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jimlingss · 4 years ago

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Moirai [7]

Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 [Finale]

➜ Words: 6.6k

➜ Genres: 60% Fluff, 40% Angst, Isekai!AU

➜ Summary: Death is supposed to be the end. Or at least that's what you assumed when you're hit by a TRUCK. But the moment you open your eyes again, instead of being sent to the afterlife, you've become a baby. And not just any baby. You're the female villain of a video game.

❇ Royal Romances Chapter 3 -Prince Route- ❇ The darkness is pitch black. It’s heavy. Comforting. Eerie. All at the same time. Anastasia lurks within the shadows, looking both ways with a flickering oil lamp carried in hand. She darts her head down the long corridor and when there isn’t a soul in sight, she sneaks past the archway before pressing her palm against a stone brick behind a marble pillar. There’s a shift, gears spinning and the wall pulls back and to the side, tucking itself in. She enters through the hidden passageway and the wall seals itself shut again as it never opened. The cobblestone spiral stairs are dusty and dank without a single window. She cringes and bats her hand in front of her nose, damning him for choosing such an awful place to meet. Who knows what’s down here! Ugh. A bastard son born will be a bastard life lived. No amount of effort can make someone noble if they weren’t already born with it. She doesn’t know why she was expecting that man to be dignified. “I didn’t think you would come so soon.” The King’s bastard son stands at the landing of the stairs. The spiral staircase seems to descend further behind him, but she isn’t curious to where it leads. “Hmph.” She turns away, lamp still in hand, and she pulls her shawl closer to her. “I already made up my mind. I want to get rid of that orphan whore, so I’ll do whatever it takes. She dares to try to seduce my fiancé when she doesn’t even know her place.” The corner of Taehyung’s thin lips curl. “Then by all means, I’ll erase that problem for you.” The Duke’s daughter turns and her eyes glimmer with intrigue. The man reaches into the sleeve of his cloak and hands her a tiny vial of green liquid. An emerald jewel on the cap shimmers against the dim candlelight that casts their ominous shadows on the walls. “It’s poison. One drop in the Empress’ tea cup and you can frame her for it. That’s all it’ll take.” Anastasia smirks, a rush of air leaving her nose in satisfaction. It might be easier just to dip the tip of a dagger in and stab that wrench with it, but framing her would make Jungkook lose his trust in the girl. He wouldn’t look at her twice. And she’d be executed without the real perpetrator ever being implicated in the crime. She takes the vial, holding onto it carefully. Yet her eyes flicker up to Taehyung’s. “What’s in it for you?” “All I want is the empire’s wealth.” ….. .. . ❇ Royal Romances Chapter 7 -Prince Route- ❇ Punishment does not come in the form of her stripped title or even her head rolling away from her neck. Punishment arrives in the darkened loneliness. That loss of sanity that whisper she has failed to capture the attention of the only person she ever loved. That she failed to make him love her. Everything she did, it drove him away. Every act of love placed distance between them. Everything. Liberation comes back with the music of trumpets muffled by the stone walls. “What’s going on?” her voice is hoarse through her parched throat. The servant screams when her arm reaches past the bars to tug on the girl’s dress. Her eyes are bleary as she looks up at the girl. “Why is it so noisy?” “T-The civil war’s over.” The girl backs away and the celebrations become more distinct with the realization. “The villain is dead.” The girl withdraws into the cell and cackles rip through her lungs, resounding across the empty chambers. The servant scurries away as the knight huffs out through his nose and shakes his head. But it’s the best news she’s received since she’s been stowed away. That bastard son — Taehyung. He was a liar. He tried to kill her beloved Jungkook. He dared to try and replace him. But no amount of effort can make someone noble if they weren’t already born with it. A bastard son born will be a bastard life lived. She may have been condemned as his accomplice — she may have been used as his pawn, too blinded by her own affections to realize. But she is mad with joy that she will not die alone. She can only hope he died a cruel and painful death. Anastasia cackles again.

You gasp. Your entire body jolts and you tear yourself up into an upright position. The covers pool in your lap, your white nightgown stuck to your back slick with cold sweat. You press your palm on your forehead, focusing on studying your heaving breath. It was just a nightmare. Or rather, it was scenes from the original game. The way it was supposed to be. It felt so real. As if you were Anastasia and those choices and decisions were the ones you made. The door opens and the maid entering is startled to see you already awake. “Good morning, my lady. It’s still quite early….” There’s no way you can return to sleep after that. “Today’s a busy day so I’ll get ready now.” The maid nods and follows after you to the vanity. “Lady Devon has a lilac gown prepared for you today, my lady. The late Queen wore the same colour during the inauguration of the last Head Priestess.” “Shouldn’t everyone wear it then?” “Of course not.” The young servant smiles as she runs the brush through your hair. “Only the future queen should.” Pft. Yeah right. It’s a ridiculous idea that you would ever be queen. Anastasia never had the chance in any route or lifetime and you doubt you will either. But rather than changing the dress like you normally would, your hand tightens in your lap. “Bring it to me then.” As the future Crown Princess, you’re dolled up by several maids. Your tutor paces back and forth, commanding the flurry around you on each of their actions, from a strand of your hair out of place to a loose thread sticking out. Your cheeks are powdered in a soft pink and your lips are painted in the same cherry blossom shade. You feel like a Barbie being dressed up and not in a good way. But thankfully, the dress is simple for the occasion and your hair is plainly clipped back on both sides. It isn’t a ball after all where people are going to be flaunting themselves. The next two days marks the inauguration of the new priestess. It’ll be a day of celebration and then a day of solemn prayer and song at the empire’s largest cathedral. Aka, it’s going to be boring as hell. Once you’re free from outstretched hands touching your body and making sure you’re a photoshopped version of yourself without the photoshop, you head to the gardens for a breath of air. And also to escape Lady Devon’s lectures of how you should ideally behave. But by now, you already know what she wants to say. Don’t chew with your mouth open. Keep your back straight. Don’t back talk to your elders. Most importantly, don’t speak to Tae— “Anastasia!” The corner of your mouth tugs. “Lucy.” You shouldn’t be so happy to see the heroine of this story. Not when her existence naturally opposes yours and you purely forged a friendship for your own self-preservation. But somewhere along the way, you found that she’s the only female who doesn’t look at you any differently. She doesn’t smile just to make you happy. She doesn’t call you just because she has something to gain. Unlike so many others, you know she has no intention of using you. The girl doesn’t have ulterior motives. Unlike you. “Good morning.” “Morning.” You meet her between the bushes of peonies on the cobblestone path. “What are you doing here so early? The play doesn’t start for another three hours.” “I didn’t want to be late, but I guess I came earlier than expected.” Her smile is sheepish and she lifts her arm, a single white lily held in her fingertips. “I saw this on my way here. I heard it was lucky to have white lilies on the day of the Head Priestess’ inauguration ceremony, so…” You take her gift. “Thank you.” The petals are delicate and the fragrance is subtle enough that you lift it to tickle your nose. It’s then and there, while you’re twirling the stem with your fingertips, that you notice a gaze upon you. By sheer coincidence and coincidence only, it seems like Taehyung was seeking refuge in his corner of the garden again and ran into you. The corner of his mouth lifts, distance kept yet he’s somehow close. You can’t pretend that he’s not there. Your eyes have locked together. Immediately, you grab Lucy’s hand and turn to her. “You have no one to accompany you to the Eastern Cathedral tomorrow, right?” “Uh…” Before she can answer, you take her to the dark-haired man and smile cordially at him. “Good morning, Your Highness.” “Anastas—” “This is Lucienne from the House of Liza.” You drag the girl to your side and she murmurs a timid greeting to him. “I’m sure the two of you must’ve met each other a few times. She has no one to accompany her tomorrow.” “Anastasia.” Lucy shifts to you. She’s visibly uncomfortable, her brows knitted together, fingers rubbing the skirt of her dress. “It’s quite alright, I don’t need anyone to—” “Nonsense,” you interject with another friendly smile. “It must be lonely to go by yourself. I’ll be busy with Prince Jungkook. It’s important that you get to know others as well. You shouldn’t latch onto the Prince all the time.” She’s visibly taken aback at your insinuation. It’s not like you want to be so blunt, but there has to be no room for refusal. This is the only way. It’s no longer about trying to avoid the three of them. It’s no longer about bringing Lucy and Jungkook together and remaining on the sidelines. If you want to save Taehyung too, you need to use the only person who can do so. You’ll find other ways to save yourself. But Taehyung needs her. “I…” Your voice remains firm. “You should go with Taehyung.” Lucy is the heroine of this game. It’s possible that they can end up together instead. She can comfort Taehyung, change his mind about revenge, ease his suffering, rid his grief. She’s the only one who can clear the darkness stowed inside of him. They don’t know it, but you do. You push her towards him. The girl stumbles from the loss of her footing and he steadies her by her shoulders. “S-Sorry!” “It’s fine,” he brushes off quickly and then turns his head, eyes boring holes in you. “What are you doing?” Taehyung holds his gaze, searching your impassive expression and the corners of your mouth pulls stiffly. “I’m just joining two people who I think really suit each other. Oh, look at the time! I should leave before I’m late for my morning greeting to my fiancée. I’ll leave the both of you to it then.” You curtsy hastily and spin around to walk away. But Taehyung is three steps ahead of you. His strides are long and he overtakes you easily, stopping your form far away enough that it’s out of Lucy’s earshot. He grabs your arm, pulls you back and stares deeply into your eyes. His frown deepens. “Is this because of what I did that night of the feast?” he asks in a quiet murmur that makes you swallow hard. You don’t want to be reminded of that. Not now. Not when you’re trying to pay back the favour of saving your life by saving his. “Anastasia, I meant everything I said that night. I meant everything that I was about to do—” You interrupt him, not wanting to hear anymore of it. It shouldn’t be this hard. “It’s not that.” You stare directly into his pupils, unwavering in your gaze. “I have to go now.” You brush past him and don’t glance over your shoulder, even when the temptation is overwhelming. It really shouldn’t be this hard. You know the future. You know what’s entailed in their destiny. But why does it seem like you’re making all the wrong choices. // Your knuckles rap against the surface. There’s a muffled ‘come in’ and you open the door. Jungkook is getting ready in front of the mirror. His cape is being pinned perfectly on his back, navy blue jacket with ribbons and golden buttons making him look like the picture perfect prince of every Disney movie. It’s no wonder all the ladies constantly swoon when he passes. To you, he’s always been that doe-eyed boy afraid of ladybugs. But marrying him wouldn’t be so bad. You’re sure it would be a good marriage. At least one full of respect and mutual understanding. It would be better than half the marriages in the twenty-first century that ends in divorce. Jungkook looks at your reflection in the mirror. “Anastasia. What brings you here?” “I have matters to discuss, Prince Jungkook.” “Very well.” He looks to the attendants beside him. “Please bring in refreshments.” “There’s no need.” You quickly stop them and the man in front of you turns, visibly surprised at your rejection of sweets and tea. It’s the main reason why you come to visit each other after all. “This’ll be quick.” They bow their heads and the doors shut a moment later, giving you and Jungkook privacy. He pinches the hem of his sleeve. “Did you get in trouble with your tutors again?” “Jungkook.” Your voice is solemn, your expression even more serious. He looks up and the corner of his mouth falls into a straight line. He follows you to the sofa and sits across from you. “What’s the matter?” He’s frowning, worried about your changed demeanor. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself. “We should solidify our engagement as soon as possible.” Jungkook’s eyes widen. “W...what? Why so sudden?” “Is it?” “You’ve never been interested in being queen before.” His eyes narrow in on you and his brows furrow more. “Is this about the Duke and Duchess? Are they rushing you?” “No.” You shake your head. “This is about me. It’s about us.” “But this isn’t like you, Anna.” “Why is it so surprising?!” Your voice is pitched and instead of anger, frantic desperation seeps in. You don’t know why everyone has to make it so difficult for you. “We’ve been engaged since our childhood! It’s only natural to move ahead. Who else are you supposed to marry—?!” As the words come out of your mouth, it slaps you right back in the face: you’re falling into the same pattern as Anastasia. Demanding the prince to marry you. Being blunt. Curt. Upset. It’s so easy. It was as if your entire life was set up to be the villainess. Oh god. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what the answer is. You don’t know what choice to make to wind down the best path— “Anna!” Jungkook calls you for the fifth time in the midst of your meltdown. You lift your head to find him sitting beside you, his hands firmly squeezing your shoulders. He’s asking you if you’re alright, if you need a healer or some rest to clear your mind. He’s saying how the two of you can talk about this later. But you don’t want later. It’s always been later. Making choices now for later. Making plans now for later. Everything you’ve done is for later down the line and you wonder if you’ll ever be able to reap the benefits or find the happiness you were so desperate to have when you died the first time. Now. You want someone to shoulder your burdens with right now. “Jungkook, what if….what if I told you I was from another world and I know the future of this world?” “What?” You swallow hard and meet Jungkook’s doe eyes. He searches your visage, unable to comprehend where this is coming from, where you’re going with this. “What if...the only way to save Taehyung is through Lucy? The only way is if they fall in love and she saves him.” He’s completely lost on that. “Taehyung? What does he need saving from? Who told you he needs to fall in love with her? What?” Your mouth opens, but you don’t know where to start, how to explain, if he would even believe you in the end. “You just need to trust me, Jungkook. I know things you don’t.” “I...don’t understand what you’re talking about.” There’s a simmering pause between the pair of you and Jungkook looks carefully at your profile. Then his lips part to speak forbidden words— “Are you in love with Taehyung?” It’s your turn to be confused. Befuddled. Taken aback. And Jungkook must read the expression on his face, since he replaces your speechlessness with his own voice. “Otherwise, why would you care so much about him? You’ve never brought anyone up to me before. Not even your own parents, Anna, and I know they make things difficult for you. I’ve never seen you care about anyone else more than you care about yourself.” You rise to your feet in an instant and turn your back on the man. “That’s impossible. It’s impossible.” “Why? I thought you always told me it was okay if we ended up falling in love with other peopl—” “I said it was okay if you did. Not me.” You don’t get such a privilege. Jungkook is the protagonist, the hero. No matter what route it is, which way the story goes, he always wins. He will always live. But you will either die or be casted away. “It’s different.” Jungkook has nothing to risk. You have everything. “Anastasia.” “Don’t change the subject. I came to tell you that we should move ahead with the engagement. There is no reason you should refuse, Jungkook.” You turn and leave the room, ending the conversation there. He doesn’t know. He makes it sound easy. But you can never be with Taehyung. The Crown Prince’s fiancée and the bastard son. What a pair that would be. As long as you’re living in this world, in this society, any relationship deeper than an acquaintanceship would bring disaster. It’s not as simple as falling in love, calling off the engagement, eloping together far away. This isn’t a fairy tale. This isn’t a romance narrative. It’s life. A society that scrutinizes and shames. A culture that slanders names with scandals. The Devereux house will fail anyway and you don’t care about soiling your reputation and being outcasted. But the King would deem it treasonous. The royal family’s reputation would be marred and ruined, and he would never accept that. He was already unhappy when Taehyung danced with you at the debutante ball, when Taehyung handed you the Hunt’s prize, when Taehyung rescued you from being kidnapped. And you cannot risk your life and Taehyung’s like that any more than you already have. Jungkook is terribly naive if he thinks it could ever work. // The royal court is lively with warm drums and bright flutes that echo throughout the capital. Famous minstrels and troubadours across the empire have come to perform for the King, having made their way through the streets in the morning for the commoners as well. He smiles in approval from his throne, the middle-aged priestess to be coordinated tomorrow seated beside him and the pair look to be enjoying the show. Your parents are no exceptions either, seemingly relishing in the festivities. They’ve brought Edith and Joan in tow as part of their entourage, faces you never thought you’d miss. The former nods her head at you in silent greeting and the latter smiles, but you don’t get a chance to speak to either of them. Not when your parents have kept their distance. It seems like the last incident has made them rethink their involvement in your affairs. And for that, you’re glad you’ve been granted a little more freedom. Marquess, earls, counts, viscountess and barons seated around speak to one another in between performing acts, sipping on their wine as the afternoon sets into evening. Once in a while, laughter sparks through the courtyard and thunderous applause succeed performances. But unlike them, you can’t enjoy it. In spite of sitting next to Jungkook and visibly smiling, the space in-between the pair of you is tense and stiff. Lucy sits a few rows down from where she is beside her father and you can tell she’s uncomfortable with what happened earlier by her expression that never seems to ease. All of it would be easy to ignore. If not for Taehyung’s gaze. He’s standing in the corner against the stone walls that line the courtyard, inconspicuous but not to you. A glance at a crowd and you could still pick him out in an instant. But he doesn’t watch the play, doesn’t watch the musical performances or the acrobatics twisting around. He looks at you. As if that alone could figure out your intentions, like he could deduct what’s in your mind. You don’t spare him a peek. Even when it’s difficult to resist. You avoid him until the very end. // The moon is full, a perfectly round sphere that’s golden. Like a firefly amidst the blanket of stars. It isn’t brighter than the sun, but not any less beautiful. Taehyung stares up at the horizon and then his eyes stray to marble railings. He floats up to your balcony and his feet touch against the white, stone flooring. He won’t let you run away. The room is dark, but he makes out a lump in the bed that’s turning and twisting. Taehyung knocks against the glass door and the figure freezes before it moves a moment later. Within a minute, the door opens and you emerge into the golden moonlight. “Taehyung? What are you doing here? You’re not allowed to be here,” you whisper harshly, looking both ways of the castle grounds while tugging the white, laced shawl around your shoulders closer. “I had to come see you,” Taehyung gazes into your eyes tenderly and he leans down to capture your hand gently in his. The skirt of your nightgown flutters in the warm breeze. “I know there’s something wrong. Did Jungkook do something? Did he say something?” You shake your head. “Then why push me away?” You turn from him, ripping your hand away from his grasps. “I don’t know what you mean.” Taehyung grabs your arm and your head whirls back to him, eyes connecting. “You know exactly what I mean.” “I’m engaged.” “To a person you don’t even love.” Your eyes widen and your brows furrow. “You don’t know that.” “I love you.” It’s a bold confession spoken from his lips, his deep timbre that doesn’t lack any sincerity. An earnest proclamation that has your heart stuttering in your chest, your breath hitching in your throat. Your heartbeat is thunderous in your ears and something stirs in the pit of your stomach at the sorrowful expression Taehyung looks at you with. He murmurs, “I was going to take that secret to the grave, but I can’t stand by and watch you like this. I love you. Be with me.” Be with me. A three word plea. Whispered secretly on a full-moon night. An affection full of warmth that you never had the privilege of receiving before in your past life or this life. Until now. You never thought it would be like all those cheesy movies — Love Actually, Pride and Prejudice, the Notebook. But nope. They’re right. When you hear a love confession, when you hear someone say ‘I love you’ and ‘be with me’, it really does make you overwhelmingly happy. It makes you want to cry. It makes you want to hug him, kiss him, throw your arms around him and scream ‘yes’. It makes you imagine the rest of your life, growing old with someone you love. But you stagger away from Taehyung. No. No. It can’t be. He can’t love you. No. You aren’t Juliet. Elizabeth Bennet. Allie. This isn’t your love story. You aren’t the main character. And this most certainly won’t have a happy ending. Taehyung was never supposed to love Anastasia. This is a mistake. An accident. Repercussions to your actions. “Don’t mistake sympathy for feelings of love.” You surprise yourself at how stern your voice sounds, never once wavering. You suppose years of growing up in the Devereux household and being put under rigorous training allowed you to control your exterior well. “I don’t love you. You don’t love me, Taehyung.” “You’re wrong.” He steps forward, closing the distance, as firm as you are. “I’ll even fight for the throne if you want. I’ll fight Jungkook if that’s what it takes for you to be by my side—” “No!” The scream echoes in your own ears, loud and shrill enough to bring alarm. “Please. Don’t. Don’t.” It’s then and there, in the throes of his reckless promises, it slams into you — the realization of how desperately you don’t want to see Taehyung die. You don’t want to witness his tragic ending. And you don’t want him to do it for you. Taehyung’s expression is crumpled in anguish and his arm lifts, hand extending. The pad of his thumb tenderly wipes away the tear that’s streaked down your cheek. The corner of his mouth upturns, but the sorrowful smile never reaches his eyes. “Do you hate the idea of being with me that much that you’re crying?” “No...Taehyung…” He withdraws. “I’m sorry.” Taehyung gazes at you and then he shuts his eyes, falling backwards off the balcony. You cry out in absolute terror and your legs lurch forward towards the railings. Your arms snap out to grab him, but your fists merely catch the passing wind. He’s vanished into thin air, leaving nothing but traces of magic in the air. You collapse onto the floor, grasping at the banister as sobs wreck through your body. “T-That’s...not...i-it—” The matter of life or death should be simple. The choices should be easy. But you don’t know why each path you choose has its own tragedy, why happiness never seems to come. Why can’t you control your own destiny?

A wheeze tears from the bastard son’s mouth. His ruined hands are wrapped around his silver staff until his bloodied knuckles have morphed white. But it’s his leverage, keeping him standing on his shaking legs. He may have lost but he refuses to collapse until his last breath has been taken. His pride won’t allow him otherwise. “Why?” He lifts his head and locks eyes with the impassive Prince, dignified and noble. A hero to all. A brother who he never deemed as a brother. Only in blood and never truly in name. “Why did you do this?” The corner of Taehyung’s mouth curls. Even on the battlefield when they are both armoured and armed with weapons — in the moment of death — Jungkook is as oblivious and ignorant as when he was a mere child. Taehyung spares a thought as to what it feels like to be that naive. He concludes it is a privilege. “W-hy….d..o...you...think?” The Forgotten Prince’s feet sinks into the mountain of brittle bones. He had to bring the dead back to life through necromancy to build an army for this war. No one would fight on his side after all. No one’s ever wanted to fight on his side. But even so, he was never able to bring himself to revive his mother. But it’s foolish he didn’t. She may have just been a marionette doll with tangled strings, a simple outer shell of a real human being, but he regrets not doing it. He should’ve. Even if it was just to see her for a moment. But it is a regret too late. He has another wish he wants to achieve in these last moments. Taehyung chokes out that girl’s name. He didn’t know he would have feelings for her. He was simply intrigued. Anything that belonged to his brother was always something worth envy. And he wasn’t wrong. She was a pawn on the opponent’s side who turned out to be more valuable than the queen. “P-Please….” Blood curdles at the back of his throat, thickening his words into pathetic sputters. “Let me...see her….on.e….las...t….tim..e…” “I’ll never let you see her.” The Prince’s hands tighten on the handle and he rips the sword out of his abdomen in a single motion. The sound of silver cuts sharply through the air and Taehyung drops to his bruised knees. His own blood has splattered across his visage, scarlet drenched on ashy skin. The Prince stands tall, the very furrow of his brows jarring against the cold, cordial expression he maintains. It’s an expression of contempt, of hatred and indifference. His shadow looms over him, the status he was born with intrinsic in his sheer presence. “All...I...ever..wanted….was to be you. To be...powerful...to have everything you have.” The Forgotten Prince rests against his staff and shuts his eyes. He ponders for a mere moment if he will be able to see his mother after this. But if there is such a thing as an afterlife, it’s still unlikely that fate would grant him such peace and refuge. “I...d..idn’t...want….to...be...aban..doned…” The remnants of magic surges through his veins and with a weak flick of his wrist, Taehyung’s last magic summons the girl who had occupied his thoughts. She appears in front of him, manifesting with his spell, and she screams. Jungkook calls out to her and they embrace. He holds her, covering her body with his arm. The two of them look down at Taehyung in fear and disdain. But her vicinity is enough for him. He wonders when he became this pathetic. Or if he was always this way as their villain. Taehyung chokes on the blood curdling at the back of his throat, but his lips upturn into a smile. He mouths her name and dies at their feet. …. Anastasia. You wake up with a gasp tearing from your chest. Your breath heaves out of you and tears coat your cheeks and the pillow beneath your head. Most of all, your chest fucking hurts like your heart’s about to burst. So you call for a maid at the top of your lungs and within seconds, someone scatters in. “My lady?” “Water,” you croak and she nods. A glass is presented in front of you within moments and you down the entire thing, able to calm yourself down once you’ve finished. The maid notices your sweaty form and asks if you would like to change clothes, but you wave her off and she leaves. Your worst fear came to life in a nightmare. Instead of calling the heroine’s name, Taehyung called yours. // The ceremony at the Eastern Cathedral is exactly like all other events and celebrations in the castle. Boring. Tedious. Like sitting in a lecture hall with the most unenthused professor droning on about the art of paint drying. Except you have to slap a friendly smile on you, sit straight, make small talk and pretend you’re intently listening. You wish cardboard cutouts were a thing, so you could just slap a picture of yourself in your seat instead of having to deal with it. But the entire ordeal keeps your mind from wandering about last night. There’s something about pretending that you’re fine that makes you feel fine after a while. Like you’ve tricked your own self into being okay. You’re even anxious once it’s over. Once the quiet has settled back in. Many of the guests leave, viscounts and countesses bidding their farewells from the cathedral and getting into their carriages. After you’ve sent off Lady Devon and you’re free of her scrutiny, you quickly turn around to find Jungkook and get out of here. The last thing you want is to run into Taehyung right now. You don’t know if you’ll be able to manage your reactions, control your expressions. But on your way back, your attention is taken by an elderly priestess dressed in white robes with a cane, hobbling around. Her hands are outstretched and she bats the air. She’s blind. “Excuse me, do you need help?” “Oh, yes, please, that would be wonderful.” She smiles and the tens of wrinkles on her face crease. The old lady reminds you of your grandma and the corner of your mouth quirks. You take her hand and place it on your arm, guiding her. “I’m usually not so clumsy but I lost my way and had to re-orientate myself. You can just bring me into the side house, it should be on the West side of the cathedral grounds.” You look around and spot it around the building. “It’s this way.” “Are you here for the ceremony?” “Yes, I am.” “How nice, Emelisse will make a fine Head Priestess. Her holy magic is quite powerful.” You hum and get to the smaller building within two minutes. The doors are already open, so you peek inside to see if anyone’s there to take the old lady, but there’s no one. “We’re here.” The Priestess reaches out and grabs the door frame. She smiles and gets up the steps herself, but not before turning around. “Thank you. Not many people would personally aid me in this day and age, and for that I’m thankful.” “It’s not a problem.” It’s been a long time since you’ve been able to speak so casually to someone. But it’s relaxing to forget about your titles. You don’t have to be the Crown Prince’s Fiancée. The future Queen. Or the heir of the Devereux house. You’re just Anastasia. Y/N. A mix of both that makes you you. “Would you be willing to hear an old secret in exchange for helping me?” “Uhhhhh…..” You glance over your shoulder. There’s no palace guards or Jungkook in sight. You really don’t want to stick around for too long. But you remember your grandma got pretty lonely towards the end of her life and was willing to talk to door-to-door salesmen for a good hour or two until they wanted to run away and blacklist the house from their list. Bless her heart. You decide to indulge the old woman, so you go along with it. “Sure.” “I once knew a woman, a kind but poor woman. She was with child,” her voice croaks and you lean in closer, realizing it’s juicy gossip and it sparks intrigue. “The father of that unborn child wasn’t very happy to know that child was coming into existence, so she, worried, came to see her fortune and her child’s on the eve of the Solar Festival.” The old Priestess holds the handle of her cane with both hands, placed in the middle of her body. She faces the sky, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her skin as she continues the story. “She came to this cathedral and they told her about doom and her child’s inevitable doom. Desperate and heartbroken, she begged to find a way to deviate from such a fate. She wanted to do anything she could to change the predetermined destiny of her unborn child.” Your brows furrow. You begin to wonder why she’s telling you this. “And?” “She did a ritual of dark magic to search for a soul that would protect her son.” The old woman shakes her head. “She defied the laws of destiny itself without knowing the pain it would cause.” “But through sheer will, she broke it!” The Priestess smiles, her voice having been a murmur drawing you in. “She found a fitting soul and that soul was sent to another dimension before this one to learn about what was to come, so that they could protect her son.” You stagger back. Breath caught in your throat. Blood draining from your face. There’s no way. It can’t be. But everything aligns. It matches perfectly. “W-What happened next?” The woman hums a low note and you realize too late that she’s the former Head Priestess, the one who had just stepped down. “I’m not quite sure what the ending to that story is since that soul wrapped in dark magic is standing right in front of me.” The former Head Priestess smiles gently and turns around, entering inside her abode. She leaves you standing rooted to the ground on your own as it dawns upon you — It was all on purpose. Being reborn into this world. Having memories of your past life. Being burdened with the knowledge of what fates there are, what the future holds. All along, it was to serve your purpose: to protect Taehyung. Your destiny was entangled with him even before this lifetime. But you’ve already failed. You let his mother die. And now his own time is running out. You turn around. The urge to see him overwhelms your very being. You have to tell him how you really feel. You’re not just Anastasia. You’re Y/N. And you won’t allow the original storyline to confine your choices anymore. None of this was an accident. You weren’t messing anything up. None of your actions, your feelings or his are wrong. Nothing was a mistake. You’ll find a way to save Taehyung, to be with him. You have to. In the south courtyard of the cathedral, by sheer coincidence and coincidence only, you see him there. Of all the places of these vast grounds where he could be, you still found him. “Taehyung!” You call out to him and he turns at the sound of your voice. But then your smile falls. Your feet slow. By coincidence, an arrow soars towards him, slicing through the air. You shout at the top of your lungs and Taehung whips his head around. The tip of the arrow freezes an inch away from his nose and clatters to the ground through his magic. But then five more arrows splits the sky and flies towards him. Taehyung dodges, stops another, but one catches him in the arm. He sharply inhales. A scream of his name tears from your throat. Taehyung winces and rips the shaft of the arrow out of his skin. He looks at the tip before throwing it away. He can feel the poison spreading in his veins, bleeding inside of his body. It inhibits his magic and before he can yell at you to get away, another arrow spirals in the horizon. He shuts his eyes. Taehyung feels an impact. But the pain never comes. His eyes shoot open, brows knitting together and his mouth draws open when he sees you. Your arms have wrapped around his body in a warm embrace, shielding him away, protecting him like you were meant to. The end of the arrow has pierced into your shoulder. But you can’t feel it. Taehyung shouts your name and you collapse. He holds your body in his arms, cradling your head against his shoulder as he screams from the pit of his stomach for help. And you watch him through foggy eyes, a smile gracing your lips. You’re glad he’s not hurt. Your hand slowly lifts to caress his cheek and he looks at you. “I….fi..nally came….on time, Tae...hyung.”

#bts fanfic #taehyung fanfic #taehyung x y/n #taehyung angst #taehyung x reader #taehyung scenario #OOOOOoooh #ONLY THE FINALE'S LEFT!

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fortune-fool02 · 4 years ago

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After the End

Yandere Heaven Ascended Dio x female reader

Requested by: anonymous

“Can I request yandere heaven ascended dio going back through the canon timeline to find what happened to his s/o after his defeat. Turns out they were pregnant with his child and taken in and given a home with/by Johnathan -ever the gentleman-”

Warning: Yandere, bit of angst, bit of fluff

I am so happy to get a Heave Ascended Dio request! Thank you!

Please enjoy.

No. No, no, no. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Definitely wrong. This was all that passed Dio’s lips as he searched the thousands upon thousands of threads along the tapestry, each one a different reality. And somewhere among them was the reality he was searching for.

After his supposed defeat against Jonathan at Windknight’s Lot, when his body had been reduced to ash and dust from that vile Hamon that JoJo had been training with, it was the last time that Dio saw his beloved [Name]. The two, despite the path he had chosen, had grown close to one another before his discovery of the Stone Mask. So much so that she had made her way into his heart and left an imprint there that has never faded.

He adored her. Her heartwarming compassion. Her beautiful appearance. Everything about her was perfect in his eyes, it was as if they were made for one another. He just could not get enough of her, yet, sadly he never had the chance to offer her the same incredible powers that the Stone Mask had passed upon him. From that moment on, he had very little contact with [Name] due to her being in protection of Jonathan and those other pathetic allies of his.

If the boat had not exploded and after claiming Jonathan’s body as his own, Dio would have gone back for her. Yet, sadly, Fate did not wish for them to be reunited, as when he finally returned to this world, over a century had passed and his beloved [Name] was no more. His heart had shattered when he discovered this.

Even now, knowing that she is no longer by his side made his heart clench with sorrow. And thus, leading Dio to do this current activity of searching the difference realities for his. He wanted to know what happened to her. He wanted to know how she coped without him being there, the [Hair colour] woman must have been lost without him.

He trailed down more of the realities, picking out the small details to pinpoint the correct one and finally found it among the spiderweb of threads. His fingers grabbed hold of the thread and pried it open, revealing another area within it, as if he had drawn the curtains of a window. The scene before him was all too familiar, the scorching burn of Hamon surging through his rapidly disintegrating body as he fell from the balcony of the castle he had claimed as his own in Windknight’s Lot. The battle was indeed ferocious, both he and Jonathan countering and outwitting one another yet it was Jonathan who rose the victor of it.

It was a moment but not the one he was searching for, it wasn’t him nor Jonathan he was searching for. It was [Name]. His beloved. It took a bit of manoeuvring of the scene but he was able to have it focused on her. The sorrow that carved her soft features at his “demise” plucked at his heart. Despite what he had become, her heart still beated for him, and he couldn’t have asked for a better partner than her.

He watched as [Name] aided with that woman, Erina, to help Jonathan and the others recover. Such a kind soul, always putting others before herself. Funny, Heaven didn’t seem so without her by his side. Of all the stars in the universe, and all those beyond it, not one of them compared to his [Name]. He dreamed of her by his side, in his arms, with him again.

“[Name], are you alright? You look unwell.” The sound of Erina’s voice sprinkled with concern caught Dio’s attention, pulling him back to his senses as he observed this. [Name] and Erina were both in a room, sitting together. [Name]’s complexion baring a paleness to it that was not natural. Concern tugged at him, she wasn’t sick, was she? Illness hadn’t claimed her too soon, did it?

[Name] waved her hand a little, the other resting lightly on her stomach, “It is nothing, Erina. Just a little illness, I will be fine.” The [Hair colour] woman tried to brush off her friend’s concern and calm her but Erina -and Dio- could see through her. Erina gave her that look that showed she didn’t believe her and [Name] sighed softly. Her hand still resting on her stomach, her [Eye colour] eyes looking at Erina. Something unspoken went between the two females as Erina’s eyes widened slightly, shock painting her face.

“You’re...?” Her voice was low, coated in disbelief, and [Name] nodded slowly. She was suddenly wrapped in a hug by the blonde woman, careful not to hug too tightly and avoided her abdomen. Why? Wait... It clicked in Dio’s head at that. [Name] was pregnant. She was pregnant with his child. A wave washed through Dio at this, [Name] was carrying his child, his bloodline.

He had no idea. He had spent an intimate night with her before Jonathan had discovered his plans of poisoning his father, and everything after that was a whirlwind of chaos from his attempted arrest to the burning of the Joestar manor to everything in Windknight’s Lot. And among all this, Dio was unaware of [Name] carrying his child. Everything seemed odd, now knowing that she bared his child without him being there felt like, in a sense of way, that he had betrayed her.

Shaking his head a little, the God-like being continued to watch the scene, his curiosity clutched more than ever. What became of his child? And [Name]? Dio leaned back a little and followed the thread further down the line and then continued to observe.

In this one, Jonathan was speaking with [Name]. The two were alone in the study of Jonathan and Erina’s new home. Now, her pregnancy was more visible with the baby bump beginning to show more. Evidence of the life growing inside of her.

“Erina has told me the news, I wanted to congratulate you.” Jonathan’s lips were lifted into a soft, warm smile which [Name] mirrored politely. Those two were always good friends but neither of them stepped over any lines, aware the other was committed to someone else and having no feelings beyond friendship to one another.

“And I can assume the father was...?” They both knew exactly who the father was and she nodded still, answering the question.

“Dio, yes.” Sorrow stitched into her words at the mention of him, a sense of longing in her [Eye colour] eyes, the kind one had when they lost something special to them. Jonathan rested his hand on her shoulder, a comforting gesture.

“I wish to help you in any way I can, [Name]. You are a dear friend to me, you always have been.” He said, earning a small smile from her at that. “And so, I am going to have a room set up for you here, so we can help you with your baby.” [Eye colour] eyes widened at that. Had Jonathan really just said that? He would help her with the child? With Dio gone, [Name] had no one else to turn to. Her parents had passed some years ago, leaving her alone.

There was that fear that whispered in her head that, now with Dio gone, she would be unable to support herself and her baby. But yet, here Jonathan was, offering her help and support. The man was a Saint, he had to be. While her heart would always belong to Dio, despite all he had done, she will always be thankful to Jonathan for all he had done for her.

And nor could Dio. The man he respected aided his beloved in her time of need. Rather than turn her away, he accepted her with open arms, her and her child. The threads told Dio all he wished to know, that she gave birth to a healthy child. A boy who, once he reached his child years, shared a striking resemblance to Dio’s own child years. Though instead of sharp, amber eyes that pierced through your soul, he had soft, [Eye colour] eyes that emitted warmth and comfort, just like his mother’s.

[Son’s Name] may have looked like his father but he inherited much from his mother, everything from her warm gaze to her compassion. He was strong and determined, much like his father, and refused to be pushed around. To stand here and watch the son he didn’t know he had grow into a fine young man was strange to Dio. With the power he now possessed, able to rip open the fabric of he universe itself to his wishes, he could watch this as often as he pleased. But that was just a window view, and like many windows, it could be opened.

But was that worth the disruption it would cause? To intervene in such a manner would cause a shock-wave effect for other realities, as well as the base reality itself. But to be with [Name] again, to hold her close again.

That was well than worth the risk.

#dio #dio brando #jojo bizarre adventure #dio x reader #dio brando x reader #jojo bizzare adventure x reader #jojo #jojo x reader #stardust crusaders #dio stardust crusaders #eyes of heaven #jojo eyes of heaven #heaven ascension dio #heaven asended dio #yandere

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ariainstars · 4 years ago

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Star Wars, the Last 20 Years or Can We Please Try to Stop the Blame Train?

I would like to touch a subject that’s starting to grate on my nerves a little.

Anyone here knows that I disliked The Rise of Skywalker heartily. And I’m not the only person here or elsewhere who tore it to shreds. But I am reading (again) over and over why and how JJ Abrams, Chris Terrio, Kathleen Kennedy and Co. made this mess. Instead of searching for culprits, this time I would like to point out a few things.

I. Star Wars Prequels

Jake Lloyd, Ahmed Best and Hayden Christensen had to endure awful harassment in their time: the audience largely vented their frustration on them because when the prequels hit theatres, they did not get the Star Wars they had wanted. Politics are a dry subject, and young Anakin and the Jedi Council were all too human to be liked by fans who expect coolness in a hero more than everything else; which is probably why Darth Maul is a huge favorite although we hardly learn anything about him and he says almost nothing. Ditto Obi-Wan although he is clearly not suited to train Anakin and it’s him who maims him and leaves him to burn in the lava. (Until I saw the film, I had always assumed Palpatine had tortured Anakin to push him to the Dark Side.)

The prequels’ messages in general were not liked: the Jedi were not perfectly wise and cool wizards, the Old Republic was stagnant, Anakin was a hot-headed, frustrated young man desperate to save his wife and unborn children. The films do not want to excuse what he did; however they portray him not as a monster but as a human being who was under an almost unendurable pressure for years and years until he finally snapped.

These messages may not be “cool”, but they were realistic and most of all, humane. Portraying the Jedi as well as Anakin as powerful, flawless heroes and the old Republic as a just, prosperous and balanced place would have meant undermining a central theme of the original trilogy: the former generation could not have been all that powerful and wise, else the collapse of their world and the failure of their convictions would not have happened in the first place. It is a sore point, but still twenty years later Obi-Wan and Yoda denied that Vader was human and expected Luke to commit patricide.

All of this goes to show that the Jedi’s moral standard was flawed and their attitude not rooted in compassion and pacifism the way they claimed. In the end, what they cared about was winning, no matter the cost. In this, they were no better than the Sith.

~~~more under the cut~~~

II. Star Wars Sequels

J.J. Abrams, Kathleen Kennedy, Bob Iger and company were the ones who introduced the Star Wars sequel trilogy and with it its themes, characters, setting etc. to us in the first place: I think we should give them credit where it’s due. Rian Johnson made a very beautiful second chapter with The Last Jedi, but he did pick up where the others had left.

Kelly Marie Tran made experiences similar to Jake Lloyds or Hayden Christensen’s when The Last Jedi was hit theatres. She was disliked for not being “Star-Wars-y” enough, chubby and lively instead of wiry and spitfire, and also taking a lot of screen time while many fans were impatiently waiting for some grand scenes from Luke and / or Leia.

That Episode VIII, the central and most important one, was called “The Last Jedi” cannot be overstated. Luke was literally alone with the heavy task of rebuilding a religious order that was gone and destroyed long before he even learned about it, and at the same time he had to patch together his own family and atone for his father’s sins. This is a crushing burden for anyone to carry. It was important both for Rey and for the audience to meet Luke to see that he was a good man, but still just a man.

When Luke spoke openly to Rey about the failure of the Jedi Order, it was the first time he ever spoke about it that we know of; this wisdom he obviously acquired only after his nephew’s fall to the Dark Side. Luke has understood that the ways of the Jedi were wrong; but he does not know a better alternative. Force users are still born all over the galaxy, and they have to learn to use their powers - only how? Again, Luke is not to blame. How is he to know, when the Jedi of the Old Republic had lost sight of Balance in the Force for so long that they didn’t know what it actually meant anymore?

Same goes for Leia, the princess without a realm, who tried to rebuild the Republic after the galaxy had been terrorized by the Empire and devastated by war for many years. She assuredly did her best, but she was only human. That she failed her son is of course shocking, but after the horror she had to endure at the hands of her own father it is not surprising that she would be terrified of her son possibly going the same way. Ben, like Anakin, was crushed under a legacy and responsibility that was by far too heavy for him. The tragedy of his life and the disruption - and in the end, obliteration - of his family was another proof for the failure of the ways of the Jedi.

All of these lessons until now were not learned from. But let’s be honest: how many of us come from dysfunctional families? If we do, was getting away from them enough to heal the wounds of the past? Did we find out what to give our children on their way in life, or did we fail them because we had not elaborated the past enough to make way for a better future? Such problems are very common, and to heal them is complicated and takes time. A “happy ending” e.g. in form of finding a new family is not enough, on the contrary, it can lead to wanting to leave the past behind, leaving wounds unhealed that will fester their way through our lives again, sooner or later. Star Wars always was an allegory of the human mind, even if deeply cloaked in symbolism. The saga also abundantly takes inspiration from the Bible, and I think it’s not coincidentally said there that the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children.

As fans, we would have wanted to see films that cemented the Jedi as guardians of the galaxy, with the Skywalker family right at the center. Which in itself is impossible because Jedi are supposed to remain unattached, making the mere idea of a Jedi having a family absurd. If the prequels told us that the Jedi were flawed, the sequels tore down the myth of the Skywalker family. And both trilogies showed that you can’t be a Skywalker and / or a Jedi / Force user and have attachments and a happy family of your own at the same time. At least, not until now.

III. Film production

Many fans of old complained because the sequel trilogy implied that the “happy ending” of the original trilogy’s heroes had not been so happy after all and that after having made peace for the galaxy, they had failed to keep it that way. Other viewers however liked the new trilogy and new characters right away and began to root for them. But they, too, jumped on the blame train when the trilogy had ended: expectations were not met, and now director, producers, script writers, cutters etc. are faulted all over again.

The first person coming up with the idea of Han’s and Leia’s only child turning to the Dark Side was Lucas himself. It always was a main theme of the saga that war separates people who actually belong together, like family, couples or close friends; that is not played for mere drama, but because it emphasizes the absurdity of war.

We as the audience do not know how production went - it is very possible that Lucas approved the general storyline, and there is always a whole team on board. It is not easy to purchase such a large and immensely popular franchise; it was to be expected that if things went not the way the audience expected, the Disney studios would be blamed harshly for having “ruined Star Wars”. With the prequels, at least Lucas was still at the helm; it was conceded that maybe he had lost his magic touch with storytelling, but certainly not that he was trying deliberately to ruin his own creation. And the fans who could not praise the Disney studios enough after The Last Jedi came out, now blame them over and over.

The Disney studios have long-term politics to consider and contracts to observe, and we don’t know their contents. We have every right to be disappointed, but I think it’s not fair to blame one or a particular group of persons who are trying their best to satisfy as many viewers as possible. If they simply wanted to satisfy the average dudebro who sees nothing but clichés, two-dimensional characters and Good against Evil - then why did they allow The Last Jedi to be produced in the first place? The studios obviously are aware that there are fans out there who are ready to look deeper in the saga’s themes, who wish to see the Force coming to Balance, who value family, friendship and love over “victory at any cost”, and who do not place the Jedi on some kind of pedestal.

In a sense, The Rise of Skywalker seems like a bow before The Last Jedi: the weakest chapter of the saga followed one of its strongest. Maybe the authors were aware that equaling or even topping what Rian Johnson had created would be next to impossible, so they patched up the open threads of The Force Awakens together with some fan service hoping to be out of the business as quickly as possible.

In retrospect, the infamous podcast with Charles Soule might also be tell-tale: Soule obviously is not elbows-deep in the saga and largely ignores its subtext. Since his The Rise of Kylo Ren comics are quite well-made, I assume that the general storyline did not stem from his own creativity and that he only carried out what he had been advised to do. The production of the whole sequel trilogy may have happened in a similar way. I am not excusing the poor choices of The Rise of Skywalker; merely considering that one or a few persons cannot be blamed in a studio that has thousands of creative minds on board.

I am still hoping for the next trilogy to finally bring Balance to the galaxy, and also into the fandom. Rian Johnson had negotiated the rights for the next trilogy along with The Last Jedi; I assume it is very possible that there was a clause about intellectual property saying that only he would continue Episode VIII’s topics, nobody else. This would at least be an explanation, given the embarrassing, jumbled mess that Episode IX was.

The overall title of the saga assuredly never wanted to inspire the audience to start online wars attacking the studios or the actors or other fans out of the conviction of being entitled to blame someone else’s worldview. The saga’s message is compassion. Both George Lucas and the Disney studios are telling us their story; the idea and the rights do not belong to us. Harping on “whose fault” it allegedly is won’t bring us anywhere; what we can do is make the studios understand that we’re not too stupid not to understand the subtext, the symbolism and metaphysics of the saga beyond the action story. If they listened to the Last Jedi haters, in all fairness they are bound to listen to us, too. 😊

IV. Will Ben’s story continue?

My husband already warned me years ago that Ben most probably wouldn’t survive, or at least not get a happy ending. As Kylo Ren he had already been the head of a criminal organization for six years at the start of The Force Awakens, but all of that perhaps could still have been condoned within the scope of war. It was the very personal and intentional act of patricide, the killing of an unarmed, forgiving man, who turned him into a damned person. And after the deed, Ben was aware of it. He knew there was no way out for him, he had gone too far.

Many members of the audience did not understand that Kylo / Ben is not an out-and-out villain and that this narrative ultimately was about his redemption. Bringing him back to the Resistance after the Exegol battle alive and by Rey’s side would not have been accepted; how was Rey to explain everything when she hardly understood it herself? How would the audience have reacted to the former head of a criminal organization, a patricide, suddenly standing out as a hero? Remember how in Return of the Jedi Luke asked Vader to come away with him. Now suppose Vader had complied? It would have seemed (and been) sheer madness. Nobody would have believed neither father nor son that the terror of the galaxy had had a sudden turn of heart. Nobody knew that he was Luke’s father; Luke himself did not know Anakin’s backstory; nobody knew what had transpired between Luke and Vader so far. Yes, Ben was young and healthy, but he still had terrorized the galaxy for years and killed his own father. He knew himself that he was damned and could not go back to normality, as Vader did.

Rey was coded as the heroine: narratively, the sequel trilogy was her story. Ben couldn’t become the hero, with or without her, at the very last moment. She usurped power like her grandfather in his time, the Skywalker family was obliterated the way the Jedi were, she takes over another mantle (Skywalker) the way Palpatine did (becoming the Emperor). Balance in the Force never was truly in the cards, it was only vaguely hinted at in The Last Jedi by the Force mosaic in the Ahch-To temple. Balance is a complex and difficult subject; it would have been extremely difficult to develop it in the sequel trilogy together with introducing the new characters and giving the old ones closure.

However: if Ben is brought back in the next trilogy, his sacrifice for Rey will have been his atonement. If his role this time is not that of the villain but of the hero, it would reverse Anakin’s path and make clear that he no longer is the same man. Vader was redeemed, not rehabilitated. His grandson might still have the chance to go that way.

- Luke had promised Rey a third lesson, and it happened. He also had promised Ben to “see him around”, which has not taken place yet.

- On Tatooine, Rey watches the twin suns setting, same as Luke before he met the other half of his soul (his twin sister) again.

- The studios had said that the sequels would be “very much like the prequels”; the prequels were a tragedy where the Dark Side (Palpatine) won that was followed by a fairy tale where the Light Side won.

- The Skywalker saga is closed, so if Ben comes back it would be justified by his being a Solo, i.e. the story of his own family and not his grandfather’s.

- Given the parallels with Beauty and the Beast, the Beast died before the broken spell brought him back, making him a wholly new person - his past identity, purged and redeemed.

- George Lucas repeatedly said that the prequels and the classics belong together as one narrative, with Anakin Skywalker at its center. First news of the next trilogy came up with The Last Jedi. Since there are strong parallels between Ben and his grandfather, we may assume that this six-chapter instalment will be his; Anakin also was left for dead but came back with a wholly different role and name.

- When Anakin was reborn as Darth Vader, he “rose” slowly from the ground, clad in his black armor. Ben fell to the ground abruptly and shed his black clothes, disappearing. This could be another clue. (It was also already speculated that Leia’s body dissolved exactly in this moment because she gave her life-force to her son for him to have another chance to live. Both Han and Luke had done what they could to atone for their remorse towards Ben; this might be her turn.)

- Much as I love Luke Skywalker, I can understand that Lucas did not see him as the saga’s protagonist. The overall arch is not so much about Luke’s heroism than about Anakin’s redemption and atonement. It is unusual because we expect the story’s “hero” to be the one who kills the Bad Guy; and indeed Anakin is, because he kills Palpatine in the end, the twist being that technically he is also a villain though not the archvillain.

- Ben had promised Anakin he would finish what he started. Anakin had been meant to bring Balance to the Force, and he had started a family. Until now, Ben did neither.

- If Ben and Rey are a dyad, i.e. one soul in two bodies, then Rey is in urgent need of her soulmate for her future tasks. She has her friends of course, but none of them gets her the way he did.

So, I still see reason to hope for a continuation, and, hopefully, satisfying conclusion of The Last Jedi’s themes.

Film production: on a side note…

In the Nineties, Kirk Wise and Gary Trousdale were the directors both of Beauty and the Beast and Atlantis: two more different stories are hardly imaginable with regard to everything - drawing style, setting, characters, development, music etc. This outcome can’t have been only due to the director’s choices, there must have been a wholly different idea behind both films right from the beginning. Just saying.

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samwrights · 5 years ago

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Spider’s Web

So for those of you who don’t have me on AO3, I have an Oikawa/OC/Iwa story up on there and I REALLY want to make it into a poly relationship, that’s just not the direction for that particular story. That being said, I’m most likely going to pull a lot of inspiration from there. However, if you have my AO3 account and are reading Proper Dose, please please please don’t spoil any of it for anyone else. Things that haven’t been posted on there (namely the OCs relationship to Oikawa) is going to be included here.

Enough rambling.

Edit: I am going to FIGHT the tumblr text post editor that WOULD NOT save every time I went back to format this.

Warnings: language and NSFW!

Nobody understood the dynamic, the gall, you had dating both Iwaizumi Hajime and Oikawa Tōru. That was okay, it wasn’t anybody else business but the three of your own.

It started out in your guys’ second year of high school. You had class with Iwa for the last two years and would eventually move onto the third together as well—many thought he was a shallow piece of shit, Oikawa included, when they learned that the Seijoh ace was dating the captain of the cheerleading team, let alone top of their class. Aoba Johsai knew you as nothing more than that.

Iwaizumi knows better.

He knows the long, hard hours you put into your sport; the literal blood, sweat, and tears. He knew the struggles you faced with home life and your parents thinking your “sport” was a complete waste of time, regardless of the fresh bruises and cuts you came home with every day, they made sure to tell you as such. And he knew you took everything out on yourself — the frustration of constantly trying to make your family happy while struggling to do so for yourself — never wanting to take refuge with another person, until he came along.

To him, it seemed almost natural to be with you—you were almost Oikawa’s female counterpart and that was a love he had long swallowed and repressed. The drive, the ambition, and the self-discipline, or lack thereof, was eerily similar, too similar for Iwaizumi’s comfort. At first, anyway.

You and Oikawa didn’t get along at first. His stand-offish attitude, especially to you being cheer captain, rubbed you the wrong way. He thought you were shallow, even more so than Iwaizumi after you two started dating, and the only thing you were going to do was break Iwaizumi’s heart and he wouldn’t stand for it. However, when his ACL got torn in second year, you were the first one at his side besides the ace.

“If you’re important to Iwa, you’re important to me too,” was all you responded with when he asked why you were waiting him for the ambulance. Iwaizumi had to, unfortunately, carry out the remainder of the tournament without the captain by his side.

And so, the spider’s web began to thread.

You and Iwaizumi were only dating for a year and some change before hitting a breaking point. For your safety, he had begged for you to quit your club after colliding with another girl on your team in your third year, that you had nearly dislocated your now insufferably swollen jaw. Despite the collision, the Aoba Johsai cheer team had made it to regionals after six long years of rivalry with Shiratorizawa, but the success didn’t matter to the volleyball ace. “You’re going to get hurt, [name]!”

“But I didn’t, and I’m not fucking quitting!” Despite the care and support Iwaizumi Hajime had always given you, the two of you were at odds as the two of you and Oikawa were walking back from your prefectural qualifier held at the Sendai City Gymnasium. Oddly enough, Oikawa of all people acted as the mediator that day.

“Iwa, what do you love about [name]?” He had asked his best friend.

“Her passion, mostly. But right now—“

“So if you force her to quit the one thing she’s passionate about, is she going to be the same person?” You could have cried that day. Shit, you did cry because never in a million years did you think Oikawa Tōru would be coming to your defense, especially not about this. But he understood, better than anyone, what it meant to be completely devoted to what you do and he would be damned if the boy he loved more than anyone would take away the one thing that you cared about the most.

It didn’t make sense to anyone but Oikawa. However, he knew that if you lost the one thing that motivated you in life, you would no longer be the person that Iwaizumi loved, and that hurt the captain deeply. While Iwaizumi didn’t necessarily appreciate that Oikawa came to your defense, he understood the logic behind his reasoning. “I’m only saying this because I love you, but let her do her thing.” The captain added to his ace. Iwaizumi had no idea that he had meant it literally at the time.

Since that day, you and Oikawa became quite close. He understood a part of you that, despite the passion that Iwa had for volleyball as well, the ace just didn’t understand the dedication the both of you had. You both loved what your sport and what you did. You also both loved Iwaizumi Hajime and never had an intent to let him go.

“You know, Iwa may complain that you’re too much like me, but I think that’s why he likes you.” Oikawa had said one day when they two of you were out on a friend date. It was a regular occurrence for the two of you, considering that there were times you needed to get out and away from your parents and Iwaizumi just couldn’t be there. That was okay; he was his own person too.

“I don’t disagree with you, Oiks.” You were aware of how the volleyball captain felt for your boyfriend—you would be stupid not to notice. But it didn’t hinder your friendship with the man in the slightest; if anything, it intrigued you further. “Sometimes, I feel like he’s only with me because I’m like you.”

And so another ring to the spider’s web is added, as the couple slowly captures their unsuspecting prey.

“Okay, what the fuck is going on with you two?” Iwaizumi Hajime is pissed. It’s in the middle of the inter high preliminaries—just after Seijoh beat Karasuno. You’d gone up to congratulate the boys on their win, giving a long hug and peck on the cheek to the volleyball captain who has now become one of your best friends. It wasn’t hard, once Oikawa got over the qualities that you shared, the very same ones he hated in himself.

There were things about you that made the two of you different. For starters, you embraced freedom, something that Oikawa could never do. That freedom and liberation to be yourself so fully, so unabashedly, kind of made you a badass in his eyes, one almost equal to the object of his affections. Granted, not many other people at Aoba Johsai cared for this attitude of yours—it made you untouchable, unapproachable, like you somehow thought that you assumed yourself to be better than them. Whereas Oikawa was your opposite in that regard with everyone thinking much higher of him and yet he never felt that he was enough. In layman’s terms, Oikawa strives to reach the pinnacle, where as you sat at the top only to feel alone and isolated until Iwaizumi Hajime came along.

“Whaddya mean, Iwa?” Oikawa responds light-heartedly and the man in question knows that he’s playing around. Grinding his teeth against each other, the ace grabs the both of you before dragging you guys into the hall. He’s red with anger and you’re unsure if the capillaries in his eyes are going to burst from the pressure.

“What the fuck is going on with you two?” He repeats.

“Baby, nothing is going on—“

“You expect me to believe that when I see the way you two hold each other—“

“It’s because he can’t hold you, Haji.” Oikawa snaps his brown eyes towards your shorter frame, wondering when and why you would even consider betraying him right now, of all times. “I’m comforting him, Hajime. Win or not, he doesn’t get to be held and kissed by the person he loves, just the next best thing—his girlfriend.” The captain wants to kill you; wants to run and hide because he can’t take the intensity of the situation. It’s not exciting or thrilling like when he’s normally presented with a challenge—this is nerve wracking.

“What?” Is all the ace has to say. His olive green eyes are now locked on his best friend and the king is in checkmate. “I’ve been in love with you for years and after finally moving on you decide to say something to my girlfriend?” Oikawa wants to run. Contrary to popular belief, there is nothing he hates more than seeing Iwaizumi mad at him — genuinely, truly mad at him. It was the whole reason that Iwaizumi was the only person that could get through to him in the first place.

He becomes defensive, saying the only smart ass remark he can muster. “She’s not complaining, is she?” Wrong move, Oikawa.

“More importantly,” you interrupt before the two of them glare so hard at each other that the sexual tension overrides their rationality, “you both finally admitted to being in love with each other at some point in time.”

And then they’re quiet. Another thread in the web drops.

They lose to Karasuno and it is the end of their high school volleyball career. At this point, you aren’t sure what’s worse—the tragic end or the fact that you were granted permission to ride the bus home with them and the two of them are currently hiding their faces in your shoulders in the back row of the bus. The three of you are the last to get off after arriving at Seijoh and you stay for the meeting knowing that Iwaizumi was going to walk you home after. He didn’t need to announce it, you knew by the grip he had on your hand during the entire meeting.

The team parts ways, leaving you in the comfort of your boyfriend and your best friend. “We doing this?” You look at both of them, noticing the way they refuse to look at each other. In a sense, it makes your heart hurt because you’ve grown to love both of these boys so much. Iwaizumi, the boy who saw you for what you were underneath your prickly exterior. He knew you underneath fake smiles and even faker conversations. He knew you for you.

Then there was Oikawa. The boy that unknowingly saved you by saving yours and Iwaizumi’s relationship. The boy that, after months of misunderstanding you, knew how to make you bloom and grow into the person you were and wanted to continue being. The boy that wanted to see you flourish not only for Iwaizumi’s sake, but because the two of you helped each other grow in ways that others could not. He knew what you wanted to be, and he knew he wasn’t going to stop being a part of your life until you got there.

Saying nothing else, you grab both of their hands before taking them to a place that had become a home to the three of you. Caffe Veloce was your destination of choice this evening, figuring that talking about such sensitive subjects on school grounds wasn’t necessarily the best place to converse. It was far from foreign for you, to be holding the hands of them both. In Iwaizumi’s absence, Oikawa often held your hand when you went places together—mostly so that he could have the physical touch he often craved. Eventually, it just became a habit.

Despite the chilly, October evening air, the three of you had opted to sit outside so that nobody could eavesdrop on the conversation. After all, walls tend to reflect sound whereas the open air allows the vibrations to fade into nothing. “So, who wants to start?” You ask, as if you asking about how their day had gone rather than to talk about the underlying tension that had been eating the three of you alive for the last two months.

“Start with what—“ Iwaizumi is uncomfortable. He feels his girlfriend and his best friend of many years both staring at him, feels the way his heart his pounding in his chest like it isn’t doing its job of providing blood to his body. The thrumming in his ears is deafening.

“I love you, dummy.” That was a first for you, to hear Oikawa call him a name that’s met with bitter distaste. It’s a first, but it is a sign of growth. For Oikawa Tōru, he has always placed his best friend on some sort of pedestal, always regarding the man to god-like status and listening to his direction like gospel. At the end of the day, Iwaizumi Hajime is but a simple man. A man that the captain has been in love with for as long as he can remember.

“You can’t do this to me,” the ace simpers weakly as his resolve crumbles with a fragility foreign to him, “you know that I’ve been dating [name] for the last year—“

“And I love her too, Iwa. I wouldn’t have been able to even say this to you without her.”

“Aw,” you coo to the captain, “I love you too, Oiks.”

“This is too fucking weird.” Iwaizumi spits out, folding his arms over his chest and turning away from you both. Oikawa pretends the words don’t hurt but it’s nearly impossible to ignore the shards of his glass heart dropping from his chest into his stomach.

“Haji, just hear me out,” you say cautiously, gingerly holding one of his hands in yours, “if anyone can make this work, it’s us.”

There was pattern in the web becomes more intricate, as another spider adds webs to the loom.

The three of you graduate—Aoba Johsai, class of 2012. It’s a beautiful ceremony, but your parents never came to watch you walk. Instead, you’re filled with love from Iwaizumi and Oikawa’s family, neither of them knows your guys’ little secret. They knew you existed, Haji’s family knew you two were together and Oikawa’s knew the two of you were close friends, but they never even had the thought the complex and complicated web of your relationship existed.

After rigorous debate, the three of you settled on attending university and getting an apartment together. It’s strange, at first, like the three of you are truly seeing each for the first time in your lives. In a sense, you are, as the three of you share many firsts together. Like the first time you all sleep in your collective king size bed—the boys had given you the short lived honor of taking the space between them. After all, you were the one that brought this all together.

The first fight was probably the worst memory, yet one of the best at the same time. While fighting was normal between Oikawa and Iwaizumi, as their childhood anctics had yet to be put to rest, there was now an intricate level of intimacy that had broken free of the former and every insult hurled by the latter had been a nail in the setter’s coffin. “Haji, you need to chill out. You’re hurting Tōru’s feelings,”

“You always take his fucking side, [name], and I’m so fucking tired of it. You were my girlfriend first when he didn’t give a rat’s ass about you so why are you choosing him over me?”

“Asshat, I’m not picking a side, I’m picking our relationship over anything. And our relationship includes you, me, and dumbass so for the love of fuck, please stop actually hurting his feelings because then we lose a part of our relationship!”

“Why did you have to ruin it by calling me ‘dumbass’, babe?” Oikawa whines, the edge he was feeling from Iwaizumi’s anger tampering off with the way you handled him. One thing that Oikawa Tōru loves about you was the way you knew just what to say when it came to Iwa. It was another major distinction between the two of you. Simmering down, the former ace clenches his teeth as he claws at his scalp with his jagged fingernails.

“I’m sorry guys.” He says quietly, knowing that you’re right. At the end of the day, the most important thing was this strange, twisted relationship he’d landed in. But this relationship had you and it had Oikawa, and that was all Iwaizumi ever wanted.

The spider’s web is almost completely threaded.

The best memory overall was the very first time the three of you made love together, and it had nothing to do with the fact that there were three of you. It was the fact that three of you were so consumed and in love with each other that not a single movement felt wrong or rushed—everyone finally belonged to each other. There was no doubt of who loved whom more, an insecurity that had long gnawed at the back of your mind, which prompted the aforementioned evening.

“You guys have each other—you always have. I’m just kind of...here,” you had told them once after the two of them had returned from a movie date alone. At the time, you were curled up on the couch watching corny teen romance movies after coming home from a long day at work with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s that you’d demolished easily in the two hours you were left to your own devices.

“Honey,” Iwaizumi plopped beside you, taking the empty cup from your hand and setting it on the coffee table before pulling you into his lap with ease with his arms encircling your waist. “We have each other because we have you. Don’t ever think that you aren’t important to us too.” His words are meant to be encouraging, you know that they are, but you swear you hear little voices in your mind telling you that you were the one not cut out for this lifestyle. Knowing he’s not getting through, Oikawa rests on the arm of the couch, one leg swaying as it doesn’t quite touch the ground while his hands grasp one of yours.

“Babe, we only went without you because you were at work. We missed you the whole time,” you can sense the contradictory sentence coming, “but when you’re busy, Iwa and I take the time to explore being together too. You had a whole extra year and half of dating him—there’s things that I don’t know about him as a boyfriend that I have to learn for myself too.” Judging by the silence, Iwaizumi is worried that Oikawa had said the wrong thing even though he’s still holding you. But he couldn’t have said the wrong thing because it’s entirely true and all three of you know that.

“I love you guys.” You tuck your head underneath Hajime’s chin, simultaneously squeezing Oikawa’s hand in comfort and in search of forgiveness for your almost bull-headed attitude.

“We love you too, princess.” The former ace adds softly, his jaw moving along the crown of your head as speaks.

“Why don’t we show you how much we love you?”

The three of you being together is a clarity you’d never experienced before—truly a feeling unlike any other. The way that Hajime is tentative and rough at the same time, making sure they every millimeter of your skin is bruised and bitten with purple affection, whereas Tōru seeks to bring you reassurance with encouraging whispers while caressing your breasts. Your back is to the former captain’s chest, allowing him to nibble on your bare shoulders while he holds you down as Iwaizumi has his face between your thighs.

Had it not been so intimate, you probably would have pushed to skip all the foreplay.

But Iwa has his face between your thighs with your legs dangling off his shoulders as he’s nipping and biting at the flesh on either side of him. Each bite makes you help from sensitivity, while Oikawa does his best to pinch and tease your nipples while filling your head with loving words. “We’re gonna take real good care you,” he croons sweetly as a whimper escapes your throat.

Iwaizumi gives a tentative lick to your folds, cautiously peeling them back like a flower, as if he had never done this with you. In some capacity, you suppose that was true. Carefully, his tongue swirls around your swelling clit, taking his sweet time to coax your reaction. “Haji!” Instinctively, you press your thighs together, nearly crushing his head but the man between you likes the pain. Oikawa brings a hand gingerly underneath your jaw before his fingers dig into your skin, pulling your attention away from Iwaizumi and onto him.

“I want to feel you.” And his lips are on yours as if it were the first time you had ever kissed. While he’s still holding your chin, his tongue is laving against your slightly chapped lips, almost as if to soothe the dryness, before he slips in. You aren’t sure what’s more distracting—the strange, intimate way that Oikawa Tōru is exploring your mouth with his tongue or the fact that Iwaizumi Hajime was mirroring the exact same treatment on your cunt. Their movements are slow and steady and you’re wondering just how they know that the other is moving this cautiously.

But slow and steady and cautious has never been Iwaizumi’s style in bed, no matter how much he tried to make the moment last. For just a second, he pulls away from your lower region swabbing his middle finger around his mouth and inserting it into you without warning before his tongue comes back to join the party. Were it not for Oikawa’s mouth covering your own at the moment, you’re sure that a string of profanities would be leaving your mouth with the way Hajime’s finger is pressing and reaching for the weak spots that his tongue cannot reach.

Oikawa’s freehand travels down from pinching your nipple to threading themselves into Iwaizumi’s hair, encouraging him to bring you closer and closer to your first orgasm of the evening. The ace didn’t need to be told twice. Rather than swatting off Oikawa’s hand, Iwaizumi blindly grabs his wrist with his own free hand, pulling the setter closer so as if to signal to him that he needs to be pulled harder. Adding another finger inside of you, Iwa sets a punishing pace, entirely turned on by the burning feeling in his scalp and the muted moans of yours that his best friend was covering up.

There’s almost no rhythm to his work, or so you believe. But Iwaizumi is a meticulous man, and he would be damned if he didn’t love a woman properly. His fingers are nearly fucking you open, alternating between scissoring you and pushing on that spongy bundle of tissue that makes you want to scream, all the while your clit is being rolled between his teeth with an occasional suckle, nearly sucking the oxygen straight from your lungs. You pull away from Tōru, eyes half shut as broken cries leave your chest while you try and regain your breath. “We love you, [name],” the setter mumbles along your skin, pulling even harder at his best friend’s scalp to tell him to finish you. Iwaizumi pulls away from your warmth, his chin drenched with saliva and your juices and Oikawa swears up and down he’s never seen the man more attractive than he was in that moment.

The ace pulls his fingers from inside you before the flats of three of his fingers are wildly, furiously, rubbing at your sensitive clit because all he wants right now is to hear you scream. But you live in an apartment and have neighbors and as much as they both want to hear you beg and cry for them, Oikawa shoves three fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet. “Don’t ever think for a second that we don’t love you,” Iwaizumi grits out between his grinding teeth, his hand moving at breakneck speeds knowing you’re so goddamn close.

“Fuckfuckfuck—“ you’re chanting out around Oikawa’s fingers while his free hand migrated to languidly stroke the man bringing you to your end. That caught his attention real quick, as Iwaizumi crashed his lips onto Tōru’s. It was rough and loving at the same time, much like the ace himself. Your orgasm ripped through you like a tsunami causing you to bite down on the captain’s fingers. Whiny whimpers escape through your muffled slew of curses as Iwaizumi’s speed slows before he pulls his soaked hand away from you, Oikawa doing the same with your mouth before he pins Iwaizumi down onto the bed, overcome and overwhelmed with need. Luckily for him, you’re incapacitated at the moment, giving the boys a chance to show each other their love as well.

It’s captivating to watch, you muse internally, the way that Iwaizumi goes from manhandling you to delicately cradling every part of Oikawa that he can touch. The way their tongues are swirling together and the way they’re both stroking each other’s cocks to alleviate an ounce of pressure—it’s so intimate. It’s so goddamn beautiful. Despite Tōru claiming they were going to show you how much they loved you, this worked just as well because there’s a part of you adores the way they love each other just as much.

Like watching a fly become trapped in a spider’s, large, billowing web.

172 notes · View notes

seanfalco · 5 years ago

Note

So I had a thought for another ValdoxReader, if you want. Your repeat-Reader is a minor noble. You know who else comes from nobility? Jask. So maybe he and the reader are old friends (or even formerly arranged betrothed?) and she and Valdo run into him on the road. A jealous snark off ensues and/or Something happens and our beautiful bards have to set aside their differences for the reader's sake?

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Valdo Marx x Reader / Former lover!Jaskier x Reader Word Count: 2.5 k Rating: T Tag List: @ficsandcatsandficsandcats @nevadawolfe @magic-multicolored-miracle @wayward-dream a/n: Sorry I’ve been away for a bit, been overwhelmed with some stuff and working on some original fiction. :3 This takes place after ‘A Matter of Honor’ & I got a little carried away trying to push through this writer’s block, oops. I hope you enjoy it though. <3

Another day, another courtly party.

Upon arriving you were met with talk of another world renowned bard slated to perform that evening, much to your paramour’s chagrin and you wondered just who the mysterious performer might be.

Valdo’s sharp green eyes surreptitiously scanned each room you entered, no doubt searching for his competition, though he would never admit that he actually saw anyone as such, and you fought back a grin; squeezing his arm reassuringly. He turned to you and smiled, his expression softening, and that was when you saw him across the room, recognition flashing across your visage before you could stop it.

Valdo noticed instantly, his gaze seeking out what had caused your reaction, his warm smile twisting to a disdainful sneer.

“Ah, Jaskier,” he hissed. “So that is the other entertainment they invited. I would have thought the Noble host had better taste than that talentless wastrel who spends his time pandering to the masses.”

Arching an eyebrow at the venom dripping from Valdo’s words you glanced past him at the other bard -- the man you once knew as Julian.

“So… you know him, do you?” you asked.

“Unfortunately,” Valdo answered coolly, raising his chin to peer haughtily across the room at his rival. “From my days at Oxenfurt Academy,” he explained and you wondered how Jaskier hadn’t noticed the icy glare currently piercing his shoulder blades -- surely the hostility in your lover’s gaze would itch.

It was obvious Valdo despised Jaskier enough as it was, you could see no reason why you should disclose your own history with Julian Pankratz as well. For that would surely only fan the flames and that was not a fire you wanted to fight this evening. All you had to do was keep the two bards apart.

Simple enough, in theory.

Jaskier performed first, which seemed to mollify Valdo slightly. You heard him mutter something about him ‘getting the audience warmed up for him’ and you shook your head ruefully.

Careful to keep your expression neutral during Jaskier’s performance, you slipped your hand in Valdo’s, twining your fingers with his and pulling him off to the side for a few stolen kisses, hoping the distraction might help lighten his sour mood -- all the while wondering if omission of the truth was the same as a lie or not.

When it came time for Valdo to take the floor he brushed shoulders with Jaskier, his icy sneer a match for the other bard’s fierce glower.

Wonderful, you thought with a sigh; obviously Valdo’s disdain for Jaskier was mutual and all the more reason to keep the two apart.

Settling in to watch, your eyes followed Jaskier as he left the room and a small sigh of relief passed through your lips. Soon the large hall was filled with people dancing -- some gracefully and others rather drunkenly, for the host was far from stingy with the wine and you rose from your spot at the table to find more of said wine to refill your cup and possibly peruse the sumptuous spread of deserts.

Nearly being trampled by a spirited couple twirling across the floor, you stumbled backwards into a pair of waiting arms, catching you before you could fall. Your savior set you upright and you straightened your skirts as you distractedly thanked him, finally raising your face, your voice failing as you found yourself met by a pair of clear blue eyes you hadn’t looked into in years.

“Julian!” you exclaimed once your voice had returned and he flashed you a grin, the cheeky one you remembered all too well, which was usually accompanied by trouble.

“[Y/N], it really is you,” he replied, looking over you as if he still couldn’t quite believe it. “I caught sight of you earlier, but thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. How are you?” he asked. “You look… stunning.”

Smiling politely you waved away his compliment. “You look good yourself,” you replied, taking note of his thread of gold embroidered doublet, wondering who his tailor was and imagining Valdo in something similar.

“I’m well,” you continued, refocusing your attention on Jaskier, a genuine smile slipping through. “I’ve been traveling lately, seeing the world.”

“Oh?” he asked, surprise flitting across his boyish features. “On your own?”

“No, I have someone I’m traveling with,” you answered, somewhat enigmatically as you poured yourself a drink, your eyes searching for Valdo amidst the crowd. Luckily he was still preoccupied and hadn’t seemed to notice you speaking with his rival.

“Well, where is he? Or she? I’d love to meet the lucky person who’s managed to pull you out into the world.” Jaskier asked, glancing around as if expecting your beau to appear at your side any moment.

Choking on your wine only bought you a handful of seconds to think as you swallowed, a lame excuse springing to your lips. “Ah, he’s… around here somewhere. Perhaps I’ll introduce you later.”

Jaskier appeared a trifle disappointed, but he soon perked up again as he asked if you happened to catch any of his performance. As you caught up, you found it rather ironic that you’d nearly married a man who had run off to become a bard, only to end up in love with another bard. How different would your life have been, you wondered, if Julian hadn’t broken off your arranged betrothal to seek his adventure?

“Would you like to dance?”

“What?” Jaskier’s question pulled you out of your thoughts and you gaped at him, mouth moving soundlessly for a moment. “Oh, I dunno, uh, maybe later,” you floundered, certain that Valdo would see if you took the floor with Jaskier, even for one song.

“What, are you worried your lover will get jealous?” Jaskier asked with a laugh, flashing that rakish grin as he spread his hands.

Before you could answer, you felt an arm wrap around your waist and you jerked, glancing over to find Valdo at your side. “Jealous? Of you Pankratz? I think not.”

Jaskier’s surprised face might have been comical in any other situation but as he stared wide eyed and gaping between you and Valdo you chewed your lip.

“Am I missing something?” he asked incredulously. “[Y/N], this must be a joke, because you can’t seriously be with-with him. With Valdo Marx,” he nearly spat the name, while Valdo glared back, equally disgusted.

“I assure you, it is most certainly not a joke,” Valdo shot back, bristling. “The only joke I see here is you.”

Jaskier spluttered angrily as Valdo ignored him and turned back to you.

“[Y/N], please tell me you don’t truly know this poor excuse of a bard? ...Because it seems as if you two are already acquainted.”

“I, uh…” you hesitated, not quite meeting his eyes which flashed momentarily with betrayal. “Yes, Valdo,” you admitted, though quick to assure him it wasn’t what it looked like -- as if you were going behind his back. “I know Julian from a long time ago. We were friends as children, but I haven’t seen him for years. How was I to know that you two were… rivals?” you asked, a frustrated snap to your voice.

“Rivals? More like bitter enemies,” Jaskier grumbled under his breath, though you ignored it, keeping your eyes trained on Valdo’s.

“You… may have a point. I don’t recall ever mentioning him, nor my distaste for the drivel he peddles as music before tonight.”

“Hold on a moment,” Jaskier butted in, his eyes narrowing with mischief. “We were more than just friends, I’ll have you know. [Y/N] was my first kiss and we were very nearly married.”

“Julian!” you hissed warningly, no trace of amusement in your tone.

Valdo’s eyes hardened as his lips went taut; his arm around your waist tightening perceptively. “Not exactly something to boast of, Pankratz, as I’m assuming you were the one who broke it off, no doubt to chase your dreams of fame,” he sneered. “You are a greater fool than I thought, if you let [Y/N] go so easily.”

“Oh my Gods,” you groaned, completely fed up with the pair of them and their bickering. “You two are acting like children. Valdo,” you exclaimed, turning to the man at your side. “I have no feeling for Julian other than friendship, and Julian,” you said, next directing your attention to the other bard. “Stop antagonizing Valdo just to make him jealous! It is cruel and beneath you. I understand neither of you care much for each other and that’s fine, but in my presence at least all I ask is you be civil, like adults, for my sake.”

Giving both of them one last stern glare you slipped out of Valdo’s arm and stalked out of the hall, leaving them both quite speechless and thoroughly chastened. Without a word Valdo took off after you. Prideful as he oft was, he was loath to admit you had a point, though he knew it was true, and his pride was certainly not near as important as you were.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Jaskier cried, scrambling to catch up to Valdo, falling into step with him with a frown. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To find [Y/N] and apologize to her,” Valdo explained shortly, purposefully quickening his stride so Jaskier would have to as well if he wanted to keep up.

Jaskier’s frown deepened as he noticed, breathing beginning to labour as he worked to keep pace. “Well, I’m coming too!” he announced. “Don’t think I’m going to let you look like the mature one here,” he puffed, swinging his arms forcefully.

Valdo glanced over at him and scoffed. “Oh please, Pankratz, you will never be mature, no matter how much you age.”

“You take that back!” Jaskier gasped, blue eyes widening at the insult.

“I will not,” Valdo replied sharply.

“You--! You… rapscallion!” Jaskier cried, grasping for a suitable retort, thoroughly scandalized.

Valdo’s lip curled with amusement as he continued to look for [Y/N].

Up ahead a commotion shook the small gathered crowd, pulling Jaskier and Valdo up short. Glancing at each other curiously they proceeded to push to the front.

“What’s going on?” Jaskier asked at the same time Valdo demanded, “What’s happened?”

“Oh! Valdo Marx…” The chief servant withered visibly when he turned to see who had arrived. “I’m afraid there’s been a-an accident.” The man blanched further under Valdo’s level gaze and Jaskier hovered next to him anxiously.

“What do you mean? What sort of accident?”

“A d-disgruntled member of the kitchen staff came out wielding a large knife, raving mad and-and abducted one of the guests.”

“Which guest?” Jaskier exclaimed sharply, though he and Valdo could already guess.

“Why… the young lady that accompanied you, Valdo Marx,” the man’s voice wavered as a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. “We’ve alerted the guards, but --”

“Which way did he take her?” Valdo demanded, cutting the steward off.

“Uhh, that way,” he answered, pointing down the hall. “Deeper into the estate, but -- wait, it’s dangerous!” the man called as Valdo already turned in the direction indicated, hurrying down the hall, Jaskier right at his heels.

“Are we really doing this?” Jaskier panted, jogging now to keep up.

“I am, Pankratz,” Valdo replied, barely seeming to break a sweat. “I could care less if you tag along or not.”

“Oh please! Just admit you might need my help!”

Before Valdo could answer, the telltale sound of a struggle could be heard from the balcony up ahead and he shushed the other bard, pulling him off to the side. The two crouched down, moving closer so they could get a clear view of the madman, brandishing a long dagger and pulling [Y/N] along behind him.

“Get your hands off me!” you cried, struggling in the servant’s grip. “What do you think this is going to accomplish?”

“Shut up wench!” the man hissed, pressing the blade closer to your skin as you drew back. “I just want what’s owed me. And the ransom I’ll get for your pretty head will do just the trick. If you cooperate I won’t have to hurt you.”

“So what’s the plan?” Jaskier whispered, blue eyes flicking back and forth between [Y/N] and Valdo.

“You really want to help, Pankratz?” Valdo asked, his sharp green eyes never straying from the knife at his beloved’s throat.

“I do! I care about her too!”

Valdo thought for a moment, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. “Good, then a distraction will do nicely, I think.”

Jaskier nodded, thinking quickly. “That, I can do. Now, watch a professional at work, Marx.”

Standing and straightening his blue doublet Jaskier stepped out into the hall with a flourish, his hands spread, and an ingratiating smile on his face.

“You there, don’t come any closer!” The servant cried as soon as he spotted the bard, holding the dagger out toward Jaskier.

“Oh my, there you are,” he stalled, flashing a small smile for you. “I’ve er, come at the bequest of the uh, host to find out what it is you are after and how we might get [Y/N] back safely.”

The dagger lowered slightly as the servant obviously believed him. As Jaskier kept the man talking, you swallowed, catching movement off to your left and quickly averting your eyes, lest you alert your kidnapper. Without warning you felt Valdo slip around behind you, the glint of steel visible in his hand before the arm around your waist went slack and the dagger clattered to the ground.

Pulling you away and into his arms, you buried your face against Valdo’s chest as several guards rushed in and hauled the servant to his feet as he clutched at his side, blood running through his fingers.

Taking a shaky breath you glanced over at Jaskier who slowly approached before tilting your face up to Valdo’s.

“Are you alright, my darling? You’re not hurt in any way?”

“I’m alright now, thanks to you two,” you murmured, tracing Valdo’s jaw before reaching out to take Jaskier’s hand and squeeze it. “You know, I’m sure you’ll hate to hear this, but you two make a pretty good team. Perhaps you might translate that to your music?”

Both men recoiled at your words, eyeing each other with disgust.

“Songbird, are you quite certain you haven’t retained some sort of head injury?” Valdo asked wryly and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“No, I’m serious. You should think about it.”

“I think this may be the one and only time I agree with Valdo Marx, [Y/N]. I don’t see that happening any time soon,” Jaskier exclaimed, propping his hands on his hips, though he couldn’t quite keep the grin from his face. “I think the only time we’ll put aside our differences will be the next time you get kidnapped.”

“There will be no next time!” Valdo cried, frowning disdainfully at Jaskier, his arms tightening protectively around you.

#valdo x reader #valdo marx x reader #platonic!jaskier x reader #x reader #reader insert #the witcher fic #valdo marx imagines #reader request #magic multicolored miracle #my writing

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theskyexists · 5 years ago

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she-ra 4

the reason i stopped watching she-ra is the same reason i stopped watching the dragon prince.

the narrative doesn’t take the situation seriously. instead of leaning into the anguish of war and violence (atla, teen titans) - they make light of it. EVEN when the characters’ guardians are KILLED!!

when Angella died and they spent 2 seconds on Glimmer’s grief at the end of season 3 i was like......actually fuck this. HOW can i take any of these stakes seriously when they insist on brushing them off???

anyway just had to complain about that - especially because the start of the first ep of 4 is them joking AGAIN about something as grim as Glimmer now carrying all the responsibilities of her mother - who may i remind you IS DEAD

but catradora became canon apparently so now i have to struggle through

her aunt, her mother’s sister, is fuckin, joking about cakes, her friends are laughing at the joke. COME ON! how goddamn unrealistic and insensitive. EVEN if they wanna make a point of it - it’s silly! because the narrative PARTICIPATES in making light of the situation. if it was just the characters it would be less jarring

‘we’ll make sure this day is perfect’ WHAT? how could it EVER BE IF HER MOTHER IS FUCKING DEAD????????? AND THAT”S THE ONLY REASON SHE’S QUEEN????? ‘must be hard’ YEAH IT’S HARD - IN FACT IMPOSSIBLE. instead of pretending to be happy maybe you can show some genuine sensitivity. these people are so crazily emotionally underdeveloped my god. what age are they supposed to be? 16? 17? The problem that She-ra has (just like the dragon prince) is that there are no relevant adults. Oh sure there’s a Queen, and some Soldiers, and a Sorceress. But there isn’t a single relevant competent adult around who is concerned with running a bureaucracy or the emotional stability of children

I do like how Catra has overcome her fear of Hordak. but i think i remember being fuckin furious at her for almost destroying the whole world and hurting Scorpia and betraying Entrapta just to spite Adora. vaguely.

the rebellions problem is that they’re all extremely stupid himbos. like literally, in the whole story, only catra and shadowweaver have any smarts, while glimmer gains the ability to think during full moons on wednesdays. meanwhile everybodys is a slave to their emotions - which destroys any brain cells that shadowweaver or catra (or angella or anyone) might have managed. they could literally have killed hordak the entire time but just let him order them around because they’re so hot for acknowledgement

I’m glad Glimmer reflects my frustrations now hahahahaah

‘everyone is already acting like she doesn’t matter’ - yeah dudes, you fucking insensitive bastards

‘im supposed to take care of you glimmer’ - but unfortunately i have the emotional intelligence of a crab! FUCK!

this is another thing about this show that makes me groan. sappy quick resolutions of emotional turmoil through re-affirming the fuckin power of friendship in the first episode of the season.

also couldn’t Adora have done this she-ra stuff from the very beginning

that was badass.....miss glimmer’s other hair though. ok the emotions at that hologram and statue though...

the coolest part of she-ra for me is finding out more how the ancient systems all fit into Etheria and the She-Ras and Hordak Prime etc.

THIS IS A GOOD SPEECH. love this badass.

love Hordak getting put in his place. Love Catra realising she has power - love Hordak reaping what he sows. its unfortunate that she’s a shitty brat who JUST can’t get over her inferiority complex

if i could endlessly teleport i would do what glimmer does

also, glimmer was willing to fuckin murder catra before and she DEFINITELY will be now lol. love that for her.

why did they only introduce adora learning to transform her sword NOW ahahaha, theyve had SO MANY SCENES in which she doesnt have it and then suddenly does - and then its gone again

scorpia is the funniest and most likeable person in the whole show

they really suddenly can’t take five people on with she ra and fuckin huntara on their side??

i remember that little sadistic righteous twist in my stomach when Adora finally was like: FUCK!!!!!! YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!! Catra!!!!!!! and the stupid idiot got it

FINALLY A GLANCE AT THE PEOPLE OF ETHERIA AGAIN! i love the party sequences in this!!! the people of etheria are so beautiful! nobody ever comments on the main characters all looking plain human in contrast....

‘and i fell for it!’ yeah cos you DUMB AS BRICKS ADORA

so first they quietly take out the guards....and then literally break open the door hahaahahahahaaha

‘we forgot the bots regenerate’ - yeah cos you DUMB AS BRICKS ADORA

i just dont understand why they insist on making the main characters so DUMB ahahahahaah

Adora and Catra are great at hitting where it hurts. the difference between them is that Catra KNOWS that she’s hurting Adora - she does it deliberately.

wow that could be some pretty angsty stuff constantly leaving her to struggle on the floor while painfully electrocuted. Catra has also moved to kill Adora straight up so many times. im sure she really wants to (but it would destroy her later). But now, Adora swept something at Catra that might have actually killed her. I get Catra though, I would’t want to get beaten by some blonde, blue-eyed, glowing golden kid who always gets to win and do better. this is truly the first time Adora has moved to kill Catra......

does flatterina not have parents who’d be like: uhhhhh maybe leave the soldiering for a couple more years?

catra truly burning all her bridges. hahaha. it’s so satisfying to see her use her anger and power to truly destroy herself - because of guilt!

no other villagers were like - HMMMMMMM this random new kid is here? weird..... i didnt see that coming either.

Adora doesn’t think about what Catra might have even been doing there - cos she’s DUMB AS BRICKS

the interesting thing about this show is that they’re setting up a dichotomy. they’re treating war like a high-stakes game because they have the good side adhere to an aesthetic of ....magic. they will not make the two sides equivalent in any way - which makes questions of morality moot. the show is purely an emotional drama. the horde is an army of brainwashed kids in an industrial wasteland - they fight with tech and guns. but the good guys cannot fight with an army or tech, they fight with cleverness and magic. they’re called the ‘rebellion’ - they HAVE to be underdogs because they have to follow the script of good - even though what’s really going on is war, not a rebellion. That’s why they have a single strike team that do ‘missions’. They are presented as FUNDAMENTALLY different - on the level of identity which they cannot change lest they destroy themselves - and in that way the good guys can never become the bad guys. it is ALMOST meta. think they’re gonna do something with that at one point. i hope

also Netossa has such a super cool design.

‘everyone knows you’re needed in bright moon’ - uh. really? i dont know. some random person i’ve never seen before demands you go to meetings. so? is that important? why?

spinerella can literally FLY???????? why has she been in the background this whole time??? hahahaha military inefficiency.

there was an explosion that ripped trees apart - but bo’s alive!! honesty why didn’t they try explosive suicide bots before. they’re very lucky he was still alive to heal

‘could they be tracking she-ra?’ WHAT? isn’t the obvious suggestion - A SPY???? they just assume that the general is right hahahahaa.

i love how double trouble is so meta.

actually, why wasn’t glimmer trained as a sorcerer anyway?

glimmer is upset about her growing magic plants but not her having magic ingredients

why do they present good strategic thinking (for once) as evil influence from shadowweaver

what a fuckin badass. honestly - glad that this show finally utilised glimmer’s extremely op powers like they should be. honestly, she’s much more powerful than She-Ra.

that bit with spinerella was so contrived jfc.

‘by using me as a decoy’ adora says, pissed off. uhhhh YOU went off on your own to get smushed by fuckin bots adora. Glimmer didn’t do that to you. she just used your stupidity.

glimmer really left catra to die. hahahahaa

i like adora best when she’s on her own and being a dork

they definitely managed to foreshadow that Light Hope was evil but im glad they picked up the thread now

am i seeing this wrong or did scorpia have two mums??? but also. where the fuck are they

lolololololol because everybodys dumb as bricks and emotionally volatile they’re incredibly easy to manipulate

‘i cant risk hitting flatterina’ pffft - ALL YOUR ARROWS ARE NON-LETHAL BO. ugh i cant deal with these contrived stakes

I LOVE THIS BADASS EFFICIENT HARDCORE GLIMMER

they’re really gonna spin it like this is a bad development? fuck off. finally some grit.

‘you took things way too far’ - but she got results! dumb as bricks adora

(this may seem harsh but adora is DUMB shes so fucking DUMB!!!! and she has many good qualities (such as an almost innate sense of morality) but goddamn. i guess its good to sometimes have a show about all around dumb characters. i mean, it’s not unrealistic per se, it’s just.....weird.)

the interesting thing about these characters is that you can SEE every single one of them struggling with cognitive dissonance. thats the big story of this show. they see the world a certain way - and then when something challenges that, they fight to the death to destroy or deny or ignore that new information - to everybody’s detriment. and they can’t back down because every step they’ve taken - would turn to sins they can’t live with. it’s interesting and its also a kind of conflict that‘s frustrating if not resolved at SOME point. thats why i love this season for its characters going off the rails. adora aiming to kill catra, catra destroying her last relationships, glimmer growing more and more militant.

they’re all acting like teens - that is - highly volatile - unable to keep from provoking others or be provoked - but they ARE teens.

‘catra doesn’t care. she’ll hurt people to get her way (implied: EVEN people on her side)’ - we must remember that Scorpia was entirely fine with KILLING the trio (it was Catra that wasn’t at the time).

‘you’re a bad friend’ OH OUCH. Catra - who’s always been treated as a whipping girl by those in power - does the same to those she is in power over. But on some level she doesn’t WANT to be that. she’s just always always been rejected and take advantage of and lashed out at and abandoned by the people she considered important (shadowweaver ---- doing the same to catra that was done to her is so goddamn....it’s the story of this show. the simplicity and banality of damaging and hurting others and that carrying over to harm even more people - is the story of this show and it’s immeasurably frustrating and REALISTIC)

she still flinches at Hordak’s lashing out. but she imprints on him the exact lesson she’s trying to school herself in. If you don’t need anybody - you don’t want anyone - if nobody matters but the mission and winning - then you can’t be hurt. she wants to prove her worth - but she doesn’t realise that inherently means that she’s putting somebody in power over her - again and again and again.

mermista coming in clutch with the braincells: there’s a spy! I love how this is played as completely implausible and just Mermista nonsense (who i love learning about) - while it’s so obviously true/

i actually love Adora when she’s being serious and heroic, or a huge dork. and she has the wit to RECOGNISE good ideas. but i just don’t understand why Adora is being big b about being used as a distraction. like....why?

i love that the underside of Mermista’s sneaker has a figure. but why the fuck is a common soldier with them (flatterina) and do they really think they can interrogate the whole castle filled with some shitty guards and...what - the guerilla troops they sometimes employ? where do they even live? ah in a tent city. ok

why is the GENERAL in front line combat WITHOUT SOLDIERS???? oh wait. glimmer did that too when she was general. lolololol

i understand why Adora doesn’t trust Shadowweaver and doesn’t want her around most of all - and Glimmer getting buddy buddy with her is hurtful. but...it’s not helpful to needle glimmer about it. but dismissing the guards around shadowweaver however? stupid of Glimmer. unnecessary. ‘what has she done but help us?’ - uhhhh she kidnapped you, corrupted your powers, almost wiped Adora’s mind. I wish Adora had summed up those things instead of leaving them implied.

so perfuma and mermista come across inconsistencies in the stories - but then. forget about it? i just...... UGGHGHGHGHGHGHGH. people really aren’t this dumb are they? they’re just NOT.

‘no more secrets and doing things without us’ - that was a good speech. but like, glimmer is right - she’s surrounded by INCOMPETENT IDIOTS lolololol. but good leadership is corralling idiots, Glimmer. not going off on your own. but she’s already planted the bait about the dining room.

‘we were the only ones who knew about the plan to take back dril’ ---- THEN WHY DID YOU INTERROGATE OTHER PEOPLE AHAHAHAHAAHAHAAHA

‘stop questioning my choices, stop whining about being a decoy’ YEAH FUCKIN HELL ADORA STOP BEING SUCH A FUCKING SHIT. IS THIS REALLY ‘TAKING CARE OF GLIMMER’????

‘all you do is question my authority, it’s exhausting.’ yeah god...it really is. adora needs to fucking BACK! OFF! but im loving these fights because it brings out the grievances. Adora is right to be worried about Glimmer no longer including her in her decisions. and she makes a good point that that’s bad. She makes a good point that Shadowweaver cannot be trusted. And Glimmer makes zero good points - except that it’s been hard for her and has garnered 0.1% understanding from the people around her. Oh they were working together. BUT those were definitely real grievances.

GLIMMER CAN ALREADY DO A CONTAINMENT SPELL LIKE THAT??? godDAMN. castapella completely flunked her responsibilities to Glimmer but shadowweaver did NOT.

hmmm so Solinius was....destroyed. but like, did the people die? like....the people? that’s the important bit isn’t it? i mean, they were under the sea right?

i suppose the problem i also have is that this show will NOT hurry up. normally i love filler stuff but ...the characters are too.....cheery. too flat. their quirks are fun and funny until they’re literally character flaws.

are the horde just literally attacking civilians? jezus. the war crimes. how did shadowweaver ever expect to trick Adora when she was released into the field?

‘you can’t just keep going off on your own!’ - SHE LITERALLY SAVED THE WHOLE FUCKING TOWN. SHE’S THE QUEEN! EVERYBODY SHOULD LISTEN TO HER! lolololol

the problem with Adora’s points is that everything about their dynamics are always so nebulous. why cant glimmer keep showing up to help out? WHY??? she’s the most capable fucking soldier in the field! she’s supposed to have full fucking authority! like, Adora isn’t in the right here. the problem is that her needling is only a symptom of her worries - which is that Glimmer doesn’t trust her any more. but the needling does NOTHING but make her seem like an idiot

i do love this trope reversal here - Seahawk deliberately damselling them to let the princesses save the boys? pffft

love catra getting the consequences for her actions regarding Scorpia. You can’t keep lashing out at people and expect them to stay my dear cat.....

oooohhh Glimmer.... you’re treading close to very hurtful territory. Blaming Adora for the Rebellion failing? for things she couldn’t do anything about? stupid.

really?? you’re really gonna fucking fight-resolution BLOCK ME? are you FUCKING kidding me? edging me for the whole GODDAMN SEASON??? and finally Adora cries at Glimmer going over the line???? fuckin I HATE the narrative decisions in this stupid show I FUCKING HATE THEM FUCK THESE WRITERS GOD FUKCING DAMMIT!!! this has been the whole GODDAMN SHOW!!!!!! ARGHGHGHGHGHGH

i’ve been waiting for a fucking resolution for Adora and Catra the whole! goddamn! SHOW! NOTHING! else matters! you do the exact same for glimmer and adora and now you let it fester again??? because of some no-stakes BULLSHIT? just give me the fucking godddamn PAYOFF for watching these kids be IDIOTS.

this fight on the boat is COOL and really wonderfully animated

really? Glimmer’s response to Adora being hurt and not wanting to be TOUCHED is to be angry herself? what a fucking IDIOT. god i can’t stand this. I CAN’T STAND IT

is this how people act? do they never take a moment to breathe and think and reflect and realise their priorities and take a step back and fucking apologise?

jezus FUCKING! CHRIST!

‘no matter what glimmer thinks of me’ oh that HURTED. oh damn. that’s so relatable. it’s a way to run, it’s a way to internalise the hurt and then prove the things that hurt wrong. the one that hurt you

I know Bo is supposed to be the emotionally intelligent one but he’s also too soft. He should go up to his friends individually and ask them the sharp questions. not - ‘communicate more positively’.

I just like Adora so much better when she’s alone. Her friendships’ positive moments are always so sappy or so....like over-exaggerated, the negative moments always so fucking annoying. Alone, Adora is generally driven, tragic, and cool. the problem is perhaps that i don’t care for the constant fucking drama

god i LOVE Mara so much - she’s so beautiful. and i LOVE learning more about the Old Ones. So they were trying to study Ehteria’s magic.... but then Bright Moon and the princesses were already here. The Magic-Like systems of the Old Ones are pure tech.

wow! even Mara’s transformation is way cooler.

so why was the first one’s tech (she ra) responsive to the magic? why does Raz know about She-Ra? when she ra is first ones tech????

WAIT ONE SECOND. She-Ra is ‘magic’ ??? it’s the SWORD that’s the first one’s tech! She-Ra is Etheria’s magic ! but how if the First Ones chose Mara. Did they steal She-Ra from Etheria?

so what im getting is that. the Old Ones colonised Etheria. Etheria has magic, and when Mara was chosen they made that girl an elite soldier - giving her a first one’s tech sword so she could ‘control’ Etheria’s magic. Then Mara was told to study the magic of Etheria - the ship implying that she’d not been on the planet before. then they created a Heart of Etheria project - which will probably turn the magic into a weapon. this was going to be used against Hordak Prime, im sure. I mean, Mara saved Etheria, but she did doom the rest of the universe to...extinction.... like, judging from Hordak’s strategy, Hordak Prime just literally exterminates planets and repopulates them with his clones....

But why would the planet choose a girl from amongst the colonisers - twice?

OOOHHH that anguished scream. i love anguished screams

why dont they put fucking safety belts in these ships. it’s not like the ship didn’t survive. only Mara got splatted (i guess)

also i love Mara. but damn Adora just got some more shit on her plate. why the fuck was she pushed through a portal again? for a She-Ra chain reaction?

I love madame Raz.

So they didn’t explicitly use it against Hordak Prime. and it wouldn’t have destroyed Etheria back then but it will now...

guh this showmakes it so hard to enjoy catra’s pain.

well they did finally have a good talk about it. I have to say, Glimmer is making good strategic sense - it’s just that this show only rewards harebrained schemes

Catra having a crazy panic attack cos she can’t find Scorpia and she’s completely lost and she knows its her fault. kinda love that for her. my heart

my dear Glimmer, theres a difference between absence of trust and absence of agreement.

they’re bringing king micah back just when angella is dead? oh fuckin lol

the horde....exiled micah? they exiled Micah instead of killing him???

why do they ALWAYS interrupt important conversations? i hate that shit. it’s cheap. it’s unsatisfying.

now THIS is what im here for - that unstoppable WILL!! john gonzalez is right - we watch stories for characters overcomign obstacles. writing, is creating the obstacle course. .....what does that say about me and my life....hmmm.

‘light hope told me everything i need to know’ - uhhh no she didn’t. she didn’t tell you how to harness the energy at all. ugh

how the fuck did double trouble escape. seems to me that they didn’t actually. they were let go....

it’s always so stupid when people try to tell other people: oh no you’ve got no plan - this is too risky! when that’s NEVER a problem

Glimmer is going to activate the weapon just in time for Hordak Prime to use it. And naturally she misses the return of her dad. fuck this

they’re gonna have Hordak and Catra fight? hmm

Double Trouble is right - this IS good for her - and it IS Catra - except for Shadowweaver’s case - she was an abusive bitch

I love Scorpia’s new cool fight music and also glowy eyes

is glimmer going to throw herself into lava??

the unfortunate thing is that Hordak Prime is right on the doorstep and he took over the whole universe or whatever. so they could probably have used that weapon. i mean the Old Ones must have seen something coming. there must be a reason they’re all GONE maybe????

why did Adora assume that all those stars would be destroyed?

THE ANIMATION ON THAT FINAL STUFF WAS INCREDIBLE AND EPIC

how the fukc are they going to beat Horde Prime lolololol.

i guess Glimmer really shouldn’t have done that. but at least she was in time to bond with Catra.

#my stuff #vidi #she ra

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amorecleverdevil · 5 years ago

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@shiftingsupport: 1 and 13? ↪︎ ask the mun about writing. [ 𝔄𝔠𝔠𝔢𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 ]

𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩. Oh hell yeh! Question time! I threw your answers down below a lil read more because I’m what the kids like to call?? A rambler.

1). What does your writing process look like?

A mess?? Lmao nah;;; So, honestly it depends on what I’m writing, how long I’m going to be continuing the story revolving around it, and what my current mood is. In general, I am a person who has a hard time sticking to one particular style or approach because I just get bored of it a lot. I find it a lot of fun to come at writing in many different ways and I’ve found that it’s helped me really explore what I do and don’t like for each genre or character that I attempt to tackle.

That being said, though, I tend to have at least a couple consistencies. Basically, when I’m writing replies, the most important questions I ask myself tend to be;

What is my character’s reaction to what just happened?

What have I written that actively engages the other writer and/or their character?

Have I actually described the scene or merely provided dialogue?

Will this thread carry for at least two more replies and, if not, should I end it or can I add something to make it keep going?

I’ll go ahead and give you some examples using writing that I’ve previously written to paint what I mean with each of them. For the first point, that’s the one that most people I’ve seen tend to have the best grip on, obviously. People who do roleplay tend to really know their own characters and can write them really compellingly. Most of the time, this part of the writing comes from the other player setting up a question or scenario and my character basically engaging with it. Typically, reactions tend to be the first thing I’ll actually be the first thing I put into a reply and I think that they are really important to keeping a fluid transition from one character to the next.

In the above example, you can kinda see what I’m talking about. Basically, Izzy made Gwen say something and Billy here gave a very basic response to it. Most of the time, I find dialogue or verbal responses are the best because usually the other character should pick up on them, but I like mixing in physical reactions and more internal monologues alongside those verbal responses. Sometimes, if two characters are in tune enough with each other, it actually can be really rad to get away with only physical reactions and internal dialogues, but that often requires a certain connection and history between characters to make accurate conclusions about what might be going through their head. Here is a great example between one of my mains and Nay from my old blog.

Basically, Nay notices that Oswald is probably getting emotional over the fact they’re standing in front of this grave and looks down to get a better idea of who Oswald is getting so upset over. Oswald then follows his line of sight to the headstones, themselves. It’s a more sad scene, so not only is the lack of actual verbal responses very fun to play with, it’s also much more appropriate for the tone of the thread. This is something I love to try and play with a lot, but I avoid doing it as much with people who I have not already threaded with a few times.

After that, I then have to try to actively engage the other writer or create an opportunity for them to add to the thread as well. Especially when writing with someone new or for whom you may not have an immediate chemistry with, it becomes very important to throw them a bone, so I usually will do this as a follow up. I personally don’t love using questions to carry a thread, but it can be a good way to give an explicit indication of how the other person can contribute to it and it can be a lot more comfortable for people who are new to interacting with me and may be hesitant to just throw new ideas at me without having an extensive conversation about it. Here is an example where Naomasa responded to a question that Oboro poses and interacts with a nonverbal.

These first two bullets are what I usually consider the meat of the reply, so the most work is put into them. Everything else is filler and tends to be what actually makes the replies prettier and more interesting. In many cases, adding the last two can even happen naturally when you are trying to come up with ways to do the former, but it’s still something I keep in mind to look out for when I’m writing. Of the four points, I think that the one I probably struggle with the most is the one that revolves around describing the scene and I think that has been what’s kept me from reaching that multi-para/novella goal that I really wanna be able to do when writing threads, but I’ve been putting in more work to try and get on top of that one.

The final point is basically just thinking about what I can add to try and keep a thread engaging. This is when I really tend to bring in that plot and start advancing it. Introducing a conflict or a new activity in the scene that might not have otherwise been relevant before now can really revive a thread and I tend to do that a lot if I feel like a thread is dying out too quickly. Sometimes it takes, sometimes it doesn’t but it’s basically just my way of jumpstarting an interaction I feel like didn’t have enough substance to get off the ground in the first place. The example for this one is between Naomasa and Jasper - Yes, I know it’s the same person, again, but it’s because Fabgen is ridiculously good at doing the whole “yes and” thing and really we should all just take some time to appreciate them - in which the two of them are both responding to a crisis of some kind. I had felt the nature of the thread hadn’t given them a concrete way to continue to interact with each other, so I made up a random conflict that they both could work! In this case, it was some random kid running into danger.

After ALL of that, basically the last thing I tend to do for a thread is proofread and format. In a perfect world, I’d actually do the whole proofreading thing more often, but lmao nah. Basically, tldr, my writing process when doing threads is:

1). Respond to what the other person says. 2). Give them something to respond to. 3). Introduce a new plot point as necessary. 4). Fill in scene details and revise as necessary.

If you read back on my old threads, you’ll probably notice most of them follow this linear outline. Sometimes I’ll switch a couple things around, but 95% of the time you can literally cut my replies pretty into these parts without too much trouble. Also yall should go check out the people in these example threads because they’re all very talented and worth interacting with!!

13). What do you look for in an RP partner?

Hmm.... An excellent question let’s see...

Typically, these are things that make or break rp relationships:

Have concise rules/ooc pages that includes information such as their name, their pronouns, their age and their triggers. For certain fandoms, I also tend to look for stances on certain major discourse points.

Have the ability to para or multi-para threads and 3rd person POV. We don’t have to always do this, but I do really prefer this kind of RP.

Have the ability to participate in joke/crack posting

Read my character info or at least my rules before interacting with me. I know they are long and tedious and that I tend to ramble, but there are some important things in there that may vastly differ from many other people in the RPC and it’s important to me that everyone takes those things into account when engaging with me.

Have discord for OOC conversations and extended plotting or, at the very least, be comfortable chatting regularly via IM.

Follow me. It’s not necessary to interact with me and I 100% will interact with people who are not mutuals, but I typically tend to assume others around me are mutuals only regardless of whether or not they actually are and it’ll often put most of the responsibility on the other person to come interact with me if they want to thread.

I tend to main with people who will have OOC conversations with me about our characters and who are willing to adapt to fit into the settings / verses which I have already created for my characters. I am always seeking out familial relationships of ANY kind and will usually be quick to main people who do these kinds of threads with me. I do have ships for many of my characters that I tend to indulge in, but my mains tend to be people who actually get me to start shipping something because the characters just ended up vibing so well. I actually really love shipping my bi male characters with women, but there just really aren’t enough ladies in any of the RPCs to have lasting ships ;;y;;, so if we are able to get one going, I’d probably consider maining with ya’ll

I tend to like people who like continuous threads and verse building. I tend to like people who don’t mind having a million unfinished threads. I tend to gravitate to people who do formatting and icons, but I do not require it. I tend to shy away from people who are too self-concious about doubles or who tend to prefer being exclusive.

Overall, I’m open to at least trying to rp with everyone! And I’ve definitely formed lasting friendships with people who did not meet many of this criteria, but in terms of what I look for this is probably a pretty good list.

#ask ;; ooc #all ;; ooc #prompts ;; about writing #shiftingsupport #// thank u for the questions !!#srry that i talk so much lmaoooo n.n''''

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joemuggs · 5 years ago

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He’s Gone

Reposted from Facebook...

Processing this one is really difficult. Andrew Weatherall's music and cultural influence were a staple in my life from the age of 15: probably the most consistent single musical thread for the 30 years since, in fact. I was, and am, a shameless, total fanboy. All my school, Quaker and university friends know what an obsessive I was - I sat outside HMV waiting for it to open on the day of release to get my 12" of "Higher Than the Sun", and hitch hiked from South Oxfordshire to Leicester to see Primal Scream with him DJing that same year... I was unutterably envious of older kids at sixth form who managed to get to Boys Own parties. His early remixes of Galliano, Yello, Throbbing Gristle, James, The Impossibles, The Orb etc etc etc joined so many dots, but crucially he led me to incredible older music - just his remix titles ("American Spring", "Nancy & Lee") alone were a springboard for discovery. They taught us what I'm now realising that the rest of the world is only now catching up with: that you CAN be into everything, that you CAN navigate the glut of information in our culture, as long as you understand the signposts, as long as you do it with skill and finesse, but also with a devil-may-care sense of adventure and humour that punctures any over earnestness, stops it being a dry, diagrammatic exercise, and makes what you're doing part of the living culture.

And as I got more involved with music and particularly club music he was always there. He was hugely supportive of Cristian Vogel and co, when the rest of the UK techno scene wasn't giving them the props they deserved. I constantly heard stories of him supporting artists like that (and more recently he lent his keen support to to Jabru after I passed him an album)... I had the opportunity to meet him a few times - first through Emma, Cristian and co, and later when I met Elliot who was working for Rotters Golf Club, and Richie who knew him of old - but was WAY too scared and introverted to, and he did after all have a formidable reputation. I did shout "you're great!" or "this is amazing!" at him in a couple of nightclubs, mind. But I continued following his every musical move, which were always great (see the articles I've posted already). From seeing him drop the acetate of "Sugar Daddy" after the lights came up in a sweat drenched Zap club, to feeling like the entire party was underwater at a Haywire Session, so wobbly was the bass, to seeing him play The Fall and the rawest rockabilly in an Islington pub, to playing dub in a beautiful light and airy Crystal Palace studio for a Moine Dubh session, to that cosmic-ambient NTS special last month - he kept delivering. The number of references to him in Bass, Mids, Tops show clearly how his influence has echoed down the generations, and been a vital connector through the music that I'm obsessed with.

I finally met him in person about 7 years ago: I saw him standing in a sunny field at Camp Bestival in his "impressionist painter on an away day" outfit, and plucked up the courage to say hi. He was, as you'll expect from all the stories that people have posted the last 24 hours, an absolute gent. He said "oh I know who you are" - always a scary phrase - but continued it by listing off a set of my things he'd read recently in the WIRE, picking out my report from DMZ's 8th birthday that year as just the sort of thing he likes: "a bulletin from something I haven't really got a clue about but I'm glad exists," he said. Funnily enough I then bumped into him again later that day at Burger King in Winchester Services and he said hi to the kids and again chatted jovially.

After that we stayed in touch. I interviewed him a couple of times, most notably around the first Woodleigh Research Facility album, and every so often I'd stop in at the Scrutton Street studio for tea and biscuits, and to swap tunes. And even allowing for the passive weed smoke, I would always come away inspired - he always had time to talk and always had something interesting to say about whatever was in the ether: I can remember discussing poetry, pop-reggae, apocalypse cults, Ozric Tentacles, Sir Henry at Rawlinson's End, the English landscape, The Cramps' fashion sense and indeed - in very great detail - biscuits. He was always up for hearing my harebrained ideas and helped a lot with the very slow evolution of my discussion events which eventually became the Ambient Salon, which he ended up participating in (refusing even the paltry fee I could offer, insisting it go instead to "local underprivileged kids or something"). His willingness to have faith in my frankly wacky idea, just because it sounded fun, gave me the proof of concept I needed to take it further, and I'd always thought that we'd do it again on a grander scale...

And that's the real gut punch isn't it? He was going to do so many great things. I never got to Convenanza in Carcassone because I assumed it would just keep going, building into more and more of a cultural staple. I'm sure eventually Lee Brackstone would have wrung a book out of him. He could have been a radio and TV presenter up there with the best of the best. Maybe he'd have carried through his threat to become a full time painter too. There was SO much possibility there. Like I said in the Mixmag obit, not only was he not jaded, he was the OPPOSITE. He was just getting started in so many ways. And he was always, always enabling idiots like me, unsung musicians, fringe characters, and just anyone who happened to get in contact if they caught his imagination. It is really striking that everyone I met through him - Tim, Nina, Sean, Caroline, Bernie, Lizzie, Keith and the rest - have been great, great people too, who carry that same sense of generosity of spirit, constant sense of enquiry and can-do attitude. My heart is broken for all of them especially, as well of course for his old-school friends from Boys Own times Terry, Cymon and co: I can't begin to imagine what it is like. The same goes for all those who became part of the close knit community - "family" is not an exaggeration - around A Love From Outer Space and the Convenanza festival. Reading the ALFOS FB group this last week has been really, really quite something. Friendships and marriages made, lifelong passions ignited, a genuine, flesh and blood community built, all around one man's vision... And so, so, SO much incredible music and culture being shared, impossible quantities of it, in fact. It's a lot.

youtube

#andrew weatherall

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whatscallion · 6 years ago

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best friend au that definitely think they're best friend until someone mistakenly says "you two make a cute couple, reminds me of my husband and i when we were young" and ofc trying to deny it but all of the guy-bro friends point it out too 'you two dig each other' and now the guy realizes that he has feelings and oh no its awkward now becAUSE SINCE WHEN WAS SHE THAT PRETTY

//- i tweaked this a tad because of TWO YEARS worth of shipping, brainstorming, writing, and friendship demanded it so. you’re my best friend, so it only made sense to write this for you.

-romanogers, 2.6k word count, medieval au.

Times had been tumultuous to say the least, the earth quaking in seemingly endless wars. It seeped with the blood of friend and foe alike, all for the sake of words spoken and beliefs upheld. In a land bound by tradition, change often came in the bloodiest of manner, paying with the lives of those who believed or were forced to. The mentalities of kings and queens all generally ran in the same greedy course of river, wanting more land, more people, more gold - all for the sake of carrying the bigger stick.

Even Avalon didn’t escape the sticky tendrils of materialistic gluttony. Its toxin fed through the peasants scraping by in the mud, crawling its way through the ranks to stain the pristine armor the knights wore. Even the most noble fell prey to the darker thoughts laying an overcast to their shining kingdom.

But much like the weather, there were rays of the purest light to shine down on those deemed worth enough to behold.

Through the storms that plagued the minds of opposition and the clashing of metal on metal, bonds were forged through the fires of violent trust, and in doing so, walls long ago erected began to crumble despite every effort otherwise.

A glance lasting a heartbeat longer than necessary.

The subtle curl of a smile.

A seemingly unbiased nature becoming the opposite.

Despite the mystery shrouding that of the noblewoman Natalia ( though it was safely assumed she’d endured the worst childhoods at that table ), things were coming to light only to those who were clever enough to see. Beneath the fabric stained crimson and obsidian, a beating heart grew warm despite everything it’d been through, despite the cracks created, despite the lack of recognition it received. Every beat since seeing baby blues and valor brought a hue of warmth normally disregarded as weakness.

No, this wasn’t weakness. Yet the revelation only continued in stoicism, particularly in the company of others. Should it not pertain to her duties in serving Avalon, then the information would fester away within the folds of a mind long ago groomed for efficient violence. At first, there’d been an almost petulant way in which she ignored the creeping sensation prickling at the center of her chest when he came around.

He. Him. This Knight and his Shield.

Forcibly, she’d pinpoint the exact ways in which to end his life, ranging from the poisons she’d used on those undeserving of grizzly ends to the brutality of war overcoming him like a tide. Rather than find something pleasant in an imagined demise, the Widow was greeted only with the faintest of scowls. The Order would’ve been most displeased had they ever been privy to this growth as it was far too human for an Instrument, thus hindering what was created to be marred perfection.

It made sense for there to be distance at first, but the results had been the opposite of what was intended - she had missed him, to put it plainly.

It was peculiar, for there was nothing particularly profound between them. Perhaps that had been the trick. Most allowed her preceded reputation to speak for her, often veiling words in the barest fear that she may appear before them with less than pure intentions. But with him - this Knight - he had treated her minutely different. There was a brightness in his eyes despite being worn from conflict, and he spoke to her not as a woman nor a threat - but an equal. It was jarring at first, and comforting at last. Slowly, others of the Table had followed his example, albeit cautiously so. That would be for the best. The Widow had long ago accepted her role in this world, in this kingdom, at this Table, so the severe lack of surprise had been the only thing she could take solace in.

But now, solace moved to that of a bond she couldn’t quite ignore. It was almost frustrating at times, the unseen voices of her past telling her this would be her untimely demise. That his hand would sever the thread of her life. And yet, she couldn’t quite pay attention to the damning warnings heading her way, her thought process laiden with honesty and softness - both unheard of in the legacy of her wake.

Geneviere had been the first to touch upon what others only spoke of in hushed tones outside of shared presences.

“The way you look at one another, it reminds me so much of what I’ve endured in my younger days.” It was a statement that drew the taciturn to face the fairest presiding over the kingdom. It was unprompted, yet somehow, unsurprising. She was slipping in her indifference.

“I know not what you mean, my Queen.” It was an expected answer, it’d seem, as the low hum of a chuckle came from royalty, eyes averting as if the weight of the world rested in her gaze.

“Please,” Geneviere spoke in a candidly hushed tone. “You may fool the others at the Table, but you do not fool me, Widow. A coldness exudes from you, but only those who have felt the warmth of love can feel it as well.”

The Queen was met only with silence as her answer, and in that silence came an acceptance - an admission that the woman was right in her assumptions. And in doing so, the Queen continued.

“I’m not in a position to control your thoughts, Natalia, but I can offer a piece of … hardfought knowledge. This is not a kind world, of that I’m sure you’re aware of, but when we find the things that make it a little bit better, we mustn’t let the opportunity slip by, no matter how selfish it may seem.” Truth lingered in every syllable spoken, and there was no denying it. Thus, silence reigned supreme as a simple nod of acknowledgement was given to her Highness before the noblewoman slipped from the presence she’d not deserved.

It’d been frustration at the obviousness of the situation that had compelled her to leave the grounds in which she inhabited, venturing out on her own for time with her thoughts and nothing else.

And she remained a ghost for an entire fortnight.

During such time, no one held a concern towards the disappearance of their most prolific of duty-bound.

No one, save for one.

“The Widow always disappears for reasons we don’t know,” a friend spoke, taking his time in peeling the skin off a roasted turkey leg. “What makes it any different now? It’s not as if she’s reverting back to the old ways - she knows the consequences of those actions.”

Around the table they sat, three knights from differing corners of this untamed world. Two ate without hesitation while one merely poked at the food presented before him. His head was held within his hand, boredom mixed with concern to paint a scowl along angular features. Sir Steven was unamused at his company, and further unamused at the food he held no appetite for.

“It’s not as if she’ll die out there. She’s cheated death what - three times?” The good Knight Wilson spoke with nonchalance, a bit more concerned than that of the third, Sir James.

“No, only the one time with the mage,” corrected Sir James, still taking his time with the fowl skin. He’d argued before that it was where all the nutrients were, hence why it was so tasty. “If you count the Burning of Rifthelm, then sure. Twice, but I don’t think there’s a third time.”

“The cliff,” Sir Steven finally said. “The one at the river’s birth in the Northlands. The Dead King nearly had her join his ranks there.”

“And she came back just fine,” Sir Wilson added, as if that alone would wipe the woes away from the knight’s disposition, but it only seemed to solidify it. This forced both the lounging knights to lean forward, a seriousness veiling them to simmer the humor away into nonexistence.

“Steven-”

“Sir Steven,” the blonde knight corrected.

“Shut up, we grew up together. I can call you a whore without fear of getting beheaded,” Sir James spoke with unheard of liberties taken.

“Not publicly, no,” Steven said with a sigh. This had Sir Wilson rolling his eyes to the heavens above, as if the angels he prayed to would deliver him from this bickering stupidity.

“Anyways, Sir Steven-”

“Continue.”

“-You’re making this affliction very obvious.” James gestured frivolously at Steven sitting there, forlorn like a wife with a husband in battle.

“Affliction?” The blonde spoke as if he had no idea what was being implied. This furthered Sir Wilson’s eye roll, suddenly wishing for something - anything - to take him away from these two. Instead, it was he who would shed light on what was already discussed between he and James.

“Your feelings for the Widow, Sir Steven. Don’t play dumb. Sir James and I have definitely witnessed this thing between you, and I’d bet my last gold piece that she feels the same about you.” The confidence in Sam’s tone would leave his words as unshakable truth - irrefutable in every standard possible.

And the worst part of all of this was that they’d seen it so plainly, so easily, that Steven could not deny them their bragging rights. Rather than fully admit to it, he merely sank in his chair somewhat, his broad shoulders slumping in dismal defeat before calloused hands came up to cover his face, hiding away the warmth in his cheeks.

“What am I to do? This is inconvenient and impossible,” he lamented into his palms, bringing James and Sam to exchange looks, as if appointing the other repeatedly to console their friend. In the end, it was James ( perhaps the least capable of this ) who would lead his friend down this awful road that was lined with an awkward and sweaty love. Sam merely wandered away, casual in the fact that this was no longer his ordeal to handle.

“Impossible? She’s a woman and not a half bad looking one. It’s very possible,” James tried.

“She’s more than that, James.”

“How come I have to call you Sir, but you don’t have to call me Sir? I’m a knight,” James pouted.

“You’re beneath me in ranks,” Steven spoke, still hiding behind his hands. James couldn’t argue with that logic, so he let it go.

“But continue. How is she more and how is this impossible?” With Steven hiding away behind his hands, James went back to gnawing on the drumstick, but remaining attentive to his friend.

“She has conviction. Lethal. Deadly. Beautiful. Have you seen her fight? It’s as if she’s dancing. As if it’s the most graceful way one could hope to be killed - by her hand.”

“That’s her training, honestly.”

“No, it’s more than that. It’s a natural aptitude.” Steven had dropped his hands, coming to the defense of a woman he couldn’t quite ignore, no matter how many times he told himself it was the worst idea imaginable. “Music flows through her-”

“So, you like her because she’s pretty and she can kill with ease? I know at least five women like that.” That earned James a harsh glare from Steven, but it was to be expected. James wasn’t necessarily the best when it came to alleviating the weight of a situation.

“That’s not it, James. There’s so much more, but I can’t even begin to put it into words. Is it obvious?”

“Yes,” James answered too quickly, bringing Steven to hide behind his hands once more.

“Do you think she knows?”

“Yes,” he answered once more, once again too quickly. Steven made a noise akin to that of a horse falling into a well, which only made James chuckle at his supposedly awful situation.

“Love is an awful thing, Sir Steven. Worse than any war you could fight, but it is exquisite when it’s perfect.” As if this man knew a thing or two about love. “I suggest you do something before she disappears and doesn’t come back. She may be of Nevihe descent, but even they die.”

Again, that noise came forth from Steven, capping the conversation with a pat on his back. It was in that time alone in the Great Hall that Sir Steven mulled over the choices he had before him, all of which he was certain would end in despair, pain, anger - all of it giving him more than enough reason to cower away from what others were, undoubtedly, eager to behold.

But Sir Steven was never one to shy away from a challenge, even if it was one unto himself. Rather, he patiently waited for her to appear, or even the Raven often announced her arrival. For days on end, distraction found him, festering knowledge away to hollow out his own commitment to the task at hand. It made for sloppy training, sloppier penmanship, and sloppiest mannerisms. He’d even been dismissed from the Table one evening because his lack of focus was bothersome to the Queen.

Little did he know that she knew exactly what wavered his sight so much, and it was her intent to do something about it - a guiding hand to remove whatever imaginary obstacles resided between the two.

It was as he traversed the long halls to get back to his chambers that he was greeted with an instinctual urge to glance to his side as halls intersected. The shade of crimson drew him to a slow stop - the Widow was back, yet she’d not been at the Table. How long had she been back in the kingdom? Was she okay? Questions plagued him as his course of trajectory changed, and legs carried him closer and closer towards a confrontation he wished he could avoid.

“Natalia,” he had started, unsure in the slightest of what to say afterwards as she turned to him. Emerald met cerulean and in the depths of an oasis created between them, they drowned in sublime admiration, affection, love.

“Steven,” she replied, but it was all she spoke before actions too precedence over their meeting. Never had she been one for words, often claiming there were far more understanding ways of relaying a message, and this moment was no different than the rest.

A step forward was taken.

Steven’s eyes widened the slightest, yet baby blues darkened in the slightest.

Natalia’s hands fell upon the broadness of his chest, the same hands that had taken the lives of countless - both innocent and guilty.

On her toes’ tips, she stood, and his hands found the curve of her waist beneath the leather adorning her.

Seamless were these movements, culminating to bring their lips together in a kiss almost too innocent for either to fall victim to. Both, coated in the blood of battles and wars fought, and yet in one another, a peace was created.

A peace that would only reside between them in an intimacy unmatched.

#romanogers #mine #prompt #happy two years of friendship!!#medieval au #babyhenbitch

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mal-likes-biscuits · 6 years ago

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Reflections: Malthael’s (Mortal) Character Thus Far

It’s interesting to go back and re-read older chapters in my fic series, and see just how far the characters have come -- Malthael in particular. The following is a spoiler-filled tracking of his development up until the most recent “Tristram” chapter.

Long-post alert! Read the rest after the break.

Being Social

“Tristram” Chapter 1 ends with Malthael watching the others in the tavern, wondering if that’ll be him in there some day.

In the distance, he hears mortal laughter. Comradery. The tavern is full, tonight. What they celebrate, Malthael does not know. Perhaps some day, he will be privy to such things. Perhaps some day, he will reach out, unhesitant, and someone will reach back without a dagger in their fist.

And then, in Chapter 3:

"Lyndon," Bron said. "No."

"Your establishment seems rather empty. I am sure we won't inconvenience anyone."

"I won't have a fight in here over him."

"With who, the rats? If anyone cares, we will leave. Until then, bring me a drink. I think I'll need it."

Malthael does indeed find someone who reaches back without stabbing him. (Though in Lyndon’s defense, he comes close, with absolute warrant.) And he eventually does gain entry into the tavern.

Which takes us to the most recent Chapter 10:

[...] Chith and his former mentor Osseus, tall pints of water in hand, bludgeoning the poor sap sitting between them at the bar with questions. And by poor sap, [Lyndon] meant Malthael.

Though he may regret his decision to go that night, I don’t think Malthael is entirely aware just how much he has changed since he first became mortal. These chapters track a time span of nearly 7 years. Growth doesn’t happen overnight. But it does happen. He has friends, now. He engages in social events (sometimes, when he feels like it).

More importantly, he is invited to come along with them. His presence is wanted by others.

Relationships & Love

Malthael’s first thoughts on relationships (of all kinds) can be found in Chapter 1 of “In All Things Light & Dark”.

The work was grueling, but the day passed quickly. Talm was talkative, and Malthael was content to work while the younger man chatted. He spoke of his parents and his love for them; of the sunsets over the lake, which were no longer safe to watch due to the growing presence of strange creatures; of a woman from the farm over with raven hair, who he fancied and hoped would one day come watch the sunsets with him.

These were things Malthael quickly realized he should have also experienced, or at least variations thereof. But aside from the lingering memories he had of a family somewhere, nothing was familiar.

[...W]hat man had never watched the sun rise? Or spoken dearly of a lover?

These were mere concepts for him. Ideas embedded in his flesh that he understood at a fundamental level, but drew no recognition.

Some of these remain “mere concepts” to him, at least in that some of his needs are less pronounced/existent than others. Others, however, are gradually developing (from “Arcane and Apples” Chapter 3):

"Have I…upset you?"

[Farah’s] face grew warmer. "I am simply happy to finally meet you!"

He fell silent again for a long moment. "Aya. Perhaps I misunderstand mortal courtship after all. Would you advise?"

The wizard rubbed her nose with a thumb. "No! By Anu's arsehole, I will let you two sort this out later[...]."

At this point, Malthael still associates “courting” with the sorts of things he sees Tyrael or Lyndon doing, and doesn’t realize relationships can encompass a great many things, including some he has actually been doing for months. It probably complicates things that his “love-language” is strongly tipped toward “gift giving,” which is conflated heavily with him just showing Farah appreciation for the work she is doing in the library.

Then, in “Tristram” Chapter 5:

Be damned if he wasn't trying to smile. In place of those other, terrible thoughts, he instead remembered reaching for a rolled parchment, curiosity running through him. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall into the memory of unraveling it and the mystery it contained.

My name is Farah, it had said. I am Tristram's librarian. You are the wisdom-seeker, I presume? Pleased to make your acquaintance.

That little spark of warmth starts to flicker. Which leads, in “Tristram” Chapter 7, to:

[Malthael and Farah] fell into comfortable silence, marked only by the return of the breeze and the crackle of flames. He had not thought about anything distressing during their conversation. And the fire had done its job and had warmed his flesh. Between that and the distraction, he felt almost…safe. Even so, he expected her to eventually ask why he was there. Or if Tyrael had told her, he expected a comment on his absence from the festivities.

Farah never mentioned either. Instead, amidst more overt glimmers of amusement, she watched him carefully when she thought he wasn't looking. He caught her gaze on him several times, her dark eyes growing contemplative, as though she were trying to puzzle him out. It was an expression he likely made, himself. She was less practiced at hiding it, or she did not care to. But within her friendly exterior lay a sharp intelligence. One he had seen in letters and in the meticulous care she brought to the library.

One, he realized, he considered his equal.

Because he doesn’t experience sexual attraction, Malthael’s growing infatuation with Farah manifests differently (per Chapter 7 again, below). He does experience attraction to her, as we see later (and will see more throughout the series), but it is towards her facial expressions, or her behaviour, or (as we saw above), her mind and curiosity.

[...] Why the world had granted him this small mercy, Malthael did not know. But for the first time in his mortal life, he watched the stars and felt faint glimmers of feelings he had once had. Of gazing into the depths of eternity and seeing the threads weave and connect, and of knowing how truly insignificant he was within all of it. It was a comforting thought rather than a dark one. That the world was bigger and far more intricate than anyone else imagined.

More complex, surely, than he could ever comprehend again with a mortal mind. Yet, he tried. As did Farah. Together, wordlessly.

And even as the last embers of the fire grew cold, Malthael felt growing inside him a lingering, perceptible warmth.

His reasoning for bringing her gifts also shifts, as he explains later in the chapter:

"What would you have?" [Malthael asked.]

"Excuse me?"

"From Kingsport. What would you have me bring you?"

[...]

"I do like tea," she chuckled, relieved. "I have gone through more of it, recently."

"And?"

"Two requests? I did not think my work was that exceptional."

"Not your work. You."

Farah nearly dropped her drink.

"Your friendship," he clarified quickly, looking away. "I have been a long time without."

This carries on for approximately half a year, until we get to “A Light in the Darkness” Chapter 1, and see all of his emotions colliding and falling out into the open:

"You care about her. Don't you. More than as an acquaintance?"

[Malthael’s] silhouette shifted as if he were uncomfortable.

Which eventually culminates into him consciously admitting it in Chapter 3:

And he realized, abruptly, that he missed her. The thought startled but did not disturb him. He could have assumed as much, had he considered his feelings more closely. But the emotions she cultivated in him had always been tied to actions or events they experienced together. He had never felt them from being away from her on the road.

Now, in the deepest hours of the night, he simply wanted her to be there. Not for conversation or assistance. But for pure companionship. The thought of her at his side lit within him the spark of anticipation he usually only felt when he was at the cusp of a great discovery. It enthralled and terrified him that his emotional control had been so thoroughly breached by someone else. For millennia he had been alone, and never once had he felt the need to rely on another.

He frowned. Rely was not the correct word. His survival was not dependent on her. Nor was his sanity. Instead, something about her refined him. She carved a better version of himself out of the rough wood from which he had been hewn. The parts of her that he considered exceptional literally drove him to become the same.

By the time they return to Tristram at the end of Chapter 4, Malthael is driven to reciprocate Farah’s more overt displays of affection, because he internally admits to how he feels for her, and also because he wishes to demonstrate it to her in something more closely resembling her own love-language:

Farah had sidled through the crowd and finally reached her sister and Malthael. "Welcome back, baina!" She threw her arms around Aya, embracing her for a long moment, before turning to the scholar. "Welcome back!" she repeated, her cheeks darkening. She ran a hand absently through her hair, as if contemplating saying more.

Malthael nodded in reply, then lowered his pack to the ground. Digging through it, he eventually withdrew two book-shaped objects enfolded in silk and held them out expectantly.

Her eyes widened. "Oh, Light. I doubted you would find any, let alone two. They were very obscure." She took them and ran her fingers along the wrappings. "Did they cost much?"

The fleeting distress that crossed Malthael's face was not lost on Tyrael; or, he suspected, on Farah. Her expression faltered, and she hesitantly reached a hand to brush his chest. A moment passed, then he very slowly clasped her hand in his.

His action isn’t a spur of the moment decision, but something he consciously decides to do, both because he wants such contact at that moment, and also because he wants to mirror her care for him.

This takes us to the conclusion of "A Light in the Darkness”, where their feelings for each other are finally put out into the open:

"There is no prophecy here," she whispered, very gently drawing her arm around the small of his back, until her fingers rested on his hip. "There are trees and a lake. Waving grasses and birdsong. Clouds and stars. And you and I."

He closed his eyes, and slowly, she felt his breathing steady. Then, surprising her once again, he mimicked her gesture, hesitantly at first, before more assuredly wrapping his arm about her.

"Tomorrow," she continued, "there will be warm tea and old parchment. The smell of dust and ink. And you and I."

"And the day after?"

"The future, whatever it holds. Perhaps laughter. Perhaps sorrow. And you and I."

"And the day after that?"

She chuckled. "You and I. What sort of Seer do you believe me to be?"

"A personal one."

"That is the most reliable kind."

At this point, I think if Malthael were to look back on his first mortal thoughts in “In All Things Light & Dark”, he would be surprised to see he understands (and has experienced) many of them. He has watched the stars fall with someone who he cares about dearly. He wishes to be beside her, to speak to her, to share his time with her.

And though his mortal experience is different from, say, that of his brother, it is very much shaping up to be the sort of fulfilling, marvelous life that mortality offers.

#my writing #long post #character extrapolation #fanfiction #diablo series #malthael #i still write essays even years after I graduate college #can't knock the english major out of me #diablo: amor aeternus

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museroulette · 6 years ago

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[Info in double brackets is interchangeable for plotting purposes/events that can be plotted if they are relevant to the storyline.]

This will be the foundation to ALL verses. [If we write in a HS verse, relationships/friendships can be changed/plotted otherwise to fit our plot idea*.]

MAIN Background: Jake Riley [REVISED]

- Canon Divergent Muse

Name: Jake Owen Riley Birthday: March 28th Astrology: Aries, Fire, mars Main personality points: Standoffish, Uses sarcastic humor to deflect, Loyal,

Childhood:

Jake grew up in a small town [[Just outside Atlanta, GA]]. His mother, Alice was an elementary school teacher, and is one of the most compassionate people Jake knew. His father, Mike, owns a mechanics shop, and is quick to temper, and rough with his mom- though he is unaware of this until he is older. Neither of his parents have much, or any contact with their parents. His mothers parents were well off, but disowned her when she became pregnant out of wedlock in high school. They both pass sometime while he’s in middle school, and the money is left to him, but he is unaware. [He finds out when his mom passes, his dad is also unaware of the inheritance, and may cause issues]. His fathers parents are both deceased before Jake is born.

High school:

Personality points for high school plots: Determined, Jaded, Petty, Sarcastic, Trouble Maker, Lone wolf (after Junior year), compassionate/caring though he tries to hide it

-Freshman year: Jake is put on the varsity team. He enjoys football, because it’s a way for him to release some of his pent up aggression, and a way to secure his future if he gets a scholarship. He does yard work, cleans gutters, ect. To save up money to buy a car. [[He starts dating Sarah, a popular cheerleader, and is quickly immersed in the life of popularity. Jake is a hopeless romantic whether he wants to believe it or not, and quickly falls for the girl. whipped]]

-Sophomore year: Towards the end, he’s finally saved up enough money to buy a 1965 mustang in rough shape from a junkyard where his friends dad (The towns sheriff, and a man who takes Jake under his wing and inspires him to become a cop eventually.) knows the owner. He works on it throughout the summer, keeping it the junk yards shop rather than the one his father owns, because he doesn’t want his dad to know. The owner of the junk yard let’s Jake scavenge for parts so long as he helps out around the shop portion. [[His dad finds the car and trashes it, causing Jake to have to start over.]]

-Junior year: His mom has an accident that leaves her with a severe head injury. [[Cause is up to plot.]] He comes home after sneaking out with some friends to find her hurt and almost non responsive. His father is nowhere to be found, so he assumes he’s on a bender. She is unable to work, and Jake winds up having to quit the football team to take care of her. His girlfriend dumps him when he quits the team, and he finds out that she’d been cheating on him with his best friend for the duration of their almost three year relationship. His mother passes that summer, and his father hits a new low.

-Senior year: He finds out his ex started dating his friend during summer break. [[alt: Jake moves to a new town with his dad after his mothers passing for threads where he’s new to town.]] Jake often couch surfs, or finds other places to stay just to avoid his fathers rough hand and sharp tongue. He ends up being put into a foster home after he shows up to school with a black eye, and his father gets put away for the last six months of his senior year.

-Academy: Jake’s friend’s dad, and the man who took him under his wing, making sure his dad paid for what he did passes away while Jake is in the academy. Jake joins the police force straight out of high school, moving into a cheap apartment to stay away from his father.

- Jake’s father shows up to ‘try and make amends’ when he gets out of jail. He does this several times, always falling back into old habits of drinking too much, and messing things up one way or another. Jake falls for it, trying to give him the help he thinks he needs one too many times before finally giving up on him.

Adult verses following his main background:

List will grow as I come up with other variations.

-Containment: This will stay canon to the show. Jake makes it out of the cordon, along with only a handful of other survivors. They were forced to stay in the cordon for months after the last death, as insurance that they weren’t sick. To make sure they weren’t dormantly carrying the virus they had to go through many tests before being allowed out for real.[[ He continues to work as a cop, though he moves from the APD to a smaller town, hoping to avoid another major catastrophe.]]

-Supernatural [Hunter]: Jake meets Katie during his time in the academy. He quickly falls in love, proposing after only a few months of dating her. [what kills her & sparks his investigation?] Jake quits the force, and takes on the life of a hunter.

-The Walking Dead (any zombie apoc.): Following the events of containment, the outbreak happened while he was in the cordon. Whether or not the sickness had anything to do with the zombies can be plotted. He makes his way out of the cordon, and survives with a small group.

-Marvel: Jake moves to New York after making his way up the ranks, accepting a promotion on NY’s ‘special forces’.

Wanted Connections

[any & all verses]: (in no order, though I tried to group them by show/uni)

Archie Andrews, Jughead Jones, Betty cooper, Veronica lodge, FP Jones, Donovan/Honeycutt, Bonnie Bennett/McCullough, Caroline Forbes, Katherine pierce, Elena Gilbert, Alaric Saltzmen, Kai Parker (doppelganger anyone??), Luke Cage, Matt Murdock, Karen Page, Claire Temple, Jessica Jones, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Buffy Summers, Faith, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Jo Harvelle, Ellen Harvelle, Meg Masters, Zoe Benson, Madison Montgomery, Andrea Harrison, Rick Grimes, Maggie Greene, Michone, Glenn, Lori Grimes, Nancy Wheeler, Steve Harrington, Tommy H, ( any stranger things crew member tbh), Katie Frank (doesn’t have to be a ship)

#:Background: Jake Riley #:Verses: Jake Riley #Jake Riley: Main Verse #MV. Jake Riley

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klove0511 · 4 years ago

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Angels and Answers

Title: Angels and Answers

Pairings: Sam/Cas

Rating: E

Wordcount: 15,208

Warnings and Tags: Non-con for Gadreel shenanigans, Possessed Sam Winchester, Memory Alteration, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, First Time Blow Jobs, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Sam Winchester Has Self-Esteem Issues, Castiel Has Self-Esteem Issues, Alternate Season/Series 09, Winchester communication skills

Summary: Cas has discovered his sexuality as a human when the Winchesters bring him to the bunker, and he and Sam fall into bed together. When Gadreel forces Dean to drive Cas away, the two must find their way back to each other, freeing Sam from Gadreel in the process.

Link to fic on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26733868

Link to art: https://www.pixiv.net/en/artworks/84693260

Author’s Note: Written for the Sastiel Big Bang 2020! I had a lot of fun working on this, and I am SO HAPPY to share this with you guys. Art credit goes to:

Blusxa (https://pixiv.me/blubunnart)

[Shading by SolusCheese (https://soluscheese.tumblr.com/commissions)]

Go check out their stuff! Also, go here for the art masterpost, and tell them what an awesome job they did. :)

Also a shout out to my betas Dragonwithatale and @theladyofsupernatural. You both helped make this story better than it was, thank you.

Castiel stared out the window of the Impala, wondering how in Heaven he’d gotten to this point. Yesterday he had been homeless and living on the streets, hunted by angels. Earlier today, he had been dead. Now, he was warm, and safe, and on his way to a place his best friends called home. Too much had happened in such a short period of time, and he had no reason to assume that things were about to slow down. The Winchesters didn’t live like that.

Finding his place with them would be difficult. He was human now, and powerless, a fact they had all been reminded of that morning. Castiel frowned. Most likely, he was going to end up being even more of a burden on the brothers. It wasn’t something that sat easily with him. He remembered how difficult it had been before Sam stopped the Apocalypse, when Castiel’s powers were waning to almost nothing. Even then he had been a long way from human.

As if he could sense the dark turn of Castiel’s thoughts, Sam turned and asked, “Hey, man, you ok?”

It was just a few words, but knowing Sam cared enough to ask made some of the fear and anxiety fall away for the ex-angel. He nodded, and his reward was a blinding smile from Sam.

“Good.” Sam’s smile softened, and he ducked his head. “I’m really glad we didn’t lose you today, Cas.”

Dean gagged. “Oh, God, I’m going to vomit.”

Sam glared at his brother before shooting another brilliant smile Cas’s way. It made something flutter to life in Castiel’s chest, and thanks to his enlightening experience last night, he had an idea of what it was.

The rest of the trip was difficult for an entirely different reason than Castiel had originally expected. Any time he met Sam’s eyes, the hunter would light up, and it made Castiel re-examine every interaction he’d ever had with Sam Winchester. By the time they arrived at the bunker, Castiel was sure of nothing, but he suspected his feelings for Sam had run deeper than friendship for a long time.

It had him distracted and aching for a release he hadn’t known to want until yesterday.

Luckily, Dean left again almost immediately after they arrived when he realized they were completely out of food and, more importantly, beer, leaving Sam to help Castiel get settled.

“You’re probably exhausted. You remember where your room is?” Sam said as they walked down the hall toward the bedrooms.

Thoughts of everything besides sleep that could be done on a bed came unbidden to Castiel's mind, and he felt his arousal return full force. He stifled a groan and hoped Sam hadn't noticed.

"Cas?" Sam asked, obviously concerned.

"I'm fine," Castiel said. "I am simply having trouble adjusting to certain elements of my humanity."

Sam paused, then turned to more fully face Cas. "Anything in particular? Anything I could help with?"

Castiel shook his head. As much as his heart ached for it, he held no illusions that Sam returned his affections. "No, Sam. I'm sure I can discover the mechanics of sexual release on my own."

Sam's face flushed, though his expression was nearly unreadable. Castiel narrowed his eyes slightly, studied Sam's body language. His chin had dipped down, and he was avoiding eye contact while he pressed his lips into a hard line. Was Sam...disappointed?

Taking a gamble, he said, "Unless, of course, you would like to help. You are, after all, the source of my arousal."

Time seemed to stop for a moment, then Castiel found himself surrounded by Sam. His large calloused hands threaded through Cas's hair while Sam devoured his mouth. He pressed Cas into the wall, groaning as he felt Cas's erection pressing into his hip. Cas pressed forward, moaning in turn. Cas let himself drift, focusing on the sensations and not the surreal feeling of having Sam in his arms. They pushed and pulled each other to a bedroom, shedding shirts in the process. Sam kissed along Cas's jaw until Cas tugged on his long hair, pulling him back up for another proper kiss.

They crashed onto the bed, and Castiel was left breathless. A small part of him wanted to slow down to savor the perfection that was Sam Winchester, but a much greater part of him craved the quick release Sam's frantic pace promised.

Once they were both naked, Sam blanketed Cas's body. They mouthed at each other, often doing little more than breathing each other's air while they rutted against each other.

Slowly, Sam stilled his hips and began trailing kisses down Castiel's body. Cas whimpered, but it just made Sam smile as he worked himself lower. He nibbled at Castiel's hipbone, and Cas shuddered, overwhelmed. His skin felt ultra-sensitive, even the lightest touch rippled through his body. Eventually, even those touches stopped, and Castiel forced his eyes open. Sam was nestled between his legs, mouth hovering over Cas's cock.

He took a deep breath and said, "Cas, if you—"

"Sam," Cas groaned, "please."

Sam paused a moment more, then he smiled wickedly and dipped down until his mouth met the wet, leaking tip of Castiel's dick. Cas watched himself disappear between Sam's perfect lips, but soon his eyes dropped shut against the sensation. Everything was wet and warm and delicious pressure. As Sam bobbed his head, he flicked his tongue against the underside of Castiel's cock, and it was too much. The pleasure ratcheted higher until Cas thought he would explode, and then he saw stars.

He was breathing hard when he came back to himself. Orgasms certainly seemed to be the most unambiguously pleasing part of the human experience, and he hoped he would get to continue to experience them with some regularity in the future. Gradually, he became aware of warmth pressing against his side. A glance revealed Sam looking down at him with the brightest, happiest smile Cas could remember ever seeing on him. It made his heart flutter.

Distantly, they could hear the bunker door slam shut. Sam winced and said, "Come on. Better clean up and get out there or Dean will come looking for us."

Cas smiled softly and replied, "I'll be out in a few moments. I believe I am going to shower first; Dean did say the water pressure here is excellent."

Sam stood up, pausing like he wanted to say something but decided against it and hastily dressed. Cas noted with a twinge of regret that Sam was still hard. No matter. He would make it up to him later, given the opportunity. He hoped dearly that there would be more opportunities. Being human was miserable, but this—being with Sam—this made the whole experience bearable.

Cas gathered the supplies they'd purchased for him—he hadn't kept his toothbrush and he'd only had the one set of clothes—and made his way to the showers. The water pressure was as excellent as Dean had said, and the joy of a hot shower was not something he took lightly. It was almost as good as his first shower at April’s place, after days spent living on the street. He let the warmth soak through him and the pounding water ease some of the tension he still carried.

It was difficult to wrap his mind around what had just happened. Sam and he had.... He had a flash of anxiety, wondering if Sam had been offended that Castiel had not reciprocated Sam's actions and left him wanting. Despite how enthusiastic Sam had seemed, Castiel worried he'd been too forward, that his earlier assessment of the situation had been correct and Sam did not actually harbor any deeper feelings for him. He huffed, frustrated with the circles his mind seemed trapped in. Sam had made the first move; Sam had waited for Cas's permission. Those were not the actions of someone who was second guessing what he wanted. Whether or not they translated to a continued sexual relationship, that remained to be seen. Sighing, he did his best to let go of his insecurities. He focused on the sound of the water, let that fill his mind instead of the wandering thoughts.

Warm, clean, and relaxed, Cas made himself comfortable at one of the library tables, leftover burrito in hand. It was still amazing that things such as a takeout burrito could taste so good. He wondered, idly, what it would have tasted like if he still had the full power of his senses. How much more nuance could he have found in the humble burrito if he had even a hint of grace? It may have been an interesting thought experiment, but he tried to push it from his mind. One thing he'd learned over the last few days was that dwelling on his lost grace was an infinitely depressing well of self-loathing and grief, and if he had any desire to function, he needed to focus his attention elsewhere. For now, that meant focusing on his food, on the sheer pleasure of eating.

He spotted Dean approaching and said, “Epic food. I can’t get enough.”

“Cas, uh, can we talk?”

Dean was studying the table, and Cas tried to put him at ease. “Of course. Dean you know I always appreciate our talks, our time together.” He pulled out the chair next to him in invitation.

Instead, Dean sat on the table, his expression alarmingly serious. "Listen, buddy, um, you can't stay."

The words didn't make any sense at first. What did Dean mean, he couldn't stay? They had traveled to Detroit expressly to pick him up, then traveled all the way back to Kansas, and now he couldn't stay? What had changed? Dean was still talking, but Castiel was no longer paying attention. His mind had come to a standstill focused on exactly one thought. The only thing that had changed was the nature of his relationship with Sam.

The bottom dropped out of his stomach, and he thought the burrito he'd been eating might make a reappearance. Did Dean know and that was why? Or had Sam reconsidered? Perhaps Castiel had read the situation wrong in the first place and pushed Sam into a situation he wasn't comfortable with. Sam had probably gone along with it to avoid hurting Cas's feelings. That would, after all, be a very Sam move. The thoughts continued to spiral, utterly paralyzing him and preventing him from doing anything beyond nodding numbly when Dean offered to drive him to the bus stop.

Sam woke up in his own bed, confused about how he'd gotten there. The last thing he remembered he'd been laughing with Dean about Castiel's version of "protection." They must have gotten wasted last night for him to blackout and lose that much of the evening, though he didn't feel hungover. Maybe a little more tired than usual, but he'd been that way for days. He probably just wasn't sleeping well. It was still miles better than he'd felt a month ago, deep in the middle of the Trials. And none of that was relevant to his current bout of memory loss.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Sam grappled with the reality that he was having more of these episodes than he wanted to admit. Like a few days ago, when he would have sworn he had been thrown into the closet, but he woke up on the floor of the living room in that reaper's apartment. Mostly, they were small things, like Dean's increasingly stilted conversations or complete non sequiturs, or how every so often the world would shift half an inch to the left, as though Sam had shifted his weight without being there to remember it. It was disturbing, and this was the biggest blank yet. If he was honest, he should tell Dean. But he was so quick to blame everything on the Trials that Sam wasn't sure there was much point. After all, maybe Dean was right.

After a few minutes, Sam finally gathered the energy to get off the bed and head to the kitchen. He wondered if Cas would be there, if he liked coffee. The thought made his step just a little lighter, and he entered the kitchen with something resembling a smile on his face. The smell of coffee and bacon greeted him, and he knew Dean was already up and cooking before he ever saw him. The kitchen was otherwise empty, though. No Cas.

Sam fought back a wave of disappointment. Cas was probably just sleeping in. It was perfectly reasonable after all, since it had been a long few days for everyone. As much as Sam wanted to know what they'd done last night that might have sparked his blackout, he didn't want to ask. Dean was so on edge lately about Sam's health, and if Sam hadn't gotten drunk then the memory loss was going to turn into a whole thing. Sam just did not feel like he had the energy for that yet today. Not without Cas present as backup. Dean was less likely to blow up in general around Cas, and he was infinitely less likely to drag Sam's issues out in the open in front of other people. Cas didn't always count, but that's because usually he was able to help. Now that Cas was human, Dean would probably keep Sam's problems to between the two of them.

Sam surveyed the breakfast offerings and decided to grab some fruit instead. Dean might be an excellent cook, but that was 100% due to the fact that everything he made was dripping with saturated fat. Without Cas's grace available to continually heal the damage, Sam needed to take better care in what he ate. That was not going to stop him from downing half of that pot of coffee though. Anything to help shake the pervasive fatigue that clung to his mind like cobwebs.

"You sleep okay?" Dean asked, eyeing Sam's extra-large mug critically.

Sam raised one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Good enough. Just can't seem to wake up today. Cas up already?"

Dean froze a moment before answering. It was barely perceptible, but it set off alarm bells like crazy for Sam. "Cas took off. Said he appreciated the offer to stay here, but he didn't want to risk bringing angels down on us."

That made no sense. He was warded. This whole place was warded. It was easily the safest place for the three of them in the entire country. Cas had to be crazy to leave. Unfortunately, the only thing Sam could think of to say in response was, "What?"

"Yeah, he left last night after we went to bed. Found his note this morning."

What? He'd left without even saying goodbye to either of them? "Can I see it?"

Dean looked suddenly uncomfortable. "I, uh, I threw it out. After I read it."

Weird. "Ok, um. Well, did he say where he was going? Or how to contact him?"

Dean shook his head, his "I am absolutely hiding something but please don't ask" face firmly plastered on.

Weirder. So, Dean was definitely lying about something. The man was a trained and skilled con artist, but his ability to lie to Sam with a straight face had always been garbage. Dean had been doing a lot of lying to Sam lately, but this morning it seemed particularly bad. Given the context, Sam wasn't optimistic about what his brother was lying about. Cas had obviously sworn him to secrecy about something, and Sam suspected it was the real reason Cas had left the bunker. Thinking back to yesterday, Sam couldn't help but feel like he was the reason Cas had left. He'd been surprised to hear Cas had a sexual encounter with April, but it hadn't bothered him, much. The encounter they'd had had been enough for Sam, if that was all he was going to get. They hadn't exactly had a chance to talk about it, to figure out if it meant something more than what it was or if it had just been letting off some steam. Sam would have liked for it to be the start of something, but his life didn't work like that. Whether he liked it or not, he'd been prepared for it to be a one-off. Literally. He hated the thought that Cas had felt pressured by it, especially to the point where he felt he had to leave. But Sam could fix this, if he could just talk to Cas. Hopefully the angel wouldn't think to change his phone number.

Looking up, he found Dean watching him suspiciously, and he put on his best "I believe all the bullshit coming out of your mouth right now" face. He'd practically perfected it at this point.

Dean didn't leave Sam alone again for hours. First, he wanted to "help" while Sam organized the artifact inventory. Then he wanted Sam to keep him company and "learn to take care of the car" while Dean did something under the hood. Sam hadn't really been paying attention. They both knew the only time Sam was going to be doing maintenance on this car was if Dean died again, and Sam had no plans on being around alone long enough for the Impala to need maintenance. Dean permanently dying just wasn't an option. (It was, and he knew it, but his ability to be in denial about this particular issue was legendary.) After the Impala, Dean tried to talk Sam into making a run into town for supplies, which was the last straw.

"Seriously, Dean? You bought groceries yesterday. There's no way we're out already." Sam didn't bother trying to hide his frustration. He had no idea what his brother was trying to do, but he wanted to talk to Cas before the guy got too far away. Or before he got himself killed again.

Dean had the decency to look sheepish, at least, though he didn't offer any explanation.

Sam could wait him out though. If it was something to embarrass or annoy his older brother, then he had more patience than a saint.

It only took a minute for Dean to break. "Ok, fine. I was trying to distract you."

Sam waited for the punchline.

"I thought you might be upset about Cas leaving. And, I— I don't know, I guess I didn't want him to have to explain himself when he's just trying to protect us."

Sam made a disgruntled noise. "You do realize that without his grace we're much more capable of protecting ourselves than he is, right? Leaving him out there is like asking another angel to murder him."

"I tried to tell him that, but he wouldn't listen. You know how he is. Stubborn as a mule."

Sam didn't wait for Dean to realize his slip. "When exactly did you tell him that?"

Dean looked appropriately caught out, at least. "Uh.... This morning. After I found the note. Which I threw out."

"That the same note that didn't say anything about how to contact him?"

Dean shrugged helplessly.

"Right. Well, maybe let me try. Ok? Unless you know something about why he wouldn't want to talk to me?"

Sam watched Dean try to come up with a lie and fail. He maybe expected him to spill with the truth, but of course this was the moment his brain decided to slip, and the next thing he knew the argument was apparently over because Sam was in the library alone.

He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do now. How much time had he lost? He'd probably never know, considering he wasn't even sure what time it had been. He could call Cas. His goal had been to get some alone time, after all. But there was always the chance that Dean had said something important that Sam just didn't remember now. Sighing, he rubbed his face. He'd grab some food, and then maybe crash for the night. If he was lucky, a good night's sleep would help clear his head.

Castiel's bus jerked to a stop, waking him from an anxious nap. His neck ached from the position it had fallen into, and his back and legs hurt from being confined in the bus seat for hours. Any tension he'd lost while at the bunker was back with interest, and he felt it throughout his body, making everything stiff and uncomfortable. The bus smelled stale, though it was at least clean. The last bus he'd been on had smelled strongly of human vomit, and he was grateful that this one did not. Glancing out the window, Cas saw they had stopped at a rest stop, and he could see passengers streaming toward the building. Groaning, he pulled himself to his feet and shuffled off the bus with everyone else. Inside the rest stop there was a large map showing where they were. Still in Wyoming. According to the clock, it was just past 8 PM, which meant they would be arriving soon. He wasn't sure where he was going, but his plan was to ride the bus until he found a place that looked welcoming. Maybe somewhere in Idaho. The sparse population would make it a less attractive place for angels hunt for vessels, which should afford him some measure of protection.

The evening was cooling rapidly, though it was still light enough to see. He missed his grace fiercely, hated that he was dependent on things like clothing and light to see or stay warm. Wallowing in his sorrow would only lead him down a dark path, but at the moment he welcomed it. If he was still an angel then Dean would not have abandoned him. He would not be relying on a bus for transportation because his wings would not be— He shook his head. The loss of his wings hurt more than the loss of grace. His grace was his utility to the Winchesters, but his wings were his freedom. With them he could blink and be anywhere. Their loss was tangible.

Besides, if he was wallowing in the loss of his angelic abilities, then he was spending less time thinking about Sam. He couldn't be sure why exactly Dean had asked Cas to leave, but the change in his relationship with Sam still seemed the most likely reason, now that he'd had some time to analyze the issue from every possible angle. If he had grace, then perhaps his usefulness would have outweighed Dean's reasons, or perhaps Sam would have wanted him to stay. More likely, things would never have progressed between himself and Sam, which was probably for the best. He clenched his jaw; he refused to be bitter about his situation. What had happened between him and Sam was done, and it had been the best ten minutes of his life. The orgasm had been good too. He would just take a lesson from this and move forward. After all, time travel was no longer an option for him.

He relieved himself, then stretched one last time before reclaiming his seat on the bus. Idaho would be a fresh start, and things would be better from now on.

Unfortunately for Sam, nothing was clearer in the morning. The fatigue was a little better today, and he had taken advantage of it by going for a run first thing. It had exhausted him, but in a normal way that he hadn't felt in far too long. Pushing his body to its limit was a comfort, and the shower after had been nearly heavenly, even as he tried to stop thinking of things in those terms. Dean had left him blessedly alone today, probably as tired of Sam's constant presence as he'd been of Dean insisting on spending time together. It was one thing when they were on the road. There was no helping it then, and the time spent together was comfortable. But here in the bunker, they'd both found solo routines that gave them space they'd never had growing up. Forcing them to be joined at the hip like yesterday was just another tally in the "Dean is acting weird" column. There were an awful lot of tallies there lately.

Still, Dean was back to normal, more or less, today, and Sam had, very maturely, taken advantage of the alone time by holing up in his room. He was definitely not trying to impersonate a teenage girl angsting over whether or not she should call the boy she liked. No. He was being a grown man, concerned over his friend's sudden departure. The fact that he'd been a little bit in love with that friend for years and that said friend had split almost immediately after they shared a sexual encounter didn't factor into it. Sam was pretty sure he was lying to himself.

After an embarrassing amount of time spent staring at his phone and working up his courage, Sam hit send, dialing Castiel's number. He desperately hoped that Cas hadn't ditched his phone when he left. Listening to the phone ring and waiting for Cas or his voicemail to pick up was a small eternity of torture, but the line finally clicked on. Sam almost began speaking before he realized he'd just gotten Cas's voicemail. Of course. That really wasn't surprising. With the way he'd taken off, it was no surprise Cas didn't want to talk to him. He should have made Dean call. Cas always answered for Dean. No, that wasn't fair, and oh, time to leave a message.

"Hey, Cas. Look, it's Sam. I just wanted to apologize if, um, if there was anything I, uh, said or did, or uh... just, you didn't have to leave. Whatever it is, we can figure it out, ok? Hope you're ok." He punched the end button and buried his face in his hands. That message had been terrible, and he was tempted to call back to see if he could delete it, but of course that was an awful idea. Cas would then see that he had two calls from Sam but no messages, and Sam didn't want to think about the kinds of assumptions he'd make in that case.

He groaned. "I'm an idiot."

Standing, he abandoned his room and sought out Dean, hoping his brother had found them a case. If not, then he could research one himself. Actually, that. He would do that. And he'd make sure it was something not even Dean could resist, like zombies. Or something involving strippers. Either way, Sam would get to focus on something that wasn't obsessing over Cas for a few days, and if Cas called him back, then he could continue obsessing from there.

Three hours later, he didn't have a case, but he had managed to check his phone for missed calls approximately 500 times. Frustrated with himself, he tossed his phone onto the table and pulled up another browser window. There had to be something supernatural for him to kill somewhere.

"What'd the phone do to you?" Dean asked, standing in the archway, holding two beers.

"Nothing." Sam didn't comment on the beers. Dean's rule was always that it was 5 o'clock somewhere, and honestly, the drinking had subsided a lot since they'd moved in.

Apparently, one was for him, though, because Dean set it down next to the laptop before grabbing himself a seat. "You were moping in your room so long, I thought you might need one of these."

Sam rolled his eyes but accepted the peace offering. "I wasn't moping."

Dean nodded sagely. "Uh huh. And has Cas called you yet?"

Sam subtly narrowed his eyes at his brother. That was Dean's casual interrogation voice. "No. Why would he?"

Dean shrugged and frowned at his beer, carefully not meeting Sam's eyes. "Just seemed like you were expecting something. I told you, man, he didn't leave because of you. He left because he didn't want—"

"To bring trouble down on us. Yeah, I remember the spiel," Sam said, picking at the label on his bottle. Privately, he wondered how many times Dean had said this to him, because he had no memory of being told Cas hadn't left because of him, just the part about not bringing angels to them. How much did Dean know?

"Right, well, he didn't, ok?"

Sam nodded his agreement, but even he knew his body language was giving away how little faith he had in that statement.

Dean didn't elaborate, which Sam was grateful for. He didn't want to try to navigate the Swiss cheese that was his memory of the past few days while talking to Dean about his secret crush on their ex-angel friend. Or maybe not so secret. His eyes landed on his phone, and his fingers itched to grab it, to check if maybe Cas had texted him in the last five minutes.

He caught Dean watching him with a frown, and he glared back, slamming his laptop closed before retreating back to his room. It was only after he arrived that he realized he'd left the phone on the table.

"I'm coming with you."

Dean paused at the top of the stairs, and Sam thought he was going to throw another excuse their way. Kevin was plenty capable of researching Elamite on his own, though, and Sam needed to talk to Cas. The ex-angel still wasn't returning Sam's calls or texts, and while this case was at least proof of life, Sam needed to see for himself that their friend was all right. With clear reluctance, Dean acquiesced, and Sam followed him out to the car, grabbing his go bag on the way.

Sam was impressed that Dean managed to refrain from asking until they had crossed state lines, but eventually he did say, "Why is this case so important to you? We're probably not even going to see Cas while we're out there."

Sam frowned, choosing his words carefully. Talking to Dean these days could be a bit of a minefield, though he couldn't quite figure out why. "I need to talk to him. And he hasn't—" Sam cut himself off, not sure how Dean would react to knowing Sam had tried to call Cas several times now and never gotten a response. Or maybe Dean was the reason the calls kept disappearing from his call log.

"He hasn't what?" Dean asked, glancing at Sam. "What, Sam?"

Sam felt his jaw muscle jump and consciously tried to unclench it. "It's not important."

He knew Dean wasn't going to let it go, and sure enough after a few minutes Dean said, "This isn't about you, all right? I mean, I'm feeling like a broken record here, but he left to protect us. Not because of anything anyone said or did, and definitely not because of you." Dean stared at Sam long enough before continuing that Sam was glad they were on a straight, empty road. "Besides, what could you have possibly done to drive him away in the amount of time it took me to go on a beer run?"

Sam's jaw ached, and he stared stoically out the window. If Dean still had no idea, then Sam wasn't going to enlighten him. That part didn't matter; Sam hadn't been lying. He just needed to make sure that he and Cas were on the same page.

"Seriously? You aren't even—" Dean heaved a belabored sigh, and Sam rolled his eyes at his over-dramatic brother. "I'm sure whatever it was, it wasn't that bad."

"And you know that how?"

Dean mumbled something unintelligible, and Sam briefly considered filling him in, just to end the painfully awkward conversation.

Of course, saying "I sucked off your best friend, then he bolted and isn't returning my calls" was a pretty awkward statement in and of itself. Better to play the annoyed brother. "I'm sorry, what was that?" He made sure to add a little more bite to his tone than he really felt.

"I said that Cas thinks too much of you to be that easily offended," Dean said, loud enough for Sam to hear this time.

That made no sense. Cas was ignoring him. And he was Dean's friend, not Sam's. They had a whole fight about that a few years ago. Just because Sam thought of him as a friend, hell, as more than a friend, didn't mean anything. Sam felt Dean's eyes on him as his brain tried to make sense of Dean's words.

"Ok, Sam, it's not that hard. Don't break your brain there. He—"

Sam blinked, and the world subtly changed. The rolling hills they'd been driving through had vanished, replaced by farms. Cow farms, judging by the smell pervading the Impala right now. He frowned. "He what?"

"Hmm?"

"Cas. He what, Dean?"

"Oh, right. He, uh, you know. He thinks of you as a friend." Dean's voice was falsely cheery, and Sam wanted to cringe at how obvious the lie was.

"Right. Friends. That's why he doesn't ever pick up the phone or text me back." Sam hoped he didn't sound too bitter, but he was sure he hadn't managed to hide that from his voice completely. The pause in the conversation lasted a little too long, and Sam glanced at his brother. Dean was focused so intently on the road that Sam knew something was up. "What?"

Dean didn't answer, just worked his jaw and gripped the wheel a little tighter.

Sam thought about pushing it, but he'd been wanting the conversation to end anyway. So instead, he just turned back to the window and let his eyes fall closed, hoping he'd be able to nap for a few hours before they switched.

When they finally arrived in Idaho the next day, Sam was still feeling exhausted. Maybe he was getting too old to nap in the car, but the sleep he'd gotten yesterday and today just hadn't recharged him the way he expected. It wasn't the first time he'd felt that way, but it seemed like the most random. He thought back to the other days he'd felt more worn out than usual, and they all made sense to some degree. They'd been running around the bunker after the Wicked Witch or he'd been flung across the room by a psychotic reaper. Or he'd been knocked unconscious by a serial killing witch chef. Who asked what Sam was. That was a can of worms he still couldn't completely unpack. He had no idea what had caused the guy to say that.

No.

He did.

Here, with the roar of the Impala in his ears and the smell of his childhood home surrounding him, he could at least be honest with himself. As a child he'd done some of his best thinking in this car, and somewhere along the line he'd promised to never lie to himself in here. He knew, at least in part, what had made the witch say what he did. That neck wound had been deep; the amount of blood he'd lost within the first thirty seconds had been proof enough of that, and he didn't have a scratch on him by the end of the evening. He should be dead, again, and somehow, he'd been miraculously healed. It wasn't right, and it didn't make any sense, but Sam didn't know what to make of it. It was just another piece of a very fucked up puzzle, and he didn't like the picture that was emerging. What the hell had the Trials done to him?

Dean pulled into a gas station, and Sam pulled himself out of the car. Maybe a cup of coffee would perk him up. He hated Gas 'n' Sip coffee, but any caffeine was welcome at this point. It would take a while for Dean to fill up the Impala, so Sam took his time browsing the aisles, grabbing some jerky for his brother but passing on road food for himself. Dean had said they were close, and Sam wasn't that hungry. He'd just wait until they found a diner later. Putting his items on the counter, he looked up to greet the cashier and froze.

Cas.

The ex-angel was staring back, just as surprised as Sam. After a moment, though, he shook himself and rang up Sam's coffee and the jerky, asking, "Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

"Cas?"

"It's Steve, now," Cas said. Sam winced. Cas's voice was clipped, and he wouldn't meet Sam's eyes anymore.

Sam fiddled with the lid on his coffee cup. "Look, Cas, about what—"

They were interrupted by the door opening and Dean's voice calling out, "Sam? What the hell is taking you so long?"

Mentally cursing his brother's impeccably bad timing, Sam dug out his wallet and paid, trying to plead with Cas using only his eyes.

Spotting Sam at the counter, Dean came over, stopping short when he saw Cas. Sam frowned at his brother, unsure why he suddenly looked simultaneously nervous and annoyed. "Hey, Cas," Dean said.

"It's Steve," Sam said, helpfully, pointing to Cas's name tag bearing his new name.

"Right. What are you doing here?"

Cas bristled. "I work here. It's not much, but it's better than a lot of people have."

Sam tried to find the words to ask why Cas had left, why he hadn't answered the phone, why he was working in a gas station of all things, but of course, what came out of his mouth was, “So, are you coming with us?"

“Sammy, come on. The man is busy. Of course he doesn’t want to come with us,” Dean said, voice full of false confidence that meant Sam was on the right track.

Unfortunately, Cas didn’t get that memo. “Dean is right, Sam. Besides, without my powers—”

“No, Cas. Look. You said you were a hunter-in-training, right? And Dean and I don’t have any powers. We’re just people. Who better to help you learn to hunt like a human?” Sam plastered a smile on his face, praying Cas would relent and come with them.

He could see the moment Cas changed his mind in the way his shoulders relaxed very slightly. Nodding, Cas said, “All right. My shift ends in ten minutes.

Having Cas along had ended up being invaluable, since he’d been able to identify the monster for them. There wasn’t more they could do that night, though, so they were grabbing dinner at a bar near the motel (Dean’s choice). They settled themselves at a high top, and Dean vanished for a minute to grab the first round of beer. Sam cleared his throat, wishing he knew how to get rid of Dean reliably for more than a minute or two, but his brother had been a damn barnacle all day. Any time Sam had tried to find a moment alone with Cas to try and talk about what had happened between them Dean had inserted himself into their conversation. It had happened enough times now that he suspected it was intentional. But the bar was crowded enough that even Dean's charisma wasn't going to be able to get him a round of drinks in less than ten minutes, so Sam seized his opportunity.

"So, Cas. Um." He ducked his head, embarrassed and unsure how to begin this conversation. He supposed the only way was to just...begin. "Look, I don't know why you left so suddenly, but I can guess. And I want to apologize. I thought we were on the same page when— when I— when we— Anyway. When you didn't return any of my messages, I figured I was wrong, and I didn't want you thinking that I was expecting anything beyond the one time. I know I'm not— not good enough. But that doesn't mean you had to leave. Especially not with angels on your ass. I know Dean said you left because you didn't want to bring trouble to us, but that's crazy. You're warded, we're warded, and the whole bunker is warded so heavily I still haven't figured out what half of it even does! It's obviously the safest place for you to be, so the only reason I can think of that you left is because of me. And I just— It wasn't necessary. And you should come back." He heaved a breath, aware of how much word vomit he'd just spewed all over his friend and afraid of what Cas's stunned silence might mean.

Then he blinked, and Cas was gone.

Castiel felt his confusion growing deeper the longer Sam talked. What messages? What could he mean about not being good enough? Sam was one of the best humans he knew. It was he who was not good enough. Sam had made his share of mistakes in the past, of course, but Castiel knew the mistakes he'd made himself were so much worse. Never mind the mistakes he'd made in the past in regards to Sam specifically. But none of that changed the fact that he'd been checking his phone hourly for days in the hope that one of the Winchesters would contact him, and it had remained painfully silent. He had never received a single message from Sam.

A moment after Sam paused for breath, Cas learned why.

Sam's eyes flashed blue, and Castiel felt terror. Not even his experience with April had garnered this much fear in him. Sam would never agree to let an angel possess him, not again, which meant this angel, whoever it was, was one more unscrupulous than even Lucifer.

"You should leave, Castiel, if you truly care about this one."

"Who are you?" he replied, his voice hard.

The angel didn't even acknowledge the question. "You are a danger to these humans, which means you are a danger to me. Am I wrong when I say you care for Sam?"

"What are you doing in him? He would never—"

"And yet he said yes. But he is still very weak. If I left him now—"

"Whoa, whoa, Zeke. No one is leaving anyone, ok?" Dean said, appearing at Cas's elbow with three beers in hand. "Cas, let's take a walk."

"Dean—"

"I'm not asking."

Cas looked up, horrified, but saw only determination in Dean's eyes. With a glare at the angel possessing his friend, he stood from the table and walked off. He heard Dean say something softly enough that he couldn't be talking to Cas, then they were walking together out into the parking lot.

"Cas—"

"What have you done?" Cas asked, whirling on Dean.

Dean growled. "I did what I had to. You weren't there. Sammy was—" He breathed deep, closing his eyes and collecting himself. "Sam was dying, Cas. If I didn't do something, then I was going to lose him. For good. Zeke offered to help, but he couldn't heal him. They were both too weak."

Castiel frowned. "You said the angel Ezekiel helped him. Who is Zeke—" His eyes widened in understanding. "Dean, that is not Ezekiel. He would never possess a vessel without that person's knowledge or threaten his vessel's life in the interest of his own safety. I don't know who that is in Sam, but he is not the angel I vouched for."

"What?"

Cas fought the urge to roll his eyes. "He feels threatened by my presence, so I assume this is the reason you asked me to leave? And also why Sam seems to believe that I left by choice?"

Dean had the decency to look sheepish. "I don't know what he's so afraid of, Cas, but he's definitely afraid of the other angels."

He considered his next words carefully. "I can't recognize him without my grace. But, Dean, why haven't you told Sam? How did this happen?"

"He was in a coma. I had to make a call, so I made it."

"And now?" Cas pressed.

Dean shrugged. "I didn't tell him at first because I was afraid he'd reject Zeke and die. And now... Well, he might be strong enough, I don't know. It's kind of tough to gauge."

"But this angel keeps telling you Sam is not strong enough? And, what? He threatens to abandon Sam if he knows?"

"Something like that." Dean's voice was grim, understandably so. "Cas?" He was hesitant, like he wasn't sure he wanted an answer to whatever question he was about to ask. "When Sam started the Trials, you told us you couldn't heal him." He stopped, unable to voice the question that had obviously been haunting him for weeks.

"I don't know. It's possible that the Trials themselves were somehow blocking my ability to heal the damage. Stopping them prematurely may have allowed for it. Regardless, Dean, you have to tell him. Sam deserves to know."

Dean shook his head, already denying Cas's words. "He could die."

The thought was painful in a way that Castiel was only starting to understand, but he spoke with conviction. "He should make that choice for himself. It isn't our place to make it for him."

Cas saw a single tear escape Dean's closed eyes before he said, "You don't understand."

"No? I'm the one who attempted to pull him from the Cage because—" Cas looked away. "I didn't do it for your sake or the world's, no matter what I've told myself."

Dean was adamant, though. "I can't risk it. Just a little longer, and Zeke will have him healed."

"And then?"

"And then he leaves."

Squinting at Dean, Cas wondered how his deeply paranoid friend could be so naive and trusting about something like this. "He has already lied to you about his identity, Dean, and I suspect he is altering Sam's memories, preventing him from contacting me. What makes you believe that he is not lying about this too? At any moment he could kill Sam, and I don't mean by leaving his body. I know it's easy to forget, but angels, even weakened ones, are powerful."

He watched Dean struggle with the implications of what he'd done to his brother—at least some of the implications. Finally, he nodded and said, "What do we do?"

Sam searched the bar frantically, looking for any sign of Cas or Dean. The only trace of them were the beers on the table that hadn't been there before, but they looked untouched. His brother and ex-angel had vanished into thin air, and that was the moment he knew he was really losing it. Though he briefly considered the idea that Cas had flown Dean somewhere he dismissed the idea quickly. Cas didn't have wings, and that didn't explain the beers or how Sam could blink and lose two people. Between that and all the other little instances of...blankness over the last several weeks he wasn't sure what he could even trust anymore. Something was wrong with him, seriously wrong, and he needed to figure out what.

It was like there were moments when he just wasn't present, though clearly the world and his body continued on without his mind being open for business. Oh, god. What if Cas hadn't been able to heal the damage from the Trials because it had been soul-deep? He felt ok now, but he also wasn't glowing anymore. Maybe the moments where he blanked out were really his soul flickering in and out of existence. The thought of being that person again, that monster, was terrifying, and he felt his gut clench in fear. He was just starting to really panic when he spotted Dean reentering the bar looking haggard. No sign of Cas, though, and a spike of fear he couldn't identify flashed through him.

Making his way over to his brother, he let all of his concern show on his face. "Dean?"

Startled, Dean looked up at him before running a hand down his face and answering. "Cas had to take off. Wanted me to apologize to you for bolting like that."

Sam clenched his jaw, holding in the things he really wanted to say. This wasn't the place. "Right. You ready to head out?" If things were ok, then Dean would deny it, citing concerns over wasting the untouched alcohol back at their table.

"Yeah, sounds great."

Crap.

Through the rest of the case, Sam tried to figure out how to ask Dean what the hell he'd said to Cas to run him off or to bring up his theory about the soul damage, but both of those conversations meant coming clean to Dean about how much time he was missing. It wasn't a fun prospect, and Sam was avoiding it. He could already hear Dean's accusations of hiding things from him, and he wasn't sure he could stand another reminder of some of his bigger failings in the past. It didn't matter what Dean had said in that church, Sam knew Dean hadn't magically forgotten about Purgatory or the demon blood. Never mind the Apocalypse. Failing to close the gates of Hell would probably be gracing the list at some point, and he just wasn't ready to have that thrown in his face too. And if not that, then it would take the form of doing the Trials in Dean's place, and he wouldn't apologize for that. It had been a miserable few months in a lot of ways, and he wouldn't have wished it on Dean. That was a different fight brewing, and he'd avoid it as long as he could. He'd avoid all the fights with Dean if he could manage it.

It was easy enough to push his concerns away in the wake of vaporizing people, at least until they managed to confront the angel responsible. Sam had zero memory of the fight. One moment they'd been flanking the guy, and the next he was waking up in the car, engine thrumming as it ate up the miles. It didn't feel like he was hurt, which meant this was a longer than usual blackout. It was dark, so he'd been out at least eight hours. A glance at Dean revealed a haunted look, which turned Sam's stomach. There had probably been casualties, then. Or Sam had said something that revealed his soulless nature and Dean was quietly freaking out. At this point either scenario was equally likely.

He quietly cleared his throat, bracing himself for the inevitable fight. "What happened?"

Dean frowned, taking his eyes off the road as he looked over at Sam. "Sam?" he asked.

"Last thing I remember we were flanking what's-his-name." He stole a glance at his brother, not entirely sure what reaction that revelation was going to provoke.

Whatever he might have been expecting, it wasn't for Dean's face to go carefully blank as he lied. "You got knocked out. I took care of the guy."

Sam nodded, though he was not at all mollified. "And you've just been driving around with me in the passenger seat, unconscious. Again." He sighed. "Dean, what really happened?"

"What are you talking about?" His voice was high, false. It grated on Sam.

"Look, if I'd been knocked out, I'd at least have a headache. You know, like every other time I've been knocked out in my life. And I'd be waking up in the car, so I'd be slouched down, probably with a crick in my neck and a sore back. I don't have any of those things, just a black hole in my memory. I was coming around the guy's left; I blinked, and now I'm here." He watched Dean expectantly.

Dean shifted, obviously uncomfortable. "You don't remember any of it?"

Sam shook his head. "And it's not the first time something like this has happened. It's like sometimes I'm just not here, you know? Like my body is out doing things without me." He paused, wondering if he should add his suspicions and deciding that if he was going to confess to Dean, then now was as good a time as any. "Like when I was soulless."

That definitely got a reaction from Dean. "What?! What the hell are you talking about, Sam?" he spluttered, staring at Sam with an expression of... something. Something between fury and fear.

"Do you have a better explanation? Because I don't. I mean, you're right. The Trials messed me up. Maybe we're just now finding out how bad." He was trying to pitch his voice to be calm, but he wasn't sure if it was working, given the pained expression on Dean's face.

It took a minute of Dean working his mouth before any words actually came out. When they did, it sounded a little like Dean was being tortured. "You aren't soulless, Sam."

He waited for Dean to elaborate.

"We'll figure this out, ok? Maybe take you to a hospital, get your head checked out since you're just now telling me you're having trouble remembering things. How long has that been happening, by the way?"

Sam thought about telling him about the neck wound that should have killed him, but decided against it. No need to piss Dean off more. And hey, maybe a hospital was the right call here. "Practically since I woke up in the Impala after the angels fell," he whispered, not wanting to admit to his brother how long he'd been avoiding the topic.

Dean clenched his jaw but didn't say anything.

"Sorry," Sam said, wishing he'd managed to avoid disappointing Dean one more time.

Castiel sat at the library table across from Kevin and poured over yet another book about angels. Most of it was wrong, as they all were, and he scrawled some notes to go back and annotate it later, when Sam wasn't in mortal danger. There were a few salient points that were correct, but he wasn't sure any of them were relevant. Kevin was attempting to translate the angel tablet, with similar amounts of success. Frustrated and knowing that the Winchesters were likely to be home in a day or two, Cas abandoned the Men of Letters books and turned to his firsthand knowledge of angels. Cradling his head in his hands, he closed his eyes and thought. There was the banishing sigil, which took the vessel along for the ride. There was a sigil that would theoretically allow them to talk to Sam without the angel listening, but he wasn't confident in his ability to accurately reproduce it. He wracked his brain. In his long life, he'd never so badly needed to know how to banish an angel from its vessel like a common demon.

He lifted his head. An exorcism. An angelic exorcism. It had been years ago, and he couldn't remember the words—had never even heard all the words— but Alistair had attempted to exorcise him shortly before Sam had killed the demon. "Kevin," he said, urgency making him sharper than he would normally be. "Look for an exorcism. Anything like an exorcism."

"Those exist for angels?" Kevin asked, sounding perhaps more surprised than he should be.

Cas nodded, though, excited to finally have a possible lead. "I'll try to remember the words that I heard, though I admit I was rather distracted at the time." When Kevin raised his eyebrows in question, he added, "I was being exorcised."

They returned to their respective books, though this time Castiel began looking for anything with a reference to Alistair. If the demon knew how to exorcise an angel, then perhaps it had come up in a human's dealings with him at some point. A moment later, he paused. If one demon knew how to exorcise an angel, perhaps more did as well. Crowley was abhorrent, but in this he might actually be helpful. Not that Castiel trusted him, and he'd be even harder pressed to know when the demon was lying now that Castiel was human.

He debated a while before checking on Kevin. The teen was hunched over the angel tablet and his notes, obviously struggling to parse Metatron's notes. Castiel considered going to Crowley again. It was possible that the demon could help, in a number of ways. He could translate the Elamite that Kevin had translated the tablet into, for starters, eliminating the need for Kevin to continue to slave over his translation. But, if the demon ever got free, then giving him that kind of knowledge was dangerous and irresponsible. If they could trap the angel possessing Sam, Crowley could "hack" him using the technique he'd used on Gadreel. That was almost worse. The thought of allowing Crowley to damage Sam in that way when Cas couldn't heal him afterward turned his stomach. Definitely not, unless they were completely out of options. And last, of course, was simply asking. It had the downside of letting Crowley know there even was an angelic exorcism, assuming he didn't know. No. Things weren't that desperate yet, and Castiel resolved that they weren't going to get there. The risks were too high, when they had not exhausted all of their other options.

Closing his eyes, he tried to recall that fight.

He heard fighting in the next room and ran in, seeing Alistair choking Dean. Grabbing the demon knife off the table, Castiel flew at the demon. His attack would have landed true, killing Alistair, if the demon hadn’t turned at the last moment. Even using his grace to manipulate the knife did little more than make the demon angry, though.

They traded blows until Alistair managed to get the upper hand. Impaled on a hook bolted to the pillar, Castiel was forced to listen to Hell’s head torturer taunt him, then threaten to send him back to Heaven. Then he began the exorcism.

“Omnipotentis Dei potestatem invoco. Omnipotentis Dei potestatem invoco. Ab orbe terra—”

After that, the words had sounded like ringing in Castiel’s ears, and nothing had made sense until Sam appeared, stopping Alistair in his tracks.

He managed to write down a few words that could narrow the search for Kevin. Unfortunately, Cas's Elamite was extremely rusty as a human, and studying the language had only made it worse. So, he stayed away from the translation efforts himself. Sighing, he tore out the page and added it to Kevin's notes, then pulled a book about demons closer.

Dean wasn't leaving him alone, and it was starting to freak Sam out. They'd gotten back from Idaho two days ago, and while he hadn't seen Kevin or heard from Cas, Dean had become his damn shadow. Everything Sam did was apparently fascinating, and it was all he could do to use the bathroom in peace. At first, he'd thought he'd just freaked Dean out with his admission in the car, but as one day had stretched into two and seemed to be stretching into a third, he began to fear he'd really freaked Dean out. His brother always had an explanation, but Sam was noticing other things that were odd too.

The day after they'd returned, Sam had noticed that there were a number of books incorrectly shelved in the library, and after he'd bullied Dean into fixing the problem (since he was hanging around anyway) Sam discovered that half a dozen books were missing. Once they'd finished the library organization, Dean had propped open the laptop to watch something that Sam prayed wasn't porn but distracted him enough that Sam could investigate which books were missing. He didn't exactly have the library memorized, but it was a near thing. But the card catalog that the Men of Letters had created and Sam had maintained let him generate a list of missing titles without too much trouble. Once he had that, things were easier. Two he recognized as books Kevin had been using to help translate the angel tablet. Easy enough explanation for where those had gone, then. The rest were books on demons and exorcism rituals, which made no sense at all. Unless Kevin was trying to exorcise Crowley? Or wanted one that was likely to work on the King of Hell just in case? Frustrated and confused, he put the puzzle away for now. It was something that wasn't urgent, and he could turn it over in his mind later when he was trying and failing to sleep.

Also, Dean was weirdly distant, even while he was being extremely clingy. Like watching porn in the library while Sam fiddled with the card catalog, or constantly messing around on his phone while Sam made himself a smoothie or read a book or got ready for a run. And then going on that run with Sam, but like, just in his regular jeans and flannel. He'd insisted that it made more sense because no monster was going to wait for him to change clothes or warm up first, and while yes, they had trained like that on occasion as kids, that wasn't why Sam was running now. That run, in particular, had been to do the one activity he'd been sure Dean wouldn't tag along on, but no luck. Dean had actually tried to make Sam turn around early, claiming he was too hot and running was for losers, but finished the three miles when Sam refused. And instead of bitching about how tired he was for the rest of the day, he'd just shut up about it and stared at his phone some more.

He still hadn't figured out the book mystery by day three, when Dean finally stopped distracting him from going down to the archives. One of the books was there, discarded on a table as though it had been used recently, though he had no memory of doing so or seeing Dean with it. Shrugging, he put it away and set about finding them a new case. Maybe there would be something with cheerleaders. Or zombies. Something that could cheer Dean up and help him be a little less freaked out by his mess of a brother.

Only, when he went to retrieve his laptop from the kitchen, he didn't get very far. Dean had followed him into the archive room, holding a runed pair of handcuffs. Sam frowned, backing away out of instinct. Dean just looked so sad, but determined, and the combination was enough to send a thrill of fear running through Sam. "Dean?" he asked as he backed up enough that he bumped into the wall behind him.

"Sorry, Sammy, but I don't have a choice. I thought I might, that we were out of the woods, but I was wrong. There's something wrong with you, and I need to take care of it."

Sam's stomach churned. On the one hand, Dean was hunting him for reasons he didn't entirely understand. On the other, something clicked into place for Sam that felt undeniably right about this whole scenario. Because, really, he'd been waiting for this moment for years.

He swallowed, closed his eyes. "What are you going to do?"

"What I should have done ages ago. What you begged me to do, once upon a time," Dean said, voice hard but not malicious. He sounded resigned, liked he genuinely regretted having to do this.

Sam breathed out a shaky laugh. "So much for figuring this out together, huh?"

"If it makes you feel any better, Sam, I don't want to do this."

Sam nodded, studying the floor near his feet. It was a smooth cement, but somehow the archives had never felt cold; he wondered how the Men of Letters had managed that. Maybe they'd used magic. No, he needed to think. Maybe he could get past Dean and make a run for the door. Only he was never going to do that. Even if he had no idea why Dean thought his missing memories warranted his death now, of all times, he accepted it. It was inevitable. Things were always going to end this way between them and oh god. Dean must think there was a fucking demon in him. That explained the books about exorcisms and demons, the memory loss, everything. Even the way Dean wouldn't let him out of his sight. He didn't think he had a demon inside, but he couldn't be sure, could he. He had the tattoo, but had they ever actually put that to the test before? He had no idea. Things before Hell got kind of fuzzy. Maybe they worked like devil traps, letting demons in but not out. It would make a terrible anti-possession charm if it worked that way, but hunters, even Bobby, had been wrong about plenty of things over the years.

He squeezed his eyes shut, found his center before opening them and meeting Dean's eyes. "It's ok, Dean. I understand." Except his body didn't get the memo. As it turned out, being resigned to his fate did very little to subdue Sam's survival instincts. When Dean got within arm's reach, Sam lashed out, using his long legs to sweep his brother's legs out from under him. It was a move that caught them both by surprise, and Sam found himself staring down at Dean, laid out on the floor.

Moves like that never worked when they sparred, but Sam didn't have time to question his luck. He delivered one hard punch to Dean's head, knocking his brother out cold. Sam stumbled his way through an apology to Dean as he made his escape from the bunker.

Sam looked around his little apartment. It was a studio, and he didn't have any money to furnish it yet, so all he had for decorations were his sleeping bag and his duffel of clothes that he'd grabbed on his way out. He lived in a plain white box with beige carpet. It was hideous, and he hated it. But it was all he could afford for the moment, and he didn't dare use one of the credit cards he had. Dean could track those and find him. Sam shook his head. He should let Dean find him. Even if his brother had gone off the deep end and wanted to murder Sam, Sam knew it was for the best. Something really was wrong with him, and Dean had known about it. Dean had been trying to fix it. Except you haven't lost time once since you left, have you? Isn't that interesting? Sam shut his eyes against the voice in his head. He needed to get to work.

Construction wasn't glamorous, but it was something he was good at. Sam may have preferred books to manual labor, but there was a satisfaction in making something with his hands, having a physical object that existed because of the work he'd done. It also helped that he liked the crew he was working with. He'd only been there a week, but he already felt like he was making friends.

"Sam! A couple of the guys are going out for beers tonight. You in?"

Sam turned from the plank he'd been measuring to see who was talking to him. It took a moment to place the blonde's name, but he was pretty sure it was Zeke. The guy was friendly, and he'd made a point of introducing himself to Sam on his first day. This was already the second time he'd invited Sam out for drinks with the guys. The first time Sam had declined, not sure how long he was going to be in the area and not wanting to make ties to people that Dean could interview later. Three days later, well, Sam was just too tired to keep moving. He was planning to stay here until Dean caught his trail, so making friends had a lot more merit. Friends might lie to his brother for him. And the thought of going back to his barren apartment was too depressing to think about. So he nodded, grinning when Zeke slapped him on the back.

Sam leaned on the bar, wiping condensation from the bottle of beer he was nursing. The night had started out easy enough. This wasn't the first time he'd made friends among civilians, and the routine of telling just enough truth to them came back easily enough. The truth was easier to remember than a lie, after all, and a partial truth aroused less curiosity and suspicion than not talking about himself at all. He said as little as he could get away with, of course, and years of living with Dean had given him plenty of practice in deflecting. So it came as a surprise when he was faced with a question he wasn't sure how to not answer. He'd been asking polite questions of the guys, getting a feel for them and their lives. Where he might fit in the group. Then someone, possibly George, had asked if he had a girlfriend.

His mind stuttered over the memory of Jess before he managed to answer, smoothly as he could, "No, no girlfriend."

Something in his answer had alerted the others to his discomfort though, because Mike had almost immediately followed up with, "How about a boyfriend?" and Sam watched a dozen eyes swing his way, waiting expectantly for his answer.

He didn't sense judgement from them, at least, which surprised him a little. A group of construction workers didn't seem like the easiest group to come out to. But these guys seemed like they'd be cool with it, and he found himself saying, "He's not a boyfriend." Immediately, Sam felt the tips of his ears heat as his eyes widened in panic.

The guys just laughed, and Mike had prodded, "So, tell us about this 'not a boyfriend.'"

Zeke and Mike helped him maneuver the couch into his tiny studio apartment. It was Sam's first big purchase for his place, though he probably should have invested in a bed. Or at least a pullout couch. The one he'd purchased had been second hand, but it was long enough that he was pretty sure he would still fit, so hopefully it wouldn't hurt his back when he tried sleeping on it tonight. Two weeks on the floor hadn't done him any favors.

Once the couch was in place, all three guys collapsed on it. Zeke piped up, "Planning to invite your 'not boyfriend' over?"

Mike said, "Yeah, why isn't he here helping you move your Sasquatch furniture into this place?"

Sam didn't answer right away, just tried to shove down the emotion the teasing had stirred up. It had been a long time since someone had called him Sasquatch. And the guys already knew a version of why Cas wasn't here helping. As far as they knew, Sam had had a falling out with his brother, and the "not a boyfriend" had been his brother's best friend. All true, though Sam knew Cas would have spoken to him if he tried calling. That, of course, was too dangerous. Still, Sam wondered if Cas worried about him, or if Dean had convinced him, too, that Sam had to die. He missed his angel.

One week ago:

Castiel watched Dean approach Sam in the archive room. The plan was for Dean to distract Sam long enough for Cas to say the exorcism. If Dean could get the angel cuffs on Sam, so much the better. There was also a ring of holy oil in the room, but Sam hadn't stepped into it yet. They needed to keep the angel inside Sam from flying away before the exorcism could work.

"Sam, look, we need to talk," Dean said, hand reaching into his pocket with the angel cuffs.

From his hiding place, Cas could see Sam's eyes flash blue, and he knew they were out of time. He burst into the room, already chanting.

Dean, cuffs in hand, lunged for his brother's wrist. He tried to use his weight to push Sam into the ring of oil, but Sam didn't budge. Not surprising, really. Sam reared back, landing a solid punch on Dean before he noticed Castiel. Cas continued chanting, trying to remember the words and not worry that it didn't seem to be affecting Sam at all yet. Rage darkened Sam's face, and Cas briefly wondered if the angel would kill him now. He didn't, instead throwing another punch that caught Cas across the temple, knocking him out cold.

Castiel accepted the bag of frozen peas from Dean and gingerly placed them against his swollen eye. He missed his ability to heal such mundane wounds instantly.

"Any more bright ideas?" Dean asked.

Cas flinched away from the scathing tone in his friend's voice. Cas's exorcism hadn't worked, and now Sam was gone. The angel had stolen him. "Now we focus on finding him."

Dean slumped in his seat, all energy gone. "I have no idea how to do that."

Cas shrugged, wincing. "I would say that my lack of powers makes it more difficult, but the sigils on Sam's ribs would protect him from finding him anyway."

Dean frowned. "He still has those? I figured they were healed when he got back from Hell, like the rest of his scars."

"He asked me to replace them some time ago. I believe he was afraid of hostile angels being able to find him."

Dean ran a hand down his face, weariness evident in his eyes. Cas could relate. He was exhausted, and he was struggling to maintain hope. With Sam in the wind, the chances of finding him were slim at best. If the angel chose to live a quiet life, then they may never find him.

Cas reread the news article. This was it, the break they'd been looking for. A man fitting Sam's description had saved three children from a burning building. There was no picture as the man had asked to remain anonymous, but Cas was sure. Perhaps this angel wasn't entirely a bad seed after all. Or perhaps he'd returned control to Sam. Then again, if that were true, surely Sam would have made contact. Right? Of course he would. In any case, he knew how his brother would worry otherwise.

"Dean!" Cas called. "We have a case!"

The drive only took an hour. The angel, if it was the angel, had stayed close to the bunker for reasons neither Dean nor Cas could fathom. They were just grateful.

The Impala rolled up to the newspaper offices, and Dean said, "Moment of truth."

"Let me." Cas met Dean's eyes, pleading silently to be the one to find Sam. Dean rolled his eyes and gestured to the door, and Cas got out of the car.

Cas showed Sam's picture to the journalist who had written the article and held his breath while she studied it.

"Yeah, this is the guy. Why are you guys looking for him anyway?"

While Cas still did not excel at lying, this was a question he'd been prepared for. "He's a friend, but we've been out of touch for a long time. When I saw the story—"

She smiled, and Cas was forcibly reminded of Sam. She even shared his deep dimples. His heart ached at his loss. Digging through her desk drawer, she produced a business card and handed it over. "Here. He left his number in case I had follow-up questions." Her smile softened, and Cas tilted his head in combined confusion and gratitude. When she sighed and lamented, "All the good ones, I swear," Cas knew he was never going to figure out humans. There were too many cultural references for him to ever get a handle on them.

So he pretended he hadn't heard that part, simply saying, "Thank you."

"Dean, we can't call him."

"Why not?"

Cas rolled his eyes at his friend. "You know why. The angel possessing Sam would immediately flee, and we would be back at square one."

Dean shrugged. "I'm not sure we have a better idea. Unless you think that reporter lady would help us out."

"I'm not sure. She seemed eager for me to reconnect with Sam at first, but she became rather wistful by the end of our exchange. I believe there was some amount of subtext I did not understand."

Dean made Cas go through the conversation again, verbatim, until Dean burst out laughing. "Oh my God, Cas, she thinks you and Sammy are an item!"

Cas frowned. "An item of what?"

Dean clutched his stomach as tears rolled down his face. "Like a couple. Sleeping together or something."

"Dean, when would I have had the opportunity to sleep with Sam? I did not stay in the bunker even one night."

Castiel watched the angel handcuffed to the chair in the library warily. It hadn't revealed anything yet, not even its name. It had made a number of threats to Sam's general well-being but, as far as Cas could tell, hadn't acted on them yet. He tried once more to convince the angel to talk. "Why did you pretend to be Ezekiel?"

Nothing.

"Why did you agree to heal me, if you are so threatened by my existence?"

A pained look crossed Sam's face, but the angel still didn't respond.

Castiel wasn't sure what more they could do that didn't threaten Sam's welfare. They may have to accept that they would never have the answers they sought.

Dean obviously wasn't so ready to give in. "I trusted you, Zeke. And you lied to me."

"Only about my name," he said, finally breaking his silence.

Dean and Cas shared a look. Dean said, "Ok then, what's your name? And try not to lie to me this time."

The angel laughed condescendingly. "What difference does it make? You have decided I'm not trustworthy, and I have all of Sam's memories of what that means. Regardless of my answer, I know you will not believe me."

"What about me, brother? Do Sam's memories of me tell you that I will not believe you as well?"

The look that crossed Sam's face was conflicted, but he said, "You have hurt him in unspeakable ways. And then used your power to kill hundreds of angels. Despite all that, he trusts you. Why? I have been trying to understand that for some time now."

Castiel made a pained noise before answering. "I have wondered that many times myself. It is certainly true that I do not deserve his trust and forgiveness."

"And yet you have it and more." The angel shook Sam's head in disbelief as Cas felt a thrill at the words. "I had hoped that I could learn from him, from you. Learn to have what you have."

Cas narrowed his eyes in confusion. "Brother—"

"Gadreel."

Cas froze, and he heard Dean asking, "What? Cas, what did he just say?"

"His name. This is Gadreel, the angel who let Lucifer into the Garden, who has been imprisoned in Heaven's jail ever since." Castiel faltered. Gadreel had been hated by angels for millenia, blamed for God's departure and Lucifer's downfall. But was he so different? Castiel was surely one of the most hated angels now, so much so that even Gadreel was afraid to be associated with him. He'd been tricked, as Gadreel had once. However he felt, Gadreel deserved to be forgiven his original fault. But his possession of Sam could not continue as it was. He turned to his brother. "You and I were both tricked by unscrupulous angels. We know how it feels to trust, and to have that trust used against us. Sam Winchester deserved better than that, but it's not too late to fix your mistake. Tell him the truth, or allow us to tell him. He should be given the same choice all humans have before they become vessels."

Gadreel pursed his lips. "He will reject me, and then he will die. Slowly. I have healed much of the damage done to him, but there is much left. There have been...setbacks."

Everyone present knew exactly why Sam would never again agree to be possessed. It didn't matter that he was dying, or that this had been the only way to save his life. It didn't matter now that he would likely die a slow, painful death. He deserved the choice. The least they could do was trust him to choose to live.

Gadreel glanced at Dean, as though asking him permission. Cas didn't look back, but Dean must have nodded, because Gadreel said, "I will tell him. Perhaps he will surprise us."

"Sam."

Sam looked up from his book. "Zeke. Hey, what...are you doing here?"

His new friend shifted uncomfortably. "I have a confession to make." He paused for barely a moment before barreling forward, words spilling from his mouth like hail, breaking and wounding everything in their path. "I am an angel, Sam Winchester, and I have been possessing you for the last six weeks. You were dying, and your brother asked for my help. This was the only way for me to do that. I am sorry for the deception, but you are still seriously injured, and I was afraid you would reject my presence if you knew the truth."

No. No nononono. "If you're possessing me, then how are we talking?" Sam asked, tamping down his growing panic as best he could.

Zeke looked upset, which did nothing to ease his fear. "We are inside your head."

Sam fought to control his breathing, on the edge of hyperventilating. "What did you do?"

"You are unwell. I was attempting to protect you, to give myself a chance to finish healing you."

Shaking with combined fury and dread, Sam said, "What did you do to me? Where am—where is my body?"

"You are in the bunker, with Castiel and your brother."

Sam breathed a small laugh that sounded more bitter than anything else. "Of course I am. How long? How much of my memory is fake?"

"Sam—"

"No. You've been rooting around in here for who knows how long now. You should know why I'm mad." He shook his head in painful disbelief. "Get out."

Zeke looked taken aback at Sam's tone, though he seemed unsurprised at his words. When he answered, his tone was even, maybe a little sad. "You will die."

Sam snarled. "Get out!"

And he went, in a blinding flash of light.

When Cas could see again, Sam was slumped in the chair, unconscious. Dean was already checking for a pulse, and Cas felt his heart jackrabbit in fear. Sam couldn't be dead. They had known the risk of telling Sam the truth was that he would expel Gadreel, but Cas wasn't prepared for the worst-case outcome.

Dean muttered, "Come on, Sammy. Wake up, little brother," as he patted Sam's cheek. "Come on, man, don't do this to me."

Cas's heart was in his throat until he heard Sam groan, "Dean?"

Dean and Cas both slumped in relief that was too short-lived. Sam tried to stand, only to realize he was cuffed to his chair. He immediately began to struggle, blind panic written across his face.

"Whoa, Sam! Calm down! Cas, give me a hand here!" Dean barked.

Cas snatched up the handcuff key from the library table and hurried to Sam's side. "Please relax, Sam. You are going to injure yourself if you continue to struggle," he murmured, hoping that his low rumble might have a chance at calming Sam where his brother's shouting was failing.

"Cas?" Sam asked, pausing briefly in his flailing.

"Yeah, Sammy. Cas is undoing the handcuffs, ok? You're ok. You're safe now."

Cas cursed himself as he fumbled the key, taking far longer than should be necessary to unlock Sam's wrists.

"What happened?" Sam asked.

Before Dean even answered, Cas could hear him preparing to lie about the whole thing, so he spoke up first. "You were dying, and an angel agreed to help you. The angel lied to Dean, and you were tricked into saying yes. You've been secretly possessed for the last few months, and the angel completely took over one week ago. Dean and I tracked him down and captured him. You've just expelled him. Am I missing anything, Dean?"

"Sugar coat it, why don't you," Dean grumbled.

"Dean?" Sam said.

Dean sighed. "Yeah, that about sums it up. How much do you remember?"

"From when? How long was—?"

A pained look crossed Dean's face. "Since the end of the Trials. You were dying, and I couldn't exactly ask you for your opinion."

Sam's eyes widened in shock. "That whole time I thought I was going crazy. You were being weird, but I thought it was my imagination. But you knew. How—?" He heaved a shaky breath. "How could you?"

"Sam, I am not going to apologize for saving you. I can't. You know that."

Sam shook his head in denial. "Get out."

For a moment, everything was silent as all three held their breath after Sam's quiet order. Finally, Dean said, "What?"

"You tricked me because you knew what I would say. And then you didn't have the decency to even tell me once I was up and walking around. When I thought I was losing my mind, or— Jesus, Dean. After everything, you— I can't. I need some time. So please. Get. Out."

Dean rocked back on his heels as if Sam's words had struck a physical blow. His mouth opened, as if to say something in reply, but then it clicked shut, and Dean silently stalked out of the room.

Sam slumped in the chair, head hanging low. "God, Cas, did you know too?"

"I learned of your possession two weeks ago." Cas backed away from his friend, wishing he could help, could make this right.

"Two weeks. Why didn't you say anything?" Sam's bitter tone stung. He was looking to do damage with his words, and he was succeeding.

Cas swallowed, looking away. "Gadreel threatened you if I did not leave immediately. As soon as I could, I contacted Dean, and Kevin and I have been working to rectify the situation. But I understand if you would like me to leave as well." Without waiting for Sam's reply, Cas turned away, planning to go to his room and pack a bag. He was shocked when a large, calloused hand gripped his wrist, halting him.

"Stay." Their eyes met, and Sam's were brimming with unshed tears. "Please."

Castiel wrapped his hand around his mug of coffee, relishing the gentle warmth seeping through the ceramic. He took a deep breath, letting the rich smell wash over him and remind him of happier days. Sam would be awake soon, and he would want to finish the conversation they had started weeks ago, when Gadreel had made himself known. For a moment, though, Cas was going to enjoy the calm of the quiet kitchen and try not to worry about the possible directions that conversation could go.

His peace was interrupted by Sam shuffling into the kitchen. Sam looked exhausted, as though the last ten hours of sleep hadn't left him with any more energy than he'd started with. His hair, usually soft and styled no matter what time of day Castiel encountered the brothers, was a frizzy mess. While Cas silently observed his friend, Sam made himself a cup of coffee, slow movements revealing stiffness that Sam was trying to hide. Cas clenched a fist and looked away. He couldn't watch Sam in pain when he couldn't do anything about it. A rough cough drew his eyes back to Sam just in time to see him catch himself on the counter, spilling coffee over his hand.

"Son of a bitch!" Sam hissed, nearly dropping the carafe as the burn registered. He slammed the cold water tap on and jammed his hand under the stream, pinching his eyes closed.

Cas quietly took the carafe from Sam's good hand and finished making the cup of coffee. He knew little enough of human first aid that it would be better for Sam to treat the burn himself, but this he could do.

After several long minutes had passed where the only sound in the kitchen was the running water, Sam pulled his hand out and evidently decided it needed no further care. He joined Cas at the table, gratefully taking his mug back. At least now the coffee had cooled to a level that wasn't scalding. Steeling himself, Castiel said, "Sam. We should talk." Sam winced, but Cas continued. They would never get anywhere if he let the Winchesters dictate the conversations. "Before Gadreel revealed himself to me, you were attempting to ask me to come home with you, and you said a number of things that have been troubling me."

Sam gulped, then asked, "Like what?"

"Among other things, you suggested that you were not worthy of my affection."

"Heh. Um—" Sam chuckled nervously, and Cas was sure he was thinking about bolting. "Look, I'm— I'm kind of a mess right now—"

"Sam. I don't know if you would like to pursue... whatever this is between us. I understand if you don't. I am, as you say, 'kind of a mess' myself. But I would very much like to clear up a few assumptions that you seem to have made. I did not leave this place because of the intimacy which we shared. I did, in fact, quite enjoy myself and wish that Dean had not interrupted before I had a chance to reciprocate. If it is agreeable to you, this is something I would like to remedy. As for the question of your worthiness, Sam, you are the most extraordinary human I have ever met. After the things that Heaven and angels have put you through— After what I have put you through, I am continuously surprised that you wish to have anything to do with me."

Sam was shaking his head long before Cas stopped talking, though he let Cas finish before speaking. "No, Cas. You're an angel, and I'm just—"

"Not anymore."

Sam's eyes shone brightly with emotion. "We'll find a way to restore your grace. I promise."

Cas smiled. "And when we do, the first thing I will do is finish healing you." I will not let you die a slow, painful death, Sam Winchester.

"I'm fine," Sam said automatically. They both knew better, so Cas didn't bother correcting the obvious lie.

They were quiet a moment, then Sam haltingly said, "I don't know. About pursuing this thing. I— God, Cas, I want to. But things don't tend to end well for people that care about me, you know?"

Cas considered this. "Does it make a difference if you consider the fact that I have already come back to life twice?"

Sam burst out laughing, and Cas delighted in watching him. When he got control of himself, Sam said, "You really want to try this, don't you?"

"Only if you do."

"Yeah, Cas. I think I'd like that."

"May I kiss you now?" Cas asked.

Instead of answering, Sam leaned across the table and captured Cas's lips with his own.

#Sastiel #sastiel big bang 2020 #non-con tw #possessed sam #memory alteration #gadreel!sam #season 9 divergence #canon divergence #human!cas

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