#LIKE EVEN WHEN YOU STRIP AWAY THE WAR COMPANION PIECE OF IT THEY LIKE EACH OTHER FOR WHO THEY ARE

[shallowseeker]

My actual favorite thing about the not-date-Nora-scene is that Cas is bumbling his way into this not-date, and...

even though Cas is narratively positioned as this "lame-ass, geeky little failure"

even though the ep opens with the hur-dee-durp guys in the gas station being all "macho-macho"

even though Nora was being so weird and leading-on-ish in how she asked Cas "out"

We pan over, and there's Dean (fellow nerd, let's be honest) and despite some classist digs about minimum wage, on the whole, he is still so heart-eyes for Cas. 😍 

No, seriously. Dean thought the rose was "a nice touch." Romantic, even. 🌹

I mean, Dean woulda appreciated that rose. He woulda.

But let's face it. It was dorky--I mean, he cut it from Nora's own garden! (Oh, Cas.)

///

Later, in 9x10, we'll get this gem from the Crowley's bespectacled demon spy, Cecily: "I mean, human Castiel? Eh. But feathered Castiel? Hot."

So, everyone's a little ga-ga for Cas. But the thing is, Dean is ga-ga for him even when he's...human-ish. To Dean, he's "hot" either way.

///

🎵 Hey, Leonardo 🎵

But what she sees Are my faults and indecisions My insecure conditions And the tears upon the pillow that I shed

[onyxedskies]

this piece is for the wonderful, amazing, beautiful @dazzlerazz’s birthday so everyone go wish them a very happy birthday because they deserve all the love in the world <3

pairing: ashez

word count: 1739

Shez had always loved the stars. When he was a kid, he’d look up at them from his mother’s window, awestruck as she listed out names he’d eventually forget as the years went by. As he grew older, he used them to navigate the roads - or at least tried to. When he joined mercenary companies, the stars were companions, sparkling above them as they stayed up laughing and drinking late into the night.

His first thought when he met Ashe was that he was like the stars. The silver of his hair reminded him of the light cast on the earth during a new moon, the only light on the road from the constellations and galaxies far above. The green of his eyes was the same color as new spring grass, washed out by light cast by a full moon, and the way they sparkled were the stars accompanying it. 

He’d fallen in love slowly, and then all at once. Ashe was everything Shez could ever dream of, kind and caring but also so, so strong. He watched him with the kids he found in town, and Goddess, he was so good with them. He watched him on the training grounds, forever awestruck at the strong build he hid beneath his bulky knights garb. 

Shez was infatuated with the way his eyes lit up as Ashe talked to him about his passions - the knight stories, his family, his dreams for the future that slowly but surely shifted from “his” to “theirs”. He noticed the way he always stopped whenever he saw violets, even if it was just for a second. He loved the way he always wore the flower crowns the kids they came across gave him, how he pushed Felix’s teasing words away and sometimes went as far to put the crowns on the Duke’s head. 

He loved the way he always caught Ashe feeding stray cats extra food on his plate, the way he always put a finger to his lips whenever someone caught him doing it, no matter who it was. (He’d never forget the laughter that shook Ashe and His Majesty’s shoulders simultaneously when Ashe had done it to him. He was glad the King was able to appreciate that little joy, and was glad that Ashe was able to provide it to him.)

He loved the mornings he woke up and Ashe was wearing his shirts, far too big on Ashe’s slim frame, giggling as they tussled in Shez’s attempt to get it back. He loved the rare days the two of them could just exist together without having to worry about a battle or a meeting, and could reasonably take a day off of training. 

He loved cooking together, getting flour in Ashe’s hair and Ashe getting flour on his nose. He loved sparring in the rain, laughing as they slipped in the mud, knowing that they couldn’t hurt each other. He loved huddling in their tent in the aftermath, stripping out of their soaked and dirty clothes and watching as Ashe tried to steal his clothes. 

He always succeeds, whether Shez notices him doing it or not.

His initial plan was to wait until after the war to propose, but he found himself looking at rings every time a jeweler happened to be among the merchants in town. He found himself looking at the decorative daggers on the walls of the blacksmith, found himself staring at the ones adorning Lord Rodrigue and Margrave Gautier’s belts. 

He found himself talking to Mercedes one day as the two of them organized some documents side by side. “You know about the various gemstones that typically go into jewelry, right?”

Mercedes gave him a sly, knowing smile before nodding. “I know some of them, yes. My mother and adoptive father have talked about them in the past. What do you want to know?”

“Well,” Shez said, feeling a blush begin to creep onto his cheeks. “What purple stones would you recommend?”

Mercedes leaned back, thinking. “Hmm… Amethyst is probably going to be the easiest to find, especially as we get closer to Enbarr. If you’re willing to wait until after the war, Iolite is often found in Daphnel territory.”

Shez nodded. “And those would go with silver, yes?”

“And diamonds, if you could find them,” she said, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes. “And don’t worry. I won’t tell him.”

Shez looked away from her, feeling his face burn. It wasn’t like they exactly kept their relationship a secret, but for Mercedes to be so certain of what it was? 

He supposed it wasn’t entirely surprising, but it was mortifying all the same.

And so he had gone to the next jeweler he found, talking to her quietly with a rough outline of what he wanted it to look like on a piece of parchment, drawn hastily in the dead of night when Ashe was very asleep. She had been happy to help him, telling him that it would likely be ready in approximately two weeks. 

He wasn’t sure how much he had paid her. He had no doubt that it was more than she had asked for.

He’d gone to the blacksmith next, ordering the dagger. It was simple, hilt wrapped in purple and blue leather and stamped with violets in silver ink, blade made of sharpened steel. He asked the sheath to have violets made of steel in the same style of the hilt, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly when the blacksmith told him that his special someone was lucky to have him, going so far as to offer a box with a slot for a ring, which Shez had happily paid for

The last part was the hardest.

Ashe didn’t have a living father to ask for his hand, and his older brother had died long before the two had met. He was a knight, though, and so the next logical step was to ask Dimitri for his hand.

Shez spent longer working up the courage to ask Dimitri than he had spent waiting for the ring and dagger to come. 

There was only a week and a half before the stormed Enbarr, and Shez was pacing outside the King’s tent, fiddling with the box in his hand. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and counting to ten before stopping and looking at the flap of the tent.

He pulled it up, spotting Dimitri hunched over his desk, working by candlelight. “Your Majesty?”

Dimitri looked up, startled. He smiled when he saw Shez, though the exhaustion was still prominent in his eyes.

“Shez! What do you need?” 

Shez laughed awkwardly, holding the box out to Dimitri. “I know this wouldn’t usually go to you, but it only felt right given the circumstances. You’re the King, and Ashe is one of your Knights, after all. I am here to ask for Ashe’s hand in marriage.��� Shez had no doubt in his mind that his face was as red as a tomato, but Ashe was worth the mortification. Ashe would always be worth it.

Dimitri grinned as soon as he processed the words, looking from the box to Shez. “You needn’t have asked,” he said. “I know you’ll treat him right, regardless of where life takes the two of you in the future. Of course you can marry him, Shez.”

Shez laughed, relief flooding him. “Thank you,” he said.

“Of course,” Dimitri said, still smiling. “I’m so happy for you two. If you need anything else-”

“What have we said about taking on too many burdens?” Shez asked, cutting him off. Dimitri laughed sheepishly.

“I suppose you’re right,” Dimitri said. “But regardless, I truly am happy for you both.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Shez said. A weight had been lifted from him, and he felt lighter than he had in years.

It took longer than he had hoped to drag up the courage to propose to Ashe, and he ended up waiting for the last possible second. They would be in Enbarr by noon the next morning, the years of war finally coming to a close one way or another. 

Ashe and Shez were sitting on top of a hill, basking in the warmth Enbarr provided, happy in each other’s presence. Shez’s heart was beating fast in his chest, adrenaline coursing through him despite the battle not yet being on the horizon.

The box was tucked away in his pocket. He was surprised he had been able to hide it, but he was happy all the same.

He was lying next to Ashe, who was talking animatedly about the most recent story he’d read. His hands flew this way and that as he talked, something Shez found so incredibly endearing.

“Ashe,” Shez said, pulling him from his tangent. “I have a question to ask you.”

“Hm?” Ashe turned slightly, making sure he was able to look Shez right in the eye.

“Listen, I know we’re about to march on Enbarr, and that the future is questionable at most,” Shez said, “but I can’t go into this battle without asking you this. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, no matter what your answer to this question is.”

He could see the gears working in Ashe’s head, and he let out a breathy little laugh as he pulled the box out and opened it, displaying the ring and dagger - both exactly what he had hoped for.

“Ashe Ubert, will you marry me?”

There was silence for a moment, Ashe staring at the box in disbelief and then looking at Shez. He was smiling the widest Shez had ever seen, tears brimming in his eyes.

“Yes,” Ashe breathed. “Yes, Shez, yes.” 

Ashe surged forward to kiss Shez, and he discarded the box as their lips met. He clutched at the back of Ashe’s neck, and Ashe had his arms around Shez’s shoulders almost instantaneously. 

They broke apart after a moment, and Shez sat up, grabbing the discarded box and grabbing the ring from it and holding it out to Ashe. “May I?”

“Of course,” Ashe said, breathless and giggly. He held out his hand, and Shez slipped it on.

It fit perfectly. Shez leaned in to kiss Ashe again.

There was still another battle to be fought, and a million more fights to be had afterwards. But for now, they were happy, and together. And that was all that mattered.

[elvish-sky]

Totally and Completely in Love {Legolas x Reader}

A.N: I’m extremely proud of this. I’ve worked on it for two weeks and just really love it. I think it’s actually my favorite thing I’ve ever written, so it would mean so much to me if you guys let me know what you think of it.

Requested by Anon on Tumblr: Hey! Can I request a Legolas x (human)reader where the reader is on the quest with the fellowship and she gets a really bad fever along the way (my idea was she passes out and Legolas carries her and takes care of her - but that's just an idea, you can make it any way you wish!) and while she's in fever shaking and high temperature she accidentally admits her feelings for Legolas not even knowing what she says cause she's so very ill. With lots of fluff along the way - fluff in your fics is just amazing 🥺 OH AND plus Aragorn who's shipping them the whole time like he always does! I was thinking about this for a long time and I just had to request it! Thank you so so so sooo muchh ❤️❤️❤️ Lots of love!

Word Count: 4, 318 ....oops. My bad.

Pairing: Legolas x Reader

Summary: You catch a cold and Legolas takes care of you.

Warnings: Swears, sickness/fever

****

Totally and Completely in Love

You dove under the water, probing with your hands until you hit what you thought was an ankle. Yanking it, you felt the person attached stumble and join you under the water. You came up for air, laughing to see Merry spluttering as he recovered from his sudden dunking.

Leaving Rivendell some days previously, you had been excited for the journey and adventure you were about to embark on. Now, though, you were starting to feel a little worse for wear. After spotting the small waterfall and pool it flowed into, you and the hobbits had begged Aragorn to stop early for the day, desperate to wash up. After a lot of begging, he had finally agreed, and here you were.

Aragorn had wanted to get a more thorough grasp of the terrain if you were to be camping here, and Legolas and Gimli had volunteered to join him. Aragorn had rolled his eyes, knowing that he would spend a lot of time breaking up arguments and friendly competitions between the two, but they left. (You fondly recalled the time when, after a long day of walking, the two had started a competition to find the most firewood. It had ended with them having a tug-of-war with a large log while the rest of the group rolled around laughing at them, which doubled when Aragorn chopped the log in half, causing them each to fall back on their asses.) While they scouted, Sam got a fire going, and Boromir and Gandalf did who knows what, you and the other three hobbits had decided to go wash your clothes. Merry and Pippin had quickly started a fight, however, and upon seeing them in the pool with the mist spraying into the air, creating rainbows, you had stripped down to your underthings and joined them, determined to win, while Frodo looked on and called out advice from a nearby rock. It was freezing, uncomfortably so, but it was worth it to be able to feel even a little bit clean again.

“Nice one, Y/N!” he cried out now, nodding his approval as you dunked Pippin. You ignored the fact that as a human, you had a size advantage over the small hobbits, and proceeded to do a victory lap in the water.

Swimming around, you admired the natural beauty that you had somehow stumbled upon. Small cliffs rose around you, about the height of a small oak tree, sheltering the little lagoon. The waterfall cascaded down the rocks into the pool of shimmering blue water, which filtered out between a small gap in the rocks, forming a river. The green leaves of the trees were reflected in the water, giving it a teal tint, and the sun made the grains in the rocks sparkle. All of this gave the small area a truly ethereal look.

You were suddenly startled from your reverie by two hobbit-sized shapes crashing into you from above. While you had been admiring the scenery, Merry and Pippin had climbed onto the rocks to ambush you. Forcing your head underwater, they giggled as you came back up, gasping. Their amusement quickly turned to fear as you turned to them with a devilish glint in your eyes. You tackled them and smirked as their faces turned to twin looks of outrage. “What was that for?”

“You guys jumped me! I did what I had to do.” You leaned back in the water, very pleased with yourself as you heard a stifled chuckle from the nearby rocks.

“Oh, you think that’s funny, do you, Frodo?” Pippin was advancing on him now, looking comically angry. Merry grabbed him and whispered something in his ear that you couldn’t quite hear. Pippin nodded, his face turning serious.

“We should go back to the campsite, see if there’s any food.” Merry was now climbing onto the shore and tucking his shirt into his wet trousers.

“You just want to steal some of Sam’s stew before everyone else!” Pippin elbowed him. “And what if I do?” Merry set off running towards the campsite, Pippin following him with a curse and a shout of, “Now he’ll eat it all and there’ll be none left for me!”

You made your way onto the shore a bit more sedately. Once out of the water, you began shivering and hastened to get redressed. Frodo had looked away, blushing, when you climbed out of the water, and you teased him. “C’mon Frodo, everything important is covered!”

This was true, you had kept your wrappings over your chest on, as well as your other undergarments. “Still,” the hobbit kept his eyes averted as you tugged your tunic over your head, lacing it as you spoke, “it’s not proper.” You shook your head at him in pretend exasperation. “I’m decent, let us go see if Merry really did eat all the stew.”

Sitting around the fire with your companions, you would have been quite content had you still not been so cold. Sam’s stew had warmed you for a little while, but now you were hunched over in your still-damp clothes, shivering. “Are you all right, Y/N?” Legolas looked down at you from his perch on the log next to you, concern in his eyes. “Yes,” you nodded, teeth chattering. “Just cold.”

“Well, maybe Legolas could warm you up?” Aragorn winked at you.

“No!” you cried, and then leaned over and punched Aragorn’s arm.

“Ow! What was that for?” he exclaimed, but you just sat back, pleased with yourself, yet still shivering.

Legolas looked uncertain for a second, then wrapped his arm around your shoulders, bringing you close to his warmth. You unconsciously pressed closer against him, drawn to the heat emanating from his body. As you did, he stiffened. He then jumped up, leaving you sitting there, confused as he made his way over to his pack. Grabbing something, he came back over and held it out to you.

“You’re freezing because your clothing is soaked!” He informed you and the group of this. “Yes, Legolas, I know. I’m the one wearing the soaked clothes.” You attempted to say this deadpan, but it was ruined by the clicking sound of your teeth chattering.

“Well, I was thinking- I don’t have pants that’ll fit you, but you can wear my tunic.” He blushed. “It might be a little large, but at least it’s dry.”

“Oh, no Legolas, I’m fine, really.” You didn’t want him to notice how you were nervously playing with your hair, something you always did when embarrassed.

“Really, Y/N. Take it.” He shook it at you, and, sighing, you stood and grabbed it out of his hand. “Thank you, Legolas.” You made your way to the edge of the campsite, grabbing a new set of wrappings for your breasts before disappearing into the forest to change.

Behind a tree, you lifted the damp tunic over your head and rewrapped your chest with practiced ease. You then pulled Legolas’ soft tunic on. It was rather large on you, falling a little lower on your legs than yours usually did. It hit your waist at a nice angle, however, accentuating it nicely. The real issue was the neckline. It had no laces and was much deeper than you usually wore, exposing a lot more skin than you were used to. After unsuccessfully trying to close the v-neck in some way, you gave up and just prayed no one would look too closely.

Walking back into the campsite, you draped your wet tunic over your pack, hoping it would dry overnight.

“I feel much warmer now, thank you.” You sat back down on the log next to Legolas. His eyes drifted across your body, taking in the sight of you in his clothes. “It looks good on you.” He blushed, and you tucked a piece of loose hair behind your ear, feeling rather pleased by the compliment.

“Hey, lovebirds!” came a shout from across the fire. Boromir was sitting with Merry and Pippin and was unwrapping something encased in leaves. You quickly scooched apart from Legolas, fidgeting, and craned your neck to see what Boromir had.

“What is that?” Legolas was just as curious, and just as embarrassed.

“While you were all off doing stuff earlier, I went and gathered some berries!” Boromir finished unwrapping them and held them up triumphantly. You could see strawberries and blueberries spilling out onto the leaves, and licked your lips in anticipation. After taking a few, Boromir passed the pouch around the fire, and everyone took a couple. You bit into a strawberry, savoring the sweetness.

“These are delicious, thank you, Boromir.” Aragorn was trying to speak around a mouthful of blueberries, which just caused the blue juice to run down his chin. Soon, you were all giggling at each other devouring the fruit, not caring if any got on your faces. Even Gandalf had a streak of blue running into his long grey beard, a fact that amused Pippin greatly. Finished, you leaned back with a sigh, patting your stomach with satisfaction.

“Thank you, Boromir. Truly, they were a wonderful treat.”

“Happy to, Y/N!” And indeed he did look pleased to see everyone enjoying something he had done for them.

You made your way down to the waterfall, this time accompanied by the whole Fellowship except Gandalf, who had stayed behind to tend the fire. You all splashed water on your faces to clean them of the sticky berry residue. You were careful to just get your face wet, not wanting to dampen Legolas’ tunic, but even with just your face you still got really cold again. Shivering, you turned and walked back to the campsite, admiring the stars shining above the foliage.

Reaching the campsite, you walked over to your bedroll and dragged it closer to the fire. Not so close that people would be worried, but close enough that you could hopefully soak up the meager warmth as the flames dwindled into embers overnight. You climbed in under your blanket and curled up in a ball to preserve as much body heat as possible. Lulled by the crackling of the fire and the soft murmurs of your friends getting ready for the night, you drifted off to sleep, grateful that you weren’t on the watch list that night.

“Y/N. Wake up, it’s time to go.” You were shaken awake the next morning by Legolas, who smiled at you fondly before moving on to help pack up. Stretching, you sat up and immediately recoiled. Your head hurt. And you were cold. And also somehow hot. And you felt a tad bit woozy. But you were fine, you didn’t want to hold up the journey, so you gathered the courage and emerged from your bedding, rolling it up and packing it away as you hissed in discomfort.

Walking across the campsite, your arm was grabbed by Aragorn, who pulled you off to the side. “Are you ok? You look out of sorts.” It was true, you were shaking a little bit with chills, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Oh, I’m completely fine, Aragorn. Don’t worry about me!” You faked a smile in an attempt to prove that you were, as you said, fine. Pulling your arm out of his grasp, you shouldered your pack and set off behind Boromir.

As the day went on, you felt fainter and fainter. One second you would feel like you were a furnace, the next you thought you’d never be warm again. It was taking all your energy to focus on simply putting one foot in front of the other, but you kept going, determined not to be the cause of any delays.

After you had stopped for lunch, Legolas drifted to the back of the group to walk with you. Noticing your shakiness earlier, he had decided to check on you.

“Are you alright, Y/N?” His gaze met yours, and the touching concern in his eyes almost made you stumble, although to be fair anything could have made you stumble, you were so tired at this point.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that? Seriously, Legolas, I’m fi-” Your body finally gave up on you, and you passed out. The elf was not expecting this and tried to catch you as you fell, succeeding only in slowing you down so that you hit the ground gently, cradled in his arms. Feeling your forehead, he sucked in a breath of shock.

“She’s burning up.” He informed the rest of the Fellowship, who were all gathered around the two of you like a bunch of concerned mother hens.

“We cannot stop yet.” Aragorn looked worried.

“I will carry Y/N until we camp for the night.” Boromir volunteered. Had you been conscious, you would have protested being carried at all. You wouldn’t have cared who you were carried by. But someone else did.

“No, Boromir. I’ll carry her.” With this Legolas scooped you into his arms, startling Boromir with his determination. Aragorn just smirked. “Let us continue, then.” And they set off, you in Legolas’ arms, head resting against his chest.

Legolas heard Pippin softly asking Aragorn questions as they moved. “I don’t understand, why did Y/N catch a cold but we did not?”

“Hobbits are hardier folk than us humans. You can withstand much harsher conditions. It is why I did not join you in the water, and I have elvish blood, so it would not have been as bad for me as it is for Y/N.” The elf secretly did not know much about humans and their sicknesses, so he found this explanation rather helpful.

Legolas kept looking down at you, marveling at how, even sick, you looked so peaceful. You wore a faint smile as if you were having a pleasant dream.

“Legolas?” You whispered, squirming in his arms. He jolted at the sound of his name coming out of your mouth.

“Y/N? Are you awake?” He brushed your hair out of your face and saw that your eyes were still closed. He figured it was just you having a dream about the Fellowship, his name just happened to be the one you mentioned. Then you spoke again.

“I love you, Legolas.” He stopped in shock as you shifted in his arms again.

“You love me too? That’s good.” You sighed, wiggling your nose in that cute way Legolas liked, head still resting against his chest.

The elf, meanwhile, was standing there. Dumbstruck, with you fast asleep in his arms, he stood there until an unsuspecting Gimli crashed into him from behind.

“Lad! Yeh don’t just stop in the middle of the path! Keep moving!”

Legolas was still too shocked to come up with a retort, so he silently stepped to the side, letting the dwarf pass. Aragorn was next but paused to get Legolas to keep walking. “Legolas. What is wrong? Do you grow weary of carrying Y/N?”

“No!” The elf turned away from Aragorn, fearing that the man would insist on taking you.

Aragorn backed up a step, hands in the air. “Very well then. If you are not tired, why are you so on edge?”

“Y/N was talking in her sleep.”

“So? What does that have to do with yo- Legolas, why are you blushing?!” The ranger looked very amused by the flushed elf. “What, exactly, did she say?”

“She, um, well- she said she loved me.” Legolas was trying very hard not to meet Aragorn’s eyes.

Meanwhile, Aragorn had a shit-eating grin on his face. “Well, that is wonderful news! Now the two of you can stop the ridiculous flirting and pining.”

“Aragorn- you do not think she could have meant it?” Legolas was now looking at his friend, and Aragorn could see the beginnings of hope in his eyes.

“Of course she meant it! She was having a dream, about you, and told you she loved you. How could it be any clearer?”

“Well, that’s just it. It was a dream. It probably did not mean anything.” As Legolas spoke, Aragorn saw him convince himself that it was not true. “Legolas.” The blond turned his head and looked Aragorn in the eyes.

“I believe that Y/N means what she said in that dream. I have seen it in the way she acts with you. If you do not, then I cannot convince you. But I will say- ask her about it when she wakes up. Just mention the dream.”

With that Aragorn sped up, leaving a conflicted, confused, and still blushing Legolas walking slowly at the back of the group.

“I think you should tell her,” came a voice from down near his elbow. Legolas’ gaze drifted down to focus on Merry, who had somehow appeared next to him while he was lost in thought. “Tell her what?” The elf tried to deny everything, but Merry wasn’t having it.

“Tell her that you love her!” The hobbit looked so earnest that Legolas couldn’t help but listen to him. Merry continued, “I know if I loved someone, I’d want them to know. Not even because we could lose our lives at any moment, just because I think they deserve it. It’s like in the old stories Mr. Bilbo used to tell. She deserves to know you love her, Legolas. Tell her before it’s too late.”

Struck by the serious set of the hobbit’s face, and emotions in his eyes, Legolas nodded. “All right then. I guess I’ll ask her tonight.” He looked nervous, but then his eyes drifted down to look upon your sleeping form, cradled in his arms, and his face softened.

“Don’t let Boromir or Gimli see you looking at her like that, though- they’ll think you’ve gone soft!” And with that, Merry bounded back up to walk with Pippin.

Legolas was again by himself (well, not entirely, you were still there, but that might not count because you were unconscious), left to mull over his thoughts. He had been bluffing with Merry, he was most certainly not going to ask you about your feelings for him that night, but reflecting on the hobbit’s words something struck him. You were all on a perilous quest, it would be better for you to know now. And he could just ask you about your dream, inquire after your sleep. He didn’t have to confess to anything unless you did- which he was sure wasn’t going to happen, who could love him? But it did sound like a decent plan, so he decided to go through with it.

Just as that thought of resolve crossed his brain, you stirred. Opening your eyes, you gazed blearily at the world around you until your gaze came to rest on the face above you.

Blinking, it came into focus. “Legolas? What- why are you carrying me? What happened?”

“You fainted, Y/N. We think you have a fever, you must have caught a cold from swimming yesterday.” He was still walking as he spoke.

“Ok. Well, thank you for carrying me. I can walk now.”

When he didn’t, you asked again. “I’m fine, Legolas. Really, put me down.”

He still refused to do so.

“Put me down, Legolas!”

Finally, he answered. “I will not. I will carry you until we camp tonight.”

Overhearing him, Aragorn called out back to you. “Well, it’s a good thing we just found a place to camp!”

“Frodo, would you mind grabbing me Y/N’s pack from Aragorn and just spreading out her bedroll so she can rest?” Legolas was walking over to a spot he thought you would like as he spoke. Frodo came over with your bedroll, laying it out on a nice, flat area of ground. As pleased as you were, you still had to protest.

“I do not need rest, Legolas. What I need is for you to put me down!”

Sensing that perhaps it was just best to do as you said, the elf gently eased you to your feet. The second you were standing, you started to feel dizzy, and the chills came back. You fell back into Legolas’ waiting arms, too tired to stand.

“Okay, fine, maybe I do need to rest.” You yawned as he lowered you onto your bedroll, tucking the blankets in around you. “But I don’t want to be here, away from everyone. Carry me over to sit around the fire.” You made a regal face as Legolas picked you back up. The fire was crackling in the center of the small clearing, and everyone else was gathered around as Sam served supper.

“So demanding,” he muttered under his breath, jokingly. “Oh!” You were playfully offended.

He set you down, wrapping your blanket around your shoulders before settling next to you. Sam passed you a bowl of stew, and you inhaled the scent of it.

“Rabbit and potato tonight?” You could always guess what was in it.

“How do you guess right every time?” Pippin was amazed.

“I guess I just have a refined, expert sense of smell,” you declared and dug into the delicious stew.

Sighing, you placed your bowl on the ground, empty, and leaned into Legolas’ side. He stiffened, surprised, before wrapping his arm around your shoulders and drawing you closer to him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you. Still tired, but I’m not as cold.”

He nodded and looked back at your companions around the fire. Who, in fact, were all staring at the two of you. Again. You scooched away from the elf, realized just how cold it was away from his arms, and promptly moved back closer to him, burying your face in his chest to titters from the group around you.

“Oh, shut up.” You didn’t care, Legolas was warm and you were cold, it was as simple as that. Nothing else. Or at least, that was what you were telling yourself.

Later that night, after you had wobbled back over to your bedroll with the help of Merry and Pippin each propping you up on one side, you lay there, unable to sleep. You didn’t understand why- you were very tired, you just couldn’t sleep. Your tossing and turning must have caught the attention of the person, or rather, elf, on watch, as he came over and sat down next to you.

“Are you okay?” He looked worried.

“Fine. I just can't seem to fall asleep.” You sat up, now at eye level with the blond archer.

“Ah. Well, unfortunately, I do not know how to get you to sleep, but I can keep you company if that is all right.” You nodded, and the two of you sat there, looking up at the stars glowing in the sky, framed like a portrait by the foliage of the trees surrounding the clearing.

After a while, he spoke again. “Y/N, can I ask you something?”

You nodded.

“What were you dreaming about earlier?”

You tucked your hair behind your ear, embarrassed as you recalled the dream from earlier where you and Legolas had fallen in love. Deciding that denial was the best course of action here, you spoke. “I did not dream.”

“Y/N. You were talking in your sleep.”

Uh oh.

“What did I say?”

Now he was blushing. You internally prepared yourself for whatever embarrassing thing he was about to say, ready to deny your feelings.

“You, um… well, you said you loved me.”

You wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Legolas. It was just a silly, dream, it meant nothing, I don’t feel that way about you at all…” Babbling, your eyes went back to his face, unprepared for the depth of disappointment in his eyes and the sadness written there.

“You truly do not feel like that?”

After seeing his face, feeling the emotion conveyed in his voice, a small flame of hope lit in your chest. Taking a deep breath, you decided to be brave.

You took his hand, entwining your fingers with his as you took a deep breath. “I lied, Legolas. I love you.”

You saw the shock on his face. “It’s ok if you don’t feel the same, we can never speak of it again. We can go back to normal, this doesn’t have to be a big deal.” Your babbling was cut off by the elf.

“Y/N. I love you. Totally and completely, with every fiber of my being, I love you.”

Shyly, you reached your hand out and brushed his cheek.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s good.”

He laughed. “You said that after I told you in your dream!”

“I did?”

He nodded. “Now, let’s see if you can get some sleep. It’s late.”

He moved so that you were between his legs, head resting on his chest as he leaned up against a rock. You snuggled in close, and he began rubbing circles on your shoulder. He began to softly hum, a tune you did not recognize but liked just the same. Lulled by his soft voice and the motions of his hands, you drifted into a deep, wonderful sleep.

Legolas sat there, you in his arms, marveling at the turn of events. A movement from Aragorn’s bedroll startled him, but he made sure not to wake you up. The ranger sat up, facing him.

“I told you so.” Aragorn winked at him, looking mightily pleased with himself.

“Well, now that you’re awake, you might as well begin your shift of watch!” Legolas looked triumphant and watched as the ranger sighed and rose, moving over to sit on a boulder that overlooked the whole camp.

“Get some sleep, Legolas,” Aragorn advised.

Careful to not wake you, Legolas moved so that he was lying next to you, arm wrapped around your waist and chin resting just above your head. He sighed and felt himself slowly drift off to join you, his beloved, in the land of sleep.

Everything tag 💞: @entishramblings @itgetsatadhazy @boyruins @anjhope1 @hey-its-nonny

Legolas tag: @sheriffgerard @bitter-sweet-farmgirl

[maebird-melody]

Authors were revealed earlier this week for the @solavellanhellexchange. I love the gift I received and I had great fun writing for this exchange as well!

This was my first time participating in a fic exchange event, and the people involved made it a truly great experience. I also may have gotten carried away with how much I wrote.

the road seems too wild for mixing it with blues

 To the rest of the world, for once, he is not Solas, not Fen'Harel, not the Dread Wolf; she is not Lady Lavellan, not the Inquisitor. They are visitors engaged in discovery, and the world will indulge them for just this little while.

-:-:-

Solas walks the earth on a new path, with Lavellan at his side. There is no death on this journey--only life, and limitless pot

Thank you so much @dreadfutures for the wonderful gift!

Now, like I mentioned, I got a bit carried away with the pieces I wrote.

Ea Aron Arlathan

My gift for @midorimaddie

However brief their time together might be, Solas is determined to make the most of it. With the memory of Arlathan still on his mind and his desire to be with Aerwynn growing stronger every day, he decides to take a most dangerous course of action - reenacting the courtship rituals of the Elvhen people.

Uthenera - Fen’Harel Ver Na

My gift for everyone

"I lay in dark and dreaming sleep while countless wars and ages past."

This song blends the Lost Elf Theme and the Thedas Love Theme, and also introduces a new theme of my own devising which can be heard in the opening bars of the piece. This is a programmatic piece, which means that each part of the song represents an unfolding story. For program notes, see the end of this page.

You can also watch the sheet music playback here.

A Wonder

Written for Exalted_Dawn

"It was unlike Alora to shirk her duties. It seemed much more likely to him that she had simply wandered off somewhere, none the wiser to the pressing concerns which had arisen in her absence. And while he didn’t doubt his own capability in finding Alora quickly, he knew someone who would be able to locate her even faster. Someone Varric would never think to ask."

Everyone's looking for the Inquisitor, but no one knows where to find her. When Varric asks Solas to help find her, he asks another friend for help. He'll need to offer some encouragement before Alora is ready to leave her hiding place.

A New Haven

Written for @rosella-writes

"Unlike the blade—a brutish, simple implement worked from a single strip of metal—the hilt was delicate work, crafted from myriad metals coaxed together through careful attention, convinced by skilled hands that they were all one."

Virelan finds solace in smithing. But either fortunately or unfortunately, her time does not go entirely uninterrupted. Perhaps her visitor can help her finish what she started.

Vhenas Eth

Written for @lyriumpotion

Inquisitor Dalla has a secret place she likes to go to escape the pressures of the Inquisition. Only those she trusts are invited in.

To the Thaig

Written for @bluewren

Taliesen has heard news of a long-abandoned thaig that was recently discovered in the Deep Roads. In the hopes of uncovering some useful tools or forgotten technology, she and her companions set out to investigate.

The Wolf Maiden

Written for @alondradina

Solas has been invited to his grandmother's house, but she lives in the woods and as everyone knows, dangerous wolves roam these woods.

[mellowswriting]

Helping Hand

pairing || Din Djarin x fem!Reader

summary ||  The clasps on bras should not be so fucking difficult. It’s a good thing Mando doesn’t mind lending you a helping hand.

word count || 4,873

warnings || SMUT! p in v sex, kinda rough tbh, desperate Mando, cockwarming, a singular spank, love confessions bc I am soft for this man 

a/n || this was uh...something! I firmly believe that Mandalorians waste zero time once they find their person. Once they have them, they have them. No such thing as rushing to a Mandalorian, especially our TinCanMan. also, this gif destroys me

Main Masterlist  |  Join the taglist!

The second you saw the bra as you perused the marketplace, your face lit up. The fabric was rich in color and ridiculously soft and you knew the second you had your hands on it that you were buying it. It wasn’t too expensive, a few credits more than what you’d usually be willing to pay for clothes, but hey, you deserved to splurge every now and then. You practically bounced with excitement as you made your way back to the Crest where Mando and the little green kiddo you adored waited for your return. It was nice to get some time to yourself, time where you didn’t have to chase after a rambunctious kid or have to squeeze past Mando’s huge frame in the small spaces of the Crest, but what could you say?

You missed your boys. 

The ramp lowered as you drew closer and you smiled. Mando must have seen you approaching. The sight of him standing in the cockpit with the sleeping child cradled in his arm made your chest bloom with happiness. You paused on your way to set your bag on your bunk, distracted by the uncomfortable looking angle he held his arm at, and let out a quiet laugh. Mando’s silent tendencies left you to observe the way he held himself to discern how he was feeling, and after months of living with him, you could gauge him easily by the tilt of his helmet, the way he held his shoulders. You may not be fluent in Mando’a, but you were fluent in your Mandalorian. 

“He wakes up the second you lay him down, huh?” You asked, a teasing smile on your face. The sharp way he looked to you only confirmed your suspicion and you bit your lip to hold back another chuckle. “Here, let me.”

The child didn’t even stir when you fluidly slipped him from Mando’s arms and slowly settled him into the metallic cradle he slept in. Mando sighed loudly behind you, the sound roughed slightly by the modulator. “How are you so good at that?”

“It’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” You turned and almost knocked back into the cradle at the proximity of the beskar-clad warrior, a mere few inches between your chests. Heat flared across your face. “It’s just, uh… just lotsa practice.” 

Mando hummed quietly and you instinctively looked to his shoulders and his hands, trying to gauge his mood. They were relaxed, the tension he always carried about him eased for the moment. Content, if you had to guess. It made you smile up at him, brighter than any sun in the galaxy. There weren't many times you saw him without that ready-to-action tension that plagued his surely sore muscles - almost always when the three of you were in the Crest, safe together as you hurtled through space. He turned just as quickly as he had approached you, stepping out of your space to set the coordinates to Nevarro, and you felt like you could finally exhale. 

Bag in hand, you practically stumbled into your bunk and pulled out the pretty bra you were so excited to put on - inky black, accentuated with intricately designed lace and a harness-like back. You pulled off your clothes quickly, stripping down entirely bare to slip into a soft pair of sleeping shorts. It would take a while to get back to Nevarro; you might as well be comfortable for it. The process of undressing while the Crest drew away from solid ground used to have you half naked and on the ground from the jostling, but thankfully you had grown proficient at balancing yourself through the rough takeoffs. 

A quiet sigh escaped you at the brush of the luxurious cloth against your bare skin, deft fingers latching the clasps at your back. It was a welcome change to the usual bras you wore. The straps were a bit too loose, allowing the cups to droop slightly from your breasts, and you fumbled to tighten them. It was just out of your grasp, your fingers grappling uselessly for the elusive adjuster as you huffed in annoyance.

“Need a hand?” Mando’s voice behind you made you startle almost comically and whirl around, one hand pressed against your chest where your heart was battering against your ribs. How in the hell did he always manage to move so silently? Heat bloomed up your neck and across your face unbiddenly. Sure, it wasn’t the first time he had seen you in some state of undress - living in such close quarters and the fact that Mando apparently never learned how to knock had him walking in on you often. But there was no denying the difference in you standing before him dressed practically in lingerie. 

“Uh, y-yeah, if you could?” You stuttered, internally groaning at your sudden inability to speak. The thick tension of the air could have choked you as you stared Mando down awkwardly until he twirled his finger, silently commanding you to turn around, and you could just die. “You just have to slide the, uh, adjuster up towards my shoulder.”

Mando said nothing and before you could move your hair out of his way, one gloved hand gathered it to settle over your shoulder and you had to tamp down on the shiver that tried to wriggle up your spine. He fiddled with the straps silently, leaving you to wrangle with your bordering on desperate need to climb the giant man behind you like a tree and lose yourself in the pleasures you could bring each other. 

You weren’t blind, nor were you stupid. Far from it, actually. Reading people was a gift you had possessed from a young age - one’s intent could easily be sussed by the specific light in their eyes, the slightest change in their tone, the barely-there shift in their body language. Mando may not speak often, you may not be able to watch for the arch of an eyebrow or the quirk of a lip, but you could still read him like a book. 

The fear of complication warred with your need. The child was a beacon of light in your life when you thought there could never be anything but swallowing darkness. He was a reminder of the little things that made everything else worth it - every coo, every small smile as he slept, every time he came running up to you or Mando on his little legs. Even when you were having to explain over and over again that no, he couldn’t eat the buttons off of the comlink, he brought you more joy than you could imagine. 

It didn’t help that every day spent flying through hyperspace left you growing closer to the Mandalorian. Even when there was nothing but silence between you, it was comfortable, companionable. The final straw? Mando slept in your presence. The first time it happened had been entirely accidental. He was exhausted after a strenuous bounty, one that ran far longer than they fought for, and the second the coordinates had been set, Mando collapsed into the pilot’s seat and promptly passed out. Knowing that he was comfortable enough to fall asleep without second thought, that he trusted you enough to be vulnerable like that around you...you never felt more like you belonged.

And Mando? When he woke several hours later, feeling far more well-rested than usual, he saw you curled up in the seat next to him with the child cradled in your lap as the blur of hyperspace reflected in your eyes. You had smiled at him, sleepy but bright nonetheless, and he had never been more grateful for the helmet that hid his face. You were too smart, too observant - you would be able to read the love on his face plain as day.

That little green womp rat and his beskar covered father saved you when you thought there was nothing left. The idea of losing that made you nauseous. The idea of how complete your little family would feel if you gave in made you tempted. 

It was complicated. 

A modulated grunt of frustration came from the man behind you as he couldn’t get a solid hold on that damn adjuster and you bit back a laugh. A Mandalorian, a warrior - bested by some plastic and fabric. Something fell to the ground, landed on the metal floor with two quiet thwaps, and before you could glance down to see what it was, warm bare fingers slid between the strap and your skin. This time there’s no stopping the almost violent shiver that racked your body, paired with an embarrassingly sharp exhale, and Maker your resolve was crumbling to pieces. 

“Tell me when.” Mando rumbled once his nimble fingers finally wrapped around the plastic, his modulator vibrating right in your ear in the most delicious way. The strap tightened slowly as his fingers slid up, the cup of the bra finally flush against your skin, and your voice was hoarse when you whispered ‘when’. 

Instead of simply reaching for the other strap, his warm palm made a lazy path across your skin, pausing for a breath between your shoulder blades before slipping under the thin fabric. He repeats the movement, tightening the strap until you clear your throat and manage to say in a stronger tone, “T-there is fine.” 

Mando hummed, his fingertips gliding over the soft skin of your shoulder and holy hell, his chest was practically pressed to your back and there was no way he wasn’t being a giant tease. “Just fine?”

“Perfect,” You corrected, your voice breathy, eyes threatening to flutter shut as that hand trailed over your shoulder to trace along the line of the cup of your bra. Goosebumps followed Mando’s touch, raised as your body’s desperate testament to the need that had vibrated through you. You just barely caught a glimpse of those tanned hands, hands you had seen a few times as he took care of the more delicate aspects of cleaning of his weapons, and you whispered, “You’re p-perfect.”

Mando gripped your hip suddenly, your soft flesh soft a beautiful contrast to his calloused hands, and it was the dip of his fingertips underneath the hem of your shorts that made you lean back into him fully, your head tilted back against his shoulder. A rumbled moan vibrated from his chest and into your back, felt all the way through his chestplate, as you “You want this, sweet girl?”

You nodded quickly. “H-how? How can we…”

“Leave it to me,” Mando murmured, preoccupied with the heat of your bare skin under his hands as he finally broke, finally explored the body of the woman he had fallen in love with in the months since his clan had expanded to three. “Just...tell me you want this. Please.”

Mando’s voice was rough and desperate even through the modulator and you nodded without a second thought. You knew you were in for it just from the way he pushed you further into your bunk to let the door slide shut behind him. No fanfare, no fuss. Mando was certain. He was going for what he wanted, and it lit a fire in you. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, your heart racing as Mando methodically unclasped his armor, his visor trained on you with each piece that came off - and it hit you. This was actually happening. 

Finally. 

You grinned up at the t-shaped visor of his helmet and pulled him closer by the hem of his duraweave pants, his grunt of approval stoking the flames of your need. He pulled his shirt off fluidly and your hands froze where they were trying to undo his pants as you admired the sight of so much bare skin. 

“So handsome,” You whispered before kissing just below his navel, smiling into his skin at the way his hand buried in your hair. Mando hummed under your gentle touch, under the trail of your tongue against his skin. It had been so long, too long since he had any form of gentle touch, you knew that. Touch starved, that was the term. 

You would fix that. 

You trailed your hand over his ribs, fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake when your nails scratched him lightly. Finally having your hands on him had you almost giddy, your heart flying in your chest as you slowly kissed down his stomach to the tent in his pants, nerves and need warring in your belly. You wanted to learn every piece of your Mandalorian - his scars and their stories, where to kiss when you wanted to hear those intoxicating groans, his favorite places for you to bite and dig your nails into. You wanted to break him in the best possible way, destroy that headstrong restraint and discipline so he could destroy you in return. 

All it took was a teasing press of your tongue against the outline of his cock to make him snatch you up off of the bed with a firm hand at your jaw and you couldn’t help but smile. His helmet tilted slightly as he took you in, grinning at him like the cat that got the canary, eyes sparkling with excitement, and he gripped your shorts with his other hand hard enough to pop the hem. 

“Off.” Mando rumbled and you immediately shimmied out of them as quickly as you could with his hand still holding your face firmly. The second the fabric no longer hindered his access, he ran his hand over your ass, greedy fingers digging into the firm flesh of one cheek. “Such a good listener. Aren’t you, sweet girl?”

You pressed closer as you nodded, desperate to feel his body against yours, and your eyes fell closed at the warmth of the skin to skin contact of your chest against his. As much as you loved the bra you wore, you wanted to feel nothing between you. It was easy to slip off and Mando’s hand instantly left your jaw to trace along your breast. It amazed you how gentle he could be; those big hands capable of incapacitating, capable of killing, gently palming your skin and tweaking your nipple. A breathy chuckle met your ears and only then did you realize you were arching up into his touch. 

“I won’t be gentle.” Mando warned. 

You grinned, heat shuddering down your spine at the roughness of his tone. “Who says I want you to be?”

You were on your back before you could even blink, the impact against the bed pulling a gasp from you. Mando made an image painted by the gods: stood over you, chest heaving with each harsh breath, cock straining proudly against his pants. That was the last thing you saw before his hand slapped against the light control on the wall and the entire bunk plunged into darkness. 

A hand wrapped around your ankle and yanked you against a pair of firm thighs, forcing out a yelp that morphed into a low whine when your legs were spread wide. Without your vision to guide you, you had to rely on your hearing, your sense of touch, and the low clank of metal on metal and rustling of fabric had you confused until his warm, entirely naked body slid over yours and you heard the first tones of Mando’s voice - unmodulated, raw and low in your ear. 

“You need me, huh? You need this?” Mando growled, sliding down to grind his cock against you, and he grinned impishly at the desperation of your whimper, at the way you angled your hips to try to slide him inside of you. “Let me take what I want and I’ll give you what you need.” 

You could have cried out when he pulled back, could have begged him to stay and fuck you already, but the feeling of his lips latching onto your neck made your voice melt into unintelligible groans. You buried your hands in his hair, memorizing the soft way the curls fell through your fingers. The combination of his teeth and tongue were sure to leave a mark, one you would wear with pride for anyone to see. It was the first of many lovebites he left on your skin, trailed down your neck and over your chest and delivered between significantly gentler bites and licks to your breasts. Your hips moved entirely of their own volition, legs wrapped around his waist to rub against his stomach. 

Mando’s hands found your hips and pressed them down, pressing you flush to the bed hard enough that you knew you would have bruises, ones you would relish as long as they lasted. You had never felt more desperate to be touched, tension rocketing tighter and tighter in your core. 

“So needy, mesh’la.” Mando rumbled as he shoved you further up the bed. He delivered a sharp bite to your thigh and you jumped, a laugh bubbling up from your chest at the suddenness and the way he eased the mark with his tongue. You carded your fingers through his hair again and his chest rumbled, almost as if he were purring. Just as you were about to comment on it, tell him how cute it was that he reacted so beautifully to your touch, his tongue slid through your wet heat. 

“Fuck!” You exclaimed, the grip you had in his curls tightening harshly as you tried to roll your hips to grind against his face, but he pinned your hips with sure hands. Not to be hindered, you pressed your heels into his back and still managed tiny hitches and Mando chuckled at your determination. His tongue rolled over your clit, over and over until you were crying out at the sparks of pleasure radiating through your core.

His mouth left you for a split second, just long enough to slick his fingers with his spit, and his tongue descended back to your clit as two fingers rubbed tiny circles against your entrance. You were almost incoherent in your begging, your voice slurred, words cut off in the middle - and then two thick fingers slid into your cunt, his lips wrapped around your clit, and you thought your heart stopped with the intensity of it all. 

After what could have been an eternity or a mere half second, Mando pumped his fingers slowly and your entire world imploded around you. The groan that left your lover was exhilarating. He mumbled against you, something about the tightest fucking cunt he’s ever had, before his tongue went back to town, flicking over your clit as his fingers curled into that sweet spot deep inside you. Your back arched of its own volition, your entire body tensing as Mando rocketed you to your climax.

“Can’t wait anymore.” Was the only warning you got before he pulled away, leaving you to flutter around nothing, and a high whine left your throat as Mando leaned over you and yanked your thighs up to hook further over his hips. His lips fell to yours and you groaned at the taste of your arousal, your hand cupping his jaw and reveling in the scratch of his stubble against your skin. The heavy weight of his cock pressed against your thigh until he angled himself to press right against your entrance, and - 

“Wait!” You gasped and Mando froze entirely. You reached between you to grasp his cock, groaning at the thick girth that you knew would split you open beautifully. “Let me... let me make you feel good, too.” 

“Won’t last, mesh’la,” Mando growled, his forehead pressed to yours as he fucked into your hand despite his words. For just a moment you thought you had him, had gained some modicum of control as you stroked him with a firm hand, but he batted your hand away to pin above your head. “Need to bury my cock in your tight little cunt.”

“P-please! I need it, I need you to fuck me full.” You mewled so prettily for him and Mando broke. 

The sound that left him was pulled from his very core, an almost feral growl radiating from his chest and leaving you shuddering underneath him, ready to beg until he finally shoved his cock into you, but before you could get a sound out you were flipped you onto all fours. You tried to steady yourself, to press your weight into your hands so you could grind your ass back against him, but a rough hand shoved between your shoulder blades until your face and chest were flush against the blankets beneath you. 

“You want me to claim this cunt?” Mando breathed into your ear as he settled his chest against your back, gliding the head of his cock through your slit teasingly. A dark chuckle followed your pitiful whine. “Oh I think I will. Stuff you full of my cum so everyone knows who you belong to.”

Mando pulled back and steadied a hand at your hip, the other pulling your cheeks apart as he finally slid home. Inch after devastating inch filled your cunt, the familiar stretch on just the right side of painful. A sinful, wrecked groan came from behind you and despite yourself, despite being face down ass up for a warrior, you felt powerful. 

“S-so fucking tight,” Mando stuttered out as he gave a small push forward, pressing even further into your heat despite being buried to the hilt already, short, aborted thrusts as he tried to let you adjust to his girth. 

“Please, please, please,” You huffed out with each exhale, and if you were in your right mind you might have been at least slightly embarrassed by the desperation of your begging, but you were aching for him to move. You clenched around him, reveling in the punched-out sound it drew from him, and finally, finally he drew back halfway to shove back into you sharply. 

Mando didn’t fuck you - the word ‘fuck’ wasn’t enought to encompass the way he drove into you over and over, shoved you further into the sheets with his teeth buried in your shoulder. You wanted to be destroyed, and Maker did he deliver, pressed against that sweet spot deep inside you and making your writhe beneath him. It took a moment to find your voice amongst the harsh thrusts, but the sound of you whimpering ‘Mando…’ over and over had your lover delivering a sharp swat to your ass before yanking you up by your hair and bracing your ass on his thighs, his pace unfaltering. 

“S-such a sweet little thing,” Mando stuttered, one hand holding you by your neck, keeping you flush against him, and the other sliding down to toy with your clit, those calloused fingers rubbing in tight circles until you pressed your head to his shoulder and wailed. “Sound so pretty for me.”

You wanted to tell him how good he felt stretching you out, how much you loved this, how much you loved him, but there was no speaking when his thrusts punched the very air from your lungs. So you buried your hand in his hair and tightened, rolling your hips into every push of his own. The sharp pull of his hair seemed to egg him on and his hand slid up from your throat to tilt your head and capture your lips with his. 

The angle was awkward, the kiss all teeth and tongue, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything. Mando drank in your every moan, every whine, and sang out his own in response, poured them out in a never ending stream that left you washed out in pleasure and pride. You reduced him to this. The tight clench of your cunt around him left the strong warrior slashed down to his most base instincts, left him to bury himself in you over and over as if he couldn’t bear to hold back. 

Your begging was almost incoherent, words broken off halfway with each harsh thrust, but it all melted into one low cry when Mando toyed with your clit and ground against that sweet spot against you and you broke. The only thing that kept you upright was Mando’s strong grip on your body as your pleasure crested, sparked out all across your body and left you weak in the aftermath of ecstasy. Your hand fell loose in his hair, still tangled in his curls but just barely staying put. 

Mando laid you down almost sweetly, flipped your weak body around to lie on your back and settled between your thighs. He growled low in your ear when you hooked your ankles over his lower back and whined so prettily for him as he pushed himself deep into your cunt - right where he belonged. His thrusts were shorter, stunted in his relentless chase for release inside of your body, leaving you hanging in the precipice between pleasure and overstimulation. 

“Feel so good,” You whispered in his ear, gasping when he buried his face in your neck and latched onto your skin with rough presses of teeth and tongue. The pace of his thrusts stuttered when you clenched around him, urging him to let go.

“Where?” Mando grunted low into your skin, unable to find the words to finish his thoughts but you knew. You knew what he wanted, the desperate want you both shared.

“Inside!” You gasped out in a rough voice, almost desperate in tone, and locked your legs around his waist tighter, using the newfound leverage to meet each of his thrusts. “Please, please cum inside me.”

The choked off sound in your ear was downright addictive and paired with the airtight grip on your hips as he pressed flush against your body and flooded you with his release....well, you wouldn’t be able to live without it, without him. Mando collapsed, crushed you underneath his weight with his cock still nestled in your tight heat. Maker, he was heavy but you never felt safer. He panted in your ear, the ghost of each breath curling across your skin like a loving caress and you could feel the curve of his lips where he smiled against you, a smile you matched. 

Your fingers buried in his hair once more, scratching against his scalp in slow, gentle circles, and the delighted whimper he gave sounded like it came from anyone but the rough and tumble warrior who just railed you into oblivion. One of his hands writhed up between your chests to cup your breast, the gun-calloused skin of his palm a harsh contrast to the soft, unmarred skin of your chest. 

“Mando…” You chuckled in a tone of warning when those fingers tweaked your nipple, sending sparks echoing across your skin. 

“Din,” He grunted in your ear before taking the lobe between his teeth and worrying it with his tongue, only pulling back when you made a small noise of confusion. “Din Djarin. You should know the name of the man who claims you.”

Your heart stuttered, racing to match the pace of your thoughts. This...this was a huge deal for him, you knew that. Your arms tightened around him almost of their own volition as it hit you - this union meant as much to him as it did to you. 

Mando - Din was yours. 

You were his. 

“Cyare,” Din whispered at the small noise that left you, propping himself up on his elbows to hover over you despite not being able to see you. You followed his movements as best you could, not wanting to jostle around enough for his softening cock to slip from your body.  “Are you okay? Was...Was this not-”

“No! No, I...damn it,” You stumbled over your words in your rush to reassure him, reaching up to hesitantly place your hands on either side of his face, giving him plenty of time to stop you in case you crossed a line. He didn’t. Rough stubble met your fingers and you laughed wetly in disbelief. You couldn’t believe your luck. “I love you. I have from the start.”

Din’s breath caught in his throat and he pressed his face back into your neck as he returned the sentiment, his words muffled and cracking under the weight they carried. You giggled at the way his tongue met your neck, surely adding to the multitude of marks he already left there, but tilted your head back for more access nonetheless. He was right - he laid his claim on you, buried his seed as deep inside you as he could and left the imprint of his teeth across your skin for all to see. 

“A clan of three, right?” You said before kissing his temple, yours eyes slipping closed as your exhausted reared. 

“Yes, sweet girl. A clan of three.” Din rumbled. The vibration of his chest only lulled you further into slumber and the last thing you heard before the sleep overtook you was Din whispering, almost to himself, “My own little aliit.”

[nightingaelic]

Fallout New Vegas companions react to taking the Courier's place in Dead Money.

Arcade Gannon: Following the obligatory panic attack and subsequent state of dejection, Arcade would suck it up and start trying to get the heist done with as quickly as possible. He’d roll his eyes at Dean Domino, set aside Dog and God’s identity crisis for later and check Christine over for basic first aid purposes before trudging along toward the various goals set by Elijah. I think he’d opt for stealth over combat when encountering the ghost people out of a sense of self-preservation, but he would probably pocket some clothing and blood samples from any that Dog took down along the way to the casino. The story of the Sierra Madre would fascinate him, particularly the bits and pieces left behind by jaded treasure hunters and Elijah’s previous teams of victims. Arcade would see it as a microcosm of what’s happening in the wider world, a stellar example of partners turning on each other in pursuit of some perceived bright future attached to the hidden treasures of the old world. Vera’s desperate graffiti in her hotel room would speak to him most powerfully: LET GO. He would probably try to argue with Elijah about the viability of the former Brotherhood Elder’s plans, throwing some Latin phrasing in for good measure. No matter his level of success in this, Arcade would stow away as many gold bars as he could to lug home and use to sparingly and anonymously fund the efforts of the Followers of the Apocalypse. 

Craig Boone: During his first encounter with one of the ghost people popping up again after being downed by his sniper rifle, Boone would grunt in annoyance, swap his ammo for hollow points and switch from aiming at chests to aiming at heads. Ghost people bob and weave admirably, but Boone has a gift, and up until he actually got inside the casino, his main obstacle would be avoiding the noxious cloud. The holograms, on the other hand, would probably strike some fear into his heart. After all, how do you destroy something that bullets can’t touch? I don’t think he would put two and two together about the emitters until Christine or Dean pointed them out: From there, it just becomes a scavenger hunt to find the next piece of wall-mounted tech to shoot. Dean, Dog and God would annoy him, but he’d find a kindred spirit in Christine, and would appreciate her ability to convey meaning without words. Hell, he’s pretty good at that himself. Upon finding Elijah, Boone would immediately put a bullet in his head, look at the pile of gold for a few seconds, then walk away and out of the Sierra Madre without looking back. He’d never breathe a word of the place to anyone, but he’d track down all of the Sierra Madre broadcast systems one by one and destroy them, letting the desert swallow the place and its dangers for good. 

Lily Bowen: Grandma Lily wouldn’t understand why the angry man was so desperate to get inside the casino, but she’s more than familiar with being a forced follower of doomed causes. As such, she would be kind to her fellow captives, assuring Christine that she would be able to talk “when she’s ready,” admonishing Dean for his rude behavior and telling Elijah that he would catch more cazadores with honey mesquite than with vinegar. A trail of wrecked ghost people would follow her to the casino itself, but dealing with the holograms would be beyond her expertise: That part would have to be left to Christine or Dean. Elijah would receive a lecture once she made it into the vault, but she would probably let him live unless he attacked first. Dog and God, however, would earn the most care and compassion and even cause some introspection. Ultimately, I think she would help the two become one through intense conversation and shared understanding about what it means to be nightkin with no master, and once freed, she would take him to find a home in Jacobstown. 

Raul Alfonso Tejada:��Upon waking up from being kidnapped by Dog on Elijah's behalf, Raul's immediate reaction would be something like "Again?" followed by "Carajo." Elijah’s insistence on pulling off the heist would annoy him, but Raul is constantly looking for something to occupy his unnaturally-long time on earth, and what is the Sierra Madre if not the Mojave’s most deadly time-waster? He would be sarcastic and exasperated for his entire time wearing the bomb collar, but would find ways to be tender and understanding with Christine, and patient and supportive with Dog and God - after all, he knows what it’s like to struggle with two sides of yourself. Dean, on the other hand, would vex him. Here’s another pre-war ghoul hung up on the promises and mistakes of the past, driven to the point of obsession where he can’t break himself out of the cycle. He can’t let go, and I think that doomed state of being would speak to Raul personally. I don’t think he and Dean would get along, but I don’t think they would have a final showdown in the Tampico either. Instead, I think Dean would watch Raul exit the vault’s elevator, flip one souvenir gold bar in his hand with a wry smile, then pocket it before walking out into the wastes, and the pre-war lounge singer would feel a twinge of kindred sadness before going back to rummaging through the casino’s secrets. 

Rose of Sharon Cassidy: Following a tense standoff with Elijah while refusing to do as he says, Cass would eventually relent and start dragging her feet around the villa to assemble the ragtag heist crew. She’d hold each of them at a distance, intent on getting herself out alive and refusing to be responsible for anyone else. Nods of sympathy for Christine, dry comebacks for Dean and a quizzical comment or two for Dog and God would be her limit, at least until they all encountered their turning points inside the casino. Each of them would grow her disdain for Elijah and his methods, but, like Raul, I think she would be most personally affected by Dean’s story. She might find herself arguing with him like the courier did with her, about moving on from failed pasts and striking out into something new. I don’t think she’d take the time to argue with Elijah, though, and would take the first chance she got to lock him in the vault forever. She’d make off with as much gold as she could, of course. 

Veronica Santangelo: The Sierra Madre would make Veronica's head explode, though whether or not Elijah could stand her mouth going a million miles a minute once she wakes up would determine whether that would happen literally or figuratively. Tons and tons of pre-war tech lying around! But it's all under a haze of collapsed support beams, toxic gas and ghost people that can jump around like grasshoppers. Father Elijah is alive! But he's trying to break into a casino to build an army of holograms, and he imprisoned Christine. Christine is here! But she's been maimed and abused horribly, and is trying to kill Elijah. I think Elijah would try reasoning with Veronica before threatening her into obeying him - though she would probably figure out how to get the collar off or render it useless within the first 24 hours in the Sierra Madre - but I don’t think he would be able to convince her that his plan to get inside the casino’s vault would benefit the Brotherhood of Steel. The revelations that Christine would bring - the Circle of Steel’s orders, Elijah’s crimes against travelers and treasure hunters, his orchestration of their breakup in order to bring Veronica to the Mojave with him - would probably leave her feeling confused and empty about the man she considers a grandfather figure. She would probably do her best to free Elijah from the casino, but would offer him a choice if she succeeded: Leave the treasures of the Sierra Madre behind and walk away from his accursed quest for power, or remain trapped with what he’d sought. Whatever path he’d choose, Veronica would part ways with him once the vault’s elevator ascended. She’d bundle up Vera’s dress, sigh heavily, then take Christine’s hand and walk away from the Sierra Madre forever. 

ED-E: Ironically, I think ED-E would be a good pick for Elijah to use as a pawn in his heist game, though it would be kind of hard for Dog to hook a collar onto the little robot. If Ulysses can speak to the courier through an eyebot’s speakers, then Elijah can probably do the same to his already-assembled team. ED-E doesn’t have a whole lot of personal motivation, so I think the bot would just beep and go along with whatever it was ordered to do. Christine or Dean would probably take the lead, and ED-E would zoom around the villa, dodging throwing knife spears and trumpeting his location without a care. Once inside the casino, ED-E would again defer to his leader’s orders, with the added benefit of being a robot keeping him from the holograms’ notice. If allowed into the vault, ED-E would diligently pick up exactly six of the gold bars and carry them home to the Mojave, where he would deposit them at the bewildered courier’s feet with a triumphant beep. 

Rex: While much easier to slap a collar on than ED-E, I don't think Rex would fare better than the little robot in terms of leadership abilities. As an ally to whoever gets put in charge, though, he would also be invaluable at sneaking around the Sierra Madre’s various threats, particularly the ghost people. He would take a special shine to Christine and God, who would recognize the canine as a fellow being exploited by powers out of his control. Rex would absolutely hate the holograms, who smell of nothing, and Elijah, who smells of desperation and indifference. He would completely ignore the gold bars. Once freed, he would whine and beg and nudge Christine until she relented and left the city of the dead, leading her home to the New Vegas strip and another woman whose scent told him of metal bunkers and longing. 

[mimiwrites2000]

What Does White Mean?

Chapter ONE / two

(completed)

AO3 ~~

Pairings: Armin x Annie

(side pairings: Pieck Finger x Jean Kirstein, Reiner Braun x Hitch Dreyse, Mikasa Ackreman x someone new)

Words count: 3416

* spoilers for chapter 131 and up

Summary:

The ocean lulled them to sleep, and the sun woke them up with mild kisses. Tangled with each other, in their cabin by the beach. After the war ended, they moved together, ever since, they faced obstacles, issues, and misunderstandings. One of them was Armin’s seashells. Stubbornness got in the way, but no matter how much they tried, they couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.

He already filled two boxes to the rim. Pieces falling out from them, the wooden edges of the boxes barely holding them in. 

Sea shells in necklaces, bracelets, rings. But nothing was good enough, nothing was perfect.

He didn't know what the perfect one looked like, but he knew that none of them was it.

In his small workshop, that was, in fact, just a tiny storage room before he started this hobby, Armin worked his way through another piece of jewelry.

A seashell with streaks of pink, light as Annie's lips. Dots of sparkling white adorning it, just like the sparks in her eyes.

He put the final touches on the necklace, twisting the clasp in its place, giving it two tugs to insure its firmness, then opened the cabinet in his desk, and pulled out a third box.

Imperfect piece number one went in the third box.

Great.

The storage room— the workshop had a small, triangle, frosted glass window, but Armin didn't like it, it made the small place even smaller. After he moved in with Annie, he changed it immediately, to a clear transparent glass. 

Their ocean-view cabin met Armin’s dreams to the smallest detail; one bedroom, one bathroom, a living room, and a kitchenette were enough to satisfy them and convincing enough to buy it without second thoughts.

He spent most of his mornings either strolling by the beach or in Annie's arms, and his nights by a bonfire or under the sheets with her.

They had their breakfasts on the porch, with the salty wafts drifting with the ocean breeze, the crooning of seagulls their only companion.

Everything seemed perfect.

Except for the nights when he woke up in cold sweat, screams rupturing his lungs, Annie’s hands trying to calm him down, embracing him and running through his hair. Or mornings while Annie took longer in the shower, while he sat outside, listening to her silent sobs.

But they were ok. Armin always hugged Annie when she stepped out of the shower, and whispered that they're ok, they're alive, healthy, together.

They're ok.

But this jewelry crafting thing came out of nowhere. And Armin wished he learnt about it long before.

It was Annie who suggested it, when she saw his seashells collection accumulating to the ceiling, she said he might as well make good use of it. She didn’t specify jewelry crafts, but he found that these delicate shells needed a delicate use.

And there he was, in his former storage room, picking through seashells, twisting wires and knitting in beads.

He had been trying to make her the perfect piece. He still didn’t find the perfect one.

He eyed the two boxes — the newly third one joining them. He never thought about selling them, or giving them to anyone else, or throwing them away…

He wondered why.

Maybe because he clutched onto one seashell for more than four years, and the habit was born with the many nights he spent eyeing it, whether it was in his room at night, or in front of a crystal in an icy cold basement.

Knock knock!

“Don’t come in!” Armin’s words overlapped, he was so immersed in his daydream that the knocks on the door made him jump in his seat.

“I won’t, I promise,” from the other side of the door, Annie grumbled. Armin felt bad, he never let her in his workshop, mainly because he didn’t want to spoil the surprise that he still didn’t figure out, and secondly… well, he wasn’t ready for any judgment on his poor jewelry crafting skills.

“Armin?”

“Y-yeah?”

“It’s getting late, I was wondering if you can… you know, get dinner ready? I don’t feel like burning the kitchen.”

“Oh right,” he got up and opened the door, only to be met with an arms-crossed Annie, a passive look on her face. He didn’t know if she was upset because she was hungry, or because he was, once again, keeping her away from his workshop. “We don’t want a burnt kitchen now do we?” he asked, half jokingly

Annie tried cooking once, on his birthday. She tried baking a simple cake. They ended up with a piece of a circular char, on top of it one single candle.

“I don’t think we have-” the rest of the sentence was swallowed down Armin’s throat when he saw groceries lining up the kitchen table.

“I went out an hour ago, I didn’t want to disturb you, but don’t worry, I checked everything on the list, twice.”

“Ah, yes, thanks.”

Guilt swelt in his guts.

She didn’t want to disturb him…

She was upset with him.

He rolled up his sweater’s sleeves, washing his hands, before he started opening the groceries bags, emptying them on the counter.

Annie on the side crossing her arms.

“What do you want for dinner?” he asked, trying to ignore her glaring eyes by inspecting a head of lettuce in his hand.

“Anything, it doesn’t matter.”

One 

Two 

Three-

“Maybe something fast so you can get back to your small workshop-”

“Okay Annie listen-”

“No you listen!”

The lettuce head froze in his hands.

“You’ve been doing this for weeks! Even- even I don’t know how many months!”

Armin slowly put down the lettuce on the counter, looking down at his feet.

“And you never let me in! Like, ever! I don’t understand why!” she continued, her arms flailing around, before resting on her hips, “every single day, every fucking day you lock yourself up in that room for hours! And I know you’re playing around with your shells but why are you hiding like this?! I’m not gonna pretend that something is not up,” she was pacing around the kitchen, Armin watching her from the corner of his eyes. “I know I’m the one who suggested it, but- but-” she sighed, “even when we go out on the beach, your eyes are always down, searching for even more shells! What is up with you?!”

“Annie-”

“I don’t understand what you’re hiding, I don’t understand why you’re hiding it,” suddenly she stopped, Armin looked at her, “we moved in together, Armin, we live under the same goddamn roof.”

“Annie-”

“What?Annie what? You’re sorry? Keep it to yourself! You’ve already apologized twice before but nothing ever changed,” she turned, and before he could stop her, she stormed into their bedroom.

And he was left alone in the kitchen.

The ocean waves swayed in a symphony, but when he looked outside, all he saw was a dark mass that swallowed him whole.

Armin huffed, he knew this was coming, he knew it so well.

Annie wasn’t wrong.

But she wasn’t right either.

He was doing it for her. He was locking himself up to make her the perfect jewelry.

Armin kicked the heel of his shoes against the cabinet. Thud thud thud. Putting a rhythm to his mind and his thoughts.

Maybe... she was right. She didn’t know what he was doing, she felt left out.

They only have each other.

No one should leave the other in the dark.

No matter what.

Armin pushed himself off the cabinets, and walked towards the room.

He stood at the threshold, watching Annie curled on her side of the bed under the duvet.

He pressed his lips together, but he didn’t dare make a sound, even though he knew she was aware of his presence. 

He sat on his side of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. 

Annie didn’t move.

Armin sighed. He fucked up, and he must fix it. 

He kicked off his shoes, and slithered under the duvet.

His face confronted her back.

One

Two

Three-

She turned around-

“I’m sorry,” they both said at the same time.

Armin bit his lips to stop himself from smiling, while gazing at Annie’s stoic face, with a slight dip between her eyebrows.

They talked, confessed, together at the same time, their words overlapping.

“I know your craft means so much to you-”

“I’ve been leaving you out of this-”

“I don’t mean that you should spend every single moment with me-”

“And I want to spend more time with you-”

Then the last sentence, they breathed it together, “I promise to be a better person.”

Their eyes on each other, blue meeting blue.

Magnetic force pulled them towards each other, capturing each other's lips, hands running over each other's bodies.

Their clothes were stripped and thrown on the floor, while the groceries in the kitchen were left untouched.

~~~

The most valuable times for Annie were these moments when she woke up beside him, heads on the same pillow, skin on skin, under the blankets.

The warmth like an aura around his body made her alive, incomparable to soft rays of early morning sun filtering through the window.

It was so early and everything was quiet, even the ocean fell in a quiet slumber.

Without moving, she checked the time.

There was still a couple of hours before Armin's usual wake up time.

She usually got up before him, went on an extra walk, or maybe a dip in the ocean.

But getting up from bed and leaving this beauty behind would be as bad as a crime.

So she stayed, watching his face. His breath warm on her face, his lips slightly parted, bangs ruffled on his forehead. Mildly, she caressed them, brushing them off his forehead. Before she cupped his cheek, and she held the world and the sun and the ocean— all together in her palm.

His eyelashes fanned upon his closed eyes like sun rays. She tilted her head up, and kissed his eyelid, soft, like a feather.

Armin was a light sleeper, the last thing she wanted was to ruin his sleep.

A cold breeze wafted through the window, Annie shivered. She noticed Armin hunching his back, he must be cold as well.

She inched closer, cautious, wrapping her arms around his frame, over his shoulder, nesting her head on his chest. The warmth radiating off his body relaxed her muscles, and in those moments, deep inside, something would stir in her, feelings she wasn’t aware she would experience one day.

Arms wrapped around her, and she tensed, did she wake him up?

She peeked up at him, he was already watching her, his eyes barely open.

He tried to speak, but no voice came out. After he cleared his throat, he tried again, “Good… morning.” his voice deep, hoarse.

She rubbed her feet against the mattress, “Did I wake you up?” she whispered.

He squinted his eyes, deep in thought, “If I said no?”

“Good.”

“And if I said yes?”

Annie runs her tongue on the inside of her teeth, “I can make it up for you.”

At that, Armin props himself up on one elbow, raising an eyebrow, beckoning her to continue.

With one finger pointing at his chest, she said, “I’ll make you breakfast.”

He snorted, the voice vibrated through Annie’s body, and she had to swallow.

“No,” was his simple, predictable answer.

“Your lose,” She said, swinging her legs off the bed, but before she could stand up, arms wrapped around her, rolling her in bed.

~~~

Breakfast time was long gone, so, after Armin went through the groceries from the night before, he made a light meal for both of them. While he cooked, Annie watched him, sitting on the counter, her legs swinging.

She enjoyed watching him cook, muscles of his arms flexing as he cut tomatoes, brushing his bangs away from his face, wiping his hands on the towel.

By that point she could blindly sculpt a statue of his body.

He also enjoyed catching her off guard, catching her eyes every now and then. When they first moved together, she would blush furiously and avert her eyes, but now, even though she still blushes, sometimes she would pay him back with a sudden kiss, or sometimes she would dare him with more than a kiss.

It was the privilege of a peaceful life, the result of going to hell and back, tolerating an agonizing pain for years.

A slow-paced life, where everything was in place, everything was right.

They reached the end of the labyrinthine, they might as well celebrate their victory.

Post afternoon, and after a meal with their legs tangled under the table, they strolled along the shore.

Annie never imagined that she would settle down in a cabin by the beach, every day the seagulls waking her up, and every night the ocean waves lulling her to sleep.

Hand by hand, shoes off, the sand tickling her feet, like walking on a pile of feathers.

The sun above them soft on their skin, a chilly afternoon, perfect for a walk.

Armin tried so hard to keep his gaze on the horizon, fighting the urge to peak down and hunt for shells.

He wouldn’t rest until he found the perfect shell for Annie’s piece.

However, he remembered his promise to Annie, wanted to spend more time with her, she wanted to spend more time with him.

An especially shiny shell caught his attention, tempting him to kneel down, and plunge his hands in the sand and go back to the cabin with a bag full of new shells. 

“I was thinking of going to town for a few days,” Annie said, catching Armin off guard, “my father wrote to me and said he’s holding a dinner, and we’re invited.” 

“Oh, yeah sure,” Armin answered. Her father lived only half an hour away, in the town, alongside a couple of their old friends as well.

They lived with him for a couple of weeks before, as they went hunting for their own place. He was an old nice man, but he certainly had a temper.

Armin was exceptionally nervous around her father for the first few months. For what reason, he still didn’t know, but something about that man made him rethink everything he wanted to say twice.

But after all, her father accepted their relationship, if not a bit too dramatically, for he cried and hugged Armin for the first time.

In the end, they had to move out, Annie was adamant they had their own house.

Armin smiled, “You can move out and live with your father.”

Annie raised an eyebrow.

“You know, I can move with you-” his voice got muffled; Annie’s palm on his mouth.

“No.”

“Whyyyy?” he asked, his voice choked up with a laugh, he wanted to try biting Annie’s hand on his mouth.

“If each of us would get a different room, then yeah sure,” she answered, lowering her hand, and continuing her walk.

“Not my fault you’re too loud-”

Annie started running.

The nearby village could hear Armin’s howling laugh. 

~~~

Annie waited at the cabin longer than Armin would need to catch up to her. She wondered what was taking him so long, though she had a clear idea what was holding him off.

She waited by the door, but then the sun got a little uncomfortable, so she went inside. She hated that the first thing she thought of was checking Armin’s workshop.

She immediately shook her idea, shoving it away. Intrusiveness wasn’t her trait.

But the door glowed in her sight. Walking to it, and turning the knob seemed like the most tempting thing ever.

No

“No,” she said it out loud, to convince herself to stop.

She would certainly be upset if she was in his shoes. She would never do that to him.

Nope.

Never.

One 

Two 

Three

She walked to the door. An old, small door, compared to a standard door, Armin had to bend to get through, but Annie bet she can walk through it, with her head brushing the door frame.

A tiny place for a workshop, she thought, she wondered how he keeps his tools there, the dozens of seashells bags going there, never going out again.

She was burning to know what was in there.

She was in front of the door, she could lift her hand, and turn the knob, and she could see it all for herself.

Finally,

She reached for the antique door knob.

Her palm rested on it.

Turn it turn it turn it turn it-

She twirled and walked away, right to their bedroom, without even a glance back.

A minute or two after, she heard the door of the cabin open and close. Annie got up, not thinking much of it, “Hey what took you so long-”

Armin stood there, with a handful of seashells in his hands.

Annie threw her head back…

One

Two 

Three

“Listen-”

“It hadn’t even been a day, not a single day had passed,” Annie said, frustration evident in her voice, which was as rare as the sky turning green.

“Annie, I can explain.”

Annie crossed her arms, waiting for him to explain.

Armin sighed, he didn’t want to spoil the surprise, he had to come up with something.

“I’m making something.”

“Yeah no shit.”

“No no no I mean I’m making something,” he said, his closed clutch on the seashells flailing around.

Annie sighed, “Try again.”

“I’m honest, I’m making something.”

“And?” she inquired.

A moment of silence passed, Armin trying so hard to come up with something, anything.

Annie knew that face very well, the face Armin makes when he’s trying to come up with a good fight in a debate, the face he does when he would lob a few words to hypnotize a whole crowd of people.

But not on her.

Never on her.

She knew him too well for his own good.

Without waiting for an answer, she turned around, returning to their room. She threw over her shoulder, “Tomorrow is the dinner at my father’s house,” before she vanished from sight.

Armin, left alone, stared down at the seashells in his hands.

~~~

Armin spent most of the night in his workshop, his hands working, but his mind somewhere else.

He didn’t talk to Annie since their confrontation, nor did any of them eat.

Embarrassment gnawed at him, he promised her, yet he broke the promise.

He must be a terrible partner.

Armin sighed.

He wondered why he was even trying to make Annie a piece of jewelry, to win her heart? 

Pfft

She was better off without him anyway.

She could leave him at any second and he wouldn’t even question it. She was smart, pretty, skillful, talented, gorgeous, sweet, and... nice.

And what was he? He couldn’t think of one good trait about himself. Not good enough to match hers.

And he fucked up.

He groaned, letting his head fall on the desk.

The pile of the new shells sat in his sight line, waiting to be cleaned of the sand, but he had no intention of doing so. He wanted to cage himself in his workshop forever, rather than facing Annie again after he broke his promise.

Armin swallowed, wondering how he would meet her father the next day.

Mr. Leonhart was protective, way too protective. Armin knew he wouldn’t hesitate to cut off Armin’s head if he hurt Annie.

Naaah.

He thought. Annie is much more mature than that.

He snorted at himself, he had some stupid thoughts sometime, but this one was the stupidest of them all.

Annie ranting to her father about her boyfriend.

Pffft

Armin straightened his back on the chair, thinking of what he should do.

Then, at that moment, a glimmer caught his eyes.

Armin shook his head, peeking outside the small, circular window.

He wasn’t sure if it came from outside or from the inside, but then it happened again, this time, he was sure it came from the inside of the workshop. Armin looked around, trying to find it.

The moon light filtering through the glass, gleaming upon the pile of seashells accumulated on his desk.

The glimmer happened again.

But that time, Armin caught it.

It came from one of the seashells. 

Armin scattered the pile on the desk, going over each shell, rotating it under the moonlight, trying to find that one seashell.

On his seventh try, he found it.

Something clicked, and Armin knew exactly what he had to do. Everything cleared in his mind, and he found it absurd that he only saw it now.

Locked in his small workshop, with his back bowed down. Armin finished his perfect piece when the first ray of sunshine broke the night.

.

.

.

uwu thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! next chapter (which is much much longer) will be posted in a couple of days or so can't wait for the other ships to make their cameos hahhaaa thank you for reading! like always, feedback, kudos, all is much appreciated

[nautiscarader]

Marichat 1

Smutember day 1 - Strip Poker, Marichat (ML)

(Ao3)

With apologies to anyone, who knows how to play poker.

Also I hope you will apprciate all the ice puns. You will soon see why.

What killed the dinosaurs? THE ICE AGE

===========

At this point, Marinette thought she'd be used to having a boyfriend with a slightly unusual method of dropping by. She heard the scratching on the trapdoor, and when she opened it, she was welcomed with an upside-down face of her feline companion.

With his trademark agility he indeed dropped in, landing on all fours and jumped back up, his tail coiling around her waist to bring her into his arms.

- Quite a bold move, kitty. - she smiled. - Well, you know me. - How did you know I'd be free tonight, though? College is forcing me to stay a lot in the libraries, even in the evening... I was about to hit the hay... - she pointed to her rather skimpy clothing. - I guess it was a bluff.

His hands slid up and down her thighs, while her legs gently parted his. It was true, her university did embark a toll on her private life, giving the two way less time to spend together.

And as the two were about to kiss, a word from him gave Marinette an idea.

- How about strip poker? - Marinette asked, raising her eyebrow - If you think your bluff game is so strong... - Sounds like a slightly more complicated way of getting you out your clothes, princess... - Chat replied cockily.

Marinette gave him a gentle kiss and jumped onto her back. She straightened the sheets, took the deck, shuffled it, and shot Chat with a smile.

- I assume an alley cat like you-you know how to play poker? - she added with just a tinge of hesitation. - Ah, of course - he replied with a similar moment of worry - Were you thinking of some other, simpler game? - Well...

Marinette began, and she lost control of her deck, temporarily scattering cards all over her laps.

- There-there is this card mini game in this, uh, app game called Mister... - Penguino! - Chat finished, and coughed, sounding a bit too excited - I heard, I mean. We can, uh play that simplified version, just to humour you. - Yeah, I mean, even pros need a break once in a while.

The two shared a long, silent connection, as Marinette shuffled and dealt the cards. She hid her face behind them, wishing she could have seen the tooltips that automatically suggested the desired highest combo...

She sneaked a quick look at Chat, but she was used to him hiding his thoughts, and it seemed for once he might have an upper hand, or claw...

She repositioned a few cards, and with a firm move, she put two of them down, sending her opponent a faint smile.

- I've got... one pair of snowshoes! - and she proudly uncovered two queens. Chat smiled back. - Guess I've invited you to ice-skate ring for a date.

And revealed four cards from his hand.

- Two pairs.

Marinette's smile faded, and knowing he wouldn't look away, she undid her ponytails, tossing away her hair ties.

- Come on, that barely counts as clothing. - Chat protested. - Be glad I undid them both at the time. - she smiled and took more cards.

This time, the pause did not last as long, as Marinette didn't even wait for Chat.

- Four of a kindle! - Eh, pass.

And with that, Marinette watched as he ditched his gloves. After a few ties, her winning streak returned, as she got a regular Strait, followed by Icy Strait, much to Chat's surprise.

- In hindsight, I should have thought this through, wearing one-piece outfit isn't the best strategy...

Marinette just nodded, watching as he lost his shoes and Chat Noir-themed socks. And she had to restrain herself from giggling when she looked at her next hand.

- Full Igloo! in your face!

Chat Noir swallowed, and knowing that she will watch every move of his slowly pulled down the golden bell, revealing his lean, but muscular chest, and, as he let his costume fell to the floor, Marinette's eyes fixated on his...

- Boxers!? - Marinette protested - What? - they were bundled with socks - And he pointed to his pawprints his boxers were dotted with.

Marinette grumbled. It seemed her luck has ran out temporarily. Two Snowmen and one Ho-Ho later, she found herself without her jacket and pants. She suddenly found herself wished she had worn socks...

But then, with a triumphant smile, she laid down five cards down.

- Slushy Strait.

She spoke, looking at four cards Chat put down that were nowhere close to topping hers.

And with a faint smile, Chat stood up and reached to his boxers, where a faint trace of his erection was visible. Marinette bit her lip, and watched as the dark material slides down, until his biology performed an admirable jolt, when his cock sprung to life once he was freed.

- Well, looks like you've won. - Chat sat down, and was about to shuffle the cards back when Marinette stopped him. - Not yet. You still have your mask.

Adrien swallowed loudly, as Marinette's smile widened to an almost Cheshire-cat length.

- My... My princess... - Deal the cards. - she cut him off quickly, trying not to have her mind clouded with the image of his cock.

But the smile faded away equally quickly. Next turn forced Marinette to take her top, and in two more, she found herself whether to choose her bra, or her panties, which have revealed her readiness already. And knowing that, she opted for them, hoping the sight of her sex would throw her opponent off.

Chat smiled, watching as Marinette lifted her legs into the air and undid her panties, pretending to hide her puffy lips from him, when in reality she made sure that her night lamp would show a few droplets of her arousal.

The two stared at each other and reached for more cards. This time, her face remained frozen and motionless, and she put down five cards.

Chat Noir, with equally stoic demeanour, did the same.

At the same time, they both revealed them.

- Icy Slushy Strait! - Marinette howled - Finally, I will know the identity of my boyfriend... - Five of a kindle. - What?!

Marinette watched, as Chat flipped each card, one ace at a time, finishing with a comedic depiction of a medieval jester.

She looked up, unable to believe his luck. Instead of any explanation, she just saw a glimmer in his green eyes.

She reached her hand behind her back and undid her bra, rendering her completely naked, while Chat licked his lips at the sight of her breasts.

- Can we stop pretending? - Yeah, I guess.

Marinette grumbled, and she welcomed the feeling of his lips on hers, as he jumped onto her, pinning her naked body to her comfy bed.

But he wasn't interested in immobilising her, as Chat was clearly drawn to her sex, now positively glistening with her juices, and a single lick of his made Marinette howl, as her legs flailed around his head.

Chat drove her insane for a couple of minutes, knowing she wasn't even trying to hide her oncoming climax. The feeling of his fingers, instead of claws brought a much needed comfort and tenderness to his foreplay, especially when he traced her clit.

And just as with the final hand, this one brought Marinette to her loss. She buried her face in a pillow, while she soaked her lover with her arousal, thrashing around him, much yo his pleasure.

Adrien thought she would remain like that for long, but her shaking arms were soon around his neck, as she brought him onto her.

She let out a moan under his pleasant, heavenly weight, but when his aggressive behaviour drove him between her legs, she had to stop him.

- Ah, ah, ah - Marinette spoke, as Chat looked at her, stumped - Forgot about something?

She reached to her nightstand, and to his surprise, she produced a condom in a black package depicting a handsome man with green eyes and cat ears, clearly from the same set as his underwear.

- I feel I should file for copyright claim. - They make ones with Ladybug as well... - Marinette added with a mixture of annoyance and odd bit of pride in her voice - I know we were stripping down, but this will suit you.

She let out a giggle when his cock twitched in her hand, as she coiled her fingers around him and slid the condom on, feeing each of his vein under her fingertips.

- Sorry kitty, but I'm not ready for your kittens yet... maybe next month...

She joked and gasped, as Chat positioned himself between her legs, feeling his tip brushed her wet opening.

Spoiled by his delicate treatment before, it was time for Chat to utilise his pent-up energy, as he slid inside her with ease, earning another languorous moan from his lover, as she dug her nails into his back.

With each thrust, she spilled his name into his ear, feeling his cock spreading and tearing her in half, as buried himself deeper and deeper.

- Chat... Chat... Chaton!

She knew he was on the edge of his climax too, brought by their shared taunting, and though she preferred long, slow love-making, she would gladly welcome another "little death", as it was called in her language.

She listened to his guttural, low groans, and when his back arched, so did hers, almost as if to give him chance to reach her depths, while he filled his condom with seed, and her ears with her name.

The two joined bodies pulsed and shuddered, as Chat delivered his potency into the rubber, her body milking him for more in a futile attempts at executive the biological imperative Marinette protected herself from.

Their groans and moans subsided, as their lips met, and with that, the gentle creaking of the bed stopped as well, replaced by smacking sound of their hungry mouths.

- Well, looks like I won, Chat huffed, lifting himself from his position, marvelling at the sight of Marinette's slightly sweaty body and her ruffled hair. - Are-are you sure?

Marinette's lips curled in a cocky smile and she showed him her hand, holding four aces and a joker she must have picked up when they were basking in their shared afterglow.

- But... - But what kitty? Look, my sleeves are empty - she raised her arms to mock him further - My princess, that's cheating! - All's fair in love and war - she spoke without missing a beat - Your mask, Chaton

Cold sweat rushed down his spine, strengthened by her piercing gaze and a sly smile. For quite a while neither of them spoke, each fixated at their partner's face.

- Although, I can accept this as alternative.

Marinette spoke and grabbed his cock, sliding underneath it, until it hovered over her face. Her fingers pinched the tip of the condom, filed with his seed and she stuck her tongue out, waiting for her reward as she slid it from his length.

Inch by inch, as Marinette disrobed her lover, globs of his potent spunk landed in her mouth, guided by her skilled tongue that traced his undercock, causing him to shudder and twitch.

And even after the condom was off, Marinette squeezed it to ensure that none of his hard and tasty work would be wasted, letting out loud and unabashed sounds of satisfaction as she tasted her salty treat, making sure to not look away from Chat's enamoured face.

Despite being disrobed, Marinette won, proudly wearing a smile and his cum on her face.

- That... that was quite a move, Marinette. - Chat admitted and bowed gently, sneaking a kiss to her ankle, as he helped her collect her clothes. - Always pleasure to win with someone, who knows how to lose. - she giggled in return. - Next time you will be the one begging for mercy. - Oh, I sure hope so.

Marinette raised her arms and put her wrists next to the headboard of her bed, as if she was tied. She watched, as his cock twitched again through his latex clothes.

- Oh, and by the way... I'd still win. - he said as he climber up - I still had my tail.

He closed the door, and only after a while Marinette let out a gasp when she realised how his tail could have been attached to his naked body once he got out of his suit...

[blindbatalex]

an instalment in the carraville royalty au, courtesy of the raisin anon! (usual cws for referenced past character death and discussions of war)

Gary finds him in the garden, secluded in between rosebushes and neatly trimmed hedges, sitting on the bench dead centre in front of a fountain with two faceless soldiers as its centrepiece. The water flows from beneath their feet and continues downwards into three different levels before it ends up in a pond, where goldfish are swimming around, happily ignorant to the misery the man staring at them is feeling.

As far as hiding spots go, it’s a rather poor one, but Gary doubts Jamie sits in front of the fountain specifically commissioned to honour their dead loved ones in order to hide. More likely, Jamie knows he would be left alone.

A pang of guilt hits him for his reaction to learning the truth of David’s death if this is what it did to his husband. He needed to get out, needed to clear his head in peace, but he hadn’t been quite in his right mind when he rode out alone to the stronghold several days’ ride away to visit David’s crypt. Or when he continued on to the estuary, to the place one of the last bloody battles of the war had been fought. Where Jamie had plunged his sword through David’s middle.

He didn’t know what he hoped he would get from the excursion. Perhaps a sense of closure, perhaps he half expected David’s ghost to pop up somewhere along the way, perhaps he just had a desperate need to do something , and riding to his late husband’s place of death was the only thing he could think of. What he got instead was his heart screaming at him to go home, to see Jamie, to face this pain, like all others, head on together.

And so go home he did.

Jamie’s face looks gaunt and drawn from what he can see, his shoulders hunched and his fingers are clutching tightly at his tunic, in what Gary suspects is an attempt at stopping them from shaking. He looks, almost like he did the first few weeks after the wedding, when his guard was down and feelings raw, coming to the realization that this was to be for the rest of his life. The lost, empty look in his eyes did not suit him, and Gary despised of often it used to make an appearance. He finds himself now hating it more than ever.

The gravel crunches underneath his feet as walks towards him, and Jamie’s head shoots up to see who dares intrude on his miserable solitude, a command to leave him be ready almost even before he can register who it is.

“Hi, James,” he says, not entirely sure what to expect. A few days ago, Jamie would’ve been searching for forgiveness. What he is now Gary does not know. After disappearing for days on end without much of a word neither here nor there, he would not deem a cold shoulder entirely unfair.

“Thought you might be here”, he continues on and takes a few steps closer to the bench where Jamie’s sitting.

Jamie keeps looking at him with wide eyes, bloodshot and tired, almost like he expects Gary to be a mirage soon to disappear into thin air.

“You’re back”, he croaks out eventually, his voice hoarse from what might be days of being unused. It most likely is.

“Yeah”

Gary sits down beside him, keeping a careful distance, and stares at the two figures in the middle of the fountain. It was one of the first things they had worked together and agreed on, this little private memorial of their late husbands. It was a symbol of their old lives, their old selves, but somewhere along the way, Gary had come to appreciate it as the beginning of their lives together, and that from even the most broken and bruised beings, beautiful things could learn to grow.

“Where d’you go?” Jamie asks. Gary looks at him, but Jamie’s not meeting his eyes, rather looking at his fingertips and willing them to stop shaking. Gary reaches out without realizing it and takes Jamie’s hands between his own and keeps them still.

“To the crypt, and then to the West Bank,” he says but chooses not to elaborate. He can explain his travel route later and he doesn’t need Jamie to know how many tears he’d shed over the past few days anyway.

“James, listen. I am sorry for leaving as I did. I needed to clear my head, but I shouldn’t have left you here unknowing for such a long time. That wasn’t fair of me,” he begins. It’s easier, apologizing for leaving, rather than mentioning the very reason it. Hurts less. He's not normally one to run away from what he does not want to face, because they tend to catch up anyway. But this, this he would put in a chest and bury ten feet into the ground if he could, gone and forgotten and never to be seen again.

After the wedding, when everything seemed so bleak, unknowing and unintended they had coaxed each other out of the numbness and indifference to the evils of the world, learned to see the flowers and feel the sun again together. If wanting to suppress any knowledge of David's death and go back to that for just a moment was cowardice then a coward he would be, even if he knows it is an impossible dream.

He tries to catch Jamie’s eyes, but they keep averting his own, looking anywhere and everywhere but Gary’s face.

“S’all right, I knew you’d be back soon enough,”Jamie says.

“You did ?”

“Part of the treaty, no? Our marriage is vital for keeping the peace. Your sense of duty is too strong to leave, no matter the circumstances” He says it like it’s practised, like it’s a reasoning he’s been telling himself ever since Gary rode out, a cold truth no one could argue with.

For all the laughter, all the smiles and jokes and joy. For all the happiness they, against the odds, have shared since their wedding day, Jamie had stripped it all back, to the baseline of it all, to the one reason they are set to be companions for the rest of their lives. Commitment to a cause, not a person. Honouring a treaty, not a holy institution.

Duty, not love.

Jamie heaves a sigh and keeps going.

“I am sorry you ended up here, Gary. You could’ve been happy, hadn’t it been for me.”

Gary doesn’t know what to say. It's not the way he up and left with no word that has made Jamie miserable. Apologising for it's not what's going to make it better. He thinks about the ten obelisks out on the moor by the mountains that separate their kingdoms, the names carved into the stone in memory of the soldiers who gave their lives to the war. How many of those names are there because Gary shot an arrow through their hearts or commanded his troops to fire. How many children in the villages died of famine because the grain went to feed his men. How many had become widowers, orphans and alone because of him and his decisions.

He hadn’t been the one to deliver the killing blow to Jamie’s Stevie. But he had sent arrows through a number of throats non-the-less. Red and black-feathered, gold heads dipped in Devil’s Venom. There were those out there who mourned lives he had taken.

“I killed people in the war too,” he says, eventually.

There are other words he can say, words that could make it better, make Jamie see it’s not only about duty anymore, but he doesn’t have them. Not yet. Not for a while. They are there, somewhere inside him. Floating around in his heart and his head and his stomach and bones. But he doesn’t know how to piece them together and speak them into existence.

His grip is firm around Jamie’s hands, the only kind of comfort he can manage, and he can feel Jamie gripping tightly back. He looks at them, sees the hands that killed David, sees the hands that hold him through his nightmares. Wants to be angry at him for giving him so much pain, while he knows Jamie is the only one now who can help him chase that pain away. Wishes he could run away but knows he’d only want to return back as soon as he’s past the gates.

He tries to remember what his mother had told him when he was little and came home with scraped elbows and tears in his eyes. It will heal, my lad. Her smile was always as warm as the sun. Give it time and it will heal.

In the years since, he’d learn that it sometimes takes more than time, and sometimes that’s not enough either. But he lets his mother’s words wash over him as he did as a small lad, wills them to be true like they used to always be.

We will heal, he decides and pretends it’s that easy. He looks at Jamie, his hunched shoulders and empty eyes, knows they can fight their way through this as well.

Give us time, and we will heal.

[moviemunchies]

I’m going to start with pointing out that this: 

“Lo there do I see my father. Lo there do I see my mother and my sisters and my brothers. Lo, there do I see the line of my people back to the beginning. Lo, they call out to me. They bid me take my place among them In the halls of Valhalla where the brave shall live forever.”

--is FROM this movie. I keep seeing it, or variations of it, circulated around media as if it’s a genuine historical prayer that Norsemen used in funerals. From well-meaning Tumblr users making gifsets to English white supremacist douchebags to freaking God of War this gets copied and pasted all the time and it makes me mad. One of those links goes into the history of the quote, which is derived from the book, which itself is derived from the historical record, but the words “Lo there do I see my father”? It’s not! I don’t mind that the movie uses this, but I hate that people, many of whom haven’t even seen this film, think it’s a piece of historical religion when it’s nothing of the sort.

STOP CLAIMING THIS IS HISTORY. IT ISN’T.

Anyway let’s actually talk about this movie.

Michael Crichton, on a bet from a colleague, wrote a book called Eaters of the Dead that’s a retelling of Beowulf from the point of view of Ibn Fadlan, a real life historical explorer who encountered Norsemen and is one of our early sources about Nordic culture in the medieval period. The book is meant to be read as a recently rediscovered historical document, but it’s also kind of a horror story, that strips away the overt supernatural elements of the original poem while still feeling like an epic fantasy quest and including other elements that are more speculative than historical, but still not outright magical.

It’s an interesting book, if you’re curious for something different.

A movie was made that was relatively faithful to the book, and then test audiences didn’t like it, so the director got fired and half of it was reshot by Crichton himself in the director’s chair and released. It didn’t do so well, costing the studio millions of dollars. But weirdly enough, I think the movie is seen fondly enough by casual audiences these days. It’s entered the culture somehow or another, if the prevalence of the “old Viking prayer” is anything to go by.

Basically, it goes like this: after falling in love with another man’s wife, Ibn Fadlan is reassigned from Baghdad to a far out post as an ambassador. He runs into some Norsemen, who are having a funeral for their king, and is there when they are called to go north and fight an unnamed evil by King Hrothgar. The soothsayer tells them that they need thirteen warriors, and that the thirteenth warrior must be a foreigner. So Ibn Fadlan, despite not being a fighter, gets roped into this adventure. He and his companions go on the journey and fight the wendol, a race of monsters that come with the mist and attack, taking people’s heads and eating corpses. They have to figure out how to kill these things and bring peace back to the land.

The main weakness with this movie, in my opinion, is that I don’t know who most of these people are. A good chunk of them aren’t named on screen in the film, despite the fact that there are thirteen of them. Vladimir Kulich, who plays Buliwyf, had his own ideas as to how to fix that in a short amount of time--have a scene during the trip where the camera goes through the entire crew, pausing on each member and showing their traits, but this never happened.

But the main Norseman in the group that Ibn Fadlan hangs out with? I could not tell you his name. According to things I’ve looked up, it's ‘Herger’ but I couldn’t be sure that’s accurate. That’s frustrating. I don’t need all of their backstories (although why one of them is apparently a Scotsman would be nice to know), but I would like to know at least a handful of their names so I cared what happened to them. Oddly, the credits give them a quick descriptor, but not all of those descriptors actually match, and it isn’t as if there’s indicators before some of them are killed off.

What I can tell you is that Antonio Banderas plays Ibn Fadlan. He does pretty well considering he’s not Arab. Yes, it would have been better to get an Arabic performer, but Banderas isn’t bad in the role. He’s a lot more of an action hero in the movie than in the book, but not so much that I ever felt like it was too much of a stretch.

Dennis Storhoi is Herger, the one Norseman who gets the most personality. He’s clearly having fun in the role, playing a Norseman who acts like he doesn’t take anything seriously but has a better grasp of what the others are thinking and how they’re going to act than he lets on. I liked him.

I mentioned Vladimir Kulich earlier plays Buliwyf, this story’s Beowulf. He plays it very stoically, which I felt worked for the character they’re portraying. However, I can understand if some viewers found it a boring performance. I didn’t think so--I thought he came across as thoughtful and calm despite his situation, very rarely having to raise his voice and yet still commanding respect.

The action scenes are alright--I can’t say there were amazing fight sequences, but they do feel like appropriately epic battles, and there aren’t any annoying camera tricks, and absolutely no CGI at all that I can find.

So yes, it’s a bit corny as a historical epic movie, but I think it holds up well enough. It’s a bit of fun, and if you’re familiar with the original poem, it’s an enjoyable movie. I think it’s worth seeing. I can understand that it’s not for everyone, but for me it worked.

I’m just tired of seeing that “traditional Viking prayer” all over the place.

[owakoblack-portspa]

(Prumano, Spamano Fanfiction) My Last Romano

Disclaimer: this is Hetalia fanfiction. I do not own the characters.

Pairing: Prussia/ South Italy, Spain/ South Italy

Summary:  The time is 1718, during the War of the Spanish Succession. Lovino (South Italy) lives at Anotonio's (Spain) house, but his heart belongs to Gilbert (Prussia).

My Last Romano

 ‘Hola, Gilbert, my dear friend, what brings you here?’ Antonio smiled, sitting on a scarlet divan embroidered with golden flowers, a crimson uniform coat hanging loosely on his shoulders.

 ‘I heard that you were injured in a battle with England. As one of your best friends, I feel fully obliged to pay you a visit.’ Gilbert sank luxuriously into a sofa, stretching both of his arms along the top of the backrest.

 ‘Injured? Me?’ Antonio glanced at his left arm hidden under his uniform, which was heavily bandaged, and then resumed his smile, ‘do you mean this? It was a piece of cake. Never mind me. By the way, there’s a button missing in the front of your coat, have you noticed?’

 ‘What?’ Gilbert looked down to examine his ‘the more stitched the more battered’ coat, only to find out that what Antonio told him was true. ‘How about this?’ he unbuttoned all the buttons in one breath, ‘it’s not that conspicuous now!’

 ‘Bravo! It’s as if there were no button left at all! But then how can your coat withstand wind with all the holes in it? Don’t you feel cold?’

 ‘Never. I am a soldier, no coldness could defeat me, kesesesese!’ Gilbert drummed his own chest smugly.

 At this moment, the heavy gilded door of the magnificent Baroque drawing-room opened, and Lovino entered with an exquisite tea set in his hands. ‘Don’t tell me you’re so busy that you’ve no time to put on clothes properly, you Teutonic asshole.’ Pouting petulantly, he laid down a teacup in front of Gilbert, and turned around to lay another teacup for Antonio who was sitting opposite. ‘Stupid Tonio, if it were not that you had been beaten by the Englishman, and Laura had been gone, I would never have made tea for you of all things, vafanculo!’

 ‘Gracias, Romano mio is always so good to your Hermano Mayor!’ Antonio smiled from ear to ear.

 ‘You are always good to each other!’ Gilbert said enviously.

 A trace of discomfort appeared on Lovino’s young face. With or without purpose, he poured hot tea onto Gilbert’s clothes, leaving instantly an ugly brown stain on it. ‘Dammit!’

 ‘Oh no, Gilbert’s crap clothes is now totally damaged!’ Antonio said matter-of-factly, his emerald eyes simply wide-opened.

 ‘I don’t think a tiny water stain can damage my clothes! Don’t you think so, Fratello?’ Gilbert grinned at Lovino, who lowered down his little dark brown head listlessly.

 ‘Don’t worry! It’s totally fine with me!’ Gilbert tried to comfort the young boy with words.

 After a moment of silence, Lovino continued, ‘I happen to have some trash clothes that might suit you…’ He left the drawing-room, and then returned with a huge uniform coat which was obviously too large for himself.

 ‘Here you are. My work of failure might be unsightly, but it’s a million times better than your damn beggar’s clothes!’ Lovino threw the handmade coat to Gilbert.

 ‘Danke sehr, Fratello!’ Gilbert caught the coat with every bit of gratitude.

 ‘Romano, did you use our curtains to make this?’ Antonio was surprised.

 ‘No way!’ Lovino retorted.

 ‘You should have told your Hermano Mayor earlier, for I can give you money to buy as many clothes as you want! But I’m afraid curtain cloth is not fit for a uniform?’

 ‘Don’t you dare criticize my work, Tonio you idiot!’ Lovino stuck out his tongue.

 ‘I think it’s a piece of good work. I’ll put it on when I get home, kesesesese!’ It could not be too careful for Gilbert to fold up the uniform coat and put it into a sack.

 At night, after Gilbert had gone home, Antonio suddenly dragged Lovino into his own bedroom, closing the door with a loud bang.

 ‘You hurt me, dumb Tonio!’ Lovino said angrily, nursing the red imprint on his delicate wrist caused by the tight grip of the much stronger man.

 ‘What did you just say, my Romano?’ Antonio put on his wonted gentle smile, rolling up his sleeves while advancing slowly towards Lovino, whom was leaning to a gilded florid wall.

 ‘Don’t you get any closer to me, damn you!’ the young boy kept on moving and moving backward until he found himself caught up into a corner, and until the tall man’s long, dark shadow projected on the seemingly thirteen-year-old thin body.

 ‘What did you say? Big Brother didn’t hear you.’ Without any warning, Antonio slapped Lovino heavily in the face, causing the boy to fall down onto the floor.

 There was a burning pain in Lovino’s cheek, and a feat of dizziness came immediately over his head. ‘I said, you hurt me, God damn you, Antonio!’ He had no remaining strength to raise himself up and fight back the tyrant, but could only demonstrate his revolt by roaring—not without tears on his face which were the shameful result from irresistible pain and fear. His little body was trembling as uncontrollably as a thirteen-year-old boy could do.

 ‘Ay, why are you crying? My cute Romano,’ Antonio crouched down, and pretended to wipe tears away from Lovino’s pink, delicate face, only to leave obscure fingerprints on the tender skin, ‘do you know why I slapped you, Romano?’

 ‘Because you are a jealous bastard.’

 ‘It seems I shall teach you a lesson today, Romano. How dare you steal my money to buy cloth for Gilbert’s new uniform?’

 ‘Didn’t you say it was made of curtain cloth?’

 ‘Must I let him know how much heart and soul you’ve put into this uniform? To make him smug beyond himself? I give you a shelter from storm, make you lead a comfortable life without worrying food or clothing, and this is what you give me in return? If it had not been me, you would have been torn up in pieces by those great powers! You would never have a chance to stand against me!’

 ‘I don’t think my life has been any better. I should have submitted to France, instead of you!’

 ‘When half of your territory was conceded, your body was reduced to half of the size too, and France was not half interested in you any more! Of course, I am not a pedophilia either, so I have to wait patiently until you grow up again…but lo,’ the Spaniard held up the weeping Lovino’s pretty chin, and squeezed it with deliberate force, ‘you’re getting more and more beautiful! I could have waited for a longer time before the fruit is totally ripe, but perhaps a bitter sweet taste is not as bad?’

 ‘Don’t touch me, you’re absolutely a pedophilia, cazzo!’ Lovino spit at his suzerain.

 ‘Joder, chingate, Romano!’ Antonio seized Lovino, turned him around, and peeled off the boy’s girdle to tie his slim hands up.

 ‘Release me, you bastard!’ Lovino cried out with terror at the top of his voice, but nobody could help him in the depth of the night and in the depth of a prison—he had been Antonio’s prisoner for centuries.

 ‘Release you? to what degree? ah…let me see if you really are a wanton puto like they said in 1282.’

 The mentioning of the event made Lovino shudder. It had been his nightmare and the reason why he was unable to be with his faithful knight any more–he was no longer pure, no longer his Holy Virgin.

 ‘You still care about him?’ It was always easy for the Spaniard to read the South Italian’s mind, ‘fine, I will fuck you up and mar you until you’ll never think about seeing him ever again, ever.’ He brought from a cabinet a crop to the wincing and whimpering Italian boy, and stripped off the white gauze shirt to reveal the youth’s badly bruised back.

 On the second day, Gilbert put on the brand-new Prussian-blue uniform he had received from Lovino, and strutted all along the way to the magnificent Palacio Real.

 On the walls of the second floor above the grand hall, there were dozens of huge paintings, almost all of them painted by famous artists, except one painting, which was placed between Caravaggio’s John the Baptist and a mahogany window, and this painting caught Gilbert’s attention:

 In the picture was a youth with stunning beauty. He was barely thirteen of age, his short charcoal hair shiny and curly, his huge lime green eyes bright and innocent, and his rosy cheeks slightly puffed up—his expression was so adorable that even the meanest man in the world could not resist from giving him a caress. Beneath his exquisite reedlike neck was a chartreuse embroidered frock coat, which met the colour of the young boy’s eyes; and the dainty buttons were made of sapphires. It seemed as if only a prosperous, loving family could have brought up such an elegant, unstained angel.

 As Gilbert was completely lost in this portrait, Antonio emerged without a sound from his behind.

 ‘Isn’t it marvellous? This painting is entitled My Last Romano.’

 ‘Last?’ Gilbert asked, surprised.

 ‘Exactly. There used to be Tim’s and Laura’s portraits hanging over there,’ Antonio pointed to the empty wall on the other side of the window, ‘but after they have moved out, Romano becomes my sole companion.’

 ‘Natürlich, natürlich.’

 ‘I will never let anyone else have him, because I love him.’ The Spaniard smiled brightly, and drew down the curtains to conceal Lovino’s portrait from the dazzling sunlight outside.

[the-wanted-man]

Comrades-in-Arms .II

Warnings: Potential 5.x spoilers regarding Garlemald. Part [1] Imperial Garlemald | Levi’s Theme

“The whole damn country’s gone to hell in a hand-basket, boys. Now, I don’t, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart, say this to be an alarmist but...just look at the facts. Losing royalty left and right. People disappearing in the dead of night. I mean I love this country as much as any true son but we’re eating ourselves from the inside out, and it doesn’t seem to matter what side you’re on anymore.  I know you can feel it. The noose tightening in around the neck. The cross-hairs on the back. We’re coming up to the point of no return. Loyalist...or otherwise.”

The windstorm comes on much quicker than they’d anticipated and it makes those last few malms a miserable journey for the small unit. Even fully suited the harsh winds cut through the layers of their like phantom swords and moving became a matter of necessity to keep the chill at bay. Even silver-spoon Leviticus found it necessary to walk eventually.

Companionable moods from even minutes before seemed to lessen at the same rate their visibility did. The snowy haze of the blizzard made seeing more than five fulms ahead a near impossible feat after a time and were it not for the pulsing red light of the old guard tower beacon ahead they might’ve surely been lost to the white.

Eventually, they came upon an impenetrable wall of steel that seemed to simply rise up out of the snow. It wasn’t exactly the kind of sight that most would consider welcoming with its clinically grey exterior, and structured lighting that barely seemed to shine through the thick coat of hoarfrost that had built upon its metal surface. What bliss it would be to leave this place behind.

“Now, talk of insurrection is on the winds...and I’m not saying I support it but I DO understand it. You’re kidding yourself too, if you think I’m the only one who sees how this is going to get. Everyone’s thinking it, even if no one’s out right saying it. I mean...civil war...When its neighbor against neighbor....friend against friend...Brother against brother...It’s only a matter of time before you have to -really- start asking yourself -- Well, who can you really trust?”

A kind of tense silence seems to sweep over the convoy by the time the magitek vehicle rolls to a halt in front of the castellum gates. It starts as the usual routine first: the declaration of ranks, unit and business into a blue screen that takes their information. .

Albina quo Silvius. XIth Auxilliary. Supply drop.

The terminal flashes, and then beeps in acceptance of the credentials provided. With an almighty, groaning, screech of moving metal, the barricade begins to lower itself. Sinking into the earth like some kind of retreating monolith.The ice along its frame spider-webs and cracks, before falling away.

They are waved through, just past the barricades where two armed guards walk forward to greet them. Little more than a skeleton crew was necessary to keep the checkpoint appearing operational. Papers were exchanged and one guard points something out to verify it with the other. They nod, and then the first guard lifts his rifle up to Bastille’s chest, and fires twice.

“Times like this, might SEEM like you can’t trust anyone at all. Like you got to keep your guard up to keep the knife from sticking in your back. Like its all you can do to keep it from twisting... You might even feel like you’re alone. Like the whole world is pitted against you. Well, I’m here to tell you that you are NOT alone. There’s people you can trust. ”

It was absolute chaos.

Gunfire erupts from behind them and the team scatters. Albina shoves Quintus just as the second guard opens a volley of fire where he’d previously been sitting. Her weapon is drawn, and she cuts down one of the soldiers before he can fire again.

Tatius tackles one of the castellum guards as two more flank them from the gates. Cicero dives for cover, taking Levi with him as he goes. He screams for Crispus to radio for help while they’re pinned down by fire. Leviticus thanks the man by flossing the space between his ears with a bullet.

His unit starts to fall, one by one. Tatius manged to take on with him before he is pulled into a chokehold and he struggles until he doesn’t. Everything happens so fast, Albina barely has time to process as she pulls her blade from the body of an imperial soldier. It begins to dawn on her though, as she turns to her treacherous fiance.

“What did you do?”

“Matter fact, they’re right here in this very room. Take a look around boys, to the left, and to the right of you. Ahead and behind. Look around and witness them - your family! Us who’ve slept together. Who’ve bled together...Killed together.  -Trust- in them. Your fellow brothers-in-arms. Trust...in me.”

She knows before they’re even at each others throats. She knows the man she’d intended to marry so well she empowers him in moments and backs him blade tip first into the caravan. She knows that somehow this is his fault and doesn’t understand how she could have been so blind.

Leviticus only answers with a shameless smirk, but she catches the flick of his silver eyes and turns in time to be impaled by Crispus. He had always been quiet, and she had thought, dependable. She realized now, just not to her. Albina slumps to the ground. The battle is over and the damage done as quickly and as suddenly as a lightning strike.

The world starts to muffle and fade into black. Albina hears her fiance say “Took your sweet time.” As he brushes off his uniform and looks to the two remaining guards. He steps over her body, pausing long enough to tell her “Consider this an end to our engagement, darling. It’s not that its me, it’s just that it’s you. Quintus -- you can come out from hiding now.”

Harsher blows couldn’t be dealt as the young medic crawls out from the mud and snow, shivering as he stands and looks Albina in the eyes as they close. “R-really, Levi. Sh-she was your fiance.”

“I know! What was I thinking? Marriage never would have suited me.” 

“You see, commitment is important. How long have we been at this -game-, Family? Four years? Five? Because that’s what it comes down to. Our lives, are a -game- to...to these people! Heartless, and arrogant leaders who care more about their image than those who make them -look- good...Who are so quick to kill their own loyal brothers and sisters, if it makes them look good. Greedy, selfish leaders. That’s what they are.”

“Load those supply crates in that freighter there. We’ll need all the money we can get across the border and these weapons will flip for a pretty gil piece there. Especially now.” 

Equipment is quickly  transferred and stored within the cargo hold of a small airship, none of which Levi lifted so much as a finger for. The ship itself was weaponless luxury class and couldn’t pass for militaristic if it tried. Too spacious. Too comfortable. Being royalty had its perks, and no one said escaping couldn’t be done in style.

“Did we really have to...do all this?”  Leviticus looked over to Quintus, who stood anxiously over the body of Bastille. He seemed like he was having second thoughts, and Levi couldn’t have that.

“Having doubts, are we? You know they never would have hesitated for us. Even my loving fiance was too committed to the country for us to ever work. It still hurt me, having to do this to them. Him though...I never liked Bastille. It might be terrible but..It’s true. He always acted like he was...better than all of us. Better than you.”  Bastille croaks and Levi considers it the definition of a corpse turning in its grave.

“I...oh jeez, I think he’s still alive..?”

Leviticus passes the young man a knife. “You said you could kill for a bath, right? Well, how bad did you want it?”

"Was it those officers starving in the cold beside us while they shouted orders from the back lines? Hm? Was it them? Huddling in the trenches, never knowing if  they’d see the light of day? Do you think they care? What about the people. We serve citizens that don’t even care for the sacrifices we make. Who spit on us when we marched in the cities. They don’t know what we had to do, to survive. What we -will- do.”

They staged the scene, positioning the bodies of their fellows more deliberately. Stripped the castellum of its valuable supplies and spilled a trail of ceruleum around the encampment with whatever excess they could find.

A more immediate guess once discovered might lead the assumption of an encounter with savages and he relied on the fact that resources would be stretched too thin to make an in-depth investigation. It wasn’t perfect but it would do.

The four loaded themselves onto the new convoy, an airship no bigger than standard fare civilian transport and luggage but it was enough for them and  their haul. At the hatch, Leviticus turned to look behind him. Struck a match off his chest, and tossed it into the shimmering pool of oil. Blue fire spreads like spilled ink over thin cloth. Leviticus leaves brimstone in his wake, and it makes him feel divine.

If he can do this, he can do anything.

“The hand that claims to feed, has only ever taken away. Everything we did, we did for nothing. But I promise you...if you follow me...if you trust me...trust the man on your left, and on your right...Nothing, is what’s going to stand in our way.

The ship full of defectors takes off from a blazing outpost and veers off into the distant sky.

                                            To be continued...                                                    

[rebelcourtesan]

Hordak - Peeling Back the Layers

Alright, if you’ve been following my blog for a while, then you know how much I like villains.  A show is only as good as its villain and She-Ra and the Princesses of Power have given us several awesome villains.

Since it’s a reboot, all of the characters have underwent redesigns.  From She-ra’s more modest outfit that brought out raging fanboys, and the wide range of ridiculous 80′s outfits remodeled to be more practical and stylish.  Perfuma isn’t wearing a flower on her head and Catra is actually a cat girl and not a lady stalking around in a tight red dress.  

long post below

One of the biggest changes is Hordak himself.  Instead of some muscle bound brute, they remodel him to have a slimmer build and wearing a tunic/tabard with a technological mind.  

In season 1, we actually do not see him in person until the end of the THIRD episode.  Though he is the leader of the Horde which should put him as the main antagonist, I consider Shadow Weaver to be the main antagonist of season 1, mainly because she makes more appearances and has more influence over the actions that hamper the heroes (BFF Squad).  At best, he’s a recurring character, at least in the first season.

However, even then, I was drawn to him because I liked his redesign so much and was quite intrigued with him.  He was shrouded in mystery and kept himself distant from current affairs unless it’s to make a brief appearance to intimidate Shadow Weaver and receive reports on what’s happening outside his sanctum via monitors.

In the original She-Ra series, Hordak was much more attached to Adora.  In SPOP, he dismisses her as a lost cause and in turn makes Catra the new Force Captain, overruling Shadow Weaver’s selection, which shows a very pragmatic side to him.  He also overruled her when it came to using the Garnet runestone to attack Bright Moon.      

He pretty much remains a static character throughout season 1.  We still don’t know more about him other than his being the Leader of the Horde and he has a cool disposition towards his underlings.  

It not until we hit season 2-3 that multiple layers are stripped away to allow us a closer look.  And the one responsible for peeling back those layers is Entrapta.

I’ve gone on in length about why these two work so well together as a couple.  With her lack of social skills and obsession with science and experimentation made her to the perfect companion of a man who isolates himself from others and considers Etheria a backwater planet with no concept of interstellar travel.  They suited each other as if cut from the same cloth.  

Imperfection is beautiful.   

These are the words that sparked a deep relationship he had never experienced before, that he had never imagined and we’re given Hordak’s background . . . or a side of it.

Hordak plays the part of an unreliable narrator when he talks about his past.  An unreliable narrator.  An unreliable narrator is a narrator whose credibility is compromised.  Whether its someone who is bias towards events (racist), naive of certain events (a child), has an askew perception (Humbert Humber, the pedophile narrator in Lolita.  

In Hordak’s case, it’s his programming as a clone and strong attachment to his ‘brother’ progenitor Horde Prime.  We’re given only one part of the story and we’re led to believe that his ‘defection’ was a physical disability that causes his body to break down and chronic pain.  And for a long time, until the end of Season 4, this is what we the audience believed was the case.

However, we are quickly shown the true reason why he was discarded.  He had attained a mind of his own and individuality.  

Which asks the question, did Horde Prime allow Hordak to come to the conclusion that it was a physical defect?  Or was it Hordak’s won misconception that led him to believe such?  There had to be a reason why his ‘brother’ would reject him so and he body was falling apart.  So that must be the reason, and therefore he must rise above his frailties to prove himself strong in Horde Prime’s eyes.

Yet, he meets Entrapta and experiences genuine acceptance. Unconditional love and affection from someone he didn’t have to prove himself to.  Entrapta who created a suit to ease his pain and make him more functional without expecting nor asking for anything in return, but did it simply out of friendship and love.  It’s literally an eye opening moment for him.  

From this point on, he shows a wider range of emotion beyond that of anger, cool reception, or frustration.  

He struggles to give his thanks to Entrapta, even going as far as to assure her she was worth something.  

He demonstrates regret at the thought of returning to the Horde Prime.

Hurt when he believes Entrapta betrayed him.

Loss and grief over loosing her.

Pleasure in the battle field.

Embarrassment when the Imp teases him for thinking about Entrapta.  

Season 4 has Hordak leaving his shell or sanctum to lead the Horde army in taking over Salineas and has a taste for battle.    

For Season 4, he has the mannerisms of something had just been spurned by a lover.  He disallows Entrapta’s name to be spoken in his presence, has her things thrown out, and yearns for her while desiring her work and recordings to help him finish his arm cannon.  He even wanted to face in her battle as if he wanted to show her up or have a confrontation.  

He has become a leader that is more open with his underlings now, more confidant and isn’t a malignant being that intimidates his followers from the shadows as he had done in Season 1.  

Then another layer is stripped away when Double Trouble (lauded as a hero for this) reveals what really happened to Entrapta.  

Now we see him as a man in pain, suffering loss and grieving for a loved one.  He had been the fool that had discounted her loyalty.  And with sending someone to Beast Island is considered a death sentence, in his mind, Entrapta is dead, murdered by Catra to gain his trust and steal power.  

Then he does something out of character for himself.  

Remember, in Season One, he was calm and collected, pragmatic and cold with his mind focus on his goal.

Then as the Horde is posed to win the war, he attacks his second in command Catra.  Which is understandable reaction to see revenge, but it’s a very human thing to do.  I’m using the term ‘human’ loosely as many of our favorite characters aren’t human as a race, but you know what I mean.  

He destroys a good portion of the Fright Zone, his own lair and base, trying to kill Catra, consumed with fury over Entrapta and being tricked.  One doesn’t need to be a soldier or a general to know how this would weaken his position in a war. Yet, the emotional pain has put him past caring of how this would weaken him.  All he wants is to avenge Entrapta.  

 Then we have the final layer removed.  The false hope.

We are finally given a missing piece of a puzzle that we didn’t know was missing.  We learn that Hordak’s true defect was having a will of his own.  

When we are introduced to Horde Prime (and brutally so), he completely outstrips Hordak as the main villain of the series and lays him bare to raw vulnerable person seeking affection he never truly had. 

Let’s compare.  

We went from this, when we first see him in the series.  Cold, calculating and feared.

to this.  On his knees, begging for approval, and frightened. 

What I love about this is that it happened so naturally over the course of four seasons in a way I cannot find fault or call bullshit on.  This is a character whose barriers have been stripped from him, first through love and then fury, and then fear and rejection.

His motivation throughout his life had been to please Horde Prime and his actions which has been the cause of so much strife in the series from the war, banishing King Micah, Shadow Weaver betraying Mystacore, Adora’s seperation from her family, Catra, Lonnie, Kyle, and Rogolio’s childhoods, have all been to reunite with an abuser that not only outright rejects him, but then rips away what was left of his mind.

When Season 5 comes around, we’re going to see a new Hordak.  Not a reprogram amnesiac (though I believe he’ll start that way), but someone who has to find a new purpose.  And in finding a new purpose, he’ll likely become a new man.  

But predictions are for another post. 

[thesolitarystripe]

Writing Prompt #7: That was his idea not mine

“No.”

“Ellius…”

“Absolutely not!”

The two were walking the length of the stone path within the stables. Elliot’s expression was one of annoyance, the lines of his face etching deeper around his brow and mouth as he frowned. William chased after him, hands waving emphatically as he spoke.

“I need you,” William went on to say.

“Need? William, you have a whole Knighthood at your disposal,” Ellius hissed and waved away his friend as he continued to pester him.

“Ellius, half of them have been sent to Telios to pay our respects as a kingdom for the loss of the Archduke’s youngest. I need someone to ride beside me, the right marker.”

“Oh yes, I would do quite well as the right marker,” Elliot leaned into William who was a few inches lower in height than he.

“It’s just an expression, no one is going to be stabbing at you. I just need you on a horse, at my side, looking as regal as you can manage while we escort our guests inside.”

“Right, good. Let me just go kneel at the altar and ask Helios for a small favor, I’m certain this whole time he has been having a good laugh watching me stumble around, with eyesight as dark as the night, all because in an instant he could snap his godly fingers and restore my eyes to their former glory! If only I just asked!” Ellius was not the type to yell, even when he led the Hilyon Knighthood as First Hand to the king but, William was beginning to irritate him.

“You won’t even need your eyes,” William grunted, “that warhorse of yours was raised on Hilyon soil, there’s no piece of road untouched by his hooves. You think he would falter when walking alongside my mare?”

“I do not doubt him,” Ellius retorted, a look of genuine disgust hanging off his features at the insinuation that he did not trust his most beloved companion. “William, how embarrassing it will be if I--.”

“I will not allow that to happen. Simply. I will be right beside you, like old times.” William put his body in front of Ellius’ and despite the way his oldest friend towered over him with that unnatural height, he stopped him with ease. William’s hands wrapped around Ellius’ elbows, squeezing them. “Please.” There was a long moment of silence where the wind danced around their feet and kicked up dust and hay into the air.

“I hate you,” Ellius sighed.

“Ah! Yes, thank you!” William clutched his friend to his chest in an embrace that nearly knocked the wind from Ellius’ lungs. The pair continued down the aisle, stalls on their right and open-air to their left. “I had a feeling you might concede so I took the liberty of readying your horse.”

“You are such a—” Ellius voice cut off, drowned out by the shrill whinny of his horse who greeted him. Ellius hand was held out in that searching manner, waiting to connect. The ebony stallion lowered his giant head and nudged it against Ellius’ palm. A small smile tugged at the corner of Ellius’ lips despite his anger.

“You will be fine,” William went on as if the conversation never ended. “Now, strip down you can’t go riding out to greet a neighboring kingdom looking like a stable boy.”

“I am a stable boy,” Ellius corrected him, not ready yet to speak amiably with his friend.

“You are a knight of Hilyon, likely the most respected one of our time.” William’s hands were reaching for Ellius, pulling off the dirtied tunic he wore and replaced it with a new one of rich burgundy. Over the top of it, he shimmied on a tabard with the Hilyon crest emblazoned upon the chest and back. A gold lion with its teeth bared, mouth wide, appearing to be in the middle of a deafening roar. About the centerpiece was a laurel, green and striking against the warmer colors of their homeland. Ellius stood patiently as he was dressed and handled by his friend. To any onlooker, it may have been an odd sight but for the brothers in arms who had grown alongside one another—it was just another day. William had become a caretaker to Ellius in the early days after the incident. Having to relearn the most simplistic activities of daily living, Ellius grew somber for a great many years. Each day, William tended to Ellius first, ensuring the ex-knight was well dressed and groomed, fed and bathed before he sought to satisfy his own needs and duties. Ellius was always grateful for him, even now when William pressed him to ride at the head of a welcome caravan. It was Hiylon tradition to greet one’s guests well before the outer walls of the city and to bring them inside with a parade of knights, bathed in the colors of the kingdom. Many sought to see it for themselves.

When Ellius was made to look as presentable as was possible given their hurried circumstances, William set the reins in Ellius’ hands and pushed him forward. Ellius had ridden many times since the loss of his sight. William was correct in thinking the war beast would protect its rider. With some sixth sense that animals often had, it seemed the creature was aware of the impairment, and he took extra care when being exercised. It was not the ride that worried Ellius, it was leaving the comfort of his stable and the ring where he rode. Outside these walls, he was vulnerable to anything. Ellius stood a moment, hands on either side of the saddle as he rubbed his palms over his horse’s soft black hair.

“Try not to let me look like an imbecile,” Ellius whispered, making the great beast bow its head and curve his neck as he snuffled Ellius’ matching dark hair. Ellius tilted his face up and grinned when he felt the rub of his horse’s fleshy lips run along his cheek.

“Up you go, we’ve no time to waste!”

Ellius mounted, oriented himself to the way the equipment felt beneath his seat and adjusted it accordingly. With a squeeze of his calves, his horse fell in line behind William’s mare on his command.

“Oi! Is that Ellius and the great Gallan?” A familiar voice called out from ahead of them. Ellius recognized the tenor and shook his head.

“This was his idea, not mine.” Ellius nodded in the direction of William’s horse whose hooves were Ellius’ guide. “Just this once,” he added as Gallan did exactly as William predicted and fell into formation without hesitation. It was a muscle memory they both still had. Ellius patted his horse’s neck and smirked, pointing his face down as he did.

“It is good to see you up there,” the other knight called from behind. Ellius only laughed, shook his head and bit at his lower lip.

It felt good to be back.

[diveronaevents]

DATE: June 3rd - June 15th

LOCATION: Various

TRIGGERS: Murder, death, drug mention, alcohol mention, dissociation

JUNE 3RD THE TWELFTH NIGHT

The air shivered between waxy sculptures, slinking its way around the museum like a slithering snake; it fidgeted around as if it knew it was being watched, whispering around the artwork. As it wound its way around the rooms, it eventually slipped itself into a room, where JULIET and VOLUMNIA sat quietly. These past weeks, the Capulets had been dealt smite after smite, and while they had met every assault with a splintery one of their own, the ground continued to tremble beneath them. A punch to the chest, a winding hit to the stomach, a blow to the jaw. They rose, but keeled over, Capulet bodies stung with defeat.

None of them had jumped ship, not yet. But something was in the air...

Cosimo Capulet had been a family man, once. Perhaps he still was. With an assuring grasp of each initiate’s shoulder, a look of brotherhood bobbing in his eyes, he might have turned to put the ink of his pen to some fresh deed or benefaction, sanctifying a new hospital wing with a hefty pouch of gold. Endowing it with his name. Then, he would say: “The strength of a family lies in its loyalty towards its members, sorella. Each and every member. Is it not the same in war?” 

That had been an omen.

His honeyed words had drawn people in, seized them in his web. He had given them a home away from home, burying hearts with knives, assuming the role of a benevolent beast that swallows his children up and keeps them warm in his belly. It is a task in itself, then, to pinpoint where things started to go wrong.

The stench of doubt permeated the air. The ugly shape of Cosimo’s theatrics was still splayed out in the current like a ghostly outline. It bled with heresy. For some, its echo spread like a sickness, for others it seemed a resounding victory – but then, loss. Enormous, unforgivable loss, yawning fat and wide. The theft of their beloved Cathedral was a difficult pill to swallow, silks of icy blue stripped from its bricks, displaced by a deep red. 

At the centre of all this? 

Cosimo.

But this was not all, nor was it the reason for the two women’s meeting. Another tempest was turning, rolling into an uninviting billow of dust and glass. More secrets tucked away like a hanging thread at a sleeve. Two Capulets, and two Capulets alone, had been made aware of the lengths to which Cosimo had extended himself to achieve the death of Alvise Vernon. Pelting Verona into a war that tolerated no retreat, it seemed to stretch out for miles, like two bloody hands shifting forward to reach their weapons. The end of it all seemed to be curtained underneath a thick veil of mist.

Two Capulets, and two Capulets alone, had sat on this information, put their heads together over it like two beasts in an antlered rut, mulled their options over on what felt to them like a deathless loop. Two Capulets, who now sat opposite one another across a desk, the grim look of determination washing over their faces, pored over the intelligence once more.

Elegant as her companion, JULIET sat up straight in her chair, the semblance of constancy flowing over her, though she leaned her wrists into the oak. Exhaustion filled in her features where constancy ran thin. She yawned a sigh. Though she had only been a shadow of the Don all these years, her limbs moving with his like a puppet-master with marionette strings, the sensitivity of her task did not elude her. 

Quite the opposite: it glared back at her, its eyes black and cold.

VOLUMNIA leaned back in her chair, the same semblance of exhaustion burying itself in her expression. A more clinical eye would easily peer past this, though, able to seize the truth. Behind the Underboss’ eyes lay not exhaustion, but fortitude.

“IMOGEN cannot be expected to sit on this information forever,” JULIET said at last, the journalist’s name turning sour in her mouth. The words sunk from her lips in fatigue, and it gave one the impression that this was not the first time they had slipped from her mouth.

HAMLET had done his best to assure them that he had choked back evidence of his involvement from IMOGEN, and that they, in turn, had vowed to wait in the shadows. While they appreciated this, the tenuousness of the situation sat ill with the two women.

“No. We must act. Soon.” 

Hanging in the air between them were words held in their mouth that neither of them wanted to say. That neither of them needed to say. 

We must act. You and I, not the Don.

Both knew that Cosimo wouldn’t hesitate to put out a hit on IMOGEN the moment that he learned just how much of the tale they had become privy to. In the same vein, both of them knew that Cosimo Capulet was not a man that much liked the feeling of being backed into a corner. Thus, heads bowed covertly, they buried their intel, tucked the secret away, and while the idea of an assassination had not been entirely ruled out by the two of them, they pushed it aside.

“So, what can we do?”

VOLUMNIA would not go on pasting over their problems with more bloodshed and thuggery. With a cold judder, she would forge a New Age by splicing through the old one, leaving it to be swept up like leaves in the wind. She would not have her pseudo-daughter follow in the ways of their kingpin, treading on the heels of footprints rinsed in blood—not if they hoped to crawl their way out of this sunken hole, and especially not if she hoped to ease JULIET into her birthright. Whether that was ten days from now or a matter of weeks, it didn’t matter.

She would cut out a space for the heiress in the stone.

A woman on a mission, VOLUMNIA forged ahead. There was no room to regret her past decisions now. Not if she wished for JULIET to succeed.

“Call in TYBALT,” she advised.

JULIET picked up her phone.

-

They weren’t left waiting for long. Twenty minutes, thirty, maybe, went silently by, but the time only seemed to distort itself out of shape for JULIET, swelling like an elastic balloon. A creeping sense of unease washed over her when she pondered quite how much there was at stake here; how much hung in the balance. Nevertheless, the thought of her cousin flocking to her side, as by way of nature, brought her some ease. As for VOLUMNIA, the Underboss barely noticed the silence between them, always watchful but busied by turnings of her own.

Something was piecing itself together in the couloirs of her mind.

The cogs only stopped to turn when the women were stirred by a rap at the door. In answer, TYBALT slinked into the room. As he settled into his seat, postured like a mortal blessed with divine favor, so followed PARIS tightly behind him.

The head, the hands, the heart. All poised around a desk made of oak.

“Tigrotto, there is something you should know,” VOLUMNIA began, drawing TYBALT in with a secret hidden under her tongue. “And I need you to listen carefully.”

Gravely, he nodded.

VOLUMNIA nodded to JULIET.

“It’s about Alvise Vernon,” JULIET decided upon, straightening her back. She had decided upon a great many things, really. She had decided to betray what they know, to seize the reins from the palms of her papa. She had decided to act, now, while the city lolls still. “Well, it’s about everything, really. It’s about my papa, too,” she hummed. Almost mechanically, she lifted one leg over the other, crossing them neatly into a set, as if positioning herself for a grand storytelling. “But, Alvise Vernon seems like a good place to start, doesn’t it?”

Because, at the beginning of all things, at the end of all things, throughout all its middling and its intermediaries, there stood the formless silhouette of Alvise Vernon, haunting them without definite shape.

She cleared her throat. “The night Alvise Vernon was murdered, my father found a Montague in one of our bars. He was drinking. Alone. He wasn’t—” the heiress paused; the words locked under her tongue. “He wasn’t in a good way. Even before they drugged him.” She opted for they, rather than we, casting a thick, bold line between them. 

She swallowed a knot in her throat. 

VOLUMNIA encouraged her to proceed.

“HAMLET killed Alvise Vernon.”

“What?” PARIS interrupted.

“He killed him. On my father’s orders. Well – with papa’s encouragement. He told us so himself.”

“Your father told you this?” PARIS punctuated in disbelief.

“No,” VOLUMNIA intervened. “HAMLET did.”

PARIS sunk into his seat, warring with a thousand thoughts at once. TYBALT, on the other hand, became his inversion. Leaning forward, his face twisted into an unforgiving blend of curiosity and incredulity, keen to have his spirit of enquiry sated. 

JULIET continued: “It took him a while to come to, but he did. Papa made him susceptible to his manipulations – or, well, perhaps someone else did. The details are hazy. Papa gave him a file. Doctored, of course. It suggested that Alvise was responsible for the death of HAMLET’s father.”

She paused tactfully, testing for a response from the men.

Neither of them reacted quite in the way she had expected them to. How could they? How do you react to the news that your own Don facilitated this war, kept it tucked under his belt like a buried conquest? The silence between them is only riven by the sound of VOLUMNIA shuffling in her seat, eager for her understudy to draw the bloody narrative to a close.

“Papa drove him to Alvise’s home, gave him a gun. He made him go inside and confront him. When he came out – well, papa gave him a change of clothes. HAMLET doesn’t remember much else.”

“The details are hazy,” VOLUMNIA repeated in a murmur.

Something was at work behind PARIS’ dark eyes. TYBALT, a profane blend of fascination and scepticism, shifted in his seat. He lowered his gaze, the flutter of his heartbeat grazing at his ribcage. Their detachment did not go unnoticed by JULIET, who reached out a hand to each of them, took theirs in hers, smoothing her thumb over their skin.

“But I believe him.”

“You believe him?” TYBALT retorted incredulously, pulling his hand back.

“Yes, I believe him. Why would he implicate himself if it wasn’t true?”

VOLUMNIA leaned forwards in her chair, the movement steady and languid, as if a beast that has been lying in wait. She seized her moment. “Yes, HAMLET knows what he did. And so does IMOGEN.” A pause. “There’s evidence.”

“IMOGEN has evidence?” PARIS leaned forward. “How?”

“HAMLET told them. He handed over the evidence, with a condition. He is the reason why they haven’t gone public with the story yet. Why they haven’t tried to bring us down.” She paused once more, allowing for time for her words to sink in. “Because he asked them not to.”

“What evidence?” TYBALT asked, irritated. “Why would he tell them? What could he possibly have to gain?”

“Time,”JULIET answered, “He wants time.”

“There’s a gun. It has Cosimo’s prints on it. They’re only partial, but,” VOLUMNIA sighed, “it will be enough.” She left no trace of ambiguity to her words. They were stark as the moon raised into the dark sky.

“So, what? We steal it?”

JULIET leaned forward in her chair, folding the creases in her shirt. “Exactly.” 

As the word slipped from her mouth, the shape of it curved up into a knowing smile.

Balanced at the side of her chair was a file, which VOLUMNIA pulled up to the desk, spreading the documents amongst the four abettors. “The two of you will retrieve it as a team. No need for our exploit to leave this room – it shouldn’t prove a difficult task. PARIS will play reconnaissance, and you, TYBALT, will steal the evidence.”

TYBALT rolled in his chair, his black hunger oked by the vantage. “Pencil in POMPEY, too, while you’re at it. We’ll need a look-out.”

VOLUMNIA nodded, gesturing her hand in agreement. “Very well. In and out, simple as that. Capisce?”

As they rose from their seats, they nodded. Stalking out of their room, they left behind their shadows and strolled into a great, yawning gorge. One does not make an enemy of the Capulets and live to tell the tale. Should they succeed, they would ensure that IMOGEN would not be making any enemy of them any time soon.

Not yet, anyway.

-

JUNE 4TH VARIOUS LOCATIONS

While the Capulets colluded and the Montagues drifted off in a ruinous scatter, a message arrived, bringing all of Verona’s moving pieces to a screeching halt. Like a bullet fired in the dead of night, with a sharp, north-pointed path and a bang that echoed with the toll of a clock striking twelve.

At midnight, it reached all Capulet affiliates, without a traceable number or a signature of any kind. Some opened it with furrowed brows and tight mouths, others opened it in an impatient hurry, eyes dulled with disinterest -- all of which faded into swift, sinking shock.

What is dead has come back to haunt Verona, and you Capulets most of all. It’s your comrades, who perished beneath the heel of the enemy’s misplaced vengeance. It’s your territories, which were lost to a war incited by one of your own all along. And finally, it’s evidence of your crime, as it is theirs, and the heinous act it entails of drugging an unwitting Montague and corralling them into murdering Alvise Vernon.

The culprit is a Capulet whose name is written in pure silver. Look to your people for the snake that hides among the grass.

As the Capulets and their allies reeled from the impact of the long-buried truth as it was lurched to the surface, LAMPRIUS leaned back into his shadow-spun throne, and allowed his triumphant smile to shoot a spark through the dark.

-

JUNE 4TH IMOGEN’S APARTMENT BUILDING

PARIS decided to pay IMOGEN a visit. After all, a predator must size up its prey.

It was an easy enough task to shoulder your way into an apartment building you did not own when you wore the guise of dark capability as well as PARIS did. Starless and louring, a rare civility washed over him in a storm, and it was for this reason alone that he welshed his way into the complex unnoticed. Eluding all suspicion, he cupped a sea of intrigue in his greedy hands.

Once he met the door, he spun on his heel, checked around for cameras; sought out an escape route. He took a moment to forge a map in the recesses of his mind.

Three cameras, he thought to himself. He made a mental note. With their angles slightly adjusted, he generated enough blind spots for their thief to slip in and out undetected. 

As seamlessly as the teeth of a switchblade in the gut. Such, after all, was TYBALT’s way.

PARIS concealed a bug at her door - for extra measure.

-

JUNE 7TH OUTSIDE IMOGEN’S APARTMENT BUILDING

PARIS pulled the car to a halt, turning it into the curb. Beside him sat TYBALT, while POMPEY languished in the backseat, tentatively entrusted with his sponsor’s good faith. A hand seldom extended, but extended, nevertheless. 

While POMPEY was to skulk the parameters and act as the group’s third eye, TYBALT was to step into the building, slink up the stairs in much the same fashion as his brother-in-arms had done so the day prior, and retrieve the evidence their target holds against them. The bug at IMOGEN’s door has provided them with a golden window of opportunity: they would be out in the evening, delivering the infiltration team with the opportunity of invisibility. 

TYBALT gained access to the building easily. He, too, blended consummately into its carpets, its walls, charm lingering in his mouth like a dagger suspended at the back of his throat. 

He greeted IMOGEN’s door as if an old friend, slipping leather gloves over his fingers, and picked the lock with ease. Shouldering his way into the apartment, he was careful not to disturb the natural lay of things as he prowled toward the study.

He pawed through the room for a few minutes before he came across anything of note. Pages torn from a notepad, scrawled in black ink, and a file containing various media clippings. TYBALT snagged and stole entirely unaware of the intelligence he was burrowing into his satchel.

A scalping true to type.

Folded away in a draw, sleeping beneath a hidden partition, lay the gun. With all the precision that his warring body possessed, he slipped the gun into a plastic pouch, a vulgar grin unfurling over his features. 

When TYBALT bellied out of the room, he double-checked that the rest of the apartment remained unperturbed before stealing away. It was only then that the subtle prattle was pervaded by something more serious.

“IMOGEN. They’re back early,” PARIS advised, his words cool yet immediate.

“POMPEY. Distract them.” TYBALT interrupted, concealing himself for escape.

POMPEY stepped forward as IMOGEN turned the corner, and with the mien of a boy struck dumb, a prince with his crown shaken from his brow, he stumbled into them, arms quavering rapidly in apology. However brief, the altercation provided TYBALT with the small window of opportunity to flee the premises and unfold into the shadows without detection. He bored his way towards the car, evaporating like a will-o-wisp in the wind.

PARIS did not need to break the speed limit on their way back, but he did so anyway, if only for some small satisfaction. They left the bug at IMOGEN’s door undisturbed – just in case.

-

JUNE 8TH BENEATH THE CASTELVECCHIO

Two Capulets had taken it upon themselves to bear the divine burden of legacy, and towards an uncertain fate, they now carried it forward, shoulders strained and necks taut as they dragged it at their heels. Yet although they ought to have been crawling, fingers ensnared in Verona’s ancient earth, knees scraped and feet scalded, they walked ahead with firm steps and fixed gazes -- one with a loose crown lying skewed against her brow, and the other with a general’s belt wound around her from shoulder to waist.

They moved forward, towards the future, towards the comet-like fall of longed-for dreams as they came within reach, towards two Montagues, who held it all in undeserving hands while they waited in the distance.

The capture of IMOGEN’s coveted evidence had set off a race against the clock, and as soon as it had fallen into their grasp, VOLUMNIA made swift contact with HAMLET, with a tentative yet unwavering request for a meeting. A sliver of truth peeking through plain, carefully plucked words, a beat of heavy, choking silence on the other end, and then finally, a time was set.

Quiet filled up the space between them in place of greeting when VOLUMNIA and JULIET’s steps finally came to a stop, unspoken words and disguised sentiments sinking between them like the blade of a guillotine as it cut its way through air and flesh. GERTRUDE met their arrival with her usual air of tranquillity, though it seemed to hum dangerously as she looked upon VOLUMNIA, the static current bouncing sharply off of steel as the Capulet met her gaze head-on. In a similar manner, HAMLET and JULIET took each other in; though the bridge of their gazes was barren of any hostility, it lulled and wavered with tension, and the flailing gust of all the things they wished to say to one another yet forcibly held at bay.

“We’ve taken action,” VOLUMNIA began, paving the way for the bargain JULIET aimed to offer. “In response to the scheme you revealed to us, HAMLET.”

JULIET seemed to blink away the urge to glance at the underboss, nodding as she looked between Montague mother and son. “Yes.” She clasped her hands in front of her, voice softening as she continued on. “My father’s actions have soiled too many hearts, too many lives... “ She looked down. HAMLET crossed his arms against his chest. “I won’t let it go on any longer.”

“You’ve taken needless action, principessa,” came GERTRUDE’s simple objection. “We can have justice by our own hands.”

VOLUMNIA pursed her lips, swallowing down her razor-edged rebuttal to test how JULIET would regain control of the conversation.

“Well, we can’t afford to allow that.”

GERTRUDE hiked a brow, patiently awaiting the heiress’s elaboration. JULIET swallowed, then set out to offer it to her.

“You were honest with me,” she said, eyes on HAMLET. “So, I will pay you the same respect.”

This time, she glanced at VOLUMNIA, who encouraged her with nothing more than the simple act of meeting her solemn gaze.

“Things won’t be the same for the Capulets now that my father’s actions have come to light. Not with the decisions we’ll be making as we move forward, not with the threat of its reveal to our affiliates, and certainly not with the risk of your vengeance.” It was no greater than the risk of laying their volatile circumstances so plainly before the enemy’s scrutiny, yet it would soon prove to be a wise move on JULIET’s part. It was precisely what would coax the teardrop’s worth of trust needed for the Montagues to agree to their bargain. “It’s why we asked for this meeting; to offer you a deal that would give you the justice you’ve earned -- while sparing us any further threat, loss or bloodshed.”

HAMLET straightened; his focus now sharper. GERTRUDE sank into contemplative silence for a long moment, then muttered, “Quite a heavy promise you’re making, JULIET, and one that I imagine would be difficult to keep.” With a nod, she continued on to ask, “What is your offer?”

“Don’t confirm Capulet involvement in Alvise Vernon’s murder, and don’t retaliate for it. In return, my father will be deposed in the coming months.” A pause. “I think we would all agree that losing his empire is the worst punishment he could possibly have -- and the greatest vengeance you could possibly earn.”

“What guarantee do we have that you’ll keep your end of the bargain?” HAMLET quietly asked. It was the first time he had spoken since his arrival to the meeting.

JULIET subtly tipped her chin up, growing more confident as she turned towards him.

“Plans are already underway, so the outcome on our end is inevitable. And if my word means anything to you, you have it; I will see to it that my father is stripped of his throne, no matter what.” She glanced at GERTRUDE, looking between her adversaries once again. A slim hint of harshness permeated her following words. “If anything, it’s your end that’s unreliable.”

VOLUMNIA’s eyes glimmered with curbed pride as she looked upon her heiress, though the spark was snuffed out in time for her to turn towards the enemy, curt and impatient as she asked, “So what’ll it be, Montagues?”

HAMLET sloughed out a sigh, a clipped sound drenched in weariness and worry. He turned towards his mother, who silently met his gaze.

Not a word was exchanged between them, yet they seemed to come to an agreement, nonetheless.

A moment later, GERTRUDE offered a decisive nod. “You have your deal.”

-

JUNE 9TH A CAPULET WAREHOUSE

It was along the echo of those words that JULIET and VOLUMNIA were carried into the gaping maw of the following day and thrown amongst the warbled plans and chewed-up aspirations that it held in store for them. 

And it was there that they now lay, accompanied by TYBALT, digging through the half-devoured scraps and biding their time in fervent anticipation of the jaws that were slowly, slowly closing in on them.

If they had been racing against the clock before, their bargain with the Montagues ensured that they were now effectively losing to it. Every second that passed while barren and empty of action pulled them back by countless precious steps -- ones that they aimed to retrieve by ruinous leaps and ruthless bounds.

Their means of achieving that was rather simple: instead of lurching Don Capulet out of his throne, they were going to crumble it underneath him; bone shard by bone shard and stone by stone.

It was for that purpose that they had gathered, huddling together within the pitch-black shadow of one final scheme that they had concocted -- one that was meant to seal everything in place. Violence and confrontation alike had been cast aside as futile, unwanted options, and so they had settled on the only one that remained.

Planting doubt and fostering rebellion. 

After all, to strike down a king, there was no need to steal his crown or shatter his throne.

One need only strip him of his worth.

Such was precisely what JULIET and VOLUMNIA aimed to achieve, by means of assigning their unoccupied ranks to a series of doomed missions, built around nothing more than the simple notion of projecting Cosimo Capulet’s growing incompetence and failing judgement -- and cementing it beyond all doubt.

They had already conceptualised the missions and their predetermined outcomes. All that was left was assigning them.

Sat in a Capulet warehouse far beyond the peering walls and prying doorways of the Twelfth Night, JULIET and VOLUMNIA spent hours upon hours poring over what seemed like an endless heap of files and documents; selecting Capulets, revising mission outlines, scrutinising details and technicalities -- until finally, everything was set.

TYBALT, privy to the information out of necessity without ever having come close to engineering it, sat with them uncertainly - perhaps for the first time. It was important that he was on their side; it was important to VOLUMNIA that she knew his sword belonged to JULIET. 

In spite of loyalties, or perhaps because of them, he would not stand in their way. A throne was easier to take when nobody sat in it.

But before it could be emptied, it would have to be taken apart.

And it was with that goal in mind that the three heads of the divine Capulet beast began to arrange their pieces across the crumbling board.

There could be no beginning for any dastardly story without the startling presence of their BIANCA, who would go on to be told that she would be escorting KATHERINE on a stakeout mission. Yet upon her arrival at the designated location, BIANCA would find herself tied to REGAN for an assassination, instead. Deliberately, the three planted seeds of doubt, that Don Capulet wasn’t distributing his soldiers properly; and that he, in his rush to combat against the Montagues’ attacks and efforts, was leaving his ranks in an utter scatter. As for REGAN, they would be deliberately given a wrong description of their target, leading them to assassinate someone else entirely, all while believing it was their intended target all along.

In the realm of emissaries, DIANA and TITANIA would be tasked with negotiating with a Capulet affiliate from Amsterdam, chosen specifically for their prior rejection of allyship with the Capulets, in addition to their notorious violent inclinations. This information would be kept from DIANA and TITANIA alike, casting the oblivious emissaries into the awaiting dangers of a doomed bargain. They would certainly be injured as they escaped, and although it was an unpleasant outcome, it was necessary to nourish the image of Don Capulet’s lack of care towards his soldiers’ lives -- an image that had been all but set in stone by the spectacle he had arranged for Viola.

Next, EDGAR and KATHERINE would be sent to a Montague warehouse that was said to harbour information on the mob’s mysterious new product, Reaper’s Kiss. The warehouse was, in fact, a high-security Montague establishment, heavily guarded and brimming with soldiers. Yet the information would be kept out of the mission outline in order to further project Don Capulet’s carelessness and miscalculation. Regardless of what sort of action EDGAR and KATHERINE would end up taking, whether it be engaging the enemy or retreating into reconnaissance, their defeat was certain, due to the prevailing enemy numbers and the level of security surrounding the location -- though reinforcements would be sent to guarantee their safe escape, regardless.

Always in search of new business opportunities, HIPPOLYTA and LADY MACBETH would be sent to procure a local, family-owned business that was said to offer the Capulets a new and lucrative money-making opportunity. The owner of the business had been as yet unforthcoming, but armed with alarming evidence against the family’s eldest son, they were to offer the owner an ultimatum: either the Capulets go public with this scathing information, or they enter a disadvantageous business partnership. Of all the assignments the women laid out, this was the only task destined to succeed, but the success of it would be as futile as the rest of them. The business was utterly useless and the whole exchange a waste of HIPPOLYTA and LADY MACBETH’s time, leading the soldiers to doubt Cosimo’s decision to send them there in the first place. Just as the women had designed it.

Finally, CORDELIA and EDMUND would be sent to Phoenix and the Turtle incognito, in order to survey the new layout of the territory and scan it for weaknesses in preparation for a retrieval mission. Yet once they signalled their arrival to the Capulet HQ, an anonymous message would be sent to the Montague captain overseeing the location, informing them of the presence of Capulets. This would force the duo to reveal themselves and fight the enemy head-on; outnumbered and outgunned as they would be, they were certain to be defeated and forced out of the territory, just as intended.

In the end, the missions weren’t simple, and the risks were heavy.

Yet it all weighed nothing against the goal they were setting out to achieve, especially when it was perhaps the one and only noble thing that they could do for the Capulet famiglia, and for Verona as a whole.

It was worth it.

It had to be.

-

JUNE 10TH THE CATHEDRAL

Damiano Montague’s silhouette painted itself against the window in broad, fearsome strokes of shadow; a foreboding sight that none were damned enough to witness except for GERTRUDE, who stood before his desk as she patiently awaited his command; both a watchful guardian and a rogue with blade drawn behind her back. He could almost feel her looming betrayal spearing through the crackling air around him, though he did not turn around to meet it. Devoted or not, she remained a woman with honor. Even with his gaze clouded by scorn, he could still see her for who she was. Her reasons for accepting to take part in his son’s rebellious operation were the same reasons why she would look him right in the eye once her blade struck true.

Or perhaps he would come to find it in ROMEO’s grasp instead.

The thought drew a mild furrow along his brows, but he refused to allow it to detract his sight from what lay before him.

The greatest victory to ever tie itself to his name; such was what the Cathedral symbolized. Yet even with his feet planted upon its ancient marble in firm ownership, even with his form eating up what little remained of Cosimo Capulet’s memory as he took up his rightful place beyond the broadest window, Damiano did not feel triumphant. In fact, he felt robbed.

He had harnessed the full power of their troops, led them down a searing path that left half the city aflame with the embers of Montague ambition, and emerged with the Capulet crown bent beneath his foot. Meanwhile, all his son had done was scrape together what was left of their soldiers and scramble to grab hold of the pitiful scraps that he knew lay too low to fall within Damiano’s soaring sight. Yet somehow, he had been the one to gain glory and renown; now revered by their allies and adored by their people. And Damiano was left with his heel poised upon the broken bones of the Capulet empire, only he could not even relish the sound of them as they splintered and fell apart; ears drowned out by the ceaseless, accursed chants of his son’s name. 

His son’s name was his own.

But the Montague name was Damanio’s.

And he aimed to cut it across the skies and pummel it into the earth until all of Verona knew that.

For now, he would start with his people.

“Genevieve,” He called, turning his head to glance sideways at her, clasped hands clenching as he watched her stiffen attentively, sharp eyes trained on him as though she aimed to latch onto every word of command -- as though she was truly unaware of the fissure in her facade. He sniffed, then twisted around in one sharp motion to stand behind his desk once again, fingers splayed as the outline of his orders mapped itself out before him. “I have certain missions in mind that I wish to see fulfilled with the utmost urgency. Assign them to our ranks, and report to me with the results.”

Whoever failed was doomed for a punishment not unlike the one the mark of which GERTRUDE now carried, but he didn’t wish to entrust her with that information. It was all too likely that she would act on her whims, especially where her son was involved.

Damiano would allow for no more insubordination, and these missions ensured it. They were set to snuff out every bit of it that continued to fester within his soldiers.

He cleared his throat.

“Pair up ANTONY and BENVOLIO and set them on the trail of a mark who’s been legally interfering with our business. It’s the eldest Rallis son, but you are not allowed to divulge that information to either of them, at any cost. If ANTONY kills him, he cements his loyalty beyond all doubt, and if BENVOLIO does, it proves that he might just be willing to do whatever it takes, after all, and if it’s a shared effort, then all the better -- but failure is not an option. Neither is favouring any outcome except for death.”

“Next, pair up GONERIL and BEATRICE to set up a trap for CORDELIA, one that she has no way of escaping alive. She’s been an unstoppable force, ensuring victory for the Capulets time and time again. I’ve also heard that GONERIL wasn’t all too pleased with our operation at the Cathedral, which gives me the impression that she might be clinging to her past attachments. Setting her after her sister is certain to cut her loose once and for all, and if she fails, BEATRICE is meant to ensure that the target is eliminated, regardless. It would land a heavy blow to the enemy and prove their ultimate loyalty to our cause.”

“PERDITA is proving to be quite a valuable addition to our ranks, but there is more to a soldier than wiles and trickery. I need to know that force is not beyond her; that she can be both weapon and reaper under my command, malleable enough to shape herself into whatever I need her to be. Send her to one of the bars that solicit our protection, with orders to demand our payment and strike enough fear in the owner’s heart that they would never think to keep us waiting ever again. Have BRUTUS accompany her, though he is not to interfere unless PERDITA needs his help; his role in this mission is to offer support, and nothing more. After all, loyalty to one’s comrades is just as crucial as loyalty to one’s cause, and if anyone must learn that lesson, it’s BRUTUS.”

“As you may or may not know, we’ve recently captured a prisoner who proved to be a lot more interesting than I’d originally thought. Not only were they one of Faron Vasiliev’s soldiers, but also the bullet that set their liege’s demise in stone. It was through their treacherous confession that Laertes had discovered the identity of the one who had ordered his imprisonment in Russia, and it was through that confession that Faron’s corpse had met its early grave at the foot of my desk. I’m curious to see what sort of action they would rouse from CLEOPATRA. Command her to orchestrate a trap for them where they believe they have found their chance to escape our capture, only to find themselves caught in her grasp. CELIA is to offer her aid with the trap, but the torture that follows is CLEOPATRA’s and hers alone to execute.”

“In this time of war, there is no greater danger than treachery. I’ve been presented with proof that one of our soldiers aims to abandon our ranks and flee the city. It’s unforgivable, but I fully intend on leaving them begging for forgiveness in their worthless final moments. Pair up ROSALIND and OPHELIA for this task. OPHELIA is to come up with a way for them to be executed quietly and away from prying eyes, while ROSALIND is to seal their dreadful fate when the time is right.”

“There have been whispers on the streets of a strange message sent out across the city a few days ago. Apparently, it pertains to your crime, Genevieve, though unfortunately, I don’t know much beyond that. I’d like HAMLET to investigate the matter, and report to me directly with his findings. Curious choice, hm? Well, since you seem reluctant to ask me outright, I’ll do you a favor and be direct about it. I’m interested to know if someone else knows about what you’ve done aside from the two of us -- if there’s a chance it could be your son and that he’s been covering for you all along. I’ve always wondered where his true loyalties lie; with the Montagues, or with his mother. And this mission is certain to give me the answer.”

“A blessing to all, that the infallible VOLUMNIA is as weak as she currently is. We would be foolish to not take advantage of it. Send MALCOLM on her trail, and have MERCUTIO accompany him to ensure that the mission proceeds as it should. It’s not of the utmost importance that he kills her as we currently have far grander goals to aspire to, but I get the impression that MALCOLM is reluctant to needless torment, and that can no longer be allowed now that he is a captain. MERCUTIO is only to interfere if their help is needed, but aside from that, their task is simply to ensure that their partner torments the Capulet viper like she deserves.”

“I’ve assigned one of our captains to a reconnaissance mission in the Roman Baths; to survey the location and scan it for weaknesses. I believe that it would be beneficial for us to seize it in case the rumours surrounding the Witches’ return are proven to be true. The problem is… I have every reason to believe that the captain is a traitor, and I have a plan in mind to dispose of them. I would like RICHARD III and SEBASTIAN to take up this mission. They are to pair up with the captain and use the mission as an opportunity to execute them. Even if their comrades turn away from them because of it, they will have proven their loyalty to our cause, and that is where the priority lies.”

“I have a feeling TROILUS is going to be a problem. I don’t appreciate his rebelliousness or how fiercely he clings to his meaningless neutrality. When tied to the Montague name, one has no choice but to carry it, and it seems that despite our numerous attempts to instil that in him, TROILUS continues to resist. So, a change in approach is in order, and I believe no one would be more fitting for it than his own darling wife, CRESSIDA. As soon as she receives her orders, she is to set out to coax him towards joining the Montagues. I don’t care how long it takes or what means she uses, so long as the mission ends in success. Assign LADY MACDUFF to the task of monitoring CRESSIDA’s progress and reminding her of just how much is at stake for both her and her husband. Should CRESSIDA fail, you are to order LADY MACDUFF to employ their skills as a reaper and covertly dispose of her. I’m ushering in a new era for the Montagues, and there is going to be no room in it for disloyalty.”

Damiano stood up, acknowledging GERTRUDE with a single nod before crossing his arms against his chest and turning back towards the window. “That’ll be all, Genevieve.”

He looked down upon Verona from his tarnished throne and mulled over the test of loyalty that he was saving up for his son -- a trial to be held for none other than damned, darling ROMEO.

-

JUNE 15TH THE TWELFTH NIGHT

Heavy with unrest, the Twelfth Night felt something like a judicial chamber. In its stomach gathered a collection of bodies, variously disillusioned, called covertly by their Underboss. Some were wounded, while others had only sustained bruises to their pride, but all were equally mortified at what had become of their ordeal. Every single one of them had suffered in some shape at Cosimo’s charge, some more grievously than others, and VOLUMNIA recognised that.

She had come here to pass judgement.

The room was all spider’s silk. It weaved between old murals and ancient sculpture like an elegantly presented crime scene. Thin red yarn pointing to a blood-splatter here and a murder weapon there; a spillage, a fingerprint, a strand of hair fibre left carelessly behind. 

Secrets and whispers tangled themselves in the web.

Once, the protection of Cosimo Capulet had meant invincibility. An initiate was a brother, a sister, a child, a lover. Arms outstretched, he had welcomed each and every soldier who now stood in this belly of revolt with outstretched arms, the promise of longevity buried in his eyes. Once, power had flowed from his fingertips like dark-red wine. To be one of Don Capulet’s own was to be part of a great, thunderous throng, each one protected by the cruel hand of God. A single glance gutted hearts clean.

But that protection was thinning. The shield wasn’t working the way it used to.

The room seemed to speak in murmurs. Don Capulet seems bent on sending us all to an early grave. The sour thought arranged itself on the web, turning the spider silk into black dust.

JULIET stood at the centre of the room; her presence seemed to bring her fellow Capulets some assurance. VOLUMNIA and TYBALT stood at her side. The former continued to weave her web, and one could not ignore the knife fastened to the latter’s side.

The heart, the head, the hands.

JULIET took TYBALT’s hand in hers. Both of them knew what was to come, and neither knew how their fellow soldiers were likely to react. TYBALT smoothed his thumb over JULIET’s knuckles, sporting a rare, tender smile. 

VOLUMNIA cleared her throat, and by way of nature the room stilled itself into silence. Each pair of eyes fastened themselves on her and her alone. “I don’t need to tell you why we’ve gathered here tonight. You’re concerned, all of you… and you have a right to be.” She paused, testing for a reaction. “As am I. Since VIOLA’s execution, the decisions made by Don Capulet have become more and more difficult to grasp. He ignored the advice offered to him, and on his orders we lost the Cathedral. He sent many of you on fool’s errands. Mismanaged his soldiers. Your latest assignments were fated to fail from the start.”

When a ruler loses the faith of his subjects, his subjects disgorge the throne.

VOLUMNIA and JULIET surveyed the scene in front of them. Still chafing from their botched mission, CORDELIA and EDMUND had resolved to wear their failings like badges of honour, but the sting of it was felt keenly under the skin. Swelled by bruises and flinching at fractured bone, DIANA and TITANIA presented their misadventure more keenly than the others. They became a single organism, failure seeping from a shared wound. Forced to endure the unexpected, BIANCA resented her misemployment, while the blood of an innocent lay on REGAN’s hands. EDGAR and KATHERINE, on the other hand, merely hung their heads in a sort of reluctant shame. As the only soldiers to emerge from their assignment victorious, HIPPOLYTA and LADY MACBETH thumbed their pyrrhic triumph with bitterness.

PARIS and POMPEY, of course, had been more successful. But they had not been under Cosimo’s charge. Crucially, they had been under JULIET and VOLUMNIA’s. 

The scene presented itself like an oil painting. Exactly as the women had designed it.

JULIET stepped forwards. Like an armed shadow, TYBALT stepped forwards with her. From now on the two would be indivisible, and he wanted it known. “As I’m sure you’ve all noticed, my father isn’t well. He hasn’t been for a while now. He’s become paranoid, none of his decisions make any sense, and he ignores his counsel. Losing the Cathedral hit us all hard, but, well… I think it hit him hardest of all. His health and well-being need to be our highest priority right now. My father deserves the greatest possible care.” She paused, delicately, the soft touch of lips to the throat before she bared the first sign of teeth. “As do we.”

As if an executioner, VOLUMNIA swung her toothed blade, severing the cord. “What’s clear, however, is that he no longer has what it takes to lead us,” she finished her pseudo-daughter’s trail of thought. “He no longer has what it takes to be our Don.”

Some murmured in agreement, others stood frozen, refusing to betray their true feelings. All, however, knew what was to come next. That, after all, was why they had all gathered here, no?

“So, I will relieve him of the burden.” JULIET declared. “With one hand guided by history and all that we have overcome. and the other looking ahead to what awaits us, to build and to conquer” — VOLUMNIA’s eyes flashed and the corner of TYBALT’s mouth quirked wickedly — “I will begin a new era. We stand strong.” 

She clasped fingers once more with the anchors that stood at her side, each offering what she still lacked: cunning and experience, a stomach for what it took to seize and retain a throne. 

“Above all, we stand together.”

-

As JULIET’s battle-cry rang through The Twelfth Night, clanging in the air like a song of swords in battle, Cosimo Capulet sat in the backseat of an armoured car. Vanquished and betrayed, it tugged his body through the streets of Verona. That, after all, is how it feels to sit in the shadow of your own child; how it feels when all your love is thrown out with you, left in the alleyways to rot. He was equal parts fury and resignation, the pang of defeat weighing just as heavy as the venomous sting of betrayal.

Silently, his eyes took in what may well have been his last look at Verona. The gaze fixated on all the things Cosimo Capulet had once owned: a local business here, a police station there, a bar, a museum, an ancestral home, Verona itself. The car wheeled away from the impressive empire he’d created with his bare, bloodied hands.

Emperor that he is, Cosimo had built his kingdom to be inherited after him, but his heiress had stolen it from him earlier than anticipated.

First, the women had told them what they had done. What was already behind his control. Behind his back, they had negotiated with their enemy, sent his people on embarrassingly futile assignments, mismanaged his soldiers, and thrown them into Hell blind. All, they assured him, to undermine him, to cast a shadow of doubt over the great Cosimo Capulet. Already a blasphemous brute, splaying the crucified body of a dead girl for all to see, what more was it for him to be an incompetent fool, too?

Next, they had laid out how things were going to be: by their design, JULIET would take Cosimo’s place like a shadow growing into itself, and he would be removed to live out his days in their Padua villa. There, he would be surrounded by all things rich and extravagant: golds and amethysts circling his dinner plates, and the finest selections of wine, cheese and mutton at his disposal. There, he would remain under guard, any tangible image of power stripped from him.

There is no use in fighting, they had warned him. We have already won.

Perhaps for the first time in Cosimo’s life, he did not fight. He did not scratch, did not scrape, did not howl perfidy – the yowl of a wild dog, after all, had never much been his style. He could see his loss, stretched out in front of him crystal-clear, but that did not stop the cruel slashings of his dagger-like tongue. He wanted them to feel the sting of their betrayal, as he did.

Perhaps they did. It changed nothing.

They would not have him bound like a common criminal – his daughter had spared him that humiliation, at least.

To think that the great Cosimo Capulet should fall at the hand of his daughter, his lily-white, Eve-spun daughter, like a flower that grows in the dark – his lip almost vibrated with amusement. He wanted her to feel the shame of her betrayal, the principessa to whom he gave everything, even blood, but as he sat here, his eye trained on a city that now recedes from his touch, he was almost impressed. To think that a man as powerful as himself should fall at the feet of his own child – it is his shame to bear, but it is also his pride.

The man has done some dastardly things in his time: started a war, forced a child to bloody their hands instead of his own, crucified an informant in the shape of Christ, forced his only daughter to wield the knife. He had been right to, no?

Had she not pulled the steel from Viola’s chest and pushed it into his own?

The daughter grows into the shape of her father in the dark. JULIET had betrayed her father and become him – at last, Cosimo recognised that he’d been underestimating her. Unforgivingly, he wondered how long she would last. Cosimo wondered how long she could stand the contortions before they twisted her out of shape.

She would return to him. Wouldn’t she?

As the wheels of the car rolled past the bridge, past the impossible breach that had split Verona down the Adige, Cosimo thought he recognised the shape of something familiar. Someone familiar. He looked closer.

LAMPRIUS tore a writhing fissure through the dark as he emerged. Yet he did not step forth to heed the call of a king’s gaze, but to seek the sight of the victory that lay before him, crumpled among the ruins of what Verona had once been -- and what it has yet to become.

It was quite fitting, that a symbol of collapsed peace would be the mark of his ascension.

It carried a sense of revival. Renewal. Righteous retrieval of everything that had once been stolen by Montague and Capulet alike.

The sight stirred a rare gleam in his eyes, one that remained untouched and unvanquished, even as a dozen soldiers slithered out of his shadow and marched towards the torn-up Castelvecchio.

Rogues, guns-for-hire, and henchmen bought out of the ranks of contacts stolen from RICHARD III; now crowned with the honour of being his pieces across the board, pawns to nothing but the resurrected will of the Witches. They settled on both ends of the bridge and along its broad centre, armed and armoured as they sealed his claim over the long-forgotten, ever-abandoned hallmark.

Yet even with his force anchored to this location, his influence stretched far beyond it, at the tail of one final message sent out to the damned people of Verona -- this time, with a number left behind.

Unlike the one that had come before it, it was not a slip of bait dangled before gnashing teeth -- but an invitation, obligingly placed within open, beseeching palms.

ARIEL, HERMIONE, OLIVIA, HERO, IMOGEN and TROILUS were those chosen to receive it.

Upon speaking of the dead, one must remember to honour the living. And the only honour Verona knows is in the bargain of power; its ebb and flow, its offer and gain. Yet you don’t abide by that law, and you don’t bow before those who do. For that, you have been deemed nameless and defenceless. So this is how we choose to honour you: not by leashing you to the power we offer, but by helping you grow into your own. Not by tying you to a false cause or bending you to our will, but giving you a name and standing beside you when no one else will.

We don’t aim to liberate you; you are already free. You always have been, but it’s easy to forget that in a city as vicious as Verona.

The Witches offer you a reminder, and more. So much more beyond what the Montagues and Capulets have dared to steal from you, so much more beyond what Verona has led you to forget.

Come and find us, if you choose.

No matter what you decide, the Witches have returned to stand with you.

As the neutrals reeled from the message, LAMPRIUS and his forces held their vigilant claim on the Castelvecchio bridge, lying in wait for the rising sun to seal their dominion in place and drape Verona in the dawn of its new era.

Change was finally coming to the ancient city.

And it carried the promise of a reckoning.

-

OVERVIEW: Well, Veronesi, it’s been a long, long time coming, but at last, the moment you’ve all been waiting for has finally arrived! The head of Cosimo Capulet has been cut off (metaphorically speaking), and in its stead three more have grown back. Juliana has assumed her father’s position, guided by the nurturing hand of her Underboss and new advisor, Tiberius. For now, Cosimo sits under guard in a Capulet-owned villa in Padua, the result of Juliana and Vivianne’s string-pulling. There, he continues to live in luxury, but all his power has been stripped from him. With Henry’s gun retrieved from the hands of Isabella and a deal stuck in the shadows, the Capulets seem to be safe for now. The Montagues, on the other hand, have been less fortunate. Each of them have been demanded to make their loyalty clear to Damiano, who continues to try and consolidate his power over his son. For many, what he asks are impossible tasks, and we highly encourage you to explore these in your threads! 

But wait, that’s not all. The Witch (singular, for now) has snuck in and taken advantage of the surrounding chaos to claim Castelvecchio Bridge as his own, in one fell swoop. An offer has been made to each neutral in the city who has been pulled into the war. It is their choice to make, and their burden. Neutrals, please message the main with your character's decision to join Lucien or not OCTOBER 29TH. Please keep this decision private for now!

The game is afoot! Thank you for bearing with us this time around. We recognise that this is a very long, very complicated plot drop with several moving parts, so if you have any questions, please let us know! You may date your interactions from JUNE 3RD to JUNE 25TH. 

[nightingaelic]

Companions react to a House victory at the aftermath of Hoover dam?

Anyone else ever notice how House likes the idea of snowglobes so much he decided to make a really big one called New Vegas?

The words of the Strip's owner rang over the heads of the defeated NCR men and women that marched west, back across the dam they had so desperately defended. "Vegas will be a shining jewel in the middle of the desert, an oasis of light, a beacon to show mankind the way to the stars."

The Securitron that bore Mr. House's face and voice turned toward the courier that had seen that vision secured. "This is just the start, you see. This is where it all begins."

The courier looked out over the battlefield and nodded. "I can see it. A new beginning."

The face on the Securitron's screen flickered and disappeared. Robert House had never been one to mince words, nor overstay his welcome.

Arcade Gannon: Across the dam, Arcade hopped out of the vertibird, fuming. His power armor hit the pavement with an impressive shudder and clang, electricity sparking between the coils and vacuum tubes. It was the one time Arcade felt like a superhero, and he was going to make the most of it.

The courier paled as he stomped toward them, shrinking somewhat against the group of Securitrons that accompanied them. "Arcade," they said quickly. "Listen, I-"

"No, you listen," Arcade cut them off. "After everything I've done for you, everything my family has done for you, I was foolish enough to think we'd left some kind of impression on you and that you were actually listening when I went off on tangents about independence and the future of New Vegas. Well, imagine my surprise."

He gestured at the Securitrons. "Tell Mr. House he did a good job. Even next to driving out the Legion and the NCR, rebuilding the Strip and surviving the goddamn bombs, his greatest accomplishment was convincing you that he had New Vegas' best interests at heart."

Arcade ignored the courier's protests and turned away. He was glad of the power armor, then. It hid his shaking hands.

Craig Boone: "You really think he'll do better than the NCR?" Boone asked from where he was seated atop the barrier at the dam's edge.

The courier sighed. "The NCR isn't gone forever, Mr. House knows that. But they don't get to barge into someone else's backyard without asking permission, and they don't get to use our electricity unless they pay for it first."

Boone watched the NCR soldiers filing by, the way they deflated with each Securitron they passed. He shrugged. "Okay."

When he slid off the concrete safety wall, the courier turned to him, surprised. "Going somewhere?"

"Home," Boone replied, moving to join the departing troops. "Wherever it is, nowadays."

Lily Bowen: Lily straightened her hat and tutted disapprovingly. "How nice of you to tidy things up for that House man, dearie, but he should be out here cleaning up his own messes."

"He doesn't get out much anymore, Lily," the courier explained. "I'm just here to supervise. His Securitrons did most of the work."

"But look at you, sweetness!" Lily said proudly, patting them on the head. "Leading a robot army all by yourself, isn't that precious?"

The courier chuckled and swatted her hand away playfully.

Raul Alfonso Tejada: Raul took in the train of departing NCR soldiers and whistled, long and low. "What's that line they say about the casinos?"

"The house always wins?" The courier nodded. "Appropriate."

"Órale." Raul shook his head. "You know, I'm still not convinced that House didn't upload his brain into a computer. You won a war for a ghost, Six."

The courier looked over at him with a grin. "Want me to introduce you two, next time we're at the Lucky 38?"

"No seas gacho, I'm in no condition to be meeting 200-year old superstars," Raul replied, gesturing at his blood-spattered jumpsuit.

"And I am?"

Rose of Sharon Cassidy: Cass sighed, took a seat on a nearby bench and put her head in her hands, ignoring the blood on her fingers.

"You alright?" the courier asked, sitting down next to her.

"Don't know," Cass replied quietly. "I just feel a little... I'll be fine. Give me a minute or two."

"Is it your heart?" the courier pressed, concerned. They tried to put a hand on her shoulder, but Cass shrugged it off.

"Need some space," the caravanner said flatly.

Veronica Santangelo: "You asshole!" Veronica shrieked, bursting through a group of defeated NCR troops. She lunged at the courier, but before she could get anywhere near them, she was overtaken by two Securitrons. The robots held her back, but she strained against their metal arms anyway, incensed.

The courier's outward stoicism wavered. "Veronica, it was-"

"Tell me you didn't," Veronica pleaded, tears brimming on her lashes. "They were... I heard... all of them, dead. Six, why?"

The courier's hesitancy was enough to confirm the Scribe's suspicions, and she burst into tears. She managed to get her power-fisted arm free and punch one of the Securitrons, but she was immediately buried by a third and fourth. The courier backed away from the scene.

"Murderer!" Veronica cried as they fled.

ED-E: ED-E beeped, sounding somewhat unsure of itself. It floated ever-so-slightly away from the Securitron that had been possessed by its owner, as if afraid its own processes would be overcome by a voice from afar.

Rex: Rex barked at the disappearance of the man on the screen, confused. The screen flickered a few more times until the usual picture popped up, a man in a cowboy hat with a winning smile. "Howdy, little partner! You sure did swell, holding off that Legion advance today. How 'bout you ask your owner for a treat?"

Rex whined and turned to look up at the courier. The courier dug around in their pockets until they turned up a piece of dried gecko meat, which they tossed to the cyberdog. Rex caught the piece and tore into it with relish.