laughing, and walks by Hugo to help drag Varian up to his feet again. The boy goes reluctantly, looking despondent. “I’m not doing this as punishment, Varian, please. He’s your assistant and you two are going to be working together very closely, so he’s your responsibility. That’s all.”

“But I—” Rapunzel gives him a look. Varian visibly deflates. “Fine, fine.”

Cassandra, Hugo notes, is grinning. He narrows his eyes. That’s all, hah, he doesn’t think so. They’re being played. Hugo can sense it.

Rapunzel draws away from Varian with one fond tuffle at the other boy’s hair, then moves back towards her desk. “That’s all I really had to say, I think… Eugene will drop off a spare blanket and pillow for you in Varian’s room, Hugo, and with luck we’ll have your lodgings prepared before tomorrow night. And… yep, that’s all! Unless you have any questions?”

“No,” Hugo says, a little stiff.

“Great! And just in time for dinner… well, I won’t keep you two.” Varian is already turning away, heading for the door without so much a salute; a moment’s pause, then Hugo reluctantly follows, unsure how to deal with this odd relationship between Captain and engineer.

“I actually hate you,” Varian says with a scowl.

Rapunzel laughs. “Save me a seat!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Wild.

They’re halfway through the door when Cassandra calls out after them. “Sleep well tonight, lovebirds!”

Hugo rolls his eyes, and he grabs for the doorknob even as Varian whips around ahead of him, face flushed and eyes wide. “Cass!” Varian shouts through the door, right in Hugo’s face. “Come on! I have STANDARDS!”

Hugo chokes on a laugh, ducking his head quick to muffle it in his arm. Rude! he thinks, almost grinning at the offended face Varian makes at his back, and then pulls the Captain’s door shut with a heavy thump.

Through the door, he can hear both Cassandra and the Captain laughing. Varian is still shouting.

Six fucking months of this. Supposedly it’ll all be worth it in the end, but…

Ugh.

Hugo squeezes his eyes shut, pinching at the bridge of his nose, and refuses to admit he’s smiling too.

Dinner that night is… interesting, to say the least. Most of the crew is taking advantage of their last night on land, so the dining hall is decidedly empty. Still, there’s enough people to call the room cosy, the lot of them lining up to receive their food. Hugo’s used to a certain system: grab your plate, get your ration, and fuck off. Easy peasy. Varian doesn’t seem to want to chat too much, but he still shows Hugo where the large stacks of plates and cutlery are so he’s not totally lost.

Hugo’s surprised when Lance dramatically unveils a spread of food across the whole of the wide window between the large room and the kitchen. He must be pulling out all the stops for the last night before they set sail, Hugo muses, watching as those before them pick and choose at random what to put on their plate. It’s odd. Usually with ships you’d be lucky to get something that wasn’t freeze dried or hard as a rock. There’s actual food here, chicken and roast vegetables, and— by the Maker is that actual, honest to god cheese? Hugo can’t help but get a little excited. Rapunzel’s money must be good for something, he guesses.

The Captain isn’t there, probably off eating in her own quarters like Captains usually do. No point in associating with the common rabble, after all. Varian scoops food onto his plate, idly passing a large spoon to Hugo when he’s done with it, the motion happening without any thought. It seems that’s how it works, Hugo scooping food of his own before he passes off the spoon to Eugene, standing behind him. This is so goddamn weird, Hugo thinks to himself as he scoops more food onto his plate. Who the hell actually eats food like this on a working vessel?

The weirdness doesn’t end there, either. The way Hugo’s used to things is simple: after you win the scramble for rations, most people tend to immediately piss off to their own isolated corners of whatever ship they’re on, hiding away to eat in peace.

The crew of the Aphelion do it differently, because of course they do. When Hugo goes to leave the room, Varian grabs him by the sleeve, dragging him over to the large table he’d noticed last time they were in the room. Yong and Nuru are already there, as are Cassandra and Xavier, and a few others Hugo doesn’t have names for yet. Not that he cares, of course, because none of them matter in the grand scheme of things anyways, and why is he bothering to remember their names again?

Varian greets them with a smile, setting his food down and taking a seat. Hugo stands awkwardly for just a beat too long, holding his plate just a little too tightly, before Varian takes pity. The younger teen kicks out the empty chair next to him, gesturing for Hugo to take a seat. He does, looking around as people fill in about a third of the chairs, the lot of them clustering around one end of it. The head spot is empty, probably because it’s so close to the wall with the way the table’s jammed into the dining room. The gentle lull of conversation takes over, only growing when Lance and his daughters join as well, once everyone’s sat down. Another oddity, the kitchen staff eating with the rest of the crew.

“I just have no idea where they went!” Lance moans sadly, “I swear I made three dozen ginger molasses cookies, but now I can only find two dozen.”

“That’s rough, bud,” Eugene says, playing with the tines on his fork. “We haven’t even taken off yet and you’ve already lost your mind.”

Yong snickers from his place across from Hugo, as does Varian to his left. Hugo has to bite his lip to keep from laughing too. He’s got a reputation to uphold, after all.

Cassandra glares at them all, and they sit up a little straighter under her stare. The giggles stop, but then she smirks. “You guys tell me if he snaps,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “I need an excuse to toss him in the brig.”

Lance makes a dramatic gasp, clutching at his heart. “You wouldn’t!” he wails, “I am a single father, and you would throw me in the brig?”

“Absolutely,” Cassandra says blandly. “And your kids would help me.”

“We totally would,” Keira pipes up from her place next to Lance. “If you’re not around, bedtime is never.”

They all let up a little as Lance begins to blubber into his dinner, wailing about ungrateful children into his peas. They muddle through a little more awkward small talk, everyone dancing around the fact that Hugo doesn’t seem keen to join the conversation, until one of the doors flies open with a loud bang.

“Sorry I’m late!” Rapunzel crows, Pascal on her shoulder. “Got lost charting some stuff for tomorrow.”

She borderline skips past the table, grabbing a plate and humming as she loads it with food from the spread. Hugo nods to himself, ah that must be what the chair at the head of the table’s for. They all watch her spin around and come towards the table, and Hugo waits to be proven correct.

Therefore, when Rapunzel sets herself down to Hugo’s left, he’s left a little confused.

What kind of Captain eats with their crew? The absurdity of it throws Hugo for a loop, the sheer oddness confusing at best. Varian snickers by Hugo’s other side, watching as Rapunzel begins to shovel food into her mouth like she’s been starving for weeks. When she breaks for air she turns to Hugo, leaning an elbow onto the polished wood of the table and balancing her chin on her hand. She looks at him with excitement, bouncing in her seat. What an actual lunatic.

“So,” she says, her grin getting wider, “how was the rest of your afternoon?”

“Fantastic,” Varian says, answering for Hugo, but Rapunzel flicks a pea at him.

“Wasn’t asking you,” she says as Varian throws another pea back. She slaps it out of midair, obviously used to this. “I was asking Hugo. So?”

“Nah, it was good,” Hugo says, trying to school his face into a smile. “Very… educational.”

“It’s a lot at first,” Rapunzel nods. “But you’ll get used to it— I promise!”

Varian snorts, but doesn’t say anything. The conversation drifts then, easy and light like they’ve been doing this for years.

Hugo realizes with a start that they probably have.

He shuffles food around on his plate, unseeing as he begins to think of a game plan. It’s obvious that he’s going to have to tweak his original idea. It seems as though skulking around like he usually does is only going to seem more than a little suspicious with such a tightly knit crew. A bit of a wrench in the engine, but nothing he can’t handle. Donella’s counting on him, after all; it wouldn’t be due to let the boss down.

Xavier seems to be going on about some legend or another, the whole table politely tuning him out. Eugene seems to be almost asleep, borderline leaning on Cassandra as he balances his chin on his hand, elbow planted firmly on the table. Hugo can see a shimmer of something on his shoulder, startling when Pascal shifts into view with the faintest glimmer of shifting colour. God what a creepy thing to make. The chameleon shaped automaton wiggles on Eugene’s shoulder before letting his tongue fly, catching Eugene right in the ear. He wakes up with a shriek, loudy screaming as he jolts upright.

The whole table erupts into laughter, even Xavier. Hugo can hear Rapunzel gasping for breath through the loud laughs, cackling at her husband’s expense. Hugo can see Varian out of the corner of his eye, the shorter boy nearly face first in his dinner as his shoulders shake with giggles. Hugo fully turns to him, ignoring Eugene’s howls about goddamn awful frogs, and sees Varian just as he snorts on his own giggles, a hand coming up to cover his mouth. Hugo stares for just a second, caught up in the sight of it—

Cute.

—Oh. Oh, fuck no, he is not going there. Even if Varian isn’t half bad to look at, he’s still a certified pain in the ass, not to mention part of the crew Hugo is here to rob. No amount of sass or big, baby blue eyes will ever change that. At the end of the day, Varian’s merely an obstacle between Hugo and his prize, and there is no way Hugo is letting anything stop him. Hugo tears his eyes away from Varian, shaking himself. Think of the money, stupid, he tells himself, think of the fortune.  

The laughter dies down after a few more seconds, Eugene finally getting Pascal off his shoulder and onto the table. The little automaton scurries back to it’s master, Rapunzel scooping him up and petting along his metal back with a coo. It reminds Hugo of Varian and that stupid raccoon, the way she treats the automaton like it’s a pet. Strange.

Dinner settles into a companionable silence after that, everyone too busy stuffing their faces to really make conversation. This, Hugo can already guess, is probably the quietest they ever get on this ship. Hell, he’d even put money on it. They’re nothing if not a lively bunch, to say the least. Not really Hugo’s style of people; the whole peppy, loving-life, sappy crew that children dream to be a part of someday.

It’s disgusting, is what it is.  

Rapunzel doesn’t try to loop Hugo into any more conversations, thankfully, the Captain disappearing from dinner just as abruptly as she’d entered. “Sorry guys!” she says, borderline tossing her plate into a square bucket by the kitchen window. “Can’t stay long, lots to do before tomorrow!”

Everyone calls their goodbyes, but she’s out the door in a swish of purple fabric before many of them can even speak. Varian just laughs and gathers his own dishes, holding a hand out for Hugo’s as well. The blond stands when Varian gestures with his chin, following across the room to a strange set of three pipes, all embedded in the wall. They’re brass, blending in with the warm wood well enough that Hugo hadn’t noticed them until now.

“Forks, knives, spoons,” Varian says, gesturing to each one. He holds a fork up in display before putting it into the tube labeled forks in looping, whimsical blue-painted script. The other pipes are labeled as well, and under each label the pipes have a small metal button in the center. Once the fork is in Varian taps the button with his thumb, the tube making a little shwoop-ting noise as the fork is dropped down into it. There’s the tiniest puff of steam before a little piece of metal pops back up as Varian releases the button, blocking the pipe once again.

“I made Lance an automatic dishwasher for his birthday last year,” Varian explains, “It’s not… delicate enough for anything made of glass, but for silverware it’s great.”

Hugo snorts, his brain running a mile a minute as to how to make it work for glasses and the like before he has to stop himself. He’s not here to make friends, and he’s certainly not here to be helpful. Hugo tries the knives chute for himself, delighting as the cutlery disappears into the void below. He might have to ask Donella about getting that for their own ship, really, not that Hugo would ever give Varian the satisfaction of Hugo asking how he made it.

They’ve only just made it out of the dining hall, before Varian is nearly bowled over by a frantic man with red hair. The new guy— tall and gangly and looking one good breeze away from falling right over the edge— is the throes of panic, half-way ranting even as he grabs at Varian’s shoulders. Varian holds up his hands  and backpedals, nearly falling into Hugo, shying away from the frantic energy of the man in front of them.

“Woah, woah— Feldspar, what’s happened now?” Varian asks, not-so-subtly trying to inch away as the redhead gets closer.

“It’s water pipe eighteen!” Feldspar— Hugo doesn’t even know where to start with a name like that— crows, nearly tugging his own hair out. “It’s popped again, I don’t know what happened!”

“Again?” Varian mutters. “We’re not even in the air this time!”

Feldspar only nods, grabbing at Varian’s wrist. The short boy sighs, looking back to Hugo with a scowl. “Stay here,” he says, already letting Feldspar tug him away. “I won’t be long.”

Hugo nods, smiling and giving him a thumbs up. It’s obvious that Varian doesn’t believe the false innocence for even a second—Hugo can tell by the way his eyes narrow and Varian’s head cocks to the side—but Feldspar is already screeching about water damage and oh by the Gods it’s everywhere, and so Varian has no choice but to follow the hysterical man back to whence he came.

Hugo keeps his grin in place until they round the corner. The minute Varian loses sight of him, Hugo drops the grin like it’s wronged him, pivoting once on his heel and walking right away.

“Stay there, Hugo,” the blond mutters to himself, pitching his voice to be deliberately wheedling and annoying. “I’ll be right back... buncha bullshit.”

The halls of the Aphelion are long and winding, but nothing Hugo can’t handle. He skates his way through with ease, eventually finding his way back up to the deck. Hugo steps out from a different door than he’d come in from, this one decidedly smaller and more unassuming than the one Varian had shown him earlier this afternoon. It’s still in the vault door style Hugo’s noticed they like to use, a great iron door embedded in the wood with a spinning wheel for a handle.

Hugo slips out onto the deck as quietly as he can, cautiously closing the metal door behind him. It ghosts along on perfectly oiled hinges, silent in the inky black of the late evening. The deck is empty, save for Hugo, but he still takes his time. He needs to find where the cargo hold is, and soon—

A sudden bang comes from the dock below. Hugo drops to the polished wood of the deck on reflex, dipping down so he’s nearly pressed up against the boards. He chances moving towards the edge of the deck, peeking over the immaculate railing and down to the dockyard below.

Four large figures stand on the copper panels that make up the docks, all of them wrapping chains around… a very large something. Hugo perks up with interest when he sees it. Bingo, something in him whispers. Donella had never told him exactly what the Aphelion had been transporting, only that it was incredibly valuable. From the shady way Varian had dodged Hugo’s questioning earlier in the day, Hugo can hedge his bets: it’s the kind of thing that can make a man rich beyond their wildest dreams.

The box seems to be a containment chamber of some kind, a five foot squared box of metal panels all bolted together with perfect accuracy. There’s a single porthole of glass bolted into one of the sides, and Hugo can only justsee a neon green light filtering through… is that ice? Sure enough the window is frozen over, and Hugo can even pick out the beginnings of hoarfrost crawling up the corners of the chamber.

Puffs of frozen air seep slowly from the seams in the metal box. Liquid nitrogen, Hugo thinks to himself, sinking down a little deeper as the side of the Aphelion slides open, a great door in the outer wall of the ship. The men wrapping the containment chamber finish their work, and a metal crane extends from the guts of the Aphelion. This is pretty standard for larger pieces of cargo, of course, to bring it directly into the cargo bay from the outside, but in the dead of night? With minimal crew to get it in place?

Suspicious.

Hugo watches as the great metal box is lifted into the air, lifting off the cart the men had brought it in, the Aphelion reeling it in like a caught fish—

“Hugo?!” a frantic voice calls behind him, and Hugo whirls around, half-rising from his bannister hiding spot to see Varian, standing right behind him and looking undeniably pissed. “Hugo, you’re not supposed to be up here!”

If anything Varian looks spastic, and when he hears the commotion being made from the cargo being loaded onto the Aphelion, he outright blanches, going pale in the face. He grabs at Hugo’s sleeve and starts to pull.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Varian says, dragging Hugo away. The blond thinks about putting up a fight, but logic tells him that would end badly. Or, at least, with Hugo being fired before he can even get what he came for. He lets Varian drag him away, chancing one last look back.

He gets one last glimpse of the box, finally in the Aphelion, the doors beginning to inch quietly shut. In the next instant Varian has pulled him out of range, but the damage is already done.

Bingo, Hugo thinks again.

Varian bullies him off the deck, forcing him down into the labyrinthian hallways of the ship. “Why the hell were you up there?” Varian demands, stopping them once they are well and truly away from the deck. “You were supposed to wait for me near the dining hall, why did you wander off?”

“Got bored,” Hugo says, shrugging. Varian’s eyes narrow, as though trying to intimidate him. It’s adorable. “Needed some fresh air, goggles, is that a crime now?”

“It is when I told you to stay put,” the shorter boy snaps. “That cargo’s confidential; you weren’t supposed to know about it.”

“Need-to-know-basis?” Hugo asks with a smirk, remembering Varian’s words from earlier that afternoon. If anything, Varian’s scowl deepens, his teeth gritting just a little tighter.

“Exactly,” Varian hisses, “and you weren’t supposed to know, so you’d do well to forget everything you saw up there.”

Hugo holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Sure, goggles, can’t be that important.”

Varian huffs out a frustrated noise, and Hugo smirks. Better to feign nonchalance now that he’s been caught; if he tries to dig now Varian would be more suspicious than he already is. Varian can’t prove Hugo was snooping, and that’s enough to keep Hugo safe… in theory.

The shorter boy looks ready to punch Hugo, but he can’t, and it’s so delicious. Hugo would laugh, if he weren’t so irritated.

Varian finally settles for clenching his fist in the air with frustration, then motions for Hugo to follow him further down the hall. This is a new part of the Aphelion, one lined with doors on every side of the hallways. Varian leads Hugo to one of the doors near the end, opening it and gesturing for Hugo to follow inside.

He does, without question.

“Your room’s not done until tomorrow,” Varian mutters as they walk into a sparse bedroom. Hugo makes a face at the room: the automaton, Ruddiger or whatever, is already sitting on the bed, fast asleep. So creepy. “You’re bunking with me, like Rapunzel said.”

Yeah, Hugo knows; he hasn’t exactly forgotten that he’s going to have to share a room with this pain in the ass. He steps inside and stands still in the center of the room, hearing Varian close the door behind them.

Despite himself, his hands curl into fists, half-hidden by his sides. Irritation bubbles bitter and acidic in his chest. He knows better, he knew going in this job wouldn’t be that easy—but still. They were loading the stupid thing right in front of him, and if it weren’t for Varian, Hugo could have…!

Damn it.

He lets out a thin breath through his teeth, a low hiss— then turns and meets Varian’s narrow gaze with a bright smile. Varian looks annoyed to see it; Hugo smiles harder in retaliation. Behind his back, his fists clench. It’s been a long day, a tiring day, and Varian is the cause of most of the bullshit. Hugo is allowed to be pissed about it, okay?

“So?” Hugo says, and if it takes more effort than usual to keep his voice light, well. “Where am I sleeping?”

Varian’s expression sours at the reminder. “Right,” he mutters, and makes for the far wall, towards a small bolted dresser with shuttered doors. “Eugene should have put some blankets in here somewhere…”

The room is cozy, Hugo notes, almost absently; sparse and clean and rarely used, the bed made and sheets crisp. Something tells Hugo that Varian doesn’t spend much time here—wherever his workspace on this ship, Hugo would bet good money it’s a disorganized mess with a cot under the desk for all nighters.

Still, the room isn’t shabby—a nice size, with a dresser and side table and a wide bed. There’s a large porthole window looking out the right side of the ship, into the dockyard, and a copper lantern hangs from the ceiling like a droplet, swinging faintly with the sway of the ship. A heavy shag carpet takes up most of the floor, a dark gray turned multi-colored from past experiments. The rest of the walls are taken up by shelves, stuffed full of books and materials and spare parts. The smell of oil lingers faintly in the air. If Hugo hadn’t been so irritated, he might have even found it nice.

Instead he finds it vexing, and as Varian shakes out the extra bedding and lays it down, Hugo rakes his eyes down the walls and feels a sneer curl his lips. “Homey,” he says, mild as the weather, and makes it sound like half-an insult. “I bet it’s real fun to fix those shelves up again once one rock sends them sprawling, hm?”

“They’re locked in with magnets. My design.” Hugo scowls; Varian looks up, grinning a little. “Also, all furniture is bolted down, too, to avoid exactly that.”

It’s clever. Hugo hates it. “Lovely,” he says dryly, as unimpressed as he can make it, and wanders across the room with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His eyes catch on the dresser. There’s only one thing on it: a metallic frame with a small sepia photograph, faded and worn with time. The photo is of a young boy, obviously Varian given the matching stripe in his hair, and a man—tall and broad-shouldered with deep set eyes, smiling wide and fond at the child sitting up on his shoulders.

“Who’s that?” Hugo wonders, looking at the frame, picking it from the dresser. The magnet sticks a bit, but he pries it up pretty easy. “Daddy dearest? I don’t think we’ve been introduced. What’s he do— swab the deck?”

Varian’s voice is very quiet. “Put it down.”

Hugo looks back, mocking. “What—”

He goes silent, his mouth snapping shut. Varian isn’t even looking at him. He’s staring at the photo, pale and a little wild-eyed, hands clenched. “Put it down,” he says again, and there’s nothing in his voice at all.

Hugo’s irritation flatlines; something in his gut drops. Shit. He’s crossed a line, somewhere, without even knowing it. He puts down the photo at once, stepping back, hands raised and empty. “I didn’t mean to—”

Varian shoulders past him, dead-eyed and cold. “Good night.”

“I—”

“Good night.”

Hugo takes the hint. He edges towards his bed roll, lips pressing thin, uncomfortable. He’d just wanted to push some buttons, not—this. He’s not sure what this is, or why he feels vaguely ill. Is this guilt? Oh, shit.

Varian shucks off his coat, under the covers before Hugo can even blink. Hugo settles on his own blanket pile just as the light snaps off. It’s dark.

Hugo looks down at his hands, staring until his eyes adjust and he can see the shape of them in the dark, listening to the ragged drag of Varian’s breathing. He doesn’t move, not yet. He just sits, and listens, and watches his hands.

And he waits. Just to see. Just in case.

But Varian doesn’t speak to him again.

Hugo opens his eyes to a dark morning.

A headache pulses behind his eyelids almost at once, and Hugo grits his teeth and presses a hand against his temples. He hisses a breath between his teeth as silently as he can. He’d planned for this, when he’d finally laid down last night to sleep—there’s no better time for snooping on the ship then in the dead-hours of morning, after all—but still. He’d had a long day yesterday, and a late night, and something in him despairs at the dark sky he sees outside Varian’s window. The sun isn’t even remotely up yet.

Ughhhhhhh.

He climbs to his feet, silent as a grave, pulling up his coat and boots to take with him. He stands, listening intently for any change in Varian's breathing, and once satisfied he moves noiselessly to the door. It’s time to get to work at his actual job.

He slips out the door, and eases it closed; it clips shut with only the slightest of thumps. So far, so good. Hugo pulls on his coat as he pads his way down the hall, boots still dangling from his hands. The hallway is dead silent, and dark, only one out of every four lanterns still lit. Hugo takes his time, listening, but no one else seems to be awake yet…

No, wait. Hugo stills mid-step, eyes widening. Because there, if he strains his ears…

Footsteps, high above him.

The deck.

...What was it Varian had said, yesterday? Leaving tomorrow, and I mean tomorrow. Which means—a morning lift off.

It’s ass o’clock in the morning, and the rest of the crew has apparently chosen this to be the time to trope on back indoors. So…

Hugo closes his eyes and rubs at the bridge of his nose, tired all the way to his bones. Oh, he thinks. Fuck me.

Well. He’s awake now, no changing that, and there’s no way he’ll be getting back to sleep anytime soon. Hugo scrubs his hands through his hair and kneels down to put on his boots. He won’t be able to go to any of the places he needs to check out, but he can still take a look around. And if anyone asks, he’ll just say he couldn’t sleep.

Still: so annoying.

He steps up onto the main deck already frowning, and squeezes his eyes shut at what he finds—people, not enough to be loud but definitely too many to hide from, walking silent across the ship, carrying crates and tying down final shipments. They speak in muted, hushed voices; soft laughter drifts across the deck. Far-off over the edge of the deck, he can see sparks of lightning hanging in the air, Corona’s floating shields up and running even in this early hour.  It’s still dark, but this high up Hugo can see the thin line of blue starting to band the horizon, the gold hue creeping into the distant clouds: dawn, slowly but surely on its way.

Hugo looks away, and beelines for the stairs leading up to the upper deck; if he’s going to be out here, he might as well get a view. He gets half-way up before he realizes the deck isn’t as empty as first thought—there, in the far corner, elbows resting on the railing and her eyes turned towards a slumbering Corona, is Rapunzel.

Hugo stills, preparing to back away—but it’s too late. She turns to look at him, and catches his gaze. Hugo doesn’t move.

After a long pause, Rapunzel smiles at him, something hushed in her expression. She gestures him to her, and Hugo, though reluctant, goes.

He steps up beside her, gingerly resting his elbows on the railing in a mimicry of her pose, and turns his face to the city too so he doesn’t have to look at her. He’s not sure what to make of this Captain, all things considered; she’s childish and naive and preppy, too genuinely cheerful by half, and these are all things Hugo holds in disdain. And yet, at the same time, the paradox: she is Captain of the Aphelion, the fastest ship in all seven skies, the jewel of the northern skyline. She is a legend.

He doesn’t understand her at all.

Hugo turns his face up into the wind, taking comfort from the cold. Corona is a dark blot on the slowly lightening skyline, as asleep as cities ever get, the lamplights burning a distant orange and the trains all silent. It is a dark city lit only by faint, distant dollaps of light like fireflies, but as Hugo watches, a thin band of gold haloes the highest point, the first spire of the Sun’s temple, a thin circle of sunlit glow like a crown.

The silence stretches, and Hugo shifts, a little uneasy. “What,” he says, for lack of anything better. “Homesick already?”

Rapunzel laughs quietly. “Do I look homesick?”

He glances at her from the corner of his eye and falters, because— no, maybe not homesick. Hugo doesn’t even know what that would look like. But there is something muted in her, something sad, a strange sort of melancholy as she looks out over the city.

“I don’t know,” Hugo says, and looks away, discomforted by his own honesty.

Rapunzel is quiet again. Then she sighs, soft, a heavy exhale. “No,” she says. “No, not homesick. I never really miss Corona, though I probably should.” Her smile twists, goes funny at the edges. “But no. Aphelion, this ship, she’s home to me. Corona is… just a place.”  

Hugo makes a face at that, utterly involuntary, and turns away too late. Rapunzel hums, thoughtful. “You don’t agree?”

He thins his lips, fingers curling on the railing. He shouldn’t—it’s stupid and he knows better, never antagonize a Captain, and especially not her; Hugo can’t afford an enemy this early into the game.

But he’s tired, and his head hurts, and he’s so sick of it, this goody-two-shoes crew with their sweet sayings and friendship bracelets and lack of anything resembling a sense of reality, and his fingers are digging into the wood before he can even think to stop himself.

“What’s the deal with that?” he asks, unable to keep from sounding snide. “With all that ‘the ship is home’ shit. I mean—come on.”

Rapunzel tilts her head, brow furrowing. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean— ” He gestures, expansive, to the ship, something tight and angry winding in his chest, like laughter, only cruel. Because home? The Aphelion is beautiful, yes; Donella’s ship is lovely too, in its way. But Hugo has never been so stupid as to call a ship home. Ships are fallible, breakable, and crews shift like the tides; it’s a place of commerce and trading and battle. Not home, whatever home is, whatever that sort of thing looks like. Home stays on the ground; home is just Hugo, and all the riches in the world; home is—not necessary. Not needed.

“Look, I don’t mean any offense, Captain, but—how can a ship be a home?” He scoffs, scornful, and shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “It’s a place of employment. It’s a job.”

Rapunzel is staring at him now. She’s turned away from the city entirely, looking right at him. Her eyes are pale green and sharp as glass, and all at once Hugo realizes what he’s saying, who he’s saying it to, and he clenches his jaw and braces himself and waits for the verdict. Gods, if he gets fired over this, before liftoff, just because he couldn’t resist being mouthy, Donella is going to kill him. Hugo won’t even blame her. This was such a bad idea, in hindsight, so fucking stupid—

But after a moment Rapunzel blinks, and instead of going cold, or angry, or commanding, she does the most baffling thing she’s done yet: she smiles. At Hugo, directly at him, and it is a warm smile, a fond smile, a little crooked. As if he has said something funny, instead of something cruel.  

And all she says is: “Give it some time. You’ll see.”

Hugo stares at her, utterly floored, for the first time unsure of what to say or what’s happening. And Rapunzel shakes her head, still smiling that strange, soft smile, and before Hugo can move she reaches out and pats his shoulder, once, twice, and then she takes her hand away and heads back to the stairs.

“I didn’t say it earlier, so I’ll tell it to you now, I think,” she says, face turned up to the wind. She’s smiling soft and small, and looks at him from over her shoulder. “Welcome aboard, Hugo. I really am happy to have you.”

By the time Hugo can even think to answer, she is already gone.

He stays there for a long time, just staring, not sure of what to do, or what to think about it all. For the first time in his whole life he feels—he’s not sure what this feeling is. Like being seen, or being known, like something Donella did at times, very rarely. Those brief snatches of a moment, when she’d look at him and her lips would curl into the smallest of smiles; those rare, rare times when she would reach out and ruffle his hair like he was her own. Something bizarre and strange and—

Warm.

He feels shaky. It unsettles him. He doesn’t like it—Hugo draws into himself, rubbing hard at his arms, turning back to the railing. He exhales, watching his breath mist, and shivers for a moment in the morning breeze. He—

He doesn’t know what to think.

Down in the dockyard, people are starting to shout. Dock workers are crossing to and fro around the shipyard, tossing ropes and chains, beginning to unbolt the line. The ramp up to the main deck begins a slow, laborious journey of being rolled back up for storage. The ship is waking up, getting started. He can feel the rumble of the engine starting to buzz beneath his feet with a distant hum. They’re going to fly, soon. In a few minutes’ time, they’ll be in the sky.

Hugo doesn’t move. As the blue line of the horizon turns golden with sunrise, he watches as the Aphelionslowly but surely awakens into life. The chains holding the balloon down fall first; next the fires of the engine, filling up the envelope. Muted yells are traded  across the deck, and in the distance Hugo can hear Rapunzel calling orders. The sails are hoisted tall and high; in the back of the airship, the great copper turbine starts to spin. And little by little, bit by bit, the Aphelion starts to rise.

Hugo stares down at the city, unmoving. He can see the puff of steam rising from the first morning train; the wind is starting to pick up, a comforting howl in his ears. The ship rocks beneath his feet as she settles into the wind currents, and Hugo grips tight at the railing, riding out the first fits and starts of a ship finally waking up.

And just like that, they leave Corona behind.

It takes almost no time at all to leave the dock. Even less to pass the lightning shields, those chained-linked copper panels shining bright in the sun, a loose circle around the city. After all the work it took to get here… leaving Corona takes only a moment.

As the first bit of sun crests the distant hills, Corona is already falling into silhouette. It’s beautiful. Hugo has never put much stock in cities, but… even he has to admit it. The flying city is shadowed and soft in the early morning light, outlined in shining gold, and for a moment he can truly, honestly understand why it’s named for the Sun. There is something ethereal about it. Something fragile and light like a dream, a glow that exists only now, in these in-between daybreak hours.

He watches as Corona fades away, swallowed up by the clouds, and it is only when the city is at last out of view that Hugo lets up on his grip, exhaling hard.

He bows his head over his arms, feeling a tension he didn’t know he’d had ease away from his shoulders. He laughs, a little, then remembers the Captain and her words and—that, whatever that was, and feels the smile falter and fall off his face.

He exhales into his elbows. He lifts his head, staring blankly into the clouds. What had she meant by that? You’ll see. He thinks of last night’s dinner, of Varian’s hiccuping laughter, of the way Rapunzel looked at the dawn, and—

And he thinks: Does it matter?

Does it matter what she meant? Does it matter what she wants? Does it matter that Lance has two kids and Varian snorts when he laughs; does any of it actually matter at all? Of course not. Of fucking course not. Hugo’s not here to play games or play at being their friend—he’s here for a reason, for a job, for the money at the end of the journey. Their words don’t hold any meaning. They don’t hold any meaning, not in the grand scheme of it all.

Hugo’s expression firms. His eyes narrow. His fingers curl. He shakes his head, inwardly marvelling at his own stupidity, because—seriously. What a joke. That he’s hesitated at all, that he’s wasting time on this… he knows better than that. Or, he should.

The Captain—he’s underestimated her, he thinks. He understands a little better how she came to command the ship. For a moment, despite everything, despite all logic—

Hugo shakes his head again, shakes the last echoes of that conversation away, and straightens up to his full height, yawning into one hand. Stupid, really. He knows better, he always has; at least he’s gotten one good thing out of that odd, odd conversation. He’ll have to keep an eye on the Captain after all— she’s more of a threat than he first thought, and that means… Hugo’s going to have to watch his step.

He has a job to do. He has a treasure to steal. Corona is gone and the Aphelion is in flight: six months left, now, till they touch down in the City of the Moon. Six months to plan—to prepare—to pull off the best heist this side of the northern sky.

Hugo closes his eyes, and inhales deeply, and his conviction settles hard and cold in his chest. He’s ready. He has to be. The board is set—the pieces in place—the main players chosen. Hugo versus Aphelion; Hugo versus Captain Rapunzel. Everything is as it should be. All that’s left is to play the game.

All that’s left is to win.

Hugo opens his eyes to the first dawn of many to come, and grins.

“Game on.”  

#tangled the series #varian #varian and the seven kingdoms #varian and the 7 kingdoms #hugo tangled #varigo #tts #rapunzel's tangled adventure #rta #rapunzel #varian the alchemist #eugene fitzherbert #cassandra #vat7k #fic: cor meum #chapters #chapter

[thebibliomancer]

Dark Crystal Age of Resistance ep 6 liveblog

"By Gelfling Hand...”

Huh. I fell off the watching wagon in September. Thats a long time. I’ve probably forgotten all the proper nouns.

Just a stream of thoughts.

So last time in Age of Resistance people finally dreamfast and the age of resisting finally starts. I can’t wait for the Gelfling Rey to show up and stop the one-note Kylan.

Rian has been captured, transferred from one Skeksis to another, and escapes after deciding that he’s not going to escape.

The All-Maudra is dead, long live All-Mauldra Seladon. 

Wonder what will happen now, me too.

Deet, Hup, and Brea are under arrest. And now the General wants to drink them.

“These Gelfling have just the vigor we’re looking for. Throw them in. And their little podling too.”

C’mon, Var. Geez. C’mon. Geez. He’s tall for his age.

The only good thing about Skeksis deciding to drink you is that the crystal is all the way back at the castle and they’re not going to want to hurt you or else lessen the vigor.

I’m looking at that jail cell wheel and the gaps are totally big enough for Brea to get out of if she just tries.

Oh hey, Lore senses Brea in need and is leaving his chamber by the magic of bending over to fit through the doorway.

And coincidentally, Rian, Gurjin, Naia, and probably Kylan are all here and saw Brea et al get captured so now they’re going to have an exciting chase scene to try to save them.

-Seladon looking at throne like ‘oh shit oh fuck what have i done-

Pfft she sits on the throne just when Lore decides he wants to leave his horribly hidden chamber and bursts through it like the Kool-Ade Man

OH YEAH

Seladon didn’t even get to enjoy the throne in a conflicted way for more than five seconds. That’s amazing.

Ritual Master: “VAR GEEZ C’MON WHY DID YOU KILL THAT GELFLING GEEZ VAR GEEZ”

General: “The Emperor is forgiving”

Ritual Master: -sass- “Of course! If there’s one quality our Emperor is known for, it’s mercy.”

I never thought that the Ritual Master would be the voice of reason among the Skeksis but hot damn, I’m loving his tone.

Rian standing in the middle of the road like some kind of badass.

But the Rian ruse is a distraction.

Rian: “I heard you were looking for me”

General: ‘this fucking guy’

Rian: ‘Why don’t you come out and say that to my face’

Oh the General is just going to run Rian over with the cart. You can’t accuse him of not being pragmatic.

Ritual Master: ‘I DON’T LIKE ANY OF THIS!’

The rest of the team can’t get the back of the wheel cage open but thankfully Lore out of nowhere.

Lore Out of Nowhere is going to be the name of my band that just turns exposition dumps into songs. Once I learn how to sing, play an instrument, songwrite, or organize groups.

The Skeksis don’t know what Lore is but they’re both appalled and disgusted.

Huh. There are other Gelfling in the wheel cage instead of just protagonists. The paladins that the Skeksis were gathering for the ‘war.’ One can only imagine what they’re making of this.

Lore: -rips the wheel cage door off-

General: -squeaking a little in dismay- “My carriage!”

Oh the paladins are escaping too. I don’t know that they know whats even going on.

Ritual Master: -pokes head at cart to shake his fist and tell the kids to get off his lawn-

Lore: -stomps towards menacingly-

General: “We should escape without delay!”

Ritual Master: -sass- “At long last, you’ve had a good idea!”

And they swerve around Rian instead of running him over because he’s still just standing in the middle of the road like an idiot. Mighty courteous of the Skeksis or the pillbugs to not vehicular gelflingslaughter him.

Brea gives Rian a hug so Deet gives him a longer, lingering hug.

Pls no love triangle. Pls.

Paladins still not know shit start hubbubbing about how Rian is a traitor and a murderer.

Brea: ‘Nuh uh!’

Rian: “Everything the Skeksis ever told us was a lie. But its hard to recognize the light when you’ve spent your whole life in the dark.”

So clearly you should all get- yup Rian is like lets do a huge dreamfast circle.

And hey, good idea! He says afterwards they should spread throughout Thra dreamfasting with all gelfling to share the truth. 

Paladin: “I will dreamfast with you!”

Another Paladin: “I will dreamfast with you!”

A third Paladin: “I’m Spartacus and so’s my wife!”

Oh, cool. Funeral for the Dead-Maudra. There’s a cool sounding tradition for the death of the All-Maudra. “The windsifters will deliver six pieces of her crown to six Maudras that they might come together to reassemble it and place it upon the brow of the new All-Maudra.”

That’s pretty neat. A ritual to restate the unity of the Gelfling clans and publicly endorse the new All-Maudra as legitimate.

I have a feeling that its not going to go to Seladon’s liking though.

Woo gelfling song. 

Oh the windsifters are like. Batbirds.

I had been thinking that they were like a type of gelfling job, like couriers or something.

More gelfling beastmastery is nice too though.

Seladon: “Gelfling need an All-Maudra who won’t be swayed from the path set for us by the Lords of the Crystal. A beacon of light in these dark times. I shall be that All-Maudra.”

The, uh, librarian guy says that they should get around to the burial rites and return the Dead-Maudra to Thra but Seladon is going Creon from Antigone and saying that her mom isn’t going to get burial rites because she was a traitor. She is going to be cremated instead.

This is sure to endear Seladon to the Gelfling people who thought the All-Maudra was neat despite all evidence.

Librarian guy: “FOR SHAME!”

Seladon: “For Thra.”

Oh shit the Chamberlain limps into the Stone-in-Wood village after surviving that carriage crash last time and yells at everyone to bring him water and good and just generally do stuff for him. But the Gelfling all just kind of awkwardly shut their doors and ignore him.

And also throw stuff at him.

-Gelfling closes door-

Chamberlain: “I see you! I SEE YOU!”

Chamberlain: “How could you? I protect you! YOU OWE ME!”

Aw shit again, news of the Skeksis drinking people has spread here already and the Gelflings have no patience for Skeksis anymore.

And since Chamberlain keeps hanging around screaming instead of leaving, they start throwing rocks and fruit and possibly poo until he runs away.

Hey remember how you let Rian get away, Chamberlain? You goofed. You done goofed.

Scroll-Keeper: “The General and the Ritual Master have returned. ...Without the promised volunteers.”

Ornamentalist: -laughing- “The Emperor won’t liiiiike that!”

Scroll-Keeper: -chuckling- “No.”

-both start cackling-

I love how shitty the Skeksis are to each other. 

Some of the promised volunteers that escaped somehow made it back to the castle BEFORE the General and Ritual Master and have been spreading the truth.

Oh, hm. So you can dreamfast with someone. But you can’t then dreamfast the memories you saw in a dreamfast. So the escaped tribute basically has to go ‘yeah but just trust me, I saw what I saw in the psychic vision with the guy who is supposedly has brain sick’

But a lot of things are added up. 

The death of Mira. The weird sudden calling for volunteers. The death of the All-Maudra. 

A guard: “Yes! Spread the word and gather arms. We take this castle this very night!”

I cherish your optimism, guy.

It’d be a huge blow against the Skeksis but it feels doomed to fail. Plus one of the guards wasn’t as enthusiastic about the idea as the others and is probably going to snitch.

Oh dang I was ready to say that none of the new landscapes really match up to the bubblegloop swamp from the movie but the sweeping view of the Crystal Desert was pretty beautiful, if not as lively.

Kylan, I think: “They say the sands never stop shifting. Crossing the desert on foot will be as easy as walking on water.”

That’s that good shit.

Naia: “Must you complain about everything?”

Gurjin: “Its not my fault that everything is terrible.”

I appreciate you, Gurjin.

Uh oh. It seems like everything has finally hit Brea and she’s having a melancholy moment.

Brea: “I keep thinking that if I turn my head fast enough, I’ll see my mother’s face. Or if I listen hard enough, I’ll hear her voice. .. But I won’t.”

Brea: “I should be there to bury her!” Ooooof. Bad news there, Brea.

Deet suggests that they do their own ceremony there and Brea says that would help.

Deet: “Thats what friends do. They help.”

Brea: -sad hug, sobs- “You’re a true friend!”

Aww.

(Support Conversation rank A. After the time skip, they will be married)

Archer Ur Ru carefully rolling up stuff in a leaf for eats.

Aughra: “LONG NECK THERE YOU ARE”

Archer: -spills his entire lunch, sighs-

So Aughra’s problem is that she understands the situation now and all the pieces on the board but not how everything is going to end. There are many possible outcomes and she’s got to try for the best one.

I’ll say that two gelflings left finally healing the crystal cannot have been the Golden Ending. Maybe try harder, Aughra.

Archer: -seeing where she’s going with this- “And where does my path lead?”

Aughra: “Into the sands to face the Hunter”

Archer: … -sighs- “I cannot defeat my dark half”

Aughra: “You will find a way. But not without sacrifice.”

Holy shit Aughra are you telling him to kill himself? That’s kinda dark.

I mean, Skeksis and Ur Ru are quantum linked or whatev. Archer could just. Injure himself to the point that the Hunter can’t leap and gambol about the treetops anymore. Or ask Aughra to.

Aughra: “Get a move on. You Mystics are not known for your swift speed.”

Geez, Aughra. You dump a task like this on a guy and then call him a slowpoke.

Archer: “Will we meet again?”

Aughra: -hesitates for like a minute- “Some things even Aughra cannot see.”

Archer: -sighs harder-

And then she’s off to Stone-in-the-Wood to prevent a terrible mistake apparently. Hope it wasn’t throwing produce at Chamberlain because ship sailed.

Rian: “Life and death are a circle… not a line. There is no end, no beginning. Today, our beloved All-Maudra has returned to Thra. Though we cannot be there to guide her essence home… we will sing her memory across the wind. I will bind your words into a dream-stitch. All those who find this seed will know her as you did. Speak for the dead. Share your best memory that we may all know her goodness.”

I don’t have snark. This is just a beautiful ritual.

Now Rian is having feelings about his dad.

Like I get he’s feeling like his father actually loved him because he died for him but. C’mon. I feel like we’re sweeping the bad parenting under the rug.

“I love you. Get out of bed.” Wow. The All-Maudra was something.

‘When I looked at her eyes as the light faded out of them I realized that ‘I love you’ actually meant ‘I love you’’

Hup is a good singer.

Rian, why are you and Deet staring at each other longingly across a funeral fire?

Seladon: “I loved you with all I had” -sets her mom’s body on fire- “I’m sorry it was not enough.”

Mm. This is some contrast. In rites.

Oh the dream-stitch is just like flying off into the sky. That’s neat. 

OH THE MUTINY IS NOT GOING WELL AT ALL

Gourmand: “I hope you taste better than you fight”

GOD DAMN

Okay the Stonewood Maudra Fara has shown up to Ha’ra. 

oh geeez

Maudra Fara revered the All-Maudra so hearing she was killed going against the Skeksis makes her go ‘cool imma avenge her’

Also, this: Maudra Fara: “Several of your paladins are travelling the land telling a different story.”

Seladon is handling this as a reasonable individual. 

Fara: “You speak madness”

Seladon: “I SPEAK… as the All-Maudra.”

Chamberlain comes home and finds the castle in shambles. And Skeksis freely peeing and farting on everything. 

Seems like they just go full slob when they don’t have to put on a good face for the Gelflings.

Chamberlain is pretty disgusted at how gross things have gotten since he’s been gone but he perks up when he thinks he’ll be able to curry favor with the Emperor.

But nope. The big wild party is still going on and the Skeksis are binging on essence and foods. So the Emperor is feeling pretty good.

Gourmand: “Don’t worry, we kept the podlings.”

Chamberlain has to be a buzzkill.

Chamberlain: “I bring terrible news! Cease all merrymaking!”

Emperor: “I see you standing there but no Rian. What do you have to say before I punish you for your continued FAILURE?”

Shouldn’t’ve interrupted his hedonism, Sil.

Chamberlain: -had fruits thrown at him-

Chamberlain: “I faced grave danger!”

Chamberlain tries to argue that hey the open and rising revolt by gelfling clans is a Bad Thing Actually but the Emperor is feeling too buzzed.

-everybody laughs in Chamberlain’s face-

Emperor: “The General set us free! Never again will the Skeksis have to bear the burden of pretending to care for these useless Gelfling.

But who will make your food or- oh right, they’re going to enslave the podlings.

General: ‘HEY I HAVE AN IDEA LETS DRINK ALL THE STONEWOOD’

Everyone: ‘WOO THE PARTY NEVER STOPS’

And then they make fun of how much the Chamberlain stinks because he had fruit thrown at him.

They’ve been peeing on the furnishing and they tell Chamberlain to go take a bath.

I’d feel bad for him but y’know.

OH SHIT TAVRA, THE COOL SISTER

OH SHIT SHE HASN’T HEARD ABOUT HER MOM

Tavra: “Then she died doing what she had to do. What she always did. Protecting Gelfling”

Ehhhhh, speak well of the dead I guess.

Ok so i guess the rest of the Maudra have shown up. Except Maudra of the Grot who just sent the piece of crown back. Its just too bright up there.

So the Grot, the Vapra, the Spriton, the Sifa, the Dousan all support Seladon’s inauguration but the Stonewood and Drenchen withhold. 

This has apparently never happened.

Fara: “The All-Maudra has not always been a Vapra”

Fara: “A war is coming and Seladon is not the one to lead us”

Yup thought something adjacent to this would happen.

Seladon: “It was my mother’s crown. It belongs to me!”

Fara: “I would have followed her into a nest of spitters, but not you!”

gasp 

Fara: “I challenge Seladon for the Living Crown”

Oh snap

“We cannot challenge the Skeksis!”

Fara: “They are few, we are many.”

The dramatic irony here is palpable. 

Seladon: “Maudra Fara has invoked a challenge. It is her right to choose the nature”

Fara: “Trial by air”

-gasps-

A Maudra: “Tests and trials are the Skeksis ways, not ours!”

Apparently Seleadon is a contender being smart and careful but Fara is pretty confident.

Fara: “I will take no pleasure in besting you…. Childling.”

Wow Fara gonna condescend on top of it all. 

And back to the desert. 

The Dousan! The desert gelfling! Apparently they barely leave the desert and are forbidden from being castle guards for some reason!

He seems fun.

Dousan Guy: “To the great All. May the dead become one with Thra again. May we feel their tears in the rain. And their warmth in the suns. Though they are gone, they remain with us still.”

Brea: “That was beautiful.”

Dousan Guy: “But a trifle compared to your emotion.”

Oh they got the dream-stitch thing. 

Ah. Reky’yr. Sandmaster. 

Rek’yr is a smooth guy. He’s giving Brea a bone protection charm and offering to carry the group across the desert.

He’s the most helpful Gelfling they’ve met so far.

Oh. Until they mention they’re going to a place considered a cursed ruin and then he gets cold feet.

But Brea shames him into it by calling him a coward.

Brea: “You don’t trust Rek’yr?”

Rian: “Well for starters. He’s a Dousan.” Wow. Ok. Racist. “They’re obsessed with death!”

Brea: “They’re not obsessed.”

Rian: “HE GAVE YOU BONES”

I really hope Rian is proven wrong in his kneejerk suspicion. 

And then Naia, Gurjin, and Kylan peace out to join the spreading the news group of the plot. They recognize that they’re secondary cast and there’s no room for them in this subplot.

BOLD GURJIN! THANK YOU RIAN YOU’VE DONE SOMETHING GOOD AND GIVEN HIM HIS ADJECTIVE!

Hunter: -spots the party on the flying thing- “So. The hunt continues.”

Okay so trial by air is like a flying race. And everyone telling Fara not to be afraid of Seladon because she’s just a child makes me think that its not going to be so easy.

And that Fara is going to be for a rude awakening.

Oh god. Seladon is late to the challenge because she’s been dressing Extra Extra. Like a Skeksis.

I really can’t overemphasize how Aesthetic Seladon has suddenly become. 

And then she’s like ‘hey fara take the crown i don’t even want it its nasty’

Fara: ‘u wot m8’

Seladon: ‘Its cool i made a cooler, gother crown. Its much cooler.’

Fara is mighty pissed at this but Seladon just grabs her and throws her across the room and breaks the Living Crown with her.

Seladon: “Gelfling turning on Gelfling. We stand on the brink of anarchy. Bow before me, Maudra Fara. And together we will prove our loyalty to the Skeksis and snuff this fire before it burns us all.”

Fara: “As you burned your own mother.”

Damn Fara is good at burning Seladon.

And Seladon can only go ‘yeah well gtfo my city’

You know I was wondering how the trial by air would be portrayed. Flying gelfling is well within the special effects that they’ve already shown but a race would be different. But Seladon decided ‘screw that actually’

Ah well.

And then Fara and the Drenchan Maudra peace out.

And the other Maudras are like ‘geez Seladon geez’

Seladon: “And what will you three choose. Order or chaos?”

A Maudra: “This is not the gelfling way!”

Seladon: “It. Is. Now.”

Oh you three are going to bow? You cowards.

This is the Age of Resistance, not the Age of Follow Seladon She Has Some Good Ideas.

Well I thought that the clans were in revolt but it seems mostly just the Drenchen and the Stonewood. And standing alone against the Skeksis and the other clans is not going to go well for them. 

In general, the feeling ‘oh we should definitely trust our autocratic overlords they know whats best’ has been panning out really bad.

#dark crystal #dark crystal age of resistance #liveblog #episode 6

[semper-draca]

6. the one where when you dream you’re seeing whatever your soulmate is currently experiencing. C:

When Malavai is fifteen years old his shoulder gets dislocated.

A scream rips out of his throat as he wakes up, his hand flying protectively to his right shoulder, tears welling up in his eyes. It hurts.

Within a minute, his mother is rushing into his room. “Malavai? What is it, what’s wrong?”

The pain is fading now, but it still aches. His shoulder feels hot and stretched out, as though every muscle has been inflamed. One difference is that he can move it without the pain changing in intensity, and his mind latches onto that discrepancy, bringing it to the forefront to prove that the pain is lying to him. “I had a dream,” he tells her, still clutching his shoulder. “I - they - hurt their arm. Dislocated shoulder, I think.”

His mother frowns, but nods in understanding. “Do you want an cold pack?”

“No. I don’t think it’d help.” There’s not much either of them can do about it. Nothing much anyone can do about it, besides his apparent soulmate not getting beat up. He remembers seeing fists raised and getting pushed around. “Mother?” he admits, “I think they were in a fight.”

“As in…”

“Not, you know, blasters.”

She breathes a sigh of relief. At least his soulmate probably isn’t fighting in the war. “What did you see that wasn’t fighting?”

“They’re smaller than me,” he says. He tries to pick through the dream for details. “A good few years younger.”

“Oh, well that can be nothing depending on when you meet them.”

He huffs. The age thing doesn’t really matter to him - his mother is older than his father, and he knows of soulmates that have almost twenty years between them. “I really hope my soulmate isn’t some - some delinquent.”

She just laughs and ruffles his hair.

~*~

Two weeks after his parents die on Rhen Var, Malavai gets a better dream.

In it, he’s studying for a test on Imperial government, going over the details of all the current Dark Council members and their personal histories. For some reason, his soulmate had been really absorbed with memorizing dates - are they bad at numbers or something? And they had been so worried about failing the test. End of year final exams? No, it hadn’t seemed like that. Stars, he hopes he’s not supposed to end up with someone who is not only a fight starting delinquent but also on the brink of dropping out of school.

Even so, it’s still a light in the darkness.

Everything might be in shambles right now, but at least his soulmate is an Imperial. At least there’s that.

~*~

Malavai wakes up swearing.

A sock smacks him in the forehead in response. That’d be Shen, the man he shares a barrack with. There’s two other soldiers in here with them, but they’re heavier sleepers and in the two months that Malavai’s been here, they’ve mostly gotten used to this sort of thing.

“What’d they do this time?” Shen asks groggily.

Phantom pain lingers in his chest when he breathes in and his fingers splay out across his left side, just to reassure himself that he’s physically fine. “Broken ribs,” he reports. His hand traces the bones under his skin. True ribs six and seven. Probably shattered. “They kept getting kicked.”

“Sounds unpleasant.”

“At least it wasn’t another shattered kneecap.” That had only happened once but still. No amount of uneventful dreams of studying or reading through speeder magazines could make up for just how much it had hurt.

“Stars, no wonder you’re becoming a medic. By the time you finally meet this idiot they’re going to be held together with duratape and glue. Don’t they ever have decent things happen to them?”

That’s not why he’s becoming a medic, but he supposes it doesn’t matter. “Occasionally,” he replies absently.

In this dream, they’d been armed, although it had been difficult to see what with, given that most of what they’d seen - what he’d seen - had been someone else’s boot and their own arms trying to cover their head. Maybe it was with a vibroblade? He remembers hands holding it, like for practice? Are they in the military as well? A very stupid voice in the back of his head wonders if maybe they’re in training to be a red guard, or if they’re in Imperial Intelligence, or any number of exciting possibilities.

Unlikely. He goes back to sleep and this time dreams of white medbay walls. Good. They’re not a complete idiot then.

~*~

After Malavai’s third, pointless, dreary year on Balmorra, he’s beginning to suspect that whoever his soulmate is, they spend the majority of every day getting injured. More times than not he’ll wake up nursing imaginary bruises, and even the dreams that are of just peaceful daily routine will include sore muscles and cuts on his soulmate’s hands.

One week, out of frustration at the interference to his work that these phantom pains are causing, he writes ‘Please stop injuring yourself’ on his wrist every morning, in the hopes that if they dream of him, they’ll see the message. Nothing comes of it, except one month later, when he dreams of them flipping through a speeder bike magazine, he can see the words ‘sorry - I’m trying’ written on their wrist.

Given how inconvenient walking around with ink on his wrist is, he doesn’t attempt to communicate in that manner again. And the injuries don’t decrease in frequency to the point where he starts getting in the habit of taking sleeping aids, as they increase his odds of relatively dreamless nights.

Then he dreams of reaching out, his hands closing around someone else’s neck except they’re nowhere near his reach, feeling veins struggle underneath his fingers. Watching a boy - young, maybe sixteen - choke and sputter and claw at invisible hands on their throat. Watches the boy die.

Okay, Malavai thinks when he wakes, trying very hard not to panic, my soulmate is Sith.

That’s… unexpected.

At least they aren’t some delinquent?

~*~

The revelation that his soulmate is apparently - to his surprise and confusion - does shed light on some things. When he next dreams, he recategorizes the fights he sees as training. The weapons they’re holding are vibroswords, clearly practice for lightsabers, and thankfully, the injuries petter out into very little after that revealing dream. He saw nothing from them for a month, even though he abandoned the sleep aids in an effort to find out more information, but after that month the dreams restarted and suddenly his soulmate seems to be winning more fights than losing.

Thank the stars.

For the first time in years, his sleep, and his dreams, are peaceful.

~*~

One night he sees their face.

Er - her face. He thinks. The image had been blurry.

She’d been standing in front of a mirror, black ink and blood smeared on her hands despite the sink below her. There had been a needle - She’d been tattooing her face. Her eyelids. And there had been horns. A - A Zabrak, then? A Zabrak with ludicrous pain tolerance. He sits up in bed, pressing his palms into his closed eyes to try and get that horrible sensation out. Every aspect of her face had been burning with pain, and she’d just stood there and made it worse.

It had hurt, too, and not just physically. He’d looked out through her eyes and all he’d wanted to do was curl into a ball and cease existing.

He’s never seriously considered looking for his soulmate before. Part of that had been very limited information - searching for one Sith in the Empire is a dead end before it’s even started. Part of it had been his own reluctance. He’s stuck on Balmorra, after all, and that’s unlikely to change. Why put forth so much effort for something that’s not really going to reap any rewards, and why would he find them only to have to inform them that he’s - well - trapped. It wouldn’t be fair, especially not to a Sith.

Now he’s less certain. Something has gone wrong in her life, something that just dreams can’t comprehend. Something that some deep down part of himself wants to help her with.

And isn’t that a foolish thought. He’ll meet her eventually. That’s what he tells himself.

~*~

“I didn’t mean - “

“Get out.”

“It was an accident - “

“Jillins,” Malavai says, slamming his datapad down on the terminal. “Get. Out.”

The man leaves in a rush, bumping into two people on his way out, causing one of them to swear as she stumbles into his office. It’s a blue Twi’lek woman, a slave collar on her neck - not who he’d been expecting, and she’s cursing up a storm, dragging someone else in behind her. Malavai gets to his feet, preparing to shoo the slave out of here, when the second person enters and -

It’s her.

Her, her.

Her face looks only a little older than when he saw her in that mirror, her tattoos complete and fully healed, and there’s only an echo of that terrible sorrow that had dominated her eyes before. Shorter than he expected. For some reason he’d thought Sith, and then he’d thought Zabrak, and he’d assumed a height that she absolutely does not have.

“You must be Lieutenant Quinn,” she says, bowing at the waist. Polite, he thinks. That’s also surprising. Polite and small. His mind is trying very hard to think of something less clinical to say about her. Should he be feeling something he isn’t? Does she know who he is? Does she care, does she even want to know who he is in relation to her, does she - “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she continues, “I’m Gimrizh Korribanil, Darth Baras’s newest apprentice.”

“Ah.” His throat feels like dust. So she’s - he’s supposed to be spying on her. He’s not sure if this revelation makes that aspect of his job easier, more difficult, or entirely impossible. “That - that does complicate matters.”

~*~

#swtor #gayazrael #sith warrior #malavai quinn #sith warrior/malavai quinn #gimrizh #thanks for the ask! #my writing

[imaginefeawakening]

if robin did succumb to grima, which male shepherds would stay with her in hopes of robin breaking free of the dragon's control (cause robin's a strong girl and there'd be no way that his control wouldn't falter at times) and who would take her life, knowing that it'd be what she wanted? (waah, imagine her dying in their arms)

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In the end, the outcome will always remain the same.

There is a dreadful thud—and a sickening crunch. With a jerk of your spine, you crumple to the ground, your eyes rolling to the back of their sockets. A dark sickly aura envelops your body, and faintly, so very faintly, do you hear your husband’s screams, beseeching you to return to the mortal coil from which you’ve been banished from.

Gerome: It is a choice he did not wish to make, but there are no other alternatives offered to him. He knows what would happen next. He lived and breathed in the darkness that was the world when you became Grima in another life. He saw, smelled, felt, and tasted blood every damned day, helpless to do a thing about it. And now, too helpless to save you. Perhaps his heart wasn’t strong enough to keep you from Grima. His heart beats weakly, and barely resolves enough to do this.

But gods, would it shatter him to do this. The one light he’d seen a flicker of hope in was you...and even you faltered in the end. “Traitor…” he whispers. “You said it’ll be okay…”

He raises his axe, knowing that this must be it. He doesn’t truly fault you, of course but whether intentional or not….you must be stopped at all costs. Just as he swings his axe down on your chest, a bolt of lightning stabs him through his heart and out his back. He falls backward, and you on to him, both your life forces weakening rapidly. Your son runs over to the both of you, crying. You and Gerome lie together limp and breathing shallowly.

“Gerome...forgive me…”

“I won’t. Not at all,” he flicks your nose weakly, and briefly smiles when you pout at him. “I’ll be a little less mad at you...for taking my life too…” He laughs one last time, and his breathing stills.

“Don’t say that...you should have lived...Gerome?” You call his name a few more times and realize that he’s already gone. “No...no please…” you sniffle and cry into his shoulder. You promised to save him. To be the one steady presence in his life. To grow old and gray together. To show him that life can be good. But you cursed and crushed his hopes in a moment. And that life he worked so hard to keep...you took it with your own hands. “Gerome….Morgan…” you utter the names of the people that you’ve loved the most...and the ones you’ve failed the most too, in the end.

Inigo: Somehow, somehow, he gets you to calm down. There is nothing but somber silence as the entire army waits for you wake up. You’re in a deep sleep, and it is unclear if you’ve regained your old self or not. Inigo spends this time lying in a horrible and painful wait. Is there redemption for you? Will you cut down all that is in your path? The dragon lies dormant with your rest...but your terrible power is not yet vanquished.

He knows the consequences very, very well. To let you be..to create that kind of world again...not even love could be an argument against doing the unthinkable. He prays that when you open your eyes, his beloved will return once more, untainted and pure once more.

“Inigo..” your lips barely move beyond a quiver, and the hand that lies in his twitch towards the pulse in his wrist.

“______! is it really you?” he asks, with such pitiful hope that you wish that you would just die to spare him any more grief.

You open your eyes and let him make his own judgement. Glowing red and purple irises glare up at him, and your attempt to smile is a smirk instead. “Well?”

“You’re not…”

“Come on...not smiling anymore?” you sit up and touch his jaw, then run your finger down over his neck. His skin flares with goosebumps, and his jaw is taut with tension. “Won’t you be brave?”

“You’re...you’re not ______…”

“No? I have the same body. Would you like to see?” You slip your robes down in a mock seductive manner, and he looks scandalized.

“No...I…” he gasps as you straddle him, nails pressed to his neck.

“Let’s play...I’m getting fairly tired of all this resistance.” A quick scratch, and his skin bleeds. “Nngh..I'm sorry Inigo...please….kill me.” Your sly voice changes briefly to the warmth he’s always used to, and it breaks his heart when he grabs his blade. “Please…”

“I’ve never turned down a favor from you yet my love...and I’m afraid...today won’t be a first.” He moves in a flash, his swordsmanship at its usual best. It takes all that he has and more to end you and your suffering. He’s in pain but...you must be hurting even more. To not have any control over

The demon inside you is fully awake at this threat, and rolls out of the way in time. “Some lover you are,” you snarl at him, quick to form deadly magic in your palms. The dark power exhilarates you and pushes back your consciousness. Your eyes are feral, without a trace of the tactician he grew to love.

It’s a fight to the death, a fight between an incredibly powerful demon and a boy who just wanted to save his love. With a bold and risky move, he pierces your throat with all his force.

And it’s enough. Grima flees from your body, but so does your true spirit, though you try to hold on ti your body long enough to say goodbye. “Inigo…” You reach out to him, still impaled. He puts pressures to the wound, afraid that taking the blade back out will send you away for good. “I love you...take care of Morgan alright? He needs his father…”

“R-right..but we...I need you. I need you, don’t go please don’t go…” He’s trying to smile for you one last time but he can no longer hold it in. Too weak to be strong for others, at least this one last time, he sobs into your chest. His face is stained red with your blood when he tilts his head back up to look into your warm eyes.

“I’m sorry...may we meet in a better life, my love. Give everyone my love...I’m sorry I hurt you…” you gently caress the injury on his neck, and kiss it with blood red lips. “Live well, dear.”

“Not without you...please...don’t say goodbye…” He pleads with you, begs with you to stay somehow while cursing himself. You’ve not any strength left for words. You simply hold onto his sleeve until you’re back to the darkness...one that’s comfortable this time.

Lon’qu: A cold dread swept over his stomach and brings him to his knees. To cut you down...is the only way to do this. Cut...you...down...He dry heaves into his hands. The reason he was afraid to ever love...was because he would lose his love. Never has it crossed his mind that the reason he would lose his beloved is by his own hands. He is a practical man and at times, has been a bad man. No matter how selfish and greedy he wants to be, there is no living in this world with the knowledge that letting you live is letting the world fall into ruin...while torturing your soul that lives inside.

“I’m...so sorry,” he says in the softest voice. He takes slow steps towards towards you, barely registering the heavyweight in his hands. The blade with which he’ll execute you with.

“Lon….qu?” you stagger forward as though drunk, and you smell the leather of his shoulder pads.

“Shh...it’ll be over soon…” You look up at him so innocently that he can’t bear to do it. Perhaps you’re back..perhaps he can save you…

No..there’s only one way to save you...He launches the sword up through your back and into his chest, smearing you both on the same sword.

“Lon’qu..but why...why?!” You grab his collar, glaring at him. “Why would you...what about Morgan..You were supposed to live!” You screeched at him, damned if dying would stop you from one last tantrum. “You were supposed to live! It wasn’t supposed to end this way.”

“I couldn’t bear to be without you...He’s still fighting over there...I pray he doesn’t see us.”

“I...what will he do when he finds out when we’re gone..why would you leave him...Lon’qu…” You wail and sob, to no avail. All the tears in the world won’t stop Lon’qu from drawing his last breath.

“He’ll be fine. He’ll learn...I...I could no longer imagine life without you. Allow me this.”

“How can I!”

He chuckles, and kisses your lips to stop your lecturing, though your burst of energy was your final one. You kiss him back though you’re no longer able to see his face. His tears “Always...so loud…” His complaints are weak, and he kisses you a few more times until he too, falls silent.

Chrom: “______!” he’s desperately fighting against the tight grips of Frederick and Lissa as he watches you fall. His voice hoarsely cries out for you, and he’s reaching for your hand, a hand that lays limp at your side.

“We need to fall back!” Frederick’s voice and shook the prince. He knew reason was the last thing that Chrom had and for the first time in his life did he lose to Chrom in strength. Chrom broke free and ran to Robin’s side. Without an ounce of fear he enveloped you in his arms, and buries his face in your hair.

“______...Are you alright?” His deep voice sends your emotions into a lurch. No longer yourself, and yet, remnants of you remain even yet. Your hands reach up to stroke his cheek...but instead, they wrap around his neck, your thumb jutting in harshly to his jugular. His whispers of concern turn into coughs and choked hushes of your name, but he doesn’t allow anyone to come. Instead, he holds your wrists with a gentle touch. To the disgust of the villain inside you, he kisses you softly and tenderly, until you let go.

“Disgusting…” you say, but the tears falling down your cheeks are from the true you that lies buried deep. With a surge of strength you beg him for the favor that he’s yet to follow through on. “Kill me...please…”

“You know I can't, you know I absolutely can’t…”

“You’re...a fool….” thunder forms in your hands and just before you strike chrom, you will it to plunge into your own stomach instead. You stagger back one step, two, then fall backwards off the mountain peak.

“______!!!!” He bellows your name with all his might and runs in a blind dash to catch you. Frederick holds him back so all he can do is see you fall to your death.

Or so he thinks.

Months pass as the Plegian army falls into a quiet lull. The Ylissean army rebuilds, and though Chrom is silent, he endeavors to restore the peace you gave your life for. When things begin looking up for the better, is when he hears reports of a dragon taking out entire towns at the time, with incredibly powerful armies that are ravaging the region at an alarming rate.

It could mean only one thing. But why, why does he feel relief?

He volunteers to be on the frontlines.

“Milord...you’re not stable enough for this,” Frederick holds his shoulder, his own self empty inside, working only for the sake of the realm and the dead man walking before him

“I have to go,” Chrom says, his voice still hoarse. “I must.”

And Frederick holds no argument against it.

Chrom indeed was at the front of the Ylissean army, and who did he see but the love of his life, ruthlessly and viciously cutting down civilians and soldiers alike.

“______….” he whispers, and though across the entire battlefield, you hear it and look at him.

“Chrom…” you’re back to your senses but for a brief moment, and smile sadly. It’s all it takes for him to run recklessly to you. You motion for him to stay away but he once again hugs you close.

“You’re okay...you’re okay…” he sniffles and kisses your head, and the Grima in you weakens.

“Chrom..you have to kill me...you have to kill me…” you repeat it over and over but he shakes his head, ever defiant. “Chrom I’ve killed so many people...thousands and thousands…”

“You’ll come back to us. I know it.”

“You don’t understand I—nngh!” You clutch your head as Grima regain controls over you. In your mind Grima tells you that they’ll use your kindness against you. And resumes acting as though nothing has happened. Plegian troops are withdrawn, and for months, everything goes back to normal. The rowdy Ylissean army go back to healing the earth, though few still trust you.

The court asks Chrom to reconsider, but he insists that you’re fine. That you’re back. Deep within you you beg him to let you go. But he doesn’t.

Soon you are with child for the second time in your life, and after a long nine months, you give birth. A child with hair black as coal, perfect to inherit your power. You name him Morgan, and he’s a bright child with a dark future ahead of him.

“He looks just like you,” Chrom says with such fatherly pride that a sharp pang of pain pierces through even Grima. He kisses your cheek and cards through your hair. “You recovered much faster this time.”

You smile innocently at him. “Indeed...perhaps battle has hardened me.”

He strokes your hair a few more times until an interruption. “Milord...several of our advisors have fallen—it is advised we relocate at once.”

“Wh-what?” He flashes you a worried look, and stands protectively over Morgan. “How is that possible? It shouldn’t be…”

“We don’t know. But for the children’s sake and yours...we must move, now.”

Chrom nods once. “Understood.”

You two move from fortress to fortress, yet murders continue happening over weeks to come. They’re quiets enough that no investigation turns up results. Your prior friends start becoming victims, and you play the innocent as always.

Chrom’s distress forces him to leave your side and investigate, yet never does he think once that you’re pulling the strings. He’s warned time and time again by Frederick and his closest friends...and even Lissa. But he won’t listen

Frederick is left to guard you. He’s distant from you once more, and it is after many moons that he asks you the question you know has been on his mind since your reappearance. “Who is it...that lives inside you?”

“You should already know,” you say in a chilling voice that gives him only a few moments of earning. You plunge lightning into his chest but he’s able to avoid the fatal blow.

He considers retaliating but he runs, no doubt to look after the children. “Lissa!” you hear a faint cry and smirk, ear to ear. You hear your name being called from behind and smirk wider. The jig is up.

“______...no...Grima. You’ve…”

“Your ______ had never returned. It was me, all along.”

“I—I can’t deny it.”

“This place will crumble soon, Chrom. Your trust will be the end of you.” With a sneer, it goes as predicted. The entire fortress starts shaking with the infiltration of Risen.

“The...the children!”

“Yes?” The children...The you that’s been buried deep forces itself out and you gasp—unfamiliar with your own body after all this time. “We have to get them out! We have to hurry!” You run to the door when Chrom stops you.

“You’re...you’re not…”

“I’m...you’re right. Im pretending again….” you say, in hopes that he’ll kill you and end it all. He can save your children...your children...your darlings that you’ve been unable to love even though they’ve been in front of your eyes this whole time. “Take them and run while you can..”

“I...this...this time it’s really you...right?” for the first time, does he look at you with mistrust.

“There’s no time...you should run.”

He closes his eyes and does as you say...you remain standing there alone. You start rummaging around immediately for a dagger to put an end to it. “Blast…” you curse, unable to find anything. You venture down into the halls where you see the Risen are currently weak and being slain down. Good...good…

Chrom has the children escorted to safety, and Lissa and Frederick to medical attention. The Risen are powerless without Grima and are dead in an instant. All that’s left is to…

Your thoughts are interrupted when you see a pillar come crumbling towards you. Just as you step towards it, a force like a moving mountain hurls into you.

It’s not soon enough. You and Chrom lie under heavy rubble together, his body shielding yours to the end. Metal pierces his chest and yours...in the end this is your fate isn’t it. “Chrom...you idiot. Why would you save me?”

“You’re my love to the end. No matter if you betrayed me...no matter what you do...Your body is still the one I love...and the one I love in your body. I wouldn’t choose to die any other way…”

“Even if all I’ve done is cause death...and destruction?” You wipe his tears away, realizing that you’re sobbing yourself. “Even if all I’ve done is cause you pain?”

“No matter what...my biggest regret will always be that I couldn’t save you. Will you forgive me, ______?” 

“Shh...I’m mad that you kept me alive but...kiss me one last time…”

“If that’s the price of forgiveness,” he jokes and kisses you with all the warmth that he has. Your hands find each other, and your fingers intertwine together until you both go limp, putting an end to this tragedy once and for all.

#chrom #fire emblem awakening #Lon'qu #inigo #gerome #i stayed up till 4 for this #check out my kofi if u wanna hoho #grima #angst

[shawnmendesdream]

Instagram

Request: Hi love! I was wondering if you could do a jealous Shawn imagine where maybe your famous too and another celebrity or something flirts with you on Instagram or comments under your pics? If that makes sense? Haha thanks!

Masterlist

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- - - - 

You hear the sound of the balcony door sliding open which interrupts the calming sounds of the breeze you have been surrounded by for several hours. Abruptly, you spin around and set your eyes on the person standing with a bright smile in front of you.

“Hey, you.” Shawn says with his arms crossed and leaning up against the red brick wall.

“Shawn!” You reply now with a wide grin on your face. You slam your laptop shut and put it down gently onto the chair that you’ve been glued to for the majority of the day.

Shawn opens his arms and you gladly fall into them, knowing that it will provide you with the feeling that you’ve been longing for all day. In 4 days it will be your 3 year anniversary of being a couple, and your 6 year anniversary of knowing each other. Shawn has always been extremely supportive of you and your career and vice versa. That’s how you both work so well together and you always will.

Ever since you were 12 years old you’ve wanted to be acting in films and musicals, and Shawn has wanted to be a musician from a similar age too. Both of your dreams came true at pretty much the same time, and within 6 months of meeting each other, which is quite convenient. You landed your first acting role in a teen TV show where you filmed most days, and Shawn signed with a record company, where he worked incredibly hard to create his first album which then topped the charts.

 Amongst all of that hectic stuff, you’ve had each other. Making the time for each other was the hardest thing ever sometimes, but it was so important to you both that you did and remained together. You loved and continue to love each other every single day deeply. Some days, you both truly believe that’s all you will ever need.

“So, do you think you’re going to audition for that new part? Is the script any good?” Shawn asks you whilst rubbing your arm and breathing in your scent. He places a tender kiss on the top of your head and you ponder your response. 

You love how the first thing he asks you about after his long day is about yours. He’s always been so interested in you and selfless - it’s just one of the many characteristics that you adore about him. Pulling out of the hug slightly, your eyes meet his and your body tingles slightly like it has done since the day you met him. “Honestly, I’m not sure if there is even any point.”

Shawn raises one eyebrow to highlight his confusion, “What do you mean? Of course there’s a point! You could get another job... what’s the movie about?” He questions curiously, whilst tucking your loose strand of hair in front of your face behind your small ear.

“Well, it’s not that I don’t want to audition for the role. It’s the opposite of that actually: I would absolutely love to! I just think that so many beautiful and talented girls are going to audition for this, so there’s statistically less than 0.1% chance that I would get the role.” You tell Shawn, feeling a bit embarrassed and fiddling with your comfy hoodie’s sleeve.

There’s a pause that you weren’t expecting, and suddenly Shawn pulls completely out of the hug and repositions his hands on your shoulders like someone would when they’re about to give their child a stern talking to. His smile never falters. 

“Are you kidding me, Y/N?” Shawn shakes his head and takes a breath, “There are always going to be people out there whom YOU think are more talented than you, prettier than you, skinnier than you, etcetera etcetera. But what you don’t realise, is that so many people out there will think differently. The casting director for that role may unintentionally sometimes have a perfect image in their head of the person they’re looking for to play the part. Those other girls can’t fit into that image every single time. One person can’t play every character, and I personally think that anyone you audition for is lucky to have you there even showing interest to make the effort to be there in the first place.”

How does he always know the right thing to say? You look at Shawn for a moment and then down at his hands on your shoulders; and then back at him, and then back at your hands on his shoulders, hoping he gets the hint that you’re wondering when he’s going to move his hands.

He lets out an outburst of laughter randomly as he realises how weird this would look to someone else watching. Shawn’s about a head taller than you so it looks from afar like you may not be a couple, but a father and daughter. It’s quite humorous actually.

“I love you so much, and I really hope you know that.” You say lovingly and take his hand to lead him over to the comfortable chairs on the balcony of the house you share. 

You move your laptop onto the little table you have out here, and then both sit down heavily and lie back in your seats. He’s had a bit of a longer day than you have being at the studio and all, but Shawn doesn’t care or acknowledge that. Both of you love simply being in each other’s company and chilling out together to destress and forget the world for a while.

A vibration in your pocket makes you get your phone out and check your texts briefly, before then going on Instagram and liking lots of your friends’ posts. Then you make the decision to quickly choose one of your latest selfies, post it and then turn your phone off straight away to get back to relaxing.

Shawn’s phone buzzes when you post it, “Oh I forgot that you have my post notifications on!” You exclaim loudly as you watch him blush.

“Come on, Y/N! I know you have mine on too.” He replies chuckling and his eyes wide in judgement. He gets his phone out too and clicks on the notification from your post. Shawn likes the photo without any hesitation with a small smirk on his face, “You look really hot in this photo wow, Y/N.”

He looks up at you and smiles, triggering the blush across your cheeks he knew fully well that he would cause. You see him typing a comment on your post; thinking carefully about what he should put because he knows that all of your fans collectively will see it. Shawn’s not the kind of guy to comment cringey things that would make you internally vomit, and you’re secretly really happy about that. Watching Shawn closely, you suddenly see him post the comment and then begin to scroll through other comments on the photo.

Swiftly, you grab your phone and go to your notifications to see exactly what he commented on your post, “Aww, Shawn, you’re too sweet.” It says simply, “Wow.”

When he doesn’t reply and is still looking far too engrossed in his phone, you reach over and tap him on the shoulder. “Huh? Sorry, I was too distracted reading BROOKLYN BECKHAM’s comment on your photo.” Shawn says pointing at it in a harsh motion, clearly very shocked and not sure how to react to this.

“It’s literally been posted for 2 minutes how has he seen it already?” You ask Shawn as a rhetorical question, as you’re just as confused as he is. Probably a lot more actually. Brooklyn Beckham? What? You look closer at the comment – “😍😍 omg” 

Shawn shakes his head, “I don’t know, Y/N. But all I can say is that it’s weird to me that he would comment on your picture at all, let alone that, and after only a few minutes. He knows we’re together right? Do you like him? Have you met him before?” Shawn asks you, talking a little bit too fast for it to be casual.

You laugh a bit to yourself, and then instantly regret it when you see the serious expression on Shawn’s face intensify. You squeeze his shoulder, “Babe, I have absolutely no idea why he would comment that on my photo, and I also have no intention of finding out why I promise you. It’s just a compliment that’s all. I’m sure he knows that we’re together, and no I’ve never met him before so I definitely don’t ‘like him’ in that way if that’s what you mean. I’m pretty positive that he means no harm doing that and he’s just being kind, okay?”

 Shawn looks away from you and back down at his phone, and you lean in to kiss him softly on the cheek, “Sorry I guess I am overreacting a little, aren’t I?” He says quietly.

“Just a tad.” You reply with a grin.

A/N: Sorry for not posting in a hot minute!! Wow lol, anyways please enjoy!💙 You can send me requests here.

#Shawn Mendes #Shawn Mendes imagines #Shawn mendes fanfic #Shawn Mendes fanfiction #Shawn Mendes fan fic #Shawn Mendes fan fiction #Shawn Mendes x reader #Shawn Mendes smut #Shawn Mendes blurb #Shawn Mendes one shot #Shawn Peter raul mendes #jealous Shawn #imagines #fanfic #fanfiction #fan fic #fan fiction #smut #one shot #blurb #preference #request #old magcon #magcon #magcon imagines #Camila cabello #niall horan #harry styles #cameron dallas #Nash grier

[deansleather]

An Agreement

Pairing: Crowley x Reader Prompt: Crowley for @spnhiatuscreations week 6, and “Is this goodbye?” for @cas-is-my-hero ‘s 100 Followers Celebration (I tweaked the quote, hope you don’t mind Summary: After being sent wrongly to Hell, Crowley decides to compromise; your life back in exchange for one date with him. Simple and harmless, though something seems to change as the night wears on. Word Count: 3942 Warnings: fluff! technically death, but this is in the SPN world; no one dies for long, just a basic idea of what happened is told

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A/N: I have got to say, I really enjoyed this one. I certainly have a little thing for the King of Hell, and I hope you enjoy this as much as I! As always, FEEDBACK IS LOOOOVED! EVEN JUST A LIKE HELPS 

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“A bad boy can be very good for a girl.” ― Melissa de la Cruz, Girl Stays in the Picture

           You woke up on the ground, resting on a red rug. The room smelled of cologne, sulfur, candles, and a little like iron, a strange mixture that was both pleasing and unsettling. You felt as though you were awakening from a yearlong sleep; everything was hazy and blurred, and the moment you began to move everything started to ache. Your head was throbbing, and as you began to take in the unfamiliar surroundings, your stomach started to knot.            

           The last thing you remembered was the car, coming all too fast as you ran to push the little boy playing ball from his definite demise. You weren’t really thinking, but subconsciously you had hoped you had a chance of living. It was strange; you had a body, you felt sentient, yet you couldn’t tell if you were alive, per say. You had expected to wake up to the beeping of hospital monitors and the rustling of their stiff sheets. Even with the effects you were currently feeling, there was no way you would feel so okay without heavy medication.

           “We’ll never get anywhere with her in this state,” a man sighed, his accent striking to you. What was it? Scottish? British? You heard a snap, and suddenly the haze was gone, your body now entirely able and well. You blinked a few times, pushing yourself up from the ground slowly, testing your limits.

           “What the hell?” you asked yourself, looking down at your body to find no injuries, not even a scratch of road burn.          

           “You’re more correct than you realize,” the same voice taunted. Definitely British. Slowly, you raised your eyes to the owner of the accented tone, your heart skipping a beat at what you saw. He was shockingly intimidating, his eyes digging into your soul from over his glass of golden drink, you presumed alcohol. He sat on a thrown, red and black and intricately designed. He wore a suit, his crossed legs lifting up an extremely shiny shoe. You gulped as you finally let your eyes meet his, the intensity of his gaze staggering.      

           “What’s going on?” you murmured, rubbing your clammy hands on your legs. He smirked, setting down his drink on the stand beside him, slowly lifting from his seat and walking towards you. When he was just mere inches away and you were sure your heart was going to hop out of your chest, he stopped.        

           “You’ve been sent to Hell, love,” he divulged, his hands behind his back. “It’s where the naughty girls go.” You shook your head, looking around the room at what must’ve been his cronies.

           “No, no, no,” you rushed, panicked. “There must be something wrong, I’ve tried so hard-“

           He raised one of his hands, making you stop in your tracks. You weren’t sure what it was, but there was something so damn daunting about him. It hit you in that moment, the reality of the situation.

           “Wait,” you murmured, your breathing practically stopped. “Does that make you…Satan?”

He chuckled, shaking his head as if he was appalled.    

           “No, Luci is off gallivanting with the Winchesters. I’m much better.” He winked. You weren’t sure what most of his sentence meant, but you felt comforted that you weren’t speaking to the Devil himself. “I’m Crowley, King of Hell.” You were about to question the semantics, but he reached his hand out to one of his followers, a clipboard weighted with papers handed to him. He looked down at it, calling out a stranger’s name. He squinted at the words, looking back and forth from you to the paper.

           “…that’s not me,” you inputted, relief flooding through you. “My name’s Y/n Y/l/n.” He shook his head, glaring at the man closest to him.            

           “What is this?” he hissed, his eyes blackening. Your heart dropped. The man stuttered.

           “I-I don’t know sir, she came in just like the rest, everyone else has been correct today…”

           Crowley growled under his breath, closing his eyes to think. He threw the clipboard back at the man’s chest, looking to you calmly.

           “Well, I suppose you should start heading north,” he sighed.

           “So, I’m dead, huh?” you said, laughing without humor. You rubbed your face, muttering to yourself. “I’m not ready to be dead, I have so much to do. I was just trying to save that boy I didn’t realize this was all going to happen. I mean who expects-“

           “Shh,” he hummed, placing a finger on your lips. Your heartbeat fluttered once more. “I’m willing to create a sort of…compromise.” He raised an eyebrow.

"You're not supposed to make deals with the Devil," you said. He laughed at this, bringing a small smirk to your lips.

           “Well good thing I’m no devil then.” He placed an arm around you, leading you towards a small wooden stool near his thrown. You sat down, thankful for the respite. “You’ve made quite the impression, I have to say…I like you.”

You blushed at the sentiment, feeling both pleased and ashamed. You had just seen his demon eyes, and yet here you were, pining over the supposed King of Hell. Could it get any more backward? But as he kneeled in front of you, you realized why he was so intimidating. It wasn't the throne, or the demon onlookers, or his position in Hell of all places; you found him sexy.

           “So, what do you propose?” you whispered. He smiled at you, brushing a piece of hair from your face.

           “Go on a date with me,” he said simply, his accent making the sentence even more charming. You squinted your eyes, suspicious of his intent.

           “If this is a coy way of asking for sex the answer is a solid no-“

           “No, no,” he defended, putting his hands up, his amusement at your distaste palpable. “Just an innocent little playdate, you and I.”

           “Alright,” you nodded slowly, still unsure. “So, what am I getting?”

           “Besides the night of your life?” he teased. “I’ll undo all this messiness. You’ll live to see your bland little life once more.”

           “My life’s not bland-“ you began, quickly cutting yourself off. The King of Hell was offering you a very generous agreement, best not disrupt it. “It’s a deal.” He smiled, clapping his hands together.

           “Perfect, I’ll pick you up at six.” Another snap of his fingers and you were home, zapped into the room next to where your friends sat looking through your stuff, their crying sounding through the house. You looked in the mirror before stepping out to greet them. You looked disheveled and sickly, which was perfect. It would take a hell of a lot of explaining to clean up this mess.

~~~~`

           Six rolled around much too quick; it turned out to be a lot of work explaining how you, who was dead hours before, waltzed into your living room like nothing happened. You claimed amnesia; you figured it was better than witchcraft or insanity. You did manage to get dressed up in the time you had left though, putting on makeup, a dress, doing your hair, the whole nine yards. If a full-on suit was his day wear, you figured a night time date with him was practically ball gown worthy. You did wear comfortable shoes though; dying can take a lot out of a girl.

           Your door bell rang at six o’clock sharp, your heart racing at the sound. You were sitting on your couch, trying to breathe deeply. You were going on a date with the charming, handsome, British, and extremely enticing King of Hell. No biggie.

           You opened your door, instantly faced with Crowley looking…well, dashing. It was an unusual word for you, yet it just fit. His hair was gelled, his suit even more delicately tailored and perhaps even a little old-fashioned, the roses in his hand adding to the effect. He seemed to have speech taken from his as well, his eyes lighting up as he took you in. His eyes squinted as he smiled, an extremely endearing trait.

           “You look…” he shook his head, trailing off. “Well, breathtaking.” You smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you felt the heat rush to your face.        

"Why thank you, you don't look too shabby yourself." He smirked, putting out his arm, prompting you to follow him. You linked your arm through his, gratefully accepting the flowers as he handed them to you. You closed the door behind you, double checking to make sure it was locked. He smirked at the action but made no comment. "So, where are we going?"

"Now, what fun would it be to tell you?" You scoffed but didn't push it. You weren't sure what the boundaries were with him, and you didn't plan on getting on his bad side. He escorted you to his car, and while you were no expert by any means, even you could tell it was out of most people's price range. Ruling Hell had to have some perks.  

           The car ride was silent, the only noise the sound of your heart thudding in your ears. You got so paranoid that he could hear it, you rolled down your window. Hair done or not, you really weren’t ready for your true feelings to be revealed to him. The windows were tinted so you could barely see out of them anyway, it was a nice relief to at least slightly see where you were being taken. He had promised there would be nothing inappropriate happening, but you still felt uneasy with putting all your faith in him. There was no way the ruler of Hell was entirely wholesome.

You saw bright neon lights in the distance as the car turned onto a graveled side road. The air felt heavy, slightly tacky even; you hoped that the date would take place indoors, as there seemed to be rain coming very soon. Finally, the car pulled to a stop in front of a quaint square building adorned with bright lights and advertising posters. The largest of the lights flashed each letter individually.

S M A L L ‘ S  J A Z Z C L U B

You whipped your head around to face Crowley, a smile growing on your lips. He looked encouraged at your expression and you could swear you saw a little blush, but it could’ve just been the flashing lights behind you.

“This is great,” you exclaimed, nodding quickly. “I’ve never been!’

"It's a ball," he winked. "Nothing too extravagant, though something told me that was the way you'd want." You nodded, thankful. You had imagined some sort of excessive party that would unavoidably exhaust and embarrass you in one way or another. This was much better, needless to say, and by the sight of the other women entering, you dressed accordingly. He exited from his side, rushing to get the door for you. You laughed, letting out a shy "thank you" under your breath. This was it, you were going on a date with Crowley. Something about the laughter coming from the building and the bright lights calmed all your nerves, leaving you just with a feeling of exhilarated zest. You heard distant thunder, as you began to walk in.    

“Sounds like we made it in the nick of time,” Crowley commented, leading into the club, past the hostess after giving her a polite nod. You looked at him strangely, unsure. He continued to lead you deeper into the club, until you were in your own private corner booth, curtains draping at the back of the semi-circle seat. Crowley extended his arm, allowing you to sit first. You were shocked by the comfort of the seat, especially with the petite size of the place. It wasn’t often that places like these had anything but hard, wooden chairs. “Can you see the stage alright? I can rearrange if not.”

You smiled at his doting, nodding in affirmation.

“Yeah, actually I have a really good view.” The booths had been slightly elevated in the back, giving you the perfect spot to see every bit of the stage. Saxophones were leaned against seats, a large bass and drums planted next to each other, all tied together with a microphone in the middle. The place was extremely pleasant; it smelled of wine and incense, and the lighting was just dim enough to set a mood without blinding every customer. Crowley motioned over a waiter, ordering both your drinks at your request. It was a deep red wine, though it surprisingly wasn't too tart or burning; it tasted almost sweet and warmed you as you drank.

“Thank you,” you murmured, taking another sip. “For…everything. You didn’t have to do what you did I’m sure, and this is a small price to save my life.”

“Well, it can’t always be death and punishment. Variety is the spice of life, isn’t it?” he purred, his voice deep and rough. Jesus, if his job was to tempt people over to the dark side, he was doing one hell of a job.

“When is the show supposed to start?” you asked, looking eagerly to the stage. You saw him smile in your peripheral.

“Eager, aren’t we?” he teased. “Once they get most of the meals out, I believe.” You rolled your eyes, causing him to laugh.

“Who cares if we eat,” you continued, enjoying his reaction. “I’d rather enjoy some jazz as I starve, thank you very much.”

“Maybe we should avoid another death, no?”

He shook his head, and you thanked the waiter as he put bread on the table. You both grabbed a piece, you nibbling at it mindlessly. He looked to you with squinted eyes, deep in thought. You set your bread down, resting your arms on the table to lean in towards him.

“What you thinking about?” you asked, feigning nonchalance.

“Just curious,” he prefaced. “How did you die? You don’t seem like the type to have a target on your back.” You laughed, shaking your head.

“No, definitely not. I ran out in front of a car-“ you began.

“That tends to do the trick,” he nodded, smirking at his own ornery remark.

"I wasn't finished," you insisted. "I was pushing a little boy out of the way."

“Ah, I see,” he murmured. “So, you enjoy playing the hero?”

“Well,” you shrugged. “I obviously don’t do it often, or you’d probably have seen me before this.” He nodded, the logic passing whatever he expected to hear. You thought for a moment, looking from your hands to him.

“What is it, love?” he pressed, his eyes never leaving yours. You blushed.

“Well,” you sighed. “I guess I’m just not sure what I can and can’t ask you. I definitely don’t want to…offend you.”

“Pissing off the King of Hell does seem unwise,” he agreed. “Though I doubt you would push me that far.”

“Well then, uh, I guess my first question is, well, what is Hell, exactly? What do you do to the people?” you asked tentatively.

           “I’m sure you’re imagining the whole chains and torture devices, and there are some crevices left like that, but it’s mostly standing in a line now,” he stated simply. You blinked at him.

           “…standing in a line? That’s Hell?”

"Can you imagine standing in a line for all eternity?" he quipped. You shrugged, weighing his words.

           “But what about like, I don’t know, Hitler?”

           “Love the originality, darling. There are plenty of evil bastards in history to choose,” he teased.

           “Alright, Stalin, Napoleon, Hitler, all the big bad guys. Their punishment is just to stand in a line? That seems to…I don’t know. Fall a little flat?” you expressed, dissatisfied. He smirked.

           “Don’t you worry dear,” he assured. “I have all the grossest bastards in a special corner of Hell. Their punishment is perhaps a little harsher than your average thief’s.” You smiled, feeling a strange comfort with that. You continued your interrogation endlessly, letting him also pick your meal as you had been too consumed in the conversation to peruse the menu. It wasn’t long before the meal came out (he had picked the most expensive meal on the menu, you later noticed) and the band started playing. You weren’t nearly as engrossed in the music as you were in Crowley. Thankfully, the music was the perfect volume to create some ambiance, but not force you to shout.

           “Alright, so this might be a touchy subject,” you started. “But…what’s the deal with God? If there’s a Hell, then there’s gotta be a Heaven, which means there’s a God, right?”

He nodded. "There is a God, a bit of a wanker, a dead-beat dad at best if you ask me."

You grimaced, and of course, Crowley noticed.

           “What, don’t appreciate the blasphemy?” he taunted. You shook your head, looking at your food very intently.

           “No, no, not that religious just…don’t really wanna piss the big guy off, either,” you admitted.

           “I suppose that also makes sense,” he relented. “Though there’s little need to worry, he’s not much of the strike down type. Half the time he’s nowhere to be found.”

           “Mysterious ways and all, huh?” you joked, raising an eyebrow.

           “You could say that,” he murmured, chewing in thought. He looked you up and down, smiling slightly as he set down his utensils. “Enough of the existentialist. Let’s talk about you.”

           “Alright.” You laughed nervously. “What do you want to know?”

           “All of it, everything there is to know,” he insisted. “The night is young, and I’m here to listen.”

           And so, you told him everything you could think; your birthday, about your family, your favorite books and poets, what shows you watch, what shows you hate. He asked about your exes and you reluctantly even shared that. There was something about your relationship that seemed so…open. You supposed he had been alive for countless centuries, but it was more than that. It was as if you could tell him anything at all and he would eat it up, listening to you with wide eyes as he soaked in the information. It felt nice and undeniably sweet, though it seemed strange to associate the word with him. Despite his title, he had been nothing but sweet and gentlemanly, and he deserved the credit.

           Too soon, your forks began scratching against empty plates and the band said its final goodbye. The light began to brighten and waiters rushed around to pick up the last of the plates. The night had ended, and too early for your taste, though you’d never admit it. Crowley begrudgingly stood up, extending an arm out to you.

           “Seems the night is coming to a close. Shall we?” You nodded, blinking the tears from your eyes. How ridiculous, you’d just met the man and you were this upset at parting ways? Maybe you had too much wine. Or perhaps you just really, really, really liked the witty, charming, handsome, and extremely British man. The ladder was most likely.

           The ride back to your house seemed shorter than it was before, which just figured. You weren’t ready to get out of his car that smelled deliciously of his cologne. You didn’t want to lose sight of his suited figure and watchful eyes. You’d miss the deep lilt of his voice when he spoke to you, much gentler than you’d seen him speak to anyone else.

           You just weren’t ready for goodbye.

           He walked you up to your front porch, both of you silent as you stood awkwardly in place. What was the protocol here? It wasn’t often that you dated demons, but you doubted that it was the wisest choice. Who knew what would come of keeping in touch, or if his intentions were nearly as pure as he had been leading on.

           “Crowley?” you murmured, clearing your throat.

           “Yes, pet?” he responded earnestly.

           “I know I’ve bombarded you tonight.” You smiled. “But can I ask just one more question?”

           “Of course.” He took a step closer. “Anything.”

           “Why did you ask for a date? You could have asked for anything. What did you get out of this?”

           He looked away for a moment, nothing but the rustling of the trees making a noise. You heard the thunder from earlier, but much closer this time, and both of you watched as the dark clouds above moved closer and closer. He was quiet until tiny droplets began to fall, neither of you moving to avoid them.

           “Do you really want to know, Y/n?” he whispered, his expression unsure.

           “Yes,” you insisted without hesitation. He breathed deeply, taking his time, thinking through every word as he spoke.

"I've seen countless souls over the past centuries, sweetly good and deliciously bad, and yet all similar. Then there's you, all these years later. When they pushed you beneath my throne…well, I had a hard time holding myself together. Part of me was pleased to have you in Hell, at my constant bidding, but I knew it was unlikely you belonged there. Of course, I was right, I always am, yet there was no victory in this. I wanted you to stay; I wanted to stay with you. This little…agreement was the only way I could imagine that happening without turning you off. I knew my usual seduction would do little on you. So,” he finished, gesturing around him. “Here we are.”

           “Crowley…” you began, unable to speak properly. There weren’t enough words, how could you ever express your feelings? Speaking just wouldn’t do it, but you could think of one thing that may just get the message across. Gently, you cupped his jaw, rubbing your thumb against the stubble of his beard. Incredibly slow, you leaned in to kiss him, his lips needy and ready once you connected yours to them. Tenderly, he grabbed at your waist, his hands sending shivers up your spine. The rain began to get stronger around you, making both of you slick and soaked, but neither of you cared. It was as though the world had turned off for a moment. He rubbed up and down your arms gently, just enjoying you. You felt him smirk into the kiss at the feeling of goosebumps. Eventually, you were the one to pull away, your breathing heavy. Crowley seemed barely winded.

           “I suppose this means I’m not alone in the sentiment?” he retorted. You blushed, feeling a sense of uncertainty. Was this really the right thing?

           “I-I really should get some sleep.” You cleared your throat. He nodded, taking a step back. You took out your keys, prompting him to walk off your porch towards his car.

           “Thank you for a lovely night,” he whispered, getting out his own keys. When he was halfway down your walkway, you called to him.

           “So, is this goodbye?” you called. He stopped, turning on his heels to face you. “I mean, like permanently?”

           “It doesn’t have to be,” he stated calmly. There you both stood, the rain continuing to soak you, though neither of you budged as you thought over your next move. Who knew what the right thing was? King of Hell or not, you liked him, more than you had anyone in a long time. Someone had to rule the underworld, and you turned out to be lucky it was him. Even if you ended up being sent to Hell for this, at least you’d have him as company.

           “Screw it,” you muttered under your breath. “C’mon, let’s go dry off.”

           He smiled, walking back to you and wrapping his arm around your shoulders.

           “Lead the way,” he said, a sense of pride overcoming him. “I’m going wherever you are.”

 ~~~~~

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[writingorchaos]

Kaliana Questionnaire

Full name: Kaliana var Dalrun

Nicknames: Kali, Kalista

Planet: Valdor

Appearance

Sex: born without sex/gender, chose to be female

Height: 5′6 or 5′7

Weight: 125 lbs

Build: Toned muscles

Hair: Wavy, between mine and Angie’s. Deep brown, and very soft. Either half up half down or in a braid

Skin: Warm caramel, tanned but natural.

Eyes: Depending on mood/ location either deep blue, grey, or red. At first they are dull, but as she spends more time on earth they get a sparkle to them.

Hands: Smallish hands, short fingernails, slightly calloused knuckles but smooth palms

Feet: Large feet with callouses

Scars: when wings are in, two large scars where they should be

Clothes: [not sure yet]

Speech: [vocal tics/patterns]

Accent: [somewhere between american and alien]

Verbal Ticks: none

Language: Fluent in hundreds of languages, as she is royalty and may need to communicate with other planets. However, can only write in a few, mostly just talking and listening

Articulation: Physical descriptions are easy and she can visualize it, but other things are hard for her

Education: English is by no means her first or even second language, but she neither makes grammatical mistakes nor knows fancy words

Laughter: she rarely laughs, so at first it is harsh and barking but softens into a happier, more human laugh

Grump: Doesn’t talk much when grumpy, occasional sneer but mostly dark looks

Breathing: A lot of sharp (scared) inhales and the rare dismissive short exhale

Health

Diet: Enjoys meat, marshmallows, and peppers, but frequently forgets to eat as she doesn’t need to that much, causing some concern

Sleep: Doesn’t like sleeping and doesn’t need much of it (can function but is useful for rejuvenation) Also gets strange dreams along with nightmares once on earth

Exercise: Enjoys running and jumping, does parkour once she discovers it

Activity: Will work very hard sometimes, but for once doesn’t always have something to do

Cleanliness: Doesn’t sweat or produce oils but keeps clean of dirt

Odor: A combination of cinnamon and oranges, occasionally like blood too

Illness: Sometimes gets conduit sickness if too much energy is used (passes through her body)

Injuries: Shoulder and wing were badly injured a long time ago, but only causes pain under extreme (super strength/ intense maneuvers in air) circumstances

Personal

Introvert/Extrovert: [I don’t know, in between?]

Optimist/Pessimist: Somewhere between realist and pessimist

Gender: Female or somewhat neutral, was able to decide gender and choose anatomy

Sexuality: Biromantic/panromantic and asexual (sex repulsed)

Romantic: not very romantic, does not consider marriage but rather a long term relationship/partnership

Memory: can remember fighting and moments very well, but needs to write down her homework every time

Planning: Does not plan much, unless she is stressed about it

Pensive: Tries to avoid thinking about her home, but will go over fights and moments with her brother

Intuition: Can make good decisions under pressure, but panics if too much is placed on her

Goals: To bring back her brother and escape her planet, or shape it

Insecurities: Not familiar with the culture and doesn’t get references, is insecure whenever someone is amazed she doesn’t understand something

Anxiety: Interacting with large groups of humans or when someone is suspicious of her

Overwhelmed: Occasionally feels alone on this alien planet, or worries someone will find her

Self-Help: Wonders what her brother would do

Comforts: Night flying and listening to rain/thunder

Bad Habits: Scratching her arms or shoulders under extreme stress

Triggers: The sight or smell of blood, and images of war

The Past

Parents: Mostly did her own thing, never formed a close relationship, but parents are fiercely protective until they aren’t (see Tavir)

School: Did exceptionally well in training, but takes a while understanding school before she does well

Life Events: Brother’s death and coming to earth

Worst Day of Their Life: Tavir’s execution

Best Day of Their Life: Graduating training and going on a road (space) trip with Tavir

Lessons: Even if a creature seems inferior or an action seems meaningless, it isn’t usually true

Regrets: Not saving Tavir or joining him before he died

Relationships

Family: Blood is her parents, uncle, and brother. Considers her uncle, brother, and best friend to be her true family

Friendships: Has a few close friends and not many acquaintances

Friends in Need: Has no idea what to say, sometimes says something good by accident. Tends to just provide company and an ear.

Needing a Friend: Doesn’t go to friends when she needs to, but her friends notice on their own and try to help the best they can

Annoyances: Rarely gets angry but tries to reason with them, or just leaves

Adversaries: If someone immediately assumes they’re better than her it gets under her skin

Enemies: Murderers who kill for no reason, or humans who try to mess with her and/or her friend

Strangers: Avoids them and won’t strike up a conversation, but is polite if they do first

Fun Stuff: She takes her friend out flying or playing with her powers

Dating: Will go to a cafe or on a walk

Best Friend: Felix

Respect: Respects even those she dislikes on her planet but humans have to work a bit harder to earn her respect

Interactions

Mingling: Not awkward, just avoiding but when dragged into a conversation gains interest from others and makes friends

Comfort Levels: Always worried they will figure out who she is unless she knows the person

Physical: Avoids contact at first (flinches a bit) but gets used to it

Groups: Sometimes enjoys getting lost in a big group but prefers smaller ones

Openness: Takes a lot of trust to tell anyone anything, and even more to tell who she really is

Generosity: Gives away easily if she knows they are trustworthy

Jealousy: Does not get jealous unless her only good friend starts liking someone she doesn’t

Temper: Is quick to annoyance but slow to anger, and when someone pushes her that far has explosive rage

Empathy: Limited empathy, but tries her best and cares

Affection: Any intentional physical contact, like touching shoulders or bumping elbows

Distaste: Keeps a blank face but does not focus on them and lets her mind wander

Etiquette: Does her best to be polite but sometimes seems rude by accident

Responsibility: Admits mistakes easily and tries to fix them

Self Esteem: Is a rock against criticism, and knows it is usually wrong. Will sometimes retaliate against a particularly persistent human. If it hits home, she shuts down.

Confidence: Does not care what others think of her unless it is a few people

Honesty: Is brutally honest, both good and bad

Leader/Follower: Grew up forced to follow but trained to lead, and is more of a leader

Party Tricks: Uses telekinesis to entertain or gain favor

Praise: Accepts compliments and moves on

Failures: [who knows]

Criticism: Is annoyed when she has done something wrong but gets over it

Insults: Tends to respond aggressively or taking ammunition from their mind to retaliate

Embarrassment: Rarely gets embarrassed unless she didn’t know something part of earth’s culture and was called out on it

Attention Span: Can hyperfocus and multitask unless bored

Situations: Has little to no idea how to handle humans

Life

Duty: Will take over a role on the Council one day and rule her planet

Tech: Has no idea at first but becomes passable with technology

Politics: Has strong ideas and knows more than most (telepathy) but can’t vote (doesn’t legally exist) so goes to rallies or releases incriminating information

Combat Skills: Yes

Home: Is extremely messy but not dirty and knows where everything is

Daily Life: Is a bit overwhelmed at first but learns to manage earth

Independence: Once she understands how things work she can function, but also “what’s money”

Cooking: No. Bad idea. Lots of fire.

Building: An Ikea master

Cleaning: Has no dirt anywhere but stuff everywhere

Shopping: Doesn’t like clothes shopping but enjoys grocery shopping

Driving: It is so unlike flying and running that she doesn’t get it, but has great reflexes and can avoid almost any accident. Small cars are the worst, they are too constricting

Law: Shes broken a lot of laws but avoided the justice system. Even if she was on trial, there are a lot of mitigating circumstances and lessened culpability

Medical: Went to the doctor for vaccinations once, but was an odd experience for both and she never went back (no need)

Mental Illness: Generalized anxiety

Hobbies: Parkour, superheroing

#character #kaliana #incomplete

[selenelavellan]

Home

Concert AU

Dirthamen, Deceit, and Fear are @feynites

TW for Abuse, past rape mentions.

Selene breaks the news to Des over milkshakes. 

Their customary milkshakes, at a small family run restaurant between the community center where Des attends his rehabilitation meetings and their old apartment. A bit out of the way now that they've moved, but not enough to deter them from the only place they've found that carries the blackberry and chocolate flavor they've come to prefer.

“I'm leaving for Var Bellanaris,” she announces “Tomorrow.”

Des's eyes snap away from his phone screen, attention fully on her, now.

“I'm sorry. I think I must've hallucinated for a moment there. What did you just say?”

“I bought a plane ticket to Verchiel,” she continues “It'll only be a few days walk to get there if I take the old paths. I should be back by the end of the week.”

“Why would you ever go back there?”

Selene lets out a sigh, fidgeting with the end of her straw. “It's been fifteen years since I saw Mamae. You know Elrogathe hasn't made the journey. Someone should check on her.”

Des blows into his milkshake, bubbles rising rapidly to the surface as he gives her his best 'you have got to be shitting me' look.

“You're truly awful at the 'leave the past in the past' thing, y'know?”

“It's not like I'm going back to see the clan-” she points out.

“What did you tell the others? I can't imagine Fear handling the news of you flying to the Dales alone well.”

Selene shifts awkwardly on her side of their booth, silently stirring the chocolate chips deeper into the depths of her milkshake.

“You didn't tell them yet.” Des realizes flatly.

“Fear wouldn't take well to this, you're right-”

“You have to tell them.”

“I will.”

“Before you leave.”

Selene shifts again, looking guiltily into her purple drink.

“I don't want it to be a thing.”

“Well if you leave without telling them, it'll be a much bigger thing.”

“It's not so different from when they leave for tour, and they're gone for months at a time.”

“And they always tell us beforehand. And keep in touch during.”

Selene sighs, and takes a long drink. “Fine. I'll tell them at dinner.”

–

Dinner comes and goes, and Selene is just finishing drying the dishes with Dirthamen when Des loudly clears his throat.

“Selene has something she'd like to say.” He announces.

Selene sends him a glare as she comes around the corner, dishtowel still in her hands.

“Thank you, Des.”

She rolls back and forth slightly on the balls of her feet as four pairs of eyes settle on her expectantly.

“I'm going on a small trip tomorrow,” She admits. “But I won't be gone long. Less than a week.”

Fear carefully places the book they had been reading down on the coffee table and looks up at her, chin resting on the back of their hands. “Where are you going?”

“I'm flying into Verchiel, and the rest of the trip will be made on foot.”

Fears mouth opens with what she is sure is a long string of questions and holes to poke in her plans, but Deceit speaks first.

“Where are you walking to, exactly?”

“Var Bellanaris.”

The room goes silent for a moment, before Dirthamen finally steps out from the kitchen and places a consoling hand on Selenes shoulder.

“I am sorry for your loss. Is there anything we could do to make this easier for you?”

“Oh, no!” Selene explains, shaking her head slightly. “No one's dead. I mean, yeah, Mamae technically is, but she's been dead for a while now. No one's died recently, though. Well, that's not true, someone definitely has, but no one I know personally. It's just...it's been a long time, and I finally have the money and time to check on her, so I thought I...would.”

“One of us should go with you,” Deceit pipes up again. “You shouldn't go alone.”

“It'll be safer if I do. None of you are Dalish, you're not supposed to set foot near Var Bellanaris.”

“Neither are you.” Des points out.

Selene huffs. “I know the rituals, and the proper rites. One trespasser will be better than two.”

Deceit and Dirthamen share an uneasy look, while Fear still looks entirely skeptical about the whole thing. But no one pushes any harder, and Selene excuses herself to finish packing and get some sleep before her early morning flight.

She does promise Fear to at least keep her phone charged and GPS on, and doesn't bother asking where they found the six portable chargers.

–

The flight is long, and delayed from the start. Heavy storms keep her sitting in the terminal and waiting for her boarding, and it is late afternoon before she finally steps foot in Verchiel. The ground is still damp from recent rain, and she changes out of her flats and into her boots for the trip.

It takes her two and a half days to make the journey, in the end. Made shorter, she admits, by exchanging group texts with the others as she goes. Sending pictures of scenery, and herself near rare plants to assure Fear that she is still in good condition and not mauled by bears or wyverns or wandering wildlife.

It doesn't take her long to find the space where her Mamae had been laid to rest. She clears away a pile of fallen leaves with the gloves she had packed, and performs the rites before the nearest statue of Fen'harel, praying to the gods she walked away from to protect the mother who never lost her faith.

Once she's completed them, Selene notices several newer graves. Some are from other clans, of course. But two are not.

One, freshly planted near to her mother. Her uncle, she realizes.

And another, placed at the top of a mound.

Keeper Deshanna.

Selene hesitates.

And then calls Des.

“Hellooooo?” he sings.

“I'm going to be a few extra days.”

Des sighs, and she can practically hear him tugging on the ends of his hair through the phone. “Why?”

“I need to visit Alaris.”

“Did he leave the clan?”

“No.”

Des lets out a long groan and a quiet string of curses. “You can't go back alone.”

“You're going to join me then?”

“Fuck no! I left for a reason. So did you. Alaris has gone this long without us, he'll be fine.”

“Keeper Deshanna passed,” Selene breathes. “So did his papae.”

Des is silent, as a heavy moment passes between them.

“I don't feel any loss for Deshanna,” he admits “But I will admit Alaris deserves better than to think he's alone. Or worse, left with just your father for family.”

“Thank you.”

“I'll let the others know you're going to be gone for more than a week. But if Dirthamen decides to fly us out on a private jet or something to come get you, I'm not gonna get in the way!”

“Thank you.” She repeats.

Des murmurs something under his breath before clicking the line closed, and Selene takes a final stock of Var Bellanaris.

And then begins her journey back to Clan Lavellan.

–

As it happens, she comes across the hunting party first, three days later. One of them recognizes her, and when she asks to see Alaris, they bring her along with only mild complaining.

The campsite has changed less than she thought it would. There are more Halla than there used to be, but she supposes that's to be expected as a side effect of breeding. Some of the crops have changed, soil rotated, and a few more aravels are scattered around the campsite.

“Sulvuna!” She finally hears, before two arms wrap around her from behind, nearly tackling her to the ground in their exuberance.

“Alaris!” she returns, flinching only internally at her old name “It's good to see you again.”

“You too!” he exclaims. “What brings you here? Not that I'm complaining, you're always welcome of course, but I wasn't...We haven't heard from you in almost...what, eight years now?”

“Something like that,” She agrees sheepishly “I wasn't planning on coming back, honestly.”

“So why are you?”

“I went to visit Mamae in Var Bellanaris and I saw Keeper and your Papae.”

Alaris nods in understanding, weight shifting until his is leaning on his staff. And suddenly Selene can see it; the weight on him, of being First for so long and Keeper now. Of losing his Aunt, and his cousin, and his first love, and finally his father.

It's a weight she feels in her own chest, formed of guilt she thought she had shed long ago. Back now with a vengeance.

He motions for her to follow into his own aravel, and quietly brews her a cup of tea while they exchange small talk. What the clan has been up to, how Alaris has been faring.

“How's Era'harel?” Alaris finally asks, fingers slightly shaky around his cup as he sits.

“He's doing well,” Selene evades “But he changed his name.”

Alaris nods “Good. That's...” He sighs. “Will you send him my apologies?”

Selene blinks, and slowly agrees before Alaris continues.

“I didn't know....I mean, I was just a kid. It's not an excuse, I know, but I didn't think anything of his name then. I didn't realize what we were really calling him. Please, let him know I'm so sorry for the way he was treated when he was with Clan Lavellan. If he...if he ever wants to visit, or come back, I will ensure he is treated with respect, as he deserves.”

“I will,” she agrees again.

“...Is he seeing anyone?” Alaris mumbles into the edge of his cup.

Selene shifts awkwardly. “Uh....yeah.”

“Oh. Well...I hope they're treating him well.”

“We try.” Selene admits with a slight tilt of her head.

Alaris's eyebrows raise, as her words dawn on him.

“Oh. Oh! I didn't-I wasn't trying to-”

“It's fine, it's fine,” She laughs “We're together but we're not-I mean we're seeing other people. Together. So I guess we are together, but it's not just us. We'd drive each other nuts without a buffer.”

“So you made your own clan.” Alaris grins.

“Oh, don't say that,” Selene groans “I have a hard enough time not running away in terror some days, I don't need that hanging over me.”

“Are they people you should fear?” Alaris asks with more than a touch of concern.

“No, no. They're wonderful, and I love them all deeply. They would never hurt me. I just have a hard time with commitment and remembering things are more than temporary sometimes.”

“Shocking,” Alaris teases. “Is that why you left Haleir then?”

Selene freezes.

“I...” she swallows. “Is he still around?”

“He's in town right now, but he's due back in the morning if you'd like to stick around and say hello.”

“No.” she practically yells, abruptly pushing her seat out from the table. “I...he never told you?”

“He doesn't really talk about it,” Alaris says slowly “He says he just woke up, and the two of you had left.”

“Elrogathe never told you?”

“...told me what, Sulvuna?”

She's shaking, now. She knows she is, no matter that she's trying not to. She shouldn't have come alone. Stupid, stupid.

“It's..he...” She takes a deep breath, grounds herself. Steadies herself. “It's not important,” she lies. “I think I'd rather be gone before he comes back though.”

Alaris quietly agrees without pushing the subject, and switches topics back to happier things. They exchange stories about Deshanna, and his father, and eventually it loops back to Selene's significant others. “Here, hold on,” Selene says as she fishes her cell phone out of her pocket “I've got pictures.”

Alaris eagerly watches her flip through the photos on her phone. Some candid, some not. A few taken at concerts, of Dirthamen, Deceit, and Fear performing.

“Are they any good?” he asks.

“I think so,” Selene smiles. “I've got a few songs of theirs on here if you want to hear.”

She plays a few of her favorites for her cousin, and he asks her to send him some copies. It's then she finds out that someone posted a cell tower just outside the clans territory, so Alaris ended up with one himself.

“They're very useful,” he points out. “We still communicate with most other clans the way we always have, of course, but being able to get immediate contact has helped us greatly.”

“You sound like a Keeper.” she teases.

“I sure try to!” He laughs.

The sun starts to set, and Selene announces that she should head out, to avoid being here in the morning.

Alaris pleads with her to stay, just for the one night.

She's always had trouble saying no to him.

She calls up Des, while Alaris retrieves her old hammock from her fathers aravel (Because she adamantly refused to sleep in there again).

“Still hanging in there?” He greets.

“It's not so terrible. Alaris is Keeper now.”

“Shame. He seemed so nice when he was younger.” Des pines.

She rolls her eyes “He asked me to stay in the clan overnight, so I'll start making my way back to the airport in the morning. Should just be another couple of days.”

“Where would you have been staying otherwise?” Comes Fears voice from over the line.

Selene blinks. “Am I on speaker phone?”

“We miss you.” Calls Deceit.

“I miss you all too. I'll be home soon.” She relents.

“You didn't answer my question.” Comes Fear again.

“Clearly, I was sharing a cave space with giant spiders,” Selene teases “But before that I just took shelter in a Dragon's nest.”

“Careful, they might believe you.” Des warns.

Selene doesn't mention that she really did spend one of her nights in a cave, to escape the rain. She didn't see any giant spiders, anyways.

“Can I talk to just Des for a minute?” She asks. She waits through the awkward shuffling of the phone being moved to an ear and the click that the speakers have been turned off.

“What's wrong?” he asks, suddenly serious.

“Nothing, really. I just. I thought you should know Haleir was still...around.”

“Did he do something?”

She can hear someone moving around behind him, followed by the sound of Des taking several steps away from whoever it was.

“No,” she assures him “He's out. He comes back in the morning though.”

“You need to be gone before he shows up.”

“I know.”

“...I should have gone with you.”

“No, Des. I'll be ok. I just thought you should know.”

“If he comes within arms reach of you, light the bastard up.”

“Will do,” Selene agrees, glancing up as Alaris steps back into the aravel. “I have to go. Love you, tell the others I love them as well.”

“No, I'm keeping your love all to myself. You can tell them yourself when you get back.”

Selene laughs, and hangs up with one last goodbye before standing to assist Alaris in getting both of their hammocks set up.

“Who was that?” he asks.

“That was Des.” Selene says before she can catch herself.

“Which one is that?”

“Ah, that's what Era goes by now.”

“Oh.” Alaris says. “Des,” he says as though testing the feel of it on his tongue. He nods, seemingly satisfied “It suits him.”

Selene nods “I think so too.”

–

Alaris wakes Selene in the morning, when the sun is just beginning to rise. It's too early, she thinks. But better this than to run into Haleir again. Alaris still takes the time to braid her hair into a long ponytail while she sips at a cup of tea. He brings her a pack as well, filled with rolls and jerky and a bit of halla cheese. In the bottom are two sets of robes; hers, and Des's.

“You kept these?” She asks, holding up the old fabrics, fingers trailing over patterns she hasn't seen in nearly a decade.

“Your father did.” Alaris informs her.

She gives him a skeptical look, but he just nods and indicates towards Elrogathes aravel with his head.

“No.” she says before he can verbally ask her.

“Just say hello-”

“No.” she repeats.

“You'll regret it if you don't.”

“I doubt that.”

“Look,” Alaris pushes “I'd give anything to be able to have another conversation with my Papae. Even if we didn't always get along, we loved each other deeply.”

“See, that's where we differ.”

“Sulvuna,” he emphasizes. “Go say hello to your father or I swear to Elgar'nan I will give him your cell phone number.”

“...He has a cell phone?”

“Well...no. But I do, and I will force him to use it!”

Selene lets out a groan, and finally relents under threat of being forced to have regular contact with him.

She knocks three times on the outside of his aravel.

He lifts the flap, and turns to look at her.

Freezes.

And then drops the curtain and walks silently back inside.

Selene turns to Alaris, who is still watching the interaction and makes a 'See???' motion towards the space her father just exited. But he just makes a shooing motion and mouths to her to go inside.

She shakes her head no, but Alaris pulls his cell phone out, hitting the home button to light up the screen threateningly.

She groans again, louder this time, and mopes her way up the stairs and into her old home.

Elrogathe is working away at his desk on tonics and potions, and for a moment she feels like she never left. Like she still lives here, and nothing has changed, and the last few years have been some sort of vivid fever dream. Braid still heavy on her head, the smells of elfroot and embrium thick in the air and the halla bleating loudly outside her wooden walls.

“What?” Elrogathe finally says.

Selene blinks herself out of her reverie, and manages “What? Nothing. I-Alaris told me to say hi. So I'm...saying hi.”

Elrogathe nods. “You've been gone a long time.”

“I was planning on being gone a lot longer.” she admits.

“Your callouses are gone.”

“Ah, yeah. I don't-I don't really work with my hands as much.”

“You've gotten lazy.”

Selene lets out a breath of air. “I just do a different sort of work.”

“What?”

“I...” Selene hesitates. She doesn't, technically, have a job. “I work with numbers a lot. And I write.”

“Stories?”

“Instructions and informative textbooks, mostly.”

Elrogathe just gives a soft 'harrumph' at that.

“...children?” he asks quietly.

“No.”

He nods. “Good.”

“...'good'?”

“Motherhood would be a poor fit for you.”

Selenes shoulders tense “I would be a great parent. Better than you were, by any means.”

He snorts.

Actually snorts.

“You can not walk away from a child when they frustrate you, or expect someone else to clean up their mess.”

“No, you just ignored them unless you had some insult to make or instruction to give.”

“Your mother was the warm one in the family. If you wanted affection, you should have sought her out instead.”

“I did. And then when she was gone, you shut me out entirely.”

Elrogathe slows in his work. His eyes carefully raise to look at his daughter. “Dhaveira passed because her heart was soft. She burned like the sun, and when she left there was nothing to sustain us. That was not my fault.”

“So now it's Mamaes fault that you turned into a cold bastard?” Selene snaps “You think Mamae would have insisted I bond to a rapist? Or stay trapped in a life that I hated?”

“She would have insisted you survive!” he yells back, standing suddenly “Not run away to live some half-life like a flat ear! Running around with your guns and drugs and forsaking everything the creators left to us! You had a responsibility, Sulvuna, and you ran away from it! The day you left this camp, you died!”

“And I see you mourned that loss the way you mourned everything else; silently, and without any real emotion.”

The slap he lands is hard enough it makes stars blink in her eyes.

Her hearing goes for a moment, all sounds replaced with a sharp ringing in her ears as she stares down at the floor. She looks back up at him, her eyes meet his, and another slap follows the first, this one hard enough to knock her to the ground.

“Get out of my home,” he says lowly, returning to his work bench. “If I see you again, I will notch an arrow and Andruil as my guide, I will not miss.”

Selene hesitates. Then stands, brushing the dirt and dust from the floor off of her clothing, and strides out of the aravel.

Her face still stings, and Alaris's jaw goes slack as she approaches him again.

“Did he-Sulvuna, did he strike you?”

“Thank you for having me, Alaris,” She says softly, ignoring his question. “I think it's time for me to head back home.”

Alaris doesn't stop her this time. Just hands her back her things, and escorts her out of camp.

It takes only a day and a half to make it to the airport, with Selene barely stopping as she tries to escape the memories of clan life.

She shouldn't have gone alone. She shouldn't have gone back.

Stupid, she berates herself.

She sends her flight information back to the group text once she's purchased her ticket. It's a late night take off, but it's the closest one available.

She sleeps for most of the flight, dozing in and out as plains and mountains pass by beneath her feet.

She still feels exhausted, when she finally steps out, and back into what has become her hometown and silently prays the buses are still running.

Not that it matters, it turns out.

Dirthamen, Deceit, Fear, and Des are all standing near the baggage claim, Des practically jumping up and down with a large, hand scrawled sign that reads “SELENE” on it.

She laughs, and feels a weight fall off of her shoulders when she spies them. Something warm and welcoming settles in the pit of her stomach, and for the first time in two days she doesn't feel a sting on her cheek.

“Welcome home!” Yells Deceit across the airport, before Fear gently nudges their arm for drawing attention from strangers. Deceit just shrugs it off as Selene skips towards the group.

“Thank you,” She smiles “I missed you all. So much.”

“We missed you as well,” Dirthamen agrees, reaching over to place a kiss to her lips. Soft at first, before becoming more pressing, more urgent as she responds positively to his advances.

Fear clears their throat pointedly, and Dirthamen finally pulls back. The tips of his ears red.

“We can go home now, right?” Des asks, linking his arm through hers.

“I have to get a bag, actually.”

He frowns. “Did you leave with two?”

“No, Alaris sent one back.”

Des groans, until Selene points out that he packed some foods for them.

“Our old robes are in there, too.”

Des makes a face.

“You don't have to wear them,” Selene sighs “But it would mean a lot to Alaris if you just held onto them. He wanted you to have them.”

Des relents at that, as they snag up her bag and pile into Deceits car, Selene pressed into the backseat between Dirthamen and Des.

Dirthamen links his fingers with hers, thumb idly rubbing at the back of her hand as they drive, and Fear asks a litany of questions about her trip, insisting that she shower when they arrive back to the house. Selene doesn't argue, and is thankful for it as she watches the dirt run down the drain, her braid coming undone as she washes out her hair.

She slips into a pair of sleep shorts, and one of Deceits old shirts before heading back downstairs. There's a late night dinner prepared, followed up by a group cuddle session.

Selene sighs, relaxing into the embrace of her lovers as an old sci fi movie plays over the TV.

She falls asleep there, never more thankful to have finally found a home of her own.

#Concert AU #Dirthalene #Selene Lavellan #Des #Mind the warnings #I've been going back and forth about whether or not to post this because it's #well it's angsty for this AU (again) and Im sorry for that #but it wouldn't leave me alone #Alaris #Elrogathe Lavellan

[wordsandshawn]

Six Months

Requested: Hi I was wondering if you could write an imagine where management has Shawn date a celebrity instead of y/n. Thanks

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~~~

That’s it then. Apparently two years meant nothing to him when it meant everything to you. How could he just pretend like two years of your lives never happened? How could he just move on like that? 

As your finger hovers over the mousepad of your macbook, you know you should exit out of this website. You know you should stop looking at these pictures of your ex hand-in-hand with new girl that isn’t you, but you can’t. That’s the thing about dating a celebrity that you never considered before dating Shawn, that once you break up, you’ll see pictures of him all over the internet when you’re not even looking for them. And when he gets into a new relationship, especially if that new relationship is with a “cute, young up and coming actress who’s making her own waves in the industry and dating Shawn Mendes on top of that,” people actually talk about it, and there is no escaping it.

Your friend looks up at you across the table you were supposed to be studying at. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you, y/n?” She asks.

“Doing what?” You question, quickly closing the page and trying to act innocent.

“Looking at pictures of them. It’s written all over your face.” You curse yourself for being so transparent that she doesn’t even have to see your screen to know what was on it. “Don’t torture yourself by looking at those pictures.” She tells you, “Just try to ignore it as best as you can.”

That’s her advice, and you love her and appreciate her trying to help, but she’s not helping. You’re tortured whether you look at the pictures or not because it’s all stuck in your mind no matter what you do to try and forget or not think about it all. “But he just moved on. It’s only been six months, Kara, we were together for two years. I haven’t even looked at a boy seriously since Shawn. I can’t.”

“And maybe that’s the problem. You need to start looking at other boys. There are so many around here,” She says, actually motioning around the coffee shop you’re seated in on your university’s campus. “If you’d just give some of them a chance.”

But none of them are Shawn, you think to yourself, but know better than to say it out loud. At first it was fine to be hung up on Shawn. Your friends were all understanding and didn’t mind listening to you talk about him, cry about him and be sad about him because its only natural after a breakup, especially one following a two year relationship. You and Shawn mutually broke up because he was too busy and couldn’t be around because of his career, and the long distance had just become too much for both of you. You still deeply loved him, and up until a few days ago, you had clung to the hope that he had felt the same. You ended the relationship because it was becoming too hard and maybe the timing just wasn’t right. But now that it has been six months, it isn’t exactly okay for you to still be hung up on him, and your friends have already grown tired of hearing you talk about him.

Yes, six months is probably the appropriate time to wait after a breakup before getting into a new relationship, but for you, it sure doesn’t feel like that. These have been some of the roughest six months of your life without Shawn, and you hate to admit that he’s still the one you call when you’re drunk. Even though he hasn’t drunk dialed you since you broke up, he almost always picks up when you do. He picks up and he tells you that you’re not a mess, and he misses you too, and it will be okay. 

He thinks you won’t remember it in the morning, but for some reason, you always do. And when you wake up, you can convince yourself it was all a dream until you check your recent calls and see his name there along with the length of the call showing that he actually did answer and stay on the line, often for a significant amount of time until he’s talked you down from your mountain of emotions and let you cry the tears necessary for you to be able to fall asleep. You don’t tell your friends this, they’ll think you’re crazy and making up stories, and they’d of course tell you to stop drunk dialing him. Sometimes you get drunk just so you have an excuse to call and pray he answers. Strange enough, you don’t ever recall him telling you to stop calling, even when he’s in another county and busy or you’re waking him up in the in the middle of the night. You never talk when you’re sober, and he never calls when he’s drunk. He could have easily blocked your phone calls, seeing as you only ever call him drunk, or he could have just ignored your calls, but he hasn’t. Not yet, at least. But maybe now that he has a new girl, all of that will change.

Who are you even kidding? He has a new girl, and everything already has changed. Truthfully, it should have from the moment you broke up, but you were still clinging to the past and the way his existence had become your security. You should know by now that he isn’t your person anymore. He isn’t the one who is going to be there for you, even though he’s the only one you want, now and ever, but you can’t admit that.

“Alright, that’s it.” Your friend says from across the table, noticing you were too lost in thought to even have a conversation with her at the moment. “We’re going out tonight.”

“It’s a Tuesday.” You respond immediately.

“You’re right. No going out, lets just get drunk instead.” She responds decidedly.

As much as that seems like a good idea, you very quickly decide that it isn’t. If you get drunk, you’ll just call Shawn, and the idea of him not picking up, or even worse finally telling you to quit calling him, would destroy you. And you know that. Especially seeing as you’re already emotional about all of this.

You and four of your best girl friends are sitting around your best friend’s apartment. You had decided that you wouldn’t get drunk, but you’d consume just enough alcohol so that you’d feel good, but still have your wits about you. And that’s exactly what you did. It was nice. And you thought you had successfully done what you went there to do, which is forget about Shawn. It wasn’t until you were walking from your friends apartment back to your own that you were hit with missing Shawn like crazy. The feeling wasn’t unfamiliar, but you hated how familiar it was. You had this feeling so many times when you were dating because Shawn was rarely even able to be in the same country as you, but since you broke up, the type of missing him has certainly changed. And this type of missing him has become even more familiar than the other type of missing him that you thought you knew so well.

Before you could even really process what you were doing, your fingers were already clicking on the contact that had been called a countless number of times before. It rings three times, and you convince yourself that this time he isn’t going to pick up. “Hello,” His voice shakes you to the very core. You weren’t expecting it, almost. This is probably the most sober you’ve ever been when calling Shawn since you broke up, so you don’t even know why you’re calling.

“This was a mistake.” You speak your thoughts aloud.

“I missed your voice.” He tells you, ignoring your statement all together.

That sentence alone thoroughly confuses you. He’s moved on. He’s dating another girl. They’re on vacation together in Hawaii right now. You saw all the pictures of them prancing the beach together. Him picking her up in the waves, kissing waist deep in the water, walking the beach hand in hand, you saw all those pictures, more than once probably. He looked so in love, so captivated by her, and the feeling was obviously reciprocated. You had seen all the pictures and read all of the articles. She was a better fit for him anyway. She was an actress. Her career already solid for being only eighteen. She knows what she’s doing and she knows her way around the business. She is so much better suited for him and his life now. You know that, you know that she is better for him than you could ever be, and that might be what hurts you the most.

“What?” Is all you can think to say.

“I said, I missed your voice. And I’m glad you called.” His smooth and steady voice comes across so confident. His confidence was one of the things you loved about him from the first moment you met him. He was confident and he knew who he was, even at only sixteen. That is hard to find in sixteen year olds, more than that, it wasn’t at all a cockiness, it was just quiet confidence.

“No,” You tell him, already getting emotional at this. He wasn’t supposed to say that. He was supposed to tell you to stop calling. He was supposed to hang up. He was supposed to set you free, he’d already moved on, now you should too. “You aren’t supposed to say things like that, not anymore.” You practically whisper through the phone, but he manages to hear you anyway.

“Why not? It’s true.” He doesn’t know what he’s doing to you, or does he?

“You have a new girlfriend, that’s why not.” Is the only thing you can think to respond, as you put your key into your lock, opening the door to your apartment.

His laugh comes through the phone, catching you by surprise. You don’t know what you expected him to do, but it wasn’t this. “Emma and I are not dating.” He tells, you and immediately you’re confused. How could he say that. Slamming the door behind you, you make your way to the couch. You just need to sit down right now. “Andrew and everyone thought I needed a girlfriend,” He explains, “And I just wasn’t ready I guess, so I wouldn’t go out with anyone they tried to set me up with.” You can almost hear an underlying message in his words, but you can’t be sure if he’s saying what you think he is. “So finally they made me date Emma for publicity.”

Those words make you feel like an entire weight has been lifted off of your shoulders and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “I’m not over you, y/n.” His voice comes through your phone.

“Shawn,” You start, suddenly feeling completely sober.

He speaks again before you have the chance to. “I know that it didn’t work, but I don’t think we tried hard enough. If these last six months have taught me anything it’s that you’re worth everything. And I don’t care how hard it is or how many sacrifices I have to make or how many times I have to fly straight through the night, it’s you I want to be with, y/n.”

“I still love you.” You respond, not knowing what else to say to convey how you felt about everything he said.

“I love you. I’ll always love you, I know that now. I’m coming to see you. I’ll book a flight out tomorrow. We can talk.” He says, and there is no question in his voice. “It might be a little complicated with Emma, because management has a whole plan for that ‘relationship’, but I don’t care. The whole time we’ve been here in Hawaii, pretending to be in love, I’ve only been missing you and wishing you were the one here with me.” He tells you, and you can hear the honesty in his voice. The words had rushed out of him so quickly, almost like he had been waiting to say that to you.

You don’t know how you survived the last six months without Shawn, with only 2am drunken conversations to keep you going. But now you know that you don’t want to have to say goodbye to him, you don’t want to move on. Hearing that he hasn’t actually moved on provided so much relief for you, you could almost jump for joy. You don’t want to ever have to live without him again. And you don’t want to have to get drunk to have an excuse to call the one boy who could remind you who you are and make sure your world wouldn’t fall apart, every single time you needed him to.

#Shawn Mendes #requested #imagine #shawn mendes imagine #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes blurb #blurb #oneshot #shawn mendes oneshot

[huntertales]

Part Three: The Luck of the Irish. (The Curious Case of Dean Winchester S05E07)

Useful Links: Last Part | All Episodes Word Count: 3,955. A/N: I'm dead tired after a long week, but I managed to squeeze in some time for writing! I really am hoping I can squeeze out the last part by tomorrow if I feel up to it. For now, enjoy!

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If there was one piece of advice you could use for a game against a nine hundred-year-old witch, you took to heart what Bobby had said earlier; the game wasn't about playing the cards, it was all in the technique of fooling your opponent. You let out a quiet breath as you examined your cards and the row of the other ones that were spread neatly out on the green tabletop. Patrick watched you with a casual expression, but considering the fact that he had a few centuries to perfect his poker face, it was hard to tell if he was smirking at you because he was holding a winning hand, or if he was just easily amused at your attempts of trying to handle the game's stress. He leaned comfortably in his seat and chewed on the end of the toothpick, all while quietly eyed your stack of chips that were dwindling down, and far inferior to the pile of his own. Sam was an expert at keeping a straight face himself. He stood behind you and casually took his gaze away from your hand and to the toothpick that was hanging between the crook of Patrick's lips.

"I like you, Y/N. I do. You're smart and your heart's clearly in the right place." Patrick struck up a conversation between the both of you, making you glance away from your cards. He took the toothpick out from his mouth and kept it in his hand, you watched as it moved around in the air as he talked. But he traded the toothpick for his glass of whiskey when he dropped it to the table, switching it the objects in his grip so he could take a drink. "I can tell a lot by looking at someone like you."

Sam presumed he found a flaw in this game from what Patrick said. "You mean you're psychic."

"No. That'd be cheating." Patrick said, shaking his head from the accusation as he leaned forward slightly in his seat. "I'm talking about good old-fashion institution."

"Right." You said, taking his words with a grain of salt. "Let's just play."

"We are playing, love." Patrick said, getting the words out after he took another sip of his whiskey and wincing slightly at the familiar burn going down his throat. You found yourself subconsciously watching the man as he placed his cup to the table, right next to the toothpick. You looked over at him again when you heard Patrick ask you question, and it seemed to have been enough to get under your skin. Your lips automatically stretched into a frown when you heard it, giving the exact reaction Patrick was hoping for. "Does your boyfriend know you're here?"

"Bet five." You answered him by tossing a few more chips into the pile. You looked at Patrick straight in the eye, giving him a cold glare to show him you weren't playing around. Patrick raised a brow at you and smirked at you, seeming almost amused at your attempts of trying to keep yourself from going under. "I don't know how you treat your girl considering you're older than dirt. But I don't need permission from Dean to play a silly game of poker. I do what I want."

"That so? Is that why he's got Sasquatch over here playing your bodyguard, because he can't? Dean's too old to protect his gal, so he's got his little brother on duty. And I raise." Patrick leaned forward and tossed a stack of chips into the pile, making the size and number of years grow. You watched as he grabbed his drink from the table again and took a sip, all while he continued on speaking, making presumptions just from actions and facial expressions. "You know, in my line of work, you start to read people just from the sight of them and their actions. Dean seems like the type of guy who gets into these kind of sticky situations, Sam's probably got in a few himself. So, here you are, right? Trying to clean up their mess, and they still want to sit you at the kiddie table. You're not a little girl anymore, you want to play with the big boys.”

"Then again, maybe you are." Patrick leaned his free arm against the table and kept his fingers occupied by grabbing two chips from the pile and began toying with them. "You're in over your head here, Y/N. I mean you can keep making these moves—you know, playing it cautious, playing the percentages. But I'm still gonna kick your ass into the nursing home.”

"I'll take my chances. Death doesn't really stick to me. I've died..." You propped your elbow on the table and began thinking back to past hunts. You counted on your fingers to give him an example. "Three times? You could count a hundred or so from a trickster's crude sense of humor. But all of those were bloody and vicious. Dying in my sleep seems like a good way to go. And I've always wanted to grow old with Dean." You said, deflecting the words that Patrick was trying to use against you. You've heard the threats all before from the monsters you hunted. They thought using the idea of losing Dean would make you crack under pressure. But you were far too selfish to let that reality ever come true again. "And tell me, does this armchair-psychology routine usually work for you on the schmucks you play?"

Patrick let out a laugh from what you said. He reached out his hand and grabbed his toothpick from the table again, placing it between his lips. "You tell me, love. You're the one who's losing."

Out of a subconscious effect, your fingers clutched to what chips you had left. Only a few stacks that were probably no more than ten years, you told him to continue on playing. You watched as Patrick shuffled up the cards, making sure that everything was fair. You silently told him you would bury yourself into an early grave by your sheer ability of not letting go to someone you loved. Patrick's attention drifted from the game for a moment when he saw Lia, his better half of how many years, arrive into the room to see the progress of how things were going. You looked away from the couple when they shared an intimate kiss, the only thing you cared about was his toothpick, which remained at his nearly empty glass of whiskey. Patrick decided that it was time for a little break, you couldn’t have agreed more.

You and Sam didn't even waste a second when Patrick disappeared out of the room, giving you the only opportunity to make this spell work properly. You snatched the toothpick with a fragile grip as you followed behind Sam. He lead the both of you to a familiar set of metal doors. He pushed both of them wide open and began searching down each way of the alleyway to find his brother, you were hot on the younger man's heels. And like you thought, Dean was waiting for the both of you with Bobby still in the van.

"How it's going in there?" Dean hesitantly asked.

"How do you think it's going?" Sam scoffed at the question. You gave him a look from the natural reaction. You knew he wasn't partial to the idea just like Bobby and Dean. But it was the only one you had right now. "What about you? You have everything you need?"

"We still need a little he-witch DNA." Dean said, but you were already on it.

"He was chewing on it." You showed the used toothpick to Dean. You  might have been honest to Patrick about not being afraid to die. But there was always that one chance, being too arrogant in a situation, and you would permanently be nothing more than ash as the boys burned your dead body. At this point in time, you needed to be healthy and alive to finish the bigger problem at hand than some witch who was good at playing cards. "Hurry up, Dean. Please."

"All right. Just keep him busy." Dean said. You nodded your head and started to make your way back to the doors, until you heard the older Winchester give you a piece of advice that might work in your favor when it didn’t for him. "And Y/N, don't lose."

You nervously swallowed, knowing well enough there was a lot riding in your shoulders, not just for you—him too. Nodding your head, you headed back inside with Sam, all of you parting your separate ways. You dropped yourself back in your seat as Sam took his usual position next to you, both of you went on as if you hadn't move when Patrick came back into the room with Lia. He took his seat and adjusted himself so he was comfortable. While you waited for the game to resume, it remained paused for a few more moments, Patrick felt the need to divert the focus to something a bit more important.

"Question—is this what you meant to give your boyfriend?" Patrick asked you simple question. You inhaled a quiet breath when you noticed what he pulled out from the inside of his jacket pocket was a toothpick, the exact one you needed for the spell to work. "The one you gave him never passed my lips. Won't do a scrap of good." Patrick carelessly threw the toothpick across the table, watching as it landed just centimeters from your hand. Your fingers curled themselves into a fist, keeping the temptation of grabbing the object and running for the hills. "I don't like cheating, Y/N. And thanks to you, Dean's not the only one who's gonna die tonight."

You didn't have to wait long to understand what he meant by that. Patrick leaned forward in his seat, resting one palm against the table as his other arm reached out to the direction of Sam. Your head quickly turned to the direction of the younger Winchester when you heard him start breathing a bit funny. Your eyes widened slightly when you saw Sam clutch his throat, feeling as if someone was choking him. "Stop it!" You were about to lunge forward and attack him, but Patrick was quick to defend himself. Without breaking a sweat, he pinned you to your seat, making you watch as Sam was slowly starting to become blue in the face as he struggled to take a breath of air. "Leave him alone, or I swear to God!"

"Patrick, stop it! You're hurting him!" In a shocking move, Lia stepped in, trying her hardest to change the man's mind before Sam could get hurt. But Patrick wouldn't listen, he snapped at her, saying that the both of you were trying to kill them. She grabbed him by the wrist and roughly tugged at his arm, admitting a shocking truth to him. "

did it! I gave him the spell!"

Patrick let go of his hold on Sam, letting the younger man inhale a much needed breath after he heard what she said. You looked over at Sam, making sure that he was all right, a bit happier to see some color come back to his face. Patrick stood up and looked over at Lia, from the look on his face, he wasn't angered at what she had admitted, but more saddened at what she had done behind his back. "Why..." He took a step forward to the woman and cupped her face with his hands. "Why would you do that?"

"You know why." Lia whispered to him. Your eyes wandered down to her necklace she had been wearing she had been wearing yesterday. The way she was playing with it, you could sense that it held a great value to her. "You know."

You watched as Patrick processed the answer, and from the unsettling look that crossed his face, he wasn't happy. He put his focus back over to you. Patrick never broke eye contact with you as he settled himself back into his chair once more. Before you left to make the exchange with Dean, Patrick was reserved and calm. But now, his once slicked back hair was out of place and his perfectly pressed suit was starting to wrinkle. He was slowly unraveling right in front of your eyes. You could tell he was starting to show his true colors.

"Keep...playing."

The game continued on, like Patrick commanded it to. He dealt out four more cards on the table, you tossed in chips, making the middle in the middle grow. You leaned forward and placed your elbow on the table, you lifted your hand to your mouth and lightly bit the skin on your knuckle. You weren't sure what you should do, Sam watched you with a nervous eye, waiting for what move you were going to pull. Looking down at your cards, you placed them face down, not showing what kind of hand you had. Deciding to be a bold player, you stacked up your remaining chips and pushed them all in, leaving you with barely ten years left if you lost this hand.

"Well, look at you—the percentage player betting the farm. Awful transparent of you, Y/N. I mean, if I had a monster hand like you have, I'd trap you. But you get so excited, you bet yourself right out of a big pot. I fold. Set of ladies, I'm guessing?" Patrick set his cards off to the side, waiting to see the winning hand you were holding. You didn't reveal them just yet, you reached out and grabbed your rightful winnings, giving you a decent chance at winning from the pile you were now holding. Looking up at Sam for a second, you could see the anticipating at the hand you held, as Lia was curious herself. You glanced over at Patrick and put your cards next to the line of the other ones. You flipped them over—to reveal a three of clubs and a five of diamonds. A lousy hand that would have made you lose. “Nice bluff. If we had time, I could make a real player out of you.”  

“Oh, I’ve got nothing but time.” You said.

“Maybe. But I can’t say the same for Dean. Your boyfriend's gonna be dead soon. And when I say 'soon'...I mean minutes." Patrick said, giving you a piece of information that he knew would make you crack under pressure. You could pretend to be confident all you want, but when he cranked up the pressure, he could see you squirm at the reality of losing him. It was easy enough when you pushed back your chair and tempted to make a run for it, but Patrick didn't like that. He forced you back into your seat and Sam's feet glued to the floor. "The game's not over till I say it is. Blinds."

You slapped down a chip, Patrick bet two. The game took another round, you watched as he dealt out the cards with your fingers roughly tapping against the tabletop, making a quiet thud. Out of habit, you sank your teeth into your bottom lip, anticipating his next move.

"You had me fooled for a while, Y/N. Had a pretty good poker face going on, even I was impressed with your witty comebacks. But still, you can't hide the attachment you have for Dean, what you're willing to do for him when it matters." You looked down at your hand, and without missing a beat, you slid in two more chips. "When it's about your boyfriend or Sammy, you get so emotional, your brain just flies right out of the window. Good to know."

"Go to hell." You hissed at him. Patrick smirked at your insult that was nothing more than a tickle to his ego. You inhaled a deep breath as you thought for a second about a rational decision that could help you win. But you realized again that Dean had barely minutes left, and if you didn't do something, he was going to die. Just the thought of him dying because of you made a panicked look settle into your facial expression without thought. So you made a move. You gathered all your chips and pushed them forward. "I'm all-in."  

Sam eyes widened at what you were doing, "What the hell, Y/N? You can't do this."

"Listen to your friend, Y/N." Patrick warned you. "Don't do this."

"I can't leave until it's over? Fine, it's over." You told him with a hardening tone as you narrowed your eyes on the man. "Now, where is Dean?"

"Look, there's poker and then there's suicide." Patrick said, trying to be the voice of reason.

You leaned forward in your seat and stared at Patrick dead in the eye, wanting him to see the frustration creeping into your face and the desperation you couldn't fight off anymore knowing that Dean’s life hanged in the balance. "Did I stutter? Play the damn hand."

Unwillingly, Patrick agreed to your ludicrous plan. You took in a deep breath to try and calm yourself as you leaned back in your seat. You watched as Patrick placed out three more cards each of you needed to match or play higher to win. For what felt like forever, you waited as Patrick reached to grab his two cards, and faced them down so you could see the hand he had. Without a thought, you could feel your eyes glaze over, knowing that he was holding a pair of aces.

"I'm sorry, love." Patrick said with a grim expression. "Aces full."

Sam couldn't hide the honest shock and sadness at how the game turned out. You swallowed and looked over at him with an apologetic look at what you'd done. Lia stood next to him, you could see that she was silently trying to wipe away a few tears that fell. She'd done so much for all of you, only it ended in misery. "You're crying. For a witch, you're so nice, it's actually kind of creepy. It's okay. It was a great hand." You said to Patrick, slowly looking over at him, slowly coming to terms with what's happened. You let him reach forward for his winning pille. "Just not good as..." That's when you sobered up, hitting him where it hurt the most. You leaned forward and slapped down your two cards next to their twins. "Four four's."

Patrick found himself lost for words at the trick you pulled on him, the only response you gotten at first was a scoff, knowing you'd beaten him at his own game. You could feel a smile slowly starting to crawl at the end of your lips as Patrick leaned back in his seat. "Well played. You know, that whole...going-out-of-your-head-bit--very method." Patrick said, seeming rather surprised at what you could have done, fooling everyone in the room. You shrugged it off, knowing you were always one step ahead. Like Bobby said, it was all about tricking the other player. "Well, there's more to you than meets the eye."

"You could say I'm used to playing a certain role of what people want me to be." You said. You found yourself looking at Sam from the corner of your eye, knowing how the statement was much broader than Patrick would ever need to know. For now, you settled on the conversation to the reason why you played this game in the first place. "Cash these in for Dean, please."

Patrick raised his glass at you, "With pleasure."

+ + +

You made it back to the motel before Bobby or Dean, which left your mind a bit worried that you might have been too little too late to save the day. Neither one of them were answering the damn phone, leaving you nervous as you paced your motel room, wondering when one of them would just show up. After what felt like a century, you heard someone knock on your door, making you leap out from your personal thoughts. You headed to the door, not giving the person on the other side a moment to anticipate you answering their arrival. Swinging open the door, you were expecting to see Dean, his young self with a wide smile, but instead, you saw Bobby. and Sam. From the looks on their faces, you could feel your hopefulness pop like a balloon, slowly it began to deflate. You clutched the door handle with an iron grip as you stepped outside, knowing well enough they were going to give you the bad news.

Dean didn't make it, you expected Bobby to be the one to break the news as he looked over at Sam. You waited for one of them to break the silence, the anticipating killing you. But you found your concentration taken away from the men when you heard a faint a whistle coming from behind you. Looking over your shoulder, you noticed that someone was standing right behind you, making you come face to face with a familiar someone that you hadn't seen in this stage in what felt like fifty years. You could see his lips stretched into a toothy grin, the familiar lines that were natural for someone his age. It was Dean, back to his normal self. His smile only grew when you wasted not a single second by wrapping your arms around his neck and practically throwing your body against his, making it easier when you pressed your lips against his, sharing a simple kiss now that he was back to his normal self.

"So, Y/N, I gotta ask," Sam was the one who broke the moment away from you and Dean. You rested yourself against Dean's chest as he wrapped his arm around your waist, you listened to what Sam's question was. "How'd you get so good at poker?"

You found yourself biting your bottom lip, trying your hardest not to laugh at the answer you were going to give him. You looked at Dean for a second, both of you shared a couple smiles, all before you settled your gaze on Sam. "Dean taught me while we played a few rounds of strip poker when you were off 'retired' from hunting." You answered for him, giving him a playful wink for an added effect. "You learn real quick of how to win if you want to--"

"Dude, okay!" Sam cut you off, obviously not wanting a visual.

"It's a perfectly natural thing between two people, Sammy. Don't need to get so weirded out by it." Dean teased his brother, lightly smacking the taller man in the chest with his fist. "Of course, you might have forgotten the feel of a woman's touch. How long has it been since you cut loose?"

All though Sam gave his brother a dirty look, it was quickly settled with another. You could feel from the look on Sam's face that it had been too long since all of you had just cut loose and had a bit of fun. But it'd been a rough couple of days. The thought of crawling into bed and sleeping for the rest of the night seemed like the best idea that crossed your mind. Looking down at your watch, you noticed that it was just a little after eight, and if the early bedtime wasn't enough, your aching muscles made you feel like you were at least eighty years old. But you knew one thing, the aches in your bones and joints were a result of a job well done.

#huntertales update #supernatural #reader insert #supernatural imagine #supernatural fanfic #supernatural reader insert #supernatural x reader #spn #spn imagine #spn fanfic #spn reader insert #spn x reader #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester x reader #sam x reader #the curious case of dean winchester #the curious case of dean winchester: part three

[diddlesanddoodles]

COOKING

100 GT theme challenge!

This story takes place in the same universe as Bitter Lemons Make. 

Astrid watched from her comfy spot near the windows as Bastian went about his morning routine. The tall dark haired Feirgian ambled out from the upstairs bedroom as he did most mornings, almost tripped on the small rug at the bottom of the steps as he did most mornings, went on to curse at the small rug at the bottom of the steps as he did most mornings, and then blearily stumbled into the kitchen to set the kettle on to make tea. As he did most mornings.

“Mornin’, squeaks,” he yawned, mouth stretching wide to show off the pointed fangs indicative of the Feirgian giants.

Watching as he dug inside the fridge for his usual breakfast fare of pickled fish and Rhrpatche, a weird lumpy kind of pancake made with onions and fried in lard, Astrid picked at the crust left over from her own breakfast and munched on it. Cyrus, as the only one of the Feirgian pair that held a job that required an actual commute, awoke very early in the mornings and had taken up the mantle of feeding Astrid before leaving for the day. It was discovered in her first week with the pair that Bastian, as well meaning as he was, could not be held accountable for the feeding of the small creature that he had brought into their home at any time before noon. His particular occupation required long late nights sitting in front of a large console in his office filtering through codes and endless looping numbers that Astrid could not comprehend even when Bastian had attempted an explanation.

“They call us code divers,” he had told her when the more technically accurate explanations failed to take root. “I fix broken codes for big companies who never bothered to convert to the newer systems in the 80’s. So to fix little problems in their systems, they pay people like me a lot of money to go through their computers and fix whatever is wrong.”

As such, he was not a morning person and quite unintelligible until his first cup of tea.

“Cy...uh...food?” Bastian was saying, blinking inanely at her from across the room as he waited for the tea to steep. “Fed?”

“Uh-huh.” she replied, having deigned his meaning from the disjointed words that made up Sleepy Bastian Speak for ‘Did Cyrus feed you?’. It was another fifteen minutes before Bastian was alive enough to start speaking in coherent sentences, by which time Astrid had gone back to her puzzle box. She had almost solved it three times already, but there was always one piece that didn’t match and she would have to redo the whole thing. She liked the puzzle boxes her two new Feirgian guardians gave her because if she solved them, there was a chocolate inside. But whenever she solved one, they’d give her a more complicated one.  

“Auuuuuugh, Cyrus!” Bastian abruptly cried out from the kitchen. Astrid peaked over to see Bastian holding a plastic pouch. An empty plastic pouch that Astrid recognized as the one that Rhrpatche came prepackaged in. “He could have at least thrown the empty package away!”

Disgruntled at the prospect of a Rhrpatche-less breakfast, Bastian tossed the empty puch in the bin and slammed the top back down with a little more force than was really necessary. “Hito Rhrpatche vares. Perkul!”

Astrid perked up at Bastian’s use of Feirgish as he rarely spoke it when she was around. Even Cyrus has gotten into the act of speaking English exclusively in the apartment so as not to leave Astrid out of the loop. Unless they were saying things they did not want her to hear. Like on the rare times they fought or when someone was cursing. And seeing as Cyrus was not around...

“You said a bad word!” Astrid called out while pointing at the offender with an accusatory finger. All twenty something feet of Bastian froze and he turned to gap at the little human.  

“No I didn’t,” he replied.

Astrid grinned. “Yes you did. I don’t know what it means, but I know you said it.”

Moving around the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, Bastian made his towards the small sofa in front of which Astrid was sitting. He squatted down and leveled a mildly annoyed frown at her before the thin veil he had been hiding his guilt behind melted. He sighed. “If I give you a cookie will you pretend you didn’t hear anything?”

“A cookie and you solve the puzzle box for me,” Astrid countered. “Then we got a deal.”

There was a flash of surprise on Bastian’s face before he laughed and quirked an eyebrow at her. “When did you become such an extortionist?”

She just grinned and held up the puzzle box.

“Alright, alright, little miss loan shark,” Bastian replied and plucked up the little puzzle and, much to Astrid’s consternation, solved it with only four simple turns. Even with giant fingers. The top popped open and he held the small object out to her. She took it and retrieved the brightly colored foil wrapped chocolate bon bon. Instead of stuffing it into her face, she got up from her spot and walked over to where he bed was set up and placed the bright confection near her pillow.

“I’m gonna save it,” she said in answer to Bastian’s mildly inquisitive expression and then gestured expectantly with her hands. “Cookie?”

He laughed and reached out to scoop her up. “Alright, alright. Cookie it is.”

As Astrid munched away on her cookie, a hard square biscuit with a lemon sugar glaze, Bastian went about the kitchen and began to pull out various utensils, pots, and ingrediants.

“What’cha doing?” Astid asked around a mouthful of crumbs, kicking her feet idly off the top edge of the counter just above the sink and facing Bastian.

“Well, since Cyrus is a dirty pancake thief,” Bastian replied, pulling out a large container of white flour from the cupboard. “I’ll just have to make my own Rhrpatche.”

Astrid tilted her head and made a face.

“What?” Bastian asked, body drawn up in offense. “I can cook.”

“Not according to Cyrus,” she replied. “Isn’t that why all the food you buy is already made?”

“Convenience is not the same as lack of ability,” he said, pulling out a bowl and scooping flour into it without measuring. “I’m lazy, not stupid. There is in fact a difference, kiddo.”

“Don’t you usually measure flour?” Astrid asked.

“You only measure if you’re baking,” Bastian replied, grabbing the glass bottle of milk from the fridge and pouring half of it into the bowl with the flour. He waved his hand in the air as though to disperse any incredulity that might be hanging in the air. “This is cooking. Totally different.”

“Oh. Okay,” Astrid relented and went back to munching on her cookie. “If you say so.”

“Say so, I do.”

She watched him struggle with the onions next. She had watched Cyrus cook several times and he made it look so easy that the true level of difficulty was only highlighted by Bastian’s near complete lack of skill. She winced several times, fearing the dark haired giant would end up slicing his fingers open as he attempted to dice the yellow onion. After a good ten minutes and with some tears in his eyes, Bastian added the onions to the flour and milk.

He held a small jar in front of his face, examining the small printed words on the side. “Mum always added baking soda to her Rhrpatche.”

He tipped the little jar over the mixture and liberally sprinkled the baking soda into it. And then a little more for good measure. “I guess it’s what makes ‘em fluffy.”

Next came the frying part. A wide shallow pan was heating on the stove to which Bastian added several large spoonfuls of pale translucent lard. As the kitchen began to fill with the smell of bacon, Astrid stepped down from the top counter to the main one, standing amongst the carnage of onion skins to get a better look at what Bastian was doing.

Bastian spooned a great heap of the batter and held it above the hot lard, but paused. He looked down at Astrid standing close by and his eyes flickered to the pan. A spark of concern furrowed his brows and wordlessly, he put the spoon back into the bowl and used a single hand to usher Astrid back a good bit.

“Trying to fry Rhrpatche here,” he said with a smirk. “Not little humans. Best keep away from the really freaking hot oil, Squeaks. Can’t think of a way to explain to Cy why I had to rush you to the vets with horrible burns. Y’know. Without sounding like an ass.”

His eye widened at his slip of the tongue and he glanced down to see if Astrid had caught on his use of the curse word. And her triumphant grin informed him that yes. Yes, she had. With a sigh, he fished out another cookie and handed it to her.

“You’re gonna get so fat,” he muttered, giving the batter a good stir before lifting up a heaping of it.

“Then stop saying bad words!” Astrid retorted with a mouth full of cookie. Bastian just smiled and turned back to plop the gooey mixture into the bubbling lard. It splashed and hissed viciously, sending out fleck of burning oil as the heavy goop landed. Bastian leaped back from the flying lard, wiping at his arms where little spot of the hot stuff hand landed.

He was very proud of the fact that he was able to keep from letting out a string of curses that immediately sprang to his lips. And keep one more cookie out of Astrid’s hands. For now.

“Hooooboy,” he said, flashing a grin at Astrid. “Good thing I kept you back huh?”

But Astrid was not looking at Bastian. She was watching the pan. The batter had swollen into a near perfect sphere and was lazily trailing about the hot pan in a circle, it’s spherical shape causing it to turn all on its own. Bastian watched for a moment, transfixed by the sight.

“That does not look like a pancake,” Astrid supplied inanely. “It’s like...the opposite of a pancake.”

After the odd ball of dough had turned an acceptable shade of golden brown, Bastian sat it aside to cool before he cut it in half. The inside was hollow and the outside hard and crispy. He and Astrid exchanged dubious glances.

“Oh well,” Bastian replied with an unconcerned shrug, holding up one half of the ball. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

He tossed it into his mouth and Astrid watched with reserved concern. As he chewed, his eyebrows raised up in a thoughtful expression. “Not bad. Weird, but not bad.”

He offered he the other half and she shook her head.

“What? It’s not poisoned. Try it.”

“Full,” she replied lowly, holding her middle. “Tummy hurts.”

Bastian threw his head back and laughed. “Well no wonder, you silly thing! You ate half your own weight in cookies!”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

#100 themes challenge #COOKING #Astrid #Bastian #giants #tinies #humans #Feirgian #fantasy #bitter lemons make #salty lemonade #gt #g/t story #short story #cute

[fandomlife-giver]

His Maid, However You Please: 1

Summary: The ring's stone flickers like a blue abyss, an inescapable promise of death. Meanwhile, the organ plays a broken melody, its tone faltering. Listen well, young master: you must not trust bad women...No, I'm sorry. What I meant was "pink" women.

Next time on Black Maid: "His Maid, However You Please." You see, I am simply one hell of a maid.

Pairings: Eventual Sebastian x Demon!reader

@wintersdoll

Warnings: Violence, language, sexual themes

Word Count: 3458

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Her lips pulled back into a wicked grin, displaying her sharp pointed fangs. "Hello...sister."

You rose an eyebrow and let out a scoff. "Do not greet me as if we are related. Our only relation is that we are both servants in the pit of hell."

She chuckled. "Perhaps, but we may as well be. I mean we're practically sisters."

"I could never be formally associated with something as degrading and scandalous as you." You spat with venom in each word.

She gasped, before laughing as she looked at you from upside down in the tree. "Oh, Felis, you're so cruel. And to think we came all the way here just to see you."

You tilted your head. "We?" She giggled right before you saw another dark figure emerge from behind the tree and jump down until it was standing behind you.

"Felis, you didn't actually think I wouldn't come to visit, did you?" You felt it's breath on your ear as it whispered to you.

You looked at him from the corner of your eye. "Luesir. I can't say I'm surprised seeing you here."

He darkly chuckled as he stroked your arm with his long nails. "I just couldn't stay away from you any longer, my dear. Just being near you makes my blood boil."

You stared ahead at Azah, before you slapped Luesir's hand away and pushed him back against a tree. "I will ask you this only once..." You raced forward and grabbed Azah by the throat, slamming her up against the tree. "Why are you here? And please, try not to try my patience, I must return soon to my duties."

She grinned at you. "You mean as the brat's faithful little bitch?"

You rose your hand and smacked her across the face, leaving a red hand print on her left cheek. "Do not speak of him in such a distasteful manner. Your poisonous words will not be spoken on my Master's soil. Answer me now or I will permanently remove your sinful tongue."

You heard a snicker from behind you. "I think you better answer her, Azah, we wouldn't want kitty to show her claws, now would we?"

Azah smirked at you. "Yes, we certainly don't want that. It's simple, Felis, really it is. Do you know how long it's been since you've been home? We miss your sultry voice singing to the pitiful souls."

You narrowed your eyes. "The only purpose you serve by being here is by delivering a message. Let's move this along already, I wouldn't want my master to grow anxious."

Her smirk dropped. "Your master? Is he your only concern? Does your king mean nothing to you!"

"Azah!" Luesir's voice boomed. "Do not question her trust, you know the consequences."

She scoffed at him, then focused back on you. "He is growing impatient. He misses his favorite toy, and feels you've taken advantage of your given freedom."

You stared at her, before releasing her and backing away. "If he truly feels that way, then he knows nothing of freedom. If you shall excuse me, I have a contract to complete and a master to serve." You turned and began walking back to the manor. "Dear, I hope Sebastian can maintain the servants." You muttered.

"Tell us, what is it like working with such a handsome demon Butler?"

You stopped in your tracks and slowly turned to look back at her. "I mean, it's a wonder how you get anything done with that around. He's so..." She licked her lips. "...delicious"

"Take care in what you say, you demonic whore. If you speak, you'll regret it." You hissed.

She smirked. "Oh my, is our little Felis jealous? Are you actually developing an urge—even when you're not mates?" She shook her head. "He won't be pleased with you, you know how protective he is over you."

"If you are suggesting I have a need to care, then you've used what little brain capacity you have to forget that I am still a demon." You started walking again. "If that will be all, please dispose yourself from my Master's property, or you shall be forced." You waved a hand. "Good day."

They watched you walk away, with Azah sneering. "She thinks because she is his pet that she can just walk away? Fine. If she won't cooperate willingly, then we'll have to force her hand...starting with that master of hers."

. . .

Once you entered the manor, you quickly shut the garden doors with a sigh. You turned and stopped once you saw Sebastian standing in the kitchen doorway, staring at you with a raised eyebrow. "Would you care to indulge me on that little encounter just now?"

You walked over and passed by him. "Not particularly, no."

He suddenly grabbed your arm and slammed you against the wall. "Really? Well, I'll just have to fix that, now won't I?" He pulled your waist closer to where you felt his warm breath tingle your lips.

He buried his head in the crook of your neck and closed his eyes as he inhaled your scent. "I'm not sure how much longer I can resist you, my kitten. I would gladly take you right here and right now." You felt his forbidden fangs scrape your neck and his grip on your waist tighten.

You involuntary closed your eyes by his touch. *Purrrrrr*

The vibrations of his deep chuckle ran throughout your body, which didn't exactly help your current situation.

The next thing you know, a pair of lips were being smashed against yours. Your eyes widened and your jaw dropped, which only gave him an advantage as his tongue slipped into your mouth and wrestled with yours until it explored every part over and over.

"Sebastian! Y/N! Come here at once!"

You looked back towards the stairs, seeing Ciel walking around, looking for the both of you, then up at Sebastian, who completely ignored him.

Your brows furrowed as you stood loosely in his arms. "Uh....Sawasta" A deep growl rose up from the back of his throat in satisfaction that vibrated within your mouth. You tapped his shoulder. "Sawasta, oy thwink we shawed attwend wu thwa wong waster."

He slammed your back hard against the wall and used one hand to hold your arms above your head, then used his other to travel downwards and softly caress your exposed thigh.

"Sawasta!!!" You pushed forward to get him off, but he only slammed you back against the flat surface and pushed his tongue farther back down your throat.

"Where the bloody hell are they? Y/N! Sebastian! Come here now!"

Sebastian opened his eyes only to narrow them as he reluctantly removed his mouth from yours, but didn't release his hold. "Do not make such noises in my presence, my kitten, unless you intend to make more." He whispered, before he released you and started to walk down the hall towards where Ciel was.

You watched his back as he walked and mentally cursed yourself. ‘What in the hell is wrong with you?!’

You shook your head and followed him, until you both appeared at the left top of the stairs. "You called master?" Sebastian asked with that damned smile of his.

Ciel turned around from the bottom of the stairs and scoffed when he saw you both. "Well, you sure took your time to arrive. Where were you?" He asked as he climbed the stairs up to the both of you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the front doors suddenly opened with a familiar pink humanoid running towards the stairs. "Ciellll!!!!!!!!"

Ciel stopped and looked back. "Lizzie?" He asked right before she tackled him in a hug and swung him around by his arms. While she flung him like a rag doll, you noticed a woman with brown eyes and brown hair run up behind her, out of breath.

Ciel was trying to catch his breath while Lizzie grabbed his hand and placed a red box wrapped in a red bow in it. "Here! This is for you! Open it, okay? I can't wait!" She said with a wide smile.

He stood up and looked at the box in his hand, then reached to pull off the ribbon, but was stopped by Lizzie as she grabbed his wrist and stared at the ring upon his finger. "Hold on a moment. I thought I broke this ring a while ago?"

"Well fortunately, Y/N and Sebastian were able to repair it." He simply said.

She looked up at him. "That's impossible! It was chipped! I don't even see a single crack!"

Sebastian put a hand over his heart. "That is true, but if we couldn't do something so simple—"

"Then what kind of maid and butler would they be, really?" Ciel finished off.

Sebastian looked at him with a smile, then bowed his head. "You took the words out of my mouth, sir."

Lizzie took a step back with a blank face. "Oh, they fixed it." She folded her hands over her waist and closed her eyes. "That's fantastic news."

The brunette woman behind her looked at her in concern. "My lady, are you alright?"

Sensing the change of mood, you spoke up. "So, lady Elizabeth, what do you have in the box there?"

Her eyes shot open as she snatched the box from Ciel. "Uh, it's nothing! It's a secret!"

You all looked at her in confusion. "A secret? But you just told me to open it, didn't you?" Ciel questioned.

She nervously laughed and shook a finger at him. "I was teasing you, silly."

Ciel rose an eyebrow. "Teasing?"

Lizzie leaned forward and gave a playful smile. "No proper lady would try to win a gentleman with material things. That would be unseemly."

She looked back at the woman with a smile. "Now, are you ready, Paula? Ring the bells!"

The woman named Paula perked up. "Oh, yes. Of course!" She took out a set of bells and rang them with a smile. ♪Jingle♪ ♪Jingle♪ ♪Jingle♪

"Well, that's all, so have a good day!" Lizzie did a quick wave, before grabbing Paula and running out the manor, slamming the door shut behind her.

You all stared at the door with perplexed expressions. "She came here...to ring some...bells for me." Ciel slowly said.

You smiled as you watched her leave from the window. "Tomorrow is your birthday, young master." You looked down at him. "I'm sure that's why she came." Ciel's eye widened in realization, but he said nothing.

After a moment of silence, Sebastian spoke up. "So, what do you think? Shall we hold a birthday party?" He looked ahead at the servants, who were listening in from behind one of the pillars of the room. "It seems that some people would like to celebrate with you." They quickly moved back, then looked in again.

Ciel hummed in thought, then looked down. "Tomorrow is my birthday..."

Flashback...

'"Hey Mr, tomorrow's my birthday, exciting huh!" He beamed up at the man.

You swiftly moved to walk up behind them. "Oh, my young lord, please." You said, putting your hands on his shoulders.

'"I apologize, sir. Please forgive my young master." You said while bowing your head.

"Not to worry Madame, he is a very charming young man." The man said with a smile while removing his top hat. You gave him a closed-eyed smile in response.

"Y/N said that since tomorrow's my birthday, I can sleep in the same room with mother and father tomorrow night. And mother said she's going to read me as many stories as I want!" He happily informed.

Then, the next night...

"Mother! Father! Y/N! Where are You?!" He shouted as he ran. He bursted through the room to the main parlor.

"Father!" He shouted, until he suddenly went stiff with his eyes wide and mouth open at the sight of his father, already dead, sitting in a chair with the room surrounded by flames.

My mother was going to read me stories...My father was going to give me a present...

Ciel stared up at the red hot branding iron, that held the carving of a symbol that was slowly being brought closer to him. He glanced around at the people in cloaks that surrounded him, yet all he wished was for you to come and save him from his fate. "On this day, you shall be marked with the sign of the noble beast."'

But...you never came.

I was so excited...

Ciel struggled against the people who held him down, but it was no use. Tears welled up in his eyes.

'Y/N...' His scream of pain echoed the room as steam rose from his side.

"Yes...happy birthday to me." He turned and began to walk up the stairs.

You looked after him with curious eyes. "Master?" He didn't stop as he spoke.

"This is ridiculous. Bring me my tea."

Sebastian bowed his head. "Certainly, master." You both stared after him.

. . .

*Knock* *knock* *Knock*

"Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?" You walked to the front door and opened it, seeing a young man who was shivering as if ice was in his pants.

"Oh! Good evening, miss. Pardon me, but is this the home of Earl Phantomhive?" He politely asked with chattering teeth.

"Yes, but my master is busy at the moment. What is the purpose of a visit in such an ungodly hour?"

He dryly laughed. "Apologies for coming so late, ma'am, but I bring a message from her majesty." Your eyebrows rose up as he reached in his bag and pulled out a letter with the royal seal, handing it to you with trembling hands.

You grabbed it from him and studied it for a moment. "Thank you, I shall deliver it immediately. Have a good night, now." You closed the door and headed straight for Ciel's study.

"Uh, hello! Miss?"

. . .

You quickly walked down the hallway, nearing Ciel's study. "Elizabeth's disappeared?"

You stopped in your tracks and looked into the room, seeing Sebastian before Ciel. "Yes. Her maid says she lost track of her when they were struck in traffic in Islington." He informed.

Ciel stood up from his chair. "Then that's where we are headed. Honestly, what was she thinking?" They acknowledged your presence when you walked in and held out the letter.

"Before that, sir, I think you should look at this." He looked down at the seal, then tilted his head with wide eyes and a scoff.

After a brief silence, he sighed and took it from you, sliced it open and read it aloud. "Scotland yard has been investigating a series of kidnappings. The targets are always young girls. Their bodies have not turned up yet, but their most likely dead. The kidnapper sends a piece of the hope diamond to each of his victims before taking them. The very diamond is said to bring a curse on whoever owns it. The gem we were recently chasing after, who knew we'd hear about it again like this."

"What now, my lord?" You asked.

He dropped the letter on his desk and looked up at the both of you. "We do what the queen has asked of us. That is always our first priority." He looked directly at you. "My job as guardian of the underworld."

. . .

You didn't even have to stare out the window to become lost in thought. Since this morning, you have been on high alert over your surroundings, determined to keep Ciel protected.

Sebastian felt how tense you were, yet he said nothing, since he felt if he were to point it out, the break in this endless game of cat and mouse you had earlier would mean nothing.

But of course, that was the last thing on your mind. Instead, it remained on the two demons who had threatened your master. Or more specifically, a certain pink haired snake demon.

"What is it?" You looked at Sebastian when he spoke then followed his gaze to Ciel, who was staring out the window.

"Are you prepared? I have an order to give the both of you."

You straightened up and gave him your full attention. "Yes."

"Question everyone who knew the victims: friends, family, and make up a suspect list. Get names and addresses. Then search the crime scene. It shouldn't take long, 3 hours shall be enough." He never looked away from the window.

You narrowed your eyes and looked beyond the window, seeing two dark figures into the distance, then looked back at him. "And what of you, young master? Surely, you'll need someone by your side if you wish to travel on your own."

He stayed silent and looked at your reflection in the glass. "While you're both seeing to that, I have some other business to take care of. Am I understood?"

Your gaze dropped down while Sebastian answered. "Perfectly, sir."

"Then hurry and get on with it."

You couldn't help but smile to yourself at how impatient he was. "Yes, as you wish my lord."

As the carriage drove down the dark road surrounded by the nightly forest, you and Sebastian soared up from the carriage and landed on the ground. You stood up and looked back at the carriage as it disappeared into the night.

Ciel, please don't do anything foolish. That's our job. Yours is only to order us to do it.

"Y/N." You looked ahead at Sebastian as he stood waiting for you, before you both ran down the road and vanished into the woods.

. . .

Ciel walked down the dark streets of London and stopped by the entrance of an alley. "Paula said she lost Lizzie somewhere around here..."

He then groaned in annoyance. "But why did I have to bring him with me?!" Pluto barked from beside him as he sat in his human form, wearing a tux.

Flashback...

'You stood before Ciel, gripping Pluto by his collar and smiled at him. "Take this with you, young master. I think you might find it useful." Pluto started to wag his tail and panted as he looked up at you with a happy smile.'

'Ciel looked him over. "Useful? How so?" Pluto stopped wagging his tail and looked at Ciel curiously.'

'"Well, sir, if necessary, throw it at an attacker and run."'

'Ciel looked over at Sebastian with a glare while you ignored him. "Simple. Put him to work. Pluto is a hound, sir, he can track anything and can protect you if needed." Ciel rubbed his head.'

. . .

Ciel heavily sighed. "Well, anyway, you're a dog like Y/N pointed out. Which means you can track scents, can't you?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a red ribbon, then knelt down and held it out in front of Pluto. "Here's the ribbon from Lizzie's gift."

Pluto sniffed it, then sneezed and scratched the back of his ear with his foot. "You stupid little mongrel! Is Sebastian and Y/N the only one's you'll listen to?!" Pluto suddenly pulled him along, nearly dragging him as he ran into the alley.

Pluto charged forward towards a white female dog with a pink bow on, until Ciel held him back by his leash. "Why do you have to start looking for a mate now?!" God, you really are like Sebastian

"Oh! A man looking for a mate? Perhaps I can help."

The pink-bowed dog ran away into the night while Ciel looked up at the red man who stood on the roof with his back to him as he gazed at the moon. "I am a hunter of love and at last, my pray is before me! Red is the color of firey passion, and I am flaming!"

Ciel gaped at him with wide eyes as flashbacks of the night of his aunt's death came to him. Red... He clenched his teeth at him as Grell turned around.

"A gorgeous man right there!" He pointed a finger towards Ciel and Pluto.

#Sebastian Michael is x reader #Black butler x reader #Black butler fanfic

[michaelreaderreblog]

My truemate pt2

Word Count: 2,162

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“Hey sweet cheeks, nice scent you have. How about giving me a taste right now” He says while pulling you away from your brothers.

“What the hell gives you the right to come at me like that huh?” You bark back as you pull away from his tight embrace.

“You disrespectful little slut shouldnt talk back to an Alpha” As he yells, your brothers turn around to find you missing from their side and immediately rush to your side right away.

“Exactly what she said, what the hell gives you the damn right to touch her. If she doesnt like it than leave her the hell alone” Dean growls back, and showing no signs of backing down from the creep of an Alpha.

Sam has you hidden behind him while Dean is sizing him up and it works, no one ever dared to start a fight with your older brother well your brothers in general.

As the Alpha backs down is when the manager of the place comes out to the floor, he is this tall, scruffy looking and the most gorgeous blue eyes you have ever seen and his scent gives him away which is not surprising he is an Alpha.

“ROMAN!!!! How many times have I told you? You harass my customers again I will throw you out on your ass and never let you back in” He says with authority in his voice and that ruffles a bit of your feathers but sure hope that wouldnt be that obvious.

“Oh c'mon Benny! With that fine piece of Omega ass you have to give me this one acceptance” Roman creepily locks eyes with you but you stay hidden behind Sam and as you stand there you begin to feel completely violated.

“Hey, hey, hey, I got you ok, I've got you” He says as he pulls you into his arms. Sam senses your fear and about to walk in the direction of the front entrance.

“Hey sweet heart ditch the moose and meet me out back” Thats when Dean throws the first punch and tackles him to the floor. The manager and another customer get Dean off of the creep he tackled.

“Michael, get Roman out of here before this guy kills him” The manager says as he has his hold on Dean but wouldnt be long before he will break that hold and tackle Roman again. Michael takes him out the door and makes sure he doesnt go any where near you.

“Oh c'mon Mikey, I know how to share. You can have her after Im done with her or we can both have her at the same time. Looks like she can handle two knots at the same time.” The creep looks to Michael with an evil grin on his face. Sam is about to punch the creep square in the face when Michael cuts him off and he does instead.

“THATS NOT HOW YOU SPEAK OF A PERSON!!” Michael practically growls at the creep and gets up very quickly to run off.

After the scene before you is when you started to get unusually aroused on how Michael used his alpha voice to yell back at Roman but you hope that it wouldnt be that obvious to your brother Sam because you didnt want to gross him out completely.

You started to get a whiff of his scent and to you it was pleasant well more than just pleasant it was more in the lines of protector, provider and for some odd reason “mate” You couldnt bring yourself to think of him that way but the thought still lurked.

Sam watches and still has you in his embrace as the both of you watch him disappear from the restaurant.

“Miss are you ok? Dick is a dick like literally” the man says as he slowly approaches you and Sam.

“Sorry she is still shaken up but um she is starting to settle down though. Think as soon as my brother settles down inside we are just going to head home.” Sam says to the man as they both stand not far from one another and you still cant bring yourself to look at the person who threw out the douche that laid his hands on you.

“My name is Michael, Michael Cuthbert” He sticks his hand out to shake his hand.

“Cuthbert as in Cuthbert realtors?” Sam asks as he shakes his hand.

“Um yeah but that would be my mother” He answers as he takes his hand away from Sams hold.

“Sam, Sam Winchester and this is my sister Y/n Winchester” Sam introduces himself to Michael along with you but you dont have the heart to greet him right now.

“Think meeting the both of you on better circumstances would have been better and not this way.” Michael says looking to Sam but couldnt look to you since you have been hiding behind your brother the whole time.

“Anyways she sold us the house in the outskirts of town” He says while looking from you to Michael.

“Oh you mean the house on lake manitoc or um Poughkeepsie Road?” He asks keeping his gaze on your brother knowing he didnt want to scare you off by constantly looking at you.

“Yeah Poughkeepsie Road” Sam says but you nudge his from behind.

“The lake is also called Lake Manitoc” You whisper to Sam.

“Oh right yes on both” Thats when the manager comes out to see how you were doing but stay hidden behind Sam.

“Im sorry for the trouble Roman has caused ya and wanted to make sure you were alright. I wanted to also let you know that you do not need to pay for any meals for the rest of the week. I just feel incredibly horrible for such behaviour and in hopes you will except my gracious offer. Im Benny by the way, your brother Dean is alright and is settled in one of the booths eating my famous pecan pie” He says while he is looking in your direction hoping you would accept his apologies and offer.

You dont meet his gaze but still shake in fear, Sam notices it right away and Dean comes out.

“Baby girl you ok?” He asks running towards you and you do the same.

You began to shake even more in your brothers arms.

“Its alright, I got you, we've got you. We got you. Its alright” He says while whispering at the top of your head.

“I wanna go home” You whisper right back to Dean.

“Ok we will go home alright, c'mon kiddo lets get in the car” He opens the passenger door for you, you slide directly in the middle and grab Sam's arm to slide in the front seat as well because you wanted to hang on to your brother Sam while heading home because you couldnt do that to Dean while he is driving.

“Thanks for all you've done, both of you” Dean says before he gets into the driver seat.

“Its not a problem really, how about leave me your address and I'll have the food delivered to your place, how does that sound?” Benny asks

“Yeah that sounds great actually, since I dont have time to leave an order but um surprise us” Dean says and gives one last wave and gets into the car to start her up and drive home.

“Benny?” Michael says while still standing in the same spot.

“Ye- wait a minute, you mean?” He looks to Michael and he gives him a nod.

“Oh sweet lord on bicycle” He says looking away from Michael and to the disappearing car while he covers his mouth with his hand.

“I think I found my true mate Benny” He says in a whisper.

“If you did, what does she smell like to you?” He asks looking to Michael as they enter back inside the restaurant and go to the kitchen to put in a surprise order.

“She smelled like freshly grinded coffee, with the smell of banana's and another sweet smell of caramel just so perfectly blended together or having a freshly made cup of coffee in the morning with a banana sandwich spread on top with Caramel sauce” Michael says with a fond smile across his face as he describes your scent.

When you and your brothers get home and walk into the house and take off your jackets and shoes at the door to hang on the coat rack Dean has placed near by the door. You walk to the kitchen very slowly and realize that your older brother Dean is right behind you.

“Y/n you ok?” He asks as he leans against the fridge debating if he should grab a beer or get some hard liquor from under the sink.

“I will be fine in a minute, I just uh need a little time to get myself together” You answer him honestly as you sit at the counter table.

“Ok thats fine um just so you know Benny says he is going to have someone deliver the food and mentioned its on the house” He says as he makes his way to you from the fridge.

“Y/n you can press charges if you want” Sam says from behind the both of you.

“Right and have them laugh in my face while they tell me its all my fault and finish off with I encouraged it” You tell your brothers in a shaky voice you didnt realize that it came out that way.

“No they wont because we can back you up on this, and not only us but Benny and that guy Michael can be your witnesses to” Sam says as he gives you his puppy dog eyes that are basically pleading with you to do something about the fondling at the restaurant.

“I dont know just, Im just going to go rest in my room for a bit. Let me know when dinner is here” You tell them as you slowly get up from the chair and push it back in to get upstairs to your room to have a few moments to yourself.

“I hope she takes the bastard to court, the way he was looking at her and how he touched her just pissed me right off” Dean says with a growl, a deep throat growl down in his chest and all he can see is red in his rage.

“Dean, calm down y/n doesnt need this right now. I just hope she follows through with this because here in the state of Washington its against the law to harass an Omega against their will and will be punished as soon as the other person calls it in meaning just as long as y/n calls it in” Sam says as he tries to calm down his older brother and once he got him to listen to a word he is saying is when he started to cool down from his hot rage.

You lay in your bed replaying the images over and over again in your head

'I need to do something about this' you think to yourself as you lay there. A knock is what brings you out of your thoughts and you tell the person to enter.

“Hey y/n the food is here” Sam says as he enters into the room and the scent of a Beta swirls into your room so knowing the scent is neutral.

“Ok” Is all you say when you get up from the bed to go down the stairs to eat with your brothers.

“Hey y/n look what I cooked” Dean says once you enter the kitchen as he reveals the entrees which are three stake dinners with caramelized onions, minced garlic, baked and mashed potatoes, with grilled asparagus and sated mushrooms. You chuckle at Dean when he mentioned he had prepared the meal all by himself.

“There is that beautiful smile I have been waiting to see” Your older brother says leaned against the chairs at the table.

All three of you seat yourselves at the table as Dean served out the food, between the three of you is when random conversations were being started at the random moments between meals about what else to do with the house. Dean mentioned about making book shelves for the living room since he has been so curious about Michael's warehouse.

When he brought up Michael is when you thought about the scent he gave off back at the restaurant and to you it smelt like fresh rain falling on the first day of Summer with an earthy scent that gives off fresh mint sprouting into the air and if you smell close enough you can also smell cool crisp air that has come during the first day of Fall which meant protector, provider, kind, home and mine. And than it hit you

“Oh god” You mutter out loud not realizing you were thinking out loud.

#a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o au #supernatural!au #supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #reader insert #benny lafitte #dick roman #alpha!dean #alpha!sam #alpha!michael #omega!reader #michael #supernatural!michael #michael x reader #supernatural!michael x reader

[lafaiette]

Vir Suledin - Chapter 5

Direct sequel to Var Lath, which I suggest reading before this one.

Lavellan stays in Solas’ base, hoping to find with him a new way to save the Elven people and all Thedas. Their friends will help too.

Chapter 1 - 2 - 3 - 4

Other Solavellan fanfics

True Self

After glaring at Adahl and Alas who desperately tries to scramble back on their feet, Solas decides to start from the main courtyard.

It’s the one he and Scarlet are actually standing in right now: around them, the old, cracked, dusty ruins of the place Solas chose as his base stand in all their forgotten elven glory, offering shade to the rich grass under their feet and tiny nooks to the colorful flowers that grow everywhere.

There is a well too, as old as the base, and even from afar Scarlet can see ancient carvings on it and recognize the faint gilding of the upper bar as gold. There are also some pieces of golden mosaic left on its surface just like on the walls she saw last night, as they went to say goodbye to Enasalin for the last time.

The flowers are actually what makes the courtyard so beautiful, because not only their colours are so varied, but they are also rare and it’s a wonder to see so many specimens here, growing all together in harmony.

The trees too are wonderful: tall and large, but not imposing, they offer even more fresh shade than the walls and many agents are relaxing, writing, or training under their comforting foliage.

A faint path of golden and green tiles can be glimpsed under the dust and leaves: Scarlet recognizes some symbols encountered in other elven ruins she visited as Inquisitor; others are simply known to her because her Keeper taught them to her and all her clan.

But there are others that she doesn’t know and never saw before, so she spends a long time trying to decipher them while Solas decides how to better show her the courtyard.

“There are some interesting murals over there.” he mumbles and his voice sounds timid. That makes her raise her head and look at him in surprise.

He is timid. His face is all red and he looks antsy and anxious, like a young boy on his first date with his beloved maiden. But they have been together for years, now, and they had their fair share of dates, so what is he afraid of?

‘Does he fear I might get bored?’ she wonders, then she understands.

This time they are having a date in his place. He is showing her something that he made, something that he worked hard to organize and assemble: it’s his organization, it’s his small army, this is the base he chose and decided to renovate, these are the people he personally chose to work for him.

He hopes she will be proud of what he accomplished, even though at first the reason he did all this was to tear down the Veil in a destructive manner. He felt like he didn’t really have a choice back then, though, and many of the agents he has here are willing and happy to see the other races survive too, so she can’t be mad at him for that.

“There are more rooms that need to be cleaned and refurnished.” he continues, grimacing. “And… the kitchens are not much large, but the cooks assured me they are good enough. Also, lean on me, there are patches of moss on some parts of the ground and I do not want you to slip on them.”

He sighs, fearing his words and the wild exterior of the base made a terrible impression on her.

“Solas…” she starts, biting her lips not to laugh, but then he lightens up and smiles at her, exclaiming: “The library! I almost forgot. Come, vhenan, this is the briefest way.”

“Abelas is waiting in the library, my lord.” Adahl informs him, acting as he never eavesdropped on them and was caught doing so. “The agents who just came back from Tevinter are there too.”

Solas curses under his breath and coldly replies: “Then they will wait. I have no intention of seeing Abelas now.”

He tries to smile again and pats Scarlet’s hand, a reassuring gesture. “We might start from the kitchens, then, and grab something to eat.”

She is about to accept, but then she thinks about the argument that Solas and Abelas had and her promise to the Sentinel to come out soon to talk with him. If she and Solas makes him wait more, without showing any kind of interest and respect for what he and the agents have to say, he will get even angrier.

He already can’t stand her much. If she really proved to be the nuisance he thinks her to be, then there would be no hope to actually talk to him and establish a sort of friendly relationship with him.

She doesn’t want to cause problems to Solas. She doesn’t want him to lose the respect of his agents because of her. They need to convince as many people as possible that the Veil must not be destroyed carelessly, but that there might actually be a better way…

Although Abelas considers that way and its consequences even worse. She must show him that not everything might be lost, even if they will cause the Evanuris to get free. And to do that, she has to win his respect and trust.

“No. Let’s go to the library.” She smiles at Solas and gently interrupts him before he can complain: “We will have all the time to explore the base later. For now focus on your agents and hear what they have to tell you.”

He looks flabbergasted. Outraged. Nearly offended by the mere idea.

“Vhenan…!”

She giggles and kisses his nose, as his utter surprise and confusion just increase.

“Don’t worry, I won’t listen to your conversation!” She shoots an amused look at Adahl and Alas, who blush and look away, then she beams at Solas: “I will read some books. Far from you and the others, so Abelas won’t think I’m spying on you. Do you have anything on sewing or food?”

Solas babbles something, then glares at her, but it’s more like a glare directed at Abelas and his bad manners and paranoia.

“You shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t do this. You are here now and I have no intention of wasting any more time. Abelas and those agents can wait. They will wait, in fact.”

“No, they won’t.” Scarlet uses her Inquisitor voice now and it has a clear effect on Solas. He blinks and stares at her, more dumbfounded than before, as she continues with a small frown on her face:

“We will go to them, vhenan, and you will hear their report and do whatever you do in these situations. I will wait for you and then we will continue our walk.”

She tugs at his sleeve and nods at a general, vague direction, smiling again and concluding: “Now, let’s go! I really need to read some new books.”

He looks about to whine and complain, but her pointed look and lopsided smile tell him to stop it and he can only grunt, scowl, and pout as they head towards a smaller building decorated with typical elven windows and carvings.

He glares at the path in front of them for the whole time, without pronouncing a single word, but his grasp on her hand is gentle and he carefully guides her far from the patches of moss and broken tiles.

He is still scowling hard when they enter the library and his mood only gets worse as he sees Abelas and a handful of agents standing near one of the large tables of the room.

The library is magnificent, despite its disarrayed look: there are long tables offering all the space necessary to sit, read, and study in peace and the shelves are as high and large as the ones Scarlet saw in the Vir Dirthara. They touch the ceiling, so sturdy ladders have been provided to reach the books.

Even here, there are old mosaics on the walls, telling ancient stories and showing long-forgotten events of a past that Scarlet barely knows.

The golden tiles on the floor have been accurately cleaned and repaired and magic fire burns in tall, round bowls on the walls: she has no doubt it offers an incredible light at night.

Abelas and the agents turn and raise their heads as they hear the doors open: the Sentinel scowls as hard as Solas, while the spies gasp and whisper with each other. They didn’t know Scarlet was here and they didn’t have the chance to learn of her presence, since they have just arrived.

Apparently Abelas didn’t think about informing them sooner.

Much to Scarlet’s relief, they don’t look annoyed or scared by her presence. Like before, she sees curiosity and surprise in their eyes and in some cases even awe and respect. Most of them bow their head as she and Solas approach and the younger ones look impatient to speak to her.

“Lady Lavellan will remain here for a while.” Solas announces, ignoring completely Abelas. “I trust all of you will make her stay a pleasant experience.” As he says this, his eyes slowly move to the Sentinel, who doesn’t reply.

The agents reassure him and promise they will do so, then they address Scarlet directly, greeting her and bowing again. Part of her shyness comes back, but she holds it in check and kindly greets them back, professional and gentle like during the days of the Inquisition.

“I will go find some interesting books.” she tells Solas, but then hesitates, not knowing whether she can kiss him or not. His agents are here and he might feel embarrassed, maybe he would prefer to keep such displays of affection private. He did kiss her in front of Adahl and Alas, but…

He notices her hesitation and chases it away with a smile and a warm kiss: one or two agents giggle, only to be silenced by the others, and a corner of Abelas’ mouth twitch downwards, but Solas looks as happy as ever and Scarlet can’t help but smile too.

She quickly walks away from the table, red like a tomato and still smiling, and does her best to find the farthest bookshelf and stay there without interrupting them. The library is large and its ceiling tall, though, so Solas’ voice echoes well, especially because he has no intention of lowering it.

Despite her attempts, many words still reach her ears and hearing what they are talking about is inevitable, even if Abelas tries in every way to keep their tones low: the agents discovered more about the Qunari’s intentions.

Apparently their efforts in Tevinter are stronger than ever and things are getting dangerous for the Imperium. Should the Qunari attack now with most of their armies, the humans would have no way out.

“We must save and secure all the innocents we can.” she hears Solas say. “Slaves, children, elders, women, everyone. All of those who cannot defend themselves, those who never chose this war, those who have no means to escape and leave Tevinter on their own.”

“What about the ruins we found, sir?” an agent asks, ignoring Abelas’ request to speak in lower tones, and Solas replies: “Make sure nobody else will find them. Use magic if necessary.”

“Shouldn’t we try to dig more?” Abelas intervenes, forgetting about his own voice. “If those documents and information you needed are there, then…”

“We will interrupt our efforts for now.” Solas says, calm as ever, and a collective gasp can be heard in the library. He doesn’t even hesitate or pause before continuing: “I need some time to study what we have gathered until now, what Scarlet and the others discovered and… and to prepare everything.”

“No, I know what you need time for.” Abelas hisses, before smashing a hand on his table. Scarlet grimaces at the sound, but doesn’t move from behind the tall bookshelf and forces herself to stare at the book open in front of her with all her willpower.

It’s useless, because Abelas’ furious whisper reaches her all the same, whether she wants it or not:

“You need time to spend more blissful moments with your beloved Inquisitor, while our people struggle in this world and those who call themselves Elvhen forget and twist our lore with each passing day.”

“You still haven’t apologized to her.” Solas icily reminds him, but the Sentinel snarls.

“I did not mean to hurt her and she knows this, but her presence here is dangerous. Whatever she told you, whatever she promised you, you know it is too dangerous. You know we cannot afford to follow her plan.”

“Her plan might work. And if it is as good as she and our friends believe, then we will follow it.” A pause, then Solas concludes, sounding confident and certain: “We will deal with all the consequences like we would have dealt with the ones borne out of our original plan.”

A heavy silence follows and Scarlet realizes the agents don’t know that the Evanuris will be freed if the Veil is destroyed following her way. She can feel their confusion in the air and also Solas’ panic, because he doesn’t want them to know.

Many of them are willing to let the other races survive and share with them the joy of a restored Thedas, but if they knew the price to pay was a terrible calamity, perhaps the worst one Thedas ever knew, then Scarlet has no doubt that they would refuse to follow Solas.

Apparently Abelas has the good sense to stop talking about that in front of the agents, because he tiredly concludes: “Wait, if you must, but my Sentinels and I will keep searching for every scrap of ancient magic that we could use. When the time finally comes, we will be ready. Although I ignore how ready one can be for such a thing.”

She hears the steps of his armor on the tiles, but they are interrupted by Solas’ voice.

“This world is not as terrible as you believe, lethallin. Give it a chance.”

Abelas doesn’t reply, but his steps sound faster, angrier, as he leaves the library and loudly closes the doors behind himself.

Solas sighs, then asks the agents more questions about their mission, the things they saw and discovered in Minrathous.

Scarlet is perfectly aware of having listened to a good part of their conversation already, but even now she can’t really stop the words from coming to her and no matter how many books she opens on the table, they aren’t enough to catch her attention.

“Panic is rising in the city. The Magisterium is convinced the Qunari will strike the decisive blow soon and it drives them mad.” an agent says and Scarlet’s hand moves to her pendant. Is Dorian really alright?

“Our forces have been as discreet as possible, but words about you have spread in most corners of Thedas, my lord, and there have been… retaliations against the elves. We will try to save and defend the most we can.”

“Good.” A moment of silence, then Solas adds: “If they refuse to work with us, ask them to go to Lady Lavellan’s base then.”

Scarlet smiles and blushes at that and then she hears Solas’ steps come closer to where she is. She hurriedly looks down at all the books she opened, only to realize they are written in ancient Elvhen.

“Ma vhenan.” he calls softly, approaching her and resting a hand on her back. “Come, don’t stay here alone any longer.”

“But…” she glances at the bookshelf behind his back, because behind it there are the agents he was speaking with.

“Only Abelas would think you want to eavesdrop and spy on us.” he says with a sad, lopsided smile. Then his expression softens and he looks at her face, her eyes, her body, her right shoulder whose bandages can be seen peek out of her shirt.

She blushes and looks down, a bit self-conscious about that new outfit. It’s comfortable and light like the old one that got dirty with blood at Enasalin’s funeral, but it’s also a bit tighter and it highlights the form of her breasts and butt more.

When she raises her eyes and sees the look on Solas’ face, she wishes this room was completely empty and her shoulder well again just to push him on one of the tables and ride him until sunset.

He clearly knows what she is thinking about, because a roguish grin splits his face in half, causing Scarlet to blush even more and groan; she tries to hide her face against his pelt and he can’t hold back, bursting into a boyish laugh that echoes in the library and makes the agents jump out of their skin in surprise.

“Just you wait until I can move my arm again.” she mumbles, smiling and pouting at him at the same time, while Solas cradles her face in his hands and kisses it with a low chuckle.

“Oh, I will, my love. I will patiently await.” he promises, peppering her face with tickling pecks, and every time she tries to return them he steals more kisses or plays with her lips.

His hands move to her waist and she moves hers to rest it on the small of his back, but he stops her before she can do so.

“Do not strain yourself, vhenan.” he says, brushing one lock of hair behind her ear, and she seizes the chance to finally kiss him back. He smiles and painfully steps back to let her move, saying: “Let’s go back to my agents, now. I want you to listen to what they have to say.”

The sudden lack of contact hurts her too and the dream they shared in bed comes to mind, a bittersweet memory that makes her heart beat too fast, but soon their hands are entwined and they step back into the aisle like that, without hiding their love, and the air becomes breathable again.

Scarlet greets the agents again and they kindly inform her of the current status of Tevinter. Things don’t bode well for the Imperium and the familiar weight of the world that she has felt on her shoulders since she became Inquisitor, comes back.

She feels responsible and Abelas’ words hurt deep: this week she and Solas want to spend in a sort of blissful limbo of denial is undoubtedly selfish and even though she knows they deserve it, that they aren’t asking that much, she feels guilty and almost desires to put her armor on and go back into the matters of politics, war, espionage.

“We tried to infiltrate Magister Pavus’ house to protect him and keep an eye on him, my lady.” an elder agent says, confirming the suspicions she and Dorian always had. “But he managed to discover our people every single time.”

“Yes, I know.” she chuckles. “He often complained about the amount of spies who pretended to be slaves looking for a master. When he started having paid servants, the offers doubled.”

“But he always found out who my agents were even then.” Solas says and he gives her an amused smile. “I guess he is used to recognize such people, thanks to his Tevene education. You, on the other hand…”

She blushes and sighs, aware of how naïve she can be sometimes.

“I know, I know. I trusted all the people who entered my base way too much. Maybe I thought nobody could infiltrate us because Leliana was there most of the time.” She makes a low sound, then asks timidly: “… Who are the agents Enasalin used to talk to while he was in my base?”

“There are currently two there, my lady.” one of the elves in front of her promptly answers. “They…”

“No, wait!” She thinks hard about it, tries to remember all the reasoning she made in her room, then starts with her first suspect: “Let’s see… I always thought the old elf who brought us food was kind of suspicious…”

“Really, now?” Solas says, smirking smugly, but he doesn’t confirm nor deny it and she sticks her tongue at him, pinching his hand to retaliate. He laughs like he laughed before, in front of everyone this time, and the agents look mesmerized by that sight, as if they never saw laugh him before.

That’s probably the case, Scarlet thinks with sadness and she doesn’t even hesitate or let her shyness stop her: she presses a sweet kiss on Solas’ cheek, then quickly goes back to the main topic to stop herself from combusting.

“Will you keep an eye on Dorian from afar for me?” she asks the agents, noticing how some of them are smirking at each other or whispering. The two or three who are listening intently to her nod and promise they will try to infiltrate his house only to protect him from his enemies. They don’t have to discover what he is studying anymore now.

“He has many, doesn’t he?” she sighs. “Venatori and Qunari emissaries threaten him every day, but he has always been able to stop them before they could arrive to him.”

“His enemies increased, I fear.” the elder agent who spoke before says and she turns to him, eyes wide. He clears his throat and hurries to explain, not seeing Solas’ panicked and irate expression: “Reliable sources have told us that a large part of the Magisterium and the Altus caste are against him and his Lucerni party also because of his friendship with you and his affiliation with your non-Inquisition, my lady.”

“What?” Scarlet feels her face and back grow cold, as if blood left her body. She shakes her head, not feeling Solas’ grip on her hand. “Why? We gave them no reason to…”

“Everyone knows about you and Lord Fen’Harel, my lady.” another agent, a young woman, continues. “They… uh… don’t trust you and consequently they don’t trust Dorian Pavus and all the reforms he’s trying to make.”

Another huge weight settles upon Scarlet’s shoulders and she feels sick. Dorian never told her this, on the contrary he always reassured her that everything in Tevinter was fine, except for the Qunari looming on the horizon. Not even Leliana informed her about this.

Are her other friends having similar problems too? She hasn’t had the chance to visit them yet, she was too busy with her organization and could only exchange letters with them.

She never traveled much too far from her current base and every contact with the outside world she had never showed her what Thedas really thought about her relationship with Solas and her work.

She did try, however, to change the opinion of the world about him: her agents have the order to spread no disinformation and ill things about Fen’Harel, but only report the truth and the true objective of their organization, that is change his mind, not kill him.

But she knows how hard it is to change people’s mind and even some members of her clan are perplexed and worried by her behavior and choices, so she knows she shouldn’t really be surprised.

It seems that once again nobody believes Solas to be a good man, not even when there are individuals finally defending him and his reputation. This fact, together with the thought of their friends suffering because of this, hurts her immensely and she wonders how the world can be so blind, so cruel, so stubborn.

She turns to look at him and sees his pained expression, which quickly shifts back into anger directed at the two agents, who babble an apology.

“Solas…” she says and his face betrays a deep sadness again as he turns to her. “Ma vhenan, this is not your fault.”

He looks pleasantly surprised by her words and she smiles at him, bringing his hand to her chest and continuing: “This is not a fate you cannot escape. One day everyone will know that Fen’Harel is not a monster. One day everyone, not just me and the others, will love you.”

He smiles, but it looks more like a pained grimace.

“I very doubt that.” he replies softly, his voice hoarse, and she knows that means he’s forcing back tears.

Fury aimed at Thedas, at the foolish magisters of Tevinter, at the blind high powers of the Qun, at every idiotic noble of Orlais, at every stubborn Dalish and city elf, boils in her and her expression hardens, steel-like.

“Then I will make them see!” She turns to the table, then back at Solas, unable to stay still, and babbles, trembling with rage: “And if they won’t see, then… then… then fuck them!”

She is not one to curse and swear bad words, so Solas looks even more surprised, the agents snicker, and she blushes and feels the urge to apologize. But then Solas laughs and the sound isn’t sad, but relieved and happy instead, and she stares at him as if it is a miraculous sight.

‘It is.’ she thinks holding his hand tighter. It’s so good to finally see and hear him laugh like this!

“Thank you, vhenan.” he says and they forget about the agents, just looking at each other, Scarlet with a cheerful, shy smile, Solas with an amused, grateful one.

Then one of the spies speak, saying they have nothing else to report, and Solas distractedly gives them permission to leave.

“We will stay here for a while.” He beams at her. “There are many books I want to show you.”

“I…” She giggles and shakes her head, admitting: “I tried to read some before, while you and Abelas were talking, but they were all in ancient Elvhen and I couldn’t understand much.”

She raises her eyes to him and adds ashamedly: “Sorry. I didn’t mean to listen. I…”

“Oh, vhenan.” he chuckles, leading her back to the table where her books await. “I had all intentions of letting you hear everything. And Abelas knew that.”

“Are things in Tevinter really that bad?” She stares at the table and books without really seeing them, worried about Dorian and everyone else trapped in Minrathous. “Dorian and Leliana never told me anything and she is supposed to know everything about these things!”

She turns to Solas, pale, and he wraps an arm around her to give her comfort.

“My agents never encountered any of yours there, my love.” he says, resting his forehead on hers. “Perhaps Leliana never thought it necessary, since Dorian and other contacts were there, or perhaps she considered it too dangerous.”

“Maybe.” Scarlet kisses his chin, then nuzzles his wolf pelt, deepening the embrace. “I always took care of the matters in southern Thedas, while I left Tevinter in Dorian’s hands. I… I gave him a too big burden.”

“No, vhenan. That is a burden he would have in any case. He cannot avoid it, just like Varric can’t avoid his in Kirkwall.”

She frowns and asks, already knowing the answer: “Are people giving him problems too? What about the others?”

Solas hesitates, but his hand never stops rubbing gently her back and his lips are pressed on her hair.

“They are all having some problems with nobles, politics, and so on. Their ties to you, the old Inquisition, and consequently myself are not good ties anymore.”

She grumbles, but her rage passes soon, because Solas chuckles, touched by her endearing fury, and so she is able to look at him with a small, but bright smile.

“Does wanting to kick every noble’s ass make me a terrible person?”

“No.” He kisses her. “It makes you a very sensible and wise individual.”

She giggles and hides her face against his pelt again, resting her hand on the small of his back like she wanted to do before. Solas panics a little, fearing she is hurting herself, but she reassures him and even pinches his butt.

He starts kissing her forehead and hair, so she raises her head again to catch his lips and pepper his face with sweet pecks.

They spend some more time there in the library: Solas finds books written in the Common Tongue for her, old but readable, all about food or sewing like she requested, but he also helps her read some parts of the ancient elven books she found earlier.

There, in the vast library drowned in light and the smell of old paper, time stops and it almost seems to them that they are in a different reality, separated from the base, from the soldiers and agents walking just outside the doors, from Thedas; a personal pocket of reality where nothing can bother them, where worries and pain don’t exist.

They didn’t sleep much after Enasalin’s funeral, so lunch time soon comes and Scarlet’s stomach grumbles its request for food.

“Sorry.” she babbles, blushing, as the noise echoes in the large room. Solas chuckles, holds her closer to his chest, not letting her get off his lap immediately, but then he hurries to bring her outside, already listing all the nutritious and healthy dishes she needs to eat to recover her strength.

“We will visit the base after lunch.” he promises her, kissing her cheek as they head back to their room, but Scarlet stops on her tracks and turns to look at the buildings nearby, at the agents bowing their head to them and entering a smaller building: smoke comes out of its roof and she understands those are the kitchens and perhaps even the dining hall.

“Is that where your men eat?” she asks, noticing their huge grins and excitement, which only grow when a bell resonates in the air. Someone, probably the cooks, are calling them to eat, like it happened in the barracks at Skyhold.

“Yes. It is a large space, big enough to accommodate everyone. The old remnants of a ballroom, I believe.” He looks at the last agents who are entering the room, then quickly averts his eyes, smiling at her. “As I said before, the kitchens are much smaller, but useful all the same. Do you want to see them now and personally tell the cooks what you would like to eat?”

Scarlet hums, still staring at the wooden doors, typically elven and typically carved and rich like the ones she saw during her travels, then turns to him and smiles timidly.

“I’d like to eat there, if you don’t mind.”

That surprises Solas. He looks at the dining hall, then at her, then at the dining hall again and each time the frown on his forehead increases.

“Why?” he asks and panic immediately appears in his eyes, together with a bit of puppy-like sadness. “You don’t like our room?”

“I love it!” she reassures him, resting her hand on his cheek. “Vhenan, I love it a lot, but we should really spend some time with your agents. You should spend time with them. Remember what I told you this morning in bed?”

He pouts and looks a bit disgruntled, like a child who doesn’t want to eat his vegetables, but he nods and makes an affirmative sound. Scarlet giggles, but she has to bring her arm back down because her shoulder is burning again, so she gives him a sweet kiss instead.

His pout is smaller than before now.

“You don’t want them to worship you or treat you like a god or a powerful general.” she says, matter-of-factly, getting serious again. “But if you retreat in your room every day and just give them your orders from there, they will never find the courage to see you as more than that, Solas.”

She takes his hand and entwines their fingers, feeling how calloused and rough his are.

“Please, vhenan, I know how it works. For months the people of the Inquisition saw me as the Herald, as a holy figure or an invincible, godly leader, when all I wanted was to be seen as me.”

She tugs at his hand to make him look at her, but the wind is blowing her hair in all directions and she can’t see well. Solas shields her with his body and helps her brush back her red locks and she keeps going:

“You want to be seen as Solas, but you never give them the chance. Give it to them and your life here in the base will be better, easier.”

“It’s already better now that you are here.” he says softly and Scarlet is forced to use a harsher tone.

“Solas!” she exclaims, making him pout and look away again. She sighs and slowly takes his chin to move his face back to her. “Listen to me. I may not always remain here. My presence may be required elsewhere to continue our research or to deal with those stupid nobles, and I don’t want to leave knowing you will be alone again, without anyone you want to count on.”

She hisses, curses softly her shoulder, then before Solas can change topic and ask her to see her wound, she hurries to continue: “I want to leave knowing you will be surrounded by people you trust and respect, people who can finally see you not only as a guide, but as a friend and an amicable figure too. Just like the people of the Inquisition saw me, saw you, saw each of our friends.”

“The people of the Inquisition didn’t see me as…”

“Yes, they did!” she interrupts him, glaring at him. “They respected you, Solas, and they always came to you for help and questions. And don’t pretend you don’t remember it!”

He huffs, his cheeks redder than before, and doesn’t deny it, so she continues: “It’s because you were yourself. You acted like your true self, like Solas, and even though you were burdened by your secret, you came to us like the man you were before becoming Fen’Harel.”

She pleads him with her eyes and concludes softly, but passionately: “Vhenan, I don’t want to be the only one to see this lovely, kind part of you. You have to show everyone how wonderful and gentle Solas is, not how cold and distant Fen’Harel is. This too will make you happier.”

Eyes cast down, he doesn’t answer. Scarlet rubs her thumb on the back of his hand, a soothing movement that helps him relax, and soon he raises his eyes to hers. They are full of tears and so, so tired, but also somewhat relieved.

He then glances at the doors of the dining hall and listens to the humming and indiscernible sounds of the agents talking and eating there. Finally, he looks back at Scarlet and murmurs: “Wait here for a moment, please.”

He gives her a kiss, then heads to their room. Adahl and Alas are still guarding the door and she wonders when they will eat. Perhaps another agent will send them something or they will go later, when someone will come to guard the door in their place?

Why do they need to stand there, anyway? Solas was never the type to lock himself into a room to avoid any kind of contact with people: at Skyhold, he was happy to spend his time and study in the rotunda, where many people passed through, where everyone could have access to, where he could hear and talk with the people on the upper levels. He never asked anyone to knock at the door or ask him permission to speak to him.

Like she thought, he completely closed himself off from any kind of positive contact here in his base. He just survives the day, begrudgingly giving orders and moping in his secluded room.

Before opening the door, he stops to talk with Adahl and Alas; they look stunned, but he seems to insist about something, and so they slowly step away from the door, walking towards the dining hall, spears still in their hands and a baffled expression on their faces.

They bow at Scarlet, she bows back, and then she hears the door shut close. Solas has entered their room and she hopes he won’t cry there alone, haunted by his much stress and anxiety.

She is alone in the courtyard now and the sun is getting quite hot. She wonders again where this base is. Near Antiva, perhaps? She doesn’t remember the weather ever being so hot in the Free Marches, in the zones where her clan used to wander.

She finds an old stone bench near a small tree; its leaves offer a cold, welcomed shade, so she sits there, keeping an eye on the door and waiting for Solas to return. In the meantime, she counts the flowers at her feet and studies the embroideries on her clothes with expert eyes.

She knows he will come back this time, so the wait isn’t atrociously painful.

It doesn’t take long: soon the door opens again and her eyes quickly move to it, her mouth opens to call him and…

And then she sees the Solas she always saw every time she stepped into the rotunda: the Solas who wore a comfortable, light sweater she had made for him, the Solas who wore a pair of well-worn pants and walked barefooted.

The jawbone pendant isn’t there anymore. The armor is gone. There are just the sweater, the pants, and the soft straps he uses to cover the back of his bare feet.

He comes to her with a shy and satisfied smile and she can’t even get up; she stares at him from the bench, agape, and soon her eyes swell with tears.

“This is the first sweater you sent me, remember?” he says, touching the fabric with reverence. “I never had the chance to wear it before. It is very soft and beautiful.”

Then he sees and hears her cry, but he doesn’t panic. He sits next to her and wraps his arm around her shoulders, careful not to put too much weight on her wounded one. She leans on him and he strokes her cheeks with his thumb to dry her tears there.

“Since they all expect Fen’Harel to wear an armor,” he says with a smile, “I am sure they won’t be much surprised to see Solas wear this simpler attire.”

“I’m sure they will love it.” Scarlet giggles. She rubs her face on his chest, mumbling: “It fits you well.”

“It does. Your ability with the needle is astounding, vhenan.” He kisses her forehead, then her lips and says: “Now let’s go to eat. I do not want you to stay without food for too long.”

They get up, but before going Scarlet observes him for another minute or so, sniffling and blinking her eyes fast to push back her tears. Then she smiles at him, happy and proud, and says: “Ar lath, ma vhenan.”

“I love you too, my heart.” he replies, cupping her cheeks and nuzzling her nose. He is smiling too. “Shall we go?”

He gets more anxious as they approach the doors of the dining room, but he takes a deep breath and manages to smile at her again when Scarlet takes his hand and squeezes it.

“Ready?” she asks, just like he asked her a few hours ago, before leaving their room.

“Ready.” he nods, then pushes the door opens.

The voices they could hear from outside become louder, now that they are actually there in the room, only to end abruptly with some gasps here and there.

A shocked silence falls and countless elven eyes move to where they stand. Scarlet feels a tinge of anxiety and panic as well and prays Solas won’t feel embarrassed or mortified.

All his agents, sitting at many long tables in the wide room, are gawking at them, but especially at him and his new clothes, which they never saw him wear before. She distractedly spots the Sentinels in a far corner of the room, distanced from the others, and they are staring too.

“Don’t worry, it’s just like at Skyhold. Remember how we all ate together?” she whispers and Solas makes an affirmative, but high-pitched sound. He looks ready to bolt out of the room at any moment.

They have to move, to act. They have to break both this silence and this unbearable ice.

First, she starts by looking for an empty seat. She thinks she found one when suddenly someone gets up and waves at them from one of the farthest tables.

It’s Melana and Adahl and Alas, sitting at her same table, are looking at her as if she lost her mind.

“Lady Lavellan! Here!”

Scarlet smiles at them to let them know she heard, since she can’t wave back, then she turns to Solas, who is visibly surprised.

“See? We already made the first step.”

They physically make their first one inside the dining hall, hand in hand, and the agents nod at them and greet them as they pass by their tables.

Solas still looks nervous and on the verge of a panic attack, but when Scarlet thanks the three agents who welcomed them at their table and sits down without letting his hand go, his lips curl into a smile and he sits at her side, still holding her hand.

#dragon age #da:i #solas #scarlet lavellan #solavellan #lafaiette's fic #vir suledin #happy valentine's day!! <3 #i wanted to post something fluffier for this day #but this chapter was almost done so i decided to update this fic instead #maybe i'll write a fluffy one-shot later!