#I gave up properly shading or inking this halfway through

[margowrites]

Hi my lovely friend! I have another request if that’s ok, please and thank you❤️❤️How about from teaching ideas- “How do you spell it?” With either Bucky and reader or even Bucky and Steve (either is totally fine) and you can add an AU if you like! Could be like college AU or something or regular! Yay! Thank you! Hugs and love❤️

Can’t Take My Eyes off of You

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (College AU!)

Summary: You’ve been infatuated with a boy in your class for quite some time. This time all the seats are taken and he’s sitting next to you, making it harder for you to concentrate on the lesson. Bucky asks for help with spelling, not that he really needs it but it’s an excuse to hear your voice.

Word count: 1,625

Author’s Notes: My sweetie pie @jobean12-blog ❤️ I can’t thank you enough for being so incredibly kind and sending me requests 🥺 they make me truly so happy and I’m so honoured to write something for you! Hugs to you my beautiful friend ❤️❤️❤️

Warnings: Fluff, crushes, Bucky is a little sassy towards the Professor, Professor Wilson, mild language (one or two words of fuck), crushes to lovers implied.

If it was under any other circumstances, you would be positive that it was the heatwave outside that caused you to sweat profusely and your clothes to stick to your skin. You would blame it on the sun that was far too hot combined with the speed walk you did across campus just so you wouldn’t miss your class. You would blame it on any other reason apart from the true reason as to why you were currently sitting in your seat with your heart pounding out of your chest, covered in sweat with your hands shaking and unable to grip your pen.

And the real reason wasn’t because of the summer heatwave, the sun or the unbearable and sticky humidity. Your current state is all because of one boy; A top A student in all of his classes, a boy who makes all the girls and even some of the boys swoon just because of his existence. A boy, who loves his leather jackets - even in the scorching heatwave - likes to keep his hair tied back into a bun or low ponytail. A boy who loves to wear his dark jeans and dogtags. An almost 19 year old boy named Bucky Barnes, who you also happen to have a very big crush on. The same boy who was currently sitting right next to you because he was late to class and all the other seats were taken.

This lesson wouldn’t be easy. You were just so infatuated by him. Everything Bucky did fascinated you and you often found yourself staring at him in a dreamlike state when the two of you had the same classes. Watching the way he would roll his toothpick between his teeth, the way he would hold his pen and letting the tip of it glide smoothly across the paper to write down notes. The way he would swing back dangerously in his chair only to be told off by Professor Wilson because, “boy, you could swing back so much your head would crack against my floor and I’m not cleaning it up. Sit properly!”

Bucky even smelled so good, like soo soo good. A sandalwood scent mixed with sweat and something else permeated the dusty air around you that tickled your nostrils that you were sure you would be smelling for days. Not that you would ever complain about that. Being this close to him was a once in a lifetime opportunity and you would make the most of it.

“Y/N?” His voice rang through your ears, snapping you out of your current thoughts. His voice was deep for a college boy, his blue eyes watching you carefully.

You cleared your throat and shifted awkwardly in your chair. Your damp clothes from the sweat squeaked against the hard plastic, causing your cheeks to heat up in embarrassment. If Bucky heard, he didn’t comment on it. That was the other thing you liked about him. Bucky was mostly polite, unless you crossed him, in which his ex-girlfriend caused a scene in the cafeteria one time and Bucky came prepared with his colourful language. They had been having problems for quite some time according to his other friend, Wanda who filled you in on all the gossip. “I- yes?” You stuttered, shaking your head as though it might just shake your nerves away.

“I said, can I borrow a pen? I gave mine to Steve who is currently holding it hostage…” he chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. Wait, why was he nervous?

You nodded and pulled a spare black pen from your pencil case. From your observations, you learned he loved to write in black ink only and that’s what you gave him with shaky hands, you pushed it towards him and smiled.

“Thanks, doll! I owe you one!” He smirked, plucking the toothpick from his mouth and licking his plump pink lips.

Oh Jesus Christ.

You knew this would be impossible. Everything Professor Wilson was teaching right now went right over your head. You just knew it was something something about dinosaurs. No information was registering and trying to concentrate just wasn’t going to happen. Not when your crush was right next to you, anyway. The veins in his hands were prominent and the temptation was strong to run your fingertips over the lines. His other hand was moving quickly as he jotted down notes, already halfway down the page. You blinked and stared down at your blank page. Your mind refusing to soak in what’s being taught and your hand refusing to lift your pen and write. Something would be better than nothing, you tell yourself but you’re nervous. Bucky is more interesting than the lesson.

Bucky stops writing for a few seconds to look at you. He frowns, curious if something is going on because from his own observations he knows this is one of your favourite lessons and you’re always keeping up.

Bucky leans in, his breath fanning against the shell of your ear sends a shiver down your spine. “Are you okay?” He smiles, his shirt too tight for his body, you notice.

You nod and smile awkwardly. “Yeah, I’m fine, just finding it difficult to catch up this time.” You sigh, your racing heart still pounding in your chest. The room feels much hotter than it was when you first arrived, even with the air conditioning cranked up.

“Okay, doll. Just checking.” He smirked and started to swing back on his chair as the professor started the second half of his lesson.

Professor Wilson walked around with his hands behind his back as he talked about fossils and mammals that existed almost 169 million years ago. “Mr Barnes! Put your legs on the ground in this instance!” Professor Wilson lectured him and shot him a stern warning look.

“They are on the ground.” Bucky sassed back, rolling his eyes and earning giggles from girls a couple of desks away. Professor Wilson sighed and shook his head.

“If you fall and crack your head I-”

“Yeah, yeah. You won’t clean it up, I know.” Bucky dismissed Professor Wilson’s worries with a wave of his hand and started to take notes once again as soon as the professor carried on with his lesson.

“And the Tuojiangosaurus was found in China 157 million years ago. It was known to be 7.0m in length and weighed a hefty 1500kg.” Professor Wilson brought up slides of what the dinosaur would have looked like.

“What a fuckin’ beast.” Bucky murmured under his breath, “how do you spell whatever he just said?”

A breathy laugh escapes you and you scratch an itch on your nose. “Uh so, TUOJIANGOSAURUS.” You spelled out for him slowly.

“Thanks doll. I thought you weren’t paying attention to the lesson.” He teases, a sly smirk on his face.

“I remembered the spelling from my spelling bee test.” You grow shy under his now intense and impressive stare.

“Well, he should have these in big letters on the board.” He scoffed and you giggled.

“He… does…” you point to writing under the pictures, the names of the dinosaurs in big black bold letters. A shade of pink dusts Bucky’s cheeks and he dips his head with a smile.

“I know, I just like hearing your voice. You sound really sweet. S’like music to m’ears.”

Oh my goodness. This couldn’t be happening, right?

“Oh I uh- really?” You stammered, mesmerised by his homely blue eyes.

“Really doll, I’ve wanted to ask you-”

“Barnes! Since you’re distracted. Tell the class about the Triceratops. We’re waiting.” Professor Wilson stands in front of your desk, his arms folded over his chest and his foot taps impatiently against the tiled floor. All eyes are on Bucky as he sighs and subtly rolls his eyes under his eyelids.

“The- whatever you just said is a horny dinosaur with teeth.”

“Correction. He has a horny beak.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Please elaborate next time Barnes.” Professor Wilson shakes his head and his eyes narrow on your blank page. “Miss y/l/n? Why have you not been taking notes?!”

Your voice was lost, what could you tell him? That you were too busy watching your crush and not paying attention?

“She’s not feeling well and she can copy my notes. S’no big deal.” Bucky spoke and you felt so relieved. Professor Wilson seemed to be satisfied with that answer and went back to finish up his lesson.

“Thank you.” You leaned in and whispered, sighing when things didn’t feel any better for you. Your heart rate was still out of control and you’re pretty sure there might be a damp spot on your seat.

“It’s okay, doll face. You can copy my notes and be my study buddy in the library if you want to.”

If you want to? Of course you want to!

“Yes- I’d like that!” You smiled and pulled your lip between your teeth. “What were you going to say earlier? Before Professor Wilson interrupted?”

Bucky’s cheeks turned from a light shade of pink to a crimson red. He chuckled quietly and nervously.

“You’ll say no!” He chuckled, his eyes darting from your eyes to your lips.

“Try me.” You challenge, mimicking his movements with your eyes.

“I’ll tell you when we’re at the library. Deal?” He winks, and shushes you as he writes down his final notes, catching the slight nod of your head.

Your mind went into a frenzy. All it took was for all the seats to be taken and for Bucky to sit next to you this once to escalate things. You wished he was late sooner. What was he going to say to you earlier? You couldn’t wait to find out as you sunk back in your chair with the biggest smile on your face, feeling like the happiest person in the world.

[fallen-gravity]

awaken the stars, ‘cause they’re all around you

Stanford Pines never really believed in soulmates.

He can't imagine the idea that there's one person out there for him in the multiverse who would stop at nothing to love him for who he is, despite everything he is and everything he's done. He can't imagine that someone out there is meant for him, someone who will stand by his side until the end of time.

Or maybe he'd just been looking at it from the wrong angle.

Notes: 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, @stariousfalls!!!!! I can't believe we've been friends for upwards of five years now?? You've been a huge inspiration of mine from my first day in the gravity falls fandom back in late 2014, and now you're one of my closest friends. I've been spending the last week and a half working on this behind your back, because I wanted to surprise you with a gift I thought you'd love!!

7.5k words of fluff was....not my original plan, but fluff brain wanted to go feral for you, I guess.

Huge, huge shoutout to @ariasofelegance  for helping me keep my mouth shut about this, I absolutely would've internally combusted without your help & support

AO3

Ford never saw the appeal of romantic relationships.

One night when he and Stan were kids, they snuck downstairs in the middle of the night after their parents were asleep to dig through Pa’s “Secret stash” of movies he thought he was good at keeping a secret. They’d thought for sure they’d be coming across bootleg cuts of action movies that were still playing in theaters, or documentaries about how all of the politicians in power were secretly aliens. 

What they actually found was much more…sensual. They were both horrified, to say the least, but each time Ford had to turn away to prevent himself from gagging, he’d hear Stan beside him struggling not to laugh. 

For years, Ford was convinced coming across those tapes before he was old enough to fully comprehend what was happening in them is what had turned him off to relationships altogether. It certainly didn’t help that he was never able to experience romantic relationships firsthand, as every time he tried asking someone out in high school he’d just be laughed at or called a freak.

Though college was another story entirely, his feelings towards romantic relationships never seemed to change. He went out with a girl from his dungeons, dungeons, and more dungeons club for a few weeks, a guy from his advanced physics class for almost two months, and even tried going out with Fiddleford for upwards of nine months, but he never felt that deeper connection with any of them, no matter how much he wanted to feel that connection. 

It’d be forty more years before he learned the term aromantic, but when he was still in college he would brush off his parents’ questions about his relationship status by telling them he was too busy working on his thesis, which technically wasn’t all that far from the truth anyway.

Still, the faint sense of yearning never seemed to leave him be. Whenever he found gaps in his schedule, he would spend hours in his university library reading up on the science of relationships and their place in society. Though he no longer remembers most of the papers he read, one scientific study that’s always stuck with him was a dissertation written entirely on the concept of soulmates.

Everyone has a soulmate, the paper claimed. Though it may be decades until you properly meet, your path always leads to the moment that you and your soulmate are finally united. Once finally together, not a single force on earth can tear you apart. Even if you are apart physically, the stars will always align to bring you together. Weirdest of all, the paper mentioned soulmarks, which were described as “the phenomenon that a person’s very soul is marked with a piece that belongs to their soulmate, which may appear as a physical anomaly on a person’s body, such as an oddly-shaped birthmark”. 

Ford had thought for sure that somebody must’ve moved a romance novel into the sociology section of the library as a joke. The only sort of anomaly he had going for him was his polydactyly, and thinking too much about how that could connect him to a single person who was destined to love him gave him a headache. 

Nowadays, though, Ford tries not to give it much thought. He’s perfectly happy right where he is, watching the sunrise from the deck of the Stan O’ War II through the steam visibly rising from his coffee mug. 

He sighs contently. 

“Mornin’” Stan’s voice sounds beside him, gruff with sleep. When Ford turns to look at him, he’s rubbing at his eyes with one hand while he holds a steaming cup of coffee in his other. He’s already donning one of the sweaters Mabel mailed to him, a deep blue with a tropical island and a treasure chest stitched across the chest.

Ford smirks. “You’re up early” 

Stan cocks an eyebrow as he sips from his coffee. “A’course I am. I always get up early when we’re docking to see the kids”

Ford blinks, the teasing smirk on his face melting into a gentle smile. “That’s today?” 

“Haven’t you checked the calendar lately?” Stan tosses a second handmade sweater at Ford. This one’s the same shade of maroon as his journal covers, and pictures an angry cycloptopus squirting ink towards the bottom left corner of the sweater. “The kids are on spring break. They talked to their parents about letting us have ‘em all week” 

Ford is quick to pull the warm sweater over his head. “All week?” 

He can’t help sounding like a broken record, but it’s been months since the last time he saw the kids face to face. Sure, they talk over video at least once a week, but nothing beats seeing their smiling faces and having them nearly tackle him to the ground in a hug in-person. 

“Heh, you miss em too, Sixer?” 

As little as two years ago, Ford would’ve flinched at the nickname. But Bill is gone for good, and Ford knows that Bill is gone for good, and Stan made a promise to do anything in his power to help him reclaim the nickname. He brings his mug close to his face without taking a sip, allowing himself to take in the warmth in his hands and the steam in his face.

“Not as much as you, clearly” Ford smirks, and Stan crosses his arms over his chest.

“You bet I missed them more than you. I’d been taking care of them all summer before you showed up and fell in love with them in half that time”

Ford smirks as he finishes up his coffee and heads into the navigation room to set their course. “By that logic, wouldn’t that mean that I miss them more, since I had less time with them?”

“Hey!” Stan groans as he follows him into the room. “It does not. It means that you don’t know them like I know them, genius. Everyone knows that it’s all about how much time you’ve spent with a person that determines how close you are with them” 

Ford laughs as he enters the coordinates they need to get to the seaport they were meeting the young twins at. From the looks of it, it’d be three hours before they arrived. 

“Mm, and who put that study together? Was it you?” 

Stan doesn’t reply with words, just a noise that sounds halfway between disgruntled and baffled. It makes Ford laugh even harder, and he wipes at his eyes with a wrist. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Stan’s overdramatic pout melt away until he’s laughing too. 

The sight of it makes the smile on Ford’s face widen. It’d been decades since the two of them were able to just be like this. It’d been so long since the last time Ford heard Stan’s genuine laugh that he’d gone and forgotten what it sounded like altogether. When he was still traveling the multiverse, he searched far and wide for a shred of hope, something to keep his anxieties and nightmares from catching up to him.

What a fool he’d been to ignore his childhood memories of home. 

The trip is a quiet but familiar one. Ford can’t talk much when he’s steering because he needs to be on constant lookout, but Stan remains in the room to talk at him and keep him company anyway. The sun is well over the horizon by the time they reach the seaport, and call it instincts, intuition, or something else entirely, because Ford spots the kids sitting on a bench in the near distance the moment he and Stan step foot onto the dock. 

They’re squished closely together, watching a video on Mabel’s phone. Whether they’re aware of it or not, they’re swaying their legs back and forth underneath the bench in perfect unison. On the ground beside them are their backpacks, overstuffed with so many things that both of them are popping open. 

Most importantly, neither of them have noticed that Ford and Stan are approaching them. 

Ford exchanges an amused glance with Stan, and clears his throat to catch their attention. 

The phone nearly stumbles out of their hands in shock when they look up and meet their eyes.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel squeals, standing to sprint past Ford to knock Stan off of his feet. Ford chuckles at the sight, but not quickly enough to hear Dipper’s “Great Uncle Ford!”, and before he knows it he’s hitting the floor too. The young twins are laughing messes, and stumble over each other as they try to stand to their feet and help their Grunkles up. 

Mabel spits out the hair that stuck to her mouth, and pulls a hair tie seemingly out of thin air to tie her hair up into a ponytail. It’s only now that Ford realizes that she and Dipper are also both wearing sweaters, and if Ford had to guess, it looks like Mabel made both of these sweaters as well. Mabel’s is a galaxy print with actual twinkling stars, and Ford makes a mental note to ask her later what she did to make it glow like that. Dipper’s is also space themed, though his pictures the big dipper splotched across a black night sky with a bright orange meteor shooting through the center.

“You have to tell us about everything you’ve encountered”, Dipper beams, once Stan finishes brushing himself off. 

Stan cocks an eyebrow. “Two years’ worth is a lot to get through, kiddo”

“Exactly!” Mabel beams, turning to pick up her backpack and put it on. “Which is exactly why you can tell us on the way to the hotel!” 

“Hotel?” Ford and Stan ask in unison.

“Surprise?” Dipper giggles. “Our parents rented us a hotel room for the week cause they figured you’d appreciate some time away from the boat” 

“It’ll be like our summer in Gravity Falls all over again!” Mabel grins. “But in reverse! You’re in our territory now” 

Stan laughs. “You’re the boss, kiddo”

“You bet I am!” She beams, and hands Dipper his backpack. “Now c’mon! If you tell us all of the horrors you’ve encountered out at sea, we’ll tell you about all the horrors we’ve encountered in high school!”

“I...think I remember those horrors pretty well already, thank you” Ford smiles sheepishly, adjusting his glasses. “But we’d be more than glad to tell you some of our own stories”

It’s a short walk to the bus stop, but Ford honestly wouldn’t mind if they walked all the way to the hotel on foot if it meant an extra half an hour with the kids. They’re just as eccentric as he remembers, attached at the hip but still wildly different people all on their own. Dipper’s still hanging on to every word he’s saying, and Mabel’s still skipping along like she’s in her own world. 

Once they reach the hotel and check in, Dipper collapses face first onto one of the beds the moment he steps into the room, groaning. 

Stan smiles. “Something bothering you, kiddo?” 

He turns on his side to look Stan in the eye, his face smushing into the pillow. “Mabel didn’t let me get any sleep last night. She insisted on getting to the seaport three whole hours early because she insisted that she had this gut feeling that you guys would have the same idea and we’d magically show up at the same time” 

Mabel pouts, and sits on the bed besides him. “Well it’s not my fault you stayed up late reading that dumb book of yours. Plus, would you rather have kept them waiting for three hours?” 

Dipper removes his hat and places it on the table beside him, exposing just enough of his forehead through his hair to reveal his birthmark. It has the same faint glow to it as Mabel’s sweater, and Ford wonders how the two could possibly reflect off of each other. 

“Their boat has beds and a fully stocked kitchen, Mabel. They can afford to wait. All we had were those strawberry pop tarts that you ate five minutes after we got there”

Ford can’t help but smile softly at their banter. He missed them so, so, much more than he could’ve ever imagined. He’s got half a mind to stow them away on the boat at the end of the week and homeschool them both himself so he never has to be apart from them again.

Apart. The word still feels like a knife twisted into his chest. There’s nothing he regrets more than trying to separate the young twins from each other two summers ago because he’d been so caught up in projecting his own fears onto the pair. He’d tried apologizing to Mabel over the whole ordeal, but she stopped him before he could even start to tell him he had nothing to worry about.

He only wishes he could learn to forgive himself as easily as she did.

“...Can we, Grunkle Ford?”

He blushes. Had he just said all of that out loud?

“Can we...what?” 

“Take the boat out! Not right now, since Dips is being a grumpy-grump and insists on wasting precious time with a nap, but we’ve been talking about it all week”

From across the room, Stan snorts. “Let me get this straight,” he takes his jacket off and hangs it up in the closet. At this point Ford swears his eyes must be playing tricks on him, because Stan’s old burn scar is glowing just as Mabel’s sweater and Dipper’s birthmark are. “All the time you spent groaning and complaining about fishing every time I took you in Gravity Falls, and now you’re asking to go fishing?” 

“I was thinking more along the lines of a joy ride,” Dipper yawns from under the covers. “But if agreeing to go fishing is what gets you to say yes, then sure” 

He’s smirking under the covers, Ford can tell, because he inherited that expression from Stan.

Stan’s about to bite back, but Dipper must not have been exaggerating about how long he and Mabel were waiting for them at the dock, because he’s already out cold. Stan smiles at him, gently ruffling up his hair before he takes a seat on the adjacent bed, kicking his shoes off so he can kick his feet up on the bed and relax. Ford sits beside Stan, and Stan slings his arms behind him to support his head in his hands as he glances over at Ford. 

“They make you wanna retire the whole ‘treasure hunting’ thing and move into the city to be closer to ‘em too?”

Ford chuckles. “I’ve already considered hiding them away on the boat twice today already.” He taps at his chin. “Though I suppose that moving in with them would go over better with their parents then taking them away to live on a boat” 

“Hmm…” Stan taps at his chin as well. “Being stuck in the same stuffy high school for four years, or living on a boat traveling all over the world whenever they feel like it? I dunno about you, Sixer, but I have a pretty good idea on what the kids would prefer”

“Grunkle Stan? Grunkle Ford?” Mabel’s voice suddenly chimes in, and Ford blushes, wondering how much of that she just heard. 

“What’s on your mind, pumpkin?” Stan asks. 

“Well, uh, Dipper was right about us only eating once really early this morning, and I was wondering if you’d be willing to, uh” She twirls her hair between her fingers. “Cook something for us? For old time’s sake?”

Okay, it’s settled, Ford’s never letting these kids go again. 

“Sure, kiddo. Soon as your brother’s up we’ll head right back up, okay?” 

“Okay!” she beams, and crawls back into her side of the bed, staring at Dipper like she can will him into waking up on command. 

Though Ford would’ve been okay if they’d had to wait hours for him, it’s really only about twenty minutes before Dipper opens his eyes again and nearly shrieks in surprise at Mabel’s face hovering three inches from his own. He smacks his hand into her face to shove her away, and she giggles as she rolls off the bed and onto the floor. 

Beside Ford, Stan smirks. “Better get up before we leave without you and all our food goes to Mabel, kiddo. You’ve got plenty of time to crash in Ford’s bed on the ship, since he never seems to use it anyway”

Dipper yawns, rubbing at his eyes as he kicks the covers off. “I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen asleep”

“I didn’t realize you were even capable of sleep, bro-bro” Mabel punches him in the shoulder as she walks past him to put her shoes on. He glares at her wordlessly, and Ford has to cover up his snicker with a fake cough. 

This time, the bus ride and the walk back to the ship are a quiet one. Ford never really lets himself let his guard down and relax for an extended period of the time, so he cherishes any moment he can get where he finally feels like he doesn’t constantly feel the need to check over his shoulder for signs of danger. Most of the time, if you asked him about his heightened senses, he’d call them a curse. But on days like these, when he can hear the birds chirping and the waves smacking gently against the boats in the seaport, he’d almost go as far as calling it a blessing. 

The kids take a seat at the dining table as soon as they enter the kitchen, and Stan grins at them from over his shoulder as he clicks the stove on. “Whaddya say, Stancakes?” 

Dipper and Mabel grimace in unison. “Ewwww, Grunkle Stan, you promised lunch!” Mabel scrunches her nose, and Stan’s grin only widens. 

“Ah, ah, you said like old times. That means I get to decide what to make, and you have to eat it because I’m your legal guardian”.

“Well I wasn’t even awake when you were talking about old times, so I’d say that cancels out” Dipper crosses his arms over his chest, and Ford can’t help but smile warmly at the three of them as he reaches into the cupboard for his favorite coffee mug. The younger twins clearly had just gotten two copies of the same mug, but crossed both of them out so they’d say #1 GRUNKLES on them instead of #1 UNCLE. Stan has the other one, of course, but he keeps it on his bedside to hold small treasures and keepsakes because it’s, in his own words, “Too special to waste on something as ordinary as coffee”.

Ford sits himself in the seat between the younger twins at their okay, and after some back and forth banter between the four of them, they end up settling for burgers. Truth be told, this is the first time Ford’s eaten a meal in a group larger than two since the last time he and Stan visited the young twins in the winter, and he can’t help but smile into his food at the thought. The closest he’d come even remotely close to eating with others in his research years was his very, very brief time at the truck stop diner, and the experience had soured his view of...well, other people for near decades.

Now, though, he’d burn his own research dozens of times over before he’d even consider eating alone.

Stan’s chair scraping across the floor as he stands pops Ford out of his bubble of serenity. 

“Now that that’s taken care of,” Stan cracks his knuckles, smiling mischievously at Dipper and Mabel. “I think I remember a couple of kiddos finally promising their Grunkle Stan he could take them fishing”

“Promise is a strong word-” Dipper starts as he stands to place his plate in the sink, but Stan’s already placing a fishing hat on his head before he can finish his sentence. 

“Course you did! You wanna take our baby for a joyride, you gotta earn it first”

Dipper turns to Ford, like he’s expecting him to back him up.

Ford chuckles. “I don’t know, Dipper. That sounds perfectly reasonable to me”.

Dipper scoffs, sitting back down at the table. Mabel laughs. 

“Aww, C’mon, Dipper! Aren’t you all about the supernatural? For all we know, Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford could be harboring magical glowing bait that only attracts, like, magical talking fish men, or something!” 

Dipper raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you just receive a bottle message from Mermando last week?”

“Exactly!” Mabel flashes a grin. “That must mean that he’s in the area!”

Stan laughs. “You tellin’ me you only agreed to go fishing so you could kiss and make-up with your long-distance fish boyfriend?”

“Grunkle Stan, what kind of person do you take me for?” she gasps. “He’s married! You know I would never want to break apart such a loving couple!”

Ford’s smile only warms. Where else could he partake in such a conversation that doesn’t turn heads and result in judgmental whispers? Where else can he just be like this, surrounded by loved ones who are just as weird, just as out of the ordinary as himself? In his younger years he thought for sure his place would be among the monsters and cryptids everyone in his childhood made him out to be, but even in the weirdness capital of the country he felt more alone than ever. 

“...Don’t think you’re immune, Sixer” Stan’s voice cuts into his thoughts, and before Ford can ask what he means Stan is smacking a homemade fishing cap on his head. “It may ruin your badass image when we’re monster hunting, or whatever, but we’re fishing with the kids.” Stan gestures to them with his thumb. They’re already outside, leaning over the railing to look out at the water in a perfect mirror of each other.  “If they have to embarrass themselves by humoring me for a few hours, so do you” 

Ford waits for Stan to join the kids outside before he takes his hat off to admire the stitch work. It’s not perfect, and nowhere near the fancy embroidery he and Stan have found in various markets across their world travels. But it’s personalized, and Ford knows it comes from a place in Stan’s mind that’s been stuck behind lock and key since he was seventeen.

Ford runs his hands along each individual letter, which reads POINDEXTER, before placing it back on his head to join the others outside. 

Stan has, miraculously, already pulled out his joke book. Stan’s laughing too hard at his own joke for Ford to really make out what the punchline is, but the younger twins’ collective groans is all he needs to know about it. When Mabel notices him stepping out of the doorway, though, her expression shifts entirely. 

“So…” she draws out, stepping towards him. “Is there a trick for attracting merpeople to your boat? I mean, asides from being super cute, obviously” 

Ford chuckles, taking a glance behind her to make sure that Stan is out of earshot. “Stan’ll kill me if I tell you this, but they’re really attracted towards shiny things. If you tied one of his gold necklaces around a fishing pole and dangled it into the water, the boat’ll be surrounded in minutes” 

Mabel offers up her pinkie finger. “I won’t tell him if you won’t”

Ford interlocks his pinkie with hers, smiling. “I think he’ll notice when a whole family of merpeople show up”

“Hmmm…” Mabel taps at her chin with her free hand, visibly mouthing a plan to herself. “Oh! I know! Come with me,” she beams, and before Ford can even open his mouth to respond she’s already dragging him back into the kitchen. She kneels down on the floor and opens the cupboard below the sink. “Got any empty bottles I can use?”

Ford blinks. “Empty....bottles”

“Yeah!” Mabel pulls a neatly folded piece of paper out of her skirt. “If I can send out my response letter the same time we throw Stan’s necklace over, he’ll never be able to tell the difference!”

“Wait, wait” Ford shakes his head. “You really are dating a merperson?”

“Listening skills, Grunkle Ford” she taps at her forehead, folding the letter back into her pocket as she continues to dig through the cupboards. “Used to date. We met at the Gravity Falls Public Pool, where he was stuck, but then I drove him to the lake in a golf cart I stole from the pool grounds because he really missed his family, and then he was my first kiss, and then we were in a long-distance relationship for like, two months, and I kept every single bottle he sent me, but then we had to break up because he was arranged to marry to prevent a big undersea war.” She picks up a bottle, shakes it, and puts it back when it’s too full for her liking. “I know it sounds, like, super complicated, but it’s all okay, because we’re still pen pals!” 

Ford laughs, shaking his head. “No, Mabel, I had to ask because I, uh…” his cheeks warm, and he clears his throat. “Before I...came to term with my orientation, I...dated a merperson too” 

The bottles in the cupboard rattle as Mabel’s head smacks against the doorframe. She’s rubbing the spot where her head hit, but there are stars in her eyes. “Really?” 

Ford’s cheeks burn even hotter. “Yes,” he whispers, and takes a knee so he can get at her eye level. “Technically he was a siren, but yes, we dated for about a month. He promised me he wouldn’t entice anyone else while we were together, but I guess there wasn’t anything...there.” He turns to help her shuffle through the cupboard, and finds a near-empty bottle of olive oil that’s definitely been sitting down there for at least a year. He hands it off to Mabel, smiling. “I’m glad that things worked out with you, though” 

To his surprise, Mabel drops the bottle and throws her arms around him in a hug. “I can’t wait to introduce you! He’s gonna love you”

Ford huffs a quiet laugh, and pulls her close as he winds his arms around her as well. The hug only lasts for a few brief moments, but it feels to Ford in those moments that time itself had stopped. Mabel stands, taking the bottle in one hand and offering to help Ford up in her other. 

Mabel places the bottle in the sink and turns the water on to rinse it out before she turns back towards Ford, stretching her arms up in the air as if she were warming up for an exercise. “Alright, here’s the plan. You tell me where Grunkle Stan keeps all of his jewelry, and I’ll sneak in and take his necklace while you distract him. Got it?”

Ford smiles. “Got it”.

As Mabel splits away for Stan’s bedroom, Ford heads back out to the deck. Dipper’s leaning over the side of the boat pointing at something jumping out of the water, rambling excitedly to Stan beside him. He’s holding his fishing hat in his hand to stop it from blowing into the water, and his hair is bouncing in the breeze. It’s just enough for the edge of his birthmark to poke through his bangs, and even in broad daylight it seems to be emitting a faint glow.

“I found it!” Mabel cheers, bounding up from behind him. She’s wearing the chain around her neck, and for some reason the gold seems much dimmer in contrast to her sweater. She takes it off and hands it to him. “You wanna do the honors while I go and throw this overboard?”

Ford smiles, ruffling her hair. “Sure thing.” He walks over to where Stan and Dipper are chatting and picks up one of the extra fishing rods. Making sure that Stan’s too engrossed with his conversation to notice, Ford starts wrapping the chain along the line, and at the signal from Mabel, he tosses his line as far from the boat as he can manage.

Five minutes pass before Mabel squeals so loud that Ford’s afraid his glasses might shatter. He reaches for the gun he knows he’s got stashed in his pants pocket, but when he turns to run to her aid she’s leaning halfway over the boat wrapping her arms around a young merman in a tight hug.

“...so good to see you again!” She’s beaming. “I didn’t think you’d be able to find us so quickly!”

“Yes, well, you were easy to track down after we figured out the coordinates to the seaport” the young man says in a thick Spanish accent. “It is good to see you too! My family was so excited to meet you”

“Your family?” she gasps. “Did they all come with you?” 

“Of course!” he grins. “We merpeople are very family oriented. Wherever we go, we go together” 

Ford winces at the uncanny familiarity of the statement. Mabel must recognize the statement too, because she responds with “Oh, that reminds me! There’s someone I want you guys to meet! Wait right here,” she says, and comes bouncing back over to Ford. Taking his hand in her own, she starts to drag him back to where she’d just been leaning. “C’mon! He’s the one I was just talking about!”

Three more merpeople emerge from the water when she gently knocks on the side of the boat again. “Grunkle Ford, this is Mermando!” she grins, gesturing to the young merman she’d just been conversing with. “He’s the one I helped reunite with his family after they were separated by tragic circumstances.” She wraps her arms around Ford in a side-hug. “Mermando, this is my Grunkle Ford! He was also separated from his family by tragic circumstances, but I helped with that too!” 

Mermando laughs. “Even when you think it’s the end, family always finds its way, doesn’t it?”

Ford laughs, shaking his hand. “It always seems that way to me”

“Awwww!” Mabel squeals. “I knew you’d get along!” She grins, and turns her attention back towards Mermando. “Before I forget, though, did you see where Grunkle Ford threw that gold necklace? If I don’t get it back my Grunkle Stan’s gonna kill me”

Mermando laughs again. “I was wondering if that belonged to any of you!” He takes off his shell necklace to reveal that he’d put Stan’s necklace on around his neck. He takes that off, too, and offers it to Ford. “I much prefer this one, anyway” he clicks his shell necklace open, revealing it to be a locket with a picture of his family inside.

Ford takes the gold necklace back, and he means to thank him, but a bell ringing from elsewhere in the port interrupts him before he can open his mouth. Mermando turns to Mabel, taking her hands in his own. “We must go. I’m so sorry we have to leave so soon, but we merpeople recognize the sounds of fishing boats very easily. We’ll try to come back later this week” He opens his arms for her once more, and Mabel wraps his arms around him in a quick hug before she watches him and his family swim away. 

“I am so glad that all you were doing was hugging,” Dipper shudders as he and Stan approach Ford and Mabel. “I’m not sure my stomach could handle witnessing you two kissing a second time” 

“Awww,” Mabel punches him playfully in the shoulder. “You’re just jealous that I had a boyfriend before you did!” 

Dipper cringes. “If you having a boyfriend before I do means I didn’t have to be the one dating a fish, then I’m glad you were the one who got stuck with him first” He punches her back, and gestures at Stan over his shoulder with his thumb. “But anyways, I came over here because Grunkle Stan says he wants to get out on the open water before everyone else gets the idea, or something”.

Ford pockets Stan’s necklace and makes a mental note to put it away sometime later tonight when Stan is too distracted to notice. “Tell Stan I’m going to untie the rope from the edge of the dock, and when he sees me back on board we’re all set to go.”

Nodding, Dipper bounds off towards the navigation room where Stan must be waiting, and Ford steps off of the boat to take care of everything else. On the way to the bow, he traces a hand along the white painted STAN O’ WAR II, and a feeling of warmth sprouts in his chest. Once back on board, he waves to Stan as he passes besides the navigation room once more, and takes a seat on one of the beach chairs they liked to keep aboard. 

Most days, Ford prefers to be the one at the wheel. But every once in a while he just wants to be. All he wants to do is lean back in one of their beach chairs and let the sun warm his face. It’s a good kind of warm, the same way spending time with the kids and heavy rain hitting his bedroom window and planning new escapades with Stan feel warm. After so, so long of only knowing unbearable burns, it feels indescribable to have a constant back in his life that heals, rather than hurts. 

“Mind if we join you?” Dipper asks, and Ford glances over to see both of the young twins dragging a chair behind them.

Speaking of healing constants.

“Sure,” Ford says, and can’t help the warmth spilling through his tone. They pull their chairs up on either side of him, and curl up to enjoy the warm breeze. Dipper places his hat on his lap to let the wind blow through his hair, and Mabel stretches her arms out behind her head to act as her own pillow. Ford chuckles silently at the pair, and closes his eyes to let himself relax.

All is quiet when Stan finally finds them a spot out on the open water without a single other boat in sight. The water is nearly still, save for the occasional small wave that gently sways the boat. The sun is at its afternoon high, turning the water beautiful shades of teal and aqua. Fishing is tedious, but it’s careful work, and gives Ford something to put all of his focus into. Two whole hours pass before any of them catch a thing, and Stan laughs himself to tears when it’s Dipper who pulls up a single sardine. 

Typically Ford prefers much more immersive activities, but right now there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. The sun is starting to set before they realize they aren’t going to have much luck catching anything, and instead decide to take the boat for another ride around the harbor to look for a better place to eventually watch the stars. 

“...Great Uncle Ford?” Dipper approaches him shyly once they’ve anchored the boat.

“Yes?”

He tugs shyly at the edge of his sweater. “I…” he starts. “I know you’ve told me that the multiverse was dangerous, and all, but...was there ever anything you enjoyed about it?” He pauses. “What were the sunsets like?”

Ford chuckles, patting at the seat beside him, and Dipper’s eyes light up as he sits down.

“You’re right,” Ford starts, folding his hands together. “I wouldn’t wish what I went through on even my worst enemies, Dipper. It was practically impossible to get any decent amount of sleep and even harder to find food digestible by human kind. I lost some of my best years to the multiverse when I could’ve gone on to become the most renowned scientist in the world.” Ford turns his gaze away from the sun setting on the horizon to meet Dipper’s eyes, but he’s frowning, eyes cast downwards towards the deck of the ship.

“But,” Ford adds before the poor kid can get too lost in his own head, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It definitely had its perks.” He smiles. “The sun in Dimension 18.2 would emit a sound that mimicked a lullaby every night as it set. Dimension 47’23 had three moons that would shift phases before your very eyes. I haven’t told Mabel because I’m afraid she’ll try activating a portal of her own and run away, but in Dimension 25-12, everyone and everything looks like a watercolor painting. There’s danger in the multiverse, but there’s beauty in equal measure”

“Do you ever miss it?” Dipper fiddles with his hands, like he’s trying real hard not to say the wrong thing. “I mean, I know you don’t miss being lost, or having no idea if you’re ever going to see home again, but...is there any dimension...where you could’ve seen yourself staying, if you thought you couldn’t make it back?” 

Ford shifts in his chair so he doesn’t have to twist his neck so much to look directly at his nephew. “Occasionally,” he muses. “I met the most friendly faces in Dimension 52, so my mind does tend to wander there from time to time” he smiles. “But rest assured, there is something in this dimension that makes it my favorite”

“Oh yeah?” Dipper’s eyes light up. “Over every other dimension you’ve passed through? What is it?”

Ford gently nudges Dipper’s shoulder. “You and your sister”

Dipper’s cheeks turn bright red, and he looks as though he’s struggling not to bury his face into the collar of his sweater and disappear. “Really?” his voice squeaks.

Ford nods. “Everything I had in those other dimensions were fleeting, Dipper. At a moment’s notice everything I grew to love could disappear in the blink of an eye. The very thing happened to me in Dimension 52. When I fell asleep, I woke up in a new dimension I didn’t recognize. Things may have been more advanced, and there may have been dimensions crafted to give you your greatest desires, but in the end nothing ever lasted.” 

Now it’s Ford’s turn to divert Dipper’s eyes, gaze casting towards the floor. “Stan was cut from my life completely in the dimension that claimed to be a perfect world. I had nobody. Even in dimensions that actively worked towards my happiness, I was all alone” Ford shakes his head, and turns his gaze once more out on the horizon. The sun is still touching the horizon, but it’s dipped just low enough that some of the stars are beginning to show in the sky. 

“But...here, at home, everything is consistent. I don’t have to worry about waking up in the morning to find that everyone I love is gone. I can keep everyone in arm’s lengths, even when Stan and I can only communicate with you and your sister over a video call. I’m…” Ford gently squeezes his hands to reassure himself that this is real and now. “...happy. Happier than I’ve been in decades” 

Beside him, Dipper yawns, and when Ford spares a glance over at him he’s smiling at him sleepily.  “We’re really happy you’re here too, Grunkle Ford” he murmurs, and his eyes slip closed. Ford’s cheeks flush pink, and he has to choke back a laugh because that’s one of the first times Dipper’s felt comfortable enough to call him Grunkle. 

Ford stands, so as not to wake Dipper from his nap. A small glance to his right and he catches a glimpse of Stan and Mabel leaning against the side of the boat watching the sunset just outside of earshot of his current conversation with Dipper.

“You finally bore him to sleep with all your nerdy science talk?” Stan asks as he approaches, sparing a glance behind him at Dipper. “Was starting to think that the poor kid would never get a nap in” 

“Yes, well,” Ford smirks. “I’m sure it helped plenty that you bored him to death by taking him fishing first”

Stan gasps in mock offense, and slugs him in the shoulder. “Hey, at least I’m engaging them in something they can actually interact with, unlike your kooky alien stories, or whatever”

Ford can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “Bold statement coming from the man who dedicated thirty years of his life rescuing me from said kooky aliens” he says, returning with a punch of his own. Stan opens his mouth to argue back, realizes he has nothing to say, and closes his mouth. The sight of it makes Ford laugh even harder, keeling over and slapping a hand on Stan’s shoulder to support himself. It must be contagious, because it’s not long before Stan is laughing too.

Ford removes his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes, and cleans off the lenses with the edge of his sweater. Once his eyes adjust after he puts them back on, his throat nearly catches in his throat when he glances back out towards the water. He’s just able to catch a shooting star before it disappears over the horizon, and the boat’s just far out enough on the water that there isn’t an ounce of light pollution obscuring the rest of the stars in the sky.  He takes a few steps back so he can look up and admire more of them at once, and if he looks close enough he can see them twinkling. 

Before he can ask the others if they’re seeing the same thing, a bright flash of light coming from somewhere on the boat cuts into his thoughts. He turns, to make sure that none of the lights in any of the rooms are on, but no, they’d turned those off when they’d started fishing. Scratching at his head, he turns to Stan and Mabel to ask if they have any idea where the light is coming from, but that question catches in its throat as quickly as it formulated.

They’re the ones emitting light.

Or, rather, Mabel’s sweater and Stan’s shoulder, approximately where his burn scar should be. Those are emitting light. 

...Surely it must just be the reflection of the starlight on the water, right? That same bright light must have woken Dipper from his nap, yes? 

He turns heel to ask Dipper the same question, but freezes in his tracks before he can take a single step forward. Dipper’s forehead is glowing too, the same way it has since he and Stan docked the boat this morning. 

It...It can’t be, can it?

Gripping his forehead, Ford takes a number of steps backwards until his back hits the wall. Maybe...maybe he just needs to call it a night. He’s been awake since sunrise, maybe his vision is just blurring because he needs to lie down? 

He waves his hands in front of his face, but no, those don’t look any different. He squints, to make sure his hands aren’t shaking, but no, they’re perfectly still.

He squints at Stan and Mabel, just to try and see if his eyes are watering, and-

He gasps. 

Mabel’s sweater, Dipper’s forehead, Stan’s shoulder; they’re not glowing; they’re twinkling like the stars. It was hard to tell in broad daylight, but now that they’re surrounded by a thousand shining stars, the resemblance is unmistakable. 

But...that’s not possible. If he can see them twinkling, but none of them have said anything about it, that could only be if those were…

...soulmarks. 

Ford suddenly feels like he’s going to pass out. 

He slides to the floor.

Is...Is that even possible? Ford thought for sure that study he read years ago was nothing but a joke. Someone...who does everything in their power to bring you two together, no matter the cost? Someone who, even though you may not meet for decades, will feel as though you’ve known each other their entire lives? Someone who will do anything for you, no matter the personal expense?

Someone...someone like Stan, who spent a painstaking thirty years teaching himself quantum physics to rescue someone that anyone else would assume dead? The man who sacrificed his very mind, his very life, so he could be spared physical torture?

Or...someone like Mabel, the first friendly face he saw after emerging from the portal? The one who forgave him so easily after he tried to separate her from her brother? The one who insists on calling him a good person, despite all of those he knows he hurt? 

Or...Dipper? His kindred spirit in all things supernatural? The one who, alongside his sister, sacrificed himself as bait for the most dangerous being in the entire multiverse? Who saw memories of him at his very worst, and apologized to him for snooping?

After everything he’s been through...could things really work out that well in his favor? To not have one soulmate but three, and the guarantee that they’ll never leave, because they’ve already expressed how they love him so? 

There’s a tear streaming down his cheek at the thought, but he’s too distracted by a fourth light suddenly emitting from...himself to really notice.

He spares a cautious glance downward, and notices a pulsing light emerging from his chest in perfect time with his heartbeat. If he looks closely, he notices that the light travels down his arms and ties itself into a translucent bow around his fingers. If he looks closer still, the light looks as though it’s slinking faintly across the deck of the boat and reaching towards the gentle twinkling of Stan and Mabel’s marks.

Ford places a hand to his forehead, throws his head back, and laughs his throat dry, paying no mind to the tears pouring down his face.

[curvynerdfan]

Wolf of Kattegat

Thank you @boomhauer for requesting. This is the longest piece I’ve ever written totalling over 3.5k words. It has definitely put me in an Ubbe mood! I hope you enjoy it!

Ubbe x tattoo artist reader

Ubbe was giddy when he woke up Thursday morning. Hvitserk had managed to get Ubbe scheduled with his tattoo artist. His brother’s tattoo artist was renown in Kattegat and all of the surrounding cities.Their art was immaculate and it was surprisingly difficult for Ubbe to get an appointment without Hvitserk’s help. He could have always asked Ivar but that kind of frustration didn’t appeal to him.

It still shocked him that it was so difficult for him, a Ragnarsson, to get on the artist’s schedule. He knew she was phenomenal, that is why he was willing to wait. But who in their right mind would deny Ragnar Lothbrok’s son.They must be insane, it was very rare for someone to be unaware of his family’s line of work. The Lothbrok legacy was known across the country and no one dared cross them, those who did rarely lived to regret it. The High Seat Incorporation was involved in a plethora of business endeavors. It’s name paid homage to Odin and everyone’s deep seated belief that the Lothbrok family descended directly from the All Father.

While he could have gone to his typical tattoo shop, this tattoo was special to him. His father was referred to as the “Wolf of Kattegat” and he now felt confident in stepping down as leader and letting Ubbe take over. Bjorn took over foriegn affairs after his uncle Rollo’s betrayal. Many people thought that Bjorn would be the next leader of the Lothbroks, he was passionate about travel and felt like he was following in his father’s footsteps but still being his own man. Hvitserk’s role was much more on the criminal side of the business. He enjoyed participating in the night life and was typically running their club or meeting with unnamed business partners. . Ivar majored in architectural and mechanical engineering but always wanted to be involved in raids. He was also called in to retrieve information, when typical methods of torture just weren’t cutting it. .Lastly Sigurd was in charge of the creative qualities behind their business. Of course the family was involved in criminal activity but a majority of the business was legitimate. Sigurd helped with marketing, contracts and business relations. The new tattoo was going to signify Ubbe’s new status, while honoring his father at the same time. ========================================================================

“We aren’t open for walk-ins until 12pm darling,” she said without lifting her head, “ You’re three hours too early.”

“No, I believe I am right on time.” a gruff voice responded.

Y/N snapped her head up and almost gave herself whiplash. She had never seen a man this stunning and powerful in her life. She felt her jaw drop and her cheeks flush with embarrassment. He was wearing a long sleeve shirt and dark wash jeans. There were several pieces of jewelry adorning his body. A chain with several charms that looked like runes, a golden band resting on his wrist, and a skull ring were the most notable.

“I have an appointment with Y/N. I hope she is in. I even brought a peach green tea, like mother said.”, he gestured, lifting the large iced drink in his right hand while keeping his coffee in his left.

Ubbe was beginning to worry. While the girl behind the counter seemed nice and was no doubt talented based on the sketches he was staring at, she didn’t necessarily give off the vibe of the talented and high end tattoo artist responsible for the work he has seen on his family members. She was wearing an oversized cardigan and a pair of ripped jeans. Sure there were tattoos peaking out but the glasses resting on top of her french braided hair did not give off badass tattoo artist vibes. A smirk creeped across his face when he realized she was gawking at him and cleared his throat to get her attention again.

“ Ohh, um, yeah I can take you back and get you set up”, Y/N said with a small smile.

Ubbe followed the lovely lady through the back of the parlor and design studio, up a flight of stairs and was happy to see how professional Y/N’s workplace was. Not that the downstairs parlor was trashy, it was just obvious for the public. This area seemed intimate and very classy. A shapeable leather tattoo chair was in the center of the room. It appeared that the artist can manipulate the chair so the arm rests and leg rests could be extended or bent for the customer’s comfort.

“You can have a seat,” Y/N gestured to the chair “I’ll go make sure everything is ready.”

The girl walked out of the room and Ubbe couldn’t help but hope that she was going to get his artist. While alone, he took in the rest of his surroundings. The walls were pitch black but there were large windows with sheer curtains to keep the room light and airy. A massive mirror sat between the two windows so clients could check their work. There were also framed pieces of artwork scattered across the room. The tattoo cart sat to the side of the chair and could move as the artist pleased.

Ubbe realized he had been observing the space for a while and quickly sat down when he heard the door began to open. He tried to look relaxed and nonchalant so he stared at one of the art pieces, a muscular panther resting in a tree. It was a beautiful piece that seemed to possess raw power even though the beast was snoozing.

Y/N had quickly ran into her apartment once she got Ubbe settled in her studio. She made sure there was nothing in her teeth, added a quick swipe of lipgloss and sprayed some more perfume. The man in her studio was gorgeous. Everyone she questioned before accepting Ubbe as a client failed to mention that particular trait. He oozed power and an air of dominance. She could tell he was in charge of any situation but was confident instead of cocky. That trait obviously ran in the family.

“So, when will Y/N be here?”, Ubbe finally asked, he was really starting to doubt whether he’d be getting a tattoo today.

Y/N did a double take, “What? What do you mean, when will I be here?”

Ubbe looked shocked and he was astonished. Then she realized that neither of them introduced themselves..

“Oh wow! Hi, I’m Y/N Y/L/N and I’ll be your artist today!” she said with a sheepish smile,”I am sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’ll take that tea from you now.” she reached her hand out.

“My apologies, I assumed you knew what I looked like.”, Ubbe apologized.

He quickly handed over her drink, their fingers brushing when he passed the drink off. When Y/N reached to grab the drink, the oversized aztec-patterned cardigan fell off of her shoulder revealing detailed snake tattoos trailing across her left collarbone and shoulder.. It also revealed what may be a bralette or some kind of black laced tank top. Ubbe let out a huff when he took in her appearance for a second time. His eyes darkened when he realized how beautiful she really was. The fluffy and plain cardigan with what he believed were called ‘mom jeans’ gave her a demure and almost frumpy look. The outfit was definitely more for comfort than aesthetic. He couldn’t help but admire her body and the artwork that enhanced it. He also noticed chunky snake earrings dangling from her ears and a chain necklace caressing her throat.

“Alright, here is the finished tattoo outline. Please be honest and let me know if there is anything else we need to alter before we start. It won’t hurt my feelings. Every tattoo has a special meaning and I want you to be able to look at it with pride.” Y/N rambled before gently placing the sketch in his lap before setting up her rolling cart.

A small smirk rose on Ubbe’s face. While Y/N was obviously flustered, he could tell that she was passionate about her trade and dedicated to giving her clients the best experience possible. She wandered over to a black minifridge and patted the top of it where a keurig rested.

“While you look your tattoo over I can run through some basics I find important. Your brothers said you already have plenty of tattoos so I hope you know how to care for them properly. Either way, I have a set of printed instructions for you and I usually have customers come in a week after getting inked so I can lay eyes on it and make sure no touch ups are needed. I will also provide you with a healing salve and cleaning solution.” Y/N waved her hand over the fridge, “You’re getting a decent-sized tattoo with a significant amount of shading so we need to make sure to take breaks. I have a wide variety of snacks and drinks available. Feel free to stop me at any time for any reason. Today is all about making sure you have the best experience possible and the tattoo is something you love. That being said, do you have any questions or are there any alterations I need to make before we get started?”

Y/N finished her spiel and shrugged off the cardigan on her shoulders. Ubbe began to answer her, but lost his words when her body lost the cardigan. He was slowly beginning to realize that Y/N may be his dream girl. Her jeans were higher on her hips and he stopped breathing for a second when he came to the conclusion that she really was just wearing a bralette for a top. He could see a rose peaking out on her right hip and tried to stop himself from imagining how far down that design trailed.

A dainty giggle brought Ubbe back to the conversation again, “Umm”, he shook his head to clear it, “No there is nothing I’d like to change and I will let you know if I have any other questions. Thank you for being so helpful.”

“Okie dokie then! Let’s get started!” Y/N said clapping her hands together. “Uh, I think you’re going to have to take your shirt off.” she stated, her voice slowly softened to a whisper.

Ubbe chuckled to himself and began taking his shirt off and Y/N gently told him to leave it on halfway. He wanted the tattoo on his right forearm so only his right side had to be uncovered. Her client’s comfort was always her first priority and even though she would love to see that hunk of a man completely naked, she knew it was better to be professional.

She began to lay the outline down where they had decided to place it and tried her best to keep her gaze from wandering to his delicious abs and bulging arm veins. Y/N softly grabbed Ubbe’s hand and dragged him in front of the mirror. Trying to guide the muscular man was a little more difficult than she had expected. She tripped herself up while leading him and felt his other hand wrap around her waist, in hopes of steadying her.

Ubbe notice Y/N get her boot hung up on a floor board and quickly grabbed her waist with the hand she hadn’t already claimed. He pulled her to him with his right hand and steadied her with his left. He let out a sigh of relief once they were both steady. Y/N gasped, and her free hand went to rest on his chest. Ubbe looked her over to make sure she was okay. His eyes trailed up her body, eyes pausing on the curve of her waist and again on her breasts before quickly trailing back up to her face. Y/N’s eyes were zeroes in on Ubbe’s face. Her eyes were trained on his lips. Ubbe let out a hum that Y/N could feel in the palm of her hand and snapped her eyes up to his.

“I, uh,” she shook her head, “yeah, um, look over the outline in the mirror and from other angles. Every once in a while a client can find an angle that ruins the aesthetic, so make sure you love where it is at.” she said, gently pushing away from him and walking over to grab her drink off of the cart.

The refreshing drink helped her clear mind and her throat. Ooo, that man made her heart race faster than anyone before. After a couple of long pulls from her drink she looked up and smiled when she noticed he really was analyzing the design from every angle.

“This tattoo means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”, her voice soft but curious.

He nodded his head and made his way to the chair, “ It really looks phenomenal the way it is Y/N, thank you.”

She blushed and let out a soft “thanks.”

He settled into the chair and she dragged her rolling seat and cart across the room. She pulled gloves onto her hands and got ready to start. She turned his arm to get the best angle and Ubbe began to speak again.

“You have no clue who my family is, do you?” Ubbe continued when she shook her head. “”We run The High Seat, it is one of the largest incorporations in the country and most definitely the most expansive in companies and investments. Have you ever heard of the Wolf of Kattegat?” he asked. When her eyes squinted in recognition, he continued, “He is my father, Ragnar.”

She stopped him to ask “Aslaug’s husband?”

He chuckled, he could only imagine what his mother spewed about his father,”Yes, that Ragnar. Anyways, he has decided to step back from the business and work more legitimate in a position of advisor. I am taking over as the Wolf of Kattegat. We are also the commanding family of Ansuz”, he chuckled darkly when she flinched, “now, doll, you have nothing to fear from me or my family. Let alone any of my heathens. My mother adores you. So do Hvitty and Ivar. Hate to say it but I think I am under your spell as well.”

“I-I’m not sure how to respond to that,” she said, paying careful attention to his arm,”and my reaction wasn’t all from fear, a majority of it was because it is hard to believe that I am that naive. The leader of the most dangerous crime organization is sitting in my chair.” she let out another giggle, this one reminded Ubbe of Floki, “hell, I even interrogated your family before deciding to take you as a client. Why didn’t you just make me?”

“Mother taught me better than to demand a woman to do anything and I admire your dedication”, he noticed your confused look, “You only tattoo those you believe you can trust. In turn, your clients, my family trusts you. It is like a badge of honor to say my wolf was designed and ingrained in my skin. I refuse to taint that by behaving like a pompous ass.”

She smiled at his description of her work. Y/N knew her practice of vetting clients was peculiar. Most artists were more focused on the money they can make off a client. She wanted to know the person she was leaving a piece of herself with. Y/N had spent over a hundred hours perfecting the piece she was now inking into his skin.

The next couple of hours were spent talking about his family, the stress of his new position, and so much more. Ubbe made sure to ask questions about her family, interests and upcoming projects. At the end of the session, Y/N felt like she had known him for years. The Wolf of Kattegat seemed very down to earth for such a renown crime boss and CEO.

When the tattoo was finished, she cleaned it and instructed Ubbe to look at it in the mirror. His eyes scanned the mirror several times enjoying the way the tattoo made him look and feel. He twisted his wrist several times, analyzing the way the light was hitting the wolf. Y/N was bouncing on her toes. She wasn’t sure if she was excited or nervous. Ubbe’s face suddenly lit up and he grinned from ear to ear and Y/N couldn’t help but let out a little squeal of excitement.

She sat Ubbe back down and began reviewing how to care for the tattoo one more time while carefully wrapping his arm so the shirt wouldn’t irritate it. While she was elated that the god-like man before her loved her art, she knew he was about to leave. She felt like she truly knew Ubbe and the rest of the Lothbrok family. It hurt to think that it may have only been for the day.Once his arm was properly bandaged, she no longer had a reason to keep him with her. Y/N gently let him know it was finished. He immediately pulled out a stack of cash.

“Ubbe! This is too much! We already discussed price before you got here.”, Y/N said, exasperated.

“Yes , we did. That was before you brought this beautiful piece to life on my skin. That was also before I realized how important you would be to me.” He paused and let out a chuckle,” I will not ask you out today, lest you believe that is why I am paying you this amount. I am giving you this because you managed to make this tattoo more remarkable than I could ever imagine.”

Y/N’s cheeks warmed when Ubbe implied his desire to date her. It was good to know that it was not a foolish desire held on her own. She loved his praise and was happy that he loved your most recent passion project. She also couldn’t help but feel empowered by his words.

“Thank you, Ubbe. I will see you in a week to see how it is healing.” she stated clearly trying to sound professional before leading him down the stairs and to the front of the shop.

Ubbe smiled to himself. He would not ask her out today, but he did make sure to slip his number into tha cash during one of their breaks. He only hoped she would notice it soon. The pair had carefully made it to the front windows of her shop. Both appeared to be thinking of a way to delay their goodbyes. Instead of procrastinating his eventual departure, Ubbe decided to embrace it and use it as an opportunity to embrace her as well.

Y/N froze when two burly arms wrapped around her waist. She slowly reached her arms up around him and rested her cheek on his chest. Ubbe took a deep breath of her vanilla scent and lightly pressed his lips against the crown of her head.

“Goodbye, princess”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

6:57 PM

So should I save your number in my phone under Ubbe or Wolf of Kattegat🐺?

@justahopelessssromantic @princessofthalia

[mygalfriday]

basically: crowley has tattoos and every few centuries, aziraphale discovers a new one. features pining crowley and oblivious aziraphale ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

{ao3}

i can’t say the words, so i wrote you into my verse

i. chest; greece, 615.

Aziraphale has a particular fondness for the Greeks - most especially for their liberal use of ingredients like honey and olive oil. In a little room he’d rented for the night right in the heart of Athens, he sighs happily to himself as he gazes down at the simple, delicious spread on the table before him. Dolmadakia stuffed with ground lamb and rice, vegetable soup seasoned with vinegar and herbs, and feta wrapped in phyllo pastry, drizzled with honey.

Breathing in deeply the rich smells of his meal, he whispers a prayer of thanks and reaches eagerly for his plate. A spoonful of grape skin, lamb, and rice halfway to his mouth, he startles at a succession of rapid knocks at the door. With no one around to see, he allows himself a moment to visibly deflate as he slowly lowers the spoon back to his plate.

“Bugger,” he mutters, casting a mournful glance at the steam still rising from his food. He flinches at the sound of a palm slapping impatiently against his door and musters his patience. “One moment, please!”

A low, familiar voice replies dryly from the corridor. “Take your time, angel.”

Aziraphale stands so quickly his chair scrapes across the floor. “Crowley?”

He hasn’t seen Crowley since they shared oysters in Rome nearly a century ago and Aziraphale can’t deny the idea of seeing him again is more than a little pleasing. He pauses briefly before he opens the door, struggling to rein in the delighted smile on his face. There aren’t exactly guidelines for the sort of relationship he has with Crowley but Aziraphale is fairly certain he shouldn’t be so happy to see his natural enemy.

Honestly, he chides himself. Imagine if Gabriel saw you.

Even with that sobering thought in mind, he can barely keep his facial expression in check as he swings open the door. Crowley stands draped against the doorframe like he’s forgotten he has bones to hold him up. Suppressing an unexpected wave of fondness, Aziraphale forces a scowl.

“What are you doing-” He pauses, taking in the droop of Crowley’s short hair, the sweat beading on his brow, the way he hasn’t bothered to adjust the glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Just as he’s about to reprimand him for showing up already drunk, Aziraphale spots the bright red stain darkening the shoulder of his linen tunic. He breathes out, horrified. “Crowley, you’re bleeding.”

Wearily, Crowley arches an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

Aziraphale huffs. “Get in here.”

Crowley puts up only a token protest as Aziraphale ushers him inside and shuts the door, sinking into the vacated seat at the table and propping his injured arm up beside the abandoned plate. As Aziraphale hovers anxiously behind him, Crowley leans in and sniffs curiously. “What, no apple?”

Watching blood seep into the tablecloth, Aziraphale stifles a noise of concern behind pursed lips. “They’re out of season.” He snaps his fingers and a bundle of medical supplies appears on the table. “Let me see, please.”

Crowley sighs, as though terribly inconvenienced, and shrugs out of his tunic. “S’just a scratch.”

If that were true, he wouldn’t have shown up out of the blue, weakened and in pain, to knock relentlessly on Aziraphale’s door. Rebuttal on the tip of his tongue, Aziraphale pauses as his eyes skitter from the supplies spread out on the table to Crowley’s exposed chest. To his shame, the first thing he notices is not the deep gash cutting a bold line across Crowley’s shoulder and bicep but rather the black ink scrawled down his left pectoral.

Aziraphale blinks as it slowly dawns on him exactly what he’s looking at. Crowley has a tattoo. Well, another one anyway. Unlike the small serpent curled just beneath his temple, this one takes up far more space. It’s a sword, strikingly similar to the one Aziraphale used to carry before he gave it away all those years ago. Instead of flames enveloping the blade, however, a snake curls sinuously around the weapon like a lover. A slender, forked tongue brushes the hilt of the sword.

All of this takes mere seconds of study but Aziraphale flicks his gaze away guiltily anyway. Swallowing, he redirects his attention to the gash on Crowley’s shoulder and hopes the demon hadn’t noticed his stare. Luckily for him, Crowley is far too preoccupied with commandeering the wine Aziraphale had left out.

Leaning close to study the ragged cut seeping blood onto the tablecloth, Aziraphale tuts disapprovingly. “What happened?”

Crowley shrugs. “Wrong place, wrong time. Bloody Thessalonica.” He grimaces, watching Aziraphale reach for the antiseptic. “Can’t you just-” He waggles his fingers, clearly attempting to convey an angelic miracle.

“Not before I clean it.” Aziraphale frowns, prodding at the wound and ignoring Crowley’s answering hiss. “If it’s already infected, closing the cut won’t do you any favors.” Without looking up, he pushes the wine toward Crowley. “Drink up.”

As Crowley drinks deeply from the bottle, Aziraphale takes his arm and makes more noises of disapproval over the wound but it’s mostly for show. A weak attempt to distract himself from the warmth of Crowley’s skin beneath his palm and the mystery of his strange new tattoo. Even as he cleans the gash thoroughly, his gaze wanders curiously back to Crowley’s chest. The snake, wrapped seductively around the sword, seems to be staring back at him.

He clears his throat. “Couldn’t you simply heal yourself?”

“If I could, I’d have done it, wouldn’t I?” Glaring into the middle distance, Crowley mutters something under his breath about stupid kids getting themselves into trouble and would have looked bad on the paperwork. Catching sight of Aziraphale’s soft expression, he scowls. “Oh, just shut up and work your magic, angel.”

Smothering a fond smile - mostly because he has a feeling it would only irritate Crowley to see it - Aziraphale sets aside the bloodied cloth and presses a gentle hand over the wound. Crowley stiffens at his touch and as Aziraphale begins to will muscle and skin to knit itself back together again, he grimaces. In an effort to distract him from the sting, Aziraphale finally address the elephant in the room. “So…that’s new.”

“Hmm?” Looking dazed, Crowley follows his gaze to the tattoo prominently displayed on his chest and grunts. “Oh. S’a tribute.”

Aziraphale hums, watching Crowley’s skin heal over. The gash disappears and with a little nudge, so does the scar left behind. Shiny, unblemished skin is all that remains. Unable to help himself, he strokes a fingertip over his handiwork and feels Crowley shudder beneath his touch. He pulls away as if burned, suitably chastised. “A tribute?” He asks, hoping Crowley doesn’t notice the flush of his cheeks. “To what?”

With an evasive shrug, Crowley leans back in his chair to examine his healed shoulder and says, “My origins, of course.” Before Aziraphale can prod any further, he nods his thanks and reaches for the wine once more. “Are you going to share that bloody pastry or what?”

ii. ribcage; versailles, 1785.

Strolling the gardens of the Trianon Palace, a copy of The Sorrows of Young Werther tucked under his arm, Aziraphale breathes in the warm summer air and allows himself a stolen moment to miss the Garden. Standing in the twilight, surrounded on all sides by trees and sweet-smelling wildflowers, the sound of a trickling waterfall in the distance, he can almost imagine he’s back there again. Standing guard over the Almighty’s beloved humans and doing his best not to laugh at any of the serpent’s jokes.

Speaking of the devil himself…

He freezes, grip tightening briefly around the spine of his book, as he spots Crowley wading out of the stream just ahead of him. He isn’t surprised to see him, of course. They’ve both been guests of the Queen for the past several weeks, dining on roast duck and swilling champagne, skirting the edges of her extravagant revelries and catching each other’s eyes from across the room.

While Aziraphale had come to Versailles in hopes of softening the violence of the revolution he can smell coming, Crowley had insisted he was only there for the parties. Aziraphale isn’t entirely convinced but he doesn’t press the issue. It’s rather nice to have a familiar face around.

So no, it isn’t surprise he feels as he watches Crowley emerge bare and dripping out of the stream and onto dry ground. The setting sun casts him in warm shades of red and orange, setting his copper hair alight and doing something rather spectacular to his eyes; turning them a molten shade of amber that’s almost luminescent. Droplets of water glisten on his chest, catching the sun just enough to appear like glowing drops of light. Unmoving, his traitorous human heart seemingly lodged in his throat, Aziraphale fancies for a moment he might be looking at Crowley before he Fell - ethereal and beautiful, bathed in the light of heaven.

Not surprise at all, he thinks, wrenching his gaze away. Something else entirely; something he has not the courage to examine properly.

Aziraphale unclenches his fingers around the binding of his von Goethe, letting out a slow, uneven breath. Pasting on a smile, he forces his numb legs to move in the direction of Crowley rummaging on the ground for his clothes. His old friend hasn’t noticed him yet, fastening his trousers and running a slender hand through his damp hair. He scans the ground, clearly looking for something, and mutters aha when he finds his tunic drooping from the low-hanging branch of a nearby tree.

As Crowley lifts an arm to snatch his tunic from the clutches of a wych elm, Aziraphale’s gaze catches and holds on the sight of black lettering inked down his ribcage. A few more quiet steps and he’s just close enough to make out what it says:

doubt that the stars are fire

doubt that the sun doth move

doubt truth be a liar

Hamlet had written those very words to Ophelia. Crowley pulls his tunic over his head, effectively hiding the tattoo from Aziraphale’s curious gaze but not before he notices the final verse is missing. But never doubt I love. He might have wondered why Crowley omitted that particular line but on reflection, it’s easy enough to understand. Love is hardly a demon’s territory but doubt? Aziraphale imagines Crowley must be old friends with the concept by now.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, not even glancing at him. As if he’d known he was there all along. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have waited.”

Aziraphale clears his throat, fighting back a blush at having been caught staring. “Oh?”

“Mm.” Crouching to fetch his boots from a patch of wild lavender, Crowley glances over his shoulder with a smirk. “Tempting an angel to skinny dip? Would have gotten a commendation for that one.”

Grateful to the ever-fading light for hiding his pink cheeks, Aziraphale scowls. “Very funny.”

Crowley snorts, sinking gracefully into the grass to pull on his shoes. “There’s a masquerade tonight,” he says, brushing a smudge of dirt from the supple leather of his boot. “You going?”

Eyeing him uncertainly, Aziraphale admits, “I hadn’t decided. Why? Up to no good again?”

“Oi, I can’t help it the whole ‘let them eat cake’ thing was taken out of context like that. The humans did that without any help from me.” Crowley lifts his head, his gaze softened and imploring without his dark glasses to hide his eyes. Aziraphale wonders if he knows he’s very nearly pouting. “Come on, it’ll be boring without you. Just standing about fending off Lamballe and watching Her Majesty make eyes at von Fersen the Younger all night.”

Shifting uneasily, Aziraphale darts his gaze out over the trickling stream and the forest beyond it, unwilling to let on that he had decided to go the moment Crowley had asked it of him. It just wouldn’t do to reveal how eager he is to spend time with the demon. “And you’ll behave yourself?”

“Merely a spectator.” Crowley eyes him soberly, placing a lofty hand over his heart. “On Satan’s honor.”

With a huff, Aziraphale relents, “Oh, fine. But only because they’ll be serving those scrumptious little tarts with the raspberry filling.”

It isn’t technically a lie. He does have quite a soft spot for Marie’s decadent taste in pastries.

Crowley grins at him and busies himself with pulling on his other boot, looking as pleased as though he’d accomplished some sort of temptation. As if Aziraphale had ever been tempted to do anything but what he’d asked in the first place. Aziraphale doesn’t mind. Letting him believe he’s getting away with something is far better than the alternative.

Hovering over his shoulder, Aziraphale lets his gaze linger briefly on the loose-fitting tunic Crowley wears, damp and clinging to his skin in some places - hiding another of those tattoos he seems so fond of. He bites his lip. “I thought you preferred the funny ones.”

In the middle of tucking his trouser leg into his boot, Crowley stills. His jaw clenches so tightly a muscle in his cheek twitches. He looks away, refusing to meet Aziraphale’s bewildered stare. For a long moment, he almost believes Crowley isn’t going to say anything at all but after a tense beat in which Aziraphale wants to shove his foot into his mouth, he finally replies. “Still do.”

He offers no other explanation and Aziraphale hasn’t the nerve to question him further, watching in silence as Crowley climbs to his feet and brushes the grass from his clothes. He runs his fingers through his hair one more time and turns on his heel, striding away. Aziraphale stares after him, wondering if perhaps Crowley had changed his mind about the masquerade after all.

Silently admonishing himself for opening his mouth in the first place, he almost misses the way Crowley pauses and inclines his head. “Come on, angel,” he calls over his shoulder. “Before they run out of those tarts.”

iii. ankle; soho, 1956.

Dante’s Inferno is in the wrong place. Someone - possibly a customer, or possibly (probably) Crowley - had moved it into the non-fiction section. Balancing a stack of wayward poetry in one hand, Aziraphale reaches for the slim little volume, intending to stick it back where it belongs, when the ruckus nearby reaches a level verging on unholy.

Well you said you was high-classed, well that was just a lie…

He sighs, leaving Inferno where it is and dropping the rest of the poetry as well. Concentrating on inventory when one has a demon only one room away, warbling drunkenly along with the music playing on the telly is quite simply impossible. Dusting off his hands, Aziraphale abandons the task altogether and moves toward the source of the noise.

Crowley had shown up this afternoon with a bottle of wine and some of those indecently expensive chocolate biscuits from Waitrose that Aziraphale likes so much, using them as bribery to slink inside and commandeer the sofa. From what Aziraphale can discern by the sheer noise, Crowley had also taken the initiative to move the small television - kept mainly for his use anyway - downstairs from Aziraphale’s tiny flat.

Ducking his head into the back room only confirms his suspicions. Sprawled across the sofa as though he has no control over his own limbs, Crowley lounges with a bottle of wine dangling from his fingertips as he stares at the television and croons along with the man on the screen. His bare feet wiggle on the coffee table, as though he can’t keep them still. He isn’t the only one, apparently. The audience on the telly is going wild. A few of the young ladies seem to be having some sort of fit.

Aziraphale really can’t see what all the fuss is about. Though as he watches the dark-haired young man onscreen gyrate his hips to scandalized applause, he has to wonder if he and Crowley had ever met. “Must you listen to that racket quite so loudly?”

Looking well past tipsy and on his way to belligerent, Crowley glances up with a frown. He shifts to look at Aziraphale properly and one trouser leg shifts just enough to reveal a flash of his ankle. And another tattoo. A feather of all things, glittering white and silver as it curves and curls delicately over the fine bones of Crowley’s ankle.

Aziraphale stares at it, momentarily hypnotized.

“Oi, he’s the next big thing, I’ll have you know.” Crowley grins broadly, sudden and sharp. “I’ve made sure of it.”

Aziraphale scoffs, forcing his eyes away from the tattoo. “This newfangled…bebop you’re so terribly fond of is nothing more than a flash in the pan, my dear.” He steps around the coffee table and takes the bottle from Crowley’s slack fingers, miracling a pair of glasses instead. He pours them both a generous measure, pointedly refusing to ask the question he wants to ask.

Why a white feather? Why not black?

He can only assume it must be another tribute - perhaps to who he was before he Fell - and bringing it up might spoil Crowley’s lazy good humor. As curious as he is, Aziraphale isn’t willing to risk it. As disruptive as Crowley’s visits tend to be, he prefers them infinitely to the ringing silence when he leaves.

The flash of delicate white at Crowley’s slender ankle lingers in the corner of his eye but he does not give in to the temptation to look at it again. Instead, he settles on the armchair across from the sofa and sips primly at his wine. Gaze fixed determinedly on the television screen, he says, “Mark my words, Crowley. In ten years, no one will even remember this Presley fellow’s name.”

Crowley squawks, laughter in his voice as he sits up to argue with him. His trouser leg shifts again, hiding his ankle - and the feather - from view once more. Aziraphale, caught up in the easy familiarity of bickering with Crowley, forgets all about it. Really.

iv. lower back; dowling estate, 2013

Mrs. Dowling’s plants look nothing like the ones in Crowley’s flat, despite Aziraphale’s best efforts. He pokes at a lackluster Russian Sage and tries to remember the tips Crowley had given him, carefully ignoring the more ominous ones such as don’t show the little bastards any weakness. As far as he can tell, he’s doing all the things he’s supposed to do but it isn’t quite enough.

Aziraphale sighs mournfully. He hadn’t been very good at looking after the last garden he was in charge of so he has no idea what made Crowley think the role of gardener would suit him. Luckily for the roses, he isn’t above a miracle or two to keep them from wilting. “Not to worry,” he murmurs to a particularly ill-looking bloom. He presses a fingertip to the drooping petals, watching as the color brightens. “Everything is going to be just fine.”

“You can’t make me!”

Less startled than he should be by the childish outburst, Aziraphale glances wearily across the yard as Warlock hurdles past at speed. He glances over his shoulder, as if to make sure his nanny is still following, before he takes off around the side of the guest house and disappears. Sure enough, Nanny Ashtoreth isn’t far behind. Aziraphale smothers a grimace the moment he spots Crowley stalking across the grounds.

Their little charge has been particularly…hellish today and Aziraphale suspects Crowley of harboring illicit fantasies of luring the boy out to the pool and pushing him in. Normally perfectly composed and impeccably dressed - not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her jacket - Nanny Ashtoreth looks a bit rattled this afternoon. Hair askew and curls going limp, she looks quite simply murderous. Jacket long since abandoned, her expensive blouse has come untucked and the normally starched collar is rumpled beyond hope.

Hissing irritably about little boys who refuse to take a sodding nap, Nanny Ashtoreth pauses to scoop up a Loki action figure left abandoned in the middle of the yard. The rumpled blouse slips momentarily up her back and that’s when Aziraphale spots it. Just there, at the small of Crowley’s back - a little dove with its wings spread in flight.

Hidden behind the roses, Aziraphale allows himself a moment to stare.

What does a demon possibly need with a dove tattoo? A symbol of peace and hope is hardly Crowley’s forte. It is a lovely depiction, though. The bird is plump and pure white, completely perfect. It reminds Aziraphale of the ones he so often liked to use in his magic tricks when he practiced. Crowley had always rolled his eyes but he’d never said no to a demonstration. Perhaps he had a soft spot for the creatures after all.

And then Nanny straightens, toy clutched in an angry fist, and the tattoo disappears beneath fine silk once more. Aziraphale blinks, feeling his cheeks heat as he glances away a moment too late. She spots him lurking behind the roses and stifles a smirk. “Brother Francis,” she mutters, giving a stiff nod. “How’s the garden?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, too rattled to bother with the accent. “Just…pipping.”

Eyeing a drooping azalea Aziraphale had missed in his earlier miracling, Nanny Ashtoreth adjusts her sunglasses and fluffs her hair. With a dainty sniff, she leans in close and purses carefully painted lips against soft pink petals. Aziraphale stares, bewildered. And then her lips curl back in a vicious snarl and she hisses ferociously. The azalea trembles and quakes. Aziraphale imagines if it had a mouth, it would have shrieked.

“Crowl - Nanny Ashtoreth, please!” Aziraphale shoos her away, patting the flower with consoling fingertips and refusing to admit that the petals do seem to have perked up a bit. “I refuse to garden with fear.”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself, Brother Francis.”

With one last warning glower at the azaleas over the rim of her glasses, she turns on her heel and marches away after the missing Antichrist. Aziraphale turns away from her retreating back, forcefully shoving thoughts of doves and nannies far from his mind. “Hush now,” he says, crooning at the quivering flora around him. “The wily old serpent is gone, I promise.”

v. hipbone; mayfair, 2019

Despite the certainty that he would never admit even to the Almighty that he had ever imagined such things in the first place, Aziraphale quietly admits to himself that actually being with Crowley is not quite what he’d thought it would be. It’s far, far better.

Even in his fondest imaginings -  succumbed to only when alone and well into his cups - he had been sure any encounter would leave him feeling at once deliciously fulfilled and vaguely guilty about falling into temptation. And the first part is certainly true. Everything about falling into bed with Crowley had been delicious; more than any delicacy he’s ever dined on. But Aziraphale is quite relieved to discover not a smidgen of guilt. With Crowley’s arms around him and the soft, sweet sound of his even breathing, what on earth and in heaven is there to feel guilty about?

Head on Crowley’s stomach, Aziraphale hums a few bars of Moonlight Serenade and tries to come up with some other way to celebrate their first night of freedom from Above and Below. Happily, nothing else at all comes to mind. Nothing else could possibly compare. He turns his head, nuzzling Crowley’s belly.

Above him, Crowley hisses out a content sigh.

Aziraphale bites back a smile, opening his eyes and blinking at the ink etched neatly into Crowley’s hipbone. A series of numbers and decimal points listed seemingly at random. He lifts a hand and traces a fingertip over it cautiously. Quietly delighting in the knowledge that after years of turning away and clenching his hands, he can reach out and touch whenever he likes.

At this point in the evening, there isn’t truly a bit of Crowley that he hasn’t touched yet but he’d been careful so far not to pay particular attention to any of his tattoos despite his fascination with them. It had always seemed to be a subject Crowley broached with reluctance in the past and he hadn’t wanted to be the cause of Crowley pulling away from him.

Now, he feels Crowley tense beneath him as he finally musters the courage to ask, “What’s this?”

“S’a tattoo.”

Aziraphale holds in a sigh. “Yes, dear. I can see that. But of what?”

“Coordinates.”

“You’re being terribly enigmatic.” Aziraphale prods a fingertip into Crowley’s bony hip and hides a smile when Crowley swats at him weakly. “Coordinates to what? Or where, rather?”

Crowley heaves a put-upon sigh and avoids his gaze, staring resolutely at the ceiling. “Home.”

Realizing he won’t be getting any more hints from Crowley, Aziraphale begins to mentally review every location he can think of. Hell? Definitely not. Eden had never really been a home to either of them. His flat here in Mayfair is hardly lived-in. If he thinks back far enough, he can remember a little villa in Spain that Crowley had been relatively fond of…

“Oh, for someone’s sake - I can hear you thinking.” Crowley groans, shifting beneath him. “Don’t make me say it, angel.”

Keeping his hand curled over the tattoo on Crowley’s hip, Aziraphale lifts his head with a baffled frown. “Say what?”

Crowley clenches his jaw so tightly Aziraphale can almost hear his teeth grinding together. A high spot of color appears on his cheekbones and he breathes out through his nose, nostrils flaring. Just when Aziraphale is about to apologize for prying and attempt a go at kissing him back into good humor, Crowley growls softly and admits, “The bookshop, all right? It’s coordinates to the bloody bookshop.”

Home.

Aziraphale stares at him, utterly poleaxed. “You-” A sudden thought occurs to him, even as warmth floods his veins like heavenly sunlight. “The sword and the snake-”

Crowley sighs. “You. Me. Our beginning.”

“The Hamlet verse-”

“You liked that one.” Crowley sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and admits with a mumble to the ceiling, “Liked me for making it a hit.”

“I liked you anyway.” Aziraphale hesitates, thirsty for answers. “The dove?”

Crowley huffs and mutters, “You and your bloody magic tricks.”

Burying a smile in the warmth of Crowley’s flat belly, Aziraphale murmurs, “Knew you liked them.”

“Don’t.” Crowley snarls vehemently, then confesses softly, “Like you though.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to suspect.” Aziraphale tilts his head up just in time to see Crowley roll his eyes. “And…the feather on your ankle?”

Peering down at him in exasperation, Crowley asks, “You really don’t know?”

Aziraphale gazes back at him, feeling inexplicably bashful. “A tribute?”

A smirk curls Crowley’s tempting mouth. “Something like that.”

Swallowing tightly, Aziraphale ducks his head and stares with stinging eyes at the coordinates etched into Crowley’s lovely skin. All these years - centuries - of silent yearning, sure that a demon couldn’t possibly be capable of love, let alone with an angel - and Crowley has been harboring his own affections in plain sight. He has burned right alongside Aziraphale and instead of being a coward like him and saying nothing or saying words he thought might scare Aziraphale away, he’d made his body a love letter written in permanent ink. A monument to a longing never to be acknowledged, nor erased.

“Crowley,” he breathes, overwhelmed. So in love he wonders how this earthly vessel can bear it. “You soft-hearted serpent.”

Lifting his head from his pillow just enough to glower, Crowley threatens, “I will push you right out of this bed, Aziraphale. Don’t think I won’t.”

Aziraphale beams, lowering his mouth to the bookshop coordinates and sealing them with a kiss. Peering at Crowley through his lashes and pleased to find his annoyed expression utterly soft once more, he admits, “I love you awfully, you know.”

“Yeah.” Crowley sighs, dropping his head back to his pillow. His fingers begin to sift through his white-blonde hair and Aziraphale leans into the gentle touch with all the eagerness of six thousand years. “I know.”

vi. hands; south downs, 2025

The scent of freshly brewed Earl Grey and warm scones fills the breakfast nook as Aziraphale settles into the chair across from Crowley. With the windows open, the fragrance of Crowley’s prize begonias wafts through on the morning breeze, along with the sound of little Liam James down the road romping about with his new puppy.

Across the table, Crowley appears half-asleep as he scrolls through his mobile. Still in his black silk pajamas and his hair sleep-rumpled, he doesn’t appear to notice Aziraphale’s fond study of the pillow crease on his flushed cheek. “Any plans for the day, my dear?”

Crowley reaches for a scone slathered in cream. “Just threatening the wisteria.”

“Go easy on the poor things - it isn’t their fault we’ve had so much rain recently.” Aziraphale sniffs when Crowley only eyes him balefully, unmoved. “At least try being nice first.”

“And reward their bad behavior?” Crowley scoffs, stirring his tea. “I don’t think so.”

In the middle of reaching for another scone, Aziraphale doesn’t reply, distracted by the brand new ink on his ring finger. It still startles him every time he catches a glimpse of black out of the corner of his eye but in the best possible way. Like browsing his bookshelves and finding a splendid first edition he’d forgotten he had. He bites his lip, twisting his hand this way and that to admire it. “Are you certain it suits me?”

Crowley pauses mid-sip of Earl Grey and the smug glint in his eye is entirely indecent. “Like nothing else, angel.”

He smiles, his heart fluttering like a mad thing in his chest as Crowley strokes his bare foot over Aziraphale’s calf beneath the table. “And yours, my dear,” he says, gazing tenderly at the matching eternity symbol winding its way elegantly around Crowley’s ring finger. “I do believe it’s my favorite so far.”

“Yeah?” Crowley leans back in his chair, teacup cradled in his palm and his foot making a scandalous path up Aziraphale’s leg. The morning sun slanting through the open window makes his eyes glow amber. A slow, wide grin curls his mouth and Aziraphale thinks fleetingly, joyfully: husband.  “Mine too.”

[harsh-writing-reviews]

Death’s Mistress: A review

This is a review Death’s Mistress. Possibly the worse pile of utter crap ever to be committed to paper. No matter how shit your fan-fic is, this is so much worse.

No, not Death’s Mistress by Terry Goodkind. That guy writes the novels that became Legend of the Seeker. Despite some pretty half-arsed writing, I liked that series.

Terry Goodkind is a master storyteller and his Death’s Mistress is almost certainly pretty good. I’ve not read it so I don’t actually know.

The pile of maggot-ridden crap that I am talking about is this shit-pile also called Death’s Mistress by Karen Chance. She too is a New York Times bestseller which tells you that that bestseller list is an indicator of who sucked who’s dick recently.

By the cover (never a good way to judge a book) Death’s Mistress by Karen Chance looks like it could be okay. 

When I got my copy, Death’s Mistress by Karen Chance had nothing but 5-star reviews on Amazon. It stayed that way until some muppet wrote the one-star review it deserved. After that, it quickly picked up a bunch of fours and threes to hide the fact that the reviews were probably all fake. Which just goes to show, Amazon reviews are as much shite as the NewYork Times Bestseller list.

From the very first page, this book was painful to read. I don’t know if someone sucked dick, paid bribes, or just sold their soul, to get this out and so highly praised. I gave up after five pages.

I showed it to some professionals that like vampire fiction more than I do. Just in case I was having an allergic reaction to shitty writing. They were just as bewildered by how bad it was.

If you ever read it, you will join us in being baffled as to how it was ever published. I could have given you something better with a computer program designed to generate random sentences.

Death’s Mistress by Karen Chance is incoherent, confused, badly edited, poorly paced, addicted to over telling and under showing, has jarring transitions, packs in undisguised info dumps, and seems to lack the slightest planning. All that from the first five pages. The first page is less than a third of a page of text and before I had finished reading it I hit not one but two hang up points. 

By the end of the second page, I desperately wanted to get out my red pen and start marking making corrections. It would have been quicker to just dip the book in red ink.

Early scenes failed to answer the basic questions of who, what, where, and why because she was more interested in the protagonist's costume which she then immediately changes. How the hell do I need to know every item of clothing she is wearing if she is about to swap it out for some other items of clothing?

These are newbie mistakes. I tolerate that shite from newbies. This author had a fucking editor backing her up and a publishing house at her back. How did this land-fill make it to press?

Do not, under any circumstances buy this book. It is a waste of money. However, if you should happen upon a copy in a charity shop or dustbin, and you want to laugh at possibly the worst book ever published then read a few pages. If you are an even halfway-decent writer, you will fall off your chair from laughing at this book.

When I say worst book ever published I do mean worse than Fifty Shades of Gray - that crap was readable if utterly without merit. Death’s Mistress by Karen Chance is almost unreadable, that’s how bad it is.

It’s like the author just knocked out the words and handed it to her publisher who sent it directly to be printed without so much as a quick flick through. There is no way that was properly beta-read, or edited.

Death’s Mistress by Karen Chance should be the trope example of all the things a writer should never do when telling a story. There is not one redeeming feature in this book. The fact that it sells so well tells me that there is a huge market for this kind of story and the first writer to put out even a half-arsed series into that market is could make some serious bank. Or not, maybe someone sold their soul for this one.

Not a single wanky-angsty unedited introspective crap-bag post on Tumblr is this bad. Nothing on the whole of the web can rival how badly written this book is.  I’ve seen some bad writing here but Death’s Mistress by Karen Chance is hundreds of times worse.

I have no idea if Karen Chance’s other books (and she has squeezed out a fair few) are any less crap but I will not be taking any chances. I am put off for life.

0/10

[patheticnugbaby]

Return

Been tossing this fic around in my head for awhile. Continued from my fic, Conversation

Anyways, I hope you like it. Trying to get the hang of describing feelings and such. Feedback is always welcome.

Enjoy.

Asha’adahlen took a long, deep breath through her nose as she stepped into her meticulously tended gardens. Tulips painting the ground in brilliant swathes of color, the richness of dirt paths between the flower patches, still soft under her bare feet. She brushed her remaining hand along the underside of an archway she walked under, years of carefully pulling and tugging the vines to braid together into a doorway that was on the last edges of a bloom, pastel petals littering the earth. She had a small, simple fountain in the middle of it all, rough-hewn rock and the soft trickling sound of clear water into the small pool. She stopped next to it, leaning down and skimming her fingers across the surface. It was cold, like the rivers that had run down the mountains in Haven, or near Skyhold.

She gave a heavy sigh at the tightness in her throat, the tiny prickling in her eyes and she clutched the letter in her left hand a little tighter. She hadn’t left a new letter in her garden for several weeks, not since Varric gave her the finished manuscript, bound simply in soft, brown leather, her name carefully printed at the bottom.

“You sure you don’t want to read it, Twitch?”

She shakes her head with a little smile, though the butterflies in her chest beg her to open it and read the words, after all the time she spent describing every single moment as best she could remember it she wanted to see what he wrote about it, and yet, she also didn’t.

“It isn’t for me,” She said and squirreled it away in the hollow of the massive oak in the back of her garden.

She shook her head and looked further down the back, apprehension tight in her chest. It always felt like this, leaving a new letter in the tree. Someone was coming for them, maybe they weren’t reading them but why take the letters and not read them? Asha’adahlen swallowed, hard, straightening her back and slowly, carefully creeping through her garden. She loved her garden, especially at night when it was still, silent save for the small growing noise of the plants. Determination.

She turned the final corner to the massive oak that towered over her garden. It was dark and massive, at odds with the carefully cultivated springtime brightness of her gardens, yet not. The heavy shade of the oak tree belonged here, just like her tulips and her tenderly braided viney arches. She stopped to look up at the massive trunk, smiling softly at the way the leaves seemed to cradle the moon. The hollow was a little higher than her head but she could easily reach the bottom of it with her arm, she just wouldn’t be able to see inside. She always used her left hand to place things in it, just in case. Her prosthetic was easier to replace than her other hand and she didn’t fancy having two prosthetic arms.

The breeze shifted, blowing through her garden behind her. She grinned as she scented the tulips again, more strongly, the dark, damp scent of rich earth, cut by the fragrance of fresh water and-

Asha’adahlen went stiff as stone, ears flicking wildly with her left hand still in the hollow, not quite having let go of the letter.

The musty smell of fur and metal; ink, parchment, and leather cut with a trace of ozone that tingled in her nose.

She didn’t dare speak, she didn’t dare move as her heart thundered in her chest. Her throat felt tight, a hard, metal lump forming in it that she cursed. It couldn’t be him, he wouldn’t be here, he would never come here, not when he knew she was here.

“I’m dreaming,” She finally managed, her voice sounded strangled, but this was a dream, so she didn’t care.

Asha’adahlen turned and there he was. He still wore the fur pelt, over a simple, warm-looking tunic and his usual trousers. He held his hands behind his back the way he always did, she couldn’t see his eyes, his head slightly bowed.

“I haven’t dreamed of you in some time, and never here,” She still held the letter in her left hand and she cocked her head, ignoring the sharp sting in the corners of her eyes, “You aren’t real, are you?”

“It would be much easier if I wasn’t,” He finally spoke, his voice thick, rough, and heavy, he raised his head to look at her, his eyes were sharp, guarded, and so full of something she dared not name.

She dropped the letter she held as she felt her throat constrict tightly around that hard lump in it. The wood of her left hand pressed against her chest to feel her heart hammering against her ribs, her other hand halfway reached for him, not unlike she had in Crestwood, so long ago.

“I’m- I’m not dreaming, then?” She choked on the words, gritting her teeth against the hot sting of tears that welled in her eyes, tears she refused to shed here, now, she had allowed him to see her weep far too many times already.

“No,” He said simply, the moonlight caught his eyes as he turned his head a little, turning them silver.

“What’re you doing here?” Finally, she managed to breathe properly and drew herself up, shoulders back, head held high.

“I-” He stopped and sighed, shoulders slumping as he brought his hands from behind his back.

Asha’adahlen clenched her jaw against the sudden rise of bitter hope and so much hot pain in her chest. She thought that after all this time she’d gotten better but she was wrong. Again.

He held the book in his hands. His grasp was gentle, almost reverent like he held something holy. His fingertips stroked over the letters of her name and her chest felt tighter.

“I have always retrieved your letters,” He confessed like he couldn’t get the words out fast enough like if he didn’t, he never would, “I shouldn’t have read them. It was impulsive and I should have known better. When I came for this one I told myself it was the last one I would take, the last one I would read and I would never return.”

He laughed a sharp, breathy sound that hurt her heart to hear. Still, she didn’t move and prayed that her face gave nothing away to him. It was a futile hope, he had always read her well, better than she had ever been able to read him.

“And I find this,” His fingers played anxiously with the edge of the cover, “this-” his voice cracked with emotion, Asha’adahlen barely crushed the need to go to him now, she felt herself lean as though to pull him to her arms and forced herself to stay rooted to the earth, bare toes digging into the soil, “I-I’m not sure why I’ve come here, I just-”

He broke off with an exasperated snarl that turned into a heavy sigh, tilting his head back, eyes closed. The moonlight brought out the sharpness of his cheekbones, the firmness in his jaw, and the soft fullness of his lips. She let him take another few long breaths, trying not to clench her hands too tightly.

“I wanted to return this to you,” He finally managed, a low quaver in his voice, “it is yours, you should have it.”

“I don’t even know what’s in it,” She admitted with a little, bitter laugh, “I asked Varric if he’d consider writing us, how we were, as he saw us. I didn’t trust myself to write what needed to be written, or to know what needed to be written.”

“It doesn’t read like Varric, Asha’adahlen,” She tried desperately to hide how the sound of her name, the way he said it, affected her, the butterflies that roared in her stomach, how the tightly controlled tears in her eyes threatened to spill over, “it reads like you.”

“Maybe so,” She swallowed the trembling in her voice and let out a sharp breath, “but it isn’t mine, it wasn’t written for me, it was written for you,” Asha’adahlen closed her eyes, cursing internally as she felt the warmth of a few tears that rolled down her cheeks, “That book, this letter,” she stooped to pick it up with her left hand, deftly turning the paper between carefully articulated wooden fingers, “my final efforts to make you see, after this, if nothing happened I-” she broke off with a hissing breath, clenching her eyes shut and tucking her chin before she managed to meet his eyes again, “After this I was going to start gathering old friends, if I saw nothing, felt nothing, I was going to gather them together and start building again. I thought I’d resigned myself to a peaceful life, tending my gardens, but I can’t. Not when I know something terrible is looming over the horizon.”

He was silent, the book clutched tightly in his slender fingers. She glanced down at his hands, remembering the last time she felt his hands on her, no armor, gauntlets, or magic.

“Ar lasa ma revas, you are free,” He paused, hands holding hers tightly, tender as a hand tucks her wild hair behind her ears, warmth, love, adoration in his eyes, “You are so beautiful.”

She shakes her head a little, shoving the memory back to the darker recesses of her mind. She didn’t take those memories out, not unless it was dark and there was no moon in the sky when brandy failed to dull the aching pain in her heart.

“You don’t need to return the book,” She finally managed, taking one firm step forward, letter in her left hand held out, “if that was all you were here for then I only ask that you take this letter, and the book, with you.”

Asha’adahlen’s voice shook, tears rolling down her cheeks as she tried to swallow the iron in her throat. She didn’t want to start gathering her people to her again, she didn’t want to organize another war, another bid for power, the power to save Thedas from its own misguided gods yet again. But she would if he took the letter and the book and left her gardens and never came back that was exactly what she would do and it tore her apart inside. Just having him here, the scent of him mingling with her tulips, the earth, and the oak tree, it ripped fresh wounds in her chest with the talons of a dragon.

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then shook his head a little, like he did when he decided it was a bad idea. Like he had every time before they kissed. He stepped up to her, fully in the light. He looked nearly the same, only more worn, the hints of crinkles at the corners of his eyes, dark circles beneath them, something heavy and aching in his stormy eyes. They looked more gray than blue in the moonlight, how curious.

He reached for the letter and she bit back the tiniest sob that rent at the back of her throat. She hadn’t noticed that at some point she’d actually transferred the letter to her right hand. She didn’t notice until he tucked the book under his arm, reaching for the letter, her final letter to him and the tips of his bare fingers touched hers.

That one touch, it was like fire, electricity. Something sharp and broken and all too wonderful snapped up her arm, making her drop the letter. He didn’t bend to retrieve it. She lifted her eyes from their hands, fingers just barely touching, to his face, his eyes. His lips had parted slightly, his gaze locked with hers. His eyes seemed to stir with something deep, warm, and full of longing, so much that it made her ache inside. Asha’adahlen tilted her head slightly, letting her fingers cautiously slide forward, turning her hand to pressed her palm against his. His hand was warm, a little rougher than she remembered, his long fingers wrapping gently around her wrist like she might shatter if he touched her.

She almost felt like she would. Every aching, broken piece of her soul trembled with fear, anxiety, and just the smallest daring of hope. That small hope hurt so much and so sweetly she almost started crying all over again. She saw him swallow as she took a small, cautious step towards him, hand winding around his forearm, pushing the sleeve of his sweater back. His hand wandered up her arm to her shoulder, his touch feather-light and so careful. She felt her hand trembling, but it was alright, he was too.

With her left hand, she reached for the book that he held under his other arm. He let her have it and she set it on the ground with the letter. The sound of the leather hitting the ground was harsh enough to make them both flinch, almost enough to break whatever spell had come over them, but not quite. She ran the smooth wood of her left hand up his arm, as she had with her right, his eyes twinged as his hand ran up the wooden prosthesis, coming to rest on her shoulder, thumbs tenderly stroking her neck. She wanted to say something, anything but was terrified to. If she spoke he may remember himself, scoop up the papers and leave, then she really would never see him again.

And she would break. Again.

There were only so many times she could put herself back together before she didn’t get back up.

She forced herself to meet his eyes and her breath caught in her throat.

They were wide and clear, clearer than she’d ever seen them before. They had that special sharpness to them that they got when he made up his mind, she could feel it in the set of his shoulders, the way he worked his jaw.

“Solas-”

“May I kiss you-?”

She blinked, rapidly, ears flicking back and forth, “Sorry?”

“May I kiss you?” He asked again, she felt his fingers flex just a little on her shoulders, an echo of the tremble in his voice.

“Are you going to leave again if I say yes?” She didn’t mean to snap at him, but she didn’t regret the sharp flash of hurt in his eyes, followed by nothing but remorse.

“No,” He said quietly, lowering his eyes as his fingers played lightly in her hair, “I shouldn’t have left, not the first, second, or third time. Ara’vhenan,” he paused, ears flicking nervously, “I am at your mercy, Asha’adahlen. Do with me what you will.”

“And if I should choose to cut you down here?” Her throat tightened as she said it but her touch on his broad shoulders remained gentle, tender.

“It would be better than I deserve,” He answered immediately, firm and sure, yet his hands shook.

She was silent, feeling a fresh new tear leak from the corner of her eye. He didn’t meet her eyes, looking down at the earth that she dug between her toes. There was a resigned crease to his brow, an uncharacteristic stoop in his shoulders, defeat. She took a long, slow breath, feeling his shoulders tense like he was getting ready for a blow. She chuckled softly, the sound drew his eyes back to her, a little furrow between his brows, the glint of curiosity, and confusion in his eyes. It was the face he made when planning a new mural, when he studied one of the mysterious shards of the Solasan, or when he found something disagreeable in a book. It wasn’t the prettiest or most charming face he made but she had loved it all the same. Loved him all the same.

“Yes,” She felt the tiniest smile warming her lips, the flying sensation of hope burning all the cracks in her heart with the sweetest kind of pain.

He tilted his head a little like he wasn’t sure he heard her correctly, “What?”

“Yes, you may kiss me,” She felt her hunter’s grin curl her lips and she tilted her head, delicately shaking her hair away from her neck.

He smiled, warm and honest, just seeing him smile like that made her chest almost burst. His fingers lightly traced up her neck, her jaw, leaving small, tingling lines of heat that seared her flesh. She kept her hands still, ignoring the rising heat in her cheeks and ears, especially as he delicately cradled her face in his hands. He was hardly a full inch away from her now, eyes wandering all over her face. Tenderly, his fingertips grazed the corners of her eyes, tracing the crow’s feet there, then past her temples to the wings of white and iron gray that had grown in over the years. She bit her lip softly, tucking her chin a little, eyes flicking to his lips before she felt him gently tilt her chin back up.

He pressed his lips against hers, gentler than the softest butterfly kiss. He kissed her slowly, testing and cautious before she felt a sigh of relief leave him. He yanked her close, slanting his mouth against hers hungrily, she growled low in her throat and tightened her hands on the back of his neck, pressing herself tightly against him. He felt hot against her, she could nearly feel his body thrumming when she tasted the heat of his tongue, the scent of fur and metal clogged her nose.

He pulled away from her too quickly, his thumbs gently tracing her lips, making them tingle before he pulled his hands away from her, “I’m sorry-”

Asha’adahlen grabbed his wrists, sharply pulling him back to kiss him again. She didn’t let him go until she heard a little pleased sound in his throat, reaching up to spread her fingers over his back as she nipped greedily at his bottom lip. His hands clutched at the curves of her waist, pressing his leg between her thighs, a jolt of pleasure straight through her core. He pulled away from her again, eyes dark and hot, she felt his arms just barely tremble as he held her.

“We need to talk about-”

“Fenedhis, we’ll talk later,” She growled, knotting her fingers in the collar of his shirt, yanking him hard enough to fall with her into the dirt.

She lost herself in him, in the touch of his hands, the desperate taste of his kisses. She knew this would hurt her in the morning, a pit in her heart that whispered when she woke he would be gone, with the book and the letter, nothing to remember him by, save the lingering scent of him on her skin, her clothes.

But now he was here and she would take what she could from this time with him. Even if it shattered her come sunrise.