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hyunnows · 3 years

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love, [Y/N] | jjk

► PAIRING: Jungkook x reader

► CONTENT/WARNINGS: angst, mentions of fluffy memories, mc death, lots of Jungkook tears, best friends!au, mentions of unrequited love

► WORD COUNT: 2k+

► RATING: pg13

► SUMMARY: "It’s not fair that he was holding the last of you in his hands, unable to focus on anything other than the last words he’ll ever receive from you."

↳ A/N: I got this idea at 2:36 am and I don't know where it came from but oh well. This was meant to be a 300-word blurb and we ended up at 2k lol. I haven't written anything for Jungkook compared to Tae, and honestly, this maknae has been climbing my bias list so here's a semi-self-indulgent fic filled with angst and crying! I hope you enjoy it, please feel free to leave feedback and reblog! Also, STREAM BUTTER!

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Shaking with fear, Jungkook gripped your hand tightly, tears pouring out his red eyes as your patient monitor fluctuated slightly. With a quivering lip, he croaks, “C'mon [Y/N], wake up. For me? Please…”

He feels your small fingers squeeze his own gently, weakly, and hope beams across his face. But just as soon as the hope had come, it vanished, your paling fingers going stiff in his palm. The once steady beeping now a quickly accelerating sequence, the sound ringing in the brunet boy's ears as his eyes go wide and breath cuts short.

He feels the nurses pull at him, trying to drag him out the room and he thrashes against them, his nails digging into your hospital bed with all their might until his knuckles turn white and his vision blurs. Loud sobs rack through his body as he slumps in the nurses’ arms, pressing the balls of his palms into his eyes, trying to stop the tears and the burning. His cries almost choke him, the occasional cough jerking his body harshly.

When he sees the familiar face of the doctor, he prays that the downcast gaze and frown don't mean what he thinks.

“[L/N] [Y/N],” Seokjin takes a breath, his own eyes beginning to water at the words he's about to utter, “time of death: 2 am… I'm sorry Jungkook. I did everything, I-I tried every voltage and pumped her with liquids a-and everything I could d-do—I couldn't save her. I'm so—so sorry.”

It's like his entire world has crumbled in a second. His arms and chest are suddenly heavy, his lips, throat, and face feel dry and dehydrated, and his eyes can't decide if they want to be open or closed because of the stinging sensation they feel when he tries either. Sitting on the floor in front of your room, he takes the hand Jin outstretched and wobbles inside, only to fall back down the moment he sees your dull figure.

He doesn't care that a small crowd can see him babbling incoherently as he tries to apologize to you through his sniffles and whimper, crawling to your hand and lacing his fingers through yours.

Eventually, Taehyung and Jimin pick him up and drag him out of the building you took your last breath in. Jungkook didn't try to resist, knowing he was in no shape to put up a fight or drive himself home. He needed to get out of there anyway, the smell of death only he could detect suffocating him slowly.

On his way upstairs, Taehyung holds him back, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a short stack of envelopes—maybe two or three—rubber-banded together and hands them to the younger. “Her first day in the ER, she m-made me promise to give you these if she—if she… You know…”

Hearing they were yours, he takes them gently and swiftly, immediately holding them close as if they were his lifeline. He gives Taehyung a silent, stiff nod before turning and dragging himself to his room.

He doesn't open them right away, taking his time to admire your adorable calligraphy and observing every smudge or erased pencil mark you'd left on their light material.

He's not surprised to find every letter addressed to him, because it wouldn't be the first time you two had given each other messages the old-fashioned way, and he smiled softly at the “before you read” attached to the first envelope.

If you're not Jeon Jungkook, please don't read these. If you are, know that I'm still with you, in these letters, in your heart, our memories and that I will always be here, even though I'm sorry I can't physically be here with you right now. These are letters I've written to you, but never sent. They're from the bottom of my heart and they say everything I've ever wanted to tell you.

—[Y/N]

His heart beats harder as he opens the first letter, doing his best not to tear the envelope and keep it perfectly intact for him to save.

There are two Polaroids safety-pinned to the letter, both with his face and yours smiling brightly at each other. He gently unclips them, tucking them safely into the [Y/N]-specially decorated sleeve. He breathes in deeply and unfolds the letter, immediately tearing up at your handwriting on the wilting paper.

Dear Jungkook,

I know you don't think it's cool or modern to send letters, so I won't send this.

Anyway, I want to thank you for always being there for me, my big, strong, human-shoulder-tissue. I couldn't be luckier than I am to have you as my best friend.

And I know this is going to sound cheesy, but I love you more than anyone or anything in this world. You're the diamond to my sky, the sun to my earth, and the person I would choose to spend the rest of my life with.

In other words, I'm in love with you, Jeon. I wish you were in love with me, but I'm already the happiest girl in the world being by your side every day.

Your Best Freind,

[Y/N]

His heart pounds against his ribs, because you had been in love with him. You had wanted him to be the last face you'd ever see. You were right in front of him, your heart on your sleeve for who knows how long, and he hadn't known until you were dead. His face contorted into one of pain at the reality, and he squeezed his eyes shut to stop the tears, taking long, shaky breaths before opening the second letter.

This note is considerably newer than the first, its edges still white and crisp, but the deepness of the creases tells him it's at least a few months old.

Dear Jungkookie,

Lately, I've been sick—which you know because I've told you. I haven't told you about my feelings yet because I don't want to scare you or pressure you, but I'm probably going to die before I ever get to tell you these things.

Since I told you how I felt in the last letter, I'm going to try and describe why in this letter. Reason number one, your presence. You always manage to just enter a dark, tense room and make it so much brighter and more comfortable. I don't know if it’s your smile or your laugh or the way you don't care if you're embarrassed or not, but you just manage to make everyone feel comfortable in themselves.

Reason number two, your kindness. I had never seen someone run back inside, get an entire table's worth of food, and give it away before. You're always so willing to give, despite the cost. I hope you never change.

Reason number three, it's kind of odd but I fell in love with your voice. Not just the way it sounds pretty when you sing, but the way it has the power to comfort whoever you’re singing to. I’ve always been able to come to you for support and comfort.

Reason number four is you know how to turn a bad day into a good one. You can talk to anyone who’s down for five minutes and you’ll turn them into a giggling, grinning mess.

Reason number five, you’ve always made me feel loved. Even though our entire relationship has been platonic—at least on your side—you’ve always checked up on me, held me, and made sure I knew I was enough and I can’t thank you enough for that.

Number six is your passion. You always put your all into everything you do. Be it making breakfast for the boys or helping me with a project I put off until the last minute, you make sure it’s all or nothing.

Seven is that you taught me how to love unconditionally. I always believed in falling in love and finding the one, but I never knew how intense it felt to be able to give your all to someone and not expect a single thing in return—until I met you. From the way your nose scrunches when you smile, to how you tilt your head when you’re confused, I love it all. From the best thing about you to the worst, it’s all you, and I wouldn’t want you to ever change. Every scar and blemish, each pore and lash, I’ve fallen in love with all of them because they make you, you.

I know you don’t feel the same, and in complete honesty, I love you so much I don’t even care. As long as you’re happy and I’m able to spend as much of my time by your side I’m happy.

He chokes on a sob when he finishes the second letter, tears dampening the card stock as he shivers. His heart clenches harder as he folds it back up, giving both pictures a once over before pinning them back on the letter.

Opening up the last envelope, a cry racks through his body, and he’s ugly crying now. The necklace he’d given you perfectly washi-taped against the letter. He pulls it off, tucking it tightly into his palm, and holds his breath. This time, the letter is a small, short piece of paper folded in half once.

He almost can’t read your small, dainty handwriting through his bubbling tears, but manages.

Hi Jungkook. Did you see the necklace?

It’s the one you bought me for my fifteenth birthday, that I told you I had lost. For a while, I had, and I remember I was too scared to tell you, but you noticed before I could anyway. I was so relieved you weren’t mad at me because I didn’t know what I would do if you were. I still don’t.

Anyway, the point of this short, last letter is to tell you how I want you to remember me. I don’t want you guys to think of me as your sickly friend who died when you were in your twenties… but I want you to remember the good memories we made together. I want you to remember the day we met, when I accidentally broke your bike and when we were both grounded for four months for sneaking out of our houses for our first party. I want you to remember how we got sick together because you couldn’t let me walk home alone in the rain, but you couldn’t drive and we both forgot jackets and umbrellas. I want you to remember the day you forgave me for losing the most precious thing anyone has ever given me, because that’s the day I fell in love with you.

This paper’s running out of space so I’m going to wrap this up. I want you to remember everything good about our time together, and not what ended it. Don’t think about how I’m gone, because I’m still with you, after death. These letters, the photos, and this necklace are what I’m leaving behind for you to keep. Don’t cry when you think of me, don’t think of the fact that we’ve been making our last memories, just don’t forget me.

Jungkook clutches the necklace tighter, afraid to drop it. Not only had he lost you, but he’d also missed out on the opportunity to be with you because he’d been too scared to ask you out while you were alive. He’d been in love with you since you two were eleven, tried to confess to you when you were fifteen, and lost you at twenty-three.

It’s not fair, he decides, it’s not fair that your love never got a real chance and it never would. It’s not fair that all these years you thought your feelings were one-sided when he reciprocated them ten-fold. It’s not fair that he was holding the last of you in his hands, unable to focus on anything other than the last words he’ll ever receive from you.

He sucks in a deep breath, barely croaking out your sign-off, “Love, [Y/N].”

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pendragonsandbuckleys · 4 years

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hold me like the moon holds onto the tide (2/3)

Summary: Kidnapped and locked in a cell with no escape. Alex and Michael are faced with an ex-Caulfield employee who is prepared to do anything to get alien powers of his own. (Inspired by the Daisy/Sousa scenes in Agents of Shield 7x06)

Word Count: 3,203

[Also on AO3] [Part One] [Part Three]

Barely any time had passed before Hughes had returned to collect his prisoner, with two soldiers following close behind ready to do the grunt work.

Michael had been forced to watch as they released Alex from the wall and used the chain to lead him out of the room like some obedient dog. He listened to the threats being made towards them, how if one of them tried anything the other would be punished and as much as Michael wanted nothing more than to send Hughes flying into the wall, he didn’t so much as move an inch from where he was sitting in the hopes that it would save Alex from further pain.

Now he was sitting alone in the cell, his back still pressed against the cold stone, waiting for Alex to return.

It had been silent behind the door since they’d left. No footsteps, no murmurings and mercifully no screams. It was bad enough letting his imagination run wild with what Alex was enduring but he didn’t think he would have been able to handle it if he had actually heard Alex’s cries of pain.

Finally, after far too long in the deafening silence, Michael was ripped from his thoughts by the door slowly opening.

Hughes entered first with a smug grin on his face. The crisp white apron he was wearing had several splotches of blood down its front and Michael had no doubts that he had kept it on just to taunt him.

The sight of the man made his blood boil but the sight of Alex completely took his breath away.

The same two airman as before had a grip on each of Alex’s biceps and hauled him into the room, his head lolling weakly against his chest and his feet dragging behind him. His skin was uncharacteristically pale and there was blood seeping through his t-shirt and the many bandages wrapped around so many parts of his body that Michael had to wonder if there was anywhere that Hughes didn’t touch.

Michael shuffled onto his knees as he watched them drop Alex unceremoniously to the floor and resecure his chains, completely uncaring of the pain their actions might cause.

“What did you do?” He demanded as his eyes roamed over every covered wound that was visible from the angle that Alex was laying. He hadn’t actually expected Alex to be in such bad shape.

“Took as much blood and spinal fluid as I thought he could handle, a couple of glands,” Hughes began rolling his sleeves down from where they had been kept safe from the mess of his experiment. “Now I’ve got to synthesise it all and transfuse it to me.”

“You really think it’s going to be that easy to give yourself powers? You’re insane! It’s never gonna work.” Michael gritted his teeth as Hughes nodded at the two airmen as permission for them to leave the room.

“Maybe not. But if his cells fail, at least I’ve got a back up ready and waiting for round two.” Hughes shrugged with a smile as he turned to leave, shutting the door forcefully behind him.

Michael instantly crawled over to where Alex was lying on his side on the cold floor and closed the gap between them.

“Alex?” He whispered, as he placed a gentle hand against the back of Alex’s head. He watched as Alex squeezed his eyes shut and tried to take a deep breath before attempting to push himself up onto his forearms, his weak limbs shaking with the effort.

“They can’t take you. I won’t-- I won’t let them take you.” He muttered as his muscles gave out and he dropped the small distance back to the floor.

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s alright, I’m not going anywhere.” Michael whispered reassuringly. His heart was pounding at the sight of how frail Alex looked but also at the words he just spoke. Barely conscious and Alex was still ready to protect him. “Just stay still okay.”

Up close, the fine sheen of sweat against Alex’s forehead was hard to miss, as was the quick, shallow breaths it seemed like he was struggling to take. Michael delicately pressed the back of his hand against Alex’s forehead fully expecting an unnatural heat but instead the skin felt strangely cold and clammy.

There were bandages wrapped around his wrists, his elbows, even some gauze tapped to the side of his neck, each with their own small stain of blood that luckily didn’t look to be growing. Peering at Alex’s back, Michael grimaced at the blood sitting prettily in the middle of his t-shirt. Liz had mentioned to him before about the pain that Jenna had gone through with her involuntary spinal tap. He didn’t even want to think about how much suffering Hughes’ spinal fluid extraction was causing for Alex.

With closed lids and a furrowed brow, it was hard to tell if Alex was unconscious or just too drained to open his eyes, but he was breathing and right now that was all that mattered.

Michael leant against the wall once more and huffed at the inconvenience of having to rearrange the chain to the other side of his body as he carefully coaxed Alex’s head to rest against this thigh. Alex let out a low moan of pain but quickly settled as gentle hands began to card through his soft hair.

“So, while you were gone I was thinking about how we managed to get ourselves kidnapped and I remembered what we were talking about before we were rudely interrupted.” Michael pressed his fingers to Alex’s neck, being mindful of the bandage, to check his pulse. “You were talking about that stray cat that’s been hanging around your place and my weak attempt at persuading you to stop feeding it was clearly not working."

Alex let out a small noise not far off a chuckle.

“Well, I never got round to bringing out the big guns, you know, the thing that was going to blow your measly, animal loving side of the argument out of the water, the-- you know the--,” Michael’s eyes roamed towards the ceiling as if the word he was thinking of would be helpfully written there in capital letters as his brain tried to grasp what was on the tip of his tongue. “Ugh, remember when we had to do that dumb debating at school? I swear there was a word for it. Anyway, yeah, I was gonna tell you about the time that a cat managed to sneak its way into the airstream.”

Michael shuffled over slightly so that Alex’s neck was better supported. His back protested at the odd angle he had now positioned himself in but he was prepared to ignore it for as long as it meant that Alex’s pain eased even just a fraction.

“You know me, I don’t bother shutting that door half the time when I’m working in the junkyard, so it could have been in there for hours by the time I finished. It was certainly long enough to make itself at home though, as I soon found out when I tried to get into bed that night. I was just minding my own business and this mangy thing attacks me out of nowhere! Scratched all up my arm and the side of my face but then it went crazy trying to get out, bouncing off the walls and messing up all my paperwork, causing way more destruction than was necessary before trotting out the door. And, okay, maybe it scratched me because I happened to ruin it’s evening by sitting on it while it was under the sheets, but I choose to believe it’s because cats are evil, evil creatures that are plotting Earth’s demise.”

Michael leant closer to Alex as if preparing to reveal a secret, his hands still carding through Alex’s hair as he dropped his closing statement.

“And that is why you should stop feeding the stray, because soon it’ll want more than your little scraps of food. Soon it’ll invite itself in and make itself at home and then it can take you down from the inside.”

Michael looked down at Alex’s face. His ashen cheeks growing steadily paler. His closed eyelids, twitching occasionally, but still beautiful even in sleep.

“But then again, I can’t imagine any cats hating you, so maybe you’re safe.” He added softly.

Several hours later and with no sign of Hughes returning anytime soon, Michael had rambled on and on in a shaky attempt at keeping Alex awake. He talked about Isobel’s latest dining room decorating plans and Maria’s most recent cocktail creation and the new milkshake idea that Liz had run by him. As soon as the stories starting involving Kyle he knew that he was running out of material. All the while, Alex barely moved besides the occasional groan or violent cough.

Michael didn’t want to admit to himself that he was scared but honestly, he had kind of betted on being rescued by now and the longer that Alex went without help, the more bleak their situation was looking.

Alex had squirmed several times under his hands but still his eyes remained closed. Feeling Alex move again, Michael watched as he scrunched his brow and pressed his forehead to Michael’s thigh. “Need to help Michael,” he muttered quietly against the material, his hands weakly trying to push against the floor.

Michael felt a pull in his chest at the words. Alex was so out of it with probably zero awareness of his surroundings, but as always the man’s selfless natural was pushing through to do the one thing he always did without fail. Protect others.

“Shh, it’s okay Alex, I’m right here. Everything’s gonna be okay.” Michael tried to reassure him, the sudden lump in his throat making it difficult to get the words out. “Just gotta hold on a bit longer, okay? I’m sure after last time they’ve got an entire search party out looking for the pair of us.”

He placed his hands back on Alex’s head and resumed the soothing actions of running his fingers through Alex’s hair.

“I’ll do you a deal. You hold on until we get out of here and I’m gonna finally take you on the best first date you could possibly imagine. I’m gonna pull out all the stops, I’m talking flowers, champagne, a candle lit dinner at some super fancy restaurant. After everything I probably owe that to you anyway, don’t I? I mean it’s definitely my fault it’s taken us this long for us to actually become an us.”

Alex’s hands weakly reached up to feel at the gauze on his neck but Michael gently caught them and guided them back to the floor before he could do any damage.

“I mean let’s be honest, we’re both as bad as each other, constantly running away from it. But then at some point you stopped running and I still didn’t do anything. And it’s not that I didn’t want to, I just think after everything, I didn’t want to get it wrong. Because I’ve always loved you Alex. There’s no point denying it. But no matter how much we loved each other back then, it just went so wrong last time. Maybe we just weren’t ready, we were both dealing with so much and keeping so many secrets. And then I keep thinking, if we couldn’t make it work in the past decade then maybe the smartest thing to do would be to move on completely, to not even risk repeating it all over again.”

Michael’s head shot up as he faintly registered a sound beyond the door. It was hard to make out what was going on, but his breath instantly caught in his throat and he felt his hairs stand on end at the thought of Hughes entering the cell.

His powers hadn’t returned yet and with the chains not going anywhere anytime soon it was going to be impossible to protect Alex. He’d try, of course. He’d rather die than not try to protect Alex.

But he knew what was about to happen. It was playing out so vividly inside his head.

Hughes must have discovered by now that Alex’s cells were no more than human and no-one hates an inconvenient test subject more than a madman on a mission. He would have no problem with disposing of Alex and moving onto his next lab rat.

The noises continued outside but Michael closed his eyes and focused on the feel of Alex’s hair caught between his fingers.

“But we tried to do that as well,” He continued softly. “And yet, here we are back at the beginning. I guess that’s just the thing about your first love, isn’t it? Your first love always hurts the most. It gives you the biggest rush and the most incredible feelings and the greatest heartbreak. And there might be other loves, but none that quite compare to your first. And I just can’t seem to walk away from you Alex, no matter how hard I’ve forced myself to.”

His heart was pounding now. He could practically feel it slamming against his ribcage.

Why did he ever think he could get over Alex?

Why did he think he should try?

They had wasted so much time dancing around each other and now that they’d finally made it to the same page it was going to be torn away from them.

The noises quickly turned into shouts and Michael naively hoped for a second that maybe something else was going on. Maybe some other poor soul was being tortured and Alex would be spared for a little while longer.

But then the unmistakable sound of footsteps stopped right outside the door.

Nothing happened for a moment and Michael could feel his palms getting clammy. Then it creaked opened carefully to reveal the last person Michael had expected to see.

Flint Manes.

There the man stood, in the doorway, in his usual army attire with an unreadable expression on his face as he looked down at his little brother.

Michael held his breath as he and Flint locked eyes, his hands gripping Alex a little bit tighter. He had been ready to put up a fight with Hughes no matter how short lived it would have been, but if Flint wanted to get to Alex, he’d have to kill Michael first.

Months ago, when Jesse was still alive, Michael had had no trouble believing that Flint was capable of kidnapping his own brother. But since then, Alex had been trying so hard with Flint, trying to encourage him to leave their father’s ways behind and become his own man.

And he had succeeded. Or so Michael had thought.

To see him standing in the doorway filled Michael with so much anger he could have exploded in that very moment. Or at least sent Flint flying into the nearest wall had he still had his powers.

Michael opened his mouth ready to unleash his fury at the man if he dared take a step closer, when Flint barely turned his head - his eyes not wanting to stray far from his brother - and shouted loudly out of the cell.

“Valenti!!”

Michael barely had a chance to be confused before Flint swiftly crossed to the other side of the small room and dropped to his knees with a loud thud. His hands came close to Alex but stopped a few inches away, hovering hesitantly as if unsure of where to touch that wouldn’t hurt his brother further.

“What happened?” His voice quivered as he looked up at Michael with such a pained expression that Michael couldn’t believe the rage he’d felt at the man only mere moments ago.

Before he could answer, Kyle appeared in the doorway with Isobel right on his heels. They both looked flustered and were breathing heavily as if they’d been running but no amount of cardio could stop the pure joy from crossing their faces at seeing their friends.

Kyle immediately switched into doctor mode as he joined Flint in kneeling next to Alex, his hand going straight to his neck to check for a pulse. Isobel dropped down next to Michael and used the key she was gripping to unlock his and Alex’s cuffs.

“You’re okay.” She smiled as she gently cupped his cheeks for a moment, the look of such relief shining in her eyes. “We’re gonna get you both out of here.”

“How did you find us?” Michael asked as he rubbed at his wrists. Now that he was free of the cuffs he noticed just how heavy and uncomfortable they had been.

He glanced down at Alex, desperately wanting to reach out to him again, and watched as Kyle gave a careful glimpse under a few of the bandages.

“It was all Flint.” Isobel helped Michael to his feet. “The guys who took you used to work with him at Caulfield. It’s a long story, but as soon as we realised you were missing, he worked it all out and managed to track them down.”

Michael glanced down at Flint and watched as the man’s eyes shone as his focus stayed on his brother. He wanted to thank him. In fact, his mouth did its best impression of a fish as he tried to find the right words but it just felt so strange to be so immensely grateful to a man who had been willing to kill him in the past.

As if Flint could sense his hesitation, he looked up and gave a short reassuring nod, his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

“You can explain the rest in the car. We need to get Alex out of here, now.” Kyle nodded at Flint as he stood up.

At the confirmation that Alex could be moved, Flint wasted no time in getting his brother off of the cold floor. He couldn’t stop the grunt from leaving his mouth as he lifted Alex up and into his arms. He may be made of muscle from his many years in the army, but Alex was just as tall as him and probably weighed just as much.

He shifted his brother slightly into a more comfortable position, being extremely mindful of his many injuries. Alex’s head rolled into the crook of his neck and Flint could feel his soft breaths as they ghosted against his skin.

Michael quickly followed as Flint led the group out of the cell, a sickly feeling settling in his stomach once more as he watched Alex’s legs swing so lifelessly as he was carried.

He barely registered the sheer number of empty cells they passed as they hurried through the corridors and towards the exit, Isobel’s protective hand on his lower back reassuring him more than he could admit.

There was no one in sight as they left the Caulfield-like building and as much as Michael wanted to know what had happened to everyone, the priority of that question was way lower down on his list than Alex’s wellbeing.

In that moment, as long as Alex was breathing, nothing else mattered.

#roswell new mexico #alex manes #michael guerin #malex #alex manes fic #michael guerin fic #malex fic #my fic

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thinkingisadangerouspastime · 5 years

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how to build a universe

(in which aziraphale comforts crowley, and the night sky falls down to earth)

~*~

"Sometimes I miss the stars."

Crowley's voice was hushed, so low Aziraphale nearly missed his words altogether.

They were lying in bed, a habit they'd recently taken to - sometimes at the flat, other times at the bookshop. They didn't always sleep. There tended to be cuddling involved, or reading the newspapers of their respective head offices, or sometimes simply chatting about whatever it was that came to mind.

Currently, it was just past one a.m. They were lying back-to-back in the bedroom above the bookshop, legs intertwined.

"What do you mean?" Aziraphale murmured, almost but not quite half-asleep. "We can go visit the stars together, my dear. Anytime you want."

"It's not that, angel." Crowley rolled over onto his back. "I used to help build them. The stars. Entire nebulas." He lifted his hands toward the ceiling, palms upward, as if he was tracing the shapes of memories long passed. "I filled galaxies with stars of my own creation. My own vision. Color. Size. Intensity. Entire worlds were within my grasp and every choice to be made was my own." He slowly closed his hands into fists. "And now? Nothing. My stars are dying. Some have probably died already." He sighed, and his arms fell down beside him. "Sorry, angel. Didn't mean to go on a rant there."

Aziraphale turned onto his other side, allowing himself to face Crowley, whose gaze was still cast at the ceiling. "Never apologize for talking, dear boy. I may not always know what to say, but..." He pressed a kiss to the demon's temple, near the top of his snake tattoo. "I will always listen to you." He reached out and slipped his hand into Crowley's. "Tell me everything about the stars, my dear. What is it like to build a universe?"

A small smile flitted onto Crowley's lips, and he gave Aziraphale's hand a gentle squeeze. "Thank you, angel."

~*~

The next day, Aziraphale did not open the bookshop. "I'll be back this evening," he called to Crowley before he left. "I have a few errands to run. Materials to pick up. Be here around eight or nine, please. See you then!" He made sure to leave before the demon could get in a word of protest edgewise.

While he was out, Aziraphale visited a dozen stores, buying what ended up being a total of three bags of crafting supplies. It had originally been four, but a bottle of paint had spilled and tossing the entire bag away had simply been the best option.

Aziraphale returned to the bookshop at exactly eight. "I'm back," he called as he entered, closing the door behind him with his foot. "Anything exciting happen while I was gone?"

Crowley was lounging in a chair at the back of the shop, flipping through a magazine about astronomy. "Not really. Some college student came by earlier. Wanted to give you a gift card to the sushi place downtown." He raised an eyebrow. "Got a secret admirer, angel?"

Aziraphale laughed. "I bet that was Jeremy. I helped him do some research for this thesis, and since he knows I love sushi, I'm sure the gift card was his way of saying 'thank you'."

"Oh." A guilty look flashed on Crowley's face. "I may or may not have... Turned him away."

Scared him half to death, more like, if the demon's expression was anything to go on. Aziraphale clicked his tongue in a mix of disappointment and amusement. "You can be so ridiculous, Crowley."

"Anyways," the demon said in a clear attempt to change the subject, "do I get to see whatever it is that took you so long to buy?" He gestured to the trio of bags still hanging on Aziraphale's arms. "I've been waiting here all day, you know."

Aziraphale was equal parts embarrassed and flattered by that statement. He'd expected that Crowley would return to his flat for most of the day to entertain himself, but to hear he hadn't... "Not yet. I have to set up a few things first."

Crowley frowned. "Should I feel afraid or flattered by whatever it is you're planning?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "I guess you'll find out!" he said as he climbed up the stairs. "I'll let you know when everything is ready." He hastily made his way to the bedroom, carefully placing the bags on the floor before shutting the door behind him. He had quite a lot of preparations to make.

~*~

Though it took several miracles - probably more than necessary, to be fair - Aziraphale had transformed his bedroom into what was needed for Crowley's surprise. Tarp on the floor, bed transported away, paints and glitters lined up against the wall - oh, he hoped this was a good idea.

"Alright," he called as he reopened the bedroom, yanking the door in order to pull it open over the tarp. "You can come up now."

There was the quiet patter of feet as Crowley made his way up the stairs.

Aziraphale prayed the demon would like the surprise. There was a significant chance, he feared, that Crowley would hate what he'd prepared and thus choose not to speak to him for the next century.

Again.

"Angel." Crowley was standing in the doorway, his brows furrowed in confusion. "What's all this?"

Aziraphale clasped his hands together, doing his best to pretend he was perfectly calm. "Well, when I went out today I bought some paint," he began, gesturing to the assorted craft supplies lined up neatly against the wall. "I also purchased a few containers of glitter. I think some of the paint may even have glitter in it!" He laughed nervously, twisting his pinky ring around his finger as he so often did when he was stressed. "I bought paintbrushes as well, of course. And paint trays. I also got these small stars that you can peel the backs off of and stick on the wall. They glow in the dark, I believe." He was rambling too much about his purchases. Time to move on.

Aziraphale stepped closer to Crowley, gently taking the demon's hands in his and praying his palms weren't sweaty. "I can't give you the power to create galaxies, my dear. And I can't give you the power to hold the world in your hands, either. But..." He took a deep breath. "You can build a universe in here, if you'd like. Every decision, every choice to be made will be up to you."

Aziraphale bit his lip, breaking eye contact with the demon. If it could even be called eye contact. Those glasses of his had a way of hiding too many things, in Aziraphale's opinion.

He silently pleaded for Crowley to speak. The quiet, the complete lack of any sort of reaction was getting to be too much to bear. "I know I may be stepping out of line with this, and if I am please tell me, my dear. But..." He trailed off as Crowley pulled his hands away and slowly removed his sunglasses.

The demon turned away from the angel, taking time to examine each wall. Aziraphale knew, somehow, that Crowley was looking far beyond the confines of the room. Perhaps even beyond the stars.

He waited for Crowley to speak, but no words ever left the demon's mouth. Instead, he knelt down and began pouring paint into trays, sprinkling various colors of glitter into them, too. He rolled up his sleeves before grabbing a paintbrush, standing up and returning his attention to the wall in front of him.

Aziraphale paused. He felt that he was... Intruding on what was clearly an intimate moment for Crowley. "Well," he said. "I suppose I'll leave you to it -" He was interrupted by Crowley grabbing his arm, not saying a word as he placed a paintbrush in the angel's hand.

But, after 6000 years, words weren't always necessary between them.

"Alright," Aziraphale whispered. He took off his jacket and dropped it on the ground outside the room. "Alright, my dear. We'll do it together."

And so they painted. They painted and they painted and they stuck glow-in-the-dark stars on the walls until the room had been transformed into the night sky. Colors spiraled from corner to corner, deep shades of black and blue, vibrant palettes of purple and gold, and fading hues of pastel pink and glittering silver. It was impossible to tell where one wall ended and another began.

Both had flecks of paint decorating their clothes, and pieces of glitter sparkled in their hair. There was silence between them as they stood together and examined the finished product.

"Thank you, angel," Crowley murmured after a long pause, tossing his paintbrush on the floor. "Thank you."

Aziraphale felt a relieved smile form on his lips, and he too put his paintbrush down. "You're very welcome, my dear. I must admit, I was worried that -"

He was cut off as Crowley spun around and grabbed his collar, pulling the angel into an intense kiss.

Such direct affection was rare from the demon, but certainly not unwelcome. Aziraphale found himself melting into the kiss, reaching out to wrap his arms around Crowley's waist and holding him so close there was hardly an inch of space between them.

When the demon finally pulled away, he didn't let go of Aziraphale, nor did Aziraphale let go of him. Instead, Crowley's hands moved to cup the angel's face.

"You know," Crowley murmured, "you said couldn't give me the power to hold the world in my hands. But I'm going to have to beg to differ." His thumb brushed Aziraphale's cheek, leaving a glittering purple smear in its wake. "I'm holding my world right now."

Aziraphale's heart skipped a beat. Or maybe two. "Oh, Lord," he finally said, softening. "You can be such a sap."

Crowley shrugged. "Maybe." He traced a silver spiral on Aziraphale's other cheek. "But I mean it."

"My dear." Aziraphale stood on his tiptoes to give Crowley a chaste kiss on the nose. "I know you do."

And, as their lips met a second time, the lights in the room went off. Neither recalled doing it, assuming the other to be responsible.

Around them, the stars on the walls twinkled, a dozen shades of color and intensity. It was as if they were floating in the sky instead of standing in what used to be Aziraphale's bedroom.

And maybe they were. All it took to build a universe, it seemed, was a couple gallons of paint, one or two bottles of glitter, and a few packages of glow-in-the-dark stars.

The most important piece, of course, was love. (Isn't it always?)

And, fortunately for them, there was six millennia worth of love to go around.

~*~

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #anthony crowley #amy writes #fanfic #my fanfic #good omens fic #good omens fanfiction #writing #my writing #how to build a universe #ive had this in my drafts forever and tbh it's probably one of my favorite things ive written #ineffable partners #ineffable spouses #ineffable soulmates

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fericita-s · 4 years

Text

A Woman of Consequence

A new Agduna story from the canon-compliant WAIL series with @the-spastic-fantastic who also helped me brainstorm this piece and wrote all of Henrik’s best lines, remaining the best beta ever! This takes place right before Only in Dreams.

Summary: Iduna attends a garden party hosted by the the king and attended by several eligible young ladies, one of whom is particularly unpleasant.

Agnarr hadn’t even meant to invite her, she didn’t think. He had mentioned the garden party while she was tending to the comfrey shrubs in her medicinal gardens, pruning them a bit so they didn’t take over other sections of the neatly ordered rows. Agnarr had come out after a council meeting focused on international relations and sighed.

“Lady Wollen has invited just as many foreign women to come this time as she did for my birthday ball. I’ll have to speak to them all and at least pretend to consider proposing courtship or a better trade partnership. I’m not even sure which they want.” He rubbed at the back of his neck and then his eyes. Iduna didn’t know if the flare of anger she felt at his words was for him or these nameless women who would come and hold his hand and promise riches from their kingdom in order to secure a good relationship with his.

Her response was a muttered “Mmmmmm,” as she continued her work, careful to keep her attention on the purple blooms of comfrey and not on his eyes. What good would it do to even hope she could be one of the women he considered for a bride? She had lived in Arendelle long enough to learn that kings didn’t marry commoners. Especially orphaned commoners from lands that were at war with their kingdoms. His friendship would have to be enough, even if there were days when sharing what was on their minds - like the need to court and marry a foreign royal - was a thorn deep in her palm, pulsing with every movement.

“Could you come, Iduna?” She moved her hand to the next section of green brush to trim, only then seeing his hand come to rest in the spot where hers had been only a moment before. She paused and looked at him. Had he been about to touch her hand? “I would like to have a friend there. Among the wolves.”

She smiled at him like she would for a customer, not letting him see the longing her heart felt for a different question. “Yes, Your Majesty. Of course I’ll come.”

So now here she was, a month later, pressing her hands along the pleats of her dress, a simple but well-made blue silk borrowed from Maddie. It was not as formal, perhaps, as the dresses on the other women present at the garden party, but it was fancier than the dresses she wore when working at Mr. Visser’s Apothecary. Besides, Greet had insisted she at least change clothes before walking to the castle from her job in Market Square and Greet was very convincing when she wanted to be.

The decorative gardens weren’t a part of the castle grounds that Iduna knew very well. The medicinal gardens felt like her own land and technically they were ever since Agnarr gifted her with the plot upon her graduation from the academy. The council meeting room, the library, the rooms that had been used for classes – all of them felt comfortable to her. She had even spent the night on two occasions – once during the Rock Pox epidemic and once years before when a blizzard kept her and some of the other students from walking home.

Today, though, the castle felt unfamiliar.

Maybe it was the dozens of visiting dignitaries, most of them young women hoping to find a match with the young king. They were dressed in finery that was surely not borrowed from a slightly shorter friend and walked in the graceful, dainty steps of those not used to avoiding cobblestones cracked in the street or darting past an errant cart or the leavings of a horse. She recognized a few of them from the ball on Agnarr’s birthday. Some even wore the crocus pins he had given out that night as gifts from the kingdom.

Her hand went to the necklace hidden beneath the high collar of her dress, a fossil inlaid with gold on a delicate chain. It had been her present from Agnarr that night and, though she normally admired it from its spot hanging on her bedpost instead of wearing it and worrying it might be damaged during her work, today she had worn it to feel its cool weight on her skin. It was a reminder that Agnarr thought of her, of the time they had spent together while still young and unencumbered by the future, and of her hope that they could remain friends even as he drew closer to selecting a bride. A talisman she could draw strength from, a token of his care.

She saw Elias and Captain Calder speaking to a man in the naval uniform of the Southern Isles and Henrik smiling winsomely at a woman in a heavily brocaded gown. Iduna laughed to herself, wondering if she’d soon have to brew one of the remedies that Henrik was so dependent upon for his thriving relationships with women. This woman leaned close to Henrik and whispered something in his ear and Iduna watched as Henrik’s hand disappeared between her shawl and her skirt.

Agnarr, Lady Wollen, and a young woman dressed in a white gown with lace dripping from the sleeves and collar entered the garden from the gate closest to the castle. Agnarr raised a hand in greeting to Iduna and steered his companions over to her. When they were only a few steps away from each other he made introductions.

“Iduna! This is Lady Alexsandra, sister to the Duke of Weselton. I believe-”

“And granddaughter to the Tsarina,” the woman said, eyelashes fluttering at Agnarr. He looked a little confused and Lady Wollen fixed the young woman with the same glare she reserved for councilors who spoke out of turn.

“Um, yes.” Agnarr rallied. “I believe you both met briefly at the ball?”

“Enchanté,” she said to Iduna, looking anything but.

“Nice to see you again.” Iduna nodded to her and was about to ask about her travel when Lady Wollen spoke.

“We were just talking about you, Iduna. Agnarr mentioned that we should be sure to include your medicinal gardens on a tour for the visitors.” Lady Wollen turned to Alexsandra with a smile and added “Iduna is the best of Arendelle, an example of how well foreigners are welcomed and become citizens, how they have helped build our kingdom into the wealthy state that it is.”

Lady Alexsandra pursed her lips, like she’d just noticed her own hem was already soaked in two inches of mud though Iduna didn’t think the tilt of her upturned chin gave her the range to see down that low.

“Yes I’ve been quite shocked by how...permissive Arendelle is in citizenry. In Weselton, only fourth generation families have the right to apply.” She looked over at Elias and Captain Calder, pointing with her pointy chin. “And it’s certainly never granted to those who are more Antilles françaises than français.”

Iduna was so shocked that she could only watch as red crept up from the skin at Agnarr’s collar all the way out to the tips of his ears. “The Calders are a beloved family.”

Alexsandra smiled and put a hand to her chest. “Oh, I’m sure they are! Doubtless they have served the monarchy well to be so close to you. And a strong queen would no doubt steer you even more dependably.”

Iduna wasn’t sure where to look at that particular pronouncement, but hazarded a quick one at Lady Wollen who seemed to be very preoccupied with breathing through her nose and then at Agnarr who was slowly shaking his head and opening his mouth without any sound. Eventually, he stumbled over a goodbye.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must make the rounds to my guests. But Iduna, I will seek you out once that is sorted.” He kissed the back of Lady Alexsandra’s hand, but his eyes were on Iduna and he bowed his head to her and Lady Wollen before walking briskly towards the groups of ladies who were already watching his approach.

“I must leave as well,” Lady Wollen said and Iduna thought she heard a note of apology in her voice. “We weren’t expecting your presence at the close of our council meeting, Lady Alexsandra. There are some details I must discuss with Lord Hannesel before he leaves.”

Iduna watched as she left, wondering what she could possibly say to this woman who had apparently attended a council meeting uninvited and then besmirched the heritage of the Calder children. She watched as Gerda walked nearby with a tray of ice water, offering it to the gathered groups and as Lady Wollen put a hand on Henrik’s arm, drawing him away from his latest lady of interest, and spoke to him. Alexsandra seized upon the silence between them.

“I remember you from the ball. The king started the dancing with you. And then he spoke of you through most of our dance.”

Iduna flushed and nodded, unsure what was expected of her in this conversation that felt more like an accusation.

“His little orphan friend, so brave to start anew after losing her whole family. You know,” she said, as she put a hand on Iduna’s elbow and then took it away quickly, wiping her fingers on the handkerchief that was draped over the beaded reticule on the crook of her own elbow, “Most queens don’t even mind when the king chooses a mistress or continues a romance established prior to the marriage. Especially with a commoner like a shop girl or a servant. A king can seek satisfaction wherever he pleases, but it’s the queen’s chambers he’ll come to every night for an heir and the glory of the kingdom.”

Iduna blinked and took a step back. “Excuse me?”

“I know I wouldn’t be fussed about a mistress. It’s all very inconsequential when one is wearing a crown.” She reached in her reticule for a fan and snapped it open, waving it quickly in front of her face and sighing.

“But not all the women here are as likely to be as open-minded and understanding as me. Now, do be a dear and fetch me some water. This bright sun is bringing on a headache.”

Iduna took a breath as if slapped, too stunned to speak. She thought about telling Alexsandra she would never get her water, or getting a glass and then tossing the contents in her face, but decided appearing to comply with her rude directions gave her the perfect opportunity to just leave. And as her heart was pounding and something was rising in her throat and behind her eyes, leaving quickly was suddenly very important. She gave an exaggerated curtsey and managed to walk several paces away before she felt tears hot and heavy in her eyes and ran into the solid form of Henrik.

“Here, come with me,” he said gently.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and he put an arm around her waist and guided her into the castle courtyard, walking briskly all the way across the bridge connecting the castle to Market Square and slowing his pace only when they were in a small side street that would eventually lead to Fiske’s. As they walked, Iduna untucked the necklace from her bodice, gripping it tightly.

She had been so stupid.

She was just like the necklace. That's all she could be to him. Hidden. Something beautiful once, but now on a chain, kept out of sight.

“Well, she certainly seemed vile,” said Henrik, his voice light and almost teasing, even though the quickness of his pace and the furrow of his brow indicated a different weight to the interaction he must have witnessed.

“She didn’t say anything untrue. Or nothing much untrue, anyway,” Iduna said softly, straightening a bit so that she wasn’t leaning on Henrik as heavily.

Henrik stopped and dropped his hand from around her waist and looked at her. “If she said that Agnarr doesn’t care for you, or that you don’t have a place here, that was untrue. That was a damn lie.”

Iduna had stopped when he did, but began walking instead of answering him. She didn’t know what to say.

“She was a ridiculous woman in a ridiculous dress, trying to wear white like Queen Victoria on her wedding day. Like she hoped it might give Agnarr a sudden idea and they could head to the bishop instead of the party.” He huffed a bit as he walked, running to catch up to her. “Slow down, Iddy. I’m out of breath.”

Iduna slowed her pace but still didn’t speak. Swallowing down the lump in her throat was taking precedence.

“But listen. Iddy.” Henrik was next to her again, keeping pace and speaking so earnestly it made the lump bigger and she wished he would stop. “If you ever want to leave Arendelle, if you ever want to start anew, you can. My mother is always looking for sound investments and your medical concoctions and skills are sorely needed in England and on the continent.”

Iduna wiped at her eyes and nose, turning her head away from Henrik. He fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a handkerchief, thrusting it into her hands.

“I leave soon for England and I can set you up with a job there. With my mother’s company or as my own personal remedy maker or we set you up with your own shop. Believe me. There is quite the market there."

Iduna used the handkerchief to wipe at her eyes and then nose and then balled it up and clutched it in her hand. "Caused by you?"

Henrik laughed. “There you are,” he said and Iduna didn’t think he was talking about Fiske’s, now just yards from where they stood. He patted her awkwardly on the arm. “But, please, don’t pay any mind to what people like her say. She’s jealous because for all her airs, she knows that you’re better than her.” Iduna rolled her eyes, but Henrik just shook his head. “No, I mean it. You’re the one who saved Arendelle during an outbreak. You’re the one who got invited to the council not because of family connections, but because of who you are. And you’re the one that Agnarr cares about. And someone like her - who looks at him and just sees a crown, it must drive her mad.”

They stood in silence for a few moments until she gave a small shrug and wiped her eyes. “He is a good friend.”

Henrik opened his mouth as though he was going to say something, then sighed and rubbed his face. “Just - Iddy, if you need to leave Arendelle, you’ll have opportunities elsewhere. You have my word. But please don’t consider leaving because of a woman like that.”

She held out her hand, offering the handkerchief back and he took it, squeezing her hand as he did.

“Thank you, “ she said.

“You’re welcome, Iddy. And remind those roommates of yours about my going-away party. I want to have everyone I care about there.”

Iduna nodded and took a shaky breath. “Sounds like I should start a new batch of your most frequently requested treatment in preparation.”

Henrik smiled and waggled his eyebrows. “That would be very wise.”

Iduna turned and walked the rest of the way by herself and before she was all the way up the stairs she had taken off the necklace, vowing to find a new place for that wouldn’t be visible from her bed. She would bury it out of sight and maybe the memory of today would hurt less.

***

Lady Wollen sighed as she undid the buckles on her shoes and rolled down her stockings, then put her feet up on the stool and settled against the down pillow. The large window of her bedroom looked out over Market Square and had a beautiful view of the castle, but tonight she kept her eyes closed.

She needed a break.

The young king was so earnest and so kind and had so many wonderful ideas for advancing the kingdom’s interests as well as those of its citizens. He was more patient than his father had been and more compassionate as well. He understood the gravity of his position and took it seriously, even at the tender age of eighteen. But sometimes he could be a complete idiot.

He hadn’t recognized Alexsandra’s uninvited arrival at the council meeting as the serious problem that it was. He hadn’t perceived the language of manipulation and patronizing tone in her interactions with Iduna. And he apparently didn’t understand the workings of his own heart which were literally painfully obvious to those around him.

Today, it had been painful for Iduna. If Henrik hadn’t gone to rescue her from what was surely a dreadful conversation with Alexsandra, worse things than bee stings and spilled lemonade would have marred the garden party. And perhaps had a permanent international impact if Agnarr had realized what was happening and ordered the Weselton delegation to leave or cut off trade relations to censure the rudeness of its delegates.

She reached for the flask in her pocket and set it down on the side table with a sigh. Empty.

If the king didn’t ask to court Iduna soon, she might have to retire early. Or kidnap them both and lock them in a tower together. Or the dungeon. Or the clock tower. Anywhere that they could remain until he confessed his feelings and Iduna stayed still long enough to hear that no one in Arendelle cared about the bloodline of the king’s bride.

For now, she could ring the servant for a glass of mulled wine and think on her parting words to Alexsandra, reveling in the delightful look of anger and frustration on the young woman’s face as she had told her “Iduna may have left his party early, but she’s the only one out of the two of you who will be invited back.”

#WAIL #Agduna #mama and papa arendelle #Henrik #Henrik being awesome #Agnarr being clueless

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loljulie · 5 years

Text

title: bet on it

genre: borderlands

timothy lawrence x reader

word count: 2522

(am i really making timothy lawrence imagines now?? yes, yes i am. just to put this piece of work into a clearer setting:

Y/N is CEO of hyperion now because she was decently close to jack before he died, and he promised his position to her. she is a much nicer CEO than him, and when she got power she def absolved timothy’s contract but he stayed with her anyway because, cute love or whatever.

timothy is kinda flustered, kinda confident in this because in this AU he’s had a lot of time to explore who he is without jack around

i really have this whole character’s backstory planned out so maybe expect more imagines in the future as i explore their relationship?? also don’t come @ me about the title it’s midnight and i couldn’t be clever, but Y/N and timothy watch a spaceball game and it’s just baseball in space because, once again, i’m not clever)

Tired fingers stretched across the keyboard, typing up an email you had been pushing off nearly all day. You sighed as you held down the backspace key and deleted the previous minute’s work, not quite liking how your sentence sounded. Being CEO was awesome as hell for the most part, but you as you stared at the blinking cursor, you suddenly loathed the title.

The door to your office opened. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was, as there was only one person who was allowed to walk in unannounced.

“Ah, perfect timing - I needed somebody to blow my brains out so I don’t have to write this damn email,” you muttered as Tim’s footsteps came to a halt in front of your desk.

“It sounds like I should’ve come earlier, then,” he commented, and you finally tore your eyes away from the illuminated screen to look at him. You were slightly surprised to see him in more casual clothes than he normally wore, as he sported a short-sleeved shirt with Hyperion’s logo across it and jeans. It fit him very well, so much so that you got mildly distracted staring at him. “The spaceball game is about to start, so we’d better hurry.”

“The - what?” You asked, your eyes narrowing at the unfamiliar word.

“Spaceball, remember?” He repeated in a more questioning tone. When he saw that you still didn’t understand, he went on. “You signed off on the request for some workers to form their own teams and play against each other at the end of the fiscal quarter - which happens to be today.”

He didn’t need to remind you of that; the email addressed to accounting was still waiting to be written. You let out a large sigh and rubbed your hands over your eyes.

“I totally forgot, babe,” you mumbled between your hands. “I don’t think I can make it, this email-“

“Can be sent tomorrow,” Tim gently goaded as he walked around your desk to get to you. “The workers have been training all quarter long for this and an appearance from their CEO would help their morale for next quarter.”

You didn’t speak, just let out a soft grunt to let him know you heard. He had a point, after all.

“And, from the looks of it, the CEO could use some morale too.” You felt his hands envelope your own as he moved them away from your face. “You’ll work yourself to death one day, you know.”

You looked into his beautiful heterochromatic eyes and attempted one more weak protest.

“I don’t even know what spaceball is - I just signed it so our employee health and wellness budget went somewhere useful.”

Tim wrapped his hands around your wrist and slowly brought you up to your feet. Though you brought up reasons to not go, you and him both knew that you’d ultimately cave in to his demands. He was the only one who could chide you into taking time off for yourself when you forgot to; and without him, you probably would’ve gone delirious.

“I’ll explain it all on the way down, pumpkin,” he assured. You lifted your hands from his grip to grab your coat from the back of your chair.

Your uniform was all designed by your assistant, and you had to admit she did an impeccable job. Despite it being a black long coat, the material was light and breathable; the inside was lining was a smooth, silky yellow, and a golden “H” pin adorned the space above your left breast.

While it had the option to be buttoned, you left it open to reveal your white, collared shirt which tucked perfectly into your high-waisted black pants.

Really, you would’ve prefered your outfit from your prior-Hyperion-CEO days, but Denise insisted that you dress the part for your employees. The heeled boots you wore made you feel badass enough to accept the change to your wardrobe.

You began to walk in pace with Tim, who managed to interlock his left hand with your right one as you made your way to the elevator down the hall from your office.

“So, the batter has to hit the ball and run to first base…”

As the elevator slowly descended the space station, you listened intently to Tim’s description of whatever “spaceball” was. Games and recreation of that sort were never something you enjoyed growing up, which meant almost all aspects of the game were confusing to you.

“Wait, so how many times do the teams switch spots?” You asked after he explained what it took to have the different teams switch sides.

“Well, there’s 9 innings, so -”

“9? Why do they need so many?” You asked, incredulous. “Who came up with that number?”

“I, uh…” Tim trailed off, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “I actually don’t know, that’s just the number.”

The elevator doors opened, and the two of you stepped out into an old storage bay that had been transformed into a makeshift stadium of sorts. Tim had mentioned that they only had time and space to build half of a stadium, but its appearance still stunned you nonetheless. You were surprised to see just how many people made up the audience alone; rows and rows of seats piled to the ceiling were filled with employees (and family members, you had to guess, because there was no way Hyperion had that many workers).

Tim gently guided you away from the main ramp that audience members were still funneling into, and up a flight of stairs. After entering the door at the top of the stairs, you were met with a moderately sized room - one big enough for plush seating for two and a table in the back for refreshments. A large window revealed the interior of the stadium below, and you realized that you were placed above home base. In the middle of the ledge was a microphone that, you guessed, was placed there in case you needed to make any announcements.

The opposite side of the stadium, where the wall would have normally been empty and barren, was decorated with a large screen that displayed a countdown. You walked to the front of the window, and gazed out at the people below and around you.

Some employees had been watching the box for your arrival, and though you didn’t recognize most of them, they still seemed to be delighted by your presence. Those who noticed you quickly turned to their seat partners and, soon enough, more pairs of eyes looked your way.

The teams, which were out in the concrete field throwing a couple balls around, noticed your arrival too. The only way to distinguish the two different teams was the fact that half of the men on the field had on a black shirt with yellow trimmings, and the other a yellow shirt with black trimmings.

A member of the black-shirted team caught your gaze and winked at you; had you been your predecessor, that would’ve undoubtedly been the man’s last action.

“So, who’s going against who?” You asked as Tim sidled up next to you at the window.

“Well, instead of having two departments go head to head, I thought it’d better promote interdependent teamwork and have a mixture of employees on each team,” he answered as he rested his forearm against the ledge and leaned his tall body forward.

“Look at you,” you chirped, mimicking his position while you moved close enough to touch shoulders. “Maybe you should be CEO instead.”

“Yeah, no thanks, I’m good,” Tim hastily replied, causing you to chuckle at his obvious disinterest.

Below, an announcer began to tell everyone to take their seats as the players got into their positions. The digital countdown vanished, and instead showed a live feed of some of the players getting ready.

“Who do you think’s going to win?” You asked as you scanned the players below, wondering your own answer to the question.

“Black, definitely. I’ve seen their practices and, based on the numbers, they’ve got this in the bag.”

You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped your lips at his response. Tim, looking suddenly offended by your reaction, bumped into your shoulder. “What?”

“I just can’t believe you’re nerdy enough to calculate that,” you commented, giving him a playful shove back. A smile tugged at Tim’s lips as you let out another laugh.

“Since you’re going black, I’ll root for yellow,” you decided as the first team came to bat. “Gotta go for the underdog.”

“Really? You confident enough to bet on it?” Tim asked, his voice laced with a smugness you rarely heard. It spurred you to challenge him even more.

“Of course I am. What are we betting?”

“A kiss?”

“Too lame,” you dismissed. When you saw his mock look of shock, you continued. “There’s not enough risk involved there. What about winner gets to choose whatever the loser has to wear the next time we’re alone together?”

A red blush crept onto Tim’s cheeks. You felt a smirk appear on your face at his reaction, glad to know you could still make him redden after all this time.

“Deal.” Despite his flushed face, Tim’s voice was steady as he held out his hand for you to shake. You gripped his hand tightly, and met his eyes with a fiery gaze. You couldn’t wait to prove him wrong.

So far, you weren’t doing a good job at that. As the 4th inning came to a close, the black team was ahead by 4 points. Tim, who sat next to you, radiated an aura of smugness you needed to see defeated.

“I told ya, (Y/N), the numbers don’t lie.”

You sat on the edge of the seat, though you had started watching the game in Tim’s embrace. Your jacket had long been discarded on the chair behind you, and your sleeves were rolled up as if watching the game had been some sort of manual labor. The threat of losing a bet to your boyfriend was becoming more and more real, and it was something you couldn’t let happen.

You got up just as the teams began to switch out and a short, loud song played as you made your way to the window. After switching the microphone on, the music subsided, and you began to speak.

“Yellow team, this is your boss speaking.” You felt a thousand pairs of eyes land on you, including the one pair on the back of your head. “I have the utmost faith in you and I believe that you will win this goddamn game. Make me proud, boys.”

You switched the microphone off as about half of the audience cheered and whooped in agreement. Tim’s eyebrows were raised as you sat back down in your seat, allowing yourself to lean somewhat into his side.

“Worried you might lose the bet?” He asked.

“Why, are you already imagining what you’ll have me wear?” You retorted, knowing full well that your words would cause a blush to rise on his cheeks and effectively knock him down a peg.

You angled your neck up slightly to look at him, which confirmed your prediction. Though the wave of competitiveness was still strong inside you, the opportunity to mess with your boyfriend a little bit more was too strong for you to ignore. You planted a kiss just below his ear, and whispered, “because I’m already doing the same for you.”

When you placed another kiss on his neck, you felt Tim gulp as his arm tensed around you.

Your pep talk clearly had done some good for the yellow team, as their performance drastically improved. Tim expressed his shock to you multiple times as they gained point after point, eventually surpassing the black team’s score. By the end of the 8th inning, you settled comfortably in your seat knowing there was no chance the black team could claim a victory.

As the players switched again to start the 9th inning, the giant screen began to focus on a couple in the crowd. A pink border framed the live feed and text in the bottom corner read “Kiss Cam!” The couple in the video smiled, gave a quick peck, and the camera moved to another couple.

You smiled as you watched the various couples respond differently to being put up on the kiss cam; some were embarrassed and shy, while others embraced the attention and showed off their partners. Every time a couple was featured, the audience would cheer and clap for them. It seemed that, as weird and foreign as this event was to you at first, it really did help build morale.

As you watched the couple on the screen laugh with each other after sharing a modest kiss, the scene changed once more and you realized you were staring at you and Tim, cuddled next to each other. The audience grew louder than you thought possible in their cheers and screams, and you felt your heartbeat quicken as you looked at Tim.

You remembered how, when you first started your relationship with him, everything had to be kept secret in fear of what Jack’s reaction might be; even after it all had passed, and everybody knew who the CEO was dating, you still kept public displays of affection at a minimum.

Yet, with how Tom gazed at you and the cheering of the crowd, you wanted nothing more than to give in to the desire to kiss him. He must have known what was on your mind by the way your face relaxed, because soon Tim’s lips were on yours for the first time that night. His slender fingers curled into your hair as he lightly kept your face against his.

You didn’t think the crowd could have gotten any louder, but the instant your lips touched Tim’s, an unbelievable uproar of claps and whistles ensued. It didn’t make much sense to you why seeing your boss kiss her boyfriend was so exciting, but frankly, their reaction gave you all the more reason to continue.

Eventually, the audience died down, and you pulled away just long enough to see the camera instead focus back on the game itself. You looked back at Tim, who was red in the face and out of breath.

“Should we go back to watching the game?” You asked, though you saw in Tim’s eyes that spaceball was the last thing he wanted to pay attention to, despite how excited he had been about it before.

“Absolutely not.” And, as if to cement his answer, he brought his lips back onto yours and used his free arm to pull you onto his lap.

You didn’t remember anything from the 9th inning other than Tim’s warm lips, tight grip, and soft hair. You were sure people were still occasionally watching the CEO’s box, so you reluctantly made sure the two of you didn’t get too far. You did, however, promise Tim that the two of you would finish what you started later that night.

And, for the record, the yellow team totally won.

#borderlands #timothy lawrence #timothy lawrence x reader #borderlands imagines

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queen-scribbles · 5 years

Text

Hug Prompt

8-Group Hug for @risualto tumblr’s not letting me save changes to the draft, sooo here ya go

Emiri had no gift for strategizing. Not surprising, given her background, and also usually not a major problem. Right now, though, it was turning into a major problem. For being a pirate, Brynlod and his crew were proving quite adept at fighting on dry land. And there were a lot of them. Having a plan beyond weeding out the weaker members first and working their way up would have been nice.

Ghosts of terrors from her past drifted through her mind’s eye, causing her strike to go wide, and Emiri glared at the Cipher-Captain even as her hands shook. She tightened her grip on hammer and dagger and forced the nascent terror from her mind.

Brynlod bared his teeth at his failure to overwhelm her and turned his attention to Pallegina and Kana, currently working in tandem to deal with a pair of pirate spellcasters; druids or wizards Emiri couldn’t tell from her vantage-

The sharp stinging draw of a blade against her arm gave her a painful reminder she needed to pay better attention. Emiri yelped and backhanded her hammer into the skull of the individual responsible. Worry about Kana later, yourself now. And she did need to worry about herself; in the time she’d been distracted, a trio of pirates had hemmed her off from the rest of the fray. Whether they thought she’d be easy pickings with no armor, or recognized her as a threat with abilities similar to their captain, the result was still three on one odds that cornered her against the broken-down wall of the mill behind her. It left her facing the uncomfortable reality she might have to use the abilities she didn’t like if she wanted to get out of this alive.

One of the pirates, armed with a pair of stilettos, made a feint at her injured side. Emiri moved to parry, and something electrical sparked from the hands of the second pirate as soon as her focus was committed.

She cried out in pain when the spell hit, arm spasming so badly she almost dropped her dagger.

“Emiri!”

I’m fine, Aloth. The fact she couldn’t even get the words out sort of belied them, but she still tried to press them into his mind. Surely he had his hands full even without swooping to her rescue. From somewhere around the other side of the ruined mill, Hiravias bellowed a curse, but it cut off in a way that made Emiri’s gut twist. Worry about him instead.

They needed to finish this. The longer it dragged on, the worse their odds would likely get. She shook off the lingering twitches from the lightning spell and swung her hammer at the pirate wizard. The third of the group, more heavily armored and wielding an estoc, stepped in between, and her hammer glanced off his pauldron. Emiri growled in frustration and followed through the motion to crank her elbow into the fighter’s jaw. She turned to handle the rogue first, at least remove one threat, just in time to see a pair of pinkish-orange bolts careen into his back.

Apparently Aloth hadn’t believed her.

He was already summoning another spell by the time his presence registered for the pirates and the fighter deviated from his focus on Emiri to deal with this new threat. He was faster that Emiri would have expected for a man his size, and had lunged close enough for his blade to reach while she was still grasping for a cipher trick to throw him off.

No, no, no! She settled for throwing a mental scream at him, but it wasn’t enough to deter him. Her throat closed up with terror as the gleaming estoc swung-

-And the blade cleaved through the double Aloth had just finished summoning rather than its intended target.

Emiri sighed in relief as the fighter stumbled through the empty space before her attention was reclaimed by a pair of magic bolts whistling past her head, one so close it grazed her halo. Right. She still had the rogue and the wizard to handle, so would have to trust Aloth knew what he was doing.

She could hear the wizard chanting another incantation, but the rogue had moved in too close for comfort, and Emiri cranked her hammer into his shoulder first. She heard and felt something break under the impact as the blow sent him stumbling to his knees. With a moment’s breathing room on that front, she could focus on the wizard.

Only, she didn’t need to–Edér had come to help at her pained cry as well. He slammed his shield into the wizard’s back, then as the pirate wheeled in surprise, slashed open his throat. The pirate dropped both spellbook and wand to instead grasp futilely at the gaping wound as he collapsed.

Alright, then, Emiri thought, and turned back to the rogue–

Just as Aloth–or was it Iselmyr, she couldn’t tell–hollered a warning and the rogue’s stiletto drove into the fleshy part of her already-injured bicep. His foot lodged behind her ankle, tumbling her to the ground. Emiri yelped as her wounded arm dragged against the rough stone wall on the way down. She tried to focus on making the man recall the pain of his likely-broken shoulder, but her own pain was too distracting, she couldn’t manage…

Edér charged past her as she struggled and ran the rogue through before Aloth could get a spell off, his sabre easily piercing the leather armor.

As she tried to regulate her breathing and fight through the pain in her arm, Emiri was dimly aware of the combat ruckus tapering off toward quiet. That was good; she was basically useless and Hiravias hadn’t sounded good and what about Pallegina and Kana–

“Miri.” Edér stood next to her, sabre sheathed and hand extended to help her up.

She took it gratefully and let him assist her undignified scramble back to her feet. “Thank you,” she murmured breathlessly, meaning for more than just the hand up, and pulled him into a hug with her good arm.

“‘S what I’m here for,” Edér chuckled, hugging her back. “You alright?”

“Thanks to you,” Emiri confirmed, glancing toward Aloth, who’d relaxed and moved closer to check on her with the battle winding down. “Both of you.” When the elven wizard was close enough, she dragged him into the hug with her other arm, muttering apologies for getting blood in his hair.

Careful of her injuries, Aloth circled an arm around her waist. “A small–and worthwhile–price to pay to be sure you’re alright,” he promised. “And not one I’d pay long, in any case, considering where we are.”

Emiri laughed and hugged the both of them tighter. “Good point.” Dyrford Crossing had no shortage of streams to choose from in the event you needed to wash out blood and grime. Which she was fairly certain all of them now did. She gave Aloth and Edér one final squeeze before letting go. “We should check on the others. And I need some sort of proof we killed Brynlod.”

“I’ll take care of that, Mir,” Edér offered with a wink. He headed for where Brynlod had fallen, leaving her free to make sure the rest of their group was alright, or at least alive.

Even that proved a near thing–Hiravias looked decidedly woozy when she’d circled enough of the wrecked mill to lay eyes on him, perched on a rock so Pallegina could examine the gash carved through the blood-matted fur over his good eye.

He grinned fiercely–if slightly dazed–when he saw her staring at him. “Watcher! One of these rot-brained thugs thought to relieve me of my other eye, but I showed her the folly of that decision-”

“Yes, by nearly skewering yourself on the same rocks that skewered her, and then promptly passing out from the effort,” Pallegina interrupted dryly, her hands moving from the gash to lightly grip his head. “Stop moving, postenago.”

“Don’t ruin my tale of heroism,” Hiravias groused good-naturedly. “And you try casting something that powerful with your face sliced open.”

“I stand corrected,” Pallegina deadpanned, then met Emiris gaze. “I am glad you are alright, Watcher”–her gaze drifted to the blood running down Emiri’s arm–”for the most part.”

“Oh, it would be much worse if not for Edér and Aloth’s intervention,” Emiri said. She glanced around, brow furrowing. “Where’s Kana?”

“He was worried for you, I believe,” Pallegina said, golden eyes gleaming with something that wasn’t quiet mirth before her attention returned to Hiravias. “We all heard you cry out, but were… occupied with the rest of the pirates, ac?”

“Oh.” Something in her chest squeezed. “Maybe I should-”

“Stay right here so the two of you don’t wind up chasing circles around what’s left of this mill,” Aloth finished for her as he joined them. “He’ll make it back here sooner or later. It’s not that big a building.”

“You’re right. Of course.” Of course that made more sense. Emiri wiped blood off her arm and examined the new slice through her sleeve. “If this keeps up, I’ll have to replace this shirt much sooner than planned.”

Aloth’s brow furrowed. “Usher’s scythe, Emiri, I didn’t realize…” He started to reach toward the bloody sleeve, then hesitated. “May I?”

“‘Course,” she nodded, and gingerly rolled up the sleeve, hissing when it stuck to her skin.

He winced at both the gash and the puncture just above it. “We should stop the bleeding, at least. Stitching these up may require a surgeon with more skill than any of us can claim.”

Edér appeared while they were in the process of using her ruined shirt to do just that, raised an eyebrow at Emiri in just her undershirt, and held out one hand toward her. “Only better proof’d be choppin’ off his head, an’ we have a little far to travel for me to wanna go that route.”

Emiri examined the sweat-stained leather cord hanging off his finger. The low end of its loop was weighted by an amateurly made pewter ring and decorated by a pair of feathers–cormorant or albatross if she remembered her sea birds. “Lucky charm and his signet. I’d say that’ll do.” She held out her hand, palm up, and Edér lowered the talisman into her grasp. “Thank you.”

Just as her fingers closed around the leather cord and Aloth finished tying off the pressure bandages, there was a loud sigh of relief from back near the corner of the mill. “Hylea’s wings, there you are!”

Emiri half-twisted, her face heating a the fact she was sans shirt, and flashed him a smile. “Sorry, Kana. I came to check on you all, but Pallegina said you;d gone looking for me, and Aloth suggested staying here was better, ‘cause you would make your way back eventually-”

“And so I did,” Kana chuckled, his smile fading slightly when he caught sight of her shirt wrapped around her arm. “You’re hurt?”

“It looks worse than it is,” she assured him. “All this is just to make sure it stops bleeding until I can get it stitched up. I’m fine. Much better off than Hiravias, anyway.”

“Ah, if a stelgaer couldn’t do me in, a piddly little shit of a pirate sure won’t,” Hiravias retorted, squirming as Pallegina finished bandaging his wounds.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Kana pressed, his gaze firmly on Emiri.

Her heart fluttered a little at the concern in his voice. “I am. Thanks to these two.” She pulled Aloth and Edér into another hug. The two of them hugged her back again their angles slightly awkward but still heartfelt.

“Just glad we were close enough to be a help,” Edér said, which Aloth seconded.

“And glad I am to hear it,” Kana smiled.

It didn’t take much longer to finish cleaning up, searching bodies for anything of value, and confirming all the pirates were, in fact, dead. Once everything was taken care of, they headed for Dyrford Village, in hopes of finding someone to stitch up Emiri and Hiravias, and certainty of a comfortable place to sleep.

Emiri’s gaze darted between her friends as they walked, silently thanking the gods for all of them, and that they’d all survived that fight, with how tough it had been. She knew sooner or later she’d lose them to adventures or duty, but for now, she was very grateful to have them around.

#queens fic #emiri #aloth corfiser #eder teylecg #hiravias #kana rua #pallegina #/slides in toward the end of #watcher wednesday #WOO I MADE IT \O/#should probably just title it the sucker's 2k words

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master-sass-blast · 6 years

Text

Of First Dates and Not So First Kisses.

5 AM editing...

I am so good at adulting.

The latest piece from my hyperfixation hole: You and Piotr Rasputin go on your first date together.

(Set after the fic “Myska” and before (well, partially before) “Dig the Needle In,” both of which you can find on my Tumblr and on Archive of Our Own.)

Warnings: None. Except maybe strong language. Other than that, it’s just pure fluff.

Rating: T. Because Wade.

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader and vaguely implied Wade Wilson x Nathan Summers.

“No! I refuse to accept this!”

You roll your eyes as Wade flails around dramatically. “Wade, unless your real mutation is bending reality and the subjects therein to your will, you have to accept it.”

“This is art! Art!”

“No, this--” You point at the TV screen, which is currently playing a rerun of Desperate Housewives “--is garbage. Hot, shitty, nasty garbage.”

“Okay, apparently my efforts to reverse your parents’ brainwashing haven’t been as effective as I thought, because there’s no way any sane person in total control of their faculties would say something like that!”

You roll your eyes. Again. “No, Wade, I’m just not stupid enough to believe that daytime drama TV is entertaining.” Before your best friend can start in on another tirade, you add, “And, I mean, come on. If there’s anyone you should be showing this, it’s Cable. They don’t even have TV in the future, Wade. I at least got to experience it for a couple years before my dad got rid of our television set. Point stands, Cable’s situation is far more dire than mine.”

Wade perks up, and it’s obvious from the look on his face that he’s actually buying in to your distraction.

“Besides,” You continue, laying on the persuasion extra thick. “What an excellent opportunity! The two of you, on the couch, watching TV together; it’s practically a quasi-date!”

Wade falters. “Yeah, because everyone’s just lining up to date this face,” he grumbles bitterly.

“Fine.” You switch tactics like the master con artist you are. “Don’t think of it as a date. Just think of it as an opportunity to fill his brain with tons of bullshit about this century while tormenting him with shitty reality drama.”

That does it --because if there’s one thing that motivates Wade more than his Texas-sized crush on Nathan Summers, it’s an opportunity to be an unrepentant asshole. He bounds off to the kitchen --where Nathan is conveniently in the middle of making a sandwich--and loops his arms around the older man’s neck while gushing about ‘quality time’ and ‘historical education.’

You take the opportunity to make your escape --blowing a kiss at Cable when he glares at you, though it’s worth noting that he’s letting Wade lead him to the rec room without too much complaining--and head off in search of your boyfriend, Piotr.

He isn’t in his room, nor is he in the training room. It’s Saturday, so he’s not teaching, and he isn’t grading or lesson planning in one of his classrooms.

A smile lights up your face when you realize where he must be, and you scamper off towards one of the unfinished expansion wings on the mansion.

One of the ongoing goals at Xavier’s is that of expansion --taking in more mutants, reaching more people with the truth about mutants, extending their reach to an international level so they could help mutants around the world... the list goes on and on, but the immediate effects of that mission often manifest in upgrading the mansion or other X-Men facilities.

You walk through the unfinished wing, taking time to relish the unfiltered sunlight and the natural, homey feeling of the space.

The wing, once done, is supposed to serve as extra classrooms for the ever growing group of mutant students and kids that lived at the mansion. However, at your loving badgering, Piotr had asked for an art studio.

It was multi-purposed, he insisted. He could use it for himself, yes, but he also could use it for his students. At any rate, the studio was approved.

Now, he uses it mostly as his personal, private get away whenever the mansion gets too chaotic --one that, according to him, you’re welcome in any time as long as you don’t bring Wade.

You walk up to one of the few doors on its hinges --lovingly painted and decorated with the hand prints of Piotr’s art students--and poke your head into the room.

He’s sitting in an overstuffed arm chair positioned by one of the windows, sketchbook in his lap and face tense with concentration. He looks up when you close the door behind you, and absolutely beams at the sight of you. “Privet, myshka.”

You grin back, unable to resist his infectious happiness. “Hey, big guy.” Your heart hammers in your chest as you walk over to his chair and press a kiss against his lips. It’s only been a few weeks since the two of you decided to get together, and you’re still swept away with giddy energy every time you get to do something remotely couple-y with him.

He smiles up at you, cheeks flushed and face glowing with bashful exhilaration, when you break the kiss. “Is there any particular reason why you’re here?”

“Actually, yeah. I had to escape Wade; he was trying to make me watch garbage TV again.” You sit down on the armrest of the chair and grin at him. “I managed to sic him onto Cable, though. With any luck, he won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Piotr lets out a breathy laugh. “That was devious of you, myshka. I’m not sure Cable deserved that.”

“Hey, he’s just as capable of punching Wade in the face and walking away as anyone else is. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he actually likes spending time with him.”

Your boyfriend simply shakes his head --he’s still smiling though, which means he finds your antics amusing rather than disapproval-worthy--and curls one of his massive hands around one of your considerably smaller ones. “Well, at any rate, I am glad you are here. I wanted to talk to you about something --it actually connects to ‘escapes,’ ironically enough.”

You cock your head to the side, beyond intrigued about whatever’s going to come out of his mouth next. “What’s up, big guy?”

He gazes down at your intertwined hands for a moment, gently running the pad of his thumb over the back of your hand. “I would... I would like to take you on date. Sometime this week.”

“...Really? You want to take me on a date?”

“Da. I want to spend time with you... without others interrupting.”

Well, you’ll be fucked if you’re going to argue with that. You say as much --grinning impishly when Piotr gives you the ‘language’ look--and lean in and kiss him on the cheek. “So, where are you gonna take me, handsome?”

“That is what I wanted to ask you about. I am... not sure where we should go --and you should have a say, too, since this is your first ever date.”

You swing your legs back and forth, heels knocking against the side of the chair as you consider your options. “I trust your instincts, Pete. I don’t think you could pick something that I wouldn’t like, considering that the main thing I want to do is spend time with you.” You can tell that the open-ended-ness of your answer makes him nervous, so you add in a few stipulations for his sake. “I guess... nothing to fancy or upscale. We could do that down the road, if you want, but I kind of just want to hang out and have a good time with you. And I’d rather not do anything at night, I guess. I’d just feel better if we were back here around dinner time.”

He nods --you know he’s taking all this seriously, it is him after all--and squeezes your hand. “Of course, dorogaya moya. Whatever makes you comfortable. Perhaps... lunch date on Wednesday? I can show you some of parks and shops nearby?”

You grin, warm and unbelievably happy. “That sounds perfect.”

The rest of the remaining time until Wednesday is spent trying to nail down the perfect date outfit. You have a several hour consultation with Neena, Yukio, and Ellie --and Wade, because he refuses to be left out of anything--a couple days before the big event to decide what constitutes a good ‘daytime, causal but not too casual lunch date that also includes walking around together.’

Wade got as far as recommending his ‘hooker heels’ as your shoes of choice --Ellie smacked him across the back of the head for that--before Neena kicked him out and took over like the wonderful big sister figure she was.

In the end, the four of you had settled on a soft black t-shirt with a faded Guns’n’Roses logo on the front, a camouflage skirt that fell mid-thigh, a denim vest to go over the shirt, and a pair of low-rise black Converse (considerately loaned to you by Ellie).

You stand in front of your bathroom mirror, carefully tying a red bandanna around your head to act as a headband. Once you’re satisfied with its position, you check over your make up (natural, at Ellie’s suggestion).

You're unexpectedly nervous. You know Piotr’s not going to judge you --or dismiss you--for how you choose to dress, but you really want him to find you pretty. You’re fiddling with your hair when the sound of someone clearing their throat at you catches your attention.

Ellie’s standing in your bedroom, watching you with her usual stoic expression. “He’s ready for you.”

You nod, and let out a nervous huff. “Okay. Show time.”

“Relax. You look fine.” The corner of her mouth turns up in the barest hint of a smile. “Have fun.”

You flash her a thankful smile before you dart out of your room, snatching up your purse as you go. You hurry down the stairs and practically skip out the front door, any nervousness you might have felt far outweighed by the excitement running through your veins.

Piotr’s out on the front drive, leaning against a sleek black car that oozes power and ‘I’m more expensive than your college payments.’ He’s dressed in jeans, nice sneakers, and a light-blue short sleeved button down shirt that he’s tucked into his pants. He smiles, soft and warm, when you dash towards him. “You look nice, myshka.”

“Thanks,” You say, a little breathless from your mad run out of the mansion. “Shall we go?”

He nods, bends to kiss your forehead, and opens your door like the consummate gentleman that he is. Once you’re safely tucked inside, he closes the door and walks over to the driver’s side. “I thought,” he says as he buckles himself in, “we could start by walking through one of the parks.”

You grin and can’t help but shiver a little as the car rumbles to life. “Sounds awesome.”

He drives to a quaint town a little over half an hour away from the mansion. Piotr parks by a lush, quiet park at the edge of the town and immediately gets out of the car to get your door for you.

You smile as you step out and breath in the fresh summer air. The park is filled with different bushes, trees, and outcroppings of flowers. You can hear a stream gurgling nearby, and birds chirp overhead. “This is perfect, Piotr. It’s so beautiful here.”

“This is one of my favorite places to come and draw when mansion is too chaotic. Close enough to be safe, but far enough to, ah, avoid Wade.”

“He’s not all bad.”

“Nyet. But he is... trying.”

You giggle up at him and latch on to his hand. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

The two of you amble through the park, not in any particular hurry to get anywhere. You’re happy to take your time, thoroughly relishing the way Piotr’s fingers sit so naturally between yours, how warm his hand is, the way his voice rumbles as the two of you talk, the soft, bashful smiles he keeps favoring you with whenever you look up at him...

It’s heaven, pure and simple.

“I can see why you like it here,” You say after a stretch of comfortable silence. “It’s peaceful. And gorgeous. What do you draw when you come here?”

“Landscapes, mostly, though I have started to sketch passersby as well.” He ducks his head and lets out a self-depreciating chuckle. “I am... not that talented with faces.”

“I’ve seen your sketch book, which leads me to believe that you’re probably selling yourself short.”

He shrugs and smiles at you. “Who can say? Art is subjective, after all.”

Eventually, you reach the end of the park and step into a stylish downtown area that boasts several locally owned shops and cafes. You meander down the streets with Piotr, stopping every so often to gaze through one of the windows or step inside and check out one of the stores. Your stomach starts gurgling after a while, to which Piotr chuckles and suggests that the two of you find some lunch.

You let him lead you down the street and into a sandwich shop, a mom and pop sort of a place. A college aged waitress with her hair pulled back into a ponytail greets the two of you with a sunny smile --though it’s largely directed at Piotr.

Not that you blame her, necessarily. Be honest. Who wouldn’t?

“I haven’t seen you here in a while,” she says as she picks up a couple menus. “I was wondering if you’d forgotten all about us.”

“Work was... hectic for a bit,” Piotr replies, tacitly side-stepping the fact that he’s a superhero and that his ‘work’ was babysitting a homicidal maniac.

“Story of my life. Who’s your friend? I don’t think I’ve seen her here before.”

“This is my girlfriend,” Piotr introduces you with a smile that absolutely glows. “I wanted to bring her here for our first date.”

The waitress’s sunny smile dims slightly, but she’s still polite. “Well, congratulations! I’ll make sure I sit you two somewhere a little more private so that you aren’t bothered by the noise or other patrons.”

You end up sitting at a table for two that’s by the front of the shop, out of the way of the incoming traffic. It’s well-lit, positioned by one of the store front windows, and provides an excellent view of the charming street outside. Your waitress takes your drink orders and leaves you with the menus, promising to return in a couple moments.

You peruse the menu at a leisurely pace, lulled into a temporary glowing calm by your time spent basking in his unfiltered affection. Fortunately, you know what you’re doing --the first time Wade took you off the mansion grounds you hadn’t had the foggiest idea of how to even order a meal for yourself. He’d taken it upon himself to catch you up on all the skills necessary to survive in the real world; as far as you’re concerned, it’s worked.

After a few minutes of studying, however, you come to the determination that you really don’t know what to order. None of the staples Wade’s introduced you to are on the menu, and --while everything looks good--you don’t know what to pick. You reach across the table and put your hand on Piotr’s. “Whats good here?”

“Everything. I usually order the grilled chicken and vegetable sandwich.”

You can’t help but grin. “Of course. Always the nutritionist.”

“It’s important to be healthy.”

“It is, it is. I’m not sure I’m feeling that virtuous, though.” You feel a flash of satisfaction at the way the tips of his ears turn red and return your focus to the menu in your hands. “The pulled-pork sandwich looks pretty good. I think I’ll go with that.”

Your waitress reappears a few moments later to take your orders --a grilled chicken and veggie sandwich with a fresh fruit side for him and a pulled pork sandwich and fries for you. She takes the menus and disappears into the kitchen, leaving the two of you alone.

Piotr takes your hands in his, rubbing the pads of his thumbs over your knuckles. “You look adorable today, myshka.”

You duck your head, smiling bashfully. “Thanks. You’re looking good as well --though that’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

His cheeks flush to a lovely rosy color. “Are you enjoying this?”

“Yeah. I really am. This has been really great; it’s nice that we don’t have to worry about Wade ambushing us.”

“Da.” He hesitates --his cheeks flush darker, which looks surprisingly good on him--then gives you a shy, hopeful look. “I want... to do more of this. A lot more.”

A rush of exhilaration runs through you, and you can’t help your excited smile. “Are you saying you want this --us--to be long term?”

“Da. I do.”

“I like the sound of that. I really, really like the sound of that.”

His returning smile is soft and pleased beyond all compare.

Lunch passes quickly --too quickly for your taste. It’s largely dominated by conversation, with occasional comfortable pauses. The two of you talk about your hopes and dreams, your opinions about the world around you, what you want for your futures...

It’s nice. You can’t remember the last time you were able to just spend time with him like this and be.

Whenever the conversation lulls for too long, you ask him to tell you about Russia. He obliges, happily, telling you about the farm he grew up on, his parents, and his sister.

Eventually, he’s covering the bill --upon his insistence, because he can’t not be a gentleman--and you realize that lunch is done and that your date time is quickly coming to a close. As you leave the restaurant, you beg him to show around the town for just a little longer --and he obliges you with literally no resistance whatsoever.

It’s sweet, and you love him for it, but you also have the distinct sense that he’s going to end up creating a bit of a monster out of you.

Towards the end of your stroll around the town, your attention’s snatched away by the distinct, sweet smell of sugar and chocolate. You whip your head around, searching for the source of the heavenly scent, and spy a small confections shop on the opposite corner. “There’s a candy store!” You swoon dramatically, leaning against Piotr as you press your hand against your forehead. “Suddenly, I feel faint! I think it can only be remedied by mass quantities of sugar and chocolate!”

He chuckles as he nudges you upright. “Would you like to go get something?”

“Yes... or, as you would say, da.”

He escorts you across the seat, looking both ways before the two of you cross --because safety, and, to be fair, you probably wouldn’t have if he wasn’t here. He gets the door for you --again, gentleman--and ushers you inside as a bell dings above your heads.

The inside of the shop is light, airy, and decorated in pastels. The far wall is lined with shelves of containers filled with novelty candies --gummy worms, jelly beans, taffies, and the like. Tables loaded with different pastries and treats dot the shop floor. The counter boasts an extensive display case holding dozens of different chocolate treats --and an ice cream cooler, which looks seriously tempting.

A middle aged woman dressed in a mint green polo and a black apron smiles at the two of you. “Hi! What brings you in?”

“My girlfriend wanted to check the shop out,” Piotr says with a smile.

“It was a matter of life and death, Piotr,” You insist cheekily. “I could’ve fainted! Or died!”

The woman chuckles. “Well, we’ve got a great selection of chocolates, candies, and pastries, along with our ice cream that we make in store. My name’s Melody; let me know if I can help you with anything.”

Piotr thanks Melody, but you’re already eyeing your options. You squeeze his hand to get his attention. “Can I get one of everything?”

“Uh, no,” he says with a laugh. “I didn’t bring that much cash with me.”

“I was kidding... mostly.”

The two of you amble around the shop --you because you’re taking your time to seriously evaluate your choices, Piotr because he’s content to follow you and finds your depth of concentration amusing.

Eventually, you decide that you want chocolate and you skip over to the display case.

It doesn’t do much to simplify your decision making process. There have to be at least fifty different types of chocolates in the case.

You smile at Melody. “So, what’s good?”

“Well, the obvious answer is ‘everything,’ but it really depends on your tastes. What do you normally like? Are you a purist, do you like a little crunch, are you a fan of chocolate a fruit combos...”

Your cheery smile dims slightly. Despite his best efforts, this was one area of food Wade hadn’t thoroughly indoctrinated you in. You honestly have no idea what you ought to like, but this seems like something that any normal person would have opinions on. “Uh... I don’t know, actually.” At Melody’s politely confused look, you ad-lib a little lie. “My parents were, uh, health nuts. They didn’t let me have chocolate growing up.”

“Gotcha,” Melody says. “Well, in that case, I’d recommend a covered fruit option; they’re not as rich as some of our other options, so you’re less likely to feel sick after eating ‘em.”

Piotr’s hand comes to rest on the small of your back as she goes through the options --a small but reassuring pressure; he knows how much talking about your parents bothers you. He kisses the top of your head and wraps his arm around your shoulders when you lean against him.

“So, do any of those strike your fancy?”

“Uh...” You peer at the trays of chocolate covered fruits. “I’d like to try... the chocolate covered strawberries.”

“Excellent. It’s one for $3.75 or four for $5.00.”

You smile up at Piotr. “Can I get four?”

“Da,” he murmurs as he kisses your temple. After a little good-natured pestering from you, he also asks for some fudge for himself.

You give him a mock --well, partially mock--incredulous look as Melody packages your orders. “Fudge? I would’ve thought you would’ve gone for something healthy, like the fruit.” You puff out your chest and drop your voice as deep as it will go in a fairly horrible impression of him. “Nutrition is important. Pizza is not breakfast food. Cheetos are not food in general.”

“It is guilty pleasure,” Piotr laughs as he pays for your treats. “And I don’t care what you say, moya lyubov’. Cheetos cannot be food; they don’t even taste like cheese!”

“That’s not the point! The point is that they are crunchy and delicious!”

Piotr simply shakes his head, still smiling, and takes your hand as you leave the shop.

The two of you settle on a bench in the park you started your date in to eat your treats. Piotr hands you your box of chocolate covered strawberries --tied shut with a cute gold ribbon--and a napkin before setting his small box of fudge --and a napkin--in his lap.

You open your box and carefully pick up one of the berries. You study it for a moment, shrug, and bite in.

The chocolate casing shatters.

You let out a squeak and lift your hand up to catch the pieces of runaway chocolate. “Is that supposed to happen?”

“Da.”

It takes a little fumbling, but you manage to stick most of the shards back to the strawberry. You carefully finish your first berry, trying to hold it ‘just so’ so that you don’t drop more chocolate on your skirt.

It’s delicious. Insanely so.

You let out a delighted moan as you start in to your next strawberry. “Where has this been my whole life?”

Piotr smiles as he watches you. “I take it you like them?”

“Oh, hell yeah. This is amazing. I’m going to punch Wade for not introducing these to me.” You take a moment to wipe your fingers on your napkin, then eye his box of fudge. “Mind if I try a bite of yours?”

“Sure.”

You take the chunk of fudge he offers you and --without much thought or consideration--pop the entire piece into your mouth.

A mistake --relatively speaking.

“Oh god,” you mumble around the fudge. “It’s so sweet.”

“That’s why I don’t get it too often.”

“Holy shit. I can actually feel the cavities forming.” You hold out one of your strawberries to him. “Do you want one?”

“No, but thank you, dorogaya moya.”

“Okay. Your loss.”

The two of you finish your treats in relative silence. Well, you finish your strawberries, devouring them with the voracity of a starved velociraptor. Piotr eats maybe a quarter of his fudge, then neatly closes the box and tucks it back in the bag ‘for later,’ like a responsible person would.

He’s such a dad type, and you absolutely adore him for it.

“Do have anything on my face?” You ask as you pat around your mouth with the napkin.

“I think you’re good.” He stand and holds his hand out to you. “We should probably go.”

“Yeah --just hang on a minute.” You hop to your feet, pop up onto your tiptoes, and tug him down by his shirt to give him a kiss.

It’s undeniably perfect. His hands settle at your waist, pulling you in slightly. His lips are soft and warm --and taste a little like fudge, which is excellent. Stack that with the overall glow you’re feeling from the date, and it’s the best damn kiss you’ve ever had.

“I love you,” you murmur when the two of you part. “I really don’t want this to end.”

“I love you too, myshka. But we should probably go.”

“I know,” You groan. “I’ve just really enjoyed today.”

He practically beams down at you. “I’m glad. I had good time as well.”

You bump your head against his chest. “I want to come here again. I really like it out here.”

“We can do that. Whenever you want.”

“Awesome.” You wrap your arms around his massive waist in a hug and let out a happy sigh when he reciprocates. “But, yeah, we should head back. If we stay out any longer, Wade’s gonna take it a sign to set something on fire.”

Piotr stiffens in your arms at and mutters something under his breath in Russian. “Da. Not that I don’t love this --don’t love being here with you--but... da. We should make sure Wade doesn’t burn down house.”

You giggle and take his hand as he heads back to the car.

The drive back to the mansion is too short for your tastes --not from him speeding, because Piotr would never, but just from being engrossed in conversation with him and just being captivated by him in general.

Your heart aches slightly as the mansion comes into sight, officially marking the end of your date.

“I can drop you off at door,” Piotr offers as he pulls up the drive.

“And miss out on the precious minutes of walk time from the garage to the mansion? I think not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yupp,” You answer, popping the ‘p.’ “To the garage, big guy!”

It only takes a couple of minutes to reach the garage, and less than that for Piotr to park and turn off the car, to your dismay. Before you’ve managed to collect your purse, he’s opening your door and helping you out of the car.

“Thanks for taking me out today. I had a great time.”

“My pleasure, dorogoy.” And then he stoops down and presses his lips against yours.

This kiss is different from the others you’ve shared today. For one, it’s more passionate --he’s holding you closer, kissing your harder. It also lasts much longer, like he doesn’t want to part from you until he absolutely has to.

Eventually, as all things must, the kiss does end.

You’re panting slightly when he pulls back. “Now, that’s what I’d call a proper ‘end of date’ kiss.”

Piotr ducks his head and smiles, cheeks flushed a gorgeous rosy color. “We should go inside.”

You walk with him to the house, still indescribably giddy from your date and the kiss in the garage. You step through the back door --Piotr gets the door for you again--and into the kitchen--

Wade is perched precariously on the counter, lighter in one hand and bottle of vodka with a rag sticking out the top in the other.

“Wade! No!”

You watch, endlessly amused, as your boyfriend surges forward and disarms your best friend.

It’s amazing that this is your life now --a mix of wonderful and crazy that you wouldn’t trade for the world.

You laugh as Wade pouts at Piotr and decide to join the chaos.

#sass writes #piotr rasputin x reader #colossus x reader #piotr rasputin imagine #colossus imagine #piotr rasputin #x men fanfiction #nathan summers x wade wilson #cablepool #sort of #if you squint #so fluffy #i have actual cavities from writing this #it's like cotton candy but sweeter #should i have edited after getting some sleep #probably #but i live for instant gratification #so here we are

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usuknetwork · 6 years

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USUK Christmas Countdown 2017: December 14

Title: Dazzled Day 2: Decorations/Lights Summary: Alfred has a small surprise in store for Arthur following a world meeting. Rating: G Warning: None

(Written by: @zodiaches and Art by: @ixiethepixiedraws)

“C’mon Artie, please? I promise you won’t regret it!”

Arthur couldn’t help but sigh. It was finally Christmas Eve--meaning that, of course, another world conference was in order right before the festivities could begin. Upon leaving the meeting, the freezing air nipped harshly at his fingers and nose, exacerbating the irritation he still felt after hearing France’s presentation earlier that evening. Honestly, how could anyone think that Tinder for Nations was an appropriate topic on international relations? All he wanted in that moment was a warm bed and a steaming cup of tea, but Alfred yet again had to get in the way of his plans. He had managed to intercept Arthur on his way out, walking out into the cold with his jacket only half on in his haste. Arthur wrestled internally with himself, trying not to acknowledge the hopeful look on Alfred’s face. As much as he wanted to say absolutely not, America, Arthur found himself unable to deny, as he often did whenever those sky blue eyes were turned on him.

“Please, sweetheart, stay the night? I’d feel awful if you got a hotel and didn’t have to,” he continued after Arthur remained silent.

“Fine, I’ll stay over,” England finally grumbled, rolling his own eyes at the ridiculous pet name, finding it not worth the effort to object.

That was all the confirmation the American needed. Smiling brightly, he grabbed Arthur by the hand and made his way down the steps of the UN building, hurrying onto the sidewalk.

As they walked, America continued carrying the majority of the conversation with aimless chatter, pointing out different spots and buildings on every block, recalling memories of every place. England just continued to let him talk, instead focusing his eyes on the bustle of fellow pedestrians and street cars, all hurrying about--whether it be for the holiday or just a daily occurrence, he wasn’t quite sure. Americans always seem to be inordinately excited, he thought, much like the man who represents them. As the minutes dragged on, he continued to get colder, his ongoing annoyance with the day seeping into his bones alongside the frost.

Interrupting his stream of thought, Arthur asked, “Alfred, why do you seem so intent on us walking? I’ve seen nothing but taxis since we left.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the man in question replied, “I just really like to take this way home. It shouldn’t be much longer.”

Arthur remained relatively silent, choosing not to directly argue. He would normally believe his words, as Alfred was never very keen on lying, but something about the ambiguity in his boyfriend’s voice left him suspicious. He knew that America was somewhat known for his surprises, from birthday parties to random gifts. He’d never done anything too eccentric for Christmas in all of their years as friends (and lovers), but Arthur certainly wouldn’t put it past him, or really much of anything, for that matter. He continued to mutter complaints under his breath, but Alfred was either unfazed or simply not paying attention, as he didn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

Finally, Arthur saw it out of the corner of his eye. Rounding the block, the most brilliant Christmas tree he had ever seen came into view. It appeared similar to a skyscraper, dwarfing Arthur (and almost everything else around it) in size. It twinkled every color, an iridescent rainbow casting a warm glow on everything in its vicinity. He was simply floored by the grandness of the sight, awestruck to the fullest degree. The other luminescent decorations--the angels heralding, the short accent trees--made the square so bright he almost felt like he should be covering his eyes in its sheer presence. It reminded him of purity: of fresh starts and newly blossoming love. He felt a strong arm wrap around his shoulders; turning his head, he found Alfred again, who was already looking back at him.

Drenched in the lights, Alfred looked like an angel, or a mirage, or a dream--possibly all of the above. In the moment, Arthur was simply taken aback by how much the man had changed--grown--over the years. Where there was once a boy was now a man, courageous and fierce and reckless and so incredibly strong. He had to, and still did, carry the weight of the world on his young shoulders. Yet he smiled at Arthur like a redeemed man with his savior. Not to mention his eyes; Arthur had seen grief, terror, despair in those eyes, but now they just shone like stars behind his glasses, so heart-wrenchingly blue. All he could think about was how much he’d give to see Alfred like this all the time. He knew that after all the years he spent ignoring him--hurt and wallowing in pity, wasting time after a ridiculous war--there was no way he’d ever deserve the pure, irrevocable adoration Alfred always seemed to radiate around him, but he also knew he would never be a noble enough man to deny it.

Now looking somewhat nervous, Alfred said sheepishly, “D’you... like it? I know you haven’t been around New York for Christmas in a really long time, and I dunno, I just thought you may think it’s pretty cool--”

Not able to help himself any longer, Arthur grabbed him by the back of the neck and brought Alfred down to his level, pressing their lips together. The American immediately melted, wrapping his arms tightly around the small of Arthur’s back, kissing him deeper.

Pulling away, Arthur chuckled. “I should’ve known you’d have something up your sleeve, you hopeless romantic.”

“Does that mean it was worth the walk?” Alfred implored coyly.

“Maybe, just this once,” Arthur replied, unable to hide his own grin forming.

He knew he wouldn’t get a refund on the hotel he booked weeks ago (and didn’t have the heart to bring up earlier), but Alfred himself was priceless. The potential frostbite, on the other hand--he’d deal with that later.

#usuk #ukus #usukxmascountdown #day 2 #aph america #aph england

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witchy-writes · 6 years

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Lancelot week: day 7 promises/commitment

@lancelotweek

Summary: Lotor and Lance get married.

Lance had been up for hours. He took a long shower, made sure his skin was clean and his hair was perfect. This was his usual routine, but today was special. Because he would be marrying Lotor.

Lotor had been the one to propose. He took Lance to this beautiful planet that had a beach just like back at home. The two spent the day there, playing in the sand, going for a swim, and then laying down, letting the sun warm them up. It was when the sun went away and the sky was full of stars, that Lotor got down on one knee, took hold of Lance’s hands and asked him to spend the rest of his life with him. As his husband.

Lance said ‘yes’.

The ceremony would take place in the Castle-Ship. Important weddings in Altea used to be celebrated in the castle and there was a huge room just for it that allowed many guests to attend. Which is great because Lance and Lotor’s guests list counted with a lot of names, even though they were just a few of the races Voltron had helped. Balmerans, Arusians, Olkari, the Blade of Marmora and others.

They had kindly requested the Olkari to take care of decorating the room. Coran would be officiating the ceremony. Hunk would be taking care of the food and the cake. Pidge the music. Shiro would be checking to make sure if every guest had arrived. Keith volunteered to be the security and keep an eye for any danger, but Lance assigned him the role of taking pictures during the reception.

As the others were taking care of making sure everything was in place, Lance was in his room, with Coran helping him finishing to get ready.

He stood in front of a full-length mirror. Lance’s wedding attirement was a white tunic with blue stripes on its sleeves hems and collar, as well as a sash of the same color on the waist. His pants and lace-up boots were also white.

He stretched his arms as Coran helped him put on his blue silk gown. Lance had requested for the gown to not be too long, afraid he would trip over it.

Lance observed himself in the mirror, twirling a little, loving the way the outfit looked on him. But something was still bugging him.

Allura knocked on the door before it slid open.

“Ready for makeup?”

She carried a pink box with blue laces adorning it, which no doubt must be filled with pallets, brushes and other cosmetics, and that Allura must have gotten when she was a much younger teen.

“Wow.”, her eyes sparkled as she stared in awe, “You look beautiful, Lance.”

A little blush crept on Lance’s cheek at the compliment. Allura put down the box on Lance’s bed and wrapped her arms around her friend, pulling him into a hug.

“I’m so happy for you, Lance.”, she then pulled away, keeping him at arm’s length, her hands on his shoulders,“How are you feeling?”

“Happy. Excited.”, but then his smile dropped a little, “Nervous.”

Allura could tell something was wrong.

“Coran, could you give us a moment, please?”

“Of course, princess. I will go check on the preparations.”, he smiled at both Lance and Allura one last time before leaving.

Allura lead Lance away from the mirror and into the bed, so the two could sit down.

“Is something wrong? You can tell me, if you want.”, her voice was soft, but with the hint of concern.

“It’s just…”, Lance sighed, casting down his eyes, “What if he changes his mind?”

“Who? Lotor?”

Lance nodded, keeping his head down.

“Lance…”, Allura took hold of his chin, lifting his head, “He loves you. That wouldn’t change all of the sudden.”

“But what if he realizes he is not ready for this? Ready to be ‘tied down’ for the rest of his life with… someone like me?”, his brow furrowed as he bit his bottom lip.

Allura knew what he meant. She took hold of his hands, squeezing them gently, “I’m going to be honest with you. He can search the whole galaxy, he will never find someone better than you.”

Lance’s expression softened, “You think so?”

“Yes. And I believe so does Lotor. Besides, if he dared to break your heart like that, I would hunt him down and make him regret it.”

Lance wiped the small tears in the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand, “Thanks.”

“No puffy eyes.”, she jokingly scold him, giving his hands one last squeeze, before reaching for the box and putting it on her lap, “Now let’s make sure you steal the show.”

Allura applied just a tiny touch of blush to Lance’s cheeks, lip salve to make his lips shine a little, mascara to his eyelashes and the most perfect eyeliner.

“Allura you’re an artist!”, Lance said as he took a look in the mirror, and Allura packed everything back in the box.

Allura reached her hand out and Lance took it.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, then he exhaled, opening his eyes again, “Let’s go.”

—

Everything was beautiful. Leaving the Olkari in charge of the decoration had been the best decision.

The most lovely flowers sprouted from the walls, all of them with the most dazzling colours and designs Lance had ever seen.

Flowers that resembled tulips and had white petals, decorated the borders of the long red carpet that led the way down to the aisle.

Blue and purple flowers, shaped like the roses from earth, were place on the steps to the altar.

“Lotor is going to love it.”, Lance exclaimed. He and Allura were standing in one of the side doors, next to the altar, that allowed them to see the entire room where the ceremony would take place.

Guests were already in their designated sits, chatting and laughing.

Lance would be exiting through that door, walking towards the altar where Coran would be, while Lotor would be coming from the other door, at the opposite side. The curtain to that door was pulled shut, so Lance had no idea if Lotor was already there or not.

Lance stepped back, pressing his back against the wall.

“Everything will be alright.”, Allura assured him, “I have to go now. And remember, no puffy eyes.”, she kissed his forehead and walked away to go to take her place with the others.

Lance felt like his heart was going to leap out of his ribcage. He can’t remember ever being this nervous in his entire life.

He looked at Lotor’s door again and saw the curtain was still pull shut.

He tried to calm himself. Maybe Lotor prefered to keep the curtain like that to give him more privacy. Or maybe there was another reason. Lance started to overthink it, but Coran’s arrival at the altar snap him out of his thoughts.

Coran cleared his throat before starting, “Dearly beloved. Humans, Arusians, Olkari, Balmerans, Galrans,…”, he nodded his head as he mentioned each race that was attending the ceremony, earning a few smiles and giggles from the guests, “We are gathered here on this day to celebrate the union between these two lovers: Lotor and Lance. Who have willingly and happily decided to become bounded for life through this ceremony.”

Lance wondered how Lotor was reacting to this speech. Would the part of ‘bounded for life’ make him realize he had made the wrong decision?

Music started playing and Lance knew this was his cue to get there. Once he stepped out of the shadows and made his way to the altar, all eyes were on him. He kept his head up, trying not to let others see just how much of a nervous wreck he was in that moment. He catched a glimpse of Allura, who was sitting at the front row, between Keith and Hunk. She smiled sweetly at him and he could feel himself calm down a little.

He went up the steps and now stood at Coran’s right side.

The two exchanged a smile, before turning their eyes to the door where Lotor was expected to come out from.

As seconds went by, and the curtain remained shut, Lance could feel his panic rising.

He had seen a ton of movies where the groom left the bride at the altar because he either chickened out or found someone else.

Would Lotor regret having asked Lance to marry him? Would Lotor choose to walk away from all this? And leave Lance behind?

But then the curtain was pulled open, revealing Lotor.

Lance’s jaw nearly dropped as he saw him. He looked stunning in his attire. A long white coat of knee-lenght that fit close to his body and a purple sash on his waist. The collar, the sleeves hems and the buttons of the coat were also purple and he also wore white pants and boots. His long silver hair was caught in a ponytail.

As Lotor made his way to the steps, elegant as ever, Lance felt like a weight had been lifted out of him. Lotor was there. He didn’t walked out on him. And now Lance felt silly for all the doubts he had and how he had unnecessarily caused himself so much stress.

Lotor now stood at Coran’s left side and the two nodded at each other.

Lotor turned to face Lance, his indigo eyes gazing lovingly at him. He took hold of his hands and lean down a little to brush his lips against Lance’s knuckles, “You look radiant.”, he said before pressing a kiss against them.

Lance’s rolled his eyes, blushing, the guests laughing a little at that.

“You are looking incredible.”, Lance complimented him.

Lotor let go of his hands and the two turned to Coran, so the ceremony could proceed.

“The essence of this commitment is the acceptance of each other in entirety, as lover,

companion, and friend. Do you both promise to share your lives openly with one another, and to speak the truth in love? Do you promise to care for one another, cherish and encourage each other, stand together, through sorrows and joys, hardships and triumphs, for all the days of your lives?“

“We do.”, they spoke in unison and they couldn’t help but smile fondly at one another.

A tiny Arusian walked down the aisle, carrying a white cushion with the two wedding rings. The rings had been crafted with a material similar to gold, and little stones, that shined bright like stars, decorated them.

“As they exchange the rings, they will speak their vows, a way for them to declare their devotion to each other and for everyone present to witness.”

Lotor went first. His eyes met Lance’s and he had the softest expression on his face as he placed the ring on his lover’s finger.

“My beloved Lance, I never thought I would love someone as much as I love you. I promise to stay by your side, to protect you, to love you, until my last breath. I hope the life we are about to start together will be full of bliss and adoration.”

Oh boy, Lance could feel himself tear up a bit. Now he understands why his sister cried at her own wedding.

Lance picked up the other ring. He had the sweetest smile on his face as he slid the ring in Lotor’s finger and he knew Lotor was smiling too.

“Back on Earth, when I dreamed about being a pilot and hoping to one day explore space, I never could have imagined I would end up finding my soulmate. Lotor, I promise to be a doting and faithful husband for the rest of our lives.”

‘Aaaawws’ and sighs could be heard among the guests. Even when he was done with his vows, Lance continued to hold Lotor’s hand.

Once the rings exchanged was done, they turned to Coran, who was trying his best to hold back the tears.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may now…”, Coran choked on a sob, “You may…you…just kiss already.”

Lance couldn’t contain his excitement as he took hold of Lotor’s face and pulled him into a kiss. Lotor’s arms looped around Lance’s waist, pressing him closer to him.

The crowd stood up, cheering and clapping. Coran wiped his tears with a handkerchief that he had in his pocket.

When they broke the kiss, both had the biggest smiles on their faces. They held hands as they walked down the steps and made their way down the aisle, the guest throwing petals at them.

The rest of the celebration would be spent eating Hunk’s delicious food, drinking and dancing. A day full of happiness and joy.

#lancelot #lotance #lancelotweek2017 #voltron #voltron legendary defender #vld #my writing

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artificialqueens · 7 years

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TROIKA (Trixie/Alaska feat. Katya) 1/9 - Spoky

A/N: And so it begins… @veronicasanders & @fryshook, Ta, mates.

Summary: You can’t choose who you fall in love with and sometimes it’s inconvenient; it’s challenging, cumbersome, difficult and pushes you in directions you previously thought impossible. This is a story about negotiating love when everything you thought you knew about family, relationships and sex proves to be insufficient.

TROIKA

May, 2015

Boystown was supporting its regular Saturday night buzz. Brian had seen two bachelorette parties before even reaching Halsted street and a boy in a purple tank-top had tricked him into accepting a flyer for a new massage parlour in Chinatown. The address was on the same street as Kimski, the odd Korean-Polish fusion restaurant Kim liked to visit hungover. Brian folded the leaflet and stuffed it into his rear pocket as he turned right from Newport avenue and continued his way to Roscoe’s.

It was surprisingly warm for early May and he’d been wandering around in the streets of Chicago, making sure to arrive fashionably late to avoid the line. He crossed Roscoe street with couple of quick leaps and lifted his hand as a thank you to the cab driver that had slowed down to wait for him. Muffled music was echoing from the bar as he reached the familiar red telephone booth next to Roscoe’s Tavern and took notice of the small but surprisingly diverse group of men who had gathered to smoke next to it.

“Hey, dude,” one of them approached Brian as he passed. “You don’t happen to have a lighter?”

“Sorry,” Brian said and shook his head apologetically. “Don’t smoke.”

“Worth a shot, thanks anyway,” the man said, shrugged and turned back to his friends as Brian proceeded to the entrance.

“Ticket and ID?” the bouncer asked in deep bass and Brian paused to find the VIP wristband Kim had given him earlier. “Isn’t that Trixie?” He could hear one of the other guys drawl as he searched through his wallet. Where had he put the damn thing?

“Who’s Trixie?” a deeper voice asked and Brian chuckled as he pulled the silver paper wristband out of his wallet, flashed it to the bouncer with a half grin and pulled his sleeve up to put it on.

“You know, the Barbie from Drag Race, with the weird makeup. She was eliminated yesterday, again.”

“Look, babe,” a new voice joined the conversation. “I promised to come to see this show with you, alright? But that doesn’t mean that I actually care.”

Fair, Brian thought, and refreshing. Maybe he could date the guy? He was tempted to turn around and take a better look.

“But she’s famous!”

“You the Barbie?” the bouncer chortled at Brian as he extended his neck to look at the crowd standing couple of feet away. Clearly amused, he brushed over his thick moustache while eyeing the men behind Brian.

“I’m afraid so,” Brian admitted quietly and lifted his wrist up to show that he was appropriately tagged for the party. He tried his best to insinuate with his eyebrows that he didn’t want to deal with the Drag Race fan behind him.

The bouncer got the hint.

“Well in that case,” the man joked and opened the door, “Welcome to Roscoe’s!” he announced as he pushed Brian inside, closing the door behind him. The guy who had recognised Brian as Trixie had no time to react.

Brian shook his head at the encounter as he stepped into the crowded bar and studied the familiar space; the red walls and dark wood, the ugly lamps that reminded him of cracked in half egg shells hanging from the ceiling. Choices. The staff had yet to take his advice to reduce the random, and apparently steadily growing, selection of paper decorations that hung above the bar in faded rainbow colours. Stepping into Roscoe’s felt like coming home. A home you were about to sell at a severely reduced price after a messy divorce, but home; and it was crammed with interested buyers.

Brian glanced around. Roscoe’s was never this packed when the local Chicago queens performed, and Trixie would probably never attract a similar audience, but it was nice to dream. He wiggled his way to the bar between the warm bodies, muttering off-handed apologies and trying not to step on anyone’s toes along his way. He could feel people getting annoyed at him and someone shoved his shoulder, trying to hurry him along. As he finally reached the bar top and sighed in relief, he heard an amused snort at his left.

“Don’t get your hopes up. The twinks are not here to make money.”

Brian glanced up and was faced with a hefty, older man in a light blue shirt. His bushy grey eyebrows were drawn into an annoyed frown and he was tapping his debit card against the bar with steady slow clicks.

“Sorry?”

“The staff,” the man said and pointed at the other end where the young bartenders had gathered to watch the performance.

Brian rolled his eyes and stretched his neck to see the stage himself. Jinkx Monsoon stood tall in her heels and carrot orange curls as she dragged the final note of Creep before thanking the audience that roared in appreciation. Brian also caught a glimpse of a pink banner above the stage; the clearly hand painted cursive “JUSTICE FOR TRIXIE” causing the corners of his mouth to curl upwards in approval. Alaska and Jinkx clearly knew their audience.

Brian had seen pictures and videos of Alaska’s shows previously, but this was the first time he witnessed one of her Trixie-banners in person. It made him feel somehow appreciated, as if an older sister, who you knew would fucking murder you if you stepped into their room without permission, was standing up for you against The Plastics. It was nice to get some recognition and while Trixie Mattel would never be crowned America’s Next Drag Superstar, watching Alaska step onto the stage and take over the entire bar with her mere presence was enough to convince Brian that the crown, and the title, were not everything. There would be other opportunities, other platforms.

Someone tapped him lightly on the shoulder and he turned back to the elderly man on his left. The man was holding a drink and nodded his head towards the bar.

“Turns out, they do want to get tipped.”

With his Coors Light finally in hand Brian found a spot in the audience, readjusted his trucker cap and laughed at the joke Alaska Thunderfuck had cracked on the stage. She really was brilliant and sometimes Brian thought she should’ve won season five, but maybe America just hadn’t been ready for yet another freak show after Miss Needles? He took a sip of his beer and frowned at the two girls that were leaning to each other, crying dramatically.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here!”

“I know, we’re so blessed and this is so amazing. I love her so much and I hate that they’re not doing a meet‘n’greet but, like, at least we – hey! Are you listening?”

Brian closed his eyes briefly, reminded himself that the monetary value of a dollar bill from a whiny straight girl was equal to the dollar bills from everyone else, and concentrated back on Alaska. Her long blonde, bird’s nest of hair, her black paper dress and the magnificent voice that cracked on purpose, making the audience laugh. Brian had to wonder if the queen ever took singing seriously. As the number ended and as Alaska disappeared backstage Brian watched Trannika Rex take her place. It was good to be back in Boystown, surrounded by familiar faces. He turned to walk back to the bar, only to be interrupted in mid step by none other than Shea Couleé.

“Girl!” Shea drawled her greeting as she pulled Brian into a loose hug. “Good to see you!”

Brian couldn’t even remember when he’d last seen the queen. It had been way too long.

“Well, you know. If the other RuGirls take the risk of being seen with you, I figured I could too,” Brian said and blew an air kiss in the direction of Shea’s left cheek, carefully avoiding her makeup.

“Don’t start, Firkus,” Shea chuckled. “You know you can’t keep up.”

Brian knew it to be true and gladly moved to a safer ground. They exchanged some newsworthy updates on who was dating who, who was getting most gigs and what was going on in the Chicago drag scene in general. Brian had just avoided a question about Drag Race when Shea was called back to work.

“You should come backstage,” Shea invited. “The others would love to see you.”

Brian hesitated. He knew that at some point he would have to get more acquainted with RuGirls beyond his season and he really wanted to catch up with the Chicago girls, so as Shea pulled him along, Brian gave in. It would be better to get over his insecurities right now, before he would actually have to work with the famous queens, which was actually a real possibility. The thought of it still freaked him out slightly.

Brian stepped into the dressing room one step behind Shea and was immediately introduced to Jinkx and Alaska as Trixie Mattel. He stayed for the brief and required pleasantries, but quickly made his way to the safety of his old friends as the other two RuGirls kept joking back and forth in Golden Girls references.

“Are they always so intimating?” Brian asked Shea, causing the queen laugh loudly.

“Says the clown currently on Logo,” Trannika snorted. “You’ll be equally intimidating in no time.”

“Doubt it,” Brian said and shivered. He couldn’t imagine Trixie becoming as famous or successful as Jinkx or Alaska, hell, Trixie hadn’t made it to even top five! He would be ever so lucky if he could land some more gigs for a while and make enough connections to find a well-paying job behind the scenes of the industry. That way, he wouldn’t have to worry about money and could continue drag as a hobby. He glanced back to Alaska and Jinkx, and concluded that while they played the same sport, Alaska and Jinkx had established their place in the Major League, while Trixie still dabbled with the minors. Quite literally, if one looked at her fanbase.

Kim’s dress emergency interrupted Brian’s train of thought and he followed in slight amusement as Shea rushed to her bag for some safety pins before the fabric could tear further.

“Anyone got translucent nail polish?” Kim asked, holding the fraying chiffon with pursed lips.

“What?” Brian asked, turning at Kim with knitted brows. What did she need nail polish for?

“Yeah,” Alaska interjected from the other side of the room. “I think I do.”

Brian was surprised that Alaska had listened into the conversation and felt a little self-conscious that she might’ve heard his earlier comments as well. He watched her find a half used 15ml top coat nail varnish from her suitcase and hand it to Shea, who snatched the bottle with a cheerful “Thank you”.

“See,” Shea sneered, looking down her nose at Brian as she passed. “That’s what we call professionalism. Take notes, honey.”

Brian spread his hands in an exaggerated ‘What the fuck’-gesture and raised his brows at Shea, his mouth open. “What did I do?” he asked, bewildered.

“It’s more about what you didn’t do,” Kim explained as she offered the fabric to Shea to fix.

Brian snorted and rolled his eyes while taking a sip from his beer. He was often the butt of the joke for Shea and Kim and as Trannika was still staring at her phone, he wouldn’t get any help from there, either. He was also suddenly very aware of Alaska in the room, even if she had returned to her conversation with Jinkx. They were talking about their previous show together and how they should throw more shade at their season five sisters.

“- still bitter about that,” Alaska laughed brightly. “She really wanted to make it to the top.”

“Oh honey, she can top me,” Jinkx cackled, sending Alaska to a round of giggles. “Top me until I’ve had it-” she waited for Alaska to pick up the cue, “- officially!” they roared together.

Brian chuckled quietly at their antics and followed with curiosity as Jinkx sighed, getting a little somber.

“Seriously, though,” she said, looking at the floor. “I hope she gets over it. For my sake.”

Alaska nodded at the statement and placed her hand on Jinkx’s knee in comfort. “Another drink?”

The suggestion made Jinkx smile and she turned to the Chicago queens.

“Ladies!” she announced brightly, catching everyone’s attention. “Cocktails, anyone?”

“We’re up in a minute,” Kim declined, nodding to Trannika, who was still on her phone.

“Yeah, like five minutes ago,” Trannika corrected and Shea and Kim turned to her swiftly.

“What?!” they chorused in panic. Trannika gave them a tired look over her phone, cocking her eyebrows mockingly.

“Jesus fuck,” Shea laughed in relief. “You got me.”

Trannika rolled her eyes and dropped her mobile into the bag that was lying in her feet.

“We do need to go, though,” she added and started to walk towards the stage, pulling Kim with her.

“Cosmos or Margaritas?” Shea asked and got up from the floor while rolling the nail polish bottle shut. She walked to Jinks and handed the borrowed item back to Alaska with another “Thank you”.

“I’m feeling adventurous,” Jinkx smirked and got up, hooking her arm around Shea’s. “Let’s get something new!”

Shea grinned widely and took a step towards the exit. “I know just the thing,” she said cunningly and looked at Alaska. “And you, mam?”

Alaska chuckled and shook her head.

“Her loss,” Shea snorted and lead Jinkx out of the dressing room.

Brian stared after the pair and took yet another sip of his beer. He decided to believe that his half full bottle was the main reason why he hadn’t been included in the invitation, rather than Shea just being a shady bitch. It was probably both, and he sighed in frustration. He was extremely aware of the silence between himself and Alaska and browsed his collection of appropriate small talk topics. He got nothing, though, and the silence stretched; he couldn’t think. It was getting more awkward by the second. He blamed it on the alcohol and Alaska’s intimidating aura.

He cleared his throat and stood up. “Right, then,” he said, intending to come up with an excellent but probably obvious excuse to leave. I’m tired, work tomorrow, long day, you know the gist, or something along those lines, but before he had time to come up with anything remotely acceptable, Alaska asked him a question.

“When did you start doing Trixie?”

Brian blinked. Of course! That’s what you talked about with other drag queens, drag! Why hadn’t he thought of that?

“Umm,” he said frowning. When had he started doing drag? Why had he started doing drag? What was drag? Before he could sink further into his existential crisis, he took a seat at one of the stools nearby, hoping that the position would calm down his nerves.

“I was eighteen and needed to like, fill in for this guy in a play,” he said, trying to remember the details. “I guess it started from there.”

Alaska nodded and Brian blinked. Oh, right. It was his turn to ask something. That was how conversations worked.

“How about you?”

Alaska chuckled. She took a better position on the sofa and kicked off her heels, wiggling her toes in relief as she launched into a long explanation about her fascination with drag as a form of performative art, but also as a medium to explore gender and connect with people in the gay community. Brian started to slowly relax as he listened to her talk and soon realised that he was nodding along, agreeing with a lot of things Alaska was saying.

“-and you never make enough from just tips-”

“Tell me about it-”

“-right, exactly! And it was just fun, you know-”

It was interesting how quickly Alaska made Brian feel at ease and as they eventually branched out to different topics, Brian suddenly realised that he was having an actual conversation with the Queen Supreme; a conversation beyond the conventional drag-lingo and trade-talk laced with pop-culture references. The discussion was actually more along the lines of a drunken Uber ramble about emotions and the purpose of life, but neither of them were plastered, which made the situation ever so slightly more absurd.

“It’s not that I don’t want to get ‘married’,” Alaska explained, putting actual quotation marks around the word with her fingers. “I just don’t see why we need to call it marriage. I’m all for stable, loving, equal relationships and rights. I just think we need little more imagination over what is family, and what kind of relationships work within the community.”

“But if someone wants that? A monogamous, committed relationship with kids and a mortgage?”

“Well that’s their choice,” Alaska agreed, nodding, while removing her makeup with some wipes. “I just think that this obsession with marriage has left a lot of other important issues undiscussed and that it leaves out a lot of queers who don’t, like, fit into the system,” she continued and pulled a tight, black t-shirt over her head, serving average Joe gay club realness.

“So, you’re saying that they don’t deserve to be stoned to death for not leading STD-ridden pink fluffy flamboyantly homosexual unicorn lives?” Brian asked, raising his eyebrows in fake outrage as he threw a bottle cap in the air and caught it, as if ready to throw it at the next offensively hetero gay-guy that stepped into the room.

“No!” Alaska shrieked a laugh and leaned to the dresser for balance. The way Alaska laughed, the total surrender to the feeling as her knees bent, her mouth opened and her eyes formed two feline lines made Brian smile. It was was contagious, the way in which she laughed, gasping for breath, voice slightly higher and a lot more hoarse than what Brian would’ve expected. Just looking at her struggle through made Brian want to do it again, to say something funny to keep her entertained. The feeling was similar to the one he’d experienced with Katya, but while with Katya he felt more like an equal, that they were laughing together, making each other laugh, with Alaska it was definitely him that made her laugh.

Alaska got up and dropped her knee high boots on top of her suitcase while still trying to calm her breath. She stepped closer to Brian, slightly too close to Brian’s liking and as he was about to lean back she extended a long, slender arm towards him.

“Justin,” he introduced himself. “Nice to meet you.”

Brian took the offered hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “Brian.”

Justin’s skin felt cold against Brian’s and he was surprised to realise that Justin’s hands were actually bigger than his. Alaska looked so small and gangly on stage that Brian had managed to forget that underneath the makeup and hairspray there was actually a man with testosterone boosted bone-structure.

“I know,” Justin smiled and Brian realised the handshake was getting slightly longer than what was necessary.

The comment took Brian by surprise and he had blurted out a “You do?” before he had time to catch himself.

Justin chuckled, finally releasing Brian’s hand and leaving behind a tingly feeling that Brian promptly wiped against his thigh.

“I looked you up, was kinda hoping you’d make it to the top.”

“Aww,” Brian drawled, “I bet you say that to all of the girls.”

He took a sip of his beer and hoped his blush wasn’t showing despite that he could feel his neck and cheeks warm up. Justin grinned in response, shaking his head slightly before he suddenly extended his hand to Brian once more.

“Come on, Barbie doll, let’s go dance!”

Brian blinked. It had been almost two hours since the show had ended and without a meet and greet most of the overly fanatic fans had probably disappeared. Jinkx had left the venue without problems thirty minutes ago, but Brian wasn’t sure if it was the wisest decision to go dance in Roscoe’s tonight. The possibility of the evening turning into an unorganised, free meet and greet was a little too real.

“I dunno, man,” Brian hesitated. “Like, I’m in, but do you, like, do you think they’ll actually leave you to it?”

Justin pursed his lips and let his hand fall back to his side. Brian could see the man was disappointed and for whatever reason felt like he needed to fix the situation. Fortunately, he knew the perfect place if one wanted to shake off some race chasers.

“Ok, wait,” Brian said, swiping out his phone. “I’ve got an idea.”

Seeing the hopeful smile rising on Justin’s lips made Brian feel better. He found Shea’s number from the contact list and lifted the phone to his ear. Luck was on his side and the queen picked up after one short ring.

“Hey, yeah- Look- Look- Listen! Can we leave Justin’s- Alaska’s, stuff in the backroom if we grab a cab to Rogers Park?” Brian asked and lifted his hand up as a sign for Justin to wait as Shea made some enquiries.

“Awesome, thanks girl,” Brian ended the call with a wide grin. “I know a place.”

* *

A cab ride from Boystown to Rogers Park on a Wednesday would’ve taken a quarter of an hour, so Brian wasn’t too upset when the taxi driver pulled next to Touché just twenty minutes later. Justin insisted paying and stepped to the street, clearly excited.

“A leather bar?” he exclaimed seeing the crowd at the entrance and stared at Brian his mouth open. “Giiirl, you don’t look like the type!”

Brian slammed the cab door closed and turned to Justin, raising his eyebrows as if offended. “And what type is that?”

“You know,” Justin grinned and gave him a quick once over with a shrug. “A little Green Acres.”

Brian flipped the tall queen the finger and sneered before turning towards the bar, only to realise that the line consisted of women, only women.

“Shit,” he swore and glanced at the poster at Touché’s window. Of course he’d picked the only lesbian night of the month to drag Justin out of Boystown. What now? The only viable option seemed like Dino’s but he’d never been in the damn place. “I’m sorry, man, I think it’s a ladies night.”

Justin glanced at the line and pursed his lips.

“They’re a little more lax at Jackhammer tonight.”

Brian turned to the woman smoking nearby and noticed her Touché staff t-shirt as she smiled at Brian comfortingly.

“Yeah?” he asked, renewed hope lighting his face.

“Yeah, because of us,” the woman snorted and nodded towards the poster. “Worth checking out at least” she finished, eyeing between them. Brian was sure she had concluded Jackhammer wasn’t really their scene, and she was right. It wasn’t.

“Yeah alright, thanks,” Brian nodded and pulled Justin with him as he started to walk down Clark Street.

“Jackhammer?” Justin asked, taking a couple of leaps to catch up with Brian.

“Another leather bar,” Brian explained, adjusting his red trucker cap. They would never get in dressed like this. “Come on, let’s try.”

Brian turned right at the first corner and walked to the surprisingly short line. As they reached the door the bouncer gave them one look before an assertive: “No.”

“Come on, man, we’ll go straight down.”

Brian didn’t know what had made him volunteer Justin for the experience of the Hole without any preceding consultation, but as he bouncer lifted his eyebrows in challenge Brian got more determined.

“Please?” he asked, tilting his head at the man. “We just came from Boystown and Touché is seized by horny lesbians.”

The bouncer rolled his eyes and opened the door reluctantly. “I don’t want to see you upstairs.”

“Roger that,” Brian nodded, grabbed Justin’s wrist and pulled the man inside.

Jackhammer catered to a totally different audience from Roscoe’s. Instead of superfluous Axe deodorant and stingy cheap hairspray, from the moment you stepped into the bar you could smell the mixture of testosterone-laden sweat, dried up alcohol and rubber.

Brian led Justin left from the main bar, towards the narrow metal stairs that lead down to the cellar, or like most affectionately referred to the place, the Hole. There was a man in a full rubber body suit and knee high boots guarding the entrance.

“You need to strip,” Brian said to Justin, who raised his eyebrows in question. “It’s a fetish thing. Leather, rubber, sports gear or underwear,” he explained and started to unbutton his shirt.

“You’re joking,” Justin said through a laugh, eyeing Brian in amusement.

Brian just raised his eyebrows, gave Justin a tired look of a ‘Really girl?’ and opened his fly.

“I take my earlier statement back,” Justin smirked as he pulled his top off.

Brian decided not to point out that he rarely visited Jackhammer, the Hole even less. He’d just wanted to get Justin out of Roscoe’s and Touché had popped to his mind. He hadn’t had any initial intentions to take Justin anywhere near as adventurous as the Hole, and if that made him vanilla, or ‘a little Green Acres’, as Justin had put it, so be it.

Without respecting Justin’s commentary with a reply, Brian proceeded with his undressing. He tried not to stare too much as Justin stripped down to his purple Calvin Klein briefs and revealed the narrowest hips Brian had ever seen, decorated with an admirable bulge underneath. Brian was suddenly grateful that his own checkered boxer shorts hid successfully, not only his chubby butt but also his averaged sized genitalia.

They stuffed some money into their shoes, following the lead of the men lining up in front of them, and deposited their clothes before stepping into the sparsely decorated cellar.

The air felt heavy as the crowd moved with the music, the volume leaving some room for conversation. At their left there was a man strapped to a Saint Andrew’s cross and a strong bear was spanking him with a crop as he moaned for the crowd’s entertainment. At their right, the space expanded to another room and a dark hallway. Brian could smell the sex.

“Drink?” he asked Justin who was taking in their surroundings, his lips slightly ajar. Brian could see Justin’s breaths getting shallower and his eyes clouding with admiration of the amount of exposed, naked skin. Brian smirked at Justin’s reaction and concluded that he hadn’t made a completely wrong judgment call by bringing him here. He grabbed Justin’s wrist once more and pulled him to the bar, trying to avoid the sweatiest bodies, intentionally brushing against some of the attractive ones.

“Two Jack and Cokes,” he ordered without checking Justin’s preference and felt a hand on his shoulder. He started to turn but halted as he felt Justin’s lips on his cheek and pulled back after the accidental collision.

“Becks Blue, if they have,” Justin said, licking his lips and Brian could feel his warm breath against his cheek. He nodded, but as he turned back to the bartender the man had already disappeared.

Brian didn’t come to the Hole often because Josh, his promiscuous ex, did. Like Justin just moments ago, Josh had also referred to Brian as vanilla at their first encounter. Brian didn’t necessarily object to the observation but neither did he understand why one might accept a leather harness and a rubber suit but disapprove of a pink, tulle dress or a pair of size 13 stilettos in the wardrobe. Obviously, they had eventually broken up for more pressing reasons than preferred play outfits but ever since Brian had avoided Jackhammer. The bartender was back and placed two plastic cups in front of them.

“And a Becks Blue,” Brian completed the order. He could feel Justin’s hand slip away from his shoulder and turned to look.

Justin was leaning back, looking at his left with slightly squinted eyes. He licked his lips and raised his chin to reveal and bring attention to his neck and prominent collarbones. The sight made Brian’s cock twitch and it wasn’t even him that Justin was cruising. The fact that Brian was leaning against the dirty bar top to get them drinks as Justin was getting eyefucked by a stranger made Brian simultaneously annoyed and jealous. Annoyed at his own insecurities – he’d never picked up the art of cruising – and jealous of the fact that Justin had already set his eyes on someone. Brian downed half of one of the drinks in his reach to calm down his reactions; the arousal as well as the peeking jealousy. Then the bartender was back and placed a bottle of Becks onto the bar top. Brian blinked at the silver label that red “alcohol free” in bright red and chuckled at the absurdity that Alaska Thunderfuck was sober. He turned to Justin, placing his hand on the man’s waist.

“Here,” he said and handed him the bottle. “You don’t drink?”

Justin smiled in response. “Not excessively anymore, no,” he said and took a sip.

“Come on, Barbie, let’s dance.”

Dancing in the Hole is a little different to dancing at Roscoe’s. There is a real chance that the couple next to you are fondling each other’s dicks that might, or might not be hidden by their jockstraps. It is not unusual for someone to grab your ass in admiration or to reach out to feel your biceps at passing. If you make your way into the dark hidden corners, you can witness slow blowjobs and leather daddies getting rimmed. Alternatively, if watching is not your thing, you can partake to a discussion of the contemporary political climate or Game of Thrones while getting fucked to the rhythm of Air’s Sexy Boy.

The Hole was definitely not the most conventional of queer spaces and as such, it was a little out of Brian’s comfort zone. Surprisingly enough, Justin seemed completely at ease as he surrendered to the beat.

* *

An hour or so later, Brian stepped out of the bathroom, drying his wet hands on his boxers, and made his way back to the bar for his third drink. He’d left Justin in the crowd three songs ago, but figured the man could handle himself for a little while longer. Having learned from his earlier mistake he avoided touching the bar top as he waited for the bartender and suddenly felt a large, warm hand on his waist.

“It’s hard to get your attention.”

The voice was definitely not Justin’s.

Brian turned to look and took in the short but beautifully built man. Large, dark tattoos covered his well-formed chest and shoulders and there was a clear appreciative glimmer in his gaze as he studied Brian.

“It is?” Brian asked and wanted to smack himself. He sounded like a lost cub on his first night out in the BearCity.

The man smirked and nodded as he stroked Brian’s side. Then he leaned closer, as if going to whisper something, but halted midway before backing away. “I’m sorry,” he said squinting his eyes. “Didn’t realise you were taken.”

Brian blinked, confused at the way in which the man took a step back, his warm hand disappearing from Brian’s waist, only to be replaced with a lot colder touch.

“No harm done,” Justin drawled and pressed his entire upper body against Brian’s side as he wrapped his right arm around Brian’s shoulders.

Brian felt like an outsider following the situation and couldn’t quite get to the bottom of it. Was Justin seriously cockblocking him right now? He threw an annoyed glance at him and opened his mouth but didn’t get a turn to speak up as Justin crashed their mouths together in a clumsy, forceful kiss.

Brian froze, staring at Justin cross-eyed. His heart was hammering in his chest and he didn’t know what to do with his hands, which left them hovering in mid air. Justin had closed his eyes and while Brian was pretty certain the man was not in a regular habit of hooking up with his colleagues, Alaska did have a history of RuGirl kai-kai. Brian had dismissed Justin as a potential hook up, despite their light flirting on the dance floor, which Brian had at the time dismissed as a show for the other men. Additionally, Brian hadn’t thought of himself as Justin’s type the slightest. Now, however, he felt the need to reconsider. Maybe Justin really was into his midwestern single-dad aesthetic? Brian was just about to open his lips, wrap his arms around Justin’s incredibly narrow hips and pull the man closer, when Justin stepped back.

“I’m sor-”

Brian didn’t let him finish but tilted his head and brought his lips gently back against Justin’s, pulling the man firmly against him, chest to chest. He could feel Justin tense and hold his breath as Brian traced his lower lip with his tongue. Brian’s heart was pounding, making him slightly dizzy and he thought he’d misjudged the situation completely as Justin dithered. Well, fuck. But then slowly, almost shyly, Justin parted his lips and leaned into the kiss. He smelled of cigarettes and tasted of stale beer, neither of which made it to Brian’s list of favorites things, but the way in which Justin’s slimmer frame pressed against him and the way in which his hold got stronger, rougher; and particularly the way in which he trapped Brian’s lower lip into gentle bites at times, those Brian might add to the list.

The kiss ended with Justin pulling his head up and pressing his forehead against Brian’s as they tried to calm their breaths.

Brian didn’t know what to say or where to go from there, his hands still wrapped around Justin’s waist; their bodies pressed together, Justin’s cold fingers in Brian’s neck. He could feel Justin’s arousal against his thigh and licked his lips, not quite certain if he himself was responsible for it, or if it was the Hole and the men in it, possibly even just the atmosphere. He had to say something, though, preferably before the silence between them got too awkward.

“What were you going to say?” he asked.

“Oh, um,” Justin hesitated and bit his lip, refusing to meet Brian’s eyes. “Nothing.”

Brian swallowed. Justin’s body language revealed that ‘nothing’ had definitely been something , but Brian had no way of knowing what and asking again was out of the question. So he decided to ignore the uneasy feeling the situation left him with and was about to turn to the bar to get his drink, determined to ignore, and eventually hopefully forget, the entire encounter when Justin surprised him yet again.

“Do you- Umm… Do you wanna get out of here?”

Despite his shock, or maybe because of it, Brian nodded.

* *

The hotel Justin was staying at was nicer than what Brian had expected. The walls were white and the floors wooden, and while there was a lot to be desired from the receptionist that kept sneering at them as they had waited for the elevator, at least the flowers at her desk were real.

The silence between them had moved beyond awkwardness as neither of them had volunteered to break it since the second cab ride of the night, both choosing to enjoy the silent sexual charge; the brief moments their eyes met as they caught each other looking, wondering what the other was thinking, imagining, hoping for – wanting .

As the elevator finally reached the seventh floor, Brian glanced at Justin who gave him a look of pure lust over his shoulder before leading the way.

It took Justin two tries to get the key card to work, but when it finally did, the opened door seemed to release something raw, something previously restrained. He grabbed Brian’s collar and dragged him inside with a lot more force than what Brian had anticipated from a man his size and as their lips met in the darkness, Brian could taste Justin’s cigarettes.

Ignoring the foul flavor, Brian fumbled the wall for a light switch but failed as Justin pulled him further into the room and pushed him on the bed. Straddling his lap, Justin proceeded to open his shirt and groaned into his mouth through hungry, rushed kisses. There was determination and emergency in Justin’s movements and as he thrust a condom and a travel sized lubricant at Brian, Brian paused.

“Fuck.”

Brian didn’t realise he had sworn out loud before Justin stopped and looked down at him, perplexed.

“What?” he asked out of breath, straddling Brian’s lap. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing was wrong, per se, and Brian bit his lip. How the fuck hadn’t Justin picked on any of the cues? How in the name of Lucifer and the seven fugly dwarfs had Brian failed to convey his preference to the man? Surely, surely, he didn’t come across domineering enough to fool anyone? Or maybe he did? Jesus fucking Christ on crutches. Who even wanted anal sex drunk? Admittedly, he himself did, but after he’d yielded to the fact that his only possible hook up for the night was none other than Alaska Thunderfuck out of drag – not that he was complaining – he’d contented himself with the upcoming frottage and blowjobs; two bottoms could still have fun, no?

Brian swallowed and looked up at Justin. He looked confused and Brian wondered if he could pull it off. He could just simply keep his mouth shut and go with it, because he was really hard, and because he really wanted to come, and it wasn’t like he didn’t know how to top, and now he could see Justin picking up on his train of thought… Shit, he would have to act quick.

“Oh,” Justin noted, realisation dawning on his face. “You prefer to bottom.”

It wasn’t a question and to Brian’s surprise, Justin didn’t sound entirely crestfallen. He grinned apologetically, because what else was he supposed to do?

“Okay…” Justin drawled and scratched his neck. “Not my first pick, but not a deal breaker either.”

Brian’s brain did a similar movement to a Toyota Corolla that hit a semi-truck going 70 mph on a highway.

“Huh?” he asked, pulling together all the remains of his abused intellect.

Justin chuckled through his nose and grabbed back the condom, as well as the lube, and smirked.

“Not a problem, honey.”

Brian blinked at the attitude change and before his intoxicated brain could fully register what was happening, Justin had gotten off of him, pushed him up on the bed, kicked his legs apart and was leaning over him to kiss him hungrily. Brian had heard rumours of versatile bottoms but had never encountered or experienced one, therefore assigning them to the category of a “lovely but completely false gay culture myth”. Tonight, however, as Justin proceeded to fuck him through the mattress, Brian secretly appointed himself as the gay Jamie Hyneman.

___________

A/N2: Liked it?

#spoky #troika #trixie mattel #alaska thunderfuck #katya zamolodchikova #fluff #polyamory #rpdr fanfiction #alaska x trixie #poly #canon compliant #rare pair

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paintedbutton · 7 years

Text

Before the Storm

When Sibéal Lavellan first wakes up after the Conclave, she can barely remember anything. This is the story of how she came to interfere with Corypheus' plans and gained the anchor on her hand.

{also on ao3}

"I can fix this."

The words spilled out of her mouth unbidden. The hunter that had accompanied her, Danyra, looked back with a frown. She hadn't been a full-fledged hunter long, maybe half a year now. In the strange purple light the broken crystals exuded her skin seemed washed out, almost paper thin. The ink on her face stood out in stark contrast. The contraption she inspected was strange, stranger than any they'd seen in these ruins so far. They'd originally assumed it was a library, shelves reaching towards the high, vaulted ceilings stuffed with parchment ready to fall apart at the slightest touch. Laboratory was perhaps more fitting a term. The room they were now in seemed endlessly tall in that ethereal light. In its centre, the contraption stood. Three crystals mounted in equal distance to each other around a circle, magically throwing the room in a latticework of flickering shadow and ethereal light. As if on cue, one of the crystals fizzled and sparked. That single spark seemed to tear at the Veil, making the air ripple with something beyond.

"I don't think -" Danyra started to protest, but Sibéal interrupted before she could help herself.

"Look at all this," she said, her voice hushed, "Look at the sparks. It's more of a danger left untouched than healed." Those words might be true. She didn't know, she'd never even read about such a contraption. But whatever it was, whatever it did, it drew on the energies around it, feeding them towards an unseen purpose. From some angles, it seemed there was another crystal held aloft in the middle of the circle, larger and brighter than the rest. She had to see what it was. It was her duty to her people.

Her companion still seemed unconvinced. "We should tell the Keeper, ask her what she thinks." She made an expansive gesture, back towards the corpses that lay near the high entrance archway, once again lifeless. With the Veil so thin, spirits slipping through had not been surprising. If only they wouldn't become these crazed, half-dead things ... Fixing the contraption might help with that as well.

With that in mind, she was unwilling to concede. Insistently, she said, "The Keeper sent me with you, didn't she? It's why I'm here, lethallan. Just let me do it."

"How then?"

For a moment, she watched the fizzling jolts of energy. Only half of the thing was still present in this world, but if she ... The idea came unbidden, burning through her veins in a sudden realization. Creators, she always hated this part the most. She knew she could fix that, it was so easy. All she needed was, "Blood."

"You know the Keeper doesn't like you using blood magic." Danyra crossed her arms. Whatever hint of agreement had been in her had suddenly passed. If only she could be convincing enough, maybe it would come back.

"It's a tool like any other." An old disagreement, woven into the clan at this point. They disapproved, afraid she would hurt herself, lose herself. They were wrong. It wasn't power she desired, so she couldn't lose herself to it. "And it's the only one we have, unless you saw a pile of lyrium lying around somewhere."

"You know I haven't."

"Exactly. Step back please." She waited until Danyra had reluctantly moved back before freeing the small carving knife from its sheath on her belt. Her right arm, when she rolled the sleeve up, was littered with uneven scars in a testament to her magic use. Blood and pain, suffering. She'd found that this was the place she was sensitive enough to give both without losing her hold on the spell. The scars weren't pretty but she'd always done what she had to. She closed her eyes as she let the blade cut through her skin, murmuring a few words under her breath. They weren't part of the spell, she could hold that silently if she needed to, but a concentration aid she'd used for most of her life now. Taking a deep breath, she drew the magic through herself, directed it at the contraption in front of her, and opened her eyes. Forced apart by the energy, the Veil tore open. Through the tear, the middle crystal could be glimpsed. It seemed to react to her magic, brightening until it was almost unbearable to look at. Blinking against the light, she silently commanded it. Come through. Nothing. Blood was running down her finger tips. She drew another breath and commanded again, but still the thing would not be moved.

"Sibéal ..." She didn't look back at Danyra, couldn't. But she felt why the hunter's voice held warning. A chill crept up her back, ice and death leaking into the chamber. She needed to pull the contraption into reality, she needed to close that tear back up before something terrible found its way through. It wasn't enough.

With a sudden movement she jerked around, fixing Danyra with her gaze. "Come here," she commanded, "I need your help." Something in her gaze or voice must have warned Danyra. She stepped forward cautiously, never looking away.

"What are you doing?" she asked gruffly when Sibéal raised the knife once again.

"It's not enough, I need ... I must close this but I can't draw more power without risking losing control. I need your blood."

Danyra looked like she might protest when her eyes strayed past Sibéal to the tear. Whatever she saw within made her eyes widen, her features harden. She gave a curt nod. "Do it then," she agreed. There was something urgent in her voice. "But do it quickly!"

"I'm sorry, lethallan." The blade carved a blooming wound down Danyra's outstretched arm in one swift motion. If she'd had time to think, she would have placed the cut differently. Instead she raised her bloody fingers, drawing from both wounds now. The crystal had started pulsating, absorbing the magic she threw at it. Faster and faster, the pulses came. Smoke was pouring at their feet. Somewhere, Danyra choked back a pained sob. Sibéal paid it no mind. With a yell, she yanked at the crystal with all her might. A deep, booming sound echoed through her mind, making her stagger back. The crystal gave a heave, pouring smoke into the chamber until she nearly choked on it. With what almost sounded like a shriek, it broke apart. What had remained of the other crystals in the contraption burst into pieces. The shockwave they created threw her off her feet, knocking the air out of her lungs. When she tried to draw in breath, all she felt was smoke. Blindly, she raised her bloody hand. Close! she commanded, drawing all the power she still held within herself and throwing it outward blindly. She couldn't tell if it worked, the suffocating smoke in her lungs took her consciousness a moment later.

Her right hand was tingling when Sibéal woke with a start. It always did after waking from nightmares. Somehow, the burn scars on her fingertips reacted to her emotions without fail. Night held on like a heavy blanket, cocooning her and the tears she felt prickling at the corners of her eyes. That same old dream ... that same old memory, really. Creators, she hated it. Three years and it still wouldn't let go of her. Danyra had been dead when she had come to, body gone cold and lifeless. She had deserved better than that. Her fingernails created sharp pinpricks of pain where she pressed them into her palms. Sibéal concentrated on the reality of that, willed the smoke and memory to recede. When she finally rolled over, curling herself into a ball beneath the heavy quilt, she hoped vainly her mind would be kind enough to grant her a few more moments of sleep.

Sleep, naturally, did not come. She finally stumbled from her bed and into the heavy folds of her robe when she heard the birds begin their morning song, signalling the futility of her pretence. She willed the logs in the hearth to burst into flames, settling in front of it with a sigh. If sleep was eluding her, she might as well use the time for more productive pursuits.

Fog was still lying heavily upon the ground, rising from the bog water outside and hiding the world from view, when a sharp knock at her door broke the early morning silence. Sibéal unfolded herself from where she had been ruminating on ancient texts, sighing heavily. She wasn't expecting much from whoever disturbed her peace at this hour. A villager, most likely, come to beg for a potion or a poison. They feared to tread so deep into the moor. They feared her, too. But they feared their own petty malcontents more. What she wasn't expecting when the door creaked open was a familiar face decorated with rich purple ink surrounding scowling features. What she wasn't expecting was someone who had once been a friend.

"Jaron." His name slipped from between her lips in surprise. The other elf straightened in response. He’d always been tall for an elf. Standing at full height, he could tower over her. It hadn't quite lost its effect in three years of absence.

"Andaran atish’an, Sibéal. You are not an easy woman to find."

"Bog witches never are. We are one like the other, easy to confuse." She couldn't quite keep a tang of bitterness from suffusing her voice. She had been First once, ready to become Keeper herself. Selling protection charms to shemlen villagers was a far cry from her former life, even if it provided ample opportunity to seek out the remainders of history hidden deep inside these woods.

"Bog witch is not what I've heard you called," Jaron replied with narrowed eyes, "I believe the word used was blood." Blood witch, yes. Something to scare your children with. A rather unimaginative name as these things went but you don't tend to choose that for yourself.

"I don't bathe in the blood of their babes, no matter what tales the shemlen spin."

"You wouldn't. May I come in?" He must have seen her eyes narrow, must have seen the brilliant blue of magic break through their usual dark brown, for he held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. "I am not here to harm you, lethallan. I merely wish to talk."

She considered him for a moment. Time hadn't much changed him at all. The cloak he wore was ragged, still the same one she remembered gifting him upon completion of his apprenticeship. Underneath it he wore no visible armour though she was sure the tunic hid more than just lean muscle. His clear blue eyes shone with caution, yes, but not deception. He'd always been a terrible liar anyway. If he had come to kill her she was sure she would have known by now. With a sigh she stepped aside, letting him pass and latching the door behind him once again. When she turned he was looking around at the general disarray of herbs drying strung up by the hearth, tinctures and poultices mixing with scribbled parchments and small artefacts on every available surface. Something like wistfulness crossed his features at the sight. She gestured for him to take a seat in front of the fire before she eased herself onto the rug next to him. The book she'd been studying was still lying open in front of them.

"What's this?" he asked curiously, pointing to the cramped elvish writing. She closed it sharply.

Still, she replied, "There's a ruin, deep in the woods. A day's travel from here, provided one knows the way. Its library hasn't completely fallen to dust yet."

"You would keep that knowledge to yourself?"

"I've been told my pursuit of knowledge is less than desirable."

"Your methods, yes, not -"

She cut his rising voice off with a glare, his indignation cooling quickly. "Why are you here, Jaron?"

Three years prior she had been made a pariah of her clan, no longer welcome in their midst. She hadn't seen them since that day, none had come to seek her out. That he had now, it had to have some reason beyond simple kinship.

He stared into the flames of her hearth for a moment, shoulders tense, before his entire demeanour changed like all air was suddenly leaving him.

"Have you seen them?" he finally asked. "The mad Templars and their destitute prey? Somehow they seem to think the woods will keep them safe." He waited for her to nod in reply before he went on, "We have been informed that there is to be a conclave held in Ferelden to end all this madness. The Keeper thinks its outcome may affect us as well. We have harboured none of these mages but others may have, and even so the Templars have been suspicious of us all the same. An end to the bloodshed might mean a hunt for remaining insurgents. I am to head to Ferelden and follow the proceedings there, make certain they will not hunt us like their rebels."

"You've come the wrong way then." In truth, she couldn’t know where the clan was at the moment. But considering how far north they were, it was an educated guess. Her eyes followed the flames licking across his features, alternately throwing them in shadow and stark relief. When he looked at her the corner of his mouth quirked in a way that meant he was at a loss.

"I am no spy, lethallan."

"Neither am I." The only place she could glide through unnoticed was the forest, its magic recognizing hers and folding around her like a cloak. But he had not come seeking a spy, that much she could guess.

"Remember when we snuck into that shemlen city as children? To free the elves from their plight?" She did. They'd barely reached thirteen then, and slipped into the city between bouts of grumbling farmers, hoods pulled low over their still bare faces. Nobody had paid them any mind. Not even the elves they'd come to free. They'd shaken their heads at the strange children calling for rebellion in their midst and went about their business. "I'm still embarrassed those thugs managed to sneak up on us." Ah yes, the shemlen bandits who had thought two elven children alone in the dark alleys would make easy prey. She still remembered the slickness of the blood pouring from the cut in her palm - and then from their blinded eyes. "You saved us both that day."

"So you've come looking for a protector?" She didn't try to hide her scoff.

"I've come looking for a friend."

"Have you now? I seem to recall you turning your back on me when I did the same." She felt him wince, idly noting they'd leaned closer together without conscious thought. With a start, she drew herself upright again. Jaron's blue eyes bored into her but she would not look back.

"I ... there are days where I wish I'd followed you instead," he confided lowly.

Sibéal scoffed. "And days on which you'd spit on my name." His responding laugh was a hollow approximation of what it had been when she'd last heard it.

"Oh no, never that." Jaron's fingers closed around hers, his thumb stroking over the pulse point on her wrist. Sibéal didn't draw away. She didn't move at all. These days, physical contact was not a thing she often had anymore. "I know I've no right to ask anything of you."

"But you're doing it anyway."

"Come with me, please. Help me. I ... have nothing to offer you in return. Perhaps the Keeper -"

"She won't take me back." Not when she still slit her wrists and danced under the moonlight, so to speak. Blood magic didn't have much appeal to her anymore, not after what had happened. But it remained a tool like any other, the only one at her disposal when her innate magic failed to produce the desired results. The Keeper would never see the necessity of it. Their clan was too involved with the human settlements they passed. Simply having her in their midst was a danger to them. Sibéal had come to accept her decision as right. She had never been meant to become a Keeper. Not when what remained of before held more value to her than those under her charge. She'd never been good at caring for others. And what she had done in her arrogance was reason enough to distrust her - she could not fault them for it.

"No, I suppose not," he sighed. His thumb brushed along the old scar on her palm. "Tell me what you want in return then."

You, she wanted to reply, but held her tongue. She missed companionship, someone to look at the wonders she'd seen with the same awe in their eyes. Her best friend. But she couldn't. Instead she finally slipped her hand out of his grasp and stood.

"The trek to Ferelden is long," she said easily, "I'm sure you'll think of something to offer me." She turned from the relief in his eyes to survey the disarray of her home, considering what she would need. From what she knew Ferelden was cold and full of dogs. Marvellous.

Haven was not quite what Sibéal had expected. She'd seen human settlements before, obviously, and she had lived close to a backwater village for over two years now. She'd heard stories about the discovery of the prophet's ashes somewhere deep in the Frostback Mountains, so she'd simply assumed this one would be similar in its isolation. Clearly, she'd assumed wrong.

Quite the opposite from the small village in the bog, Haven was bustling with activity. Around the ramshackle houses that had clearly been built in times past, new buildings had sprung up and crammed together, taking whatever space they could. People rushed about this way and that, a testament to the proceedings of the conclave, interspersed with contingents of guards - none of their uniforms fitting those of their fellows - slowly patrolling the streets. Near an inn, a small group of mages distrustfully eyed a templar showing a gaggle of enthused children his sword. Dogs barked, sheep bleated, and over it all the chantry towered on its hill, a constant reminder for piety shining in the afternoon light. Of the fabled temple itself, once resting place to the ashes of Andraste, which had apparently been removed to protect them from the throngs of pilgrims eagerly making their way to the mountains, nothing was evident. It had to be built in the mountain caverns then, a fact which might prove unfortunate for their endeavour here. Someone roughly jostled her, his armour marking him as a templar. He gave her a dark look, calculating enough to make a shiver run down her spine. When he didn't stop, she drew her hood further over her face to hide herself away. He couldn't know she was a mage, not without her using her abilities, but the mage hunters had always chilled her. Just the thought of being left powerless by their abilities … Jaron put his hand on her arm, drawing himself up to his full height next to her. Something protective was in that gesture, something reminiscent of old friendship. They'd spent the past few weeks in prolonged silences and awkward attempts at reconciliation. Neither of them had ever been very good with words.

"Where to now?" he asked, his gaze still on the templar's back. Sibéal tilted her head towards the inn and its open door. Finding the temple entrance would not be an issue but it was undoubtedly guarded and guarded well. Two elves, their heritage boldly visible on their faces, would not be able to enter easily. Besides, it was information they wanted. Nobody had looser lips than drunkards and servants. Jaron nodded and took the lead, weaving his way towards the building. She followed hidden deep within her hood, glancing cautiously towards the templar’s retreating form.

The inn was already overly full, as was to be expected. Mages and templars weren't the only ones interested in what would be negotiated here. The inn keeper gave them an apologetic shrug, handing out ale as he did so.

"Sorry, friends, there's no room to be had here. I can offer you a warm meal and that's about it. Other'n that you'll have to pitch tent with all the others." They'd seen the camps coming in. Strewn about before the large stone walls was a strange amalgamation of all manner of tents. Mercenaries, pilgrims, onlookers - they all shared the same space. Fires had been lit between the tents, offering warmth and a place to cook. They would end up there eventually. For the moment, however, the inn was what they needed.

"A warm meal sounds wonderful," Sibéal answered easily, a smile on her face. The inn keeper seemed harried enough that two strange elves were none of his concern.

"Well, try and find a place then. Bonny'll be with you soon as she can." He turned away before she could do so much as nod. Surveying the room, there wasn't much left in terms of seats either. One of the corner tables held two empty stools situated in the middle of a burly nobleman and a disgruntled dwarven woman arguing with each other. Jaron shrugged slightly when she found his gaze, so they made their way through the mass of people and sat. The dwarf didn't stop her tirade to so much as acknowledge them but the human inclined his head in greeting, something like a smile playing across his lips.

"-and now your Grand Enchanter hasn't even bothered showing up!" The woman was saying. The dark red brand on her left cheek marked her as what the dwarves called casteless, if Sibéal remembered correctly. Another outsider, then, but one much more involved in the proceedings if her indignation was anything to go by. The nobleman frowned, dismissing her ire with a wave of his hand.

"Neither has the Lord Seeker, it seems. They might be looking to avoid getting assassinated, you know."

"Sodding humans and your stupid frilly politics. Let them brawl it out and then buy their lyrium to celebrate I say, this negotiation crap is getting us nowhere!" Her companion sighed, rolling his eyes good-naturedly before turning to them.

"Don't listen to her, dwarven politics aren't so easy either, as I hear it. Nice of you to join us, friends. You look like you've had a long road to travel. Let me offer you a drink. Bonny!" Before either of them could reply, flagons of ale were placed in front of their faces. The human gave a satisfied smile and raised his own. "Maxwell Trevelyan, pleasure to meet you. This here is my associate, Malika of house Cadash, formerly of Orzammar. What brings you here? I don't think the Dalish have much stake in this mess but I might be wrong at that."

"They're here for the same reason I'm here, Max," the dwarven woman, Malika, cut in, "To spy on all these human idiots squabbling with each other."

"And such a good spy you make, my dear." The retort was met with a snort and Malika leaned back, looking them over. Clearly, this table had been the wrong choice. Sibéal drew closer to Jaron, meeting the woman's eyes calmly.

"We are only curious to see what comes of this," Jaron replied easily.

"Aren`t we all? Well, not me, but I don't have much choice in the matter. We're all very pious in my family, you see, happy to lend our aid to the Chantry in whatever endeavour it might be."

"Yes, if only we all had the luxury of being completely unaffected by your religion falling apart." Maxwell's only reply to Malika's words was another smile. These two obviously were familiar with each other, friendly even. An unusual kind of friendship to be sure. "But really now, why are you here? Your mages just traipse about the woods, don't they? They're not buying lyrium, that's for sure. So why should you care what the humans decide?"

"We were unaffected until the other mages began traipsing about the woods as well, bringing the templars with them," Sibéal said curtly. That was the Keeper's motivation according to Jaron anyway. She wasn't so sure that was all there was to it, but it was too late to doubt now.

"Ah. I see how that might be a problem,” Maxwell nodded, taking a swig of ale. Malika merely snorted.

“Sure you do, Max. Don’t think you’ve ever even seen a forest before.”

“I’ll have you know that my family plans excellent hunting parties, my dear.” He didn’t sound the least bit put out at the accusation.

Malika rolled her eyes before she returned her shrewd gaze to the elves. “Fine, you care. Which means you are here to spy, yeah?” They looked at each other, staying silent. What were they supposed to reply? Yes, they were after information on the conclave. Yes, perhaps some might call it spying. Others might simply call it interest. Sibéal locked eyes with the dwarven woman again. It seemed her silence still conveyed enough, as the woman grinned and gave her companion’s thigh a none too gentle slap.

“You'll want a way into the temple as well then, won't you? It must be your lucky day," Maxwell promptly offered, rubbing the offending spot. Malika seemed satisfied at that.

Jaron's eyes narrowed. "That is a rather dangerous offer, is it not?" Maxwell shrugged in response. His entire demeanour was the ease of a human lord, self-assured and missing any hint of worry at the consequences of his actions.

"I'm already getting her in," he said, pointing to Malika, "Might as well add two more bodies to the mix."

"Why?" Sibéal asked, full of distrust. He had no motivations for providing passage to two spies, especially ones he didn't know.

"Why not? You'll find your way in one way or another. The danger you know is always preferable to the one you can't anticipate."

"What do you get in return then?"

"Nothing at all, I suppose. Maybe a little amusement, if you're as subtle as this one over there. If the Qunari catch you it's no skin off my back."

"You know nothing about us," Jaron pointed out, "We could be assassins."

"You could be, sure," Maxwell agreed, "and that temple is filled with the most paranoid bunch of delegates known to man. You might even catch a glimpse of your target, but that's about it."

"Salroka, just shut your mouth. You're not helping your own case." Malika turned to them, shaking her head. "He's just a noble's youngest brat, really. He's bored out of his wits and thinks criminals are fun to hang around with. Take him at his word or don't, but he can get you inside, at least for a bit." Maxwell only snorted with derision.

Sibéal and Jaron looked at each other for a moment. He gave a miniscule shake of his head, but she was already turning back to their companions. "We will accept your offer then."

"What? You can't be serious, lethallan!" Sibéal reached for him before she could think better of it. Jaron looked down at the hand she'd grasped between her own.

"Do you trust me?" The words were quiet, as private as she could make them at this small table.

"I do."

"Then trust me." He looked back at her face, catching her eyes for a moment longer, before finally nodding.

"Ma nuvenin," he simply said. He did not seem happy about it. She didn't let go of his hand when she focused her attention back on Maxwell.

"We will accept your offer," she said again.

"Splendid! I was thinking ... tomorrow night, perhaps? Two more days of arguing ought to leave some evidence behind you could use."

"Very well. We shall take our leave, until then. You will find us -"

"Oh, don't worry. I'll find you," Malika interrupted with a grin.

"That she will. Farewell, friends, until we meet again!"

They stood and left without another word. Only when they'd disappeared into the tent city beyond the walls did Sibéal notice she was still gripping Jaron's hand.

"Do you ever regret it? Leaving?" Jaron was staring intently at the flames of their little campfire, roasting the rabbit he had snared earlier. They'd set up camp as isolated as possible with so many people milling about. For now, they were alone. She could see figures moving against the backdrop of the many fires in the valley. Sibéal looked at Jaron's back mutely. Did she? She regretted the loneliness, the strangeness of her life. She missed her clan like a constant ache - easy to ignore day to day until it stole her breath for just a moment. Reluctantly, she settled down next to him, watching the flames lick at the rabbit's haunch.

"Sometimes," she admitted, "Everyone has regrets, I think."

"Bel."

"What would you like me to say? That I miss the clan? That I miss sitting by the fire and listening to the hahren spin tales for the children? Hearing Melya scold the halla like they'd listen to her? That I miss you?" She wasn't certain how obvious her helpless longing was. Next to her, Jaron made a sound she couldn't quite place, his hands gripping the spit tighter. "Of course I have regrets. Dwelling on it will do me no good." Abruptly, Jaron pulled the rabbit out of the fire and set it aside. He turned to her, gripping her shoulders and finding her gaze.

"You could come back," he said, "that cottage is no place for you. Just ... stop this madness. Come home."

"I was exiled, Jaron. I'm a pariah to them! Nothing you say or feel will make that any less true!"

"You killed someone, Bel, of course the clan turned against you! But if you just made them see -" His grip on her shoulders was almost painful now. Why was there so much desperation in him? Over this? Over her? She didn't, couldn't understand what she was seeing in his eyes. He had always been her closest friend, her only confidant. When he had turned away from her, it had hurt more than the Keeper's grave voice speaking her judgment. She had never considered that her exile must have affected him as well.

"There is nothing to see! I still seek the same knowledge, I still use the same rituals, and they won't take me back!"

Jaron's face crumbled but his voice was still vehement when he said, "Creators, what do you want me to say? I just ..." He leaned forward then, resting his forehead against hers, and closed his eyes. His fingers loosened their vice grip and trailed down her arms until he could tangle them with hers in her lap. Sibéal remained still. This ... they hadn't been this. Absence might have brought him clarity where it only muddled her thoughts. When he kissed her, so soft and hesitant, she didn't respond. Jaron broke the kiss after a moment, resignation clear on his face, and finally let go of her.

"Jaron," she said, half question, half statement. Her voice was rougher than she would have liked it to be.

"It's alright, lethallan. We don't have to - we should eat." Mutely, she nodded.

"Jaron," she whispered into the night much later. Sibéal had been staring at the rough canvas of their tent for quite some time, Jaron a still lump next to her. She knew he wasn't sleeping, he'd always been particularly erratic when asleep.

"... Yes?"

"How long have you - have you always - I mean -" She was stumbling over her own words, so she broke off in frustration. The lump sighed and uncurled itself, Jaron turning to face her.

"After you left I spent too long brooding and hurting not to admit it to myself, Bel."

"I see." She did not know what else to say. Somewhere in the distance, a group of mercenaries were singing a drunken shanty. The night was alive with the sounds of the sleeping and the restless in equal measure.

"It won't have to change things, Bel. I ... realize my actions were hasty." Jaron had sat up now, slightly hunched under the low canvas ceiling covering them. Sibéal watched him carefully. He seemed torn between reaching for her and fleeing the conversation altogether.

"Even if it could ... I - you will go back to the clan and I -" will be alone again. She could not finish that thought.

"I could stay." The moment the words had left his mouth, Jaron hunched over further, curling into himself. He obviously hadn't meant to say the words aloud.

"What?"

"I didn't mean to bring it up so suddenly, but I ... I have been considering it," he said quietly. The words were slow, each carefully considered. "I owe you something for coming here with me, and while offering myself is hardly appropriate ... companionship may be a worthy offer?" He looked down at her hopefully, eyes glinting strangely in the dark. Sibéal's mouth opened of its own accord but there were no words she could say. Or perhaps there were too many.

"No," she finally said and watched his face fall. "No, you cannot be serious. You don't even know what you're offering! Leaving the clan, that's ... I ..."

"It would be my choice. You left, didn't you?"

"I was exiled! I made my choices, but leaving would never have been one of them!"

His expression turned stony but she could see the fire in his eyes. He almost hissed his next words. "Fine, I won't mention it again. Let's just finish this and be done with it then." When he lay back down, despite their proximity it was the furthest she had ever felt from him.

They barely spoke the next morning and went their separate ways as soon as it was feasible. Sibéal, without knowing exactly how, ended up at the inn once again, soon joined by Maxwell. It was barely noon.

"I suppose asking you whether you have any duties to attend to would be futile," she asked more of the room at large than of him. He laughed in response.

"Ah, duties. I'm sure I'll have plenty of those just as soon as my sister finds me. You know these people all know nothing of what goes on inside that temple, don't you?"

"And why would that be?"

"Well, they're here for one." He waved a hand lazily towards the closest table. The people sitting at it seemed like minor nobles, Orlesian most likely. They were turning their noses up at the food they had been brought, taking turns complaining about it. One of them noticed her looking and sneered. Sibéal held eye contact until he turned away, shoulders hunching. "See? The really important people aren't afraid of some elven wench, no matter how wild she looks. If you'll excuse my language."

She turned her glare on Maxwell. "You know nothing about me or what I could do to you, shem."

"Very true, my dear woman, but neither do they." He looked thoroughly relaxed, despite the threat in her voice. "So, my point still stands."

"Where would you suggest I go then?"

"To the Qunari." When he saw her uncomprehending look, he elaborated, "You must've seen them about by now, they're not all on duty at the same time. From what I understand the Divine hired them because big, scary Qunari might at least cow the mages and templars into civility. They're really something to behold. You might find one or two of them at their camp. Not sure how much you can get out of them, but from what I gather they're not real Qunari, so they might be more talkative than the usual kind."

"I see. Ma serannas, I shall go there then." She moved to stand when he sat up, holding up his hands.

"Well, I mean, you don't have to go there right now. You could stay. Share a drink with a poor fellow."

"From what I gather, you're hardly poor. If you'll excuse me." His clasping of his chest in mock heartbreak in response she acknowledged with little more than an eyeroll as she stepped out of the tavern and into the busy street.

Finding the Valos Kas was not particularly hard. Qunari weren't exactly a common sight in Ferelden, so getting pointed in their direction was an easy task. The man she found lazily stirring something over the fire made her think of the mountains around them. He seemed to be mostly made of muscle, easily twice her height and big enough she briefly wondered whether he even fit through doors. The startling green eyes that fixed upon her almost immediately were shrewd and knowing.

"Gawking or curiosity?" he asked amicably. Sibéal frowned, leaning upon her staff. Even with him sitting he barely had to look up to lock eyes with her.

"Sorry?"

"What brings you here? Gawking at the giant or looking for information?" Ah. So she wasn't the first to seek them out. She tried her best to smile and shrugged in response.

"Curiosity then." He motioned for her to sit, so she took a place on the opposite side of the fire, watching him over the flames. He continued stirring, glancing at her now and again. When she didn't say anything, he finally leaned back and looked her over.

"Out with it then, go on."

For a moment, she hesitated. Then, "I'm curious about the proceedings of the conclave, as you might guess."

"Everyone is."

"Are there any developments?"

"Hmmm. They started yelling at each other." The Qunari snorted, "Before, they wouldn't even look at each other. Now it's all blaming each other."

"Could they reach compromise?"

"Maybe in a year or two, who knows."

She frowned at that. A year was an awfully long estimate, one she couldn't wait out. Even more so, if nothing was being agreed upon, sneaking into the temple might be a futile act as well. The Qunari watched her calmly, still stirring his soup.

"You're awfully forthright about all this."

He shrugged. "Nobody paid us to be silent. Besides, I haven't told you much of anything, have I?"

"I suppose you haven't."

"Hey, Adaar," someone called, "Stop making eyes at pretty elf girls and focus on the damn stew!" The Qunari, Adaar it seemed, rolled his eyes in response.

"There's really not much to tell," he said instead of acknowledging to caller, "It's none of my business either way, we get paid whether or not they decide to stop killing each other. Sorry."

Sibéal hid her disappointment as best she could, standing again and smoothing out the folds of her dress. "Thank you for your time anyway, Adaar. Dareth shiral."

"Whatever that means. Good day to you!"

"Anything interesting?"

"No. You?"

"No."

They'd hardly spoken a word to each other all evening and it was starting to grate on Sibéal's nerves. She'd never been particularly talkative, even before her years of solitude, but awkward silence was something she hated even more. With a frustrated sigh she turned to Jaron, who was resolutely looking off into the distance. "Jaron, I -"

"Ah, there you are. Come on, it's time." Before she could even start to formulate her thoughts into words, Malika had materialized from the shadows around them. She stood in front of the fire, arms crossed and tapping her foot, until they rose in unison and doused the flames of their small campfire. Clearly patience was not one of the woman's virtues.

They followed her through the imperfect late-night dark, broken in many places by fires and embers, through the village and towards the temple. When they arrived, Maxwell was already waiting for them, shadowed by the mountains rising above. He was carrying a small torch, one which Malika regarded with annoyance. The flames made his smile strangely crooked and imperfect.

"There you are! Come on, we're working in a very small window here, friends. Once we're inside, I'm no longer responsible for you." His declaration was met with an eyeroll from Malika before she none too gently elbowed him in the hip.

"Let's go then, salroka, before you get cold feet and that tongue freezes up in your mouth," she said, but there was a grin on her lips. Maxwell nodded, rubbing his hip, and gestured for them to follow his lead.

The walk to the temple itself was quiet, unpopulated at this time of night. The only people they saw were two bored looking Qunari guarding the door. One of them was the man Sibéal had been talking to earlier. Cautiously, she pulled further into her cloak and stepped half behind Jaron, who's only acknowledgment of her actions was a tiny twitch of his brow. Maxwell argued with the guards rather energetically. The haughty tone his voice had taken on grated on her. So far, he'd been nothing but amicable. Now, he was a noble, someone certain of his ability to get anywhere at any time and how dare they stand in his way? Back and forth they went until the Qunari she didn't know threw up his arms and ushered them through. She could almost feel Adaar's eyes burn through the back of her hood when she slipped past him.

The hall that opened up before them was impressive. Dotted around the grand entrance were braziers merrily burning and meant to keep the ever-present ice at bay. Nobody else was here with them. The sight of it tugged at Sibéal, the same pull she felt when stepping into her ancestral ruins. Even with pilgrims and scholars and now politicians trampling all over it, this place still held parts of its ancient air. What could time spent in these halls uncover? Jaron jarred her out of her reverie with a hand at her elbow, making her realize she'd completely ignored whatever conversation had transpired. Maxwell was nowhere to be seen and Malika made her way towards a side passage with quick, sure steps. Sibéal blinked, drawing back into herself. Jaron's hand dropped immediately.

"Negotiations take place through there," he explained quietly, pointing to a door opposite where the dwarf was heading. "Private chambers for the envoy are through there, so I suggest we avoid them. The Divine is apparently also housed there."

Sibéal nodded in agreement and started forward. "Let us hope these humans are as loose with their papers as with their mouths then."

Arguments and crossed out proposals - that was what the papers they could find consisted of. So far, negotiations clearly weren't going well. Jaron made a noise of frustration, throwing another parchment back onto the table in the middle of the room. Sibéal had lit just two candles, one for each of them, and the light made his eyes into dark pools, unreadable in their flicker. She sighed in response, rolling up the proposal for a treaty she had been reading. The text was blotched with angry red ink in places, singed in others. Whatever mage had gotten their hands on it had not been happy with the restrictions proposed within.

"We won't find anything," Jaron hissed, "I doubt these shemlen even know what compromise is."

Sibéal was inclined to agree. "Whatever conclusion the Keeper might hope for, it will not happen for a long time yet."

"And so we're stuck." And so they were, though she suspected he meant it in a rather more personal sense than his words implied. She set her candle down next to the treaty and took two quick steps towards him, holding up her hands when he leaned back.

"If we are, lethallin, we should talk sooner rather than later."

"Talk about what? You rejected my offer, I understand." He wouldn't look at her. She raised a hand to his chin, tipping his head down. He could have resisted, both taller and stronger than her. Instead, he met her eyes.

"You've been my brother far longer than I have been your love, Jaron." Beneath her hand, he swallowed. "I could never reject you by my side, if I didn't know losing the clan would hurt you much more than losing me."

Beyond the doors, a commotion started. Without thinking, Sibéal conjured a gust of wind, plunging them into darkness. She could feel Jaron stiffening, his breath becoming slower - a hunter in anticipation of prey or danger. Footsteps sounded in the hall, muffled yelling, clanking of armour. They waited in the darkness with baited breath until she could still herself no longer. She tapped a finger against his neck in warning and crept towards the door. Outside, people were running around like frightened deer; nobody seemed to notice her or even pay each other any mind. She stepped out, drawing herself as tall as she could, and grabbed for the next person running past her. It was a human woman, perhaps a Chantry sister or a servant of the Divine. She was only half dressed in her robes, one sleeve still hanging off her shoulder.

"What happened?" Sibéal asked. She hoped, the air of confidence was enough to trick the woman into thinking she belonged in this place. She needn't have worried. The woman barely spared her a glance, pulling her sleeve up her arm.

"A fire," she explained quickly, "in the Chantry! Maker, those texts are priceless! If they burn -" And off she went. Sibéal turned to Jaron, who had stepped up behind her with a frown. She shrugged in response to his unspoken question. Was this good for them? Or bad?

"We should use this opportunity," Jaron finally sighed, "Perhaps there is more to find somewhere else." Sibéal nodded in agreement, eyeing the now open doors. One corridor led to the living quarters, the way Malika had disappeared earlier. The other, a grand set of double doors, seemed to lead further into the temple. Even with this distraction, their luck wouldn't last long.

Straightening her shoulders, she locked eyes with Jaron. "Go that way, I'll check further into the temple."

"Bel ..."

"You're a hunter, lethallin. There is a lot of people that way, you'll have an easier time hiding without me. Meet me back at camp." For a moment, he looked as though he wanted to protest. Then, he shook his head in resignation. He took her hand between his, kissing her fingertips.

"Be safe," he cautioned and disappeared the direction she had pointed. Sibéal took a moment to gather herself before straightening again and making her way towards the doors in quick, sure steps. She needn't be invisible, not in this mess. She only needed to look like she belonged. She took care to close the door behind her.

Like the hall before it, this room was sparsely lit with braziers dotted about. Their flickering light revealed high, arched ceilings glittering with ice and being held up by massive pillars. In front of her, stairs led up and further into the temple. Sibéal passed it all quickly. The history carved in murals around the pillars' base tempted her but that was for another time. Somewhere, faintly, she could hear voices. She'd have to be careful then, it seemed not everyone had noticed the commotion. What they were doing in the depth of this labyrinth in the middle of the night was another mystery entirely. She froze when a woman's voice rang out, louder than the murmurs before.

"Someone, help me!" She shouldn't. For all she knew it was the spirits of this place, calling for attention. But she couldn't refuse her better nature the same way she couldn't refuse bedraggled young girls in search for a remedy for their monthly pains, the same way she mixed tinctures of no consequence for humans, who had sneered at her in the light of day. She'd never had a bleeding heart but living with the clan meant to help where help was needed. And, if anything, this might prove to be whatever the Keeper had sent them searching for. She quickened her steps, following the corridor further and further until she stood before a high set of doors. From underneath, she could see strange green light glimmering through, pulsating. The air was thick with magic. Taking a deep breath, she drew on her own energies and threw the doors open, magic already pulsing in her veins.

"What's going on here?" The scene before her was as strange as it was distressing. A woman in Chantry robes hung motionless in the air, forcibly held there by a group of mages. They looked nothing like the mages she'd seen here so far, not part of the envoy. The creature before them had no possible description. It looked deformed, grotesque, bigger than it should have been. In its long, clawed hand it held something pulsating with magic more ancient than she'd ever felt even in the ruins she visited so often. Both woman and creature turned towards her at the sound of her voice before the woman made use of the distraction, pushing the strange artefact out of the monster's grasp. It bounced to the floor, rolling towards her, and had Sibéal had enough time to think, she would not have touched it. As it was, instinct ruled her. The moment her hand connected, magic shot through her like a force of nature, forcing all air from her lungs in an instant. She struggled to remain standing, to dispel its power, but all thought but the intensity of pain seemed to leave her. Distantly, she heard the creature bellow in rage. And the world exploded.

All that her mind could conjure of it afterwards were flashes, washed out images, until she found herself back in her body, cold stone floor beneath her. The chains holding her wrists clanked heavily when she moved. Magic was still sizzling through her in pulses but weaker now, not like the hot pain she still felt in her mind from before. The world seemed oddly tilted, not put together right. Or perhaps that was her. She only noticed the guards around her when the door banged open, two women entering. One of them strode forward, angrily.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now. The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you." Sibéal looked up at her, uncomprehending. Destroyed? Dead? The words didn't make any sense. The magic pulsing sluggishly flared to life in a brilliant, painful pulse through her palm when the woman grabbed for her arm and held it up. “Explain this!”

Her tongue moved sluggishly when she tried to speak, slurring her words. "I ... can't." She struggled for clarity but the magic in her arm was flaring and her heart was pounding for a different reason altogether. Dead. All ... dead? Jaron ...

“What do you mean, you can’t?“

"I ..." The woman moved to strike her and magic coiled up on instinct, readying to protect herself. She could hardly cast a spell in her current state but the response was innate. Before she could do anything, however, the other woman stopped her attacker. Her eyes were harsh and bloodshot, likely from too little sleep and whatever had happened that put them all in this room.

“We need her, Cassandra.”

She tried again for words but they were hard to get out. "I ... don't ... understand," she forced through painful breaths.

“Do you remember what happened? How this began?” The woman, who had held back her attacker, asked her. Sibéal shook her head and immediately regretted the action. The world swam out of focus, taking any coherency she might have had with it. What had happened? There were flashes - the pain, a spike of panic ... someone else?

"I ... something was chasing me. I ran? And then… a woman?”

“A woman?”

"She ... reached for me? But ..." Words failed her. Her head was still pounding painfully, so was her left side. What had been done? The women exchanged glances, a few quiet words, before one exited. The other - Cassandra, wasn't it - pulled her to her feet and unlocked the manacles. She replaced them with rope, but even if Sibéal could have thought about burning them to escape, she didn't have the strength right then. Mutely, she stumbled after the woman. Light blinded her when they first stepped outside. When her eyes adjusted, she stumbled back. The magic in her hand pulsed in response. In front of her, filling the sky, an explosion of magic could be seen casting its dangerous glow. Magic like she'd never seen before now, in all her studies. She could barely hear Cassandra explaining what this was, what they believed this was, as sudden clarity wrecked her. Something had happened, something she had stumbled upon. Jaron was gone. Something ancient had taken root in her. And her world had suddenly changed forever.

#dragon age #dragon age: inquisition #inquisitor #lavellan #pre-game #writing #writing:mine #c: forest rites #seriously read it on ao3 it's long #also #tw self harm #because blood magic is being used in this #it's been so long since i've actually written something this felt good man

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untitledcreativeproject · 7 years

Text

Day 4. [3048]

The admin running the RP site gave me a writing discount with the agreement that I would be willing to be a battle mod when necessary. It was much appreciated. Took my 4250 word requirement down to a 3000 word one.

"No, no, you have to scream while you do it," Captain Ginyu coached. "The point of the pose is not simply to pose, but to show off your excellent physique. When you scream, you call attention to yourself and force your opponent to gaze upon you in your full glory." Gatas sighed. This newest technique that the Ginyu Squad was trying to show her seemed utterly pointless, but each member had struck a different pose before insisting that she choose at least one to learn for her own benefit. Of the five, this one looked the least ridiculous. Now they were expecting her to scream while doing it? She shook out her arms to limber up before striking the pose again, this time voicing her irritation in the form of a primal bellow. "Yes, just like that!" Ginyu roared with approval as the rest of his squad cheered and applauded. "Again!" A few more practice runs of the move and the older Shikirian was sufficiently satisfied that Gatas could execute it properly. Each time brought another round of applause from the other four warriors, but on the final rep Gatas heard another slower clap continue after the Ginyu Squad had ceased in their celebration. She turned to see that a tall and imposing green humanoid now stood in between Burter and Recoome, a steady smirk on his face. "Well done," he said. "I haven't seen you around here before, so I'll assume you fell into league with this motley crew because you're new and you didn't know any better." Gatas raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The Ginyu Squad may have been an eccentric and rowdy bunch, but they had been nothing but respectful and helpful to her since their meeting. "Oh, how rude of me," the green man laughed. "I forgot that the newcomers usually haven't heard of me, since I came and went before their time. I'm Perfect Cell." "Oi, back off mate. She doesn't wanna talk to you." "And she hasn't yet," Cell said. "Come on now, you old dogs are running out of tricks to teach her anyway. Don't think I wasn't watching. Aside from Ginyu's body swap maneuver and Guldo's fancy time stop trick, what do you really have to offer her besides the one pose she just chose to learn out of the five you were offering?" "Er..." "Thought so!" Cell looked to Gatas. "Come now. I see you're interested to learn more powerful techniques for your own sake, and I'm probably more qualified to teach you than anyone else down here." "What makes you say that?" Guldo interjected. "Because, my dear Bas-jin, my genetic makeup includes DNA and information from all the greatest heroes of our time. That means the same people and the same attacks that killed all of you," Cell paused, gesturing vaguely in Ginyu's direction, "well, most of you, are inside of me. And my fathers, who art mostly in heaven, had all the best moves." "Mostly? What about the rest?" Jeice couldn't help but ask. "Well, don't act too surprised when I tell you this, but someone you know was also a major contributor to the magnificence that is me. His dad, too." Cell smiled, his gaze passing over the five members of the Ginyu Squad in turn. "You don't see the resemblance? I may not be as pale or as purple as them, but you could say I'm a little... King Cold-blooded?" Recoome snorted. "Hehe, I get it." "Anyway, enough of that. You're more than welcome to join me, if you're interested in picking up a few new tricks. Even on the off chance that you are interested in what I have to teach, I could point you in the direction of other potential trainers." Cell began to walk away from Gatas and the Ginyu Squad, looking back over his shoulder once he was several paces away. "I'll be making my rounds shortly. The decision is yours." Gatas looked around at the quintet, nodding at the Captain and Jeice before she left to follow the slowly retreating form of Perfect Cell. Catching up quickly, she fell into step, walking slightly behind and to the right of the bio-android. "No, no, with me," Cell said, slowing his pace until the Shikirian woman was walking beside him. "I can't keep talking to you if you're way back there, and I don't think I can expect to have you carry the conversation." They continued at a leisurely stroll through the various parts of Hell, slowing down or stopping entirely any time the powerful bio-android found someone of import to comment on. By that notion, Gatas was quick to observe, Hell was full of important people. "Not much to see around these parts," Cell commented. "The majority of the rabble that frequent this area are some of Frieza's men. Most of their names aren't worth remembering, but-- oh, wait a moment. That one over there, with the green hair? That's Zarbon. He almost killed Vegeta once. I know Vegeta is probably one of several Saiyans with the same name, being named after their home planet and all, but I'm talking about the Vegeta. One of my main sources of DNA. His power never quite lived up to Goku's, except maybe in moments of extreme rage, but I do appreciate having some of his genetic code. Glad I didn't get his hair, though. That widow's peak would have clashed horribly with the rest of my face. "I'm surprised Dodoria isn't hanging around today if Zarbon's around. Dodoria's not very bright, but he likes to use his head. In a much more literal sense, I mean. The spikes aren't just there for decoration. I'm sure you understand that. If I had horns, I'd certainly use them. It would be like an homage to Frieza's encounter with Krillin," Cell chuckled. The two continued their walk. Hell was by no means empty, but it managed not to be crowded even with all its inhabitants. Still, hardly a minute passed without Gatas and Cell seeing another damned soul. Gatas spotted a few Shikirians that she recognized from their race's big brawl earlier and waited for Cell's commentary, if any was to come. "Ah yes, your race. Fascinating, really, that trick Ginyu has up his sleeve. It kept him alive much longer than the rest of his squad, though I'd hardly call it living if you're stuck in the body of a Namekian frog for almost the whole time. I hope you put the move to better use than that, if you have the opportunity. But then again, I don't know what your plans are. Did you want to go back to the world of the living eventually, or is this it for you? Just gonna spend the rest of eternity in the afterlife?" Gatas's brow furrowed. She hadn't considered the possibility of there being a way to come back to life; she merely accepted that she had died in battle, as was the ideal for her race. Now Cell was telling her that she could go back to life as a soldier? Gatas had heard of the legendary warrior Goku and how he and his allies managed to come back from death time and time again, but she had no allies she believed would be willing to wish her back to life. Another rumor she had heard involved a Tuffle of some renown on planet Namek, who had supposedly died in battle and then reached back from the dead to claim his enemy's life. She had more battles left in her, that much was certain. Did she want to go back and pick up where she left off? She could claim more victories, and more victims. The war couldn't possibly have ended in the brief time that she'd been gone, and her victory against Lute meant that if she returned, she was guaranteed intel on other high-profile targets. On the other hand, it seemed that she still had much to learn in Hell. "Oh, that's hilarious," Cell said, interrupting Gatas's bout of introspection. She followed his gaze and saw what had caught his eye. A tall, broad-shouldered figure in the distance was hard at work plowing a massive field in the shade of an equally enormous tree. "A Shin-jin in Hell, and taking up farming by the looks of it. I wonder what old Yema had to say about him when he came through the checkpoint for judgment." Filing Cell's comment about returning to life away for later, Gatas climbed up a hill after Cell to get a better view of the tree. A Saiyan sat at the base of its trunk, picking his teeth with a bored expression on his face. The bio-android's eyes lit up. "Turles! Now, he wouldn't be anything special if not for that tree he's guarding, but he's been snacking on those fruits for a while now. They've got a lot of juice, I hear." Cell snorted at his own pun. "Too bad he has nothing to offer in the way of innovative techniques. Let's move on. We may have eternity, but I'm not going to waste any of it watching plants grow if I can help it." The pair descended from the hill the same way they came, then took a left to continue into new territory. "It is a shame, you know," Cell commented. "So many new souls condemned here day in and day out, and of the minority that are strong enough to even retain a physical form, even fewer still have any worthwhile techniques for me to observe. I hear there's a war going on back on Earth. Where are all the warriors?" Further travel was quiet for a while. Gatas wasn't sure whether it was a real lack of any notable fighters passing or if Cell had suddenly lost his enthusiasm for being her unofficial tour guide. She glanced his way and saw that he was silently counting on his fingers over and over. Occasionally he would mouth something, frown, then start counting again. Their pace continued to slow as Cell completely stopped paying attention to their surroundings, eventually stopping entirely in the middle of a clearing. Gatas looked around and then back at him, unsure of how to proceed. Minutes passed. "You know what we need?" Cell announced suddenly as Gatas was just about to give up on him and wander off. "We need an Afterlife Cell Games." "What?" Gatas said, a bit louder than she intended. Cell's intensity in breaking the silence between them had startled her. "Well, I wasn't always the perfect being I am today," Cell began, his voice taking on a narrative tone. Gatas got the distinct feeling that she would soon regret giving him the chance to monologue. "I came into existence in an alternate timeline from this one. Unfortunately for me, my original timeline made it impossible for me to achieve this form, so I had to hijack my way into a timeline where it was possible. Once I'd managed that, it was just a matter of absorbing my android siblings into myself and becoming whole. And let me tell you, that was quite the fiasco thanks to Son Goku and his little friends. "Anyway, it was after I achieved my perfect form that I realized there had to be some way I could truly test my abilities to the fullest. And what better way to do that than to hold a tournament to lure out the world's strongest fighters? Thus the original Cell Games came to be. Of course, it was me versus the world back then; this time around I think a standard elimination-style tournament will suffice. We'll just have to see how many people want in." Cell tapped a finger on his chin, his elbow resting in his opposite hand. "I'm sure Frieza will want to participate, and maybe his father. I'll go ahead and invite Turles too; we can see how much stronger the Tree of Might's fruits have really made him. Oh, and Raditz will show up whether I ask him to or not, I know that." Cell scoffed. "He's like our Yamcha." Cell pushed off and took to the air. "I suppose we can worry about the guest list later. Our first order of business should be finding a suitable spot to build the venue." A pause. "You can fly, can't you?" Gatas responded to Cell's question by jumping up to hover beside him. "Ah, good. You know, I've watched people try to learn how to fly from that meathead Recoome before; I can tell you haven't learned it from him. Anyway, we're looking for two things. One is a big field, which won't be too hard to come across. The second will be harder to come by, and that's a big plateau that I can use to make the arena." They passed up several large tracts of land, each rejected by Cell for not being scenic enough. After he began to grow irritated by his lack of viable options, he settled for one of the spots he'd previously rejected, leveling some nearby hills to expand the space to his satisfaction. A similar compromise had to be made for the arena's building material; finding no single rock big enough, Cell settled for razing part of a nearby forested area to construct the arena out of wood. At each corner Cell positioned a large spike taken off one of the steep and unforgiving mountains to give the main stage the dramatic flair he wanted. Calling everyone together was just a matter of Cell amplifying his voice to announce the tournament. The competitors came in droves, amassing around the arena. Gatas stood next to Cell in the arena as more and more fighters joined the crowds. She tried to pick out some fighters that she thought would do well in the tournament, but as the assembled populace grew, she instead began to wonder how Cell intended to organize such a tremendous turnout. She wasn't left to wonder for long. Clearly marking his own time, Cell waited for a while before calling everyone to attention once more. "Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone outside or in between! Welcome to the second ever Cell Games. We have quite the crowd out here, and I'm sure you're all itching for a good fight, so I'll keep it brief. This tournament will have two main components, and we're about to begin the preliminaries." Cell fell quiet for a moment, appearing to focus his concentration. The tip of his tail, still retracted near the middle of his back, widened significantly, and with some effort produced five smaller and bluer versions of the bio-android. There came a mixed reaction from the parts of the crowd that could see what had just occured, though it was mostly shocked outcry or cheering. The five Cell Juniors turned to their sire for direction. "Hello, my perfect children," Cell greeted them. "You all know the Multi-Form technique as well as I do, isn't that right?" The Juniors nodded. "Well, look around you, my sons. All these people have come to meet us, but there are just so many of them. If you all split up, I'm sure you can manage to say hello to everyone. Do you understand?" The Cell Juniors nodded emphatically and suddenly the five of them became twenty. Cell addressed the masses once more. "Congratulations. You've all been officially entered into the preliminaries. Anyone left standing once my precious children have all been defeated will qualify for the actual tournament. The preliminaries begin...." Cell drew out the pause to its greatest effect, waiting until the tension in the air was at its peak. A thought occurred to him and he looked over her shoulder at Gatas. "Wait, were you planning on participating or just spectating?" Gatas considered for a moment, then shrugged. "I'll watch." "Fair enough." To the crowd once more. "...Now." At his word, the multiple Cell Juniors leapt out of the arena and into the assembled masses. Chaos ensued. The sound of hundreds of combatants clashing together permeated the vicinity, and Gatas smiled. It was a comforting sound. Cell floated up to get a better vantage point of the slaughter, and the Shikirian woman followed him. "I wasn't sure if I wanted to participate or just sit back and watch for something good," Cell commented. His tone was purely conversational, as if he had just given Gatas the weather forecast for the day. It was a stark contrast to the mayhem below. "So I gave myself the best of both worlds. I automatically get a bye in the first round, so when the real tournament starts I get to scope out every one of my potential opponents. Not that I need the advantage, really, but if any of them have techniques worth learning I may get to observe them sooner rather than later. I imagine that's what you're still here for, after all." Gatas nodded. "Hey, do you mind grabbing me a drink from one of the vendors?" Cell asked. He pointed towards the outskirts of the battlefield where a line of food trucks had set up shop. Gatas's brow creased. She hadn't noticed them until now. How quickly had they set up shop? "I'm in charge, so it's on the house. You can grab yourself something too. This may take a while." All in all, there were still nearly a hundred survivors once the last Cell Jr. was taken down. Cell appeared undaunted by that outcome, quickly drawing up a massive tournament bracket and getting the first round of fights under way. Several hours and trips back and forth to the vendors for snacks later, there had still been no techniques used that were impressive enough for Cell to take notice. Gatas yawned. While she was curious to see who would eventually emerge victorious, she was starting to feel antsy. She didn't know how well she would have fared against some of the fighters she'd already seen, but she felt a pang of regret at turning down more chances to fight. Suddenly Cell sat up from the lawn chair he'd been lounging in, almost spilling his fruity drink in the process. "There! That's the move we've been waiting to see!"

[Running Total: 5,930 words]

#Untitled writing project #year 2 #rp stuff #creative writing

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