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angstywaifu · 21 days

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The Lost Sister - Part 20

Synopsis: Xaden is known as an only child due to his sister who 'died' during the Rebellion. Little do they know she didn't die and has been so close this entire time.

Garrick Tavis x OC

The Lost Sister Masterlist | Masterlist

A/N: In this part I have used some Gaelic phrases to represent Tyrrish, as both Garrick and Ophelia can speak it. Mo grádh will translate to My Love. And on that note. Enjoy. Also poor Xaden. Warnings: 18+, Smut

Xaden had remained true to his word. For me at least. Liam was still assigned to Violet wherever she went. Which for the most part also meant me, but if I walked off elsewhere he stuck to her. I was glad Xaden had let me have the freedom I requested. Not that I wouldn’t have had freedom. But it would have meant Liam following me around.

But in his absence Garrick had fallen into place. Not as over bearing as Liam was with Violet. But outside of classes Garrick was always there with me. Which I couldn’t deny I liked. I liked it a lot. The night of me finding out about Aretia we had spent in Garrick’s room. And it had reminded me so much of our down time in Aretia. Us lying in his bed or mine. His head in my lap as I read a book or played with his hair as he slept. It had taken me back to a time where we didn’t have any cares or worries. It was something we both needed. And was something we had planned to do tonight, till Garrick had decided to move some of my stuff to his room. His argument was I would be spending most of my nights here unless he was away on a supply run. It just made things easier in his mind. So now I sat on his bed, sketch book in hand as I watched him try to rearrange his armoire and desk to accommodate some of my things. The man was too excited of the prospect of me essentially sharing a room with him from here on out. But it kept Xaden happy that someone was watching over me at night, and meant Liam could have more focus on protecting Violet who was still yet to manifest a signet. And has also received another threat from Barlowe today in sparring that had caused Liam to shove him out of the room entirely. Garrick’s mumbling pulls me from my drawing of my dragon Mealladh. I look up to see him looking in the armoire, scratching the back of his head. I place my sketch book on the bedside table and walk up behind him, my arms wrapping around him as I rest my head against his bare back. My fingers tracing lightly over the defined muscles of his stomach. His hands coming to rest over mine as he looks over his shoulder at me.

”You seem stressed.” I tell him.

He sighs. “It’s because I am.”

I can’t help but laugh at him. “It’s just some space in the armoire, space you don’t even need to find. I can keep my stuff in my room.” I tell him.

I feel Garrick stiffen in my arms, turning to face me as his hands find their place on my waist. “I do need to find it. I want to find the space. I’ll make it work.” He tells me sternly.

This man was way too intent on making this a space for both of us. But it wasn’t something new for us. Back before the rebellion, we had started to leave things at each others places. It had been frequent that we would stay at each others places, Xaden included. But this was on a more serious level than that. We hadn’t defined what we were yet. But we were more than friends now. We had taken that leap. But we hadn’t put a label on it. We didn’t need to. I was his, and he was mine.

”Well I’m sure it can wait till tomorrow I tell him.” With a smirk on my lips as my hands travel from his back to rest on his chest, one of them travelling down to toy with the band of the grey linen pants he had on. The only thing he had on.

I watch as his eyes darken, clearly picking up on the intent in my actions and words. Besides that night of threshing, we hadn’t had another chance. Mainly due to Garrick being away with supply runs. Which at the time I didn’t know about. And I knew Garrick was wanting this as much as I did. His lingering touches had hinted otherwise. I was surprised he hadn’t jumped on it earlier when I had stripped down to my underwear, and slipped on one of his black cotton shirts that was huge on me. His hands now find their way under that very shirt, gripping and massaging my sides as he kissed his way down my neck, lightly biting as he went. Leaving marks I definitely wouldn’t be able to hide. Bastard. Garrick’s hands slowly move down my sides as he kneels in front of me, his fingers hooking into the band of my underwear, quickly sliding them down my legs. I step out of them and he throws them to the other side of the room. His hands wander up my legs, so slow its almost torture. Especially as he moves them to my inner thighs, lightly ghosting over the sensitive flesh. I go to tell him to hurry up and stop teasing, but one of his strong hands grips my left knee, throwing the leg over his shoulder. I don’t have time to ask what he’s doing before his fingers slide up and down, coating them in my arousal. One of my hands reaching down and tugging on his curls as my head rolls back as a moan rolls off my lips. The bastard was taking his time, but I couldn’t deny I enjoyed it. And I knew what eventually would follow would be worth the wait. Each stroke sending a shiver through my body, that I knew would have him smirking. Finally his fingers slide lower, slowly pushing two of them in, followed my his mouth latching on to the bundle of nerves. My eyes fly open at the sensation, getting the full view of a very blissed out Garrick kneeling before me, taking pride in the pleasure he was giving me. Slowly he adds a third finger, stretching me out more. I nearly come undone then as he curls all three fingers inside me, hitting the perfect spot. My leg gives out, but Garrick’s arms keep me upright as he continues his assault. Just as I’m about to tip over the edge, the bastard stops. And I have no shame in not stopping the growl that leaves my mouth. Garrick smirks, bloody smirks up at me as he kisses the inside of the leg still hooked over his shoulder.

”Don’t worry mo ghrádh, I’m just getting started.” He tells me in a low tone as he stands, pulling the shirt over my head as he does so.

His fingers make quick work of my bra as it soon follows the rest of what I had been wearing to somewhere else in his room. His lips are quickly and roughly on mine as he walks me backwards to the bed. He goes to push me down but I quickly manoeuvre us, pushing him down onto the bed as I crawl up him and straddle his hips. Garrick’s eyes darken and widen as I slowly grind back and forth on him, a growl rumbling through him. I can tell it is taking everything in him not to completely take over and flip me onto the bed and take me. I can tell he is curious as to what I will do. I watch some of that control slip as he goes to grab my hips, but I move faster and line us up and slowly sink down to him. Garrick’s head falls back onto the bed. A loud moan echoing around the room.

“F-fucking hell.” Garrick stutters out as I start to move up and down.

His hands grip onto my hips, helping me up and down, his hips meeting my movement, hitting the almost perfect spot every time. Garrick must notice my legs shaking from the effort and flips my back onto the bed as he hooks one of my legs over his shoulder again as he leans forward. It was now my turn for profanities to fall from my lips at the new angle and pace. My pace had been fast, but Garrick’s was harder and faster. My nails dragging down his back, leaving marks yet again. Marks I knew last time had gotten him a few comments. Garrick reaches down with his fingers, and as soon as they meet that sensitive spot I’m done. My back arching off the bed, my eyes shutting as I moan his name. I swear I heard thunder or something similar in the back ground as I finish. As I come down from the high, Garrick picks up his pace again. Not faltering once. The bastard not even close to finishing or being done. He pushes my leg from his shoulder as he scoops me up into his arms and stands, walking over to the desk. He lifts me off him and places me on the ground before spinning me around to face the desk.

”Hands on the desk mo ghrádh.” He tells me as I feel him press against my hips.

I do as he says and lean forward, my hands bracing on the desk as I lean forward. As soon as he’s satisfied I’m comfortable Garrick pushes in slowly. And I know he’s doing it on purpose when I go to lean into it and his firm hands on my hips stop me. As he fully sheaths himself in me, he slowly moves back and forth at a pace that has soft moans escaping my lips. But clearly slowly is not what Garrick has planned, quickly picking up the pace again, forcing me to grip onto the side of the desk to stop me from falling forward. Garrick leans over me, his arms resting on the desk next to me. The new angle having me arching into him as we both moan at the sensation. The desk slams into the wall, and I pray Xaden isn’t in his room or Garrick put up the silencing wards. Seconds later Garrick and I finish almost at the same time, our names falling from each others lips. Garrick lowers himself to rest his elbows on the desk as he catches his breath. He places a soft kiss on my shoulder, before we both freeze at the voice yelling at us from the other side of the wall.

”What did I say about the silencing wards!” Part 21

Taglist: @riorgail @going-through-shit @fw-gt @bbkissme99 @xceafh @leptitlu @came-to-laugh-but-cried @onthewaytotimbuktu @daardyrnitta @lovemesomevesey @mxtokko

#fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing #garrick tavis #garrick tavis x reader #garrick tavis imagine #garrick tavis x oc #garrick tavis smut #fourth wing x oc #fourth wing x reader

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sugarmaplewings-fics · 4 years

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Midnight Ball

Pairing: Todoroki x reader

Warnings: None

Author’s Note:

Day two of Sugar’s Spooky Days/Fall Special

Hehehe I have managed to finish something! Can’t say as much for the Kirishima one, so that might have to be late :(. I should have that one done sometime over the weekend though, so fingers crossed!

I also may or may not have been thinking about Heartless by Marissa Meyer while I wrote that first bit 👀👀 (read it, it’s good, especially if you want to sob your eyeballs out like I did)

I hope you like this one! It was fun for me to write!

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.

You had insisted on not coming to this party.

You, of course, had said this as if you had a choice. Really, as someone with your status, you should have the power to make decisions for yourself. But nooo, as the only daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness, it was your duty to attend the king’s bi-annual masquerade ball. Bother.

So, here you were, all dressed up with little intention to dance or even have fun. You clung to the sides of the spacious dancefloor, hoping to keep to yourself enough that no one would try to talk to you. It was truly dreadful what some of your fellow nobility could come up with for small talk. Exchanging formalities and remarking on politics, only then to run off into a tangent on whatever subject may have recently captured their trivial attention.

You longed to be elsewhere—in a library perhaps, or in your garden, working on sketches in your notebook. Gracious, come to think of it, maybe sleeping would even be the better option. It was dreadfully late.

The king always insisted on throwing such parties as these so late at night, stretching all the way to early hours of the morning. You’d gotten plenty of rest prior in preparation for this autumn Midnight Ball, but between the lack of meaningful interaction and your desire to be elsewhere, you found yourself capturing yawns in your gloved hand.

Your childhood best friend didn’t seem to have this problem. You could see her now, indigo skirts swishing around her ankles as she danced with some green haired man. You couldn’t quite tell if you had ever seen him before, but he was probably from some foreign kingdom. You’d certainly hear all about him tomorrow.

You began to grow antsy at your position on the west wall. Your heels were beginning to make your ankles ache, and your mask was growing progressively warmer with each breath. A glance towards the banquet table told you that the coast was clear for you to browse the selection of food laid out, but your corset made you think twice. Your handmaiden had done it so dreadfully tight.

Curses. Not to her, she had done nothing wrong. Maybe at your mother, who insisted on lacing it up in this way.

You chewed at your tongue. Maybe a walk in the courtyard would clear your head. It would definitely be cooler and not so bright. If you were lucky, you may even be alone.

Gathering your (F/C) skirts in your fists, you strode to the door to the outside, ducking through small gatherings of people and curtseying to the guards positioned at the exit. You knew you had made the right decision as soon as the night air hit your face, a cool October breeze seeping behind your mask and ruffling the feathers that adorned it. A full moon lit your path as you walked further into the manicured gardens. You’d been around here before, yet you still allowed yourself time to admire the hedges and trees closing off spaces of land. Flowerbeds were artfully placed wherever they could fit, although you could tell that most of their plentiful blooming yield had already gone back within themselves for the frosty winter. What you were truly interested in was a small pond located in the back, hidden behind a few bushes at its side.

The clear pool laid stagnant before you as you knelt down to look into it. The light of the moon bounced off your bejeweled costume mask, causing the water to sparkle even brighter beneath you. A large koi fish took notice of your signal, lazily sliding its stout, tri-colored body towards the surface in hopes that you may have brought it some food.

“I’m sorry, little friend,” you whispered to its expectant gaping mouth, “I don’t have anything for you.”

You watched him for another moment, little splashes made by the fish’s fins breaking the stillness of both the silent night air and the pool’s surface.

“You’ve upset him.”

The sound of an unfamiliar voice made you start. You straightened, brushing off the front of your skirt. Turning, you saw the figure of a man standing a few paces away from you. His build was lean and strong, and a mask of his own glittered in the all-encompassing moonlight. It was difficult to make out any identifying features, but a part of you just knew that he was intangibly handsome.

“Sorry?” you said, trying to compose yourself.

Perfect. This was just what you had been trying to avoid: interaction. Maybe he’d go easy on you and let you leave soon, or maybe he could have something genuinely worthwhile to say.

“That fish,” he clarified. “He’s hungry.”

You pursed your lips together in thought as you stole a glance back at the pond. Your koi friend had retreated back to the depths of his home as soon as you had turned your back. The air hummed with silence once more.

“Is he, though?” you asked. “He probably gets fed just as well as any other creature living on the grounds.”

The mysterious man shrugged. “True, but perhaps that’s the most joy he gets out of life.”

“Oh.” You stood there awkwardly for a second in silence, trying to think of a response. “That’s a little . . . grim.”

“Sorry.” He shifted. “I’ve always felt bad for fish.”

“How so?”

He took a step closer to the pond, bending a bit at the waist in order for him to see into it better. “They have less freedom. Little to do, nowhere to go . . . sometimes they remind me of myself a bit.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not terribly fond of my father.”

You blinked, wondering if he was going anywhere with this.

His eyes finally snapped up to yours. The moon caught their shades perfectly, drawing out hints of color that would normally be lost to their own depths. It struck you suddenly that you had seen these eyes before; one a steely silver while the other was a lovely cerulean that nearly seemed to glow. Where had you previously seen these eyes?

“Sorry,” he apologized again. “I didn’t mean to overstep.” He straightened up to properly face you, his posture rigid and practiced, just as you had seen all the other noblemen do your whole life. “My name is Shouto Todoroki, son of Duke Enji Todoroki,” he said, piercing eyes growing a little glassy at the voicing of his own name. He bowed to you, and around the top of his mask, you took notice of his perfectly split bi-colored hair. “My lady,” he said.

“Shouto?” Yes, that was right. You’d met him a few times as children, playing together while your families held council meetings. It had to have been nearly ten years since you’d seen him last, and to be honest, he’d grown into quite the man.

“Yes?” he answered, uncertain.

“It’s me,” you said, lifting your mask a bit to better show off your eyes and features in the dim light. “(F/N) (L/N).”

You watched as he did a double take; eyes scanning you from top to bottom as he put a name to your person. “(Y/N) . . . wow, it’s been a long time.”

You chuckled, fiddling with the material of your skirt between your fingers. “You’re not saying I’m old, now, are you?”

He snorted, his posture relaxing. “Of course not, my lady.”

You began to chat, settling in beside him as you wandered around the gardens together. It was only now that you realized how much you had missed your old friend, finding it shockingly easy to talk with him. He spoke of his father and how he intended for Shouto to take his place in power when his time came. You noted the bitterness he carried in his voice, vaguely remembering the emergence of the issue from the last time you’d conversed. He listened to your own life updates, interested in your hobbies and what you had to say about life and time. In fact, it nearly felt as if no time had passed at all, and you’d remained close throughout the years.

The light of the castle began to creep upon the path ahead of you, and you noticed that you’d circled the entire perimeter of the gardens. Music from the ballroom floated to your ears, and you recognized the tune. Influenced by your improved mood, you began to hum along to a few of the notes, nodding your head to the light, peppy rhythm.

Shouto took notice of this, eyeing you with a small smile gracing his usually stoic face. He sped up just enough to come up in front of you, causing you to halt in your tracks. He bowed before you again, one hand behind his back with the other outstretched for your own. “If I may, could I have this dance? This is your king’s ball, and I believe that my lady deserves at least one before the night’s end.”

An unexpected heat climbed to your cheeks. Why were you suddenly feeling this way? Your childhood friend had certainly grown into quite the handsome young man, but you couldn’t ever remember thinking of him in this manner. He’d only ever shown kindness and respect towards you, and it was only now beginning to weigh on you how much you liked him. But this weight wasn’t in any way unpleasant, in fact, it made you feel giddier, almost light and intrepid. What could one dance together hurt?

You rested your hand in his, the fabrics of your gloves sliding together as your fingers met. His head turned up so he could once again make eye contact, drawing your offered appendage to his lips. They brushed over your knuckles, feather light, and you found yourself wishing that the silken material could have been removed. How soft were his lips truly?

Shouto walked you a few paces away onto an open area in the grass, the fragrance of greenery and crisp evening air wafting through the space. Every surface was bathed in a fine layer of moonlight, giving the world a dark, silvery glow. Shouto’s skin gleamed pale and resembled porcelain, eyes shining behind the contrasting shadows of his mask.

With your palm in his, he guided you closer to him, his other hand alighting on the small of your back.

“The moon highlights your beauty remarkably so. I’ve never felt this . . . enamored by someone.”

You shivered at his words, the gentle intensity of his gaze boring into you. You began to fall into step with the music wavering in the background. The cheerful rhythm made your heart soar as you glided over the grass with your partner. He led you through some practiced steps, others entirely new. Your skirts swirled around your ankles, adding an extra flare to each of your movements. The sound of the hidden orchestra was distant and thin, and yet there was such a feeling that instilled through you, almost as if the music had seeped all the way to your marrow.

You watched as Shouto’s face began to relax into a little smile, twirling you this way, dipping you over his strong arm, pulling you back into his chest. The whole ordeal took your breath away, and even in the cool night air, your cheeks began to ignite in a palpable warmth of their own. Time slowed, and it was as though you’d been his dance partner for centuries, finding a rhythm and flowing together as one.

That is, until a shooting pain fired through your ankle, causing you to gasp and stumble. Shouto caught and steadied you in his arms before you could fall very far, worry clouding over his face.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

You grimaced, shifting your weight on your feet. “It’s my heels,” you explained. “Sorry. They’re not the most . . . practical.”

“Here,” Shouto said, offering you his arm. “Take them off. You don’t need them out here.”

Your face heated once again as you leaned on his outstretched appendage, fishing around in your skirts until you found your foot. Within moments, you were free, feet bare in their thin tights, discarded shoes unbuckled and placed neatly aside on the grass. The both of you found a stone bench nearby, and you sat side by side to help ease the strain on your feet. While you took this bit of a breather, you remarked to yourself how much taller Shouto was compared to you. The sight of how much he’d grown over the years, mixed with this newfound urge to rest your head against his broad chest . . . .

“Are you feeling better now, my lady?”

(Y/N). Your name was (Y/N). He could have just as easily called you as such, and yet, the formality set your heart aflutter.

“Yes, I believe I am. Actually, I’m feeling much better. This party was so dull until you happened upon me.”

Shouto’s smile returned, the slightest shine appearing on his upturned lips. “I haven’t enjoyed myself this much in a long time either. Thank you for accepting my offer to dance.”

You hummed and flashed him a genuine grin of your own.

He averted his eyes suddenly, a new tension gripping his shoulders. “I know we haven’t talked in years,” he began, “but if you didn’t mind, I would like to get to know you again, (Y/N). Our kingdoms aren’t too distant, and I would like to write to you sometime when I return home.”

Your smile widened. “That sounds lovely. I’d love to keep in touch with you.” You let your hand wander over to his, taking it up in your fingers.

Shouto smiled again at your touch, raising your joined palms to press another kiss to your knuckles. “I look forward to your response,” he said, lips brushing against your gloved fingers as he spoke, eyes locked on yours.

You could still hear the band playing in the ballroom. To the king, the night was still young, and the party would continue for some time longer. Within moments, you were on your feet again with him, twirling your body to the tempo of the strings and winds. With stars serving as your only audience, you danced with your newfound partner until the early hours of the morning under the light of a full hanging moon.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.

Taglist: @aahilovetheatre @heartpaw12 @todoroki-waifu @basicaegyo @iiminibattlehero @katsugay @nabo39 @pyrofanatic @sendhelpimstupid @sokkasangel @xoxopam4

#shouto todoroki #todoroki shouto #shouto todoroki bnha #todoroki shouto bnha #shouto todoroki mha #todoroki shouto mha #todoroki imagine #shouto todoroki imagine #todoroki shouto imagine #todoroki x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #reader insert #sugar's fall special 2020 #sugar fics

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flatfootmonster · 4 years

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Puzzle Pieces

Cold bites but not enough to dislodge me from my spot or my bookmarked thoughts. Orange tongues lick at the darkness eagerly, but as much as my palm hovers over them, enjoying heat spewed into the dark by the fire, the sensation sends no comfort to my feet. The dwindling success found in wiggling my toes every now and again is a good measure of how much more I can take. Winter nights hold less mercy than him—and perhaps a pinch more warmth.

When I told myself I would run no more it was because there’s nowhere for me to go. Thoughts of escape didn’t cross my mind tonight where usually they would tempt; reality warping under illusions a safe haven could be blindly stumbled across if I only dared to look. I’d always retrace my own arguments, follow my own tracks, right back to my bed—an endless, exhaustive circle. But tonight there’s a task, it’s delayed as my pocketed hand remains hidden in cloth, cloaking the artefact I grip—equal parts spoiled reverence and fresh disgust.

There’s no need for it anymore. I’m not sure when the spell was unmade; it was a slow unravelling process leading me to the understanding that no desire or intrigue hid within the mysterious forms—ink against paper. The only thing left after that discovery was a bitter disappointment. I think I’ve been disappointed for a long while now, at first, that was entirely self aimed. Not anymore.

He was the one that scolded for ill words spoken against my betters. Yet if I don’t speak them, they are still true. Ill thoughts come from facts and if they only reside within my skull it doesn’t make them less truthful. Respect remains, as is proper, but I’m wary of memories. I’m ashamed of my feelings—once shunned and sacred, now infantile. I was infatuated, and he broke that with a cold smile and a harder shoulder. How had I ever imagined softness there?

This—this poem—was never for my benefit anyway, and was never given with good feeling. My fingers are cruelly tight around the parchment, they possess an unforgivingness that I cannot wield in my heart. Even if I don’t follow through it will be spoiled. And to think I once risked my life for a list of heartless platitudes.

A cloud of mist materialises beneath my nose as a short snort of laughter burst from my lungs. I’m changing, and I don’t know what I look like or feel like anymore—if I even knew those things in the first place. All I know is I’ve outgrown the box I was placed in and I’ve granted myself the freedom to look deeper at those around me. Even if what I see stays secret, I can understand more detail than a sketch now, I begin to see hues and shade and highlight—nuance. That goes both ways—for the bad and good.

I pull the poem free from its hiding place. It’s necessary to keep moving because that thought process—of looking beyond the two-dimensional outline of a being—always leads me to ground I’m not quite ready to tread. Emotions are dissolving in one part of me as they bloom elsewhere—wild and raw. As much as I’m growing out of selective naivety, these new developments seem just as treacherous. They are unknown and they feel dangerous.

Frigid air expands within my chest before the hand strangling parchment joins the first. One end dangling down, teasing the fire, and the tongues grow longer, eager to devour. Spirits dance within the heat source knowing what needs to be done and what needs to be erased. Another huffed cloud appears when my fingers spring open, orange shivers and devours. There’s not a sound in the world past the crackle of excitement as spirits rejoice in appeasement of their meal. The thing was gone the moment it met the flames.

Ease settles in my chest. If they weren’t so numb, my lips might be persuaded to smile. The dancing flames hold me captive despite knowing that numb lips perhaps indicate that I should move now that it’s done. It’s just hard to summon the will to move because I know I’ll see more change once I do so. Deep within, my structure will have changed, restructured itself somehow and I’ll need to learn how to balance myself. But I’m not sure if my toes are actually moving now when I command them to. I should go back—to my own room, or…

Weight cuts off that wondering notion; an extra layer envelops me as palms smooth over my shoulders. I don’t have time to flinch before he’s moved to the other side of the fire. Suddenly I’m being studied by dark eyes that flay and question on their own before I’ve taken one single breath. I can’t look away, my hands work on their own, drawing the heavy robe around me. His gaze drops to the fire for a heartbeat, gathering information from the spirits, before rejoining mine once more.

“Do you plan on standing here until you turn to ice?”

The fact that he tackles my intentions to remain rather than question my motives means he’s watched; he’s aware of what I’ve done. But even if he hadn’t seen the action he has a way of reading me and knowing. It’s unnerving.

“I was just about to come inside.” Under which part of the roof was never determined.

Head tilting to one side, his study takes in every inch of me as though he’s drawing up an itinerary. I get flustered when he does that, both in agitation and whatever the new thing is that’s evolving—it’s vines twist themself around my gut and chest, constricting and paralysing where they grow.

I’m beginning to realise that this is not a passing fancy. I don’t think I’m a plaything to him either. Honestly, I’ve no idea what I am to him but I know he isn’t sure either—and that’s what makes this different. Constructing fantasies won’t help, so I try to stay grounded. but it’s confusing. Every now and again there’s a sensation like my heart wants to leap out of my mouth when he’s near. Should I feel shame over this, too? Emotions and desires before were held behind a safe shield—untouchable and unreal. All the knots I tie myself into now, because of him, he pulls and yanks and teases without trying.

“I fell asleep waiting for you.” The words are flat—emotionless even. It could just be a stated fact but there’s something more. The adjustment of his chin, as it firms momentarily, and then as his eyebrows draw together, add nuance. I don’t know him well enough to read these expressions, as minute as they are, but if I had to bet on it I’d name it disgruntlement.

I was painting in his room. The thoughts that led me to this spot—and this purpose—had crept in the dark before ambushing my mind. My focus remained firmly on the parchment as they coiled around me, blinding me to everything but highlight, hues, and shade. I didn’t notice when he moved, from his reading spot to the pallet. No clues were picked up on that he was sleeping until I shifted around to work feeling back into my legs. The gentle sound of slumbering breaths caught my attention. It’s an odd sensation, and it always is, when I’m awake and he’s asleep. It’s about the only time when I can describe him as gentle, the unwavering features soften. He looks peaceful and that’s strange to see when his demeanour is usually focussed and sharp; he’s a library of rigid expectation and command in every waking breath.

So, I watched for a while, feeling powerful in one hand and yet protective in the other. Who sees this side of him? There was never anything beyond the forced smile Inhun wore; no weaknesses shown and no upper hand offered. Yet Seungho lays down before me, allows me respite from his perception and gives me free rein. I can’t work out if it’s trust or complacency.

“I was going to come,” I repeat, clamping my teeth shut as they begin to chatter.

Arms folded, his lips quirk into a smile which is neither warm nor cruel. This is another thing we’re both learning—something other than extremes. He doesn’t even have the decency to shiver, as he stands there in the snow wearing only his bedclothes, because when Seungho isn’t unconscious it is absolutely out of the question for him to show any weakness—no matter how human that weakness may be. I’m not sure if that side of him rankles me anymore, it’s more amusing now, although I don’t think I’ll ever have the confidence—or death wish—to laugh at him over it.

“You said that already. Yet here you stand, turning blue. Must I carry you? Were you waiting for me to come and drag you inside?” he pauses, entertained by his own notions before adding, “or carry you like a bride?”

I don’t think my eyes could widen any further as I tussle with indignation. Drawing the robe tight around myself, I smooth out the irritation plucked at by his words before straightening to my full height. “I was doing no such thing, My Lord.” With all the courage I can muster, I make a jerky bow and turn away, willing my feet to do their job while they feel as useless as bricks.

There’s a sound coming from where he still stands, near those dancing spirits, a snort that—if I didn’t know any better—could be laughter. Then he’s at my side. One arm extended, a hand hovers just behind my lower back. I can’t see the gesture but I feel it. I know the heat of it there, as vivid as the warmth from the fire, waiting in case I stumble. He has every right to scold me, in the very least, but he doesn’t—and I’m sure if I could look at him that strange smile would lay on his lips. For the life of me, I cannot figure him out. Every moment I’m blindfolded while assembling a one thousand piece puzzle, and each piece might kiss or bite depending on how I handle it.

“The cold seems to inspire your impudence,” he murmurs. Still, there is no hard edge to be found to this particular piece. “Turning you back on me,” he tsks to himself as we enter the house.

I slip off my shoes and he does the same. “I was following your advice, My Lord.” Perhaps I’ve lost my mind because the sniff added in punctuation is not humble in the slightest. My chin firms as my skin prickles because the mirth that radiates from him agitates me for a reason I cannot fathom. And why am I so perceptive when it comes to his moods? Why do his high spirits always make me mulish lately? The tangled threads of questions dampen my mood and cloud my vision before I catch myself. Hand to his door, I freeze realising, as I am sure he has, that I was about to enter his room without thought or planning. But It was where I’d just come from, well before I sought out the poem that is no longer. That’s why I was returning—it makes sense. But to him, it must look like…

“You’re quite the opposite of a bed warmer right now,” he says as he walks past me.

And just like that my jaw finds its strength once more and I am staring him down, arms crossed over my chest. My purpose nor my intention was to be a bed warmer. I must have gone insane but I cannot help the way he easily plucks at my nerves tonight. Perhaps it was the surprise that came with his apparition outside whilst I was burning embarrassing souvenirs from a life left behind. The act says too much about me and where I stand that I’m not willing to admit out loud—least not to him.

Does he know already?

Once more, he tilts his head to one side as he faces me—considering, amused. His mouth is soft, just like his eyes somehow became, before he offers a smile, it isn’t generous but it's genuine. It feels like an apology. He scans me, probably trying to understand why my feet have frozen on the threshold—no, he knows the why, he’s trying to figure out the undoing. “It’s warmer in here.” It’s given in place of an ask. That is something I’m learning about him: he does not know how to ask. And why would he need to ask a lowborn of anything? But what do I say?

Just as he has no ability to ask simple things, I have no practise in accepting. “I wasn’t finished,” I nod to where I was seated before, paper and brushes spread out around my work. His eyebrows rise by a fraction but he says nothing and gestures me into the room with one large palm.

I take the offer, silently shuffling to stand at my spot, looking down at my work. It was a lie, of course. I’d done everything I wanted on this particular piece, I knew when the last stroke was enough. Usually, I have no idea when a piece is finished, it can lead to ruin at times. Tonight it was intuitive, and as soon as the brush was laid down, I stood and made a quick path to where I’d hidden the poem. I realise, scouring the paper with fresh eyes, that there is something final about the forms beneath my nose, something that puts it apart from what has come before.

“It’s different.” His voice at my shoulder is a shock. He’s crept up on me twice in the space of ten minutes. I try to shoot a scowl at him but he’s standing too near. If I tilt my head to meet his eyes, distraction from my ire will be inevitable. When did he learn to soften his gaze?

The scowl instead finds itself aimed at my feet as I fidget. Does he not like it? It seemed to come so naturally, without thinking, like a song from a morning bird. “Do you dislike it?” I ask, unaware that trepidation apparently lodged itself in my throat. It makes my words vibrate in tension. Do I need him to like it? That wasn’t a part of the agreement and if he doesn’t like it, that’s too bad. I shouldn’t care one single ounce for his appeasement. I shouldn't...

“I never said that,” he murmurs, moving closer. The fact that he’s unreasonably close and the inevitable urge to move into him sets off an itch beneath my skin. “It’s just different,” he pauses and I can hear my own heartbeat. Being cold seems a long-departed problem and it has nothing to do with the warmth filtering through the floorboards and thawing out my toes. My palms are damn, too. “Your face,” he continues, “the expression. Your eyes are closed, and your fingers hold to me, denting my flesh. There are marks down my back. My mouth is at your throat, brow creased. Your mouth is open, perhaps on a moan, and your toes are curled…”

With each clue he states, I begin to see it, too. My breaths deepen like his observations alone are foreplay. When did I become so fickle? “I hadn’t noticed,” the words are whispered; it is a lie, too.

He hums, unconvinced but choosing his battles. “It's not a picture of an act, it’s a portrait of sensation. They aren’t on display for us, they are captivated with each other.”

Wiping my palms off on the borrowed robe, my tongue is absent and my mouth dry. It isn’t fair for him to be so perceptive, to see so clearly into a piece I hadn’t quite understood yet. And that’s what he does, seems to figure me out before I do. All those times, watching me whilst inside of someone else, reading so clearly what I hid from myself with a thin veil of shame. Blindfold or not, I’m a puzzle he has no problem constructing. It makes me vulnerable and that scares me.

“Perhaps.” It’s as much as I’m willing to concede, and it’s quietly done at that because another lie would be too much—even for me. Could he ever be captivated with me?

The trepidation in my throat hardens, it feels like I swallowed a rock. I should go back to my room. That notion lands in time with his arms as they coil around me. “Perhaps?” he asks knowing no answer will come because his breath is on my throat. In truth, he doesn’t need an answer. It’s a struggle to keep my eyes open, to stop my neck from weakening so my head can loll on his shoulder. What has he done to me? “Do you like it when I kiss your neck, Nakyum?”

“It’s late.” The only thing left is diversion tactics. I can cope with his demands without consideration; I’ve relied on that to avoid my own agency and desires. But now he’s asking me.

He’s saying my name.

As if he can feel my body summoning the energy required to pull away, to leave this embrace, he holds tighter. He rests his head on my shoulder, then he sighs. “I would like it if you’d stay—someone needs to make sure you’re warm enough after standing outside for so long.”

I’m frozen again. Another ask, even if it is followed by reasoning or an excuse that I can’t quite bring myself to believe. He’s asking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen vulnerability in him, and that’s what this feels like. Out of the confusing tangle of newness within, something very clear sounds: I don’t want to hurt him. It’s an absurd notion, what could I do to him? But it’s there all the same, logic damned. The softness I saw in his eyes, on his lips, is reflected in my answer, in my unwinding muscles. “I’ll stay.” The response is almost illegible to my own ears, I can’t hear much for the blood pounding through me.

When he dictates it’s so easy to lose myself, and then there’s no nervousness because I have no choice to be so. But now it feels like I have power to act on my own urges and that is terrifying. Can I ask of him? How can I do that when I can’t even admit that everything firm, that’s within and without, melts away when his lips are at my neck.

Something eases in him, he’s relieved—pleased with my response. There are butterflies trapped in my stomach, my mind is tripping over expectations of what comes next. I answered in a way that gives permission, he should need that and nothing more. Instead, wings still their beating when his arms release me. He steps back and it takes every bit of stubbornness I can summon not to buckle without his fortifying strength. It’s worrying—much, much more than worrying—to find myself leaning on something. I don’t trust what I seek for support because I’ve been wrong before.

Chills glide over my skin and I rub at my arms. It’s futile because this cold didn’t come from outside. “See,” he impresses, the statement balanced between victory and concern. “Come. Lay down.”

And I do; it’s an instruction, my body follows the lead as trained. Confusing thoughts torment and preoccupy my mind enough that I don’t retaliate against that sheep-like quality I’m starting to abhor. There’s no firming of my chin or crossing of my arms, I’m simply waiting on what happens next.

Disappointment wasn’t what I had in mind. Seungho simply lays down beside me, bundling covers over us and muttering something about my cold feet. Then I’m left to argue with urges and shame in silence and dark—the only presumptuous thing is the thick band his arm makes as it wraps tightly around my middle and his slow breaths on the back of my neck.

Now what?

His question still burns, my inability to answer is an irritant. Do I want to speak on it? It’s a question of what’s at stake, I suppose. What do I lose by gaining my tongue? No one is present to hear the confessions I could proffer to Seungho, I’ll simply be naked in a way he’s never witnessed before. Yet the way he sees things, the way he looks at me, I’m sure he can already imagine that secret part of me—perhaps not the fine detail but he anticipates the sketched outlines. He’s not wrong.

There were constraints holding me before, doctrine I’d prescribed myself on the advice of someone who I trusted. But that’s gone now—smoke and ashes. There’s nothing to stop unlearning those strictures, I just have to find the strength to be bare once more. It was other people’s ears I worried about overhearing my secrets—not Seungho’s. Do I trust him?

My shallow breaths echo around the silent landscape. Is he still awake? I can’t move, I can’t apply the brakes in my thought process. The words have reached my throat and there’s no way they can be forced back down.

“I like it.”

It sounds much too loud but the reality is my words were as minute as a raindrop landing on the ocean. Minute and yet still they cause ripples.

He’s as still as I was, the broad chest pressed to my back unmoving now. The words were caught, they are percolating through the space between us. He edges closer, his lips ghost along my shoulder. “What is it that you like?” he asks, pleasure clear in his voice. My will is gathering itself; he knows exactly what I mean, the question is simply posed to draw out the details. Before ire is finessed enough to engage with my tongue, his breath rushes over my skin and he adds one more sound to the ones that came before—a one-word question seeking reassurance. “Nakyum?”

Does he know what it does when my name is in his mouth? He must know. My brain wants to reinforce mulish behaviour but the rest of me becomes fluid, I’m all too aware of every single inch of his body pressing to mine. I’ve come this far… “I like it when you kiss my neck.” There’s a confidence there, as my lips move, that I wasn’t aware I could wield.

A deceitful stillness descends once more. I want to see his face and learn the expression that comes when he’s hesitant like this—to know the emotions beneath the surface of this vast ocean.

I want to know him.

“Can I?” This rift in stillness causes its own ripples. No, it would be more accurate to call it a tidal wave because the influx of need to demand clarification is suffocating. It forces me to turn, to face him. He asked?

The ask coaxes something playful. I find myself mimicking his game. “Can you do what?”

The same snort I heard outside repeats. I thought I knew better but that was untrue. It is a laugh—or as close as it gets to laughter with Seungho. I made him laugh? The kaleidoscope of butterflies has returned, cascading flights swirling within. “Can I kiss you, Nakyum?”

There’s no thought; no consideration; no hesitation; no shame. There’s only urgency.

“Yes.”

(You can read the first POV I wrote for Seungho here)

#painter of the night #fanfic #seungho x nakyum

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kiminicricket · 4 years

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Swords and Opals - 14

A Ruthari fic based pre-show. adventure. friendship. bad-assery. fluff. angst. romance. and of course, Ruthari. What else could you need?

Need to catch up? From the Start Previous Chapter

The next few days were torture for Ethari. He tried to focus on his work, but found himself distracted, tense, constantly looking at the two stones glowing with flickering lights, terrified that one of them would go out.

He shouldn’t have pulled back from Runaan, he should have kissed him all night. He should have told him exactly how much he meant to Ethari and made sure that he knew it before he went on this mission. Ethari’s gaze drifted to the village entrance. It was empty, as it had been every time he looked for the last three days. He needed something to distract himself. He got up and walked outside. Gathering some materials would help get his mind off things. Hopefully.

Ethari sat at his work bench, sketching jewellery designs. The model he was sketching was a bit more detailed than usual, and with a start, Ethari realised he was drawing Runaan. He slammed the book closed and got his tools out. He really just needed to hit something. Taking out some scrap metal and his hammer, he started pounding it into shape, no design in mind, just the distraction of the repeated movements, the loud ringing noises driving out any coherent thoughts from his brain.

The next day, desperate for distraction, Ethari went to see Instructor Tanyl.

“Ethari, welcome,” They said, opening the door and inviting him in.

“Hello,” Ethari said, trying to keep the glumness out of his voice. “I was wondering what you had learned about the plant we collected, if there was anything I could maybe utilise in my designs?”

“Of course, of course, come.” They turned and led Ethari though the house to the greenhouse out the back. Ethari saw the plant, looking much better than when he had dropped it off here. He noted Tanyl shifting into transparency, and knew he probably had as well. He shook his head.

“That is amazing!”

“Yes, it is. it is very powerful. I understand you have begun doing some enchantments?”

Ethari nodded and explained a few of his design ideas. Instructor Tanyl nodded thoughtfully.

“I’m not sure the plant will be of much use in those, but I have been meaning to have this sent over to you for your own research and experimentation.”

Tanyl took out from behind the plant a smaller off-shoot of the plant that had been put into a little planter. Ethari’s jaw dropped as he accepted the small pot.

“But, the conditions, I don’t think I could keep it alive.”

“Oh yes, there’s also this.” Tanyl brought out a sparkling cage. “This is enchanted to simulate the cliffside conditions that the plant thrives in. Other than that water it regularly and it should be fine.”

“Thank you!” Ethari bowed his thanks

“Do let us know how you get on with it. And we shall of course share our learning with you.”

“I will!” Ethari was already on his way out the door, intent on finding the perfect home for the plant and getting started on the research.

***

“Focus Runaan, what’s wrong with you?” Lain whispered as they approached the camp they were about to infiltrate.

“Nothing!” Runaan insisted, trying to still his fidgeting hands. In truth he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Ethari. He had lain awake the previous night reliving the kiss and imagining how he would approach things when he got back. He imagined bringing over a flower, but that seemed… not right somehow. He imagined asking him on a date, taking him out to dinner, watching the moonrise from the nearby mountain top. That could work, that was a nice idea. He closed his eyes and relived the too-short but very sweet kiss that Ethari had given him, the look in his eyes, clearly wanting more, but also wanting to give incentive for Runaan to come back.

Oh Runaan was coming back all right. And when he did he was going to-

“Move!” The head assassin, Usten whispered and Runaan’s thoughts snapped back to the mission at hand. He nocked an arrow, and fell into line behind his team, moving on silent feet towards the camp.

The camp was orderly. A single, neat row of three small tents, lined up almost perfectly. A sentry on either end, keeping watch for the dangers of Xadia. They were pitifully unprepared. Lain and Tiadrin broke off from the team to take care of them. Runaan’s gaze swept the camp, watching for movement, for traps, for anything unexpected. There was a fireplace exactly in the middle of the line - not unexpected - smoke drifted lazily up from the slowly dying embers.

Embers that looked like they had the night Runaan and Ethari had danced in each others arms, and then fallen asleep next to each other under the stars as the melodaisies had sung in the distance.

The sentries for the camp were taken out before they could raise an alarm, and Tiadrin shot Runaan a Look as she sidled past him. He told himself once again to focus. They had a target. They had a mission. He brought his weapon back up to readiness and moved to the entrance of the centre tent, ready to breach.

A hand on his shoulder pulled his attention, and he turned to see Usten frowning and signalling him to take the lookout position. Runaan shook his head, but Usten’s hand was firm, and his gaze unflinching. He motioned Tiadrin to take this tent.

Kicking himself, Runaan took up a lookout position next to Jeddy, who had been allocated lookout from the start. Jeddy shrugged sympathetically, but shied away from the glare Runaan shot him. Runaan told himself not to take this out on Jeddy - he hadn’t done anything wrong, but he couldn’t wipe the glare from his face as his team breached the tents. He kept an arrow nocked and ready should anything go awry. But they didn’t. It was all so quick. So neat. So silent. Well, almost silent. A gasp and a sobbing begging could soon be heard from the right tent, the one Usten had breached. Barely a moment passed before the assassins returned, Usten holding a captive. Runaan steeled himself as they approached. The team gathered and the captive was thrown down before them.

“Please, please!” The young man begged, incoherently asking for mercy he probably would not get.

“Why are you here?” Usten asked, casually wiping blood from one of his blades.

“W-w-w-we needed i-i-i-ingredients, for the mages. P-p-please!” Tears were freely running down the captives face, and Runaan had to harden himself to the pitiful pleading.

Usten had a blade under the captives chin, pushing hard enough to bleed, but not enough to cause serious damage.

“You can go and tell your mages” Usten spat the word, “That you can go elsewhere for your ingredients. You are not welcome in Xadia.”

The captives eyes widened with the tiniest spark of hope before clenching in pain as Usten dug his blade in a little further, still not enough to kill, but there was a steady stream of blood now darkening the mans neck and tunic.

“Better hurry,” Usten said, “Before I change my mind.” He withdrew the blade and the captive scrambled backwards a few yards before turning over, scrambling to his feet and disappearing into the trees.

“Will he even make it home to deliver the message?” Jeddy asked as they watched him run.

“One way or another. Them not returning sends basically the same message.”

Usten’s eyes were hard as he turned to Runaan. He motioned the rest of the group to start heading back for home.

“I had heard great things about you Runaan,” Usten said, as soon as the others were out of earshot. “I was expecting a little better than spaced out and distracted on such an important mission.”

Runaan clenched his jaw. He nodded. “I’m sorry sir.”

“This job is a dangerous one. The slightest misstep can spell disaster for yourself or your teammates. I shouldn’t have to tell you this.”

Runaan closed his eyes at the painful reminder. “No sir.”

Usten regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. “You have enormous potential.” He eventually said. “Don’t let tonight hang over you. But also don’t let it happen again.”

Runaan nodded again. “Yes sir.”

“Good.” Usten turned to follow the team back towards the silver grove and Runaan fell into step behind him, his heart lifting for the first time since they had left. They were going home, soon he would see Ethari!

***

Ethari spent the better part of the last few days studying the plant, drafting new design ideas, and pouring through his enchantment book to see what kind of enchantments might benefit from it. So grateful for the distraction, he didn’t notice the day draw to a close until it was too dark to read. He glanced up. He hadn’t even put any lights on, the only light was coming from the fire flickering in the forge.

He glanced down for the first time this afternoon at his crystals. Both were still glowing. He sighed in relief, reaching up to grasp them and yawning. Maybe he would actually get some sleep tonight.

He stood and was putting his book away when the door to his workshop slammed open. Ethari spun around to see a shadowy figure standing in the doorway. He dropped the book as the figure stalked purposefully towards him.

Part 15

#swords and opals #ruthari fic #runaan #ethari #runari #tiadrin #lain #tialain #tdp #the dragon prince #fanfic #my writing

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chibivesicle · 4 years

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Golden Kamuy chapters 218 & 219. Everything is wrong in regards to panning for gold.

Chapter 218 starts off with the man that Sugimoto saved from the bear. Which really as soon as he mentioned the scrape on his forehead was a recent injury (and no obvious signs of being chewed on by a freakkin’ bear) I’m going to go with the fact that there is no bear. Or that this man IS the bear. Why? Based on what he thinks about Sugimoto. That Sugimoto is so nice!

You know who thinks Sugimoto is nice? Criminals! Henmei and the con artist Suzukawa. Anyone who thinks Sugimoto is nice is almost always a dangerous person. His brother apparently catches up to him and we learn his name is Heita (who really has to be a dangerous person).

Shiraishi then asks if he’s a gold prospector due to his fancy boots and Sugimoto then smiles awkwardly as he admits his poor experience searching for gold himself. The older brother Taka is immediately suspicious as he looks at Sugimoto and Shiraishi, while Heita is just more interested in their plans.

I’m sorry Heita but your facial expression this panel really is making me nervous and Sugimoto is terrible at reading creepy and dangerous people in situations like these where he either saves or protects them.

Heita declares that there is still plenty of gold dust to be found while an younger brother? and his older brother are suspicious, since they do have 2 rifles, bayonets, the fact that Vasily also carries a pistol and Asirpa has arrows and knives. The putative father points out that robbers wouldn’t save them.

The next page reveals a very attractive woman who has come out to inquire about their unique looking group. She looks like she could be a seductive woman and she remarks on Vasily as a foreigner and Shiraishi winks at her to define them as comrades while Sugimoto annoyed decides to define them as a rabble in english.

I would take this to mean that Shiraishi’s using a more positive spin on their group while Sugimoto is distancing himself from Vasily. The longer they travel with Vasily, I can’t help but think Sugimoto will see him more and more like Ogata. Silent and observing them. Taka then angrily tells Noriko to head back to their tent and she seems annoyed by his order.

There are a few pages of gold prospecting 101 from Heita to Sugimoto and Shiraishi. They try to do things while Asirpa just stays behind on shore giving minimal support by heating water so they can try to work in the freezing cold water. Heita and his family are using a more effective way to look for gold and it seems that perhaps due to their friendship with Asirpa, Sugimoto and Shiraishi may not ever have a shot at finding gold since as an Ainu, she believes this is one of the mistakes people made polluting the river. I think it is a bit of a karmic reminder that they know enough information now, to realize they shouldn’t be doing this and if they do it - it won’t work out for them b/c they are friends with Asirpa and Shiraishi has even had the Kiro’s tour of Karafuto to explain the rights of the native peoples of the east/north.

And Shiraishi even knows this as he declares it just isn’t going to work for them.

Again, Shiraishi is the voice of reason. Just follow through on things Shiraishi, you are getting there!

Just as Sugimoto is about to give up as well, Heita tells them about gold that is mixed with platinum, and his family seems uncomfortable with him telling them so many points that they must have been keeping secret from others.

The next few pages are more description of the rising interest in platinum metals from miners and the value is increasing. It can be used in fountain pens which were become more popular in Japan and now they didn’t need to import it from elsewhere to make the pens. Therefore, Heita says there will be a second “gold” rush in Hokkaido.

Even though he’s factually correct, I would not trust to work with this man! He looks like a smaller version of Usami with those eyes.

Shiraishi and Sugimoto are awestruck and in shock as they look on with sparkle in their eyes as they then firmly hold each others hands and Asirpa looks on from behind them. They don’t even look at each other when they do this, they just instinctively hold hands.

After this Heita notices the bear again. The rest of his family can’t see it and no one else can see it either. Just looking at his facial expression and the creepy font for his statement about the bear getting closer (a likely hallucination) he’s creepy and suspicious as all hell. Furthermore, he says that the bear is the wen kamuy. And Asirpa upon hearing that notices the carved bear case on his belt.

Thanks Noda, I now know who the wen kamuy is - it is Heita.

Sugimoto and Asirpa go to check out where it was spotted. Yet they don’t find any signs of a bear. Asirpa clearly states that there is no sign of a bear yet Sugimoto does not believe it. He fully believes Heita, just like he believed Henmei and Suzukawa (as an Ainu elder).

Then Sugimoto tries to kind of apologize to her by disagreeing with her read on the NO bear status by referring to the white bear a sign that the Mountain gods are angry. Really Sugimoto? This is a half-assed attempt to connect with Asirpa’s own belief system. Yet she just pauses before she states that she wonders . . . The chapter ends with the older father being chewed on by the “bear”.

219 then starts off with Vasily sketching a wren. For a character who I think is a snow leopard, he does seem to have a cat like tendency to patiently stare at a bird. Asirpa seems to becoming more comfortable with him. I feel like this is Ogata 2.0, she has a reason to talk to him about a bird. This also shows that Asirpa is still a non-judgemental person and she really does seem to try to approach others in a neutral fashion despite the fact that Vasily shot Shiraishi in the leg. This is really Ogata 2.0 since she approached Ogata even though he had fought with Sugimoto with a clear intent to cause harm.

To add to the fact to my now official “I am the Wen Kamuy” Heita hypothesis, she remarks that the wren, Cakcak Kamuy should call indicating there the the bear is. The lack of its call means there is no bear near by. The last panel shows a super creepy looking Heita and he’s gotta be the Wen Kamuy. He explains more prospecting tools and terms to Sugimoto and Shiraishi and then he appears to be almost magical as he tells them where they should look for platinum. Sugimoto and Shiraishi are obsessed with him and ready to do whatever he says. He gets them when he agrees to split the money between them equally and they would rather do this than kill the Wen Kamuy. Asirpa then strongly interjects that gold panning polluted the rivers and everyone lost their focus on hunting.

She tries really hard to convince them otherwise, and they completely ignore her (and her uncle’s words that Sugimoto was already told once before) and they beg Heita to help them, Master Heita even as they bow. Asirpa then inquires about his Ainu tobacco case with the bear on it. Heita says he worked with some Ainu and they got along well so they gave it to him as a gift. She replies that it explains why he knew the term Wen Kamuy (and this must also imply that most Japanese in Hokkaido are not familiar with the term).

Sugimoto then tells Heita that they know about the Wen Kamuy and that it has attacked people along the river and then Shiraishi tries to re-assure him that it will be okay b/c Asirpa is their bear hunting specialist to help him relax and help them find the gold.

Asirpa tries to get information from him about the bear’s behaviour and he with the creepiest expression ever - white eyes, Usami shaped says that it has been going on for years and years - implying that this cannot be a single bear that has become a Wen Kamuy.

I assume that he also mumbled this a little since Asirpa turns around in shock as she says “What?” while Shiraishi is encouraging Sugimoto to do his best with him together. As Asirpa looks back at Heita, his head is awkwardly turned to the side, his eyes a shut as he smiles in a scary fashion and his mouth is completely black. A few pages before when Heita was speaking you could see his teeth and his mouth was a light grey. But now, it is totally black which CANNOT be a good sign. He’s no longer human with that facial expression.

The action then shifts to Vasily drawing by himself. Noriko asks him to come with her to draw her in their hut. To give context to her as a character, here are a few tweets form Sei Kobiyama describing the context of her type of character.

The story arc is a combination of Showa pulp fiction and horror stories explaining the creepy factor. Noriko is also a draw like a typical dangerous and seductive woman looking to do something bad, I’m guessing likely towards a male target.

That immediately comes out as she strips down to pose in the nude for Vasily. Based on his furious sketching he seems to have found it very inspiring. However, she catches something out of the corner of her eye and she freaks out!

Some sort of object that she was trying to get rid of is back and at that moment Taka comes to interrupt them and does some major shaming of her behavior. She seems tired of waiting for Taka and he tries to explain to her to wait a little while longer, it is clear that she’s lonely as they try to find the gold. The next page then reveals Heita up in a tree watching them kiss as he licks his own lips and then climbs down the tree face first and leaps off like a flying squirrel. Noda really wants to make it clear that Heita is not okay. I get it. Thanks. Sugimoto and Shiraishi are trying to pan for gold when they realize that Heita is missing and they panic that something bad may happen to him. They tell Asirpa to keep an eye on him as the bear expert. She replies to them if there really even is a bear around.

But either way, she does take their suggestion to go look around. Meanwhile, Taka tells Vasily that Noriko is playing a trick on him by taking his binoculars and placing them over on a mushroom growing off of a tree.

Vasily being the sniper that he is, immediately goes to retrieve his precious binoculars. It is clear that Taka is leading him into a trap, an amappo specifically set up by some local Ainu.

Thankfully, Asirpa manages to save him and points out the signs for others to observe the presence of a trap.

After she speaks Taka appears in the background watching them as it is clear that he sent Vasily there on purpose. Vasily nods, so hopefully this is showing that he can understand a tiny amount of Japanese. She then has a full monologue to Vasily about how she’s been trying to find evidence for the bear that Heita has seen. She went as far as looking beyond the described range, found all of the local bears that are all in hibernation so she knows that he’s outright lying. Since Shiraishi and Sugimoto won’t listen to her - she tells Vasily who can’t even talk back towards her currently.

The big question is now, why is he lying? Besides the obvious fact that he is a killer based on the Sugimoto is nice rule.

Sugimoto and Shiraishi notice a bear off in the distance and go to find Asirpa. They caught a glimpse of its butt. Bear bum spotted. The final page then shows a bear claw around the Father and youngest son, buried in the snow and a final scene of Heita screaming in total shock/fury/I don’t even know what else.

I would guess the bear claw is actually Heita’s foot via “Heita vision”. The editor’s tag line of “I came, I saw, I devoured” instead of conquered makes me think Heita is the bear and a cannibal. So where does all of this action in 218 and 219 leave us? First off this is a creepy horror story arc. People driven by greed to pan for gold in the rivers, out for themselves, not trusting others and wanting to keep others from robbing/killing/stealing from them. Heita is clearly a killer - a Wen Kamuy human. Shiraishi almost gets the idea that panning for gold is a bad idea, but he gives into Heita’s sales pitch. Sugimoto and Shiraishi keep ignoring Asirpa and her observations. I’m obviously biased, but Asirpa is getting a bit of the Ogata treatment/repeat of how Sugimoto ignored her during the Silent Kotan arc. He should know by now that her observational skills are vastly superior to his. I’m hoping Vasily will be a stand in for Ogata and he will help out in their battle against Heita and even Taka and his binoculars may be important to that. Sugimoto and Shiraishi are going to freak out when the horror reveal happens. It would be interesting if Asirpa is forced to fight against Heita. What if she has to kill him out of necessity? That would be a cool plot point where Asirpa takes down the human Wen Kamuy. This would be a philosophically interesting point.

The other major theme is how Japanese people are exploiting the Ainu land and this is a bad idea. I’m sure Heita did not get that Ainu tobacco case through friendly means. Or, the Ainu gave it to him to warn other Ainu that this man is the Wen Kamuy. That would be a totally awesome plot point as well! Just based on the fact that Sugimoto is still not quite getting Asirpa’s background shows that this will likely reveal something deeper between them in regards to Wen Kamuy, different cultures and how to really respect each other. Overall, these types of arcs in Golden Kamuy aren’t my favorite, but they are frequently tied to colonialism and the abuse of the natives as this has overlap with; the bear monster arc with the American, boss and princess; the Silent Kotan arc; how Japanese fisherman were over fishing and Henmei was hiding among them and the central theme of wanting the gold.

#golden kamuy #golden kamuy meta #sugimoto saichi #Shiraishi Yoshitake #asirpa #vasily #gold panning #wen kamuy #bears

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thecleverdame · 5 years

Text

The Woodsman - 4

The entire story is complete and available now on Patreon.

Series Masterlist

Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

Summary: A/B/O Fairy Tale - You’re a sheltered, thirty-something princess on the run from your brother, the newly crowned ‘Mad King’ of France. When you’re waylaid by marauders and left for dead in the forest, a gruff woodsman nurses you back to health.

Warnings: A/B/O smut, knotting, language, violence, assault, non-con

Word Count: 32,000

The complete story is available onPatreon for a monthly pledge of $2.50. This includes early access to all my stories and Patreon exclusive content. >> CLICK HERE <<

Sam can’t tell what you’re doing from his vantage point, just that whatever it is has had your full concentration for the past several hours. As he creeps closer he can hear your voice, light and happy, singing to yourself as your arms continue to attend to the task at hand.

He could hear you from the barn, crystal clear voice with a touch of sadness. You’re drawing, fingers covered in black charcoal as you smudge the lines of a breathtaking portrait of a woman’s face. You pause for a moment, tipping your head as if examining the grain of the parchment before resuming the skillful stoke.

Oblivious, your voice picks up volume, while you sketch with precise intent, completely focused.

Car tant vous aim, sans mentir

Qu’on poroit avant tarir

La haute mer

Et ses ondes retenir

Que me peusse alentir

de vous amer.

“What are you singing?” He asks.

You yelp in surprise, clasping a hand over your mouth, heart beating like a stallion. “Samuel, you scared me half to death.”

“I didn’t mean to.” He places his hand to his chest in apology. “I’m sorry.”

“Come sit with me,” you suggest. He stares blankly for a moment and then lowers himself the ground beside you, picking up the parchment delicately, holding it up by the edges.

“You’re talented.” He looks to you, then back to the picture. “This is… incredible.”

You blush. He’s never complimented you before and it takes you off guard. Grinning like a fool you put a hand to your cheek. “Thank you.”

“Who is she?”

“My mother.” You reach over and run a dirty finger over her face. “I have to draw her otherwise the memory fades. I’m not entirely sure if that’s a true likeness or if my mind fills in the foggy parts.”

“She was beautiful. You look like her.” He comments, setting down the parchment and reaching for the others laying on the ground in front of you.

“Don’t-” you reach out to stop him but he’s already thumbing through them, holding up the next.

“Where is this?” It’s a detailed drawing of a garden with tall, manicured bushes and a statue of a woman in the middle. She’s pouring water from the vase into the pool at the base of the fountain.

“My favorite garden. There are many within the castle walls, but this is the smallest and farthest from the gates. It’s secluded and quiet. I spent a lot of time there.”

“And this?” Sam picks up a portrait from the bottom of the pile. It’s of a man sitting on the edge of a bed, looking down at his feet. There’s a pained expression on his face. It’s darker than the rest, thick broad strokes instead of delicate lines.

Sam feels you tense up, sitting up a bit straighter and clasping your hands in your lap. “My husband, Mathieu.”

“Ah,” he nods gently, looking away from you. “Were you singing for your husband?”

“No, I was singing for…” You pause, answering him honestly, “love in general I suppose.”

"What happened to him?" Sam asks quietly.

"We both fell ill at the same time. My symptoms seemed far worse. No one thought I would survive...but I did. He died the day after my fever broke. It happened fast, there was nothing that could be done."

"How long were you married?"

"Twelve years." You sigh, looking up at the sun, anywhere but at Sam. He shifts beside you, picking up the picture again, analyzing the face now that he has more information.

"You were happy with him?"

"Very," there's no veiling the smile that spreads across your face. Your memories of Mathieu are painful, but also heartwarming. "I was sixteen when my father told me I was to marry him. I didn't want a husband or anything to do with being a wife. I knew it was inevitable, but I'd convinced myself I was meant for greater things. I cried for days, it was all very dramatic. He was older by ten years and at the time his seemed like an insurmountable difference. But he was kind and smart and so funny. He made me laugh until my sides hurt..." You stop when you feel the emotions tightening in your chest. Sam doesn't want to hear you go on and on about a man he doesn’t know. "It seemed just as I was planning on growing old with him, he was gone."

"You're lucky to have had him for so long." He draws in a breath and grinds a thumb over the callus on his palm. He looks straight ahead, staring out at the tall grass, but his mind clearly elsewhere. "I had someone once, a long time ago. I was young, not much older than you were when you married."

"You had a wife?" You clarify, studying his face, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as he expression sours.

"I had a mate, she was mine and I was hers. I should have married her but it seemed like we had all the time in the world. Once I claimed her it didn't seem like we needed anything more "

"She died?"

"In childbirth." Sam looks at you, his eyes staring a hole right through your very soul. "I lost my Omega and my child."

"Oh Sam, I’m sorry." You wish you had something more to say. You had never stopped to imagine his life before. At times it feels like he's always been with you.

"I'm only telling you this because I want you to know that I understand what it's like to lose someone. Now that my parents are gone I only have my brother."

"And me." You add confidently. You speak without thinking and panic for a moment, but it's not necessary as Sam just smirks softly and places a hand over yours.

"And you." He confirms.

“It would appear, Samuel, that you and I have more in common than one would suspect.”

“Indeed.” He smiles at you, squinting in the sunlight.

"I know that I can be a nuisance and I create more work for you, but I do appreciate everything you've done for me."

“You’re never a bother. Life would be boring without you.”

You're in the village when the news comes.

Sam's beside you haggling with the butcher over the price for one of his pigs. They've been in the midst of a heated discussion for some time now and you wander absentmindedly down the row of men peddling their wares. Stopping to admire a woven skirt you don't even notice when Hugh slides up beside you. Hugh knows everything and everyone, filling the village’s unofficial position of town crier.

"Good morning, Y/N." His voice is sneaky and he smells faintly of body odor.

"Good morning, Hugh." You smile, sidestepping to get away from his wafting stink. He's kind and enjoys making you laugh, you just wish he bathed more often.

"I have something for my favorite mademoiselle." He feigns a terrible French accent and fishes in his cloak to present you with a shiny red apple, holding it like a crown jewel in his palm.

"It's beautiful," you take it, examining the unblemished skin. It's not often you're able to get your hands on the sweet fruits you used to devour on a daily basis. "Thank you very much!"

"I stole it," he winks at you.

"It'll be our secret then." Grinning, you admire this treat. It's amazing how life has shifted. A year ago you'd be appalled if a foul-smelling man had even tried to speak with you. But you find yourself becoming accustomed to seeking out appreciation in the smaller parts of life.

"I have news from your homeland as well." He adds, slinking around you. Hugh has never attempted to hide his attraction to you. It’s all meant in good fun, so you don't mind. He's a bit bolder without Sam around, leaning closer than needed when he speaks. "Would you like to know?"

"Yes please," you grin, feeling your heart beat just a bit stronger. Hugh's updates have been one your only links to the life you left behind and you look forward to any new reports.

"All of France is in mourning. The Mad King has died." He continues to talk but you hear none of it. There's a pressure in your chest, a feeling akin to that of fist tight around your heart.

"When?" You interrupt him, hardly able to force a whisper.

"Weeks ago now." He shrugs oblivious to your reaction. The world closes in as your vision narrows into a tunnel of claustrophobia. Your surroundings begin to blur and you draw in a deep breath to prevent yourself from losing consciousness.

"What have you said to her?" Sam's deep voice booms from behind you. Hugh looks up, wide-eyed and takes a step back. You feel Sam’s familiar hands curl around your arm, turning you toward him. "What is it?"

“I did nothing! I swear to you.” Hugh holds up his hands in a sign of submission.

“What’s wrong,” Sam’s brow furrows as you turn to him, opening your mouth to speak but nothing comes out. You’re looking at him as if you’re underwater, not really seeing what’s right in front of you. A sob tears from your throat, a horrid raw sound that’s accompanied by quivering lips and fat tears. Sam places both hands on your shoulders, looking to Hugh. “What the in the holy hell, did he touch you?”

“I never touched her!” Hugh panics, “I just bought her an apple.” He stammers. “An apple, and news from France.”

“Tell me,” Sam commands. You’re crying quietly, staring at the ground before pressing your face into his chest. He places a hand at the back of your head in an attempt to comfort.

“The King died.” He shrugs, utterly confused. “She must be a true patriot.”

Sam can feel your trembling form against him, fisting his cloak in your hands as your knees give way.

“Please take me home.” You mutter, trying to compose yourself. People are beginning to take notice.

Sam curls his arm around your side, pulling you from the busy street without another word. He helps you onto his horse, and the ride back to his cottage is a blur. The world doesn’t seem to right itself until you’re seated at the small, familiar table in front of the fire.

“I’m sorry I made such a scene.” You manage, wiping your eyes.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” Sam grunts. “He was your brother.”

“He’s dead.” You stare at Sam with wet eyes, utterly shattered. If there’s one thing he understands, it’s complex emotions when it comes to family.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He kneels down before you, taking both your hands between his. No, you don’t want to talk about anything. You want him to hold you, but you don’t dare ask for that.

“I’ve talked enough for a lifetime.” You sigh. You don’t mean it as a joke and Sam tried to contain his amusement. “I just want to sleep.”

Your slumber is long and hard, waking up to the sounds of Sam rustling around by the hearth. It’s midday, and he should be hard at work in the forest, but instead, you find him sitting at the table, sharpening various blades.

“Why are you here?” You ask, taking a seat across from him in your nightdress, hair still wild from sleep. Any sense of propriety you once felt being around him in such a raw state faded long ago.

“I thought you might want company.” He offers, his face unwavering. “No one should be alone in times like this.”

You smile down at your lap. Sam is always kinder to you than you deserve.

“Can we go for walk?” You inquire, thrilled at the prospect of spending a whole day with him, it’s the only thing that seems to take the edge your grief.

“Of course.” Confirming your request, he looks up, catching you staring at him, your gaze lingering just a bit too long. “Did you want to go as you are or would you like to dress first?”

“So witty.” You retort.

You dress, then try to eat, but your appetite is nowhere to be found. Before you know it, you find yourself on the narrow path that leads to the small pond. Sam is walking a snail's pace beside you, willing himself to slow down and set the measure of your footsteps.

“I’m sorry.” He offers, bending down to pick up a large stick, banging it on his leg like a bored child. “I know, despite your reasons for leaving, that he meant a great deal to you.”

“Thank you.” You wander on in silence, trying to focus on the slight breeze and the easy feeling of companionship when you’re with him. You wish you could always be with Sam, to watch him grow old and grey, waking up beside him each morning until you’re wrinkled and cranky.

“What are you going to do?” He asks, looking forward.

This is the moment of truth. You chose your words carefully, watching his expression as you speak. “I’ll write to my brother, Philip. I don’t know what’s transpired in my absence but I dare to hope that I may be welcome home.”

Sam twitches, his mouth tightening for a brief moment as he snorts. “Good. You’ll be better off in France, where you belong.”

You don’t think it’s possible for your heart to break more than it already has, but somehow the ache in your chest and head intensify. There was part of you that thought, perhaps, he would at least express a fleeting sentiment of sadness at the idea of your departure.

If you had gotten what you really wanted, Sam would have turned to you and taken you into his arms, pleading for you to stay with him. He’d take your hands in his and tell you that the very thought of living without you makes him ill, that he can’t imagine his life without you. But instead, he acts as if you’ve said nothing of consequence.

Just when you think you couldn’t be any more disappointed, he adds “I’ll hire a messenger for you.”

For six long, agonizing weeks you live in the hell that is Sam’s terrible disposition.

You hardly see him. He’s gone before you awake and many times does not return until after you’ve gone to bed. You listen to him, drunk as a skunk and mumbling to himself, as he knocks around in a stupor before passing out. When you do have occasion to see him he barely speaks to you, ignoring you in favor of a book that you know for a fact he’s already read ten times over.

It appears that you have finally overstayed your welcome.

“I have good news!” You half-shout, your voice suddenly too loud as you struggle to control the sickening feeling in your stomach. He’s just outside the barn, preparing his stead for the yearly hunt. Every able-bodied man is about to depart into the woods in hope of securing enough meat to make it through the winter. He’ll be gone at least a fortnight.

“What is it?” Sam asks distracted, tightening the saddle on his horse.

“The courier returned, he brought a letter from my sister.” Sam pauses but doesn't turn to you. “I’ve been invited to come home.”

“Good,” he grunts, continuing to attend to the mare Your heart sinks. You might vomit. He cares so little that he can’t even be bothered to stop what he’s doing to give you his full attention.

“It wasn’t just the message that arrived...my brother sent knights to escort me home whenever I wish to depart. They’re in the village.”

“I’m happy for you.” Sam turns to grab a rolled up blanket from behind you, nearly knocking you over.

He doesn’t even look at you.

“We can depart in the morning and it appears that you’re leaving now, so this could be the last time we…” Don’t cry. “Our last chance to say goodbye.”

“Well then,” He finally looks at you, his eyes wild and nostrils flaring. “Goodbye.”

“Why are you always upset with me?” You ask, unsure of exactly what’s happening. You’ve come to him with the intention of gathering your courage and telling him what this last year has meant to you, but it’s clear now that your plan was flawed. Any hope of being able to express your feelings die with his words. “I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s nothing new.”

“I do not understand you, Samuel. I was sure you’d be thrilled at my impending departure, I thought knowing I’d be out of your hair would put you in a better mood, but you’re angry with me all the time. Is it that I didn’t depart soon enough? Has your tolerance for me finally reached its breaking point? I had hoped that, perhaps, we would part as friends. I can see now that was foolish.”

“I don’t have the words to-” Sam draws in a breath and shakes his head, arm flailing at his sides.

“Tell me,” You snip with your hands on your hips. “You have been impossible for weeks now, so just tell me what it is you have to say. Just get it off your chest. This is the last chance you’ll ever have.”

“You make me feel like a lunatic!” Sam cries, throwing his arms into the hair.

“The sentiment is mutual.” Puckering your lips you mentally prepare yourself for the barrage of insults you’re sure are to come.

“You are the most ridiculous person I have ever known. The way you talk, the way you eat those tiny little bites like a church mouse. You leave a mess everywhere you go and you don’t know how to do anything! I can’t even ask you to feed the horses while I’m gone because I would never expect that you would get that close to actual work.”

“If I am so awful then why have you allowed me to stay with you all this time?” You inquire, stepping toward him.

“Because I love you!” Sam shouts, then recoils as if he surprised by his confession.

Your heart speeds up to a gallop in your chest. Narrowing your eyes you take another step, examining his features for any sign of jest. You’ve gotten better at deducing when he’s making fun at your expense. “What did you just say?”

Sam balks, closing his eyes and pressing his thumb and forefinger at the bridge of his nose. “I am quite tired and very hungry. It’s possible I could have said anything.”

A slow smile spreads across your face, as an excited stir bubbles up from your belly. “You love me?”

“Dear Lord,” he mumbles, “against my better judgment.”

“Samuel Winchester, the cantankerous woodsman who would rather skin a rabbit than help me with my corset, loves me?” You bite your lip, clasping your hands dramatically. You’re happier than you’ve ever been in your life but unable to control the urge to tease him just a bit more. He does deserve it after all. One doesn’t tell a woman he loves her against his better judgment without there being some repercussions.

“You are impossible,” Sam groans. He’s always at a loss when it comes to you, feeling somewhere between the urge to fuck and strangle you.

“I am quite the woman.” You sigh, bobbing on one hip, not ready to let him off the hook. He’s been so awful these last weeks. “With my unmatched candle making skills and a natural aptitude for the outdoors.”

“I pictured this conversation going differently.” Sam laughs with exasperation. “You make my blood boil.”

“Surely there must be something you like about me?” You challenge him. “After what you just said…”

Sam’s chest heaves with a mighty breath as he reaches out and grabs your arms, pulling you closer to him. His finger squeezes your biceps while he gazes down with an expression of affection. “You’re the most infuriating woman I have ever known, but you're also the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes upon. But, more importantly, you are brave. Brave to leave everything you know and set out in the world. Brave to try to save me from a pack of wolves. You are self-assured and overconfident. You don’t accept your own limits. You make me feel things in a way I didn’t think was possible.”

“Sam,” you breathe. For the first time in your life, you’re speechless.

“And now that I have bared my heart to you, will please put me out of my misery and tell me if you feel the same?” His head tilts to the side, scrutinizing your face.

“I have loved you for a long time.” Your heart is ready to burst at the very idea of this strong, wonderful man making such a bold statement. “You really think I am brave?”

“Yes, more so than any person I have ever known.” Sam’s looking at you with a stare that makes your legs weak. His hand comes up to your face, cradling your jaw as his thumb catches your bottom lip. You tilt to the side, offering your neck so he can scent you. He bends down pressing his nose into the skin right below your ear, inhaling slow and deep, a simple gesture that feels supremely intimate. The touch of his skin on yours sends a chill down your spine. When he pulls away you start to protest but open your eyes to find him offering himself to you in turn. Standing on your tiptoes you stretch up and nuzzle your face into his neck. Inhaling with an open mouth, pressing parted lips against the scratch of his beard.

Sam groans and pulls you flush with his body, snaking an arm around your waist. When you pull your head back he cradles your face with a large, rough palm, bending down to kiss you just as the horns sound in the distance.

The hunt is beginning and they won’t wait for him.

Sam stops, freezing as he closes his eyes and gathers restraint. “I have to go, if we continue this I won’t have the will to stop.”

“Okay.” You confirm with a nod. “I will wait for you to return. At which time we can discuss more of the reasons you love me.”

@smallgirlbigpersonality @mereka18 @gryffindorable713 @trainlikeawinchester @winchesterprincessbride @bamby0304 @saxxxology

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#Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader #alpha!sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam x reader #supernatural

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randomfandomfamily · 4 years

Note

Please tell us more about your spyro au some of us at curious!!

---

alright alright alright alright alright alright sO-

A few notes! Or a lot of notes! I dunno, we’ll see how this goes. (i’ma put it under a cut just in case this gets long)

Spyro and Sparx are 11 and 15, respectively.

Spyro’s abilities include creation and manipulation of fire, enhanced strength, and flight! Well, kind of. Almost. He’s working on the flying thing.

Sparx’s abilities include advanced healing magic (which he spent years studying) and flight. Actual flight. Yes, Spyro is jealous about it.

When Sparx and Spyro first met, they did not get along. Not at all.

Spyro grew up with little to no supervision, and didn’t really understand why, all of a sudden, he had a teenager babysitting him. He’d been just fine being mostly on his own.

Sparx was equally annoyed with the arrangement, felt his talents could be useful elsewhere. He was very skilled in advanced healing magic, and he was made to “babysit” Spyro, who couldn’t stay out of trouble to save his friggin’ life.

Spyro is near constantly injured. Even before he had to deal with the events of the games, he had no less than three band-aids on him at all times. That’s what happens when no bothers to teach a kid how to use their powers properly.

The main difference between Spyro and Sparx is that Spyro’s irritation quickly faded. He realized that for the first in ever, there was somebody around. The dragons were great, and they were all really nice, they just weren’t the most... attentive guardians.

Sparx’s irritation faded much slower. It was definitely a gradual process. I mean, come on. He spent his life learning advanced magic, and then got stuck with a literal child. The guy’s salty.

He does, however, acknowledge that Spyro needs the protection. The kid’s powerful, but young. That doesn’t mean he has to like the situation, though. And he makes it very clear that he doesn’t like it.

When the events of the first game go down (Gnasty Gnorc imprisons the other dragons in crystal), the slow beginnings of ‘caring for Spyro’ began. After Spyro releases the first few dragons, Sparx starts to realize they have no real intent on helping. They’re just leaving this kid, this tiny kid, this tiny untrained kid to fight this battle.

Sparx realizes that the kid is gonna be the only one able to do anything. But Spyro’s not gonna be able to save anyone if he’s dead, so... spell time.

Which is how we get the color-changing thing. Sparx’s spell allows him to take half the damage from any fatal blow, but only three times. His colors change so he can keep track.

Spyro likes to run off, so Sparx doesn’t always catch every fight, but if he suddenly turns blue then he knows Spyro is in some sort of danger somewhere.

Spyro still retains any minor bumps and bruises and burns he gets, which is why Sparx keeps a thing of band-aids in his backpack (of course he has a backpack, how else is he gonna collect the gems and stuff Spyro keeps finding?).

While Sparx sees taking the damage as an absolute necessity so that Spyro survives long enough to defeat Gnorc, Spyro absolutely hates that Sparx is taking damage for him.

And the first time Sparx disappears? That didn’t get go over so well. Spyro lost it. He was having a hard enough time, trying to rescue his fellow dragons, whose “help” came in the form of information he had already learned himself. And then the person he’d been traveling with, the one person Spyro had, just disappeared.

Spyro found out how to heal Sparx by accident. He thought going through the portals was the only thing that could fix Sparx. Then, out of pure impulsive anger, he toasts a sheep.

Now, a dragonfly’s corporeal form is entirely dependent on their energy. And the spell Sparx used to link the damage between him and Spyro took a lot of energy, not to mention the additional energy used for more mundane healing magic.

They can take energy from other creatures, though. And Spyro taking out animals is an easy fix to the energy problem. Except nobody had bothered to explain that to Spyro, he wasn’t aware that Sparx was still alive.

So when Sparx appears behind him, he is surprised. And so so relieved. He promises to never ever let Sparx disappear again. Sparx tells Spyro not to make promises he can’t keep, but he appreciates the sentiment.

And when Spyro “dies” for the first time? That’s bad too. Lots of panicking. There were a couple of times that the only thing that saved Spyro was his link to Sparx.

And this is all just the first game. You bet your buns I got ideas for the second and third games too.

Basically, I just wanted them to interact. And that was hard when one of them was a bug. So I made them people, and now they can talk and hug and all that soft stuff.

Honestly, this all started when I was in high school. I came up with some human designs (and oh ho boy did they look like crap back then), I had a rough outline for a comic I wanted to do, and even a few sketches.

I didn’t have the means to make the comic then. Still don’t, really. But, I do have the means to redesign a few things. Huzzah! Might try to start up the comic eventually, but I dunno.

It’s mostly gonna be written outlines and maybe a few drawings for now. Don’t know how much of those I’m going to post though. Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed this rough draft of notes!

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writerman · 5 years

Note

Bard never thought that much of Thranduil's top surgery scars, he was told Thran had surgery, and they never bothered him, so that was it. Until Bard finally asked Thran how he got the scars. Thran just gives Bard a look. (Trans Thran, you can throw in my boi Elrond if you want XD.)

//This one is close to my heart for very obvious reasons. Thank you for letting me write this and I hope you enjoy it.

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Scars.

Everyone had them.

All different kinds, from all sorts of injuries- embarrassing or serious.

Life gave you scars, some people were proud of them and others sought to hide them, overall most of the time they weren’t anyone else's business but your own.

Well… all of the time.

People can share stories of their scars with you but only if they want that, you cannot demand the story of another person’s body, nor will they ever be obligated to tell you anything about the world that lives on their skin or under it.

Thranduil had scars.

Scars on his chest, one healing and almost invisible on his forearm. They were faint silvery things that Bard only noticed when they were close.

The discussion of scars never came up between them in conversation, and honestly, Bard never thought it was any of his business.

Though he could not deny he was curious, still, he never mentioned it, curiosity needn't be spoken out loud.

Bard and Thranduil had not been together all that long, a couple of months, they met at the tail end of winter, the last dregs of the winter festivals loitering on the outskirts of the city, looking more menacing than cheery now that Christmas had passed by.

The grey slush had soaked Bard from his shoes up to the calves of his jeans, but he’d trudged dutifully through the snow with his youngest sibling to take her to see the reindeer that lay sullenly at the far end of a dreary paddock.

Tilda was far too involved with naming the reindeer to notice that her older brother’s attention was elsewhere.

A literal angel that had descended from the Heavens was leaning over the paddock fence watching the animals intently as though his gaze might will them to their feet.

It did not and eventually, they gave up, as they turned they caught Bard’s gaze and gave a shy smile before trying to hurry off through the slippery slush.

He’d had half a mind to follow the stranger but even the allure of smooth skin and long blond hair could not pull him from his tiny sister and her joy at seeing “Santa’s reindeer”. They remained at the fence for another 10 minutes before Tilda complained she was cold and Bard offered to take her to get hot chocolate to warm up.

Tilda had taken a seat by the window with her mug of hot chocolate leaving Bard to navigate a chair through the packed cafe, he sat quietly while Tilda chatted about the animals and the names she gave them, meanwhile, Bard could not shake the feeling of awe that had struck him at the sight of the blond stranger.

Sadly, he didn’t see him again that day.

They bumped into another a few weeks later, Bard instantly recognised him and stood in panicked silence as the blond apologised for not watching where he walked- after a long awkward pause Bard cleared his throat and did something he had never truly imaged he’d have the courage to do.

He spoke to him.

“I saw you- uh, at the winter festival.” He blurted out his voice croaking midway through his sentence, mortifying really, he would have to spend the rest of his life living as a hermit in the mountains now…

The blond just nodded as though Bard pointing out the obvious was the norm for him like he had expected this for some reason, the same shy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and he looked away.

“Ah, you were really staring at those reindeer.” Again, words came forth and he was wondering if his brain had actually engaged with the rest of his body that morning when he left the house, it seemed not but the blond responded this time with actual words.

Good LORD that voice could restart a heart.

“They looked sad,” Three words and Bard already knew he was done for, who sounds like that and looks like that- this whole beautiful package?! “I was trying to work out if I could come back that night and steal them.” He seemed sincere and Bard had to take a moment to relearn how to breathe as he choked on air.

“So… did you?”

He never got an answer instead he received a very rushed query that sounded something along the lines of ‘Wouldyouliketograbcoffee…. Youcansayno.” After deciphering the code Bard accepted the offer and they headed to the closest place for coffee.

Once in the warmth the blond opened up a bit and apologised for not introducing himself.

His name was Thranduil.

“I’m Bard, it is really nice to meet you, Thranduil.”

And that was how they met, they had had coffee and then remained in contact until a mutual friend forced them to ask one another out.

Even after 4 months Bard still couldn’t quite believe his luck, some mornings, after Thranduil had stayed the night Bard would roll over to watch the other sleep and he’d have to pinch himself to make sure the whole scene was real and he wasn’t just enjoying a ridiculously vivid dream.

Silly maybe, but Bard did really feel so incredibly lucky.

He realised quickly that Thranduil was a quiet man, always seemingly deep in thought, never sharing the contents on his mind as though the key to unlocking the secrets of the universe was to keep it bottled up in one head until one day something clicked.

That’s what Bard imagined, that had a complex system of thoughts and feelings zipping through his mind at a thousand miles per hour leaving him reeling but unaffected on the outside.

It was not fair to put him on a pedestal like that, he knew deep down if he ever voiced his thoughts that Thranduil would be hurt and he wasn’t sure why, it just felt wrong that he assumed the other was on the side of Godhood than mortal man.

Maybe in a past life…

The blond had a flair for art, thought stifled by his family and their expectations of him. Always needing to be better, to stand taller, to speak clearer and only to speak if the words held meaning- a scary way to live wondering if your words meant anything to those that surrounded you on a daily basis.

Asking to pass the salt would likely end up in a conversation about the wealth of the earth if that was how he was to live.

Bard hoped it was a slight embellishment the information Thranduil fed him, the tiny morsels of his life at home revealed with one sentence at a time but as soon as the blond realised he was talking about home he shut down.

There were times Bard would be studying frantically very last minute for an exam, his masters was important but not important enough to study in good time for a test,… at 29 years old he still lived like a teenager but with more bills and more responsibility, and suddenly he would be presented with a sketch of himself his hair wild and falling in his eyes as he leaned over a book gripping a pen a little too tightly.

Thranduil often explaining that it was always a pleasure to draw him while he studied or even slept, though he would quickly add that he hoped he did not “appear creepy” at the admission that he had, indeed, watched him sleep once or twice just to draw him.

“All in the name of art!” Bard would quip, he would then proceed to smother the blond with kisses- though if things got too steamy Thranduil would stammer out excuses before putting some distance between them.

Apologies would come from both of them but the air would remain tense. It was usually around this time that Thranduil would take his leave and head home claiming he had forgotten some important appointment with his family or doctor.

He saw the doctor a lot, and it worried Bard. Yet, he did not pry.

It all came to a head one summer night, they were walking back from a garden party/BBQ hosted by the same mutual friend that got them together, both of them on the right side of buzzed from the few drinks they had.

He wasn't sure why he brought it up, the lack of intimacy in their relationship and his constant doctor's visits.

“We have intimacy it just isn't sexual. I know it isn't enough for you,” The words came out wrong and sounded accusatory to his own ears. “In truth, it isn't enough for me either.” Thranduil trailed off and looked away, he couldn't find any other words to further explain himself.

His gaze stayed on the floor for a moment to shield himself from Bard's curious and intense gaze.

“Tell me about you, what bothers you. Share the burden, you don't have to do this alone.” Bard grabbed Thranduil's hand giving it a supportive squeeze, smiling when the blond finally looked up at him.

“I'm so scared of how you'll see me if I tell you who I am.”

“You're Thranduil, my boyfriend and sketch artist extraordinaire!” They both laugh and Thranduil seemed more at ease but fear lingered in his now glassy blue eyes.

It was now or never it seemed.

“I've seen you look at the scars on my chest, I know you're curious and honestly thought you'd work it out from that but… now I'm seriously thinking that you just look at me adoringly and don't think what things are only that they are there.” A weak and nervous laugh escapes Thranduil, his hand is damp in Bard's and he pulls it from the other's grip.

“Well…” Bard began a small smile forming as they continued to walk back towards his flat, Thranduil was half right. It had never occurred to him that they were close enough that he could ask- he knew they were in a romantic relationship and that generally they could be more open about themselves but to Bard it still seemed inappropriate to ask about something like that.

Scars were something intimate and secretive about a person, a story that they may have buried deep within themselves almost repressed so as to not relive the memories every time they saw the reminder in their skin.

They way Thranduil spoke it was as though he wanted Bard to ask, perhaps it was easier to explain if someone asked than to broach the subject completely out of the blue and unbidden.

Quite the quandary, Bard was well aware that his boyfriend was notoriously secretive about many things, many personal things aside from his general interests and whatnot.

To ask him now was bold but if he didn’t he may lose the chance to try again later. The alcohol in his system buoyed his confidence to a degree and with some hesitation pushed on and bit the bullet.

“I do want to know- I see them all the time and I am curious as all Hell what they could be from. I just…,” He stopped speaking trying to grasp at words all the while they continued to walk now in an awkward silence both holding their breath for a moment. “How do you even bring up the conversation of scars without sounding like an ass with no tact?” Thranduil laughed as soon as he heard Bard’s reasoning for remaining shy on the subject and he grabbed his hand to squeeze it, clearly happy that his boyfriend was just as unsure as he was at times.

Though it never really showed, the uncertainty he certainly harboured. Bard seemed untouchable in his enthusiasm and courage, constantly looking out to the horizon and following the edge of the world rather than looking at his feet and watching his every step.

Never brutish in his words or actions, not overly gentle but capable of comfort- he had a calming influence simply because he seemed so confident all the time.

Thranduil felt lucky to have met such a man by chance, and he didn’t want to think about the future especially if Bard was not in it- there was a flutter of hope in his chest that once he explained what he had been through things would not change. But such an outlook felt entirely too positive for Thranduil and he dampened down the hope so that his expectation fit with who he felt he was and how he came across to others.

There had never been a time he had enquired as to how people saw him from the outside looking in, that would require speaking to a lot of people and he already felt tired thinking of doing so.

“They are surgery scars.” God, the words had come out in one breath and he felt his inside seize up as Bad whipped his head round to look at Thran, his eyes darted to his shirt then back to his face before speaking.

“Surgery scars, were you unwell?”

Thranduil gave a noise that could be construed as ‘Well…’ but nothing more, after a moment of silence Bard spoke again.

“You can tell me, I promise you that everything will be fine.”

That was not a promise Bard could make not with the nature of the surgery, instead it would open a whole other can of worms, Thranduil felt stiff with fear, the process of rigor mortis setting in before he’d even died from the sheer fear of what he was doing. HIs heart had never beat so fast.

“For a long time I believed I was sick, that there was something horribly wrong with me but I was not sick I just didn’t have the words to describe who I was yet.” He was drawing this out unnecessarily and it wasn’t helping his anxious heartbeat in the slightest.

“I am transgender, I have not always been known as Thranduil and the scars are from surgery to sculpt my chest to appear more masculine.” The stunned silence that followed was sickening, it felt heavy and cold in the pit of Thranduil’s stomach and he felt tears sting the corners of his eyes.

Then there it was! Bard’s grip tightened on Thranduil’s hand the squeeze of comfort he had always offered until he realised he was being pulled round to face his boyfriend.

They were stood at the foot of the path that led to Bard’s front door.

Their eyes met.

“This changes nothing- Thranduil, I love you, I can’t even think of enough words to get across how much I love you. I know you’re scared, I mean, you’ve just told me something huge something important to you and honestly I feel honoured that you trust me with this.” Bard wasn’t sure what to say, for all he knew Thranduil was the first transgender person he had ever met, he couldn’t be sure but he was definitely the first transgender person who had openly told him that about themselves.

Rather than hanging around outside while the blond felt so vulnerable, he tugged Thranduil into walking again and they went inside.

Thranduil remained quiet for a long time, Bard moved about the flat a moment before returning with a glass of water for Thranduil who accepted it gratefully.

“I- want to ask a question but I think it is too forward,” Even as he spoke Bard regretted the words but Thranduil had a knowing look in his eyes, as though he had expected a certain question before it had even been voiced.

“You want to know if this is the reason we haven’t had sex.” His tone flat and he took a sip of water, one hand clenched into a ball rested on his thigh the other holding tightly to the glass, at that moment he looked exhausted and Bard was at a loss on what to say.

So, rather than saying anything he sat next to Thranduil and covered his balled fist with his hand giving a light squeeze- the blond needed time and he absolutely needed an apology.

“I’m sorry, it wasn’t necessary for me to question you on that- I can’t just assume things about you.” There were many things he wanted to say but wording them seemed hard now, or at least accusatory and that was the last thing he wanted.

“No, it’s fine, really… it is the reason but the fact you just jumped right to that as though, as though it was something that was wrong and not just nerves. I can’t expect you to be perfect about this if you don’t know anything.”

“You’re right to be upset, I wasn’t exactly delicate about it, and I shouldn’t have questioned you at all. Google is a thing, you don’t have to tell me anything, I want you to know that you have the freedom to tell me whatever you want or not.” Finally Thranduil set down the glass eyes red and glassy still he wanted to cry with relief that this man still loved him the fear in the back of his mind that leached into his heart and stomach was subsiding- how terrified he had been to think that Bard would toss him aside for ‘lying’ to him this whole time.

But no, his Bard as not like that. His Bard wanted to learn and understand and his Bard treated him like a human, as a man.

“I love you.”

#thranduil #bard the bowman #bard #trans thran #the hobbit #writing prompts #mypackpride

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prettywordsyouleft · 5 years

Text

Artistry

Request: #118 for anon(?) with Bang Yongguk

A/N: I can’t find who requested this, but I’m sorry for the wait! I had a lot of fun with this idea, so much that it’s not a drabble at all, oops.

Word count: 1410

“Make a portrait of me.”

It was the sentence you heard the most from your friend. Yongguk was incessant ever since he found out you were taking an art class over the summer break. You hadn’t expected him to be so invested in getting you to draw him. It wasn’t like drawing was something new; you had been a budding artist for years now. But with your increased interest in improving your artistry came his own avid attention in making sure by the end of summer you had sketched him.

At first, you declined, claiming your focus was on landscapes and sceneries. And then you were genuinely busy attempting to get your projects done and hold down your part time job too. But when he came over to your house as you worked on a sketch for class tomorrow, Yongguk had seen your latest creation and let out a disgruntled sigh.

“You said you weren’t drawing portraits this summer!”

“Technically, it’s a specific kind of portrait,” you mentioned with a slight blush rising on your cheeks as you shaded in well, some other type of cheeks.

“You did this with a nude model, right?” he asked indignantly, his deep voice crackling. “I’m hurt!”

“You’re acting so unlike yourself.” Closing the sketchbook so you could escape his scrutiny of your subject for this week, you turned and looked at him. Yongguk’s eyes were wider than usual, but they otherwise avoided your gaze. He’d been like that all summer too. It was confusing to see the usually calm exterior of your friend less settled. “Why is it so important I draw you?”

“I just want to see how I’d look on paper by your hand,” he admitted, looking over your shoulder at your calendar. His gaze remained there as you smiled.

“That’s sweet, but I honestly don’t think I could draw you.”

He finally looked back at you. “Why not?”

“Because no matter how much I’d try, you’d still turn out ugly.”

“Y/N!” he cried as you began giggling, his hands now attacking you to give you a real reason to laugh.

Later that evening you realised you did want to draw Yongguk, but it couldn’t be in a formal arrangement. You knew you’d have to capture him when he wasn’t watching to garner his true personality. And so you messaged him since he had left an hour ago, asking if he was busy. Of course, being the musician and workaholic that he was, the answer took some time to reach you.

At studio, bring food if you’re coming.

With a bag of snacks in one hand and your sketchbook under the other arm, you knocked on the door to his studio, the taller man coming to let you in a moment later. His eyes lit up at the food you handed him. “Lonely?”

“I figured both of us could work on our art together,” you suggested and he smiled, gesturing for you to take a seat on his sofa, whilst he went back to his desk. At first, you were anxious, playing around with the nude sketch in case he looked your way. But you knew better, once Yongguk was in his element, it would be hard to attract his attention elsewhere. He had his headphones on as well, so you knew now you had your chance to start drawing.

You worked on the base outline for a while, deepening your details in some areas more than others. Hours passed, Yongguk unaware that your eyes were soaking in his side profile as he worked. Whilst he played with buttons you had no idea did what, your own tool in your hand sculpted him out on paper. You were so invested in finishing the piece that you fought off exhaustion, avidly comparing the man in front of you to the one by your hand. You had been right, it didn’t matter how many precise strokes you did, you couldn’t exactly capture all of him.

But unlike your teasing words earlier, it was because he was far too handsome. His eyes were complex to get the right emotions within, and his strong nose and jawline just didn’t seem as beautiful on paper. His lips were troubling you the most, because the longer you stared at them, the harder it was for you to contain some of your inner thoughts.

You wanted to kiss those lips. Even on paper, you were stunned by how beautiful they were.

You were still in your own world of drawing Yongguk that you didn’t notice he had moved until you felt the sofa dip beside you suddenly. It made you jump in fright, and Yongguk reached out to catch the sketchbook you dropped in the process. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, you attempted to get it before he did, and when that failed you tried to hide the page you were working on. But his hand was too strong and you stared at that hand dumbly, wondering if you had captured all its warmth and masculinity with your pencil.

“You weren’t working on the nude?” he asked, even though it was pretty obvious as he stared back at his portrait that you had swapped subjects. There was a hint of his gummy smile, but he suppressed it as much as he could. “You’re right, I am ugly.”

“Hardly, you’re too beautiful!” you blurted out and then covered your mouth with your hand, averting your eyes to the equipment on his desk.

Yongguk’s deep chuckle hit your ears then and you glowered at the keyboard still, wishing you hadn’t slipped up. You wondered if you’d be able to excuse it down to being exhausted.

“I’m keeping this, sign it.”

You turned back to your friend as he put the book back in your lap and pointed at the paper. You shook your head. “It’s not finished.”

“It looks it to me.”

“I still have a lot more to do,” you mumbled and Yongguk peered at you for a moment before he got up.

“Alright then, since I’m not finished either, should I share what I have been working on?” he offered and you nodded eagerly, feeling your previous embarrassment subside at the chance to hear his music. It was always soul reaching and you were already anticipating the rush of feelings.

Yongguk watched you intently as the song started up, and for a moment you were just entranced with the husky tone of his rap. But then you started listening to the lyrics, your eyes widening the longer the love confession went on. Your throat dried up and all the moisture moved to your eyes, a tear easily slipping down your face at what you were experiencing. You weren’t sure that the song had finished even when the room fell silent, mostly because your brain was repeating the lyrics over and over.

“I was going to gift you this when you finally drew me,” he said softly, and you looked over at Yongguk through your blurred vision. “I like you, Y/N.”

“So that’s why you wanted me to draw you?”

You could see his blush even through your tears. “I hoped if you stared at me long enough, you might like what you see.”

“You fool; I’ve liked you for years.”

“Really?” he asked, moving back over to your side, and it was then that you noticed your sketchbook was still open.

You gasped; your tears had wet the image of him. “What am I going to do?!”

“It’s perfect how it is; you’re perfect how you are.”

You smiled, despite your emotions still getting the better of you and he finally let you in his arms, your body burying in deeper. You felt instant comfort from his embrace and sighed in content. Shifting back a little, you looked up into the face you had been staring at all night long and smiled.

“I guess I could just keep drawing more of you.”

“Even a nude?” he asked cheekily and you gasped, slapping his arm as he laughed loudly. He pulled you back into his arms and held you tightly. “It’s a good thing we’re both artists. For every picture you give me, I’ll have a song inspired by you.”

“Then you’ll be singing to me for the rest of your life?” you wondered and Yongguk gently kissed your lips for the first time before responding.

“I hope you’re prepared to make me your favourite model.”

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#bang yongguk #yongguk #b.a.p #b.a.p imagines #b.a.p scenarios #b.a.p fiction #b.a.p fluff #yongguk imagines #yongguk scenarios #yongguk fiction #yongguk fluff #youxidol drabble game #prettywordsyouleft requested

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anchoredtether · 6 years

Text

LOTOR AND THE ALTEANS: A SEASON SIX META

[YARRR THERE BE SPOILERS AHEAD!!! YE HAVE BEEN WARNED]

I WISH NETFLIX WOULD LET ME TAKE SCREENSHOTS!!! So I apologize for the lousy quality because all my pictures I had to either find elsewhere or take with my phone.

Basically I think there’s a lot more to Lotor’s story, and we may find that everything is different than what we are lead to believe. If interested, delve into the madness below the cut. (there’s also a tl;dr at the end)

Let’s start at the beginning - Krolia’s mission.

Kolivan: This base was, until recently, run by a Galra commander named Ranveig, who was developing a super weapon of some sort. We’re not sure of the weapon’s specs, but we do know that it is incredibly powerful.

Keith: How did we learn all this?

Kolivan: We have a spy in Ranveig’s camp who’s managed to acquire high-level security clearance. Since Ranveig’s departure, it’s possible she assumed control of the base, but we can’t be sure.

Keith: Why not?

Kolivan: We’re not the only ones who know of the weapon. Two Galra factions, led by Commanders Trugg and Ladnok, are at war over the territory. Since their fighting began, all communication has been cut off. We need you to infiltrate the base, extract our spy, and destroy Ranveig’s weapon.

Krolia explains further:

Keith: What is the weapon exactly?

Krolia: Warlord Ranveig intercepted an undocumented shipment of quintessence traveling through his territory. He took it for his own and began experimenting with it. It’s more powerful than any quintessence we’ve received from the empire, and it has some very unexpected effects.

Krolia: We’re going after the enriched quintessence that created Ranveig’s super weapon. I was with Ranveig when an unmarked cargo ship passed into his region. When we checked it out there was no crew aboard. The ship had been nearly torn to pieces, but inside, a single vat of quintessence remained. It was unlike any other quintessence we’ve seen.

I’m guessing this was a ship of Alteans who were trying to escape or one of Lotor’s crews that helped with the Altean project (there were other Galra present, at least in Romelle’s recount). I believe the void tore the ship apart, and probably destroyed whoever was on board due to the stretching of space time. This ship could have been from thousands of years ago, or just from a week ago when Krolia discovered it. It’s impossible to tell.

The Altean colony is sketch from the get-go. It’s a synthetic environment (terribly similar looking to Allura’s simulation room where she would speak with her father - who was not real, it was a projection of his memories) within a dusty, abandoned-looking station. If Lotor came to this colony frequently, wouldn’t the station be in better shape? Wouldn’t he have some Galra soldiers stationed there? In Romelle’s flashbacks it shows other Galra assisting Lotor in moving Alteans to the other colony, so we know he didn’t work alone.

Keith also immediately says “What is this place??” When they first enter.

They walk for a little ways (or maybe a good distance? It’s hard to tell) when Keith stops and says he hears something, and it’s Romelle humming. A convenient way to draw them towards her since she wasn’t sitting right next to the door.

The first we see of Romelle she’s cleaning clothes in the river - something that seems very routine and normal in a real environment. But if this is a synthetic environment like it appears to be, Romelle being there is a major red herring. The ONE Altean who doubted Lotor and the ONE Altean who knew the truth (part of the truth?) happened to be the ONE and ONLY Altean that Keith and Krolia see?

Either the writers wanted to get to the point and keep the story concise, or Romelle is a conveniently placed trap.

Also convenient that NO ONE was around the hangar where they took the Altean pod? And again, no one was on the moon colony either. Keith and Krolia make moves to stealthily enter as if they’re expecting guards or alarms or something, but it seems abandoned.

Lance: Once they reach the quintessence field, then what? The last time anyone got in there, it turned Zarkon evil.

Shiro: Zarkon fell prey to his own evil instincts. The quintesence field didn’t create them, it revealed them.

This is important to remember that the first time Lotor went into the quintessence field he didn’t turn evil. He seemed like the normal Lotor we know both when he was in the field and when he returned with Allura. Lotor didn’t snap until his second time in the quintessence field AFTER everyone called him a monster and wouldn’t even pause for one second to hear his side of the story.

In fact, Allura even mentions how quintessence can’t fall into the wrong hands for evil intentions, and Lotor agrees with her.

Lotor: Readings are beyond anything I could’ve imagined. What we do here today will change the course of the universe forever.

Allura: In the hands of the wrong person, this power could easily corrupt.

Lotor: Together, we’ll see that it never does, and continue the work your father started so long ago.

If the quintessence field is supposed to reveal one’s evil intentions, all it did was reveal Lotor’s good intentions. He also brings this back to Altean Alchemy (mentioning Alfor), which I’ll talk about in a bit.

Let’s hear Romelle’s side of the story:

I come from a planet where there are thousands of Alteans. We have lived there since the war with Zarkon began. ... Every Altean child knows the story of how Lotor saved us from destruction. When Zarkon attacked, many were off-planet on trading expeditions. When news spread about the destruction of our home, those of us who remained went into hiding for deca-phoebs. But Lotor, with his deep knowledge of Altean culture, managed to track some of them down. ... To keep the Alteans secure, Lotor hid them on a remote planet beyond the quantum abyss. ... And over time, the Alteans came to worship Lotor as their savior. Generations ago, in an effort to increase our odds of survival, Lotor announced that he was creating another colony far from our own. But in order to do so, he needed to assess which Alteans were viable candidates to survive the journey. One by one, every Altean in the colony was given a series of tests. Those who were deemed fit for the journey were loaded onto a cargo ship and taken to the second colony. It was considered the highest honor. Any communication between the colonies was strictly prohibited for fear it would compromise the other’s location. This was the world I was born into, one of unquestioning devotion to a supposed messiah. My brother Bandor was always faithful, but I had questions. ... Eventually, Bandor grew old enough to be assessed for the journey to the other colony, and he was selected to leave mmediately. ... My brother was dead. I knew the truth, or at least part of it. But I also knew that no one would believe me without proof.

Let’s hear Bandor’s side of the story:

Bandor: Romelle, you were right. Lotor... the other colony... it’s all a lie...

The only thing we can rule out for Bandor’s statement is that the Alteans on the second colony weren’t there/doing things as Lotor explained. What exactly happened with the colony is still a mystery.

Let’s hear Lotor’s side of the story:

Romelle: Lotor is a monster and has been harvesting Altean quintessence for generations!

Allura: An Altean!

Romelle: [Lotor] killed my brother and thousands of others!

Pidge: Lotor has been lying to us the whole time. He’s a murderer, just like his father!

Lotor: You know nothing about what you speak.

Allura: What are they talking about?

Lotor: Allura, listen to me. I’ve dedicated my life to preserving Altean culture. Now that we have unlocked the quintessence field, all of your people, who would have been hunted down long ago had it not been for my intervention, can live in peace. Were some lives lost in the process? Yes. But they were martyrs to a noble cause. I sacrificed a few to preserve the future for millions. Allura, do not let this ruin everything we’ve worked for. Think of what we experienced in the quintessence field.

Lotor doesn’t deny Romelle’s accusations. He admits that lives were lost, but he emphasizes that it was for preserving Altean culture, and preserving the future for millions. It’s also interesting that he says “I sacrificed a few” as opposed to “a few Alteans died” as a result of failed experimentation or whatever. I think if you were trying to preserve a species and ran tests on them and a few died from random variables, I don’t think you would use the word sacrifice.

When Lotor first sees Romelle, it’s a strange look:

He looks more confused than he does shocked. Even a tad fearful. Keith and Krolia didn’t see any other Alteans besides Romelle. The place where they found her looked abandoned, the inside world looked like a simulation. There might not be any living Alteans left, only the ones left in the cryo-tubes that started to resemble Honerva. If this is the case, Lotor would be wondering who the heck Romelle is supposed to be.

Apparently in the 80s version, Haggar disguised herself as Romelle:

And Romelle may not be like Kuron, a puppet so to speak. She could simply be an Altean from this colony as she so claims, but Haggar could have given her false memories the way she did with clone Shiro. Or she might have been preserved via cryotube from back when there WERE Alteans living in the colony, and was just woken up now that the only Alteans left are the ones on the moon in their weakened near-dead state. She could be telling the complete truth as she knows it, but from what we’ve seen I would say there are no Alteans living at the colony. (I’ll address this more further down)

Also interesting that IMMEDIATELY after Romelle confronts Lotor, there is an alert that his generals (who are now working for Haggar) are attacking and then Shiro gets taken over by none other than Haggar.

Again, either the writers wanted to keep the story concise, or somehow Romelle was used to time the attack perfectly.

Honerva: You’ve continued the work I started all that time ago and have indeed seen it to heights I could have only imagined.

Is she referring to his search for knowledge on quintessence, or did she have something to do with the Altean colony as well? This statement is so vague that it opens many possibilities regarding Honerva’s involvement. The conversation that continues is also interesting:

Lotor: My mother ceased to exist when Honerva drew her last breath. Do not believe for a moment that I would ever accept you as kin. You are an abomination. A twisted perversion of what was once so pure and beautiful. The end is near, witch. I know you can sense it. If you beg for your life now, maybe I will take pity on you when the time comes.

Is Lotor being poetic, or did Honerva actually die? What if she was in the same ill-state as Bandor and all the other Alteans and died, and became the “witch” as she is called - and Lotor started or picked up the project of the Altean colony as a way to figure out why Honerva became the way she is? Maybe even as a way to figure out how to return her back to being Altean?

Allura: Then you’re... half Altean?

Lotor: Yes. It was something the Galra considered a weakness, but I consider it a strength. The union between Zarkon and Honerva sparked a technological revolution within the empire. Even back then, Altean culture was remarkably advanced. The kinds of experiments she was conducting she advanced science by eons.

Allura: How did Haggar get her hands on this?

Lotor: She was constantly seeking Altean magical knowledge that she could pervert for her own power. There must have been things that she was unable to access.

I think it’s safe to say that it’s possible Honerva started the Altean colony. Perhaps Lotor was trying to right her wrongs. Allura even asks how she got her hands on scientific knowledge, and I think it may be more than simply she was once Altean 10k years ago. She probably learned more from the Altean colony.

I think the Altean colony somehow ties back to Honerva, in one shape or another. Whether she started it or Lotor started it because of what happened to her. I think we’re going to learn more about her and how she ties into all of this, since they focused greatly on her trip to Oriande and how she’s reverting back to her Altean form (I don’t think they would have focused on this unless it was important - course it could just be symbolic that Honerva is gaining more power).

I think this all ties back to Altean Alchemy.

Lotor: I know you have the power within.

Allura: What if I don’t? ... Coran doesn’t have it, Honerva didn’t have it... The truth is, I may not have his abilities either.

Lotor: You must. There must be a way to carry on the tradition of Altean alchemy.

Allura: That tradition died along with my planet 10,000 years ago. I’ll never be the alchemist my father was.

Why is Lotor so desperate to have Altean Alchemy? I think it ties into the Altean colony, whether he needs the alchemy to save the Alteans or if he needs the alchemy to further his goal, whatever it may be. At the moment it seems Allura is the only hope for there being Altean Alchemy.

Back to the quintessence Krolia discovered.

What if the quintessence Krolia describes as “more powerful than any quintessence we’ve received from the empire [with] some very unexpected effects” is somehow a form of Altean Alchemy? Sounds kind of like Voltron when Alfor created it - Voltron was more powerful than anything in the universe, and it had the unexpected side effects of the Lions each having their own life force of sorts.

What if Lotor figured out how to turn Altean Alchemy into pure quintessence?

He picked out Alteans on the colony based on “certain requirements” - I’m betting it was based on whether the individual had the potential for alchemy. As we’ve seen with Allura and Coran, some Alteans have it while others don’t. Whatever Lotor did with the second colony is still uncertain, but whatever it involved it caused them to have this “Altean sickness” (what I shall call the near-dead state with the elongated markings). I think all the Alteans on the moon colony are still alive, however, merely being preserved.

Romelle is a victim.

I suspect that she doesn’t have the whole story but everything she knows - albeit limited - is truth. I think Honerva is using her to further her agenda. Honerva could have even sought Romelle out, seeing that she had doubts about Lotor and thus would be the perfect one to turn Voltron against Lotor.

I’m speculating that Romelle is the last living Altean from the colony (without the Altean sickness) and that she either:

Was kept in cryosleep and recently woken and placed in the colony for Keith and Krolia to find (Honerva could have tabs on Krolia because she was technically working in the empire).

Is a clone of the original Romelle.

Knowing that Honerva was the one who started project Kuron in the first place, it’s not too much of a stretch to say she cloned Romelle as well.

Considering this was a thing that Voltron deleted shortly after, it may be a hint towards this theory. The binary translated to “Kuron.” Some speculated that this might mean that clone Shiro might come back, or that Lotor might even be cloned (apparently he was in the original), but I think it might relate to Romelle.

TL;DR

In summation, I think that:

The Altean colony is dead (possibly has been for many years now), save for the ones preserved on the moon colony.

There is more to Lotor’s story.

Honerva is tied to all of this.

The quintessence has something to do with Altean alchemy, and both have ties to both Lotor and Honerva’s goals.

Romelle is not a spy, but a victim of Honerva (and possibly a clone).

#voltron #vld #voltron meta #voltron theory #vld meta #vld theory #voltron s7 predictions #vld s7 predictions #my meta #lotor #romelle #alteans #altean colony #quintessence

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allisondraste · 6 years

Note

How close did Niamh get to figuring out what was really going on with Solas during the main game events? Any scenes where he said just a little too much and had to backtrack and "I saw it in the Fade" didn't quite cut it for her?

Well, I started with an idea and the story kind of just… ran away with itself. Thank you for this lovely prompt. I have missed Solavellan a little too much.

The relationship was a selfish endeavor that he should not have encouraged or pursued. At least, that was the comfort Solas offered himself in his decision to distance himself from the inquisitor. He furiously scrawled lines across blank parchment, charcoal dust covering his hands as he worked. Lines became shapes and shapes became a form, her form, with all its beautiful values and intricacies, the detail of the her freckles, the shimmer of light reflecting from her eyes. As he brushed away the excess charcoal, he saw her as she had appeared when he told her she was important to him, eyes intently locked on his own.

He was not yet certain which was worse: the lack of eye contact or the nauseating sensation he experienced when her eyes did happen upon his, still filled with the same anger and hurt they held that night in Crestwood. Try as he may to distract himself, he could not keep his thoughts occupied enough so that they would not wander to her. The image of her tear-stained face contorted by betrayal was emblazoned on his mind like Mythal’s marks that remained upon her forehead.

“She feels her face, marked, marred without malice. She didn’t know. She thinks it’s why you walked away.”

Cole’s words that rang in his ears were like a knife twisting more deeply into his chest. She had every right to be angry with him. She deserved a truth that he could not give her. Perhaps if he had told her that he was Fen’Harel, she would have understood and even welcomed his decision. An entanglement with the villain of tales told to strike fear into the hearts of her people, tales she knew by heart, was likely not what she had imagined when she first kissed him in the Fade.

Yet he could not bring himself to tell her, as part of him desperately did not want her to know. It was the part of him that wanted him to abandon his plan for restoration of his people. It was the part of him that still trembled at the memory of her touch. Telling her meant risking her rejection of him, a reality he was not yet prepared to face. The high level of emotion and tension between them was better than nothing at all.

“Solas,” a familiar and commanding voice jolted him from his rumination. Her voice.

He shuffled his drawing under some other sketches that he would not be as embarrassed for her to see. He stood to face her, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his jaw clenched in an attempt to appear aloof, a stance at which he had previously been very adept. She would see through it. She always did.

“Inquisitor.” he stated coldly, watching her frown from the formality. The title was as bitter on his tongue as tea and he detested it equally as much. It brought him no joy to deepen her wounds, but it was necessary. Her name was an intimacy he could no longer allow himself. His will was fragile and it would be so easy to falter.

“Don’t do that to me,” she pleaded, her voice cracking, “Don’t you even dare. I came here to have an honest conversation with you, and I do not need this fucking facade, Solas.”

“How can I help,” he asked, his voice still distant. His heart plummeted into his stomach as she looked at him with utter disbelief.

“Help,” she retorted with a bitter laugh, “You think I’m here for advice? Really?”

“If you do not wish for my assistance in preparing for your battle with Corypheus, then I am -”

“No need to finish that sentence,” she interrupted, “If you can’t drop this act - because I know its an act- and talk to me about what happened, and why it happened, then we are done here.”

She turned abruptly to walk away.

“Niamh, wait.”

Panic seized him at the thought of this being their last conversation, and he reflexively grabbed her wrist, pulling her back to him. For a moment, they stood just feet apart, looking at each other. Her gaze softened, the crease between her coppery brows fading, and Solas presumed she had seen it in his eyes, the anguish he felt.

“I promise you, I am not going to question your decision, not this time,” Niamh assured him, “I just need to know… I need to understand.”

“You will,”Solas answered, “In time.” He knew it was a pathetic defense, but he could offer her nothing else.

“No, that’s not good enough,” she snapped, her voice elevating again, “You have some really weird views about the elves, views that match absolutely nothing I have ever been told, nothing I have ever read about anywhere ever.”

“This knowledge is something that one can only acquire from journeying deep into the Fade,” he explained, “It is not something that - “

“Yes, yes. I know,” she said sarcastically, gesturing emphatically with her hands, “These wonderful spirits of the Fade just flocked to you to bestow upon you boundless knowledge of a people that you do not consider yourself to have anything in common with. Whether that is a lie, the truth, or some bastardized form of the truth, I was able to accept it. It at least made sense.”

Solas watched intently as Niamh paced about in front of him while she spoke, appearing to become increasingly agitated as the conversation progressed. Holes in his story that had once been small were widening, rapidly. She would figure him out if she had not already. He did not know whether to be relieved or terrified.

“You know what doesn’t make sense,” She asked rhetorically as she stopped pacing and stood directly in front of him, “How you, the man who refuses to associate with elves as a whole, seems to have some unspoken kinship with an ancient sentinel who is quite possibly thousands and thousands of years old. Did the Fade do that to?”

“I empathized with Abelas,” Solas stated. It was the truth, even if it was flimsy.

“Are you sure about that,” Niamh asked irreverently, “Because, I think everything confusing about you would be much better explained if you happened to be some kind of ancient being yourself.”

Her eyes locked directly with his, piercing through him entirely. He blinked a few times and looked away. He wanted to say something, to tell her that she was right and offer her an explanation for why he had been subversive. Yet, he could not find the words.

“You don’t have to say anything. I know that you won’t, anyway,” she said matter-of-factly, “But I sincerely hope that I’m right. Everything is a lot easier to understand and forgive if that’s the case. It’s better to think you’re out of touch than an asshole who thinks he is better than everyone else.”

Again, he did not speak, but he did allow his gaze to meet hers again. She smiled and shook her head.

“If I was wrong, you would be arguing with me,” she said with a laugh, even as a tear rolled down her cheek, “You love telling me when I’m wrong.”

“Vhenan,” he faltered, impressed by her intuition and touched by her emotion. He reached out and wiped the tear away.

“Goodbye, Solas,” she said solemnly. She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his cheek, before turning and slowly leaving the room. She did not glance back at him, not even once.

Tears burned in his own eyes as they started to fall freely. He doubted that he would see her again before the battle with Corypheus, and whether she survived the encounter or not, he would not be present when she returned. Once he regained possession of his foci, his duty would call him elsewhere. Heartache was a complication that he had not anticipated. He had never imagined that he could love someone from this world as he loved Niamh Lavellan. He had misjudged her. Perhaps he had misjudged everyone.

Alas, it was too late to turn back now, with his plan already in motion.

He returned to his desk, sat down at his chair, and pulled out his drawing. He smiled as he traced the lines with his fingertips.. He opened one of the drawers on his desk, removing a decently sized bundle of parchment tied together with twine. Pulling the knot loose revealed several other sketches of his love that he had done in the past year. He placed the newest piece on top, tied the twine as it had been before, and returned the bundle to the drawer.

On a blank piece of parchment, he wrote:

You were right, although I wish that were not so.

You changed everything.

Ir abelas.

He tossed it in the drawer along with his drawings of her. Perhaps she would see them when she returned.

#solavellan #solas #female lavellan #dragon age inquisition #dragon age #da fanfiction #allison answers #celeritassagittae

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freefallingforfanfiction · 6 years

Text

Super Strange Things

Chapter One: The Mission

Pairing: Eventual Johnathan Byers x Reader

Overall Summary: Y/N Winchester, middle child of John and Mary Winchester, arrives in Hawking’s with her family to investigate a series of disappearances and hearsay of a strange, faceless monster, along with a girl who can supposedly move things with her mind.

This Chapter: Y/N Winchester and family roll into the seemingly quite town of Hawkins, Indiana. The siblings face their first day at yet another new school and John Winchester goes to work with the Hawkins PD.

Warning: Warped time line.

MasterList

“Y/N!” your elder brother called from the kitchen of the small rent home that your father had paid for in cash, his voice booming off the walls. “Would you hurry the hell up?”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” you huff out in annoyance, your fingers swiftly braiding your H/L, H/C hair into a loose French braid. You had already applied mascara onto your lashes from the single tube of the liquid substance that you owned, which had been snagged from a gas station one night while your father wasn’t looking. You quickly shimmied into your black denim jeans and shrugged on a loose black shirt and stepped into your ankle high black boots. You complete the dark look with a single pop of color, a green plaid shirt, which you promptly tied around your waist instead of slipping it onto your arms.

You snatched your army green bag from the floor of the makeshift room you were sharing with your little brother, Sam, since it was only a two roomed rent house, and tossed it over your shoulder, running out of the room.

“Here, you’re going to have to eat in the car,” Dean grunted as he handed you a plate of scrambled eggs and a few slices of bacon.

“Thanks,” you said as you took the plate from him, carful to not let the plastic fork drop to the ground.

“Sammy’s already in the car,” Dean said.

“Since when are you so eager to be on time?” You asked as you shove a fork full of eggs into your mouth.

“Dads orders,” Dean said.

You snorted, “Again, since when?”

Dean rolled his eyes at you, but put his arm around your shoulders as to usher you out of the house faster.

“I don’t know, but he wants us to behave this go around,” Dean explained.

“And by ‘us’ I assume he means just you and me?” You ask.

Dean smirks as he opens the door to the impala, “You know it.”

You chuckle slightly as you round the car to take your place in the passenger side seat. Sammy had always been the picture of innocence, he always took the classes he was put in seriously, liked to do his homework, and generally enjoyed the normal life.

You and Dean however, well, that was another story.

While you were slightly more behaved than Dean, you were nothing compared to Sam. Your grades were good enough to pass you, which is more than you could say for Dean most of the time, but they were not honor, nor banner, roll material for that matter. You preferred to spend the time you should be paying attention to your teacher drawing in your sketchbook or skipping out on classes to go sketch out the scenery elsewhere. Dean, however, enjoyed spending his time making out with random girls in the janitors closets or vacant classrooms.

“Alright, is everyone clear on their job?” Dean asked.

“Mhm,” you hummed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam muttered from the back seat. He had his elbow on the arm rest, and his face laying on his closed fist, brown puppy eyes staring blankly out the window.

“What’s wrong little one?” you asked, shifting around in your seat as Dean cranked the car, the engine sprang to life with a comforting purr.

“It’s nothing,” Sam muttered.

“Obviously not,” you countered, “You look like you just lost your best friend.”

“I don’t have a best friend to lose,” Sam sighed, “I hate bouncing from school to school. I don’t even know how to make friends! How am I supposed to get those kids to like me when they’re just going to think I’m trying to replace their dead friend?”

“We don’t know that the kid is dead, Sammy,” Dean muttered from the driver’s seat as he sped down the road ways to the school. You had no idea how Dean always knew the location of everything, but he always seemed to know where he was going. You had a suspicion that it was some kind of super power.

“Yea, we don’t know what happened to any of those missing people,” you said, quickly backing your older brother. “He’s only been gone a few days. He could even just be lost in the woods.”

“Yea, whatever you guys say,” Sam said as he turned his attention back to the scenery rolling by outside of the car window. You sighed at your little brother and fixed yourself in your seat, making brief eye contact with your older brother, a look you knew the meaning to all too well, as it had been drilled into your head since before you can remember.

Look out for Sammy.

All eyes followed your brother’s sleek impala as it pulled into the school parking lot, everyone’s normal morning activates came to a halt as they traded them in to watch you two of you get out the car, which had previously been blaring ACDC. Dean, as always, was the first to get out. He slammed the door shut, and suddenly, every pair of female eyes had turned to him, small smirks growing on some of their faces.

Dean sent a flirtatious wink to a group of four girls giving him the once over, who all busted out into girly giggles at the action. You rolled your eyes lightly but still chuckled at your brother’s behavior none the less.

You got out the car next, Sammy had already been brought to the middle school side where you three had spotted the Wheeler boy and his two friends, Sinclair and Henderson, getting off of their parked bikes. Sam had sighed dramatically at both his siblings encouragement to “go get them tiger” before you had let him out of the back seat, all three of his targets eyes swept over the impala and watched you leaning over to let your younger brother out. When you had seen them, you threw a wink at the young curly haired boy who turned red in response. When you and Dean pulled off, you could see the same kid approach Sam.

Now, you were the one slipping from the car. You rested your arms on the top of the impala, watching through your dark octagon sunglasses (also stolen from a gas station) as heads turned your way. The girls were quick to size you up and you saw more than a few of the boy’s checking you out. You resisted the urge to crinkle your nose at them. Unlike Dean, you were not flirtatious.

Not that you weren’t sexually attracted to people, you just didn’t see the point in forming a romantic attachment with someone when you knew you wouldn’t be staying around long. And you got attached a lot faster to people than you’d care to admit aloud, which is why you didn’t typically bother making friends either.

Your E/C gaze swept over the campus, mentally mapping it out and taking special precautions to note every exit you could see. Slowly, you rounded the car after shutting the door to meet Dean. The bell ran in the distance, and the two of you began to make your way to the building, where you would have to find the principal’s office to get your schedule and be ushered to your respective classes.

You let out a lengthy sigh, “How mad do you think dad would be if I skipped out of the first day?”

“I’m going to go with very.” Dean answered. “So don’t even think about it. We have orders to behave.”

You snorted, always the perfect soldier, that one.

“Whatever you say, big brother.”

The trip to the principal’s office was uneventful. You and Dean had each been given a copy of your schedule and were taken to separate classrooms, as Dean was a year older than you. You were lead to a class room with an older woman at the head, who made you say your full name and where you were from and asked if you had any specific hobbies, which you had answered, the latter of the questions being drawing and the violin.

You were then seated by a boy with long brown hair, who was staring intently at his text book, a faraway look on his face. From the photos that your father had shown you, you knew him to be Johnathan Byers, your mission. By the time the lunch bell rang, you had already planned your first move.

Your E/C eye quickly scanned the school yard, looking for the boy you had seen earlier in home room, Johnathan Byers, elder brother to Will Byers, the missing kid. From the few times you gazed had skimmed over him today, you had quickly discovered that he was a loner. He never interacted with one, never spoke out in class, or did anything to make himself stand out.

Your gaze soon washed over him, finding the boy sitting at a picnic table, characteristically by himself. He appeared to be flipping through something, you couldn’t make out what from this distance, but you soon planned on finding out. Every other table in the yard was full, friends had already clicked off and were going about their lunch, nibbling on the food their mothers had packed and catching up on the latest gossip the day had brought.

Heaving your school bag higher on your shoulder, you began making your way over to the table. Johnathan paid you no mind as you approached, most likely thinking that you were just a passerby. However, you stopped before him, the shade your shadow provided causing him to look up curiously.

“Mind if I sit? Everywhere else is full and loud.”

The boy blinked up at you a few times in shock before he slowly nodded, motioning for you to sit down. “Yea, go ahead.”

“Awesome, thanks.” You grinned.

You placed your bag down on the bench with a thunk and soon seated yourself. You began to dig through your bag, looking for the lunch Dean always packed, a ham sandwich in a plastic bag, a small bag of chips and a banana, all stuffed inside a brown paper bag.

“How come you’re not sitting with the others?” you asked casually as you slip the sandwich from your bag.

“Not much of a people person,” Johnathan responded.

You took a bite out of your sandwich, “I can respect that.”

The boy looked up at you from under his long bangs, “What about you?”

“Never stay in one place long enough to bother making friends,” you say nonchalantly, fishing around in your bag for the bottle of water Dean had also probably placed there. He was such a mother hen.

You soon found it and let out a satisfied, “Aha!” causing the boy to look up at you. You grinned sheepishly, “Sorry. I knew my brother put it in here. I just have a mess in this bag, kinda makes it hard to find things.”

Johnathan nodded, returning his attention to the thing he was flipping through before. Now that you were up close, you could see that he was flipping through a set of photos. It was then that you noticed the camera sitting beside his bag. So he’s in to photography…

“You have photography classes here?” you ask, your interest was peeked.

“Yea,” Johnathan replied, “Nothing to fancy, just the basics. And we have a dark room on campus.”

You bobbed your head up and down in recognition of his words, “I’d always wanted to learn how to develop pictures, but we don’t sit still long enough for me to learn. My dad’s a traveling detective,” you explained, hoping to peek the boy’s interest.

“A traveling deceive?”

“I don’t think that’s the actual term for it, but that’s what he does. He’s a member of the FBI that specializes in strange cases.”

Johnathan’s eyes flickered over you for a moment before he glued them back to the table. “What weird case is he working on here?”

Got him.

“There’s been a string of missing persons throughout the area. In this town Will Byers, but here’s been a bunch more in the surrounding towns. People just vanishing into thin air. No bodies, no signs of where they went.”

You took another bite of your sandwich.

“Dads says there’s gotta be a reason bodies aren’t turning up, whatever’s going on, whoever is behind this, he’s keeping them alive for a reason. At least that’s his figuring,” you explained further, opening your bag of chips.

You popped a Cheeto in your mouth and watched Johnathan’s brain reel from across the table as he soaked in the bits of information you had fed him. His fingers had long since stopped flipping through his collections of photos to simply rested upon them, unmoving.

“What do you think happened to them?” Johnathan ask quietly, his eyes glued to the grainy wood of the outdoor table.

“I think that my dad is the best at what he does, and I think he’s going to bring these people home to their families.” You met Johnathan’s gaze as he lifted his head and gave him a reassuring smile.

“Will is my little brother,” the boy admitted quietly.

“Well,” you paused, remembering he hadn’t actually introduced himself to you yet, “I’m sorry I’ve been chatting with you but I forgot to ask your name?”

“Johnathan Byers,” he introduced.

You smiled once more, “Well, Johnathan, my dad’s going to bring your little brother home.”

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rmjagonshi · 6 years

Text

Whole Again - Chapter 4

Whole Again on AO3

The temperature was immediately different upon stepping into the crypt. The stonework acting as an insulator against the cold Icelandic environment. The room beyond the doorway was wide, but low; the ceiling hardly two feet above their heads. The ceiling and walls were rounded, blending into one another with smooth curves. If Stan had been younger, he could have jumped and smacked the stone, but his knees were 50/50 on good days.

The chamber looked as though it had been a mine once, large pillars left behind after removing material to help support the ceiling. The pillars were positioned lengthwise, one in front of the other with a gated door at the other end of the room. Cast iron and well-oiled enough to be resistant against rust. “Barred. Hmmm. You said you had a crowbar?” Ford turned to Stan, rubbing his chin. “’Course.” Stan flipped his pack around and dug out the crowbar before inspecting the gate. The metal nearest to the stone was probably the weakest due to moisture exchange. He could try bending the gate there first and yanking it out of the door frame. That was only if the gate was standalone and not integrated into the wall itself. Maybe he should have considered bolt cutters, or a welding torch.

Ford had wandered off, taking more pictures and (now that he was able) pulling his journal out to write some more. Whatever, let the alpha male do the hard work. He slipped the crowbar between the stone and the iron rod and put pressure on the crowbar. Nothing. Ok, not a problem. He grabbed the end of the bar and pushed as hard had he could. Nothing. Stan breathed and held back the flow of curses he wanted to scream. Instead he rubbed at his forearms and pushed against the bar with all his weight. He felt movement! It was the crowbar bending under the pressure. The profanities that echoed off the walls reverberated to the surface, startling an artic fox that had been hunting in the snow.

Stan was ready to start throwing things and turn the iron to rust and splinters with a snap of his fingers, when he heard a quiet flip of a latch. He felt a rumble through the stone as some counter weight was dropped, lifting the iron gate he’d be ashamed to admit had not even dented.

“Hey. My crowbar!” Stan smacked at the tool as it rose with the gate, knocking it loose and wincing as it tumbled down on his head. “Ow!” Stan rubbed at his head, kneeling on the floor, and watching the dust fall. Part of the wall it is.

Ford exited a hidden corner of the room and Stan stopped grumbling long enough to get off the floor. “There are a series of symbols in ancient Gaelic engraved along every wall. The pictographs seem to be recording a religious or spiritual ritual that was performed here. I believe the inhabitants may have worshiped an interdimensional being, these glyphs look familiar.”

“Hey, next time you wanna start touching random shit, let me know, will ya?” Stan shouted, collecting both of their bags, and packing away his crowbar. “Hm? Oh, yes, fine.” Ford said, completely not paying attention to anything Stan had said. Stan rolled his eyes but held back a complaint when Ford continued speaking. “I took some rubbings for further study. I may have to consult some of my old notes. Shame we tossed those journals in the Bottomless Pit, I could use some references now.” This wasn’t the first time Ford had made a passing remark lamenting the loss of the journals. If he was so upset, why not take a trip back to Gravity Falls and start re-recording all the weird things that existed there. They were on ‘ok’ terms with most of the creatures there, it wouldn’t be hard. Instead, Stan simply reminded Ford of the danger their contents possessed. “Those things were dangerous. Inert of not, some of that stuff should be forgotten. And hey, it can’t be that hard to learn ancient Gaelic. Heck, I learned your stupid nerd code in about a year. Should take you a few weeks to a month, tops.”

Ford looked apprehensive…and maybe a little resigned. “Dare I ask if you decoded everything?”

“I had that thing for thirty years, Stanford. Yeah, I read the whole thing. Could’a probably recited some pages before the whole memory wipe thing.” Stan was a world class liar, born with a silver tongue that had matured to tempered platinum with age, but he disliked lying to his brother. Sure, lying by omission was one thing, but flat out telling a falsehood gave him acid reflux. At least with Stanford. It felt…wrong. But Stanford didn’t need to know he could recite every word on every page.

Ford looked sheepish, right hand grasping at his left arm nervously. “Look Stan, I…” Stan interrupted him, “Hey, its nothin’. You missed me, but you were mad. I missed you, but I never bothered to reach out to ya. We both needed to grow up.” There was that bile taste again, but Ford really didn’t need to know about…that night either.

“I know, but I…what I wrote…what I was thinking…you know that it was just...” Ford was distraught, or approaching that limit. “I didn’t mean it.”

A moment passed. Then another. Stan sighed. Stanford had meant it. But that was a bucket of rotten fish Stan had no intention of ever opening. Even if he did, this was not the time nor place to be doing that anyway. “Hey, we’ll talk later. Right now, we have a crypt to plunder and ancient squiggles to archive. We got time.” Stan had placed a hand on Ford’s shoulder and Ford returned Stan’s smile with a weak one of his own, but a smile nonetheless. “Now common, we got ourselves some real adventurin’ to do.” Stan slung both bags over his shoulders and charged through the open gate, Ford left with no other alternative, followed him.

The second room opened into a towering chamber with a massive and ornate central pillar. Stan could hear drips of water echoing in the cavern. A rickety wooden ramp led them up to a platform that had been carved into the central pillar. A ledge bordering the room had once been connected to the central pillar, but the bridge had collapsed. Under the debris, was a body.

Everything passed the poor sod’s topmost ribs had been crushed, just a pile of grey bones and threadbare cloth that looked as if it would turn to dust. One hand, stretched out in front, was wrapped brittlely around what looked like a sculpted lizard or bird foot. Ford knelt down and broke the bones, drawing the thing up with him as he stood.

It was a bronze, three-toed dragon’s foot. Ford held it up close to his face and Stan supplied the light. It glinted slightly, but was tarnished. It was highly detailed for its time; the toes having folds and creases to represent skin and scales before shifting to the claws. The sculpture seemed to end at the ankle joint.

“But where would they get the reference from? A Comodo Dragon? But where would they get one? Did the Nordic people travel that far south? Could one have been traded? Was it alive? No, preserved, most likely; it’s doubtful that it would have survived this climate.” Stan had rolled his eyes and pulled out a tiny notebook from his back pocket, half a pencil from the lip of his beanie and scribbled down a few key words that Ford had prattled off. “’Comodo dragon, preserved foot, how far did travel’, Got it” Ford sighed and rolled his eyes, but said nothing, Stan’s small notes did help him remember his spontaneous questions.

Stan pocketed the sculpture and his notebook, Ford’s jacket already near bursting, and they ascended the ramp to the next level. The distance from the central pillar to the next floor was too far to jump. “There doesn’t seem to be another way across. Too bad, this is all stone; my magnet gun is useless.” The answer was simple.

Stan’s steady aim with the grappling hook and squeezing Ford to his side with his free arm, ensured hasty progress. Albeit, slightly bruised ribs and a sore shoulder. Man, he was getting old. Ford had squeaked in surprise when Stan had grabbed him, sputtering his hesitation at this “horrible and highly dangerous idea”, but Stan had only grinned maniacally and held on tighter. They landed roughly. Or rather, Stanford had landed in his classic hero pose and Stan tumbled head over foot, landing on his ass. He hurt, but it was worth it.

Ford stood, brushing himself off and peering to the top of the cavern. He let out a low whistle. “These ledges go all the up. It appears that this room acts as a central connecting point to all surrounding chambers. I don’t see any direct connections, though. Maybe there are stairs elsewhere. Hey Stan, you mind waiting a bit while I take notes?” Ford glanced back at Stan who was still a bit winded from his reenactment of Tarzan. “Stan?” Stan waved him off, shuffling on the floor to lean against the wall. Getting old sucked. He didn’t recommend it.

While Ford sketched and buzzed with energy, Stan rested, drinking some water, and munching a granola bar. It was bizarre, this place felt creepily familiar, but no matter how much he tried to pull the knowledge to his head, it seemed to flitter away before he could get a good look at it. It was almost as if the ward had protected this place from his mind too. And wards. That didn’t make any sense. The shack was still warded against him, but he had no problems going in and out. What made this place different? It grated at his mind that he couldn’t remember. Sure, he’d gotten used to having gaps in his memory, and he had tried to ignore that he just knew things now, but it was like a lyric to a song you just couldn’t get right so the song plays at the edges of your mind driving you crazy, and you can’t even remember the name of the song or who sang it and you couldn’t even ask anyone because you killed them all and…ok, time to calm down. His gums had started to twinge as he clenched his dentures together.

He’d been meaning to ask Ford if he knew how to regrow teeth (he didn’t) or at least invent something like a serum that could (he could, but it was painful). ARRRGH! Why? Why just know things unless it was about something that was helpful? Stan wanted a cigar to chew on, but he settled for a stick of gum. ‘Course smoking was how he lost his real teeth, that and bare knuckles boxing in Mexico. There was more than one night he spat out a tooth, but his winnings paid for passable, if not functional, bridges. Come to think of it, he was lucky to have his eyes after some of those matches.

Eyes. Eye. Yellow eyes, what was that?! Yeah, anything that was a depiction of him was a window, but the dragon or wyvern wasn’t a depiction of him…was it? Or not him, not him him, but past him. Oy. I need an organizer. Stan rubbed his eye eyes, two eyes, and glanced around his little corner. He caught sight of three waist high stone structures that looked like sliced bread loaves. Or maybe he was just hungry. Regardless, there were three of them, and they seemed to be facing each other, meeting in the middle. He couldn’t tell if the floor between them was dusty, broken or what, but there was something weird about the pattern those mounds made. Stan called out to Ford.

“Hey, Sixer! There’s a-a thing that might be interestin’ for ya.” He didn’t spare the mental energy to actually describe anything, counting on Sixer’s gravitational pull towards him to do the trick.

“Find something?” Ford had returned and Stan pointed out the stone mounds. “Whadd’ya make of those?”

Ford hummed as he wandered around the stone figures, crouching down to trace the designs on the faces. Stan eased himself off the floor, grabbing his bag, and making his way over to Stanford. He approached Ford’s left side and stood directly in the middle of the three mounds. Both brothers jerked at the eruption of red light from the floor and designs on the stone. They both turned towards the bang of a gate opening to their right that Stan had not noticed before. “What the hell…?” Stan mumbled slowly and took a step. Almost instantly, the light vanished and the gate closed again. Ford strode over and peered through the gate, Stan followed, weirded out by the light a moment ago. “It’s a puzzle. Two people must work together to open the way through. See…” Ford held the flashlight aloft and pointed to the other side of the room beyond the gate. “I suspect that to open that one, we’ll have to make the totems match with their counterparts on this side.”

“Hey, I got this one.” Stan patted his brother on the shoulder, fully intending to not stand in the ring of creepy red light again. Ford nodded and returned to the ring, the light appeared again and Stan ducked through when the gate rose. He stood in the center of the room, and froze.

Shoot, he hadn’t bothered to look at the symbols. “Um..Sixer?” he called, hesitantly, voice filled with embarrassment. “Stand facing the next door” Ok, he could do that. He turned to his left, facing the barred doorway; he could see Ford from the corner of his left eye. He turned a bit more to look at Ford again.

“No, Stan like this. See me?” Ford waved and adjusted his body to face directly between two of the figureheads. Stan grumbled, but turned to mimic his brother. “Reach out your left hand to the nearest one. This one should be a whale. Or, at least it kind of looks like a whale.” Stan rolled his eyes, stepped forwards and tried to spin the figurehead. It didn’t budge.

“Stan?”

“Hang on a minute, would ya? This thing ‘s heavy.”

He placed his hands on the top of the stone for leverage and pushed. The figurehead sank into the floor slightly before turning. “Oh”

“What?”

“Nunin’, Sixer. I got it.” He pressed down again and turned it so the whale was facing him. Ford was right, it did look kinda like a whale. Kinda. He returned to his previous position.

“Ok. Turn right, the next should be a snake” Stan did as Ford directed; this one did look a bit more like it was supposed to.

“The last one’s an owl.” No, it wasn’t. It looked like a cat’s head on a bird body. Whoever carved the mural likely had never seen an owl before. Stan’s call of “Got It” was drowned out by the clang of the rising gates.

Ford joined him a moment later, holding out a granola bar to Stan. He waved it off and pulled out the empty wrapper from his earlier one. Ford shrugged, tore it open and began to eat as they walked.

The hall they followed didn’t go up; they went down. “The rooms above aren’t connected?” Ford asked himself quizzically.

“There might’a been a ramp or sommin that use ta be there. There was a lot o’ debris back there”. There had been a ramp, but it had been vaporized and left only dust. Stan scowled at this tidbit of information entering his brain involuntarily. Ford didn’t seem to notice, instead he just hummed and made a few notations on his phone as they walked. Several of the rooms they passed looked as though they were residential rooms; a couple of bedrooms, what looked like a galley with a stone oven and hearth, a room with what looked like it once housed a pile of tables and chairs, and a tiny closet that smelled rancid that neither of them were interested in examining further. Ford paused in another room to take a rubbing of a pedestal with a bronze plaque covered in Gaelic that he couldn’t remove. The room gave Stan the creeps and looked like a place of worship.

They continued their descent down, passing more wall carvings that Ford photographed with his phone. Stan rolled his eyes; his phone was filled with funny pictures of himself, Ford, places they had been, weird animals and the occasional picture of something for Ford. Ford’s camera had exactly one picture of the kids, a scanned picture of the two of them on the original Stan O’War and a picture of them both on the Stan O’War II. Oh, and about three hundred pictures of anomalies and glyphs and interesting plants and rock formations and…well, there wasn’t much of his family. Stan had wanted to call him out on it, but he didn’t know how to voice his concerns in a way that didn’t sound insulting.

The hall finally ended at a spiral staircase that disappeared into the darkness below. Ford pulled out a glow stick, cracked and shook it, and let it drop. Ford counted under his breath to three, almost four. “It’s about…um…what’s the acceleration of gravity on Earth, again?” Ford frowned. “I don’t know,” Stan did, “but I’d say it’s about five or six stories down. You want me ta go first?”

“I’ll lead, just stay close behind me. And keep that grappling hook ready. We don’t know how sturdy this wood is.” They started down, taking slow steps at first, shifting their weight. The wood creaked and popped, but held firm. They made it past a full spiral before they were emboldened by the lack of instability. Ford started in with more deliberate steps and Stan resumed his normal near stomping gait. It was a mistake.

The wood below Stan gave way and he would have fallen the entire way down had his reflexes not been in top condition. The grappling hook was deployed before he’d even passed the next level and lodged itself in the wood above them, shooting passed Ford’s head and causing him to backpaddle away from the edge. Stan hung in shock with bits of wood dust and debris raining down on his head.

“Stan? Are you alright?”

“I’ll, um, I’ll meet’cha at the bottom!” This was embarrassing. “Just be careful, Sixer”

“Will do” Ford muttered quietly and began making his way, with less confidence this time, down the steps. Stan toggled the button on the grappling hook to lower himself slowly down until he reached the bottom of the stairwell. It was pitch-black. He could see the bobbling of Ford’s light above him. He was reluctant to let the rope grow loose and disengage until Ford could reach him. The echoes around him told him that the room beyond was massive. And he could hear scurrying.

He held a death grip on the handle of the grappling hook until Ford rounded the last spiral. “You good?” he said, shinning the light at Stan before growing concerned and continuing in a whisper, “What’s wrong?” Stan glanced at Ford, then back at the doorway. Ford spun and looked too when a squelching sound emanated from the room; the flashlight held at an angle pointed away from the sound to not attract attention.

Stan gulped. He had an uncanny feeling that this was gonna be his wort nightmare. Ford steadied himself and directed the beam of light into the room.

Yup ‘Worst nightmare’, in the flesh, or carapace in this particular case.

A giant spider the size of a Great Dane paused mid step, turning towards the two and hissed.

FUCK!

The thing was dead in a matter of microseconds; its body flung across the room from the force of four plasma rounds being fired at it from close range. The pistol smoking in Ford’s hand.

“Did I ever tell you what happened on that road trip I took the kids on?”

“Yup, that’s why I shot it. I have no intentions of dealing with that.”

Stan also suspected that his panic attacks over the ordeal that had kept Ford awake some nights after that had something to do with it.

With Ford’s help, they pulled the grappling hook free and tentatively entered the room from hell, Ford taking point and pulling Stan along behind him by the hand. Stan only felt some shame at hiding his face in the back of his brother’s coat.

The room was filled with webbing and things wrapped up in that webbing that Stan had no interest in looking at. Ford carefully lead him through the room and towards the next doorway when he heard a quiet insect clicking. He risked a glance up at the same time Ford flicked his flashlight up. There was a large hole in the top of the ceiling and a large black mound slowly descending and reaching its way too many legs out.

NOPE!

Stan bolted for the door, Ford right behind him, not daring to look back as he felt the ground shudder slightly with the creature’s landing. He saw something goopy and gelatinous whiz above their heads, but he was NOT turning around to look. They made it through the door, Ford shooting a gap in the webbing that covered it, and bolted down the hall beyond. When Stan could bring himself to stop, he realized Ford was not behind him.

He heard some plasma shots ring out and a loud grunt.

Stan took a second to steady himself before turning around and heading back into the hall to rescue his brother. Another rumble ran through the stonework and a bright light emanated from the end of the hall. He rounded the corner to smack right into Ford.

“What the hell?” Stan winced at the light.

“I stole a stick of dynamite and a smoke bomb and trailed the powers behind us and fired a shot. Those smoke bombs are incredibly flammable, you shouldn’t be using them.”

Stan just laughed with the release of adrenaline and hugged his brother tightly. “Come on. The rest of the way is safe…probably.” It was Ford’s turn to laugh.

The heat from the inferno in the spider room, now turning it into a literal room from hell, escaped through a series of vents in the stonework and erupted out to the surface. The same fox from before jumped directly into the air with all four feet when a gust of warm air puffed across its tail. It brought its body low to the ground and thought about going back to bed.

Ford and Stan walked along the hall that opened up as it went, ending in a tubular room with a circular door at the end. The walls were again covered in murals. Most prominent was a yellow-eyed dragon and a procession of people worshiping it. The eyes made him uncomfortable. And it had everything to do with the fact that he had to fight to keep his vision his own.

Ford was snapping pictures like a paparazzi catching a celebrity in the nude, and grinning widely. Stan just made his way over to the door and peered at the markings in the center; ignoring the face of the yellow-eyed dragon glowering at him. His vision shifted momentarily, looking at the top of his own head and Stanford taking more notes behind him. He placed a hand on the door and shook his head to return his vision to normal. He blinked a few times and rubbed his fingertips on the bronze disk at the center of the door. There were three holes and a semicircle blob that almost looked like a foot print.

Stan pulled the bronze claw from his pocket and inspected the underside. There were scuff marks on the pad of the foot and on the tips of the claws. A key?

“Hey” He called out to Stanford, using is free hand to wave over his shoulder.

“A dragon’s claw for a key?” He adjusted his glasses. “Unusual choice. Though depictions of dragons were revered as beings of great strength and power in Viking culture. The structure of this chamber seems to indicate this was done deliberately. Enemies would find it alarming and hesitant to go further and allies would see a welcome protector. Brilliant design. And the door is unusually intricate. It must have been designed to protect something exceedingly significant.” Stan perked up at Ford’s suggestion.

“Significant like treasure?” He couldn’t help the toothy and predatory grin from enveloping his face, his eyebrows waggling up and down. Ford rubbed his chin and returned Stan’s grin with a smug one of his own, “Could be. It could also be a pile of scrolls and books with more glyphs to study.” Stan frowned. “Way to be a buzzkill, Poindexter.”

Ford just chuckled and took the claw from Stan and fitted it to the grooves in the door, “Well, only one way to find out.” The claw fit perfectly. Ford turned the claw counter clockwise until he felt the lock resist him, before turning it back to the starting position. The door jolted, and both brothers stood back as it sank into the floor with a stutter, Ford having kept hold of the claw. They stood, quiet exhilaration and trepidation coursing through their veins. “Ready?” Stan asked. “Always,” was the reply as they passed through the gateway to the unknown.

Chapter 1

#stancest #gravity falls #stanley pines #stanford pines #sea grunks #bill cipher #skyrim reference #stanowar #stan-o-war #whole again

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